"That is what we must to do? Then, that is what we must do," confirmed Gally. The small cyborg crossed her thin and solid arms over her armored chest, the sounds of metal sliding on metal when she crossed them.  Ido wanted to chide Gally for that habit. He then thought better of it. Her synthetic face is that of a teenager, and she has the stature of a doll, but she is a woman. She is her own woman, thought Ido. Gally has to live for herself, with a minimum of chiding.

Vicki was midway through transferring money and her ID to a jeans pocket from her purse. Vicki thought of Scrap Iron City as being a high-crime area, and she logically reacted acted to prepare herself for her purse being stolen. Then, after Gally finished speaking, Vicki placed her pale and false-fleshed hands on the table, her blouse cuffs touching the table as well. "Gally, what ‘must’ we do? Apparently, the sick woman already killed people and did some evil. Are we supposed to follow her around and prevent her from killing again?"

Gally shook her dark-haired head once, the soft synthetic flesh of her face in calm denial. "The way to prevent future murders by that altered woman is to use permanent means, Vicki. At least, I mean ‘permanent’ in regard to life."

Vicki’s computer processors caught the reference; she understood Gally’s symbolic speaking. Gally really was a skilled speaker, and it took time for Vicki’s processors to decode what the cyborg said at times: Just listening to Gally made the listener think. "What do you mean, Gally? Are we going to...kill her? Because if we have to, I’m not sure if I myself can kill a human being, in defense or not."

"Human or not, we have a fight on our hands."  Gally placed the printout on the table, then placed a solitary right pointer finger above the photograph of the trenchcoated mutant. Her finger steady and on the photograph, Gally said, "There is a bounty on that mutant’s head, a double bounty. First, there is the dirty bounty, for those who seek money itself.  Second, there is the reward for oneself. If we eliminate the mutant, you are another step or so to going back to your normal lifestyle, and I can further test myself in battle.  There is reward in this, immaterial reward.  Those are rewards with real worth.  Think of it, synthetic girl." Gally’s metal arms crossed again, more sound of armor on armor.

"What, ‘synthetic girl?’ Are we back to that again? I am a human being. Almost everyone here, in this place, may be cyborgs and pollution-twisted freaks. But, guess what? I’d say that I was human.  Also, about killing that mutant woman, I would feel fine about stopping her if it were for self-defense purposes. But couldn’t we just hand her in to that Factory corporation you talk about to make things right?"

Ido looked at Vicki, wondering about her. The robot girl really does have stubborn preservationist programming. This talk of preserving human life at many costs could cost Vicki her existence if she were to remain here long; no one else would hesitate to "kill" Vicki while Vicki would seek to avoid killing despite being convinced that harming or killing others in self-defense is morally acceptable. Also, Vicki was wrong about the Factory wanting a live bounty: Bounties are always claimed on the death of the target.

"Vicki, ahem...." Ido gave a slight and deliberate cough, then said, "That is not the way the Factory handles bounties. The purpose of the bounty itself is permanent elimination of criminals, the elimination of targets. That way, there is a stop to the crime--as well as deterrent from other crimes. It is the equivalent of the death penalty of these times.  Murder as a penalty deters crime, and that’s why there are bounties. Such explains the lack of crime by sane people in Scrap Iron City. "

"And we must stop the influence of The Cloaked Man, Vicki, at whatever costs," added Gally. "Consider the logic of it. By stopping the mutant, we will save more lives into the future. We cannot have ‘crazies’ just going around, hurting and murdering. Would you want mutants stalking the streets of your home, Vicki? Hmm? That would mean real monsters causing pain and trouble for where you live."

Gally paused, placed her solid palms together, then continued. "Vicki, this is where Ido and I live. This is where we live. And we do not want to live with crazies and mutants roaming the streets. If you are not with me to stop the mutant, then you must be on the side of …." Gally let the sentence trail off, her voice fading on the word "of."

Vicki thought a moment, then came to thoughts. "No, I am not on the side of evil. Gally, I don’t want to be that way. It is just that…I do not want to murder. I can now logically accept murder and fighting in self-defense. That is because I respect logic," said the robot girl, the computer circuitry of her "mind" flickering with the thoughts. "But I, myself, may not be able to kill."

"Vicki, there is no need for you to kill," said Ido. "If your programming, er... your morality, does not allow you to kill, you can just assist Gally in claiming this bounty. Perhaps, you can act as a distraction to the target. Or you can scout out the mutant. She is clothed enough to hide and pass as a flesh person or a cyborg, hard to spot. But I suspect that you have good eyes for detail." Ido still thought of Vicki as a sort of replicate, a kind of robot: As a robot, Vicki’s should have the ability to analyze people’s physical appearances better than human beings. "So, just help Gally find the mutant. That should be enough."

"Or, you can just remain a coward without will enough to pursue what is good, synthetic girl," said Gally with something terrible glinting in her eyes. Vicki’s programming was able to analyze the severity of anger in Gally’s voice. Gally was Hell-bent in getting this mutant, willing to fight for what were probably even personal reasons.  Vicki's processors went over Gally's attitude towards fighting:  Why was Gally such a sanguine fighter?  Maybe, there really were personal reasons behind her war-lust.

Vicki spoke.  "I will help you, Gally. Though you can’t expect me to kill someone outright, I can help you...find the mutant." Even at that, Vicki's sub-processors registered some minute "error" messages in even the logic of helping to kill a person:  Had Vicki's personality emulation programming been more hard-wired and less open-ended, she would not have been able to exercise a sort of "judgement" while in situations; she exercised a sort of judgement here:  Help in the killing of one person, or not help and let others die.  The answer was logical.

Vicki slowly picked up the ream of printed paper, the one listing the bounty.  She held it locked before her photoreceptor-eyes. Vicki’s computers analyzed the image as her eyes scanned the photograph. She assessed the most probable size of the trenchcoat the female mutant wore in the photo, and she gauged the mutant’s height. It took two full minutes for Vicki’s "mind" to extrapolate data from the photograph. But after she did, Vicki became able to identify the trench-coated figure wherever she hid in the crowd. "Analysis complete," said Vicki in an involuntary monotone, a holdout from her earlier days. She coughed. "Wow, that must have been something caught in my voice. Anyway, is there any other sort of information we can get on the woman?"

"Well, reports say that she prefers not to leave her victims whole. The mutant almost always consumes parts of her victims, which is why she prefers full-flesh people or cyborgs with some flesh body parts remaining," said Ido, thinking. "But that does not give great indications of her locations or assessments of her future victims. At least, the reference to the Motorball Arena helps. A most obvious and immediate idea would be that the Motorball Arena is within her hunting grounds. She will probably repeatedly attack in that area, hunting for full flesh people to prey on."

Gally spoke. "Almost like an animal, driven by inhuman instinct, the mutant is set to following closed patterns of behavior. How terrible, for a person to become less human...to become an animal. A human being should grow beyond himself or herself. If The Cloaked Man can bring people backward and lower them, then he must truly be against the progress of humanity in this lifetime." She then clenched her harder-than-armor fists, held them up. "If that is so," started Gally. A subtle crackling came from her fists. It was the sound of fierce static electricity building around her fists. "Then we must truly stop this Cloaked Man."

Vicki forced her eyes away from the spectacle of Gally’s crackling electromechanical hands, the spoke to Ido. Her mind rolled through data on carnivorous creatures. "Do you think she hunts smell or by hearing, Ido? If the woman hunts people as food, then she must have animal-like behavior to match. She could hunt by smell, hearing or sight...."

Ido shrugged. "I am more a cyber doctor, not an animal behaviorist. And the few books in my own collection on animal behavior are weak on the subject. However, considering mutants, there is probably the chance that her sense of smell could be down. When a person is altered to the point of genetic damage, finer sensory functions tend to be altered:  improved or lessened. But if she hunted down so many, the mutant must at least have decent seeing and hearing. There is the chance she has no sense of smell. Then again, she was probably altered by that ‘Cloaked Man,’ and have had all of her senses improved. You will just have to be careful, anyway," finished Ido.

Gally could imagine the outline of Vicki’s idea. The plan was simple and easy. Ido saw the plan as well. The hitch was that the mutant could have a sense of smell after all. The mutant would suspect a trick, then escape or use extreme violence when she realizes a trap. But it was a needed gamble. Otherwise, it could take time for the mutant again, days. Coming close to being found, the mutant could go into hiding.

If that, then more lives would become endangered--the lives of full-flesh people and cyborgs who still had living body parts besides their brains.  Meanwhile, if Vicki were damaged in the confrontation, Vicki was only a gynoid. She could always be rebuilt. But what if Vicki had programming for intense preservation, and became a coward? That would make for Vicki turning to a less-than-effective help.

The plan was simple and appropriate. So far, from the behavior described, the mutated woman had patterns similar to that of hunting animals. A carnivorous creature may itself be difficult to beat outright and immediately. But dangerous animals have always been captured by weaker people: People just had to use their minds to outsmart the beasts. People had to use traps. And like all traps for carnverous creatures, traps need bait. Vicki was too glad to serve as bait. It was a simple but intelligently assessed plan to capture the mutant.

Preparing Vicki to become bait was simple. First, Vicki read and memorized official maps of Scrap Iron City. ("Official" was the prime word, since there were plenty of unofficial areas above and under the surface of the city that were not mapped. Maps of those areas were difficult to find.) Laid out on the table, Vicki’s circuitry took in the information from the printouts on the city’s layout. She could now get around Scrap Iron City without guidance.

To make her more like "bait," they had to make Vicki appear more like a full-flesh person, a person with no cyborg parts. That Vicki’s "flesh" was all synthetics and plastics could be something set aside; Vicki’s body at least looked and felt "human." If the mutant lacked smell (as Ido suspected), then simply seeing Vicki as a full flesh to hunt would be enough to draw out the mutant.

It was time to give Vicki more appeal; Vicki would have to show more "skin"--as artificial as the skin was.  They helped Vicki roll up her sleeves, exposing pale and slightly athletic synthetic arms. Vicki untucked her blouse from her jeans, then undid a few lower buttons. This somewhat exposed her flat and youthful (but still synthetic!) abdomen. (The young robot was certainly not too modest, did not mind at all.) By exposing midriff and arms, Vicki appeared to be a non-cyborg--tasty flesh bait for the mutant.

Time would tell if the plan would work. The next day was when they would try this plan near the Motorball Arena. After Gally and Ido both were satisfied with Vicki’s appearance, Gally nearly dropped from exhaustion. Gally’s brain, having been so active, grew tired. Perhaps it was a sort of side-effect of time travel, going between places? Ido offered Vicki a place on a couch on the first floor, but Vicki said that there were times when she did not need sleep. Ido understood why; Vicki did not.

They followed Gally to her room, and she simply dropped into her bed. Ido shook his head. Gally sometimes really wore herself out, trying to drive herself as if her brain as well as her body were made of machinery. The cyborg was tired, so she slept through the night.
 

Vicki did not need to sleep, so she remained "awake." She stayed on the second floor and stood in the hallway, staring out of a window at the end of that hall. Scrap Iron City was seriously something to contemplate. Then, morning eventually came over the cracked gray buildings and the failing streets of Scrap Iron City. And just looking at it made Vicki want to leave the place. She even chose to risk her existence for that.

Scrap Iron City, just the name was oppressive.  Through the night, Vicki's processors went over various aspects of what she detected in Scrap Iron City.  There were no police.  Outside of a distant elite, an elite that resided in the circular floating city above, there was no true government.  A government cares for its citizens, at least keeps life passably stable.  High above and far away, the ruling city over Scrap Iron City--the floating City of Zalem--mistreated those on the ground.  They mistreated them by not caring.  They did not care if those of Scrap Iron City lived in dangerous squalor.  Outside of placing bounties on criminals and letting those on the ground do the work, those of Zalem did nothing to alleviate crime.

All the while, people suffered despite the bounty system.  Violent criminals could continue to act.  They would kill until caught, until killed themselves.  It was killing and brutality, squalor and suffering:  The people of Scrap Iron City suffered in a city that outdid the worse inner-cities of the 20th century.  Was that progress, mutilation of human beings into impoverished and suffering cyborgs--people whose very bodies are chopped up and replaced with inhuman bodies of metal--as so they could better serve the desires of those in the ruling elite?

As sunlight came to the dark city, a city with an area measured in the thousands of miles square, Vicki's processors considered the place.  And as morning came, her hearing occasionally detected the screams of innocent people being caught by others.  Stray animals howled as well, probably suffering due to the concentration of pollution so high that it could sicken people.

Then, morning came.  Gally awakened and prepared for the day.  Ido did an hour's worth of maintenance on Gally's metal body before she donned her pseudo-leather body-suit.  Gally closed the neat zipper on her body-covering, put on her boots, then combed her hard metal fingers through her soft and shoulder-length night-dark hair. The two were then off to catch a mutant.
 

Vicki almost regretted the role of bait--almost.  There was still the programmed-in hesitation about killing.  Then, she and Gally walked the way to the Motorball Arena in another developed part of Scrap Iron City, and Vicki had plenty of time to see the dirt-poor cyborg masses of Scrap Iron City at ground level. People with electromechanical body parts—arms and legs, even heads--everything--walked along the sidewalk as ordinary people going about the business of their days. People were people, wherever or whenever one was in history. Their clothes were tattered, their faces weary, but they had things to do. (At least, those with real or synthetic flesh had faces to show weariness.)

These people were beaten by the times. Their bodies and minds were made less whole because of their circumstances. How terrible, the war that left the people of Earth living this way! Her programmed personality made her put on much sympathy, and the amount of sympathy nearly brought Vicki close to crying. It was morning, and the lucky citizens of Scrap Iron City who had jobs went to those jobs. People were, collectively, tattered and tired.

Surprisingly, in the early daylight, Vicki actually saw the sidewalk to be walkable after all. It was cracked, but there were no potholes. The street, in full daylight, seemed operable--probably for better business for the Factory buildings and operations. People and background, the setting and surrealness of it, Vicki was caught up. Short and

dark-clothed Gally just continued her striding walk, just accepting the city as it was. Vicki could not help but stare at everything, still: the buildings, the streets, the people. The amusement of the spectacle, along with the feel of wind and sunlight on her bare abdomen and arms, Vicki’s programmed personality emulated "pleasure" and "relaxation." This was all a real spectacle.

There was so much spectacle for Vicki that the walk to the Motorball part of town seemed to pass unnoticed. In fact, Vicki’s attention would probably have led to her being easily distracted if Gally were not walking alongside. A mile from the Motorball Arena, the crowd thickened, and there were more people for Vicki to gawk at.

Gally reached up and gave a tap on Vicki’s shoulder—not hard enough to set off too high a pain signal, but hard enough to get Vicki out of her gawking state. "Bait, we have arrived at the target’s location." Vicki rubbed her shoulder, then said, "Okay, so we start the plan.." Gally nodded.

With her professionalism starting in, Gally began to give a review—whether Vicki needed it or not. Gally spoke above the din of the jostling crowd around the immense structure that was the Motorball Arena. Gally’s brown eyes met Vicki’s, and the two communicated despite the jostling and the din of the people.

"Let us both review the plan, to confirm it with both of us. As you know, the mutant was reported to strike near to this area." Vicki’s attention is now on the task-at-hand, thankfully, thought Gally. The petite cyborg continued to talk. "Yes, you are going to actively and deliberately draw attention by just walking around. And yes, you could be in danger. But you are not to be afraid. Your job is simply to walk about and look for the mutant. As you are dressed so," said Gally as she gestured to Vicki’s altered blouse which bared pale-bare midsection and lifelike arms, "the mutant may see you just as you are looking for her. If and when you are sighted, lure her somewhere where she will likely strike: an alleyway, a not-so-busy bar, or other off-the-street place."

Gally finished up. "And when the mutant attacks, be sure to get attention.  Make a ruckus. Also, try to tear a piece of cloth from the mutant to mark her for me: Ido said that you would be better able to pick her out in the crowd, so mark the target for me. I will then move in to eliminate the target...unless we are taken out of here by Mr. Thunderhorse. Do we agree to this plan?" Vicki confirmed with a "yes."

"Good. Now, I will be around. I will move around and ask people about any possible sightings of the mutant. Now, go play your role." Gally turned sharply around, her boot-heels grinding grimly in the hard concrete, and the small cyborg walked away. Was she ever a soldier, considering how she spoke and walked away just now? Vicki shrugged, then deliberately "wandered" into the crowd. She seemed distracted, but she was now locked into a nearly random scanning mode to match the profile of the mutant.

Vicki first wandered to the thickest part of the crowd, a section of the crowd crowd that gathered around a table near the Motorball’s immense entrance. (Vicki assumed the arena to be underground.)  She heard people ranting about players like "Ezekiel," "Moses," "Myamoto" and "Jashugaun." People were placing bets.  People also argued:  what cyborg players had the most effective body parts, what players were best at getting the ball and running the fastest, and what players were trashed and killed.  Vicki walked away.  Motorball was a death sport, not quite what the core of her programming wanted to hear talk about at this moment.
 
Instead of gawking more and taking in more data on this dark and interesting locale, Vicki had to start scanning. Her eyes continued to scan, while her ears took in the sounds. Soon, Vicki decided to just focus on trench coats, sub-programs of her mind checking for specifics.

Out of the thousands in this city crowd of rabble around the stadium, among the low buildings before the immense stadium, Vicki continued her scanning. Four out of nine people wore trenchcoats in various conditions. Many were faded, others were with many signs of wear. As Vicki’s equivalent of a "subconscious" continued to scan, the "personality" part of her programming reacted to the people, the cyborgs she saw.

Soon, Vicki realized something amiss. There was something especially notable about everyone else in the crowd. Everyone else outside and among the crowd was a cyborg, yes. But what was so particular about that? This was a city and land where artificial and mechanized body parts were comonplace; being a cyborg was not at all a handicap. Being with metal-hard body parts was an all-pervasive reality. So, what was so very wrong with this scene?

Vicki was the only one who resembled a full-flesh human being. She noticed an occasional person look at her, their faces of various types glimpsing at her face, torso, arms and legs. Of course there would not be any full-flesh people being caught around the Motorball Stadium today: Anyone whose body was not made primarily of metal was warned away. After all, a flesh-eating mutant was around and about looking for human flesh—or even people who looked like full-flesh people.

But Vicki had no time to be afraid. The realization that she was now a more serious target for the mutant stunned her thoughts. What now? Before she could react, she felt a grip on her shoulder. It was a hard grip, yet not metal hard, which meant that the grip was not that of a cyborg. The grip on her left side yanked and caused her to fall, fingers digging into the myogel muscle tissue of her right shoulder.

Vicki wriggled and writhed, tried to get free. But the grip into her left shoulder was inhumanly strong. Even Vicki, with her artificial strength several times that of a strong human being, could not break from the grip of that mutant without risking damage to her myogel musculature.  "You’re the one! I should have seen you first! But I have you now!" shouted Vicki, wriggling in the grip on her shoulder. "Just wait, and you’ll be very sorry!" said the synthetic girl, prattling some more. The grip continued to drag her along, her shoulder still held fast.

Suddenly, there was a tell-tale alley: a place between buildings. There were signs of previous occupancy by squatters in the alley: pots, pans, boxes and lean-to makeshift . And there were signs of people having left in haste, meager posessions of impoverished cyborgs left in the alley—when the mutant scared them off. It even seemed that some were too slow in leaving; spare mechanized hands and scraps of exoskeletal "skin" showed that the mutant forced the squatters out of this alley. This alley was also now the nest of the mutant.

The grip contemptiously shoved Vicki to the grimy ground of the alleyway, and a gateway closed—sealing Vicki in with the trench-coated chemical-made freak that desired the taste of human flesh. Lying there, Vicki stroked her shoulder, happy that nothing was broken or torn. When footsteps approached from the heavy gate at the end of the alley, Vicki scrambled to her feet.

She saw the being that approached. Then, Vicki backed away, and the genetically altered woman stepped forward. Her trenchcoat went over ragged jeans visible beneath the hem of the coat. And the coat, it covered the upper body. A scarf of sorts completely covered the face, below green hair. Hands of the mutant were bare, green hands embedded with scales. The mutant woman even hissed.

"You’ve hurt people! You’re evil!" shouted Vicki, making slow steps in retreat along the trashy alley. "You’re very evil." Vicki’s sub-programs blurted "warning!" signals of all sorts to her main program, the one that was her personality. Said differently, Vicki was afraid.

Vicki tried to bolster her own reserves of courage with more banter. "Gally and I, we will stop The Cloaked Man. You wait, you psycho!" That caused the shrouded woman to stop her walking, her hissing. "Th..th... the-e-e Cloaked M-a-a-n?" said the semi-woman, sounding reptilian. Vicki had a chance with the hesitation of the mutant.

Vicki dashed at the mutant, simultaneously reaching out with her hand. Her reflexes and speed surpassed that of the reptilian woman. Vicki’s blurring right hand snatched off the head scarf, and her left hand tried to take the coat--but only took a torn patch of it, a patch off of the front. That was a mistake, revealing something disgusting enough to make Vicki's computer mind pause for analysis: the face beneath the scarf was one of scaled skin despite a "normal" facial structure. The mutant’s eyes were red, and the left one had a slit-pupil befitting a cold-blooded creature.

Then, "Caution!" signals flickered through Vicki's computers.  "Gally!" shouted Vicki. She did not try to run around the mutant. Though the alley was at least ten meters wide, she did not want to chance it. Vicki then tried to run and leap over the mutant—a mutant with hands that were fast as well as strong. Vicki had been caught in the middle of a leap that had her ten feet above the ground. Vicki went careening into the ground.

She crashed, her left shoulder and head taking the blow. Her coordination systems took a serious shock with the trauma, the circuitry shaken. "Gally!" shouted Vicki, lying there. But her voice came with less force. Strangely enough, her hand still held the cloth bits she tore from the mutant. Vicki weakly threw them backwards, hoping to distract the twisted reptilian.

Vicki was lifted by her left ankle, held upside down. The mutant bean to speak, her voice a hiss. "You...are not..flesh! False girl, I smell...n-n-ooo meat! Urgh!" With a grunt, she reared back, then threw Vicki the fourteen yards.  Vicki went airborne.  She hit the wall with almost no bounce, her titanium skeleton and myogel muscle absorbing the shock.  Behind her, part of the brickwork crumbled.  She then collapsed to the ground, weakened and collapsing.

Vicki managed to stand, then tried another shout.  No good, her voice instead came out as a rag of jagged static. Even her voice synthesizers began to fail now. "False girl.... Replicate!  Yo-o-u are bro-ken!"

Vicki’s hearing continued to function for a while before short circuiting; she went deaf. Her eyesight began to waver as she herself wavered on her feet.  The damage continued to spread throughout her systems.

In the periodic bursts of eyesight her failing visual systems produced, she saw the reptilian approaching closer. Another few seconds of working eyesight, and the reptilian was a mere five yards away. Another moment of functioning eyesight, and she saw the mutant before her. The mutant struck with a fist, and the solid blow to Vicki’s titanium sternum knocked her against the rear brickwork of the alley.

Vicki’s absolutely malfunctioning body stood for a moment. Then, her mobility systems shut down. She dropped to knees.  Her head flopped forward on her limp neck, her arms limp at her sides.  Vicki fell to her knees.  She fell forward, whoosh-plat as her hard nose and head struck the concrete--face-down.

Diagnostic programs squealed "warning!" and "critical error!" signals inside of Vicki without effect. Then, the programs began shutting down as hardware shorted out from cracks in microchips and torn connections. The memory and ram chips containing her personality were cracked, and the backups would not come online. Diagnostics programs shut down. Her mobility and energy systems eventually went cold, energy no longer going through her systems. Vicki the robot then shut off completely, the flashing circuitry in her torso and head going dark and dead. And a faint wisp of white smoke came from her slightly parted mouth. The woman stood there, contemplating the worth of her "kill"--if one could "kill" a robot.
 
 

Somewhere else, beyond when people stopped counting the years, Mr. Thunderhorse slammed a fist on his desk just as an exploding crack of thunder exploded outside of his office. On his desk, before him, were the microelectronics-embeedded photographs of Gally and Vicki, the ones configured to indicated their functioning status.

He slammed his fist on his desk because Vicki’s photo lost its color, the loss of color telling him that Vicki had "died" when her power systems were no longer detectable by the trans-warp equipment.  There was still the fist-shaped orb given to him by The Good Man, placed to the left of the flat and upright computer monitor. Fortunately, the orb had not changed color, which would have meant that The Cloaked Man continued to muck with history.

The Good Man, who still sat opposite Mr. Thunderhorse, stared at the angry and business-suited being behind the desk. The Good Man also knew what happened.

Mr. Thunderhorse’s face was locked in a grim and jaw-locked look of anger and disappointment. Maybe, he also hid some sadness behind the angry expression he wore.

"Damn that situation!" growled Mr. Thunderhorse. After that declaration, there came a low grumble of thunder outside of the office. He banged his fist on the desk again, and the huge office’s sole illumination--the foot-high lamp--shook. Thunder cracked again. That one of the two he summoned had been defeated was something to show anger over.

"Listen, Mr. Thunderhorse, that is just one down, just one. You still have some hope left. The other, Gally, is still around and physically able," commented The Good Man. Then, "What, did you expect everything to go perfectly? Be reasonable, because things will happen. I know. And it is not as if your duo is totally out of the game. If Gally finishes the task, Vicki will be up again. You will see." Mr. Thunderhorse exhaled with a jaw still clenched, and his eyes darted to the gray-haired and genial-faced being across the desk.

"A mistake is still a mistake; a failure is what it shall be," said Mr. Thunderhorse, the anger of thunderclouds under his voice. "Any failure on the part of Gally and Vicki is a show that the two are not invincible and can be defeated. If one is beat, then that jerk that works for the other side will be one step to having his way. If he beats one of them once, he will grow more confident and make more moves at defeating them both."

The Good Man spoke more, hoping to get Mr. Thunderhorse to calm his own anger. "But he has not won yet. Complete failure has not come yet. At least, I adore Vicki for the beautiful effort she put up in doing her duty. Think about it: a robot, a being inferior to humanity, held out for so long against a monstrous product of The Cloaked Man’s making. And the robot did help Gally locate the mutant."

"But what about that freak and anomaly called The Cloaked Man? He is still running around parts of reality." Mr. Thunderhorse sploke those words as soon as The Good Man’s last syllable ended. "His confidence will still go up. And considering The Cloaked Man, his increased confidence could strengthem him."

The Good Man shrugged. "So what? He can still be beat. I do not know everything all the time, but I do know that Gally is good at violence—probably stronger than Vicki, physically. She is a professional fighter and knows how to fight the dangers of her own times. She might fare better than Vicki. At least, be happy in how both of them were not beaten in the same swoop. And if they were both beaten, what then?" The Good Man made a slow reverse sweep with his right hand: "At least, you tried. It is better to try and fail than just fail."

Mr. Thunderhorse’s voice restarted strongly, almost resonating. "It is just that I do not want that cosmic prankster, that joker, to win.  If he succeeds, he will have finally beaten our efforts and maintaining history.  We must do all that we can to prevent excess troublemaking, or any troublemaking, with history just because some joker takes it into his head to cause chaos."

The Good Man sneered. This was certainly not the way for a being such as Mr. Thunderhorse to behave. The Good Man glimpsed once away from Mr. Thunderhorse, then looked on the being again. "Then, you would directly interfere with history. Spending some of your karma to summon one or two people is allowable, as you sent others to do tasks. But remember the rules.  We will continue to observe the agreement, even if The Cloaked Man will not."

Mr. Thunderhorse had been chided. He knew the argument. But his anger had been allowed to control his actions. If Mr. Thunderhose let emotions control and dictate his actions, then he would soon become as corrupt as The Cloaked Man.  If Thunderhorse became as corrupt as that fool, he could also lose his sanity:  don a cape and go on suicidal romps into time and history!  Well, he wouldn't wear a cape...

"What now, then?" asked the being behind the desk. "I just sit here at this desk, planning and plotting for most of the time. I said that I would side with the standing rules and procedures, but this moment is especially trying."

The Good Man placed a finger in the air. Then, he pointed at Mr. Thunderhorse. "We all have had our times of troubles, Thunderhorse. Just let things occur is one of those troubles. Besides, it is not as if history is all-important for us. There are other worlds, as someone said." Mr. Thunderhorse agreed on that. Perhaps, the end of humanity was not as immensely terrible as it seemed.  There was always the peace of death to await the fury and madness of life....
 
 

Gally had come too late. From far off, just blocks away, she heard Vicki’s last strong scream in the still daylight air--heard her scream echo throughout the hard and flat concrete and metal surfaces of the city.  That sent Gally running. But by then, the killing blow had been landed. Seconds after Vicki had fallen face down, Gally leapt and flipped over the gate that sealed off the alley. Then she stopped. Vicki was down, face down. She did not move. And the slight trail of smoke from Vicki’s nose and mouth confirmed for Gally that Vicki was down.

The mutant, a patch of trenchcoat missing from her shoulder, turned. Her hair was normal, giving an illusion of normalcy from the back. Yet the face was done in green skin, scaled skin. Gally went into another variation of a Panzer Kunst stance, one she believed that would go well against this opponent. One foot in front, another placed back and her arms slightly bent, Gally eyed her opponent. This would be special business.

"Ah-h-h!" drooled the mutant, her mouth open and a forked tongue waving in the air. "Perhaps-s-s this one has some meat. Maybe…in her head? I tire of brains-s-s and want meat, but your brain will do jus-s-t well!" The mutant took steps to Gally.

Gally dashed to the left. The mutant suddenly spewed a diagonal arc of smoking green liquid that spread as it . Gally leapt to avoid the worst of it, leaping in a midair somersault over the mutant.  But half a cup-ful of the venom hit her in the metal of her left bicep. She continued over the reptile’s head, snapping her feet downward.

Gally landed, then managed a handspring to get distance between her and the mutant. A glance at her left arm, and she saw that the exoskeleton had been pitted with the toxin. Her left arm felt heated, and it felt weakened. There must have been chemical properties of the venom that reacted to the alloy of Gally’s body; that venom could easily overheat her artificial body--and eventually kill her.  "Ah, the metal-l-l girl feels it!" taunted the mutant. Gally stood and spun in one quick motion. Again in a one-foot-forward stance, Gally considered fighting strategy. Then, she acted. Gally ran at the reptilian woman, a seemingly suicidal maneuver--possibly because it almost was suicide.

Gally was suddenly four yards from the reptilian. The scaly skinned thing tried to swipe at Gally to get a grip, but Gally leapt at a wall of the alley. She actually leapt from one wall to the next, richocheting between walls  A few more powered leaps from wall to walls, and Gally leapt from a wall and went hurtling at the reptile.

Gally was a deadly, hurtling, and dark-suited blur as she flew by.  She struck with her hand, a chopping motion.   The mutant staggered back, clutching a shoulder. That was it: The mutant just clutched the shoulder. The mutant’s left arm was gone below the shoulder. Green ichor and slime poured in rivulets, then slowed when coagulation stopped the green bloodflow.

Gally again stood to confront the enemy, this time near the end of the gated part of the alley. The mutant filled her mouth with translucent liquid, ready to give the petite cyborg another sample of her earlier attack. But the cyborg ran again, her body leaning into the run. Her booted feet pattered along the solid floor of the hard and gritty alley.

Instead of a destructive blur past, the cyborg skidded to a dead stop and launched a flurry of three blurring punches. The straight jabs peirced the gut of the mutant, and the liquid venom simply flew from her mouth. Gally’s skill in using her artificial body allowed her to leap backward in a blur, before the liquid could begin to fall.

The mutant tried to inhale, but could not. Her left shoulder stump wriggled, then her right hand went to the stomach that was not there. Then, she simply collapsed. Dead before she hit the ground, there was no sound other than one of a falling body. And that made for another body in the sun-shadowed alley.

Then, some more smoke rising in the daylight between the hard and gritty walls of the alley. Gally looked at her electromechanical hands. They continued a release of smoke, tendrils of smoke. When she hit the mutant, she must have contaminated her hands. And there was the splash of venom on her arm, which also smoked a bit. Gally feared that her body would overheat—eventually overheating her brain. That would kill the cyborg.

There was a task to do, and Gally would finish it with the last of her life. The small and sinuous cyborg strode to the body of the mutant, then removed her scaly-faced head with a blow to the neck. The head was the claim to the bounty. Holding it by the hair, Gally could carry it to a Factory center, ending this bounty. But before she left the alley, Gally hefted and shoulder-carried Vicki on her good right shoulder. Smoke drifted from the solid joints in Gally’s left arm, and she felt warmth building in her body.

Outside of the alley, with the gynoid’s corpse over a shoulder and the mutant’s head held in her left hand, Gally began the walk to the nearest Gally began the walk to the nearest Factory office-building. She walked the first several blocks with moderate ease. But with the venom turning up heat, walking the sixth block onward became harder to walk. Gally had to concentrate to make steps. White-gray smoke began to seep from both shoulders. To vent some of it, the cyborg used a finger to open the front of her bodysuit, exposing a vertical swath of her hard gray body. It alleviated some heat. Still, the venom continued to slowly heat. The rate of heating had slowed, yet still increased her body’s temperature.  Gally's brain began to suffer from the heating of her body; she would probably have shed the form-fitting bodysuit from her electromechanical body altogether if she were thinking more coherently.

Staggering due to a lack of concentration, and with an aura of smoke whisping from her shoulders and neck, Gally made it up the stairs of a tall Factory outlet:  a simple and aesthetically pleasing building with too many steps to the reception area on the first floor.  Inside, Gally lifted the head, then placed it in a bowl-shaped desk concave of a cylinder bodied deckman. She requested that the bags of chips be held for Ido Daisuke, a granted request for such an experienced and prolific bounty hunter, then staggered out with Vicki on her shoulder. It was becoming harder to move. Then, it became harder to even begin to think in words.

Gally went to her knees on the flat deck area before the front steps of the Factory office building. She gently placed Vicki’s unmoving body on the ground, then looked. There was the transition warp portal, the hole in reality! If at least she made it through, Vicki would then be warped through as well. And both of them would become fully repaired upon emerging from the other end.

Gally stood, swaying, then placed a weak foot on the first step. She tumbled, tumbled and tumbled. Her solid limbs clinked as she rolled and flopped down the steps, a small and solid-bodied doll with gray limbs that tumbled down over a dozen steps. She came to a rest, lying face up—arms and legs thrown spread-eagle, eyes barely open.

She managed to lift herself to her knees, barely and very slowly. Spots and blots of darkness nearly overtook Gally’s eyesight, but she fought for consciousness despite her heating metal body. Lifting her head and squinting, she looked ahead and saw a rippling and dark hole in midair, a hole in the time-space fabric of reality.  Thunderhorse could not directly warp Gally--and Vicki--out because Vicki was no longer trackable on Thunderhorse's equipment.  If Gally and Vicki both were trackable, he would have done a direct warp.  But with the limits of his transwarp equipment, this was the best he could manage.  And, as Gally's brain began to fail, she would also be lost to the trans-warp lock-on.  "Yo!"  What?

"Hey, Miss Tin Can!" came that obnoxious voice from somewhere far to the right. "Yo!  Hey, there! Look, look!" shouted the obnoxious male voice more. Gally heard it, despite the swimming weakness that filled her brain.  Then, he said something that made her hesitate.  "Don’t you want to take a look at Vicki’s neighbor, the one you never rescued?"

Gally suddenly fell forward again, the front of her body on the concrete.  The Cloaked Man spoke some more.  "If you enter that portal, Mrs. Brindle stays here! But, if you hang around for a few more seconds to talk to me, I’ll consider sending Miss Brindle back!" The Cloaked Man tried to prod Gally into at least looking, to make her angry enough to do so. Gally’s heating brain was locked on the purpose at hand, though. Using skills she learned lifetimes ago, Gally crawled using her elbows and knees.  She crawled nearly with her chest and abdomen scraping the hard concrete, the pseudo-leather of her bodysuit scraping the concrete of the area around the Factory building.

The Cloaked Man fired another verbal attack. "Oh, please! That is truly corny! I’ve seen better combat tactics in a low-budget made-for-television movie! I could low-crawl better than that--even if drunk! And I am not intoxicated easily!  You must have been some sort of soldier:  a corny one!  Yuk, yuk yuk!"

Gally was too weakened and sickened to look at what The Cloaked Man ranted about, too sickened with heat to care.  At shouting distance away, Mrs. Brindle was unconscious--a chubby pile of a woman who slept to the left of The Cloaked Man’s thick-soled sneakers. He placed his left foot astride Mrs. Brindle’s generous gut, then crossed his arms. The red cape sewn to his tee-shirt flapped grandly behind him in a breeze. Posed with a foot atop the large woman, he held the pose of a grand hunter that captured a large beast. "Hey, come on! I hired some top people from Vicki’s time to get this fat broad! Now, I can’t even use her as a hostage? You’re no fun! Do y’hear? You...are...a...true spoil-sport!"

The hole in reality seemed drawn to Gally as she approached. Low-crawling, elven face clamped in pain, Gally crawled closer to the hole in reality. "You are a spoil sport, and you are a nasty little thing. Why? That is because Mrs. Brindle here will be stranded in a time she never knew!" Gally was a yard away, her hands and legs working. "Listen up!" By now, the swimming pain in her head was such that she barely noticed The Cloaked Man’s taunts." Her right hand swiped inches from the hole in reality--the reality hole now resting with an edge on the ground.

En route to the portal to safety and bodily repair, Gally blanked out momentarily. Her strength faded fast, and her body vented denser gray smoke that was nearly enough to be blinding itself.  The heat was such that Gally felt the effects of her brain on the edge of being baked.  A few degrees higher than normally tolerable and rising, her brain was in jeopardy.

She concentrated, sparks beginning to ripple over her body.  With one more pull of her arms and a double thrust of her legs against the concrete, Gally scraped along concrete--and flopped through the trans-warp hole.  She was then swallowed by the hole in reality, her entire self vanishing into that darkness. The hole faded.

Vicki, twenty yards back and at the top of the stairs of the Factory office building, also faded into time. The Cloaked Man clenched his rough and calloused hands into fists, then shouted, "Dang-nabbit!" into the bright midday sky overhead. "I said, dang-nabbit! Heck, I’ll say something stronger; I’m that pissed!" Stomping the concrete, his sneakers making clomping sounds, The Cloaked Man let forth a string of obscene expletives in English, then in French for good measure. A final shout of "Dang it all!" and he felt a bit better.

Then, The Cloaked Man felt some sickness.  Not again, damn!  Unknown to Thunderhorse, far into time, The Cloaked Man felt inner pains and burnings from time to time--worse when he used his cape to warp.  But with a quick pill popped into his mouth, the pills in his limited supply, he felt better--a tempory stop against the inevitable.

He would feel even better when he warped out and left big round Mrs. Brindle’s fat self behind. First, he wanted to see her awaken here. Or would he bother to stay at all? All of this activity could weary him, as working in reality was beginning to weary even the powerful Cloaked Man. He continued to run out of energy.

Maybe, just leaving Mrs. Brindle here would be brutal enough. Leaving Mrs. Brindle stranded in a post-apocalyptal wasteland city of the 30^th century would not necessarily be an evil thing, nothing that would help him spread evil through human history, but it would still make The Cloaked Man happy.

"I really must depart, dear princess," said The Cloaked Man. Mrs. Brindle’s eyes fluttered. He grasped her anemic right hand, kissed it. "Salut, madame. Je dois quitter!" With that French said, The Cloaked Man swirled his cape before his face. He faded from view, and vanished into time. And it would come to pass that Mrs. Brindle would scream for a very long time when she realized where she was.