"The unit from the Reformary told us that Ranwan Lima did not arrive in Chapezi. Is it true?"
"Ah yes, Cit's slave. We've already checked the bodies. We have identified everyone. It is not here."
"So where is it?"
"The HLA have it now. It's out there somewhere." He looked around, up to those barren hills. "They took all the slaves that survived the ambush. Up into the hills. They starburst after a hit. So they're wandering around out there right now in little groups of four or five, on their way to some rendezvous deep in the Chetta. The strike force is going after them, but that's not the way to find Originals. We've got to go after them on the ground. We can't read the sign from the air; we can't see them from the air."
"Can Sandman find them?" Priestess blinked as a gust of oily smoke swirled around her face.
"Sandman can track Originals, sure," the Sandman said. "But they've starburst. We can't track them all."
"Understood. Can it read the starburst for us, and tell what it sees?"
Another military aircar rose in a swirling cloud of dust. "We'll have to wait for these folks to clear out," the Sandman said, "and then we'll see."
I kept quiet. I was supposed to be running the show, but all I had done so far was fall apart after shooting Biergart. Priestess was taking her Lady Arbell role seriously. Her ideas were proving better than mine.
###
The Sandman signalled us—four fingers, ahead. It was pitch black. A cool breeze gently washed over my face. Clouds covered the stars. Every muscle in my body ached, and my throat was dry and cracked, and I could hardly breathe.
This Sandman was good. We crawled forward like cats on all fours. We had followed the Sandman on a wide circle around the ambush site, that first day, and picked up seven separate trails. The Sandman could read them like a d-screen. Each group had female slaves accompanying their Original captors.
We had a one in seven chance of choosing the right bunch.
At times like that you just go with the Gods, and pray it's right. We chose a group of two Originals and two slave girls. One of the girls was bleeding from bare feet, and we thought perhaps it was Whit, because she had not been in prison long and her feet would still be soft. We couldn't do a genetic ID because we didn't have the equipment. It wasn't much, but it was all we had.
We followed the trail until dark, force-marching on foot over rugged countryside. We brought plenty of water and SG's and mags. We spent a restless night and started early, under dark skies, following the Sandman as he tracked the Originals like a dog. As dawn broke, we found where they had spent the night—no fire, but there were empty foodpaks buried shallowly, and we could see the marks of their SG's in the dirt. The girls had been tied together, and it looked like both had been raped. We pressed on under the rising sun on foot, not even pausing to eat. We chewed Systie rats on the march. We knew we were gaining on them. They were slowed down by the girls. They beat one of the girls viciously at one point—we found blood on the rocks, and a broken, bloody stick. They were heading over rough country, higher and higher into the mountains. We kept going. We marched all day and into the night.
The Sandman was worried at first that we couldn't keep up. We showed him he was wrong. Priestess offered him quite a lot of money to guide us. He accepted, of course, but somehow I did not think the money was his primary motivation.
We found them on the second night. The fools had lit a fire. It was in a deep pit, but we could see the glow. We approached slowly, slithering up like snakes. The Sandman was still wearing those dark goggles. He had a cut-down x gun and we had our SG's. They were drinking liquor from the caravan, two Originals, just black shadows in the faint glow from the fire. Fools—they thought they were safe. They were dead. They laughed and talked as we stalked them.
"Squirmers! Hee hee!"
"You friend taste good. Haw!"
"Where you pants, girl? Ha?"
"Do it hurt? Aw haw haw!"
A sickly sweet stench tickled my nostrils. Scorched flesh—they were cooking something in that fire. I suddenly realized what it was they were cooking. The Sandman held up three fingers. Adrenalin burst through my veins. I could hear a faint moaning. I could barely make it out—another figure, on the ground.
"You hungry, girl? Aw ha!"
"Make it eat! Ha ha ha!"
"Hey girl, you want a breast or leg? Aw haw haw haw!" One of them fell over laughing, drunk and sloppy.
"So we dork her or what?"
"You such a dumb scut. I try to civilize you, but you don't know nothing. I tole you, we got to torture it."
"Yeah, but first we dork her."
"You so stupid, you hopeless. You got to torture it first."
"Why?"
"You member las' night, dummy? This one kick so hard it almos' cripple me. You torture 'em first, then when you ready to dork 'em, they don't fight you."
"Yeah?"
"You so freakin' stupid!"
Another moan from the body on the ground. A faint, cracked voice. "Please…please. Water."
"Water? Aw ha ha! Yeah, you drink my pee!"
"Haw haw! I so dizzy I can't get up!"
"Please…why so cruel? Why?" I could barely hear her.
"Cruel? Cruel?" One of the Originals staggered to his feet. "I show you cruel! You going to eat you friend! You want water? You can drink her blood! You going make us happy, girl, then maybe we kill you, if you lucky."
"Why are you doing this?" It was a hopeless moan.
The Original laughed. "You don't like us because we different. You don't like us! So why we have to treat you nice? Ha? You tell us!"
Priestess stepped out into the campsite suddenly, standing right above the outstretched figure on the ground. She was a chilling phantom in black, faintly illuminated by the red glow from the pit, her SG tucked casually under one arm. The Original gasped, standing there weaving drunkenly, his eyes widening, his savage mouth popping open, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. Priestess fired once on xmin, and the Original's head exploded, blood and bones and brain splattering everywhere. The Original's headless body twitched once, then fell heavily to the ground. The echo of the shot rolled through the night.
The second Original scrambled frantically to his feet, thrashing around desperately in a pile of junk littering the campsite, coming up finally with a long, wicked cold knife. He was almost naked, wild hair and flashing eyes, stumbling over his own feet in a drunken panic. I had him in my sights.
Priestess dropped her SG right onto the ground, deliberately. She walked casually toward the Original and right into my line of fire. I raised my SG. What the hell?
The Original waved his knife around, frantic. Priestess came at him, swinging a right cross. I could hear her first connecting, right onto his face. He went down hard and his knife bounced away into the dark.
Dragon and the Sandman were with me now, looking around the site. There was no sign of any more Originals. Priestess was standing over the only one left.
"Get up," she said.
He was breathing hard, a ragged, rasping wheeze. He scrambled to his feet again, unarmed. Nine came at him again and hit him viciously before he could react, right in the face. He went down with a faint moan. His nose was broken. There was blood all over his face.
"Get up."
I stood over the firepit. They had cooked the other slave girl here, on a spit—Lord! I had to look away.
The Original forced himself up, trembling. Priestess kicked him right in the crotch, a tremendous kick. He squealed and jackknifed back down into the dirt. Nine was weaving, breathing shallowly, walking around him, her face cold and set.
"Get up. Get up, you pig!" She seized him by his long, wild hair and forced him to his knees. He moaned, clutching his stomach. She backed off and kicked him right in the face. It knocked him onto his back. He lay there moaning, writhing like a broken worm, gasping and coughing and spitting blood.
Priestess stood over him. "Get up. You want to die like a dog
?" She kicked him again with all her might, raising dust. His ribs snapped. I could only watch, astounded, as my lovely, sweet little Priestess slowly and deliberately kicked that man to death. A cold wave crept over my flesh. What in Deadman's holy name was happening to us on this world? I had slaughtered a defenseless man, tied to a chair. And now Priestess was deliberately kicking a man to death. Priestess, the ultimate idealist. Priestess, who had joined the Legion solely because she wanted to help.
"Does it hurt?" Priestess asked, kicking him again. He was a broken mound of flesh now, whimpering, twitching in the dirt.
I found the girl and unhooked my canteen. She was naked, on her back, her arms tied behind her. I cupped her head in one hand and touched the canteen to her lips. She sucked at it greedily. She had short blonde hair—it looked as if her head had been shaved not too long ago. Her face was swollen and covered with ugly bruises. They had certainly been beating up on her. She didn't look much like Tara's exec.
"Why…" It was the Original, twitching in the dirt, whimpering, desperate.
"We don't like you," Priestess hissed, "because you're different!" She kicked him again, hard. I turned my eyes away.
"How's the girl?" Dragon asked, approaching us.
"Looks in bad shape. This isn't her, is it?"
"Don't know."
"Damn it!"
"Don't let it drink any more," the Sandman cautioned. "That's enough for now."
"Who is this one?" I asked the Sandman. "Can we ID it?"
The Sandman bent over her. "They took the slave bracelet for the gold," he said. "We don't know who this is. Can it talk?"
Priestess kicked at the Original again, viciously. The Original was not moving any more. I got up and walked over there.
"Priestess…stop it, will you?" She breathed heavily, weaving, her eyes glazed over. I put an arm over her shoulder and led her gently away from the body. "The girl needs its help, Lady."
Priestess knelt by the girl, staring into space, still breathing hard. She was not going to be any help.
The girl's eyes flickered. She breathed shallowly. Dragon knelt by her side.
"It's all right now," I said to the girl. "It's over. Can it hear us?"
Her lips moved, but I heard nothing. "Can we give it more water?" I asked.
"Just a sip," the Sandman said. I touched the canteen to her parched, bleeding lips. She bit at it like a dog, frantic. I pulled it away.
"Please give us its name."
"…wrists." I reached behind her back and slit her bonds with a bootknife. She sighed and her arms twitched. When she brought them around to the front her wrists were bloody. I noticed the bottoms of her feet were shredded.
"Its name?" I asked again.
"Four Oh Four," she replied slowly. "Our name is Four Oh Four. They killed it—they killed Two Six Four. It was our friend—our good friend!"
"It's her, Lady!" I said excitedly. "Lady Arbell—it's her! Ranwan Lima! We've found her!"
Priestess was breathing a little easier now. "Good," she said quietly. She sounded completely exhausted.
"You're bleeding, Nine—you're wounded!" Dragon stared at his hand—it was covered in blood. He had just touched Priestess. Blood ran down the left sleeve of Priestess's field coat. We got her jacket off and examined the wound. A deep slash down her upper arm. I ripped open the civilian medkit we had purchased in Ostra Bal. My hands were shaking. If the Sandman noted Dragon calling Lady Arbell "Nine," he didn't say anything.
"It's nothing," Priestess said wearily. "Don't worry."
"Your employer," the Sandman observed quietly, "is one tough cookie."
"We know," I replied.
Chapter 18:
Satan's Spawn
"It should not be much longer, Lady." Our minder from the Ministry of Reform was the same slick young man we had first run into at the site of the aircar ambush. He was not letting us out of his sight. Priestess, Dragon, and I were being held with Maralee Whitney in a VIP lounge in Katag Starport. A young Ministry of Space officer was manning the information desk. He was certainly a security official, and there was no doubt the VIP lounge was a high-class detention facility.
"Our thanks, Cit." Priestess was as cool as ice, but I was nervous and hyper. Whit, previously Ranwan Lima, now Ala-Ka-Sakara, was cruising on mags. She had sultry olive skin and wore dark glasses and a wig of curly black hair. Priestess had repaired most of the bruises on her face. Dragon was silent and moody, pacing like a caged beast. They had taken our bogus ID's and Systie travel permits. They had also confiscated our vac guns, politely but firmly. The Director of Reform, Japrad Marsh, was evidently making a major effort to get us off-world. He had provided Whit with the disguise, an excellent matching ID package and a fully-approved travel permit. However, it now appeared that a struggle was underway for our bodies.
"What do you think, Thinker?" Priestess kept her voice down.
"I think there's nothing further we can do to influence events, Priestess. We've done all we can. Now it's in the hands of the Gods."
"I think Tara's plan is working," Priestess said. "Marsh wants all that money. If we don't leave, he doesn't get it."
"We'll see."
"If they detain us, we go to the next step."
"I hope that won't be necessary." The next step involved revealing our Legion affiliation as a last desperate attempt to frighten the locals into letting us depart quietly. Nobody wanted trouble with the Legion—but we were not on an official mission; it would be sheer bluff and it could backfire badly.
"The shuttle is leaving shortly," Dragon remarked. I glanced at my chron; 1100 hours local. It did not look good.
"If this doesn't work," I told Priestess quietly, "we'll never see the light of day again."
###
"Its men are to stand aside, Captain, or we open fire!"
"You have no business here, mister!"
"Our men are under orders to fire if fired upon! Consider the consequences carefully, sir!" The three officers were face to face, snarling at each other. The VIP lounge was swarming with armed goons, Ministry of Space security police dressed in black, Ministry of Reform troops in prison brown, and a third gang in dark blue uniforms, squaring off against the other two groups. The soldiers bristled with arms, SG's and autosubs and vac guns. Everyone was prepped to fire; and if anyone did, it would be a bloody massacre and there would not be many survivors.
"Terrific," Dragon said glumly. The blue shirts had forced their way in first, and demanded to examine our documents. Then the Space and Reform crash teams burst in the door, attempting to eject the blues, and now it looked as if everyone was going to die. We sat in a corner, completely helpless.
"Who are these people, Cit?" I asked our Ministry of Reform minder.
"ICAC," he replied grimly. He had his handgun out and he was pale and sweating. "Independent Commission Against Corruption. They can smell money in the dark, the bastards!"
"We have every right to be here, Captain," the ICAC man was saying. He was a short, stocky man with long, slick dark hair. There was no doubt he was a professional police officer, and as single-minded as a biogen. He didn't look like the type of person who was going to back off. He waved a printout that showed Ranwan Lima, pale delicate face, short straight black hair, and smoky grey eyes. "We wish to examine these two female units! There is a stop order on this one—why so touchy, if there is nothing to hide?"
"You are on our turf, mister—back off!"
"What's the Ministry of Reform doing here anyway? This unit is wanted by the governor, Captain! It's you who should consider the consequences!"
"That's got to be it, sir!" One of the blue shirts pointed at Whit. "The one with the dark skin—the facial structure is the same!" My adrenalin count was off the scale. I was aching to shoot him right between the eyes, but I was unarmed. Our minder was on his comset.
"It's for Cit, Sir." Our young Ministry of Reform watchdog held out the comset to the ICAC officer, who reached out for the instrumen
t, casually brushing a gun barrel away from his temple with his other hand. He was as cool as ice.
"This is Major Fifteen Sweet-Teal of the ICAC. Who's calling?"
"Fifteen, this is Japrad Marsh, Director of Reform. We understand there's a little problem at the starport." We could hear The Mask clearly. The VIP room was suddenly dead quiet.
"There's no problem, sir. We've just detained a wanted criminal that your Ministry was attempting to smuggle off-planet. We're just about to notify our superiors."
"Please set the comset to muffled, Major."
"Sure," the Major said. He made the adjustment. "Now, did Cit have anything further? We have a call to make."
We could not hear the response, but it was clear that the Director of Reform did have something further.
###
Biergart was on his knees begging for mercy, his arms tied behind him, his face drenched in sweat. I pressed the vac gun to his forehead and fired. Blood and brains splattered all over the wall and the shot was deafening. I awoke screaming, covered in icy sweat, my heart racing.
Priestess was beside me, cool arms suddenly there, a whisper of silken hair on my cheek. "It's all right, Thinker. Was it Biergart again?"
I collapsed back onto the pillow. It was dark and quiet and cool.
"Yes. It was Biergart. I shot him right in the forehead." And his eyes—they had been full of horror.
"We had no choice, Thinker. You shouldn't feel bad."
I thought about that. No, we hadn't any choice—we never had any choice. We did what we had to do. "I suppose you're right," I said. "We're rats, in a maze. It's all a cosmic joke."
"You'll feel better when we get back to Beta."
"I'll feel better when I'm dead."
"We're dead already, Thinker—everyone in the Legion is dead. You told me that yourself, remember?" Priestess was maddeningly calm. She was right, I decided. Immortal, dead—it was the same, in the Legion. We were Satan's spawn.
I hit the lights, and they came on slowly. It was a first-class cabin—the Lady Arbell would settle for nothing less. A cabin of spotless phospho white and pale rose crystal plex. It made me sick to see such waste. We were in the System Ship Nectar, bound for Monaro and worlds beyond. Monaro was our first port of call, and as soon as we cleared Customs there, The Mask would get his money. A King's ransom—it appeared that he had cut the anti-corruption boys in for a share of the loot, for we had been hustled onto the starship right after The Mask had spoken with the ICAC officer on the comset.
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