Johnny had already let go of Stella, and was stepping forward to scoop up the dying guard's gun. The other guard realised what was happening and began to scrabble for his own sidearm.
Johnny shot him down where he stood, then grabbed Stella again and dragged her towards the airlock control room. In the staging area under the control room, he found his own space suit hanging with an assortment of other diving gear. He stood over Stella Dysh while she found a scuba outfit of the correct size and put it on. She was somewhat subdued and less troublesome since Johnny had killed the guards. Maybe she realised she was responsible for the men's deaths.
Unfortunately, one guard had managed to send off a distress call before Johnny had got to him. That meant they could expect reinforcements to arrive looking for them any minute. But in a minute they were going to have something else to think about.
Johnny looked at his watch again. "Brace yourself," he said.
"Brace myself for what?" said Stella Dysh sourly.
And then the tidal wave hit.
The nuclear detonation Johnny had engineered served to create a diversion in two ways. It created an underwater tidal surge that sent millions of tons of water thundering through the depths in a chain reaction and arriving to collide against the walls of the undersea prison with the force of an earthquake's aftershock. Every vibration detector and alarm in the prison went off simultaneously.
The nuclear explosion had also tripped every radiation alarm.
The net result was pandemonium. The prison staff forgot all about Johnny and the escaping prisoner and wondered for a moment about their own survival. And that moment was all Johnny needed. He knew there was no question of escaping through the main air lock. It was far too well guarded. But there were bound to be subsidiary, smaller airlocks for maintenance and access routes. After a swift, tense search he found an ideal one.
"What the hell is this?" said Stella Dysh. Johnny had called her over to what looked like a narrow shelf sunk into the wall, surrounded by white tiles and an instruction plaque. But on closer inspection, the shelf turned out to disappear into a hole in the wall, a hole which extended into a tiled tube no more than a metre in diameter. The plaque on the wall beside it read Mortuary Tube.
"It's our route out of here."
"It's a hole in the goddamned wall."
"We're lucky to find it."
"It says 'Insert corpse head first'."
"Look," said Johnny impatiently, "the prison staff are off guard at the moment-"
"You mean the guards are off-guard?" said Stella Dysh.
"But they won't be for long. And when they arrive they're going to shoot instead of asking questions. Shoot you as well as me."
"All right, all right. I just don't like the sound of it. Who would? 'Insert corpse'."
"It's just another route out into the ocean. They use it for burials."
"No shit, Professor Hawking."
"It's our way out of here."
"Just so long as they don't use it for executions," said Stella Dysh, and she climbed into the hole in the wall, head first, followed by Johnny.
The mortuary tube carried them beyond the walls of the prison, sending them out into the cold vastness of the ocean in a plume of waste water. Johnny had grabbed one of the diving lamps and he switched it on, intending to make a signal that Middenface could see from a distance. But the instant he turned the light on, another light came on immediately in front of him, shining out of the dark ocean, straight into his eyes.
As Johnny blinked, momentarily dazzled by the beam of light, he moved his arm to shield his face. He used the arm holding the lamp and as he moved it, the beam of light immediately shifted off his face. Johnny squinted into the water in front of him. He lifted his light again and shone it in front of him. Another beam of light came shining back. Johnny moved his hand around experimentally and the beam of light moved with it.
It was a reflection of the diving lamp he was holding. A reflection from the front windscreen of the ketch that emerged, huge and silent, through the swaying curtain of cold ocean current. Johnny was shining his torch directly into the cockpit and now he could see Middenface sitting there, grinning.
Two minutes later they were safely on board, rubbing towels over their cold, soaked bodies as Middenface plotted a course back into orbit to rendezvous with the starship that hung overhead. Johnny led Stella Dysh into the control room.
"Good to see you, old pal," said Middenface, beaming at Johnny.
"Nice work with the rendezvous," said Alpha.
Stella Dysh was drying her hair. She lowered the towel from her face and peered at Middenface. "Who's this?" she said.
"McNulty is the name."
"I hope everyone on this posse isn't as ugly as he is."
"Well, she was certainly worth rescuing," said Middenface, hitting the button that sent them through the ocean, back up to the surface, and into space.
CHAPTER SIX
OLD BROILER IN THE BARBECUE
The moon was high over the desert and Charlie Yuletide stood with his banjo, plucking plangently and singing, "Johnny Alpha was hellishly brave. And when Johnny's guns finished firin', it turned out he'd escaped with the siren. Escape from the watery grave!"
Middenface observed the reaction of Asdoel Zo's gardeners to Stella Dysh. The girls' behaviour around the female mutant was interesting and instructive. They seemed to take an instant, visceral dislike to her. It appeared to be a gut reaction, an atavistic hatred of something alien and menacing. It was ridiculous, but there it was; the gorgeous gardeners found this drab stranger a threat. In this respect it seemed they were like all the women who encountered Stella.
The reaction of men was the polar opposite. They found themselves attracted to Stella without quite realising it, and without being able to consciously explain why.
Even Asdoel Zo wasn't immune to her siren's allure. He could be found wandering around with Stella at his side, the woman yawning openly and making no attempt to conceal her boredom as he showed her his enormous collection of western memorabilia and cowboy accoutrements. For her own part, Stella settled into life in the billionaire's mansion with what at first appeared to be resigned disgust, but gradually revealed itself to be guarded enthusiasm. She even stopped sulking about being freed from her undersea prison against her will, when Asdoel Zo promised to pay her an exorbitant fee for taking part in the posse's pursuit of Preacher Tarkettle.
"It wasn't just the money," said Stella, explaining her change of heart. "It was also, you know, the thrill of the hunt."
"Of course it was, darling," said Hari Mata Karma, who had hated Stella like poison from the moment they'd met. "We're all bounty hunters here. If there's anything we understand it's the thrill of the hunt. It's just a shame you couldn't have manifested it a bit sooner."
Stella raised her eyebrows. "I don't know what you mean."
"I mean, you seemed strangely reluctant to leave your watery prison and that sort of attitude made life more than a little tough on poor Johnny here, who'd gone to all that trouble for you. But then, men do seem to be willing to go to a lot of trouble for you."
"Yes, that they do," Stella said complacently.
"And it's so hard to imagine why."
But as HMK later confessed to Slim Drago, "It was a good insult but I was being disingenuous."
"Disingenuous?" said Slim Drago vaguely. The fat man was busy combing his hair with meticulous, frowning concentration.
"Pretending an innocence I don't really possess," explained HMK. "Because you see, I know exactly what makes her so irresistible to men."
"Irresistible," said Slim. The tip of his tongue was protruding from the corner of his mouth with dogged concentration as painstakingly, and painfully, he dragged his comb through his hair.
"Yes, it's a result of the same mutation that made her a Strontium Dog. You see, she's a female sharpshooter whose siren-like abilities enable her to lure her prey into range. And once they are there under her gun sh
e will either fire a lethal round or an anaesthetic one."
HMK snorted with contempt. "So whether her prey is wanted dead or alive, she can deliver!" she announced, speaking in the tone of a vapid huckster from the Shopping Channel. Slim was still wrestling with his comb, trying to drag it through his unruly locks. HMK stared at him impatiently.
"You really are useless with that thing."
"I sure am. Useless."
"Here. Give it here." HMK took the comb from him and began to pass it through his hair with smooth, practised strokes. "There, is that better, you great lummox?"
"Yes thank you. Can you do the back as well, please? I tried, but I didn't do a very good job. I can't see the back of my head."
"You could use a series of mirrors, you buffoon, or a screen and cam arrangement. Never mind. Here. I'll do it for you." HMK wielded the comb with dextrous, finicky speed. "Why all this sudden interest in your appearance anyway?"
"Because I might see Stella Dysh," said Slim Drago. "I kinda like her." He blushed, his big ears glowing red. Then he yelped with sudden pain. "Ouch! You pulled out my hair with that comb."
"You'd better do it yourself then," snarled HMK, throwing the comb in his face and marching off.
Middenface witnessed the whole incident and was secretly amused. HMK might not have welcomed Slim's sloppy, foolish adoration but she certainly missed it now that it was gone. The big Strontium Dog had taken to following Stella Dysh around like a foolish little puppy and seemed to have forgotten that HMK existed.
That night Middenface and HMK had a drink on the balcony while Asdoel Zo cheerfully busied himself over the barbecue coals, and his bevy of beautiful gardeners discreetly, but firmly, made sure Stella came nowhere near him. HMK sipped her drink and glanced over at Stella, who was going down the balcony steps and out into the cactus garden to avoid having to talk to Slim.
HMK looked at Middenface and said, "Stella isn't a glamorous beauty like me, in fact she is downright dowdy, but she has another, more subtle and profoundly powerful appeal. She secretes pheromones, potent scent-attractors that draw males like dogs to a bitch in heat - as one might uncharitably put it. Indeed, some women are also vulnerable to Stella's unique charms - which might account for certain parties hostility towards the mutant siren."
Middenface looked across at Hari Mata Karma. In the gleaming sunset of SG977 her beautiful face looked flushed. There was a fine sheen of sweat on her brow. Middenface stared at her. Was she saying what he thought she was saying?
His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden burst of excited squealing and giggles from the girl gardeners. Middenface immediately spotted the source of their excitement. Johnny Alpha was ambling up from the shadowed terraced garden with his easy but powerful stride. Two silent figures followed him.
HMK leaned forward, peering over Middenface's shoulder. "Johnny's back."
"Looks like it."
"Who's that he's got with him?"
"Numbers six and seven on our list."
"You mean the final members of our posse?" said HMK. Her voice was suddenly alive with excitement. "Maybe we can finally get this manhunt started."
"Let's hope so," said Middenface. "It would be a shame to have to go on sitting around this billionaire's mansion being provided with unlimited food and drink, and attended by beautiful women."
"You have a dry sense of humour, Archibald. That's what I like about you."
Middenface was startled. "Who told you my name?" He thought only Johnny knew that particular dark secret. Hari Mata Karma dismissed the question with an impatient wave of her hand. "More importantly, what's the name of these two newcomers?" She peered down the hill towards Johnny and the strangers.
HMK and Slim had succeeded in the mission Johnny had given them while he was busy freeing Stella Dysh. They had been sent to another star system where they had located and made contact with the final members of the posse, and arranged the terms of their employment. Now these posse members had landed at the space port on Asdoel Zo's private planet and Johnny had gone to meet them.
"Their names? Ray/Bel."
"Ray/Bel? But that's only one name."
"True, though apparently they also answer to Bel/Ray."
"They? You mean they only have one name between them?"
"After all, they are mutants," said Middenface.
"No kidding. So what's their mutation?" She uttered this last phrase in a rising cadence of announcement, as though it was the title of a new game show. Middenface shrugged.
"I don't know a hell of a lot. Just that they're a Siamese twin, brother-sister combination. Except these twins have the ability to separate their joined bodies and move about autonomously."
"How convenient for them."
"Though they must fuse again at meal times or they will starve."
"Why?"
"Because they share a digestive system."
"Eeee-yuk."
"They also share a psychic link, which apparently makes them a remarkable synchronised organism, ideal for stalking and catching prey."
"I can hardly wait to meet them," said HMK, peering down the hill. "I trust they won't be sharing their digestive system just yet."
Hari Mata Karma and Middenface had very little chance to form any impression of the twins. There was just a glimpse of white faces and long black hair as the two figures followed Johnny onto the balcony. Ray and Bel were both dressed all in black: black trenchcoats and, beneath these, black turtle neck sweaters, leggings and gleaming black boots. They were both carrying heavy bundles of luggage, which they refused to let anyone touch or help them with. They stayed close together, side by side like shy children at a party, but Middenface could see light between them. "They're not joined," he whispered to HMK. "Not at the moment, anyway."
"But how do they do it when they do join up?" she whispered back. "Do they have a special flap in the side of their trenchcoats that opens up or something? Once again I say, eeee-yuk. Maybe there's a special zippered aperture."
"I don't know, shall we ask them?"
Middenface and Hari Mata Karma approached Johnny and the newcomers. But after the briefest of introductions, the twins excused themselves and carried their luggage to their room, pleading fatigue after their long journey.
"You look tired, Johnny," said HMK, opening a bottle of beer for him. Johnny accepted it, enjoying the feel of the cold glass in his hand then the feel and flavour and cool, quenching moisture of the beer as he drank. Asdoel Zo came over and joined them.
"Oh no, what do you want?" quipped HMK. She had recently adopted a comic feigned insolence towards their billionaire employer, which he seemed to endure with detached amusement. "I just came to say thank you to Johnny," he said. "For collecting our guests."
"I guess the posse is complete now, Mr Zo," said Johnny. "And we can get started on our hunt for Tarkettle as soon as you're ready."
"Excellent. But let's not spoil a beautiful evening by talking about that murdering lunatic." Asdoel Zo took a deep breath, as though gaining control of his emotions. Then, after a moment, he said, "Let's just enjoy our final barbecue together."
"Sounds good to me," said Johnny, sipping his beer. "And smells good too."
"Oh, that's just the starters," said Asdoel Zo. "I cooked them on the infrared Hibachi up here on the balcony. The main course is going to be cooked down there in the cactus garden. I had the girls dig a barbecue pit and fill it with coals. I ignited it earlier today with my new laser prongs. It should be just about ready when we've finished the starters. Would you like some marinated prawns, Johnny?"
"No seafood, thanks," said Johnny. "I was at the bottom of the ocean myself, not too long ago."
Asdoel Zo, the gardening girls and the seven Strontium Dogs all gathered in the darkness, beside a clump of tall cactuses, in the flaring dry heat of the barbecue pit. The ruddy flames of the barbecue lit their faces with a festively hellish light. Big square grills were laid across the hot coals with choice cuts of meat and an assortment o
f exotic vegetables strewn on them, all gleaming with oil. "Welcome to the Ranchero Zo barbecue!" cried Asdoel Zo. "Plenty for everyone! Now, who'll be my first customer of the evening for some prime, tender beer-fed steak?"
"I wouldn't mind a piece, Mr Zo, sir," said Middenface.
"Creep," whispered HMK in his ear. Middenface didn't care. He just wanted to get his teeth into that delicious, delicate beef. He'd had some a few days ago and he was eager to repeat the experience. The meat wasn't cloned, genetically modified or grown in a tank. He'd never tasted anything like it.
"Here you go," said Asdoel Zo, lifting a huge, dripping piece of beef off the grill with a pair of long-handled tongs. The juices from the lump of meat splashed back onto the searing coals, hissing and vaporising with a delicious odour. One of the gardening girls handed Middenface a plate and he hastened forward to receive his steak from Zo, like an acolyte approaching the high priest for a benediction. Zo slapped the warm steak onto his plate with a moist, meaty sound, then moved on to the next person in line, Hari Mata Karma. "What would you like, little lady?"
"Gee, I don't know," said HMK. "Do you have anything for non-carnivores?"
"We certainly do. Just look at these here kebabs." Zo pointed at thin steel skewers, which lay across the grill with a colourful variety of oiled vegetables impaled on them.
"'These here'?" said HMK. "What's with the hayseed accent?"
"Just getting into the spirit of things," said Zo. He opened a slim box and peeled out a pair of tissue-thin gloves, which he slipped over his hands. Once he had the gloves on, Middenface was startled to see that he reached into the flames and picked up one of the steel skewers with his fingers. The thin gloves were evidently heat proof. The skewer was as long as his arm and was heavy with roasted, dripping vegetables. But vegetables didn't particularly interest Middenface, not when he had a succulent slab of beer-fed beef cooling on his own plate. He collected a knife and fork in a rolled napkin from a tray held out by a smiling gardener girl and set off to find a suitably quiet spot among the cacti to devour his personal feast. As he turned away he heard Asdoel Zo say, "You see, the barbecue is a purely western institution. In fact the word 'barbecue' is actually derived from 'bar-b-q' which was the brand a famous rancher put on his cattle. You get it? A bar, a letter 'b' and a letter 'q'."
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