“I just … you know, wondered if maybe there was some good land for … for settlement … see, we’re on our way to, ah, Xanthus and … thinking maybe we’d, ah, stay here instead.” And that was … untrue.
“Stay here? Why would anyone stay here? We, the condemned—we have no choice. But you …”
“Oh, well, there are lots of, um, business … opportunities, here …”
“Can we kill him now?” asked the smallest of the three men, in a whining tone. “I’m hungry!”
“We could cook him over that fire, down there in the pit,” suggested the other helmeted man, helpfully.
“I don’t like it when people come here, looking to take what is ours,” rumbled the big man. “So, yeah—you can
begin
killing him now. But, kill him slowly. Piece by piece. Cut off a piece of his leg. Then let him watch as you eat it. Then another piece, perhaps his groin.”
“Yes,” said one of the smaller helmeted men.
“Oh yes,” agreed the other, taking a step toward Zac.
Then the nearest man coming at Zac went rigid … and screamed, as he clawed at himself—his face was sizzling away, burning up in phosphorescent blue ooze, mask, goggles, nose, eyes, lips—and all. He fell, babbling with pain …
The other two turned toward the knoll overlooking the crater—where Zac saw a great gangly creature rear up over them, towering on four long, thin stalks, like a gigantic daddy longlegs, but with an oblong, blue-glowing body as big as a man’s torso, its four jointed and fleshless legs each seven meters long, while long antennae curved high over its yellow-eyed head.
“Drifter!”
yelled the shorter bandit.
The drifter spat out another glob of glowing blue projectile that struck the biggest bandit square in the chest. The big thug yelled in agony and fired a burst with his rifle at the creature—but he was shaking with pain and couldn’t aim straight.
Zac saw his chance and sprinted away from the DropCraft wreckage, running for an outcropping of gray and purple stone. Someone in the darkness shouted, “You wanna eat, you eat some rockets, you Bruiser son of a whore!”
It sounded like it was coming from the drifter but that didn’t seem possible.
Zac heard a
whuff
and a series of short sharp explosions rocked the ground. He reached the rocks, vaulted over a low boulder, and looked back to see a ragged little man with a smoking rocket launcher standing under the drifter. The bandits were blown to pieces that bubbled with glowing blue ooze. The little man had a crudely made hat, roughly conical, sewn together from pieces of skag hide; he wore a long, frayed dirty-brown overcoat. His craggy, white-bearded face squinted toward Zac. “You still alive over there?”
Zac said nothing but only crouched lower. He wasn’t about to trust anybody on this planet.
The little man whistled through his teeth, and the drifter responded, bobbing once on its legs as if nodding with its whole body, then it turned and, with just three long strides, came to tower over Zac. He was suddenly in its shadow, looking up at its gnashing mandibles, its glowing pale-yellow eyes.
Remembering the blue ooze this thing spat, Zac was afraid to move.
“Bizzy won’t hurtcha!” the stranger called, jogging over to Zac. “Nossir! He won’t hurt ya at all! Less’n I tell him to!”
Zac swallowed. “Uh … Bizzy?”
“My friend the drifter here!” said the old man. “I found him out in the Parched Fathoms, brought him over here, made him my buddy!”
“And … how … did you do that?” Zac asked, afraid to look away from “Bizzy.” He cleared his throat. “How’d you tame a creature like that?”
“Oh, I … well, that’s none of your business, is what thatisn’t!” said the old man. “You’re lucky to be alive, buster! Onliest reason you’re alive is, I hate Bruisers!”
Zac looked at him. What a gnarled, sunburnt, dust-caked face the old man had. He was so weathered it was difficult to tell how old he was. He
“Stay here? Why would anyone stay here? We, the condemned—we have no choice. But you …”
“Oh, well, there are lots of, um, business … opportunities, here …”
“Can we kill him now?” asked the smallest of the three men, in a whining tone. “I’m hungry!”
“We could cook him over that fire, down there in the pit,” suggested the other helmeted man, helpfully.
“I don’t like it when people come here, looking to take what is ours,” rumbled the big man. “So, yeah—you can
begin
killing him now. But, kill him slowly. Piece by piece. Cut off a piece of his leg. Then let him watch as you eat it. Then another piece, perhaps his groin.”
“Yes,” said one of the smaller helmeted men.
“Oh yes,” agreed the other, taking a step toward Zac.
Then the nearest man coming at Zac went rigid … and screamed, as he clawed at himself—his face was sizzling away, burning up in phosphorescent blue ooze, mask, goggles, nose, eyes, lips—and all. He fell, babbling with pain …
The other two turned toward the knoll overlooking the crater—where Zac saw a great gangly creature rear up over them, towering on four long, thin stalks, like a gigantic daddy longlegs, but with an oblong, blue-glowing body as big as a man’s torso, its four jointed and fleshless legs each seven meters long, while long antennae curved high over its yellow-eyed head.
“Drifter!”
yelled the shorter bandit.
The drifter spat out another glob of glowing blue projectile that struck the biggest bandit square in the chest. The big thug yelled in agony and fired a burst with his rifle at the creature—but he was shaking with pain and couldn’t aim straight.
Zac saw his chance and sprinted away from the DropCraft wreckage, running for an outcropping of gray and purple stone. Someone in the darkness shouted, “You wanna eat, you eat some rockets, you Bruiser son of a whore!”
It sounded like it was coming from the drifter but that didn’t seem possible.
Zac heard a
whuff
and a series of short sharp explosions rocked the ground. He reached the rocks, vaulted over a low boulder, and looked back to see a ragged little man with a smoking rocket launcher standing under the drifter. The bandits were blown to pieces that bubbled with glowing blue ooze. The little man had a crudely made hat, roughly conical, sewn together from pieces of skag hide; he wore a long, frayed dirty-brown overcoat. His craggy, white-bearded face squinted toward Zac. “You still alive over there?”
Zac said nothing but only crouched lower. He wasn’t about to trust anybody on this planet.
The little man whistled through his teeth, and the drifter responded, bobbing once on its legs as if nodding with its whole body, then it turned and, with just three long strides, came to tower over Zac. He was suddenly in its shadow, looking up at its gnashing mandibles, its glowing pale-yellow eyes.
Remembering the blue ooze this thing spat, Zac was afraid to move.
“Bizzy won’t hurtcha!” the stranger called, jogging over to Zac. “Nossir! He won’t hurt ya at all! Less’n I tell him to!”
Zac swallowed. “Uh … Bizzy?”
“My friend the drifter here!” said the old man. “I found him out in the Parched Fathoms, brought him over here, made him my buddy!”
“And … how … did you do that?” Zac asked, afraid to look away from “Bizzy.” He cleared his throat. “How’d you tame a creature like that?”
“Oh, I … well, that’s none of your business, is what thatisn’t!” said the old man. “You’re lucky to be alive, buster! Onliest reason you’re alive is, I hate Bruisers!”
Zac looked at him. What a gnarled, sunburnt, dust-caked face the old man had. He was so weathered it was difficult to tell how old he was. He
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