SHE'D SHARED A CUBBY WITH HER

© Dana W. Paxson 2005

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SHE’D SHARED A CUBBY WITH HER

1563 4D

In the moonlit mountain night, Ezzar shouldered her gun and blew the head off the freight van‘s driver a hundred strides away below them. From the trailing escort, the guard detachment leaped out, weapons ready. Grendel stood up from the ambush over the switchbacked road, and killed them all, one beamshot each, four shots a second, exploding their bodies in a sweep of dark vapor.

He turned and grinned at her. “Did you want to do one or two?”

She shook her head; queasiness and awe mingled in her. “No, Rennie. Let’s get down there and mop up. The call might be out.”

They vaulted down through scrabble and crag to the road. The bodies at the escort van lay mangled and unrecognizable; ahead, the bigger van holding the weapons shipment stood idling, its driver slumped dead, headless but still gripping the control stick. Ezzar had used an explosive bullet, not a beam; they needed to take the van intact. In the lead of the convoy, a fastcar with two bodies in it lay smashed against the mountain wall that frowned over the road.

Rennie pulled open the driver’s door of the freight van and yanked the body out onto the gravel. “Seat’s bloody,” he said.

“Clean it,” she said, “I’ve got to check the car.” Weapon ready, she ran to the lead fastcar, knelt and looked in at the two corpos in its seats. This driver’s head was missing too; Rennie‘s beamshot had erased it into a red-brown fog on the cabin’s interior. The passenger was bowed forward; her head rested on the bullet-riddled dashboard, and her hands still gripped a beam carbine. A beamhole cratered her abdomen.

A shock went through Ezzar. It was her dead husband’s niece, Areesa.

“Oh, no,” Ezzar muttered.

“Come on,” Rennie rasped at her from the van, “Rion‘s waiting with our cart up topside.” He flung aside the cloths he’d used to clean away the blood; he’d ripped the driver’s coverall off to do the job.

“Coming,” she said, turning. A gasp from behind her; she wheeled back. Areesa, dying, squinted sidelong at her through stiff wisps of black hair sticking from under her helm.

Ezzar‘s dark brown skin and her dull-black fiber worksuit made her nearly invisible, but the dying woman said, “Ezzar? But you—" and her eyes closed.

They were to leave no one alive. Ezzar hovered for a heartbeat. She’d eaten Areesa‘s food, shared a cubby with her, laughed with her—

“Now,” Rennie urged; he kicked the van‘s engine up, and moved it forward to pass the wreck of the fastcar. “Now! Ho, is she still alive? I thought you’d nailed her.” Through the van‘s passenger window, his beamer aimed at Areesa‘s forehead.

“Leave her,” Ezzar said, climbing into the van. “I hear motors.” A sick feeling assailed her: now it was blood on her, her own. “I said, leave her! She’s family!”

“She’ll turn us in anyway.” To Ezzar‘s relief, Rennie lowered the beamer, kicked the van savagely forward; they turned up the winding sideroad to where Rion waited. Ezzar shivered.

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