Wil McCarthy - The Collapsium

Again, the spider laughed. “You need to understand, sir, I’m conditioned to resist those sort of appeals. You’re not dealing with amateur security here; we’ve been optimizing for years and years.”

Bruno’s anger flared. “All right then, you, why haven’t you killed us already? Why talk to us at all?”

Shiao sighed angrily, looking as if he’d just realized something important. “Declarant, perhaps his purpose is simply to delay us. A familiar face, an encouragement to stand around persuading him… We haven’t the time, sir.”

Perhaps the spider had been conditioned to react to that phrase with violence, to delay the fight as long as possible and then commit to it wholeheartedly, with intent to win. Perhaps it was angered for some reason, or had simply heard enough. In any case, it leaped for Shiao with surprising nimbleness, snatching him up in its oversized jaws and driving its dripping, mirror-bright fangs hard against the fabric of his space suit. Over the suit radios, Bruno heard Shiao gasp, heard the breath squeezed out of his body as it had so recently been squeezed out of Rodenbeck’s, inside the Ring Collapsiter fragment.

All thought fled from Bruno’s mind. He had let Rodenbeck die, had carelessly let him slip too close to the collapsium and be crushed to death. He simply would not repeat that mistake.

Throwing down his staff, he dodged between two pink-brown spider legs to retrieve the impervium sword where Shiao had dropped it. At his touch, the thing came alive, its blade vibrating all in a blur, its handle acoustically isolated and quite firm and steady in his grip. Then, with a patience and precision that would have astonished him a minute earlier, he stepped forward and lopped off the spider’s swollen Rodenbeck head.

He fully expected the thing to die badly, messily, and in this he was not disappointed; the spider thrashed violently as its head was parting company with the rest of it, and as a result the head flew across the room—with Shiao still inside it—and crashed hard against the wall. The body’s spasms did not end there. Quite the reverse: its legs, with surprising coordination, carried the body forward to crash hard against another wall, and another, and another one still. The hands flailed madly, grabbing at anything. The body rolled. Bruno was lifted, dashed, trampled, and for one dizzy moment, crushed up hard against the ceiling. The wind was knocked out of him immediately, and his limbs were twisted all the wrong ways, and his skull suffered a number of sharp blows against the dome of his helmet, which should have been too far from his head to make contact, if his neck had been holding onto it properly. Those were the hard parts of the ordeal; he waited patiently through the rest of it, willing himself limp, knowing he had nothing to gain by struggling against this agonizing tumbling and buffeting.

Finally, what seemed like hours later, the spider gave a final shudder and lay still.

Bruno tried to breathe, waited a few seconds, tried again. Now, finally, he could hold off panic no longer. He managed a little, gasping inhalation, but it only seemed to make things worse. He tried again, and again. Finally, when he didn’t black out, he realized he must actually be getting enough oxygen to survive, regardless of how it felt . He willed himself to be patient one final time, and partially succeeded.

A minute later, or maybe just a few seconds, he managed a fairly deep, fairly refreshing breath. A few more followed, more easily, and after another minute he gritted his teeth and forced himself to sit up.

Shiao was nearby, still trapped inside the spider’s head. His helmet dome had shattered, and his suit’s tough outer layer hung around him in scorched tatters, revealing the tubes and hoses of the midlayer underneath. His headlamps had shattered and gone out, and of course, like everything else in the room, he was covered in sticky red blood. It was only the faint, purposeful movement of Shiao’s arm casting moving shadows on the wall behind him that let Bruno know he was alive at all.

“Shiao?” He called out.

No reply.

Gathering his breath and wits, Bruno managed to flip over onto his hands and knees, and crawl—slowly and painfully— to the enormous fallen head.

“Shiao?”

This time, he was answered with a groan. Bruno completed the journey, then threw himself back over into a sitting position. It took another several seconds to get his breath again. “Shiao?” He touched the man’s arm, felt it move beneath his fingers. Shiao’s head stirred. His eyes opened.

“Tight,” he whispered.

Tight? Belatedly, Bruno realized the spider’s jaw, in death, continued to clamp down on Shiao’s body. Not as hard as before, probably, but hard enough to keep him from breathing properly. Mustering his strength, Bruno got to his knees, then his feet. He grabbed an edge of jaw and tugged on it. He’d half feared that the thing wouldn’t budge, that he’d have to search under the spider’s bus-sized carcass somehow, to find the sword again, to cut Shiao free. But no, the jaw wasn’t clamped, it was just heavy . With effort, he lifted it a few centimeters. With greater effort, he lifted it farther, and with the last of his strength lifted it a bit farther still, then gently kicked Shiao’s body out from between the fangs.

Shiao gasped, exhaled, gasped again. He was breathing. Not normally, perhaps. Not easily. But breathing nonetheless. Now fully exhausted, Bruno sat down beside his fallen comrade with no thought at all for what should happen next.

Perhaps fortunately, this decision was made for him: in the far wall of the chamber, a door opened up. And there in the doorway, framed with light, stood Declarant-Philander Marlon Fineas Jimson Sykes.

“Good Lord, Bruno,” he said wonderingly, in the clear, strong voice so familiar from days gone by. “You really are my peer.”

Incredibly, Cheng Shiao lifted his blood-streaked head up into the light and spoke. “Declarant-Philander Marlon Fineas Jimson Sykes, it is my… duty as a Captain of the Royal Constabulary to place you under immediate arrest, for suspicion… of the crimes of murder, high treason, and regicide in the first degree.”

The voice was weak, bubbling wetly, but the words themselves were clear enough. Shadows danced in Bruno’s headlight beams as Shiao continued. “You have the right to an attorney. You have the right… to be interrogated by disposable copies. You have the right to commit suicide without entering a plea. Do you… understand these rights?”

For a moment, no one moved or spoke. Then, finally, Marlon’s silhouette said, “Cheng Shiao, right? I remember you. We once investigated a murder case together.”

“A murder for which you… are now prime suspect,” Shiao agreed.

“Hmm,” Marlon shifted slightly in the doorway, and Bruno’s sound pickups clearly transmitted the rubbing and creaking of fabrics. Marlon actually seemed to consider the offer for a moment, but finally he shook his head. “It seems a shame to kill you both; it really does. I admire nothing so much as tenacity. There will be a new society after I’m finished here, and perhaps there’s a place for both of you in it somewhere. Oh, I’m sure you can’t conceive of that right now, but I do pride myself on being a fair man. Come. I’ll show you around, and then place you both in fax storage. That’s humane, isn’t it?”

Neither Bruno nor Shiao answered.

Sighing, Marlon reached into a little pocket in his gray-blue waistcoat and withdrew a complex little pistol of some sort, which he proceeded to aim at Cheng Shiao’s head.