by John Shirley
The truck rumbled up and slowed, because the outrunner and outrider were in its way. Roland squinted at it, rubbed his eyes, and looked closer. Was it?
It was. The wizened little man sitting in the passenger side of the self-driving truck was Skelton Dabbits.
“Who’s that?” Mordecai asked.
“The guy who sold me the map to the crystalisks.”
The truck pulled up. “Please remove the obstructing vehicles from the road,” said the robotic truck in a pleasant male voice.
“Hold on, truck,” Roland said, walking around to the passenger side of the truck cab. “Dabbits! What the hell? You said you were going off-planet. What’re you doing here?”
Roland already had a suspicion.
“Oh, well, fancy meeting you here!” said Dabbits reedily. “Ah, are you on your way to . . . ?”
“I was! What’s in the back of that truck?”
“Oh, that truck? Back there? Well. Crystalisks. And Eridium crystals. I gotta couple of live crystalisks. They roll in a ball, see, and if you know what to do, with a steel-mesh net, why then . . . Is something wrong?”
“You little weasel. You sold me the map, and then you went ahead of me to get the stuff yourself!”
“It’s not my fault you dawdled all over the planet. I heard stories. I figured Gynella would kill you. And, uh, I met a partner in Fyrestone, had a truck it fixed up itself from a junk pile—”
“Itself?”
“Yeah, it’s a Claptrap. It’s riding in the back. Anyway, I heard that Gynella had some kinda bad reversal in a canyon, withdrew her forces to the Footstool, so we figured we’d head on out to the mountains, since the way was clear.”
“Cleared by me!”
“Ah, yes. And thank you for that! Well. Word was you were a goner, so off we went, and there’s an old mining road, goes real smooth to the caves. Once you know the trick, not that hard to catch crystalisks . . .”
Roland shook his head. “How many are left up there?”
“There? Well. Not many. That is to say . . . none. There. That I know of. We got a ton of Eridium out of their den and more from the dead ones I blasted with my—Say, have a look, see for yourself!”
Roland walked glumly to the back of the truck, climbed up onto the open trailer, and lifted the canvas covering. Inside he saw at least a ton of piled-up Eridium and two crystalisks, strange tripod creatures, on three legs, semireptilian things covered in crystals, rolled up into balls within steel mesh. Between them, humming to itself, was a Claptrap.
“Hi!” said the Claptrap. “Wanna buy some Eridium? Give you a good price!”
“Shut the hell up,” Roland told it. He jumped down off the back and walked up to the trucks’s cab. “What about the money I paid you, Dabbits?”
“That map was good! You can’t blame me if you ran all over the west, getting involved in ridiculous fights that had nothing to do with your mission!”
“He’s got a point!” Daphne called.
Roland winced. He really ought to kill the little guy, take the booty. But . . . he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Oh, just get the hell out of here. I got another payday coming anyhow.”
“Please remove the obstructing vehicles.”
“All right, truck, all right, you shut the hell up too.”
He stalked over to the outrunner, and the vehicles were soon moved out of the way. “You may as well ride with us, Brick,” Roland said, as the truck rumbled away and down the road to the west. “If you want to. We’ll get there faster. And you can kill me faster.”
“No hurry on that,” Brick said, yawning. “You drive, I’m gonna take a nap.”
“Something else I gotta do.”
He hadn’t wanted to contact Feldsrum—he didn’t trust him. He preferred finishing his mission. But now there was no mission, and this was the only payday he was going to get this trip.
He took the contact box from his pocket and pressed the stud. “Feldsrum, you there?”
A crackling hesitation, and then, “Have you got it done?”
“She’s dead. Maybe two hours ago. You didn’t see it?”
“Hard to see what was going on, so much smoke. But we had a report that she was dead. The army’s disbanding, I heard, now that she’s dead. Couple of them survived, called it in to somebody named Skenk. I guess they’re fighting for the headquarters up there, or wandering off . . .”
“So, there’s your proof. You want to go down and look at her body, have at it. But there’s not much left. Burned to a crisp.”
“That fits with the call we intercepted. And Vialle?”
“Dead. Really, thoroughly dead.”
“Good job! You’re a reliable man. Stay where you are . . . we’re coming to you.”
“That’s the Dahl Corporation, coming down here?” Daphne asked. “If they recognize me . . .”
“Even if they don’t,” Mordecai said, “I don’t trust them, Roland. Feldsrum was trying to keep this whole thing quiet. When Dahl security wants to keep something quiet, you know how they do it, right?”
Roland nodded. “Yeah. It’s . . . risky. But he owes us money. I’ll share with all of you. Brick too. Maybe with the four of us they won’t make a move.”
Daphne shook her head. “Their security orbiters have a big cannon, comes out of the underside. Wait—give me that contact box. I know that model. I’ve got an idea . . .”
It took a good forty-five minutes, but at last the orbiter descended on a cushion of pulsing energy, landing struts extended, columnar body throwing off the afternoon light.
It landed on the road, thirty meters from them. Soon the hatch opened, the ramp was extruded, and Roland and Mordecai strode up to meet Feldsrum and his armored specialists.
Feldsrum and his bodyguards descended the ramp. They looked at the three men, seeing Brick on the turret gun of the outrunner. Brick gave them a look, with that weapon under his hands, that spoke clearly enough: Don’t try anything.
They didn’t look at Daphne—because she was nowhere to be seen.
Feldsrum was carrying a metal suitcase in his right hand. He walked calmly up to Roland and set the suitcase down.
“There it is. You can count it.”
Roland knelt, opened the case. It was filled with Pandoran money.
“We have a great deal of Pandoran money on the ship,” Feldsrum said. “We don’t really have a lot of use for it. Glad to get rid of it. You can always change it in Fyrestone on your way off-planet.”
Roland nodded. “Good enough.”
He closed the suitcase, and though he noticed movement behind the specialists, Daphne slipping into their orbiter with the expert stealth of an assassin, he was careful not to look directly at her.
He stood up and handed the suitcase to Mordecai.
“Here’s my question for you,” Roland said, stalling. “Can we trust you?”
Feldsrum raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean? I’ve just paid you.”
“I hear you have a big fat weapon on that orbiter. And I hear you don’t like to leave witnesses when you make a mess.”
Feldsrum laughed dismissively. “Please! What absurd paranoia. You’re perfectly safe. I’m sure we may want to employ you again. Why waste a valuable resource?”
Roland snorted. “You sure of that?”
“Don’t worry. We must be going now. Do tell your big friend on the turret not to get nervous with that gun. I’d hate for my men to have to kill him.”
“I’d hate to see them try. Anyway—” He had noted Daphne slipping out of the orbiter’s hatch and dropping to the ground.
One of the specialists turned, hearing a sound, to look toward the orbiter. Seeing nothing, he turned to watch Roland.
“Anyway,” Roland went on, “have a good trip.”
Feldsrum smiled coldly. “Ah. You too.”
He turned, and with his bodyguards backing up, not taking their eyes off the three mercenaries, they returned to the orbiter.
Roland and
Mordecai moved back, away from the orbiter, and it lifted off on a tail of shimmer.
It rose and continued to rise . . .
Daphne stepped from the brush, a small remote control in her hand. “I knew I’d find one of these on board. They hook up with those contact boxes beautifully.” She smiled. “Professional expertise.”
“Look!” Mordecai said, pointing.
The orbiter had stopped rising. Something was extruding from the bottom of the vehicle. The unmistakable snout of a rupture cannon. The shell would blow up everything for a quarter-kilometer around, once it hit the ground.
It was pointed at Roland and his friends.
Daphne pointed the remote control at the orbiter—and it exploded in a violent and blinding purple flash, almost vaporized. Only bits of it fell to the ground, like hail.
“Wow,” Mordecai said admiringly. “What a girl. Just . . . the best.”
Daphne shrugged modestly. “Easy enough to wire the box to a grenade, attach the grenade to one of the rupture shells. Once I had the transmission code for the box . . . easy enough to activate it. It’s nothing really. Can we count the money now?”
SUNSET THE NEXT DAY . . .
Outside of Jawbone, they prepared to go their separate ways. Brick had stuffed his vest with cash and had let the others have the vehicles. Daphne and Mordecai would take the outrider, Roland the outrunner. “I’m gonna walk into town from here,” Brick said. “I’m sick of being on those machines. Want to use some muscles.”
The money was pretty good. Not enough yet, though, Roland thought, to make a new start on some other planet.
Or maybe that was just an excuse. Maybe he knew, somehow . . . he could never leave this planet. He was damaged by the Pandora; poisoned by it. Probably, he thought gloomily, it wasn’t safe for people on a civilized planet, with him around.
Maybe someday he’d make it to Xanthus. Or maybe he’d die right here. On Pandora.
That seemed more likely somehow.
Since the planet was one big cemetery, it was almost as if he was already buried.
As Roland was checking the weapons on the outrunner, he noticed Brick giving him a peculiar squint-eyed look. “Wait,” Brick said. “Wasn’t there something I asked you to remind me about, Roland? What was it?”
“Oh . . . that. Actually—I forget.”
“Well, when you remember, hunt me up.”
“Sure, I’ll do that.” He didn’t believe for a moment that Brick had really forgotten, any more than he had.
Brick nodded to him and turned, walked up the dusty road, past the cemetery, into the town.
“So . . .” Mordecai was saying, putting his arms around Daphne. “You going with me?”
Bloodwing, perched on Mordecai’s shoulder, seemed to roll its eyes at this.
Daphne nodded. “Thought I would. Might stick with you for a while. Until you screw up.”
“And then?”
“Then . . .” She shrugged. “Might have to kill you.”
Mordecai sighed. “You hear that, Roland? What a babe. I’m crazy about her.”
• • •
They waved at Roland, got into the outrider, and drove off—Bloodwing jumping up to flap overhead—toward New Haven.
Roland chuckled and shook his head. Mordecai.
He got into the outrunner and drove into Jawbone. He saw Brick arguing with a gun dealer at a hut.
He didn’t wave.
He went to the other side of town, where the Bloodrust settlers were. Might as well help them retake their town. Hell, it was something to do.
A man didn’t feel right without a mission.
EPILOGUE
Marcus Finishes a Tale
The woman in the back of the stranded bus was laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Marcus asked.
It was almost dawn outside.
“The part about that little rat stealing the Eridium under Roland’s nose. And he lets him go. Hard on the outside, soft on the inside.”
Marcus smiled. “Maybe.”
“He go back to Bloodrust Corners?”
“He and the settlers headed back there. They found only a dozen Psychos occupying the place, the imbeciles fighting among themselves anyway, what with their General Goddess dead. Roland led the charge, and they killed the lot in half an hour.”
She shook her head. “What a chump he is.”
“That’s one way to think of it.”
“Look!” She had ducked her head to peer out the window.
There were two Psychos charging toward the bus.
“Okay, this is it, what we’ve been waiting all night for. Let’s do this.”
They picked up their weapons, and with Marcus leading the way, crouching as they went to avoid bullets from the window, they made their way to the front and out the door—just as the Psychos came rushing around the corner, one of them aiming a rocket launcher . . .
Which exploded in his hands—struck by a shell that sped in from the road.
Four outrunners were charging up, all of them firing their turrets at the Psychos. In the lead vehicle was Scooter, hooting and waving.
“Catch a ride!” he shouted, pulling up.
Marcus looked at the blasted wreckage of the two Psychos, the dead bodies steaming in the dawn coolness. “Yeah, Scooter, we could use a ride.”
Marcus turned to the woman he’d spent the night with . . . spent all too chastely.
“Looks like your ride’s here. I’m staying to repair my bus.”
She nodded and went to get her luggage. When she came back out, she walked over to Marcus and said, “You’re pretty good in a fight, for an old, fat guy.”
“Thanks—I think.”
“And thanks for the story. All that stuff true? I mean, how could it be, really?”
“Of course it’s true. Hey, Scooter!”
Scooter came beaming over to them. “Hoo-ee, who’s this pretty lady!”
“None of your business,” she said mildly,
“Everything’s my business, pretty lady! I’ll find out sooner or later. Now if you’d take off those goggles . . .”
The woman shrugged and pushed her goggles back on her head.
And Marcus knew her. “Lilith!”
“Oh, yeah. I think we have met before, haven’t we?”
“Scooter,” Marcus said, “you remember how Roland and Mordecai and Daphne and Brick took on the General Goddess and stopped her taking over the planet?”
“Sure I do! Well, I know they were involved in that. But everything else I know about it, why . . . it came from you!”
Lilith snorted. “So it might be true. Or it might not. For instance . . .” She looked at Marcus. “The part about that Smartun guy using your brand of fire grenade to incinerate him and his lady love. Was that true or just product placement?”
“Oh, well, a little of both. I’ve got some fine fire grenades to sell you, and other weapons. Just come by the shop and—”
“Never mind. I’ll see you later.”
He watched her walk away. Which was a pleasant thing to do.
“Hey, Lilith!” he called after her, on impulse. “Where you going now?”
“Now? To find Roland. I’ve got something to settle with him.”
Lilith smiled secretively.
And then she vanished from sight. She’d gone invisible—one of her many talents—just for a moment . . .
. . . She reappeared, grinning. “But chances are,” she said as she turned to walk away again, “he won’t see me coming.”
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM THE WORLD OF
BORDERLANDS
The Fallen
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Pocket Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 by Gearbox Software, LLC. All rights reserved.
Written by John Shirley
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
First Pocket Books paperback edition October 2012
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ISBN 978-1-4391-9848-3
ISBN 978-1-4391-9852-0 (ebook)
Cover design by Gearbox Software, LLC.
Table of Contents
Cover
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Interlude
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Epilogue
Copyright
