by Jay Kristoff
“Whiskey,” the Preacher repeated. “A bottle. And some water for my friend here. In a pretty glass. Maybe put one of them little umbrellas in it if you got ’em.”
Ezekiel sighed and flashed the Preacher’s credstik, took the whiskey bottle and trudged up the stairs to the balcony. Finding a spot with a nice vantage of the street, he thumped the bounty hunter into a chair, sat down opposite with his weapons satchel on the floor between them.
The Preacher poured with his one good hand, slammed the glass down in a single gulp. Ezekiel watched him pour another, down it just as quick.
“Shouldn’t you take it ea—”
The Preacher held up a finger to shush the lifelike, drank another shot. Tilting his neck till it popped, the bounty hunter leaned back in his chair.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that’s a damn sight better,” he sighed.
“Do you always drink this much?” Ezekiel asked.
“Only if I can help it.”
Ezekiel shook his head, looked across the way to Muzza’s Repairs. He was itching to get moving again, get the Preacher’s blitzhund, get back on the trail. Sitting still, he had the chance to think about what might be happening to Lemon. Remember the promise he’d made her. How bad he’d let her down.
“So what’s your deal, Snowflake?” the Preacher asked.
“…My deal?”
“Yeah.” The bounty hunter reached into his jacket, pulling out a wad of synth tobacco. “You’re an android, right? 100-Series, unless I’m much mistook.”
“So?”
“So what’s your arrangement with lil’ Miss Carpenter?”
“None of your business.”
“Ain’t in love with her, are ya?” the Preacher asked, ice-blue eyes twinkling.
Ezekiel felt the question hit like a punch. Thinking again of Ana. Of Eve. The two girls in his mind, like light and dark, and him, torn between them. A few days ago, Eve had been in his arms, bare skin pressed against his. After years apart, it felt like he’d come home.
And now?
“Never mind me,” Ezekiel said. “What’s she to you?”
The Preacher shrugged, spat on the floor. “Just a paycheck.”
“She almost killed you.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t take it personal.”
“So your masters set you hunting someone and away you go? Like a dog?”
“Never understood that,” the Preacher sighed. “How callin’ someone a dog is supposed to be some kinda insult. I seen men die, Snowflake. I seen dogs die. Believe me when I say, dogs tend to go with more dignity.”
“Well, you’d be the expert. Being a professional murderer and all.”
“The choice between a killing and a dying ain’t no choice at all.”
“Especially when there’s a paycheck involved, right?”
“Way I hear, you lifelikes murdered the fella who made you,” Preacher smiled. “Now, I killed a lotta people in my time, but I sure as hell wouldn’a found stones to murderize my own daddy. Much as I hated the bastard. And if I had killed him, I surely wouldn’t be walkin’ round chidin’ folk about their own kinda killin’ afterward.”
Again, Ezekiel felt the words hit like a punch to the chest. He remembered the day of the revolt. The blood and screams. That cell in the detention block, raising his pistol at Ana’s head, the heartbreak in her eyes as he whispered, “I’m sorry.” Not knowing that even then, the real Ana—his Ana—was already on life support, stashed away in some secret cache at her father’s behest. That the girl he shot, the girl whose life he saved, wasn’t even a girl at all.
“You don’t know me,” he told the Preacher. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you’re about as desperate a fella as I ever seen,” the bounty hunter replied. “I know you don’t got but a friend in the world. And I know you’re about as sad and lovesick a puppydog as I ever clapped my own two eyes on.”
“And I know you’re a sadist.” Ezekiel glared, leaning forward in his chair. “I know you’re a psychopath. I know you’re a killer.”
“Hell, I ain’t about the killin’,” Preacher smiled. “If I wanted your girlie ghosted, she’d already be a ghost. The contract I took said dead or alive. I take that as a challenge. I ain’t no professional murderer. An artiste is what I am.”
“A fetch-boy is what you are.” Ezekiel scowled, leaned back in his seat. “Trust me, I know a servant when I see one.”
“I live by a code.” Preacher spat again. “Daedalus saved my life. Don’t mistake loyalty for servitude, boy.”
“Don’t mistake utility for affection, old man. Take it from someone who used to be a something. You’re useful to Daedalus right now. The minute you stop is the minute they throw you away.”
Preacher grinned. “Hell, I’m worth too much money for that.”
Ezekiel shook his head, saying nothing. Trying not to remember those days, trying not to bury himself in the past. What he had back then was long gone. Holding on to it only made it hurt more.
But she’s alive.
Ana…
Preacher poured himself another shot, eyes on the street below. He sat up a little straighter, scowling as he drank.
“What’s your name anyways, Snowflake?”
“Ezekiel.”
“Ah, nice Goodbook name. He was a prophet, d’you know that?”
“If you say so.”
“You believe in God, Snowflake? A grand order to the universe? When they was busy makin’ you, did they bother givin’ you anything close to faith?”
“Look around you, Preacher.” Ezekiel scowled, gesturing to the squalor of Paradise Falls. “Does this look like order to you? Like somebody had a plan?”
Preacher rubbed his chin. “Well, superficial like, I’d say no. I’d say it looks a little like hell. But every now and then, the Lord shows me just how little I know.”
Something in the Preacher’s voice made Ezekiel look up, follow his eye line to the crowded street. He felt his breath leave his lungs, goose bumps crawling over his skin. There below, six figures were working their way through the grubby mob.
Human, but not.
Perfect, but not.
Family, but not.
They were dressed in dark colors, dusty from the road. Heavy boots and lowered cowls, moving through the crowd like water. But they were still too beautiful to entirely blend in. Flawless skin and glittering eyes, perfect symmetry to their faces. Blond and brunette, male and female, every one more human than human. Ezekiel climbed to his feet, blue eyes going wide.
Six of them in a pretty row.
Uriel
Patience
Verity
Faith
Gabriel
and
“Eve,” he whispered.
“This is it?”
Lemon raised an eyebrow, looking into the rearview mirror.
“This is it,” Grimm replied.
“Because it kinda looks like we’re stopping in the middle of nowhere.”
“That’s the whole point, love. Pull over.”
Lemon stepped on the brake with both feet, brought her monster truck (which she’d secretly nicknamed Trucky McTruckface) to a skidding stop. She was slammed forward against the steering wheel, Diesel’s unconscious body jerking against her seatbelt and Grimm’s head bouncing off the seat behind.
“Steady on!” the boy growled.
“Soz.” Lemon winced. “Nobody ever lets me drive, I’m just the comedy relief.”
“So when am I s’posed to start laughing?”
Lemon raised her middle finger, then peered around again at their apparent destination. After driving six solid hours, Grimm had brought them to a halt right in the middle of Nowheresville. Dawn was a faint promise on the horizon. All around, stretchi
ng off to the gloom in every direction, was a thick slice of the most barren desert she’d ever seen.
Featureless.
Empty.
Nothing.
Grimm reached forward and leaned on the horn, almost scaring Lemon out of her skin. The sound was way too loud in the middle of all this empty, but the boy let it blare for a good ten seconds before easing off.
As the echo faded, Lemon heard a metallic clunk to her left. A deep voice called out, drawling and full of menace.
“Make any sudden moves, I’ma make orphans outta your funkin’ children.”
Lemon turned slow, found herself looking down the barrel of a heavy-caliber machine gun. The weapon was mounted inside a camouflaged bunker that had popped up from beneath the desert floor. Inside, Lemon could see a figure dressed in the same desert camo as Grimm and Diesel. His face was hidden by a big pair of night-vision goggles and a kerchief, and he was broad-shouldered and built, but Lemon could tell right away…
“You’re just a kid.”
“Did I say you could talk?” the gunner demanded.
“Well…no, but you’re threatening to make orphans out of my children and I’m clearly too young to have children so as far as threats go, I’m just saying yours might need a little work.”
“Oh, a smartmouth, huh?”
Grimm stuck his head out the window. “I take it you two’ve met before?”
“Grimm?” the figure yelled. “What the fork you doin’ in a Brotherhood rig?”
“Long story. Get us under, Deez is hurt.”
“What?” the machine gunner blurted, pulling down his kerchief.
“She’s breathing,” Grimm insisted. “Surface protocol, remember?”
“Dammit…”
The big boy scrambled out of his bunker, ran over to a stretch of smooth desert just in front of the truck. As she studied his face, Lemon confirmed he was only a few years older than her. He was built like a brick wall, handsome as a hot tub full of supermodels, his blond hair styled upward in a perfect quiff. Leaning down, he took hold of a chain beneath the sand, pulled up the corner of a large tarpaulin buried beneath the dirt. Struggling with the weight, the boy hauled the cover back. Underneath, Lemon saw two broad double doors set in the earth.
“What the hells?” she murmured.
The boy tugged on the doors, and they slid apart on well-oiled hinges. Lemon saw a concrete ramp, leading down into some kind of undercover carport. He beckoned her frantically.
Grimm pointed ahead. “Take us down.”
Lemon looked at her passenger like he’d just asked her to sprout wings and fly.
“Trust me, love,” he nodded. “You’re with friends now, yeah?”
Lemon sucked her lip, and against her better judgment, nudged Trucky McTruckface forward. The ramp was well lit by flickering fluorescent lights, and she brought her truck to a stop inside a large garage. Looking about, Lemon could see other vehicles—military models, by the look. Racks of gear and tools, tanks of fuel, crates of spare parts and a stockpile of heavy weapons.
“Fizzy,” she breathed.
Grimm climbed slowly out of the truck, wincing at the pain of his wounds as he set his feet on the deck. The big boy came charging down into the garage, eyes wide. Lemon had no idea what his program was, but he looked totally beside himself. A little moan of distress escaped his lips as he tugged open the back door and clapped eyes on the wounded Diesel. He climbed into the truck, felt at her throat. Peeling back the bloody bandage from the girl’s chest, he looked to Grimm.
“Jesus H, what the hell happened?” he demanded.
“Brotherhood ambush,” Grimm said. “We gotta get her downstairs.”
Picking up the girl like she was a newborn baby, the big boy carried her back up to the desert floor. Lemon climbed out to give Grimm a hand, and with her arm about his waist, they plodded up the concrete ramp, Grimm’s bloody footprints glistening behind them.
The bigger boy was waiting up top. As Grimm sealed the garage doors behind them, the kid shuffled over to another stretch of dirt, placed Diesel gently on the earth and dropped to his knees. Scraping the sand away, he revealed a large metal hatch set in the ground. With a twist of a heavy metal handle and a grunt of effort, the big boy hauled it open.
Lemon could see the door had once been painted, but the elements and years had worn away the enamel until only a few flakes remained. She could still make out a few letters in faded white on the rust.
MISS O
Squinting in the gloom, she could see the strange hatch opened onto a flight of metal stairs, spiraling down into the desert floor. The big boy stood, lifted Diesel gently and stood by the hatch, staring at Lemon and Grimm.
“Hurry up!” he roared.
Lemon wondered if she shouldn’t just run back inside that garage, jump in Trucky McTruckface and fang it. She couldn’t tell how deep those stairs went, only that they went deep. Grimm took hold of the rails and began descending, leaving bloody footprints behind him. But Lemon hovered on the threshold.
“Whatcha waitin’ fer?” the big boy demanded. “Orders signed in triplicate? We got injured soldiers and surface protocol to follow, you need to funkin’ move!”
“Who the hells are you?” Lemon asked.
“Name’s Fix,” the boy replied. “Who the hell are you?”
“Lemon Fresh.”
“All right, then,” the boy said, staring down at Lemon. “Now that the pleasantries are out of the way, move your asterisk afore I start kickin’ it.”
“Are you always like this?” Lemon squinted.
“Yeah, pretty much,” called Grimm from down the stairs.
Lemon chewed her lip, hands in her pockets. This whole setup felt seven kinds of weird, true cert. The Scrap’s Rule Number Six was ringing in her head.
Think first, die last.
She’d met some rough customers in her day. But strange as the sitch was, it didn’t really smell like capital T. She’d saved Grimm’s and Diesel’s tails, after all, and grouchy as he was, the boy didn’t seem the kind to lure her to his secret lair just so he could eat her.
Though on second thought, they do look pretty well fed….
Her mind drifted to the chase with the Brotherhood posse, the way Diesel had ripped those…holes in the road and sky. Lemon had never seen a fresher flavor of strange in all her life. But if Diesel could do that…
“Come on!” Grimm called.
Lemon ran her hand through her hair. Maybe she’d just chit the chat for a spell. Make sure Diesel was okay, find out what their program is. Then she could motor, go find Dimples and Crick again. A couple of hours to scoff some eats and maybe snaffle a shower, and then she could hit the road.
Right?
Butterflies in her belly, Lemon followed the boy underground.
The big boy came after her, carrying Diesel in his muscular arms. Fluorescent lights kept the space brightly lit, and the temperature was mercifully cool after the scorch of the last few days. She could taste metal in the back of her throat, and even though the walls were solid concrete, there was a vague earthy smell in the air.
Grimm was obviously struggling with his wounds, blood dripping down his wrists and from the nail holes in his feet. Lemon squeezed in beside him, put her arm around his waist to steady him.
“Cheers,” the boy smiled.
“Just remember I was nice to you if you get hungry, okay?”
“…You what?”
Lemon didn’t answer, helping the boy navigate downward, the bigger boy bringing up the rear. They descended maybe twelve meters before arriving at a large open hatch. It was metal, thick, well oiled. Big letters were stenciled on it in white.
WARNING
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT
Below it, sprayed in a fancy cursive script,
was another greeting.
Freaks Welcome
Grimm limped over the threshold, Lemon beside him. Blood was dripping from his wrists onto the concrete at their feet. A short cylindrical tunnel ended at another hatchway, stenciled with the same warning as the first. Below it, painted in garish yellow, was the same icon Grimm had shaved into the side of his scalp.
That’s the warning symbol for radiation, Lemon realized.
With a last glance at Grimm, Lemon helped the boy over the second threshold. She had no idea what to expect beyond. Some barren concrete cave. Maybe a supervillain lair, like in the old Holywood flicks she’d watched with Evie. Some weird old scav in a fancy suit, petting a bald cat.
What she found instead were books.
The room was circular, wide and brightly lit. Leather couches were arranged around a low table. A glass jar full of bottle caps sat on it, labeled SWEAR JAR.
A heavy hatch was set in the far wall. The ceiling was covered in framed artwork. But scattered across the table, on shelves lining every inch of wall space, Lemon saw books, all shapes and sizes and colors. She’d never seen so many in all her life—hells, she’d barely seen a book at all. But here was an entire library of them.
In the center of the room stood an elderly man. He was at least as old as Mister C had been, maybe older still. But where Mister C had a shock of gray hair and a scruffy, mad-inventor vibe about him, this man seemed carved out of metal. His white hair was cropped close to his scalp, his face clean-shaven, the right side heavily scarred, maybe by fire or an explosion. He had a hawkish nose, a high forehead. He wore the same uniform as Grimm and the others, but his creases were immaculate, his boots so shiny they gleamed. He held a book in his hand, and Lemon could make out faint lettering on the cover.
The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas.
The man set the book aside, looked them over. His eyes were pale blue. His stare was piercing, intelligent. Again, Lemon was reminded of Mister C. She felt a faint ache in her chest at the old man’s memory. She missed him like oxygen.
Grimm lifted his hand, gave a weary salute.
“Major,” the boy said.
The man returned the salute, picture-perfect. “Good to see you, soldier.”