by David Brin
“Off the damn woman! We finish with her tonight. The boy, too. You been in the mountains too long, Blue Four. These valleys are crawling with pretty birds. We can’t risk this one making noise, and we sure can’t take her along on a recon!”
The argument didn’t surprise Gordon. All over the country—wherever they had managed to establish themselves—these postwar crazies had taken to raiding for women, as well as for food and slaves. After the first few years of slaughter, most Holnist enclaves had found themselves with incredibly high male-female ratios. Now, women were valuable chattel in the loose, macho, hyper-survivalist societies.
No wonder some of the raiders below wanted to carry this one back. Gordon could tell that she might be quite pretty, if she healed and if the pall of terror ever left her eyes.
The boy in her arms watched the men with fierce anger.
Gordon surmised that the Rogue River gangs must have become organized at last, perhaps under a charismatic leader. Apparently they were planning to invade by sea, skirting the Roseville and Camas Valley defenses—where the farmers had somehow beaten back their repeated efforts at conquest.
It was a bold plan, and it could very well mean the end of whatever flickering civilization remained here in the Willamette Valley.
Until now, Gordon had been telling himself he might somehow stay out of this trouble. But the last seventeen years had long ago made almost everybody alive take sides in this particular struggle. Rival villages with bitter feuds would drop their quarrels to join and wipe out bands like these. The very sight of Army surplus camouflage and gold earrings elicited a loathing response that was common nearly everywhere, like the way people felt about vultures. Gordon could not leave this place without at least trying to think of a way to harm the men below.
During a lull in the rain, two men went outside and began stripping the bodies, mutilating them and taking grisly trophies. When the drizzle returned, the raiders shifted their attention to the wagons, rummaging through them for anything valuable. From their curses it seemed the search was futile. Gordon heard the smashing of delicate and totally irreplaceable electronics parts under their boots.
Only the one guarding the captives was still in view, turned away from both Gordon and the wall of mirrors. He was cleaning his weapon, not paying particular attention.
Wishing he were less a fool, Gordon felt compelled to take a chance. He lifted his head above the level of the floor and raised his hand. The motion made the woman look up. Her eyes widened in surprise.
Gordon put a finger to his lips, praying she would understand that these men were his enemies, too. The woman blinked, and Gordon feared for a moment she was about to speak. She glanced quickly at her guard, who remained absorbed in his weapon.
When her eyes met Gordon’s again, she nodded slightly. He gave her a thumbs-up sign and quickly backed away from the balcony.
First chance, he drew his canteen and drank deeply, for his mouth was dry as ashes. Gordon found an office in which the dust wasn’t too thick—he certainly couldn’t afford to sneeze—and chewed on a strip of Creswell beef jerky as he settled down to wait.
His chance came a little while before dusk. Three of the raiders left on a patrol. The one called Little Jim remained behind to cook a raggedly butchered haunch of deer in the fireplace. A gaunt-faced Holnist with three gold earrings guarded the prisoners, staring at the young woman while whittling slowly on a piece of wood. Gordon wondered how long it would take for the guard’s lust to overcorne his fear of the leader’s wrath. He was obviously working up his nerve.
Gordon had his bow ready. An arrow was nocked and two more lay on the carpet before him. His holster flap was free and the pistol’s hammer rested on a sixth round. There was little more he could do but wait.
The guard put down his whittling and stood up. The woman held the boy close and looked away as he walked closer.
“Blue One ain’t gonna like it,” the bandit by the fire warned lowly.
The guard stood over the woman. She tried not to flinch, but shivered when he touched her hair. The boy’s eyes glistened with anger.
“Blue One already said we’re gonna waste her later, after takin’ turns. Don’t see why my turn shouldn’t come first. Maybe I can even get her to talk about that ‘Cyclops’ thing.
“How ’bout it, babe?” He leered down on her. “If a beatin’ won’t make you loosen your mouf, I know just what’ll tame you down.”
“What about the kid?” Little Jim asked.
The guard shrugged casually. “What about ’im?” Suddenly a hunting knife was in his right hand. With his left he seized the boy’s hair and yanked him out of the woman’s grasp. She screamed.
In that telescoped instant, Gordon acted completely on reflex—there was no time at all to think. Even so, he did not do the obvious, but what was necessary. Instead of shooting at the man with the knife, he swung his bow up, and put an arrow into Little Jim’s chest.
The small survivalist hopped back and stared down at the shaft in blank surprise. With a faint gurgle he slumped to the ground.
Gordon quickly nocked another arrow and turned in time to see the other survivalist yank his knife out of the girl’s shoulder. She must have hurled herself in between him and the child, blocking the blow with her body. The boy lay stunned in the corner.
Gravely wounded, she still tore at her enemy with her nails, unfortunately blocking Gordon from a clear shot. The surprised bandit fumbled at first, cursing and trying to catch her wrists. Finally, he managed to hurl her to the ground. Angered by the painful scratches—and unaware of his partner’s demise—the Holnist grinned and hefted his knife to finish the job. He took a step toward the wounded, gasping woman.
At that point Gordon’s arrow tore through the fabric of his camouflage fatigues, slicing a shallow, bloody gash along his back. The shaft struck the couch and quivered, humming.
For all their loathesome attributes, survivalists were probably the best fighters in all the world. In a blur, before Gordon could snatch up his last arrow, the man dove to one side and rolled up with his assault rifle. Gordon threw himself back as a rapid, accurate burst of individual shots tore into the balustrade, ricocheting from the ironmongery where he had just been.
The rifle was equipped with a silencer, forcing the raider to fire on semi-automatic; but the zinging bullets clanged all about Gordon as he rolled over and pulled out his own revolver. He scurried over to another part of the balcony.
The fellow down below had good ears. Another rapid burst sent slivers flying inches from Gordon’s face as he ducked aside again, barely in time.
Silence fell, except that Gordon’s pulse sounded like thunder in his ears.
Now what? he wondered.
Suddenly there was a loud scream. Gordon raised his head and caught a blurry motion reflected in the mirror … the small woman below was charging her much bigger foe with a large chair raised over her head!
The survivalist whirled and fired. Red blotches bloomed across the young gleaner’s chest and she tumbled to the ground; the chair rolled to the survivalist’s feet.
Gordon might have heard the click as the rifle’s magazine emptied. Or perhaps it was only a wild guess. Whatever the reason, without thinking he leapt up, arms extended, and squeezed the trigger of his .38 over and over again—pumping until the hammer struck five times on empty, smoking chambers.
His opponent remained standing, a fresh clip already in his left hand, ready to be slammed into place. But dark stains had begun to spread across the camouflage tunic. Looking astonished, more than anything else, his eyes met Gordon’s over the smoking pistol barrel.
The assault rifle tipped and fell clattering from limp fingers, and the survivalist crumpled to the floor.
Gordon ran downstairs, vaulting the rail at the bottom. First he stopped at both men and made sure they were dead. Then he hurried over to the fatally wounded young woman.
Her mouth made a round inquiry as he lifted her head. “W
ho …?”
“Don’t talk,” he urged, and he wiped a trail of blood from the corner of her mouth.
Pupils widely dilated, eerily alert on the threshold of death, her eyes took in his face, his uniform—the embroidered RESTORED U.S. MAIL SERVICE patch over his breast pocket. They widened briefly in question, in wonder.
Let her believe, Gordon told himself. She’s dying. Let her believe it’s true.
But he couldn’t make himself say the words—the lies that he had told so often, that had taken him so far for so many months. Not this time.
“I’m just a traveler, miss,” he shook his head. “I’m … I’m just a fellow citizen, trying to help.”
She nodded—only slightly disappointed it seemed—as if that in itself were a minor miracle.
“North …” she gasped. “Take boy.… Warn … warn Cyclops.…”
In that last word, even as her dying breath sighed away, Gordon heard reverence, loyalty, and a confident faith in ultimate redemption … all in the spoken name of a machine.
Cyclops, he thought numbly, as he laid her body down. Now he had yet another reason to follow the legend to its source.
There was no time to spare for a burial. The bandit’s rifle had been muffled, but Gordon’s .38 had echoed like thunder. The other raiders would certainly have heard. He had only moments to collect the child and clear out of this place.
But ten feet away there were horses to steal. And up north lay something a brave young woman had thought worth dying for.
If only it’s true, Gordon thought as he gathered up his enemy’s rifle and ammunition.
He would drop his postal play-act in a minute, if he found that someone, somewhere, was taking responsibility—actually trying to do something about the dark age. He would offer his allegiance, his help, however meager it might be.
Even to a giant computer.
There were distant shouts … coming closer rapidly.
He turned to the boy, who was now looking up at him, wide-eyed, from the corner of the room.
“Come on, then,” Gordon said, holding out his hand. “We had better ride.”
4
HARRISBURG
Holding the child on the saddle in front of him, Gordon raced away from the grisly scene as fast as his stolen mount would go. A glance showed figures charging after them on foot. One raider knelt to take careful aim.
Gordon bent forward, sawed on the reins, and kicked. The horse snorted and wheeled around a looted corner Rex-all store just as high-velocity bullets tore apart the granite facing behind them. Stone chips flew whistling across Sixth Avenue.
He had been congratulating himself on taking the added time to scatter the other horses before galloping off. But in that last instant, looking back, Gordon had seen one more raider arrive, riding his own pony!
For a moment he felt an unreasoning fear. If they had his horse, they might also have taken or harmed the mailbags.
Gordon shook the irrelevant thought aside as he sent the horse dashing down a side street. To hell with the letters! They were only props, anyway. What mattered was that only one of the survivalists could pursue at the moment. That made the odds even.
Almost.
He snapped the reins and dug in his heels, sending his mount galloping hard down one of downtown Eugene’s silent, empty streets. He heard the clatter of other hooves, too close. Not bothering to look back, he swerved into an alley. The horse pranced past a fall of shattered glass, then sped across the next street, through a service way and down another clutter-filled alley.
Gordon turned the animal toward a flash of greenery, cantering quickly across an open plaza, and pulled up behind an overgrown oak thicket in a small park.
There was a roar in the air. After a moment Gordon realized that it was his own breath and pulse. “Are … are you all right?” he panted, looking down at the boy.
The nine-year-old swallowed and nodded, not wasting breath on words. The boy had been terrorized and had witnessed savage things today, but he had the sense to keep quiet, brown eyes intense on Gordon.
Gordon stood in the saddle and peered through the seventeen-year growth of urban shrubbery. For the moment at least, they seemed to have lost their pursuer.
Of course the fellow might be less than fifty meters away, quietly listening himself.
Gordon’s fingers were shaking from reaction, but he managed to draw his empty .38 from its holster and reloaded while he tried to think.
If there was only the single rider to contend with, they might do better to just stay still and wait it out. Let the bandit seek them, and inevitably drift farther away.
Unfortunately, the other Holnists would catch up soon. It would probably be better to risk a little noise now than let those master trackers and hunters from the Rogue River country collect themselves and organize a real search of the local area.
He stroked the horse’s neck, letting the animal catch its breath for a moment longer. “What’s your name?” he asked the boy.
“M-Mark,” he blinked.
“Mine is Gordon. Was that your sister, who saved our lives back there at the fireplace?”
Mark shook his head. A child of the dark age, he would save his tears for later. “N-nossir … it was my mom.”
Gordon grunted, surprised. These days it was uncommon for women to look so young after having children. Mark’s mother must have lived under unusual conditions—one more clue pointing to mysterious happenings in northern Oregon.
The light was fading fast. Still hearing nothing, Gordon nudged the horse into motion once more, guiding it with his knees, letting it choose soft ground where it could. He kept a sharp lookout, and stopped often to listen.
Some minutes later they heard a shout. The boy tensed. But the source must have been blocks away. Gordon headed in the other direction, thinking of the Willamette River bridges at the northern end of town.
The long twilight was over before they rode up to the Route 105 bridge. The clouds had stopped dripping, but they still cast a dark gloom over ruins on all sides, denying even the starlight. Gordon stared, trying to penetrate the gloom. Rumor to the south had it the bridge was still up, and there were no obvious signs of an ambush.
And yet anything could hide in that mass of dark girders, including an experienced bushwhacker with a rifle.
Gordon shook his head. He hadn’t lived this long by taking foolish chances. Not when there were alternatives. He had wanted to take the old Interstate, the direct route to Corvallis and the mysterious domain of Cyclops, but there were other ways. He swung the horse about and headed west, away from the dark, glowering towers.
There followed a hurried, twisting ride down side streets. Several times he nearly got lost, and had to go by dead reckoning. At last, he found old Highway 99 by the sound of rushing water.
Here the bridge was a flat, open structure, and apparently clear. Anyway, it was the last path he knew of. Bent low over the boy, he took the span at a gallop and kept on riding hard until he was certain all pursuit had been left far behind.
Finally, he dismounted and led the horse for a while, letting the exhausted animal catch its breath.
When he climbed back into the saddle, young Mark had fallen asleep. Gordon spread his poncho to cover them both as they plodded on northward, seeking a light.
About an hour before dawn, they arrived at last at the walled village of Harrisburg.
The stories Gordon had heard about prosperous northern Oregon must have been understated. The town had apparently been at peace much, much too long. Thick undergrowth covered the free-fire zone all the way to the town wall, and there were no guards on the watchtowers. Gordon had to shout for five minutes before anyone arrived to swing back the gate.
“I want to talk to your leaders,” he told them under the sheltered porch of the general store. “There’s worse danger than you’ve known in years.”
He described the ambushed party of gleaners, the band of hard, evil men, and their mission to sco
ut the soft northern Willamette for plundering. Time was of the essence. They had to move quickly and destroy the Holnists before their mission was accomplished.
But to his dismay the sleepy-eyed townsmen seemed slow to believe his story, and even more reluctant to sally forth in the wet weather. They stared at Gordon suspiciously, and shook their heads sullenly when he insisted they call up a posse.
Young Mark had collapsed in exhaustion and wasn’t much of a witness to corroborate his tale. The locals obviously preferred to believe he was exaggerating. Several men stated baldly that he must have run into a few local bandits from south of Eugene, where Cyclops still had little influence. After all, nobody had seen any Holnists around these parts in many years. They were supposed to have killed each other off long ago, after Nathan Holn himself was hanged.
Folk patted him on the back reassuringly and started dispersing to their homes. The storekeeper offered to let Gordon sack out in his store room.
I can’t believe this is happening. Don’t these idiots realize their very lives are at stake? If the scouting party gets away, those barbarians will be back in force!
“Listen …” He tried again, but their sullen, rural obstinacy was impervious to logic. One by one, they drifted away.
Desperate, exhausted, and angry, Gordon flung back his poncho—revealing the postal inspector’s uniform underneath. In a fury, he stormed at them.
“You all don’t seem to understand. I am not asking you for your help. Do you think I give a damn about your stupid little village?
“I care about one thing above all. Those creatures have two bags of mail that they have stolen from the people of the United States, and I am commanding you, under my authority as a federal official, to gather an armed party and assist in their recovery!”
Gordon had had a lot of practice with the role in recent months, but never had he dared such an arrogant pose. It had completely carried him away. When one of the wide-eyed villagers started stammering, he cut the man short, his voice shaking with outrage as he told them of the wrath that would fall when the restored nation learned of this shame—how a silly little hamlet had cowered behind its walls and so let their country’s sworn enemies escape.