The Wanderers

by Kate Ormand

  He handed the gun over. Snakebite took it with glee and began to demonstrate how easily he could unclip the lever and force it down. The next moment, his hands full, he found his own curved knife at his throat, whipped from his belt by Hawkerman. At the same instant, the four team members drew their own knives and formed a defensive circle around the two men. Kean had known that the one thing Hawkerman would never part with was his gun, and the thought of possessing it had left Snakebite vulnerable.

  “Yes, Hawkerman is my name,” he whispered into Snakebite’s ear, “and I do trade. And you are what I’m trading.”

  A couple of the Cruisers took a step forward, and then the whole of the encampment was still.

  “You can’t do this!” Snakebite was livid, his eyes wide open in fury and frustration.

  “You all stand back!” Hawkerman commanded the Cruisers. “I was telling your top man here about how we do things away from the Lakes. We do not empty wells or rip down trees. You did wrong.” He lowered his voice. “Snakebite, I’m going to borrow your three Cruiser wagons. You will steer one, and I’ll take two of your men to drive the others. I will kill you where you stand, otherwise—my word on it.”

  Snakebite hesitated as rapid thoughts ran behind his reptilian eyes. They did not appear to comfort him. Hawkerman had a reputation.

  Snakebite was rigid with humiliation and rage as he drove the battle wagon. Hawkerman stood balanced right behind him, holding the curved knife to his back. The vehicle rocked and swayed as they rattled over the cold ground, and Kean began to enjoy the new experience. In the rear, Cara held onto Wailing Joe, trying to keep him from rolling around. The team’s trailer jounced along behind, lashed to the wagon with braided leather ropes, and the other two wagons traveled on either side of them. With air whistling through the visor slit, it was freezing in the long functional cabin. The interior was lined with cream-colored synthetic insulating pads, giving it a somehow domestic feel.

  As dawn came up, the engine began to splutter for lack of fuel.

  “See?” Snakebite croaked, stiff and tired. “You been taking it too fast.”

  “Sure. Pull up right now,” Hawkerman said.

  Snakebite halted the wagon carefully. “Now what?”

  “Well … my thanks,” Hawkerman said amiably. “You’ve been most helpful. “Now we’re all going to camp down here till dusk. You and your two friends as well.”

  No one slept much in the tent. Kean was very aware of Snakebite and the two other Cruisers, tied up within four feet of him and taut with resentment.

  It was still light when they packed up the trailer and went back to being Wanderers. First they siphoned off what little remained of the water in the battle wagons’ fuel tanks. Kean and Ax were the ones with the duty of transforming the tent back into the trailer and getting the comatose Joe settled on it and undercover. Cara was with them, worrying about her patient.

  When Kean looked for Hawkerman, the team leader was jumping down from the biggest battle wagon. He was carrying Snakebite’s belt. As Hawkerman walked to the trailer, Barb and the twins hustled the two other Cruisers into the wagon. Kean saw there was a bruise coming up on Hawkerman’s cheek, showing dull red on the dark skin.

  Kean said, “You took his belt.”

  “Yes. He needed some persuading, but I made him see reason. I put it to him that he wanted to trade my gun for some water that wasn’t there, so it seemed only just and proper to trade his belt for some goodwill that wasn’t there.”

  “You’ve made an enemy.”

  “Kean, I did that already. I’d rather he was dead, but I can’t afford to put myself in the wrong.”

  Later, Kean was paired with Barb, pushing the trailer from behind as the team toiled over the brown earth. He panted, “So what happens with the Cruisers?”

  She gasped back, “Hawkerman left them three days’ water … the others knew where we were headed … if they got any sense of direction, they’ll catch up in a day or two. Then we just hope they don’t find the water to fuel up and come after us.”

  “Well … we saved some time, anyway. Might even get to the Lakes for the Face-Off.”

  “Wouldn’t think so. Who cares, anyway?”

  Kean did. The annual Face-Off was the one time you got to see Bleachers: real, unblemished Bleachers, so provokingly clean and contemptuous.

  Now she was an apprentice, Essa had the privilege of attending The Day of Offering, where they would come face to face with Wanderers. She was excited as her mother fussed over her. Marran had stitched together a new cream-colored tunic for her daughter and was twitching at it so it hung just so.

  “Your old one will do for work, and there’s the blue one where the material is discolored, too … Did a girl ever have so many clothes as you?”

  “This one is perfect. Thank you, Marran.”

  Bonix was waiting for them in the corridor, and they joined the steady stream of citizens and residents filtering down to the main entrance. All were solemn-faced, correctly hiding their pleasure at the forthcoming excursion from Arcone. In the giant lobby stood the impressive plastic figures of bygone rulers of the Pyramid. You could see how the manufacture of these had improved significantly over two centuries, with the most striking statue of all portraying Maxamar’s predecessor as Prime Conscience, Pillat the Benign. He did not look benign at all; the stern expression demanded respect. For what, exactly, it would be hard to say. His period in office had been entirely uneventful.

  The broad doors had been winched up high and sunlight streamed in, blinding the orderly lines as they shuffled out slowly into a yellow heat haze so bright the figures were lost to sight like souls vanishing into heaven.

  Essa felt the sun slam into her as she came out through the stately portal with her family. Sweat started from her forehead at once. Pacifiers lined the dirt road through the recently harvested fields, carrying the long gray cylinders which gave them their name, with power packs strapped on behind. They directed the population to designated viewpoints according to rank.

  Those who were residents of low standing were not allowed past the ring of windmills. Entitled, as a citizen, to a position in the front ranks of the spectators, Bonix had a word with one of the Pacifiers, and he, Marran, and Essa left the road and trudged through the sharp grain stalks, under the motionless sails of the windmills, to join other senior maintenance workers and construction engineers at the very edge of the perimeter ditch.

  Essa took it all in with an excitement that used up energy at a rapid rate. Over to their left stood a group of bakers, and immediately on their right was a line of electricians. Beyond them the podium had been erected for the Council. The leaders of Arcone lined the steps already, with a fifty-strong guard around them. On the pure white of the topmost step, Maxamar stood alone, as unmoving as his statue in the lobby would be when he himself was dead and gone. Just below him was Grollat, arms folded, looking out over the flatlands of the valley.

  What a sight it must present, this annual demonstration of the power and order of the civilized people of Arcone. Rows of defenders of the Pure Life, dressed in tunics that were almost uniformly pale in color because dye was so expensive; and each trained to one degree or another in martial skills. Behind them, the simple grandeur of the ashen Pyramid itself.

  Essa saw Grollat raise a hand to shade his face, and she looked out at the valley again, following his gaze. They always came from the scrubland, never from the sands of the Big White, which began on the other side of the Pyramid at the valley’s entrance. They marched or drove from the Lakes. Was it a day of festival for the Wanderers, as it was for the Arconians? Or was it only age-old antagonism and bitter curiosity that brought them here? She had never asked.

  Yes, there was a dribble of mankind approaching. She shuddered in happy anticipation of seeing the scavengers up close. Filthy, horrible, and ignorant they would be, without ethics, morals, or even enough plain common sense to keep them from springing at your throat if they had the chance.
The only controlling factor was fear: fear of retribution from Arcone.

  Suddenly there were hundreds of them, coming from the whole sweep of the horizon. Shambling bunches of sun-ravaged humanity, looking bigger than they really could be, because of their absurd clothes made from the skins of animals. And now there was a glittering series of reflections off metal, and a clattering, throaty sound. Cruiser wagons, racing through what was fast becoming a multitude, scattering it, heedless of danger to those on foot. The vehicles did look dangerous, in a primitive kind of way. They each came to a halt in the same fashion, in a showy broadside that threw up dirt in a kind of sneering defiance. They disgorged their human Cruiser content like little tin boxes dropping quantities of shiny-backed beetles; the metal ornamentation on these warlike creatures glinted in the sun.

  The Wanderers kept coming. Cruisers and walkers alike, all stopped at a distance of at least three hundred yards from the outer ditch where Essa stood, glad now to be among so many of her own kind, yet sorry to be so far away that she could not see the features of the vagrants. Some of them were horribly deformed, she had been told, and it was a shame one couldn’t get the full thrill of this encounter between the races. Gathered outside Arcone today would be nearly every living person in the valley. Surely never anywhere else in history had such a host come together!

  “Ah. At last,” Bonix said beside her. The business of the day had begun. Two Pacifiers had lifted up a basket woven of plastic and were setting out toward the alien nation opposite. A bunch of shining hothouse tomatoes topped the cornucopia of temptations inside the basket. There would be other foodstuffs in there, and paintings and musical instruments, as well as the single short-barreled pacifor which was offered every year. It would even work—for a while, until its power supply was drained.

  The Pacifiers bore the basket to a point midway between the opposing assemblies and set it down on the dry earth. Their courage was laudable; they set off back to their own lines at a dignified pace without once looking behind them to where the Cruisers revved their engines threateningly.

  “Marvelous,” Bonix announced to no one in particular.

  But a little boring, too? Now the Arconians would wait for some minutes before the Pacifiers retrieved the basket, which would remain untouched by scavenger hands. Essa fidgeted and looked across at Maxamar. He had not moved an inch.

  A collective gasp came from the Arconians whose view of the scene was not obstructed—a single Wanderer was running out to collect the basket.

  He ran awkwardly in his leather clothes, which must be stifling hot. He must also be—surely—under the influence of fermented substances. It had been years since any Wanderer had taken up the challenge. Now Maxamar moved. He fidgeted from foot to foot on the podium before catching himself and resuming his autocratic pose.

  Grollat was walking slowly down to the foremost Pacifiers. He strolled along the line and stopped. Placed his hand on a man’s shoulder. The Pacifier stepped forward and unslung the weapon he carried. Grollat spoke to him quietly, and the officer adjusted the two switches near the trigger.

  The Wanderer was staggering forward as he ran. The Pacifier set his feet wide apart for balance and aimed. The jagged electric bolt, silver blue and the size of a handball, tore through the air and flew past the Wanderer, dropping well short of the others of his kind. The Pacifier set his feet yet again and waited a moment, allowing his target to reel closer to the basket. He fired again and suddenly the Wanderer was farther away from his objective, hurled ten yards backward at a speed he had never experienced before and was not experiencing now, because he was dead.

  Essa’s mind went empty. She felt a constriction in her throat and stomach. This was not what should happen, a man killed because just once in his life he wanted a taste of the better things in life. A man who certainly could not have been thinking of the consequences of his action. The way he had run—it was desperation of some kind, not defiance.

  All the Pacifiers had their weapons at the ready as their two comrades marched out to retrieve the basket.

  There was no more trouble. The basket of temptations returned, the Council came down from the podium and went back into Arcone. Essa stood where she was until her father physically turned her around toward the Pyramid.

  “Had to be done,” he muttered uneasily.

  The outlanders were leaving the scene, too. Three of them stayed to reclaim the body.

  SIX

  Kean missed the Face-Off by a couple days. Nearing the Lakes, they came across a solitary water seller who related to them the tale of the murder. Had they arrived a few weeks earlier, there would have been others like him to pester them from the stalls they set up at a distance of around ten miles from the Lakes. As returning teams struggled in, the sellers hoped to encounter one so desperate it would pay top price for a small skin of water.

  Hawkerman said, “Got some Cruisers coming in soon—maybe they’ll be in need.”

  The water seller blenched. “Cruisers?”

  “Three wagons full. All of them thirsty. Didn’t seem to know the ways of the flatlands.”

  “Don’t move on—I’ll come in with you.”

  Hawkerman smiled at the man’s haste. “That will cost you two skins.”

  “What? Oh … yes. One skin.”

  “Two.”

  “Two if we see them.”

  “Okay.”

  Hawkerman held out his hand and the man shook it reluctantly. “You’re sure you’re telling the truth about the Cruisers?”

  “You say I’m not?”

  “No.” The man sighed. “I’d like the company, anyway. Going crazy out here by myself.”

  It took one more night to make the journey, and the water seller joined them in the tent while they ate. He had his own dried charjaw tablets. He’d heard nothing about Fireface coming in yet. Hawkerman guessed that his brother was still on his quest for recruits. That was when they learned that the man who had been killed at the Face-Off was one of Fireface’s followers, a young man who was drunk and wanted to inspire others.

  “Why would he want to do that?” Kean asked, hitting a note of absentminded query he had picked up from Hawkerman. It got people to talk to you.

  The water seller said, “Well … Fireface … well … there were a lot prepared to listen to him, but only when he was around, see? This young buck wants to get them worked up again—for Fireface. That’s the story.”

  “And it didn’t work,” Hawkerman said.

  “Well, hardly. The reverse, you could say. But he got all the attention he wanted … for a minute.”

  Kean always had a sensation of returning home when he came to the Lakes. The ground slowly dipped into a shallow bowl in which the soil was almost fertile enough to grow crops. Almost but not quite. Giant acacias were scattered everywhere, providing welcome shade. You traveled under them from light to shadow and back again. The poorest Lakesiders lived on the outskirts of the sprawling settlement, in derelict tents or covered dugouts. Farther in, the tents became more substantial and the trees even bigger and grouped closer together. Here you could hire yourself a patch of ground on which to see out the Season; the tree cover and the basin itself provided a natural windbreak.

  Needless to say, there was not a lake in sight. At the center you could see the broad hollows marking the lowest points of what must once have been a single great expanse of inland water; now they resembled craters more than anything else, and a variety of gray lichens grew in them. The water was here, in deep-sunk wells, and it was by the water that the Cruisers lived in the semipermanent shacks they favored, which doubled as trading posts.

  The Lakes were where all the bartering and dickering and hawking and haggling went on, and through organization and brute strength, the Cruisers had come to control the whole of the site. Local knowledge had it that beneath the valley floor was a formation of impermeable rock which channeled the yearly downpours to this end of the valley. Beyond the Lakes, the Bleachers had the very best of
it; here were only nature’s leavings. The largest well of all was the oldest, with a ragged rim of boulders around its twenty-yard circumference. Beside it stood the only two-story dwelling, a sagging, fully wooden structure, and in that dwelling sat Dagman, the dominant Cruiser. He never came out of his shack, and controlled his interests through a network of spies and subordinates.

  When Kean had once asked Hawkerman’s opinion on Cruisers, he had felt somehow disappointed in the team leader, who had said, “There has to be order somewhere. Who do you think is going to control things? The storytellers? Someone has to regulate the water and the trading.”

  Kean had said, “But it’s not right, them having the best of everything.”

  “Did I say it was right? I didn’t say it was right. I said someone had to do it. Otherwise there’d be even more fighting and killing and bickering than there is, and the wells would run out before time. And you know, Kean, if it wasn’t the Cruisers, it’d be people just like them only wearing less metal. Got to have someone strong in charge. Things don’t function otherwise.”

  They hired their ground at a spot under a single big tree. Not the best cover, but where there were too many trees, some thief was likely to sneak up on you. The Cruiser who ran the little site allowed himself to be paid in plastic articles only: he knew it was better to take full payment in advance than promises of steel or aluminum. There was no guarantee the debtor would live to pay. The richer Cruisers accepted labor as payment—preferred it, even, for the sensation of power it gave them.

  Before he left their new camp, taking Kean with him, Hawkerman directed Cara as to which articles she should use for bartering for immediate necessities, including the medicine for Wailing Joe. The old man had stabilized to a condition where, though paralyzed, he could take water. He was thin as a stick and weighed nothing at all. “He’ll make it,” Cara told Hawkerman. “Seen them worse than that and still make it through.”

  Hawkerman said, “Got to fix it so we all make it. Back in a while.” He gave his gun to her, and he and Kean walked away through the trees, heading for the middle of the Wanderer settlement. Hawkerman carried a bag with him. It didn’t look very full, if they were going to trade.