by James Axler
Baron Silas introduced him as Myall, the head of camp sec, as Ryan had deduced, then explained who Ryan and his companions were. The one-eyed man wasn't surprised to see the distrust cross Myall's face when the baron revealed their reason for being there. If Ryan had been in Myall's position, he knew that he would have felt slighted and snubbed by the introduction of an outside force. It implied that Myall couldn't do his job, and that he was lesser in the view of both the baron and—ultimately—his own men and the people he was policing. In which case, how could he carry on? So it was important they establish a rapport and that Ryan and his people were careful not to step on any existing sec toes…unless, of course, it became an imperative.
When Silas had finished explaining, Ryan stepped forward and proffered his hand. "Fireblast, this is a difficult situation for us all. We'll need you if we're to do anything. We're extra firepower, and we need you as a guide. Are you with that?"
The tall, gray-bearded sec man paused for a few seconds, then took the proffered hand. Although he was wirier than Ryan, he was a couple of inches taller, being almost the same height as Crow, and his grip was iron strong.
"We've got some interesting times ahead," Myall said with a grin. "Welcome aboard."
THE SEC BASE for the work camp was on the northern edge, fenced off from the camp itself by a barbed-wire fence that ran ten feet high and was designed as much to keep the horses in as to keep the workers and their dependents out. The sec men slept in a bunkhouse made of wood and sheet metal, and ate in a tented shelter. Baron Silas drove the companions to the bunkhouse, followed by Myall and McVie— the name of the second sec man—on their horses. Baron Silas discharged the companions and left them in the care of Myall, who showed them the scant facilities and directed two of his men to build a tented shelter for them to sleep. He and McVie then led them to a small shack on the far side of the compound, away from the sleeping quarters and the mess tent.
"Guess you should stay outside," Myall said as he opened the door, stooping in the low doorway, '"cause there ain't enough room to swing a rat, let alone anything bigger, in here."
Looking over his shoulder, they could all agree. The shack had room enough for one table with a large radio receiver on it, and a chair, currently occupied by a fat sec man who looked up bleary-eyed when Myall entered.
"This my change of shift?" he said in a monotone. "Feels like I've been in this bastard oven forever."
"Then it's gonna seem that way some more, Todd," Myall said good naturedly. "It ain't time yet. Harv's still out on patrol. But hang in there, boy, won't be long.
"See, it gets so hot and boring in here," he continued to the companions, "that the poor boys in here damn near go mad with heat and nothing to do. But they know their shit, and that's all that matters."
"Todd," he said, turning back to the fat sec man, "these here people are new sec that the baron has brought in. So you all tell them about these." He gestured to a rack that hung behind the bleary-eyed sec man.
"Okay, if that's what you want," Todd said without enthusiasm. "Y'all familiar with old tech like this?" he asked, and when they assented he added, "Not that I'm being funny with y'all, but you'd be surprised. Some of the people out there, when I'm on patrol, look like they've seen weird mutie shit when they hear a voice come out of this, you know?" he explained, tapping a handset that he had taken from the rack.
He went on to explain in great detail how the radio worked and how to pump the batteries, and it soon became apparent why he was one of the few who were detailed to the radio shack, for despite the drone of his monotonal voice, he couldn't help but enthuse over the way the old tech worked. To the companions, who had encountered much more in their travels, it was a case of waiting for him to cut to the chase. However, it soon became apparent that this salvaged tech was used by the sec patrols to keep in touch with one another and with their base camp while they were out, and report any trouble that may arise.
"Yeah, but it don't have to work, does it?" Dean whispered to Doc.
"Of course not, young Dean—I assume you are thinking, as I am, that if the saboteurs have a set, as well, they can track their opposing numbers with ease." Doc commented, to which Dean readily agreed.
Todd finished his lecture and handed out handsets to the companions, making sure that they knew how to use them to an almost pedantic degree. When he had finished, and Myall had dispatched him back to his post, closing the shack door, McVie allowed himself a chuckle.
"You'll have to excuse the boy, but I reckon all that heat does something to the brain," he said, making a screwball motion against his head with his index finger. "But what the hell," he continued, "it ain't your brains that are gonna get shaken up now…am I right?" he asked Myall.
The head sec man laughed, throwing back his head. "Last thing, boy. Last thing…"
Chapter Thirteen
It took a few days for the companions to break and to completely master the horses Myall assigned to them. None of the friends had done as much horseback riding in such a short space of time in their lives, and the rough riding combined with the ability of some of the beasts to throw them to the ground meant that the companions had more than a few contusions and cuts. Most of all, they had aching muscles in places that hadn't been tested in such a manner before. The most common complaint was a stretching of the muscles in the small of the back. Krysty and Jak were able to counter this with massage techniques that differed slightly but had a similar result, and had been learned in their own villes.
"Easy strain muscle while hunting. This help you get out again quick," Jak commented while pummeling J.B.'s back.
"You sure you got that right?" the Armorer winced as the pain seemed to increase instead of decrease.
Krysty's technique was subtler. Learned in Harmony, it involved a manipulation of the sore muscle with the balls of her thumbs, softly at first in circles but digging ever harder and ever deeper until it became like a burning needle into the flesh. Her "victim," Ryan, bit hard into his lip as the pain reached a pitch that he hadn't known for a long time.
"Hurts whatever way it goes, so don't think I'm getting off lightly," he said through gritted teeth at his friend.
It was Doc and Dean, however, who gave the greatest cause for concern. Doc had been thrown four times, and although his body was prematurely aged by his experiences, and he was little older in truth than any of the others. Still that premature aging had given him some physical aspects of a more elderly man. He had landed heavily on his back, and Mildred was worried that he might have damaged his spine.
"Trouble is, osteopathy was never my strong point, especially among geriatrics," she explained to Doc as she probed along his backbone with her finger and thumb, manipulating the flesh and muscle to feel for the vertebrae.
"Despite that, and despite your insistence on calling me a geriatric," Doc said somewhat peevishly, "I still find myself—perhaps to my utter amazement—trusting your judgment." He winced as she hit a sore spot. "Even though it quite literally pains me," he added.
Mildred finished her examination, and Doc rolled over onto his back before sitting up. He could see that, despite their apparent antagonism, there was a look of relief on her face.
"I take it from your apparent relief that you found nothing seriously amiss?" he asked.
"Unfortunately, no," she replied with a wicked grin. "I think you might just outlast us all, you old buzzard. Although," she added, "I'm concerned that, if there's a hairline fracture to one of the vertebrae, I can't find it just by feel, and it would make you extremely vulnerable to another fall."
Doc nodded slowly. "I appreciate what you are saying, but it does occur to me that the same could be true of any of us. After all, we've all taken at least one tumble…not to mention what we've been through before this."
"So stop worrying about you, right?" Mildred queried. And when Doc nodded, she added, "As if I could be bothered about an old fool like you."
"Madam, I would expect nothing less,
" he countered.
Which just left Dean. Mildred had found some steroid and antihistamine cream in the medical supplies she had looted from the redoubt, and there was also a steroid solution in one of the sealed hypodermics that she had secreted in her coat. The injection had calmed the boy's raging immune system, and the cream, sparingly used, had soothed the itching hives that had erupted on his skin.
But there was only one other steroid injection, and even though the cream was being used sparingly, there was only the one tube, so Mildred was a little concerned about what would happen if the cream ran out, and the effects of a possible second injection subsided, before they had completed their mission.
"I don't understand it," Dean complained as Mildred checked his skin. "I've ridden horses before, and we're always out in the wild among shit like this, but I've never had anything like this."
"Well, for a start we hardly ever get close enough to get bitten," Mildred pondered. "Animal fleas need to jump on, bite, then jump the hell off. And we aren't stupid enough to get close to most of the mutie critters we come across for the fleas to make that jump. And as for riding horses before… I'd guess that the problem lies in the fact that animals and insects across this pesthole land are all mutated in different ways. Those horses aren't like any we've seen before, so mebbe the fleas aren't, either. So you just lucked out, Dean."
"Great," Dean replied sardonically. "So what do I do if the cream doesn't last, and we don't nail these saboteurs first?"
Mildred stayed silent for a second. "Not much any of us can do," she said. "Krysty's looked for the right plants to make you something, but we haven't had much luck. So I guess we've got to hope that the luck comes in nailing the bastards who are causing the trouble."
She exchanged a glance with Dean. It wasn't a satisfactory answer, but it was the only one. Just one more factor to be added to their race against time.
Just another pressure to be added. Like the others.
FOUR DAYS into their stay at the sec camp, Myall arrived. The companions had completed their riding training under the watchful and amused eye of McVie, and had found that the sec man was, despite his apparent humor at their mishaps, keen to assist and teach. He watched them all carefully and, after using them as the butt of his jokes, had given insights into their riding techniques that helped them master the animals quicker. They saw less of Myall, as the sec chief was called away to marshal his meager forces in the camp and workplace. There hadn't been any more instances of sabotage, but the ville groups were at one another's throats constantly, each accusing the other of wanting to destroy the project.
And Baron Silas was getting restless. Each day Myall had to go to the sweatbox radio shack and talk to the baron about the progress of the new sec force; Ryan always asked him on his return what the baron's view was, and the sec chief had confided that the baron was less than pleased.
"Hell, I think you're doing good 'cause I know just how awkward those bastard creatures are to master, and a fresh face and more of them is gonna help no end when we get out there," the sec chief had told the one-eyed man, "but the baron wants results yesterday, and there doesn't seem to be anything I can tell him to make him see otherwise."
"Yeah, if you'd sent us out straight away it would have been impossible to control those beasts, and the workers would have branded us as easy," Ryan said. "But there haven't been any more attempts to stop progress on the project?"
Myall shook his head. "It comes and goes in waves. Right now, I'd say that whoever is doing it is either lying low to see just what you're like, or they're too busy fighting other battles in the camp."
The sec man took a long drink from a canteen and offered it to Ryan, who took it and found his throat assailed by a raw-vegetable distilled spirit. He had been expecting water, and it was all he could do to stop from choking at the bite of the bitter alcohol.
"It's the only way we've been getting through this," Myall said, noting Ryan's surprise. "Helps you sleep—that's for sure."
"As long as it doesn't stop you from being triple red when you're out there," Ryan added.
Myall grinned. "Hell, I sometimes think that'd be better. Y'know, if I died tonight I think hell would be like this…stuck in the middle of nowhere with a whole bunch of misfits who want to blast the fuck out of each other, and no idea who's really doing shit to who."
"Sounds like everyday life to me, not just here," Ryan commented.
"Yeah, well, mebbe that's why it stinks worse than those bastard horses," Myall said, taking back the canteen and sinking some more of the spirit. "I'll bid you good-night, my friend. And one more thing," he suddenly added as he rose to leave.
"Yeah?" Ryan queried.
"Crow arrives tomorrow."
"What's he been sent here for?"
Myall allowed himself a grin that was entirely devoid of humor. "To get you out there. Baron Silas is a hard man, and he demands payment for everything he does. It's your time to pay, I guess."
"We're ready," Ryan said evenly.
"I know that," Myall said simply before leaving the one-eyed man alone with his thoughts.
THE NEXT MORNING Ryan rose to find the giant Native American breakfasting with the sec force in the mess tent.
"So we meet again," Crow said with a glimmer of good humor in his low, quiet voice. "Under more pleasant circumstances this time, however," he added.
"That rather depends on what you mean by 'pleasant,' " Doc returned with an equal tone as he seated himself beside Crow and Ryan.
"It's a relative term," mused the Native American, "but at least you're not half dead from heat exhaustion and lack of food and water. And at least you get to keep your weapons this time. Let's just hope you get a chance to use them."
"Wouldn't it be better to say that we don't get a chance to use them?" Ryan countered. "If us just being here stops any more sabotage, then the well and refinery can open, the workers get their jack, the barons get their power, and everyone's happy."
"In a perfect world, mebbe," Crow said at length. "But you're no fool, Ryan Cawdor—you know it won't be that way. Whoever is behind this will crawl out of their little hole again, regardless of if you're there or not. Mebbe even because, if they feel it's a challenge. So what happens then?"
"Okay, you make the point well," Ryan conceded. "But we won't know for sure until we actually get out there."
"Which will be when?"
"Today," the one-eyed man replied. "That's why you're here, after all."
Crow allowed a smile to crack his impassive, leathery features. Under the shadow cast by the brim of his hat, his eyes glittered.
"To say that's very perceptive would be an insult in your case," he said softly. "Are you ready to go?"
"As ready as we'll ever be," Ryan said. "Right, Doc?"
Doc winced slightly as he thought of his sore back. "I think it is safe to say that, my dear boy."
As the sec force went about its daily tasks, the rest of the companions joined Ryan, Doc and Crow in the tent. And when they were replete, they walked out to the paddock, where McVie was waiting for them.
"Hey, the big day, right?" he said as they approached, sparing a nod of greeting for Crow. "You're on second watch, and your route will be through the camp rather than the work sites. Myall reckoned it would be better for you to check that out tonight, as that's when most of the sabotage has occurred anyway. He figures it's better for you to get a night view from the start—besides which, if you're seen today it might stir some action."
"Seems a reasonable course of action," Ryan mused. "So when do we head off?"
" 'Bout two hours," McVie replied, "so I guess you've got plenty of time to get your blasters stripped and ready."
Ryan nodded. "So who's giving us the lowdown on the camp as we patrol?"
"I am," Crow said before McVie had a chance to reply. "I know all of these peoples. I traveled a lot before coming to work for Baron Silas, and they all know of me. I can fill you in on any background you need."
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"And report back on us to the baron, right?" Ryan added.
Crow shrugged. "I'd be a fool to deny that," he said simply.
Ryan nodded and led his people away from the paddock and back to the tent they had made their base in the sec camp. Crow stayed with McVie, knowing that it was right to give them space.
When they were in the tent, and had begun to clean and check their blasters—a task that was made easy by J.B.'s continuing insistence on blaster maintenance that made each clean and check an almost perfunctory matter—the Armorer asked Ryan, "Do you think we can trust Crow?"
"Everything we say and do will go back to the baron. But other than that, I think he'll be straight with us. Hell, he has been so far. He didn't have to tell us he would report it all back."
"Open man," Jak commented as he checked his .357 Magnum Colt Python, chambering a round. "No bullshit."
"Yeah, I don't get a bad feeling about him," Krysty said. "He's just got his job to do and a line to walk. Same as all of us to different degrees, right?"
They finished checking their weapons, and J.B. went through his stock of grens and plas-ex. "Won't need these in the camp," he commented. "Far too closed in to risk it. More likely to chill ourselves than anyone else. But mebbe later, when we get to the work sites."
Ryan checked his wrist chron. "Time to go. Let's stay hard out there, and triple red for everything."
THEY MOUNTED their horses and rode from the sec camp across the short distance to the outskirts of the workers' camp, passing the incoming patrol on the way. They had nothing to report apart from the usual complaints and insults among the different ville tribes. There had been no fighting and no sign of any real trouble.
"Looks like you may get broken in easy," Crow commented as they rode on, "which'll at least give you a chance to learn about these people before you have to start chilling them."