Borderlands: Gunsight (10 page)

The Claptrap thought it sensed sparks, and smoke in its innermost circuits—and it was afraid. It was quite capable of being afraid. Professor Elenora Dufty had made sure of that.

“That’s not true,” she said, in his mind—reading his electronic thoughts. “I just like to know where people stand. Find him—find Mordecai! His uncertainty, his fear, his regret, must begin, and soon . . .”

The Claptrap leaned forward and trundled onward, bumping over the rough ground, sliding over ice patches, till it reached the nearest rectangular entrance to a deserted mine shaft. It paused once more, listening. It heard nothing but the voice of the wind . . . so it rolled slowly into the tunnel. Extra switched on its sonar, finding its way in the dark, swerving around small tumbles of rock, till it came to a fairly dry spot. Here Extra turned on its internal heaters, hoping there was enough battery power to both dry out inwardly
and to provide the energy to leave this place when the sun rose.

“Go to sleep mode as soon as you’re dried out,” came Dufty’s piercing voice.

“Yes,” Extra said. “I will. I need peace now . . . peace and quiet . . .”

“You shall have peace and quiet when your assignment is completed!” she told it.

But she didn’t speak again that night. Extra heard little else—except, sometimes, barely heard whispers from the darkness deeper within the old mining shaft.

•  •  •

When Gergle woke, he found himself staring up into the face—minatory and wattled, beaked and beady eyed—of a big, monstrous birdlike creature that made hissing sounds warningly when he tried to move. It was squatting on his chest.

“Gahhhh!” Gergle said.

His head rang with pain where someone had cracked him on the back of the head, after he’d completed his piss behind the Sludge Packer Bar and Grill. Maybe he was hallucinating from that crack on the skull.

“Lay very still,” said the low voice, half whispered yet starkly clear. “Lay still or she’ll peck your eyes out. She likes a nice snack this time of night.”

Gergle froze.

He was lying on his back between the bar and the outrunner garage next door, smelling piss and feces and a strange rancid leather smell off the creature perched on his chest. He lay there shivering, and trying not to move—not wanting to provoke the creature. Was it a rakk? No. It had leather wings
but it was more vulturelike, with a pallid face, red eyes, big yellow, sharp-looking beak; he could feel its talons dug into his chest.

“Now, what’s your name, friend?” the stranger asked.

“Gergle.”

“Listen, Gergle, I need some information. This creature here, sitting on your chest, has the psychic power to know when you’re lying or holding back. If you do either one, it’s going to start pecking at your eyes. You understand . . . Gergle?”

“I . . . yes!” Gergle glanced sideways at the stranger. He couldn’t see him clearly—it was like part of him vanished into the backdrop. But there was a kind of outline—Gergle got an impression of a compact, narrow-faced man with a small pointed beard. On the man’s head was a leather helmet of some kind. There was a gun in the man’s hand, a machine pistol. A rifle was slung over one shoulder. “Who . . . ?”

“Never mind who I am. All you need to know is, I’m the one who gives this hungry creature here its pecking orders. If you answer the questions honestly
, maybe
you get to live. And maybe you can keep your eyes. Now. First of all—what are they up to, here, in Tumessa? What’s the point of this place anyway?”

“The point? It’s Reamus’s factory stuff. He’s got Eridian mines. He makes stuff from it here, and sells it. Got a deal with Hyperion.”

“Uh huh. So far, you’re keeping your eyes. Where’s this factory at?”

“Underneath the Reamus House, up on top!”

“That where I find Reamus? Up on top of Tumessa—in that house? They call it Reamus House?”

“Yeah! If he’s home. I mean, it ain’t much of a house . . . it’s more like a fort. But that’s what he calls it.”

“What do you do here?”

“I been in food services, mostly. Factory cafeteria.”

“Mostly? What else?”

“Oh just . . . you know . . . security . . . kinda . . .”

The stranger nodded to the vulturelike creature—who pecked hard at Gergle, jabbing its beak into the skin near Gergle’s left eye socket. It tore out a piece of skin and ate it, gulping the flesh down right in front of him.

“Augh!” Gergle squealed. “It’s going after my eyes!”

“Don’t be such a baby. She only took a little skin that time. Just don’t move, Gergle, or you’ll lose your eyes for sure! And don’t lie! She pecked at you because you were holding something back. Now come clean!”

“Well I . . . Before I was in the cafeteria, I was on camera security, checking the monitors, for a while, at the Reamus House, but I fell asleep on the job and my supervisor caught me and fired me. I was lucky. If Reamus had caught me, he’da killed me, and killed me ugly.”

“So you know that house. There must be a way in. I mean—past the defenses.”

“Not that I know of . . .”

The stranger grunted and the creature on Gergle’s chest poised its head to peck at his eyes.

“No!” Gergle burst out. “Don’t! Don’t let it eat me!”

“Then stop lying!”

“I . . . there’s no definite way in, except through the front door and . . . maybe the roof! I mean, on the roof, there’s a blind spot, I remember from the cameras—right behind the center tower! And the back wall—they don’t keep those
cameras in repair much. Because there’s something back there—a Bullymong! Big ’un! Reamus borrowed some of its DNA to shape himself . . . that’s why he’s got four arms . . .”

“Bullymong . . . Heard of ’em. Never seen one. Tough?”

“Real tough. Big. Tear your head off. Can I go now?”

“How do you get across those moats of acid?”

“The acid? First moat—you walk over the bridge. There’s two of ’em. Second moat, if you don’t have the right gear, the bridge it senses you’re an intruder and it opens up, dumps you right in the acid! Turn you to bare bones in seconds!”

“What ‘right gear’ you talking about?”

“A transmitter—they put it under your chin, stick it under the skin. It transmits to the control on the second bridge—”

“I see. How about those slug things . . .”

“SlagSlugs! Mutated people. Reamus, he used some process—turned ’em into the big slug critters. They’re controlled by whoever creates ’em—they can spit acid, they use it for mining. They dig holes for him, see—he’s gonna make a bunch of ’em and sell ’em to miners all over the galaxy! And they’re good for protecting the place! They’ll slobber all over you—and if it’s not the acid, it’s the glue slobber. It hardens, glues your arms to your body. Then they crunch you up and suck you down!”

“SlagSlugs—they got a vulnerability?”

“When their mouths open . . . shoot in at the roof of their mouth. But if you get that close they usually got your arms glued down. I don’t go near ’em! I stay at the cafeteria! You wanta hamburger? I can sneak you out a scythid burger! Maybe some skag-on-a-bun?”

“No thanks. What’s this place built on? I mean—flat land around here, suddenly Tumessa sticks out like a sore thumb. Shape of it makes me think it’s artificial.”

“Yeah—there’s something down there. He built something, covered it over, set up the factory and house level. But I don’t know what he’s got down there. Took him years to build it, I heard. While he was, you know, mutating. Changing. Into what he is now . . .”

“The patrols—you know their schedules? Or any passwords?”

“The patrols go by fast as they can walk. I never timed ’em. Passwords—there aren’t any!”

The stranger hesitated, and for a moment Gergle thought he was about to lose an eye. Then the man gestured at the creature on Gergle’s chest—and it hopped off with an air of disappointment.

“You’ll get a taste of someone else’s eyes before the night’s through,” the stranger told it. “As for you, Gergle—turn on your stomach and put your hands behind your back.”

Gergle obeyed—afraid of both that winged demon and the machine pistol. He felt wire twisted around his wrists. Then the stranger picked a rag up off the ground and stuffed the unspeakably filthy cloth into Gergle’s mouth.

“That should keep you quiet for a while,” the stranger said.

The winged creature squawked. The stranger growled to himself. “I don’t
like
shooting a man all tied up . . . I know I should just . . . but I figure he’ll lie still till the morning. We’ll be done by then.”

The creature made another squawking sound, resonating of discontent, which Gergle suspected was a sound of disapproval.

“Yeah, yeah, it’ll be all right, girl,” the stranger said.

Was he talking to that hideous leather winged vulture? Calling it
girl
in that tone of affection? Disgusting.

“Mmmf,” Gergle said, trying unsuccessfully to speak around the rag stuffed in his mouth.

The stranger bent near him. “Lie still. It’s not all that long till the sun comes up. Someone will find you. Don’t you dare move or I’ll make you sorry you were born!”

Gergle nodded. The creature fluttered up into the air and the man walked away. After a few moments, Gergle was sure they were gone.

His wrists ached; his belly was cold. His face was bleeding. And there was a horrible taste from the rag in his mouth.

Should he really just obediently lie there?

It seemed to Gergle that he had a rare opportunity. A chance to make himself look good in Reamus’s eyes. Maybe get a reward.

He began to worm his way forward, almost like a SlagSlug, crawling on his belly, gradually slithering up between the buildings, toward the road.

•  •  •

Stepping out on the road beside the Sludge Packer Bar and Grill, Mordecai knew he’d probably made a mistake, leaving Gergle alive. Bloodwing was right. But he’d always had a hard time killing a man who was completely helpless. Sniping was one thing—but killing a man tied up, that way . . . not his style. Still—foolish.

He’d better get the job done quickly. But he couldn’t follow the road. He’d run into patrols, maybe SlagSlugs.

He crossed the road, saw a crooked stairway, winding up the next escarpment, to the back of a row of shacks. Looked like the best route.

Machine pistol in hand, rifle over his shoulder, he climbed the stairs rapidly, quietly as he could, though the wooden
boards creaked under his boots. Still wondering if he should’ve killed Gergle.

He got to the top, slipped as carefully as he could through a rocky passage between the shacks—but then Bloodwing landed on his shoulder, hissing warningly in his ear, and Mordecai drew quickly back into the shadows. He looked out, revealing himself as little as he could. Saw that two Marauders were coming his way, down the street, side by side, heavily armed. Sentries. They didn’t seem to be looking for him—probably only his auto-camo had prevented them from spotting him.

He then made the necessary move.

Nothing. He held still, and he waited for them to go by.

He had two choices, here, basically: let them go—or kill them. If he let them go, that was smooth and easy, and he could slip behind them. He couldn’t kill every man on this artificial mountain. But he’d noticed that the sentry communication wasn’t all that tight on Tumessa. After all, he’d killed five of them already. There clearly was no general alarm going on. If he took out the sentries in his pathway up—that might ease his pathway back down, if he left the way he’d come. Only, he had to be sure to do a good job of hiding the bodies . . .

Okay. He’d made up his mind. He holstered the pistol and drew his knives.

The guards were about five strides past him when he stepped out behind them, thinking,
Maybe the knives are not such a good idea.

He was good up close with knives, but he wasn’t near enough for stabbing—he’d chosen throwing knives when his expertise was with guns.

Too late—one of them heard his boot tip nudge a piece of broken glass, and was turning—Bloodwing leapt up into the air—Mordecai was hard to see in the auto-camo but this close, and in the light, not invisible. The sentry raised his gun—

Mordecai threw the knife—and it penetrated the man’s throat. But the Marauder had partial cover from a weak shield and the knife didn’t go in very well, and besides, Mordecai’s throw hadn’t been quite as straight as he’d wanted. The knife was well balanced, the throw was professional—but not enough.

The knife fell without sticking and the guard raised his shotgun.

Then Bloodwing was there, in the guard’s face, hovering, clawing, pecking.

Mordecai threw the other knife with his left hand while with the right he drew his pistol and fired at the second guard who was sidestepping, raising a submachine gun—

Mordecai blew the guy’s teeth up through his brains and he went down, while the other knife stuck just under the lower edge of the first guard’s shield . . . deeply in his crotch. The man shrieked in pain, firing the shotgun wildly, blowing out the window of a shack.

Bloodwing got out of the way—as she was trained to do—and Mordecai took out the first guard.

“Noisy and messy
,”
Mordecai muttered, as Bloodwing returned to him.

He grabbed the bodies quick as he could and dragged them by the collars between the shacks.

But there was already someone shouting from the shack where the windows had been shot out. There was always someone else he had to kill around here. It was a pain in the ass.

Mordecai turned to the shack, saw a pop-eyed man gaping at him, raising a rifle with shaking hands—Mordecai fired the machine pistol, knocked the guy back into his shack.

Then he started up the hill . . . and saw something coming at him, writhing its way down the hill. It was a disgusting mottled pink color and it was about the heft of a very fat man, though somewhat elongated—and there was something like a chinless man’s face on the front end. It was big-eyed, imbecilic, with a wide mouth seeming far too big for the rest of the face. The thing rippled along toward him, its movements all but boneless. It opened its mouth wide and sprayed a long jet of drool toward him—the pearly gunk fell short, a meter from him, but he saw the stuff immediately harden, as if turning to hard plastic, and remembered what Gergle had said.