by James Axler
"So if you know how we feel, why all this?" Ryan said, indicating the room and the sec men, who were listening curiously.
"Just to let you know, and to say that I know how you feel. And that's okay. But don't try and slack on me, 'cause I'll come down hard. You're outnumbered here, remember that."
Ryan allowed himself a wry smile. Of course, that was why they were getting the warning and the view of the palace's full sec force and facilities.
"Point taken, so just give us back our weapons," he said simply.
Baron Silas nodded, and two of the sec men left the room by one of the far-flung doors, returning a few moments later with a collection of weaponry that they placed carefully on the floor in front of their baron. Silas stepped back and indicated that the companions retrieve their individual weapons.
Ryan picked out his SIG-Sauer, his Steyr and his trusty panga, as well as the ammo for his blasters. Jak followed, collecting his .357 Magnum Colt Python and his leaf-bladed knives. They were secreted in his jacket so swiftly that no naked eye could follow where he hid them. Krysty retained her .38- caliber Smith & Wesson Model 640, while Dean went for his Browning Hi-Power and Mildred her Czech-made ZKR. Doc reholstered his LeMat pistol, and was pleased to see his silver lion's-head swordstick once more, with its blade made of the finest Toledo steel. Which left a pile of weaponry that belonged to J.B. alone. As he sheathed his Tekna knife and took up his Uzi and Smith & Wesson M-4000 before pocketing the supplies of ammo, the grens and plas-ex in the capacious pockets of his jacket, it was easy to see why he was called the Armorer.
For almost the first time since they had encountered him, Baron Silas Hunter showed some genuine emotion as he whistled long and low. "Shit," he said softly as he watched J.B., "you're a one-man army, boy. No wonder Crow figured you people'd be useful."
As the companions settled themselves back into their weapons, adjusting once more to the weight and balance of the hardware about their bodies so they became as one with the weapons, Baron Silas moved toward the far door, beckoning them to follow.
Falling into the regular line with Ryan in lead and J.B. behind him, they left the sec room and the sec force who were still openmouthed in amazement and admiration at the load carried by the Armorer, and joined Baron Silas in a large underground garage space that housed two wags. Both were open-topped trucks of the type used for the transportation of men and goods, similar to the one used for taking the construction materials to and from the cinder-block site where they had first encountered the people of Salvation. The garage space stank of fuel, and had tools and engine parts scattered on a workbench. It was lit by a single low bulb, with an old spotlight lying idle unless needed for repairs.
"Not much like a Baron's wag," Krysty said, indicating the two vehicles with a toss of her red mane.
"I like good things, but it don't do to show too much," Baron Silas said. "If I need to travel far, then I use one of the armored wags from the depot we have—like the one you came back in. Otherwise, these do fine for getting out to the well, seeing as every time I go I have to take men or supplies. I seen some of them old wags come through our hands that other barons might use, but they just look pretty and don't have no purpose. First thing I learned about wags and fuel when I came here is that they ain't jackshit good unless they do something. Otherwise they're just a waste. Besides which, one of those fancy wags wouldn't fit all of you in, and since we're headed out for the well right now…" He let the sentence hang in the air with a slight shrug.
"Mebbe you're right and we can trust him," Krysty whispered to Ryan, "but, lover, he sure as hell is a complex man for a baron. Can we actually second-guess him?"
"Just have to try," Ryan answered as the companions climbed into the back of one of the wags and settled on the dusty bench seats that ran on either side of the low wag, the frame over the top standing bare, its canvas covering long since perished or lost.
Baron Silas climbed into the front, taking the driver's position, and was joined by a sec man who came from the other room to ride shotgun on the journey out.
"I trust you people can ride your own shotgun," Silas shouted over the noise of the old wag engine as it fired up.
"Trust no one better," Jak answered. The baron wouldn't have heard him over the engine noise, but his companions did. It was something with which they all agreed.
THE WAG ROARED out of the underground garage and into the hard, harsh light of a day in Salvation. The sudden glare made them all squint, particularly Jak, whose red albino eyes were particularly sensitive to light.
Sitting on the bench seat and holding on to one of the otherwise useless metal covering supports, Ryan shifted his weight so that he could see where they had emerged. His good eye adjusting to the light, he could see that the entrance to the garage was down a steep slope at the rear of the building, and as he looked back down that slope he could see a pair of sec men pushing heavy ironwork gates back into position before closing the double doors behind. It was difficult to tell at such a distance, but the doors seemed to be of iron themselves.
Baron Silas was obviously a firm believer in keeping his ass covered.
The wag slowed suddenly as it came around the front of the building and ran into the crush of people that they had noticed on their entrance to the ville. All around them was a heaving mass of people, jammed too close together within the confines of the ville. The street surfaces were of stone and tarmac, but some areas had been stripped where old buildings had fallen and been cleared, and the dry earth beneath had been revealed. These sections of the roads and walkways threw up clouds of dust that mingled with the sweat and odor of the too densely packed population, forming an almost visible cloud that choked the atmosphere, making breath hard to grasp.
There was an immense noise that hit them as they rounded the corner, like walking into a wall of speech and song, the sounds of people trading, conversing and arguing as they went about their daily business. People hung from windows, shouting at those below while the subjects of their attention returned the favor with an equal volume. There was the clash of metal on metal as barrows and bicycles collided, while workmen hammered and sawed, and the sound of brick, stone and wood being beaten down by everyday life. And to complete the overload to the senses, there was a riot of color as people from Salvation and the villes who were part of the alliance collided in the street with an array of hair and skin tone, clothes in an assortment of wildly colored rags and fabrics.
If there was an order to what was occurring, if there was any reason to the tasks and any purpose to the actions, then all of this seemed lost in the general melee.
"Makes the desert seem kind of attractive," J.B. muttered, observing it.
"You may not be saying that if where we're headed is anything like this, John," Mildred pointed out.
Doc stroked his chin and smiled mirthlessly. "Like a maze fit for rats, and possibly populated by them. Ah, if the encampments at the well and refinery bear even the most passing of resemblances to this Byzantium, then proverbs involving needles and haystacks spring readily to the mind."
Dean looked at the seemingly old man, a puzzled expression on his face. "I keep trying to tell you, Doc—less words, more meaning," he said wearily.
"Second that," Jak agreed.
Krysty decided to interpret. "It's an old predark phrase. Doc just means it'll be a triple-stupe task, like looking for an honest man in a gaudy house."
The wag made its torturous way through the streets of Salvation until it came to the ville walls, following the roadway around until it reached the gateway. Whether this was the same one they had come through, or one of the other compass points of the ville it was impossible to say, as they weren't as yet familiar enough with the ville of Salvation.
The fact that they were with the baron of the ville meant that the gates were opened and they were allowed to pass with the maximum of speed and the minimum of good-natured banter. Another point Ryan noted was that the sec men were almost in awe of Bar
on Silas, suggesting that he ran a hard regime among his sec forces.
Looking back as they drove away down the road from Salvation, they could see the gates being closed on them, and the teeming life beyond, which was in stark contrast to the desert that stretched out around them. The road they traveled was made of concrete, the long slabs being joined together by tar that had worn away in places, making the ride less than smooth. From this, and from the fact that the sun had moved in the sky, they could tell that they were leaving from a different road, and that their destination— the well and refinery—were to the east of the ville.
The desert sun beat down on them, unprotected in the rear of the wag. It was a different kind of heat from that in the ville: drier, more directly intense as they traveled under the sun with nothing to break up the orange-red orb's rays.
It wasn't long before they were sweltering. Even the breeze created by the speed of the wag, which had picked up under Baron Silas's hand since they left the confines of the walled ville, wasn't enough to dull the heat.
Ryan stood up and made his way to the front of the wag, clinging to the iron bars that lifted naked into the desert air and swinging the top half of his body around so that he could put his head in through the open window on the driver's side.
As he swung around, he found himself staring a blaster full in the muzzle.
"Fireblast!" the one-eyed warrior yelled involuntarily as he switched the weight of his swing, using the momentum to carry him out of the range of the blaster as the muzzle exploded with a deafening roar, a brief burst, seemingly of flame, and the stink of cordite as the slug ripped past the space where his good eye had been a fraction of a second before.
The wag swerved and screeched to a halt, and Ryan was thrown from his tenuous position, hitting the ground in a roll at a force that took the breath from his body. It was just fortunate that in swerving, the wag had turned so that he was thrown onto sand rather than the concrete road surface that would have pulped his shoulder and ribs.
As he straightened painfully, he saw his friends leap from the back of the wag, and the driver's door open to disgorge Baron Silas.
"You triple-stupe bastard!" yelled the baron, coming over to Ryan. "Why the fuck did you do that? Instinct made me draw and fire before I could think."
"Guess I should be impressed," Ryan hissed painfully through gritted teeth as he rose to his feet. A look to his companions told them to withdraw hands that were poised to unholster blasters.
Baron Silas stopped in front of the one-eyed man and offered him his hand. Ryan took it, and as the baron helped him to his feet, Silas said, "You shouldn't have done that. I've been jumpier than a stallion with fleas and a mare in season since this shit started to go down. Anyone comes up on me like that is likely to end up chilled."
"I'll remember that," Ryan said with feeling. "All I was going to do was ask how long till we reached our destination."
" 'Bout as long as it takes to get over there," Baron Silas replied, casting his arm out and pointing to the horizon.
There, shimmering in the heat haze, an oil derrick and a cluster of buildings were visible. To one side was a motley collection of shacks and shelters.
And in the middle of it all was an oily cloud of smoke bespeaking a fire.
"Looks like we're riding right into trouble without being able to draw breath," the one-eyed man remarked.
"They not know what hit them," Jak replied, shielding his eyes to stare into the distance.
"That's what I'm relying on," Baron Silas countered.
"What we're all relying on," Doc added.
They remounted the wag and the baron fired it up, turning and heading toward the oil well…and toward a firefight in more ways than one.
Chapter Eleven
As they approached the well and refinery, they could see more clearly that the thick, oily black cloud was coming not from the area of the well or the refinery buildings, but from the encampment where the workers had their shacks and settlements.
"Looks like they're trying to chill each other this time, not fire the well," Krysty remarked, the wind from the speeding wag making her hair whip in its wake.
"Yeah, and if we're headed for action we'd better be ready for it," Ryan replied, wincing as he flexed his battered shoulder. As he rotated the ball in its socket, it grated and sent a wave of pain down his arm as far as the elbow. He could think of better times for this injury than when he had a firefight in view, but what choice did he have now?
As the wag jerked and bumped at high speed over the derelict concrete road, the companions checked their weapons, making sure that they were in working order after their brief sojourn with Baron Silas's sec men. All weapons were loaded with cartridge, shot or shell, and rounds were chambered ready for action, which was getting closer with every twist and turn of the road.
There was no indication of where the well and refinery area actually began or ended. Ryan remembered the baron saying that the sec force he had on-site was stretched thin, but how thin was nonexistent? For, as far as his eye could see, there was little sign of any sec force actually standing guard over whatever passed for the perimeters of the area. Maybe they'd all had to hightail it over to the area where the smoke originated from. That would leave the area wide open if that was a decoy. Right at that moment he wished he could ask Baron Silas about the sec setup, but at this speed and with the baron in the driving seat, that was an impossibility.
The one-eyed warrior turned to his people, all of whom had completed their weapons check and were now perched on the bench seats, riding the twists, turns and bucking motion of the old wag.
"Okay, we don't really know what we're riding into here, but it's going to be a tough one. We don't know how many sec men Silas has in there, or whether they'll recognize us. And if there's some kind of firefight going on between the different workers, then it'll be a free-for-all."
"Won't be the first time, won't be the last," J.B. remarked. "Anyway, where are these sec men of Silas's anyway? I haven't seen jackshit as we've got near. Anyone could move about and screw up the well."
"Anyone could if they could get across this desert," Mildred said thoughtfully. "But what if the trouble in the camp is a diversion, because maybe there's some sabotage at the well or refinery."
Ryan nodded. "If the sec force is that thinly stretched, that'd be the way to do it during daylight. Mebbe we should take a little diversion and have a recce, just because…"
The one-eyed man strode to the front of the wag and rapped hard several times on the roof of the cab with the butt of his Steyr. The finely shaped and molded stock made a sharp cracking sound on the battered metal of the wag that cut through the full-throated roar of the wag's engine. At first, Baron Silas ignored the constant rapping, but Ryan kept hitting the roof, cursing to himself at the stubbornness of the baron in ignoring him.
Eventually, the wag slowed, almost to a halt, and Ryan yelled, "I'm coming around!" before swinging himself around, wincing at the pain forced down his arm from his shoulder, to face the baron through the window.
"What the hell is it?" Baron Silas asked, keeping the engine ticking over and the wag moving at a walking pace.
"Your sec force—they'd move to sort out trouble at the camp, yeah?"
The baron assented. "That's their job. What else would—?"
Ryan cut him off. "Then if they're as thinly stretched as you say, it could be that they've left the well and refinery open to attack."
"The workers on there have blasters, they could hold off until—"
"Until what? If you're right, then they might be the ones out to wreck the well. They could be fighting among themselves even now."
Baron Silas's jaw dropped. It was an obvious assumption, but one that had momentarily escaped him in his determination to reach the camp. "Shit," he muttered quietly, "then we'd better—"
"Yeah, take the long way around and check out the well first. Now go!" Ryan swung himself back into the main body of the truc
k.
Needing no second bidding, Baron Silas Hunter gunned the engine into life once more, slamming his foot down and putting the gears through torturous changes in his eagerness to get the vehicle up to its maximum speed. He slewed off the road and took the short route across the dusty but hard-packed earth of the Texas desert, driving the wag over terrain that wasn't meant to take an ancient vehicle with poor suspension.
"Assuming that we arrive in one piece, will we be able to see straight enough to aim and fire at any particular enemies?" Doc asked grimly as he was thrown across the width of the wag.
"That'll be nothing if we can do this without breaking any bones," Dean retorted as he, too, was flung to the floor of the wag.
J.B. joined Ryan at the front of the wag, both men standing firm against the back of the cab, using the metal stanchions to support themselves as they fixed their gaze on the well and refinery buildings, which were approaching at rapid speed.
"Seems quiet enough," the Armorer remarked.
"Too quiet. I can't see anyone moving…or is that just these damn spectacles?"
Ryan allowed himself a smile. "You need glasses, and I've got just the one eye, but between us we should be able to see if there's some fireblasted activity, and I sure as hell can't see anything, either." As they came even closer to the derrick and outbuildings, it became obvious that there was little sign of any work taking place, or of any workmen on-site. The wag came up close to the derrick, and from their position on the back both Ryan and J.B. could see that the workers had left the site in a hurry. There were tools and partially completed works everywhere, discarded and left where they had been dropped.
"What do you reckon?" Ryan asked his oldest friend.