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"What's the matter?" Thatcher asked, keeping his voice low.
Valentine found he could whisper coherently. He spoke into Duvalier's ear.
"Something's wrong," she said. "Somebody's been giving us away."
Back in the legworm valley, Valentine heard hoofbeats. Two legworms and perhaps a dozen men on horseback were investigating events in the pit. They looked like native Kentuckians intermingled with Grogs.
"Let's catch up," Duvalier said.
They went up the hill as quickly as Gail's weary, unsteady legs would allow.
The vets must have heard them coming. Both turned around. Pepsa looked frightened.
Boothe brought up the pistol and pointed it between them.
Shit. Guessed wrong. Why didn't I just shoot the pair of them?
Because they might not be in it together.
"Hey, Doc, it's us," Thatcher said.
"Guns! Drop them," Boothe said. The gun shook in her hands as she pointed. Tears streamed down her face.
Tears? Why would a Kurian agent cry?
"Epsah!" Valentine shouted, shouldering his rifle, sighting on the first Kurian agent he had ever looked upon.
The U-gun burned. Its stock burned him, the trigger guard; he felt the flesh on his hands cook; the agony of the steam in the Kurian Tower redoubled and poured through his nervous system. Drop it, all he could do was drop the gun.
Don't~think~so, a voice in his head said.
Thatcher brought up his rifle-what the hell?-the burning agony left, relief and wonder at freedom from pain but why was Thatcher shouldering his rifle with the barrel pressed to his collarbone and the butt pointed at Pepsa
Krrak!
Blood and bone flew from Thatcher's shoulder, the gun fell, the spent cartridge casing spun and before it completed its parabola Duvalier was out of the Kentucky grass, sword held up and ready
Stupid ~ bitch!
Duvalier screamed, dropped her sword, jumped back from it as though it were a snake striking-
Valentine grabbed his short legworm pick, lunged up the hill.
Boothe turned her gun at Pepsa, no, not at her, at a patch of dark shortleaf pine behind her, and fired.
Behind him Thatcher screamed. Valentine was still three strides away, the pain came, the legworm pick lightning in his hands . . . no, fire, hot blue flame that burned-
Lies. They fight with lies. Lies can't change steel to flame.
He raised the pick, screaming in agony, fighting the pain with sound.
You ~ dumbfuck ~ terrorists, Pepsa said between his ears.
And he threw, sent the pick spinning at her, watched it hit, saw the point bury itself in one fleshy breast, a gurgle, went to Boothe, took the hot gun from her shaking hand, pointed and fired
Where ~ are ~ you ~ lord?
Another shot, HEEELP ~ the ~ burn! the gun clicked empty, even as she toppled over he straddled her, hitting her with the pistol butt, silencing the screaming from between his ears by caving in her skull and the awful warble of her tongueless mouth, but nothingness yawned beneath him like a chasm, he felt himself tottering at the edge of an abyss.
