The Black Tattoo (52 page)

The noise died down a bit more.
 
Now even the elder Chinj was looking in his direction.

"Listen," said Jack.
 
"I've got a proposition for you."

*
       
*
       
*
       
*
       
*

"I don't believe this," said Number 9, Later.
 
He and Number 3 were making an inventory of whatever equipment had survived their journey.

Number 3 didn't answer.
 
After a last vain attempt to clear the black slime out of the barrel of of one the last two rocket launchers the team had brought with them, he tossed it aside with a scowl.

"I don't believe that kid!" said Number 9.
 
"Where'd he learn to bargain like that?
 
I mean, that was beautiful!
 
Number Two gets left here with the pack, so Project Justice is still game on — and it's all down to Jack!
 
Who'd've guessed it?"

Suddenly, Number 3 stopped what he was doing and straightened up, his expression darkening.

"Number Three?"

*
       
*
       
*
       
*
       
*

"I told you," Jack was saying to the elder Chinj.
 
"You've got my promise."

"And what use is that?
 
The word of a
soup-sucker
."

"And you've got a
hostage
," Jack finished through gritted teeth.

"The Grand Cabal finds your terms to be acceptable," said the large Chinj to the elder's right.
 
It turned to the elder.
 
"May I remind you, my lord, that the Parliament has made its decision.
 
The Chinj peoples have spoken — and you, I'm afraid, must abide by their wishes.
 
Your truculence is unseemly."

"But this is wrong, my brother," said the elder Chinj.
 
"You cannot expect me to stand idly by and watch the long-awaited awakening being jeopardized."

"Look," Jack interrupted.
 
"This is a no-lose situation for you.
 
If we do stop the awakening, then you've still got you consolation prize:
 
you've got my promise that I'll come back, and I've left you Number Two as security."

"Believe me, young human," hissed the elder Chinj, " your agony shall give me considerable pleasure."

"Fine. Dissolve me, whatever, I don't care — but you never know," Jack went on.
 
"If we fail, then you get your awakening thingamajig anyway.
 
So you'll still be happy.
 
All right?"

"Hmph," said the elder Chinj.

"Now if you'll excuse me," said Jack, "I've got to go and help someone save the universe.
 
Before it's too late," he added grimly.

"We too must make our preparations," replied the Chief Grand Cabal SpokesChinj.
 
"We shall meet again."

"Count on it," said Jack.

He watched as the council head and the elder Chinj leaped into the air and flapped off back down the tunnel.
 
His own Chinj stood by him, also watching them go.
 
Then it looked up at Jack.

"Sir," it began.

"Jack," said Jack.
 
"Call me Jack."

"Jack, then," said the Chinj.
 
"I must say, I don’t think I understand you very well.
 
Not at all, to tell the truth."

Jack looked at the bat creature.
 
"It's pretty simple," he said.
 
"I figured either you Chinj get me, or the universe comes to an end.
 
I'm stuffed either way, so what difference does it make how it happens?"

"Well," said the Chinj, "I suppose if you put it like that..."

It paused.

"Do you know, sir?" it said — and by the time Jack had thought to correct it it had already gone on — "I think that there may be more demon — more
gladiator
— in you than you suspect."

They looked at each other.
 
The Chinj was smiling.
 
After a moment, Jack found that he was too.

"Come on," he said.
 
"Let's go find the others.
 
I want to introduce you to an interesting human invention."

"Oh, yes?" asked the Chinj, polite but dubious.
 
"And what's that?"

"Guns," said Jack, and smirked darkly to himself.
 
"Lots of guns."

He set off down the tunnel.

The Chinj shrugged its small shoulders and set off after him.

THE LAST BATTLE

For another moment, the Scourge stared at Esme.

"
You still think you can win
?" it asked.
 
"
Even after your failures before
?"

"Stop talking and find out," was Esme's reply.

"
As you wish
."
 
The Scourge unfolded its liquid-black arms.

It took two steps, burred into motion, and before Esme had time to realize what was happening she felt a blow that took her breath away.

It was like being swatted with an oil tanker.
 
She was hurled back a clear forty feet straight through the air, landing with an impact that drove the air from her lungs.
 
In front of her eyes, the air shimmered, shook, and the Scourge reappeared again.
 
Now cool liquid fingers held Esme by the throat.
 
Looking down the shining black surface of the Scourge's arm, she caught her own startled expression reflected in its face.
 
Feeling her trainered feet leaving the sticky pink ground, Esem looked downward.

She was dangling over the edge of the plateau.

"
Now
," said the Scourge, its voice completely casual, "
are you beginning to realize what a mistake you've made
?
 
Or do you need me to show you some more?
 
Hmm
?"

Esme felt the dreadful grip loosen on her neck.
 
Her windpipe released, she gasped for air.
 
"You're—" she managed.
 
"You're—

"
Yes
," said the Scourge, enjoying the moment.
 
"
My strength has returned.
 
I'm now quite capable of defeating you without the boy
.
 
So you
," it went on, the grip going tight again, "
have lost what little chance you had.
 
Haven't you
?"

Esme closed her eyes.
 
Her head was pounding, her vision was closing in:
 
dark shadows were swallowing everything.
 
As the seconds stretched out, Esme knew she couldn't wait:
 
whatever she was going to do, she would have to do it now.
 
Forcing herself, she reached down inside herself.
 
She felt a shifting sensation—

—then the Scourge's grip was gone, and she could breathe again.
 
She staggered, looking around herself.
 
She had reappeared on the other side of the platform, away from the edge.
 
She could see the Gukumats, backing away all around her.
 
She could see Charlie still sitting frozen on his throne.
 
And as the air bulged and shook and a liquid-black shadow materialized in front of her, she could see the Scourge.

"
Good
,." it said.
 
"
You're learning.
 
It's a shame, really, that this thing between us has to come to an end.
 
But it is going to end.
 
Now
."

And with another blur of movement that was faster than the eye could catch, it launched its attack.

Esme caught the first blow on her forearm, blocking it without thinking.
 
Another blow instantly came lashing at her face and she swerved back to dodge it, swinging her elbows round and together to block the demon's follow-up to her body.
 
Every blow that followed she managed to block, but every block she managed still
hurt
— and step by driving step, she knew, the Scourge was forcing her back across the plateau, away from the center, back toward the edge once again.
 
Esme tried a leap—

—and a muscular piston of darkness shot out from the liquid-black body, catching her by the waist and dragging her back down easily, even as a clubbing roundhouse punch swung in toward the right side of her head to punish her.
 
She caught the blow again on the outside of her forearm:
 
the impact drove a flare of pain right through her shoulders.

But then, with her left, she struck.

It was a solid blow:
 
though it only traveled about a foot or so, it carried all her weight and strength behind it.

It landed smack in the center of the Scourge's face.

For a moment, Esme could actually feel the darkness spreading around her fist, taking her in.
 
She pulled, and a tiny ripple of black spread around the spot where she'd struck, but her fist was now trapped — stuck fast.

The Scourge's body began to shiver and shift.
 
When the darkness resettled, an ink-black hand was on the point of her elbow, and the place where she'd struck had become another hand, gripping her at the wrist.

Esme's arm was straight out.
 
She had time to realize what was about to happen — when the demon retaliated.

With a soft
crack!
 
the Scourge broke her arm once, snapping it back at the elbow by simply pushing against the joint.

With a rippling
pop!
 
it took her trapped wrist and twisted it, a full one hundred and eighty degrees.

It jabbed on her hand, shoving the bones back.
 
By now, Esme's mouth was opening to scream.
 
So then, only then — it released her.

Esme fell on her back, paralyzed by pain, her arm flopping weakly by her side.
 
The sharpened fractures had punched straight through the skin of her elbow, and the bone was sticking out by a clear inch.
 
She stared at the wound.
 
Then she looked up.
 
The Scourge was towering over her.

There was a pause.

"
Hurts, does it
?" it enquired.

Esme stared back, blinking, eyes wide with pain — but, determined not to give the demon the satisfaction, she said nothing.

"
These fighting skills of yours
," it said, raising an admonishing finger, "
they might work on Charlie, but they're not going to be of any use on me.
 
Not now
."

Esme concentrated, concentrated on using her power to heal herself, but it was hard.
 
The pain was incredible; it blanked out everything — everything except the Scourge's voice.

"'
Ninety-nine times out of a hundred
'," it was saying, "'
a fight'll be decided in the first few seconds' — isn't that what Raymond used to tell his students
?"

Esme closed her eyes, and with a terrible, twisting
push
, the bones in her arm began slowly to move back to their positions.

"
He was wrong, of course.
 
Fights are more usually won — and lost — before they even begin.
 
For instance, I would say that it's always a good idea to make sure you know how to win before you can win, yes?
 
Otherwise
," the Scourge added, turning its back on her and walking a few steps away, "
you're going to lose.
 
Painfully
."

It was done.
 
Blood still ran from the wound, but the bones themselves were back in place, the fractures healed, the torn muscles beginning to mend.
 
Sour adrenaline flushed through Esme's body, making every part of her feel heavy.
 
But her arm and her fingers were working.
 
She got to her feet.

"
What's next
?" the Scourge asked.
 
"
What would you like to try now
?"

Esme was thinking.
 
She hadn't bargained on the Scourge being so powerful outside Charlie:
 
in this respect, it was true, she had miscalculated.
 
Despair was clawing at her heart, a sense of doom and failure that a less disciplined fighter might have allowed to overwhelm her.
 
Shoving the feeling aside, forcing herself to concentrate, Esme accepted the mistake and began to consider what it was she could actually
do
about it.

There was only one answer.
 
Esme shut her eyes — and reappeared somewhere else.
 
It didn't occur to her that the skill was coming to her more easily each time she used it:
 
there wasn't time.
 
She reached up, drew the pigeon sword, and, at a speed that hurt to watch, she charged, now —

— at Charlie.

With the fight going the way it was, there was no other option.
 
Mercy was a luxury she could no longer afford.
 
She would find a way to make her peace with what she was about to do later, when the stakes weren't so high.
 
It was, after all, a straight choice now:
 
Charlie or the universe.

One of them had to die.

Charlie's eyes were glazed:
 
he was utterly oblivious.
 
Before the Gukumats could stop her, Esme had blasted past them like a thunderbolt.
 
She raised her arms for the killing stroke.
 
The girl and the sword become one long, glittering streak in the air.