Hitchhiker

Unit Five-One crouched in the corner of the main hall. Draped in its new shawl, all of its killing instruments hidden, it looked like some disproportionate leprous pilgrim on his way to show obeisance to either the Machine or to God. The bitch Meridia kept pacing between the replaced front passageway and the lookout slit. At times she’d stop and look as though she was listening to something. When this went on for too long, Five-One would growl or bark at her to stop. She would, for a time, but soon she’d recommence.

Unit Five-One had worked with Wraiths before. Usually they were quiet, obedient, and feared it. This one had no such inclinations. She also had a high pain tolerance. When she’d been piggybacking in Unit Five-One’s software, it had tortured her to the point of insanity, but her persona code hadn’t eroded at all. In fact, the ego side of it, which already took up most of said code, seemed to calcify and scar into an even thicker blob; in a sense, her identity had grown and taken on a more distinct shape.

“Stop that!” Five-One snapped after the thirteenth time she came and listened to the ceiling.

She raised a finger. A finger, at it. She was preoccupied in watching the ceiling, as though she were trying to see through the concrete with her turquoise replacement eyes. She didn’t see Unit Five-One slowly rise from its crouch.

“Can’t you hear that? It’s like something is moving in there. In the vents or… in the mountain. I can barely make it o—”

Unit Five-One was looming over her frail stolen body, glaring down at her with burning white eyes. The black nose-plate glittered like jet on its otherwise pale face, and its dark teeth were glinting with dripping saliva. It’s stolen earlobes looked sharp, like horns. “I am nearing the end of my patience, Meridia...”

She stood her ground, but Unit Five-One could sense the stolen body, now with a fully integrated new persona, begin to sweat and excrete all the classic hormonal cocktails humans did when afraid. It could even smell urine as a drop of it escaped from loosened muscles. This body was very, very biological yet. Tearing it to shreds would be a pleasure.

“Unit Five-One,” Meridia said, keeping her gaze level. “I think whatever wiped out this base is still here.”

“We scanned every centimeter. There is nothing.”

“Listen,” she began in a whisper, “this body only has rudimentary auditory replacements. It still has eardrums and everything. I can’t amp or dampen my hearing. We’re lucky this tramp had work done on her visual cortex and brainstem, otherwise I couldn’t have highjacked her. But you have all those things. We did visual and atmospheric scans only, not auditory.”

Unit Five-One’s lipless mouth tightened. “Very well,” it hissed, its overlapping voices tortured, then disconnected its auditory pickup into two separate receivers and worked through several frequencies, processing the information with ease. When it got to the resonant frequency of concrete, it did hear something. It sounded like a smooth dragging, a rushing and a murmuring. It took a sample, then compared it to other audio files it had in store. The best match was either a swarm of cyber-rodents or a natural stream boring through rock. “It’s nothing.”

Meridia pumped her eyebrows at the contraction but decided against commenting on it. “Could you still keep the line open until we leave, just in case there really is something.”

Unit Five-One growled at her, then returned to skulk in its corner. It said nothing more but did as she asked. Not because she had, but because the assassin had thought it had heard a patter, almost as though many feet had shifted in the silence.

It was an hour later, after the sun had set, when Meridia spoke again. “Someone’s out there in the lowlands. Off the road. I managed to catch them just before they covered their thermal signatures.”

“Good,” Unit Five-One said. The See flyer was an old model, almost ancient, and worked on a primitive nuclear engine. The fuel rods had degraded to the point that further use, especially extraneous use, which flying over the Gallic and Europan wastes was, would’ve caused a reactor malfunction with an eighty percent probability. Best to go by foot or some other terrestrial vehicle. Best to look like civilians or waste scavengers; easiest way to deprive some sad fool from his or her cart or truck was to appear as travelers. Which, in a sense, they had become. This had been a part of the plan Unit Five-One had devised. Unit Five-One was becoming subtle. Far subtler than the mere crouch-and-wait, then pounce tactics it had so heavily relied on before.

“As planned, yes,” Meridia said. “They’ve stopped for the night. Should we get them now or ambush them on the road?”

“In the mountain pass,” Unit Five-One hissed, and smiled its corpse-smile. It turned its head toward the secret tunnel that led straight to an outcrop of boulders by the side of the long road. An exit tunnel hidden behind a storage shelf none of the Conclave soldiers had made it in time to before whatever lurked nearby had reduced them dehydrated husks.

---

Buddy was already awake before the white sun crested the horizon. While the others hibernated, he removed the camo-net and recalled the equines from their sentry posts. What Jaques had told him the previous night still bothered him, and though his warning indicators blinked, calmly suggesting him to take at least one period of eighteen hours of rest, he’d decided against it. The bald man had gone paler than usual once he’d touched the atomizer, and his replacement eye had glowed a dull pink. For a minute, his mouth had moved and his head had twitched, then in a blink, he was back. It was something straight out of a horror vid-chronicle his mother had kept stashed away when Buddy had been a child. The very ones he’d found and watched.

The atomizer, or Gamma-Thirteen as she’d called herself, said that the script originated from the Dagger, and that the Chronologist, replicas, utilized it. Buddy hadn’t a doubt in his mind that the Dagger was the very same Epsilon Tertia had intoned in her prophecy. He neither doubted that these accumulating weird occurrences had something to do with that prophecy, and that everyone around him, and some yet not met, were the ones the ophidian cyborg had named. The Dagger was in the Urals, but where was the Keeper of the Past?

Christ on a cross, Buddy thought as he linked the four equines back to the wagon. Since the No-Name-Town, since the Outpost, since the Optima, he’d had a feeling, one that only kept growing. He felt that he wasn’t in control; he seemed to be pulled along by some invisible chain that shackled him to everyone around him, and that they too were pulled along. Jaques was the best example. The jittery bank clerk had no business on a dangerous mission such as this, but he’d joined nonetheless. Hell, the weirdest part: no one had argued. Not even the See, who were the sponsors of this damn expedition.

Well, at least he’d get paid come the day. At least the Pathogen might bring some green back.

Buddy hopped onto the coachman’s seat and grabbed the reins. The wagon jostled and rumbled as he steered the four cyber-equines to pull the wooden mass up the yellow hill back onto the road. Inside the travelers woke up, banging shoulders against bedframes or having decorations tumble down to thunk or clunk off the floor. Beyond the Alps loomed with their snowcapped peaks and ancient mountain roads, through which biting winds howled as Dead Earth breathed. Somewhere nestled in the northern slopes was the next outpost.

The door to the control room opened, and the person Buddy expected the least came out. “It’s a wee early to be an arse Mr. Limbo,” said Rousseau.

“Tad early to be nagging,” Buddy shot back.

Rousseau muttered something and was about to leave, but Buddy called back, “hey, you’ve a moment? Come ‘ere and sit with me for a while.”

Buddy felt her gaze sharpen to a point, and what little skin lined his face washed with a cold. Without a word she came over and sat down by him. She was wearing her red cassock-dress and her hair was done up in an elaborate plaited crescent on the top of her head. Buddy also noticed that her brass face-plate had more articulation points. Eyelids, forehead, eyebrows and ears were all separate now, so when she glanced at the gunslinger from the corner of her eye there was emotion behind the look. She looked like a dignified courtier more than a combat medic-mechanic.

“Are ye going to flirt with me again?”

Buddy sighed. “Nope. I ain’t going to flirt with ya. Just thought we’d make some pleasant talk after all that bickering about the Conclave and the See.”

Rousseau scoffed.

“What do you have against me ma’am? Far as I can tell I ain’t done nothing to you. Hell, back at the outpost you were nice to me. What happened?”

“Nothing to me?” Rousseau repeated with a high-pitched, indignant voice. “Ye mock the See, ye push fabrications and slander and ye admit that ye’ve done dealings with the Conclave. Ye grapple along a fair wee bairn with a death-sentence and a clerk who has no survival skills, all for a paycheck.”

Buddy raised a finger. “One: Lucia forced her way in herself,” he raised another, “two: Jaques was supposed to stay in Roma, but didn’t,” then a third, “and three: I work on contracts and always have, no matter the client. I admit, associating with the Conclave in my thirties was a mistake, but Father Bob helped me out of that mess.”

“Father Bob?”

Buddy nodded. “You might know him as Father Robert Gelidi, tomb of Saint Julienne.”

Rousseau gasped and made the sign of the cross. “Don’t ye dare lie to me now,” she said, finally turning to him.

“I ain’t. Bob and I’ve been friends since. I’ve even seen the saint. He’s the one who hired me for this whole gig in the first place. Ask any o’ them,” Buddy said, jutting a thumb back at the rumbling wagon.

Rousseau was quiet for a time. Buddy kept his eyes on the road, feeling hers on the side of his face more keenly than the light of the White Sun. After a moment she said, “why a bounty hunter?”

Buddy raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Why become a bounty hunter? The world is not full of opportunities, but there are other things one might do with their time on Earth.”

Buddy thought back to his twenties when he’d still been mostly biological. When his jaw had been bone and muscle and not copper. When his hat hadn’t been the wide solar panel he’d found in the far east. When the gun on his hip had been a powerful slugger, and the sword he carried hadn’t been a part of his body, but rather strapped to his back. How he’d received his poncho from one of the villagers. His mother’s poncho with its strange gray patterns embroidered into the crimson fabric; the one she was supposed to be buried in. How he’d turned his back on the life of a mineral extractor, and how easy it had been.

“Wanted to see more of the world, I guess,” he said at length, leaving out the part how he couldn’t stand remaining in an empty home without the one person who he would have given up everything just to keep alive, or to see alive one more time.

Rousseau noted the flicker of vulnerability but didn’t comment on it. Instead, she turned her eyes back to the road. “I can hardly remember why I became a See combat mechanic. It’s been so long. Atlantean mem-engrams weren’t a thing when I was younger.” She smiled. “I did feel a kinship with the Optima in that regard. I can only recall flashes. Snapshots, ye might say, of what I can only assume to be the most important parts. Large halls, dim lights, green gambling tables and machines, and a service platter in me hand. Red faces, biological faces, angry and sad and happy. Then chaos…”

The wagon bucked as one of its large wooden wheels hit a stone. Rousseau shot her arm out for balance; it landed on Buddy’s thigh. She glanced at him and removed it quickly. Buddy let her do so with dignity, not commenting or even reacting. But in his chest, though he hadn’t a biological heart, he felt a flutter, and his tongue danced in his mouth, eager to say something.

“So,” he said after a moment, “you were a casino-bot?”

“Ye know about casinos?”

“My mama had a wide collection of vid-chronicles.” Buddy nodded. “Seen ‘em there. Seen some bots on the newer ones, though you don’t much look like one.”

“Well, this be my third chassis,” Rousseau said. “Can’t remember the first, and the second became old and crooked. The only thing that’s the same is me.”

Buddy nodded.

After that the conversation waned. Rousseau returned into the wagon where the others were passing the time. Buddy knew he didn’t need to sit at the reins, but he decided that he’d rather be alone, seeing as he’d had little time to do so for the past weeks. The mountains grew with each trot, each rumble over stone and cracked road, and soon a level way turned into a gradual snaking slope up the faded foothills. Rocky outcrops dotted the slopes and the ravines; remnants of bombardments and earthquakes that had shaken the pristine mountain range during the cataclysm and its following wars and skirmishes. Faded yellow turned over to dark brown and white, as dead earth became dead stone and sterile snow. Shadows became the norm, painting the dark mountain path with an umbral ink.

On a particularly straight and wide path, no doubt man made centuries ago, Buddy spied a lone humanoid form out in the distance near a mound of boulders. His seven-fingered hand rested on the atomizer’s – Gamma-XIII’s – grip. As the wagon neared he pulled it to a stop and looked down at the girl from under the wide brim of his hat.

“Now what’s a lady like you doing in a place like this?” he asked, each of his noble-metal teeth glinting in a wide smile.

The tall girl, legs and arms replacements, her long blonde hair tied in a high knot, batted her eyelids, looking up like an animalia-pup with large, quite ornate and beautiful, turquoise eyes. Through her thin, bleached linen blouse Buddy could see dark circles where her nipples were, and her trousers, cut from the same cloth as the blouse, fell from her wide hips, the fabric hugging only half of her shapes, while the rest was left up to imagination.

She fiddled with the straps of her backpack and said, “Why, I’ve been out here for a pilgrimage, trying to get to the Outpost up yonder, but I’m out of minerals and rations.” She gave a lopsided, embarrassed smile.

Lucia’s head popped out of one of the windows. “Why are we stopping?” she asked, then saw the woman by the side of the road. Her face instantly bent with a mix of jealousy and embarrassment. The elegant beauty, with her pretty eyes and lithe form, was a stark contrast to Lucia’s tonsured hair, short stature, grimy paws and a now very red face.

“This lady here is hitching a ride,” Buddy called back. “At least I’m assuming so,” he smiled.

Now Jean’s and Rousseau’s heads peeked from the windows, and Hound appeared from the door to stand beside Buddy at the coachman’s seat. The dog sniffed the air, his chromed snout wiggling. His ears were up and alert, and his two tails wagged only slightly.

“She smells strange,” he whispered to Buddy. “Not bad, but weird.” He couldn’t articulate the strange familiarity he had felt any better than that.

“Well, she’s probably been up here for a time and she looks mostly organic. There ain’t many places to wash, get my gist,” Buddy whispered back.

“Hmm. You have a point. What should we do?”

Buddy leaned over, making a show of addressing the travelers. “What’d you say? We gonna leave a fine girl like this alone out here in the mountains?”

“Ye’ve any weapons? What’re yer intentions?” Rousseau barked out.

The girl smiled and spoke with a respectful tone shown only to elders, “No weapons, ma’am. I’m a pilgrim on my way to the outpost. I’m out of rations. I’m alone and to be honest, scared. I think there’s something in these here mountains.” She looked around at the tall dark giants around them. The bottom of the man-made ravine was nothing but shadows upon shadows, and one could easily imagine monsters within them.

“Who’re ye off to revere?” Rousseau asked.

“Saint Titus the Armless, ma’am,” the girl answered instantly.

“Let her on and let’s be on our way,” Jean groaned and disappeared.

Rousseau nodded, satisfied with the girl’s answer. “Let her on.”

Buddy extended his arm and helped her up. “The name’s Beaufort Limbo, bounty and relic hunter extraordinaire. But please, call me Buddy. Yours?”

“Meridia Five,” the girl smiled.

---

Unit Five-One watched from the shadows as the hunter helped Meridia up onto a platform and through a door. It snarled. It was a satisfied snarl. Things were going just as planned, far better than planned as a matter of fact, and the shadows of this ravine would help it hide, to trail, to wait for Meridia’s signal.

They’d seen the wagon near and had rushed to the exit tunnel leading from the bunker. It had almost been too narrow in places for Five-One to move, but a couple dislocated limbs later it ceased to be an issue. Meridia had whined the entire way about something “crawling around” somewhere. If she’d not been so valuable as a spy, Unit Five-One would’ve cut out her tongue.

Maybe it would, one day.

But oh, what a surprise. They were here. It was Them. What a coincidence, what beautiful synchronicity. What a delightful synchronistic occurrence indeed, Unit Five-One thought to itself and pulled its claws from the stone where it had embedded them in a fit of excitement.

The canine would go first…

After the wagon recommenced rumbling along, Five-One fell onto his four arms and split legs and began scuttling and loping along the earth under his white and green banner-shawl. It was too preoccupied with its stalking and its eagerness to mete out vengeance, likewise were the people in the wagon too distracted with the beauty on board, to notice a long and many-legged form emerge from a black crag in the rocky face of the ravine high up.

The large face looked down with malicious eyes, and a wide, altogether disgusting and unnatural, horrifying and noisome smile. It was very hungry. It had heard that there would be more things to drain; more things to eat. How grateful it was that it had waited. Now it could feast.

It readied its attack.

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