The Naked God - Faith

airlock hatch inside.

“Welcome aboard,” Etchells said.

Al ran down the last flight of stairs to find Mickey standing at the bottom. The lieutenant took a terrified step backwards.

“Al, please, I did everything I could. I swear it.” He crossed himself elaborately. “On my mother’s life, we tried to get Jez out of there. Three of the guys got whacked just stepping through the door. Those bullets are too much. They kill you, Al, kill you dead.”

“Shut the fuck up, Mickey.”

“Sure, Al, sure thing. Absolutely. I’m dumb. From now on. Definitely.”

Al peered across the hallway. Bullets had shredded the composite wall panelling, even hacking their way into the metal behind. Opposite him, the Nixon suite’s doors glinted prismatically in the light emerging from the two surviving ceiling panels.

“Where’s Kiera, Mickey?”

“She was in there, Al. I swear.”

“Was?”

“They stopped firing a couple of minutes ago. We can sense some of them still.”

Al tapped his baseball bat on the floor, contemplating the Nixon suite. “Hey,” he shouted. “You in there. I brought a whole truckload of my guys with me, and any minute now we’re gonna march right in and beat seven types of crap out of you. Your shooters ain’t gonna be no good against this many of us. But if you come out right now, then you got my word that you don’t get your balls screwed into the nearest light socket. This is between me and Kiera now. Walk away.”

The baseball bat tapped out a metronome beat on the ground. A figure moved behind the crystalline sheet with slow caution.

“Mickey?” Al asked. “Why didn’t you just jump the bastards through the ceiling?”

Mickey’s shoulders wriggled awkwardly under his double-breasted suit. “The ceiling?”

“Never mind.”

“I’m coming out,” Hudson Proctor called. He stepped through the gap in the crystal; his arm was outstretched, holding the machine gun by its strap.

Thirty Thompson sub-machine guns were lined up on him, most of them silver-plated. He closed his eyes and waited for the shots, Adam’s apple bobbing quickly.

Al couldn’t quite figure the spark of outrage glimmering in the man’s mind. Fear, yes, plenty of it. But Hudson Proctor was indignant about something.

“Where is she?” Al asked.

Hudson tilted over from his waist, allowing the machine gun to rest on the floor before letting go of the strap. “Gone,” he said. “A hellhawk took her off.” He paused, real anger heating his expression. “Just her. I was climbing in behind her and she shoved a fucking gun in my face. That bitch; there was room for all of us on board—she just left us behind. Didn’t give a fuck about us. I made everything happen for her, you know. Without me she would never have kept control of the hellhawks. I was the one who kept them in line.”

“Why did a hellhawk take her off?” Al asked. “She ain’t got nothing over them any more.”

“It’s Etchells, the Stryla , he’s obsessed about what kind of weapon the Tyrathca have on the other side of the Orion Nebula. He took her with him so she could fire the combat wasps. They’ll probably start the first inter-species war. Both of them are crazy enough.”

“Women, huh?” Al gave him a friendly grin.

Hudson’s face twitched. “Yeah. Women. Fuck ’em.”

“All they’re good for.” Al laughed.

“Yeah, right.”

The baseball bat caught Hudson square on the crown of his head, smashing through the bone to cleave the brain in two. Blood splashed down the front of Al’s sharply cut suit, splattering on his patent leather shoes. “And just look at the shit they get you into,” he told the collapsing corpse.

Thirty streamers of white fire stabbed out in unison, vaporizing the crystal wall and decimating the possessed cowering behind it.

Libby’s cries brought them to the bedroom. Everyone hung back as Al went through the door into the darkened room. Libby was kneeling on the floor, cradling a figure in a stained towelling robe. Her thin voice was a constant piteous wail, like some animal braying for its dead mate. She rocked softly backwards and forwards, dabbing at Jezzibella’s face. Al moved forwards, fearing the worst. But Jezzibella’s thoughts were still present, still flowing through her own brain.

Libby turned her head to face him, tears glinting down her cheeks. “Look what they did,” she whimpered. “Look at my poppet, my beautiful beautiful poppet. Devils, devils all of you. That’s why you were sent to the beyond. You’re devils.” Her shoulders trembled as she slowly curled herself around Jezzibella, cuddling her fiercely.

“It’s okay,” Al said. His mouth was dry and he bent down beside the stricken old woman. In his whole life he’d never been so scared for what he would see.

“Al?” Jezzibella gasped. “Al, is that you?”

Scorched, empty eye sockets searched round for him. He gripped her hand, feeling the black skin crack open under his fingers. “Sure, baby, I’m here,” his faint voice faded as his throat closed up. He wanted to join Libby and put his head back and scream.

“I didn’t tell her,” Jezzibella said. “She wanted to know where you were, but I never said.”

Al was sobbing. Like it mattered if Kiera had found out, everyone who counted had stayed loyal in the end. But Jez hadn’t known that. Had done what she thought was needed. For him.

“You’re an angel,” he bawled. “A goddamn fucking angel sent down from heaven to show me what a worthless piece of shit I am.”

“No,” she cooed. “No, Al.”

He traced his fingers over the remnants of her precious face. “I’ll make you better,” he promised. “You’ll see. Every doctor on this crappy little world is gonna come up here and cure you. I’m gonna make them. And you’ll get well again. I’ll be here right beside you the whole time. And I’m gonna take care of you from now on. Good care. You’ll see. No more of this hurting and fighting. Never again. You’re all that matters to me. You’re everything, Jez. Everything.”

Mickey hung around at the back of the crowd shuffling about in the Nixon suite when the two terrified- looking non-possessed doctors arrived. He reckoned that was the smart thing. Be there, show off your loyalty like a medal, but don’t get into direct line of sight. Not at a time like this. He knew the boss well enough by now. Somebody was going to pay very hard for what was going down. Very hard indeed. The asteroid was rotten with rumours about how the Confederation had learned how to torture a possessed for months. If anybody could improve on that, it would be the Organization, with Patricia as chief researcher.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder. Mickey’s nerves were so shot they fired his leg muscles to jump. The hand prevented any actual movement, holding him fast with abnormal strength. “What is this?” he squawked with fake indignation. “Don’t you know who I am?”

“I don’t care who you are,” Gerald Skibbow said. “Tell me where Kiera is.”

Mickey tried to size up his . . . well, not assailant, exactly—questioner. Unnervingly powerful, and zero sense of humour. Not a good combination. “The bitch showed us a clean pair of heels. A hellhawk took her off. Now let me have my shoulder back, man. Jesus!”

“Where did it take her?”

“Where did . . . Oh, like you’re going after them?” Mickey sneered.

“Yes.”

Mickey didn’t like the way this was speedballing downhill. He dropped the sarcasm approach. “The Orion Nebula, okay. Can I go now, thank you.”

“Why would she go there?”

“What is it to you, pal?” a voice asked.