A Fistful of Strontium Page 3

  Weasel believed him. But the Chameleons' revenge would come too late to help him. The arm around his neck loosened its grip, but the light inside him was fading and he couldn't control his muscles any more... Couldn't keep himself upright.

  By the time Weasel's body hit the ground, he had already come to terms with the terrible truth: that there were no gods looking out for people like him.

  "Okay, I know your partner isn't far away," said Slug, raising his voice so that it carried to the shadows around him. "He has ten seconds to throw down his weapons and come out with his hands in the air."

  "Dinnae listen, Johnny," shouted Middenface. "Take the scunner oot."

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Slug. "This blaster's got a hair trigger. Even if your partner's got a bead on me, I can blow your brains out the front of your face before I drop. Two seconds."

  Slug was telling the truth and Middenface knew it all too well. But the way he saw it, he was dead anyway, which was fine with him. He had always known it would end this way and, in fact, he'd been given a lot more time than he could have asked for. The one thing he couldn't face was if Slug got his own way, and if Middenface's mistake brought his partner down with him. He prayed that Johnny would do as he said and save his own skin at least, but at the same time, he knew it was not going to happen.

  "All right," came a voice from nearby, causing Middenface's stomach to sink. "You win!"

  A gun belt was lobbed out from behind an overflowing dumpster, the blaster still in its holster. A moment later Johnny appeared, his hands above his head, palms outward to show that he carried no weapons. Middenface sighed and shook his head, both disappointed and overwhelmed with affection for his brash young friend.

  "That's far enough," said Slug. "Remember, Freddy here has you in his sights. Now, kick the blaster behind you. I ain't touching it in case you booby-trapped it." Johnny obediently kicked his weapon down a nearby side street.

  "Johnny, ahm sorry," said Middenface.

  Johnny just shrugged and then nodded at Slug. "The cloaks were a nice touch."

  "We ain't called Chameleons for nothing. So, you must be the infamous Johnny Alpha. You after the bounties on our heads, or something bigger?" asked Slug.

  "We're just after some information," said Johnny. "If you put that blaster down and promise to tell us what we need to know, you can still get out of this alive."

  Slug laughed incredulously. "You got some balls, Alpha, I'll give you that. You kill my men and then expect me to spill my guts to you. The only thing you're going to get from me is a long and painful death. Tie him up, Freddy."

  Freddy circled Johnny, wary of any sign of movement. "On your knees!" he snapped, as he untangled a length of rope from around his waist.

  And then, without warning, Freddy Fat Face's head was blown clean off his shoulders.

  Slug was still staring in shock when Middenface whirled around and knocked the blaster from his hands. Slug leapt for the weapon but Middenface was faster, drawing his own gun and pumping three bullets into the gang leader's head before he knew what was going on.

  "It's okay," Middenface heard Johnny saying. "Everything's okay. Just put down the blaster nice and slow. You don't want it going off again, do you?"

  He was talking to someone Middenface couldn't see; somebody in the street where he had kicked his weapon; somebody who had evidently just saved their lives. Middenface gaped as he moved to Johnny's side and laid his eyes on the wretched figure of Cain Hine.

  The street sweeper was clutching Johnny's still-smoking Westinghouse, his whole body shaking from shock. "Aw geez. He's dead, ain't he? He's really dead and I shot him!"

  "Whit the sneck are ye doin' here?" cried Middenface.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't know where else to go. I lost my job. My supervisor, he said I'd been causing trouble, and... Oh heck, I didn't mean to... I just saw the gun, and Freddy was... And you'd been so good to me, better than anyone ever... I just killed someone, didn't I?" Cain dropped the blaster, put his hand to his mouth and threw up violently.

  "Looks tae me like ye just decided whose side ye're really on," said Middenface, kindly.

  Cain emptied his stomach, wiped his mouth and apologised.

  "Divn't worry yourself. The first kill's always the worst. After that, it's doonhill aw the way."

  Johnny, in the meantime, had retrieved his blaster, walked up to Slug's body and turned it over with his foot. Then he crouched down next to it and pulled out a time drogue: a round, handheld device that looked a little like a grenade. He clicked it on and reversed time in a small area of the street around Slug. The gang leader's brains rushed back into his freshly reformed head and he sat up with a start.

  "Hello Slug," said Johnny. "Time for a little chat."

  "I ain't telling you nothing," said Slug. "What you going to do, kill me again?"

  "As a matter of fact..." Johnny clicked off the time drogue and Slug's head exploded again. Johnny then clicked the drogue back on and watched with the others as Slug's head reformed once again. Slug groaned at this second resurrection, holding his head as if to stop it from bursting apart again.

  "Let me rest in peace," he complained.

  "Just as soon as you tell me what I need to know," said Johnny.

  Slug shook his head stubbornly. Johnny clicked off the drogue, let him die once more, then brought him back. "I can keep this up all afternoon if need be. No man ought to face his death more than once. Answer my questions and you can put an end to this."

  "Okay, okay," Slug agreed, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

  "We're looking for your old leader."

  "Kit?" said Slug in surprise. "Sneck, I haven't seen him in over seven years. Not since that Strontie... What's his name? Moosehead, that's it. Not since Moosehead McGuffin brought him in."

  Johnny made to click off the time drogue again. "Wait, wait," said Slug quickly. "I hear things, you know. I listen out for news. Things have been sweet since I took over the gang. I don't... um, didn't want Kit coming back to muscle in on my rackets. Anyway, word is, since he broke out he's headed for Miltonia, and gonna get him some revenge on old Moosehead."

  "Much obliged," said Johnny, and clicked off the drogue for the last time. Slug's head exploded almost gratefully.

  "Looks like we're headed for Miltonia," said Johnny, turning to his partner.

  "Braw," said Middenface. "Ah've always wanted tae visit the place. Can't think why I havnae done so already."

  "Because they detest S/D agents?"

  "Aye, there is that."

  "It'll be good to see old Moosehead, though, after all these years." Johnny and Middenface knew Moosehead McGuffin of old. Like them, he had joined the Search/Destroy Agency after the Mutant War, but he had retired some five years ago.

  "What... what about me?" came the wretched voice of Cain Hine, stopping the agents in their tracks. "I've nowhere to go. I got nothing."

  Johnny regarded him through narrowed eyes for a moment and then turned to Middenface. "What do you reckon's the combined bounty on six Blades and five-and-a-half Chameleons?" he asked.

  Middenface shrugged. "Has tae come tae at least eight thousand."

  "Reckon that's about enough to buy some useful weapons and set yourself up as an S/D agent, wouldn't you say?"

  "Aye, Ah reckon it is," said Middenface.

  "You guys don't mean..." Cain stammered. "You... You're going to give me the bounty on all these kills?"

  "You saved our lives, Cain," said Johnny. "It's the least we can do."

  "Aw geez, aw heck, I don't know what to... You don't know what this means... I mean, me, a Strontie, I... um..." Cain swallowed and stared at the ground, his expression betraying his conflicting emotions.

  Johnny knew how he felt. He thought back over the events of the day, the lives that had been lost, and it wearied him. He placed a tired hand on Cain's shoulder and looked him in the eyes.

  "You're wrong, Cain," he said gently. "I know just what it means. I kno
w it all too well."

  CHAPTER THREE

  DETAINED

  "Name."

  "I've told you my name a dozen times already. It's Johnny Alpha."

  "Real name."

  "That is my real name."

  "Occupation."

  "You've seen my papers. I do freelance work for the Search and Destroy Agency."

  "And your business on Miltonia, Mr 'Alpha'?"

  The customs official had a face like granite - literally. His dour expression looked as if it had been chiselled into his tough, grey skin, and his hairless head was an uneven block, roughly square in shape and a little too big for his body. His eyes were tiny, sunken, black and piercing, but Johnny also knew how to give a hard stare.

  "Again," he answered patiently, "you've seen my papers."

  "And now, I want to hear it from you."

  "My partner and I are in pursuit of a dangerous fugitive."

  "Your partner. Yes. A Mr, ah..." Granite Face ran his tiny eyes over his clipboard in search of a prompt. "Archibald McNulty."

  "He prefers to be known as Middenface."

  "And this, ah, fugitive?"

  "Kit Jones. I have a warrant for his arrest. You'll find it's in order."

  "That remains to be seen. This Kit Jones, I assume he is a mutant?"

  "That's right. He calls himself Identi Kit."

  "And what makes you think, Mr Alpha," asked the granite-faced official with icy disdain, "that Miltonia is in the business of harbouring criminals?"

  Johnny had been apprehensive about coming to this world right from the beginning. He hadn't known what to expect.

  He had heard of Miltonia, of course. It was a relatively new colony, built by mutants fleeing oppression on Earth. It was one of many worlds settled in the uncertain aftermath of the Mutant War by the few surviving generals of that conflict, and where most of the others had floundered through lack of resources or fallen into norm hands, this planet had thrived.

  The unlikely success of Miltonia could probably be attributed to its rich deposits of radioactive minerals that the settlers had discovered soon after their arrival. It was these minerals that had, in all likelihood, kept the norms away, at least in any great numbers. The minerals had also made those first settlers very, very rich indeed.

  As a result, Miltonia had become a mutant paradise. It had grown quickly since both mutants and norms were drawn to it by its newfound prosperity, but still it remained the only known planet where mutants formed the majority of the population. At last count they had outnumbered the norms five to one and, inevitably, the mutants still controlled all the mining operations on Miltonia and thereby most of its wealth.

  So far, so good. Certainly, Johnny had experienced his fair share of anti-mutant prejudice throughout his life. In his darkest hours, when the very fact of his birth had seemed like an intolerable burden to him, it had comforted him to know that Miltonia existed, and that in one tiny corner of this rotten universe at least, a mutant could aspire to be free.

  And yet, paradoxically, another part of him had been afraid, too. Afraid that the legend or the dream of Miltonia might be better than the reality. Afraid that, were he ever to see this reputed mutopia with his own eyes, it would only disappoint him.

  And then there was the other thing. The usual thing. His job.

  If there was one thing that united mutants and norms alike, it was the mutual hatred of the Galactic Crime Commission's Search and Destroy Agency and the lowlife who chose to work for it: the Strontium Dogs. Johnny had seen a stark enough reminder of that shared hatred on Thulium 9. And he had heard from the other agents at the Doghouse that Miltonians were no different. Consequently, he wasn't exactly expecting a warm welcome.

  And so here he was now, sitting in a simple plastic chair behind a simple, white plastic table in a simple, white-walled, stuffy side room into which he had been bustled as soon as the first official from Customs and Immigration had laid three of her eyes upon him. He had presented his papers, answered his interrogator's questions many times over, and now they were just holding him for the sake of making his life more difficult.

  The fact that he was being questioned by a mutant, and not a norm, was the only small variation on an otherwise familiar scenario. Just like how, out in the main spaceport, there had been the usual two channels for incoming passengers - mutants and norms - only here, it was the mutants who were waved through while the norm line moved at a snail's pace.

  No, Johnny hadn't known quite what to expect from Miltonia, but he needn't have worried. So far, this world seemed little different to any other he had seen.

  "You can see my problem, Mr McNulty."

  Middenface thought he could, but he was too polite to mention it. No, that wasn't strictly true. In fact, he was just too drunk to care.

  "Miltonia is a wealthy planet," continued the granite-faced customs official. "A lot of people would like a share of that wealth."

  "Ye think we wannae come live here?" asked Middenface, raising an amused eyebrow. "Ye're off yer head, pal. Once we've run down this Kit scunner, we'll be out o' yer hair faster'n ye can say 'seven hundred thousand credits'."

  Granite Face leaned forward, placing his misshapen hands on the table in between them, and Middenface thought his tiny black eyes narrowed, if that was even possible. "Your partner made the same claim," said Granite Face, "but the pair of you were discovered sneaking onto this planet in the hold of a supply ship."

  Middenface laced his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. It creaked beneath his weight. "Aye, well, dae ye have any idea how hard it is tae get a ticket tae Miltonia on short notice? The transports are booked up weeks ahead o' time. So we cadged ourselves a lift on a merchant ship, and a fair whack it cost us. But we wouldae gone through customs, if you'd given us a chance instead o' marching us awae like criminals."

  Talk of the long journey here and of the hostile reception he and Johnny had received was almost enough to sober up Middenface there and then. His thoughts flashed back to the interminable hours in the supply ship's hold. He remembered the sawdust in his nose and the ceaseless pounding of the ship's ancient engines, their shielding shot, in his ears. He had had to wedge himself between two of the many stacks of wooden crates, their corners poking into his ribs, to keep himself from being knocked black and blue by the rickety vessel's unpredictable lurches.

  But then Middenface closed his eyes and brought to mind one particular crate; the one that had broken free of its ropes and slid into him, hitting his knees, and came to him as if it had sensed his need. The one with the label that had spelled out the cure to his woes in six letters. And a smile returned to his lips.

  Middenface had never been a good traveller. He hated the feeling of confinement, of putting his life in a stranger's hands. It was like being in prison. And when there was work to be done, like now, he chafed with impatience to get to it. The best way to drown those feelings, he had found, was with expensive whisky. And the booze had the additional benefit of helping him through the inevitable grilling at his destination.

  Through many years of experimentation, Middenface had gauged the exact amount of whisky necessary to keep himself placid at least for the first few hours of this regular ordeal. This was important because petty officials like old Granite Face would invariably put S/D agents through as much inconvenience as the rules allowed and, as Johnny had had cause to point out on more than one occasion, if Middenface rose to their bait, he only gave them more excuses to hold him.

  When Granite Face observed that Middenface and Johnny had arrived on Miltonia without return tickets, and suggested that this in itself was suspicious, Middenface presented him with his politest smile and explained that the supply ship had already left and that they intended to make alternative arrangements for their flight home as soon as they were allowed.

  "Seven hundred thousand credits," said the official, chewing over the words thoughtfully.

  "Aye," said Middenface cautiously, "that's righ
t."

  "Quite a bounty. There must have been some competition for that warrant."

  "We had tae call in a few favours, right enough."

  "And the fact that this Kit Jones was said to be on Miltonia, isn't that really why you fought so hard for this mission, Mr McNulty? So that the Search and Destroy Agency," he spat out the words with distaste, "would provide you with the papers you needed to gain access to this world?"

  Middenface explained, again, how Kit's trail had first led them to Thulium 9, and about the information he and Johnny had received there.

  "But we have only your word for that, don't we?" said Granite Face with a caustic smile. "Tell me, Mr McNulty, what makes you so sure this Kit Jones is on Miltonia at all? Our own records show that nobody of that name has presented himself at customs over the past month."

  Middenface sighed. This was going to be a long day. And the whisky was already starting to wear off. He was getting a hangover.

  "Kit Jones has total control over his own body," explained Johnny. "He can absorb the DNA patterns of any mutant he touches and reshape himself to resemble them, right down to the voice. He'd even fool the gene scanners you have out there. Believe me, if he is here on Miltonia, you almost certainly wouldn't know about it."

  "Wouldn't we indeed?" sniffed Granite Face. "That all sounds very convenient, don't you think, Mr Alpha? Sounds like an excuse for you to harass any mutant whose face or other physical characteristics you don't like."

  "I have an official warrant from the S/D Agency. That entitles me to pursue my target wherever-"

  "It entitles you to nothing!" Granite Face interrupted with a snarl. It was the first time he had displayed any real emotion. "Not here! Miltonia was established as a mutant haven, Mr Alpha, a place where our kind can live free from persecution. We maintain the absolute right to refuse entry to anyone who, in our opinion, threatens that freedom, whatever papers you might have."