Broken, Beaten, Burnt

Crawling up the incessant gradual slope of the ventilation shaft had been more than annoying. Metal on metal, Buddy’s limbs had fought hard to find a semblance of friction to stop him from slipping and banging in the cramped space. And that wasn’t mentioning his hat, which had to be trailed along attached to his ankle, catching on each nick and crack, which there were many, of the duct’s surface. All that combined with the pain in his side.

Hound on the other hand found no trouble. He was just the right size to pad freely through the dusty space with his head down, the long line of his spine tuft tickling the ceiling. He did have to suffer through Buddy’s expletives, though.

Once outside, under the glow of the broken moon, the two sat by a boulder for a moment, processing the fact that they had survived a Conclave kill-bot, modified to all hell no less. Buddy scraped idly at a manganese deposit, occasionally ingesting some, then flinching as a system error warning pain flashed through him. Hound merely sat, muzzle half open, tongue lolling out, watching the small rocky ravine they had found themselves in.

The baked-clay orange rock walls around them had strings of wavy deposits both white and dark gray, the trace alloys glinting silvery in the nightly light. Here and there were holes, from which small cyber critters peeked their heads, little glowing eyes curious. The nocturnal drafts, saturated with radiation, cut through at times, howling through the myriad alcoves, indents and nests to make a strange atonal musical wail.

Jean sat some distance from them, and though in the darkness, the two trackers could see him with their varied vision specs, while the Grower could see their metal glint under the deathly silver light. Also, Buddy had come a crashing from the vent, scaring all the little cyber mice, which had been the final crescendo to his not so subtle banging and cursing all throughout the inordinately long crawl.

“How bout we rest a while and then head to town?” the hunter offered, “it’s nigh on six hours from here to there.”

“I got plenty of sleep before the assassin attacked,” Jean said from the gloom.

Hound got up, “I don’t need further rest either,” he said, “besides, I think it better to get to town now rather than later. Just in case.”

“In case of what?” Jean asked.

“Oh, nothing much, just that some kill-bots are said to be able to regenerate,” Buddy said, hauling himself off the ground with a groan, “but I doubt this one can anymore, if it ever could.”

“How can you be so sure?” Jean asked.

Hound cocked his head, likewise curious.

Buddy patted the atomizer at his hip, “good ol’ atomizer scrambles then disintegrates pretty much everything her flame licks. Have no idea how it works, but it does. Never seen something get up after even being clipped by her.”

“What kind of weapon is that? Where did you get it?” Jean asked.

“Stole it from the Conclave decades ago,” Buddy smiled his metal smile, “under pretty heavy guard and well hidden, but I managed. Served me good ever since.”

“Then that is… no. It can’t be,” Hound said, retreating a few steps, ears back, “I should’ve known from the firing-style, the shape of the stock… it’s so clear.”

“It’s what? Hey, Hound, what’s wrong with you?” Buddy asked.

“That’s a Neptune,” Hound snarled.

“The hells you talking about, Neptune?” Buddy asked.

Jean covered his mouth in shock. “I thought all were lost after the conflict, scrapped and the knowledge destroyed,” he whispered, “after what their Array did to the moon… how could you employ such a thing?”

Buddy was left slack jawed; was this truly the same class of weapon that had been the Conclave’s answer to the Growers’ mutated horrors, the fabled Neptune range? In that devastating conflict, a tragic misfire, or perhaps a deluded show of force, of the Great Array had left the moon the ruin it was today. The consequences had caused massive havoc on Earth, and for decades after the war, some fragments of the wounded sphere would crash down and wipe out little tows, the resulting dust clouds blotting out the sun for years following. The Growers’ answer had been the release of Leviathan.

“Look I didn’t know it was Neptune, hells I thought it was just something the Conclave was tinkering on, supposed it would do me better instead of a worn out rusty black-powder hand-o,” Buddy said.

“Better or worse, Mr. Limbo,” Jean said, “if you’ve not had a target on you so far, I can guarantee you have one now. Not even the Conclave use Neptune anymore. Think about that; not even the Conclave.”

“And I hear those things are sentient to a degree,” Hound snarled, “there are stories of how they make men mad. Kill-crazy.”

Both dog and Grower took cautious steps backward, eyes locked on the smooth grooves and planes of the holstered weapon. History, horrifying and outright heinous history, brought to life before their eyes, made them wary and anxious. Their growing fear was directed equally at the weapon, as at the wielder.

“Hey, both of you,” Buddy raised his palms to placate the two, “calm down. I’ve had good old atomizer here for some time, and I ain’t no more kill-crazy than before I claimed her,” he said, feeling as though he was lying, and in the back of his mind, becoming disturbed at his personification of the weapon, which he had merely chalked up to be an affectation on his part. Was it alive?

The three stood for a long spell, all eyes on Buddy, or rather, the atomizer. Now the howling night wind seemed to hold a note of terror; the cyber-mice had disappeared into their burrows, and even the light of the broken moon had become colder, more judgmental, as if it too recognized the genealogy of the unassuming bleach-bone and porcelain handgun.

“Come on you two!” Buddy snapped, startling the others, “Isn’t getting mister green here back to Bob more important right now? Look I had no damn idea this thing is what it is. Besides, now is not the time to moralize over weapons of mass destruction because this guy,” Buddy jabbed a digit toward Jean, “is literally the key to some Conclave scheme to do God knows what. And you,” he pointed at Hound, “are corpse-chassis, clearly weapons grade, sentient, and completely ignorant of your purpose and maker. So can we just relax and get back to town.”

Hound’s tails slackened, and his ears came up again. “He’s right. Each of us have something that marks us out. Best not compare and contrast. Let’s focus on the job, and get you back,” he said, turning to Jean.

The Grower said nothing, merely nodded, and followed the two as they hiked up the sandy incline of the ravine to start their navigation back to town. Back to safety. None of them could stop thinking about the gun on Buddy’s hip.

---

The flickering grayish green light of a single little monochrome pop-up screen fought to illuminate the devouring darkness of Tom’s office. The massive form of the manager sat hunched over his desk, primary arms leaning against the wood, while the tertiary drummed its fingers against the armrest of his massive chair, his eyes locked to the screen, watching over the vid-feed like a hawk. A half smoked cigar lay in a glass ashtray by him, completely forgotten.

Tom couldn’t hibernate. How could he? Jaques had betrayed him and was now at the church seeking refuge. It’d taken Tom a couple of hours to realize that the teller had abdicated his responsibilities and severed his connection to the bank’s operating system. The scrawny rat had been thorough and quick, and if it hadn’t been for the slave chip in Jaques’ prosthetic eye, bought and paid for by the bank, Tom would have remained completely ignorant of the motive behind the betrayal.

So, the little runt knew about the Conclave now. Tom supposed he himself was to blame. He really should be more careful when in contact with his superiors. When he had still been of regular proportions, he’d had to snuff out more than a few instances of street trash that happened to overhear him. His complacency had grown in tandem with his girth and comfort.

Though boiling with rage, he saw the opportunity in it all. Unit Five-One’s final message had been a confirmation. It had found the hideaway. Tom saw two possibilities, both favorable. Either the assassin had killed the two trackers, evident by the priest’s lack of contact, or they had killed the assassin, leaving them no doubt wounded, and were subsequently bringing the target straight to Tom.

How swell, thought Tom, as he picked the cooled cigar from the tray with his gemmed fingers, one became a tiny torch, lighting the tip of the tobacco. Smoke coiled up as he brought it to his lips and smiled.

“How swell,” he said. The fake plants in his office swayed on drafts from the air-conditioning, rustling, sighing, then becoming still again.

 ---

The sojourn back to the no-name town had taken far longer than Buddy had estimated. Not because of the Grower, the man was an apt desert fairer, and not because of Hound. It was because of him. Buddy’s side ached further with each step toward their goal, forcing the trio to take several breaks as he tried to patch himself up with what little material he had.

He’d expected them to leave him behind, Lord knows he offered the option more than once, but they hadn’t. Instead, they’d waited, even offered some help at times, which was all too strange and new to Buddy, who’d spent most of his life alone, or with colleagues with ulterior motives, or mercenaries who’d leave a baby to die in in the cold if they’d get a cent or some good scrap out of it.

In total, the estimated six hours stretched into eight and a half, and by the time they were five hundred meters from the east gate of town, the sun was up and burning down on them with its well-known vehemence. The captured rays that were processed into extra energy by Buddy’s hat did a little to help him speed things up.

“How much do you think the See is going to pay us after this?” Buddy asked.

“Enough, I imagine. The See is quite wealthy,” Hound replied.

“I sure hope so,” Buddy said, then grimaced as a slide down a slope caused white-hot pain to shoot up to his temple, “someone’s paying for this damage and it ain’t coming out of my pocket. Fuck me and throw me in a ditch! What the hells was in them claws? God damn!”

“Have you tried locking your pain receptors?” Hound asked.

“Yes I’ve tried locking down my pain receptors, thank you!”

“You’re unable to?”

Buddy looked at Hound with an expression bordering between incredulity and indignancy, “well, if I were able, would I be swearing like a hab-stack whore on a Monday?”

“I mean, are you not able to execute the function, or is the function failing post execution?” Hound asked again.

Buddy thought about it, feeling his interior mechanisms and software work under his subliminal commands, then stutter when he changed to active. He executed the function, then it was blocked. It wasn’t a system failure caused by the damage as he’d thought, but a viral program hindering its activation.

“Shit, that thing infected me with some virus,” Buddy said, “it’s pretty minor though, just amps pain sensations and blockades shock or stim effects.”

“Are you able to purge it on your own?” Hound asked.

“If I get enough rest, power, and alcohol then yes.”

“Hey, you two,” Jean interrupted, “look over there, someone is waving at us.”

Both Hound and hunter trained their optics on the tiny form under the crooked gate without a name. It was the teller; he wasn’t waving but flailing his arms up and down as if in warning. Buddy waved back, signaling that they’d seen the man. Then he zoomed in and watched the man’s lips move.

He began mumbling the words the teller was saying so the other two could hear, “the banker knows. Come quick. You need to hide.”

Buddy made an overly exaggerated shrug indicating his confusion. The three didn’t stop making their way toward the town.

The teller’s lips moved again; one single word was enough to make all three up their pace. “The Conclave.”

Jean and Hound ran, Buddy followed with a limping jog not far behind all the way to the church, where the teller embraced the Grower in a brotherly hug, before ushering the three inside, looking over his shoulder at the shadows growing long between the houses of the town.

Inside, the priest waited in the sanctuary. “I’d had hoped you received my warning but seeing as you’re here…” Father Robert said.

“I caught nothing but static, then the kill-bot came and wrecked my receiver,” Buddy said, limping up to the domed sanctum, “I take it us being back isn’t good news then?”

“No, it is not,” the teller said from behind, “the branch manager of the bank is in league with the Conclave and wants Jean.”

“Who’re you again?” Buddy asked.

“Jaques.”

“We have no time for idle conversation,” the priest cut in, “I’ve called a See land-crawler to come and retrieve the Grower, it should be here in two hours and ten minutes. Mr. Jaques, would you kindly escort this man to the catacomb beyond those doors.”

“Bob, I’m pretty damn hurt!”

“Don’t cuss.”

“I’m hurt gosh darn it! Do you have any repair kits?”

One of the priest’s forearm panels popped open, “of course, come here and I’ll patch you up.”

Multiple many-jointed little arms unfolded from the recess like the spindly limbs of some mechanical spider and inserted their tiny spikes and tweezers into the cyborg’s side. Buddy clenched his metal teeth and screwed his eyes shut.

Jean and Jaques had disappeared down the steps to the catacomb, and Hound was by the doors, listening with rigid ears and ramrod straight tails. Throughout the following hour, at times, his head cocked from side to side, then, startled by something, he padded to the sanctum.

“Are you well enough now?” Hound asked the prone bounty hunter.

“Just about. What’s your prognosis padre?”

The priest withdrew his repair dendrites. “The virus has been wiped, but I wasn’t able to repair the receiver. That needs an overhaul.”

“Well, that money’s coming from the See’s coffers,” Buddy said, and got up, stretching and going through practiced movements to see if there was any pain left. When he was satisfied, he turned to Hound. “What’s up?”

“Something big is waiting outside,” the canine said.

“Lead with that!”

The two went to the door, Buddy’s footsteps clanking, Hound’s patting, both echoing through a suddenly deathly silent nave. Buddy peeked from one of the windows not covered in soot from a thousand candles; through the stained glass he saw a hulking form and a few scrawny men with rifles down on the street, made warped and wobbly by the old yellow pane.

“Supposing that’s the ‘manager’ mister Jaques mentioned?” Buddy asked.

“Very likely,” said Hound, “they’ve been quiet since they got there about thirty minutes ago.”

“Thirty!” Buddy slapped a hand to his face to stop himself from shouting, then rubbed the remaining flesh of his face with his large palm. “Hound! When there are men with weapons waiting for us outside I’d like to know as soon as possible.”

“Well, I did not see them, so I assumed they were just locals or some purists coming to town,” Hound said, flashing fangs, “then the fat one mentioned us by name.”

“And that’s when you came to tell us? Not when there’s a group of guys silently waiting outside, without moving, for almost an hour?”

“Thirty minutes.”

“Just…”

“Are you folks going to come on out here or just keep whispering behind that door?” a plump, jolly and deep voice called from the street.

The two froze like children caught stealing from their parents’ purse. Then, realizing how stupid the reaction was, Buddy straightened, placed a hand on the hilt of the atomizer, and spoke through the door, “well, call me cautious good sir., but I ain’t one to hop on out when there’re half a dozen rifles ready to shower me with lead. And only God knows what you got hidden under all that mass.”

A raucous rumbling laughter preceded the branch manager’s next words. “I suppose you’re right, and please, call me Tom.”

“Alright, Tom, I take it we can forgo the questions concerning why I’m here and you’re there, and go straight to talking business?” Buddy hollered back, shushing Hound’s coming protest with an upraised palm.

“I prefer to talk business in person, Mr. Limbo. So why don’t you come on out with your hands up, and we’ll talk,” Tom said.

“Now that ain’t going to happen, see, I know you’re on the Conclave’s payroll. You’re just going to shoot me as soon as I’m under the sun.”

“We could always break in and take what we want, you know. I’m just trying to be civil,” Tom said.

“That ain’t true either and you know it! Good ol’ Father Robert here is more than a match for your rabble, much less your rotund self. I met your friend the kill-bot, Unit Five-One, not much left of him now, so you ain’t got the weapon you need to take him on. You need us to come out willingly,” Buddy said, and smiled at Hound.

A long pause followed, then, “then what, Mr. Limbo, do you suggest we do?”

“I suggest those men of yours drop their guns and scram for home! They ain’t no match for me, much less the See convoy that’s on its way here!” Buddy winked at Hound.

They could hear some of the men falter under the threat, their whispering growing to a worried susurrus which was quieted by a sharp command from Tom.

“There ain’t no convoy coming, boy. Just one lousy land-crawler, just as the good Father said,” came Tom’s reply, followed by nasty laughter from his men.

“How did he know?” Hound whispered.

The same thought crossed Buddy’s mind, but now wasn’t the time to speculate. “Hush now,” he said, then through the door, “either way we’re at an impasse. We ain’t coming out, and you ain’t coming in.”

“Is there nothing I can offer you to sweeten the pot? The Conclave’s purses are quite deep. I could get you the best guns and grafts you could ask for. And that dog of yours—”

“I’m no one’s dog!” Hound barked through the door.

“Oh, pardon me,” Tom said, “the good sir Hound will be pleased to know that I might have a lead on his maker.”

Buddy and Hound stared at each other. When they found nothing with which to reply, Tom went on. “Are you really surprised the Conclave knows so much about the two of you?”

Buddy drew the atomizer, grinning, Hound shook his head.

“Well, didn’t they tell you what I stole from them?” Buddy called out.

“Come again?”

“A Neptune handgun, that’s what. The Conclave couldn’t bribe me when I got the best tech there is!” Buddy roared and slammed the door open.

The men, hearing the announcement, jostled by the bang of the door, cried in panic and scattered like a startled flock of cyber-avians, some even dropping their guns. In mere seconds, the fat manager was on his own in the dusty road, his three arms up in surrender before he himself knew it.

The stocky corkscrew barrel of the atomizer, porcelain white and grooved, sprouting from the cherry wood hilt locked between Buddy’s seven digits, was aimed squarely at the man’s head. Buddy’s poncho flapped as a draft whined into the church in the wake of the doors opening. He stood there with a triumphant smile, copper jaw glinting in the sunlight, cable hair dangling down his back.

Hound was by his side, glinting fangs bared, ears down. “What do you know about my maker?” he snarled.

Tom said nothing. His jolly face was grim; his eyes set on the maw of the pistol.

“Speak!” Hound barked.

The sonic wave made Tom grimace. “I ain’t telling you rats shit.”

“Look, Tom, you’re out of options. You clearly didn’t think this through. Might as well spill the beans,” said Buddy.

Tom’s face was a placid mask of hate, eyes dark. Then they lit, and a grin stretched across his face, ear to ear, revealing an all too symmetrical row of pearl white teeth beneath a bushy moustache.

“What’re you smiling about? You’re locked in my sights and out of options,” said Buddy, swaying down a couple steps with easy strides.

Hound followed, fangs still bared. “Better start talking.”

“Well, how can I not smile,” Tom began, his voice regaining a plumpy cheer, “when the gun aimed at my head ain’t got no charge.”

At the same second, the jewel-encrusted third arm of bank manager Tom shot out. The palm disconnected from the wrist, trailing a taut cable, and the moment it took Buddy to realize what the man had said, the bedazzled cybernetic was around his neck.

“Come on! Get!” Tom whooped, and ripped his arm back, pulling the lanky bounty hunter off his feet, sending him hurtling toward the street to land with a bang.

Hound began barking, discombobulating Tom, who let go of Buddy’s neck, the hand zipping back to its socket.

“You little mutt!” the fat man roared and loosed a volley of bullets from a pop-up wrist-gun.

The aim was off, and Hound managed to duck in time. No longer under the spell of the baying, however, the aim began to close in on the zigzagging dog.

Buddy hopped up, sand sighing from his open ports and joints, and looked for the atomizer. It was twenty meters away, half buried in the sand. He had no time to fetch it if he wanted to save Hound.

“Hey fatso!” he shouted, drawing Tom’s attention, and his sword.

He swung with his forearm blade, which Tom blocked in time, and with lightning speed belying the fat man’s form, an undercut flashed and cruncher right into Buddy’s gut. Some vent-duct inside him crumpled, and his breath became a wheeze.

He had no time to register the pain, so instead he widened his stance, and began to weather the blows now raining from three sides, blocking two thirds, taking in the rest, unable to give a counterthrust or slash at any point.

“Hound! Fetch!” he shouted when he saw Hound coming toward the brawling cyborgs.

The dog nodded and headed straight for the atomizer, sprinting like a sheep hound across a field of green. Grabbing the gun by the hilt with his teeth, Hound tucked his tails, reorientating his balance to allow him to make almost a full one-eighty degree turn without losing most of his momentum.

Buddy made the mistake of glancing towards Hound, and that brief window of time was enough for Tom to seize and pummel the bounty-hunter down to the sand, then pin him with one powerful leg, wrist guns aimed.

Hound was a speeding bullet, though, and in mere seconds he was by the two. He threw the gun toward Buddy’s outstretched fingers with a whip of his neck, letting loose with a frantic baying immediately after.

Tom cringed and kicked sand toward the noise. The reflexive action worked, and particles of the fine dust clogged some of Hound’s throat speakers, cutting off the baying. Instantly his systems forced him into a hacking cough to try and expel the grit.

“Back to you.”

“Too late fat boy,” Buddy wheezed, the Neptune atomizer pointed squarely at the manager’s chest.

He squeezed the trigger.

Click.

“Hah!” Tom barked, and grabbed Buddy’s wrist, denting the metal, then removed the archaic weapon for himself. It looked too small in his enormous hands.

“Well look-ee here. Seems like you ain’t got much knowledge on how to use this thing here. See, it ain’t just some run o’ the mill energy weapon with one single setting. Neptunes came with several,” with one arm still trained on Buddy, Tom grabbed a hold of the barrel with his bejeweled hand and rotated it. It clicked, and began to hum, “its charge comes from the ambient radiation of this world, but it’s power cells need to be given a break at times, and switched between every now and again,” he aimed, “not much you can do with that info no more my friend…”

Hound leapt and grabbed the forearm, metal fangs ripping into the plating and wiring. Tom yelped and shook the beast, grabbing Hound by the scruff with one arm, and beating him senseless with another, all while Buddy thrashed in protest beneath his crushing foot.

Tom flung Hound away in the manner one discards trash, the limp form banged off the church steps. The atomizer dinged.

“Thank you, Mr. Limbo, this’ll be enough to smite the good old Father,” he said, and fired.

Buddy closed his eyes.

The shot went wide. Not because of bad aim, but because in the split second between squeezing the trigger and certain death, one of the massive doors of the church slammed into Tom, sending both him and the atomizer flying.

Buddy, now released from the crushing weight, looked at the sand beside his head, which had been turned into a smooth crater of glass, then at the church doors where Bob stood, carefully placing the other removed door by the doorframe.

Then the priest turned and launched itself over the stairway too small for his feet. Buddy watched the massive form glide over him, blotting out the sun for a heartbeat, then land down before the wrecked branch manager.

“You’ve failed,” the priest said, “let the fires of Hell burn out your sin.”

Without listening to further protest from the pleading wretch, the golden priest opened his palms, spraying out jets of fire from both. Tom screamed until his inner systems burst and fried under the heat, then he flailed until all nerve pathways were reduced to a sizzling ooze, then he was still. A pile of glowing scrap with a melting face, the gold and jewels in his third hand blackening, and cracking.

Buddy turned to Hound, who, like him, lay unmoving. He hoped the mutt wasn't dead. Then his eyes closed as his systems forced him into damage recovery mode, and he fell into a deep hibernation without dreams.

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