Borderlands: The Fallen Read Free

whispered. “Look like mercenaries to me. Some of them are Crimson Lance. Or were. That big, broken-nosed, bald-headed thug in the middle—that’s Scrap Crannigan. Used to work with him. He’s a real backstabber.”
    “What, a backstabber on this planet? You’re kiddin’.”
    “Stuff the sarcasm and keep quiet—lemme just see if I can get the prick to tell me what they’re up to before they open fire.”
    Heavy-caliber weapons were already trained on the outrunner. Roland’s expert eye picked out a Pearl Havoc combat rifle, two Cobras, a Stomper, a bunch of Atlas pistols, and a Helix rocket launcher. Crannigan himself toted an Eridian rifle—alien technology, recognizable by those curves in the rifle’s organic lines, as if the weapon had grown like a plant instead of being manufactured.
    Lots of ordnance on that crest. This could get ugly fast.
    Very slowly, Roland raised his two hands over his head—not in surrender, which wasn’t much use in Pandora anyway—but in a greeting that old Crimson Lance vets knew, hands open—then fisted—then open again.
Parley.
    Crannigan nodded, then took a few strides closer, down the slope, before stopping and calling out, “That’s Roland isn’t it?”
    “That’s who it is, Scrap!” Roland said, lowering his hands.
    “You back with the Lances?”
    “Not me. Don’t look like you are either.”
    “Working for Atlas,” Crannigan said. “New division. Acquisitions Department. You heard?”
    “No, haven’t heard of it. What are you ‘acquiring’ for Acquisitions?”
    “That’s our business! Course, it could be yours, if you’re looking for work! You could hire on with us. Don’t know about the little gnome you’ve got there.”
    “What did he call me?!” McNee fumed.
    “Quiet!” Roland whispered. “If he didn’t know me, we’d both be dead already! Just don’t make any quick moves—but if they open fire, you hammer them hard with that turret!”
    “You interested or not?” Crannigan bellowed. “Big pay!”
    “I’ll think on it!” Roland called. “Where do I find you after I decide?”
    Crannigan shook his head. “Uh-uh. It’s now or never, pal. Sign up with us—or …”
    Roland gauged the shooting angle. Awkward. The shotgun wouldn’t be much use from here. But he had a good Atlas Raptor pistol on his hip. He might be able to pull the Raptor and nail Crannigan in the forehead before the merc used the Eridian rifle—but the others would open up. Maybe McNee’d be able to machine-gun a few of them while the outrunner slammed right through the middle of them, run a couple of the bastards over. But that Helix rocket launcher with its multiplying blasts would probably bring the outrunner down.
    Crannigan grinned—a nasty sight, showing green, crooked teeth. “I can see you trying to figure the odds, Roland!” He shook his head. “You’ll never make it alive! Better choose joining up instead! Tell you what—shoot your little pal there to show your commitment!
Then
I’ll cue you in on the mission …”
    McNee snorted. “As if he’d …” He peered around his gun at Roland. “You wouldn’t, would you?”
    “Shut up and let me think,” Roland muttered. After a moment he called out, “Crannigan! Lemme point something out—if this comes to gunfire, you’ll be the first to go down. So I’ll tell you what: I’m gonna put this in reverse, and back out of here, and think on your offer! And you can avoid a firefight.”
    “Oh—I don’t have to get in a firefight!” Crannigan said, his corroded grin widening. “
They’ll
take care of you for us!” He pointed past the outrunner.
    Roland turned to see a sight that was bizarre even for Pandora—he’d heard of these creatures, but never seen them before.
    “Primal Beasts!” McNee burst out, whistling.
    There were three of the hulking semihuman creatures—and riding on each Primal was a Psycho Midget. The little jockey-like lunatic mutants, wearing goggles and finned