Ruthless Page 2

  John tried not to think about it as he shuffled home through a Salisbury afternoon. Mutie beggars clutched at him, but he shied away from them. He was invisible to the adults in the shopping precinct, but he tried to keep away from them anyway. When he was too close to people, he got a ringing in his ears, like he could hear voices whispering. He could never hear what they were saying, but he got moods, desires and feelings, and most of the time, he didn't like what he saw.

  He couldn't tell anyone because then they'd lock him up for sure. Lock him up and throw away the key.

  Kreelman's a little snecker.

  There was no mistaking that one. The hairs on the back of John's neck began to tingle. Someone was looking at him. Someone was following him.

  He picked up the pace. It wasn't far to his home now. Maybe he could-

  "Oi, Kreelman."

  It was Batesy. The voice was unmistakeable. John kept walking. There was nothing Batesy had to say to him that he wanted to hear.

  But now John could hear three pairs of footsteps gaining on him, as three boys walked with increasing urgency up behind him.

  "Oi, Kreelman, I'm talking to you."

  John kept going. He didn't look back. Whatever Batesy wanted, it wasn't worth risking his eyesight over. Was this how it was going to be every day from now on? Was this how his life was going to be? He'd only spent a day out in everybody else's world, and already he was in fear for his life. Things weren't going to improve. His eyes would never get better. He would have to wear these goggles for the rest of his life, and every waking moment would be a knife-edge of fear: being petrified of unshielded light, always terrified of the strap snapping and blinding him. Killing him. This was how it was going to be. He was going to die every day until he died for real.

  John turned a corner and made a swift left into an alleyway, but Batesy's gang were on his heels and they followed him in. John turned a second corner and found his path blocked by a new chainlink fence.

  "Oh, so now I've got your attention," said Batesy, walking round to face John.

  "What do you want?" breathed John without looking up.

  "I wanna see eye-to-eye," said Batesy. "I wanna see what's so special about them peepers of yours."

  "You can't," said John. "Please, you mustn't."

  "Come on, Kreelman, we wanna see those eyes," said Batesy. "Just for a moment."

  Without a word, John spun around to walk back the way he'd come, but his path was blocked by two other boys: Fat Lee and Tinfoil Tony.

  "Please," said John. "If I take these goggles off, the light could kill me."

  "Snecking bullshit," said Batesy. "Rich bastards like you just don't wanna see what's really going on around you."

  "No," said John, "I'm telling the truth."

  "Think you're a movie star, do ya?" taunted Batesy.

  Tinfoil Tony and Fat Lee laughed along with Batesy, their hands reaching over to John's eyes, grasping at the goggles.

  John craned his head to escape, and struggled fitfully, but he wasn't getting anywhere. A lucky elbow smacked into Fat Lee's ribs and the boy let go of him with a sharp outrush of air, but as John tried to run, Tinfoil Tony lashed out. It wasn't a trip so much as a kick to the leg, and John was thrown to the ground.

  With a yelp of fear, he snatched at his face with his own hands, cradling the precious goggles as he fell.

  There was a sharp pain in the side of his head and one of his hands felt warm and wet. He was bleeding, and his attackers were all around him. Whimpering, John kept his hands screwed tight to the front of his face as he heard the shoes of his three tormentors scuffle closer.

  "Get up, you snecking tosser." shouted Fat Lee. "Or I'll kick you where you are."

  "Get up and fight like a man, pansy!" yelled Tinfoil Tony.

  "I'm gonna count to three," said Batesy with an evil grin. "One, two..."

  Someone kicked John hard in the arm. A second blow stomped on the back of his leg. He screamed with the third.

  "Oh yeah, three," snickered Batesy. And realising that their opponent wasn't even going to stand, the boys did what any self-respecting kids would do, and started kicking him some more.

  In the dirt under a hail of blows, John curled into a tiny ball, his hands still pressed intently to the protective goggles that were now filling with tears as his attackers hit him repeatedly.

  Suddenly there was an almighty THWACK that didn't have a connecting pain attached to it. Instead, John heard Fat Lee yelp in surprise, and the sudden sound of a commotion that didn't centre on him. The blows had stopped but the noise went on, as the three boys yelled and screamed not at him, but at someone else.

  And then he heard her voice, shrill with anger.

  "Get away from my brother."

  There was the fearsome swish of a hockey stick, and the beautiful sound of it connecting with the side of Batesy's head.

  John risked a peek through his bleeding fingers and saw Ruthie, berserk with rage, chasing the boys from the alley. Fat Lee was favouring one leg like he'd sprained something, and Batesy was yelling for help. Like anyone would believe he'd been attacked by a girl.

  Ruthie marched back to John.

  "Come on," she said. "Get up."

  But John simply sobbed. He felt so helpless beneath the goggles and he could hardly see with them anyway. They had filled up with tears and it was like trying to see underwater. For just a fraction of a second, he toyed with the idea of closing his eyes and just lifting the goggles off his face for a moment to let the tears flow away. But he couldn't bring himself to do it.

  "Ruthie, I can't see..." whispered John through his sobs.

  Ruthie sat next to him on the ground. He felt her arm tenderly rest across his shoulders.

  "It's okay, Johnny," she said soothingly. Only Ruthie and Mum called him that.

  "They didn't get the goggles. It's probably just tears."

  She drew him to her and hugged him gently.

  "Let's get you home," she whispered.

  "I can't do this," said John. "I can't go on like this."

  "Poor Johnny," said Ruth, rocking him gently. "I know it's tough for you right now."

  "I can't go through my life like this," sobbed John.

  "You won't have to," said Ruth. "We'll find something. Some way for you."

  "I don't think there is a way," said John.

  "There will be," said Ruth, helping him to his feet and handing him his bag.

  "Like what?" asked John, as they headed out of the alleyway towards home.

  "Surgery? I don't know. Gene therapy. A house on a planet where it's always night. John, whether your eyes recover or not, there will be a place for you, I promise."

  "Thanks, Ruth," sniffed John. He didn't believe her, but she always made him feel better.

  There was silence for a moment, save for their feet scuffing on the pavement.

  "They said I was a mutie," said John.

  Ruth sighed.

  "It's just your eyes, Johnny," she said. "When you're old enough, Daddy'll get them fixed and you'll be fine. You will have an active life. A normal life."

  "That sounds nice," said John.

  The pair fell silent again.

  John resumed his customary bowed walk, staring at his shoes. Ruth looked sidelong at the goggles on her brother's head and bit her lip. She wasn't deaf. She knew what people were saying. She knew...

  "I will always be your sister and I will always love you," said Ruth, suddenly. "No matter what."

  John smiled.

  "Now you're just being mushy," he said shyly.

  The next day, his life changed forever. A lot can happen in fourteen years.

  FEARLESS: 2176

  Johnny Alpha peered over the top of his sunglasses at the five gunmen.

  One shuddered at the sight of Johnny's featureless, milky eyes, and took a backward step. The men on either side of him took nervous sidelong glances at their companion.

  It was late in the Vaara day, but a Vaara day was f
orty hours long and the heat had been building for a while. A long shadow stretched out from the rectangular jet-black monolith behind the gunmen. Black Rock, the locals called it, because it was black and made of rock.

  Heat shimmered off the sands into the purple sky and the tarmac of the single straight road was soft under Johnny's feet. He kept his eyes on the central gunman and his strange hostage. He would make the first move and the others would follow.

  "Drop the gun, Alpha."

  For emphasis, the leader pressed his Huntley and Palmer into the head of the struggling furball clutched to his chest.

  "Mister Johnny," squealed the Gronk. "Make it stop."

  "Drop the gun, or the Gronk gets it!" said the gunman.

  Johnny spat thoughtfully, not taking his eyes off the leader.

  "It's only a Gronk," he rasped. "I can get another one."

  The creature in the leader's arms squirmed frantically, its four prehensile arms slapping against the unmoving body of its captor.

  "Mister Johnny. No. Mister Johnny, don't lets them shoot me."

  The leader's eyes widened as he met Johnny's gaze.

  "You're bluffing," he stammered, after a time.

  "Try me," said Johnny. His right hand hung at his side, his grip tightening on the bulky Westinghouse blaster it held. His thumb massaged the selecter at the top of the haft. It was set to number two chamber, normal rounds, and there was no way he could change it from here. This was going to have to be precise.

  The Gronk twisted in the gunman's grasp, its mournful cries now muffled by the gunman's left hand over its snout.

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Johnny.

  "It's only a Gronk," the gunman replied.

  "Yeah," said Johnny. "But they do bite."

  The gunman looked down for just a moment and Johnny took his chance. He kicked up his feet and smacked hard into the ground, raising another cloud of dust, groaning as his back took the impact. The Vaara bandits were still staring at him in bemusement when their ears registered the sound of the gunshot.

  The Gronk hit the ground screaming something about the noise, too hysterical to realise that it had been dropped for a reason. Its former kidnapper swayed unsteadily on his feet, his eyes turning blindly up towards the hole in his forehead. Behind him, there was a fine red mist where the back of his head used to be, still hanging in the air as the other gunmen made their move. Everything... happened... verrrry... slowwwwly...

  Gronks are loyal, and furry, and occasionally incredibly stupid, but what separates them is their reaction to danger. Gronkus Narcolepsis immediately feel very, very sleepy at the first sign of danger. This unusual survival trait has proved most unsuccessful and subsequenstly, there aren't too many of them left these days. Curling up into a ball and hoping that the danger will be gone when one wakes up has never worked well, though it did cause some highly prolonged skirmishes during the Gronk Civil Wars of legend, particularly the infamous Battle of Sleepover Trench.

  A less pleasant but longer-lived species is the Gronkus Laxativus, which reacts to perceived threats by explosively evacuating its substantial alien bowels. No predator without quick access to soap and water ever paid them much attention. They have survived in large numbers, but form an untouchable class, even among the Gronks. They tend not to travel offworld and comprise a large part of the Gronk civil service.

  But this Gronk, this was the philosophical genus of Gronk, the high caste known to xenologists as Gronkus Pavidus - "The Panicking Gronk". Blind, shrieking, blue-murder conniptions are the most obvious trait. Running in circles yelling for their parents, or indeed, anyone else's available parents at the first sign of danger, these supremely nervous critters have managed to survive because they have a deep secret. You would need to be inside a Gronk's mind to see it, and nobody has been inside a Gronk's mind except Johnny Alpha and the occasional brain weevil.

  While the lower mouth shrieks away in a stream-of-consciousness rant about the injustice of the world, and the potential damage that may be incurred by its poor heartses, the Gronk forebrain remains absolutely calm and collected. The body may quiver and shake, and run around in small circles waving at least one pair of arms in the air, but the Gronk forebrain knows exactly what it is doing. Its eyes swivel in all directions, its nose snorts the surrounding atmosphere in search of comforting smells, and it makes a plan for action.

  Its poor heartses.

  A Gronk heart usually has an easy time of it. The centre of gravity is low. The legs are short. A Gronk heart isn't the most active muscle in the galaxy. Until, that is, panic sets in, and it gets a wholly unwelcome glandular injection of heavy-duty chemicals, in particular, one called juddermine.

  Juddermine does exactly what it says on the tin, or what it says on the small vials of contraband juddermine that are occasionally injected by unwise humans in search of a thrill. The digestive system goes into overdrive and the heartses pump like there's no tomorrow. The brain synapses fire ten times as fast as usual. Absolutely everything that makes a Gronk gronky is magnified tenfold and the Gronk turns into a shaking, quaking bundle of hypertensive, hysterical nerves. But for the Gronk itself, time seems to slow down.

  The Gronk was still falling when the juddermine kicked in. Johnny Alpha was still poised in mid-air himself, somehow suspended at an improbable angle, smoke still trailing from the upper muzzle of his Westinghouse. As the Gronk's head furiously swivelled, its forebrain was able to take in the situation in slow motion, as the four remaining gunmen brought their weapons to bear.

  Far removed from the trembling bag of nerves of popular myth, the Gronk weighed its options in the next extremely prolonged second. It could stay where it was and hope that the newly dead bandit who had dropped it would not fall on top of it. It could run to the side, hoping to get out of the way of trouble, or even run back between the legs of its former captor, towards the relative safety of the big black rock behind it.

  There was a bright blink of light above Johnny Alpha's head. Somewhere from the rocky cover behind Johnny, someone had fired a weapon at the remaining bandits. The initial muzzle flash reached the Gronk at the speed of light but the missile itself plodded far behind with the relative slowness of a recalcitrant donkey.

  While its body twitched and jittered, the Gronk's shakey-cam eyes focused on the new arrival: a rocket-propelled grenade, lazily arcing over Johnny's head, its supersonic wake causing the desert air to shimmer. It spun as it flew, slow enough for the Gronk to read the serial number on its side, and the maker's designation - Day series, High-Explosive. Handle with Care. Made in Taiwan.

  Of course, thought the Gronk in satisfaction. Mister Johnny wouldn't have come alone. From somewhere among the rocks, Wulf Sternhammer had just unleashed a thunderbolt from the north. The grenade was an unimaginative dark green, tipped by a long, fearsome spike, a gyve designed to crumple on impact and set off a large explosion.

  "Eek," said the Gronk's upper mouth, involuntarily. The simple exclamation, once begun, could not be stopped, causing the Gronk's next subjective minute or so to gain an annoying background shriek. Its own prolonged scream causing its skull to vibrate, the Gronk told its stumpy little legs to scamper in the safest direction possible. Considering the approaching grenade and the gun-toting bandits, the Gronk figured the safest direction to run was towards Johnny Alpha.

  Swaying and lurching against its own juddermine-pumped muscles, the Gronk began to advance while the rocket-propelled grenade continued its slow and lazy passage overhead. The Gronk and the grenade passed each other halfway between Johnny and the bandits, the heat pressing uncomfortably against the Gronk's fur. But despite the burning sensation, the Gronk was pleased with itself. Standing this close to a grenade in flight might be nasty, but it was nothing compared to being caught in the explosion. Burning alive while doped up on juddermine was not an experience any Gronk should endure. Dying could take subjective months.

  The Gronk swivelled its head to look forward at Johnny Alpha. He was
still several feet away, the dust of his fall still hanging above him like a low red cloud, a smoke ring from his gunshot floating in the air before him. He was firing his Westinghouse a second time.

  Humans don't have the benefit of juddermine. Their actions are agonisingly slow to a panicking Gronk. Johnny didn't have time to admire the scenery. For him, only a second had passed since he let off his first bullet and he had no option but to remain on autopilot. With inexorably dumb human reflexes, Johnny's finger pulled the trigger, unleashing a bullet at ground level. Spinning considerably faster than the lazy grenade, a number two jack round shot out of the muzzle and straight for the Gronk.

  Belatedly, the Gronk came to understand that running towards a man in the middle of a gunfight could have its drawbacks.

  "Eek," said the Gronk's lower mouth, adding to the ear-splitting whine of the earlier scream.

  Throwing itself to the ground was out. Gravity would take at least half a second to take hold. Its momentum would not allow it to go far enough to the left or right to dodge in time. There was only one option, and that was to use the full power of its juddermine-augmented muscles.

  The Gronk jumped. It sprang into the air with all the might of its tiny, chemically altered limbs, leapfrogging the bullet even as it tore past on its way towards its target. With the subjective speed of an eager rat, the bullet sped safely between the Gronk's legs, but now the Gronk had another reason to panic.

  It was designed for scuttling, not taking athletic bounds. Its stumpy legs had given it a bit too much forward momentum, and now it was slowly executing an unstoppable mid-air somersault.

  The Gronk flapped all four of its arms ineffectually. For a moment it was parallel with the ground, flying like a furry superhero, and then its legs were above its head and it was facing backwards.