Borderlands: The Fallen (11 page)

“He mentioned someone small, a ‘guest’ in his cabin … it’s not a boy, is it? I mean … an offworld boy …”

“Naw. Grunj, he sometimes will buy a boy from a slaver. Keeps ’em awhile, sells ’em, or feeds ’em to Skraggy if they piss him off.”

“Who’s Skraggy?”

“Skraggy the skag. Keeps it in his place onshore. Biggest skag this side of Skagzilla. Bred it himself, someway.
I mean—bred it with other skags … but then, anything’s possible with him.” Vance grinned, glancing down the hall to see if anyone was listening. He lowered his voice. “He’s developed a taste for Psycho Midgets lately. He gags ’em, ties ’em up, plays with ’em for a while, then feeds ’em to Skraggy. One of them midgets—that’s the ‘guest’ he’s talkin’ about.” He drew her uni from his pocket. “Now you tell me about this—these coordinates on here… . not more than ninety-five clicks from the place we found you. I could get there in a day or two, depending. Says ‘crashed ship’ and there’s the coordinates. Now Missy … Marla … what’s all this about a crashed ship?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. My husband was going to … to investigate it.”

“I heard a rumor there’s a corporation hireling, a certain son of a bitch named Crannigan, doing a grid search out in that area. He’s lookin’ for something too.” He rubbed his big jaw. It seemed that he’d recently shaved. “And there’s also talk of an old man out that way, got some alien tech. Some say it ain’t Eridian. So put that together, and I think we may have us something here …”

It occurred to her that those coordinates might be exactly where Zac was, if he was alive. Or close by there. Time for some old-fashioned feminine wiles. She took Vance by the hand and drew him into the room. He grinned and closed the door behind him.

“Listen,” she whispered, “my husband mentioned a treasure—maybe he meant that crashed ship. We could slip away from this bunch, and head out to those coordinates ourselves, Vance! We could share in it!”

He snorted. “Now why would I need you for that?”

“For one thing, because … because that way you’d know I wouldn’t tell anyone else about it. You know, if I’m sold or whatever. And—I can be of help. I really can. I can prove it, if you’ll let me. I might remember something else Zac said, in time …”

“Maybe you would be of some use, at that. But as for telling people things I don’t want them told—if I wanted to shut you up, there’s a quicker way than bringing you with me.”

She tried to hide the fear she felt, at that. “I know. But … you’d cost Grunj the price of me. And he’d hunt you down for sure, if you stole anything from him.”

“But if I slip off with you, he’ll still hunt me down… .”

She took a deep breath. Time for a really good lie. “There’s something I haven’t told you. My husband, right before he died”—best that everyone thought that—“gave me some details about where this thing is. Just knowing the location isn’t enough—it’s hidden. You have to know what to look for. And if you torture me to get that information …” She shrugged. “Grunj would find out. I’d be damaged goods. Besides …” She placed a hand on his bare skin, between the strips of vest. And was surprised at how something inside her responded to the way his taut skin, his firm muscle felt under her palm. “You wouldn’t want to do that. There aren’t a lot of women on this planet.” She looked into his eyes, and then dropped her gaze shyly, hoping the ploy worked. “You might need one. Yourself. I’m no beauty but …”

He put his hand over hers. “I believe you’re trying to get around me, darlin’. And by the blood in the sands, I think it’s working.”

He took her small shoulders in his big, rough hands, drew her close, and pressed a kiss to her lips.

She was startled—as much by her own passivity as by the kiss. She was letting it happen, and after a moment, she was no longer passive. She was returning it.

What’s wrong with me? Am I just playacting? This is insane …

But she didn’t push Vance away.

A
lmost midday, Cal and Roland were bumping along an old, barely visible road on a sandy plain, raising a rooster tail of dust. Cal had to hold on to the dashboard to keep from getting bounced out onto the sparse road. Between them was a gun rack with two big weapons upright in it: the Tediore Defender and a combat rifle. The wind of their passage eased the heat from the sun, which had been increasing steadily since early that morning.

Riding shotgun next to Roland, Cal watched the big soldier’s motions as he drove. The outrunner was simple, user-friendly, like most tech.

“I bet I could drive this thing,” Cal said, hoping Roland would take the hint.

Roland glanced at him and almost smiled. “Maybe—
if
we’re out in the open, and
if
it looks safe, no bad guys on the horizon … I
might
let you learn how. But this ain’t a toy, kid. Valuable machine. Takes maintenance.”

“Oh I know.” Cal looked over his shoulder at the turret gun. “Maybe it’d be better if I was on the turret gun, instead …”

“On the … Yeah, right, kid, you’d sneeze and blow my head off!”

Cal felt himself shrink inwardly at that. Made him bitter to hear it. “I’ve fired plenty of weapons!”

“Sure you have, kid. In a VR game.”

“No, I …” But he couldn’t quite utter the lie. Game weapons were all he’d fired. “Anyway—you could teach me.”

“Maybe …”

“I know. If it’s in a safe place, if there’s no enemies on the horizon.
If
…”

Roland laughed. “You got it, kid.”

They’d reached the welcome shade of a bluff overhang, and Roland turned a sharp right to follow the edge of the bluff, another quarter kilometer. He slowed when they came to an opening in the cliff face, taking the outrunner down to a crawl as he rounded the corner. They were driving through a defile, a narrow valley of red-streaked blue stone. Up ahead it widened out a bit, then narrowed again. At the narrows, he stopped the outrunner and spoke to Cal in an undertone. “Just stay close behind me, and keep your trap shut. We gotta scope out the situation. There’s a little trail up here, goes up into the rocks. We can see the bastards from up there. Better if they don’t see us … Unless we want ’em to.” He pulled his battle rifle from the rack between them. “Come on!”

“What about me?
I
need a gun!”

“Like I said, you’d sneeze and … oh, hell.” Seeing the
look on Cal’s face Roland sighed and rolled his eyes. “Tell you what …” He reached under the dashboard, came out with a small orange pistol. It seemed made of plasteel. “Start with this. This is a BLR Hornet. Twelve shots. Here’s the safety—on, and off. On again. Leave that safety on unless I tell you different! And if you shoot me, it better be on purpose, kid! If you shoot me by accident, I’ll feed you to the rakks!”

He handed Cal the weapon, butt first. Cal thrilled to the heft of it, the masculinity, the intentionality in its design. It was a tool intended to kill, designed for that and nothing else.

Roland looked at him skeptically. “Hope I don’t regret this.”

“You won’t, I’ll be careful.”

“It’s not a big gun, oughta just fit in your pocket. Leave it there unless it’s a case of life and death. Now come on, dammit.”

They climbed out of the outrunner, Cal reluctantly stowing the gun in his right-hand pocket. It barely fit.

Feeling the weight of it as he walked, Cal followed Roland into the narrow passage, and up a side passage carved into the stone to his left. It rose like a ramp, switching back at intervals, a trail climbing the cliff.

Twenty minutes of climbing, with Cal breathing hard and growing hot and sweaty, despite the shade, and they reached a natural balcony of rock overlooking a gulley. As they emerged into the sunlight, Roland hunkered down, putting a finger to his lips for silence. He stretched out on his belly and crawled up to the edge of the stone balcony. Cal crawled up beside him. About thirty meters
below them, a group of five men, standing within a ring of huts, were gathered around a wooden stake propped in a mound of stones. Smoke swirled up around the stake and a few small flames. And tied to the stake …

Cal’s mouth went dry. “Is that a
man
they’re … they’re cooking there?”

“Yeah. Most bandits aren’t really cannibals, kid, but out here, in this territory—some of them are.”

Cal watched as an enormous, bare-chested bandit—a fin jutting from his helmet and a surgical mask covering his face—used a big knife to slice a chunk of thigh off the dead man slumped on the pole.

“The big guy’s a ‘Bruiser,’” Roland muttered. “One of the bandit castes. Usually in charge of the others.”

The Bruiser tugged up his face mask with a thumb and jammed a slice of seared human flesh into his mouth.

Cal’s stomach squirmed at the sight and he had to look away. “And you want us to go
down
there?”

Lying beside him on the rock, Roland shrugged. “Kid, I’m not going back to Fyrestone till I can get what I came here for. I lost a partner. I don’t want that to be for nothing. Help me and you’re gonna make it more likely you get that ride to Fyrestone. Could be your folks are there.”

Cal looked at him. “You got something in mind—involving
me
? Maybe trade me for the stuff you want from them?”

“What? Trade you? Hell no, I’m not going to … give me some credit, for crying out loud. Naw. I’m not gonna let ’em kill you. Less one of them gets a lucky shot off. Probably wouldn’t happen.”

Cal snorted. “Real reassuring.”

“Keep your voice down. We’re burning daylight here, so let’s get to it. Here’s what I’m thinking … Now, you see that big boulder there, just inside the passage to the gulley? Well, I’m gonna go move the outrunner and you’re gonna go to that boulder, and …”

About thirty minutes later, Cal emerged furtively from the passage through the cliff and paused, looking around, hoping he had enough cover from the big boulder. It was the size and shape of a haystack between him and the bandit camp. He saw smoke rising past the boulder, and he could catch the nauseous smell of charred human flesh. But he saw none of the bandits from here.

Then he heard footsteps crunching in the sand and turned to see a short bandit sentry carrying a pistol, rounding the big boulder. Head in a red-striped helmet, the compact little bandit’s face was covered with goggles and a breathing mask; he wore a leather jerkin, sleeveless, and thigh-high leather boots.

The bandit spotted him—“Look what the skag dragged in!” the bandit cackled, his voice muffled by the breathing mask.

The metallic taste of fear in his mouth, Cal darted back into the stone passage. Gasping, he sprinted at full speed through the narrow pass, half expecting to be shot in the back. The pistol cracked—and Cal
was
shot in the back. But a crackling flash came as the bullet struck the armoring field—the energy shield Roland had given him. It wouldn’t take too many hits before running through its charge. Maybe one or two more and the shield would fail.

“Come back here, boy!” the bandit shouted at him. “You
gonna squeal when I cook ya?” The bandit fired again, this time the bullet whistling past Cal’s right ear.

Then Cal reached the end of the narrow pass between cliffs, and ran to the right—just as Roland had told him to. He pressed himself against the wall of stone, outside the defile. The bandit rushed out into view—to be met by Roland, who’d been waiting there for him on the other side of the opening, with the biggest knife Cal had ever seen, almost a machete. He swung it hard; the bandit’s head was severed from his neck and spun away to bounce along the ground, some distance off, trailing blood. The bandit’s headless body staggered, went to its knees, then flopped forward, the stump of its neck spouting scarlet from the surgically neat cut.

Cal turned away, retching. Only a little food came up.

Roland came over, handed him a canteen. “Good job, kid. But there’s more to do. Have some water. Then we’re gonna do a costume change.”

The Bruiser watched as the two Psycho bandits with him carried a shiny chrome metal chest of weapons out from the hut. This stuff was worth good money—rare Eridian weapons in that chest. Might use the weapons himself. Might sell them in Jaynistown—if there was anyone left to sell them to. Last time he was there, they were all busy killing each other. But that was okay too. If they were all dead, he could loot the bodies.

“Put it down there, Vultch,” he told the taller of the two Psychos.

The Psychos giggled and dropped the silver case.

“I didn’t say drop it, goddamn it. Ya gonna bust something in there!”

Vultch pulled his buzz axe from the strap that held it to his back and waved the wicked cutting weapon in the air. “Lemme bust it open! I wanta bust something open!”

“Yeah, we been waiting a week to open this thing!” said Gunch, the other Psycho. Their faces were identically masked, their goggled eyes glowing yellow, their shirtless bodies
nearly
identical, except for the scars—but with long acquaintance, the Bruiser knew which was which. Gunch was the shorter, more heavily scarred one who sometimes spontaneously fell to the ground and started licking rocks. The Bruiser usually had to kick him in the head to get him to stop doing that.