by Hugh Howey
Penny stopped. She turned her head to the side.
“What?” she asked.
“Maybe it’s a good thing, the Seer telling us to all go. Maybe it can be interpreted a different way.”
“The way you want to hear it, right?”
“I’m just saying, the fact that the next fight might be our last…”
“Yeah?”
“Well,” Cole said, “it still leaves open the question of whether or not we’ll win.”
Penny stood still for a moment. She reached up and pulled an elastic band off her bunned-up hair, allowing it to spill down and across her shoulders. Turning, she locked Cole’s gaze with her own, and he saw the barest of smiles flirt with the corners of her mouth.
“Yeah,” she said, “I like that.” Penny nodded. “I like that a lot.”
49
“Well, I’m sure glad that’s over,” the prisoner said. He watched as the sheriff opened the cell door for Molly and waved her out. “I’ll be gods-awful glad to get free of this joint.”
Sheriff Browne turned to him. “What in hyperspace does a lick of this have to do with you robbing a buggy dealership?”
The prisoner scratched his beard. “I was hoping you could tell me!”
“Not a damn thing, that’s what. Now sit down and shut up. Next time I shoot you, it won’t be with my fingers.”
The prisoner shot a finger of his own up at the ceiling, but backed away as he did so. The sheriff turned and regarded his dead deputy. “Looks like your pet done finished what you started last night.”
“How did you do that?” Molly asked. She looked from the deputy to the Wadi on her shoulder, suddenly fearful to be reminded of what her pet could do. She flashed back to the fight on the Drenard shuttle when she’d last seen its ferocious side and tried to tease out what the two events had in common.
“I’ve always had a way with animals,” Sheriff Browne said. “A way that tends toward trouble.”
“So, am I free to go?” Molly glanced at the office door and thought about dashing out of there, just to get away from the residual tension she could feel coursing through her body. It was hard to believe she’d wanted to come there.
“Way I see it, this is now animal control’s jurisdiction.” The sheriff smiled at her. That smile faded as he looked back to the mess on the office floor. “But who’s gonna clean this up if the Callites keep going missing?”
“The Callites,” Molly said. “That’s why I came to see you. Some of my friends are in trouble.”
“Hardly surprising.” The sheriff looked down at his poor deputy. “Trouble seems to follow you around, don’t it?”
Molly frowned. “I think they might be in big trouble. Like I said before, another shuttle is supposedly going up today, and they might be on it.”
The sheriff stepped around his deputy, casting the body a forlorn look. He threw open one of the shutters and peered outside at the bustle on the busy street. “Never could stand what they were doing there at immigrations, even before the damned things were being shot down. But I had no right to inquire. The law is the law.”
“Just because it’s the law doesn’t make it right,” Molly said. She held the Wadi to her chest and went to the door. She opened it up to let in some light and let out some of the stuffiness created by the dead body.
“Then again,” the sheriff said, “if legals are being shipped off, like Cripple for instance…”
“Will you at least come with me and check? Because I’m going either way.”
The sheriff leaned on the windowsill and peered out through the haze of sunlit dust, his shoulders pressed up around his ears in a frozen shrug.
“Is it hard to think about going outside?” Molly asked.
The sheriff turned to her and laughed. “He meant it as a figure of speech. Whadya think, I sleep in here? I get out twice a day, to and from work. Hell, I arrested you right over yonder.” The sheriff pointed out the window to the sidewalk a dozen paces away.
“So you’ll come with me?”
The sheriff nodded. “I suppose so. As long as you don’t mind riding on the back of my Theryl.” He pulled his hat down snug, patted his holster, took one last look at his dead deputy, then turned to the door.
“Theryl?” Molly asked. “What in the galaxy is that?”
••••
A monstrous horse-like animal, apparently. The sheriff led the large creature out of its stall and into the alley. He clucked at it affectionately, and the animal turned and looked down to survey Molly with its single eye.
“Hello,” she said, waving. “Nice Theryl.”
“Her name’s Clementine,” the sheriff said. He patted the animal on the neck. “Come back here and I’ll give you a lift.”
Molly hurried around to the other side of the sheriff and moved the Wadi to the back of her neck. The sheriff reached up and engaged a switch on the saddle. The rear of the leather seat opened up, and a second, smaller seat extended out its back as another pair of stirrups unspooled. “Up you go,” he said, creating a basket with his hands.
Molly let him boost her up. She threw a leg over the small saddle, and the Theryl shifted beneath her. She held on to the handles to either side of her seat and wondered how the sheriff was going to get up. She leaned to the side and watched as he stepped into a lowered stirrup, which began sucking up into the saddle, lifting him into place.
“And away we go,” the sheriff said. He clucked his tongue, and Clementine sauntered down the alley. At the end, the animal turned left, its hooves clomping loudly on the wooden sidewalk.
“Not today, old girl.” The sheriff pulled gently on the reins, turning the Theryl the other direction. “Bit of business for us oldtimers left to do.”
With that, he snapped the reins, and the Theryl threw her head back. She let out a whistle, a trilling call more like a bird’s than any mammal Molly knew of. Her front hooves left the sidewalk for a moment and waved excitedly in the air. And then they were off—tearing down the dusty street, weaving through traffic, with Molly and the Wadi holding on for dear life.
The sheriff and Theryl moved as one, leaving Molly to move awkwardly as something else. She let go of the useless little handles and wrapped her arms around the sheriff’s waist. She managed half a yelp as they picked up speed, the Wadi’s tail wrapping around her neck and squeezing off the rest of her outburst. All around her was the thunder of Theryl hooves and the strange and sickening rise and fall of its peculiar gait.
Molly concentrated on the rhythm of the beast and tried to move with it instead of fighting it. Each corner they rounded threw her timing off as everything leaned to one side or the other. After dozens of blocks flew by, the sheriff yelled something, and Clementine pulled to a halt in a staccato of clocking hooves.
“There,” the sheriff said. He pointed to a squat building at the end of the road, out on the edge of town. A tall fence studded with lookout towers ringed the structure; inset into this was a small guard station, which seemed to offer the only access through.
“Flank!” The sheriff’s arm came up, his finger tracking something rising from behind the building. The roar of the shuttle’s thrusters hit them moments after the realization they’d arrived too late.
“No!” Molly yelled. She tried to scream more, but the sheriff nudged the Theryl forward, and she had to hold tight to his back. The animal moved at a furious pace, making the previous jaunt seem like a stroll by comparison. Even the roar of distant thrusters couldn’t match the raw fury roiling beneath them.
Holding fast, Molly wondered if they weren’t better off heading back to Parsona and giving chase in the atmosphere. What good was the sheriff expecting to do? Arrest the department of immigration? That would be too late for her friends. She peeked under his armpit and saw the world ahead in brief flashes each time his hands came up with the reins. He steered right for the guard gate, urging the Theryl to dizzying speeds with loud “ha’s!” Ahead, the wall of steel wire and coiled razor jounc
ed a dozen meters closer with each glimpse.
Molly tried to yell for him to stop, but the Wadi and the raw speed clutched her breath. She visualized all of them smeared across the fencing and wondered if the sheriff planned something as foolish as ramming the thing down—
Suddenly, the Theryl’s gait stuttered, almost as if it had come to the same realization. Its hooves skipped, its back sank down, and it took two strides that felt different. Then the rear legs of the animal flew up, lashing out straight to either side so quickly that Molly felt her stomach sink as her chin was pressed down to her chest. She grabbed her own wrists around the sheriff’s waist and squealed as the Theryl jolted into the sky, the rough gallop gone in a buzz of whipping wind.
Opening her eyes a crack, Molly caught a brief glimpse of the Theryl’s four legs spread to either side, a thin flap of skin stretched out between them and catching the air. Below, the coils of razor wire passed in silence, the Theyrl’s leathery wings waving at the fence with mock indifference.
The gliding seemed to draw out forever before the legs reached for the ground, the flap closing up over its belly, and the thunder of hooves on packed dirt resuming. Molly felt her spine compress with the landing; her teeth clapped shut as her jaw hit her sternum. She fought to secure her grip on the sheriff and peeked through his armpit with her tear-streaked eyes. She saw the squat building looming directly ahead, the fence having been cleared with an impossible leap.
“Whoa!” the sheriff yelled.
Molly leaned back as he pulled the reins; the thunder faded to drums and then to a steady knocking. The sheriff threw one leg over the Theryl’s head and jumped off to the ground. He turned and held out his hands as Molly slid down after him.
“A little warning next time?”
He smiled at her as he rubbed the large animal’s neck. “First time on one?”
“First and last, I hope.” Molly truly meant it. The Theryl turned and snorted at her, its wide whiskers making it seem sage and comical at once.
“Alright,” the sheriff said. He glanced back toward the guard gate, which was suspiciously lacking in the activity department. “Let’s poke our heads in and ask some questions.” He looked up at the fading roar of the shuttle, the white hull perched atop a column of thick smoke. “Maybe we can convince them to turn that thing around—”
The sheriff fell silent; he shielded his eyes to look up through the glare of morning sun. Molly did the same and immediately noticed the odd gap in the shuttle’s exhaust, the dash of blue sky between puffs of interrupted smoke. The shuttle stood high above, sideways, its thrusters dark and quiet. The craft grew larger as it began its slow descent—its plummet to the prairies of Lok.
“Hyperspace!” the sheriff cursed. He drew his pistol and continued to watch the shuttle fall toward the horizon. Molly wondered what he thought he was going to do with the weapon, if it was just a reaction to danger, or perhaps a desire to put something near death out of its misery.
“We’re too late,” Molly said as the Wadi cowered against her neck, its scales scratching her like course sandpaper.
The sheriff glanced at the nearby entrance to the building and reached inside a saddlebag. He pulled out a dozen long plastic strips, the same kind Molly used to secure hoses in the thruster room.
“If there were legals on that shuttle,” he said, “that gives us the right to arrest them.” He handed the strips of plastic to Molly. “Consider yourself deputized.”
Molly swallowed hard, an image of the last deputy flashing back in her vision. Before she could object to her new role, the sheriff strode off, walking to the door with a stride of purpose and vigor she hadn’t seen in his carriage around the office.
“Hey, wait,” Molly said, hurrying after him. “Shouldn’t I have a gun or something?”
“No, you don’t need a gun.” The sheriff paused at the door and peeked through the glass, cupping one of his hands by the side of his face. He grabbed the knob and turned to Molly. “Just stay behind me. We’re here to arrest them, not kill them.”
Molly nodded. She looked at the quickcuffs he’d handed her and figured she’d still feel better with a gun.
“Let’s go,” the sheriff said.
He pulled open the door and stepped inside. Molly followed him into a dimly lit foyer; she let the door slam shut behind her. Once her eyes adjusted, she saw an empty reception desk at the end of the hall with a set of double doors beyond it. The sheriff strolled across the room and glanced behind the desk. He placed one hand on the set of doors and turned his head to the side.
“Let me do the talking.”
Molly nodded once more.
With that, the sheriff pushed open the doors to the immigrations building. He and Molly stepped inside, expecting to find a labyrinth of cubicles, or perhaps a maze of tiled hallways studded with fluorescently lit offices. Either option would’ve felt familiar and would’ve matched the cliché of a large building built on bureaucracy.
As the doors yawned wide, however, the sheriff cursed out loud at the sight that greeted them. It wasn’t the office building Molly had expected. And yet, it was a sight more familiar. More sickeningly familiar.
“Flank me,” Sheriff Browne whispered.
Before them lay a room of high beds, most of which were occupied by prone figures. What Molly was drawn to, however, were the bags. Rows and rows of them hung from the beds, many of them already full of blue Callite blood.
“Holy shit,” she said.
She was so focused on the bags, on all the blue spirals of blood flowing from strapped arms and through the tubes that she was barely cognizant of the flurry of activity. About ten workers, their aprons splattered blue, cried out in alarm and rushed toward Molly and Sheriff Browne. The first gunshot startled her out of her shocked reverie. Molly flinched and dropped the bundle of plastic strips. One of the men running their way spun around, his arm flying akimbo, a bright, wet wound flashing out on his shoulder before he fell behind a gurney.
BLAM!
Another shot, and another man twirling from the impact. Browne held the gun straight ahead and lined up for another squeeze of the trigger. He fired again, and Molly found herself ducking from the noise, her hands going to her ears. Two more rapid shots, and Browne started backing up, yelling something to Molly, but her ears were ringing from being so close to the gun’s report.
One last loud bang, and the sheriff lowered his gun and started fumbling with it. Molly glanced through the smoke from the shots, the smell of spent gunpowder tickling her nose. Slowly, gradually, the world around her came back into focus. She watched Brown’s lips move beneath his mustache, saw him cursing at his gun. She watched him drop a handful of shells; they spun toward the floor and bounced and rattled there.
Molly looked back up at the remaining workers running their way. They came around the last row of gurneys topped with draining Callites, yelling and jostling and full of rage. Molly’s ears continued to ring. She remained frozen in place, watching events as if through another’s eyes. Her gaze fell to a nearby Callite, who was lifting her head and looking Molly’s way.
It was Cat. Her lips were moving.
“Run,” she was shouting.
Molly could hear it, now. Could match up the ringing in her ears with the movement of Cat’s lips.
“Run.”
But the men were already upon them.
••••
The first man headed straight for Sheriff Browne, tackling him before he could reload. He crawled on top of the older man and began pummeling him senseless. Molly moved to help—she felt the Wadi fly from her neck—when a figure reached her at a dead run, his fist a blur.
Molly ducked and twisted out of the way just in time, letting the man fly past; his splattered denim coveralls barely registering in the back of her mind as something she should recognize.
Two more men scrambled around Cat’s gurney to join the fray. There was a shout from behind her, and Molly turned in time to see her Wadi slung b
y its tail and thrown down against the tiled floor. The creature went limp, and the man, his neck bleeding, went back to pounding on the sheriff.
Someone slammed into Molly’s back, sending her flying forward. She landed near her limp Wadi and was unable to take her eyes off it. She felt a rage coursing up inside, filling her up. A man stood over her, his boots planted to either side. He reached down to seize her, to drag her up, and Molly let him. She let him pull her up by her collar while she kept her body limp and half balled-up. As soon as her feet came under her, she kicked off the floor, jumping straight up as hard as she could, sending her head into the man’s nose.
His screams seemed to frighten off the ringing in her ears. The world returned to a normal speed as it resumed making noises. The man over a limp Sheriff Browne turned and realized the fight wasn’t over. He stood to join the others as Molly backed toward Cat’s gurney.
“I got this!” the man with the bleeding nose said, but the other men kept creeping forward. Molly finally recognized one of them as being Pete. She watched him spit through a sneer as she circled Cat’s gurney. She reached for the straps across her friend and started fumbling with them. The man she’d attacked lunged forward and grabbed at her wrists, forcing her to stop and pull them back.
“Nose!” Cat yelled.
Her head lifted off the gurney and turned to Molly.
“Now!”
The man was still leaning over Cat, his hands on her straps. Molly reared her fist back and threw her shoulders into the punch. She cracked the man on his already bleeding nose and felt a jolt of pure pain shoot through her knuckles and waver up her arm.
“Palms!” Cat said. “Use your palms!”
Molly obeyed and threw her left palm after the last punch. She struck him with the heel of her hand, using her armbones like battering rams. The blow slammed into the man’s face as he was already falling forward from the last blow. His head bounced off Cat’s stomach and flew back; his body crumpled on the other side of the gurney. Molly shook her right hand and watched as the other three men strode forward.