Liege-Killer

The shuttle crouched between skyscrapers, in the center of the desolate street, dwarfing rusted cars. Gouged and dirty wings--arched slivers of white metal--swept upward from the squat body of the craft like floppy ears from a fat rabbit. The underbelly quivered, radiating heat. Gray smoke drifted out from beneath the craft, swirling into oblivion as it met the perpetual Philadelphia gusts.

"What's the level?" asked Bronavitch, younger of the two crew members. He stood beside the monster engines, oblivious to the waves of heat pouring from the vertical landing jets. Their spacesuits were designed to protect them from far worse perils.

Kelly grinned. Parched walnut skin crinkled across his cheeks, made him look older than his forty-six years. "Nothing to worry about within five miles of here." Kelly twisted his neck forward, peeked out through the top of his helmet visor, and checked the readout counter mounted to his thick utility belt. "The scan reads less than point-oh-seven--we're in a fairly safe area. We could probably even take our suits off for a minute or so."

"Yeah," Bronavitch grumbled, "and we could gulp some air and say good-bye to the Colonies." Bronavitch did not need Kelly or a poison counter to tell him that there was enough organic death in the smog to keep a cleanup crew busy for years.

Kelly's grin expanded. "The air does seem a bit thick."

Bronavitch shook his head. He was not in the mood for Kelly's humor. "I'm telling you, I've had it. I'm sick of the whole damn planet. My contract is up in two months and I'm not signing on for another tour. I've had it."

His partner rumbled with laughter. "You told me that last year. Hell, admit it. You like it down here. You told me that you thought it was very serene."

"It pays good."

Skyscrapers--metal and concrete shells--lined the boulevard. A few smaller structures were nestled in their midst like scared children clutching at their mother's skirts. Chunks of unidentifiable debris lay everywhere.

To the west, a mountain of trash poked up through the lower smog cover, interrupting the flow of the street. Bronavitch thought he detected form in the junk pile. It seemed to resemble a giant frog. He suspected some mad humans had been responsible for its creation during the final days. His theory seemed reasonable. Dying of radiation and a host of other ecospheric poisons would have justified the creation of such a weird monument.

"Do you know what they used to call this place?" asked Kelly.

Bronavitch shook his head.

"The City of Brotherly Love." Thankfully, the black face had lost its smile.

Bronavitch booted a crusted brick. "Let's get on with it. I want to get the hell out of here."

They marched down the street. Open doors and glassless windows seemed to stare at them; dark eyes, full of death, contemptuous of the living. Bronavitch felt a familiar twinge of fear tighten his stomach. He hated these dead cities. It always seemed as if someone were watching, like they were intruding upon some private domain.

Kelly broke into a fresh grin. He appeared to be enjoying himself.

"All right, we know the pirates landed where we touched down. They must have been close to whatever they were looking for."

"How do you know they were looking for anything?" Bronavitch argued. "Maybe the bastards just dropped in at random, hoping to pick up a few artifacts. Or maybe they had shuttle problems and were forced to land for repairs."