Caine Black Knife

They were starting out from a place of power already, that’s all. They get to have everything I busted ass for without putting their butts on the line.

But y’know, my butt was never all that much on the line either. Half the scars I carry are from wounds that should have killed or crippled me-would have killed or crippled anyone who’s not an Actor. Unlimited access to the most cutting-edge medical treatment in the world, plus the occasional use of flat-out magick: the best health plan in the history of both universes.

So what’s the difference between me and them? The real difference? They were in it for fun. I got paid. That’s about it.

It’s an old joke at the Studio Conservatory, and not a funny one: If you kill for money, you’re a soldier. If you kill for fun, you’re a psychopath. If you kill for money and for fun, you’re an Actor.

Dizhrati golzinn motherfucking ekk.

My headache thundered in my ears. “You said you had a mission objective.”

“Sure.” Bush swung his talons toward the Pratt amp; Redhorn. “It’s a sander. On that hotel.”

“Sander?”

“Search and destroy. Nobody left alive. And we burn the place down. Five hundred points. Fuck, don’t you know anything?”

“I know some things.”

Search and destroy. I would have vanished without a trace-missing, presumed dead in the fire. . This Faller character was going about things in a very organized way. Looked like he always did. He had a setup twice as nifty as the Khryllian trick of using grill hostages as draft animals. Ten times as nifty.

Let’s say you’re an Overworld Company goon trapped here on Assumption Day, and you want to get home. If you know enough folklore, you know about the dillin, and you might even remember the references in my dad’s book, Tales of the First Folk, where he suggested that the Quiet Land-the place the dillin are supposed to lead to-might be Earth. You might also remember cubing Retreat from the Boedecken and the story behind the Tear of Pan chasell, and when you get to Purthin’s Ford, you start mining griffinstones. But not for money.

For power.

And when you find out about this Smoke Hunt business-that some enterprising ogrilloi have managed to find a way to tap into the Outside Power that was both the dil T’llan and the onetime God of the Black Knives-you discover that animating the Smoke Hunters draws enough energy off the Outside Power that you can force open the dil.

Well and good. You can get to Earth. But you don’t go to Earth. . because you’re smart enough to know you’re sitting on the only working gate between Earth and Home.

I discovered that I was kind of looking forward to meeting this fucker.

I squinted past them at the bloody corpse of Calm Guy on the boardwalk, then up over the skyline of the hostelry’s roof. “I know some things,” I repeated. “I know you fuckers aren’t going in there. And you’re not gonna burn it down, either.”

“Aw, come on,” one of them-I think it was the Windsor, but it was dark, and really, when you come right down to it all dead grills look pretty much alike to me-said, “You’re gonna cost us the game- ”

“A little over five minutes ago I killed three men to protect that place. Three real men, who really died.” I looked deep into the Windsor’s piss-yellow eyes. “What do you think I’ll do to you?”

The Windsor blinked. “Whoa-for real? Would you really? I mean, that’d be so fucking cool-way better than an autograph!”

“I’ll torture the fuck out of you, if it makes you happy. Just don’t burn my shit.”

Bush sniggered. “What, were you in there? We could have killed you? Hot fuck, how awesome would that be? To be the guys who killed Caine?”

Packard nodded slowly. “Y’know. .” He looked around at the others. “We still could. .”

“Settle down-”

Bush looked suddenly thoughtful. “All you’ve got is that gun, right?”

I said, “Let me explain,” and put a tristack into his kneecap.

The impact spun him, and when he tried to catch himself, his leg bent backward and folded in half and toppled him sideways, because the shatter-slugs had chopped his knee joint into ogrillo scrapple.

“Hey. .” he said, aggrieved. “Hey, come on. What’d you do that for?”

I hefted the Automag. “Anybody else?”

“This sucks,” Bush said as he struggled to get back to his feet. Er, foot. “I haven’t got to kill anybody yet!”

“Cry me a fucking river.” I shrugged down at the ogrillo body he was wearing. “You should be grateful. Other people who make that mistake with me don’t live through it.”

“It was Packard’s idea-why don’t you shoot his leg off?”

“And it’s still a good one,” Packard said. “Everybody spread out. When he opens fire on me, rush him. I don’t know how many points he’s worth, but who gives a shit? This is Caine. How cool are we?”

“Sure, ice cold, you are.” I took a step backward into the alley. If I could get deep enough, I could enfilade them as they came at me. Which wouldn’t likely be enough to save my life, but I didn’t have any better ideas.

A slight noise from behind me in the alley-a metallic rustle, like a sleepy silver rattlesnake-and I risked a quick glance over my shoulder in time to see the shadows transform into a straight, severe man in straight, severe armor, plain and functional except for the golden Sunburst upon the open electrum Palm on the breast of the cuirass, and I said, “Holy crap-I never thought I’d be saying this, but I am really glad to see you right now-”

Markham, Lord Tarkanen, replied simply, “Pynhall.” He was faster than Tyrkilld.

I never saw it coming.

THE CAINE WAY

RETREAT FROM THE BOEDECKEN (partial)

You are CAINE (featured Actor: Pfnl. Hari Michaelson)

MASTER: NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION, UNDER PENALTY OF LAW.

© 2187 Adventures Unlimited Inc. All rights reserved.

“ Tizarre-!” I hiss as loud as I dare. “Tizarre, goddammit. .”

The next flare of summer lightning shows only the back of her neck and the strings of her mouse-brown hair. She hasn’t moved. Not even a twitch from her limp-fingered hands, corpse-pale above the knotted rope that holds her arms and head and shoulders above the half-liquid muck of rotting flesh and marrow-sucked bones, scraps of unidentifiable vegetables, old puke and softening turds.“

While the rumble of thunder rolls past the camp, I scratch up a fistful of sand and gravel. No point in calling anymore; any louder and it might not matter how good my improvised ghillie suit is. Some alert Black Knife buck might start to wonder why a pile of scrub and rock near the edge of the slop pit is suddenly stage-whispering in a human voice.

Pretty soon somebody’s gonna notice there’s one too many piles anyway.

I push my fist out from under the ghillie’s rope fringe and drop some gravel into the the slop pit’s darkness. Onto my best guess at the back of her neck. “Tizarre-!”