Five titanium-ceramic composite fingers closed on the grip of the handcannon. The index finger fell comfortably on the trigger, the thumb - on the cocking mechanism. A smooth motion brought the handcannon up, long barrel pointing squarely at the target, the bayonet-blade glinting dully in the firelight. A soft, calculated press of the index finger pushed the trigger back, releasing the hammer.

The metal piece fell, striking the firing pin. It stung, in turn, the ammo chamber, agitating the glimmer mix inside. A caseless round formed at the end of the truncated cone pressed into the barrel. With a dull thud, the propellant ignited and transformed into gas, pushing the eleven millimeters thick and fifteen long bullet through the hand-threaded barrel, causing it to spin counter-clockwise twenty times per meter of flight.

The bullet spun six hundred and four times and splayed the contents of a gaunt's skull across the chilly wasteland sand. The whole thing took a tenth of a second.

One down. Three more to go.

They attacked suddenly this time, leaving most of the humans gibbering and reeling. No forewarning visions from Helena, the group's most sensitive mind. No alarm traps sprung. Nothing on Junk-Rat's scans. Her trailer was now shut tight, with a keening wail penetrating the thick metal of the former Skiff hull. Poor thing. He didn't even try to imagine what the Fallen was experiencing.

A shadowy form leapt at him across the fire, attempting to grapple and bring him down. A sidestep and a swipe with the bayonet - and a headless carcass tumbled past him, lifeless limbs twitching.

He never thought why he perceived himself as a male. Technically, from a human's standpoint, he had no gender. He wondered, idly, if he could persuade the suddenly helpful wasteland-gift Jasker build him a new frame. Another one, with narrower shoulders, broader hips and breast-like coolant units on the chest. Would he then perceive himself as female?

The last pair of gaunts bayed and chattered outside the camp, circling around the firelight on all fours and, apparently, making no attempt at attacking him directly.

The doors of a hand-and-ball emblazoned wagon opened and Helena, eyes rolled and mouth slack, sauntered out, giggling and whirling. She made a few other weird motions that he had trouble describing, and ran out of the circle, into the dark. He cursed and ran after her.

His piezoweave muscles effortlessly brought him to a speed far greater than that of the delirious human. He caught her across the body and hauled her up onto his shoulder. She yelped something unintelligible and passed out.

The gaunts sprang at them simultaneously, from the front and the left. He wondered for a bit at the weird tactic, and then shot one of them through the chest and pistol-whipped the other one mid-flight. The impact jarred his hand, but the carefully welded replacement held remarkably well. Jas had done an outstanding job, he thought. Too bad the kid was not around to hear it directly from his "patient".

He shot the groggy beast for good measure and thrust the handcannon in its holster behind his back.

He returned to the camp, a limp, but steadily breathing Helena draped over his shoulders. He carried her back to the trailer she rode, and carefully deposited her on the narrow cot. The interior of this particular truck never ceased to amaze him.

It was draped with heavy, dark fabrics and dimly lit by a few cunningly concealed lamps. Incense sometimes burned at a small ancestor shrine opposite the door. Not now, though. Helena lit the tiny brazier only when they were in town and she was expecting customers.

The curtains half-concealed a vast collection of books, amulets and ritual cards. He was not sure whether the books were part of Helena's trade persona, or she was genuinely interested in what the tomes contained. There were interesting, provocative works along with far more mundane ones - "The Five Lives of Albios" rested on the same shelf as "The Feisty Argo... and Other Tales". He was curious about what the half-erased "Argo..." stood for. He'd heard some legends, already ancient at the time of the Collapse, but the word seemed too long to match those stories.

Near the ancestor shrine, on a sand-carved wooden frame, stood Helena's ball, the one painted on the wagon. A big, head-sized chunk of polished, immaculate crystal. Helena claimed she could see things in it. He did not believe her until that night a few weeks ago. She said she saw mind-predators approaching, and Carver, who has been travelling with the caravan for far longer than either Paook or Sixes, went out to investigate.

They buried him in a way-grave, a marker for other travelers that death followed their caravan and they carried it in the direction the grave pointed in. Next evening, they broke the last package of antietheogens. Carver refused to take any, motivating it by the fact that it would be a waste if Helena's hunch was wrong. Now, they were forced with a tough choice - they only had twenty-five pills. There were twenty-six organic sentients.

Horace decided to bite the bullet and went out, alone. The next morning, they found him, hand frozen around a knife plunged deep into a gaunt's body.

Old Junk-Rat cleaned the beast's skull with her shock dagger and mounted it on a pole at the fresh way-grave's head. They had no idea how many gaunts were still out there.

Then, Jasker came out of nowhere. The Exo smiled, inwardly, remembering the profound embarrassment the kid has endured after Paook shot a hole through a neighboring barkhan. He was a decent man, that Jasker.

He shared freely the antietheogens from his medkits. Even a half-dose would allow a man to keep his wits about him if a gaunt tried to mesmerize.

He fixed Sixes' arm. It had taken him the better part of a week to build it from scrap and restructured glimmer, but the result was not too dissimilar from the original Sixes lost all that time ago. Bloody Guardians and their arc-charged knives.

He made friends with Old Junk-Rat, of all things. She even parted with her prized dagger for him. What was so special about the kid?

A foot crunched on snow and sand outside. Sixes froze. His train of thoughts distracted him, if even for a second, from the task at hand - keeping the people safe from gaunts and jackals until daylight.

"Walker-god, yes? We are safe?"

The voice of the Fallen rasped into the wagon. Helena stirred, turned to lay on her other side and went still again, snoring gently.

"Yes, Junks, we are," his voice rang tinnily. He hated speaking. He never seemed to remember the tone of voice he had used for his previous phrase. It irritated both him and most other people. Not so much the Fallen, though.

"Come, walker-god. Let's sit by the fire. The humans sleep, yes? It's time I told you what Jasker-Splicer shared with me."

***

>+To: Hamsa Gaskon [email protected]+

>+From: Abe Makoto [email protected]+

>+Subject: RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:RE:Inheritance+

>++Hamsa,

>Do not presume to know better than our lords. He has it, and he will follow it, even if only out of curiosity. But I place my trust in his ambition. His designs were nearly perfect - imagine what he might bring us once he finds his inheritance.

>Keep me updated.

>Abe Makoto

>Today's quote: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me++