“No, you killed ’em for our fun.” Bush’s smirk was almost identical to Packard’s. “You were good at it too. The best. You know you’re still in the Top Ten? Sure, the Studio hasn’t released anything fresh from anybody in about forever now, but you’d probably hang in there even against the new guys, they’re such pussies-”
“Shut up. Everybody fucking shut up a minute.”
I was not going to have this argument with goddamn Leisure brats who were playing at being Black Knives in a virtual sonofabitching game.
Especially since this was an argument I’d lose.
I came to Overworld-became an Actor in the first place-to taste the kind of power I could never have on Earth. Sure, wealth. Sure, fame. Adulation, and even some political influence. But all that was just perks, y’know? The real prize was power: to ignore the laws that circumscribe the lives of Earth’undercastes. To live without law altogether. To bow to no law except my own will. But that’s more abstract than it really was; when you get right to the bone, it was about being a god.
To kill without consequence.
It’s never been a mystery to me that I’m more than a little crazy. It’s also never been a mystery that if I hadn’t been an Actor, I’d have died in prison. So I got myself to a place where bloodlust is power, and casual murder is the point of the game.
Same as them.
They were starting out from a place of power already, that’s all. They get to have everything I busted ass for without putting their butts on the line.
But y’know, my butt was never all that much on the line either. Half the scars I carry are from wounds that should have killed or crippled me-would have killed or crippled anyone who’s not an Actor. Unlimited access to the most cutting-edge medical treatment in the world, plus the occasional use of flat-out magick: the best health plan in the history of both universes.
So what’s the difference between me and them? The real difference? They were in it for fun. I got paid. That’s about it.
It’s an old joke at the Studio Conservatory, and not a funny one: If you kill for money, you’re a soldier. If you kill for fun, you’re a psychopath. If you kill for money and for fun, you’re an Actor.
Dizhrati golzinn motherfucking ekk.
My headache thundered in my ears. “You said you had a mission objective.”
“Sure.” Bush swung his talons toward the Pratt amp; Redhorn. “It’s a sander. On that hotel.”
“Sander?”
“Search and destroy. Nobody left alive. And we burn the place down. Five hundred points. Fuck, don’t you know anything?”
“I know some things.”
Search and destroy. I would have vanished without a trace-missing, presumed dead in the fire. . This Faller character was going about things in a very organized way. Looked like he always did. He had a setup twice as nifty as the Khryllian trick of using grill hostages as draft animals. Ten times as nifty.
Let’s say you’re an Overworld Company goon trapped here on Assumption Day, and you want to get home. If you know enough folklore, you know about the dillin, and you might even remember the references in my dad’s book, Tales of the First Folk, where he suggested that the Quiet Land-the place the dillin are supposed to lead to-might be Earth. You might also remember cubing Retreat from the Boedecken and the story behind the Tear of Pan chasell, and when you get to Purthin’s Ford, you start mining griffinstones. But not for money.
For power.
And when you find out about this Smoke Hunt business-that some enterprising ogrilloi have managed to find a way to tap into the Outside Power that was both the dil T’llan and the onetime God of the Black Knives-you discover that animating the Smoke Hunters draws enough energy off the Outside Power that you can force open the dil.
Well and good. You can get to Earth. But you don’t go to Earth. . because you’re smart enough to know you’re sitting on the only working gate between Earth and Home.
I discovered that I was kind of looking forward to meeting this fucker.
I squinted past them at the bloody corpse of Calm Guy on the boardwalk, then up over the skyline of the hostelry’s roof. “I know some things,” I repeated. “I know you fuckers aren’t going in there. And you’re not gonna burn it down, either.”
“Aw, come on,” one of them-I think it was the Windsor, but it was dark, and really, when you come right down to it all dead grills look pretty much alike to me-said, “You’re gonna cost us the game-”
“A little over five minutes ago I killed three men to protect that place. Three real men, who really died.” I looked deep into the Windsor’s piss-yellow eyes. “What do you think I’ll do to you?”
The Windsor blinked. “Whoa-for real? Would you really? I mean, that’d be so fucking cool-way better than an autograph!”
“I’ll torture the fuck out of you, if it makes you happy. Just don’t burn my shit.”
Bush sniggered. “What, were you in there? We could have killed you? Hot fuck, how awesome would that be? To be the guys who killed Caine?”
Packard nodded slowly. “Y’know. .” He looked around at the others. “We still could. .”
“Settle down-”
Bush looked suddenly thoughtful. “All you’ve got is that gun, right?”
I said, “Let me explain,” and put a tristack into his kneecap.
The impact spun him, and when he tried to catch himself, his leg bent backward and folded in half and toppled him sideways, because the shatter-slugs had chopped his knee joint into ogrillo scrapple.
“Hey. .” he said, aggrieved. “Hey, come on. What’d you do that for?”
I hefted the Automag. “Anybody else?”
“This sucks,” Bush said as he struggled to get back to his feet. Er, foot. “I haven’t got to kill anybody yet!”
“Cry me a fucking river.” I shrugged down at the ogrillo body he was wearing. “You should be grateful. Other people who make that mistake with me don’t live through it.”
“It was Packard’s idea-why don’t you shoot his leg off?”
“And it’s still a good one,” Packard said. “Everybody spread out. When he opens fire on me, rush him. I don’t know how many points he’s worth, but who gives a shit? This is Caine. How cool are we?”
“Sure, ice cold, you are.” I took a step backward into the alley. If I could get deep enough, I could enfilade them as they came at me. Which wouldn’t likely be enough to save my life, but I didn’t have any better ideas.
A slight noise from behind me in the alley-a metallic rustle, like a sleepy silver rattlesnake-and I risked a quick glance over my shoulder in time to see the shadows transform into a straight, severe man in straight, severe armor, plain and functional except for the golden Sunburst upon the open electrum Palm on the breast of the cuirass, and I said, “Holy crap-I never thought I’d be saying this, but I am really glad to see you right now-”
Markham, Lord Tarkanen, replied simply, “Pynhall.” He was faster than Tyrkilld.
I never saw it coming.
THE CAINE WAY
RETREAT FROM THE BOEDECKEN (partial)
You are CAINE (featured Actor: Pfnl. Hari Michaelson)
MASTER: NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION, UNDER PENALTY OF LAW.
© 2187 Adventures Unlimited Inc. All rights reserved.
“ Tizarre-!” I hiss as loud as I dare. “Tizarre, goddammit. .”