Six Scifi Stories Volume One

The Greatest Serial Killer in the Universe-4

Around his fifteenth conversion of the morning, Luther began to regret his life as a serial killer.

It was a brand new train of thought, one that had never chugged through him on even his worst days. Even when Lech Bomb had gone bad and the Guild had kicked Luther out, he had never doubted his choice of career. It had been a given practically from day one; he had never felt like he could have been anything but a serial killer.

So why, all of a sudden, was he questioning his choice? Why did he feel sadness and shame when he looked back at his achievements instead of the usual pride and nostalgia? And why was he jumping the track now, of all times, just when he was at the apex of his career?

As he guided another 'Zoid in gutting another victim, Luther remembered the first human life he had taken. The old woman's face came back to him, looking just the same as it had when he'd thrown the first shovel-full of dirt on her: weeping and blinking and quaking, buried alive. He had thought of her often through the years, always with secret, dark pleasure...but now, the pleasure had soured. When he conjured her image in his mind (Ida Mae Caldwell, that was her name) he felt a brick in his stomach and a wave of dizzying nausea.

Annoyed at this unexpected response, Luther skimmed through his memories of other victims, seeking more familiar reactions. Not counting the 'Zoids he'd killed, he had 276 to choose from over a 42-year period. Normally, recalling them was like fondling rare coins from a collection--admiring them, wallowing in the selfish joy of ownership; this time, he wanted to put them right down just as soon as he picked them up.

For the first time in his life, his murder memories felt unclean.

He flipped from one to the next, hardly daring to glance at them. Each one intensified his feelings of disgust: Number 12, Julie Kefler, age 33, strangled and minced; Number 37, Steve Parrote, age 41, tortured with pliers for three days and hung on a clothesline; Number 108, Abner Lockjaw, age 74, butchered and fed to his dogs a bite at a time; Numbers 246 and 247, Milo Chapel, age 17, and Peggy Brezini, age 16, cut up and stitched back together into one big mismatched body.

And then there was Number 150, which Luther couldn't even bear to think about for a fraction of a second. Once, Number 150 had been one of his crowning achievements; now, it seemed like the most twisted crime of his entire twisted life.

Contrary to what he had thought up until now, Luther realized that he was a sick and wicked individual. His disgust at the memories of what he had done in the past was equaled only by his newborn self-loathing.

How he could ever have imagined that he was a great man was beyond his current ability to comprehend. Would a great man have come all the way out into space and become the first Earthling to set foot on an alien world...only to murder its inhabitants? Would a great man have failed to see that unleashing the killer instinct might cause more harm than good on Ectos?

Would a great man stand by, arms dripping with pink milk from a punctured head-bulb, as one 'Zoid trainee fought another over the remains of a murder victim, playing a savage tug-of-war with the limp mess of bulbs and tentacles?

As the creatures squawked and yanked the corpse back and forth, Luther wiped his drenched arms on his black coveralls. Deciding he had had enough, he turned to walk away.

And before he could take a single step, a third 'Zoid flung itself in front of him.

"Make kill now," the creature puffed from its forehead blowhole. "Now!"

Luther shook his head and backed away. "No more," he said. "I need a break."

The 'Zoid reached out with three tentacles at once, and Luther had to back up fast to evade them. "Make kill," said the creature. "Save world."

Luther wished he hadn't handed over the knife to the other two 'Zoids. "Not now," he said, continuing to backstep as the creature pressed toward him.

"Save world make kill now not later," said the 'Zoid, extending more tentacles.

Luther took another step and ran into a pillowy obstacle. Lurching away from it at once, he spun around and saw that it was Boraf.

The other 'Zoid shuffled closer, still reaching. Its tentacles brushed him as he ducked and darted behind Boraf, putting his 'Zoid host between him and the overeager wannabe.

As Luther got ready to run, the wannabe plowed into Boraf with a sound like wet spaghetti flopping into a colander. The creatures hooted and thrashed around, tentacles intertwining, fluid-filled bulbs sloshing against each other.

One of the wannabe's tentacles squirmed out from between them and twisted toward Luther...but he easily sidestepped it. Another wriggled toward him from below, catching him by surprise, but it only managed to graze his leg before he danced away from it.

Then, the wannabe stopped struggling.

It stood there for a moment, huddled against Boraf, breath whistling in and out of its blowhole. Then, slowly, it uncurled its tentacles from Boraf's and drew back, head bobbing from side to side.

Luther watched, expecting the creature to thrust past Boraf and pursue him. Instead, the wannabe shuffled back, tentacles coiling sinuously, head-bulb quivering.

"Want kill," puffed the creature. "Want kill!"

"I told you, no more for now," said Luther. "You'll have to wait."

"No wait," said the wannabe. "No need human."

The creature turned and wobbled over to the two 'Zoids who had been fighting over the carcass. They had resolved the tug-of-war by tearing the corpse in half, and each was now smearing its slimy prize like a washcloth over its body.

The knife the killers had used on their victim lay forgotten in a pink puddle in the street. Flashing out a tentacle, the wannabe scooped up the weapon...and in the same flicker of motion, swung it around and drove it into the head-bulb of one of the killers.

"Want kill more," sang the wannabe, wrenching the knife from the first 'Zoid and swinging it around into the head-bulb of the second. As both victims squealed, the wannabe ripped out the knife again and slashed it through the air, pink milk flying, to plunge into another of the first killer's bulbs. "Boraf make want kill! No need human!"

Luther stared as the 'Zoid lashed the blade back and forth, hacking up two creatures at once. For the first time that he could remember, Luther felt horrified at watching a killing in progress.

Boraf turned and patted his shoulder with a slimy tentacle. "Boraf make Ectozoids kill now," said the alien. "Luther take break now. Boraf make many kill save world."

Luther just kept staring. Whatever had enabled him to transform 'Zoids into killers--whether it was some fluke of his body chemistry or some warped electrical field in his brain--it had somehow been transferred to Boraf. The timing couldn't have been better, because Luther was sick to death of making killers.

And yet, he wondered if it was entirely a good thing that Boraf had the power. He wondered if it would stop with Boraf, or if other 'Zoids could develop the same ability to implant the killer instinct.

If the killing could be spread by 'Zoids other than Boraf, he wondered what the world would be like in a week. How much of the population would be left by the time the invaders arrived?

And he wondered if it was just a coincidence that Boraf's empowerment had kicked in just as his own murder drive had fizzled.