e are, we incorporated them into the design of the base; UAC used them to transport heavy ingots and equipment. I don't think many people used them; most of us worried about things like souls and continuity of consciousness and all that crap. Trust Corporal Fly Taggart to render the whole philo- sophical discussion moot by tripping over his own feet into it! As I stared stupidly at my new surroundings, a swarm of zombies poured around the corner. As the first one fired a round that took me in the shoulder, several thoughts whizzed through my mind. First, as I fell to the floor, I thought of writing up the careless dolt who'd triggered a teleporter by sticking his paws where they weren't supposed to be. The second thought, as I rolled onto my back, was more ironic: moments before, I'd been unhappy over running out of zombies. My third thought, as I sat up, stunned, was: I'm shot! My Sig-Cow was out of reach. I'd let go of it, along with the key card. I opened fire with the 10mm. A nearby stone platform provided me cover; the zombies were too stupid to do the same. They reminded me of Army privates. Taking my time about it, I aimed and fired, aimed and fired. The bullets went in, the blood came out. I took them one by one, killing the very last at point-blank range. This time I wasn't sorry I'd run out of zombies. The bullet in my shoulder made me groggy. There was nothing I'd rather do at that moment than lie down in a nice, warm pool of blood and sleep forever. Nothing suicidal; sleep was good. Rest was a sacra- ment. Willing my reluctant body to move, I got up. 16 By now I must have looked like a zombie myself, I felt like one. Being honest about it, I had to admit that I didn't know how a human being crossed over into the zombie state. I hadn't seen the process. The talkative monster implied that he could control zombies, but he never said a word about how they were made--he simply lied about not reworking me if I surrendered. I wondered . . . was this how the others became what they were, righting a never-ending war that finally drove them mad? Wasn't a sign of insanity the conviction that everyone and everything is the enemy? That was the way I'd been living since I left the cafeteria and the two Rons and began my assault on Phobos Base and . . . and wherever the hell I was now. Turning a corner, I was greeted by a sight not calcu- lated to reassure a man doubting his sanity. A gigantic skull, half the length of a full-grown man, glared at me through empty sockets. It seemed to be made of brass. I stared into its eyeless sockets before allowing my gaze to lower. The giant, metal skull had a tongue; a curving, snaky, metal tongue. There was no way this was standard-issue in a UAC refinery! Of course, the skull's tongue had to be a lever. "I can't help it," I said, "I'm a born lever-puller." If I were already dead and in hell, it hardly mattered what would happen if I pulled the lever. I still had my curiosity. And if I were still alive, trying to save humani- ty from an alien invasion, then I had even more curiosity. I pulled the lever. It was ice cold against my already chilled flesh. A metallic, grinding noise riveted my attention. It sounded like all the old, abandoned automo- bile plants in Detroit had started up at once. And with all that sound, one stupid box rose from the ground contain- ing another pair of skull-tongue switches! I pulled the next one in line and heard a click from the wall directly in front of me. Moving to investigate, I saw a crack of light in the wall, then another and another until the yellow lines had formed a perfect square. Secret doors were losing their appeal for me. If this one were going to improve my opinion, then it had better offer something better than the usual collection of monsters. I shoved open the door with one mighty heave. A bloody, naked figure held a gun pointed directly at my face. By reflex, I shoved my own piece right between its eyes. "DROP THE GUN!" "DROP THE FREAKIN' GUN!" "PUT IT DOWN, I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL BLOW YOUR FOOL HEAD--" "--WHERE I CAN SEE THEM, PUT YOUR HANDS UP--" "--AND DON'T MOVE OR--" "--GROUND! ON THE GROUND, MOVE!" Her eyes. Her eyes were alive. And she spoke . . . words. By now we both stood, each pistol pressed against the other's face, eyes wide with fear, wonder, and hope-- Was it? Could it be? Could she be?--shouting at the top of our voices in pain, rage, and desperate need. My hammer was cocked, but my finger outside the trigger guard; I had just begun to suspect, just begun . . . Something clicked in my brain. The penny dropped. I recognized the bloody, disheveled, pallid creature. A dream come true--if true--in a world that special- ized in nightmares. Panting before my face, watching warily, ready to fire off half the magazine if necessary, stood the reason I had come this far and hadn't yet given up. I wanted to say her name, but I couldn't. We were each locked in a perimeter of silence, holding a gun against each other's face, doubts and paranoia having the only voice. One of us would have to say something. She went first. "Drop the friggin' gun!" The command came from a lifetime of giving not an inch or trusting without two forms of picture ID ... and that had been back on Earth! She'd worked hard, her every friendship based on a sense of honor. She'd kicked her way onto the Mars mission. And this is what she'd found. But she'd survived. And I'd survived. She'd kept me alive with every A.S. and arrow; and maybe her fantasy that I'd come after her kept her alive--why else use our private code, a link between just the two of us? But now there was no room for sentiment, only for certainty. "You are a dead man if you do not drop the freaking gun now." Oops. My arm and hand had been through too much to even consider it. My body was wired for instant re- sponses. The same as her body if she were still the old Arlene. The only reason I hadn't blown her away auto- matically was the time spent praying she was alive, and a willingness to take a risk right now that she wasn't really a zombie. No zombie had ever spoken before. And somehow, covered with mud and gore, she looked too damned bad to be a zombie. Only the living could look that fried! "Arlene, your ass is mine," I replied. "I've had the drop on you since I opened the damned door." Zombies didn't talk that way, either. They didn't tease or smile a moment later when awareness crept across a human face. She returned that smile, and I knew every- thing would be all right. "Your finger wasn't even on the trigger, big guy. I'd have blown you away before you fumbled around and found it." She was wounded, disheveled, filthy, terrified, naked . . . and totally, totally alive. "You're alive!" I shouted. "No, really?" she shouted back. We slowly lowered our weapons simultaneously, mir- ror images of each other. Grinning. Staring me up and down, she commented, "Nice fashion statement." I'd forgotten I was buck naked. My damned reflexes insisted on embarrassing me, and I reflexively covered myself. Well, I guess it was one more proof I was still fully human. I doubt that zombies are modest. "Turn your back, for Christ's sake," I implored. "I will not" she answered, eyes roving where they shouldn't. "You're the first decent thing I've seen since this creep show began." If we kept this up, maybe things would get so bloody normal that the monsters would simply pack their suit- cases and leave. Arlene could dish out a hard time when she wanted. I decided to get dressed, and finally I noticed the corpses and stripped one. She reached out a hand. "No, Fly; don't put those on yet. Please?" My right foot was halfway into a boot far too small to fit. It stretched, conforming to the size of my foot: one size truly fits all. Arlene turned as red as the crimson wall. "Jesus, I'm sorry, Fly. You're my buddy; I shouldn't have made you uncomfortable. Forgive me?" I finished dressing. It didn't take long. Now it was my turn to look her over, which I did with a lot more subtlety than she did with me. I kept my eyes moving where she'd let hers stop in embarrassing places. God, she looked good. All the dirt and blood almost gave her the appear- ance of being dressed in a weirdly hip-punk outfit. Her slender waist, tight, firm thighs, medium bust, and long arms made me think of more than the undeniable fact that she had the body of the ideal orbital pilot--her ultimate goal when she'd earned enough in service to take a hiatus, get a degree, and take a commission. Space travel needed the occasional boost in morale. She finally got the idea. There were plenty of corpses around with uniforms waiting to be stripped. I watched her from the corner of my eye as she followed my example. The best aspect of these form-fitting uniforms was the way they conformed to every contour of the human body. She looked just as good in clothes. I tried to think of something appropriate to say, then grunted, punching her shoulder middling hard. "Now I forgive you," I said with a grin. The grin didn't last long. I'd completely forgotten about the bullet wound in my shoulder. The pain finally caught up with me as the adrenaline wore off. "Jeez, that looks bad," she said. "Maybe there's some Medikits around here. You mind holding still while I do some alterations on your shoulder? Meanwhile, tell me where the hell you came from." Seemed like a fair deal to me. "Long as you tell me what happened to you, A.S. You and the company. And what the hell were you doing hiding in a cupboard?" She made me go first. I recapped everything that had happened since I left Ron and Ron behind in the mess hall. She'd been through the same crap; I didn't need to be overly detailed about the killing. It would be nothing more than a sentence completion exercise. While I told her my adventures, hoping I wasn't boring her, we weren't standing still. With the soft suction sounds of our boots on the cold, stone floor, we went hunting for medical supplies. "I'd rather go up against a dozen zombies than one of these monster aliens," I was telling Arlene as she yanked open a closet door. Dozens of shotguns cascaded down on us like bales of hay . . . heavy, painful bales of hale. Fortunately, they weren't loaded. Staring at the pile of weapons for a long moment, I put on my best annoyed face and asked Arlene: "Can't you keep your space neat and tidy?" Rolling her eyes, she scooped up one of the weapons and tossed it to me. She took one, too. I regretted leaving behind such a beautiful pile of weaponry. But Arlene and I only had four hands between us. We still needed a Medikit, and Arlene was starving. With the burning sensation growing in my arm, the Medikit was first on the list. Then I was going to get my Recon Babe out of this hellhole. I'd e-mail her, if that's what it took to pack her back to Mars. No, Earth. "Get your crap together," I said, "and take mental notes." "Notes?" "We've got to give a full report when we get back. We're blowing this popcorn stand." Arlene smiled wanly. "You have any good ideas on that one, Ace?" "I left a land-cart back at the entrance; we can hot-rod it back to the air base and take the troopship back to Mars. Or even Earth ... it should be able to make it." Arlene looked around, studying the architecture. The architect must have been hired by the Addams Family. Nothing seemed normal. The surface of the walls was rough, twisted, the sickening color of internal or- gans. Skulls, monster faces, and decay dominated every- where I chanced to glance. Arlene coughed politely. "Just two problems with that plan. First, we're not on Phobos anymore, Toto." "Huh?" "We're on Deimos, and there ain't no land-carts, or rockets, either. We used all the ships to bug our people out four years ago. Fly, we're stuck here, and we don't even know where 'here' is!" I must have looked blank; she continued. "Look, Fly, don't you remember when Deimos vanished from the screens?" "No, actually. What the hell are you talking about?" "Whoops. I guess you were already in custody when we got word from Boyd that Deimos had disappeared from the Martian sky." The idea that a moon could vanish bothered me for some reason. "Wouldn't there have been gravitational effects?" I asked. She laughed before asking, "Are you kidding? Do you know how small Deimos is? It's even smaller than Phobos." "I knew that." These chunks of space rock were so small that their real gravity was theoretical, notwith- standing the alien gravity zones. Although I'd become used to fantastic events lately, a little nugget of skepti- cism scratched at my capacity to believe just anything. "How do you know we're on Deimos?" " 'Cause I've been here, Fly. I did a TDS as a yeoman right here while I was waiting for an opening in the Light Drop." "A yeoman! But the Marines don't have any staff positions, only line positions." "On loan to the Navy. Technically, I was still a rifleman, but the only weapon they issued me was a word processor." I had to think about this. The implications were definitely bad. And the image of Arlene Sanders as a secretary was astonishing. I looked up. There was a skylight in the ceiling, and where Mars should have been, there was nothing. Where stars should have been, there were no stars. The black of space was missing, too. All I saw was a gray mist, not to be confused with clouds; the texture was all wrong. Having a gift for the obvious, I said, "We're not in orbit around Mars, are we?" She smiled and patted me on the head. "Congrats, Fly. You win the Nobel Prize. You don't see a pressure dome up there, do you? But we're still sucking air. I know we're on Deimos; I recognize all the stuff that H. P. Lovecraft didn't redecorate." Who, I wanted to know, was H. P. Lovecraft? If he'd had anything to do with this, I wanted to punch his lights out. "No, Fly," Arlene said. "He was a fantasy writer, early twentieth century American. Obsessed with hybrid mon- sters and underground labyrinths. Always describing ancient menaces as eldritch." I'd never heard the word before, but it sounded just right. "This situation has got eldritch coming out the ass." "You can say that again," she agreed. "And this is Deimos, muchacho; only thing is, these bastards have taken it somewhere." "Great. So what's number two?" She looked puzzled for a moment, then she frowned. "I don't want to hurt you, Fly." I licked my lips, feeling my stomach contract. I never liked anything from a girl that began like that. "What?" "You've always been more loyal to the Corps than I was, my friend." I stiffened. "What's wrong with the Corps? The Ma- rines have given me a lot, babe, in case you've forgotten." She smiled and shook her head. Arlene hadn't forgot- ten my father, a pathological liar and petty thief who ended up doing twenty-five to life for his fourth felony conviction . . . trying to run down a state trooper with his pickup truck. He died in Vacaville two years later, from a cerebral hemorrhage, they said. My father was the pettiest, lowest, meanest man I ever knew. He couldn't even understand the word "honor." He never knew why I joined the Corps, never would have understood if I told him I did it for him ... so I would never be him. All right, I confess. Father, forgive me, for I have sinned. The Corps was the world to me. "There's nothing wrong with the United States Marine Corps, Fly. But damn you, there's something a bit more important." "Like what?" "Like the human freakin' race!" She had me cold. So I got pissed. "Hang the human race! 'It's Tommy-this, an' Tommy-that--'" "Oh, don't quote Kipling at me; I'm the one who gave you the book. Fly, what do you think the whole purpose of the Corps is?" I didn't say anything. I didn't like where this was leading; I knew what she was going to say. But I couldn't figure where she was wrong. "You're so much into honor and duty, Fly. Don't you know what duty means? We're the ones on the wall, kiddo. They might not know we're there; might not even know there is a wall, might not give a hang. But that's what we're here for. "Fly, this thing is bigger than just getting us both out alive. We're the only ones here, only ones who know about the invasion . . . the only ones who might be able to throw something big and heavy into the gears. And damn it to hell, I'm not going to bug out until I do it!" I glared at Arlene. I wanted to protect her, get her out of there. I was a man, she was my-- Bull. I was a Marine. And so was Arlene. I understood what she meant about the wall; somebody had to man it. Who else? I lowered my gaze. We couldn't just bug out, even if we could find a transport on abandoned Deimos. We had to get to the bottom of all this--and if Deimos was like Phobos, I had a bad feeling that meant getting to the bottom of the Deimos facility. For some weird reason, the alien monster demons preferred "down." Besides, her point number one still made sense, too. We don't even know where "here" is. Deimos had been yanked away somewhere ... we were stuck, no rocket, no clue where we might be ... only that we weren't in orbit around Mars anymore. "Up" meant--what? Emp- ty space? Nothingness? The only way out--if there was one--was "down," following the levels of Deimos to the bottom. I glared up at her again; her eyes were as cold as steel, as warm as the sacred heart. "Well don't expect me to say I'm sorry," I muttered. 17 While we'd been talking, we came across an undamaged crate that looked promising. All that stood between us and it was one of my fireball-throwing buddies. This one never got a chance to warm up. Arlene whirled and blasted him; the demon went down without a chance to hock and spit. The label on the crate promised Medikits and com- rats. We opened it and found a full pantry. Arlene insisted on playing nurse before I played chef. She examined my shoulder; the bullet had gone straight through. Score one for my side. She injected universal antiviral/antibiotic and wrapped a bandage around my shoulder, while I gritted my teeth and groaned like a big baby. When she finished with my arm, I heaved a sigh of relief. God, I hate medical crap! But I was premature; I'd forgotten about my burns. Arlene didn't forget. The cream she applied on my forehead, cheeks, and chin hurt worse than the arm injections! It hurt so bad that I started hunting for any serious cuts or burns Arlene might have . . . something that would require my delicate attention--and lots of cream. Despite her appearance, she was disgustingly healthy. Now it was her turn to tell a story. "Fly," she began, pausing to gulp water from a bottle we'd extracted from the crate, "I don't want to see anything like that first assault ever again." She sat with her back to a wall, and I stood where I had a good view of anything coming or going. I had to find out what happened to Fox Company. Munching on a bland, fast-energy bar that tasted as fine as a steak at that moment, I gave her my undivided attention (and a chocolate bar of her own). The situation had been as bad as I imagined. The assault simply fell apart. Seeing the zombies was enough --the guys didn't even need flaming-snot demons to drive them off the deep end. Walking, staring, drooling, rotting human corpses proved sufficient to make them forget every combat lesson they'd ever learned. They went crazy; they broke ranks and charged the zombies. Fox was full of fighting spirit, all right; it just Sacked a plan, strategy and tactics, a command structure, and a snowball's chance in they-should-have-known- where as soon as they let themselves get isolated, cut off from each other. The fire-hocking spinys picked them off one at a time. I couldn't really blame my buds. I'd had the same reaction, the same rage to rip the zombies apart with my bare hands. Arlene was saved because she wasn't as affected by the male berserker fury. It must be a male thing; testoster- one, maybe? Jesus, did that sour-lemon odor actually stimulate a testosterone and adrenal rush overdose? Then again, she might simply have had better self- control than a guy. I interrupted to say, "You're a better man than I am, Arlene." "Shush, Fly, if you want to hear the rest of this." I shushed. "I found a cupboard and hid out," she continued. "I could hear them moving just beyond the door. Some- times hearing is worse than seeing." I nodded at the truth of that observation. "Like this ugly demon," I said, kicking the brown hide of the creature she'd dispatched. "They hiss like giant serpents. Scares the piss out of you in the dark." She laughed. "I wouldn't call that a demon! I've seen some others that more deserve the name." "Yeah," I agreed, remembering the minotaurs. "I guess those hell-princes you warned me about with your skull and crossbones are a more traditional demon design." "I wouldn't know," she said. "I never saw them. You're talking about the pentagram room?" "You didn't see them?" "I put one foot into that room and heard one of 'em scream. I guess it saw me, but I didn't stick around to see it! What do they look like?" "Eight feet tall, bright, flaming red, with goat legs and huge horns. They fire some sort of electrical-ball light- ning from wrist-launchers." She shook her head. "Nasty. But the thing I call a demon is a huge, bloated, pink thing with tusks. Maybe we should call it a pinkie?" "Does your pink demon make a pig sound?" The way she shuddered answered the question before she nodded. She wasn't kidding about what you hear being worse than what you see. I didn't press her for further details. I had a sinking feeling that no description was necessary. Before this was over, I imagined we'd be seeing lots worse nightmares, a full menagerie from the lowest pits of hell. "So what happened after you left me the warning?" She smiled, happy to oblige. "I ran like the devil." She interrupted herself, uncomfortable with the expression. The way things were going, there was no telling who we might meet next. "I ran," she said, "and found the crack. I had enough paint stick left for a final warning. I want you to know, Fly Taggart, that taking the time for that Do Not Enter sign was the stupidest thing I did all day; while I was making like a public information booth, one of those hell-princes, as you call them, came tromping down the hall." "You've got guts," I piped in, and didn't care if she shushed me this time. Instead, she insisted on my going back into the narrative and giving all the gory details of how close I'd come to cashing in when facing these monsters. Then she resumed: "While I was writing as fast as I could, I studied that crack in the wall, wishing I could make it larger." "I couldn't squeeze through." "I know. I felt like dog dirt. But what could I do? I didn't have a jaws with me, and no time to crank the crack wider even if I did have. I wormed my way through, leaving a few layers of skin behind, and hoofed it for the Gate." She stopped to catch her breath. "You must have been surprised when you came through stripped bare," I said. She sighed. "I was surprised to still be alive, which is how I've felt every leg of this mission. There was a corpse-reception committee waiting at the other end; but at least they weren't zombies. While I picked my way through all those bodies, a metric ton of zombies started teleporting in. There were too many of them to handle-- so I dived into that secret cupboard you found . . . and somebody pressed a switch, and the freaking door slammed shut! And then you showed up, looking. . . " --she struggled for words--"not a helluva lot better than the zombies, Fly." "Thanks," I said. She always had a knack for compli- ments. Sometimes I suspected she liked toying with me. I pointed at the brown carcass of a spiny. "So if you don't want me calling it a demon," I said, "how about a spiny?" "How about an imp?" "An imp?" "Why not? I had a book of fairy tales when I was a kid with goblins and things. The picture closest to this critter had the caption 'imp.' It was playing with magical fire." Our game was becoming fun. We didn't have a lot of entertainment at the moment. "I dunno," I said. "Some- thing about the head reminds me of an old monster movie about a fish-guy who lived in a lagoon." "He's an imp," she insisted, reminding me that tough Marine or not, she was still a woman. My mother didn't raise any fools. "He's an imp," I agreed. "We should name the others, too," she said, encour- aged. "We've got zombies, imps, demons or pinkies, and hell-princes. What do we call the rest?" I laughed. "That's pretty biblical, isn't it?" She stared blankly. Not everyone had enjoyed the benefits of religious schooling. "Anyway, it's a great idea, Arlene. If we ever find a functional radio, we'll need to report to someone. We might as well play Adam and Eve and name all the beasts." She relaxed, convinced now that I wasn't making fun of her, so I continued. "One of these imps talked to me--" I started, but Arlene cut me off. "Talked?" This was the most surprised I'd seen her yet. We hadn't exactly duplicated each other's adventures. "He tried to get me to surrender, promising if I did, I wouldn't be reworked--uh, zombiefied. But the son of a bitch was such a liar, I wouldn't trust him for the time with a clock stuck to his face." The way she laughed made me laugh. Finding her had changed everything. I wanted to live now as well as fight, report back to Mars or to Earth, do my duty for the survival of homo sap, the home team. "Are those all the monsters we've discovered so far?" she asked. "No," I admitted. "There's something around here that's partly invisible. I was thinking of them as killer ghosts." "Specters," she corrected offhand. If we got out of this alive, I would recommend Arlene for the job of an editor. On a religious magazine. I had a sense of justice. "I haven't run into them yet," she added. "And some flying skulls. What should we call those?" "Flying skulls." "Right. What do you want to call them?" "Flying skulls, you lamebrain! Call 'em as you see 'em." I found out she hadn't run into any of the mysterious blue spheres, either, so far the only good thing to come out of the Gate. I had the feeling that before this was over, there would be much more of the naming of names. Now it was back to business. Lunchtime was over. It was a brief rest; we needed real sleep. We needed to find somewhere secure so that we could take turns sleeping and watch-standing. And we needed real food. "Something feels weird about this place," she said. Something about Deimos was creepier than Phobos. The place was colder, but that wasn't it. The odors were about the same, but a bad taste seemed to go with it. Maybe we were closer to the source of the sour-lemon stench that hung around the zombies. Whatever it was, a cloying odor underrode everything, something very slowly rot- ting. "I hate looking at it," I answered her. If lesser demons were in charge of the other Martian moon, then Old Nick himself had drawn the blueprint here. The skulls were starting to get on my nerves. They were everywhere, all different sizes and shapes, always more evil than a normal human skull. As we explored. the color we noticed most Was red. darkening into the shade of rare steak. The little voice wanted to know why it wasn't getting hotter. Red was hot. Hell was supposed to be hot. The floor became moist with the hated ooze, not yet deep enough to require slogging through a river of the stuff. I wondered if Arlene and I were exploring the great intestine of something so gigantic that I was going to have a hard time ripping out its guts. It seemed like the deeper we went into hell, the closer we got to the life force. Screw that. The Martian moons were more appealing as desolate rocks exposed to the cold of space. "Bad news," said Arlene, pointing at a teleport plat- form at the end of a corridor. We had no choice: use it or go back. Along with all the normal maps I wanted, I now wished for a map showing where all these grids con- nected up. How many shopping days before Christmas? "Somebody's got to do it, Arlene." "Do what?" "Recon these teleport things." She placed a firm hand on my shoulder. "Nice of you to volunteer, Corporal. Rank before beauty." "Pearls before swine. I was about to delegate, PFC!" I looked around. "The layout's different here than on Phobos." Looking back, I observed the vista of emptiness we had walked through to get to this point. I had the feeling that the walls were squirming when I didn't look at them. "More dead ends. I don't like jumping into a fire when I'm getting fat and happy in the frying pan. But we're humanity's vanguard, right?" It sounded sarcastic, but I didn't mean it to be. "We've got to find out what's happened and communicate with someone up the chain." Whenever Arlene smiled, it felt warmer, nicer, than when we'd just been palling around. War brings out something good in a certain kind of person. I didn't know about me, but I was sure about Arlene. "Besides," she elaborated, "best way to stay alive is to be on the offense. I'm coming right behind you." There was no one I'd rather have backing me up. "Give me thirty seconds." They wouldn't be my famous last words, I hoped. The teleporter sensation, now that I was ready for it, was similar to the Gate, but quicker, less disorienting. My clothes stayed on and the weapons didn't disappear. I was ready to secure the beachhead. I'd arrived on a platform virtually identical to the one at point of departure. I should have jumped off right away, but I was distracted by the sound of heavy pile drivers, coming closer and closer. Jesus and Mary, I realized, they're footsteps! 18 Abruptly, I remembered where I stood. I leapt off the platform just in time; Arlene had counted the full thirty seconds before following. "Clear?" she asked as she sparkled into view. "No," I answered. "Listen to that." Light as a cat, she pounced down beside me. The thudding sound wasn't getting any softer. "Poke your head around the corner," she suggested. "I have a pretty good idea what's making all that racket." We took our time approaching the corner. Arlene gestured that she would go first. I don't argue with a lady. When she glanced back at me, her face was stern. "You've been wondering what I call a demon," she said. "So take a good look." I did. And as Gunny Goforth might have said, she wasn't just a-whistlin' Dixie. A whole box of demons marched around atop a two-story platform that looked as though it might lower any moment. One of the "pinkies" started making those pig sounds I found so disgusting. But as I paid close attention to the anatomical details of this thing, I de- cided the Porker Anti-Defamation League might dis- agree with my description. These monsters were the most massively concentrated collections of muscle power in the whole zoo. They were about six feet tall, with mouths that looked like they could swallow Cleveland .. . and probably had. They were demons, all right. She had me there. So long as these guys were wandering the corridors, nothing else deserved the name. Their flesh was a dark pink; Arlene's nickname for them was accurate. They didn't see us yet; but it didn't look as if we'd be going anywhere if we didn't deal with them. There were no other doors; eventually, that platform would have to lower so we could ride it up. They stamped around on short, stubby legs, like shaved gorillas with horns and saw teeth. "Do they have any projectiles?" I asked Arlene. "What do you mean?" "Fireballs, lightning, anything like that?" "They don't throw anything at you." She noticed my body relax a little. "Don't let it fool you," she warned. "They're deadly if you get anywhere near them." "Can we pop them from down here?" I asked. "Not likely. You need concentrated force, like a .458 Weatherby or a twelve-gauge at ten feet. I saw an imp go after a demon, and the pinkie took three fireballs in the face and swallowed the imp whole! It burped out the bloody spines." Data point: imps and demons, like imps and zombies, don't get along. "Fly. if we're going to progress, we've got to lower that platform. There's no other way to kill them with what we've got." I noticed I'd been leaning against something hard and metallic. It was another skull switch, just begging to be flicked. I started reaching for it but Arlene butted my hand away with her shotgun. That hurt. "You don't know what that's going to do," she pro- tested. "I can't help it... I'm a born lever-puller." I flicked the tongue. With a loud groan, the platform lowered like an elevator. The demons wandered off. They snuffled their pig snouts and evidently scented us, for they made a beeline. As they came for us, we scutted back around the corner. The demons didn't seem able to run, but they could power-walk with that thud-thud-thud pounding through our skulls. Arlene and I both had shotguns and a serious attitude problem toward demons. I found their open mouths an irresistible target. The first one ate my powder, and the back of its head opened up like a watermelon. There is always something to say for close range. Arlene took hers out with a well-placed blast to the chest. If we were acting like a team with our backs to the wall, the pinkies were dying as individuals, marching forward two abreast to receive their quota of shotgun death. The corpses piled up, providing sufficient time for us to reload and do it again. As an added bonus, none of the monsters made that snuffling pig sound. They were too busy roaring as they died. The roaring was loud, but it was the mark of their defeat. I started feeling good about my bloody work. "Like shooting drunks in a barrel," I said to Arlene. "Don't get cocky!" She was right. Hubris. The ranks of the enemy finally diminished. We'd stumbled into a finite number and we were using up our demons fast. .. about as fast as our shotgun shells. "Don't discount them," Arlene warned me. I wasn't about to discount her experiences. "So long as you can keep them at a safe distance, this is all right. But I saw what happened when a buddy got his arm bitten off; and then it ate his head. He avoided being a zombie, only to wind up as demon food." Good things come to an end, even in a paradise like Deimos. A bullet came very close to ending the career of Yours Truly. This tipped me off that someone was shooting at me. "Look out!" I shouted at Arlene; but she was already down, crouching behind the wall of demon bodies. During the precious seconds I spent saving myself from whoever was playing sniper, the last demon charged like a runaway bulldozer. I turned to find myself staring into a meter-wide maw. I thought I knew what a bad smell was before that moment. A square mile of human cesspool might come close. The odor was so bad it was like a weapon. My eyes watered so I could hardly see. Arlene shouted something, but I couldn't make out her words. She was busy with problems of her own; the sniper was still at it. One of those bullets, clearly meant for Arlene or me, connected with the back of the demon. It had the same reaction as a human being would have ... if stung by a mosquito. While it tried to scratch at its back (and I wondered how it could accomplish such a task without ripping itself to ribbons), I swung the shotgun back into action. The target came forward, and the bore of my weapon literally went down its gaping maw. I pulled the trigger. My eyes filled with stinking monster blood; not a desirable state of affairs when trying to avoid the persis- tent rifleman. I could hear Arlene, though, shouting, "That's the last of them," as her shotgun finished speak- ing for her. She had to be speaking about the demons. I could still hear the ping-ping of rifle fire over mv head. But it was a relief to know that no pinkish mouths would chew my tender epidermis. Arlene crawled over to me and started rubbing the blood out of my eyes. I could manage that on my own. I just hadn't gotten around to it. "Spread out," I ordered, "don't make one target!" She didn't argue with my superior combat experience. She rolled away without a word while I finished clearing my vision. Whoever was trying to shoot us had taken a break, probably just to reload. I was certain it wouldn't last; he had the high ground, beyond where the platform had been. We needed to alter the situation in our favor immediately. "Platform!" I shouted, then charged the lowered lift. It had its own switch, which I flipped. The lift started up, and Arlene finally realized what was happening. She ran and leapt, barely catching the edge. I pulled her up; we crouched back-to-back and took a little trip. On the next level, we rounded a corner and came face-to-, well, you couldn't call it a face really--we ran right into another demon. I didn't know about Arlene, but I found the situation very annoying. We'd just been through all that. We were so close that, as it charged, I fell back on my butt and fired a round between his legs. This staggered the demon, and Arlene finished the job, plug- ging it head-on and killing it good and proper. Now we could return to the more traditional task of trying to find out who was shooting at us. Past the platform we saw two doors. Exchanging glances, we approached. One had a blue border and the other had a red border. Of course, they were both locked. I missed my rockets. I extracted my blue key card and inserted it into the proper slot, swiping it across the mag reader. The door opened with a clean, whistling, hydraulic sound. At the other end was a teleport. Deimos had a "thing" for teleports, all right. "The lady or the tiger?" asked Arlene. "What?" "A story I read once. We've got a red door and a tele- port. Which one?" "Yeah, too bad we don't have a red key." "Hell, Fly, all you had to do was ask!" She produced a key card and presented it to me. Arlene liked to play when working. "I found it in the secret room while waiting for you to rescue me," she said with a wink. "I'll pick the lady," I said, and started to insert the red key. Marine training conies in handy. I heard something on the other side of the door; and there was nothing wrong with Arlene's ears, either. I swiped the key through the slot, then skipped to the side, scattergun ready. Arlene took the opposite side. The moment the door opened, she discharged a shell, killing a zombie on the other side. He was holding a shotgun just like ours. He wasn't the sniper. The zombie standing next to him had a Sig-Cow, and I wasted him. We cleared the room, each covering 270 degrees. The room was really more of a walk-in closet. It was emp