We had a one in seven chance of choosing the right bunch.
At times like that you just go with the Gods, and pray it's right. We chose a group of two Originals and two slave girls. One of the girls was bleeding from bare feet, and we thought perhaps it was Whit, because she had not been in prison long and her feet would still be soft. We couldn't do a genetic ID because we didn't have the equipment. It wasn't much, but it was all we had.
We followed the trail until dark, force-marching on foot over rugged countryside. We brought plenty of water and SG's and mags. We spent a restless night and started early, under dark skies, following the Sandman as he tracked the Originals like a dog. As dawn broke, we found where they had spent the night—no fire, but there were empty foodpaks buried shallowly, and we could see the marks of their SG's in the dirt. The girls had been tied together, and it looked like both had been raped. We pressed on under the rising sun on foot, not even pausing to eat. We chewed Systie rats on the march. We knew we were gaining on them. They were slowed down by the girls. They beat one of the girls viciously at one point—we found blood on the rocks, and a broken, bloody stick. They were heading over rough country, higher and higher into the mountains. We kept going. We marched all day and into the night.
The Sandman was worried at first that we couldn't keep up. We showed him he was wrong. Priestess offered him quite a lot of money to guide us. He accepted, of course, but somehow I did not think the money was his primary motivation.
We found them on the second night. The fools had lit a fire. It was in a deep pit, but we could see the glow. We approached slowly, slithering up like snakes. The Sandman was still wearing those dark goggles. He had a cut-down x gun and we had our SG's. They were drinking liquor from the caravan, two Originals, just black shadows in the faint glow from the fire. Fools—they thought they were safe. They were dead. They laughed and talked as we stalked them.
"Squirmers! Hee hee!"
"You friend taste good. Haw!"
"Where you pants, girl? Ha?"
"Do it hurt? Aw haw haw!"
A sickly sweet stench tickled my nostrils. Scorched flesh—they were cooking something in that fire. I suddenly realized what it was they were cooking. The Sandman held up three fingers. Adrenalin burst through my veins. I could hear a faint moaning. I could barely make it out—another figure, on the ground.
"You hungry, girl? Aw ha!"
"Make it eat! Ha ha ha!"
"Hey girl, you want a breast or leg? Aw haw haw haw!" One of them fell over laughing, drunk and sloppy.
"So we dork her or what?"
"You such a dumb scut. I try to civilize you, but you don't know nothing. I tole you, we got to torture it."
"Yeah, but first we dork her."
"You so stupid, you hopeless. You got to torture it first."
"Why?"
"You member las' night, dummy? This one kick so hard it almos' cripple me. You torture 'em first, then when you ready to dork 'em, they don't fight you."
"Yeah?"
"You so freakin' stupid!"
Another moan from the body on the ground. A faint, cracked voice. "Please…please. Water."
"Water? Aw ha ha! Yeah, you drink my pee!"
"Haw haw! I so dizzy I can't get up!"
"Please…why so cruel? Why?" I could barely hear her.
"Cruel? Cruel?" One of the Originals staggered to his feet. "I show you cruel! You going to eat you friend! You want water? You can drink her blood! You going make us happy, girl, then maybe we kill you, if you lucky."
"Why are you doing this?" It was a hopeless moan.
The Original laughed. "You don't like us because we different. You don't like us! So why we have to treat you nice? Ha? You tell us!"
Priestess stepped out into the campsite suddenly, standing right above the outstretched figure on the ground. She was a chilling phantom in black, faintly illuminated by the red glow from the pit, her SG tucked casually under one arm. The Original gasped, standing there weaving drunkenly, his eyes widening, his savage mouth popping open, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. Priestess fired once on xmin, and the Original's head exploded, blood and bones and brain splattering everywhere. The Original's headless body twitched once, then fell heavily to the ground. The echo of the shot rolled through the night.
The second Original scrambled frantically to his feet, thrashing around desperately in a pile of junk littering the campsite, coming up finally with a long, wicked cold knife. He was almost naked, wild hair and flashing eyes, stumbling over his own feet in a drunken panic. I had him in my sights.
Priestess dropped her SG right onto the ground, deliberately. She walked casually toward the Original and right into my line of fire. I raised my SG. What the hell?
The Original waved his knife around, frantic. Priestess came at him, swinging a right cross. I could hear her first connecting, right onto his face. He went down hard and his knife bounced away into the dark.
Dragon and the Sandman were with me now, looking around the site. There was no sign of any more Originals. Priestess was standing over the only one left.
"Get up," she said.
He was breathing hard, a ragged, rasping wheeze. He scrambled to his feet again, unarmed. Nine came at him again and hit him viciously before he could react, right in the face. He went down with a faint moan. His nose was broken. There was blood all over his face.
"Get up."
I stood over the firepit. They had cooked the other slave girl here, on a spit—Lord! I had to look away.
The Original forced himself up, trembling. Priestess kicked him right in the crotch, a tremendous kick. He squealed and jackknifed back down into the dirt. Nine was weaving, breathing shallowly, walking around him, her face cold and set.
"Get up. Get up, you pig!" She seized him by his long, wild hair and forced him to his knees. He moaned, clutching his stomach. She backed off and kicked him right in the face. It knocked him onto his back. He lay there moaning, writhing like a broken worm, gasping and coughing and spitting blood.
Priestess stood over him. "Get up. You want to die like a dog?" She kicked him again with all her might, raising dust. His ribs snapped. I could only watch, astounded, as my lovely, sweet little Priestess slowly and deliberately kicked that man to death. A cold wave crept over my flesh. What in Deadman's holy name was happening to us on this world? I had slaughtered a defenseless man, tied to a chair. And now Priestess was deliberately kicking a man to death. Priestess, the ultimate idealist. Priestess, who had joined the Legion solely because she wanted to help.
"Does it hurt?" Priestess asked, kicking him again. He was a broken mound of flesh now, whimpering, twitching in the dirt.
I found the girl and unhooked my canteen. She was naked, on her back, her arms tied behind her. I cupped her head in one hand and touched the canteen to her lips. She sucked at it greedily. She had short blonde hair—it looked as if her head had been shaved not too long ago. Her face was swollen and covered with ugly bruises. They had certainly been beating up on her. She didn't look much like Tara's exec.
"Why…" It was the Original, twitching in the dirt, whimpering, desperate.
"We don't like you," Priestess hissed, "because you're different!" She kicked him again, hard. I turned my eyes away.
"How's the girl?" Dragon asked, approaching us.
"Looks in bad shape. This isn't her, is it?"
"Don't know."
"Damn it!"
"Don't let it drink any more," the Sandman cautioned. "That's enough for now."
"Who is this one?" I asked the Sandman. "Can we ID it?"
The Sandman bent over her. "They took the slave bracelet for the gold," he said. "We don't know who this is. Can it talk?"
Priestess kicked at the Original again, viciously. The Original was not moving any more. I got up and walked over there.