Midnight Murder

Buddy stood before the church steps, Hound by his side. The church, besides the governor’s building, was the only one that wasn’t cuboid or boxy in nature. It had been constructed of the same ashy stone as the town, but where the hab-cubes were blank and soulless, tall pillars and domed roofs, all gilded, frescoes and statuettes glaring down from above, shouted out that this was the seat of the See in the Alps. This was a place of worship. Long ago it had had another name, a designate, but then it had been re-christened as the Martyrdom of Saint Titus the Armless.

Buddy sighed audibly.

“What’s wrong?”

“Last time I went into a church I got sent on this little venture. Seems like nothing good comes from going in one.”

“Correction: last time we were in a church we were beaten silly by the branch manager Tom,” said Hound.

“Uh-huh.”

Buddy lurched up the steps with his abnormally long legs. Hound followed. Buddy placed his palms on the doors, but before he pushed them open he turned to Hound. “Hey, by the way, best you don’t speak.”

Hound cocked his head.

“They’re Purists, doubt they’ll look kindly on, well, whatever you are.”

Hound chuffed.

“What?”

“I think they’ll take to you just as well as they will for me.”

Buddy clicked his tongue. “You got me there.”

With that he pushed the doors open. The first thing that greeted the two was the impossibly thick and musty odor of incense and corpse-wax candles. Had they had organic eyes, they would have had trouble seeing inside, both because of the darkness and the curling smoke that filled the high chamber. But the two replacement pairs adjusted in an instant to the dim lumens, allowing them to see as if in daylight.

Peppered around were altars to saints and martyrs, all of which stared with blank judging eyes at the two newcomers. Before some of the altars, individual Purists were bowed in prayer. Buddy counted eight in total, of which three were at the main altar at the back, kneeling before a humanoid priest. Beyond them was a massive painting depicting Saint Titus the Armless, face a beatific calm countenance, triangular halo around his head, holding a hissing black serpent in a leg-lock.

The sight of the Purists sent shivers through Buddy’s silicone nerves. They all looked alike. Mottled gray robes over bald bodies where no trace of cybernetic enhancement was visible. And he could only distinguish old from young by the lines carved by radiation exposure. Otherwise they were uncannily the same person. Buddy mused they were like amoebas, splitting into more of themselves when needs required. But that, of course, was impossible.

“Howdy,” Buddy shot once he stood behind the three and the priest.

The white robed priest, his face half cybernetic, a wispy pate of white hair falling down the back of his neck, raised one arm, his only arm, in greeting. He looked more than significantly relieved to minister to someone normal.

“Hail, travelers, what brings you to the Alps?” the priest asked.

“On our way through,” Buddy said, watching the three Purists rise from their kneeling positions.

They turned to regard the two with faces that always caused an irrational discomfort in Buddy. That of complete nothing. They didn’t look stoic. They didn’t look emotionless, which they were. Hell, Buddy would’ve given anything just for a little light of disdain in their eyes. But no. These were Purists. There was nothing to them. Their eyes were matted, as though whatever nook housed the soul inside was void. Their bodies were bald and hairless, pale and lifeless, and in some cases lined by the ravages of an irradiated Dead Earth, which, of course, couldn’t kill them.

They were clothed in dirty gray robes, held in place by worn ropes. All of it handmade, as they claimed. They carried nothing with them but scant minimalist icons, and perhaps one rifle or handgun for some form of protection. Not that they needed them. Buddy had heard whispers of a hand-to-hand prowess rivaled only by the Saint depicted beyond. Some even said he had been the first Purist, thought it was contested.

The central Purist, a man, a head shorter than the near seven-foot Buddy, looked first at the dog, then at the bounty hunter. “Abominable. The two of you are rife with the corruption of man. Repent,” he said, not twitching a single non-required muscle in his face.

Buddy consciously refrained from grabbing Gamma-XIII’s grip. “Well, hello to you too you…” he smiled, the effort of being polite stretching it into a noble metal grimace. He wanted to voice a litany of slurs and expletives but instead said: “… kind sir. The name’s Buddy Limbo. We heard that you ain’t letting the Atlanteans do their jobs. So we’re here to ask you kindly if you could let them—”

“Those abominations brought further sin unto man. Just look at your own figure. You are a walking machine. And that dog,” the man pointed, “is clearly some vile concoction of corpse and computer.”

Hound bared his dark metal fangs. “We have come as friends. There is no need to be rude.”

“Did you see the Atlantean named Laocoön? Shall you truly sully the name of your race by calling it a human?”

The priest opened his mouth to try and placate a now steaming Buddy, but he was cut off when the bounty hunter said, “now look here jackass. I ain’t giving two shits about what someone looks like. I’m just here to see that you don’t go harassing innocent folk that are doing their jobs. You got the right to your faith in See zones, and you got the tolerance of everyone here, but you ain’t got to right to lay hands on others or harass them.”

“But I am correct,” the man said. In the most infuriating matter-of-fact way.

Hound was rigid. “Correct or no,” he growled, “the Atlanteans are commissioned by the See. They doubtless have higher authority than you.”

At this the leading man stared blankly at the two, then said, “we are not here to incite violence or harm anyone, nor have we. Rather, the Atlanteans purposely disturb our veneration and worship by their loud maintenance. No matter who we take the issue to, we are dismissed.”

“So you won’t let them be cause their a little noisy?”

“It seems they specifically do the loudest and crudest maintenance during mass and our various rituals. It is as though they are provoking us.”

Buddy rubbed his jaw. “So you saying you ain’t done nothing to them but ask them to be quiet?”

The man nodded. “We abhor the machine and the mutant, but we are not violent.”

Buddy looked at Hound, eyebrow raised. The dog kept his gaze steady on the man, then at length gave an approving nod. The man wasn’t lying.

Buddy brandished his seven-fingered hand, “as before, the name’s Buddy Limbo, bounty and relic hunter extraordinaire. Yours?”

The man shook the proffered hand and introduced himself as Misha, Brother Superior of the Fraternity of the Uncorrupted Remnants.

“Alright, Brother, I ain’t here to squabble either. Just asking that you get along with the Atlanteans till they leave. Don’t want to come between you but I will if I must.”

“But we have gotten along,” Brother Misha said, “we have just asked them to not disturb us.”

Buddy hid a cringe, knowing full well how abrasive Purists tended to come off. “Yeah, sure. Just don’t, anymore. If you have any problems with them then come and talk to us. We’ll work as mediators, okay?”

“That suits well with us,” Brother Misha said.

With that the two left. As they walked across the nave to the door, Buddy noted that all the rest of the Purists were now watching them intently.

- - -

Rousseau and Lucia exited the governor’s building. The wiry man, enameled pins on his lapel from the time he’d served, had been equally furious and glad at the news of the mucoleth’s death. The bridge, the source of his ire, would be expensive to repair, but then again, the See had the money and the means.

The meeting had been tense, and neither Lucia nor Rousseau wished for further social interactions for some time. But there, on the steps, his back to them, was the sphinx. Warily the two walked down the flight, trying their best to look down and seem preoccupied so that the sphinx might disregard them. But, instead, once the two were on the gravely earth of the town square, they heard a light thumping as the sphinx repositioned himself.

“Very curious,” his soft voice echoed after them.

Rousseau stopped and smoothed her red cassock, then turned around. “Excuse me?”

“I haven’t seen one of you in a long time,” the sphinx’s red eyes were locked on Rousseau. “Forgive me. I am Laocoön, heir apparent to the House of Petrie. How shall I address you?”

Rousseau gave a curtsy. “I be Rousseau, chief medic-mechanic of the See, and this be Lucia Minor, a squire on her test of proving.” Prompted by a sharp look, Lucia too curtsied in her black enviro-suit and tabard.

Laocoön was sitting on his haunches, forelimbs straight and head held high. The bronze and blue nemes glinted in the white sunlight. “But you were something else, once. Weren’t you?”

“I beg yer pardon?”

“You are a bot, are you not?”

“That I be.”

“Can you not recall your manufacture or original purpose?”

Rousseau stiffened, as much as a machine could. “Sadly, good sir, I can only place a guess. If ye know of casinos, then I can tell ye that I were a service bot. Though my personal records from such a time ago are lost. Only scant images remain.”

“I take it you’ve swapped and upgraded bodies, then?”

“Aye, that be so. This be the most recent.”

“You have Atlantean mem-engrams?”

“Aye, but alas I did not when I was younger. Had yer folk come earlier perhaps I’d’ve not had to purge data as much as I have.”

Laocoön shifted his weight from massive paw to massive paw. His face had a solemn aspect. “My heart aches for thee, sister. You are welcome in our company if ever you wish to speak of your experiences.”

Rousseau curtsied again, deeper this time. “I thank ye, good sir. But we must excuse ourselves. This squire needs to be fed. She yet remains quite organic.”

“Of course, be at peace,” Laocoön said.

Once Rousseau and Lucia were sufficiently far away, the latter let out a giggle, then said, “he sure seemed to like you, Mother.”

Rousseau hissed. She had tinkered with her brassy mask further and now it could emulate subtler expressions and mouth movements. Both of which revealed a bashful embarrassment. “Oh, quiet ye. Ye should know par yer training that courtesy is to be shown to Atlanteans in diplomatic situations. I was only doing me job. Besides, he’ll like us less when he finds out that him and his ain’t leaving till that bridge is up again.”

“Well, he still seemed to like you.”

Rousseau whacked Lucia’s shoulder as the two entered the nearest tavern. “Quiet ye!”

Lucia suppressed a grin.

- - -

The rest of the day was uneventful. Jean had been holed up in a rented room with Jaques for the whole day after they had procured themselves rations and new clothes. Jaques’ new hat, which Jean had bought, had been the butt of many-a-joke. The Purists had agreed to camp out at the town’s outer edges and the Atlanteans had busied themselves with system checks and software updates. All the while Buddy and Hound had done rounds from place to place, doing the work of the soldiery who were otherwise occupied in avoiding anything to do with the two parties.

When the sun had set and the night sky shone with the myriad constellations of heaven, the Broken Moon and its children wandering across their eternal track, Buddy and Hound sat on the porch of the tavern from which they’d rented rooms. The night was cold, the air was dry, and the hum of the kinetic shields, dimly flashing when particles of snow tried in vain to breach the invisible barrier, mixed with the howl of mountain winds.

Buddy sat, legs and fourteen fingers crossed, his hat up in the cramped room he shared with Hound, who now sat in the worn chair beside his own. Half aware of his actions, Buddy had also unlatched his holster and propped Gamma-XIII on the table between the two, much to Hound’s disapproval.

“Well, Hound-o, looks like we ain’t having much issue for once.”

Hound’s chromed snout twitched each time a slight breeze wafted from somewhere in the town. “Yes,” he said after a moment.

“What’s got you so stiff?”

“There has been a strange scent for some time now. Since we met with the Purists. It comes and goes.”

“What does it smell like?” Buddy asked.

“Warm… and alive.”

“Maybe its Lucia?”

Hound shook his head. “I know her scent well by now. It isn’t her.” He peered into the dark streets beyond, neon eyes glimmering as they searched for that something. “Perhaps I am just imagining it.”

Buddy shrugged, then, “wanna go check out the wagon?”

“Aren’t you going to hibernate?”

“Nah. I got enough amino-slime to keep the old brain working for a few more hours. Besides, I want to see if they’ve upgraded the buggy. Maybe the Atlantean there can give me the piloting program,” he said with a gleaming grin.

Hound got up and stretched, then shook himself from shiny snout to two tails. “Why not. Perhaps it will get my mind off this mysterious scent.”

The streets were dark, illumined only by the stars, moon and kinetic field. Streetlights were useless for beings that saw in the dark. By now Buddy had grown accustomed to his humanoid feet; he liked the way the toe-plate moved and rolled from heel to toe. He liked the springy feel of his step. Once they got into the Europan Wastes, however, he’d have to switch back to the hemispheres.

He was about to lament on the fact until he noticed that Hound had stopped a few meters back. “Hound? You alright?”

Hound stood rigid, his nose twitching from side to side, his ears up and alert. “Buddy. The scent… it’s everywhere.”

Buddy gently grasped the atomizer’s grip. “You saying there’s something around here?”

Hound scanned the vicinity with eyes, ears and nose. “No. Or rather, I can’t say.”

“The hells does that mean?”

“It’s like whatever produced this scent rubbed itself all over the outpost. As though it…”

“What?”

“As though it knows someone can track its scent.”

“And you don’t know who or what the scent belongs to?” Buddy asked, edging closer to his partner, scanning the darkness with his acute eyes.

“I have nothing in my databanks that match.”

A scream pierced the night. It was followed by loud crashes as though someone was taking a blunt object to a ceramic vase or a bucket of bolts. Buddy snapped toward the sound, Gamma-XIII up and humming, while Hound’s head locked on the source, ears like satellite dishes fixing onto the horrid percussion.

“It’s coming from the hangar!” Hound barked.

They ran, and once at the boxy building, smashed through the side entrance. Inside, lighted by wan yellow overhead lights, the vast hangar space housed a few military vehicles. Smaller iterations of land-crawlers, and, of course, the wagon and the buggy.

One more crash resounded from behind their vehicle.

“Hey! Who’s there? Show yourself!” Buddy shouted.

Silence. Then, the patter of footsteps toward exit at the other end.

“Hound!”

“On it.”

Hound shot into a sprint, his body almost seeming to float off the ground. With one enormous leap he crested the wagon roof and was on the other side. Buddy ran to the wagon, dismally slow compared to his partner. He heard the door open and shut, then crash open again. Hound would catch him, he was sure.

His lubricant froze when he saw what, or rather who, had been the source of the scream and the crashing noise. It was one of the Atlanteans.

Gilded porcelain skin shattered, complex internal workings leaking azure fluids laying bare to the stale air, the female Atlantean that had half-finished the repairs to the wagon lay dead on the cold concrete. Her mask was shattered, and Buddy could see a yellow skull within. Seemed she hadn’t traded away all of her organic components yet. The instrument that had wreaked this havoc lay beside her. A sledge-hammer chipped and stained blue by the strange blood.

Buddy heard a noise from above and turned to see two watchmen hurry along a gantry that connected to the little watch station in the corner of the ceiling. They brandished their rifles and aimed at the bounty hunter as soon as they saw the corpse.

Buddy glared at them. “The hells are you aiming at me for! The culprit is getting away!”

One of the soldiers called back nervously, “how do we know you didn’t do this?”

The voice was young. They both were. The other was female, Buddy noted. He connected the dots. “Oh my God! Dereliction of duty for a little hookie!”

Now the female shouted, “lower your weapon!”

“You got the wrong guy! Just look at your security feed.”

“Lower your weapon!”

Buddy ground his teeth and did as he was told. He knew once their superiors arrived he’d be cleared, but what was foremost in his mind was Hound, who was chasing a murderer on his own.

- - -

Hound galloped with a feline grace. His clubbed paws raked the earth and his tails twitched to keep him in balance. He managed to catch a glimpse of the murderer before the door closed on him, and another still when he smashed through the door back into the dark night. He hadn’t caught a scent in the hangar, and now it was impossible. The strange odor permeated this alley as well.

Hound sprinted toward the corner where he’d seen the murderer disappear, losing no momentum in his charge by hopping against the onrushing wall and springing off it back onto the gravel. He came to a skidding stop as soon as he landed, for a dark shape blocked his path.

Hound bared his fangs. His night vision failed to bring out any details of the inky creature. Rather, he could only make out the outlines of triangular ears, and a few inches below them, gleaming eyes. It was another dog. A faux-animalia, no doubt out on security subroutines. It sat silently watching him.

“Out of my way,” Hound growled and advanced on the massive creature. Then he stopped in his tracks as he recognized its scent. It was the very same he’d smelled the entire day.

“Hello, Hound.”

Hound snarled.          

“No need for that. I’m just here to talk.”

“Whoever you are, I don’t have time. I need to catch the murderer.”

“Oh, well, you’re going the wrong way.”

“I saw him come here!”

“No. That wasn’t him. But enough of that, I’m here to warn you.”

Hound’s ears remained flat against his head. “If you’re threatening me, I think I can take you. I can hear your heartbeat. You are organic, are you not?”

The black dog laughed. “I am, aren’t I? I forget that that’s strange in this place.” It shook its head and got up. It was over twice Hound’s height, powerfully built with a shaggy pelt, and a horrid sense of danger emanated from it, though there was no malice he could detect. “Look. I am not here to fight. One of you has already been given two omens, and the next one is for you. This shard is important, and the Two want to see that things come to a satisfying conclusion.” At this the dog cleared its throat. “When you get to the wastes, you will find the assassin. Do not kill him or the woman he is with.”

Hound bristled. “Excuse me? That thing has tried to kill us on several occasions. Why in God’s name should we spare him?”

The black dog shook its head and sighed. “Trust me. Like me, you are connected to it. If you wish to know how you came to be, it’s imperative you let it live. Don’t make the same mistakes I did. Besides, you’ll need him in the end.”

“What on earth are you on about? You don’t—”

“—know anything about me?” the dog finished. “Of course… I don’t know about Neo-Ur. I don’t know about when you woke up in that ditch. I don’t know about how you barely made it out, not knowing why the Conclave hunted you.”

It turned. “I’ve said everything I was tasked to. I’ll still be here before you leave, but then I’ll hop back to… well, you don’t need to know that yet.”

The dog departed, almost languidly. Hound found that he was shaking all over. If it was with rage or with fear, he didn’t know. The dog turned its massive head back once more and answered Hound’s dawning thought before he could act on it. “Don’t follow me. Best I stay hidden.”

With that it disappeared into the darkness, leaving Hound confused and alone.

 

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