by Sean Allen
Gunfire echoed in the dockyard and pinged against the Ghost’s smooth, armored skin in orange-white flashes. Three of the portmaster’s thugs shouted threats from behind her position on the other side of Libby the load-bot, who was deactivated and sitting motionless at the end of the cargo ramp. The hooligans were shooting at the ship from behind a cargo container on the deck eight yards away from the open bay door. The blasts stopped and one of the fiends demanded that Simon disengage the aft guns on the Ghost and come out with his hands up or they would open fire with the large Rolfings at the other end of the dock. It was a good threat, but Dezmara knew better. If they wanted to destroy the ship, they could have easily done it. They were using the star freighter to lure Dezmara back so they could capture her and collect their reward money. If she didn’t make it back on board before they realized she was there, Simon, Diodojo, and the Ghost would be reduced to bloody bits of fur and scrap metal.
“Human: wanted dead or alive…well, I’ll be damned if you bastards are takin’ me alive!”
The kranos hummed again as the grooved tube retracted and the lens locked back into place with a click. Dezmara readied herself, poised to spring through the hole, sprint past Libby, and take the extended ramp before the portmaster’s goons could realize what had happened. She pulled on the rung above her head as a wave of lead smashed into the metal bar that was supporting her feet. Dezmara stumbled, her concentration broken by the bullets that almost ripped through her ankles, and she barely managed to lift her entire body through the opening as she flopped onto the dock. She scrambled to her hands and knees and dove behind Libby’s treads as bullets peppered the deck beside her.
“Welcome home, Ghost, you sonofabitch! ‘Member me?” a familiar voice shouted and then a stream of bolts slammed into the side of the load-bot, directly in line with where Dezmara was hiding. “Portmaster told us who you were an’ offered us big money to break into your ship while he took care of you in The Boneyard, but now it looks like we get to kill you too. You put a hole in my hand and damn near gave me another smile on my throat!” Gunfire stung the load-bot again. “An’ now it’s payback!” The tube on the kranos snaked around the corner of her cover, and Dezmara recognized the pickpocket she had apprehended in the market popping his bony-disked head over the center of the cargo container while two of his accomplices peered around either end. She assumed that the fourth murdering thief was the one that had followed her through the tunnel and was now shooting at her from beneath the hinged panel. She was caught in a perfect crossfire. The pickpockets behind the cargo container had a direct line of sight to the center and right side of the cargo bay, and the thief aiming at her from the trapped door had the left covered. She was pinned down.
“See, goddamit, that’s what you get for bein’ nice these days! Shoulda killed that little bastard when he tried to ice you in the market, but nooooo—you had to teach him a lesson!” Dezmara decided to wait for Simon to kick in with another barrage of fire from the Ghost, and then she would make a run for it. She waited. Bullets dented the load-bot around her and left star-shaped burn marks on the dock inches away from her bunched-up legs, and still nothing happened. “Simon,” she screamed through the kranos, “what in the hell are you waiting for?! You can’t seriously believe they’re going to destroy the ship if you return fire? Fire, dammit—FIRE!” She shouted until her throat was raw, but it was no use. The back door leading from the cargo hold to the rest of the ship was sealed, the connection to the ship from her helmet was still raising nothing but static, and the Ghost’s aft guns were silent on their mounts.
The lens at the end of the flexible tube wound around Libby’s body and showed the three thieves emerging from behind the cargo container, holding their guns in front of them and laughing. The game was up. They must have realized that the ship was no longer a threat, and since Dezmara hadn’t returned any fire up to this point, they knew she wasn’t packing any heat. The kranos whirred as Dezmara directed the lens toward the hinged panel in the floor and saw the terrible head of the henchman on the smuggling platform below. He had six black eyes that started low on his long brow, increasing in size as they moved up his skull through thick, bristly hair, and each was fixed on Dezmara as he climbed onto the dock. She would be outflanked in about two seconds if she didn’t do something. But what could she do? She didn’t stand a chance with just her blades against autos.
“Hey, Ghost! Like my guns?!” The thief in the center laughed, and Dezmara zoomed the view of the kranos in on the flat-black pistols clutched in his hands. He was holding her custom automatics. He must have scooped up the guns, as well as her belt and holsters, now strapped around his waist, from where she dropped them outside the door on dock six.
“Why, you little piece of” Dezmara stopped short as Lilietha’s tiny voice echoed in her ears, and she suddenly remembered the button on her vambrace. “When I need protection, huh? Boy, kiddo, do I ever…here goes nothin’!” She pressed the button on her left arm as the thugs closed in and it sank into the shiny black skin of the guard. A thin, half-cylindrical plate extended out of the wall of the depression for twelve inches and then folded down parallel to the vambrace. The plate unfurled in a circle, much like the tiny plates surrounding the telescopic eye ports on the kranos, each one overlapping the last and sliding into place with an audible tick. When the last panel locked into position, Dezmara’s left arm sported a shield two feet in diameter. Her heart sank as she stared at the back side of the disk and then turned her arm over to examine the front.
“A shield?! Well, that would be useful if these guys were carrying knives or swords or axes, but they’re FUCKING SHOOTING AT ME! What the hell was I thinking!” Dezmara cursed under the kranos and then stopped—reminding herself that she was alive at this point because Lilietha had lead her to the door. She still had a chance, even if the shield couldn’t do anything against bullets except give the thugs something big and round to aim at. Perhaps they would concentrate their fire there and she would just lose an arm. She could deal with that. She decided to rush the thief approaching from the trapped door, take him down, steal his guns, and open fire on the rest. They didn’t seem exactly battle worn, and if they hesitated while she tussled with their pal, they would be in the open. “Here’s to hopin’, kid!”
Dezmara flew from behind Libby, but she was too late. As soon as she was on her feet, she turned only to find the trapped door henchman aiming the barrel of his gun directly at her chest. The silver-gray weapon recoiled fiercely in his hand and the killer leered savagely in the pulsing light of his muzzle-flash. She braced herself for the impact and hoped the searing pain of hot metal punching through her torso wouldn’t last long. She waited and, to her surprise, something other than pain wracked her brain—she was confused. Dezmara could see frustration creep across the henchman’s face as he continued to fire but she stayed upright. Her arm shook wildly in time with the deafening report of the gun just a few feet away, and empty shells bounced on the ground and rolled to a stop at her feet. Somehow, the shield had found its way in front of her, but she was certain that it wasn’t there in time—or was it? Either way it was a good thing; apparently, the shield Lilietha gave her was strong enough to stop bullets.
Dezmara took a short step forward and spun to her left as she leapt from the ground. Slugs, barreling head-on and punishing her arm with tremendous force just moments ago, now glanced from the shield as her attack turned her body parallel with the henchman’s line of fire. She noticed his gruesome face as she pirouetted past. His mouth, full of jagged, white teeth, fell open in surprise, and his six black eyes each reflected the haunting, remorseless expression of the kranos and the flash of Dezmara’s blade as it sliced through his neck. It happened so quickly that his eyes continued to report to his brain for a moment. The last thing he saw before his head tumbled forward and fell to the dock was a stream of his wayward bullets mowing down one of his accomplices who had attacked from across the dock.
Dezmara turned a compl
ete revolution in the air, and as she landed behind the decapitated trapdoor henchman, she spun her blade so the tip curved out past her elbow while catching the falling body beneath the right arm.
“Good thing this asshole was left-handed!” she thought as she grabbed the wrist of his gun hand, still mashed down on the trigger, and tried to send a barrage into the pickpocket and his friend, who were now rushing straight for her. It was a lot harder than she thought. The body was falling to its knees and listing to the left, and Dezmara had to pull hard to the right to aim the gun in the general direction of her attackers. It was a haphazard counter-measure but the gun was an auto and its rapid fire worked in her favor. Three bullets arced across the thief on the left in a random pattern that knocked him off his feet like he was an action figure thrown around by a spoiled kid. His body slid backward along the dock and crashed into the railing at the outside edge with a loud kathoong!
Dezmara continued to strain against the body’s weight, but she was losing the fight. She stumbled behind the corpse as it came crashing down. Dezmara was still yanking on the left wrist, trying desperately to score another kill or at least wound the bastard. The gun was firing and she could see her target as she willed the pistol to edge just a little more to the right, but it was too late. The remaining bullets in the gun pinged off of Libby’s scratched and worn exterior as the pickpocket dove to his left and out of Dezmara’s sights. The automatic gave out a loud click, but an empty gun was the least of her worries. Dezmara had held on to the corpse too long and her left arm had been pinned beneath the body. She could bend her arm at the elbow and raise the shield perpendicular to the dock, but she couldn’t move it laterally and she couldn’t pull free. Luckily, the decapitated remains of the henchman covered most of her from a frontal attack, but now the kranos, completely exposed, filled the space just behind the dead thug’s shoulders and it wasn’t designed to stop bullets.
“Shit-shit-shit! Simon, you gotta be seein’ this—I know you’re not a fighter, but I need you—why won’t you help me?!” The kranos still answered her calls to the Ghost with static, and she was beginning to panic as she brought her knees and feet up to the henchman’s back to help free her arm. She didn’t have much time. The body rocked back and forth as she pushed. She was too far out of position to build any power in her legs and the henchman’s outstretched arm made it virtually impossible to roll the body forward, but she still had to try. She pushed the edge of her left boot into the slick surface of the dock and shoved against the body with everything she had while pulling back on her left arm. The body rocked forward and she felt circulation return to her arm only to be cut off again as her foot slipped on the dock and she was pinned in place once more.
Dezmara repositioned her grip on the right blade. She had it! She would hack the body in half and free herself. “Why didn’t you think of that before, genius?!” she said and her hand flew up into the air. But before she could strike, she heard a familiar sound, the unique click of fresh rounds going into her custom automatic pistols. She looked past the edge of Libby and saw the pickpocket standing there with guns leveled at her head and a cocky smile bisecting the big, bony disk in the center of his face.
“I told ya I’d getcha, you stupid bastard! Gotta a big bonus comin’ to me from the portmaster for icin’ you, Ghost!”
Dezmara loved the fact that most inexperienced or arrogant killers always wanted to monologue. She couldn’t count the number of times she had escaped death because the person intent on killing her had something smart or ‘cool’ to say before actually doing the deed. She thought she had time to figure something out because the pickpocket seemed to be as arrogant and inexperienced as they came, but she was dead wrong—the kid she had cut up was done talking. It was time for revenge.
The twin barrels on the custom autos kicked back, and the pickpocket laughed, waiting to see the contents of the helmet spattered on the dockyard behind The Ghost’s limp corpse as he walked steadily forward.
Before Dezmara could blink her eyes, the shield on her left arm rattled from the impact of slugs and she jumped. This kid was either really bad with guns or he was toying with her—her head was sitting there on a platter ready to be blasted to bits. Judging from his comfort with a knife and his willingness to use it without a moment’s hesitation back in the market, Dezmara guessed he was just playing with her. The shield was covering the center of the henchman’s chest, and Dezmara had raised it out of pure reflex when she had spotted the pickpocket. “I guess you’re as dumb as I thought you were after all,” she said as she raised the blade to bisect the body pinning her to the ground. But the pickpocket, still walking steadily forward, was only twenty feet away, and he pulled the triggers on the stolen guns once again before she could free herself. Her heart stopped at the crackle of gunfire so close, and she shut her eyes beneath her hood.
“Am I dead?” she wondered. Everything was dark and silent. She pried one eye open and if she was looking at eternity, it looked a whole lot like the display on the kranos. Her view even had orange numbers on the side that counted down the approach of a gun-toting character that looked exactly like the pickpocket that had just killed her. “Maybe this is hell…”
“Godammit!” roared the young thief as he frantically moved forward again, arms shaking as he trained the guns on Dezmara’s head for the third time.
“Nope, if this was hell, he’d be a lot happier, and I wonder...” she said as she tapped the controls on the kranos. The thief was only ten feet away now, and he let loose another barrage; but this time, Dezmara recorded the trajectory of the bullets. She tapped the helmet again and the display showed something that just didn’t seem possible. The bullets were flying straight at her head, but at the last possible moment every single projectile curved sharply and dove straight into the shield. “Protection indeed!” she laughed to herself briefly before turning her attention back to the pickpocket. He would dash forward several feet and then stop abruptly, hysterically whipping the autos forward and firing again. His maddened curses stung the air as each spray of bullets rattled against the shield on Dezmara’s arm like metal rain.
The pickpocket stopped close enough that she could see the sweat on his bone-ringed brow, but Dezmara couldn’t quite reach him with her scythe. He opened fire with similar results as she brought her right blade down and its razor sharp edge chunked into the platform. The lower half of the body slid quickly down the width of the blood-slicked blade and came to rest on the planks of dock six. With the weight of the lower half no longer pinning her arm, Dezmara carefully pulled the headless torso away, making sure the shield stayed facing the raving pickpocket. Each report of fire was mirrored by the clack of metal against metal and the little thief looked like he was about to explode with anger.
“What the hell, you freak-bastard-sonofabitch?!” CRACK-ACK-ACK-ACK-ACK! “Why won’t you fuckin’ die?!” CRACK-ACK-ACK-ACK!
“It’s about time to reload,” Dezmara said. She reached behind her, and as her arm approached her flank, the panels on the shield closest to her body collapsed, allowing for a smooth grab of her left blade. She pulled the scythe from its sheath, spun it point down in front her, and the shield expanded again.
“Screw you, you freak!” the pickpocket cried as he pulled the triggers. CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!
“You’ve tried to steal from me twice,” she said as she flicked out her first two fingers from around the handle of her left blade, “and kill me twice.” The fingers on her opposite hand snapped out to assist in the count. “That’s about three more chances than I’ve given anyone before.”
“Godammit…godammit…” the pickpocket whimpered between rasping breaths as he fumbled with the new clips he pulled from the stolen belt. He took several stumbling steps backward. Dezmara waited patiently as he slapped the ammunition into place and looked up again with wild eyes and trembling hands. “Die now!” The guns blared once more, but their fearsome cry was reduced to harmless noise by Dezmara’s shield. As she tore f
orward, the animal in her mind was awake again. There were no thoughts, just action, and she didn’t make a conscious decision to teach the thief the last lesson he’d ever learn, but he would learn it nonetheless. No more talk and death be done.
The distance separating them disintegrated in a blur of black and gray metal as Dezmara charged. Bullets pounded the shield and sparks heated the air between them. The kranos flashed frantically, counting every round from the automatics as on target to cause severe damage or death before they swerved mysteriously and crashed into the disc as she peered over its top edge. Dezmara moved so fast it seemed like her boots barely touched the dock. One second she was directly in front of him and the next instant, she had disappeared—like a ghost.
The pickpocket was backpedaling wildly as he held the triggers down, but he might as well have been standing still. A flash of black and silver exploded in his vision and then vanished. He watched in terror as the automatics fell to the ground, still clutched tightly in his hands and firing rapidly. His stumps spewed blood and painted the dock in front of him a slick, shimmering green. He raised what was left of his arms toward his face and then gasped for the air to scream. But before he could cry out, another sound stole his breath—and then his life. Slit.
The pickpocket’s eyes went black as his torso separated from his legs just above the waist and splattered to the ground, adding to the gruesome collage of amputated limbs and slashed bodies strewn at the Ghost’s open cargo bay door. Dezmara bent down and flicked the shiny buckle to loosen the ammo belt. She pulled it straight up toward her with a zip, being careful to avoid the guts and fluid spilling freely from the pickpocket’s open stomach. She scooped up her autos from the deck, pried the pickpocket’s still-warm fingers from around the triggers, and gave both guns a familiar spin before sliding them back into the holsters on each of her legs. “Done,” she whispered. And then the kranos sounded an alarm.