Ghost Dancers

by Brian Craig

  “Is this the latest battle in the corp war?” asked the Kid, licking his lips.

  “Yes it is,” answered Yokoi. “Whether it is because you are here, I do not know, but there can be no doubt that we have a major problem on our hands. If we cannot recover control of the systems, the reactor may blow—and if it does, we are all dead. The temperature outside is forty degrees below zero, and there is nowhere to run to. Please go to your room—I will be needed.”

  The Kid didn’t move until Yokoi had gone, and even then he lingered, watching the play of red light across the consoles and the signals flickering over the screens. None of it meant anything to him—it wasn’t his world. It all looked absurdly like some arcade game, gleefully telling its player that he had lost.

  The Kid wondered where Lady Venom was, and whether she’d be affected by the sudden influx of chaos into the base’s hardware; but there wasn’t anything he could do. It wasn’t his game and he didn’t have a coin to put in the slot to set it all up again.

  As he went back along the corridor to his own room he was reminded of the way that Lady Venom’s senses had occasionally slipped into neutral gear, out of synch with the passage of time. It might, he thought, be a useful trick to have at one’s disposal.

  The lights were off inside his room, though the corridor was still lit. He thumbed the switch as he moved in, cursing when nothing happened in response.

  He didn’t want to be left in the dark, and would have gone back out again immediately, but he felt himself grabbed by two strong arms and pulled inside. Something sharp was pressed into the side of his throat, hard enough to let him know that he would be cut if he resisted.

  “Hi, Kid,” said a guttural voice, which he recognized readily enough as Ray Pasco’s. “Guess what?”

  The Kid didn’t have to guess; he knew.

  He was back in the real world.

  Part Four: No Sin Except Stupidity

  1

  While Pasco strapped himself into the co-pilot’s seat Carl shoved the Kid into the narrow space behind it. The Kid’s hands were tied but his legs were free, and he managed to get through, leaving the way clear for Carl—who had occupied himself in the meantime by stripping the goggles from his face and pushing back the hood of the parka.

  He could hardly believe what had happened, but he had to admire the way Pasco had taken advantage of it all. That was a handy little tool-kit the SecDiv surgeons had stashed away in the big man’s thigh, all ready to pop out at the bidding of the smart sensor

  The VTOL lifted into the air with what seemed like painful slowness, and hung there hovering while the pilot swung the nose around. Carl watched in fascination from behind the seats.

  The radar-synthesizer display on the console in front of Pasco told them both that there were three missiles coming after them—the sim turned them into little red arrows, as though by a mere trick of representation it could render them impotent, but they seemed to Carl to be closing in with relentless swiftness. M-M hadn’t liked being attacked, and they didn’t like their prisoners taking a hike across the icefield under cover of all the confusion.

  Carl couldn’t believe that they cared much about Kid Zero, who was only an insignificant pawn in the game now that the disc was anybody’s and everybody’s, but the Kid had become a symbol, and possession of him was a point on the score of whichever side could gain it.

  Carl saw that Pasco was clenching his fingers and looking anxiously around, probably wondering what the little plane had to shoot back at the Mitsu-Makema men on the ground.

  The black cross which was the plane never moved from the centre of the sim screen, but the background suddenly scrolled over to one side, and the red arrows were swimming against its tide. Carl felt the force of their acceleration pushing him backwards, and he had to cling hard to the back of Pasco’s seat. His ears were filled with the appalling roar of the jet engine, but he kept his eyes on the screen. A cloud of little blue needles exploded from the black cross, expanding into the gap which separated it from the red arrows. When the arrows reached the cloud they popped out of existence one by one. It was as easy at that! As simple as the most basic of arcade games!

  “Microthermites,” drawled the pilot laconically. “Gets the heat-seekers every time, even when the arse end’s belching hellfire. That lot’ll melt a hell of a lot of ice when it goes down.”

  Carl let out his breath very carefully.

  “Have they got anything to give us trouble on the way out?” asked Pasco.

  “Naw. Once we’re away from the fortress we’re free and clear. Our worms disabled most of the firepower in the base. You okay?”

  “I will be soon,” Pasco replied. Carl could tell that the SecDiv man was as high as a kite on his own adrenalin, exultant with the thrill of their incredible escape. Personally, he didn’t feel nearly so good.

  “Where are we going,” Carl asked, “and how soon do we get there?”

  “Tierra del Fuego,” the pilot told him. “They’ll transfer you to a cargo-transporter there—it’ll be a bit more comfortable than this little thing, and it’ll have range enough to get you back to the States. What’s the bundle you fetched out of Arkville?”

  “Kid Zero,” said Pasco.

  “That so? We launched a major web assault on Mitsu-Makema just to snatch some two-bit motorpsycho?”

  “Not exactly,” said Pasco gloatingly. “We launched a major web assault on Mitsu-Makema in order to teach the freakers a lesson. They interfered in a little police action we had going, and they probably managed to steal something which belonged to us. It was a matter of principle.”

  “It was nearly World War freaking Three,” muttered the pilot, scanning his instruments. “We never hit anyone like that before. If their freaking reactor had blown we’d never have got out. I thought this year’s policy was softly softly.”

  “I don’t make policy,” growled Pasco. “I just carry it out—and I’m freakin’ glad they backed me up for once. Jesus I’m stiff—those M-M bastards shipped us down there inside some kind of glorified horrorshow booth. I hope we hit the suckers where it hurts most.”

  “We did that all right,” said the pilot tersely. “Now all we have to do is wait for them to hit us back—and take it from there.”

  The space behind the cockpit was narrow, but there was room for Carl to sit down. He decided that he ought to face Kid Zero, as he was supposedly covering him with the gun—though he was pretty sure that the Kid wouldn’t be going anywhere. Pasco had advised him to belt the Kid and make sure that he didn’t wake up until they were back in the States, but Carl was reluctant to do that. Doc Zarathustra wanted the Kid alive, and Carl was firmly resolved to fulfil that part of his mission, now that there seemed to be no possibility whatsoever of getting his hands on the disc or the rattlesnake. Besides which, the Kid had treated him decently enough when the tables had been turned.

  In his heart of hearts, Carl was glad that they hadn’t had a chance to snatch the snake along with the Kid—that was a prize he was happy to leave to Mitsu-Makema.

  The Kid looked him full in the face and said: “You’re Carl Preston, right?”

  Carl was a little taken aback, because he hadn’t realized that the Kid knew his name, but he just nodded. “Don’t try anything silly, Kid,” he advised sincerely. “If you do, I’ll have to hit you. Neither of us wants you to end up with a busted skull.”

  The Kid looked down at the cord binding his wrists, as if he were wondering whether he could wriggle out of them. “You’re too late,” he said levelly. “I told M-M where I stashed the disc—and the other copy got away too. The secrets your boss had stashed away aren’t secrets any more. I’m no use to you now.”

  “Usefulness isn’t the issue any more,” said Carl tiredly. “You really started something this time, Kid. Pasco reckons that the honour of the company is at stake. When you were nothing but a flea biting our ass, you could be ignored, but as soon as M-M decided to take you in you became a target of a differen
t kind. I hope it was worth it, Kid.”

  “Why are you taking me back alive?” the Kid asked. “It’s Lady Venom that Zarathustra really wants, isn’t it? Your orders were to get her—I was only an added extra.”

  Carl set his lips to avoid showing his surprise that the Kid knew so much about his orders.

  “Don’t push me, Kid,” he said tiredly. “It’s been a heavy day. I’ve had nothing but heavy days recently. I’m grateful that you didn’t blow me away before that stupid toy plane gassed us, but I’m not sure I can guarantee that I’ll be so restrained.”

  “No,” said the Kid, without any particular animosity. “I don’t suppose you can. What do you suppose they’ll do to me now they’ve got me? Bearing in mind, that is, that it’s not your boss you have to answer to any more.”

  “I don’t know,” said Carl, truthfully.

  “And you don’t care,” the Kid added for him. “Can’t blame you, really. You have problems of your own, don’t you? But you don’t have to worry, because now that everybody and his cousin will soon know what’s on the disc, the fact that you worked it out doesn’t signify. That little bit of knowledge isn’t a dangerous thing any more.”

  Carl felt coldly uncomfortable. He knew that it was impossible for the Kid to know what he was talking about, but that didn’t make what he was saying any easier to listen to.

  “Forget it, Kid,” he said, tautly. “Playing guessing games will get you nowhere. It’s over.”

  “It’s only just begun,” said the Kid. “You think M-M will take this lying down? GenTech just issued a declaration of war—of real war. They could have blown the reactor and blasted the entire base into radioactive dust. Even GenTech can’t do things like that without inviting retaliation. Like the guy said, this could be World War freaking Three.”

  Carl shook his head vehemently. “The reactor was never going to blow,” he said, hoping that he was getting it right. “M-M’s defences aren’t that lousy. Their main systems got badly scrambled but their back-ups stopped any serious damage being done. It was all sound and fury—but it gave us a chance to get into a snow-cat and out on to the glacier. Nobody was expecting a break—whoever had us hadn’t bothered to brief M-M’s SecDiv properly—but a break is all it was. If M-M have any sense, they won’t start anything heavy. They’ll want to wind this thing down just as much as we do. Nobody wants the whole damn world to go up in flames over one lousy data-disc and one stupid sandrat.”

  “Nobody,” agreed the Kid. “Except perhaps the Temple. You’re right about M-M; they will want to wind it down instead of up—but that might not stop them retaliating. Men like Junichi Tanagawa care about saving face.”

  Carl found that he really did feel a bit sorry for the Kid, who’d been home and free until GenTech decided that the time had come to make their displeasure very plain to all those who might in future be tempted to meddle in their affairs. Unlike Pasco, he had nothing personal against the Kid, and he had to admit that he was a bit of a sucker for Homer Hegarty’s line of blather about people like the Kid being the last free men in the world.

  On the other hand, he reminded himself, the Kid was on the other side. But for the grace of God, Carl might have been riding shotgun on one of the wrappers the Kid had blown up.

  “You ever hear of the Temple?” the Kid asked him.

  He hadn’t, and he said so.

  “Ask Zarathustra,” said the Kid evenly. “Ask him if he knows who really runs GenTech. Ask him about the Temple. And while you’re at it, ask him if the mutants may be the forefront of an alien invasion.”

  Carl frowned. “Is that what the M-M people told you?” he asked. “Don’t you know a sucker-story when you hear it? They’re losers, y’know. All the other corps are losing ground to GenTech. You know what they’re doing down here in Antarctica? Digging a freaking great hole in the ground, that’s what. Making themselves a little private world for their managers, where they can hide out for a thousand years or so—as long as their supplies last, I guess, unless their recyclers break down. Mitsu-Makema gave up trying to solve the world’s problems years ago, but Doc Zarathustra and men like him are still in there fighting. Freakers like you don’t help, believe me. Why d’you do it, Kid? Explain to me how it makes things better to be blowing up our stuff all the time.”

  “When you got nothing,” said the Kid off-handedly, “you got nothing to lose.”

  “That’s no answer,” said Carl contemptuously. “Is it Hegarty’s fault? Do you do it just to make the headlines? I’d really like to know, Kid—just don’t give me any crap about GenTech raping the world and needing to be stopped, because I’ve heard all that before and I know it ain’t true.”

  “It’s a personal matter,” said the Kid, in a low tone. “Leastways, it was.”

  “Well it sure as hell ain’t personal any more,” Carl told him. “You got half the freaking world on the case now. And what if M-M do try to get you back again? You enjoy being a freaking football? You could take one hell of a pounding being booted back and forth—until somebody scores a goal and you end up underneath a gravestone.”

  “You haven’t touched down yet,” the Kid pointed out.

  “You can be glad of that,” Carl told him, but not vindictively now hat his sudden burst of bad temper was over. “Count your blessings, Kid, because they’re running out real fast. I’ll take you back alive if I can, but if I can’t, I’ll take you back dead. Maybe you should have blown us both away when you had the chance.”

  “Maybe I should,” agreed the Kid. “You think Zarathustra will send you back for Lady Venom?”

  Carl laughed shortly, and shook his head. “The Doc has a whole zoofull of mutants,” he said. “Every one of them more interesting than your freaking rattlesnake. M-M can keep it—if they really want it.”

  “It’s not only mutants the Doc has in his zoo, is it?” said the Kid, his big eyes transfixing Carl with their curious intensity. “He has your brother in a tank, too.”

  Carl couldn’t suppress a start of surprise. “What do you know about Bro?” he asked, sharply.

  “It upsets you, doesn’t it?” said the Kid. “What happened to your brother, I mean. But it’s landed Zarathustra in the shit now, hasn’t it? He didn’t report it properly to his masters, did he? He didn’t explain its potential as a weapon—and now it’s too late, because the other side has it as well.”

  Carl knew that the Kid was trying to rattle him. What else could it be? But the Kid was succeeding. Carl was genuinely frightened. The Kid was a spectacularly good guesser—but Carl was determined not to give anything away.

  “Cut the crap, Kid,” he said, trying as hard as he could to sound careless.

  “If I were you,” said the Kid, “I’d keep a careful eye on that partner of yours. I’ve heard that he was a psycho even in the days when he was an Op, but you wouldn’t believe what kind of a cesspit his mind is now. He’s dangerous, Carl—to you, and to himself.”

  “I’d rather have him with me than against me,” Carl observed, trying to turn the tables.

  “He isn’t with anybody,” the Kid informed him coldly. “He’s all alone. Don’t ever rely on his loyalty—to you, to GenTech, to anything.”

  “You’re whistling in the dark, Kid,” Carl told him, hoping that it was true. “I told you before not to rile me. I’m not the trigger-happy kind, but I’ll kill for the sake of a quiet life, if it looks like a good idea. You don’t know me, Kid—you don’t know me at all.” He couldn’t help adding, for his own ears only, that it was certainly mutual. He couldn’t figure out the Kid at all—but then, who could figure out what made a motorpsycho tick?

  “Ghost dancing,” murmured the Kid, seemingly to himself—but only seemingly, Carl guessed. “It’s all just ghost dancing. Neither of us has a freaking clue who we are, or what we’re doing, or where it might end. It doesn’t make any sense, and it never will.”

  “You’re full of shit, Kid,” said Carl biliously. “I know what makes sense and what doe
sn’t. Three square meals a day and a comfortable bed at night make sense. GenTech makes sense, and Dr Zarathustra makes sense—and because I’ve been told to do it, even this makes sense. The only thing which doesn’t make sense around here is you: what you are, what you do and what you think. So why don’t you can it, Kid, and get some sleep before we hit the ground again?”

  “Sure,” said the Kid, with a smile which seemed to Carl to be the ultimate in courageous defiance. “Why not? Take me to your leader, Carl—it might just be interesting to meet him.”

  2

  Ace the Ace peered morosely into the depths of his glass, at the last remaining inch of turbid, discoloured liquid. As cold beers went, it had been a pretty lousy experience. He could have forgiven the fact that the title “beer” was one to which it was definitely not entitled, if only it had lived up to the qualifying adjective, but it had not. Given that the average midday temperature in Oklahoma at this time of year was around forty degrees Centigrade, the last thing a man needed was a cold beer which wasn’t cold.

  He could have wished for better, given that it was probably the last cold beer he would ever drink.

  The Ace figured that his chances of making it back down to the Underground were pretty slim, given that he was on his own. His pockets were empty, his guns were empty, and his bike was too tempting a target.

  He knew that he shouldn’t be in the bar at all. If he’d been cut from the same indomitable cloth as Kid Zero he’d have been out on the road, living on air, setting booby-traps for tourists—but he wasn’t Kid Zero. The Ace was a gangster through and through; he’d never operated alone. He didn’t like being alone, and he had no illusions about his capacity to enjoy, let alone sustain, a solo career.

  When the last inch of not-very-cold not-beer had gone, he knew, he was going to have to start thinking very hard about the best way to commit suicide. He hadn’t much option about it. To be or not to be wasn’t the question—the question was whether to set himself up for some particular way out, or whether to let the grenades and machine-guns of outrageous fortune take care of it for him.