by John Shirley
Smartun knew Gynella was in a bad mood that morning, before she even looked up at him. It was the hunch of her shoulders, the tension in her hands as she clicked her long, polished, perfectly manicured nails on the desk beside her monitor.
“They got away. That woman who murdered my husband. Brick, who killed so many of our people. Roland and Mordecai. They got away. And they killed my Goliath! They killed my poor old Runch too! I valued him; he was so very intimidating. They killed two of my women’s cadre. That dark little witch of an assassin got past me. I almost had a chance to stick my knife right up her birthing parts, but she was too fast, and I missed.”
“It was all quite unexpected, my General Goddess. We were unprepared. It appears Roland or his partner sniped the Goliath, then surprised us by driving in and scooping up the prisoners. Introducing surprise and chaos, with boldness—a very effective tactical combination. Especially when so many of our forces are . . . easily confused.”
“Yes.” She made herself a drink, grimly pouring the liquor into the glass as if imagining drowning someone in it. “I had guards, of course, watching the outside approach to the gate. But what were they doing? They were looking in at the entertainment, moronically ogling the fight.”
Smartun was tempted to say, When you recruit morons, you should expect them to act moronically. But instead, he sighed and remarked, “Human nature, I’m afraid.”
“Or subhuman nature. They paid for it—I had them both set on fire and dragged behind outriders. Took them quite a long time to die.”
Smartun admired her ease, her casualness, when she described the punishment. My Goddess . . .
Still, he was reminded that even he must be careful. The General Goddess would be merciless in dealing with him if he made a serious error—and he would have it no other way.
“You will need a new bodyguard.”
He was about to suggest himself, but she cut him off with an impatient wave and said, “I have a Badass Psycho who’ll take the job. Quite a frightening grotesque, is that one. Name of Spung.”
“Spung? The one with the especially bad smell?”
“Yes. But I had him strapped down and washed with firehoses. We’ll have to do that once a week. He has a tendency to soil himself.” She sighed. “I can’t wait till I can turn those gems into money and hire some real professionals from off-planet.”
She looked moodily at her monitor, and he saw it bore a surveillance image of Roland, driving the outrunner. “He just kicked down the door, thrust himself into the arena. And took them away from me.” She put on an expression of rueful admiration. “Really very impressive.”
Smartun frowned. Again, Gynella demonstrated an unhealthy obsession with Roland.
“He’s done huge damage to morale, ma’am,” Smartun said. “We had our soldiers . . . you had the soldiers . . . convinced you were invincible, that you would always lead them to victory. We need to do something to restore confidence—can I make a suggestion?”
“Well?”
“Announce that you allowed the attack on the coliseum to happen, to test our competence. When it was found wanting, you executed two men as an example. Now you will select a special task force to find and kill Roland and his companions. And whoever succeeds at that will be specially rewarded. Who fails at it will be punished.”
She smiled, although her eyes had a wicked glint. “I like the way you think.”
“I’m not going to cling to that outrunner anymore,” Daphne said. “I’d rather walk.”
“Hey, you can drive, I’ll cling!” Mordecai said, grinning at her.
They had just had their meager breakfast of smoked skag meat and protein bars, Mordecai giving half of his to Bloodwing, and they were all standing between the two highest boulders, looking out over the rolling badlands to the north. Brick was yawning and scratching his stomach, blinking around him; there were bruises from shackles around his neck, welts and contusions on his arms, and scabs on his head where he’d been scored by the bullet.
Roland was peering through the scope of the sniper rifle, scanning the horizon. “Looks like we might have a chance to get a second ride—an outrider anyhow.” He could just see the roostertail of dust and enough of the shape to be pretty sure it was an outrider. He lowered the rifle and pointed. “See it?
Mordecai squinted, then nodded. “Outrider. Looks like they’ll pass about a quarter-klick west of here unless they change course.”
“You see any more of ’em, Roland?” Daphne asked.
Roland raised the scope to his eye. “Yeah. A second one. They probably sent out parties of outriders, to look for us in different places. We gotta take one of ’em down and get the other outrunner intact.”
“How do we do that and make sure the idiots driving it aren’t intact with it?” Daphne wondered.
“You lure them over here,” Brick said. “I smash one, the other you snipe. Might work.”
Everyone looked at Brick with surprise.
• • •
They’d been searching for Roland and Brick and the others all night and all morning. Harmus the Bruiser was going bleary, staring at the wastelands, trying to locate smoke from a fire or a sign of that outrunner that had surprised them all in the coliseum. Sometimes, when he saw a rock shaped even vaguely like an outrunner, it seemed to turn into one for a moment.
But no sign of Roland. The tracks had led them nowhere.
He drove around a thick greenish growth and a boulder and looked down at the picture on his dash again. They’d all been given printout photos of Roland to paste onto their dashboards. “Bring me the head of Roland the Mercenary,” Gynella had said.
Harmus had an electric saw in the back of the outrider for the head-bringing part. He was really, really looking forward to that.
He sure enjoyed cutting off a guy’s head. Especially if the guy was still alive.
Why hadn’t they let him study that, back when he was a boy in school, on the homeworld? He’d have gotten an A on every test. Whipped that head right off.
He sighed. Cutting off Roland’s head might be easier said than done. Harmus thought about finding some guy who looked kind of like Roland, killing the dumb sucker, mutilating his face a bit, and bringing the head back to her.
But it wouldn’t fool her long. And then she might set him on fire and drag him behind an outrider . . .
One of the Midget Psychos chortled, and he glanced at him in irritation. On either side of him were two of the stunted Psychos, irritating little assbiters who clung to hand-holds on the sides of the outrider, leaning out, shouting muffled curses through their white and red vault masks. Both bore shotguns strapped across their backs; the one on the left was an Angry Little Shotgunner, as the expression went, and the other was a Fuming Stunted Shotgunner.
Driving parallel about a dozen meters to Harmus’s left was Kenzo, a vicious medium-sized Psycho with his mask pushed back on his head, his eyes in blue goggles; he wore skag-leather coveralls. Kenzo claimed to eat only the entrails of his enemies. Seemed unlikely to Harmus. You really did need a side dish.
The outrider bumped and jittered over the gravel and sand.
There was a big outcropping of rock up ahead, about thirty meters away, piled-up blue boulders, and beyond it rose a hilltop. A man stepped into view on the outcropping. The man waved to Harmus.
“Hey, assholes!” yelled the big, dark man standing on the outcropping. He made an obscene gesture.
Harmus stared. He looked at the picture pasted to his dash; he looked at the big man on the rock.
He could hardly believe his luck. He’d been driving for hours, looking for any signs of that guy. And there he was!
Harmus grinned and gunned the outrider toward the outcropping—and suddenly Roland was no longer there.
He thought of those rocks that had seemed to be outrunners. Had he hallucinated this guy? He hadn’t had any narcojuice all day. Maybe he was having a flashback. No, he’d been there!
He slowed the vehicle
when they came abreast of the outcropping, looking for Roland, didn’t see him. But there—tracks! Leading from the rock toward that hill.
He angled the car toward the hill and spotted Roland, just climbing up the hill, emerging from behind a boulder. He reached up, grabbed the machine gun, fired a long burst, hoping to weaken Roland’s shield or maybe get a lucky shot through. Then he lost sight of him again. But he was there. He had him!
He glanced over at Kenzo, who was looking at him in puzzlement from the other outrider. He pointed at the hill and yelled, “Target up there!”
Then he urged the car faster, toward the hill, yelling at the Midgets, “Get ready to jump off and use those shotguns! Get up that hill and smoke him out! We’re gonna—”
He broke off, as a shadow fell over him. He looked up in time to see a boulder, at least a hundred kilos, flying his way. What the hell? A meteor? Then he saw the big guy standing on the hilltop—the other one, Brick, arms still raised, having thrown that rock. Which was about to hit him.
He veered the vehicle hard right, and the boulder struck, glancingly, smashing into the Psycho Midget on the left side, turning him into red Midget jam.
The impact on the side of the vehicle combined with the sharp turn, and the outrider flipped over. Harmus felt himself flung into the air. He turned end over end, fell onto the ground, facedown, hard, his shield going out when the unit cracked on a rock.
The wind knocked out of him, he lay there, gasping, looking around, and saw his outrider had overturned on the other Midget, who was mangled under it.
There was still Kenzo, who was gunning toward the hill. A long burst from a combat rifle weakened Kenzo’s shield—Harmus could see the bullets sparking on the shield, the long accurate burst draining its power. Then came a distinctive sound—crack-zing, crack-zing—a sniper rifle. Kenzo’s head snapped back. Shot clean through. The outrunner spun out of control and stopped in a cloud of dust.
Kenzo was slumped over the steering wheel. Even from there it was obvious he was dead.
Harmus was unarmed, unless he could find one of the Midget’s shotguns. He was bruised, and he suspected his left arm might be—he bit back a shriek of pain as he tried to use it—broken.
So he lay still, playing dead, watching with slitted eyes for the enemy. Maybe he would get his chance . . .
There they came, three men, looking pretty pleased with themselves, running from that hill, Roland, then Mordecai—and Brick. Harmus recognized all three. Mordecai had the sniper rifle.
A fourth one came down, sauntering after them. The woman. He’d almost had a piece of that woman in the coliseum. If he lived, he’d . . .
He closed his eyes when they glanced toward him.
He heard them talking loudly, not more than thirty meters away, from Kenzo’s idling outrunner. He cracked his eyes open. Roland was lifting Kenzo’s body out of the way, shoving it aside. “Good shooting, Mordecai!” Roland said. “Two right in the forehead! Moving target too!”
“Good scope on that rifle!”
“Don’t be modest,” the woman said. “That was a good shot!”
“What about me, I got three of them with one rock!” Brick rumbled.
“That was impressive!” the woman said. “Good arm!”
“Okay, we got two vehicles now.” Probably Roland’s voice. “Question is, which way we go from here?”
“Who gets this one?” another asked, likely Mordecai.
“More your size,” Roland said. “There’s a spot just big enough for Daphne to sit comfortably, behind there . . .”
Mordecai clambered into the vehicle, the woman behind, and drove it toward the hill. Roland and Brick trudged after them.
Harmus waited, his left arm throbbing miserably. Time passed. A rakk squawked from the sky.
At last he risked looking up and saw an outrunner take off from behind a boulder at the base of the hill, the outrider following. They cut southwest across the desert. A rakk or a trash feeder—some kind of flying creature, anyhow—flew along, right above the outrider, as if going with it.
Harmus felt a mix of relief and frustration, seeing them go. At least he knew what direction they’d gone.
Another rakk squawked. Better get moving.
He forced himself to his knees, groaning with pain. He managed to get to his feet, feeling dizzy, then turned toward the overturned outrider. Could he flip it back over? Not likely. He could scavenge a shotgun, maybe use the outrider’s ECHO to call for help. He heard a whooshing sound from above looked up to see a forager rakk diving right at him, its wings extended for the dive.
“No!” And he lurched quickly toward the shotgun lying by the outrider. But the rakk struck, the rasping fold of its weirdly pursed mouth snapping at him, slashing, and he felt a cruel blow to the side of his head; he spun and fell onto his right side.
He lay there shaking with pain; his broken arm seemed to scream from inside. He had to get up, get to the outrider. The rakk was calling to others, circling overhead. They were coming down at him now.
He forced himself to stand, to stagger toward the shotgun.
But it was too late. Something moved between him and the weapon. A skag. And another. And two more.
He was caught between skags and rakks, as the local expression went, and he didn’t have long to live.
But it wasn’t in him to just lie down and die. He tried to run, but the skag’s long tongue whipped out, knocked his feet out from under him.
And then it leapt upon him—and began feeding, tearing into him with great hungry snaps of its jaws.
• • •
“Man, I’m hungry!” Brick said, from the turret behind Roland. They were driving southwest, toward the Eridian Promontory. It rose suddenly beyond the rolling, ravine-slashed lowlands, a steep wall of crags capped in ice and snow, starting to take on the tint of sunset at their peaks.
“You’re always hungry,” Roland said.
“It’s getting dark!”
“No kidding.”
“So we should camp!”
Roland ground his teeth. “Brick, we’ve got a big part of a continent to cross to get to the crystalisk den—wait, what’s that?” Roland slowed the outrunner. He’d noticed a sharp drop-off, up ahead, and the twinkle of lights beyond it.
He stopped the vehicle, and they got out; the outrider caught up with them, screeched to a half-spin stop, dust billowing around it. Mordecai and Daphne got out, their movements in easy coordination with each other. They walked together over to the outrunner, and Roland thought they already looked like a couple.
“We run into a canyon?” Mordecai asked.
“We almost ran into it, anyhow,” Roland said. He and the others walked over to the cliff edge and—keeping back enough so they wouldn’t be spotted—looked down at a wide canyon, not terribly deep, with a flat bottom. Purple shadows seemed to spread like slowly oozing oil to fill the canyon near the farther wall, about half a kilometer away. Nearer was a string of campfires, streamers of smoke, temporary huts and tents—and every fifty meters or so, raised up by poles, Gynella’s banners waved gently in the sluggish wind.
“Must be most of her Second Division,” Daphne said. “And about half her First.”
Mordecai pointed. “Look there—outriders, coming in from the south, and more going out. Lots of patrols.”
“Same up north,” Roland said, squinting in that direction.
“How far do we go to get past them?” Daphne asked. “If we go far enough south . . .”
Roland shook his head. “It becomes impassible too far down that way. Too far north, there’s the Trash Coast. Dakes said Gynella’s army has overrun that whole area . . .”
Brick scratched his head in puzzlement. “Why go around them? We find a way down there, and then we kill our way through!”
Roland smiled. “That your solution to everything, Brick?”
Brick looked at him. “On this planet it is.”
Roland nodded. “Good point.”
Brick stared sullenly at the encampment of Psycho soldiers. “I want to kill Gynella’s soldiers. They chained me. And they kicked me.” He sniffed and clasped the mummified dog paw around his neck. “They offended me.”
Mordecai pointed out to the east, back the way they’d come. “Looks like you’ll get your chance, sooner than you expected to, Brick.”
Roland looked east and saw two outriders coming straight toward them, full bore.
“If we jumped outta the way, last minute, do you think they’d keep going and fly off the cliff?” Mordecai suggested.
“Sadly, I do not,” Roland said. “They’re already slowing down. Let’s get to our guns.”
Brick was already trotting toward the turret on the outrunner. He vaulted up to it, swung it around to face the onrushing outriders, as Roland got to the vehicle and snatched up his combat rifle. He leveled it at the oncoming outriders, guessing they were a patrol and wondering if they’d already alerted the army in the canyon bottom to their presence out there.
Mordecai had the sniper rifle in hand, was standing by his own outrider, Daphne beside him. He laid the sniper rifle across the big skag skull on the left front fender of the outrider, put his eye to the scope . . . and straightened up just as Brick fired his first rounds.
“Don’t shoot!” Mordecai yelled. “It’s Dakes!”
Brick’s bullets hadn’t quite nailed the outrider, strafing the ground to one side of it. The outriders swerved—but Brick stepped away from the gun and waved his arms.
Dakes saw the greeting and swung around again, heading their way. Another twenty seconds, and the outriders were idling, engines chugging, beside Roland’s outrunner. Gong had driven one of the outriders, with Lucky on the running board, holding on; Dakes drove the other. They shut off the engines and climbed out, Dakes coughing in the dust of their passage, blowing past them.
“How’d you find us?” Roland asked.
Dakes grinned. “First of all, I’m the best tracker this rock has ever seen. Second—more important—you told us kinda generally where you were going. I looked at some maps and worked out where you’d most likely be headed. We spotted a wreck you left back there. Then we hit your tracks again.”