by John Shirley
Mordecai went to the boulder and poked a finger at Bloodwing’s breast, waking the creature up. It made grouchy squawking sounds and then listened with its head cocked as he whispered to it. Bloodwing cawed in response, hopped a couple of times on the boulder, then sprang into the air. It flapped up and up, spiraling higher and higher, then broke off to soar toward the trash feeders—if that was what they were.
Bloodwing seemed to approach the flyers as if it planned to pass above them, on its way somewhere else—then it suddenly dived. There was a flutter of close engagement, as the two figures became one, Bloodwing and the trash feeder thrashing in the air. Then one of them fell away, turning end over end as it dropped. The other one flew swiftly back to Mordecai—Bloodwing, carrying something in its claws.
Bloodwing circled just overhead and dropped its burden at Mordecai’s feet.
He bent down and picked it up. “I thought there was something odd about the way those things were flying around and around in the same spot. Not a rakk or trash feeder motion, really.” He showed Roland the piece of the flyer that Bloodwing had brought back. It was mechanical, a thing of metal and glass and synthetic skin designed to look like animal hide.
Roland stared. “A lens? A surveillance drone! Camouflaged as a trash feeder.”
Mordecai nodded. “And by now it’s transmitted back to whoever sent it here. They know just where we are.”
INTERLUDE
Marcus Tells a Tale, Part Two
“. . . So Roland and Mordecai had a big decision to make,” Marcus said. He cleared his throat. His voice was giving out. He’d been talking for hours.
Marcus, the woman, and the Claptrap were in the back of his broken-down bus. They had a little light from a lantern sitting on the floor of the aisle. It was too dark to see the woman’s face. Darkness, broken only by a few patches of moonlight, engulfed the world outside. “I need a drink before I can go on with the story. Getting hoarse.”
“Oh, do finish the story!” piped the Claptrap, suddenly sitting bolt upright up on the seat behind him. “Tell some more about that brave dancing Claptrap!”
“Shut up, or I’ll pry out your voice circuits,” Marcus growled.
The robot sagged back down on the seat.
“Near as I can tell,” the woman said, “there are only two of those bastards out there. We’re not as weaponed up as we ought to be. But . . . maybe if we take the fight to them now, we can catch them at their camp. I don’t like sitting here waiting for them to decide they’re going to use that rocket launcher on this heap of slag you drive.”
“This bus is no heap of slag. This is a finely tuned mechanism! They shot the damn engine, remember? You want to go after them, I’m game. But then what? We’d still have to wait for Scooter. Too far to walk to Fyrestone in the dark. This is Pandora. It’s dangerous out there. Only place you’re anything like safe on this planet is in a locked room in a well-defended settlement. And maybe not even then.”
The woman shrugged—he still didn’t know her name, although he’d been talking to her all night.
“You sure your buddy Scooter can be relied on?” she asked, peering out the window.
Marcus snorted. “He’s not my buddy. I don’t think he’s anyone’s buddy. But he’ll show up eventually. And he’ll bring some firepower with him.”
She looked at a chronometer in her thumbnail. “Just a couple of hours to go before the sun comes up. You could finish your story.”
“I’ll need a drink, a good long one,” Marcus said, looking toward the front of the bus. He got up and, crouched over, back aching from the odd position, moved toward the front of the bus. He tried to scan the dark wasteland outside the windows, but he couldn’t see much, just the outlines of a few stark growths throwing shadows in the attenuated moonlight. He reached the front, his boots crunching on broken glass, and squatted down to reach under the driver’s seat. His fingers groped and found the bottle. He tugged it out—and a muzzle flash flicked beyond the front window, just past the boulder. A rifle burst sizzled past his head, smashing through the back window.
He threw himself flat, cutting his hands on the broken glass. “Lady, you hit back there?”
“I’m fine!” the Claptrap robot called. “Thanks for asking!”
Marcus gritted his teeth. “I said—”
“I’m not hit!” the woman called. “You’d better get back here. It’s better cover!”
He got up to a crouch and, carefully sheltering the bottle in his hands with his body, hurried back down the aisle, expecting to be shot in the back at any minute. But no shot came. Instead, a grizzled voice called to them from somewhere in front of the bus.
“Why dontcha come back over here? I got a little present for you!”
“Ooh, a present!” the Claptrap said happily.
Marcus reached their little camping spot in the back of the bus. He sat cross-legged on the aisle floor, grunting, his back cricking. “Whew!”
“I’m gonna rip off your arm and beat your baby with it!” yelled the Psycho in the darkness.
“We haven’t got a baby!” Marcus yelled back, opening the bottle. “Think of a different one!”
There was a puzzled silence. Then the voice shouted, “I’m gonna cook you over a slow fire, meat puppet!”
“That one makes more sense,” Marcus said, raising his bottle in salute. He took a long drink of the liquor and offered it to the woman.
She shook her head. “One of us has to stay sober.”
“Don’t you worry,” Marcus said. “I put this stuff on my breakfast cereal. Ah! That’s better. Now, where was I?”
“You were telling us all about the brave little Claptrap!” the robot chirruped.
“No, I wasn’t. I was talking about how Mordecai and Roland figured out they were gonna have to move the settlers to a new hiding place, because the camouflaged drones had found them, and Mordecai was getting pretty frustrated about not being able to stay on mission. He hadn’t signed up to wet-nurse a bunch of foolish miners. But see, Roland never did have an operation to have his conscience removed, like a lotta people do. Neat little bit of brain surgery . . .”
“Why didn’t he just have the chip taken out?” the robot asked. “I had a conscience chip once. It totally confused me. I mean, what’s in it for me? So I had it taken out. I feel much better now. By the way, based on your current stress patterns, I calculate an eighty-nine-point-four-percent chance that you will encounter an unfortunate death experience very soon. You’d better be careful, or that unpleasant person out there will suck your brains out like crappucino!”
They ignored the Claptrap.
“What about the assassin, Daphne?” the woman asked. “And Brick? What happened to them?”
“Oh yeah, well, I’ll tell you, it wasn’t real pretty, what they’d fallen into, not pretty at all . . .”
Sitting on the grit in the corner of the reeking, metal-link holding pen—a cage, really, with a ceiling of links over it—Daphne was feeling almost luxurious. They’d taken the chains off her wrists, and she had a little food, her first in twenty-four hours. The soup stank, and she was definitely not going to ask what the chunks floating in it actually were, but as she drank it down from the dented metal bowl, it seemed to give her strength, and that’s exactly what she needed. So she choked it down.
Survival started with strength, and as the food strengthened her, she found her mind clearing, too. She’d been dazed while being hauled there in a cart pulled behind an outrider. An old self-driving truck, cadged from a Dahl construction site, had toted Brick there, and he was now chained up—triply chained—in the center of the coliseum’s dirt floor across from her.
They would set Brick up to fight, to be their entertainment, in this rinky-dink, shabby, patched-together little coliseum Gynella had had built on the edge of the Salt Flats. They would have him fight a Goliath. An almost unbeatable adversary was a Goliath, hand to hand. And already, before his gladiator duty had begun, Brick was injured—m
ore than that, he was concussed, wounded, half starved, and dehydrated. When it came time for the Goliath, could even Brick survive? It seemed unlikely.
Daphne sighed, thinking about it. It wasn’t as if she was close to Brick. She couldn’t quite imagine being in any kind of physical intimacy with him. If he lost control, for one thing, he might break her in half. Besides that, he wasn’t her type. Mordecai was more her style. But still, she felt a fondness for Brick, that great brute. Perhaps it was the mummified paw of his lost doggy, worn around his neck, that touched her. Perhaps it was a kind of crude gallantry he’d shown her from time to time. But she’d come to think of him as a slightly mentally handicapped big brother. And it was hard to see him brought this low.
She forced herself to drink the dregs of her execrable soup; she wiped her lips and tossed the bowl aside.
You’re going to survive, Daphne told herself. No giving up. There’s always a chance.
After all, she’d never thought she’d survive that tight spot on top of the hill, with Gynella’s army wherever she looked, bullets flying from every direction, and Broomy squalling for her blood.
But she had. She was still alive.
They thought they’d use her for a little toy, once Brick died. But she was going to surprise them. She was going to—
“Well, you squirming little slag,” came a voice like a rusty saw working its way through hardwood. “Still alive, I see.”
It was Broomy, looking at her through the wire of the containment pen, a submachine gun in her hands.
“Yes, Broomy. I’m still breathing. I’ll be breathing, walking around, and laughing when you’re long dead.”
Broomy showed the snags of her teeth in a gruesome leer. “Will you? After Brick’s dead and the Psychos use you for their little hump toy, I’ll come to find what’s left of your body—and I’ll wipe my shoes on it. Then I’ll squat over it. And you know what’ll happen then.”
“Keep dreaming, Broomy. Just keep lying to yourself. I’m making you a promise. I’ll kill you before I’m done.”
Broomy tittered. “Says the girlie with chains on her ankles. Very convincing!”
And Broomy walked away, laughing.
• • •
“You really think they’re gonna be safe here, Roland?” Mordecai asked, looking at his newly trimmed beard in the little hand mirror.
Bloodwing, on his shoulder, looked into the mirror too, turning its head this way and that, seeming to admire its own reflection. Mordecai glared at the creature. “Stop that, you leather-winged scrap-eater!”
Bloodwing cawed as if laughing, and Mordecai put the mirror away.
They were standing across from the Steel Incisor, keeping an eye on the street. The town had a good many unoccupied huts and shacks—unoccupied because the occupants had died or mysteriously disappeared. Those rude domiciles had been easy for Dakes to rent for his people.
“No way I can be sure the settlers are safe here,” Roland said in a low voice. “But—” He paused to watch two children from Bloodrust Corners walk by, looking around them at their new settlement with large, uncertain eyes. “I feel like this place makes good cover. See, nobody takes this town seriously. Jawbone’s like a . . . a blot on the map. I just don’t think she’ll look for ’em here. And there aren’t any of Gynella’s people here now. The settlers can regroup here, keep their heads down, make a plan to retake their settlement. If they stick to the cover story—that they’re new settlers, looking for a place to settle on the planet—they’ll probably be overlooked. Long enough, anyway.”
Mordecai chuckled dryly. “You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself, Roland.”
Roland shrugged. He smiled, very slightly, seeing Glory and Lucky walking across the street together. Glory was still pretending that she wasn’t quite sure about Lucky, but she was allowing him to hold her hand—tentatively. She’d set her cap for him, Roland had no doubt about that.
“You don’t think they saw us caravaning here?” Mordecai asked. Adding bitterly to himself, “Giving the last of our money to Scooter to do it.”
“Your pal Bloodwing got the other drone before we left. We covered up our tracks pretty well. With luck, the settlers are safe for a while. Meanwhile, you and I head out, scout the territory, find the safest way to that crystalisk den . . .”
Dakes emerged from the Steel Incisor and, hands in his pockets, crossed the street to Roland and Mordecai. He seemed a little drunk. His expression was hangdog, his shoulders slumped. He had a rifle on a strap over his shoulder and Roland hoped Dakes wouldn’t have to use it while he was drunk.
“Roland,” Dakes said. “Mordecai.” He rubbed his forehead. “The stuff they sell in that bar! Ugh.”
“Wouldn’t drink that stuff, if I was you,” Mordecai said.
“Trying to relax,” Dakes muttered. “Couldn’t rest all night. Every time I try to stretch out to sleep, I start seeing all those bodies back at the settlement. Half of us stone-cold dead. Seven more men maimed. We used up every bit of Dr. Zed we could get our hands on.” He sighed. “We got two orphans to take care of now. Just little kids—they don’t understand. My fault, getting their folks to come out here.”
Roland shrugged. “I don’t know. This world needs more settlements like yours. New Haven, a few other places—other than that, there’s not much real civilization on Pandora.” But privately Roland thought it was a mistake bringing children there, until the planet was tamed.
As if reading Roland’s mind, Mordecai remarked, “Not sure this planet could ever be tamed. It’s psychopathic, this world. Far as I know, pretty much any animal here is predatory. Everything’s trying to kill and eat everything else.”
“But you stay here,” Dakes pointed out.
Mordecai tugged at his beard thoughtfully. “Guy like me, I need the action. That’s the one thing on this planet you can count on.”
Dakes glanced at Glory and Lucky, strolling down the street. “Shouldn’t have brought my daughter to this world. She’s gone half savage here. I just . . .” He shook his head. “Shouldn’t have brought anyone.”
“You’re here now,” Mordecai said. “I don’t like seeing that lunatic Gynella win this one. Especially using those lunatics. How she ever got ’em to follow orders, I don’t know. But once they start in on a settlement, it’s slaughter. Torture. Cannibalism sometimes. She’s not going to be able to control ’em forever. And you’ve got a right to take that place back.”
Dakes looked at him. “That mean you’re going to help us do it?”
Mordecai blinked. “Me? I didn’t sign on for that. We’ve already gone way off mission. That’s not professional, Mr. Dakes. And me, I stay pro. Me and Roland are going to head out. But if we get another chance to help . . .” He glanced inquiringly at Roland. And Roland nodded. Mordecai went on. “I mean, while we’re on our mission, you know, just along the way, well then . . .” He sniffed. “If there’s something we can do to reduce the odds against you folks, why, I wouldn’t mind.”
Bloodwing cawed and nuzzled Mordecai’s ear.
• • •
It was only a couple of hours after dawn, but it was already warm out—it was going to be a hot day.
Daphne watched from her cage as scores of sullen Psychos were roughly lined up in the middle of the coliseum’s gladiatorial ground. All of them were unarmed except their drill sergeant and Skenk, who stood at the back with a shotgun. Listening to her captors, Daphne had learned the names of some of the principals of Gynella’s army: the scar-faced sergeant was Flugg; the semihuman with eyes on the sides of his head was Runch. The enormous bodyguard was standing near a small pavilion, a large colorful tent with the stylized G on the side. Runch held a rocket launcher in his hands, as easily as an ordinary man would have carried a small rifle.
And then an extraordinary woman stepped out of the pavilion and surveyed the troops. Runch stepped up close to her, just a little behind, watching the troops with his own kind of surveillance.
&nb
sp; The Psycho soldiers gaped at her, many of them trembling, moaning at the sight.
Daphne had never seen Gynella, but this had to be her. She was tall, powerful-looking, carrying herself with a feminine grace somehow perfectly combined with megalomaniacal confidence. Someone else might’ve looked absurd in the sexy armor, the high ornate boots, the cape, the long glittering nails, that long flowing white-blond hair, but Gynella, the General Goddess, carried it off easily. Daphne was quite impressed.
“My warriors!” Gynella called out, her voice carrying powerfully throughout the coliseum. “We have succeeded in capturing Bloodrust Corners!”
There was a ragged cheer of approbation from the Psychos.
“That will mean riches for all—once our mission is done!” She raised both fists in the air and shook them at the sky as she declared, “We will conquer this world and divide it up! We will feast on it!”
A real roar erupted at that one.
“And now, you are among those who’ve gone too long without your reward. The time for my blessing is here!”
The men murmured in anticipation. Several of the soldiers stepped forward, gasping in desire, hands outstretched. Runch snarled and pointed the rocket launcher at them. Flugg cursed at them to keep their places and pointed an assault rifle.
Gynella stood there calmly, waiting.
The soldiers looked at the weapons—and stepped back in line.
Gynella nodded. “And now—” Her voice reverberated loudly throughout the small stadium. “Will you follow me into battle?”
The men responded in litany, “We will!”
“And will you fight to the death for the banner of a new world?”
“We will!”
“Then . . .” She smiled seductively, and her fingers twisted the circle of metal on her ActiTone medallion. The men moaned in unison as she pointed her finger at them. “Then feel my love!”
