'So where is it?'
'The HLA have it now. It's out there somewhere.' He looked around, up to those barren hills. 'They took all the slaves that survived the ambush. Up into the hills. They starburst after a hit. So they're wandering around out there right now in little groups of four or five, on their way to some rendezvous deep in the Chetta. The strike force is going after them, but that's not the way to find Originals. We've got to go after them on the ground. We can't read the sign from the air; we can't see them from the air.'
'Can Sandman find them?' Priestess blinked as a gust of oily smoke swirled around her face.
'Sandman can track Originals, sure,' the Sandman said. 'But they've starburst. We can't track them all.'
'Understood. Can it read the starburst for us, and tell what it sees?'
Another military aircar rose in a swirling cloud of dust. 'We'll have to wait for these folks to clear out,' the Sandman said, 'and then we'll see.'
I kept quiet. I was supposed to be running the show, but all I had done so far was fall apart after shooting Biergart. Priestess was taking her Lady Arbell role seriously. Her ideas were proving better than mine.
###
The Sandman signalled us—four fingers, ahead. It was pitch black. A cool breeze gently washed over my face. Clouds covered the stars. Every muscle in my body ached, and my throat was dry and cracked, and I could hardly breathe.
This Sandman was good. We crawled forward like cats on all fours. We had followed the Sandman on a wide circle around the ambush site, that first day, and picked up seven separate trails. The Sandman could read them like a d-screen. Each group had female slaves accompanying their Original captors.
We had a one in seven chance of choosing the right bunch.
At times like that you just go with the Gods, and pray it's right. We chose a group of two Originals and two slave girls. One of the girls was bleeding from bare feet, and we thought perhaps it was Whit, because she had not been in prison long and her feet would still be soft. We couldn't do a genetic ID because we didn't have the equipment. It wasn't much, but it was all we had.
We followed the trail until dark, force-marching on foot over rugged countryside. We brought plenty of water and SG's and mags. We spent a restless night and started early, under dark skies, following the Sandman as he tracked the Originals like a dog. As dawn broke, we found where they had spent the night—no fire, but there were empty foodpaks buried shallowly, and we could see the marks of their SG's in the dirt. The girls had been tied together, and it looked like both had been raped. We pressed on under the rising sun on foot, not even pausing to eat. We chewed Systie rats on the march. We knew we were gaining on them. They were slowed down by the girls. They beat one of the girls viciously at one point—we found blood on the rocks, and a broken, bloody stick. They were heading over rough country, higher and higher into the mountains. We kept going. We marched all day and into the night.
The Sandman was worried at first that we couldn't keep up. We showed him he was wrong. Priestess offered him quite a lot of money to guide us. He accepted, of course, but somehow I did not think the money was his primary motivation.
We found them on the second night. The fools had lit a fire. It was in a deep pit, but we could see the glow. We approached slowly, slithering up like snakes. The Sandman was still wearing those dark goggles. He had a cut- down x gun and we had our SG's. They were drinking liquor from the caravan, two Originals, just black shadows in the faint glow from the fire. Fools—they thought they were safe. They were dead. They laughed and talked as we stalked them.
'Squirmers! Hee hee!'
'You friend taste good. Haw!'
'Where you pants, girl? Ha?'
'Do it hurt? Aw haw haw!'
A sickly sweet stench tickled my nostrils. Scorched flesh—they were cooking something in that fire. I suddenly realized what it was they were cooking. The Sandman held up three fingers. Adrenalin burst through my veins. I could hear a faint moaning. I could barely make it out—another figure, on the ground.
'You hungry, girl? Aw ha!'
'Make it eat! Ha ha ha!'
'Hey girl, you want a breast or leg? Aw haw haw haw!' One of them fell over laughing, drunk and sloppy.
'So we dork her or what?'
'You such a dumb scut. I try to civilize you, but you don't know nothing. I tole you, we got to torture it.'
'Yeah, but first we dork her.'
'You so stupid, you hopeless. You got to torture it first.'
'Why?'
'You member las' night, dummy? This one kick so hard it almos' cripple me. You torture 'em first, then when you ready to dork 'em, they don't fight you.'
'Yeah?'
'You so freakin' stupid!'
Another moan from the body on the ground. A faint, cracked voice. 'Please…please. Water.'
'Water? Aw ha ha! Yeah, you drink my pee!'
'Haw haw! I so dizzy I can't get up!'
'Please…why so cruel? Why?' I could barely hear her.
'Cruel? Cruel?' One of the Originals staggered to his feet. 'I show you cruel! You going to eat you friend! You want water? You can drink her blood! You going make us happy, girl, then maybe we kill you, if you lucky.'
'Why are you doing this?' It was a hopeless moan.
The Original laughed. 'You don't like us because we different. You don't like us! So why we have to treat you nice? Ha? You tell us!'
Priestess stepped out into the campsite suddenly, standing right above the outstretched figure on the ground. She was a chilling phantom in black, faintly illuminated by the red glow from the pit, her SG tucked casually under one arm. The Original gasped, standing there weaving drunkenly, his eyes widening, his savage mouth popping open, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. Priestess fired once on xmin, and the Original's head exploded, blood and bones and brain splattering everywhere. The Original's headless body twitched once, then fell heavily to the ground. The echo of the shot rolled through the night.
The second Original scrambled frantically to his feet, thrashing around desperately in a pile of junk littering the campsite, coming up finally with a long, wicked cold knife. He was almost naked, wild hair and flashing eyes, stumbling over his own feet in a drunken panic. I had him in my sights.
Priestess dropped her SG right onto the ground, deliberately. She walked casually toward the Original and right into my line of fire. I raised my SG. What the hell?
The Original waved his knife around, frantic. Priestess came at him, swinging a right cross. I could hear her first connecting, right onto his face. He went down hard and his knife bounced away into the dark.
Dragon and the Sandman were with me now, looking around the site. There was no sign of any more Originals. Priestess was standing over the only one left.
'Get up,' she said.
He was breathing hard, a ragged, rasping wheeze. He scrambled to his feet again, unarmed. Nine came at him again and hit him viciously before he could react, right in the face. He went down with a faint moan. His nose was broken. There was blood all over his face.
'Get up.'
I stood over the firepit. They had cooked the other slave girl here, on a spit—Lord! I had to look away.
The Original forced himself up, trembling. Priestess kicked him right in the crotch, a tremendous kick. He squealed and jackknifed back down into the dirt. Nine was weaving, breathing shallowly, walking around him, her face cold and set.
'Get up. Get up, you pig!' She seized him by his long, wild hair and forced him to his knees. He moaned, clutching his stomach. She backed off and kicked him right in the face. It knocked him onto his back. He lay there moaning, writhing like a broken worm, gasping and coughing and spitting blood.
