S.T.Y.X. Humanhive

by Arthur Stone

  “Why didn’t it finish you off?”

  “Maybe it just didn’t see me—I rolled off to the side and lay in the grass.”

  “No, those pests are fitted with a serious infrared imager. They see everything.”

  “Maybe it was out of missiles, then.”

  “Perhaps. See anything else?”

  “A group led by somebody called Kettle.”

  “In a dark green Jeep?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bastards. Thought something had eaten them already. Hoped so, even. You’re lucky they didn’t drop you right there. They’re nervous, antsy, with unstable minds and even more unstable trigger fingers. People like that don’t live long, they know that, and it makes them nervous. So where’s Nimbler? Why are you alone?”

  “We had to split up.”

  “Why?”

  “A manmincer attacked us.”

  “A charger?”

  “I don’t know. Nimbler called it a manmincer.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that name before. How are you still alive? Or is this Nimbler so good a fighter he just took the thing out?”

  “I’m not sure about his fighting skills. He ran. He’s fast, at least.”

  “Yeah,” said the mustache again, “probably couldn’t catch him even if you had a motorbike.”

  “He abandoned you, then? That brings me back to my question: how are you still alive? You managed to escape a manmincer?”

  “No, I didn’t. I had to kill it. Diplomatic channels broke down.”

  “What kind of gun did this joker have on him, Capper?”

  “Nothing. Just an ax.”

  “So you killed a manmincer with an ax?”

  At that, all six of them smirked, and one of them swore. Obviously none of them believed it was possible.

  “Not an ax, no. A crowbar.”

  “What? How?”

  “Drilled it through its head.”

  “Nice try.”

  “Seriously. I climbed a factory chimney, waited for it to climb up after me, and threw the crowbar down at its skull. Used gravity to help me. I had tied a broom to its end to stabilize it so it wouldn’t spin in the air. The crowbar accelerated and punched through the armor protecting its brains.”

  “A well-crafted tale, but I still don’t believe you.”

  The machine gunner joined the back-and-forth. “Panther, tell him to show us what he looted from the manmincer. That’ll prove the truth of him. Manmincers always have lots of goodies inside.”

  The oldest nodded. “Nimbler must have given you the basic knowledge you needed, and you must have figured that sac at the back of that thing’s head was a treasure trove. You sound like a smart guy, not some regular dumbass, so come on, let’s see it.”

  Boiler regretted mentioning the monster. Who knew who these guys were? They certainly didn’t look peaceful. And he had extracted several highly-valued objects from the creature’s carcass. What was worse, he had no idea how valuable those things really were. They could, for instance, be much more valuable than the life of a newbie immune. Well, no backing out now, or I might be in worse trouble. Boiler reached into his pocket, took out his shirt-bag, and show them.

  “Panther” whistled. “Holy shit! He’s got a pearl, guys!”

  “Black, though,” said the one with the mustache, giving Boiler a sidelong glance.

  “Cheapest of them all,” the machine gunner noted.

  “So what? Its value is still off the scale.”

  “Did I say it wasn’t? With pearls, ‘cheapest’ stills mean priceless.”

  Tossing the pearl about in the palm of his hand, Panther verified it was what he thought. “It’s got an inner warmth to it, meaning it’s real. Do you know what this is, Boiler?”

  The newcomer shrugged. “First time I’ve seen one. The raffler didn’t have one. Just spores and one pea.”

  “They’re nothing, and they carry nothing. Pearls come from elites. Pearlmakers. A manmincer can have them, but almost never does. So it looks like you struck it lucky. Big time.”

  “What would a newcomer do with something like that?” said the mustache again. “Let’s strike a deal, Boiler.”

  “Shut it,” said Panther. “You’ve been overstepping lately, Capper. We’re lawful men, and Boiler hasn’t done anything to offend us.”

  “He bought the empties right to our point.”

  “Annoying, sure, but he’s hardly worthy of blame for that. We have no complaints with him. Stealing pearls from newcomers is asking for trouble, as you know yourself. In fact, taking anything from newcomers is bad luck, and besides, we’re the good guys here. A pearl could pass right under our noses, and if it belongs to someone else, we give it no second thought. We’re people, not damned moles, so let’s leave that talk right here, right now.”

  “He’s gonna join Kettle, Panther, and then he’ll lose both the pearl and his head. He’s new, and stupid.”

  “He may be new, but he killed a manmincer without a gun. How many people do you know that could pull that off? Or how about we grab some popcorn and watch you try to repeat his feat? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Boiler, this is a serious trinket you’re holding. I’m sure you’ve figured that out by now. Many will never even see one, let alone own one.”

  “Why is it so valuable?”

  “It’s much better at boosting abilities than peas are. Sometimes it even activates new abilities. Newcomers don’t have abilities at all at first, then they pick up one, or later two, and so far we haven’t found a way to get more, other than long stretches of time—or pearls. The more abilities you have, the longer you live. With luck, you end up able to avoid ever visiting dangerous clusters at all. You settle down in a decent stable somewhere, where everyone will protect you from the slightest danger.”

  “I haven’t noticed any new abilities. I wouldn’t mind being able to run like Nimbler could.”

  “Running is a shit ability,” the machine gunner shot back. “You should hope you end up a doubler. Then life’ll be a bed of roses for you.”

  Panther jumped back in. “They say if a newcomer with no abilities yet downs a pearl, he unlocks a whole set of the most useful ones. That’s probably just one of the many rumors the Hive buzzes so loudly with, but, well, we’re certainly in a very delicate situation here. You’re not exactly experienced, and you’d best not carry something so priceless around. It’s too dangerous. Capper might lose control and spill the beans, and some party of losers who care nothing for bad omens will nab you. Assuming Capper doesn’t finish you off first. You hear me?”

  “‘Lose control’?” the mustache protested. “Who do you think I am, some rotten mole?”

  “Will you shut up!” Panther snapped. “Robbing you of something like that is low, Boiler. Too low. We’re above that. The best option for you and everyone here is for you to take this here and now. Then my guys won’t be tempted to pull anything, and you’ll be much safer. This pearl weighs next to nothing, but believe me, carrying it around will be more trouble than carrying a sack of lead. Like walking through a bad part of town with pockets full of diamonds and asking the street gangs where you can go to sell them for the best deal.”

  “Got it. So, how do I take this?”

  “Just swallow it. That’s the only way to take it, straight. Pearls are pure nectar, no poison in them.”

  Boiler took the black sphere and rolled it between his fingers. It radiated heat like a feverish man, but otherwise seemed natural enough.

  “Do you guys have a drink? I mean, could you share a bit of lifejuice. I don’t have any and don’t know how to make it.”

  Panther held out a flask. “Here. Easy to make. Dissolve one spore in a half-liter of water, add a little alcohol, mix it thoroughly, and let it sit a couple minutes. Then fold a piece of gauze a few times and filter it through that to get rid of the poisonous precipitate. Don’t drink a lot at once. Best not to touch it until you start feeling sick or have been wounded. There are hundreds of recipes, b
ut that’s the gist of it, and anything more is just for taste. Come on, take a swig before I start dreaming of robbing a newbie’s pearl, like Capper here.”

  Boiler tossed the pearl in his mouth, swallowed, took a good sip from the flask, and gave it back to Panther. “Thanks.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “No different. Just a warm feeling in my stomach. Wait—it’s gone now, so maybe I just imagined it.”

  “No, that’s what’s supposed to happen, a brief warming of the belly.”

  “Then you begin your transformation into a pearlmaker yourself,” Capper said with a wry smile.

  “Quit fooling,” Panther barked at him.

  “What? I don’t get it. I’m going to turn into what?”

  “Uh, we didn’t tell you about all the possible, well, side effects.”

  “So I could turn into who the hell knows what?”

  “It happens, but not often. And usually the changes are just external, and only in some places. Your mind is preserved, so you’re still human. An ugly human, but still human. In the worst cases, it can lay some people flat on their back for months.”

  “You could have mentioned this before!”

  Panther shook his head. “No, we couldn’t have. You’re a newcomer and still have no idea what kind of hell you’re in. Any man or woman here would give an arm to have the chance you have, downing that pearl. Maybe the rumors about pearls and newcomers are true, who knows? And no one cares about that risk I mentioned. Absolutely no one. You’ll understand, once you’ve lived here for a bit. If you get lucky, you’ll be a doubler, and that’ll seal your destiny: a life of ease. You won’t have to worry about a thing, since everyone else in the world will be scrambling to take care of your worries for you. And you’ll be glad you ran into wonderful people like us. Alright boys, let’s wrap it up and get out of here.”

  Boiler risked another request. “Could I buy a gun from you?”

  “We don’t have any spares, but with what you got from that manmincer, you’ll find something at a stable. Peas are always valuable.”

  “Wish I knew where a stable was, then.”

  “There are plenty of them around. We’ll tell you where. Follow us, and I’ll teach you the ropes. This place is too dangerous for us to camp at—it’s a popular spot, and that churning crowd of empties could very well catch our enemies’ eyes, even from a distance.”

  Chapter 10

  Nimbler hadn’t been the only one. This world was replete with masters of meticulous movement from cover to cover. Boiler and his six new acquaintances cleared about a half a mile within the patch of forest and reached a deep trench that ran almost perpendicular to it. The group paused as Panther sat in the bushes for some minutes, scanning the area with his binoculars. Everyone was silent. Small talk was forbidden when they were on the move, but from the few words and phrases they did speak, Boiler knew this road was a dangerous place where they risked running into a mysterious group called “edgers.” Context made it clear that these people weren’t infecteds. They were some other kind of enemy, fundamentally different from the zombies.

  But perhaps they were not Boiler’s enemies. Panther and the others might have bad history with them, in which case Boiler was risking suffering just from hanging out with the wrong crowd.

  Panther dropped into a deep ditch, spat at his feet, and tapped the butt of his rifle.

  “Something’s not right. I don’t know what, but I sure as hell can feel it. Our cover was blown somewhere along the way, so we’re not taking a direct path. We’ll move further along this ditch, then sprint to the gorge, go deep, and move along the path through the bushes near the bottom of it. Clear? Alright, off we go.”

  Boiler had no idea what he meant, but he wasn’t about to ask questions. He’d pick it up as they went along, then ask any questions he might still have. He was a nobody in this group and this world, a dumb hominid devoid of answers for this life’s simplest questions.

  They proceeded along the trench. It was about six feet deep for the bulk of its length. It was no swamp, but the ground was uncomfortably wet at times, and the mud began clinging to his shoes. First world problems, he thought out of habit, before realizing that the old joke would never, ever fit any situation in this world.

  Capper stopped, dropped to one knee, and gave a signal with his left hand. Panther crouched behind him and held up a clenched fist. Everyone else froze, Boiler along with them. What happened? He was useless at hand signals. Capper put his hand out to the side, stuck out his index finger, and drew a short horizontal line in the air. Panther appeared not to understand and beckoned the other towards him. Capper crept up and mumbled, “There might be a tripwire up ahead.”

  “Might be? Or is?”

  “It’s pulled tight. Pretty thin. But who would have set it?”

  Panther’s face went hard, so hard he was almost unrecognizable. After five seconds of silence, he issued a tense string of commands. “Let’s make some smoke while the wind’s blowing towards the road. We’ll use it as cover to cross and dive into the forest. Ignore blind gunfire. Shoot only nearby targets, and no matter what, don’t stop. If anyone falls behind, we’ll meet at the water tower at the edge of the nearby resort town. Any questions?”

  “You thinking Grabber team?” asked the machine gunner.

  “This tripwire didn’t string itself. We’ve got to make a break for it before they start tossing grenades. This is how that fight with Daredevil’s band started, and you all know the ending.”

  He pulled out a smoker. Boiler turned to see two fighters stand up, full height, and simultaneously chuck two green cans over the trench’s edge. Somebody poked him, and he turned to see Capper handing him a flagon. “Take a drink. All newcomers are weaklings, and we have a long run ahead of us.”

  When you’re a guest, it’s rude to turn down a drink. Plus, Boiler hadn’t made his own lifejuice yet. He took a swallow, screwed the flask closed, and gave it back. “Thank you.”

  “Move!” Panther bellowed in that instant, taking a few quick steps and heaving his body out of the trench with inhuman ease. Boiler had to pull himself up by the roots jutting out of the side, jealous as the others effortlessly vaulted out. He was unaccustomed to placing last in athletic contests and had often hit the weights and the bag at the gym, but in this world he was as nimble as a sleepy toddler.

  He could blame his recent injury and general fatigue, both common to newcomers, but he had to admit it wasn’t just that. He had some work to do on his physique.

  Finally over the edge, he rushed after the others bolting across the road between the two streams of dense smoke. The open space stretched out to both sides, but across the road sprawled an overgrown forest. This was still the cluster familiar to Boiler, and he remembered how his alcoholic neighbor had hanged himself here last year, for some unknown reason. He had to help identify him, and during the whole affair pondered why the guy had to cross an entire city and then some to tie the rope around his neck. A plethora of superior suicide locations had been clustered around his house.

  But in this world, the current location was a prime spot to die. A burst of machine gun fire punched holes in the smoke, but it failed to interrupt the squad’s mimicry of the proverbial chicken. Another burst followed, then another. Boiler’s companions, occupied with their charge across the road, lacked the time needed to be the shooters. All of the fire was coming from elsewhere. A tracer round flashed through them, then another, and one of the soldiers cried out, his pants going dark and wet below the knee. It must have only grazed him, or he’d be down.

  Then came a new thunk, like an empty soda bottle across the head. Boiler recognized that sound—someone was shooting from an under-barrel launcher. Frag rounds burst into a hundred little shards, weathering a shower of shrapnel was less than pleasant. It might not kill you, but it would incapacitate you. Any armor would save you at a distance, no matter how light. But even without armor, a half dozen steps away and you’d escape without
a scratch. So distance, armor, or both decimated the shrapnel’s puncture potential. Even thick fabric was decent protection.

  One of the soldiers was affected, unleashing sophisticated vulgarities that Boiler regretted not writing down for use in future battles. But none of the group fell, nor even slowed down. They kept on running. More smoke grenades plinked to the pavement but did little to improve the group’s cover, for though the smoke continued to billow, the wind blew most of it away.

  The machine gunner must have been farther than Boiler had thought, the only way to explain his terrible aim. Unless he was blind. They came under one volley after another, but with no damage to any of them besides a scratch on one of the soldier’s legs. He wondered if the gunner’s stated objective was to waste ammunition. One of the bullets hit the asphalt near Boiler’s foot the moment he stepped onto the road. A tiny shard of it, or maybe a displaced pebble, painfully stung him just above the top of his left sneaker, and then he heard a loud noise beside him, inaudible until now in the sustained chaos. He hadn’t even had time to process the sound when something much bigger than a frag grenade blew up, hurling him to the ground. His head struck the road, and his brain proceeded to malfunction, turning things upside down, threatening to desaturate and darken the world.

  No, no, no! I cannot stay on the pavement! It was the worst imaginable position for catnapping. He willed himself to get up and run, blinded by the sensory input overwhelming his shocked brain. At last the wind noticed his predicament and pitied him, herding the smoke in so thickly he couldn’t even see his own legs.

  Another shell launch lit the smoky cloud. It wasn’t that far away, nor was it too close. A grenade launcher was shot, though he couldn’t be sure of the sound, for the deafening scene made all discernible sounds masterpieces of surrealism, communicated to Boiler through an underwater wormhole.

  Where the hell am I? Damned smoke! Disoriented, Boiler had apparently run back towards the ditch instead of crossing the road. Otherwise, why hadn’t he reached that guardrail yet? It had been so close!

  The wind read Boiler’s thoughts once more and sharply shifted direction, clearing most of the air around him. He saw he had indeed pivoted towards the start, away from his group. A cross-shaped shadow advanced swiftly along the ground towards him. He looked up to see what cast it.