As he turned to his sergeant, the behemoth who loved bar fights already had his hands in the air. Beyond him, emerging from the tall grass beyond the dropship’s landing zone, at least fifteen Wild Ones approached in a semicircle, surrounding Stug.
“Sir,” said Hawkeye, still observing the people on the hill, “they’re starting to move this way. It’s like they don’t even care if we see them.”
“Hawk,” Bracer said, tapping his spotter on the shoulder. When Hawkeye turned an irritated eye on him, the heavy-weapons man jerked his head at Stug.
“Oh.”
Hatch watched the QB for how to play it. But she followed Stug’s lead. Her laser rifle hung swaying by its strap at her side as she raised her hands in the air.
“And you call yourself a spotter,” fumed Hatch, raising his own.
Hawkeye shrugged. “Looked clear.” The point man’s dark humor, as old as warfare.
“Uh-huh.” You sure about this? Hatch asked, aiming his BICE chatter at the back of the QB’s head.
Do you see the missing food? she answered. Assuming we could even mow them down without biting it ourselves, how would we find it?
She had a point.
As the circle closed in, the soldiers of B Company formed a tight circle of their own, their backs to one another. If it turned ugly—uglier—they wanted their laser rifles pointing out, not in.
Covered in mud, the Wild Ones stopped ten feet away from them. A few of them held body shields made of glass, obviously pilfered from Authority troops at some point. The resistance fighters were now completely surrounded by muddy scavengers with spears, bows, and knives made of quartz. All just as deadly as lasers in close quarters.
One of the Wild Ones stepped forward. He was older, with a thick beard and a long rifle slung across his back. He was chewing some kind of green plant and didn’t seem worried about offending anyone with the green spittle mucking up his beard. The man considered the QB admiringly, then Hatch and the others. When his eyes landed on Stug, he backed up half a step.
Sticks walked out to meet him. “Like we agreed, eh?”
“Agreeing yes, you and us,” said the muddy man with the gooey green beard. He withdrew a bag that clinked as he handed it over. “Much more money you,” he said.
“Much more money me, indeed!” replied Sticks.
“Sonofa—”
“Now, now, Sergeant,” said the ferryman. “Why get paid once when twice is twice as nice?”
“That’s the last time TRACE will pay you for anything,” said the QB quietly. Hatch knew that tone. The calm before a storm.
“Oh, I dunno,” said Sticks. “Wait and see. This ain’t a trap. It’s an opportunity.”
“I’d like an opportunity,” Stug scoffed, moving toward him. “Want to know what I’d like an opportunity for?”
The large, muddy man stepped between Sticks and the sergeant. The ferryman darted out of the way as Stug’s grip found the scavenger’s shoulders. But the older man dropped straight down, pulling Stug off balance. He fell forward, and the Wild One lifted with his legs, shouldering the big man in the gut. Surprised by the maneuver, Stug went airborne. He hit the ground hard, flattening the grass, then recovered and rolled up on one knee. The other man, a big, green, beardy grin on his face, stood ready to catch and flip him again. Stug hesitated, knowing he’d underestimated his opponent once already. The muddy man knew how to wrestle. But Stug wasn’t prone to making the same mistake twice.
The Wild Ones aimed their weapons at the sergeant.
“Sure, hide behind your sticks and arrows. Big man with backup.”
“Shutting it, Man Mountain,” the muddy man said, his green grin fading. “Or flipping again, that’s me.”
“Stug, stand down,” Hatch said.
Stug exhaled his fury, retreating a half step but no more.
“Ferryman going now.”
“Oh, sure! I’m not one to overstay a welcome, no sir!” Turning to the QB, the near-toothless river man said with clear satisfaction, “I told you not to underestimate them.” Then the menace in his voice was gone, replaced by a happy-go-lucky tone. “But no one listens to me, no sir! Well, y’all have a nice parlay now, ya hear? I wager I’ll be seein’ you again!” In a moment, Sticks had faded into the grass, a gummy whistle his herald.
The Wild One doing all the talking then turned to the QB. “Being leader here?” he asked.
“I’m in command, yes.” The captain imbued a threat in her voice that her raised arms didn’t much support. “Captain Mary Brenneman.”
“Name being Goa Eeguls,” he said. “Needing to talking, we. Putting arms down now, you. Keeping hands from triggers. Or sticking you, that’s us.”
“Yes, we need to discuss where our food is,” the QB said carefully, trying to establish some measure of power equity in the conversation.
Eeguls smiled, the green spittle making a bright curve in his beard. “Not knowing already? All your food belonging us.”
Riverwalk
The Wild Ones escorted them out of the clearing. And strangely—an assessment everyone shared via BICE—the scavengers didn’t demand the soldiers turn over their weapons. Like Sticks, their captors kept the trees overhead as often as possible, and in short order, the party passed over the wooded hill, picking up the group Hawkeye had spotted earlier. Within half an hour, they’d entered a short box canyon and followed a well-worn path to a cap rock resembling a thumb pointing at the sky. Below it, a camp nestled into the cliffs overlooking Pesky Creek.
The QB was fascinated as they passed into the community itself. That’s the word for it, her inner voice said. Not camp. Community.
The Wild Ones had adapted the rock formations to form dwellings. Sheets of stone served as roofs for apartments, and caverns had become rooms. Naturally occurring gaps in the vertical rock of the cave walls were windows fronting a common area. This central open space framed a foyer of flat stone structures where children played and adults tanned skins and tended fires with meat roasting over them. Stug’s stomach began to growl again.
“I sure hope that’s not people,” he whispered to Hatch. The lieutenant passed him a glance that said, Me too.
“Walking this way, Man Mountain,” Eeguls said, waving them past the children who stopped their play to gawk in fear and awe at the bulky soldiers passing by. Most of the children were captivated by the laser rifles; their simple, sleek industrial plastic was undoubtedly a stark contrast to the bumpy weapons of stone and wood they were used to seeing. Several of them stared openly at Stug, perhaps wondering if, as Eeguls had suggested, he’d come to life from the stone around them, a real, live Man Mountain.
Then Mary noticed a girl of about ten or twelve years old watching them from one of the cookfires. The girl refused to turn her eyes away, staring up defiantly at the uniformed, hard-cast woman walking by. Mary attempted a smile for her, perhaps seeing a reflection through time in the young girl’s face. But the girl’s eyes, so young to be so old, returned no kindness. Rather, their flinty flatness dared the stranger to make trouble for her people.
Not so very different, you and I, thought Mary to herself, her smile saddening at the corners. The girl’s gaze tracked her warily as the soldiers of B Company moved deeper into the settlement.
They came to a formation stretching upward to a second floor. A graying man, cleaner cut than the others around him, sat working a huge knife along a piece of wood as he talked to other Wild Ones hunched in a circle. Their conversation quieted as the QB and her soldiers approached.
The gray man put the knife down and stood up from the group. He watched them approach, acknowledging Eeguls, who stopped before him and bowed slightly.
“Bringing them like you asking,” said Eeguls.
“Appreciated,” said the gray man. He gestured to the woman sitting next to him, and she handed Eeguls a leather satchel. “All the tobac you can chew.”
“Many and much more thanks,” said Eeguls, opening the bag and staring insid
e. He stuck his nose in and took a big whiff. As he looked back at the QB, the green spittle-smile stretched across his beard. “Easy-peasy.” Then his face turned serious. “Being nice. Or getting the pointy end. Understanding?”
The captain’s lips formed a thin line. “Understanding.” Outwardly she was calm, even relaxed. To her squad, the QB sent Stay alert, stay frosty via BICE.
Eeguls nodded and, with one last gesture of respect to the gray man, wandered off into the camouflage of his community. Mary noted how the children jumped excitedly around him, a wizened wizard returning from the wide world with stories to tell.
“My name’s Logan,” said the gray man. “Please, sit down.”
The QB regarded him coolly. That he was in charge was obvious from his easy, relaxed bearing. The inverse of Obadiah Neville, her inner voice said. A slight, knowing gaze played around his eyes, which she read as his acknowledgment that they were equals here. She sensed no threat, though the scavengers around them were well armed with knives, bows, and a few long rifles like the one Eeguls had carried.
“Mary Brenneman, captain of the Free Forces of New Pennsylvania,” she returned. “You probably know us better as TRACE. And I prefer to stand.” Her men followed her lead. All stood at an easy parade rest, hands resting casually near their weapons.
Logan shrugged. “Suit yourself. But it’s harder to eat standing up.” He returned himself to a seated, cross-legged position.
“Nice knife,” the QB said, measuring the blade with her eyes.
The gray man picked up the machete-like knife he’d been whittling with when they’d arrived. Its twenty-inch blade made it seem more like a short sword of the ancient world, but its clipped point defined it technically as a knife. Silver sunlight reflected off the steel, a clear sign that it was diligently cared for, though its rough edge showed that it was sharpened and used often.
“Thanks. It’s called a Bowie knife. Named after a famous knife-fighter from a long time ago. Handed down in my family since God knows when.”
He sheathed it. Probably to show he means us no harm, the QB guessed. She didn’t relax an inch.
“I know who you are, by the way,” he continued. “And, obviously, why you’re here.”
Stug’s stomach growled.
“Does that gut of yours ever shut up?” Bracer whispered.
“Only when its mouth is full.”
Logan overheard and chuckled. It was a good-natured sound. Nevertheless, the QB maintained her vigilance.
“Your men are hungry, Captain. Please, sit and eat. After all, we’re the ones who took your supplies. We should at least offer you a meal, no?”
He was trying to be humorous, but the QB’s face showed she was in no mood for joking. Still, she considered it. If they were truly here to parlay, as Sticks had suggested, then maybe they shouldn’t refuse the hospitality.
Nothing more important than getting those supplies back, her inner voice reminded her.
“If we wanted you dead,” Logan said in all sincerity, “you’d already be that way. And we certainly wouldn’t have let you keep your weapons.”
He makes a good point, Hatch sent via BICE.
“Very well, then,” said the QB, nodding permission to her soldiers. Two of them took up position on either side of her, as the space allowed, before sitting down. Even on their butts, Alpha Squad had arranged themselves tactically, in case events took a wrong turn. Stug sat directly behind the captain, a blocker protecting his quarterback.
Several Wild Ones brought over small baskets of food. Roasted deer, cooked carrots and potatoes, even fresh bread and churned butter. Not overly generous portions, but fresh and hot. Stug’s gut groaned louder than ever at nirvana’s nearness.
“Since you know why we’re here, would you please tell me why you took our food?” asked the QB.
“Eat first,” said Logan easily. “Else we’ll never hear one another over the mountain’s stomach begging to be fed.”
Another ten or fifteen minutes won’t matter, suggested Hatch in her head.
“Thank you,” she acknowledged, taking a bite of the roast deer. Making small talk, she said, “Obviously, this is more than a camping ground. I thought the scavengers were supposed to be migratory.”
“We prefer the term salvagers,” Logan corrected her. “Moving around is becoming more dangerous by the day.” Motioning to the stone buildings around them, he said, “We call this place Bedrock.”
While her men chowed down, the QB took a few moments to assess the situation. For the squad’s benefit, she used their shared channel. Obviously, this is where they live. She cast her eyes around again to confirm the camp wasn’t transient. This place had been their home for a while. That we haven’t been harmed and still have our weapons suggests they want something for the food. Else they’d have killed us outright rather than risk losing it to us in a fight.
Agreed, sent back Hatch.
They took a big risk bringing us here, noted Hawkeye. Showing us the location of this place without even putting blindfolds on us.
The captain clicked an acknowledgment in her head. We need to figure out what they want.
Logan smiled at the seemingly quiet squad. “Sharing thoughts on why you’re here, I imagine,” he said.
Mary barely avoided showing her surprise. Stug laughed out loud, a muted greasy sound. He’d never had much of a poker face.
“I used to be a TRACE espionage agent,” Logan said, rescuing them from their sudden paranoia. “I infiltrated places like this village all the time. Many years ago, before the SOMA even broke the BICE codes.” He wiped a piece of bread in the deer grease and took a bite.
That explains a lot, sent Hatch on the channel. Better spoken than most of these folks, better educated. More strategically minded.
He took us without a shot and has us eating a meal with him in minutes, sent Bracer. Gotta admire that.
“How did you end up with these—with the Wild Ones?” the QB asked. Scavengers they might be, but they didn’t refer to themselves as such, as Logan himself had said. Negotiations 101. Speak to the other party on their own terms.
“I wanted a simpler life. I got tired of the constant battles. And the constant losing.”
That was something Mary understood. Despite TRACE’s long-term success in the war with Transport—the resistance still existed, after all—they were perennially behind the power curve. Until now. Though they’d technically been routed at Gettysburg, the rebels had still come away with a cargo ship full of okcillium. Now most of their fighters were on an equal footing with the Authority, at least in terms of weaponry. Time and resources were not on their side, however.
“So this is your home now?” she asked.
Logan nodded. “For many years. But it’s not like it used to be. Transport is now actively trying to eradicate the Wild Ones. Before, they ignored us. We existed technically outside the law, but no one really cared. Now, we’re another thumb in the Authority’s eye. They’re even losing patience with the Amish since the AZers are such reliable, if covert, supporters of the resistance. No one is safe now. No one.”
“Why are we here, Mr. Logan?” the captain asked.
“No ‘mister,’” he said. “We don’t use titles here. Of any kind.”
Stug grunted.
“You have an opinion, Sergeant?” asked Logan.
“Clearly you’re their leader,” said the big man. “So you have a hierarchy.”
“We have functional, practical relationships. These people asked me to guide them a long time ago. I have done so. But I claim no title for the honor.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” said the QB. She tapped her rifle. “You’ve left us our weapons. You’ve brought us here in apparent friendship and fed us. What are you buttering us up for?”
Logan laughed out loud again. “Direct! I like that. And you couldn’t have chosen a more apt way to phrase your question.”
The QB raised an eyebrow.
“Are
you familiar with the phrase ‘guns and butter’?” asked Logan.
The captain turned to Hawkeye, who was like a human encyclopedia when it came to military trivia.
“It’s a phrase from the Old Planet,” he said. “It refers to a government’s need to strike a balance between buying enough food to feed its citizens and enough weapons to defend them. Too little of one, you have a revolution. Too little of the other, you get conquered.”
“My God,” said Logan. “Did he come out of the box like that?”
Stug chuckled.
“Okay, so you’ve taught me a new phrase,” said the QB. “How does it apply here?”
Logan smiled at her from under his brows, finally ready to share his secret. “I have butter,” he said, winking. “I need guns.”
Neville will serve you up with a side of butter is what he’ll do, said Hatch in her head as they marched.
Logan had given them their space to talk over whether or not they’d help him. His plan was to go to the City and, with their help, steal the guns the Wild Ones needed directly from Transport. The plan was bold, something the QB liked. But it was also dangerous and something Neville would never approve of. Worse, in Hatch’s eyes, Logan refused to take any Wild Ones with them. Should things go sideways, he wanted no trace of their involvement, lest Transport exact revenge by finding and exterminating Bedrock.
More than anything else, what had convinced the QB to help the salvagers was Logan’s willingness to explain his people’s needs while leaving B Company armed and dangerous among their children. Hatch had tried to convince her otherwise, something no one else would’ve dared, but with no success so far. And since the plan required they wait until darkness to enter the City, they had spent most of the day debating it. Now, as they marched beneath the trees in the late afternoon sun, Hatch attempted one last time to convince her what a mistake this was.
I wish you’d stop trying to change my mind, she said on the private comm channel she’d opened with him. We need that food. And what he’s proposing will arm an ally for us. I don’t see a downside.
Then you’re damned shortsighted, replied Hatch. He touched her arm, and they let the rest of Alpha Squad buffer the distance between them and Logan. He looked directly into her eyes and sent, Have you considered that arming these people with advanced weapons might not be a good idea? An ally today. An enemy tomorrow, maybe.
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