by Alex Archer
"We have to go," she said.
From somewhere behind and to their right a green beam winked. A corner of a plank structure exploded into a gout of steam.
"Right," Dan said. He jumped up and ran for the far side of the street.
The shotgunner, a feral-looking man in a filthy headband whose refugee gauntness clearly marked him as a denizen of the colony, leaned out to take a shot at them as they broke cover. A green beam speared into his right eye. There came a grenade-like bang and he fell. Annja did not look too closely as she and Dan flashed through the open, uneven doorway of the hovel across from the one in which the wounded Promessan exile had died.
From her left Annja heard a snarl. Hair rising at the nape of her neck, she turned.
A big cat stood ten feet away. It was heavy bodied, although no more than two yards from nose to tip of thick, twitching tail. Its fur seemed almost to glow with a light of its own through rosettes like sunspots; its eyes were huge and green. It was clearly what the natives called a golden onza, a beast the educated city folks at least affected to believe was mythical.
What it was doing in the midst of this man-made hell made Annja's brain ring with cognitive dissonance. Yet it was no more strange than the twenty-foot anaconda.
Dan snapped two shots at the cat. The creature spun away and vanished into a back room.
"What the hell was that?" Dan demanded.
Annja shook her head. For a moment she had been entranced by impossible thoughts. Can't give into fantasy, she told herself sternly. Especially now.
From the street came angry shouts. Annja heard gunshots and the sharper snaps of energy beams ionizing air. "Nothing," she said. "We need to keep moving."
The look he shot her was skeptical. She knew it was nothing to what he'd look like if she told him what she'd dared imagine, just for an instant. "We're right up against the jungle here," she said.
"If you say so."
"I do. Now, go. We need to get back to the citadel before the whole colony lands on our heads!"
He nodded. A passageway lay open right before them. As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom again after the dazzle of outdoors, Annja could make out that it led back to what seemed a jog or juncture, for dozens of yards. They ran down it.
From all around them came the sound of fighting. They heard it through the makeshift walls and ragged filthy hangings all around – the ringing clash of metal on metal, shots, curses, the screams and groans of the wounded. Annja wondered how many fighters the Promessans had infiltrated into the camp.
A figure appeared in front of them. His eyes were wild in a skull-like face. He pointed a sawed-off single-barreled shotgun at them.
Dan shot him twice in the chest. The short slight man fell backward, discharging his weapon into the ceiling with a crash that brought a cascade of dust, rank with mold spores, raining down on their heads.
"The gangs are starting to fight with each other," Dan said, as if discerning Annja's thoughts of a moment before. "Like packs of jackals fighting over a water-hole – just flashing into rage because they've blundered into each other. This is all getting way out of hand."
They ran on through the cramped, gloomy, reeking space. As they reached the end of the passage to find themselves in a dogleg right they heard a whomp and instantly smelled gasoline burning. Annja had seen for herself the energy pistols were poor fire starters, especially in this waterlogged environment. But now she heard the greedy crackle of flames, smelled cloth and wood burning, as well as petroleum.
"Somebody threw a Molotov," Dan said. "Or maybe one of those lasers set off stored gas. Either way, we've got to get out of this maze quick or fry!"
Around the dogleg they faced more claustrophobic corridor with doors or rough hangings to either side. Maze seemed about right. Despite bad light and headlong flight Annja had the impression that rather than one big purpose-built building, they ran through a warren of shacks that had simply sprung up together, following some obscure logic of the builders or none at all. The ceiling changed level, from flat to pitched to slanting at a crazy angle as they rounded random jogs and junctions and stumbled over thresholds of varying heights. The passage twisted and turned without perceptible plan.
"It's like a bad wooden model of someone's intestines," Dan grunted.
A shot bellowed behind them. The bullet gouged a furrow in a plank by Annja's shoulder before punching out. Dan spun to shoot back as Annja's ears rang from the noise.
Smoke had begun infiltrating the weird, winding passageway, hanging at head level. As Annja coughed, three figures materialized in front of her. From their hard, fit appearance and athletic posture she saw at once they were Promessans, not starveling colonists. One held two two-foot sticks of polished black wood. The two in front carried machetes.
Summoning the sword, she rushed them. The passageway was only wide enough for two people to pass abreast, no higher than a couple of feet above Annja's head. It wasn't the most cramped stretch they had run through but left little room to swing a weapon. Fortunately the same limitation applied to Annja's attackers.
Once again her opponents were surprised at seeing a broadsword appear from thin air. Annja took her advantage. With the hilt in both hands she hacked through the machete of the man on her left. The one on her right recoiled in surprise, bumping into the stick-wielding man behind. Annja slammed her hilt against the side of the first man's head and side kicked him through a decayed hanging.
The second machete-wielding man struck for her head. She was out of position to chop through the short, broad blade. She brought it up before her face. The cut was a semifeint. The wide machete kissed off her sword with a sliding ring and then swung back down in a cut at her hip.
She managed to drop her hands fast enough that the machete clacked against the cross-shaped guard. She swung her left foot up and around in a roundhouse kick to her opponent's right short ribs, exposed by his low attack on his left. He was good – he got his right elbow down, fouling the blow and absorbing most of the fierce hip-turning kick, although a bit of air chuffed out of him as her shoe's reinforced toe drove the elbow into his side.
To block the kick he had to hunch forward, bringing his machete with him. Annja tipped her sword back over her right shoulder and cut down, as always putting her hip into it and driving with the legs. It wasn't a long cut but a very powerful one. It sliced almost effortlessly through his clavicle, right beside his muscle-corded neck, sank deep into his chest.
Gunfire roared like constant thunder in the passageway behind. Annja's shoulder blades kept trying to crawl together in anticipation of a bullet between them. She realized late she should have ducked into a side chamber herself. But her blood was up – and apparently Dan was mainly keeping the gunman pinned.
As long as his magazine held up.
Her stricken opponent slumped across the corridor, blocking the man behind him. The first machete wielder erupted from the chamber into which Annja had kicked him. He swung a small wood crate at the back of Annja's head.
She spun into him, kicked high, almost into a vertical split. Her painful hours of gymnastics-style limbering exercises paid off. The rotten-wood crate shattered. The Promessan blinked as splinters and dust fell into his eyes. She brought the heel of her foot crunching down in an ax kick that mostly by good fortune hit him square on the left wing of his collarbone and snapped it loudly.
He went down in a heap, moaning in pain. It was impossible for him to raise his left arm.
She faced back the way they had come. Yellow muzzle-flame dazzled her. A bullet cracked past her head, struck the ceiling a few yards farther down. At once Dan popped out of a side door and fired four rapid shots as the dimly glimpsed gang gunman ducked back in turn.
She heard a scuffle of rubber sandal on wood. Annja had been hypnotized by the firearm, which appeared to be a rifle or carbine, going off almost in her face. And now the stick fighter had gotten past the dead man in the hallway and was about the crack her skull open w
ith one of his batons... .
Holding the sword diagonally upward, she twisted her torso counterclockwise. At the same time she let herself fall to the floor. It gave her the split second she needed. Ebony wood clacked against the sword's flat blade three inches in front of her nose.
The man knew how to use the sticks in combination attacks. As the first, held in his left hand, kissed off the blade, he aimed the second for the crown of Annja's head. Her shoulders slammed the wood floor. She rolled into him fast. The stick smashed into the uneven planking as her long legs slammed against his.
It wasn't any kind of proper sweep, just desperation. But Annja was tall and strong and her opponent had sacrificed balance to strike at his falling foe. He went down in a tangle across her legs.
She lay on her belly with the sword trapped beneath her. Fortunately it had already been flat against her body; otherwise it would have gashed deeply into her rib cage.
The stick fighter was good. He reared upright, straddling her thighs, raised his right stick for a shot at her unprotected neck.
The sword was an impediment. She let it go back to the otherwhere. Then with all her strength she whipped her body clockwise, pushing off with her left hand, lashing out with her right.
The stick fighter's nose broke with a crunch of cartilage. He reeled back, blinking in agonized surprise as blood covered his upper lip.
She wrenched her right leg free, drew back the knee, pushed hard. The stick fighter stood almost upright. He slammed against the far wall of the corridor. His head cracked back against the planking so hard the wood split vertically. He groaned and sank to his knees.
From back up the corridor, she heard the heavy ringing slam of the gang member's carbine. Dan grunted.
A body thumped on the floor. Annja heard her partner moan, "Oh, shit," in a ghastly voice.
Chapter 23
As Annja rolled back to face him, the gang member strolled from a doorway on the right as if he wanted to give the appearance he was going for a walk in the park.
Annja jumped to her feet. The rifleman ignored her. She summoned back the sword, knowing already it was futile.
Smiling, the man raised the stock of his rifle to his shoulder, sighting down the barrel at Dan, who had slumped out into the corridor doubled over his knees, a knot of helpless misery.
Suddenly he twisted sideways, bringing his gun up in both hands, thrusting them out to extend his arms fully in an isosceles triangle. The handgun cracked twice.
Dust flew from the rifleman's grimy shirt at belly and breastbone. He reared back, more in surprise and shock than pain. The metal butt plate slipped from his shoulder.
Dan rotated to a sitting position. He fired again. The man's head snapped back. He fell backward in a lifeless sprawl.
"Fell for it, asshole," Dan snarled, getting a knee up and starting to stand. He turned a grin of triumph toward Annja.
It froze. "Look out!" he shouted, bringing the handgun up again. It seemed to be pointing right at her face.
Annja's eyes widened. She was looking straight down the black muzzle.
Flame blossomed in her face. Hair that had fallen loose at the left side of Annja's face stirred as if brushed by careless fingers. Shock waves of the bullet's supersonic passage slapped her cheek with surprising force as its miniature sonic boom temporarily deafened her left ear and filled her head with ringing.
She spun. The stick fighter stood behind her. Or rather, he was falling away from her, weeping scarlet from where his right eye had been.
Whatever else he was, Dan Seddon was a hell of a combat handgunner. Accomplished herself, after considerable training, practice – and real-world experience – Annja could scarcely have done better herself.
Dan stood. "Nifty piece of cutlery," he said, looking at the sword. He had punched the magazine release and was pulling out the old box. He held a full reload, retrieved from an inner pocket of his vest, clipped between a couple of fingers. Annja had been meaning to ask why he encumbered himself with extra clothing in the unremitting wet heat. Now she knew. "Where'd you get that?"
"Tell you later." Her voice shook. Relief flooded her body and caused her legs to tremble.
Catch a grip, she told herself sternly. The smoke was a bit thinner but flames cackled madly not far away. And she still had no idea how they were going to get out of the strange warren alive – much less the whole monstrous desolation of the colony.
"I'll be sure to ask," Dan said. His eyes snapped past her. "Behind – right!" he shouted.
She wheeled, not right but left, counterclockwise. It allowed her to lead with the tip of the sword, gripped two handed and held horizontally to her left.
A warped wooden door had opened a yard behind her. A young man had emerged, bare chested, with a red cloth band holding hair back from a handsome Indian face.
The sword punched right through his sternum, through his heart. Fixed on hers, his dark eyes widened. They stared a final question into Annja's eyes. Then the light faded from them and he slumped. In sudden sick horror she banished the sword, as if that could unmake the wound. But life had fled the body huddled at her feet.
"He – he was unarmed," she said.
Dan gripped her hard on the shoulder. "Suck it up," he said. "He was one of them. See? He doesn't look anorexic."
She was shaking her head in desperate denial. "He wasn't armed. I killed him."
"He was an enemy. He ran up on you. And one thing you've got to learn about the real world, sweetheart – you can't make an omelet without breaking eggs."
She turned an agonized look on him. Tears blurred her eyes.
From behind them rang hoarse shouts. Ahead flames suddenly ate up another entry curtain and billowed out into the corridor.
"Choose now," Dan said. "Move or die."
She nodded. He turned and raced out ahead, weapon grasped in both hands. He didn't even flinch from the flames that lashed at him and filled the corridor with a hellish orange glare.
She followed. Dan vanished to the right around an unseen corner. She passed through the fire. She felt it sear her upper arm. The pain was like a penance.
It snapped her back to the situation. Batting at smoldering hair, she turned the corner and found herself facing another long corridor. Blessed daylight shone at its far end, a dazzling white oblong a good twenty yards away. She saw no sign of Dan.
But a figure blocked her path. It was short and unmistakably feminine. In spite of the way the flood of photons over her retinas blurred it to shadow, Annja recognized her antagonist.
"Xia!" It was half surprised exclamation, half curse.
"Annja Creed," the woman said in English, "you don't know what you do."
"I'm fighting to break free the secrets you're selfishly withholding from the human race," Annja stated, striding forward. "If you want to call that neocolonialism, go right ahead. But your murderous ways have shown you aren't fit stewards of whatever power you hold!"
"I see you've been talking to Isis," Xia said. Her tone was conversational, almost light. "She can be a bit strident. I hope you didn't damage her too badly. She has a good heart and great promise."
"If she's the tall black woman with the green headband, she was alive when I left her," Annja said tautly, "if not feeling too well. But what you'd know about a good heart I haven't a clue."
"If you keep on this path I must fight you," Xia said with what sounded like regret. Feigned, Annja was furiously sure.
She held her arm out to the side, started to form her hand into a fist to pull the sword from its special place. Then she let her hand drop to her side.
Treacherous as Xia and her people were, Annja felt she had sullied the sword – sullied her soul. She would not give in to damnation by deliberately striking down an unarmed person. No matter how deserving.
She charged. Size and strength were her obvious advantages over her foe. She hoped they sufficed to overcome whatever skill Xia possessed. Closing on the much shorter woman, Annja realized X
ia was fuller-figured than she'd looked in her exquisitely tailored suits in Belém and Manaus. She wore a dark green wrap around heavy breasts and a loose brown skirt like a sarong around full hips. Her belly was a dome of muscle like a belly dancer's.
Annja expected the woman to try to sweep her legs, tackle her or kick at her belly or pelvis. The low line was the strongest attack against a taller foe. Instead Xia leaped straight into the air. Her rump-length hair formed a dark nimbus around her head.
Unable to stop, Annja ran right into her. Xia wrapped her legs around Annja's belly as her arms tried to tangle the taller woman's. The hair enveloped their heads like a cloud.
Annja fell heavily on her back. Air exploded from her lungs, driven by Xia's hard-muscled butt pounding into her solar plexus.
For a moment they were nose to nose, completely enclosed by Xia's amazing midnight hair. The Promessan smelled of sweat on clean female skin, and her hair like jasmine. Her nose was snubbed. Her big almond eyes, their jade-green hue visible even here, reminded Annja irrationally of the eyes of the golden onza she had seen on entering this hellish maze. That had been hallucination, she told herself.
Xia's hands were like steel clamps pinning Annja's wrists to the floor. The wood was slimy and irregular beneath her. She felt ancient ooze seeping through her clothes at shoulder and butt.
"It's not too late for you, Annja," Xia said. "You have been misled – "
"By you!" Annja shouted. Planting her feet, she violently arched her back.
Though Xia held the advantage – and, like Annja, her body was well packed with muscle – she had not managed to pin Annja's hips. Rather she sat astride Annja's flat belly just below her breasts.
Annja used her strength to buck the smaller woman off like an angry rodeo bronco.
Xia went tumbling down the passage. The way to outside lay clear. Annja doubted she could make it without her opponent taking her down from behind. And her nature rebelled against fleeing, though she knew it was the right thing to do.