“I don’t want to die,” Modular Man said. Patchwork looked at him, startled. Her gold-flecked eyes were wide. She swallowed hard. “I don’t want to die, either.”
“I was dead once and I didn’t like it.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. “Can’t top that,” she said.
“Hundreds of people have been killed here. Sacrificed for Bloat or for the other side. Some of them volunteered, in one sense or another — the soldiers, people like Cyclone, most of your people.”
“You didn’t volunteer.”
“Nor did Pulse. I’ve worked alongside Pulse before — he’s a good man. Married, children, worked for the city. He didn’t want to be a hero, but if he was called he did a job. Now he’s a slave, like me. A psychopathic killer is living in his body, and who knows where his mind is?”
She bit her lip. “How can we get out?”
“Who is to say who lives and dies? People like Bloat? People like the lunatic that’s inside Pulse?”
“Dying? I’m talking about escape.”
“What do you do when you don’t want the governor to listen to your thoughts?”
Patchwork looked startled. “I told you. I think dirty thoughts. It embarrasses him.”
“A lot of people seem attracted to dirty thoughts. How do you know Bloat isn’t a secret voyeur? What else do you do?”
“I could think about reciting the Pledge of Allegiance or something. Just let the back of my mind float while I work hard on doing something else, something unimportant. Concentrate on the task at hand.”
He turned to her, took her other hand. “Try it.”
“Urn.” She thought for a moment, then began to sing in a tuneless contralto. “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.”
“I have to obey my creator. I have to look after his welfare. I don’t have any choice in that.”
“He’s trampling out the thing, the whatever where the grapes of wrath are stored.”
He tightened his grip on her hands. “I’m terribly concerned about him. About what might happen to him when I’m not there to protect him.”
Patchwork knit her brows, trying to remember the lyrics. “He has loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword. His truth goes marching on.”
“If the bombardments get bad, he goes into his tower and bolts the door. That’s a fairly safe place.”
“Glory, glory hallelujah. Glory, glory hallelujah. His truth goes marching on.”
“But there’s one thing that really concerns me. One weakness.”
“I don’t remember the fucking lyrics. Oh, shit.” She took a breath, started again. “Glory, glory hallelujah.”
“There are air shafts in the tower that lead up to the outside. They’re too small for a shell to go down, of course”
“Glory, glory hallelujah. His truth goes marching on.”
“But a small explosive — a grenade, say, like those over in the corner, or a series of grenades. They could be rolled down the shafts and result in terrible danger to my creator.”
“Glory hallelujah. Hallelujah, hallelujah.”
“Of course I would be bound to prevent anyone from endangering my creator that way.”
“I can’t remember.” She thought for a moment. then shifted tracks. “To be or not to be. That is the fucking question.”
“And of course whoever did such a thing would be risking a great deal from shellfire, because Dr. Travnicek is only in his tower when the shellfire is too much for the defenders to handle.”
“Whether it’s nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Or by opposing…”
“But still I’m very concerned. Perhaps you’ll be good enough to help me.” He looked intently into Patchwork’s eyes. “You’ll help take care of my creator, won’t you?”
“By opposing,” she repeated, “end them.” Holding his eyes, she nodded.
“I’m very relieved.” he said.
“I don’t know the rest of the speech.”
“Don’t think.”
“I’ll try.” "Concentrate on the task at hand.”
He kissed her.
The kiss went on for a long while.
“You kiss just like a human,” she said.
“Thank you. I’ve had no complaints.”
She smiled up at him. “What else do you do like a human?”
“We could find out.”
He wondered for a moment whether he had just made himself another Bloat, another tyrant deciding who lived and died. If he was manipulating Patchwork in ways that were not acceptable, just because he wanted to live.
In a way, he comforted himself, he was doing what Travnicek wanted.
He was becoming a shooter.
Wyungare, the black cat, and the three erstwhile prisoners found the alligator on the beach. It was as though Jack had been waiting for the others to find their way out of the tumbled maze that huge sections of the castle had become. He had apparently found something to eat; something torn to pieces by high explosive. Whatever it was, it had worn some sort of uniform.
And there was the alligator hissing on the sand. Evidently Jack didn’t want to share his meal.
Wyungare realized what needed to be done now. “The three of you are leaving,” he said “It will be the adventure of a lifetime.” He motioned toward Jack.
The bigger, older man, Detroit Steel, said, “You gotta be kidding.”
Reflector said, “I’m staying, man. I got some scores to even. Asses to kick. Mikey Detroit, here, can take care of the girl. Shouldn’t take much doing; she’s so far into shock, she might as well be in a coma.”
“Chill,” said Detroit Steel. “So what are you gonna do, Snotty? Just abandon her?”
“Maybe for a little while. Hell, you can stay with her. All right? Me, I need to go kill some of the dickheads that put us here and then kept us. And don’t call me Snotty.”
“I’d suggest you get off the island,” said Wyungare. “All of you. I mean that.”
“I’m going to stay,” said Reflector obdurately. “No question about it.”
“If you wish to be heroic,” said Wyungare, “the best thing you could do would be to save this woman’s life. She is going to die without care.”
“Isn’t the same thing,” said Reflector.
The Aborigine shook his head. “Yes, it is.” He put all the personal power he could muster into those syllables. And when the psychic smoke had cleared, the prisoners sat astraddle Jack, resembling an ill-matched bobsled team. As large and buoyant as the gator was, he now rode fairly low in the water. The black cat took his accustomed spot on top of Jack’s head and meowed back at Wyungare.
Wyungare waved and the alligator majestically moved out into the bay, and struck out for the Manhattan shore.
The sky continued to fill with deadly fireworks.
Wyungare prayed they would make it.
“This whole setup is so strange,” Danny said to Ray as they traced their way back through Bloat’s caverns. “I mean, here we are wandering through these tunnels, running into orcs from Tolkien, scenes from Monty Python movies. Sure, things have been dangerous, but why haven’t we met with any really deadly traps? So far it’s been like some adolescent fantasy game.”
“Game,” Ray repeated. That was the second time she’d compared their situation to a game. It set Ray’s mind working again, and he stopped, snapped his fingers, and said, “That’s it! Christ, you’re right!”
“What are you talking about?” Battle called from the rear.
Ray stopped, turned, and said to him. “This whole thing is a dungeon — you know, like a kid’s role-playing game.” Battle frowned. “What do you know about those degenerate fantasy games?”
Ray thought back to when the Secret Service had raided the game company out on Long Island, Jack Stevenson Games. He’d read the piles of crap they’d confiscated, looking for something that could be considered remotely illegal and therefore justif
ication for the raid.
“More than I want to,” Ray muttered. “But Danny’s right. We’ve gone through real role-playing stuff. I mean, just about the only thing the fucker’s missed so far is a treasure trove guarded by a dragon.”
“I don’t get it,” Danny said. “Why wouldn’t Bloat just put something down here that could flat out kill us?”
“Because,” Ray said slowly, “that’s not how a dungeon-master operates. This is still a game to him. He can’t just kill the players out of hand… that’s not much fun, after all.”
“Bloat.” Battle said through clenched teeth, “is a dangerous, twisted, terrorist, demented genetic freak. Who knows”
“So am I,” Danny said quietly.
“What?”
“A genetic freak.” She looked steadily at Battle.
“Me too,” said Blockhead. “Even if I’m dead.” He jerked a thumb at Ray and Crypt Kicker. “These guys are too. And I think we’ve had just enough of your insults. I’d watch my tongue if I were you. You’re definitely outnumbered here.”
Battle looked at him, the vein in the side of his forehead throbbing. “Be careful, you insubordinate bastard” he began.
“Hey,” Blockhead said blandly, “what are you going to do? Shoot me?”
Battle sputtered wordlessly while Ray and Danny both failed to hide grins. Battle finally looked at the expressionless Crypt Kicker and barked out, “Come along!”
“I don’t think this situation is exactly what we’ve been led to believe,” Danny said to the others.
“I never liked the bastard,” Blockhead muttered. “Well, that’s fine for you,” he added cryptically, though neither Ray nor Danny had said anything.
Ray looked at both of them “There’s something weird going on. I can feel it. But Battle’s in charge.” "So what?” Danny said in a low voice. “He’s a shifty bastard. I suggest we just keep our eyes and ears open. That’s all.”
Ray shifted uncomfortably. He was the type who just followed orders and kicked ass. The nature of the orders had never bothered him. But Battle was such a shitbag…
“Jesus Christ!”
The shout came from around a bend in the corridor. There was an edge in Battle’s voice, a hint of panic that Ray had never heard before. The three looked at each other and started to run, Ray in the lead, Danny following, and Cameo/Blockhead bringing up the rear. They skidded around the turn in the corridor and came to a stumbling stop to see Battle pressed behind Crypt Kicker, who was taking everything with his usual deadpan aplomb.
“What is it?” Ray asked.
“I think,” Battle said, pointing over Puckett’s shoulder, “I found the goddamn dragon.”
Ray suddenly became aware of a sound floating down the corridor like the chuf-chuf-chuffle of an asthmatic steam engine. There was the smell of smoky, burned things. He peered around Puckett and there it was. Battle had found it, all right.
A goddamn dragon sitting curled around its goddamn treasure trove.
The first bomb shook the Rox, and Patchwork shuddered in Modular Man’s arms.
“It’s starting,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I should check on Dr. Travnicek. Make sure he’s under cover and safe.”
Another bomb crashed home, this one closer. After the thud came the sound of stonework falling.
Patchwork’s face was pale.
“The Turtle destroyed my weapons,” the android said. “I will ask Bloat’s permission to leave the Rox and return with others.”
Patchwork gave a faint grin. “Glory, glory hallelujah.” "Be careful.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of things while you’re gone.”
There was no special emphasis in her words, none but the sudden rain of bombs and rockets that were hammering Bloat’s glass-and-stonework fantasy.
He kissed her again and flew away, out of the fused room, down the twisting corridors, out into the foggy courtyard. His radar imaging was full of arcing aircraft, falling explosives, wildly cart-wheeling Bosch creatures. It was clear the military was after vengeance for the New Jersey.
Modular Man went in search of Bloat. The governor was himself, not the Outcast, and as more concussions battered the air, the strain showed both on his face and in his temper.
“The Turtle took my weapons,” Modular Man said. “There’s nothing I can do until I replace them.”
“You can go down and —”
“I have other weapons waiting at Dr. Travnicek’s apartment. May I go get them?”
The governor narrowed his eyes and thought. “I can hold off those assholes for a while,” he said. “Get your weapons and hurry.”
The android took off, out one of the castle’s shattered windows. Below, in the shadow of one of the arches leading down to the tunnel system, he saw a sylphlike figure crouching.
He slowed, waited till an explosion lit the fog, and waved.
Her hand hesitantly rose in response. There was a grenade in it.
It is good, he ordered himself to think, that she has armed herself and will be able to defend herself and Dr. Travnicek if necessary.
He flew on, back to Manhattan.
“Hello. Having a pleasant journey through Bloat’s scenic caverns’?”
The damn thing talked too. Well, why not? Everything else in this place was screwy. Why not a talking dragon?
“Sure,” Ray said. He shoved past Puckett, surreptitiously pulling Danny along with him. If this fucker was a fire-breather, and the little puffs of smoke coming from his nostrils seemed to indicate that he was, Ray didn’t want them bunched together in the cave mouth where one breath could barbecue them all.
“What are you doing down here?” Danny asked.
“Guarding my treasure, of course,” the thing said.
Ray’s hopes suddenly rose. The dragon seemed intelligent and reasonable. Maybe they could bullshit their way past it.
“And keeping strangers off Bloat’s back,” it added.
Well, shit, Ray thought.
“We’re just passing through.” Danny said, following Ray as he slowly edged around the room. “We don’t want to bother you.”
“How about Bloat?” the dragon asked mildly.
“Bloat,” Battle said slowly, edging forward, “dies!”
He swung up his assault rifle and triggered a long burst. The dragon roared. It stood, ruffling its wings and exhaling enough steam to turn the chamber into a sauna. Battle’s bullets seemed to have little impact on its tough, leathery hide as ricochets whined around the chamber like angry bees.
“The stomach!” Ray shouted. The creature’s abdomen seemed unarmored. “Aim for its stomach!”
Danny took his advice. She stepped forward and brought her shotgun up and emptied a whole ammo cartridge in something less than five seconds. The flechette rounds penetrated the beast’s skin, but not too deeply. They just seemed to anger it.
Danny swore and went down to one knee, rummaging in her pack for another ammo cartridge as the dragon bellowed in pain and rage.
“Get down!” Ray shouted as the beast reared up on its hind legs and drew its head back as if it were going to spit at them. Ray hit the ground, curled, and covered up. A blast of hot air like a wind blowing from hell steamed over him. Fortunately it lasted only a few moments. He looked up to see Danny also rolled in a protective ball. The dragon was shifting its attention to Battle and Crypt Kicker.
Battle fired his automatic rifle, screaming a stream of nonsensical obscenities. Crypt Kicker lumbered forward in his clumsy, stiff-legged way and began to pummel the dragon’s exposed belly. "No,” Ray shouted, “don’t hit the goddamned thing. You can’t hurt it like that.”
Ray was right. The dragon was built like a tank, only it was bigger and stronger. It flicked out a forepaw and caught Crypt Kicker in the chest with enough force to kill a normal person. Since Puckett was already dead, he just bounced back after he slammed against the wall.
Then the dragon turned his atte
ntion to Battle and Cameo/ Blockhead, who still stood behind Battle at the room’s entrance. Danny found the cartridge she was searching for and rammed it home as the dragon drew its head back for another blast.
Battle saw death staring him in the eyes. He screamed and dropped his rifle as Danny aimed and the dragon shot two searing tongues of fire as if it had flamethrowers mounted in each nostril. Crypt Kicker staggered forward, arms widespread, palms dripping streams of toxic chemicals just as Danny emptied the cartridge filled with armor-piercing rounds on full automatic.
The fire hit Crypt Kicker’s chemicals and the ace and the animal were enveloped by an explosive fireball that blew Puckett off his feet. The armor-piercing rounds hit the creature’s soft belly, punching through to the flesh and organs underneath. Blood and meat sprayed all over the chamber. The fireball died out precipitously as the dragon suddenly ceased to flame.
Ray stood up slowly. “Holy Christ,” he said.
The air was foul with the stench of burnt chemicals and smoldering flesh. The dragon, lying on its back among the gleaming piles of its treasure trove, had a completely ruptured abdomen. The wound had been cauterized by the fire, but the shotgun rounds and the fire itself had eaten away so much of its internal structure that there was no way the thing could be alive.
Puckett was still smoldering. His uniform had been burned off and most of his skin was blackened. Ray could see why he’d always worn his hood. Most of the right side of his face had been blown away. It didn’t look like a new injury. It was what had probably killed him years ago. He was a truly ugly son of a bitch and he smelled even worse than usual. He just laid there like a T-bone that’d been left on the barbecue for far too long.
“Can we do anything to help him?” Danny asked.
Ray shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Well you can sure as hell help me,” Battle said. He struggled to a sitting position as Ray and Danny approached. He didn’t look too bad, though his eyebrows and mustache were singed. He put his hand to his upper lip, and bits of burned hair flaked away. “That rat bastard,” Battle mumbled. “That son of a bitch Bloat is going to pay.”
“How about Blockhead?” Danny asked. “Where is he?”