by Eyal Kless
I felt an involuntary shudder running up my spine as the veteran Salvationist added, “And that was just Lizard popping, easy clean-up stuff to make way for the experienced crews who went into the actual City within the Mountain. When you entered that place, there was no telling how you might die. Those traps reset themselves or somehow appeared in places where they previously weren’t, and if you stumbled upon a nest, well, even if you survived the encounter you never wanted to go back there again. Oh, and I must apologize.” There was the sudden sound of a power buildup.
“For wha—” I began to say, but then he hit me hard in the chest with open palms. It felt as if I’d been slammed by a power hammer. As I flew backwards I was blinded by a flash of searing light that passed through the space I’d occupied only a heartbeat beforehand, followed by a deafening explosion to my right. I was grasping at empty air in panic, knowing I was about to hit the ground and hurt myself. Galinak somehow managed to jump back while pushing me out of the way of the energy blast. His right hand was raised, already aiming at whoever shot at us from the dark street on our left. Something thin and silvery shot from his gauntlet.
I hit the ground hard as pieces of stone, burning wood, and hot, bent, metal debris rained down on me. My only piece of luck, under these circumstances, was the fact that most of the ground in the Pit was soft muck, so I wasn’t knocked out. For a while all I could do was shield my head and roll from side to side, praying I wouldn’t get squashed by a large slab of stone. I was already on my knees when a strong arm gripped me, and I was hauled to my feet. When I could take in my surroundings I saw a gaping hole to my right where a makeshift house used to be. The edges of the hole were still smoking, and a small fire burned in the exposed room. I could hear shouts but couldn’t discern which direction they were coming from.
Galinak looked at me calmly and simply said, “You are unharmed.”
I could only nod as I checked my head with my hands, they came back filled with muck but no blood.
“Can I let go of you?” he asked.
I nodded again, though it took a lot of willpower and pride not to collapse once Galinak released his grip.
“I’m fine,” I brushed away the dirt from my shoulders and lower back, thankfully I was wearing black, “but what in Bukra’s balls was that?”
Galinak strolled to the left. I followed him and saw the large and still-twitching body of the huge Troll who had aggressively invited me to employ him.
“I heard him a while ago,” he said, kneeling down to check the Troll’s pupils. “He was making so much noise trying to shadow us, I’m surprised you didn’t hear him.”
“Is he dead?”
“No. I used a shock dart, and an expensive one at that.” He plucked the dart from the Troll’s shoulder and looked at me as if this was entirely my fault.
“Now what? Are you going to kill him?”
Galinak shook his head. “You’re quite bloodthirsty, even for a newcomer.”
“Well . . . he did try to kill us.”
“No. He tried to kill me. You he just wanted to rob and maybe throw around a bit for good sport. But his brain is so full of rusting metal he used his cannon, which would have fried us both with nothing for him to pick up afterwards, unless he was planning some odd kind of a barbecue.”
“And you saw him coming?” I was hoping Galinak didn’t spot the shudder which coursed through my body, but I suspected he did.
“Of course I saw him coming,” he said calmly.
“And you let him pull the trigger?” I was suddenly very angry. “Is this a kind of a game for you?”
“No,” he said patiently. “I simply knew exactly when to move. Once he powers up the cannon there’s a brief delay during which the weapon locks up and is immovable. If you know what you’re doing, you just need to move away when you hear the sound. It’s very distinct.”
He gestured toward the cannon. “I remember finding a stack of these little honeys on our fourth deep run into the City within the Mountain. We were a happy bunch coming back. Originally, I think they were meant to be some kind of mining equipment, self-mounting and probably automated, without the need to use a Gnome or a cheap body-fixer like this.” He gestured at the bracers holding the GY blaster 2015-d special edition. “But some Trolls fell in love with the idea of having one of these babies as a personal weapon, and who wouldn’t, I ask you? We sold them like fresh bread and made a fortune, then we celebrated in style.”
He shook his head. “If there was a time I could have walked away from it all and lived a quiet life, that was the time. I had the coin to do it, but those were good times. We had a strong crew, good people, we were even hoping to get enough between us to buy a Puzzler, you know, go solo—” He stopped abruptly and shook his head slowly, as if pulling himself away from the memories. “No need to stay here,” he said, and even I spotted the approaching silhouettes.
“What about him?” I pointed down.
“He’ll come around soon enough, and anyone trying to detach his augs will find that the knockout effect wears off really fast, so let’s move.”
He began walking away and I trailed after him, still shaking. “Won’t he come after us when he wakes up?”
“I doubt he’ll remember a thing. Anyway, he’s tried to kill me before.”
“Really? How many times?”
Galinak’s expression indicated mental calculation. “I think six, perhaps seven if you count trying to kill me during a Skint rage, although it wasn’t personal that time.”
“And you don’t mind?”
He shrugged and tweaked his short white beard. “Not really. Every man needs a hobby.”
5
For many years, Margat’s Den was nothing more than a locale for the toughest inhabitants of the Pit, who only wanted a quiet, nonwatered drink after a long hard day. It was one of those places where you were polite to the people around you and avoided eye contact. You drank inside and brawled outside, like civilised men.
It all changed a decade ago, when a tower-head walked in on a dare and started a fight. Miraculously, the boy lived to tell the tale, with only a few broken bones and several missing teeth. This minor incident inspired other brash youth living in the upper regions, and very soon it became a rite of passage for the privileged and foolhardy. They descended on the establishment in droves, looking for fights. The owner of the Den, in a moment of epiphany, saw the potential for profit; the tower-heads brought plenty of the Council’s steel coin with them and spent to impress. The Den was now the largest, most profitable legal establishment in the Pit. There were fighting tournaments and duels, along with good, old-fashioned bar brawls, some planned, some authentically spontaneous. Margat’s Den was not the sort of place you went into for a quiet drink anymore, although if you kept to yourself and had good protection, you could probably get in and out without a major confrontation. Basically, you had to pay your coin and take your chances, which was what I was going to do.
The clearing in front of the Den was lit by more than a dozen sources of flame, and there were people lying about, most of them nursing wounds. A few bodies I was only guessing were unconscious were sprawled on the ground, prize possessions taken either by the victors of whatever confrontations they’d had or by one of the many local opportunists prowling the area.
Four guards stood at the main entrance to the place, armed to the hilt with every weapon known to Trolls and looking alert and ready. I made a point of not looking around with too much interest, but sensed a few more guards lurking in the shadows.
Considering its reputation, it was surprisingly calm outside; the Den’s proprietor wanted to keep any fighting inside his establishment. Still, I felt my stomach clench with fear as we approached.
A young man, who looked no more than sixteen years of age, was being searched as his escorts stood waiting. The kid had two fighters, a massive Troll and a street rat, a sure sign that looking for trouble in the Den with minimal protection was still a trend. He was clad i
n full body armour, which was inscribed with Salvationist crew symbols. I recognised the markings of at least four rival crews on his back alone. Heaven knew where he got it from, but when he closed his visor he looked like a colourful drawing of a medieval knight. As we waited our turn, three concealed weapons were confiscated from him. Blasters and guns of any kind were forbidden, along with all Tarakan weapons. Official escorts were exempt, as a sign of respect, but even they were warned not to use a forbidden arsenal on pain of . . . well . . . severe pain.
When it was my turn I stepped in front of the goggle-eyed Troll guard, who stared for a moment at my tattoos, then nodded in camaraderie. Nevertheless, he took his sweet time searching me thoroughly with his enhanced vision. Watching him work, I admit I felt a hint of envy. The goggles were ugly, and whoever stitched them on was no artist, but the device enhanced the gift we both shared tenfold. I could see in the dark and, when pressed or panicked, through thin materials such as skin or cloth; but he could know what I ate for dinner from three streets away.
As I was searched, a second guard asked whether I was aware of the rules of the place and made sure I knew the penalty for killing someone the wrong way inside the Den. The goggled guard didn’t find any weapons on me, which was so unusual, it made everyone a bit tense, but after a few more questions I was let through. When it was Galinak’s turn to be inspected, we ran into a problem that I hadn’t anticipated.
The Troll took one goggled look at my escort, nodded slightly, and extended an open cloth bag.
“Your blaster and throwing knives,” he commanded drily, “and I’ll need the power tubes for the gloves as well.”
Galinak stood very still. “I’m an escort,” he said and pointed at me.
“Not officially you’re not,” answered the Troll. “You’re not affiliated with the syndicate anymore, and I know none of the other escort Companies will work with you after what happened the last time.” The Troll pointed at Galinak’s weapons and to the bag in his other hand. “You’re a visitor here. Visitor rules and visitor prices.” He sounded like he was enjoying himself. “That will be ten coins for entry, normal price at the bar.”
Galinak didn’t move. He blinked slowly, twice, then raised his right hand to his left gauntlet, a gesture which created a flurry of movement all around us. People dove for cover and guards raised their weapons. The clicks and whines of power-ups and the swooshing of weapons being unsheathed in haste created an odd cacophony of sound.
Galinak’s hand twisted, and a glowing power tube slid out of a hidden socket into the palm of his hand. He did the same with the second gauntlet, and then took his time producing his personal weapons, which I noticed were small compared to the general style around us. The second Troll, who’d jumped back rather unprofessionally when Galinak raised his gauntlet, smiled in triumph as I paid the extra levy for my escort.
“My stuff better be here when I get back,” Galinak said, and walked away.
“Enjoy your stay in the Den, old flesh!” the Troll spat at our backs as the double doors opened and we walked into the chaos.
“Rust,” I swore quietly as the double doors closed behind us. If Vincha was really at the Den she most likely wouldn’t be cooperative. And my only protection was a retired Salvationist with no weapons and, apparently, plenty of enemies. This was gearing up to be an interesting night, and not in a good way.
6
I’d never visited the Den before, but I’d made sure I had all the information I could gather about the place. I knew what to expect, had a good knowledge of the layout. I even knew the colours of the tapestries, but I was still awestruck when we walked past the second set of metal doors and into a green haze. My first instinct was to gag at the mix of body odour, Skint smoke, and deep-fried food, but I managed to suppress it. Even with my enhanced sight I could not see the back wall, which I knew for a fact was exactly seventy-five steps away. My mentor was right: no matter how many scrolls I’d read or stories I’d heard about this place, seeing the broken Tarakan artifacts hanging from the ceiling, some still attached to a skeleton arm, leg, or torso, was a different experience altogether.
Keg drums played a heart-racing beat, increasing the general noise level to the point you had to shout to be heard. The place could hold a few hundred people, and I estimated that it was close to full. Galinak guided me away from the doors, and as we carefully shoved our way through the crowd, a few patrons were openly sussing us out with challenging stares. Several armed Company escorts nodded their acknowledgment to Galinak before turning their attention back to their tasks. Looking up I spotted makeshift guard towers with guards standing watch. It was easy to recognise the long nozzles of their sniper blasters. They were surveying the crowd expertly, and from what I had heard, they needed little motivation to act.
Galinak whispered something in my ear just as a large gong announced a challenge in the Arena.
“What?” I shouted back as the crowd surged to my right to participate in the action.
“Do you know where you want to go?” he yelled again.
I nodded and pointed to the far left. Gambling den, I mouthed. He nodded, relief plain in his face, and pushed me in the direction of the stairs.
We avoided getting too close to the centre bar, where an unfortunate was being kicked in the face by three men as his escort tried to pull him away. Several mug-girls passed us carrying trays of drinks. They were wearing metal armour studded with spikes and blades. If you wanted to grab one of them, you risked a deep cut or worse. The mug-girl who passed closest to me had two bleeding digits stuck on her torso and bosom. I gave her a wide berth.
We passed the steps leading down to the pleasure den. Several scantily clad women and a few men were hanging around there. These women’s augmented hands brushed against me as I walked by, sending waves of pleasure through my body and making me momentarily forget the purpose of my visit. It was Galinak who propelled me forward. The prostitutes didn’t bother to touch an escort with their vibrating hands.
Thanks, I mouthed.
He shrugged, then froze in place and looked past me, grimacing. I turned, followed the direction of his gaze, and saw a large Troll advancing toward us. He had four or five other men with him.
“Rust,” I heard Galinak swear as he shoved me aside. “I really don’t need this now.” For once, I wholeheartedly agreed with him.
The Troll planted himself in front of us with such obvious aplomb that people must have immediately realised a confrontation was coming. We soon gathered a crowd. He was a brawler, a big one, built for close combat, and he looked much younger than Galinak. Several blunt instruments were hanging on the belt of his dent-free, dark steel power armour. It was a beautiful and obviously expensive piece of metal art, even the wires were protected by thin rubber tubes and attached to the armour in a way so it would not interfere during a fight. The spiked arm bracers looked razor sharp, and the metal gloves could most likely punch through walls.
“Galinak, you rust bucket,” he said and clenched his steel hands into steel fists, “this must be my lucky day.”
“Hello, fuse-brain,” Galinak answered calmly, “did you lose your escort again, or did the Company finally realise you couldn’t keep a disease on a whore, you incompetent lump of rust?”
Nasty laughter rippled all around us. Even the Troll’s entourage sniggered at the insult.
“It’s my day off, tower-head,” the Troll barked, his face turning red, “so I’m free to wipe your metal all around the floor.”
I eased sideways, but the people around us formed a tight circle and wouldn’t let me through.
“How’s your brother, by the way?” asked Galinak, though I could see his hands twitching, painfully aware of his lack of weaponry. “Is he seeing anyone?”
Someone at the back of the crowd burst out laughing, but only when the angry Troll answered did I understand why.
“You took his eye out, you piece of rotting flesh,” the Troll roared, his eyes glancing briefly ove
r Galinak’s shoulder, a sure sign we were being outflanked.
“He was looking at my cards,” Galinak explained patiently.
A mug-girl walked into the circle. Perhaps she was new or too preoccupied trying to avoid the drunk and the stupid to notice the confrontation. Galinak grabbed a mug from her and took a long sip from it. The girl opened her mouth to say something, but then her survival instinct kicked in and she hurried away without a word.
“Enjoy your last drink, Galinak,” the Troll said.
Galinak shrugged and sipped again.
The Troll flexed his shoulders. “Where do you want it? Arena? Outside?”
Galinak shook his head. “I’m on an escort job. After I finish here, we can dance a bit, but I’ll only stop if you ask nicely.”
The Troll shook his metal-plated head and powered his gauntlets by banging his fists together; bright sparks erupted from both metal hands. “You’re not an escort here, you’re visiting, that’s all. They even took your puny dart shooter at the door,” he chuckled, brandishing his fists. “We can do it in the Arena, or I can tear you apart right here, or . . .” He turned his head towards me, obviously thinking of a better idea. “I can start with this fleshling here so you won’t have to worry about your precious escort.”
My mouth dried up. Losing an escort was bad for anyone’s reputation, and the Troll had just decided this was the humiliation Galinak needed. I sensed a shift in the mood around me. People were jostling to get a better view. This was not an Arena challenge or a brawl staged for the benefit of the tower-heads. This was the real thing, and all around us people began betting real coin. The guards above also took notice, but were letting it play out, most likely assuming the fight would be finished quickly. I knew there was no talking my way out of this one. Galinak, old and empty-handed, was about to fight a fully armed, angry brawler Troll and his buddies. And then it would be my turn.