Caine Black Knife aoc-3

by Matthew Stover

I swung the sights onto the one trotting toward me-who hadn’t even broken stride-and let him have his own burst into the upper lip. His head exploded like a meat grenade.

  Four more were up out of the water and the other three were behind them and I was coolly taking aim, y’know, two down, seven to go; hey, honey, watch me turn Rover into Spot, and generally feeling pretty snappy about myself until the first one got up.

  So I shot him again. More than shot him. I hosed him down-at least ten rounds. Big wet chunks of Smoke Hunter ripped loose and plopped onto the puddled street. Including his right arm.

  Which was when he bent down, picked up his own severed goddamn arm by his own severed goddamn wrist, and swung it around his head.

  “DIZHRATI GOLZINN EKK!”

  He wasn’t even bleeding.

  And I wasn’t feeling all that snappy anymore.

  I remember blinking stupidly until I could finally make my mouth work.

  “Fuck this for a joke-”

  It got even less funny when the one with only a gooey mess of raw sausage where his head should be rolled to his feet and loped over to join the others.

  The dream-vision-prophecy. . that Meld thing. . how I had spread my mind though different bodies. . seeing through each other’s eyes. . plus a sick twist on the Ghost Dancer bullets-cannot-harm-us thing. .

  Somebody had learned a new trick. No. An old one.

  — the Black Knife camp below my cross alive in the night with shadows leaping, howling, teeth and claws and hunger-Somebody learned Pretornio’s trick.

  No wonder the Hunt could ring up Khryllians wholesale. I’d watched reanimated corpses of Pretornio’s porters rip Black Knives limb from limb-reanimated ogrilloi would be proportionally stronger—

  From the dream: that fantasy of power, stone walls shattering under a blow of my grey-leather fist. .

  . . a fantasy of being stronger than a Knight of Khryl.

  Now there’s a new kind of suicide bomber. . I monologued to my audience of one.

  Now they were all down to all fours, coming at that ground-eating lope, not in any hurry so I had maybe all of three seconds, and across the street an alley mouth yawned darkness, and I remembered another alley up around the corner, and in that two-seconds-left I decided to bet my life that they were connected.

  I ran out into the street, holding down the Smith amp; Wesson’s trigger, not aiming, spraying low to empty the clip and hope for a boneshot to a leg or two to slow a couple down. The slide racked open before I hit the opposite boardwalk and I dropped it and stopped at the alley mouth to empty Hawk’s pistol at them too before I fell back into the shadows and that’s when shit went really weird.

  Because one of Smoke Hunters said, “Hey, check it out-did you guys see that? I think that was Caine!”

  And another said “No fucking way,” and a third said, “No, man, I think he’s right-”

  They were speaking English.

  “Do we kill him?”

  “Kill him? Before I get his autograph?”

  So there, in the alley, back against the cold wet brick wall, two-handing the Automag up by my cheek, I did freeze. I didn’t have the faintest fucking ghost of a clue what could possibly be going on, or what I should be doing about it. Which led me to do maybe the only really smart thing I’d managed since I got off the boat yesterday morning.

  I called out in English, “Hey-what the fuck, huh?”

  All eight of them clustered at the alley mouth, slowly, squinting into the moonshadow. The one carrying his own left arm let it dangle forgotten by his leg. “Holy shit-it’s you, isn’t it? You’re really you?”

  I replied, “Back the fuck off. All of you.”

  They didn’t.

  I swung the pistol down into line. “You can see well enough to see this gun, right?”

  They all kind of shrugged and nodded to me and each other-except the one with no head-but kept inching tentatively closer. “Yeah-yeah, Caine. . yeah, it’s not even really dark out here, not for us.”

  “This isn’t one of the civvie pieces I shot you with before,” I told them. “This is a Social Police Automag.”

  They stopped.

  “Hey, no, shit, no-Caine, we’re not after you-” One-Arm said. “I mean, Jesus Christ, this is so fucking awesome, you’re like my hero-”

  “Oh, he is not,” another one said.

  “He is. You are,” One-Arm assured me earnestly. “You’re the greatest-I always said so-”

  “Packard, you are such a buttsuck.” The second one cocked his head toward me confidentially. “He never bought a cube of yours in his life-his whole collection is like some K’Trann and Jhubbar, and some old Pallas softcores from before she met you that he beats off to-”

  “Shut up-!” One-Arm backhanded him with his severed arm hard enough to knock him sprawling. “It’s not my fault-my parents-”

  One of the others snickered in my direction. “Ass-Packard’s mommy won’t let him have your shit because you say fuck all the time and stuff. Doing it’s one thing, but she gets weird when you say it-”

  “Will you drop it? Jesus Christ-!”

  I found myself sagging against the alley’s wall. “Who are you fuckers?”

  They told me. Their names were a roll call of Earth’s Leisure Congress. Packard, Rand, Windsor, two Sauds, a Walton, a Bush, and-the one whose head I’d shot off-a Turner.

  “Turner?” I said, blinking at the headless hulk of ogrillo. “You’re one of Wes Turner’s kids?” Back in the day, Westfield Turner had been the president of Adventures Unlimited.

  My former boss.

  The headless one waved this off and pointed at One-Arm-Packard.

  Packard said, “Leisureman Turner’s his grandfather. Little Turner’s the one who gets us the berths, y’know. Usually he plays really well-it’s hysterical you blew his face off like first thing-you should see how it looks when your eyes explode, it’s so awesome-”

  I let the Automag fall to my side. “How old are you?”

  “Fifteen.”

  The one he’d knocked down-Bush-snickered. “You are not. He’s not.”

  “I will be in two weeks.”

  “Two weeks makes you a lying sack of fourteen-year-old shit.”

  “I am so gonna beat your ass.”

  “Oh, sure.” Bush got up. “Try it, Lefty.”

  “I mean after. I am gonna fly down to your broke-ass daddy’s dinky little white-trash island and I am gonna pound you.”

  “You’re kids. .” My brain had somehow turned into a wet wool blanket stuffed inside my skull. “You’re all kids.”

  “Well, sure,” one of the Sauds said. “This is still in beta, and they need play-testers, and Turner’s really pretty all right, you know, he set us up, it’s a real party, even though everything’s virtual. The simichair hookup cost my dad a bundle, and he’s itching to play, too. Maybe once they smoke the bugs out and get this ready for release. This is way sweeter than even firsthanding, because, you know, first off, the Studio hasn’t even done that in like forever, and even then, if we were like firsthanding you, we’d just be riding along while you kill people. This way we get to kill them ourselves-”

  “And eat them.” Bush’s tusks gleamed pale and wet in the moonlight. “We get to kill them and eat them. This is way harder core than even your stuff-no offense, y’know; I’m a real fan, not like Ass-Packard. I have your Collector’s Platinum Edition box-set, plus I’ve got a bootleg master of Servant of the Empire-”

  “Just ’cause your mom sucked Turner’s wrinkled old grampadick for it,” Packard sneered.

  I shook my head. “You little shits understand that these are real people? You get it? This isn’t just a fucking game-”

  “Sure it is,” Packard said. “Our pack gets points for every civilian we take out before the Knights knock us to pieces. We get extra points for taking out armsmen, and killing a Knight’s an automatic win, unless another pack gets a Knight too, and they’ve got more civilian kills than-”r />
  “And you get points too just for duration, you know?” Bush nodded enthusiastically. “We’re short on kills, but just standing here talking to you we’re racking our score, and that’s bone grippy, because we get to meet you and everything, and we can still do our mission objective, because we came down the river-these grills we’re piloting are already dead, y’know, they don’t have to breathe-and the Knights aren’t here yet-”

  I couldn’t get my mind around it. “You’re just sonofabitching kids-”

  Packard smirked at me. “Yeah, right. How old were you the first time you killed somebody?”

  “The first time I killed somebody I was fighting for my life, you little bastard.” Which was a damn lie, but what the hell. “You’re a pack of spoiled Leisure brats sitting in simichairs a universe away-”

  “Well, sure,” the other Saud said, shaking his head at me like I was a goddamn idiot, which was exactly how I felt. “You think our parents would let us do this if we could actually get hurt? I mean, check it out-” He lifted his loincloth to show a ragged stump where the Smoke Hunter’s cock had been severed at the root. “We can’t even fuck. What are we supposed to do except kill people?”

  “I never killed anybody just for fun-”

  “No, you killed ’em for our fun.” Bush’s smirk was almost identical to Packard’s. “You were good at it too. The best. You know you’re still in the Top Ten? Sure, the Studio hasn’t released anything fresh from anybody in about forever now, but you’d probably hang in there even against the new guys, they’re such pussies-”

  “Shut up. Everybody fucking shut up a minute.”

  I was not going to have this argument with goddamn Leisure brats who were playing at being Black Knives in a virtual sonofabitching game.

  Especially since this was an argument I’d lose.

  I came to Overworld-became an Actor in the first place-to taste the kind of power I could never have on Earth. Sure, wealth. Sure, fame. Adulation, and even some political influence. But all that was just perks, y’know? The real prize was power: to ignore the laws that circumscribe the lives of Earth’undercastes. To live without law altogether. To bow to no law except my own will. But that’s more abstract than it really was; when you get right to the bone, it was about being a god.

  To kill without consequence.

  It’s never been a mystery to me that I’m more than a little crazy. It’s also never been a mystery that if I hadn’t been an Actor, I’d have died in prison. So I got myself to a place where bloodlust is power, and casual murder is the point of the game.

  Same as them.

  They were starting out from a place of power already, that’s all. They get to have everything I busted ass for without putting their butts on the line.

  But y’know, my butt was never all that much on the line either. Half the scars I carry are from wounds that should have killed or crippled me-would have killed or crippled anyone who’s not an Actor. Unlimited access to the most cutting-edge medical treatment in the world, plus the occasional use of flat-out magick: the best health plan in the history of both universes.

  So what’s the difference between me and them? The real difference? They were in it for fun. I got paid. That’s about it.

  It’s an old joke at the Studio Conservatory, and not a funny one: If you kill for money, you’re a soldier. If you kill for fun, you’re a psychopath. If you kill for money and for fun, you’re an Actor.

  Dizhrati golzinn motherfucking ekk.

  My headache thundered in my ears. “You said you had a mission objective.”

  “Sure.” Bush swung his talons toward the Pratt amp; Redhorn. “It’s a sander. On that hotel.”

  “Sander?”

  “Search and destroy. Nobody left alive. And we burn the place down. Five hundred points. Fuck, don’t you know anything?”

  “I know some things.”

  Search and destroy. I would have vanished without a trace-missing, presumed dead in the fire. . This Faller character was going about things in a very organized way. Looked like he always did. He had a setup twice as nifty as the Khryllian trick of using grill hostages as draft animals. Ten times as nifty.

  Let’s say you’re an Overworld Company goon trapped here on Assumption Day, and you want to get home. If you know enough folklore, you know about the dillin, and you might even remember the references in my dad’s book, Tales of the First Folk, where he suggested that the Quiet Land-the place the dillin are supposed to lead to-might be Earth. You might also remember cubing Retreat from the Boedecken and the story behind the Tear of Pan chasell, and when you get to Purthin’s Ford, you start mining griffinstones. But not for money.

  For power.

  And when you find out about this Smoke Hunt business-that some enterprising ogrilloi have managed to find a way to tap into the Outside Power that was both the dil T’llan and the onetime God of the Black Knives-you discover that animating the Smoke Hunters draws enough energy off the Outside Power that you can force open the dil.

  Well and good. You can get to Earth. But you don’t go to Earth. . because you’re smart enough to know you’re sitting on the only working gate between Earth and Home.

  I discovered that I was kind of looking forward to meeting this fucker.

  I squinted past them at the bloody corpse of Calm Guy on the boardwalk, then up over the skyline of the hostelry’s roof. “I know some things,” I repeated. “I know you fuckers aren’t going in there. And you’re not gonna burn it down, either.”

  “Aw, come on,” one of them-I think it was the Windsor, but it was dark, and really, when you come right down to it all dead grills look pretty much alike to me-said, “You’re gonna cost us the game-”

  “A little over five minutes ago I killed three men to protect that place. Three real men, who really died.” I looked deep into the Windsor’s piss-yellow eyes. “What do you think I’ll do to you?”

  The Windsor blinked. “Whoa-for real? Would you really? I mean, that’d be so fucking cool-way better than an autograph!”

  “I’ll torture the fuck out of you, if it makes you happy. Just don’t burn my shit.”

  Bush sniggered. “What, were you in there? We could have killed you? Hot fuck, how awesome would that be? To be the guys who killed Caine?”

  Packard nodded slowly. “Y’know. .” He looked around at the others. “We still could. .”

  “Settle down-”

  Bush looked suddenly thoughtful. “All you’ve got is that gun, right?”

  I said, “Let me explain,” and put a tristack into his kneecap.

  The impact spun him, and when he tried to catch himself, his leg bent backward and folded in half and toppled him sideways, because the shatterslugs had chopped his knee joint into ogrillo scrapple.

  “Hey. .” he said, aggrieved. “Hey, come on. What’d you do that for?”

  I hefted the Automag. “Anybody else?”

  “This sucks,” Bush said as he struggled to get back to his feet. Er, foot. “I haven’t got to kill anybody yet!”

  “Cry me a fucking river.” I shrugged down at the ogrillo body he was wearing. “You should be grateful. Other people who make that mistake with me don’t live through it.”

  “It was Packard’s idea-why don’t you shoot his leg off?”

  “And it’s still a good one,” Packard said. “Everybody spread out. When he opens fire on me, rush him. I don’t know how many points he’s worth, but who gives a shit? This is Caine. How cool are we?”

  “Sure, ice cold, you are.” I took a step backward into the alley. If I could get deep enough, I could enfilade them as they came at me. Which wouldn’t likely be enough to save my life, but I didn’t have any better ideas.

  A slight noise from behind me in the alley-a metallic rustle, like a sleepy silver rattlesnake-and I risked a quick glance over my shoulder in time to see the shadows transform into a straight, severe man in straight, severe armor, plain and functional except for the golden Sunburst upon the open e
lectrum Palm on the breast of the cuirass, and I said, “Holy crap-I never thought I’d be saying this, but I am really glad to see you right now-”

  Markham, Lord Tarkanen, replied simply, “Pynhall.” He was faster than Tyrkilld.

  I never saw it coming.

  THE CAINE WAY

  RETREAT FROM THE BOEDECKEN (partial)

  You are CAINE (featured Actor: Pfnl. Hari Michaelson)

  MASTER: NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION, UNDER PENALTY OF LAW.

  © 2187 Adventures Unlimited Inc. All rights reserved.

  “ Tizarre-!” I hiss as loud as I dare. “Tizarre, goddammit. .”

  The next flare of summer lightning shows only the back of her neck and the strings of her mouse-brown hair. She hasn’t moved. Not even a twitch from her limp-fingered hands, corpse-pale above the knotted rope that holds her arms and head and shoulders above the half-liquid muck of rotting flesh and marrow-sucked bones, scraps of unidentifiable vegetables, old puke and softening turds.“

  While the rumble of thunder rolls past the camp, I scratch up a fistful of sand and gravel. No point in calling anymore; any louder and it might not matter how good my improvised ghillie suit is. Some alert Black Knife buck might start to wonder why a pile of scrub and rock near the edge of the slop pit is suddenly stage-whispering in a human voice.

  Pretty soon somebody’s gonna notice there’s one too many piles anyway.

  I push my fist out from under the ghillie’s rope fringe and drop some gravel into the the slop pit’s darkness. Onto my best guess at the back of her neck. “Tizarre-!”

  The night gives me a long, cold wait for the next flash of lightning. If she’s dead, I’m completely fucked. I can’t do this without her. Maybe I can still run. Maybe. Maybe if I hadn’t taken out so many pickets and gotten the fuckers thousand-amped about their perimeter, I would have had a shot.

  God damn you worthless weak fucking whiny sack of shit whore, you better not be—

  When the lightning finally comes, it shows my fondest hope: a flicker of white above the slop pit’s muck: one of Tizarre’s eyes, turned up toward the ragged rim of night sky.

  “Who. . z’there?” Her voice is as dead as her hands. “How d’you know m’name?”