Norr made a face. “There isn’t any, not unless you count the light breeze from the far side of the hold and the stink associated with it.”
Rebo grinned. “I’m happy to report that I can’t smell a thing!”
“That’s because you’re part of the problem,” the sensitive observed tartly. “There’s some news though. . . . When you control the water supply—everyone stops to chat.”
The runner squinted down the Hogger’s bore into the lamplight. Then, satisfied with what he’d seen, Rebo pushed a shell into the weapon’s chamber. “There’s news? I’m surprised to hear it.”
“Yes, there is,” the variant replied, as she held her hands out to collect the scant warmth generated by the lamp. “And it isn’t good . . . You know the merchants? The ones camped by the number two pillar?”
“The ones with the fancy crossbows?”
Norr knew from long experience that the runner had a tendency to describe people by the way they looked, or the artifacts that they carried, rather than how they felt, or acted. “Yes,” she replied. “The ones with the crossbows. Two of them went out to explore the ship and never came back.”
“It’s a big ship,” Rebo said neutrally. “Maybe they got lost.”
“That’s what I figured,” the variant agreed, “until one of the missing merchants appeared right next to the man I was talking to.”
The runner raised an eyebrow. “Dead?”
“Very.”
“Did you tell the person you were talking to?”
Norr shook her head. “No . . . I wasn’t sure what to do.”
Rebo frowned. “So, how did he die? Could you tell?”
The lamp lit the sensitive’s face from below. It gave her features a spectral quality. “Yes, I could. The spirit didn’t say anything, but he was holding his head in his hands, and it was screaming.”
The city of New Wimmura, on the Planet Derius
As Shaz, Phan, Dyson, and four metal men stepped out of the decontamination lock on Derius and began the process of pulling their damp clothes back on, it quickly became apparent that something was wrong. They could hear the insistent pop, pop, pop of gunfire for one thing, accompanied by yelling and the muted beat of unseen kettledrums. Then the entire structure shook as a team of fanatical antitechnics carried a palanquin loaded with black powder into the building’s lobby and blew themselves up. The idea had been to bring the two-story structure down, but the supports were too strong for that, so the building still stood.
The combat variant’s first instinct was to retreat to Anafa via the star gate, but it quickly became apparent that it was too late for that, as the power went off. Fortunately, the emergency lights, which were powered by a battery, flickered and held. “You’d better arm yourselves,” Shaz said grimly, as he slipped into the two-gun harness. “It looks like the building is under attack. We may have to fight our way out.”
Phan was a professional killer, and therefore received the news with aplomb, but Dyson was frightened. He looked from one person to the other. “I don’t have any weapons.”
“No,” the combat variant observed, “you don’t. . . . So, I suggest that you stay close to Phan—and do whatever she tells you.”
The sensitive finished putting his shoes on, shouldered his pack, and wished that the empty feeling in his stomach would go away.
Having armed themselves with stout wooden cudgels, the heavily robed robots made their way out into the office area beyond, followed by Shaz, Phan, and Dyson. Smoke swirled as a disheveled-looking man whirled to aim a double-barreled shotgun at the group of intruders. His face lit up when he spotted Shaz. “By all of the blue devils it’s good to see you, sir! How did headquarters know we were in trouble?”
“They didn’t,” the variant answered flatly. “What’s going on?”
“It’s those damned antitechnics,” the functionary responded angrily. “Come on, I’ll show you what I mean.”
Shaz and the rest of the team followed the local past a landing where two norms and a metal man were busy defending a staircase and into one of the offices that fronted the second floor. It was dark outside, or would have been, had it not been for a multitude of torches. The light they generated combined to illuminate what looked like a crowd of at least three hundred seething bodies. Most were lower down, but some had succeeded in climbing up onto the same level as the building and were busy hurling stones at it. The missiles rattled as they hit the wooden façade. “Be careful,” the functionary cautioned. “The Antitechnic Book of Abominations limits their warriors to smoothbores, but some of those bastards are damned good shots, and one of them nailed Kavi. . . .”
As if to illustrate the norm’s point, a sniper chose that particular moment to send a .30-caliber slug whizzing past Phan’s head. That was a mistake, because the assassin spotted the telltale muzzle flash, and it was only a matter of seconds before the woman brought the scope-mounted rifle up to her shoulder and fired in response. The sniper never knew what hit him as the .300 Magnum slug blew a hole through his chest. “You were saying?” Phan asked sweetly, as she worked a second round into the chamber.
“Nice shot!” the local said enthusiastically. “That should slow the bastards down. It all started about two hours ago, when the holy men ambushed A-63127, and tied him to a stake. Then they piled flammable materials around the poor bastard. A crowd gathered, the fanatics began to preach all their usual antitechnology bullshit, and that’s when a priest lit the fire.”
Though conscious of the fact that there were bound to be snipers other than the one that Phan had neutralized, Dyson edged his way up to the shattered window and was amazed by what he saw. After the original city of Wimmura was slagged during the techno wars, the survivors had been able to found a new settlement within the embrace of the nearby open-pit mine, and constructed dozens of one- and two-story buildings on the benchlike contours that surrounded the hole. One end of the kidney-shaped basin was filled with water, but the rest had come to function as New Wimmura’s central plaza, and that was where the unfortunate metal man had been set alight. Dyson didn’t know if androids could experience the electronic equivalent of pain, but judging from the way that 127 continued to writhe within a cocoon of orange-yellow flames, it seemed all too possible. “Kill it!” the sensitive insisted, as he turned toward Phan. “Kill it now!”
The assassin looked at Shaz, saw the operative nod, and brought the rifle back to her shoulder. The second shot was just as effective as the first. The metal man jerked convulsively as the heavy slug tore through his badly blackened alloy torso, which slumped against the wire that bound him to the flaming pole. Dyson nodded gratefully. “Thank you.”
But the decision to let Phan terminate the robot had nothing to do with compassion, a fact that soon became apparent. A howl of protest went up from the crowd gathered on the plaza below as the subject of their hatred was released from its suffering, and there was a sudden swirl of activity as various holy men pointed up at the building from which the shot had originated, and urged their followers to attack. The response was immediate, as half a dozen snipers opened fire on Techno Society headquarters, and scores of warriors began to scale the wooden ladders that would carry them up onto the highest bench. “Now we know who their leaders are,” Shaz stated coldly. “Kill them.”
Phan smiled, secured a fresh grip on her weapon, and went to work. Her aim was good, and each death sent ripples out through the ethers, which rolled over Dyson like waves of pain. He staggered backward, brought his hands up to his temples, and slid down the rear wall to sit on the floor.
Meanwhile, having volunteered to act as the assassin’s spotter, Shaz brought a small pair of binoculars up to his eyes and directed Phan’s fire. They made a good team. Leader after leader fell, and, as they did, the attack began to falter.
Then, having reloaded numerous times, the assassin went to work neutralizing those snipers who still survived, while the combat variant fired both pistols into the crowd directly below.
The ensuing slaughter lasted for less than a minute before the holy warriors broke and ran. Dozens lay dead, their bodies akimbo, their spirits still filled with hatred. Some of the fallen groaned, or called for help, but were soon dispatched by cudgel-wielding metal men who prowled the battlefield like hooded angels of death. “Well,” Shaz remarked lightly, “that went reasonably well.”
“Yes, it did,” the local operative agreed gratefully. “But even though the ignorant bastards didn’t know what they were doing, one aspect of their attack was successful.”
The combat variant looked up from reloading a pistol. “And what, pray tell, was that?”
“The gate,” the functionary replied sadly. “The explosion took it off-line.”
FOUR
The spaceship Shewhoswimsthevoid
Those who travel aboard our starships can expect to eat only the finest food, prepared by expert chefs, and served by the most solicitous waiters in the empire.
—From promotional material produced by the Cylar Line
Tas was ensconced in his favorite chair, gnawing on a well-seared arm bone, when his older brother entered the compartment. “Look at that!’ Tas said, using the humerus as a pointer. “The slimeballs are up to something.”
When Mog looked up at the video monitors he realized that Tas was correct. A large percentage of the ship’s passengers had gathered together toward the center of the hold. And, given the recent “harvest,” the outlaw knew why. “You reckon they’ll come after us?” Tas wanted to know.
“It’s too early to tell,” Mog replied judiciously. “They might decide to fortify the hold in order to keep us out.”
“It won’t work,” Tas predicted, as he sprinkled salt on his meat. “We always get in. . . . Don’t we, Mog?”
“Yup,” the larger man agreed, as he fingered his beard. “We always do. . . . But I want you and Ruk to stay sober for a while. There could be some fighting during the next twelve hours or so.”
“You can count on me,” Tas said, through a mouthful of food.
“I know that,” Mog replied, “and I take comfort from it. See the man wearing the short red jacket? The one standing in front of the rest? Watch him. . . . He looks like a leader.”
“I will,” the younger man promised. “He lives with the pretty woman.”
“And she belongs to me,” Mog emphasized as he turned to leave. “And don’t forget it.”
Tas knew the female was off-limits, but a man can dream, and the cannibal’s eyes remained glued to the screen as he finished his lunch.
The meeting was Norr’s idea; but for reasons the runner wasn’t sure of, he wound up at the center of it. Maybe it was the no-nonsense manner in which the murderous acrobat had been neutralized or the fact that many of the passengers had spoken with him when they came to get water. Whatever the reason, it was clear that the group presently assembled at the center of the hold saw the runner as their leader. That made Rebo uncomfortable since the runner was a loner by nature and had always gone to great lengths to stay that way. And individuals like master merchant Isban Okey were the reason why.
Okey was a voluble man who, having survived the ambush, never stopped talking about it. The merchant was of medium height, and wore a red fez, matching jacket, and baggy pantaloons. The blunderbuss that he held cradled in his arms was almost sure to kill the man next to him if it went off, but Rebo was relieved to see that Okey’s right index finger was clear of the brass trigger. “I don’t know,” the merchant said doubtfully. “Wouldn’t it be better to hole up here, rather than go looking for the bandits?”
“It might be,” the runner allowed patiently, “but consider this. . . . When the shuttle landed on Thara it was empty. Then, when we arrived in the hold, there weren’t any fires. Not even hot coals. What would that suggest?”
It was a middle-aged woman who offered an answer. Though dressed in plain clothes, she wore a small fortune in gold jewelry. “It suggests that they murdered all of the previous passengers,” the woman stated. “In spite of whatever precautions they took when people began to disappear.”
“Exactly,” Rebo agreed. “So, rather than sit and wait for the bandits to pick us off one at a time, I say we hunt the bastards down. They must have a lair, a place where they feel secure, and that’s where we will attack them.”
“Yeah! He’s right!” a male passenger proclaimed.
That was followed by a chorus of similar comments and calls for action. “Let’s track the scum down,” a burly blacksmith added, “and give them what they deserve!”
There was a chorus of assent, and it was all Rebo could do to bring a modicum of organization to the mob before it surged out into the corridor. Okey was at the head of the column, with a reluctant runner at his side, while Hoggles brought up the rear. The beast master plus a dozen of his friends had agreed to participate in the hunt, so even though Norr had been left behind to guard the faucet by herself, the runner felt reasonably confident that she would be okay.
Rebo knew there was no possibility of stealth given the caliber of his troops, so he allowed the vigilantes to make as much noise as they wanted to so long as they stayed in front of Hoggles and behind him. In the meantime, as the posse comitatus put more distance between itself and the hold, Okey had become increasingly loquacious. “We were exploring,” the merchant explained. “I opposed entering this particular corridor, but Runsus insisted, and took over the lead.”
Rebo held his torch up over his head. The light surged ahead to reveal a nearly featureless overhead, graffiti-covered walls, and a litter-strewn deck. “There it is!” Okey said excitedly. “Up on the right. . . . That’s where the bone room is located.”
Perhaps it was the steel bulkheads that seemed to press in from both sides, or Okey’s choice of words, but whatever the reason, Rebo kept one hand on his talisman as the two of them stopped in front of an open hatch. “Look in there,” Okey instructed, eyes averted. “And see for yourself.”
Rebo caught the first whiff of what could only be described as an overwhelming stench—and resolved to breathe through his mouth as he approached the open door. Torchlight danced across grimy walls as the runner peered into what had become a charnel house. Whatever else the compartment might have contained had long since been submerged beneath a five-foot-high heap of human bones. Arm bones, leg bones, clavicles, rib cages, spinal columns, and skulls were piled helter-skelter, as if thrown from the door. And adding to the stomach-turning horror of it was the fact that bits of rotting meat still clung to some of the bones. “Look!” Okey said excitedly, “there’s Runsus!” And turned to throw up.
Rebo ignored the sudden spew of vomit, struggled to keep his own lunch down, and saw that the head to which Okey had referred was still recognizable. Now, for the first time since leaving the hold, the runner felt truly frightened. Judging from the size of the bone pile, scores of people had been slaughtered over a long period of time. And that implied that whoever, or whatever, had killed them was very formidable indeed. So much so that the runner didn’t believe that his undisciplined group of passengers was likely to challenge them and win. In fact, based on what he’d just seen, Rebo was about to order a return to the hold when the beast master yelled, “Look! There’s one of the bastards now! Get him!”
Rebo shouted, “No!” but the mob ignored him and thundered up the corridor in hot pursuit of whatever the circus performer had seen. The norm, with Okey close on his heels, found himself running next to Hoggles. “I couldn’t hold them,” the heavy panted, as he pounded along. “They’re crazy.”
As if to prove the variant’s point the leaders of the mob turned a blind corner and started down a wide-open stretch of hallway. The runner saw a sign that read, SECURITY CONTROL CENTER, and the norms who were standing directly below it. He shouted, “Get down!” But, by the time the passengers in the front rank saw the danger and began to react, Mog, Ruk, and Tas had already opened fire. They had armed themselves with machine pistols, and it was only a matter of sec
onds before people in front of them began to jerk and fall. Thanks to his position toward the front, the beast master was among the first to take a bullet, immediately followed by a mime and a clown, as the runner raised the long-barreled Hogger. The weapon bucked in his hand, made a resonant boom, and sent a bullet spinning toward one of three possible targets.
Tas felt a sledgehammer strike his chest, lived long enough to register a look of surprise, and slammed into the hatch behind him before sliding to the floor. That came as a considerable surprise to the outlaw’s siblings, who had preyed on other people for years without suffering any negative consequences themselves. But there was no time to grieve, not yet at any rate, as Rebo opened up with the Crosser and bullets pinged all around them.
Mog answered with a burst of well-aimed automatic fire, but the runner was already falling, with Hoggles on top of him, which meant that the bullets were high. That gave the surviving cannibals sufficient time to slap the controls, grab their brother’s ankles, and drag the body through the hatch. The door closed with a definitive thud and the battle was over.
The heavy rolled off Rebo, the runner fought to suck air back into his lungs, and allowed the variant to pull him up off the deck. The hallway looked like a slaughterhouse. A quick check confirmed that five passengers were dead, and three were wounded, including the beast master. It was difficult to tell, given all the blood, but it appeared that a bullet had creased the performer’s skull and knocked him unconscious.
Some of those who had escaped returned when the firing stopped, and there were cries of grief as dead friends and relatives were located. Then, with astounding speed, sorrow turned to anger. “This is your fault!” Okey insisted, as he pointed a long skinny finger at Rebo’s chest. “You led us here!” The accusation wasn’t fair, or true, but elicited a chorus of agreement from the rest of the passengers nonetheless.
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