Free Radicals

by S E Zbasnik

  It was the elf who inched a step nearer to the goblin. “Please, put down the weapon before there is another unnecessary death.”

  “Why should I?” the goblin asked, the barrel back towards her.

  She lowered her hands and responded as if giving the shuttle times, “Because you will only have a chance to kill one of us, and there are no authorities around to stop retaliation.”

  The goblin’s black eyes blinked, the bottom lid rising to cover the top, as he weighed his options. Slowly, the barrel dropped down. Brena swooped in with a combat ballet move and lifted the gun out of the goblin’s fingers. He didn’t fight, as awestruck as Orn was with the grace of her movements. The gun fell easily into her hands, as she nestled the butt against her hip. “You could not have shot us,” she said.

  The goblin stuck out his chin more and said, “I could so.”

  “No, you failed to properly discharge your battery before slotting it into place. You would not have been able to shoot at all,” she said, while yanking the battery out. Slipping her hand around the thick fabric of her shirt, she touched it once, getting a spark across the folds before replacing it. “Now you could,” the elf answered, but did not return the gun.

  “What do you people want?” the goblin asked, thrown off by the fancy elf dressed for an afternoon tea holding his gun as if she were a rebel force.

  “Medicine,” Orn said.

  “This is a jewelry store, Sir,” the goblin spat back.

  “First aid kit, bandages, you got to have something,” he wheedled. The girl was still conscious, but it was debatable for how long.

  “Allow me to check in the back,” the goblin said, slinking away from the trespassers, his slippers crunching through glass shards.

  Orn watched the tan robe vanish before asking Brena in a stage whisper, “How in the hell did you know his gun wouldn’t work?”

  She pointed to the now illuminated red light on the side, “If it were properly charged this would be evident to anyone facing down the barrel. Rather an interesting choice of design, but I suppose this brand was more for the shoot first, never ask questions type.”

  The dwarf blinked at the bard, then the gun, and back, “Why in the shit do you know that?”

  A genuine bloom of confusion crossed those frozen features and she said with a question, “I am a Cadero?”

  “What’s your family name got to do with anything?”

  His inquiry was interrupted as the goblin returned, a small limp to his leg. He didn’t seem to pay it much heed so it must have predated the blast. Dropping an anemic plastic bin onto his counter he said, “This is the best I could find.” As the elf cracked it open, he asked the important question he should have started with, “Who are you people anyway?”

  “Orn. The one that swiped your gun off you’s Brena. An elf.”

  “I can see that, stone walker,” the goblin said, crossing its wispy arms.

  “Well aren’t we mister la-de-da. You got a name, sand crawler, or should I just call you crunchy teeth?” Orn hissed as if stone walker were an epithet.

  The goblin blinked rapidly, the red eyelids masking his deep black eyes as he answered, “Dabore, which you’d know if you bothered to look at the sign above the store you invaded.”

  “In case you missed it,” Orn lifted up on his toes to stare into the endless orbs, “something exploded right outside your little store. We ain’t had a thing to do with it.”

  “And I am to believe that.”

  “Yes, it was my idea to ransack your store by carrying a bloody teenager in here with my scrawny elf assistant so a goblin could wave a gun in my face. A flawless plan!”

  “Orn,” Brena said, trying to mimic the stern voice of the captain.

  “WHAT?!”

  “Calm yourself and assist me,” she said gesturing to the work she was attempting below the girl’s waist. The sopping bloody sweater was held at the elf’s shoulder height and obscured the damage.

  “Right, okay,” steeling himself, the dwarf joined the elf at the site of the carnage. A bottle of high proof troll whiskey sat next to the piles of bandages Brena extracted. The tan light from the booze cast a sickening glow across the fresh bandages until they looked as ancient as mummy wrappings.

  “Hold this,” the elf said as she placed a wad of cotton into the dwarf’s hands. Popping open the whiskey bottle with one hand, Brena dumped it over his hand, the sticky liquid washing across his gloves. He was never getting the smell out.

  The elf looked over at the still nameless girl and said, “This may burn…badly.” For her part the girl didn’t acknowledge the comment, her eyes staring dead above into the drop down ceiling tiles. Brena snatched the whiskey rag out of Orn’s hand and said, “Perhaps you should comfort her.”

  “Me?”

  “Discuss dwarf things,” the elf said as if all dwarves got together and talked about the sedimentary state of volcanic land for fun.

  Orn twisted his finger around his whiskey soaked hand, trying to come up with an excuse, but Brena was engrossed in whatever first aid she could dredge up from the back of her memory. Stepping back from the triage section, he coughed into his whiskey fist and tapped the area beside the girl. Her dark eyes rolled towards his, and a small sigh escaped from the edge of her mouth.

  The forty three year old Dwarf was 13 again, hiding in a closet from a gaggle of friends his second sister brought to the family home. It took the pack only three minutes to find him, his foot snagged on a pink sweater covered in fluffy tamors. He didn’t think the blush from his cheeks would ever drain. It took a good couple of decades to forget, but this girl dredged it back up.

  “I’m Orn.”

  “So you told the goblin,” she said, a deadness to her voice.

  “And you haven’t said your name yet, I’ve noticed. Any particular reason? Witness protection plan? Trying out a guttural squeal? Or is it something really embarrassing, like Barnithor?”

  Her perfectly smoothed eyebrows met in the middle as she sighed again, “Darya. I’m Darya.”

  “See, was that so hard?”

  “Excruciating,” Darya said, returning her eyes to the ceiling.

  “Dabore and Darya, we have the makings of a band here,” Orn chattered, doing his best at providing an ample distraction, “Though it’d be one of those weird indie ones that use kobold mating sounds and never bathes.”

  Both goblin and teenager sighed at the dwarf’s attempt at humor. He coughed into his fist, getting a nose-full of the alcohol. Blinking back tears from the fumes, he said, “Tough room. Would you prefer I do the ‘yank my chain’ bit?”

  “Alloys, no!” the girl shouted, looking at him properly.

  Orn smiled and waved his drunk fingers, “Got ya.”

  She groaned but didn’t turn away, accepting defeat as graciously as a teenager can. The sweater thudded back to the desk and Brena appeared, “Do you have a towel, Mister Dabore?”

  “Jewelry shop, not a bloody hotel.”

  Brena sighed, “Very well,” and yanked one of the fabric displays out from below a set of tactful rings. She wiped her bloody hands off while challenging the goblin to say anything.

  “You’re done?” Orn asked her, trying to not smirk at the jeweler in a fit about his store.

  “Yes, as well as I can. There was not much inside the kit.”

  “I…” Darya said, “I didn’t feel anything.”

  Orn looked at the elf and she blinked slowly, emotions taking long to register. Brena was about to open her mouth when the dwarf butted in. “Shock, blood loss, your body’s protecting itself. Happens all the time,” he lied through his teeth.

  “Oh.” Darya didn’t believe his lies, but she wanted to.

  “So…what do we do now?” Orn asked, looking towards the grumpy goblin turning his head aside, then towards the teenage girl crawling away from Death’s door.

  Brena said as she hefted up the shotgun, “We wait for rescue.”

  CHAPTER NINE


  “Stop kicking me,” Variel whispered through gritted teeth to the black mass above her. She swore this gnome hole was even smaller than typical, her elbows pulled to her sides as she inched down tiny rung by tiny rung for three flights. It didn’t matter who was on the end of this trek, someone was going to pay.

  “I cannot discern you,” Taliesin’s voice said, partially apologizing. He’d stopped offering forgiveness and was trying explanations now.

  Her foot stomped into a hard surface and she stopped. “I’ve hit bottom.” The elf stopped his methodical descent, only broken by the struggling human with her erratic movements and more controlled cursing.

  Variel dropped to her knees and clicked on the blank screen of her PALM. She’d attempted to raise WEST thrice while trying to put all thought of one of those other mercs exploding near their gnome hole out of her mind, but either there was interference or the batshit computer was playing one of its games. Considering its history, she suspected the latter. Shining the pale light, her fingers fumbled across the latch. “Opening the door,” she announced below her breath, but the elf heard. There was little he didn’t.

  Pushing it open a crack, she nosed the barrel of the borrowed gun out and then one of her eyes. Only the image of leafy green wafted before her. Leaning into the door another inch, one of the potted plants offered the perfect cover. Convenient. “I’m crawling out,” she whispered again. “There’s cover ahead.” Her hand dropped to the polished marble floor, disturbingly warm, as her right foot joined it.

  As quietly as humanly possible, she slid out her other foot, holding the door open with her spare hand to keep it from slamming shut. A familiar pair of fingers glanced across hers and she released the door to Sin. Without looking back, she inched forward, masked by the bush thing. The branches waved in the recycled air as she squatted behind it, watching Taliesin smoothly disengage from the gnome hole. He made it look so easy she wanted to step on his toe and peel all his clothes off. Oh yeah, someone was gonna pay today.

  “Can you hear anything?” Variel asked, mostly mouthing the words.

  He leaned his head against the wall, as if that would help, and paused. “Three people are pacing the floor, two far in the distance, but one is nearer. Perhaps beside the water. It is difficult to tell over the noise.”

  All she heard was the woosh of white noise and a bit of ringing left from the explosion of merc guts. She wondered why she hadn’t picked up an elf or two before for reconnaissance; they made this easy. Nodding, she turned around and slowly lifted her head until only her eyes could peer through the wooden mulch around the base of the bush.

  In the gap between branch and soil, a black uniform paced, the hand dropping to the pool around the tree and splashing in it as if this were some game. She gritted her teeth and tried to peer around the tree when a commotion broke out from the desk. A low howl rose from the depths of their toes curling across every nerve in their body and up to the rattled ears. “Banshee!” Variel waved at Taliesin as she ducked her head into her lap, covering her ears. He moved to follow suit, but it was all for naught. Just as the wail began to vibrate, a loud crunch shattered the air and the voice fell silent.

  Variel’s hands fell away as she mouthed a “Bastards,” and returned to look. The asshole pacing by the water stopped and glanced towards the customer desk.

  “Got ‘er, Sir,” a new voice said, female and hoarse. What the hell were they doing?

  “Bring her over with the rest,” the leader answered, his voice reeking of indemnity. The boots scraped against the floor and two pairs of humans passed by, dragging the grey skinned banshee with them. Her head lolled but the hands were bound; you wouldn’t bother with a corpse.

  “How’s Daniels getting on?” the leader asked to the air.

  “Almost done, Sir,” another voice called from the door.

  Variel held up four fingers to Taliesin. The elf huffed up as if she were criticizing his counting skills, but she shook her head. “I could get two, maybe,” she whispered to him, “but armed and in armor, I’ll be lucky to finish off one before they respond.”

  The assassin nodded. He was armed only with the fruit knife. They’d have to time it perfect and maybe hope one suffered a sudden embolism to pull this off. “The odds are not in our favor,” he said.

  She checked the battery life and tried to do the calculations. The last time she held an NP-35 she was throwing it into a smelter in a fit of rage. The conversion rate of the new rounds was something like 1.26 compared to the old manufacture rate. Regardless, there weren’t enough bullets for her to rely on mass confusion. There’d have to be aiming. “I wonder where Madame is,” Variel said to herself, still trying to remember if the gun would fire on a 65% remaining shot or not.

  “Dead or immobilized?”

  “There’s no containment field for an NPC, we’d taste it. And I know of only one way to kill a dryad,” she said cocking the gun and getting a bead on the leader. If worst came to it, she’d at least take the head out.

  “Destroy the tree,” Taliesin needlessly explained while sitting beside her, his superior eyesight hunting through the narrow gap for an opening.

  The leader splashed some more of the water from the basin, and then paused. A harsh laugh broke the silence and he shifted up his gun. Variel raised with him, honing her sights as well as she could, but he didn’t turn to them. Instead, he aimed at the wall of the basin and opened fire.

  The elf covered his ears, but Variel didn’t flinch as the eardrum shattering ricochet of energy fire met brick and echoed through a marble foyer. He fired half his gun into the wall until a loud crack broke through. Water spurted through the hole then washed out over his feet and across the marble, some of it hitting into Variel’s knees. Still she didn’t flinch, though she wished she had a scope to zoom in on this asshole’s face.

  “What is he attempting?” Taliesin wondered.

  The captain had an idea, but even this blowhard couldn’t be that stupid. The blowhard himself vanished from her limited sight and spoke with Daniels.

  “Give me the flare,” his voice ordered and a flash of light rose from beside the door. He walked towards the tree, his boots splashing in the fertilizer filled water. Cackling like a super villain, he shouted once more to the air, “I could ask you nicely, but there ain’t much point is there?” As if he were flicking away a cigarette, he launched the flare into the tree.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Captain Blowhard is even stupider than I thought,” Variel said to herself, leaning back on her ankles. For the first time she noticed the water soaking into her socks.

  The flare caught amongst the pink buds and some of the dying leaves burst into flames. “He is attempting to destroy the tree,” Taliesin stated the obvious.

  “Attempting is the key word,” Variel chuckled to herself as a pinching began at her nose and traveled to the back of her skull. Reality was reshaping itself in rage. “You can’t kill a dryad unless you kill their tree, and you can’t really kill the tree…” She paused as a shriek more powerful than that of the banshee shook the edifice of the pleasure palace. The men raised their guns, searching for the noise, as a force of pure malice hurled them all back.

  “Unless you kill the dryad,” Variel finished, settling in to enjoy the show.

  “Daniels!” the leader shouted like he’d anticipated this reaction.

  “Not quite yet, Sir,” Daniels sounded a wee bit more concerned than before.

  “Open fire, men!” the leader shouted as if there was anything for the men to shoot. A tangle of branches flashed momentarily before them, the eye knots red, but the bullets sailed right on through. Dryads actively chose to make themselves corporeal; the default setting was invisible to the naked eye, and hand, and especially bullet.

  “Keep firing,” the commander ordered, as if it made any damn difference. A hail of bullets rained through the air, shattering the seating benches Taliesin used an hour earlier. One of the soldiers screamed as a pair of vines cinched around hi
s body, constricting him. The unique sound of bones splintering to shards reverberated over the gunshots.

  “There!” The soldiers finally noticed their fellow shredded by foliage, and turned to fire upon the dryad. She vanished back into the ether, dropping the crushed soldier to the ground. He screamed as his broken body hit the wet floor, splashing around in pain. The pair stopped firing, hunting for the invisible in the air. As they turned away from their fellow, another set of vines formed a giant hand below the water and yanked the soldier into the floor, his face bubbling in the water.

  The fellow fired off one round, getting lucky before the Dryad turned non-corporeal again, but it was like killing someone with a nail clipper. As she returned to her native ether, the damage would repair itself and they were back to square rampaging-monster one.

  “Daniels, now!” the commander shouted just as she latched her tendrils onto him, pulling with the might of centuries.

  When the man’s grunts transformed into the beginnings of a blood curdling scream, the air shimmered. Variel licked her tongue trying to dislodge an electric taste in her mouth and light erupted from the dohickey Daniels kept fiddling with. Madame Pollen shrieked once, the air itself burning from the dryad’s pain, and froze — her entire form pinned to the cardboard of the universe. The leader dropped to his knees, massaging his arms that nearly separated his body. Still, he had time to gloat, “Not so powerful now, is ya?”

  Variel gestured to her right and the elf slid down, the fruit knife extended from a set of claws that could eviscerate if he was in the mood. The female merc was trying to tend to the one lying motionless on the floor, as the leader picked up another flare. The bastard actually broke it in half and pulled out a cigar, lighting that first with the spitting red sparks. Well, Variel thought, that’d be our cue.

  Before he could lean his arm back to throw it into the tree, she lined up her shot, prayed the damn gun’s sites were aligned, and fired. It veered to the southwest, striking the shoulder armor, but before the leader could turn she compensated, firing another three rounds directly into his helmet. The flare dropped harmlessly into the pools of water, then the body of the dead merc followed, blood blooming around the gaping head wound shot through shoddy armor.