“Such pretty blue light.”
She whimpered. “No.”
He ignored her. Fright became anger.
She commanded. “Stop!”
The man in white stalled as if frozen in time. A moment passed, she dare not struggle with the tip of the sharp scissor so close to her throat. More bullets clanked above, and she drew several breaths while glaring at this animal dressed up like a human being.
“Pretty… blue…” A line of drool slid out of his lip, pooling on her stomach. “Glow. Blue.” The right corner of his mouth twitched, teasing at a spasmodic smile.
Tugging at her fists and twisting her feet, she used the feeling of being tied down to intensify the psionic assault with fear and anger. “Let. Me. Go. Now!”
His face twitched once, and again as the white of his left eye flashed red from hemorrhage. A trickle of blood fell out of his left nostril, his body shuddered, the bald head beaded with droplets of sweat. Drool rolled over his teeth. Her overpowering command had pulverized his mental faculties into a simple machine.
The ponderous scissor fell from his grip and slid off her chest to the side, bouncing off the cushion with a thump before clattering to the floor. The man in white reached forward without looking, undoing the strap pinning her shoulders. She raised her head to watch as he reached for the band around her left wrist.
Metal hands appeared without warning, crushing the man-in-white’s arms into his sides; muted pops came as bones shattered under muscle. The gloss grey fingers squeezed the white coat crimson.
The pain broke her control, and the man in white screeched. “What are you doing? How dare you touch me! Do as you’re told. Put me down this instant.”
With a bestial roar, the oaf lifted the squirming little man into the air and threw him to the side over a railing. Somewhere below in the dark, a cacophony of ringing pipes and debris rose up as he landed. She sat up as much as she could, wringing her body into a strange shape in an effort to get her teeth on the band around her wrist. Realizing she could not bend that way, she fell limp and out of breath.
“Why did you do that? He was letting me out.”
The huge heap of man looked at her, wriggling and helpless, and stepped closer. A stray bullet glanced off his shoulder with a dull click. She leaned as far away from him as the straps would allow, not knowing what to make of the bizarre tangle of emotions in his head. The mechanical iris enlarged and he traced his fingers over her head, as if petting a kitten. Involuntary trembles rippled through her from feeling trapped and defenseless.
The desire to destroy her was absent.
“Hi…” Her voice leaked timid as she tilted her hand to wave at him. “Umm, nice metal man.”
A placid female voice flooded the room. “Calibration complete. Organ harvest sequence initiated. Warning, anesthetic reserves at zero percent. Override code
The autosurgeon came to life. A dozen octopusine little arms whirred and spun, clicking and poking the air while sharp things gleamed in the light and stabbed at nothing. Others buzzed, one glowed, and some fired test spritzes of liquid out of tiny needles. Chattering, the insidious thing rotated about and lowered with a hydraulic whine until one metal arm extended from the mass of gyrating limbs, reaching for the center of her chest with a rotary saw.
The big man watched.
She screamed, wrenching at the belts. Blood surged into her arms as adrenaline both natural and psionic sent ripples of strength through her. A few threads started to give way, but she stopped fighting as the spinning horror nipped at her shirt. Forcing all the air from her lungs to make herself flatter, she strained to escape the rotating blade. Tiny flecks of white fabric jumped onto her face a second before it bit into skin, spraying her cheeks with blood.
Althea screamed, “Father!”
The oaf loosed a sudden roar and grabbed the saw-arm. He bent it back from her as though it were made of flimsy plastic, and snapped it off, hurling it into the distance. A grunt of anger escaped him before he slammed his fist into the killing sphere, crushing it into the ceiling. He continued snarling and huffing as he twisted and tore the machine out of the ceiling amid the screech of stressed plastisteel. She cringed as far as the restraints permitted, turning her face away from a shower of sparks that rained down from the wreckage. Hot flecks fell on her like a swarm of biting flies. She jerked about in an effort to shake off the ones landing on her and evade the embers that somehow got under her, lingering and burning out of reach. The large man swung the ruined machine into the ground three times before he spun around and hurled it; a heavy metallic crash came from the dark.
As if called by her pained whimpering, a presence drew closer; body heat she could feel from inches away. She looked towards the warmth at the metal-armed giant right against the chair. The straps arrested her startled jump.
He glared at her writhing body with a sneer and tide of anger that grew stronger each time she squirmed. Every pitiful gasp as her leg or back touched a point of burning enraged him. He touched her chest with gentle fingers, emitting a baleful sub-human moan at the sight of blood spreading through the white cloth. Loosing a terrible bellow, he raised his arms and the claws snapped out with a ring loud enough to mask the distant gun battle for an instant.
“No… please.” She cringed away, begging for her life with telempathic radiance.
The whisper of blades caressed her with a rush of air, and the chair shuddered with a series of clanks, yet she felt no pain. When the sound ceased, she quivered, too afraid to look until metal arms slid under and lifted her out of the shredded restraints.
Cradled into a chest so hairy it reminded her of the canid, and so warm it stalled her shivers, she opened her eyes and stared at a visage carved in the strong lines of a soldier. His one real eye met her gaze, leaving the lens of glass and metal staring off into the dark. She reached up to touch the half of his face not metal; his unshaven cheek rough to her touch and wet with tears for what he witnessed done to her. The titan, who once wanted to smash and destroy, now wanted nothing more than to protect.
His anger had fled; in its place, regret. She felt like a four-year-old cuddled by a normal-sized man, but his foreboding presence denied her any sense of calm. Althea slipped a hand under her shirt at the one-inch slice down to her breastbone. A little concentration mended her skin, and quenched the strip of pain. One huge hand brushed her hair from her face and returned the timid wave she offered moments before. His thoughts apologized for what the man in white almost did to her, but he lacked the ability to speak. Another stray bullet bounced off his shoulder, but he did not react.
Metal clattered and rolled followed by a distant moan from the man in white. The giant’s head whipped around at the eerie high-pitched voice as if he had been slapped; fury returned. With great care, he left her seated on the edge of the awful chair and jumped over a railing, falling out of sight with a deathly snarl.
A cry of primal rage, the sound of crushed flesh; the man in white screamed.
Althea lowered herself to the floor, disgusted by contact with such an evil object. As blood spattered the pipes by the railing, the shouts weakened to gurgles amid the repeating dull clank of cybernetic blades driven through flesh to the ground. She felt a life depart, but the raging and pounding did not stop. In fact, the oaf’s vengeful howls gained intensity. Not wanting to see what had happened below, she ran for the hallway.
Lost in feral panic, Althea darted over the painful grated floor, down a short corridor, and jumped onto a ladder which led out from this horrible place. She climbed as though molten lava rose beneath her, flying up towards the circle of daylight beckoning from above.
lthea sat in the comforting dark of the small metal room that shielded her from the horrible world just outside its thin walls. Trembling fingers massaged the soreness and metal fragments from the soles of her feet as her frenetic dash replayed itself in her memory. As terror faded from her mind, she squeezed herself into th
e corner of her sleeping-box and trembled until exhaustion overtook her fear.
A metal creak and blast of light tore her out of sleep. She flipped over with her arms crossed in front of her face. The shriek she let off made Whisk jump backwards and drop the lid. It slammed, shaking the entire container. Her mind took several seconds to compensate for abrupt consciousness, and she realized where she was, and whom she had seen. Althea pushed the hatch open until it caught on the locking nub and stayed up like a canopy.
Whisk chuckled. “Rough night? Here, ‘ave a snort.”
He handed her a small metal bottle. She took a sip of liquid fire. Her face turned red. She gasped, and gave him an accusing stare. Coughing followed a fit of gagging and watery eyes.
“Takes bit o’ gettin’ used to. ‘Ave another hit if yas want.”
She shook her head, handing the flask back to him as she tried to regain the ability to breathe.
“More fer me, then.” He took a good swig, reacting no different than if he’d had a pull of water. “There’s food.”
Althea patted herself down, and rummaged through the moldy blankets. She had lost the burger card. Resigning herself never to know what this stuff tasted like fresh, she followed Whisk to the pile of trash poured out at the center of their community. Along the way, she idly picked at the inch-long scar in the center of her tank top. Rather than at the pain it caused, Althea grew angry with the man in white for damaging Karina’s gift. By the time they reached the center of the Bumwallow, thoughts of her sister had brought tears.
The residents sifted through the mound. They selected items of interest before wandering off to their “houses” when they had taken their fill. Althea crawled through the pile, scarfing down the errant strip of fried potato or half-eaten nugget of synthesized chicken. One of the bums poked her in the back with something pointy. She spun around, and he poked her in the tummy with a clear plastic box. Inside, was a half-length turkey sub, evidently discarded by someone who noticed it a whole two days past its sell date.
“Uppity fuckers.” He wheezed a chuckle through a gap in his teeth. “Actual vat-meat, and they didn’t even open it. Here, kid, you take it.”
“Thank you.” She clung to it, hugged him, and scampered off to her container for the feast.
Althea indulged in the surprising bounty and thought about the dog man from the gas station and the way Father had shown up at the house when she got scared. She pondered Anita and Mike, and wondered if she could call them the same way. To them, she had only a vague connection, not like the emotional link she had with Father or Karina. Then again, she did not have much of a bond with the dog man, and he had heard her.
Screaming bums made her look up. Dozens of rag-clad men ran to the left, away from the ladder and down the drainage run. Heavy clanking stomps approached her space. She poked her head out, spotting the oaf following the trail of dirty footprints she had left behind.
The surge of happiness he threw off when he saw her prevented her from running. She kept a tight grip on the rim of the container as he shambled over, unable to stop trembling at the sight of him. His finger blades slid back into their housings with a rapid flurry of loud snaps, and he stooped to pat her atop the head with tenderness she never expected.
Swallowing hard, she forced a tenuous smile. “Hi.”
When he grinned, blood ran out of his mouth. The fright of his presence receded, allowing her to notice a number of bullet holes. He fell on his butt right outside her door, grinning like a lost puppy after finding its way home. She crawled out of the container and walked around him. He had been shot in the back, in the side, and several dents gave away where he had taken a few to the arm.
She stared into his mechanical eye, bewildered at how a beast that once wanted nothing more than to smash the little pretty thing sat here happy to see her. She crouched, balancing on the balls of her feet, and put a hand into the bushy hair spread over his chest. Althea peered into his mind, finding his thoughts focused on her face. Her scream of deathly fear still rattled around at the back of his consciousness; all he wanted was for her never to make such a sound again. The more she looked into the images and feelings that glimmered within him, the more she came to understand what had happened.
Her abject terror at coming close to death had stamped a permanent emotional imprint on his brain; his greatest want was to protect her. She bit her lip, uncertain if she should feel bad about doing that to him; after all, he had been a monster, but was this any different than a slave?
Yes. I saved him. He would have hurt people if he didn’t die. This is better.
Mending him took a while. She sat cross-legged at his side, easing bullets out of him one at a time. His bulk was so thick even the modern firearms which had passed right through Dean had lodged in his muscles. The presence of thin fibrous metal between skin and muscle likely had something to do with that as well. One by one, she coaxed projectiles out of him. They were heavier, longer, and pointier than any bullets she had seen before. Althea was used to removing lumps of metal that resembled stomped-on mushrooms, but these were still pointy and evil. She dismissed them as “city bullets” and tossed them away. When she had gotten the last of them, she pondered removing the foreign things in his body, but this man had far more than the dog, and it was much less haphazard. Besides, both arms from fingertip into the shoulder were completely metal. She could not leave him helpless.
Althea settled for mending the gunshot damage and slumped to the side to rest. The big man’s adoration had grown stronger. Perhaps her telempathic imprint had just been a starting point, and this was genuine? She stared at him with more questions than she could answer, debating the justification of altering a man’s entire personality, even if it had once been evil.
The bums came back with crude weapons made of old furniture and lamps. Seeing Althea sitting in his lap made them exchange glances and relax. Most went back to their food; Whisk and Grey Tatters approached but kept a safe distance.
“Wot’s that then?” Whisk pointed.
“He followed me here. Is it okay if he stays?”
A peal of thunder rippled through the smog. Whisk looked up. “Aye, but we’z bout ta get peed on. Best git inside.”
She crawled into her container and gazed out over the Bumwallow as the rain came. Pooling water carried off the lighter bits of trash and ushered grime into the piss-grate. The oaf was too big for her container. He sat dutifully outside, ignoring the deluge with one great metal arm reached inside, to which she clung.
“Do you have a name?”
He looked at her. In his thoughts, the man in white screamed, calling him “stupid oaf,” and other things that sounded worse.
“I’m Althea. Thank you for saving me.”
He grinned.
She traced a fingertip over the grooves of his arm, through interlocking plates, down to his fist resting on the ground between her feet. Althea frowned at her legs. Once again, she was a filthy thing, far removed from the taste of normality she had enjoyed for a short while in Querq. Her eyes welled up thinking of the fork and the face Karina had made when she had grabbed the enchilada with her hands. The memory of her sister’s fingers washing her hair brought full-on sobs.
The big man moaned, leaning in to pat her on the head. She looked up at him, sniffling; his expression asked why she was crying.
“I miss my family. All I can remember my whole life is being taken. I was too scared to make people leave me alone. I don’t want to be taken anymore.” She held back the tears and got angry. “I’m sick of being kidnapped. I just want to go home.”
He tapped himself on the chest and pointed out into the world. He wanted to help her find them.
She smiled, hugging the rigid metal arm. “I know what to do.”
Crawling to the edge of the container, she looked through the falling grey for Whisk. When she spotted him, she sent her voice into his mind.
Whisk? Can you please find Flatline?
He yelped and
collapsed amid the heap of trash he carried. Sitting up, he whirled around looking for the source of the voice.
Althea giggled. I’m over here.
Whisk shot her an alarmed stare and blinked. She waved. He scratched his head until the disorientation faded, and set about re-gathering his dropped treasure with shaking hands.
Flatline could find Beard, Beard could get her back home, and her new friend would protect her on the way.
raped in the Oaf’s lap, her cheek lay against his chest; a trickle of sleep-drool ran over his stomach. Thick metal fingers stroked her hair, and in an awkward sort of way, she felt protected. Whisk ambled over, still keeping a nervous distance from the giant. Stiffness told her she had been sleeping.
“Hey now. Imma go see ‘bout findin’ Flatline. Wot wit you fixin’ him up and all, he dun wen’ back to his ol’ life. Hope he don’t get the Coreburn again.” He shook his head, tossing little dark things out of his hair. “Nevermindin’ that. May take me a little bit to find ‘im.”
Althea got up and hugged him, stink and all. “Thank you.”
After a nod, he trundled off and up the ladder. Two of the other homeless men approached; one with a cut on his hand. His friend looked her up and down while she mended it.
“Hey, kid. You wana help us get some food?”
She looked up at him. “How?”
“You got the big three for begging.”
“What?” She squinted into the sun as she looked up at them.
“Well. One, yer a little kid. That gets a lot ‘o sympathy. Two, yer covered in dirt. Three, yer a girl. People can’t resist dem big blues. Oh yeah, and four, you look starved… like a actual street kid.”
“Billy, she is a street kid.” The other man whacked him on the back of the head.
“This sounds like something bad.” She folded her arms.
“Here’s the plan. There’s a bunch o’ food joints round here. Some of ‘em let us have their overstock, but not till they close. We go to a place wit you, I tell ‘em your my kid and we need food. They take one look at you and feel guilty and all. We get food. We go outside, stash it with Charlie here, and go to another place.” He clapped once. “Bingo, we swim in food!”
Prophet of the Badlands (The Awakened Book 1) Page 35