“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” said Franco.
“Me too. Come on. Let’s clear the place.”
A metal staircase led up and they crept with guns primed. The next level was a loading bay with short, squat cranes and abandoned drilling gear. Huge wheels and machinery sat rusting silently. This platform must have been a hive of activity once; probably a quarter of a square kilometre, now it was cold and desolate. Even Franco shivered.
“How come the sun doesn’t heat down here?”
“Mass, I think,” said Keenan, voice low, almost reverent. “The whole structure acts like a huge heat sink. It would take twenty suns to heat this interior; the simple twins just don’t have the firepower.”
Franco checked his PAD. “Still nothing. I think you’re being overcautious.”
“Yeah, but who’s the boss?”
“Lead the way then, boss.”
Keenan moved through the ghostly interior. Rain pounded around the distant edges of H-section supported alloy, dripping from ledges in long white streamers. Shadows fell in strange patterns. Above, the whole world seemed to rest on vast metal shoulders. It was incredibly oppressive and claustrophobic, and Franco found he was ducking unnecessarily as he moved, as if frightened the whole bulk of the Gem Rig would come crushing down on his head.
They found another flight of stairs. Above, something clattered, distant and muffled.
Keenan shot Franco a glance. “Still think we’re alone?”
Franco cocked his weapon and checked the mag. “Lead on, MacDuff.”
The ramp was wide, trickling with intruding rainfall. Keenan walked slowly up, MPK tracking above him, finger on the hairline trigger. Franco followed close, covering arcs of fire.
A warehouse. Huge rusted crates stood abandoned.
Lots of hiding places,
thought Keenan. He moved warily, and came to a small flickering fire. Flames crackled within a ring of steel blocks, the edges of which glowed. Stools stood around the fire, again fashioned from metal and once set with precious gems, all of which had been prised free. Now only rust and decay claimed these items; and the place as a whole.
“A ghost town,” said Franco.
“Somebody was here.”
Suddenly, Franco unleashed a hail of bullets at the ceiling. Metal screeched on metal. Sparks crackled, and Keenan half-ducked, eyes squinting and angry as he glared at Franco.
“What you doing, dumb arse?”
“Sorry! Sorry.”
Distantly, they heard a scrabbling sound, and saw movement.
“It’s kids,” said Franco, voice low. He strode forward, and Keenan followed. Between two crates they came upon a group of six or seven children, it was hard to tell in the gloom. Not one was over the age of twelve years, and they stared back with wide eyes, stark against jet black skin. They cowered, as if expecting violence.
Franco lowered his gun and crouched down. “It’s OK,” he said, and held out his hand.
“They’re not dogs, Franco.”
Ignoring Keenan, Franco moved forward in a strange Quasimodo half-walk, half-crouch, and the children reached out, touching his hand as if it was a thing of wonder. Then Franco stood, suddenly, and the kids shrank back, fear etched on ebony faces.
“Come on,” said Franco, “back to the fire. We mean you no harm. Can you understand me?”
One boy, the largest of the group, pushed to the front and nodded warily. His eyes were haunted. “I understand you,” he said, his words coming thick and slow, slurred by the inevitability of different customs, different cultures, different worlds. In one hand he carried a slim bottle of water and he drank from it, nervously.
“We mean you no harm.”
“I am Klik,” said the boy. He held out his free hand, and solemnly Franco shook it.
“I’m Franco, Franco Haggis. What you doing here, lad?”
“We are from tribes on the mainland, near the capital city you know as Amrasar. When the tribes go to war and our fathers and mothers are killed, we are to die also. They slaughter us in our beds; they hang us from city walls by our necks. They cut off our arms and put out our eyes. They leave us impaled on spikes on the Crimson Walks leading up to The City of Bone.”
“So you run away? Here?”
“Yes. This is Haven. This is our salvation.”
“Why do they kill you?” asked Franco, voice soft, eyes burning. “You are but children?”
“We will grow into men: tough men, men with a good reason to kill and die, and seek revenge. Men like us would be a great danger in future years; so they slaughter us like cattle when our families are gone.”
“How many are you?”
“Just this seven,” said Klik. He smiled, narrowing his thin lips. “Yesterday we were ten; a week ago, twenty; but more will come, on boats, or swimming, or on rafts. Haven is an underground beacon. It calls to the children. More will come, and then we can fight the Dogs; maybe then we will find more food and we can eat like kings!”
They walked back to the fire and sat around the flames. Only then did Keenan and Franco realise that the fire was not a traditional, wood-burning fire, but a metta-melt furnace; a small one, but still metta-melt. They watched the spikes of metal melt and fold, then re-form to be burned again. The flames were tinged with purple and green. It was hypnotic; would have been romantic if their surroundings hadn’t been so bleak.
“Why do so many die here?” asked Franco. His eyes locked on Keenan, and Keenan gave a single nod: patronage.
Klik put his head in his hands, for a moment. “This place is a maze. It used to be military base. Upstairs are the supplies stores, on Deck 15. This is the place we get our food; the place that allows us to survive.”
“And the Dogs?”
“The Dogs guard the stores. We take it in turns, sneak in and steal what few tins we can. But sometimes the Dogs find us, sniff us out. When they do, they slaughter us.”
“Are there many supplies here?” asked Keenan, and Klik looked at the large man for the first time.
He nodded. “Hundreds and hundreds of metal containers, boxes, drums; all stamped, some with clothing, some food, some weapons. But the Dogs are so dangerous; they are merciless. We have tried to kill them, but they are too powerful.”
“We can take care of a few dogs!” beamed Franco, and hoisted his MPK. “Can’t we Keenan? Time for a bit of muzzling, I think.”
Ignoring Franco, Keenan stared at Klik. “What are these Dogs? Before my friend goes volunteering us for certain death.”
“There are three of them,” said Klik, carefully.
“Ha! Only three!” buzzed Franco. His eyes gleamed. He patted Klik on the shoulder. “We’ll clear you a path to the food stores, lad. Don’t you worry you none.”
“‘Don’t you worry you none?’ Franco, what the hell are you gibbering about?” Franco simply grinned and cocked his MPK. As if to say: “we mean business
”,
which of course, they did.
“They are machines,” said Klik, “with battle armour. Your guns will have no effect. We have tried; we got weapons from the stores, but their armour is too thick. They are indestructible!”
“Stay here,” said Keenan, standing. “I’ll go back for the others. Listen, are there other enemies on this Rig? Any men? Ket-i?”
Klik shook his head. “The Rig is deserted, except for the Dogs. But they are enough. They have killed... perhaps a hundred of us, over the past year. We let the sea claim bodies in a final ritual.”
“A hundred?” said Keenan. His jaw hardened. “Well, it’s about time we got you some payback.”
They dried themselves in front of the metta-melt furnace. Franco tied Betezh to an array of thick pipes, and the shaven-headed man sat, battered head down, eyes hooded.
The children had hidden when the rest of the group arrived, but slowly emerged, wary and wide-eyed. Klik brought them food, meagre supplies of cheese and fish in tins. Pippa smiled, as Rebekka stood and moved among the black children, stroking their heads and patting shoulders. Her face had come alight, as if she had finally come home
.
“I cannot believe it,” said Rebekka after the tale had been re-told, “a hundred of you! Dead! By machines?” She stared hard at Keenan. “We must stop this. We must end this.”
“And we must find weapons,” said Keenan, voice gentle. He smiled. “OK, volunteers for Operation Dog Trap?”
“Me,” said Franco. “I fancy me some road kill.”
“You mean gun kill,” said Pippa, glancing at him.
“Whatever.”
“You been taking your tablets, Franco?”
“Funnily enough, after you got our Hornet blasted, flaming and honking from the skies, there doesn’t seem to be a local pharmacy.” He smiled. “But then, I’ve never felt better! Absolutely buzzing! Full of beans! Full of... life!” He grinned again.
“It won’t last long,” said Betezh, voice hardly more than a growl.
Attention focused on him, on his battered, dirt-smeared physique. His head rose slowly, eyes glowing dark by the light of the metta-melt furnace. He stared at the group with ill-disguised contempt.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Pippa.
“The drugs,” said Betezh, rubbing at his eyes. Raze-wire cut his wrists, opening old wounds. Blood ran down his flesh, and dripped to the rusted metal between battered boots. “They were a very special concoction. Reactive, you could say.”
“Reactive?”
“Tetra hydrochlorinate, fezta sulphide, pallium binoxroate: the drugs are ingested, bond to human DNA receptors, become part of the patient, until death. It’s the latest breakthrough in medical science.” He laughed, focusing on Franco. “Ideal for mental patients.”
“Why’s that?” said Franco, a deep crease furrowing his brow.
“Because if supply is withdrawn, the patient dies.”
“Bullshit,” said Pippa. “Don’t believe him. He’s bluffing.”
“Am I?” said Betezh. “Why would I? It’s not like I’m bartering. It’s not like I really give a fuck. All I know is, if Franco doesn’t get his fix—and soon—strange things will start happening to him, ending, obviously, in an instant but very painful collapse.”
“What will happen?” Franco had gone ashen.
“Every molecule in your body will slowly implode. Takes about an hour. I’ve seen the results. Even the photos make you want to puke. Franco, I’ve never heard screams like it. I watched, from an Experiment Booth. I wasn’t aware that human vocal chords were capable of such sounds, and for such a prolonged period.” Betezh gave a fake shudder. “Gives me the heebie jeebies.”
Franco levelled his gun.
“No,” said Keenan. “No! Franco, get over there. Pippa, check him over. And for God’s sake, take his gun off him... Betezh.” Keenan put his own MPK in Betezh’s battered face. “Keep your mouth shut, fucker, or I
will
drill you full of metal.”
Betezh shrugged, but closed his mouth. His eyes returned to the floor.
“OK,” said Keenan. “Me, Pippa, Franco, we’ll go and sort these Dogs out. Rebekka,” he handed her a gun, which she took, a little reluctantly, “you keep an eye on our resident shit-stirrer. If he blinks, shoot him.”
“What, in front of the kids?”
“Yes, in front of the kids. Rebekka, they’ve seen a hundred of their friends ripped to shreds by mechanical creatures; I think one more atrocity won’t tip them over the edge. And Cam?”
“Yes, Keenan?”
“Have you heard of these Dogs?”
“No, Keenan, sorry.” The small PopBot spun. The metta-melt glittered from its dark case. “They sound a bit like Andalusian Mek-Backs, but those creatures are AIs. They’d never kill children. AIs are not like that. And anyway, they’re very rare; were decommissioned centuries ago.”
Pippa snorted.
“Well, we’ll soon find out. Rebekka, you OK?”
She nodded.
“Franco, Pippa, let’s go and see what all the fuss is about.”
Deck 15.
The leading corridor was lit by a few stuttering lights. An enclosed area, the corridors were narrow and lined with pipes, silent and cold within the belly of the Rig... and as dead as the rest of the rotting shell. This was soon followed by an area of titanic proportions: the Gem Rig’s storeroom.
It was dark, gloom-laden: a ceiling-high stacked hive of crates, metal cubes, alloy canisters, barrels, boxes, shelving, tubs, jars, tubes, and a myriad of alienstorage units, several of which twisted into another dimension and created brain-ache at a glance.
Franco was sweating, and sweating hard. On his hands and knees, with distant red light giving weak illumination, he waited, listening, sweat beading his forehead, prickling between his shoulder blades, lathering his flanks.
“Volunteer,”he muttered, a frown eating his brows. Then, affecting Keenan’s voice, he said, “Ha! I need a volunteer. As the decoy! Ahhh Franco. So good of you to raise your hand!” And Franco, stood there, scratching his nose. “Wha’?”
Now he knelt, and jiggled like a pressure nozzle being gradually turned up
.
Franco had to admit it; his nerves were getting to him.
Somewhere in this warren, maze, labyrinth, hive, were three metal creatures the children referred to as Dogs, which had slaughtered their way through a hundred little people. It made Franco sick; it made him want to kill; but most of all, he knew how resourceful children could be, and so it made him a tad nervous of what he was actually up against. So far, Ket hadn’t appeared too friendly.