He failed in that regard.
After the foam dried, Jack ran a few fingers delicately over it.
It felt huge. And he knew it would become a scar.
The escape pod door finally popped open. It made the same noise a microwave did when dinner had finally finished being nuked. That excited ding!
Jack couldn’t help but smirk at the timing.
From his bag, he pulled more white bricks of explosives. These he set carefully around the spherical room. He had to ensure total destruction. No piece of Zloy or Zloy’s ship could remain. The repercussions would be catastrophic, to say nothing of what Jack’s bosses might do.
It had been decided before the mission that the resulting explosion and crater were an acceptable risk to the timeline. One that would probably be passed off as a freak accident or act of God by the townspeople nearby. If that assumption turned out to be false, well, The Collective would go back again with a diplomat or some other pencil pusher and smooth it out.
Jack was only concerned with his job. Which had been to kill the mutants Zloy created and, of course, to stop Zloy.
Mission Accompl-
“Oh, hey there gunslinger,” came a wet voice.
Jack turned and saw Zloy, still very much alive, standing before the escape pod’s open door.
“You don’t look so good,” Jack said as he approached his foe.
There wasn’t much left of Zloy’s face. From the neck down, he was coated in blood. Spikey metal flechettes pointed out from his arms and hands and everywhere else. A walking red cactus. From the neck up, it was a mess. Cheeks gone. Nose a hanging dirty rag. Jaw effectively cut in half.
Jack wasn’t sure how Zloy was talking, let alone standing.
“You are annoyingly hard to kill,” Jack said.
Zloy gurgled, “I get that a lot.”
Jack knew Zloy well enough to know that, if his mouth still existed, it would be smiling.
Instead he dripped.
Zloy found the strength to lift his Ripper gun, though. “Reloaded when you were dicking about with the explosives.” Drip.
Jack stopped at arm’s length.
Zloy was standing right in front of the pod door, perhaps inches away from freedom. Escape. All the madman had to do was take a step backward, fall into the seat, and type in the launch sequence.
“Now here’s how it’s going to happen,” Zloy said. “I’m going to leave. And you aren’t going to do squat, because I can’t miss at this distance. And when I lift off, all the wonderful fire from the pod’s engines is going to ignite your bombs, and then you go boom. OK? Can you do that for me?”
Jack shrugged, hands up, “Not sure I can, to be honest.”
“Well then find it somewhere in your damned heart!” Zloy shrieked.
“You know,” Jack said, “I reloaded, too.”
Jack smiled.
Zloy didn’t.
Jack drew and fired four times. The first took off Zloy’s right hand and disintegrated the RPZ. The second took his left hand, making it pulp. The third turned his left shoulder into a mist. The fourth, his right shoulder.
Zloy screamed.
Jack wished he’d shot the psycho’s bits off to begin with.
He twirled his machine around his finger and dropped it back into its holster. “Gonna be tough to hit all those but-tons, what with no arms or hands,” he said. “Here, let me help you.”
Jack kicked Zloy in the chest, sending him reeling, leaking, backward into the pilot seat of the pod.
“Comfy?” Jack asked as he reached inside the pod and locked the controls.
The missile-shaped gateway to freedom became a casket with a few but-ton presses.
Zloy screamed again. “You can’t do this to me. You can’t! I have things to do, don’t you understand? I have things to do!”
“You talk too much,” Jack said as he rammed a brick of explosives into Zloy’s mouth.
Jack punched another series of commands into the pod’s console.
He waved as the door slid closed.
Jack made his way back through the black tunnel.
He didn’t hear Zloy’s muffled pleas.
Jack mounted Comet. “Told you I’d be all right,” he said as he reached forward and put an apple between the Morab’s lips. He looked over to Palmer’s horse, which was sullen, master-less.
Jack reached into his jacket and pulled out the detonator.
“Gonna be loud,” the gunslinger told the horses as he pressed the detonator’s trigger.
The earth shook. Gouts of blue flame shot up around the house. The alien machinery caught, throwing up green volcanoes in the night. Zloy’s house – Zloy’s ship – didn’t just explode, but shattered as well. There was the sound of metal groaning and falling.
The entire area became a sunken depression, as if something had been removed from underneath the carpet of the landscape.
Into his pocket watch, Jack said, “It’s done.”
“I’ll trust you to treat him right,” Jack said as he handed Comet’s reins to Big Bill. “The other –” Jack nodded at Palmer’s horse “–well, he’s a good horse too, just not quite as good.” He smiled.
And Big Bill smiled with him. “Oh, I’ll take just about the best damn care – ah, I cussed, don’t tell my mom – of him. I promise!”
“I won’t tell your mom,” Jack said. “I promise.”
The gunslinger leaned into Comet’s ear and whispered, “I wish I could take you with me. I surely do. Set your watch on that. If I can come back, I will.”
Comet clopped happily.
Big Bill asked, “Where you headed?”
Jack threw his bag over his shoulder. “Home.”
“Where’s that?”
The gunslinger pointed to his watch and ran his finger along its face in a clockwise direction, “A ways from now.” He grinned.
Big Bill grinned back.
The gunslinger started walking away.
Big Bill turned his gaze away to look at Comet.
He stared into the horse’s big, smart, brown eyes and patted the Morab.
When he looked again, the gunslinger was gone.
Caleb Svoboda killed God with a claw hammer. Finally tracked the bastard down to a grungy whorehouse in Hoboken. Allah had dirt and blood in his beard. Teeth yellow with nicotine. Old man’s bald head glistening with sweat. Mouthing off about how Caleb would suffer. Hooker shrieking in a corner.
Funky scene.
God had died hard, and Caleb carried fresh wounds as proof. He sighed. Stared at the mound of paperwork on his desk. Wished he was back outside tracking or fighting.
This was the worst part of the gig: The bureaucracy.
Every victory required form after form. Had to inventory everything. What planet he went to. What weapons he used. What species he interacted with. Was there a risk of temporal destabilization? Were the indigenous peoples aware of his actions? Aware of The Collective?
“Aware of me givin you suits the finger?” Caleb said.
The holographic communication panel on his desk fluttered to life.
“Heard you got God. Well done,” Caleb’s brother Jack said through a cigarette. “What took so long?”
Jack was not one to pass up an opportunity for sibling mockery.
Caleb smiled. God had takenforever. “That guy, man. The Jews believe there’s just the one asshole. The Muslims believe there’s just the one asshole. Christians believe that there are three assholes inone asshole… the three-in-one belief versus the there-is-only-one belief makes it tough to track an escapee down. And – I thought you quit?”
“Catarina nags me, but,” Jack shrugged. “I am what I is. She’s just being, I dunno, agirl. Pills nullify all the bad shit. Besides, I’m back home! N-Y-C! Everyone who’s cool here smokes.”
Caleb rubbed his forehead. “Don’t have too good a time. You’re there for a reason.”
“I know, I know. Call you in a bit. Gettin in position. Love.”
<
br /> “Love.”
Jack’s hologram disintegrated.
Caleb turned back to the forms, but mind was on his childhood in Brooklyn. Happy days until that damned old thing underground woke up. It and its insane brothers – the ones who came back from the dark. He and Jack had stopped them, but at a cost.
Then The Collective came knocking. Offered the brothers jobs. Offered them a chance to save lives by taking lives.
Why not?Jack, then seventeen, and Caleb, then twelve, had thought.Could be fun.
Caleb jabbed ink onto the pages of his report. “We were idiots! Should have stayed in Brooklyn and just, hell,coped. And I hate writing fuckin longhand.”
“Know you do,” the supervisor’s left head said from the doorway of Caleb’s office. “Have to write everything out so that the secretaries can type it all up from scratch.To be sure there are no mistakes.” The supervisor’s right head winked. “Or maybe I just like torturing pink mammals.”
Caleb cocked his head as The Engine in his brain – his gift since childhood – translated the words.
The word that described the supervisor was ‘griffin.’ Well, hell, itwasa two-headed griffin and the Svoboda brothers had dubbed their boss, with a stunning lack of creativity, “Griffin.” He was large and colored as myths and illustrations had presumed: white, eagle-headed and tan, lion-bodied, with wings that were sort of grey. The arms and hands on his shoulders were inexplicably toned. Once, over drinks, he’d said that he was from a massive planet circling Mu Arae, but neither Caleb nor Jack had any clue if that was true.
They were, after all, from a place called Brooklyn on a pale blue dot called Earth. Their interplanetary knowledge was limited to what they picked up on the job.
“Couldn’t you just read my mind and pull the reports from there?” Caleb asked.
“Could. Don’t want to. Legalities, you understand. Privacy laws.” Griffin sighed.
“Those damn janitors – the Collectors. They’ve decided to go on strike, just so you know.” Griffin sneered. Then became serene. “It’s notthat bad. Easier than my life at the moment and no worse than going out into the field.”
Caleb raised an eyebrow.
Griffin fluttered his wings. “Really. Quit being a baby.”
“Fine. When am I off god duty?”
“When your planet stops being so gullible.”
Caleb rolled his eyes. “Now you’re just being a dick.”
“You signed up for this. You guys wanted to go after those brain-juice junkies pretending to be gods. The miserable shapeshifting shits. Could have gone for something simple, but, no. You kids took stuff you thought was all Science Fiction wackiness.”
The shapeshifting shits in question were the Litostians. Legendary jerks. They weren’t magical, butappearedmagical to the less-advanced races they targeted. Nasty critters had stunning control over the matter of their own bodies. Could morph at will, become anything they wanted you to see. A burning bush, say. Or the shimmering visage of a Jewish chick from Nazareth. Maybe a bearded carpenter on some toast.
The brothers called them ‘galactic vampires.’ Things that fed off the energy expended by directed thought. Some folks were sure they fed on thermal energy generated inside the brain. Others, that it was something special triggered when particular parts of the brain lit up – centers of the mind that just happened to coincide with prayer and belief. Opinions differed. Nobody knew for sure.
The only certainty was that the Litostians were literally addicted to humans.
Well, that, and these two very human brothers were the best at dealing with them.
“You had thatwantin you. We spent a lot of time training you, making sure the gifts you two had were as honed as possible so that you could exercise your want. But more than that, you are saving lives. Don’t forget. It’s dirty, but scores of innocent people would be dead without you.” Griffin looked thoughtful for a moment, and then met Caleb’s gaze again. “Finish the paperwork, and then get to the Comm Center. Your brother’s almost in position. I want you to oversee the op.” He paused. “And to test something new out. A solution to our labor strike.”
The supervisor strode out to pester someone else.
Caleb started on his report and then gave up. He’d get to it later.
If Jack was pulling the trigger, he might see some action second-hand.
Two a.m. in New York, and a cocky kid in his late twenties was strolling down East 14th in lower Manhattan. He had a lit Nat Sherman in his mouth. A thin brown Hint of Mint variation that he liked because it reminded him of the shit Clint Eastwood smoked in the Dollars Trilogy.
The kid was dressed like a cowboy, with boots and a blue-white plaid shirt on. A straw, whiskey-colored Stetson sat atop his head. He fit in with what was fashionable in town at the time. Though nobody knew he always dressed like this. Like he was headed to a costume party or something.
Nobody knew, either, that the long-barrel Colt strapped to his thigh was very real. Heavy caliber and not some toy prop. Or that the rawhide satchel he carried on his back was packed with a folded high-powered rifle.
Hell. It was New York. People don’t ask many questions if someone dresses up weird.
So he kept walking. He tipped his hat to pretty girls on the way. He stopped when he got in front of the apartment building opposite The Blind Pig Bar.
Two thuggish looking guys stood in his way. Drunk, by the smell.
“Look at this motherfucker,” said the one on the right. “Cowboys don’t live here, man. Whatchu doin?”
Guy on the left stomped his foot and laughed, on account of it was so damn funny.
Jack shot them a grin. “Just need to get inside, fellas. Been a long day. Gotta take a load off.”
Righty said, “Tell you what, man. Make you a deal. Gimme that hat and you can go in.”
“Fraid I can’t do that. See, this is mine.” Jack pointed to the Stetson. “You want one, you can buy one.”
Lefty stopped laughing and stomping. He looked up to his buddy on the right to see what was going to happen next.
“What say I just take your fuckin hat, bitch,” Righty said, angry now. He and Lefty puffed out their chests, trying to intimidate, and stepped forward.
“You can try.” Red fell over Jack’s vision, blocking out everything except the fight, anticipating their first moves.
Righty moved, but Jack juked and pulled the Colt out. He whipped it across Righty’s face, breaking the jaw and drawing blood. Righty went down with a breathless thud. In a blur, Jack spun the Colt around his finger and slid it back home on his thigh.
He ducked as Lefty’s fist came at him and sidestepped. Jack pointed a finger at Lefty and said, “Really? You really gonna try after I knock your punk buddy out like that?”
Lefty took another swing and Jack ducked again. This time Jack returned the favor and brought his knee up into Lefty’s solar plexus. Something inside Lefty’s chest cracked. The thug dropped to his knees, sucking for air.
Jack lit himself another cigarette. “We’re done. You two get on outta here.” Righty and Lefty started to wobble to their feet, so he kicked them both in the ass once, making them fall down again. “Git.”
A few drunks across at the Blind Pig clapped and hooted.
Jack took a bow.
He headed inside to get to the apartment building roof.
Pristine. Sterile. White. Shiny.
All words that did not describe the Communication Center.
It looked, instead, like any big room filled with computers and operators – though none of these operators were human. Get enough eating, farting, talking creatures in one place for long enough, and the result is the same.
Caleb took an unoccupied seat. The computer sensed him, identified him, greeted him. It brought up prompt screens for communication access and broadcasted Caleb into Jack’s headset.
“You there?” Caleb asked as Jack’s biometric readings popped onto the screen. His brother’s heart rate was up. B
rainwaves, as always, skirted near the top. And Caleb guessed Jack’s Red was on. “Griffin wants me to be with you on this one. And we’ve got a new toy.”
Jack’s voice rose from static. “Is it fun?”
“Should be. Engineers call it a Cthulittle.”
“Cute.”
Caleb had heard stories about them. Little squid-looking biomechanical things that sucked the ‘souls’ – or lifeforce, or energy, or quantized spirit, or whatever one wanted to call it – from downed targets and pooped them into a containment grid. They were ergonomic and streamlined. Adorable, in a strange way. Light green squids with big heads and big eyes. Mutant kittens mewling and chirping.
Galactic bureaucracy being what it was, he assumed the things had been created to replace the hundred or so Collectors that The Collective had.
The Collectors were the ‘unskilled labor’ that followed guys like him and his brother around. They, well,collectedany remaining energy from a given kill. Janitors for the cosmic janitors, so to speak. They themselves were a race – not to be confused with The Collective, which was the name given to this galactic, corporate UN – adept at absorbing energy.
Caleb wasn’t convinced that the Cthulittles were up to the job. And he felt bad for the soon-to-be unemployed workers. The insectoid Collectors gorged themselves for a paycheck, sucking up more than they could handle to preserve a balance. Space bees chasing murderous pollen for pay. They even sort of looked like bees, except wingless.
Collectors ended up with social problems, family problems, and head problems. All that energy gobbled up, wreaking havoc on their bodies and their psychologies. One more race The Collective kept under its thumb. Econoslavery.
“Jack?” Caleb asked into his headset, ignoring a pang of class guilt while staring at the meter long squid creature waiting by his feet. “You got that Litostian in your sights?”
“Yeah. He’s outside the Blind Pig on Fourteenth in Manhattan. Got the Rippers loaded.”
Jack used Ripper bullets almost exclusively on assassination missions. They were self-aware, and theylovedtheir job.
The Space Whiskey Death Chronicles Page 15