But a sharp burst of fire caught him sideways, slamming the other weapon he was trying to draw from his half-burned furs. The R3 vaporized in his hand and I whirled out of hiding and sprayed fire as I looked to see where the flare had come from. Who was it? Wren?
Mong rolled, grunted, and was up on his knees in three seconds, lifting his augmented arm, as if he’d caught in his grip some of that vicious fire flare.
He gave a wheezing sigh. “Do you need a woman to fight your battles? Die, you miserable coward! You’re not deserving of my instruction.” He flicked up his augmented arm.
I felt a terrible stinging pain course through my bones. Unbearable agony. As if I burned from inside. My fingers could not clutch the gun’s trigger. I fell, gasping, clutching at my abdomen, gasping for air as the rifle fell from my nerveless fingers.
The stinging pain reached an apex. I fought nausea and unconsciousness. Blackout and death. All of a sudden, I snatched myself erect, struggling to save myself from falling into that deep abyss, staggering like a straw figure, with the cellular memory of all the times I’d withstood the depths of his torture, hanging in the Chamber of Redemption. I twisted to face him and used my inner force to redirect that hateful burst of energy from his synthetic limb back at him. How, I don’t know. It was as if the Jet Rusco of old went away, and another Jet Rusco of the future took his place, some ancient incarnation of a dead, blooded warrior who raged and gave me the power to wield such formidable magic against a primordial enemy. I focused the energy with my mind, knocked Mong backward, sent him spinning on his heels.
His lips parted in soundless cry. “Wha—” It was like a sound a child might make who sees too late the vicious dog come bursting out of the neighbor’s yard.
I snatched up my rifle, sprayed him with death-wielding fire. His right limb disintegrated in a ruin of machine parts and synthetic flesh. The limb hung severed from the shoulder.
His mouth dropped into a silent rictus. And yet, a flicker of amazement touched those swarthy lips, triumph even, that his magical teachings on me had worked—but also fear, for the first time in that man’s brain, that defeat quite possibly loomed at the hands of his unwilling pupil.
Powers, it is said, come into the body through penance, or out-of-body experiences. Maybe they had?
Mong wheezed out a hoarse gasp and dropped to his knees. “I—sensed it back on Othwan. I gave you that power, Jet Rusco, would you bite—the hand that feeds you?”
“I would cut out your heart and feed it to the crows,” I barked at him.
He nodded and sagged, his head lolling on his chest. Broken wires and white plasma oozed from that smoking shoulder socket, the mechanics of his augmentation. “I have trained you well,” he croaked. “You’ve made me proud. But still you are only on the first rung of the ladder.”
Bootfall echoed from behind the nearby trees. Wren approached breathless, training her gun on the weaponless, mutilated man.
I reached for her to steady myself. “Glad to see you! The others?” I croaked.
“His point man is dead. Blest is back there scouting the perimeter for the other one. Where’s Grild?”
I shook my head. “Grild’s not good. Back there too. Shot up.”
Wren winced.
The whine of engines buzzed down through the treetops, echoing over our grim, bloody pasture. Not the deep-throated roar of Warhawks, but the higher-pitched thrum of Vendecki fighters. I could have jumped for joy. Mong’s world was crashing down on him, his luck turning sour. I was fucking glad. Mong’s eyes bulged, with a white flare of disbelief. He could be conquered and lose.
Blest came limping out of the swatch of trees. He stared at Mong and gave a crooked grin. “So, the mighty Master Mong isn’t so mighty any more.”
“Any trouble with our friends?”
Blest shrugged. “Sorry to say, the last loose runner has offered his body as fertilizer to dandelions.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. I croaked into the com, “Noss! get over here, we need backup. Grild is down. I repeat, Grild is down.” I turned to Blest. “Blest, run back and see if you can find him. I didn’t leave him in a good state.” I motioned in a vague direction and tossed him my extra pack of regen. Blest gave a crisp nod and hobbled away.
Wren wheezed out a hoarse breath, her weapon still trained on Mong. “I saw this bastard through the trees and fired from long range. I must have clipped him. I thought you were dead when you crumpled. What happened?”
“Mong fucked up and you and I blasted him.” I debated telling her the whole story of how my inexplicable powers had deflected his killing blow but quickly decided against it.
She stepped over and lashed out a boot to smash in Mong’s teeth but I quickly pulled her away from him. “Careful, that viper’s—”
Even as I spoke, Mong’s left hand flashed out and snatched up a long bowie knife from under his furs. The edge caught Wren’s shin and drew a thin line of blood. She leaped back with a shriek, whirled and spat fire at him, catching him in his legs. He howled, yelping like a wolf. I surged forward and kicked the weapon out of Mong’s last good hand as he tried to use the knife to cut his own throat.
“No unheroic behavior at this late hour, Mong! Die like a warrior, for Christ’s sake. None of this hara-kiri shit,” I sneered.
In a snarl of rage, he clawed for the knife, blinking back the agony from his
