by Sean Wallace
Cats was right in there. Topper cackled. He’d had a cat once, lived in the bed with him in the pale green room with the telephone that whispered secret vices in his ear-of-virtue, and blessings in his ear-of-vice. He knew what had happened to that cat too, every time he blinked his eye.
Our Topper spent some quality time under the close personal care of Doctor Sergei S. Bryukhonenko, after the good Dr B. had fled the collapse of the Eastern Front and wound up under a New Friends of Sweet Reason ban working out of a former mental hospital in the quiet fields near Yellow Springs, Ohio. The fields were quiet then because of the gas pooling in the low-lying watersheds which killed off everything with a central nervous system.
Dr Bryukhonenko had been the beneficiary of good pressure seals and a number of human canaries chained to stakes in a three-mile radius around the hilltop facility. Our Topper had been the beneficiary of Dr Bryukhonenko’s newfound health and safety.
Until the psychosurgeries began.
Now he saw in strange shades of gray, a world of movement and chiaroscuro, relying on childhood memories of paintboxes and flower gardens to fill in the colors. Topper still knows the curve of a woman’s breast from the rounded nose of a bullet – he’s not that far gone – but so much else slides past the greased corners of memory, electroshock therapy and deep conditioning, as if he were a human carpet afflicted with flea’s eggs.
“Food?” he asked the woman. A gap yawned before the crawler, smoke crawling up out of some nether hole in the Pennsylvania soil. Mine fire? Enemy attack? Wrath of God? He navigated around it while one of his inner selves listened to her answer.
“Is that a request or an offer?” she began suggestively, polishing the barrel of her riot gun.
“Dunno,” Topper said. “Thought you might have some catsmeat.” He felt vaguely like a cannibal for asking. Then his attention was distracted by the towering stacks of the mill, his destination. Someone flew a small aircraft close above them. He resisted the urge to jump up into the air and swat at it.
For all Topper knows, he might be able to do just that. Muscles he didn’t know he had creaked at the thought.
“Rowr,” the woman growled.
He wondered if she would purr, as well.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” I asked the lunatic, after he’d failed to respond to my clever sally about the cat. I’d even growled to remind him. Good times. But I’m not even going to tell you about the look on his face when I did that, now.
Suffice it to say, crazy or not, the man had a strange charisma. And not because I was hard up, either. Not that I was ready to hop into the sack with him. Not right then. Not even the floor of this machine, or up against the wall of the mill. Not me.
The mill! A squinting straining gaze through what I could see of the forward view told me we were almost there, though Topper hadn’t even been paying attention to the road. “Road” – such as it was, of course. The route, more like.
“Harridan Three, Harridan Three, do you copy?” a small voice crackled from my satchel. Damn, it must be one of the bitches in that plane buzzing overhead. Checking up on me. They don’t trust me to wipe my own ass any more.
Of course I couldn’t respond, not overtly. But if I didn’t send her on her merry way, she’d land that overgrown horsefly right in our path, and . . . well, let’s just say I didn’t fancy being two feet behind Topper when he was suddenly beset by Sisters in a well-armed aircraft, attempting to halt his forward progress.
“Nice rig you got here, Topper,” I said instead. “I especially like the seats. Ooh, comfy.”
He tore his attention away from peering up at the sky and stared at me. A droplet of slobber formed in the V at the lowest point of his lip and hung there. “Seats?” he finally asked.
“Yep,” I said loudly, patting the foul cracked vinyl next to me. “These seats right here, in this here vehicle you’re driving me around in. Yep. Love it.”
“Harridan Three, we copy,” came the voice in my bag. It was Lena: bad news. And she was clearly pissed.
But the drone of the plane engine faded, and then the mill loomed large.
Too large.
“Stop!” I screamed, just as this abortion of a tank crashed through the wall.
Topper came round to paying attention to what he should be doing just after a few dozen tons of masonry bounced off the roof. That plane had buzzed off, but it had dropped him a present on the way out.
He spun Rough Beast left, just to confuse anyone who might be sighting in on him. From the sound of things, the crawler was now taking out another portion of the mill’s outer wall. The hull pounded and shuddered, a brick rain.
“Where’s the map?” he screamed over the deafening war.
She shook her head. Useless bitch, he thought. Bring a girl on a picnic, she doesn’t even remember napkins. Topper keyed off the antipersonnel charges ringing the upper hatch and jacked his chair for a look. He let his feet do the driving.
Thing about a cat’s eye is it sees in darkness. Not the pitch black of coal mines or a politician’s soul, but places where a human being would stand blinking and wondering which way to the egress. The very bad Dr Bryukhonenko had built a neural jumper block so the input from the cat’s eyes jammed swollen and dry into Topper’s skull could be made sensible – sense-in-light for a man who lives in the endless nonsense of his own head.
All of which meant that with the Bethlehem mill running on blackout except for the glow from the Bessemers further down the compound, only Topper could see what was going on. The defenders had to rely on triangulation and their own knowledge of the terrain. Topper was ignoring the terrain in favor of the direct approach.
“Damned loading yard ought to be down here somewhere.”
Rails had been torn up a long time ago – their fixed routes were useless in this age of rolling borders and continuous sabotage – but the rail yard was still useful space.
Having gotten something resembling his bearings, Topper spun Rough Beast around. The wide open area had been behind him.
A woman was screaming from down near his waist. She sounded familiar. He jacked the chair low and looked around.
“Marie,” Topper said, pleased as hell to see her. “What are you doing here in San Diego?”
The look on Marie’s face was almost frightening. The gun in her hand worried him more, though. When had she learned to shoot?
Outside, the aircraft buzz had come back. Fucking spotters, he thought. “Whoops, gotta go,” he said, “bad guys up above. Hold that fire till we need it, kiddo.”
By the time Topper was back out of the hatch and heating up the solenoids in the remotely-operated turrets, he’d forgotten what he’d gone down for. Until a gunshot echoed from inside the hull of his crawler.
Bastard flipped completely out on me after the impact. I mean, I shouldn’t have been surprised, but it wasn’t like I’d been having a peaceful day up till then, so I was a bit, well, off guard.
Hey. It happens.
Once the machine (not to mention Lena’s bomb) rendered the wall of the mill into so many smithereens, it lurched but didn’t stop, instead simply veering off to the left a bit. Or maybe that was Topper, yanking on the wheel. Anyway, that’s the part that rattled me more than anything else. I was airborne a good two seconds, then crashed to the slimy floor of the tank-thing at his feet.
At least I held onto my gun.
Which stood me in good stead once I’d recovered enough to think again. The freak was looming over me, again paying no attention to the road, or corridor, or whatever it was we were driving down at the moment . . . yeah, another wall, I think . . . interior wall. It was hard to tell, jammed underneath two hundred and fifty pounds of insane manflesh.
I waved the gun at him. “Back off, Topper, I mean it!”
He called me Marie.
Oh god.
Waving the gun again, I tried to look sufficiently menacing. This was no doubt undermined by his view down the front of the corset. He
grinned, and mumbled something about San Diego. What the fuck?
Maybe I was still screaming or something, because just then Lena decided she’d had enough. “Harridan three, we’re coming in. You’re relieved from duty effective immediately. Surrender your weapon to the personnel who will be approaching the tank once we bring it to a halt.”
I almost laughed. How exactly were they expecting to do that?
A burst of machine gun fire came from above, mixed in with the aircraft engine. Oh, that’s how. At least it got Topper’s attention. He yanked his eyeballs away from my girls and scrabbled up top.
Unfortunately, I didn’t want Lena to take his attention. Nor did I want to “surrender” anything to any goddamned “personnel” inside Bethlehem. “Topper!” I yelled, but he was beyond hearing me.
I took a shot in his general direction, careful not to aim for anything vital. Like around the middle. Riot loads weren’t supposed to be fatal.
What? Just thinking ahead here. He’d cleaned up nicely once before. Who’s to say it couldn’t happen again? Girl can’t be too picky these days.
Good. That got his fleeting attention once more. He slithered back down below and stood before me. “Marie?”
“Not Marie,” I said. Then I reached down and toggled my radio to blessed silence so we could talk privately. “Grace, and don’t you forget it, you moron.”
“Grace . . .” The name slid off his pink tongue, making it sound dirty. “Graaace.”
Oh good lord. We were in for a long night.
* * *
Topper stuttered. That’s what the doctor had called it – not Bryukhonenko the surgeon, but that New Friends woman with three moles on her chin that always made him think of H. G. Wells’s War of the Worlds for some reason.
Threes, all evil things came in threes. That’s why men and women stayed in pairs. That’s why a woman had two tits, a man had two nuts, everyone had two eyes, two ears, two hands, two legs, two nostrils, two lungs for the love of God.
Threes. And the stutters always came in threes. Dr Roseglove, that was her name, like she had thorns turned inward to her hands, tiny red-brown spikes to pierce the skin, an Orchidglove would have been a very different doctor indeed, or a Lily-of-the-valleyglove, and when he stuttered he lost time, he lost control, he lost his marker in the place of life.
Bad things. Threes. A woman named Marie, not Grace. But he’d known Marie? Had she been a twin? Or worse, a triplet? Was Grace her middle name, her secret name, her confirmation name, her gang name, her spymaster’s handle?
She was shouting. Outside something was bombing. His thigh hurt like fucking hell where something bad had happened.
Adrenaline, he thought, a moment of clarity amid the stutter. Adrenaline and a pressure bandage, before I die of assassination.
Why would anyone want to kill our Topper? Even he cannot answer that. Well, other than all the people he’s killed over the years, of course, but very few of them have anything to say about it now. Dead is dead, and no one’s got relatives no more, not in this fragged world.
She’s still yelling, this woman, but he’s ignoring her in single-minded pursuit of his wound. He doesn’t worry so much about the scattered pellets embedded in the flesh of his leg. They will either kill him or they won’t.
Topper jacked up into his open hatch. Rough Beast wasn’t equipped for anti-air operations. An angry woman loose with a riot gun down below was a problem. Amplified voices and high explosives outside were a bigger problem.
He left his stutter behind when he realized that his enemies had come to ground. Obliging of them. Rough Beast was very well equipped for anti-personnel operations.
A beefy woman stood in the red glare between shadows cast by his own arc lights, shouting for someone named Jason Adair to stand down. Topper didn’t know any Jason Adair, not since before the wars began when he might once have answered to that name, so he activated the electrically controlled chin turret that looked like a fuel junction and could surprise an unwary, beefy woman and turned this one into a spray of blood and cloth.
Then he ground the crawler straight toward the ducted fan aircraft grounded before him. Topper admired the engineering of the thing – innovative, frightening, probably stolen from the Germans – until Rough Beast crushed it to scrap.
He wasn’t sure which was more annoying: Marie screaming from below or some woman screaming from the crushed cockpit of the aircraft. In either case it didn’t matter. The metal yard was ahead, and that was his purpose here.
Okay.
Fuck.
Breathe. Just get hold of yourself: breathe, bitch.
’Cause when Topper took out Lena and her bodyguard du jour, not to mention the whole fucking aircraft thank you very much, well, okay, it sent me into a bit of a spin.
So maybe I shot him again. Just a little bit. I’m really not sure, frankly. Everything got kind of crazy and blurry there for a few minutes. Like maybe there were psychotic drugs floating in the air around Topper.
No, I didn’t mean anti-psychotic drugs. That would have helped. I meant what I said. Pay attention, I’m not going to say it again.
It didn’t make a damn bit of difference to his apparent sanity, or lack thereof. I mean the shooting-him-again part, if it happened. The drugs, I have no idea. That was just a metaphor kind of thing. I was making a comparison, one thing to another.
Although who knows?
Anyway, my sanity, however. Well . . . like I said, I lost a few minutes there. Once everything was tracking again, I saw that the aircraft was a pile of oily rubble behind us, and Topper was rolling the tank forward, muttering about Germans.
He never stopped with the verbiage, that one. If only any of it made the smallest bit of sense. I’d love to see him across a poker table. Looked like every thought was immediately broadcast.
Not that I was likely to be playing poker again any time soon. Anyway, Lena had my deck of cards. Probably they were ground into the mud behind us, too.
Mud and oil and blood and . . .
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it!
I clipped my riot gun back into the rack beside the seat, just in case I was tempted to use it again. Because the part of my brain that had been functioning throughout the little misadventure of the past few minutes had just presented me with the irrefutable fact that my fate was now tied to that of this overgrown monkey, the one now drooling and gibbering and steering this massive bit of machinery toward what had to be the biggest metal yard I’d ever seen.
In other words: no more Sisters, not for me, not here, not now. By climbing aboard this contraption. I’d thrown my lot in with Topper.
God, I hoped he still cleaned up nicely.
I sidled forward in the cab, or at least something reasonably approximating sidling. Tough to do when the thing was rolling and grinding and rocking back and forth, throwing me from side to side like a hamster in a blender.
“Marie!” he said, catching sight of me. He gave me a delighted smile.
I fell into the co-pilot’s seat beside him, or whatever you’d call it. Jump seat. Small bit of cushioning in a vast expanse of well lubricated metal parts and pieces. “Grace,” I said, in a friendly and conversational tone.
“Marie-Grace?”
“Just Grace. Remember, sweetheart, how we went over this?” He kept staring at me. “Well – never mind that, anyway. Just watch where you’re driving, okay?”
“Driving, doing, zooming, duckling,” he said. But his head wafted back in the general direction of forward.
“Good boy,” I said. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.” Sooner or later, some of this was going to make sense. For now, he just had to keep us alive.
“W-74,” Topper sang out. “Tungsten steel. Hard as a shield, cuts like a blade, keep it sharp, never be late . . . Burma Shave!”
Marie-Grace Just Grace snorted at him. He was pretty sure she’d shot him a bit earlier, but she had a nice smile. Maybe he’d been wounded by one of the
dizzy bitches from that airplane.
Bullets fell on Rough Beast’s hull like lead rain. The locals were getting to it. But now he was in the metal yard, the El Dorado of this Pennsylvania hellhole.
“Here, Missy Marie-Grace Just Grace,” Topper said, handing her down a gas mask. “Wear this a while and don’t get nothing on your skin.” He paused, solicitous as a fragment from some long-forgotten safety briefing (back when “safety” and “briefing” were applicable concepts) emerged into his forebrain like pack ice on a midnight river. “You weren’t planning to have no children, were you?”
“Not right now,” she squealed.
Topper wasn’t sure that Marie-Grace Just Grace had taken the real point of the question, but duty had been discharged. He pressed the big red button labeled “DO NOT PRESS.” It was wired just below a portrait of Bing Crosby with a Hitler moustache.
Several loud, ominous thumps echoed from the outside of the crawler’s hull. This was followed by a hissing noise. Topper belatedly remembered to pull on his own gas mask, then wondered what he’d done with the chemical suit.
The part of him that was sane enough to keep the rest of the traveling circus alive watched the sweep second hand on the dashboard clock – Swiss timing in a genuine hand-carved Chinese ivory casing, and possibly the most valuable thing aboard Rough Beast. Topper liked his treasures portable. He was a man who’d left more towns under more clouds than Seattle saw in a year.
One hundred and eighty seconds later he bailed out into the dissipating yellow fog. Defending fire had stopped, except for the occasional stutter of a weapon discharged as a finger shriveled too tightly in death. That hardly counted, though Topper knew a bullet was a bullet no matter who had fired it.
He wasn’t moving right. The dizzy bitch really had shot him. Couldn’t have been something too fierce, or his leg would be shattered. Riot gun with rubber loads, maybe? Who the hell would hang around a Pennsylvania mill town at night armed with sublethal munitions? That was like bringing a housewife to a bullfight.
Ahead of Topper were thirty-six pallets of high-grade tungsten steel. Finest kind, ready for shipment to the manufactories of Detroit and Fort Wayne. Or ripe for the jacking by an enterprising man with good intelligence and solid orders.