Miller said, "Well, this is where we stop, Stuckey. That desert belongs to those blacklining psychos and their Azeel compadres."
Ringo considered not answering because Miller insisted on using his real name instead of his chosen handle. But he decided that would mean he was acting as immature as Miller Ringo asked, "What about the monster?"
Miller laughed. "Starting at this spot right here, it's not our problem. If we're lucky, it'll kill all the Reapers it can get its clawed fingers on."
"But Ross ..."
"Hey," Miller said sharply, "Ross may have a lifetime of dealing with anouks and Reapers behind him, but not me." Then Miller grinned, embarrassed at his outburst. He chucked the younger man on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Ringo. Even Ross doesn't ride into Reaper territory. Trust me on that one. Only two of us here. Those Reapers down there are so hyped up on blackline you'd have to shoot them fifty times before they'd feel it. And the anouks have weird powers, you know? Let the monster have them. Now, come on, let's get out of here."
They climbed back into the Stallion, the Rangers' all-purpose flying vehicle. It was forty feet long with a front cockpit that seated two and a separate bay in back for hauling goods or about ten Rangers or prisoners. Transport, assault vehicle, paddy wagon. It flew on the same principle as the army's hovertanks. It was, however, much faster and more maneuverable, which was good because it was seriously underarmed. This was actually an old model Stallion that the Temptation Rangers had to pull out of mothballs because all the newer, sleeker versions of the vehicle had been stored for protection during the Worldstorm and none had made their way back to this part of Banshee yet. Ross had taken to calling the Colonial Rangers' fleet of Stallions by the friendly nickname of "Hosses." Most of the other Rangers had picked up this habit.
Miller settled into his seat in the Stallion and tossed the radio to Ringo. "Here. I'm sure the damned thing won't work way out here; the radios on these Hosses stay busted half the time, but try to raise Temptation and tell them we're heading in. And we can't get there too soon for me." He brought the vehicle to a hover, and then kicked it forward.
Sure enough, the radio was useless. Ringo settled back to watch the wasteland roll by as Miller pushed the old Stallion back to Temptation.
Chapter 4
Jesse Coltrane used to be human.
He was the worst kind of human, tall and fierce, aching to conquer and be feared. He knew that power accrued to those who spilled the most blood. So a decade ago, he created a band of mercenaries he called the Reapers. He made his base at the Domburg Ruins. The Reapers killed thousands and Coltrane grew rich and powerful off the stolen wealth of colonial mines and towns.
The warlike Azeel clan of the anouks took Coltrane's attacks as a sign that he was on their side—so they joined him. Then idealistic human supporters of anouk rights swelled the Reapers' ranks, eager to follow Coltrane's unintentional example and pull triggers on unarmed miners and caravaneers. Many went native and lived with the anouks where they craved to replicate the anouks' magical rapport with their planet. So they injected themselves with preparations made from tannis laced with ghost rock, a practice called blacklining. Coltrane's storehouse of raided tannis gave him a limitless supply of blackline and therefore a limitless supply of drug-sodden Reapers prepared to kill whomever he asked. Coltrane found himself at the center of a political movement.
But he had still been human.
Coltrane became the most powerful and feared man on Banshee. But just as he had reached his dream, he realized it wasn't enough. He turned over control of the Reapers to his chief lieutenant, Nicolai, and walked out of the Reaper camp. There was something calling to him; something that promised him power beyond even his dreams.
In the hills above his base at Domburg, Coltrane found the haunted ruins of a black tannis city built long before the arrival of the humans on Banshee.
In those ruins, Coltrane became something no longer human.
Now he sat in a cavernous amphitheater carved out of living tannis rock. Although it was completely black, the rock shone with a thriving light. Row upon row of seats towered above him, surrounding him completely. Far above his head, lost in the echoing upper reaches of the chamber, the stars in the night sky were visible. Centuries ago, the floor was the site of rituals.
Now it was again.
Two men were on the floor of the amphitheater. One sat quietly, knees pulled up, rocking, praying for death but receiving only madness to blot out reality. The other silently writhed in agony.
Coltrane watched, sitting in the first row of seats and leaning forward on the short wall that encircled the floor of the coliseum. Two days before he shot both of the men with a projectile from a black gun and then sat to observe. The first man showed no ill effects from the gun. The second, however, collapsed immediately to the floor, apparently comatose. He lay motionless for a day. Then on the second day, he began to quiver and his skin slowly blackened and pustulated until now he was a mass of sores and cankers. He tried to scream, but he was incapable.
Across the expanse of black floor from Coltrane, another figure sat in darkness. Tall and gaunt, his bald head glinted in the weird light. His gray desert robes covered the tattered remnants of an old uniform. He too had been watching the two Reapers with unmoving interest for two days.
To Coltrane's left, around the semicircle of the amphitheater base, a third figure hovered. It wasn't a human being, but a cadaverous thing that mocked the form of the native anouks. Human colonists called it a Skinny. Like all of its mysterious and horrid kind, this lich-like creature didn't so much walk as float. As the Skinny moved back and forth impatiently in the shadows, his barbed feet scraped along the rock floor.
Finally the robed man spoke. "And so?"
Coltrane pulled his attention from the lurking Skinny. "The man who is dying is one of those who acquired mental powers through blacklining, power much like that of a syker. The other man is normal. He is not dead." Coltrane raised his eyes slowly from the two Reapers to his robed companion. He laid a scabrous hand on the small, black metal tube on the short wall in front of him. "Clearly this weapon is a danger to us. To you."
"Where did you get it?"
"My faithful pet retrieved it from a miners' camp."
"Are there more?"
Coltrane said, "A few. No doubt, they are being manufactured off-world. But we cannot wait until UN troops arrive armed with them. We must act now."
"Tekkeng!" The Skinny screeched in aggravated agreement. Skinnies could not speak, but each member of that peculiar race screeched only a single unique word—and was so named.
Both Coltrane and the robed man turned their heads as the Skinny stalked out onto the dimly lit floor of the amphitheater. He was tall, cadaverously thin, and gray-skinned with the same long, smooth face of the anouks. He fixed both of his companions in turn with his large black eyes. He wore a simple long breechcloth and a necklace of human finger bones.
With a clawed finger, Tekkeng pointed to the nearly dead Reaper on the floor in disgust. Then the ancient thing pointed to Coltrane.
Knowledge of the black gun's purpose flooded Coltrane's mind and he said, "This weapon uses tannis infected with the ghost rock. But it is unlike the raw blackline that my Reapers use in their quest for anouk magic. It has a power that kills the mind. Minds like Tekkeng's. And yours, Avernus." The Reaper leader looked at the robed man.
The Skinny cackled and his hateful thoughts washed over Coltrane like deadly radiation.
Coltrane reported, "Tekkeng would like us to strike now. Before more humans have these weapons."
"Where would you have us strike, Tekkeng?" the robed man asked the Skinny.
This time, the Skinny spoke directly through Coltrane. A shrill voice screeched out of Coltrane's mouth and reverberated in the still air of the cave. "Everywhere! Everything must be ours! Start with the Colonial Rangers! They hold the last human law on Banshee! They must be destroyed! These weapons are a danger to us." He emphasized the last wor
d.
Coltrane shivered. The thoughts were Tekkeng's, but the voice was his. The creature was so alien it deigned not to phrase its wicked thoughts into human sentences. Surprising even himself, he said in his own voice, "I agree with Tekkeng."
Tekkeng turned and suspiciously eyed the altered human.
Coltrane continued, "The planet must be completely ours. The Colonial Rangers are the only law on Banshee to compete with mine. They must be destroyed. And we must insure no one is free to use these guns against us. Particularly the Colonial Rangers."
The robed man pointed at Coltrane. "Remember, your powers are not granted freely. Do not mistake my patience for disinterest. Everything you do must serve me."
Coltrane said, "Of course, Avernus. I don't take pleasure in conquest for conquest's sake, in the ruthless spilling of blood. Now the only pleasure is fear." He stood. Immediately, another shape moved in the darkness behind him, like a dog rising in response to its master stirring. The shape rose, long limbed and stooped, and moved languidly to be closer to Coltrane.
Glowering, Tekkeng instantly withdrew to the far side of the amphitheater.
Coltrane smiled and ran his tongue over his glistening sharp teeth. "Don't worry, Tekkeng. It won't harm you as long as I'm here. I'm shocked you aren't happier to see it. After all, it came from the ruins of your own civilization; locked away in a hidden chamber below. I thought all Skinnies are nostalgic for the ancient days when you were lords of your world. Surely you aren't saying that I found the one thing that you past kings of Banshee fear? How ironic."
Tekkeng snarled and turned his back.
Coltrane laughed and then spoke to everyone in the theater with a deep booming voice. "The time is now. We wait no longer." His face cracked with the making of a mock smile. "And we can all sit at the same table. I will summon horrors to stoke the humans' greatest fears. And when the humans have no more fear to give, I will send the Reapers to finish the work. With each victory, our powers will grow. These black guns will mean nothing to us then. We won't stop until the surface of Banshee is a Deadland." He regarded his master. "Does that meet with your approval, Avernus?"
The tall man's robes rustled like dry dead leaves as he leaned forward. "What about your man, Nicolai? He isn't likely to favor that goal. Not only does he refuse to meet with us because he is too human to consort with our like, but he truly thinks he is creating a worldly kingdom here on Banshee. What happens when he finds out the truth?"
"Nicolai will think what I tell him to think. He is my sword; and no warrior asks his sword's opinion about where to cut." Coltrane stepped out onto the floor of the amphitheater. He crossed quickly to the two prone Reapers. The afflicted man was now dead, his twisted face locked in the final throes of agony.
The other Reaper looked up pathetically. His eyes flashed some horrific recognition of the face that used to be the man who led him on so many bloody raids. That once familiar face of his old chief now undulated with parasites that burrowed beneath the cicatriced skin and the cold, blue eyes of old were now red. "Coltrane?"
Coltrane buried his nailed fingers into the man's frightened face and lifted him to his feet while continuing his conversation with the robed man.
"Will that satisfy you?" he asked Avernus. Then he twisted the Reaper's head around and snapped through the man's neck with a single bite.
"It will suffice. For now. I will keep my eye on your activities." Avernus rose and began to make his way up the steps of the amphitheater.
Coltrane pulled back his wet mouth. "Good. Let's open the feast of fear. And start with Temptation."
Coltrane ate the Reaper's spinal cord.
Chapter 5
Debbi found out only a little more about the black gun. She kept her eyes open while tending to her normal duties and spent much of her time wandering the Depot, asking questions of the caravaneers. Not surprisingly, nobody had anything to say. Either they didn't know, or they just weren't saying. Two days after her meeting with Hickok, she caught Ross as he was leaving the office and made her report.
He seemed satisfied. "All right. Keep your eyes and ears open." He glanced down at Debbi, respect creasing his features. "Hell, I knew Hickok a year before she ever told me anything worthwhile. Mind though, she's got a long memory and I'm sure you're in it now. You don't ever want to let her get the upper hand on you. But you're going to have more pressing concerns than her."
"How's that?" Debbi asked.
They stood together on the wooden sidewalk in front of the Ranger office. The sun was setting, casting a rose red hue over the town, bathing them both in subtle tones. Ross leaned against a pole with his arms crossed and watched the street bustling with people, wagons, and vehicles. He seemed oddly content.
"Caravan season's cranking up. I wasn't sure how things would work after the Worldstorm. But there's money to be made, so it looks like all the nomad raiders in the world aren't gonna stop it.
"It's likely to be chaotic. And there's likely to be more trouble than usual. Everybody is walking extra rounds at the Depot and in the saloons. I want the lid kept on." Ross pushed himself off the pole and said, more to himself than to Debbi, "But it's good to see things at least trying to get back to normal." He made his way down the sidewalk, the folds of his black duster, caught by the wind, swirled about his body. The sound of his boots on the wooden planks disappeared into the roar of the town.
Debbi shook her head. That was the most Ross had said to her at one time since she came to Temptation. She went inside the office to find Miller sitting at a desk talking to a man. Or rather, listening to a man. She went to check the roster, but kept an ear cocked to what was transpiring behind her.
"I tell ya, there's no reasoning with her!" the man cried. He was hunched over. The backs of his hands were brown-specked. What was left of his hair was white and wispy. He wiped his eyes with his sleeve. "Can you help me?"
Miller was bored and annoyed. He leaned back in his chair and stroked his moustache while staring off into empty space. "Not much I can do, Mr. Womble."
Debbi bristled. She knew Miller was a coaster, a mediocre Ranger at best, and a frequent troublemaker, but direct callousness was inexcusable. She replaced the duty roster clipboard on the wall and turned to face Miller. If he knew she was watching him, perhaps he would at least pretend to care about his job.
He didn't. He swung his boots onto the desk. "Why don't you go back home? Everything'll be fine."
Mr. Womble reached out desperately and touched Miller's sleeve. Miller pulled his arm away.
"Oh no," Mr. Womble said. "It ain't fine. She's gonna kill me. She said so. And she always does everything she says. Everything! You gotta help me!"
Miller exhaled loudly. "Look, just go home. Nobody's going to kill you."
Debbi couldn't stop herself any longer. "What's the problem here?" She regarded the old man. "I'm Ranger Dallas. Can I help?"
Miller iced her with a glance. Mr. Womble latched onto the gleam of assistance.
"My wife!" The old man looked at Debbi with red-rimmed eyes. His hands were trembling. "My wife is gonna kill me."
Debbi sat on the edge of the desk, turning her back on Miller. "Has she tried to kill you?"
"No. Not yet. But she will. Could you come talk to her? She's so mad. You're a woman."
"Is she home?"
He craned his neck to look out the front window. "I expect she'll be there directly. It's gettin' dark."
"All right, sir. Where do you live? I'll talk to your wife." Debbi stood up and gave Miller a disapproving glance.
Miller smiled in a manner that made her suddenly doubt herself.
Mr. Womble started to cry with relief. "I live over on Border Street. It used to be 18 Border Street. You can still see part of the eight on the front of the building. It used to be blue. My wife's name is Glenda. Glenda Womble."
Miller said, "That's a good idea, Debbi. You talk to Glenda Womble."
Debbi glanced between Miller and Mr. Womble several t
imes. She took a hesitant step toward the door then said, "Well, you said she's not there now, right?"
Miller stood up. "But she'll be back directly." He put his hand against Debbi's back and led her to the door. "I'll wait here with Mr. Womble until you have a little talk with Mrs. Womble." He opened the office door. "Eighteen Border Street. It used to be blue."
Debbi stepped outside and the door shut on the sound of Miller's laughter. She stood on the sidewalk, unsure what to do. She had stepped into something and apparently it was going to be impossible not to look foolish now. But how could she minimize the foolishness?
She saw Lyle Cassian across the street. Cass was one of the old-time Colonial Rangers. He had been retired, but the Worldstorm forced his recall. He was more than twice Ross's age and showed it in his wrinkled skin and peppered gray hair. His uniform hung on his scarecrow frame and he walked with a ginger step. But he understood the power of the badge and the responsibility that went with it.
"Cass! Hey, Cass!" Debbi waved and darted into the street. She dodged wagons and trucks and hover flats.
The old Ranger stopped and waited for her. He reached down and took her hand lightly as she stepped up onto the boardwalk, a gesture of a gentler time.
"Evening, Debbi. What a pleasure to see you." He smiled. His voice was raspy and rich with experience. There was something about his voice and manner that immediately put one at ease. She felt like they had been friends for years instead of only a couple of months.
"Evening, Cass. How are you?"
"Can't complain. And yourself?"
"Fine, thanks."
"You look pretty this evening."
She smiled almost shyly. Coming from Cass, it was always meant as a compliment, never a proposition, which was refreshing when compared to the crap she usually had to put up with. "Thanks. Listen, I've got a question."
"Certainly. What can I do for you?" He looked at her, waiting. He didn't stare off into space or look at his watch. He looked into Debbi's eyes, listening for her question. He was a relic indeed.
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