Prophet Margin (22 page)

The Dilûu abruptly shuddered, lurching the hunters out of their seats with a great honk. Kid Knee awoke with a scream, inelegantly ripped from whatever sleazy dream he'd been enjoying.

Johnny stared through the side panels of the howdah, glowing eyes unbothered by the failing light. Either the creature had just opened a very large gland on the rear of its ventral surface - a gland which Johnny couldn't remember seeing before - or there was something nasty going on.

Even as he watched a second crater thumped into existence beside the first, splattering the glass of the howdahcab with meaty graffiti. The Dilûu honked again, body shuddering.

"What the sneck?" Kid Knee warbled, clutching his head.

"Someone's shooting at us." Johnny said, with rather more tranquillity than he felt.

The stricken beast was directly above the facility now. Even in the pitch dark, Johnny could make out its basic structure: a simple walled enclosure with a small launch pad, a couple of control buildings and a gaggle of maintenance robots standing idle. Stanley had built himself a private star port - a worryingly expensive indication of the importance of whatever he was up to. Significantly, a sleek starcraft with more sensory equipment than a squadron of hi-tech bats sat like a fat teardrop at the centre of the launch pad. Briefly, excitement surged in Johnny's mind.

"H-he's still here!" Kid Knee shouted, as if reading Johnny's thoughts. "He hasn't gone yet!"

"No." Johnny's jaw tightened. Even in the dark, even swooping past on a rapidly stalling biological hovcar, Johnny recognised the shape standing on the starship's smooth chassis, enormous blastrifle held against its shoulder. "That's not Stanley's ship..."

Kid Knee threw him a perplexed look.

"You should all hold on," Johnny said, his voice cold.

At which point an explosive slug the size and shape of a corkscrew slipped into the Dilûu's brain, punctured the base of its skull and detonated.

Down on the ground, Stix watched the creature's head vanish like a moist firework and grinned his cold, hard grin.

He'd arrived at Everyone's facility too late to prevent the fat shapeshifter from leaving, but it didn't matter. The decision was already made. He'd hunt Everyone himself, he'd work his fingers to the bone, if need be - but Alpha would not be competing against him any longer. The buck stopped here.

It wasn't about killing him - although Stix was prepared to admit that the idea was pleasing - it was about removing a financial opponent. Business.

Mixed with a little pleasure.

Johnny's mind raced.

At a height of a hundred metres, the Dilûu's sudden silence was not a good sign. The most cursory of glances through the cockpit window confirmed his fears: the creature's head was missing, presumed obliterated and the rest of its body wasn't keen on flying unguided.

The ground was coming up to meet them with what Johnny considered to be unfair urgency.

Kid Knee started to scream. Roolán looked a little as though he might be about to do the same thing, which could only make matters worse. Operating almost entirely on instinct, Johnny yanked a beam polariser out of his utility belt, depressed its arming switch, and threw it into the cockpit. It landed directly between Kid Knee's legs and started to flicker.

If Johnny had believed in any deities he might have mumbled a prayer at that moment. As it was, his conviction in the laws of physics was far greater than his in metaphysics and he was uncomfortably aware of the fact that the former offered rather less chance of miracles than the latter.

The polariser triggered, and everything went insane.

The ragged mess that had once been the Dilûu's front end splashed on impact. Lifting thick geysers of liquefied blubber and gore, the creature smeared itself across the hillside like the world's largest fruit fly, mashed by a colossal flyswat.

Even in the dark, Stix could see that there was no way anyone could have survived. What little wreckage he could see poking from the morass of sticky meat - the mangled spars of the howdahcab, the jagged remnants of the control collar - were pulverised almost beyond recognition.

He slipped a hand into his pocket, tight lips curling into an ugly smile, and withdrew a pair of tarnished silver coins. He tossed them into the air, one after another, and let them spin away into the darkness.

"Alpha," he whispered. "Pay yer way."

Smiling again, he dropped from the roof of his starship and wandered across Everyone's facility, shouldering the blastrifle.

The first building was all but empty - rectangles of clean flooring interspersed with thick dust. Stix guessed it had been a storage depot, piles of crates now relocated onto Everyone's ship, along with the mutant shark. Whimsically indulging his destructive urges - covering his trail, he told himself - he rolled an incendiary grenade into one corner and strolled into the second building.

Here he found rather more interesting articles. A desk sat against the main wall, piled with computer equipment. Even the most rudimentary of examinations confirmed that everything had been deleted - files purged. The rest of the room was just as empty as the other. Already bored, Stix lifted another incendiary and pulled open the desk drawer, preparing to drop the bomb inside. And paused.

The worn volume sitting innocently inside, its plasplex cover smeared with Stanley Everyone's greasy dermal excretions, drew Stix's eye across its engraved title:

THE DEATH OF TIME

Being An Account Of The Most Holy Boddah's Once And Future Works.

By The Prophet.

Stix scowled. Religion had never held much plausibility to him: he'd heard an awful lot of prayers from an awful lot of people and found that they didn't go far towards stopping a bullet. The thing with the coins and the eyes, well... everyone needed a gimmick.

Even so, intrigued, Stix levered open the front page and ran his slitlike eyes across the inscription inside. As he read his brows dipped further together, leathery skin rising in ridges.

The page read:

Believer,

As a subscriber to the Children of Boddah Newsletter - and associated literature, pamphletage, newsgroups, chatrooms and devotional materiále - you have demonstrated your complete devotion to his most august magnificence, The Great God Boddah. It is therefore with joy that we, the Central Church of Boddah, present you with this token of our esteem: a plasplex translation of the One True Book.

Further, and of far greater importance, we wish to extend our arms to you in whatever corner of the galaxy you reside, with the Greatest News:

The prophet has returned, just as the Book foretells, and is gathering the faithful to his side.

Believer, we urge you to follow the tenets of the book you hold, to unburden yourself of your sins as the Boddah commands, and to make haste to join the Prophet himself at the Holy Sanctuary on Splut Mundi.

The hour is almost at hand. We would urge you not to miss it!

In anticipation,

The Central Church of Boddah.

Stix curled his lip.

"Splut Mundi," he hissed, voice full of dry rustlings and coldness. "On my way."

He slid the book into his pocket and dropped the incendiary into the drawer, sliding it closed. As he turned towards the centre of the room there was the brief sensation of movement, a rasp of metal on plastic and he found himself staring down the inky barrel of a Variable Cartridge Westinghouse blaster.

His mood did the emotional equivalent of a swandive.

"Alpha," he hissed.

Johnny leaned against the doorframe of the building, grateful for the support. Creeping up on a cold hearted killer whilst both legs are aching like sneck had been harder than he'd imagined.

His cunning escape from the crash may have proved far more successful than he'd dared hope, but he'd still endured a battering. He felt like he'd gone three rounds with an Acerbikii Protoboxer.

A brief flicker of memory flitted past his consciousness - blurred chaos and screaming voices being its primary characteristics. The beam polariser had gobbled kinetic energy like a sponge, robbing everything within its pull of a portion of its speed and impact. Fragmented chunks of debris at the heart of the crash had slowed or stopped, spinning shards of metal had seemed to grow bored the nearer to the centre of the howdah they'd been. All around the three passengers madness and violence reigned, whilst they huddled safely - mostly - in a null zone like stowaways, hoping against hope that the laws of physics weren't about to realise this was no way for kinetically motive matter to behave.

The plan hadn't been entirely foolproof - the bruises attested to that - but what would certainly have been lethal was rendered merely cripplingly painful. It was a step in the right direction and Johnny couldn't help feeling pleased with himself.

After that it had been a simple case of extracting himself from the wreckage, wiping as much gore off himself as he could, and leaving the other two to dig themselves out. He had a reckoning to attend.

Watching Stix's lip curling in disdain, he sort of wished he hadn't bothered.

"Put the rifle down," he said, putting all his exhausted effort into steadying his gun. Stix's face was as unreadable as ever, but his aura of murderous irritation was like a blast of cold air.

Slowly, oozing resentment, Stix thumbed the clip release on the rifle's stock. A batch of unused slugs clattered to the floor.

Johnny nodded. When he'd decided to confront Stix this was about as far as his train of thought had got. He'd expected a fight, at least. He felt more than a little wrong footed.

Johnny found himself in the less-than-honourable position of holding a gun upon an unarmed fellow Strontium Dog. It didn't feel at all right. Quite apart from anything else, there was no profit involved.

Feeling that he'd be an idiot to dispense with the weapon completely, but uncomfortable at the prospect of terrorising a fellow bounty hunter, Johnny lowered the gun. Perhaps, he thought, the man could be reasoned with.

He didn't know Stix very well.

If Stix felt any less threatened at the sudden change of target, he gave no indication. Indeed, the prospect of a verbal confrontation cracked his leathery face into its ugliest sneer yet.

"Survived the crash," he hissed. "Impossible. Want to know how."

"Magic," Johnny said, hobbling into the room. "What're you doing here, Stix?"

The earthworm lip curled. "Hunting. My job."

"That so? I figure you're trying to poach my mark."

"Grinn?"

"Could be."

"Got it wrong, Alpha. Open contract. Not your mark."

"I figured you'd say that. Anyone's for the taking, right?"

"Mine for the taking."

Alpha nodded. He'd barely so much as spoken to Stix in the past, but the man's reputation preceded him. "So you thought you'd try killing me?" he said. "Noble."

Stix's eyes glimmered in the shadows below his hat. "Not you. Killed the flying critter. You were onboard. Not my fault."

Alpha grunted. "Cute."

He surveyed the room, eyes landing on the desk. The idea that Stix might be pursuing his own hunt, might even be
ahead
in his pursuit, was unsettling. The all-important principals of profit bubbled up. "What did you find here, Stix?"

"Clues. Important. Mine."

"Yeah? Everything's yours these days, isn't it?"

The hat dipped slowly towards the desk. "See for yourself."

Johnny pursed his lips.

He was well aware of his virtues, and indeed of the fact that some people might have called them weaknesses. He was honourable, and wasn't ashamed to admit it. He was even quietly proud of the morality he'd constructed around his mercantile profession - never dipping too far into hypocrisy, never confusing business with some nobler calling - but ensuring nonetheless there was a grim sort of justice to what he did. Hunt the guilty, protect the innocent. Yes, it was a blurry distinction, and no, he wasn't in a position to play God. But it was a...
worthy
approach, nonetheless.

What he wasn't, was stupid.

Without even extending his hand towards the desk, he triggered a surge of alpha waves, glaring through the polished wood of its surface. Sure enough, nestled behind the blocky shape of a thick book sat the unmistakable bubble of a grenade.

"You must think I came down with the last neutron bombardment," he said, shaking his head. "Where's the detonator? In your pocket?" He blinked, restoring his vision, and turned towards Stix.

Who was blurring directly towards him.

Johnny's examination of the desk had lasted no more than a second. In that time, like a striking rattlesnake, Stix had darted forwards without warning, blastrifle wielded like a bludgeon.

Everything that Johnny knew about Stix pointed to cold, detatched malevolence. Seeing him like this, eyes wide, mouth contorted in a murderous snarl, coat tails flapping behind him, was a little like watching an icicle transform into a thermonuclear weapon.

The rifle hit Johnny in the chest, the world went white, his gun skittered from his hand, and the wall of the room - which he could have sworn was a long way behind him - thumped him on the back. He landed with lights flashing in his eyes, hoping he hadn't just picked the last brawl he'd ever fight.

"Lowered your gun," Stix drawled. "Good of you. Honourable.
Stupid
."

Johnny forced his eyes open, fighting for breath. Stix's blow appeared to have transported him from one side of the room to the other. His chest felt like it'd been stamped on by something heavy. A building, maybe.

"You," he said through gritted teeth, "aren't human."

Stix's lip writhed. "Mutant. Better than human."

The killer switched his attention to the rifle in his hands. He'd been gripping the barrel so hard he'd left neat fingerdents all along it, and he tossed it aside with a shrug, crackling his knuckles noisily.

Just as soon as he could feel his legs again, Johnny vowed, he was going to get up and fight back. Any minute now. Aaaaany minute.