The Wanderers

by Kate Ormand

  The downpour washed the mud from Kean’s Bleacher clothing. Hawkerman saw him, and rain ran into his mouth as he smiled. They bellowed at one another, both smiling.

  “So you really were there!” Hawkerman shouted. “What kind of fool are you, Kean?”

  “Me, a fool? What about you?”

  Gil and Barb joined them, bent low by the rains.

  “You all right?” Barb wanted to know of her man.

  Ax grunted, “I’ll live. Old Joe’s found trouble again.”

  Wailing Joe said from where he lay in the mud, “That’s all you know. I’ll live a while longer, and don’t you think otherwise.”

  Cara asked Gil, “You killed Dagman?”

  Gil, dumb, slapped his hand against his collarbone, and Barb agreed. “He took it in the shoulder.”

  On the veranda, Frumitch rose from the group of Cruisers gathered close around their fallen leader. He staggered over to the well, at times knocked sideways by the rain, watched all the way by Hawkerman and the others.

  The Cruiser lieutenant called out, “You happy now?”

  “What do you want?”

  Frumitch flopped down in the mud beside Wailing Joe. He looked happy enough himself, not at all troubled by the recent happenings. He lisped, “It’s a busy day, Hawkerman.”

  “Yes. How’s Dagman?”

  “Died of his wounds just this moment.”

  Hawkerman studied Frumitch. The little man remained unconcerned under his stare.

  “Is that right,” Hawkerman said.

  “I don’t know about right—that’s what happened.”

  Frumitch killed him, Kean thought in disbelief.

  Hawkerman said at last, “Well … these things happen.”

  You could feel Frumitch relax. “He wouldn’t have wanted to live, any case. He hated failure.”

  “I asked you, what do you want?”

  Frumitch said, “We got to do some talking. Fast.”

  It was Cara who answered him, vicious in her hatred. “We don’t talk to Cruiser killers.”

  Frumitch ignored her, saying to Hawkerman, “I’ll need you and the boy.”

  “Why?”

  “We had a good thing going with the Pyramid. It depended on trust, like all business. Now the trust has gone. So …” Frumitch looked at Kean. “Got any ideas about what happens next, boy?”

  Kean said, “The man with the hood—he’s on his way home. He’s coming back with all the force they can raise, and he’s going to hit the Lakes. Teach us a lesson to keep us in line. Cruisers as well as Wanderers.”

  Frumitch nodded, bright-eyed. “Yeah. That’s how I see it, too. So we got to talk.” He pointed. The crowd had not gotten smaller. If anything, there were more Wanderers here than before, soaked in rain and mud. “Look—all these people. Not just Cruisers. Your people. They need you, Hawkerman.”

  “And you think talking’s going to save them?”

  Frumitch stood up with difficulty in the mud and rain. “It depends what we talk about.”

  Following the fire, the stench of burned wood and skins was enhanced by the dampness in the Cruiser headquarters. They were in the largest room in the building, where arms were stored and the guards slept. The ceiling here was undamaged, and the space was just big enough to accommodate the gathering. Outside the rain still lashed down, striking at the wooden walls in an occasional frenzy, loud.

  There were forty of them sitting here on the floor, half of them Cruisers represented by Frumitch, the new head man. Hawkerman and Kean had Cara with them, as well as Wailing Joe, whose age and wisdom had gained him entry to the meeting. Cara crouched beside him, pressing a pad onto his hip. The bolt had not penetrated far and had come out reasonably cleanly. He hid the pain as well as he could, proud to be there.

  Of the other Wanderers, Kean recognized only one, Cancher, the weapons expert who had allied himself with Fireface. It was he who was doing the talking now.

  “You want us to fight? Fight for what, Frumitch? So you can go on mistreating us?”

  “No. So you live long enough to die a natural death. Which we all might just do if you Wanderers join up with my men. You were going to fight, anyway, for Fireface, so what’s the problem?”

  When Cancher only gave him a sullen look, Frumitch turned to Hawkerman. “What’s your view? If you come in with me, then others will.”

  Hawkerman was watching Cara at work on old Joe. He said slowly, “I can get my team out of here and turn my back on the whole thing. The question is, do I want to?”

  Cara said immediately, “Yes. You do.”

  One of the Wanderers, a successful trader, said, “We could all leave. Wait for the trouble to die down.”

  “That would just make the Bleachers’ job easier,” Frumitch sneered. “They could destroy everything here and pick us off one by one—those of us who had the experience to survive the Season. And besides, Cruisers don’t run, friend.”

  Another Wanderer chipped in. “We’ve listened to enough from Cruiser scum. I want to hear Hawkerman.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the Wanderers. As far as Kean could tell from his expression, the respect and popularity Hawkerman had was more burdensome to him than gratifying.

  He addressed Cancher. “Fireface had a plan, right? He wanted to attack the Pyramid, and he was going to do it right in the middle of the Season. Yes?”

  “How did you know?”

  “That’s how I’d have done it. Could you still mount that attack?”

  “We might be able to. If you take your brother’s place.”

  “That’s crazy,” Frumitch said. “We got to defend ourselves.”

  Hawkerman stared at him coldly. “You do what you like. You Cruisers, you broke the rules. Working for the Bleachers. Killing for them.”

  Wailing Joe tried to sit up a little. “You’re letting your feelings do the talking, Hawkerman,” he gasped out. “It’s not good odds, taking on the Pyramid.”

  “Joe, in the last hour, everything’s changed—or didn’t you notice?”

  “That’s just smart words. We’re talking high risk here. The highest.”

  Cara spoke, showing emotion in a way that was unlike her. “Don’t—don’t do it, Hawkerman.”

  “Listen, Frumitch,” Hawkerman said, pointing a finger at him. “You sit here and let the Bleachers come to you, and you’ll suffer the result: they dictate any terms they want when it comes to your little conspiracy about the water. As in, they don’t give you a single drop more. Which affects us all. If you take the fight to them, and you get some success, then they might have to negotiate. It’s the only option we have.”

  “No—it isn’t,” Cara shouted. “You’re not thinking straight—none of this is anything to do with you! You don’t get involved—that’s how we survive! You said it yourself—we can trail out of here—they’ll never find us if you don’t want them to!”

  “Not today, Cara,” was all Hawkerman said.

  Kean got to his feet. He’d earned the right to be heard, and yet he felt strange and regretful about it. He had the feeling that to speak at this time would be to finally declare himself a man and let fall the privileges and immunities of youth. Like that wooden knife old Joe had made for him years ago. He’d grown too old for it, and he’d felt sad when he knew he’d never carry it again.

  Now people were looking at him, because he was up and not speaking. So he cleared his throat and spoke.

  “Fireface wasn’t a fool. If he thought he could do some damage with just a few men, then with more of us, and with the Cruisers attacking, too, there must be a chance. If they’re not afraid of taking on the Pyramid.”

  That got an angry response from the Cruisers, and Frumitch had to quiet his men down.

  “That’s big talk, boy. What we’d have to know is whether Fireface stood a chance, and if we’ve got the time to beat the Bleachers to it.”

  “Well,” Kean said, feeling bolder, “it takes a good while to get back there, even tr
aveling underground. Then that man has to call one of their meetings, like we’re having now. Then he’s got to organize his forces. Then most likely he’s going to wait for better weather conditions. He won’t expect us to come to him.”

  “So what was the plan?” Hawkerman asked Cancher.

  “We had fast wagons made. They’re still there. So are the explosives. Gas bombs. I made them in the rocks, months ago. The idea is to sweep through the windmills when the wind is good and high, set the charges against the Pyramid.”

  Hawkerman smiled. “It’s good. Let the weather do the fighting. Blow holes in the Pyramid and let some air in.”

  “You got to get through the windmills first,” Wailing Joe pointed out. Suddenly he did not sound so pessimistic, however.

  “We’ll have Cruiser support,” Hawkerman said casually. “So, you going to make a name for yourself, Frumitch?”

  Other Cruisers answered for him.

  “Yes.”

  “Do it!”

  “You’re going to get yourselves killed,” Cara whispered to Hawkerman. “Please.”

  Hawkerman just shook his head at her. “Plans, Frumitch—let’s get on with it.”

  Frumitch did not like his authority being usurped. “First things first. You’re talking about some fast wagons. Well, I never yet saw a wagon could travel rapid through a foot and a half of slopping mud.”

  “You will,” said Cancher.

  SIXTEEN

  The warlike Cruisers had accepted the call to arms with fierce joy. With the exception of Cancher, every one of the Wanderers had been tasked to enlist fighters from the more peaceable Lakesiders.

  Frumitch had been shown the wagons that could do the impossible. They were of a size where, when it had been vital, they could be hidden from Cruiser eyes in small tents, and they had a unique design: tiny rounded tubs of aluminum set not on wheels but on short wide skis. There were no engines; the five vehicles were wind-powered, using sails. At the stern of each was a pole which could be levered into the mud to alter direction.

  Cancher explained, “Each takes two men, one to fight and one to steer. The crew has to be small and light. This is the time when you get all the winds blowing right to the Pyramid and the White beyond. You just got to aim them straight. Last Season we practiced. These things skid over a wet surface faster than you would believe. A little unpredictable, which is why we built five of them, to get through the windmills. The plan was, some men start a diversion on the east side of the Pyramid, and then these race in from the north. Set the charges and hope to live long enough to see a couple of teams arriving to escort them out again. The wind does the rest, if it blows strong enough.”

  Fireface had planned to withdraw and strike again often. Any success would bring him support in the Lakes.

  Hawkerman said, “The first time is the best. They only got simple weapons in the windmills—bows and such. The wagons wouldn’t be hit much if we move fast enough. After that, they’d have the fields better protected. We should go for one decisive strike. Nothing wrong with the plan, only we make it bigger. Make it a major diversion—at least half the force we raise, Cruisers and Wanderers together. As well as that, send a party along through this water pipe, too—split Bleacher attention all we can, so we can make the charges count. The final band follows the attack wagons to go through any holes we make.”

  No one raised objections to the tactics he outlined. There was one problem, however: the bomb team had lost two men. One had died under torture by Dagman, and the other had been the young man who had been so foolhardy at the Face-Off.

  “Kean and me. We’re light enough,” Hawkerman said. “All right with you, Kean?”

  “Oh—yes.” There was no other answer he could make, and no other answer he wanted to make.

  The sky was dense and murky if you had the willpower to look upward to see it through the gale-force winds that blew the rain near horizontally. Kean was battered and bruised by the lances of water, protected only by the Bleacher clothes he still wore because he had the notion the disguise could be useful if he gained entry to the city.

  The call to arms had raised over two hundred Wanderers in a few hours, both men and women. Less in number, the Cruisers were far better equipped, although Hawkerman had his pump gun once more, and Kean had the short pacifor, which might or might not have plenty of shots left in it.

  The army of allies came together around the wells, group by group struggling through the mud. When at last they were assembled, their number at least was impressive.

  The rapid strike force was sorted out quickly. Since Kean and Hawkerman had no experience with the ski wagons, they were assigned to different drivers. Kean’s partner would be Cancher himself. Fifty of the fittest Cruisers were picked to be the contingent that would penetrate the city and do what damage they could when—if—the walls were breached. Their first duty would be to drag the attack vehicles into place outside the perimeter of the Pyramid.

  Thereafter, the process of dividing the forces slowed considerably. Voices grew hoarse under the torrent of rainwater as bands of men and women shuffled this way and that, directed to one of the other two brigades: the diversionary force and the detachment that would travel underground through the water conduit. The Wanderers were unused to discipline of any kind, and it was only the threat of a Bleacher onslaught that kept the whole business from disintegrating into a succession of noisy arguments.

  The party of underground invaders filed into the wooden residence, previously Dagman’s, where they climbed down into the water tunnel. It was a conjuring trick, the way so many went in and the house never filled up. Ax was their leader. Barb was going with the diversionary band, out in the open where her arrows would be of more use.

  She said to her man, standing on the porch and waving his men through into the house, “Don’t be too brave. They’d have that entrance well defended all year round.”

  He grinned savagely. “About time they got a scare, then. But we’ll fall back if we have to.”

  Frumitch was talking to Hawkerman. “Last chance to make any adjustments, if you’ve thought of any.”

  “Make it look real—that’s all I ask. Take their attention. Stick to the plan.”

  Frumitch nodded briskly and walked away to lead the diversionary group out from the Lakes. In order to come in from an unexpected direction and thus make it look like a well-thought-out assault, they had the farthest to travel. The attack wagons themselves had to take a circuitous route to get into place for the run at the Pyramid. By now it was possible a force of Pacifiers could be setting out from the Pyramid on a punitive expedition.

  And the wind blew and blew. Frumitch and his little army were hurried toward their fate by its urgency, stumbling across the mud in a shambling welter of leather-clad bodies fighting to keep themselves from bumping together and bringing each other down. It was not a sight to strike fear into an enemy.

  “Anything to say to the men?” Cancher shouted at Hawkerman.

  “What’s to say? No one could hear me, anyway.”

  Hawkerman waved an arm, and his band followed him out of the Lakes with no more grace and elegance than Frumitch’s men had shown. The shining little wagons looked impossibly delicate.

  Those left behind took shelter and prayed the Bleachers would not come.

  “What’s going on?” Essa had called across the cavern to the guard outside the Self-Examination Cells.

  “You don’t need to know. You’re not part of Arcone anymore,” he shouted back.

  There were at least a hundred Pacifiers arrayed around the basin in squads of ten. This could not be normal. Now nine more men had come up to one of the detention caves, bringing a uniform with them. Until that time Essa, had not even been aware it was occupied; then one of the soldiers went in and brought out a brute of a man, seemingly about as wide as he was tall, whose long matted hair testified to him spending many weeks in contemplation of his faults.

  Truly she was now a nonperson: the ma
n stripped naked to put on the uniform, laughing and joking with the others as if she were not there at all. If she had not guessed why he was being freed, she would have known when he flexed his stupendous biceps and grinned.

  Later, her guard’s turn of duty finished, and he was replaced by another Pacifier, who brought more food to Essa. The man reeled in the cage in order to pass her the square tray. On it was a water beaker, another portion of artificial protein, and a small box.

  The man was short, clean, and efficient, and he had a grievance. “Thanks to you, I miss the peak moment of my career.”

  Crouched on the steel bars, Essa was looking in the box. It contained three small pills. The guard was still grousing. “You train and rehearse for an attack, year in and year out, and then they give you guard duty on the one day you could use your hard-won skills.”

  The pills were not of a common type. She asked, “What are these?”

  “With the Commander’s compliments. Take them with the last meal you have, and by the time we do the business, you won’t feel a thing. They’ll make you happy. Sleepy. It’s a favor from the Commander.”

  “I don’t want them.”

  “You will. And it’ll only be you, me, and the Commander who’ll know it isn’t blind courage you’re showing when the big drop begins. Take ’em. He must think a lot of you. It’s not supposed to be like this.”

  Essa hesitated.

  “Keep them by you—that’s what I’d do.”

  It was hard to refuse an offer kindly meant. “I’ll keep them. But I won’t take them.”

  “I would.”

  “And my last meal will be … ?”

  “First thing tomorrow. Since you ask.”

  “Good. I mean—I did want to know.”

  He began to reel her back to her isolation.

  “Wait!” she cried.

  He paused with sullen patience. As she swayed inside the cage, Essa thought, I must be so terrified I don’t even take things in anymore. What she said was, “You mentioned—you said something about an attack. Are the outlanders attacking, then?”