Penance
By Michael Schwitzgebel
 

Twitch felt the ratskin's bullet graze his side, just as he topped the pile of broken masonry. He allowed himself to pitch forward over the far side, gritting his teeth against the bruising impact, in hopes of convincing his pursuers that they'd scored a killing hit. As soon as he landed, he rolled upright and scuttled behind a large slab of what had once been part of a foundation. Watching for the ratskins' approach, he thumbed open the cylinder of his stubber and removed the spent cartridges, taking care not to let them clatter on the ground. He reached into his belt pouch, dug around until he found his last four rounds, and carefully loaded the cylinder by feel. It would have to be enough.

When the ratskins didn't appear in the time he estimated it should have taken them, he knew that they hadn't been fooled by his ruse. Feeling suddenly exposed, he rolled to his left just in time to avoid the shotgun blast that pocked the chunk of concrete he'd been using for cover. He quickly spotted the ratskin that had circled around behind him and snapped off a shot. The slug caught the savage high in the chest, lifting him out of his half crouch and sending him sprawling. Guessing that the others would be quick to respond to the gunfire, Twitch efficiently relieved the dying ratskin of his shotgun and ammunition.

He had no sooner started moving again than two rapid shots whined off the debris behind him. Without stopping or turning to aim, he emptied his stubber behind him and ducked under a fallen ventilation duct. As he squatted there, shoving shells into his captured shotgun, he caught the faintest glimpse of movement to his right. On instinct alone, he wheeled left and spotted the rifle-wielding ratskin who was using his brother's diversion to sneak up on him from behind. Twitch's shotgun roared, blowing away most of the ratskin's left leg. He started to turn and look for his other stalker, but was hit from behind by a heavy weight and went down hard. His vision exploded into thousands of tiny stars as his face bounced hard off the ground, and he felt something give way with a sickening crunch.

Half-blinded by pain and fear, he howled like a wounded beast and threw the ratskin off him. Again and again he pumped and fired the shotgun at shadows, until the weapon clicked and went silent. Then the ratskin was on him again, so close that Twitch could smell the wildsnake on his breath. He felt the long knife plunge white hot fire into his shoulder and screamed as he slammed his forehead into his assailant's nose, setting off another flood of pain in his own skull, but loosening the ratskin's grip. Twitch seized the opportunity and swung the butt of the shotgun around to connect with the side of the ratskin's face, breaking his jaw. While the other man was momentarily stunned, Twitch stove in his skull.

When the ratskin lay still, Twitch sat panting for a few moments before painfully drawing himself to his feet. He rubbed at his tearing eyes with the back of one grimy sleeve and then, with shaking hands, very deliberately began reloading the shotgun. He could hear the wounded ratskin whimpering softly, nearby, and spat out a stringy glob of mucous and blood.

He cocked his head to look at the aborigine out of one eye and chuckled humorlessly.

"Betcha din't think yeh'd find yeh'self in these straits, didja?"

He limped over to stand above the man, who was feebly attempting to reach his rifle and babbling in some language that Twitch didn't understand. Probably praying to whatever heathen gods they had.

"Yeah... well," he said, roughly shoving the barrel of the shotgun into the ratskin's mouth, "when yeh get ta hell, tell 'em ol' Twitchell sent yeh."

* * *

By the time Twitch arrived back at the settlement of Small Shakes, he was exhausted and badly in need of medical attention. The knife wound had stiffened up his shoulder to an extent that the arm was nearly useless, and the flesh wound in his side, though not life threatening, burned like blazes. What really worried him was his face, which was now so badly swollen that his right eye had completely closed. He was no doctor, but his first guess was that the cheekbone and, possibly, the eye socket were broken.

Despite all that, he was in a upbeat mood. Several times, after finishing off the ratskins, he thought he had seen someone tailing him, but always just at the edge of his vision. He had finally reassured himself that the adrenaline rush of his skirmish with the ratskins was making him paranoid and wrote it off to nerves, secure in the knowledge that he had successfully dealt with the threat to his claim. Oh, he wasn't sure exactly what it was that he'd found, but he knew it was very old and very big.

It was just good luck, really. He had been searching the collapsed S-23 dome for months without finding anything worthwhile, but the recent shake must have rattled things around a bit. It was after the dome quake that he had discovered a crawly hole he hadn't seen before, and he had hardly been able to believe his eyes when he found the room full of machined metal canisters and strange, expensive-looking machinery. Someone would pay a fair credit--or an unfair one, if he had his way--for that stuff, and then, he thought (absently noting the loose flapping of his boot sole, which had come untaped again), he'd be living fat. If it meant killing a few filthy ratskin claim jumpers to protect his find, then Twitch was okay with that.

Then he heard it again: just a faint whirring, like insect wings. This time, when he spun to look, there was something. There, about two meters from his face, hovered a human skull. He blinked his good eye several times, just to be sure he wasn't seeing things, but it was still there. Twitch's jaw dropped open and he stared at the thing, more amazed than afraid. It appeared to be some sort of hybrid construct, partly bone and partly metal. Built in to the metal part was a mechanical eye that irised and extended as it seemed to examine him, alternately hovering and darting from side to side like a hydrafly, trailing a number of cables that swayed when it moved, like dreadlocks.

Gradually, he overcame his initial awe and slowly eased his hand toward the shotgun slung across his back. As he wrapped his hand around the weapon's grip, the skull dropped its jaw and spoke to him.

"When yeh get ta hell, tell 'em ol' Twitchell sent yeh," it said, perfectly mimicking Twitch's voice. "When yeh get ta hell, tell 'em ol' Twitchell sent yeh... tell 'em ol' Twitchell sent yeh."

Twitch hauled the shotgun over his back, jacked a round into the chamber, and fired in one painful motion, intending to blast the obscene thing out of the air, but the shot went wide as the skull jinked to one side. Its jaw clacked shut, and it dived at his head, sending him sprawling in the path. He scrambled awkwardly, slipping as he tried to get his feet under him, and made a break for the main gate of the settlement.

Twitch slowed his pace as he approached the checkpoint. He thought he had lost the skull, and there was nothing to be gained by raising the sentries' suspicions. Never mind that they were probably drunk on second best by now; he knew that no good could come of trying to explain that he was running from a flying skull, of all things. He tried to act normal and waved to one of the guards, a sometime drinking buddy called Stanky.

"Heya, Twitch!" the guard called out. "What happened to your face? It's an improvement!"

Twitch flipped his index and middle fingers at the guard. "Up yers, yeh comedian."

Stanky guffawed. "You better go see the doc, Twitch. You're a real mess."

Twitch waved dismissively over his shoulder and kept walking. He didn't see any further sign of the skull until he had nearly reached the center of the settlement. The open area was called Speaker's Square and was intended as a sort of common meeting area, but most of Short Shakes' residents weren't what you'd call joiners, so it mostly served as a garbage dump. When Twitch spotted the skull, he took off at a sprint, hoping to ditch it long enough to get out of sight and go to ground. Down alleys, through family tents and hovels, he ducked and bobbed until he came to the charred husk of the building that had been the local headquarters of an unpopular Guilder before it was mysteriously firebombed.

Keeping low, he peeped out a ruined window frame and tried to slow his breathing. When he still didn't see any sign of the ghoulish pest, he slid down to sit with his back against the wall and waited.

* * *

After Twitch had sat in the dark for what he estimated must have been about an hour, the skull hadn't reappeared, and his mind began to weave a web of rationalizations to explain it away. Exhaustion. Blood loss. Had to be. Might as well go see the doc.

"Mr. Twitchell."

Twitch would have jumped out of his skin, would have run, would have cried out; as it was, his heart froze in his chest and he nearly fainted as he felt the blood drain from his face.

"Whom else have you told about what you have found?" the speaker continued from somewhere in the darkness across the room. The male voice was mechanical and clipped--nearly expressionless.

A figure wearing a red, hooded robe stepped into the greenish-yellow patch of light that entered the room from the settlement outside. Twitch's first thought was that he'd run afoul of Redemptionists, but that didn't add up. The robe's fabric was too rough and plain, and Redemptionists, being cowards at heart, always traveled in packs. There was something unnatural about him, though--something fidgety and alive, under the robe, that raised the hackles of Twitch's primitive subconscious.

"I don't know what yeh mean," he lied.

The figure didn't seem to be armed; maybe he could buy some time and make a break for it. Then he noticed the flying skull, hovering just behind the guy's right shoulder, and started to shake.

"Look, it's only medical equipment and like that. Yeh know... for the settlement."

The figure strode briskly to stand over Twitch, who cowered, trying to sink into the wall behind him. Quick as lash worms, metallic cables shot from beneath his robe, wrapping themselves around his throat and arms and lifting him, kicking weakly, to eye level. This close, the terrified underhiver could see the grotesque tangle of tubes and metal that wove in and out of the man's skin like maggots through a corpse. He could hear soft whirring and clicking noises emanating from within the hood as he was examined by this creature that seemed as much machine as man.

"You are a liar and a coward," the tech priest said. "Your attempt to conceal your discovery from its rightful custodians is a blasphemy against the eternal Machine God and must be punished. Yet you have a viciousness about you that can be put to use, once your cowardice is recast as obedience and tempered. Your penance shall be your honor as, henceforth, you serve."

Sensing that things were about to get much worse for him, Twitch renewed his efforts to escape, but the tentacles held him fast. Horrified, he screamed as best he could through his constricted windpipe as another of the metal arms snaked from beneath the robes to hold his head fast. He couldn't see, but could feel as something worked at the back of his scalp and felt the skull-piercing whine of high frequency vibrations as his brain case was breached. He didn't feel when the probes entered his brain, nor did he notice as he ceased to be Twitch, entrepreneur and opportunist, and made the initial transition to becoming Twitch-288, unquestioning servant of the Machine God.


 
The copyrights of many concepts in this story are held by Games Workshop - all original material is copyright © 2001 by Michael Schwitzgebel.