The Last Protector (18 page)

After dining on perfect enchiladas and cold beer, he pointed the bike north. His kilt, faded from the strong chemicals the Stranger had used to scrub the monster's blood from both the plaid and its owner, was rolled up and tied to the bike's handlebars. On this perfect night he looked forward to finding a quiet spot, wrapping up in the warm wool blanket, and sleeping under the stars.

Then, at the intersection of the state highway and a dirt track leading into the desert, he saw the Hitchhiker. An ordinary-looking man, medium height with shaggy gray-blond hair, wearing a gray leather jacket, he stood by the side of the road with his thumb out. Scrornuck was puzzled—there was no sign of a broken-down vehicle, and the Hitchhiker carried no bags or gear.

Still, he couldn't just leave somebody out here. Traffic was virtually nonexistent after dark and this guy didn't look prepared to spend the night in the desert. Scrornuck dropped the bike down a couple gears and coasted to a stop.

"Going my way?” the man in gray asked.

"North, if that's what you mean.” Scrornuck looked into the Hitchhiker's eyes. They were strangely compelling, yellowish, almost cat-like. “Need a lift?"

Wordlessly, the Hitchhiker got on. Scrornuck gunned the motor and quickly accelerated to a comfortable seventy miles an hour.

"Look at that.” The Hitchhiker pointed a finger at the sky, where a ring of blue lights raced past, quickly disappearing in the north. “Little green men?"

Scrornuck shrugged. People in Roswell talked endlessly about lights in the sky, saying they were secret military experiments, or the work of an enemy preparing to invade, or even ships from another world. Scrornuck avoided such people, unless they were buying the beer.

He returned his attention to the road. The last of the twilight faded to night as they crested a small hill. Signs warned of sharp curves as the road wound its way across a dry valley. Scrornuck could see little by the bike's weak headlight, but kept the speed up, enjoying the way the bike leaned in the curves.

Striking sparks from the Knucklehead's muffler, they rounded a sharp, blind right-hander, and for an instant Scrornuck froze. Dead ahead, blocking the road, stood a huge metal disc, easily a hundred feet across and half that in height, squatting on three spindly legs. The top of the disc reminded him of a warrior's shield, a graceful curve with a taller dome rising from its center. Its surface was in places corrugated, in other places smooth, here bristling with spikes and tubes that looked like weapons, there marked by round holes full of black soot. Nestled into sockets around the central dome were several silvery, egg-shaped objects that themselves bristled with spikes and tubes, almost miniatures of the larger disc. Wisps of steam drifted from the disc's underside, and strands of something that Scrornuck couldn't help thinking of as toilet paper dangled beneath it, almost touching the pavement.

After a moment's shock, he slammed on the brakes, downshifting to let the engine assist the bike's weak drums. He looked for an escape route, but the shoulder dropped off sharply into a deep ditch. The best he could do was avoid the legs, hit the toilet-paper stuff and hope.

The bike came to a halt, tangled in the strands dangling beneath the disc. As Scrornuck struggled to free himself, more strands wrapped around his arms and legs. Suddenly they tightened, dragging him off the motorcycle and into an opening in the bottom of the disc. With a very final-sounding clank, a metal hatch closed behind him.

He found himself in a small space, lit by dim red lights. The strands lifted him further and tied him tightly to a sort of a metal and fabric bed which then rotated slowly, until he was facing straight up. He squirmed, trying unsuccessfully to get free of the straps. As his eyes adjusted to the dim red light in the small chamber, he saw pipes, tubes, wires, and other devices that he couldn't recognize covering the walls.

And in the darkness directly above, he saw an array of needles, probes and other disturbingly sharp devices, all aimed right at him. He squirmed, but the straps held him tightly in place. He wished he had Ol’ Red, but the mighty weapon was out of reach, stashed in one of the bike's saddlebags.

"Captain Shemp!” Scrornuck heard the Hitchhiker's voice, coming from behind the metal wall a few inches from his head. “Let's get out of here."

A second voice, raspy and sarcastic in tone, replied. “I've been ready for the last half-hour.” The metal bed beneath Scrornuck vibrated and a dull rumble arose from the darkness, rising in seconds to a deep roar. “Countdown?"

"Keep it short."

"Two, one, liftoff.” The vibration became a shaking, and Scrornuck was pressed down as if he'd suddenly become much heavier. “Short enough?"

"It was fine. Now ready our guest—"

"In a minute—if you don't mind, I've got to steer this heap.” The roaring got louder, the metal bed shook until Scrornuck felt vaguely sick, and the array of needles and probes swayed ominously. There was a sudden lurch, the shuddering dropped to a faint vibration, and the roar diminished to a distant rumble. “There! We made it past Max Q, and the damned thing held together.” The voice of Shemp carried pride, relief and a certain amount of surprise. “Now, Ranger, what are we doing with our guest?"

"Schuffmann Merge process. I want to shoot for a full extraction."

"In theory, a full extraction's not possible."

"In theory, this tub can't fly—but you just got us through Max Q. Now let's get to work..."

"What for? I can drive this thing—"

"Captain Shemp, you scored forty-two on Weapons Proficiency.” The Hitchhiker sounded vaguely irritated.

"Forty-three."

"Whatever. We need a real fighter."

"He'll be a basket case after Schuffmann."

"He's tougher than you think."

"He's a biker, so I'm sure his ass is tough. What about his mind? How the hell is he going to learn..."

"He has the brain structure for VR.” The Hitchhiker's flat statement silenced his sarcastic counterpart. “Now let's get on with it."

"Yes, sir.” The array of needles slowly approached Scrornuck. He squirmed harder, struggling to escape...

"Aw, crap!” The needles stopped, inches from Scrornuck's face.

"Is there a problem?"

"By any chance, do you know what a ‘Guideline Two Resolver Error’ is, Ranger?"

"No."

"Neither do I, but it's not letting me proceed."

"Force it. Give it a full override on my authority."

"If you say so...” The needles and probes jerked closer. Scrornuck desperately tried to shrink into the metal bed. The first point touched his cheek, drawing a drop of blood—

"Dammit!” The machinery stopped again, and Captain Shemp's voice sounded pained. “Whatever a ‘Guideline Two Error’ is, it hurts!"

"Override the error!"

"What do you think I'm trying to do?” The needles twitched once more...

"Oh, hell—” Captain Shemp's voice dropped in pitch and faded away, replaced by a flat, mechanical voice: “RESOLVER ERROR, GUIDELINE TWO. SYSTEM SHUTDOWN IN THREE SECONDS. TWO. ONE."

The Hitchhiker shouted desperately, “Cancel shut—"

"SYSTEM SHUTDOWN.” The room went dark, the rumbling ceased, and Scrornuck's stomach insisted he was falling.

"Initiate restart,” the Hitchhiker said, softly and deliberately. “Custom configuration."

"RESTARTING. SPECIFY UNITS TO INITIALIZE."

"Ship control. Guidance. Thrust management. Navigation. Weapons management. Accessory power.” An instant later the red light came back on and Scrornuck heard hisses, bangs, and a dull rumbling as his weight returned. The Hitchhiker's voice sounded more confident as he continued his commands. “Subject merge custom configuration."

"CUSTOM CONFIGURATION ACKNOWLEDGED."

"Procedure: Schuffmann process surgical merge."

"SELECTION CONFIRMED."

"Configure inhibits."

"SELECT ACTIVE INHIBITS."

A long silence followed. Finally, the Hitchhiker said, “Resolver Guideline Two, full inhibit."

"WARNING! FULL INHIBIT OF GUIDELINE TWO MAY LEAD TO—"

"Understood. Execute merge."

There was a long pause.

"COMMAND ACCEPTED,” the flat mechanical voice said. The needles and probes paused for a second, as if trying to decide just what to do next. Scrornuck felt a slight pinprick in his backside, and then, for a time, he felt nothing.

After a period of black, dreamless sleep, he awoke, screaming...

"Come on, Mister Saughblade,” a reassuring voice said, “snap out of it!” He felt a hand on his shoulder, opened his eyes and saw Jape and Nalia standing over him with concerned looks on their faces. He realized his hands were wrapped so tightly around the arms of his chair that the metal was bending. “It's all right,” Jape said, peeling Scrornuck's hand from the chair. “It's over; you're safe."

Scrornuck's heart raced and his breath came in a series of shallow gasps. “It's—it's just..."

Jape patted Scrornuck's hand reassuringly. “It's over, Mister Saughblade, it's over."

Scrornuck's voice faded to a thin squeak. “It's just—it's just that it hurt so much..."

"Don't talk about it,” Jape said.

"What's over?” Nalia asked.

"The—"

"Not now, Mister Saughblade.” Jape's voice carried a combination of tenderness and authority. He turned away and whispered, more to himself than to Scrornuck, “Maybe not ever."

"Don't get too comfortable,” Jape warned as Scrornuck settled into a lounge chair. “We have work to do.” He walked around the deserted pool area, placing the reloaded practice-round launchers in secluded spots behind potted plants, in some of the small trees, atop pieces of ornamental stonework.

"Work, schmork, it's time to catch some rays!” A couple stiff drinks and an excellent lunch had put Scrornuck's unpleasant memories to rest and left him looking forward to a siesta. He pulled off his shirt and shouted, “Go ahead, Mister Sun, burn me!"

"Burn you?” Nalia asked. “How could the sun do that?"

"You know, lobster red skin, blisters, peeling?"

"I've never seen the sun do that to anybody."

"Really?” Jape said, setting a launcher in place. “Nobody gets sunburn here?"

"Nope, you just get a little browner."

Curious, Jape held up his hand and watched as his rings flashed a complex message. “Would you look at that! They modified the ozone layer—it filters out the rays that cause sunburn and skin cancer and leaves only those that promote a nice tan."

"I love this place!” Scrornuck cried. “Even the sun's friendly!” He burrowed his shoulders into the chair, almost perfectly content. An instant later, when the server arrived with a cold beer, there was no “almost” about it.

"No lying down on the job, Mister Saughblade.” Jape set the last of the launchers in place. “I told you there's work to be done."

"I am working.” Scrornuck took a cool drink of his beer. “I'm working on my tan."

"I mean real work."

"Oh, all right.” Scrornuck sat up. “Duty calls, I guess."

"Jape's turn to practice?” Nalia asked.

"Not bloody likely. He doesn't even own a sword."

"That's strange—everybody in this town learns to handle a sword by the time they're twelve."

"Not me,” Jape said firmly. “Mister Saughblade handles the swords around here.” He tapped the softscroll. “Actually, it's your turn, Nalia. I want to see how quick you are. Mister Saughblade, would you make a little space?"

Scrornuck moved tables and chairs to create an open area about fifteen feet across, positioned Nalia in the middle of the space, and gave her a little kiss on the cheek. “For good luck,” he said.

Jape took a seat at a table safely out of harm's way and whispered a command to the scroll. The practice-round launchers hummed softly. “Ready?"

Nalia raised her sword and nodded. Jape tapped the scroll and the launchers began firing. She knocked down most of the targets, though she missed some and got splattered with red paint several times.

The series of shots ended, and Jape stared intently at the scroll. “Uh-huh, there's our baseline. Now it's time to get to work. Ready to try again?"

Nalia nodded, Jape tapped the scroll, and the launchers fired. She did much better the second time, knocking down nearly all the targets. It seemed to Scrornuck that she didn't move any faster—she just always seemed to be facing the right way when a shot was fired. “Did you make it easier?” she asked, as the series ended. “I think I was connecting more."

"You hit 89 percent this time. First time you only hit 75 percent."

"What was different?"

"The first time, the scroll fired the launchers directly. The second time, I had it generate the sequence of shots and show me which one to fire. Then I fired each one manually, so I knew which direction the next shot would come from."

She pondered this. “And because you knew, you think I knew? I was reading your mind?"

Jape nodded. “Exactly. It's what you were doing in the bar when we first saw you in action."

"Sure I'm not just getting better because I'm practicing?"

"What are you practicing? You already know how to swing a sword. Let's try it again, but with a bit more challenge. Mister Saughblade, may we have a bandanna?"

Scrornuck untied a red bandanna from his left boot. “What for?"

"If you would blindfold Nalia, please."

She stared at Jape as if he'd gone nuts. “I won't be able to hit anything if I can't see!"

"Or perhaps you won't be distracted."

With little enthusiasm, she let Scrornuck tie the bandanna over her eyes. “If I get all covered with that red gunk..."

"Room service is very good at doing laundry."

She did better, much better, scoring 94 percent on the third round and 97 on the fourth. She whooped triumphantly as she pulled the blindfold off and grabbed a long drink from Scrornuck's beer. “This is fun! Let's do it again!"