time the warriors and I arrived at Slake City ready to do battle, the base there was already deserted, abandoned.” He glanced at Ryan. “Did you have something to do with that?”
“We did our best to encourage them to leave,” Ryan replied. “But they didn’t jump universes to get away from the likes of us. They left Deathlands to save themselves from something invisible. Turns out, Deathlands’ smallest microscopic critters were eating the she-hes alive.”
“What do you mean, ‘she-hes’?” the baron asked, a frown twisting the mobile side of his face.
“Genetically enhanced females,” Mildred told him. “Your home planet’s superwarriors.”
Burning Man seemed taken aback. After a pause he said, “Years ago, just before my expedition jumped to Deathlands, I heard rumors about ongoing research programs. The speculation was that the CEOs of the ruling conglomerate each had launched their own, ultrasecret lines of inquiry. Only a handful of the top corporate whitecoats knew any of the details, but the general idea was to create a new human subspecies that maximized biological potential—ultimate soldiers who could overwhelm and destroy the armies of the conglomerate’s competing members, and who stood a better chance of conquering and colonizing parallel Earths. As far as I know, the programs were still in the experimental stage when we left.”
“The experiment worked,” Mildred said flatly.
Ryan nodded toward Big Mike. “According to him,” he said, “the she-hes have returned to Slake City and are taking another shot at conquest.”
“When I got a look at all the clean, fresh stumps on those sniveling cowards,” Burning Man said, “the first thing I thought was, more invaders. I saw thousands of wounds just like them on my Earth. The laser cuffs were developed in the run-up to the Consumer Rebellion, a devastating weapon, psychologically and physiologically. The Population Control Service ordered us to use the technology on our own citizens to put down the Gloomtown riots. Not the proudest moment in my military career.”
Blocky Head set one of the packs at the baron’s feet and whispered something into his ear.
J.B. shot Ryan a look. The one-eyed man knew theywere both thinking the same thing: so the bastards can talk after all.
The baron knelt and opened the pack. He lifted out a gallon-sized, plastic bag filled with shiny 7.62 mm NATO rounds. “These will definitely come in handy,” he said, waving the bag at Ryan.
“If we’re all on the same team now,” Ryan said as warriors picked up and shouldered all the ammo packs, “how about giving back our blasters and blades?”
“That can wait,” Burning Man said. “You’re not in any danger here, I assure you of that. My apologies for the rough treatment, but I certainly wasn’t expecting you to turn up in these parts. The warriors assumed you were part of the fat coward’s crew, and acted accordingly. You must all be tired as well as hungry and thirsty. Please follow me and we’ll see to your needs.”
As Burning Man turned toward the barricade, he pointed a finger at Big Mike and addressed Blocky Head. “Besup,” he said, “bring that one along, too. Take him to the stockade. He and I have matters to discuss in private.”
Two beaming, whitefaced women picked up the flamethrower by the shoulder straps, hoisting it between them, holding it high overhead, like a trophy. A gang of gleeful children squabbled and scuffled over who got to carry the silver gauntlets and hood.
Ryan and the companions followed the baron through the toll gate. Behind them trouped the rest of the ville. The gate opening was steeply angled, so no one could run or drive straight through it. Foot, horse and wag traffic had to slow to a crawl and present itself broadside to the barricade’s hardened firing ports.
The whitefaced kids sitting atop the tier of tractor tires looked healthy and well fed. For that matter, everyone on the bridge did.
“We did our best to encourage them to leave,” Ryan replied. “But they didn’t jump universes to get away from the likes of us. They left Deathlands to save themselves from something invisible. Turns out, Deathlands’ smallest microscopic critters were eating the she-hes alive.”
“What do you mean, ‘she-hes’?” the baron asked, a frown twisting the mobile side of his face.
“Genetically enhanced females,” Mildred told him. “Your home planet’s superwarriors.”
Burning Man seemed taken aback. After a pause he said, “Years ago, just before my expedition jumped to Deathlands, I heard rumors about ongoing research programs. The speculation was that the CEOs of the ruling conglomerate each had launched their own, ultrasecret lines of inquiry. Only a handful of the top corporate whitecoats knew any of the details, but the general idea was to create a new human subspecies that maximized biological potential—ultimate soldiers who could overwhelm and destroy the armies of the conglomerate’s competing members, and who stood a better chance of conquering and colonizing parallel Earths. As far as I know, the programs were still in the experimental stage when we left.”
“The experiment worked,” Mildred said flatly.
Ryan nodded toward Big Mike. “According to him,” he said, “the she-hes have returned to Slake City and are taking another shot at conquest.”
“When I got a look at all the clean, fresh stumps on those sniveling cowards,” Burning Man said, “the first thing I thought was, more invaders. I saw thousands of wounds just like them on my Earth. The laser cuffs were developed in the run-up to the Consumer Rebellion, a devastating weapon, psychologically and physiologically. The Population Control Service ordered us to use the technology on our own citizens to put down the Gloomtown riots. Not the proudest moment in my military career.”
Blocky Head set one of the packs at the baron’s feet and whispered something into his ear.
J.B. shot Ryan a look. The one-eyed man knew theywere both thinking the same thing: so the bastards can talk after all.
The baron knelt and opened the pack. He lifted out a gallon-sized, plastic bag filled with shiny 7.62 mm NATO rounds. “These will definitely come in handy,” he said, waving the bag at Ryan.
“If we’re all on the same team now,” Ryan said as warriors picked up and shouldered all the ammo packs, “how about giving back our blasters and blades?”
“That can wait,” Burning Man said. “You’re not in any danger here, I assure you of that. My apologies for the rough treatment, but I certainly wasn’t expecting you to turn up in these parts. The warriors assumed you were part of the fat coward’s crew, and acted accordingly. You must all be tired as well as hungry and thirsty. Please follow me and we’ll see to your needs.”
As Burning Man turned toward the barricade, he pointed a finger at Big Mike and addressed Blocky Head. “Besup,” he said, “bring that one along, too. Take him to the stockade. He and I have matters to discuss in private.”
Two beaming, whitefaced women picked up the flamethrower by the shoulder straps, hoisting it between them, holding it high overhead, like a trophy. A gang of gleeful children squabbled and scuffled over who got to carry the silver gauntlets and hood.
Ryan and the companions followed the baron through the toll gate. Behind them trouped the rest of the ville. The gate opening was steeply angled, so no one could run or drive straight through it. Foot, horse and wag traffic had to slow to a crawl and present itself broadside to the barricade’s hardened firing ports.
The whitefaced kids sitting atop the tier of tractor tires looked healthy and well fed. For that matter, everyone on the bridge did.
Similar Books
