Live Without a Net

by Lou Anders

  This tunnel must be a tight fit for the creature, Ka-Rak thought to distract himself. The ceiling was only four feet above his own six of height, though the tunnel was at least fourteen feet wide, most places; sometimes it narrowed. There were no loose boulders or stones on the rock floor and none projected from the ceiling. Perhaps it is like a cat, and where its head can go its body can follow.

  Oh, that was a good thought! He forced his mind to a blank, totally aware state and advanced, his left fingers lightly touching the smooth rock.

  The tunnel curved, and ahead was a glimmer of light, like firelight. Slowly, quietly, he drew his sword and shifted his shield from his back to his right hand as he crept forward steadily. As he moved, the smell changed to the sharp scent of overheated rock mixed with the rotten egg stench of sulfur. Ka-Rak adjusted his grip on the sword, listening with all his body and soul for movement, and heard nothing.

  He kept his muscles loose, though the fear clawing at his belly wanted them tense, and he kept his breathing even, though with his heart galloping in his chest he wanted to gulp air. Once the battle was joined, fear would fall away and he would enter a timeless world composed of action and reaction, thrust and cut and parry. Even when fighting a beast such was the case: one had no time for fear.

  Though in this case I might be able to make room for it.

  The ancient tales had well prepared him to expect his greatest challenge. But also his greatest reward, for this dragon had a hoard. He grinned at the thought. Gold and gems beyond the counting, and all to be his, with the grateful thanks of the king and the hand of his lovely daughter.

  Well, she isn’t lovely, but for a princess she’s not bad.

  Some of the royal daughters he’d seen would send even this beast running.

  The tunnel ended, and pressing himself against the rock wall, Ka-Rak carefully peered around the opening. The heat of the place struck him in the face like a blow.

  The floor of the great cavern seemed to be a vast pile of embers, the dragon a dark shape lying upon them. The light they made was dim, barely illuminating the surrounding pillars of stone that held up a ceiling lost in blackness so complete it was as though nothing was there at all.

  Immediately the warrior changed his strategy. A man couldn’t fight in an oven, his feet would bake in minutes. And though he would love to trap the creature in the tunnel, there was nowhere to lurk in ambush, and he knew the beast was smart enough to precede itself with a bath of fire.

  It will have to be in the open, then, he thought reluctantly. As if the wurm didn’t have enough advantages.

  It would have been better if he could have convinced men to join together with him in this task. But the peasants didn’t have the heart for it, which is what came of a diet of beans and bread. And the nobles claimed it was dishonorable for any but one single hero to go up against the wurm.

  Which was stupid, but then in Ka-Rak’s experience, so were most nobles. If it wasn’t for men like him coming down from the barbarian Northlands and giving them an infusion of new blood occasionally, the bastards would all have heads the size of apples.

  He backed away, then made swiftly for the cavern entrance. Reclaiming his cloak and his pack, he went outside. Inside the pack were a set of hooks, a massive hammer, and a pile of spikes with which to hold the hooks in place. The noise he made setting the spikes around the entrance would draw out the dragon; like cats, they were curious creatures, and again like cats, they didn’t like intrusions in their territory.

  The purpose of the hooks wasn’t to prevent the beast’s escape, but to, hopefully, tear its wings to uselessness and prevent the wurm from taking to the air.

  It had never been tried. Ka-Rak set to work.

  Within its cavern the dragon slowly woke. Some vibration had penetrated its endless dreams of gold and fire, lifting it to consciousness. It blinked large, glowing eyes and yawned hugely, belching a small blue flame as it did so. Smacking its chops, the wurm looked about, seeking the source of disturbance.

  There was a rhythmic pounding coming from the entrance to its sanctuary. Men would be the cause; no other creature would make such a noise. It yawned again, the plume of flame longer and brighter this time. It was not hungry, for it had eaten a cow before sleeping, and men were foul meat in any case—sort of greasy even when thoroughly cooked, with a sour aftertaste. But the intruder must be dealt with.

  Men were a threat, and this one was making a direct challenge.

  It stretched luxuriously, flexing its wings to their full extension, enjoying the freedom to do so. Then it shook its mighty head and eased forward, worming its way into the narrow tunnel, giving little puffs of flame, least the human be lingering nearby, saving its full blast for the entrance where the man might wait with a horse.

  Horses were good eating. It hoped there would be a horse; even full it might like a few bites of the sweet, meaty flesh.

  Bright daylight speared its eyes as it turned the corner and it blew out its breath in a ground-shuddering blast of fire, scuttling forward behind the safety of its shield of flame.

  The fire was like nothing Ka-Rak had ever imagined, and it came with a roar that shook the ground and almost knocked him from his precarious perch above the cave entrance. The beast would come fast behind it, he knew, and the warrior struggled to stand firm. If the hooks worked, they might give him the precious seconds he needed to strike. If not, then the battle was most likely over as soon as the wurm could turn.

  Gods, but the beast is fast!

  Its head and most of its muscular neck were through before he could react. Ka-Rak dropped from ambush onto the dragon, landing just at the base of its neck above the shoulders. The wurm humped its back in reaction, breaking rock from the ceiling over most of its body and setting some of Ka-Rak’s hooks deep into its shoulders. The beast screamed in fury and pain and turned its head to snap at the warrior.

  Ka-Rak warded it off with the sharp point of his envenomed sword and clung tightly to its neck with his long, muscular legs. The point of his sword poked deep into a nostril, more by accident than design, and drew blood. The dragon drew back its head with a small sound that in a human would probably be “Ow!” It stared at its opponent.

  In his experience, Ka-Rak had found that dragons couldn’t speak and were no wiser than any other animal, including some humans. But they could hate, and needed no words to convey their loathing. Just now he could feel the malice in the wurm’s glare, as palpable as its fiery breath. If it could draw itself out of the rock tunnel, it would roll, smashing him beneath itself. If it couldn’t, it would back up and crush him against the ceiling. The dragon pulled against the hooks, bearing the pain they were causing because it wanted to be free to turn and kill.

  Ka-Rak drew his dagger and, without taking his eyes from the dragon’s, felt about with its point for a gap in the creature’s scales. Like his sword, the dagger was poisoned, but it would take a hundred daggers like it to weaken the beast. Still, it would at least hurt more than being cut with just the dagger. When he found a place to slide the dagger in, he thrust into the wurm’s neck with all his might.

  White fire burst from the spot, and the dragon screamed in real pain. Ka-Rak threw himself to the side and almost fell from his place. The dragon pulled itself forward, yanking the hooks from their moorings. It shook its mighty head from side to side, roaring in fury and agony. The sound was like a blow, hurting his ears terribly. The warrior clung to the beast’s neck with one muscular arm and hacked at the burning place with his sword, trying to widen the wound. Hard going through its protective scales and the wurm’s plunging motions, but he was making progress. Flame flared and dripped from the wound.

  Then the beast was free of the tunnel. Ka-Rak leapt from its back and rolled, coming up hard against a boulder. Yet he was on his feet instantly, crouched and balanced to leap to either side, his eyes checking the ground for advantage, while the bulk of his attention stayed on the dragon.

  It was checking its wound,
almost, but not quite, touching it with its clawed hand. It put its nose close to the spurting fire and touched it with its long snake’s tongue. It licked up a drop of fire, then shook its head, snorting. Apparently it didn’t taste very good.

  His shield was on the other side of the dragon, meaning his only protection should the dragon decide to shoot flame at him was the boulder he’d come up against. Ka-Rak slipped behind it and assessed the dragon’s other wounds. The hooks had damaged the creature’s wings, how badly he couldn’t tell, but some of the hooks were still embedded in the wurm’s flesh. At the very least they would be painful, and the loss of blood would be a help to him.

  As if it had heard his thought, the dragon’s head snapped around to glare at him. It crept forward with the careful grace of a hunting cat, its head weaving back and forth on its sinuous neck. The creature met Ka-Rak’s eyes and almost seemed to grin when the warrior divined its intent. Then the beast reared back.

  Screaming his war cry, Ka-Rak leapt over the boulder and thrust his sword forward like a spear. To his surprise, it sank deep into the base of the creature’s throat and stuck. He struggled to pull it out for a moment, then, wincing, glanced up. The dragon looked straight down at him and seemed to sneer; then it drew in a long, deep breath, preparing to blast him to oblivion with its flaming breath.

  Suddenly Ka-Rak was flying, his gauntleted hands on fire. When he struck the earth, though the breath was knocked from his body, Ka-Rak concentrated on pulling the flaming gloves from his hands. Then he set about writhing on the ground, trying to breathe, simultaneously putting out the minor fires that burned on his hose and shirt. Eventually, gasping and feeling as though he’d been beaten with clubs, he turned toward his opponent, his wounded hands clutched to his chest.

  The dragon’s headless body was aflame, its ruined wings twitching feebly—the cooking meat smelling oddly like roasting chicken. Several feet away in a twisted heap lay the beast’s head and a good length of its neck.

  Ka-Rak smiled, thus discovering that his face was burned also. Still, relief coursed through his body like a strong wine, leaving him giddy.

  Looks like there’s going to be a royal wedding after all, he thought, and laughed …

  … and Ken Rackam checked his weapon—less than a quarter charge left—with a mild annoyed oath.

  With four of Kletzer’s goons after him, he might as well just use it on himself and save everyone some trouble. He put the weapon back in his pocket and pressed the seal shut. This assignment had been screwed up from the start.

  When he’d left Discrete Couriers, Rackam had briskly walked a mile in a random direction, window shopping here and there, then stopped for coffee at the first available place. It was a routine of his to establish that he wasn’t being followed. In this case, it established that he was. That pointed to a leak in the company, a definite complication. Especially for a company whose reputation depended on its discretion.

  His tail was a medium everything kind of guy, Joe Average from his shoes to his haircut, and he was pretty good at his job. The thing was, Rackam was better. The guy at least had the sense not to come inside and order a cup of coffee, but after ten minutes it was hard for him to blend in. People don’t just walk up to a shop-front and fall in love with it without going inside. And unfortunately for his tail, this neighborhood seemed to specialize in maternity fashions, baby gear, and toys. There wasn’t even a corner news station he could pretend to be fascinated by. Rackam could almost feel sorry for the jerk.

  He paid for his coffee and headed for the unisex washroom, where he locked the door and with his weapon cut himself an opening in the plasticrete wall that separated the coffee shop from the store behind it. He found himself in a deserted storeroom and carefully lifted the plasticrete slab, shoving it back into place. With luck, the edges were still hot enough to stick together, making yet another obstacle for his tail to get through.

  He walked to the door and found it locked. The courier rolled his eyes and swore in exasperation. Opening the seal on his breast pocket, he took out a universal key and swiped it across the lock mechanism. The door clicked open. Before going through, Rackam reversed the key and swiped the other side across. This would freeze the lock, leaving his tail the choice of blasting the thing off or going back through the wall and around the block. Either way would be very inconvenient.

  Rackam allowed himself a small, evil smile; it would probably put the poor fellow in quite a temper.

  He’d been ordered not to contact Discrete until he’d completed his mission. An unusual request, but not completely out of line, particularly for a high-level job. Now he wondered. No conditions had been put on the restriction, which meant there were no exceptions. So, he was without resources beyond his native wit and whatever he carried on his person until he finished his assignment. And, as ever with Discrete Couriers, failure was not an option.

  It should have been simple. Go to station quadrant A, level fifteen, platinum section, clinic 17, see Dr. Ho. There he’d give a sample of his blood, encoded with a biomessage, assignee unknown, receive the antidote that would clear the foreign DNA chain from his bloodstream, and his part of this nonsense was finished.

  Instead he was being followed. No problem. As usual he would avoid his destination until he was certain he was unobserved. He checked his watch; he had leeway. Rackam left the electronics store, to the surprise of the employee who hadn’t seen him come in, and started his second random mile.

  This time he walked faster, turned more corners and twice doubled back. The second time he’d planted a small, self-sticking recording device on the side of a shop. When he retrieved it and played it back, he swore. He was still being followed, if not by the same guy, then by his twin.

  Rackam didn’t like this, not one bit. He still had time before he was due at the clinic, but it wasn’t endless, and this guy was good. Or at least better than the courier had first thought. He kept walking. Time to try something else. He swung into the first public transport station he came to and waited.

  When the transport came he waited until the last moment and entered the most crowded car. At the next station he changed; at the next he entered a transport through one door and dashed out another at the last second. Then he stood by a news station; he palmed the recording device and mimed brushing his hair back. Then he replayed the scene behind him.

  Good, no sign of the tail.

  For the first time Rackam looked around to see where he’d landed and grimaced. Quadrant D, level six, gray section, aka—the Dark Zone. Not a good neighborhood. Many of the lights were out—due to vandals, no doubt. This was true throughout the area, just one of the reasons for its nickname. The transports and the crowds, which had been so cooperative until now, seemed to have disappeared.

  Another inconvenient little quirk of the place? He frowned; the odds of getting a personal transport in this area were pretty near zilch.

  Failure is not an option, he reminded himself, and crossed the platform to wait for a transport back to the previous station. That one was a transfer point, and he could get to a higher station level and a lot closer to platinum than he currently was.

  The Dark Zone was a tolerated aberration. Meaning that the psychs had found that people, especially young men, seemed to need a touch of the illicit to function at a high level. Hence this section of the station where almost no one lived, but certain businesses thrived, certain types of entertainment and highly restricted, or even outright illegal, drugs were available. Stationers came here in disguise to cut loose, defy authority, and escape the drudgery of their everyday existence.

  It was the only place on the station you could get mugged. You wouldn’t get murdered—the station still maintained security cameras here and would shut down anything that looked like it was getting out of hand instantly. But you could get the crap kicked out of you in the meantime. All part of the fun, Rackam thought.

  Sometimes he wondered about the messages he carried. This one must be a humding
er, because getting to someone inside Discrete would have to be expensive. The penalty for betraying customer confidence was a crushing fine, a year in jail and exile from the station. Very unattractive prospects. Especially since your transport home would be at your own expense. Essentially you’d be a slave to Discrete for the rest of your miserable, poverty-stricken existence. Why would anyone risk it?

  There was a footfall, and he slanted his eyes in its direction, subtly adjusting his posture to a more defensive state. More footsteps came from the opposite direction, then more and more until he sensed he was surrounded. Something in him wilted in exasperation. What were the odds this was just a bunch of people waiting for a transport?

  “Hey, stinch,” a voice whined from the direction of the first set of footsteps, “can ya spare me a credit?”

  After which me and my friends will dance on your head, the courier mentally continued in the same nasal bleat. Rackam put his hand in his hip pocket and clasped his weapon.

  “No,” he said calmly. He had the weapon out and aimed before the would-be mugger could react. “But I can blow your kneecaps off.”

  The would-be thief held up his hands with a nervous laugh. “Hey, stinch, no need to get mad, y’know? I’s just askin’.” He backed off.

  “Tell your stinches to take a hike, too,” Rackam advised.

  “Yeah, sure. Hey, guys, let’s go.” He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.

  Others came out of the shadows and trooped toward their leader, snickering at the courier as they passed him. Suddenly one of the thugs snapped a fist at Rackam’s head. The courier caught the hand and viciously twisted it high up behind his attacker’s back. Before the man’s shriek had a chance to echo, Rackam had his weapon trained on the gang leader.

  “Did I say kneecaps?” he asked politely. “I must have meant head.”