The Last Protector (19 page)

"Let's see just how good you can be,” Jape said. “Mister Saughblade, your fingers are quicker than mine; would you take the controls?"

"Sure thing.” Scrornuck's skill with guitar, piano and pipes, not to mention Ol’ Red, had given him extremely swift fingers. This was going to be fun. “Ready, Nalia?” She slid the bandanna back over her eyes and nodded.

"Here we go!” The buttons on the scroll flickered. Scrornuck's fingers danced over them, moving through grips and throws and taorluaths and doublings as if he were playing the pipes—and Nalia swung wildly, missing one shot after another, finally collapsing in a red-splattered heap and dejectedly pulling the paint-soaked bandanna from her eyes. “I couldn't feel anything."

"Mister Saughblade,” Jape said, “You were following the scroll, weren't you?” Scrornuck nodded, feeling both unfairly accused and guilty. He'd done exactly as Jape had instructed, yet he'd soaked Nalia with red paint.

Jape pressed a few buttons on the softscroll as Nalia got to her feet and wrung some of the red paint from her bandanna. “Let's try it again—and Mister Saughblade, make sure you're paying attention."

Scrornuck paid attention, concentrating on every flash of the scroll's lights, every press of the buttons, but the results were even worse. Nalia swung aimlessly, slashing the potted plants, running into furniture, tripping and falling over a lounge chair. When the exercise finally ended, she was covered with sticky red glop. “Shit,” she muttered, flinging the bandanna in Scrornuck's general direction. “Mind reading, my ass!"

The three returned to the suite, where Nalia headed straight for the shower. Jape sat at the table, studying the softscroll, trying to make sense of what had happened. Scrornuck retrieved his pipes from the backpack and sat cross-legged on the broad stone railing of the balcony, playing a melancholy tune.

She emerged a half-hour later, still probing her ears for bits of red dye, and flopped onto the couch, still muttering about how mind reading was a load of bullshit.

"I'm sorry you got so dirty,” Jape said. “I don't know what went wrong in that last exercise, but please believe me. The tests show you've got mind-reading talent."

"Yeah, right."

Jape continued patiently. “Mind reading ability comes in many forms, and many levels of development. Right now, you can read feelings and simple thoughts—in particular, you can tell what people are planning to do before they do it."

"Some people.” She shot a pointed look at Scrornuck.

"You have talent, but you're weak on control."

"Weak, nothing—I can't control it at all."

"Well, control comes with practice."

"And getting splattered with paint?"

"Not necessarily.” Jape tapped the softscroll and something that looked like a board game appeared. “I have other tests that aren't so messy."

With a sigh, she got up from the couch and took a seat across the table from Jape. “I wish this made sense."

"And I wish I had a beer,” Scrornuck said, slipping on his ratty “REQUIRED” shirt. “Difference is, my wish is going to come true. I'm going to the bar. Want anything?” Nalia opted for a Friendly Afternoon Wine, Jape for his usual longneck lager. Scrornuck saluted, swung his legs over the railing and nonchalantly dropped to the courtyard.

After getting drinks—and receiving a stern lecture from the head custodian about playing paintball on the pool deck—he returned in a like manner, letting the boots lift him to the third-floor balcony. He found Nalia and Jape hunched over the table, carrying on an intense conversation in voices just above a whisper. After watching in silence for the better part of a minute, he cleared his throat and said, “Hi, guys. Am I interrupting anything?"

Nalia practically jumped out of her chair as he put the drinks down.

"Uh, no,” Jape said, “we were just talking about our plans for tonight."

Scrornuck held up his beer. “I hope they involve plenty of this stuff."

"Probably. We're going to continue from last night, same place, same time. Nalia has a few more contacts we want to explore, and—” he finished quickly “—we're going to try to get some more information from Mister Tremmlowe."

Scrornuck frowned. “I tell you, that guy's a snake in the grass."

"How's he different from any other information dealer?"

"I just have this feeling that he's up to something, okay?"

"I didn't know you were a mind reader."

Scrornuck shrugged. “Hey, I'm just the bodyguard. I think he's trouble. If I'm wrong, I'm wrong.” He sipped his beer. “And if I'm right, I'll find a way to get us out of it alive."

"You always do,” Jape said, “you always do."

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"Something wrong, Mister Saughblade?” Jape asked, a moment after Nalia left the dinner table to use the ladies’ room. “Those look like pretty tasty enchiladas, and you've just been picking at them."

"Yeah,” Scrornuck sighed. “I'm stuck on that story I began this morning. It keeps coming back into my head, and when I get to the part with the needles—” He put down his fork and pushed his plate aside. “I wish I could get all the way to the end of it."

"Well, we need you fully present this evening,” Jape said. “Let's deal with this, now.” He cleared the center of the table. “Take my hands.” Scrornuck reached across the table and gripped Jape's hands firmly. He stared into the Ranger's eyes, deep blue and seeming to go on forever. “Listen carefully, Mister Saughblade,” Jape said in a soft, reassuring voice. “I am with you, and no matter what happens I will not let you go. Understand?” Scrornuck nodded. “Good. Then close your eyes, hold on tight—and remember."

After a period of black, dreamless sleep, Scrornuck awoke, screaming. Every nerve in his body was aflame with agony, and when he opened his eyes he saw hundreds, maybe thousands, of fine wires had burrowed under his skin—each, it seemed, carrying its own cargo of pain. Beneath his own wail, he heard a voice reciting meaningless numbers: “Gain plus fifty. Phasing minus fourteen. Damping up three."

Scrornuck had always told himself that if he had to meet some grisly end, he would do so with the silent courage displayed by the heroes and martyrs of legend. Here, in the red-lit belly of this terrible machine, he learned the truth—he screamed until his throat was raw, and then he screamed some more.

"Alpha down four,” the voice babbled on. “Theta plus six."

Scrornuck begged and prayed for someone, anyone, to come and rescue him, but nobody came. Finally, he closed his eyes and prayed for death to put an end to the pain.

And his prayers received an unexpected answer.

"Sync achieved.” The voice sounded relieved.

All sensation ceased. No pain, no sound, no vision, nothing. For a moment, Scrornuck wondered if he were dead.

Into the nothing came something that was not quite a sound, but a voice that he perceived without hearing.

Mister Saughblade?

Yes, Scrornuck replied. Who are you?

Name, rank and serial number? The voice carried an air of mild amusement. I am Earth Orbit Interceptor 3G06, speaking through a Shempington V3.261 personality interface. You can call me Captain Shemp.

What is this place?

The Ranger will explain that later, should we survive. Can you function?

Scrornuck wasn't sure exactly what Captain Shemp meant—he felt nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing but the voice.

Can you fight? the voice clarified.

With what? Scrornuck thought in reply. I don't have any arms or legs, you bastard—

Captain Shemp cut him off. Yes, you can fight. Again, Scrornuck detected a touch of amusement in the voice. Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, we both have work to do. Good luck, Mister Saughblade.

"Hey, what's going on?” Nalia asked as she returned. “It looks like you two are getting ready to rub noses or something."

"I'm helping Mister Saughblade get past some difficult memories,” Jape replied. “Did it work?"

Scrornuck listened to his body. His breathing was slow and steady, his heart wasn't racing, his grip on Jape's hands was relaxed. He recalled the most awful moments inside the silver disc, and they came back as something that happened once-upon-a-time, something that had been horrible but was now over and would never trouble him again. “I think it did,” he said, his small smile turning to a broad grin. “Hey, Nalia—you want to hear the end of that story I started this morning?"

"I don't know,” she said. “It sounded pretty gross..."

"Nah, we're past the gross part.” He reached for his dinner and his beer. “Now it's time for the fun!"

Scrornuck opened his eyes and found himself sitting atop his motorcycle in the middle of a gray desert: gray sand beneath his wheels, gray sky above, gray-brown mountains in the distance, and a storm of gray dust brewing dead ahead. He blinked, looked around, blinked again, shook his head, but the scene didn't change.

In the bike's rear-view mirror, he saw a small oasis of trees and greenery, the only color in this drab land. The Hitchhiker stood on the edge of the oasis, holding a shield as if preparing to defend the spot from something.

But from what? Scrornuck strained to see. The dust storm approached. The dust suddenly parted, and from it roared a fleet of forty sleek, fast-moving and definitely hostile yellow motorcycles. He gunned his motor and rode out to meet them, not sure how to do battle from a bike but determined to protect that little green oasis. The bike's handlebars felt soft and warm, rather like the grip of his sword. He gave them a tentative squeeze and found they controlled guns, small rockets and flame-shooting weapons. He was not going into battle unarmed.

He met the first attacker head-on, firing his weapons, dodging flame and lightning-bolts from his enemy. His bike cornered surprisingly well in the sand and dust of the desert, breaking loose its back wheel and sliding as he dodged the enemy's shots. He came around from the far side of the attacker, fired another blast, and the other bike went up in a ball of flame.

Spinning around in a cloud of dust, he got behind another of the enemy and fired a missile up his tailpipe—but as he swerved to avoid the explosion, he ran head-on into a third enemy motorcycle. Flames surrounded him for an instant, and then he was back where he'd started, sitting on his bike, a few feet from the Hitchhiker. The man in gray held up three fingers—three down, many more to go.

Scrornuck roared back into battle, shooting, dodging, sliding, leading the other bikes in circles and shooting them from behind, taking out five of the attackers before a lucky shot blew his own bike from under him. Again he found himself on a new bike, next to the Hitchhiker, who smiled encouragement.

So the battle continued. Scrornuck destroyed eight of the enemy before his third bike was rammed from the side, he wiped out seven with his fourth bike and another six with his fifth, and his sixth bike was destroyed in a head-on collision that obliterated five of the enemy at once. When he dropped bike number seven into gear, again to a cheerful wave from the Hitchhiker, the once-great swarm of attackers was down to fewer than a dozen.

As he roared forward, two of the enemy bikes swooped in from his left and right, attempting to get around him. Scrornuck swerved and fired on one, blowing it to pieces with his second shot, but the other managed to get off two shots at the Hitchhiker before Scrornuck shot a missile up its tailpipe. The Hitchhiker raised his shield and deflected the first shot, but the second hit the shield dead-center, knocking it from his hands and sending him sprawling.

Suddenly the desert was gone, replaced by the hellish room inside the silver disc. Pain returned, searing through every nerve in his body. He was surrounded by blood, steam, and broken, twisted pieces of metal, broken needles, torn wires. Through the steam and jumbled debris he saw a jagged hole in the metal wall, and outside a black sky full of stars and streaks of red and green light.

He heard the voice of the Hitchhiker, angry and afraid. “Captain Shemp! What the hell just happened?"

"The dips got lucky. We took a hit in G compartment."

"Can you recover?"

"If you'll let me get to work.” Shemp sounded unafraid, just irritated. “Dammit—full extraction's impossible to begin with, and now you want me to do it under combat conditions—"

Scrornuck felt a sensation that he would never be able to properly describe. He would later try to explain it as the feeling of being torn away from everything. It lasted less than a second, and then he again found himself in nothingness—no pain, no light, no sound, no sense of anything. Then he suddenly perceived a flood of words, spoken and written in a thousand tongues, just out of earshot, just beyond his vision. As quickly as they came, they were gone. What was that, he wondered.

Your Gift, a voice in his head said, to replace what's been taken. It'll be there when you need it.

The nothingness lasted only an instant, and then he was back on the bike, with more of the enemy bearing down on him. With a shrug, he rejoined the battle, fighting even harder than before, shooting more accurately, cornering more quickly, and feeling like he and his bike were a single being. In short order he destroyed the last of the enemy motorcycles and rode back, smiling, to the oasis.

The Hitchhiker pointed at the swirling cloud of dust, and Scrornuck saw that the battle wasn't over. A huge machine emerged from the dust, a machine so immense that he had trouble believing anything that big could move that fast. It was three or four stories high, steered by a single wheel in what looked like an enormous motorcycle fork, pushed forward by more wheels than he could count. As it approached, he saw its decks swarming with warriors, all clad in rubber outfits that reminded him of Stuart's hazmat suit.

The Hitchhiker tossed him the dented shield, and Scrornuck roared out to do battle. He pulled up next to the machine, locked his throttle, stood very carefully on the seat—and jumped.