by John Shirley
Gynella fumed, shaking with fury, as Smartun trotted up beside her.
They stood on the edge of the Devil’s Footstool, looking at the skimmer descending, rather sharply, down toward the rugged plains below.
“I did try to warn you, my General Goddess,” Smartun observed.
She turned with a snarl and viciously backhanded him, knocking him off his feet. He lay on his back for a stunned moment, tasting blood.
“I . . . I deserved that,” he said, sitting up.
“You deserve worse! I gave you a chance, and you let him destroy half a division with a truck and a handful of men! You and the others—I trusted you to keep him contained!” She glared down at him, fingering the meat-cutter knife on her hip.
Smartun decided not to point out that she had set up the imprisonment protocol for Roland in the headquarters building; she had trusted Fwah and Spung with the job, not him. She knew how Smartun felt about her, of course—she’d probably feared he might try to kill Roland in his sleep. And she was right about that.
He got to his feet, about to beg her to punish him—and then saw that Roland’s skimmer was going down faster, really out of control now. “Look, my Goddess! He’s going down!”
She turned and gasped. “No! I didn’t . . .”
That stabbed Smartun through the heart. Even now she didn’t want Roland dead.
Gynella closed her eyes. Tears trickled from the corners. Then she threw back her head and roared with fury, shaking her fists. “Smartun! Take thirty men! Get down the ramp, find the crash site! Make sure he doesn’t go anywhere! I will come . . . and kill him myself!”
• • •
Roland had just managed to get a jolt more of lift out of the repulsors—seconds before the crash. It slowed him enough, gave him a little forward motion, so that the skimmer struck a sand dune diagonally, cutting off the top of the dune, spuming sand, then skidding across the ground—stopping on the edge of a creekbed in a cloud of smoke.
Coughing, he scrambled out and sprinted away—as the skimmer exploded. A shock wave caught him, throwing him onto his face. He skidded painfully, coming to a stop against a hummock. “Fuck!”
He coughed, spat out dust and sand, and got to his hands and knees. At least he was alive. But so was Gynella. And he wouldn’t be safe as long as she was walking around.
Roland got to his feet—and found himself face-to-face with a good-sized skag, opening its tripartite jaws wide to snarl and so it could unreel its long, long tongue, which was a kind of lash, almost a club, that could knock a man down, whip around his neck, and drag him close for feeding.
“Forget it, skag!” Roland bellowed, grabbing the tongue as it flashed toward him. He twisted it around his fist and pulled hard.
The skag squealed and tried to wrest free.
He pulled it to him, hand over hand, his adrenaline high after the fight, the crash, another day of near-death . . .
“I’ve had enough! I’m not taking crap from a skag too, dammit!”
Holding the tongue with his right hand, he slammed his left down into its open mouth, down its throat, and grabbed a big handful of entrails. The skag writhed around his arm. Roland wrenched hard, with all his strength, and ripped out the skag’s lungs.
He threw the spasming animal and its offal aside and wiped blood off his hands onto its hide, then straightened up to look around.
And saw a line of red outriders coming at him from the base of the Devil’s Footstool about half a kilometer away.
“Son of a bitch!”
He was unarmed, and there must be at least four of them coming. One of them would have a cannon turret too.
He looked at the burning skimmer. If there were any weapons in it, they were frying now. And the smoke from the wreck was marking his position. He checked his pocket—and found he’d lost the pendant in the crash.
He could run, hide, or stand and fight. Or . . .
Roland dug the contact box from his pocket and tapped it. It only went to one place: Feldsrum’s orbiter.
“You there, Feldsrum? Yo! I destroyed the drug supply. You hearing me up there?”
A crackle, and then the man’s voice. “I hear you. Good job. What about Gynella?”
“I took out a lot of her men, both her bodyguards, but last I knew she was still kicking. I’m going to need help. I’ve got no weapons. They shot down the skimmer . . .”
“Yes, we can see that. We’ve got a good visual fix on you.”
“Then . . . either come and get me or nail these guys. They’ll be here in like two minutes. Or less. I’ve got no gun, no knife, no shield. Just get me the weapons or a little breathing room—and I’ll do the job for you!”
“Ahhh, no can do, Roland. We cannot get there soon enough. You see, we’re watching, and . . . they’re already there. Sorry.”
Feldsrum was right. A big outcropping of rock stuck up about thirty meters east of him—and around it, on both sides, came the outriders. Roland knew they were only the advance guard. Others would be coming, in other kinds of vehicles.
This wasn’t looking good. But if he could get onto one of those outriders . . .
The nearest outrider fired, its machine gun tearing up the ground in a line of little sand geysers, coming right at him. Roland turned, vaulted over the hummock, threw himself down. The mound of dirt and rock absorbed the gunfire—and then blew up as a cannon shell hit it.
Pieces of dirt and rock rained down on him. Coughing in the dust, he rolled to his left, got his feet under him, and ran for a low boulder between him and one of the oncoming outriders.
The outrider fired a cannon shell at him, and he felt it cut the air close to his right shoulder, missing him by a centimeter. If it had hit him, he’d be jelly now.
The outrider was roaring past him on the left; a Psycho Midget on its nearest running board was holding on to a rung, firing a submachine gun at him. But it was awkward to shoot from a bumping, speeding outrider, and the bullets went wide.
Roland leapt, jumping onto the back of the passing outrider, hitting it with tremendous impact—the outrider hitting him, as it raced along, more than he was hitting it—so that the air was knocked out of him. He scrabbled at the back of the outrider’s seats, got a grip on one, looked up to see a Midget pointing a submachine gun at his head, the Psycho Midget giggling as he prepared to kill him.
Then the outrider hit a rock in the rugged terrain, jolted hard, and Roland was flung into the air, the bullets cutting past just under him. He fell heavily, tumbling, gasping for breath, ending up on his back in a cloud of dust and exhaust smoke.
Dazed, he lay there coughing, wiping dust from his eyes. He heard the outriders rolling up, one to the left, one to the right, skidding to a stop.
This is it . . .
He sat up, breathing hard, aching, and forced himself to his feet. He was going to die fighting, standing up, anyway. Might take a few of these bastards with him.
“Hold your fire!” A woman’s voice. Gynella.
The smoke and dust drifted away, and he saw her climbing out of a newly arriving outrider. She wore her finery this time; breastplate, bodice, metallic microskirt, high boots, red cape. She stalked toward him, that “special meat cutter” in her right hand, her eyes burning. He could see the romance was over. She had every intention of killing him.
Trying to sweet-talk her would be too much like begging. And he knew it wouldn’t work.
Roland shrugged. Today was a good day to die—as good as any.
Behind her came the compact little guy with the epaulets, Smartun, carrying a large shotgun. This time Smartun looked almost happy.
Gynella raised the serrated knife, its micro-motion edge blurring.
“First thing I’m going to cut off,” she said, “is your—”
She broke off, staring past him.
Roland turned and saw Brick, standing all alone, on top of a ten-meter-high, pyramid-shaped outcropping of rock. Brick had a rocket launcher in his hands. And he was grinn
ing. “Brick’s here, bitch—bringing the pain!”
And he fired the rocket launcher at Gynella.
Shit, Roland thought, throwing himself flat and almost getting nailed by the rocket, would it have killed him to say, “Look out, Roland”?
Gynella and Smartun leapt to the side as the rocket slashed the air overhead and exploded on the outrider to Roland’s left. The fireball singed off his eyebrows and seared the back of his neck.
Roland didn’t wait for the smoke to clear—he jumped to his feet and ran through the smoke, jumped over the burning scrap metal of the outrider, landed on a dead Psycho, kept going, pounding to the left as fast as he could run, to try to get behind that outcropping.
“Gimme a damn gun!” he yelled at Mordecai, who was waiting on the other side of the outcropping with two guns in his hand. Mordecai had the sniper rifle in one hand, a Hyperion combat rifle in the other. He tossed the rifle at Roland, who caught it and checked the load. Ready to fire.
“Look what I took off some bandits, about three klicks back,” Mordecai said, and he kicked a box of grenades on the ground between them.
Brick was firing another round at the outriders, but he was being pounded by rifle fire and knocked back off the rock, to fall heavily onto his back. “Ouch!”
His shield had held up under the gunfire, but it was flickering now. Not much left in it.
Roland had the rifle slung over one shoulder and was filling his hands with grenades as an outrider came roaring up to the outcropping, firing its machine gun. The bullets glanced off a boulder as Roland pitched a grenade with adrenaline-sharpened precision right into the lap of the outrider’s driver. The Psycho yelled hoarsely—then the grenade blew, and the outrider spun out, overturned, crushing its outriding Psycho Midgets.
Something fell at Roland’s feet—the driver’s smoking vault mask, blown through the air to him.
Roland put the vault mask on, turned to Mordecai. “Don’t shoot me—it’s me behind this thing!” Mordecai was up on a boulder firing over a shoulder of the outcropping, picking off Psychos with his sniper rifle.
Roland was tossing grenades over the top of the outcropping. Grenades exploded; Psychos screamed.
Brick was up, dusting himself off, ignoring the blood coming out of his nose, and walking over to a boulder about three times the size of his head. He picked it up, hefted it, and waited till an outrider swung into view, the bandit racing toward him. He tossed the big rock from hand to hand, then sent it flying, underhand, right toward the cannon turret on the outrider, striking its muzzle just as it fired. The cannon blew the boulder up at point-blank range, turning it into shrapnel and turning the blast back on the outrider, which spun, crunching into the side of the outcropping, the sudden stop sending a Midget flying from it as if propelled from one of their catapults. The Midget flew straight at the surprised Brick, smashing into him so that he was knocked onto his rear. The bloodied Midget scratched at Brick’s face. Swelling with rage, Brick twisted the small Psycho’s head, snapping its neck. He tossed the body angrily aside. He was trembling, Roland saw, going into his berserker state.
Brick stood up, howled like a rabid beast, and ran thunderingly around the outcropping, out of Roland’s line of sight. Almost immediately, Gynellan soldiers began to shriek in fear.
Roland shook his head, unslung the rifle, and fired it at an approaching outrider; he blew off a wheel so that it spun out and stopped against a thicket of the cactus-like growths. Then the three Psychos jumped out of the immobilized outrider and charged toward Roland, howling the usual threats. “You gonna squeal before we cook ya? Nobody shoots my buddies but me!”
Two of them were waving hatchets over their head; one was readying hand grenades.
Roland dropped to one knee, aimed carefully, and fired, hitting the hand grenades in the Psycho’s hand. They exploded, and so did the Psycho; the other two went down, one popped by a head shot from Roland, the other shot by Mordecai from his perch on the rock.
Roland decided he’d better back Brick up. Crouching, gun in hand, he jogged around the big outcropping—and stopped dead. Brick was standing up to his waist in a pile of crimson-splashed dead men, frowning. The dead Psychos were twisted like wrung-out rags; some had their faces punched in all the way to the backs of their skulls. And Brick’s arms were red, past the elbows, with gore.
“Is that all there is?” Brick muttered, disappointed. “All done?”
Roland looked around. “Seems like. Might be more coming down from the—wait, where’s Gynella?” He removed the vault mask—a failed disguise anyway.
“Here!” She stepped out from behind the burning wreckage of an overturned outrider. She had a shotgun in her hands. “You still don’t have a shield, Roland,” she said, smiling nastily, raising the gun.
Brick started toward her—and tripped on cadavers, falling on his face in the ravaged bodies, cursing, badly entangled.
Last Roland knew, Mordecai was on the other side of the outcropping of rock, without a shot at Gynella. Roland was wondering which way to jump, when an outrider gunned into the clearing, pulled up, and Daphne climbed out.
Gynella stared at her. “You!”
Daphne kept the outrider between her and Gynella. “You put down that shotgun, I’ll take you on blade-to-blade, you megalomaniacal skank! I’m tired of looking over my shoulder for you.”
Smartun stepped into view, behind Gynella. “Don’t do it, my Goddess. Please . . .”
“Shut up,” Gynella said harshly. She dropped the shotgun and her shield. “You drop your weapon, Smartun. I don’t want you interfering. I want to slice this bitch apart.”
She flourished her “meat cutter”; it hummed hungrily.
Daphne had no shield. She drew a long dagger from her boot and flicked it between her fingers, from one to the next and back, so it twinkled in the sunlight. Then she smiled crookedly and said, “Bring it!”
Brick was up now, watching. Roland moved a little closer, thinking to take out Smartun if he had to. From there he could see Mordecai up on the rock. But Mordecai had lowered his gun. He knew Daphne wouldn’t forgive him if he interfered.
The instant Daphne came around to the other side of the outrider, Gynella rushed her—head down, arms extended, blade gleaming. The woman was fast, all right, Roland thought; her arm was a blur as she whipped the knife at Daphne’s face.
Daphne just ducked, and her body seemed to ripple, in a move Roland had never seen before, as if she were sidling to her right in a dance move, but faster than the eye could follow, and as she went she drew her blade across Gynella’s left jawbone, cutting it deeply.
She could have cut her throat if she’d wanted to, Roland realized.
Gynella yelled in hurt and fury, spun around, her knife flashing toward Daphne—but Daphne wasn’t there, making that rippling motion with her body again, the blade cutting a bit of her leather jacket but not reaching the skin.
She stepped back, grinned mockingly, and crooked her finger at Gynella.
The General Goddess’s eyes narrowed. She put one shaking hand to her face and drew it back, looked at the blood on her fingertips. “You bitch. You fucking bitch!”
And Gynella charged her. Daphne ducked easily under the knife slash and body-slammed Gynella’s legs. She rolled clear as Gynella fell heavily facedown and made a gasping sound. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. She’d fallen on her own knife, which protruded from her back. It had bisected her spine.
Roland heard someone give a heartfelt, piteous cry, and he looked at Smartun, saw him covering his eyes, weeping.
“No . . . no . . .” Smartun sobbed.
Gynella rolled over and pulled the knife free—it had cut right through her breastbone, cut deep. She tried to get up, but her legs didn’t work anymore.
She coughed. Blood spattered over her lips.
Roland had to look away. His feelings were more mixed than he’d thought. He had been kissing those lips just last night.
“Fin
ish her!” Mordecai shouted. “Get it done, Daphne!”
Daphne was shaking her head. “I didn’t know whose old man I was killing that night. If I had, I might have said no to the job. You deserve respect. You’re crazy as any one of your soldiers. But you deserve respect.”
“No . . . a loser . . .” Gynella coughed blood. “Gets no . . .” She choked.
Smartun stumbled over to her, weeping, fell to the ground beside her. “I’ve been saving something for us, my darling,” he said huskily, taking a large red grenade from his coat. A Marcus-brand fire greanade. “In case. So that we could be together. My love . . .”
Roland stepped back, out of the blast zone.
Smartun pulled the pin. The grenade exploded, splashing them both in liquid fire, creating a pyre, where they burned, writhing, dying, Smartun clutching at his Goddess . . .
They had just reached the road that led west, to the mountains. Roland in the outrunner with Brick and Mordecai and Daphne in the outrider turned onto the road, and then Brick signaled for a stop. Roland pulled up, and the outrider pulled up beside them.
“What’s going on now?” Daphne asked impatiently.
Brick climbed down from the turret. “There’s a truck coming,” he said, pointing to the west. “I’m going to see if I can make ’em give me a ride. I’m going back to Jawbone. All this time, talk of riches, nothing turns up—lotta bullshit. I’m sick of you pussies. Going my own way.”
He turned toward the oncoming truck, then turned suddenly back to Roland. “Wait—I just remembered. I haven’t killed you yet. You screwed up my fight. Took away my kill.”
Roland sighed. “Oh, yeah, right. True, you haven’t. You overlooked that. Um, look, you sure you have to do it now? I’m going to come back to Jawbone on the way to Fyrestone. Or . . . someplace. You’ll see me. Can’t you kill me then? I mean, Daphne here’s your friend, right? You want her to be able to get rich with me, right? I’ve got to take her there.”
Brick rubbed his chin. “Well . . . I guess I can kill you later. Sure. Okay. But remind me when I see you, okay?”
“Hm? Oh, sure, sure. I’ll do that.”
