Chill Factor Read online

  Ryan drew his panga from its soft leather sheath, balancing himself on the balls of his feet.

  As the sec hunter moved, it revealed how thin its legs and knee joints were. The cables that activated the lower limbs, feet and claws were contained in an armored conduit no thicker than a man's forefinger, which in turn was covered by a polished tube of chromed steel. But where the joint articulated, there was a small gap, less than a half inch in width.

  Ryan had seen pictures in old books of pre-Dark sec men, who were called knights and wore full body armor. Stories said that they'd been vulnerable to a thin knife slipped behind the knee or into the groin or the armpit.

  He must have breathed more loudly than he'd intended. The droid's eyes burned toward him, and the thing took a dragging half step closer. Its right arm circled toward him, taking him by surprise as it extended to twice its normal length.

  The cleaver parried the steel hammer, though the jolt ran up Ryan's arm to the shoulder, and the echo rang into the darkness.

  "Shit bastard!"

  Once again he had to roll away, boots sliding on the patches of slick ice.

  The sec hunter came staggering after him, the dead leg skittering sideways, making it topple into the wall. While it was still off balance, Ryan went for it, swinging his eighteen-inch steel blade at the droid's undamaged knee.

  His aim was true.

  The whetted edge of the panga drove into the robot's leg, at the heart of the barely protected knee joint.

  As the controls shorted out, Ryan felt a brief, sharp shock, numbing his gloved fingers, nearly making him drop the heavy weapon. But he wrenched it free as the droid fell sideways, both its jointed hands scraping down the curved wall of the passage.

  The head faced away from the kneeling man, and a thin, keening sound erupted from its polished chest. Ryan took another swing at the robot, this time cutting clean through the thin leg, so that the android crashed full-length.

  Ryan wiped a light yellow oil off the blade, checking that it hadn't been chipped by the impact. He was still examining it when the droid launched itself toward him, propelled by the pincers on its right hand, the remaining knives of its left hand cutting toward his ankle.

  The blade sliced a curling sliver of black leather from the top of Ryan's combat boot.

  Now the head was revolving on its narrow neck, the trunk vibrating metallically. The droid's arms pounded at the rocky floor, like a demented swimmer stranded on a beach.

  Ryan moved a dozen cautious steps away from the thrashing droid, watching to see what other bizarre tricks it might have in its armory.

  "Swift and evil son of a bitch, aren't you?" Ryan said.

  He sighed, wondering what to do. The thing was clearly capable of heaving itself along by its arms, and he didn't want to risk getting any closer to try to incapacitate it further. Nor did he want to squander any precious bullets on finishing it off.

  There was no way the droid could move at anything better than a crawling speed, and it certainly wouldn't be able to open sec doors. So, the safest way to go was back into the research section of the complex, where the other three sec hunters remained. It was also the warmest place he could think of.

  He dodged around the disabled droid, sheathing his panga, and walked briskly into the bowels of the abandoned redoubt.

  For several minutes he could hear the tortured scraping, grating noises as the crippled chill machine tried to track him. Following its programmed instructions to search and destroy, even though it was almost terminated itself.

  After a while the silence came easing back into the deep tunnel.

  WHEN RYAN FINALLY REACHED the doors, he had a momentary pang of something close to fear. Suppose he opened the sec door and found the other three droids all poised, waiting quietly for him to join them?

  He uncoiled the white scarf from around his neck and dangled it on the end of the panga, pushing it very slowly through the gap.

  Nothing.

  When he finally squinted into the room, he saw the other three sec hunters were still on their pedestal, quite motionless.

  With an effort Ryan managed to heave the massive doors shut, taking care not to lock himself in. Apart from the sophisticated electronic devices, there was also a simple manual override, high enough on the door to make it impossible for the crippled droid to reach it.

  At last he was able to find peace and quiet to sleep safely.

  RYAN GROANED. The sounds had jerked him back into wakefulness, dimly heard through the closed sec door.

  First he heard scratching, as though a mutie rat was trying to burrow through the vanadium steel. This subsided as he got up and cat-footed across the floor to stand by the door.

  He could sense the animatronic creature, lying on its side, useless legs trailed behind it. Its crimson eyes would be staring blankly at the cold steel, the relays and contacts puzzling at the problem. It had trailed him through the redoubt, hunting him down to this place, this dead-end room with nowhere to go but out.

  Experimentally Ryan tapped on the door with the haft of the panga, mincing at the instant retaliation, hammering, metal on metal, loud and unbelievably fast.

  Ryan sat again, sighing at the noise. After a couple of minutes the pounding seemed to come from inside his skull.

  "Shut the fuck up," he said quietly.

  On impulse he started to count the frequency of the blows, using his chron to check them.

  The droid was pounding so fast that it wasn't possible to keep anything like an accurate count. But the number in a single minute was certainly over five hundred.

  Ryan sat and tried to use one of the relaxation techniques that Krysty had taught him, skills she'd inherited from Mother Sonja back in Harmony ville. It involved sitting cross-legged, hands laid palms upward on the thighs. Ryan did that, then lowered his head and closed his eye, taking very slow, deep breaths, holding them for a comfortable time, then releasing them equally slowly.

  He was supposed to be chanting some hypnotic, repetitive phrase as well, but he'd always found that part difficult. And it made him feel like a stupe.

  Several minutes passed, but Ryan found the clattering so intrusive that he couldn't concentrate on properly relaxing.

  He counted again.

  Just below five hundred.

  Next time it was around four-fifty, audibly slower than before.

  The droids had to be powered by some kind of battery, and he guessed that they were too small to carry self-sufficient nuke packs. There were small panels on its chest that could be linked to a solar pack, but in the dark passages of the redoubt it wasn't likely to be much recharged.

  "Running down," he said, nodding. He looked again at his small chron, waiting for it to reach the end of a minute.

  He started to count.

  "Three hundred and ninety," Ryan nodded.

  In minutes the rate dropped away until it was below two hundred, around three hammer blows per second.

  Ryan had moved away from the door, looking at the three surviving androids, taking care not to step inside the warning line.

  It crossed his mind to try to incapacitate them where they stood, hack out the wiring controls inside the knee and elbow joints.

  But to do that he'd have to get in real close, over the danger mark, risking triggering all of them at once. It was a risk that he didn't feel much like taking.

  Not yet.

  "SIXTY-FIVE."

  An hour had drifted by. Now the noise was definitely weaker, as well as much less frequent.

  Ryan got up and strode briskly around the room, singing quietly to himself. It was something that Doc Tanner had taught him, claiming it was one of his own personal favorites, about how you didn't need to put a wall around a graveyard, since nobody wanted to get in and nobody was able to get out. It had a mournful humor that Ryan liked.

  By the time he returned again to stand by the door, the metallic thumping had slowed right down.

  "Seventeen," he counted. The imp
act was now so feeble that the droid's hammer fist seemed to be barely making contact with the sec door.

  "Only twelve." The interval was now five seconds between each blow.

  Finally it stopped.

  Ryan stood by the door for several minutes, straining to hear. He opened it an inch, ready to throw all his weight against it at any sign of robotic life. But the droid was dead.

  It lay with its head near the sec steel, one arm resting against it. The hammer was pounded flat, the end of the arm bent and warped. Its eyes were dead and insensate, with not even the barest glimmer of a red light within.

  The door shut again and Ryan walked slowly toward the remaining trio of sec hunters. His hand rested on the butt of the blaster, ready in case one of them suddenly became activated.

  But all stood motionless, lifeless.

  Ryan smiled as he stood just on the safe side of the red line on the floor. He reached up and snapped his fingers at the nearest droid.

  "Fuck you all," he said.

  As though he'd triggered a switch, tiny rubies glowed in the staring eyes.

  Chapter Twelve

  DEAN WAS AWAKENED by a hand on his leg, touching him just below the knee, very lightly. Then it became harder, moving up the outside of his thigh.

  For a moment the boy kept still.

  The warning from Zimyanin hadn't surprised him. Ever since he could remember there'd been men around who liked to take their pleasure with those of their own sex. Every now and again the boy had been approached, but he'd always made it clear what would happen to anyone who tried.

  He could hear breathing, harsh and urgent, close by him, and smell sweat, rank and feral.

  Still faking sleep, the boy breathed deeply, moving slightly, his right hand reaching behind him toward the small of his back. The fingers on his thigh stopped, frozen, then moved again.

  Dean's finger touched the hilt, then realized that there were two men preparing to assault him—one who knelt between his legs, and another who was squatting near his head. A second pair of hands was reaching for him.

  "He's waked."

  "Keep still, son."

  Dean opened his eyes, finally getting the knife into his fingers. The room around him was almost pitch-dark, lighted only by the faint glow of four central fires. He could see the bulk of the two men, though he didn't recognize either.

  "Fresh meat."

  "Tender."

  "Fuck him good."

  "Me."

  "No, me."

  "In his mouth?"

  "No. Get his pants down."

  "Hear that, son? Get your pants down, and you won't be much hurt. Quick, then, on your belly."

  "I'll hold his wrists."

  "No," Dean said. "I'll do whatever you want. Anything at all."

  There was a quiet chuckle. "Then you and us'll be good friends, Will. Tonight and every night. Real good friends."

  The dormitory was quiet. About half the stacks of bunk beds were occupied, the rest still waiting for more "recruits" for Zimyanin's mines. The main door was locked, with two armed men sitting in front of it, dozing.

  Dean wriggled around, trying to judge better precisely where the two men were sitting. Now he could see, his eyes quickly becoming accustomed to the smoky gloom.

  "Slippery, young lad. I'll be bursting before I get well-seated. You want to stop his mouth, Owen, do you?"

  "Could, John, couldn't I?"

  Dean fumbled with his belt buckle, pretending it was difficult. He rose to a kneeling position, the knife still hidden in his right hand.

  The one called John was also on his knees, inches away, the front of his canvas trousers unbuttoned. His mouth sagged, and his eyes glistened wide and expectant in the firelight.

  Owen had his own pants around his ankles, stroking himself with both hands, tumescent and erect. He was concentrating on his own rampant excitement, ignoring the young boy for the moment.

  It was as good a time as any.

  The blade of the knife was no more than three-quarters of an inch wide near the turquoise hilt, and less than six inches in length. But its point would have matched the finest embroidery needle. And J. B. Dix had praised its sharpness by using it to shave himself.

  From beginning to end, it took less than six seconds.

  The knife lunged toward John, giving Dean a perfect ace on the line, right into the center of the leering man's left eye. It arrowed through, colorless ichor squirting onto the boy's hand. He used all his strength to thrust it deep, past the back of the eye, grating for a moment in the bony hollow of the socket. Then it found the canal of the optic nerve and cut into the brain.

  John began to die.

  Before withdrawing the knife, Dean wriggled his wrist, twisted the steel point from side to side, making sure that the damage was terminal.

  The man gasped in shock, stark terror freezing his breath in his chest.

  Owen heard the sigh and began to giggle. "Can't wait, eh? You—"

  In a savage downward blow, Dean completely severed the man's thrusting penis.

  Under pressure, Owen's body began to pump itself empty of blood.

  Dean had been already moving away, keeping clear of the torrent of steaming crimson liquid that gushed from the dying man's groin.

  John had fallen backward, both hands pressed to his ruined eye, the beginnings of a shriek fighting free from his chest.

  Owen was doubled up, clamping his fingers over the neatly amputated stump of his penis, the hot, slick blood making it impossible for him to get a grip and save himself.

  "Turnaket," he gritted painfully. "Tie somethin' and—"

  But he couldn't concentrate on what he wanted to say and do. Part of him knew that the skinny little new kid had done for him, but he felt much too tired to do anything about it.

  The whole incident had taken mere seconds.

  By the time that Owen was dead, and John's dying scream finally burst into the dormitory, Dean was twenty yards away, in a different aisle of bunks, lying under a moth-eaten blanket.

  On the way he'd wiped his knife on the coat of a sleeping man, sheathing it once more in the small of his back.

  Fights and killings weren't that uncommon, and the guards dragged the corpses out into the night. They didn't even bother to report the deaths to Gregori Zimyanin.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE RED LIGHT in the blank eyes of the android flickered, then went out. There was a terrible stench of burning rubber and melting plastic, and thick black smoke began to pour from somewhere deep in the chest controls. A trickle of dark green liquid started to ooze stickily across where the sec hunter's genitals would have been. If it had any.

  Ryan allowed his hand to relax off the butt of the SIG-Sauer.

  The droid's metal lips parted, and its teeth began to grind down, sparks flying and shards of silver metal pattering on the floor.

  The head nodded furiously backward and forward, so violently that Ryan could hear case-hardened gears disintegrating.

  First one leg lifted, the sharp claws extending, then it came down again on the same spot. An action was repeated by the other leg.

  The arms remained still, hanging uselessly at the droid's sides, the knives and pincers motionless. A throbbing vibration made the sec hunter quiver. When it became stronger, Ryan stepped well away.

  The droid rocked from side to side, then fell to the floor, its feet moving as if it were walking uphill. A joint opened at the side of the chest armor, and tiny fiber-optic wires began to spew out, flailing like glittering, rabid worms.

  Ryan watched the droid's autodestruction, fascinated by the awesome power and malice of the creature.

  Both hands had come to life, seeking their partner with a scuttling frenzy, climbing all over the torso, the knife blades hissing against each other, the pincers clicking with a malevolent speed. Eventually the right discovered the left and attacked it. The left hand reacted to the assault by grappling against it.

  The battle was brief.
/>   Something very terminal shorted out in the chest of the droid, and there was a great flash of white flame. Thicker smoke billowed, and the sec hunter lay still, finally dead.

  Ryan had already reached the conclusion that the five androids were somehow linked together. They only acted against him one at a time, the next one coming onto power only after the demise of its predecessor. But he had no idea how that worked, nor what kind of time interval was involved.

  "Three aces on the line," he said. "Two to come."

  AFTER A WATCHFUL HOUR, Ryan had decided that the finite malfunction of the third sec hunter had broken the chain of death.

  There wasn't any sign of activity from the remaining pair of droids, though he'd gone and snapped his fingers at them, shouted and waved his hands, being careful not to cross that ancient red line. There was no point in pushing his luck too far.

  Ryan was feeling desperately tired, and this was as good a place to sleep as any. He took the extra precaution of unlooping some of the cable from the dead droid, casting it carefully around the legs of the other pair of sec hunters and knotting it loosely, so that if either of them moved, they'd inevitably shift the charred metal corpse of their fellow.

  Having done that, Ryan went to a far corner of the room.

  And fell asleep.

  WHEN HE brought himself awake, it was ten minutes to four in the morning. He pissed against the wall, seeing how it steamed in the cold, floodlit air.

  Neither of the androids had moved, and their eyes remained as blank as ice.

  The journey toward fresh air was endless and wearisome. Ryan trudged along, wishing that he had someone for company. As a younger man he'd spent most of his time alone. He'd chosen that and lived contentedly with it. But he'd then ridden with the Trader for many years, enjoying the friendship of good, trusted companions. And for many months there'd been Krysty, J.B. and Doc.

  Most recent of all, he'd begun to relish his lost son, Dean.

  "Lost and found and fucking lost again," he muttered bitterly.

  THE EARLY MORNING was so cold it came like a slap across the face. Ryan wrapped the white silk scarf more tightly over his mouth and nose, pushing the gloves as far up his wrists as they'd go.