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"Blow it out your ass, Doc."
"I find this all amazing to contemplate," the old man said. "At another time,
I
should like to advance further inquiries into this field of experience."
Elmore shrugged. "Told you about everything I know." He looked at Krysty
rocking gently against the floor, her mouth silently moving to whatever words
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she
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file:///C|/3226%20Sci-Fi%20and%20Fantasy%20E-books/James%20Axler%20-%20Deathla
nds%2045%20-%20Starfall.html was saying. "I'm just sorry it don't seem to help
your problem none."
"Got a new problem," J.B. called from the window. "Rain's slacking up. Chem
storm's about to pass over. The baron's men aren't going to wait around long
before they decide to do something."
RYAN SAT AT THE WINDOW, peering over the sill. He kept the Steyr in his hands,
taking small comfort from the solid feel of the sleek steel.
Phlorin lay against the back wall, her breathing sounding raspy and thin.
Krysty still hadn't come out of the coma that had claimed her.
"Slaggers are still interested in how it goes down, too," J.B. said.
Ryan followed the line of the Armorer's pointing finger and spotted the
coldhearts in hiding farther out, away from the junkyard. Some of the mongrels
had put in an appear-ance, as well, requiring the baron's men to fire at will
to prevent the hounds from closing in on them. As it was, Ryan knew of two men
who were lost anyway. The dogs also succeeded in chasing nearly half the
horses away after the baron's men had worked to keep them covered during the
chem storm.
"We still got a few hours of daylight left," J.B. com-mented.
Ryan nodded. "That can work for us or against us, de-pending on how good the
baron's men are in the dark."
"Home-ground advantage goes to the Slaggers, though." A crooked smile framed
the Armorer's face. "And those bastard dogs."
"We got too many problems inside this fort," Ryan stated.
"I know."
"Trader'd think me a fool for putting up with all of them for so long. I need
to find
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and who of these folks the baron's men are after. Then I need to get us the
hell out of here."
"Mebbe." J.B. took off his glasses and gave them a quick shine. "But I think
back in those days when Trader was sharp, he'd have taken advantage of the
rain, too."
"Rain's over," Ryan said. Outside, only a light mist hazed the air. But it was
still enough to give a man pause about going out into it. If enough of the
airborne caustic liquid was breathed in, lungs could become inflamed, a
breeding ground for pleurisy or another respiratory ailment that would end up
in a long, hard death.
J.B. put his glasses back on. "Which problem you going to deal with first?"
"Krysty."
"Could be hard going."
"Already is," Ryan admitted. "If I knew what to do, one way or the other, I
could get it done."
"Best way to do anything," the Armorer said, "is to put the ace on the line
and let the chips fall."
Ryan knew that was true, but he also knew that doing that was going to risk
Krysty. Somehow, though, he knew she wouldn't want him to let the situation
remained unre-solved.
"ANY CHANGE?" RYAN ASKED.
Mildred shook her head. She sat next to Krysty's pallet, the red head lying in
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her lap. She brushed at the prehensile hair, trying to calm it from the bunch
of frayed knots it had twisted itself into. "She's got a fever. Low grade and
noth-ing's that's going to be dangerous, but it's wearing her out."
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"How about the old woman?" Ryan cut his gaze over to Phlorin, who had woken
and pierced him with her red-rimmed gaze filled with hate.
"Figured she'd be dead by now," Mildred admitted, "with that hole in her
chest.
We're talking about a lot of trauma to her system. She's a stubborn woman."
"If she dies, how do you think it's going to affect Krysty?"
"Not any more than the baron's men chilling her if they get their hands on her
first. And she's going to die anyway, Ryan. No way to save her. Mebbe her
dying will ease the hold she has on Krysty."
Ryan drew the panga. "Guess it's time to find out." He glanced at the old
woman.
Phlorin stared back at him, a sarcastic smile somehow blossoming on the bloody
lips through all the pain. "Come to me, man. Come ahead and do your worst. No
matter what, I shall still survive!"
FOR A LONG TIME, Krysty knew she'd been floating in some kind of prison. It
wasn't the land of geysers and sulfur stench that Phlorin had first put her in
when she took over her body and nearly killed Ryan. The place she'd been kept
had been a white room almost ten feet in all directions. There had been no
furniture, no decorations, no way to tell what was a floor, ceiling or wall.
There hadn't been any gravity, either. At first, she'd run, slamming herself
into the walls, the ceiling, the floor, what-ever side of the cube she could
throw herself at.
She'd hoped she'd break something, find some way out. The walls had all held,
and she felt that she was teetering toward madness.
In the background, always just within hearing, had been Phlorin's voice. And
it had never sounded human again. The voice oozed words like an infected wound
oozed pus into healthy tissue. Krysty was certain the voice was finding the
weak spots of her mind, prying into every nook and cranny it could, then
insinuating itself and taking root. At times she thought she could feel the
voice actually inching deeper inside herself.
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She no longer understood the words consciously. But she could tell that some
part of her subconscious mind under-stood them. She still felt the way she had
on top of the building, the knife in her hand as she tried to kill Ryan:
herself, but one step removed.
Without warning, though, the voice became clear again.
Come see
, Phlorin said.
Come see how your man plays into our little game. He's going to trap you
forever, leave you to my mercy
.
Why are you doing this
? Krysty demanded.
Because it is necessary. I am of the Chosen. I must sur-vive. You have
forsaken your birthright.
I didn't even know of you people
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, Krysty argued.
You knew that you were different. That alone should have started you on a
quest until you found us, your sisters.
You're not my sisters.
Your mother was.
Fear trembled inside Krysty then, and it reminded her of a moth's wings
brushing frantically against her palms when she'd caught one as a child.
My mother was many things
, she argued, but she would never have been like you
.
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