by Dave Stone
“Ell-oh-you-pee,” said Masterton. “Scots for leap, apparently. Quantum jumps and so forth. Plus it’s French for wolf—bringing in the whole idea of lycanthropy. For obvious reasons.”
Half-buried memories of the carnage in the Mimsey San Angeles Adventure surfaced with a vengeance. Eddie gulped and shuddered as he tried to force them down. He strained his neck again to face Masterton.
“What happened out there?” he asked, when he could more or less speak again. “What did I turn into?”
“Near as we can tell,” said Masterton, “the Loup opens up a… portal, let’s call it, and something comes through. The precise nature of it is still unclear. It doesn’t seem to think in what we imagine of as human terms, though it certainly has impulses and reactions.
“The Loup converts energy from the life-forms around it, seemingly at random, and uses it to transform the host. We think it’s trying to build the equivalent of a pressure-suit, so it can survive in this world…”
Eddie Kalish was following all of this. It was just that he couldn’t believe it.
“Why the hell would you do this to me?” he said at last.
Masterton frowned. “I told you, you’re nothing. You just happened to be on hand.”
“No, I mean why would you do it to anybody? What possible use would it be?”
“It’s useful if it’s contained and controlled,” said Masterton. “Trix Desoto was the first test subject who developed techniques for controlling it. You wouldn’t believe some of the things that girl can do.”
Abruptly, his expression clouded into one of bad-tempered spite.
“But there’s no point telling you now,” he continued. “We were gonna stream those hard-earned control-techniques to you, on the subconscious level, but you went off the damn script and bugged out. Now you’re going to have to learn them the hard way—if you end up learning them at all. Look familiar?”
Masterton, Eddie saw, was holding up a hypo of the sort with which Eddie was being periodically tranqued.
“This contains a compound we call the Leash,” said Masterton. “And don’t even bother to try working out what that means. The name describes what it does, not what’s in it or how it works.
“It keeps the thing inside you dormant. You go twelve hours without a booster-shot and the thing goes overt. Then it tears everything it can get its claws on apart, which is sort of an inconvenience for anything it gets its claws on. And plus it gives out a psychic trace like you wouldn’t believe.
“We don’t get there in time to haul it back, it tears itself apart under its own internal forces—which is certainly going to be an inconvenience for you…”
“I seem to recall,” said Eddie, “you’ve already told me you own my ass. So what difference does all this make?”
“Just emphasising the point,” said Masterton. “I let you loose, you’re still on a choke-chain. There’s a reason why we’re inoculating people with the Loup, a specific job we need them to do.
“Haulage and delivery to… well, let’s just say that where you’re going, where you’re going to end up, only someone infected by the Loup has any chance of surviving.
“At the moment, apart from Trix Desoto, you’re the nearest thing we have to a viable option. And time’s getting tight.”
12.
On his attempt at escaping the Factory, Eddie Kalish had not bothered to check out the contents of the warehouse-space around it. On the whole, he realised, it was fortunate that he had not.
Had he stuck so much as his head through the doors, without clearance, then that head would have been burnt off by the plasma-ejectors of automated defences—whether the powers that be had wanted him kept alive and intact or not.
Now, in the company of Trix Desoto, he wandered through the big steel caverns. He somehow expected his footsteps to echo off the walls, for all that sound was as deadened in here as in any recording studio.
The inner walls of the warehouses crawled with polyceramic baffles and steel mesh designed to disrupt tracksat scanning that could ordinarily see right through the flat surfaces of buildings.
Possibly the hybrid processes of the Loup really had left him smarter, because something occurred to him that he was sure never would have, in what he was increasingly coming to think of as his previous life.
“Doesn’t that look suspicious in itself?” he asked. “You know, a NeoGen tracksat looks down and sees a bunch of totally disrupted forms?”
Trix Desoto snorted.
“Give us some credit,” she said. “The baffles are constructed to give the impression of old packing cases and the occasional scurrying rat.”
Indeed, looking up, Eddie could see a lump of vaguely rat-shaped thermal biogel being moved around by a clockwork-driven arm. The use of clockwork, presumably, prevented the mechanism from being identified as such.
It all seemed a bit Rube Goldberg to Eddie. If he could only work out what a Rube Goldberg was…
Most of the space under the baffles was taken up with the big hulks of Behemoth rigs, of a similar sort to those Eddie had seen when he had first encountered Trix.
As had been the case then, the tanker-like construction of most of them was simply camouflage. For all that they were plastered with Hazmat decals, suggesting that a breach would release the kind of chemical-waste sludge that would seriously bring down anybody’s day, the hatches were open to reveal simple compartment space.
Workers in sterile med-tech coveralls were busily filling the compartments with what appeared to be thermos canisters. There were thousands of these canisters. There was no indication as to what they might contain… but the size and squat proportions of them left Eddie decidedly uneasy.
“Couple of hours before they finish loading the Brain Train,” said Trix Desoto, instantly confirming Eddie’s unease.
“And what are we calling the Behemoths themselves?” asked Eddie. “Think Tankers?”
Trix Desoto snorted again, this time it seemed with suppressed laughter rather than contempt.
This little instant of human contact left Eddie feeling momentarily weird. He didn’t know what to think about it.
“So how did you get roped into all this..?” he ventured at last.
“None of your damn business,” Trix Desoto said, flatly. It was like a shutter coming down. “I might tell you the story of my life, someday, but it won’t be today. For the moment you can just keep your grubby fingers out of my head.”
“Suit yourself,” said Eddie Kalish.
Off to one side of the warehouse, a bunch of outriders in bulky leather-skinned body armour were checking the gyro-systems on their flywheel-driven motorsickles. A small group of them were doing the traditional thing of sharing a smoke directly under the sign on the wall that told them, in huge letters, not to do that very thing.
Eddie glanced from them back to Trix, in her skin-tight patent leather, and raised an eyebrow. “You’re gonna be coming it like the biker chick for this thing, yes?”
“I’m going to be riding in command-and-control this time out,” Trix said, her manner easing up again, just a little, now the conversation had returned to the job at hand. “Doing the Third Assistant to the Attache thing, you know? Anyone from the outside looking in, I’m a console-jockey. From the inside out I’m in Command.”
“Good for you,” said Eddie. “So where do I fit into your whole command-structure thing?”
“For the moment, till we get where we’re going, you’re a semi-autonomous unit. You’re gonna be running vanguard; our eyes and ears in front.”
“And when we get there, wherever it is?” Eddie asked, uneasily recalling what Masterton had said about only he and Trix being the only two who carried a viable strain of the Loup.
“That’s need-to-know,” said Trix Desoto. “And you don’t need to, yet. For now, your function is to help the Brain Train get through in the first place, and you should concentrate on that.”
Eddie concentrated on it—or at least, he thought
about it.
“Front-runner just seems like one hell of a responsibility, is all,” he said. “I mean, you can pump my head full of all the new info and vocabulary you like; the fact remains that I’ve never done anything like it before. I just don’t have the experience. It’s a screw-up waiting to happen, is all I’m saying.”
“You’ve got experience,” said Trix Desoto. “You spent years out on the roads and you survived.”
“I spent years dicking around, never going anywhere much and rabbiting at the first scent of danger,” Eddie said.
“Yeah, well, those are the senses and instincts the front-runner needs,” said Trix. “Your job is to sense the danger, then rat out and cover your ass while the heavy-duty guys deal with the actual combat. I reckon we can trust to the Leash that you won’t rat out too far.”
Eddie nodded, feeling depressed. Trix would, of course, be supplying him with his twelve-hourly dose of the Leash for the duration of the run.
Come what may, the life of one Eddie Kalish would be inextricably linked to the fortunes of the Brain Train.
“Besides,” said Trix, “you’re really not going to be doing much more, in the end, than sit there on your ass. You’re going to have help.”
“If it isn’t a personal thing about the story of your life,” said Eddie, “what do you think of this thing about cracks in the world and stuff? The thing about how the Loup is supposed to actually work?”
They were working their way through the loading-activity around the Behemoths towards a partitioned-off area before the main doors of the warehouse.
Eddie had noted this when coming in, and had wondered what the partitions concealed. Only he hadn’t wondered enough to take a look, on account of the fact that a security-system plasma ejector had started tracking him, with a whirr of servos, when he had gotten too close.
“What?” said Trix, who seemed a little lost in her own thoughts. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, it just sounded like bullshit, you know? The sort of shit you dream up when you’ve been dancing with Mr Brownstone. But Masterton said that everyone has their own idea of what’s really going on, so I just wanted to hear what you think is really happening, is all.”
“I don’t think about it, much,” said Trix. “To the extent I do, I think it’s just another way that the world’s a sex-killer.”
“What?” said Eddie. “I mean, a what?”
“Sex-killer. Whoever you are, the world just screws you. It screws you up and screws you over, and when it’s had enough of screwing you it kills you. Simple as that. Last few years, it’s just stopped clicking around and decided to be up front about it.”
As a general philosophy of life, there was much in it that Eddie could get right behind. Something inside him, however, was saying that it was all too pat in its bleakness and resignation—and that some large part of Trix Desoto didn’t believe a word of it herself.
Just another front.
“So if that’s just what the world is,” he said, “if that’s all there is, why even bother to keep living?”
“What’s the alternative?” asked Trix. “Here we go.”
They had reached the partitioned-off area, and Trix slid one of the partitions back to reveal what—for one Eddie Kalish at least—was a reason to keep on living at least for a while.
“There’s your help,” said Trix Desoto.
The red skin of the Testostorossa gleamed in the pristine, liquid way that spoke of either fresh wet paint or a well-nigh impervious monomolecular shell. Eddie Kalish had lived around vehicles for most of his life, in any number of states of repair. He had thought he knew from vehicles of any kind.
He had never known an automobile, in and of itself, could be so beautiful. Wonderingly, disbelievingly, he reached out a hand to stroke the liquid-seeming shell.
Smoothly, ramping on an exponential curve, the engine came to life. There was a kind of throaty roar to it, which Eddie would later learn to be due to integral booster-units—the hydrofusion equivalent of turbo-charging.
“Get your fuckin’ hand off me,” the Testostorossa growled, in the voice of a New York cabbie. “You a fuckin’ fag or what?”
The doors of the warehouse rolled up, and the security-system plasma ejectors racked themselves back on their servos.
The front-runner sped out like a red streak, hi-impact suspension taking care of the worst of what had might once been a street but was not little more than a debris-strewn track.
It put some distance between itself and the warehouse complex, then slowed to match that of the Brain Train tankers which were now emerging, the motorsickle outriders fanning out to bracket them to far as was possible in the current urban conditions.
Over to one side, in the wreckscape of the No-Go there was the rattle of automatic fire, the flash and smoke of frag-detonations. This was a common occurrence at the beginning of any transport-operation: each of the various multicorps had arrangements with one or another of the various tribes that infested the No-Go. NeoGen, or MegaStel, or any number of other concerns, bribed guys to disrupt GenTech traffic as a matter of principle—and GenTech had guys on the ground to take out any source of disruption.
The Brain Train convoy headed up on the somewhat tortuous route that would take it northwards through the San Angeles Sprawl and at last onto the pristine blacktop of the Interways… and an entirely other kind and degree of danger.
The sheer size of the operation made any attempt to run covertly not even worth thinking about. Lights blazing, loaded up for mutant bear, the Brain Train was a sight to see.
Masterton wasn’t watching it. He wasn’t even tracking the Brain Train’s progress via the tracksat readouts in the Factory communications suite. All the same, he knew precisely where it was.
“Sama slektli,” he was saying, prostrate before his totems in the spare and austere cell that served as his working space and living space combined. “Tara oorsi sa mamda lami se tarakogla me so sani ta deloka de somata so se hakara de sao soma…”
The words, had there been anyone here to listen to them, would have struck this nonexistent listener as pure nonsense, without basis in any known human language-structure, even to the point of having the glossolaic quality of speaking in tongues.
Indeed, that was rather the point.
Likewise, the collection of artefacts and totems on the floor before him appeared to have no real sense of significance: nothing but a random collection of garbage and junk, the detailing of which would serve no actual or useful purpose.
And, again, this was the point.
The words and totems had, in fact, no more significance than the static and distortion coming from a radio receiver when hunting between stations—save that, at some specific point on the dial, one can learn to recognise a particular blend and texture in the static, and know that one is coming close to whatever station one is actually searching for.
The words and totems merely directed the mind towards… a place for which there are no ordinary terms of human reference.
Masterton looked up.
The air before him shimmered as though with heat-haze—then split open as cleanly and neatly as a razor slits a polythene sheet. A matched pair of barbs, each trailing a thing fleshy line, shot from the slit and speared Masterton, punching through his shades and burying themselves deep into the eye sockets beneath.
The lines connecting Masterton to the rip in the fabric of the world twitched and pulsed; some kind of exchange was taking place. Masterton drooled.
“Salekmi tekla,” he said through his slack mouth. “Samo de talekli sama… Food for you,” he continued in more or less distinguishable tones, as though some synchronisation had been reached with whatever it was behind the slit in the world. “Sending food for you. Food for you now. Food for your mouth.”
Reprise: Reset Settings to Start
The Severcy Sisters hit them as they went through Checkpoint 9.
The gangcult had been stalking them for maybe ten miles,
now, segueing in on one or other of the outriders to have an exploratory crack then peeling off, weighing up the defence-response. Now the core mass of them piled it on, coming in from both sides.
“The Sisters are small fry,” Eddie Kalish said, quick-scanning the pattern-recognition specs and stats streaming across his Testostorossa’s HUD. “They’re just little girls with a grudge. No real kill power to speak. They don’t care about the Brain Train—they’re just coming in pincer-wise to knock off the front-runner.”
“Yeah, well,” the Testostorossa said, diodes rippling on its voice-display, “that would be us. What’s the matter, faggot? Too much of a queer to wanna fuck some girlies?”
“I just think it’s a waste.” Inwardly some large part of Eddie groaned. He didn’t mean any of this macho bullshit, but the Testostorossa was getting to him. He was starting to get the idea that killing people with an asinine quip on your lips was just flat-out murder.
Through the shotgun window a girl in torn leather and spikes leant from her quad-bike and swung what appeared to be an exact copy of a medieval morningstar. It looked pretty lethal, but the business end of it rebounded from the monatomic carbon shell of the Testostorossa to no effect whatsoever.
The Sister snarled in pique. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen years old.
“Anyhow,” Eddie said, “These kids just aren’t tooled-up enough to hurt us.”
“Yeah, but they’re drawing attention to us,” the Testostorossa said. “Lots of other fuckers out there, waiting to sit up and take notice—and they’re packing enough heavy stuff to make us go bang-splat.”
Seemingly of their own accord, multidirectional scatterguns extended, locked and loaded.
“I’m scraping these bitches off us as of now,” the Testostorossa said. “You just keep that pinhead of yours on driving me.”
Eddie gunned the turbo-acceleration and sighed. How the hell had he ever gotten himself into this..?
Third Quadrant: Impactor Road
