The booty from the tower sat webbed and tensioned in front of them in the centre of the hold. The boxes and various indecipherable pieces of apparatus bounced and jiggled against their restraints as the airframe around them bucked and swerved and sank and rose, all accompanied by an enormous tearing, screaming noise.
The young emissary had to shout above the racket. “Don’t worry about being intercepted by the Rebel States forces or the Security Franchisers; we have an understanding with the former and the latter can’t track us.” He rolled his eyes to indicate the aircraft. “We’re currently doing over three times the speed of sound at little more than tree-top height. They tell me travelling at this speed so close to the ground is such a terrifying experience for pilots-and the chances of them being able to correct a mistake by the terrain-following automatics so remote-that it’s considered kinder to black out the cockpit screens altogether!”
He was silent for a moment, then chuckled as a particularly violent manoeuvre rammed him and Sharrow hard back against the metal wall. The equipment from the tower seemed to hang above her and the young emissary; she could see the webbing holding it in place going taut and starting to stretch. “Gosh,” the young man said, his voice sounding strained as he fought to speak against the pressing g-force. A roaring noise. louder than the bomber’s engines was drowning him out anyway. “Hope that stuff’s properly secured. Eh, Lady Sharrow? Or we’re both meat paste!”
She was still trying to work out if this meant he wasn’t an android after all, or if it was just an attempt to deceive her, when she blacked out.
She awoke to open air and the jangling sensation of feelings returning; her flesh sparkled with pain, like a million tiny pinpricks. Even her teeth hurt. She was being carried by two soldiers; one held her under the knees, the other under her armpits. One of the young emissaries was at her side, taking deep breaths and slapping himself on the chest, then rubbing his hands together.
She was carried out from beneath the shadow of the bomber. It had landed on a gritty, dusty desert; the air felt powder-dry and bitterly cold. There were low, ash-grey mountains a few kilometres off, forming a bowl round the clinker-dark plain, which was empty save for the two sleek, black aircraft and a few trucks and other vehicles. She saw other, smaller shapes curving through the heavy grey skies above the encircling mountains.
The emissary saw her trying to move her head, and beamed a broad smile at her as the two soldiers heaved her into a small open car.
“Back with us again, Lady Sharrow?” He held his arms out wide and spun round, boot heels grinding on the grit. “Welcome to Lantskaar!” he said. He leant on the side of the little open car. “And to Molgarin’s Keep.”
He watched her trying to look around the featureless desert and the barren hills around it. He laughed. “It’s all underground,” he said, climbing in beside her. She saw Feril being carried out of the bomber’s hold by a quartet of soldiers. “Though there are,” the young emissary said, waggling his eyebrows at her, “some incredibly ancient force-field projector-walls which can spring up to trap the unwary in the event of an attack.” The car jerked and rolled forward, heading for a long rectangular hole in the plain. “Believe me,” the young man said, “you don’t want to be standing astride one of those when they power up, let me tell you.”
He chuckled again as the car angled down a ramp into a dully lit tunnel. The tunnel curved, spiralling down into the ground; a series of huge, metre-thick doors swung or irised open for them. The car’s motor whined; behind, she could hear the deeper notes of what she guessed were the trucks. After a while her ears popped. The young emissary started to whistle.
There was a huge, echoing underground vehicle park, full of cars, trucks, light-armoured transports and tanks. She was carried to an elevator that descended to what looked like the foyer of an hotel. Her skin still tingled and her muscles felt like jelly as they put her in a wheelchair, secured her and pushed her along a gently lit corridor to what smelled like a clinic.
A male nurse rose from a desk and nodded to the emissary, who patted her on the head and said, “She’s all yours, matey.”
She was pushed into a surgery. Her heart thudded as she saw an operating table through a glass screen. A female doctor and two female orderlies appeared, pulling on gloves.
The doctor put something cold to the back of her neck, muttered something, then came round and squatted on her haunches in front of her. “I think you can hear me,” she said, talking quite loudly. “We’re just going to get you washed and cleaned, do a proper check-up and then let you sleep for a while. All right?”
She stared at the woman; middle-aged, a little plump, hair bunned; brown eyes. She had no idea whether what she’d just been told was the truth or a lie.
The two orderlies stripped her, removed the bandage on her hand, cleaned the wound and put a temporary dressing on it before they washed her in a warm pool. They dried her with towels; efficiently, neither gently nor roughly. They helped her to stand, then slipped a plain white shift over her head. They supported her from either side and made her take a few unsteady steps, then took her through to a couch. The doctor she’d seen earlier ran nerve-response tests which tingled but did not hurt. She re-dressed the hand-wound and took a small sample of blood in a vial, which she slotted into an analyser. The doctor asked Sharrow to speak. She tried but only drooled. The doctor patted her arm.
“Never mind; you should be all right in the morning.” She prepared a gas-syringe and put it to Sharrow’s neck.
The last thing she remembered was the gentle jolting of the wheelchair being trundled along an unseen corridor that seemed to go on forever.
She awoke in a snug bed. She saw a time display in the darkness that indicated it was early evening. A glowing patch alongside proved to be a light switch.
She was in a small room furnished like a cabin. She was lying on her side, curled up in an alcoved bed with a shallow wooden panel down half the open side. She was wearing the shift they had dressed her in earlier. She tried moving her arms and legs, then sat up and after a pause swung her legs out of the bed, holding on to the wall as she stood.
The carpet beneath her feet was deep and rich. The air was warm. The room held a recessed bookcase full of repro books, a desk and chair, a screen that didn’t work and a wardrobe full of clothes all of which were her size. Attached was a bathroom with various toiletries, though nothing that could cut.
There were no windows; air came silently from porous tiles in the ceiling. It was so quiet she could hear her heart beat. A lump of black glass the size of an eyeball was wedged in a top corner of the room, from where it would have a view of everything except the bathroom.
She tried the door; it was locked. She felt weak and sat down on the bed, then lay down and fell asleep again.
The Lazy Gun came to her in her dreams. It looked like a man, but she knew it was the Lazy Gun. They were sitting in the small cabin in Molgarin’s Keep where she was sleeping. Hello… Hello. So, what would you like to know? said the Gun. What do you mean? What would you like to know? the Gun repeated patiently. She looked around. Where is Cenuij? she asked it. Dead, of course, it said. What else? What about the others? They’re dead, too. I know, but where are they? The dead aren’t anywhere. Unless you count the past. Won’t I see them again? Only in your dreams. Or recordings. She started to cry. You are the last one, the Gun told her. What? You are the last one. You are the last of the eight. You are just like me; I am the last of the eight as well. You are me and I am you. We are one. No I’m not, I’m me. Yes, you are you, the Gun agreed. But you are me, too. And I am you. She kept crying, not knowing what to say. She wanted to wake up but didn’t know how to. Listen, said the Gun. Is there anything I can do? What? Is there anything I can do? Just tell me. What can you do? Destroy things. All I can do is destroy things. It’s the only thing I’m any good at. Would you like me to destroy something? I want you to destroy everything! she screamed. Every fucking thing! All the evil men and compliant women, all the armies and companies and cults and faiths and orders and every stupid fucker in them! All of them! EVERYTHING! I can’t destroy all of everything, but I could destroy a lot of it. You’re being stupid. I’m not; I could destroy lots of things and people, but not all of them.