Part 1 (2/2)

Monitored by automatics, the kennel door slammed shut. Lockseals slipped into place. They were old and well used, but they functioned efficiently enough. Transfer completed, the guards let out sighs of relief. The delivery had gone off more or less as planned. The idiot who'd been jabbed by his own maulstick had only gotten what he'd deserved for his carelessness. A hand that would sting for a few days was a cheap enough lesson.

Relaxed now, ignoring both the safely secured prisoner and the howling of her inhuman kennel-mates, they moved to vacate the area. Behind them, their delivery pressed against the narrow s.p.a.ce between the restraining bars. She was, in her own way, pretty. Just like a finely crafted stiletto. One would want to sleep very, very carefully with either. Maybe she was seventeen. She certainly was not sweet. At the sight of a human abandoned in their company, however unreachable it might be, the things that inhabited the surrounding cages redoubled their alien howling. Eyes glistened, damp with unfulfillable expectation. The girl reacted.

”Can we SHUT UP THE G.o.dd.a.m.n NOISE?”

Delivered with the force and sharpness of an ascending razor, the unexpected demand was fulfilled- for about two seconds. Then the howling resumed, wilder and more crazed than ever. Within the narrow cage, the girl sat down on the hard, smooth floor, a surface as unyielding and uncomfortable as that of Crematoria itself. Putting her hands over her ears, she closed her eyes and began to rock back and forth, slowly, reciting something silently to herself even though there was no one else to overhear.

”Big Foe,” indeed.

The snow came in waves, like breaking foam absent the surf. It swirled around the disgruntled mercenary like wet sand. On high alert, his thoughts occupied elsewhere, he hardly noticed the squall. He was wary but not afraid. While the storm cut his personal visibility down to next to nothing, his instruments cut through the white-out as if the day had dawned clear and sunny.

He was was cold, however. Despite his high-tech arctic gear, the wind and damp found ways through to his skin, burrowing beneath layers of clothing to sting like ants. His hands were steady, however. It would not have mattered had they been shaking, because the gun he carried was designed not for accuracy but for spread. It would stop anything that materialized in front of it within a 140-degree range of spray. Telltales on its top and side indicated that it was powered up and ready to kill. cold, however. Despite his high-tech arctic gear, the wind and damp found ways through to his skin, burrowing beneath layers of clothing to sting like ants. His hands were steady, however. It would not have mattered had they been shaking, because the gun he carried was designed not for accuracy but for spread. It would stop anything that materialized in front of it within a 140-degree range of spray. Telltales on its top and side indicated that it was powered up and ready to kill.

It was a good thing all his instruments were working. Never bright, the light of this world's sun shaded all the way over into the ultraviolet, much as its fauna tended to the ultra violent. Right now there wasn't much to see by, or to see. For the latter he was grateful. With one exception. Despite his advanced gear and a wealth of personal experience in the trade, Codd's quarry continued to elude him. That it continued to do so was beginning to grate. His was a business in which personal as well as professional pride was taken in delivering the goods. This was one delivery that was particularly overdue.

Something stained the low snowdrift in front of him. Moving closer, he flashed his orga.n.a.lyzer at it. Blood. But whose? Or in the case of this particular planet, what's?

His communicator sputtered something unintelligible. Preoccupied with the stain, he moved closer and waited for the orga.n.a.lzyer to deliver a more detailed verdict. The discoloration in the snow was dark purple, but in the light of this world's sun, that was no sure indicator of origin. A second time, the communicator in his ear buzzed for attention. He tapped it with one finger, as if by so doing he could simultaneously clear the static and deliver a smack to the caller at the other end. Dammit, he was busy busy . .

”Hang on, hang on. I'm on something here.”

The screen on the orga.n.a.lyzer cleared, uninformative statistics and DNA details giving way to a schematic extracted from a series of exploration scans. The result was a diagram of something big, alien, and white as the snow sifting steadily down around him ought to be. It was bipedal and equipped with serious dent.i.tion. One did not have to be an experienced xen.o.biologist to deduce that the latter were designed for something more than masticating vegetables.

There was also a name-provisional, as was usually the case with examples of alien life-forms that were rarely encountered, aggressive, and disagreeably homicidal: Urzo giganticus. Urzo giganticus.

Unwilling to go away and let him concentrate, the voice in his ear finally cleared enough to demand, ”Whatcha got, Codd?”

”Sit on it a minute, w.i.l.l.ya, Doc-T?” Holding his weapon a little tighter, Codd checked to make double sure there was a high-explosive sh.e.l.l in the launching chamber before moving past the stain. Beyond, in a slightly protected hollow, he found something more impressive than blood. A footprint, clean and made too recently to have been filled in by following snow. Its appearance was formidable.

”Christ, all we need . . . Like this job hasn't already been trouble enough.” Remembering the querying voice in his ear, he raised his voice above the wind as he spoke toward the communicator's pickup. ”Hey, Johns, you know that big extinct thing? The one Preliminary kept talking about? Well, it ain't. Watch your spine, and I don't mean when it's held up in front of you. Between this and our other problem-”

He broke off. Was that a shape, moving within the storm? Quickly, he checked his scanner. Nothing. s.h.i.+t, a man could get twitchy out here. Even someone as experienced as him. He took a step forward. Good thing he knew how to- His scanner wailed at the same instant he did. Before the feeble lavender light of this world's sun went out permanently, he had a brief glimpse of something behind him. It was ma.s.sive, and white, and perfectly horrible. Its mouth flashed lethal ivory.

The communicator's earpiece crackled in the snow. There was no one to hear or respond to the increasingly fretful queries it emitted, even though it was still attached to an ear. Unfortunately, the ear was no longer attached to anything except the earpiece.

II.

Johns spat snowflakes out of his mouth, took a sip from his hotflow, and adjusted his communicator. It didn't matter how much he fiddled with the controls. Codd had gone cold, a deafening silence most likely caused by something other than the enchanting local climate.

”Say again? Codd, say again. Talk to me, buddy.”

The communicator was nonresponsive. Or rather, it crackled and hissed, popped and hummed. It was the absent Codd who had nothing to say.

Equipment trouble, Johns told himself. He kept telling himself that as he plowed on through the snow, in the hope that sheer force of repet.i.tion would render hope into reality.

Snow gave way to ice. The fall was a shattered jumble of nearly transparent blocks and boulders, the water from which it had formed as pure as the women Johns could only dream of. Turning slightly, he followed the icefall eastward, searching patiently for an easier way over or through the new barrier. Snow continued to swirl around him. He fought to keep focused on the task at hand as his thoughts drifted toward memories of warm surroundings and solid food instead of the nutrient soup the hotflow provided.

The face behind the ice startled him badly. Though blurred, there was no mistaking it for a trick of the purplish light. Almost as of their own volition, his hands raised the rifle and his finger contracted on the trigger. The double shot blew a jagged hole in the icefall in the vicinity of the unexpected visage, sending stinging fragments of ice in all directions.

When the frozen equivalent of the dust had settled, he squinted into the cavity his weapon had so violently excavated. A few lingering shards broke free and fell from the roof, clinking against the uneven floor. He ignored them as he activated a light and eased tentatively forward. The gap in front of him was bigger than anything his weapon, destructive as it was, could have created. He'd blown a hole into a larger void.

At first glance he couldn't tell if the hollow was natural or had been melted by artificial means. Regardless of origin, it had clearly been turned into temporary living quarters. Better, he told himself, to think of it as a lair. He had a bad moment when his light revealed an Urzo giganticus Urzo giganticus . The air he'd sucked in went out of him in tandem with the tension when he saw that the monster was not moving. Nor would it move again. For one thing, it was missing its feet. For another, it had been neatly and efficiently quartered before being hung from the roof of the ice cave by its ma.s.sive right arm. . The air he'd sucked in went out of him in tandem with the tension when he saw that the monster was not moving. Nor would it move again. For one thing, it was missing its feet. For another, it had been neatly and efficiently quartered before being hung from the roof of the ice cave by its ma.s.sive right arm.

Urzo blood dripped softly into a collection pail. Neither the pail nor the smartly butchered condition of the ma.s.sive corpse suggested that the b.l.o.o.d.y work had been carried out with scientific research in mind. Additional artifacts scattered around the cave hinted that someone hereabouts had exerted knowledgeable efforts with the aim of personal survival.

A slight movement made him turn sharply and raise the rifle, but this time he didn't shoot. As he s.h.i.+fted the light, its beam touched on a second strung-up figure. He recognized it immediately: Codd. John's sphincter tightened. It was Codd's face he had glimpsed through the ice, Codd's face that had caused him to fire. He knew this because the hole in his partner was about the right size to have been made by one of his own explosive sh.e.l.ls, notwithstanding that its shattering effect had been somewhat muted by the ice barrier.

He had fired an instant too soon.

But while he might be blamable for Codd's death, he was not responsible for the mercenary's position- bound and secured with his own cuffs. And Codd was not quite dead. Not yet. Not that a wound such as he had suffered due to the too-quick trigger finger of his own partner was in any way repairable.

Johns leaned forward. As he was wondering what to say, or if he should say anything-Codd's lips moved slightly. Johns slipped closer. Should he try to apologize? In his and Codd's business, there was little time or inclination for apologies. h.e.l.l, everybody made mistakes. Though the dying mercenary's voice was little more than a whisper, Johns thought he could just make out what the other man was saying.

”Behind you . . .”

Behind . . . Johns whipped around. In perfect condition and as fast as he was, the blur that slashed at his head still grazed him. Ice, wind, and bad light conspired to impair his vision, leading him to fire blindly, repeatedly. Already unbalanced on the slight slope inside the cave, the powerful recoil sent his twisting form stumbling backward. Landing on his b.u.t.t, he continued to fire in the general direction of whatever had taken the big swipe at him. Obedient to Newton, each shot sent him sliding a little farther backward.

Toward the precipice that fronted the cave.

He nearly went over. Nearly. Reflexes born of necessity saw him throw out one arm. It slid off the rock it clutched, but his strong fingers locked into a crack just wide enough to offer a grip. His other hand clung to the rifle. Carefully, very carefully, he eased off the weapon's trigger. Given the downslope on which he now found himself, one more shot would break his grip on the rock and send him over the edge.

It was all right. He was okay. All he had to do was work his way upward, using his knees and his hand, until he was safely back up on the more level portion of the ice. It was then that a pair of feet stepped into his view. They were white, thick with fur, and not human. Automatically his eyes followed them upward. What he saw surprised him, insofar as he was still capable of being surprised.

The feet no longer belonged to their original owner. He remembered the condition of the quartered, dripping alien corpse he had seen in the cave. Its feet had been removed. At the time, he had been left to wonder at the reason. Now it was self-evident.

They had been turned into boots for a thick hulk of a man whose hair, while not white, had grown out to the point where it was now a suitable match for that of any urzo. Johns could sense, if not see, the musculature rippling beneath the apparition's cobbled-together cold-weather attire. The man's eyes were hidden behind reflective goggles that were at once minimal in size and of clearly advanced design. Johns didn't recognize the style. They did not look like any of the extensive variety of snow goggles with which he was familiar. It was even possible they were intended to serve some purpose other than protecting the wearer from snow blindness.

Ambling unconcernedly forward, as if Johns no longer held the powerful rifle, the man crouched down to stare at the mercenary. His posture, as much as his indifferent att.i.tude, suggested either lingering brain damage, supreme stupidity, or ultimate confidence. Johns did not have to debate long over which was the most likely. He found that he could see his own snow-scarred, wind-battered face reflected back at him in those s.h.i.+ny lenses that were as inscrutable as their owner.

The man brought one hand forward. Johns flinched slightly. Opening his fingers, the man revealed the contents of his hand. It was a human ear, raw and bleeding at the base.

”Yours?” the man murmured quietly. Though deceptively soft, his voice pierced cleanly through the wind.

There was a pause. Then Johns clamped a hand to one side of his head. His gloved fingers came away b.l.o.o.d.y. Biting cold and surging adrenaline had combined to numb him to a point where he hadn't felt the appendage being torn away. Unfortunately, in the shocked realization of the moment, he'd grabbed for his missing ear with the hand that had been anchoring him to the protruding rock. Grip lost, he scrambled briefly for a second handhold. The smooth ice was not compliant. He went over the edge of the deep drop silent except for his gun, from which he managed to coax a few final shots before hitting the ground far below. The multiple rounds were as thunderous as they were wild.

Rising, the hirsute stranger in the deviant footwear walked fearlessly to the edge of the precipice and peered over. Thanks to the swirling snow, there was not much to see. His expression unchanging, he backed away from the brink and turned. Though he did not reveal it through expression or emotion, he was surprised at what he encountered.

The double barrels of a particularly nasty weapon were aimed directly at his midsection. They suited the individual who held them. Toombs's name had always been good for a running gag among his colleagues in the business. None of them had ever used it to his face, of course. At least, none could be found alive who had done so.

Whereas his partners, Codd and Johns, had been quiet and businesslike, Toombs liked to talk. He possessed a certain vicious charm that const.i.tuted something of an attractant to the ladies and allowed him to get into places and away with things that defeated less animated types like Codd and Johns. He was not feeling particularly charming right now. But he was far too experienced to let the anger boiling within him a.s.sume control. Having a good idea who he was facing, he kept his distance and his cool. But neither could keep him from talking.

Using the muzzles of the gun, he gestured slightly in the direction of the ragged, windswept cliff that had recently been depopulated by one. ”Two of my best boys. Both gone. You got no idea how careful I brought 'em both along. Had real bright futures in the trade.” Self-control or no, his voice rose perceptibly. ”And now cuzza you, CUZZA YOU, you subhuman piece of s.h.i.+t, they won't be around to split the reward, will they?” He jabbed the double barrels forward threateningly. ”Will they?” ”Will they?”

He began to laugh. More nasty whoop than chuckle, it was anything but appealing. Not everyone cackled when they laughed, nor made it sound like the final gasps of a dying man. Toombs chortled like a dyspeptic vulture.

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