Sickening, Grotter thought.
Once the skelkrin masters arrived on this planet, he knew, they would clean up the filth. They would burn all the beggars, the musicians, the unwashed masses. They would tear down the hovels and alleyways. They would erect great towers in their stead, massive monuments of black iron. They would turn Earth into a world of might, of ruthless efficiency. A great outpost of the Skelkrin Empire.
And I will rule this planet for them, Grotter thought. His mouth watered with anticipation. For my masters, I will turn the Earth into the greatest fortress the galaxy has ever seen.
He sucked in air. Humans were weak. Humans were pathetic. Humans could lose their arms to the fire, lose their faces, lose half their insides. Grotter looked down at his body, a body more machine than flesh now. Skin, muscle, veins, all fused with tubes, metal plates, screws, gears, moving parts. A body both frail and strong. A clockwork worm.
He kicked an alley cat, sending the vermin fleeing, and kept walking closer to the music. Bile filled his mouth.
"But the skelkrins are strong," he hissed into the shadows. "The skelkrins are superior beings. And I, Grotter, am blessed to serve them."
Finally, with the guitar wailing grown to intolerable volume, Grotter reached the backside of the Blue Strings club. The two girls stood there in the alleyway, leaning against a wall and chewing gum.
"Hey, mister!" said one, a scrawny rat of a girl with frizzy yellow hair. "This here's our alleyway. Skedaddle."
"Yeah!" said the other, a lanky girl with garish makeup. "We ain't letting no strangers in here, mister. Get lost!" She popped her bubble gum at him.
Grotter stepped closer. A gust of wind blew back his cloak and hood, revealing his body and face, the flesh fused with the metal. He raised his claws, gears clicked, and the fingers flexed. The girls gasped and took a step back.
"Your names are . . . Mandy and Tammy, yes?" Grotter stepped closer, a smile twisting what remained of his mouth. "Friends to Raphael 'Riff' Starfire."
Mandy, the girl with frizzy yellow hair, flipped him the finger. She was trembling but managed to glare at him. "Who's our friend ain't none of your business, mister. What are you anyway, some kinda freak or somethin'?"
"Yeah!" said Tammy, the girl with garish makeup. "Ain't none of your beeswax who we's friends with." She drew a gun and pointed it at him. "Now amscray!"
Grotter stepped even closer; he now stood only two feet away from the girls. They backed up, pressing against the back wall of the Blue Strings. The wailing of guitars still rose from inside, and now they sounded to Grotter like screams of anguish. He brought his claw closer to the girls, letting the gears click, the blades move up and down. He fixed his red, dilating eye upon them.
"Yes, I remember you two," he whispered. "When my men chased Riff out of this cesspool you call a club, you fired your guns at me. You let Riff escape. I will let you live . . . but only if you tell me where Riff fled to. I know he left the Earth. Where is he heading?"
Mandy snorted. She turned toward her friend. "I've had enough of this bozo. You wanna go play some stickball?"
"Yeah!" said Tammy. "Boring here anyways." She pointed her gun at Riff. "Now get lost, freak! Go suck on a rusty pipe, you piece of scrap metal."
The girls tried to shove past him.
Grotter thrust his claws.
He grabbed Tammy by the throat and squeezed.
The girl screamed and fired her gun. The bullets slammed against the metallic half of Grotter's face and ricocheted. He tightened his claws, and her screams died. Blood sprayed him.
The second waif, that rat named Mandy, screamed and tried to flee. Grotter opened his metal palm wide. Light coalesced and blasted out, slamming into Mandy's back. She pitched forward, hit the ground, and her blood pooled. Weeping, she began to crawl away.
Grotter approached slowly and knelt above the wounded vermin.
"You could have lived," he whispered. "You could have lived to see my skelkrin masters arrive in all their glory, could have gazed upon their holy might . . . at least before they burned you." He shook his head. "The folly of youth."
"Please, mister, I ain't gonna hurt you, I—"
He thrust down his claws.
She gave a last scream, then fell silent.
Grotter flicked blood off his claw, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and patted his face dry. Killing was such a dirty job, but somebody had to do it.
Two girls lay dead, but a third girl still evaded him. A girl more important by far. A girl who could change the fate of the Cosmos.
"Where are you, my precious Midnight?" Grotter whispered.
He turned back toward the Blue Strings. The old wizard had sent the pirilian here, yet she dallied. Perhaps she hid in the shadows of a nearby alley. Perhaps she hid in the swamps or forests of a distant world halfway across the galaxy.
"And perhaps . . . perhaps you shelter her, Riff Starfire," Grotter whispered. His metal hand clanked as his finger-blades flexed. "I will find you, Riff, and I will kill you too . . . slowly. Lovingly. Bit by bit."
Deep inside his mechanical head, his communicator beeped.
Grotter's heart seemed to sink down to his pelvis with fear. An instant later, it soared in elation.
Yes. He feared his master. And he loved his master. Grotter's body trembled, and sweat dripped down his forehead.
He knelt in the blood, bowed his head, and answered the call.
Light streamed out from his mechanical eyeball, hit the ground several meters away, then rose into a hologram of his master.
Grotter bowed deeper. "Master!"
Before him, a flickering hologram in black and crimson, stood Emperor Lore himself.
The skelkrin master was a massive, towering figure, eight feet tall and so wide he filled the alleyway. The hologram needed no magnification; this was a life-sized representation of the warrior-god. Spikes, hooks, and blades rose from the emperor's black armor. His eyes, two white smelters, blazed with the fury of supernovas. His claws, long and black and gleaming, made Grotter's own mechanical hand seem no more intimidating than a butter knife.
Emperor Lore opened his massive jaws, revealing rows of daggerlike fangs. He spoke in a deep, rumbling voice that thudded against Grotter's eardrums and seemed to pound against his very bones.
"Have you found the pirilian girl, Grotter?"
Cold sweat dripped down Grotter's back. "Not yet, my lord. Forgive me! Forgive my failure! I am but a human, not a mighty skelkrin as you are." He glanced up, desperate to please. "I will find her, master. I swear it! I will find her and—"
Grotter screamed.
Through their connection, Emperor Lore had access to Grotter's internal mechanisms, the plethora of wires, engines, and moving pieces that filled him. And now Lore twisted those mechanisms like a fist crumpling a can. Metal dented. Electricity sparked out, driving into what remained of Grotter's human flesh. Pain—horrible, white, all-consuming—surged through him.
When finally the pain ended, Grotter fell and shuddered. Smoke rose from his robes.
"You will find the girl and bring her to me," said Emperor Lore. "Without her, my plan to build a skelkrin utopia on Earth cannot commence. Do you not wish to see a Skelkrin Earth?"
Grotter pushed himself to his knees, still shaking. "I wish for it with all my heart, master! With every breath!"
"Then find her. You have one of your Earth weeks. The clock is ticking, Grotter. If you disappoint me, you will not rule this planet as my servant. You will instead scream in my dungeons, my slave to torment."
With that, the hologram vanished.
Grotter remained kneeling for a long time, allowing the pain to subside.
Finally he pushed himself to his feet and began walking again.
His men would remain on this planet, scouring the alleys and bars of Cog City. But he, Grotter, had farther places to search.
"The girl is seeking you, Riff," he whispered. "And so I will seek you too."
His sm
all, fragile starjets had failed to stop Riff's dragon. It was time to soar in a great beast of his own.
CHAPTER ELEVEN:
GIGA'S LAMENT
Riff was sitting in the Dragon's kitchen, drinking strong black coffee, when Piston lumbered in holding a sheaf of papers. Shorter than Riff's shoulder but quite a bit wider, Piston lollopped more than walked.
"Captain, I thought you might like to take a look." The burly gruffle placed the papers down on the table and smoothed his long white beard. "What with us being sat on the lot for an Earth year, our projects have piled up."
They were several days from Earth, coasting on thruster engines deeper into the solar system. It was slow progress, and so far quiet progress too. No Cosmian ships. No other ships at all, just the emptiness of space. Within a few days, they would reach the asteroid belt and the human miner colonies. Riff was hoping to hear some news of his father there.
Riff placed down his mug and stared at the pile of papers. Over a hundred sheets rose there. "Projects?"
Piston nodded. "Aye, sir. From our clients, sir. The year we sat on the lot, no captain around, our clients kept calling. We've got a year's worth of work to catch up on. The alien control business is a busy one."
Riff sighed and turned toward the coffeepot, hoping for a refill, only to see Romy holding the pot up with both hands, guzzling down the dark brew. The demon's throat bobbed, her tail wagged, and her wings flapped with every gulp. Her hair of fire crackled, casting its light upon her red skin and claws. Despite being an adult demon—if she were a human, at least, Riff would have guessed her to be about twenty years old—Romy wore dinosaur pajamas, and she held her beloved teddy bear under her arm.
"Mmm, good." Romy lowered the empty pot and licked her fangs. "Not as good as poodle soup. And not as good as fuel. But better than licking the mildew off the cooling pipes. Not that I . . . ever tried that. At all." She glanced around nervously.
Riff turned back toward Piston.
"Piston, I'm a blues player. I'm not in the alien control business."
"You are now, sir." Piston nodded. "With all due respect, sir, you became an alien hunter when you bought the ship. Alien Hunters Inc. is tied to the Dragon Huntress, sir. And we're low on cash. Fact is we're dead broke. We need to get to work. We've barely got enough fuel to reach the colonies, let alone leave the solar system."
Romy held the empty coffeepot over her mouth, shaking out the last drops. "I'm thirsty again! Being a demon with fire for hair makes you thirsty. And I love drinking fuel. We need to buy more."
Piston shook his fist at her. "Hush, you, and return to the attic or I'll blast you out into space."
The demon blew him a raspberry, then tugged up her pajama pants and began rummaging through bottles of juice in the cupboard.
Riff moved the papers farther away from the demon; with her flaming hair, he thought she might ignite the pile. He sighed. Perhaps Piston was right. They needed cash, and a short gig couldn't hurt. He began rifling through the papers, looking at their upcoming jobs.
The first sheet showed a request from a Martian colony. A family of Centaurian rodents, little furry critters, had made it into their silos and was eating all the grain. They needed a team to dive into the silos, fish out the pests, and save as much of the grain as possible. The idea of swimming in wheat didn't appeal much to Riff. He flipped to the next page.
This request came from a station orbiting Jupiter. A cloud of nano-biters had infected one of their quarters, little pests that bit into people's skin and laid eggs within. Riff quickly turned to the next page.
This job was even worse. Floating alien ghosts, origin unknown, had possessed the bodies of several astronauts exploring solar flares. It sounded like they needed an exorcist more than alien hunters.
"Is business always this busy?" Riff asked, looking up at Piston.
"Not normally, sir." The gruffle shook his head. "But what with the Skelkrin Empire expanding across the galaxy, loads of cosmic critters are fleeing. Like animals from wildfire, they are. Pushing deep into human territory, sir."
Riff shuddered. The skelkrins. Grotter's favorite killers. Riff didn't want to even think about those predators getting anywhere near the solar system.
He flipped to the next page and gasped. "Bloody hell!"
This work order came from light-years away, a planet called Cirona in the Vega system.
They were having trouble with a pirilian.
"A pirilian." Riff rose to his feet, clutching the paper. "They need a pirilian removed!"
Romy tossed down an empty bottle of orange juice. She scratched her backside. "What's a pirilian? Is that anything like a poodle?" The demon hiccupped. "I want some poodle soup!"
Riff ignored her. He stared at the paper, reading it again and again, getting more and more excited.
"It's her," he whispered. "Midnight. It has to be her! Look at this, Piston. A pirilian girl—purple skin, yellow eyes, able to teleport herself at will and blast qi energy from her palms. Says here she showed up on Planet Cirona and has been terrorizing the settlers. Stealing their sheep. Eating their crops. Scaring the children. Says her starjet crash-landed and burned down a farm, and nobody's been able to catch her." He slammed the paper down onto the tabletop. "How many pirilians could be left since the skelkrins destroyed their planet? Not many, I wager. This might be her. The girl the skelkrins are after. The girl Dad tried to send to me."
Both Piston and Romy gaped at him silently, eyes wide, mouths open. Crumbs fell from Romy's mouth, and she dropped the box of cookies she held.
Finally Piston found the ability to speak. "Captain, I don't know much about what sort of trouble you're in, or what pirilian you've been looking for. I'm only an engineer, sir, no more, no less. And what I can tell you is that we can't travel to Cirona."
Riff paced the kitchen. "Why not?"
"Well, sir, Cirona lies light-years away, all the way at the Vega system. We're traveling on thruster power only, sir. Would take us decades to get there at this rate."
"We need to get our hyperdrive engines working." Riff's fingertips tingled. Maybe Dad is there.
"Aye, sir. We've got the best damn hyperdrive engines in the galaxy. But no juice to them. Somebody ate all the hyperfuel packs." He gave Romy a dirty look.
The demon pouted. "I was hungry!"
Riff groaned and tugged his hair. "All right. We head to the nearest colony. We buy more hyperfuel."
Piston shifted his weight around. "Sir, as I said, we're dead broke. Even a single hyperfuel coil will cost at least a thousand credits, if we buy the lowest grade and haggle. We need money. We need a gig in the solar system before we can buy enough juice to blast out toward another star."
Riff groaned and paced the kitchen, tugging at his hair. Empty bottles rolled around his feet. It was infuriating. He wanted to fly over to Planet Cirona now, to find the girl, to find answers, damn it. Not go to some blasted outpost to fish out alien pests clogging up somebody's toilet.
Finally he sat down with a sigh. "Fine! We do one gig. For quick cash. Then buy hyperfuel." Riff turned to glare at Romy. "And you're not eating that one! So help me God, I will blast you out into the vacuum of space if you cause any more damage to my ship."
The demon pouted, hugged her teddy bear close, and fled the kitchen.
Riff lifted another sheet of paper from the pile. "This one here. It's from an asteroid nearby. We can get there within a day, even on thruster power. Says here . . ." He squinted. "Says they got a Denebian tardigrade in their pyrite mine." He looked up at Piston. "That doesn't sound too bad. I've heard of tardigrades. Tiny little critters, aren't they?"
"Aye, sir." Piston nodded. "Wee little buggers. Shouldn't be a problem, sir. Probably could fetch a thousand credits for the job too. Not a lot of money, but might just buy enough fuel to get us to Cirona."
Riff nodded. "I'll have Giga set a course." He was surprised to find a grin stretching his cheeks. "We're off to hunt an alien."
* *
* * *
Riff sat in the captain's chair, watching the asteroid grow closer. To his left sat Nova, wearing as always her armored golden catsuit, her whip at her side. To his right sat Steel, clad as always in his armor.
"Giga, bring us in slowly," Riff said. He pointed. "See that landing pad? Set us down."
The Human Interface stood at his side. She bowed, her kimono rustling. "Happy to comply, Captain."
The rest of the crew was off the bridge. Piston and Twig were down in the engine room, keeping the Dragon Huntress flying. They had given up on trapping Romy back in the attic, instead keeping her busy in the crew quarters with a stack of comics. Riff was finally able to relax, to feel a little bit like an actual captain.
He returned his eyes toward the asteroid outside. It was a massive rock, the size of Cog City back home. The sort of rock that had wiped out the dinosaurs. Only this rock, instead of slamming a hole into Earth, had Earthlings digging holes into it. Mines gaped open on its surface, pockmarks in the stony face. A city had sprung up around the mines, its lights bright and parti-colored.
"Pyrite City," Steel said softly, watching it approach. "A hive of gambling, flesh for hire, and booze that flows like water."
Riff leaned back in his seat. "Sounds like my kind of town." He ignored his brother's frown.
Just the place where a traveling magician might perform, Riff thought. Dad might have been here. Might be here now.
They were a hundred kilometers away when a light began to ding on the control panels. Riff leaned toward a monitor and groaned.
"Captain, we have now run out of fuel," Giga said, chipper as always.
Riff groaned. "I can see that. Can you still land this thing?"
Giga tilted her head. She emitted mechanical hums and clinks like an overheated computer struggling to push through its algorithms. "Uncertain."
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