Borderlands: The Fallen (21 page)

C
rannigan, Roland, Cal, Rans Veritas, and the mercenaries were camped in the thickening dusk; in the crater at the center of the glassy, cracked plain. The floor of the crater, about sixty meters across, was coated with dust. It was just the height of a man from the floor of the crater up to the glassy surface. They stood around a small campfire between their tents, the men talking over security. They were using a chemical fire here, poured from a can, no other fuel to burn.

“What are Guardians?” Cal asked, when the conversation lulled. He’d heard the mercs in the sandtracker talking.

Rans Veritas turned to glare at him, and didn’t answer at first. His face twitched. He looked around fearfully, then looked squint-eyed back at Cal. “You got all the information you need to have, boy. Ought to keep your flapper zipped.”

“The Guardians, Cal,” Roland said musingly, leaning back against a sandtracker, “are alien entities. Eridian
based. Maybe artificial, maybe not. They guarded the area around the Vault—another alien site. Guardians are dangerous as hell. There’s more’n one kind of ’em too.”

Rans’s face was twitching. “They don’t apply here! That’s a whole different set of aliens. There won’t be any Guardians. What we’re going to see has
nothing to do with the Vault
! I’m telling you, I had a couple artifacts, had ’em tested and they’re not Eridian.” He pointed at Crannigan’s Eridian rifle. “See the shape of that alien gun there, the material it’s made of? Everything, even the power source, is Eridian. Eridian guns are made for something that has hands not so different from us. But this ship, out there—it’s nothing like that. Maybe these critters were enemies of the Eridians. I dunno. But they’re
different
—and that means, no Guardians at the crash site!”

“No
Guardians
,” Roland pointed out, “doesn’t mean no
guards
. That ship could be protected by something else. That suit from Atlas claimed it wasn’t safe to approach the crash area from the air. Which means it’s got some kind of protection.”

“How dangerous
is
it to go at from the ground, Rans?” Cal asked. “You were there, so—”

Roland winked at Cal. “Good question, kid.”

“I’ve briefed Crannigan about that,” Rans snarled, glaring at Cal. “I don’t need to answer questions for this pain-in-the-ass boy.”

“Then answer it for
me
,” Roland said icily, looking steadily at Rans.

Rans looked at Roland, licked his lips nervously.

“You may as well, Rans,” Crannigan said, stroking the Eridian rifle thoughtfully.

Rans shrugged, then said, “You can get pretty close to
the ship, approaching on the ground. There’s a debris field where you can pick up a few things. That’s as close as I got. You can see the main fuselage of the ET ship from there, see, down under the volcano shell. But … if you try to move in real close, things get ugly. There’s a thing that flies around and grabs things … changes ’em sometimes, makes ’em its servants. Now, a force of men like we got here—I figure they can shoot their way in, get some good stuff, more proof of what’s there …”

“In short,” Roland said, “you chickened out and ran, and you don’t really have a goddamn clue what’s down there. You didn’t get that close.”

“So what?” Rans said sulkily. “I can take you there, that’s the main thing.”

“Atlas already knows where it is.”

“I can show you how to get close pretty safely, I can tell you about a
lot
of stuff—but I’m not telling you anything else in advance.” His hooded eyes flicked at them suspiciously. “I know what could happen if you bunch figured you don’t need me no more …”

With that he turned and limped toward a tent.

Looking up at the crater rim, Cal could see the upper edge of the moon rising. “Going to be dark soon. You figure it’s safe down in this crater, Roland?”

“Safer’n some places, anyhow,” Roland said. “This impact crater’s pretty close to the volcano. We’ll head out there fresh tomorrow …”

Cal’s heart lifted at the prospect. His dad could be there—alive.

The moon was rising. The stars appeared over the plain of cracked glass. Shotgun in his hand, Zac kept scanning
the horizon, hoping to see skags before they saw him. No real cover here. If he did see predators, best to flatten down, hope they overlook him. He could kill one or two skags with the shotgun, but if they came in a pack, he was done for.

Zac stopped, catching sight of a faint, dancing light off to the east. A campfire, he figured, a half kilometer away. He lifted the small telescope to his eyes—in the scope he could just make out an outrunner parked on the edge of a crater. Sweeping left, he saw the silhouettes of squat, big-wheeled vehicles, probably sandtrackers. Chances were, that was the mercenary camp. They had vehicles, protection—they could stop for the night. That was a luxury he didn’t have.

They had other luxuries too. They’d have water. Food. But …

There was no chance of any kind of friendly reception there. They’d probably interrogate him, and then kill him. And even if they weren’t completely hostile, they wouldn’t know where his wife and son were.

Better to steer way clear of them.

Zac angled away from the distant firelight, heading a bit out of his way to give a wide berth to the merc encampment.

He trudged on, glancing at the sky for rakks, scanning the horizon for skags, or the birdcage shape of a drifter; he licked his cracked lips, trying not to think about water.

Then, looming up ahead, purple in the evening, he saw the bluffs of stone encircling the plain. Why not follow the edges of the plain around to his goal? It would be farther—but safer. He might well be able to retreat into those rocks
for cover. There could be overhangs, boulders, caves near them. There might also be water there.

He pictured a spring of water, crystal clear, enticing, trickling from a crevice in the bluffs. He imagined the stream falling glitteringly into a clear pool. He’d find it, he’d throw himself facedown and bathe his dust-stung eyes, and drink deep …

Zac moved toward the bluffs with redoubled energy. Feet hurting, he marched onward, stumbling sometimes in the cracks on the glassy surface. The edge of the plain seemed to get no closer. The night, however, got darker. The moon was no longer full and it was dipping close to the horizon, threatening to set; clouds had come to shutter the stars.

His legs began to ache and he coughed with dust. He felt as if he were growing heavier, as if gravity were increasing around him. He was wearing out. He wanted to lie down and rest. But he was afraid he’d go to sleep here—good chance he’d wake up with a skag or some other creature slavering over him.
Keep going
.

He looked down at the glassy surface of the plain, and watched his own feet trudging, on and on. It was hypnotic …

After a timeless time he stopped, staring … past his feet. He had come to a place where the ground under the glassy surface seemed to change color. No—the ground down there was absent, he realized. He was standing over a covered pit of some kind. The surface was scratched and dusty and discolored but it admitted a little wan moonlight. And down below, through the translucent glaze, he could just make out what looked like a chamber, carved in rock, with
tunnels at either end. Was it an illusion? Maybe just some mineral pooled in the glaze of stone?

But then he saw something moving down there. Though distorted by the uneven surface like an image seen through a primitive window, the shape seemed human. Then it looked up. Were those two big, round, dark eyes, like the eyes of a giant rat? Was that a rat’s snout on a man’s head?

Zac stepped hastily back, hoping the thing hadn’t been able to see him.

He felt dizzy, deciding that fatigue and dehydration were getting to him. He must be seeing things.

Still, he circled around the dark place under the glassy surface, walking only where the glaze seemed supported by stone.

He saw no more of those dark places. And at long last, he thought he was making real progress. It looked like only another half klick to the edge of the plain.

But something else was up ahead. Was that a wall, jutting from the bluffs? Difficult to tell in the darkness. But it looked like a wall, or barrier of big stones. Something glittered, spears of glass, in the barrier of rocks.

Maybe there was shelter there. Perhaps a spring …

Zac picked up his pace, gasping the last half kilometer, his throat rasping—and he almost tumbled headlong into a large hole broken in the plain, near the end of the jutting barrier. He swayed, and then got his balance, and stepped back from the hole. The break in the surface was clearly delineated in the moonlight. There was a pit down there, this time—and it was open. And something else down there caught the light. It was dark, difficult to make out
exactly what it was. But … it looked like a
truck
, down in a pit. A flatbed truck.

Had someone been driving through a tunnel down there? Then he saw the tire tracks in the thin layer of dust spread intermittently over the glassy plain. They led up to the edge of the pit. They’d driven here—and crashed through, it looked like, maybe forced onto this spot by driving around the barrier. They’d been caught in a trap.

He remembered the ratlike face on a man’s body, and shuddered. Whoever’d been in that truck—one of those things had them. Hadn’t Berl once said something about “tunnel rats”? Seemed like he had, and with a tone of real disgust.

“Hello?” Zac called, not too loudly, in case there was someone lying low in the truck.

No reply. He shouldn’t be calling out, attracting attention to himself. He should get away from this spot, and quickly.

But what if there was water down there, in that truck?

No.
No, it would be a trap for him too. He mustn’t venture any farther.

He backed away from the pit, and looked for its edges, made his way carefully around them, feeling the surface, with his feet, for springiness, testing for too much give where it might break under him.

He moved past the pit and found more solid footing. He reached the end of the barrier of rock, followed it back toward the bluffs. He hoped to see a silvery trickling in the moonlight. Nothing.

What had he expected? No reason there should be water in this spot, particularly.

But he couldn’t go on any farther. He was exhausted.
Got to. If you don’t, you’ll die right here. Keep going.

Zac groaned, but forced himself to move onward, along the edge of the plain, just under the bluff, watching for tunnel entrances, pits, hoping to see water. Seeing nothing but dust, sand, rock, and, to his left, the glassy edge of the plain.

He seemed to get heavier and heavier. He thought of dropping the shotgun, his pack, the artifacts, everything. Just to feel lighter.

No
. Find a place to rest …

He rounded a gentle outthrust in the bluff … and felt himself pitch into despair.

Four skags, bigger than any he’d seen, were just thirty paces away. And they were sniffing, turning their ungainly heads toward him.

He’d come all this way for nothing. Pandora had been tormenting him, playing cat and mouse with him. Now it was done playing …

“All right you hellhole, swallow me up!” someone shouted.

Zac realized he’d shouted it himself. He raised the shotgun, cocked it …

He could take a couple of the repulsive creatures out before he went down. Then if his body was found, maybe his son would know that he’d fought to the end.

His son. His wife. The deal with Rans Veritas. The DropCraft. Failure. Shame. Futility … Death.

The skags suddenly charged him, coming in a phalanx. He fired the shotgun and the nearest one squealed, one of its three jaws shot away, but it kept coming. Zac squeezed the trigger again—

Nothing. The shotgun was jammed.

Zac shouted, “Damn you!” And he raised the shotgun by the butt, to use it for a club. He waited for the oncoming skag, just a few bounds away from him …

Then he heard a hiss, and the skag stumbled, its whole body twisting, contorting in pain as it sizzled in a purple puddle. A combat rifle stuttered a series of bangs, and the other skags squealed with pain, turned to run. Another hiss, another splash of purple, and the nearest retreating skag was splashed with acid, rolling in agony on the ground …

Zac stared, blinking, wondering if he was dreaming all this. Then he said, “Oh.”

“
That’s
right,” said Berl, behind him. “‘Oh.’ ”

Swaying, Zac dropped the shotgun and turned slowly around, wiping dust from his eyes. In the dimness he could see the glowing eyes of the drifter, above Berl, not far away. Bizzy had fried the skags with his toxic exudate. And Berl had fired the combat rifle—which he was now pointing right at Zac. Berl was standing underneath Bizzy, between the stiltlike legs, like a bird in a warped cage. His combat rifle gleamed in the moonlight.

“Well, I’ll say this, young fella, you’ve got guts,” Berl declared. “You were ready to go down fightin’. You might get the chance to die proud pretty quick here. Only reason I ain’t shot you is, you’re carrying my goods. And I don’t want them busted up by stray bullets. You push me though, I’ll just see if I can put one in your head …”

“Berl … I’m sorry.” Zac spat dust, spoke in a raspy burr. “But you know, you had me tied up. I was your prisoner. I couldn’t stay there like that. And I could’ve taken more than what I did, when I left.”

“I wouldn’ta cared none about the shotgun, nor the water. I’ve got weapons and ammo and water. But you took something that matters to me, more’n anything, Zac Finn! The artifacts! Includin’ the one that points toward the crash site. Now,
that
was one big fat mistake, boy. Also it was a big fat mistake not to cover your trail better. Because here I am! And now it’s high time I figure out exactly how I’m gonna deal with you.”