Borderlands #2: Unconquered

by John Shirley

  “Smartun, Goddess said bring him from truck, so I bring him from truck,” rumbled Spung.

  The small man nodded, looking at Roland with cold hatred. “You take up your post here, Spung. Fwah . . .” He turned to the big woman. “Take him in . . .” He seemed to struggle to finish saying it. Clearly this “Smartun” didn’t want Roland to go inside at all. “To her.”

  So that was what that vibe of personal hatred was about. Jealousy.

  Fwah opened the door for Roland, winking at him, and Spung gave him a particularly vicious shove to propel him through it. Roland staggered in, then turned toward the door.

  “Spung,” he said. “I can’t promise you’ll be the first one I kill. But you’ll be one of the first. So don’t get impatient. It’s coming.”

  Spung blinked at him in confusion, shrugged, and walked lumberingly away.

  Roland turned and saw Gynella herself standing in the open doorway to a room on the left. It must be her. She was a tall, voluptuous, powerful-looking woman with an intense expression and long flaxen hair; she wore a tight suit of armored skag leather. She was so striking he didn’t at first notice the gangly, hollow-eyed man in a stained lab coat standing behind her.

  “Vialle,” Gynella said, “don’t you have some lab work to do?”

  Vialle sniffed and slipped past her into the wide hallway. He stopped to stare at Roland. “Gynella, this man . . . if he is not suitable for your purposes, can I have him? He is an interesting specimen. I would like to do a vivisection, perhaps, possibly some creative splicing.”

  “If I can’t use him, you shall have him, Dr. Vialle,” she promised. “Now just . . . go.”

  Vialle turned reluctantly away and walked, storklike, to a room marked “VIALLE LAB 1.” He opened the door, stepped through, turned to close it, and gave Roland one last long, lingering look. “Yes. I think so,” he muttered. “Vivisection. For you. You would find it a very . . . intimate experience.” And he closed the door.

  “Kind of a party animal, isn’t he?” Roland said.

  Gynella smiled thinly. “Come into my office.”

  “You going to take these chains off me?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  She walked into the office, and he followed her in—and stopped when she put a long slim blade to his neck. “This is what we use as a meat cutter on my home planet. I’m quite skilled with it. It has a very small, very efficient moving edge on it, like a microscopic chain saw. It’s hard to see it, but it’s there. It’ll cut through flesh and bone easily and quietly . . .” She put her lips to his right ear, keeping the blade on his Adam’s apple. He felt her breath tickling his ear when she said, “Quietly as a whisper.”

  He tried not to shiver—and wasn’t entirely successful.

  “Over there,” she said, nodding toward a long chaise longue near a workstation and a portable bar.

  He walked over to it. “You want me to sit on this thing? Waste of a comfortable seat, with these chains on me.”

  “You keep the chains on for now. It is a sign of our respect for you, if you like—you’re quite a dangerous man.”

  He turned and sat awkwardly on the edge of the chaise. “So . . . big evening of executing me planned?”

  “After what you did at my little coliseum show, I’m tempted!” she said, chuckling, sheathing her blade. She stepped over to a rifle leaning against a table to her right, keeping her eyes warningly on him the whole time. The only things on the table were two glasses and a pitcher of thick orange fluid—and the contact box that Mince Feldsrum had given him, taken off him while he was unconscious.

  She picked the rifle up and pointed it at him. It was a great blunderbuss of an energy rifle—he could tell by the curving, almost organic lines on it that it was Eridian, but it was a weapon he hadn’t seen before. “You have no shield now. This is the most powerful portable weapon we have. There’s only one of these that I know of. It’s an Eridian Remover. If I shoot you with it, it’ll leave a blot where you were before. We’ll sweep what’s left into a dustpan. Do you believe me, Roland?”

  “I do, yeah. You seem sincere. And that weapon looks . . . like it could do it.”

  “It could. And I won’t hesitate to prove it if you make one wrong move in here. You’re good, but I could probably kill you without this weapon, even if you had a gun and your hands free. Because I’m better. But I don’t like to take unnecessary chances. I’d rather not have to kill you at all.”

  This surprised him. “Yeah?”

  “Yes. You do have qualities I like. Qualities I need. I’ve been watching you for a while. I have people in Fyrestone. I have my drones, and I have files on you. I became especially interested in you when I saw footage of you in action around Bloodrust Corners. And then when you hit our coliseum . . . and you made a terrible mess in Goddess Canyon with that truck.”

  “Goddess Canyon, that what you’re calling it? Going to name everything on the planet after you?”

  “Once it belongs to me, why not? I will, however, name a mountain after my late husband. He was murdered by that horrendous little assassin you have been running around with. Daphne Kuller. Where is she?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “The cowardly backshooters you ran around with gave us the slip. But we’ll find them.”

  “I really don’t know where they are. We were prospecting for Eridium—they probably went on into the mountains to do that. I don’t know.”

  “Yes, they probably abandoned you. Because they’re cowards. But you, you’re no coward—you went after the bait alone. Smartun was in charge of that operation. He didn’t think you’d fall for it, but I see everyone’s weakness. And I see yours.”

  “Yeah. I got chains locking my arms behind me.”

  “Your weakness is hotheadedness, opportunism—you’re bold to a fault. But your strengths are much more impressive. You have a talent for tactics. You fight creatively. You’re resourceful. You’re fairly bright . . .”

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  “And you emanate power. In the way my husband did. They couldn’t kill him fairly, you know. They had to send a sneak to shoot a dart into him. It had to be done the cowardly way.”

  “Like the way you took me down?”

  She shrugged apologetically. “I was trying to save your life. Now, who gave you this?” She picked up the contact box. “We found this on you—did you take it off Feldsrum? Or did he give it to you?”

  “I found it.”

  “I don’t think that’s true. No matter.” She put it down. “Turn around. I am going to remove your chains.”

  He stood up and turned around. Half expecting to be shot in the back.

  She walked over to the workstation, and out of the corner of his eye he could see her put the pitcher of orange-colored fluid on the desk. “Be very careful what you do, now,” she said. “I’m faster than you—and I have that knife ready to slice you apart.” She went to a desk drawer, drew out a remote control, and pointed it at his chains.

  They fell off his arms, clattering to the floor.

  With enormous relief, he stretched and rubbed his wrists. “Can I turn around?”

  She stepped back from him and retrieved the rifle. “Go ahead.”

  He turned. “You know that big guy who shoved me into this building? The one who smells like he’s never been near water?”

  “You’re smelling a bit ripe yourself. What about him?”

  “I’m going to kill him. Whether or not I decide to work for you.”

  “I haven’t made an offer yet.”

  “Isn’t that what you’re getting at?”

  She nodded. “Once I’ve prepared you to obey me. There’s only one way I can be sure I could trust you. How are you feeling? You had a rough ride getting here.”

  “I feel like death warmed over.”

  “So have a drink.” She poured two glasses of the orange fluid and sipped some. “It’s vitalizing.”

  He was damned thirsty and hungry, and s
eeing as she’d drunk from the same pitcher . . .

  He picked up the glass and drank deeply. It had surprisingly little taste; just a mild sourness.

  But he started to feel better almost immediately. Strength rippled through him; the pain in his arms ebbed away. “You should bottle that.”

  “Now, behind you is a small door. There’s a shower in there. Go on in, shower, clean up. Then come back out here. There’s no back way out of there, no window. I’ll be watching the door. Don’t get cute.”

  “No clean clothes?”

  “There’s a pilot’s jumpsuit if you want it. Or just put on the robe.”

  Under the influence of the drink, he found he was looking at her curves, her legs, her eyes . . .

  This, he thought, is crazy.

  But Roland went into the back room, undressed, and showered. A hot shower and soap—it felt unbelievably good.

  He toweled off after, with a clean white towel, and looked at the clothes on the two hooks. A clean white jumpsuit; a black bathrobe of some soft, thick fabric.

  Don’t be a chump, he thought. He should put on the jumpsuit, step through the door, look for a chance to take that gun from her.

  But he put on the robe.

  He took a deep breath and went through the door into the other room. She was wearing a robe herself. And nothing else—except a circular pendant around her neck.

  She put her hand to the pendant. “In fact,” she said, “there was something else in that drink. In your glass. The interior glass itself was treated—with a certain drug. We usually give it by injection, but . . . this is a new formula, a thin spray of SusDrug. Just perfected today. Should be powerful, and safe—it won’t hurt you. Quite the contrary. It’s not fully activated until I use this device.”

  She pointed a hand at him—so that her robe fell open—and with the other hand twisted the dial on the pendant.

  Ecstasy struck Roland like a bolt of lightning, so powerful it drove him to his knees. He groaned. “This . . . isn’t . . . fair.”

  “Oh, but it’s lovely, isn’t it? Doesn’t it feel good?” Her voice sounded impossibly sweet.

  She turned the dial a little more, and he groaned and had to struggle to keep from crawling to her on his hands and knees.

  No, Gynella, he thought. I am not going to let you do this to me.

  “I need a new general,” she said, her voice reverberating through him. “And if you will obey me, if you will be completely loyal to me, to the death, you can be that man. I must either kill you or recruit you. A man like you could double my progress on this planet. I give you the gift of ecstasy . . . and more. Something I’ve given to no other man on this world. Something I’ve given to no one since my husband was murdered.”

  “Oh . . . I can’t bear this.”

  No. Don’t crawl to her. Stand up!

  Shaking, he forced himself to stand.

  “Impressive,” she said. “Now, go to the lounge. Lie down. I’ll join you. And I have my knife strapped to my wrist. If you give me trouble, I’ll carve you up. But I don’t think you will. I have made my mark within your brain—I have put my brand there. I have seared myself into you! You are mine, Roland. You are now mine, forever.”

  The morning light was veiled in dust—a dust storm roiled the horizon to the north. Mordecai hoped it wouldn’t swing their way.

  “First that Roland shoots the Goliath in the head, just as I was about to kill him!” Brick complained. “Then you—you make me hide in a skag hole!” He scratched under his left arm. “I’ve been itching ever since! No man takes away my kill! No man makes me hide!”

  “Take it easy, Brick,” Mordecai said, looking across the plains with the scope of the sniper rifle. They were on a hilltop, about ten klicks north of the skag cave. Daphne was sitting on a rock nearby, looking balefully off into the distance. Bloodwing circled high overhead. “You’ll get your chance to kill lots of big ugly bastards before this is through. If you still feeling like killing me and Roland after that, then . . . fine.”

  “Okay, just so you know!”

  “Fine, good.” He sighed, lowering the rifle. “I can’t see much. Damn dust storm.”

  Daphne cleared her throat. “Mordecai. Can we talk?”

  “Sure.” He smiled at her, hoping for a smile in return. But she just looked pensively at the ground. That scary calculating look she got in her eyes sometimes was there now. They’d kissed a couple of times, but it hadn’t been the right moment for anything more. She was a strong woman, stronger than most men. No way she was going to just melt in his embrace, not that easily. Anyway, skag caves and campsites with Brick snoring nearby were not ideal romantic settings.

  “I just think,” she began slowly, “that we ought to be realistic about this. Roland’s probably dead.”

  “Couldn’t find his body. They’d never bury him. And those missile canisters—they smelled of chemicals. Word is she uses a knockout gas to get her recruits to where she can, I don’t know, brainwash them or whatever she does.”

  “She’d never recruit him. After what happened in that canyon . . .”

  “Right—she’ll take him to a coliseum, make sure he can’t get away, and feed him to some Goliath. But that gives us time to go after him.”

  She shook her head slowly in disbelief. “You don’t seem like the suicide-mission kind.”

  “I am!” Brick put in. “I like suicide missions!” He scratched his head. “Or is that homicide missions?”

  “I don’t know, as it’s suicide,” Mordecai said. “The General’s forces are pretty badly reduced. Must be demoralized. If we can track them back, we might slip in, get him out . . .”

  “‘We’? Why should I do that?” Daphne asked. “I kind of liked Roland. But first of all, by the time we get there, he’ll be dead. Second, even if he isn’t, there’s no money in it for us. I might go out of my way to save your ass . . . I got kind of used to your face. So maybe.”

  “Heartwarming.”

  “But nobody else. I’m a professional assassin, not a rebel, not a hero in some stupid cause. I risk my life all the time. But I’ll never throw it away, Mordecai.”

  He nodded. “I gotcha. Well. You could take the outrider, head back to, say, Jawbone. I’ll meet you back there.”

  She snorted. “You’ll never make it back alive.”

  He looked out at the swirling dust to the north. She was probably right. The chance of success was small. But once he partnered with a guy, he saw it through to the end of the mission. That was his code. And he was pretty sure if their positions were reversed, Roland would be there for him.

  “See you in Jawbone,” he said.

  • • •

  Roland woke from a sleep where dreams were mixed up with remembrance. The fight at Bloodrust Corners. The kids running by—him wondering what it would be like to have a child of his own. Memories of a woman, a strong, sensitive woman, who just might be waiting for him on the planet Xanthus. Dreams of Gynella. In one dream she’d made him carry her on his back, across the plains.

  She had ridden him last night. Most of the time she’d straddled him, used him. Even when he was on top he felt as if she was in control. But he’d surrendered to it, gone with it, because she was like a living landscape of sweet touch, and he felt as if he wanted to melt into it and die . . .

  He sat up on the chaise and looked around. He was alone, naked, a little sore, his head throbbing. Hungry. And he could smell food. There was a bowl of something that smelled savory on the desk, and he figured it was for him. Some sort of stew. Beside it was a spoon.

  The stuff was good, rich and meaty and hot. First good meal he’d had in months. He ate hungrily, felt strength and alertness return.

  He put down the bowl . . . and then the craving hit him.

  He craved her. Just to fall to his knees before her. To feel her benediction.

  And it made him angry. Roland’s fists balled with anger as he thought about it. The anger swept away the craving.

&nb
sp; No. This is one soldier you can’t have, Gynella. Never again.

  She’d primed him with that drug. It was probably still active in him. He couldn’t let her get near him. He might buckle under to her again, maybe for good, if she sent that vibrating singing through him one more time.

  He went into the back room and found his clothes, his boots, everything cleaned up and ready for him. Everything but a weapon.

  Roland dressed, then returned to the office and did a thorough search, assured himself that there were no weapons in the room.

  None. That was no surprise.

  He tried the door to the hall. It was locked, of course. She wasn’t sure of him yet.

  Last night, in her arms, he’d told her he’d be her new general, he’d help her conquer the world. He’d almost meant it, then.

  Today the memory sickened him.

  She was beautiful. They had both arched their backs in ecstasy; they’d both climaxed more than once. But he was no one’s slave. And there was only one way to make sure.

  Once he killed her, he’d never make it out of there. All those Gynella fanatics—too many of them. He could only kill so many. They’d drag him down and tear him to pieces. He’d be lying in pieces on the Devil’s Footstool, in the dirt, and the trash feeders would come down . . .

  But his gaze stopped, as he looked around the room, fixing on one object on the table.

  He walked over to it and picked up the small metallic box that Feldsrum had given him. She’d forgotten it. Or maybe it didn’t work.

  He found the activation stud on a corner of the contact box and pressed it. A crackling noise came from the box.

  Then a voice seemed to come out of the air itself. “Who’s that? This is Dahl three-one-one on tight-frequency reserve. Identify yourself!”

  “Roland here. That Feldsrum?”

  “Ah, at last! I’d almost given up on you! We were just trying to arrange for another twenty specialists to come in and . . . take care of the Gynella problem. But it’s all rather embarrassing. If you are willing to accept our offer . . .”