A thought leaps up, hits me right between the eyes and rocks my head backward.
“What?” Peter demands.
“Nothing much,” I say buying time to figure an answer.
“Best come clean Once-Other,” Peter says.
The Desert Driver examines us an amused grin in place.
“Just a reaction. I felt my predicament in clarity and altogether.”
“Good for you,” Peter says and waves me on.
So! He doesn’t have total access to me. Chalk up one for Once-Other. I move off thinking hard and fast hoping this Desert Driver will not be able to access my mind.
Now Peter has been digging for information ever since he first arrived. Although most of the data was not of a confidential nature, he did delve into the workings of our society in detail. Great data as far as an invader or wanna be a slave master goes.
Does it point to Peter being a vanguard?
The prelude to an invasion?
His questions in retrospect, have been more pointed than most tourists almost as though planned. Has EB danced a double twist? Are they using our self-defense campaign to garner information with which to target each of our campaigners?
Was Jiplee found this way? Damned be Madsen for his damned evasive attitude and lack of answers. Damn. Here I am in need of everything that he knows. Damn! I must...must live long enough to find out what Wernt hides and convey that to our patriotic defenders.
The handgun nibbles at me.
And so for the Record: What I now do I do for Karrell, even Deidre and Madsen, Maggie, Franciscoa and all fellow citizens.
Goosebumps rush down my chest and back and I sense that this my calling may likely be far greater a responsibility than life itself—my life.
I sally forth my gut a tight knot. “Here’s the punchline Peter. Comes a real significant financial pain if the trouble with your SandMaster happens to be amidships. Okay? No? Well. Which end do you send? Don’t know? Okay. It’s both and you still have to dismantle it.”
I look up and the desert colored SandMaster towers over us. Wernt nudges me closer. I smile, grim at old times returned along with the smell of gasoline, grease, and baked steel.
As is true for all SandMasters, the tops of its tires come up twelve fingers above my head. It runs on four wheels each side, eight in all. Between the center two wheels, a five-rung metal ladder provides purchase when stepping up and entering.
A sand-pace full sliding door closes flush, one per side. Both have fixed-closed bulletproof windows. The rear is upright and flat. Two massive rounded air intakes stand proud mounted facing forward on the rear corners of the roof.
The sides of the driver’s cab have one square window apiece and a triangular one behind it—the sharp ends pointing rearwards. All bulletproofed as well. The cab itself resembles an old airliner cockpit above a sloping nose. The nose looks sharply down cutting like the prow of a ship.
Above the cab, an enormous oval air intake for engine cooling makes one envision the open jaws of a Great White about to feed. I imagine the mechanism through which the front and rear steering works.
There’s a large double steering-box controlled by a steering-wheel within a steering-wheel. Computers enable the four front wheels and four rear wheels to be steered independently or to be locked so as to work in sync.
The hiss of compressed air and the door pops outwards and slides open. “Get in,” Wernt snaps and pushes me.
The Desert Driver watches, his face cold, expressionless.
Inside the temperature of a smelting furnace embraces us.
I glance around the standard cabin with two front seats and drab olive painted benches behind. The cabin comes with standard off-white paint.
Despite his fan-n-fit, Wernt gasps for breath. The Desert Driver enters and seats himself in the driver’s seat glances over his shoulder at us and hits a switch.
Side ports slide open. A faint breeze stirs the heated interior. The roof sighs and raises twelve fingers above the armored sides. Desert wind rushes in-n-out mixing the choking gasoline fumes and sweltering heat.
I stare at the control panel populated with modern screens surrounded by replicas of WW II gauges. I glance around the rigid steel structure and the barely padded seating surfaces. Memories harken back to better days. I shrug them off and grin at a familiar clunk-clunk then smile broadly.
The Desert Driver is busy pumping the primer-plunger with his wrong hand because his arm on the primer-pump side is missing. He growls under his breath. Well! He should have opted for the Electronic Primer Kit upgrade. But! Having to prime the cylinders means he has been parked a long time. Just to buy an arm?
No. Once-Other’s fate is part of the mix.
Wait and see I advise myself.
I glance at Wernt. He gazes unfocused across the distant desertscape. “Wernt,” I whisper.
“What?” he says, grumpy at being disturbed.
“You see those toggle switches square in the middle of all the display screens?”
He leans left and right. “No. Where?”
“Directly in front of him,” I reply, pointing.
Peter shuffles sideways along the seat. “Oh yeah?” he says.
“Mighty interesting they are. On the far left are the Starters—one for each engine. The four alongside the Starters—left and right Magnetos—two for each engine. The two switches way over on the right are Boosters—one for each engine.”
“You use Magnetos?” he asks his words dripping with contempt.
“Damn fine modernized and ninety-nine dot nine-nine-nine, five nines reliable—purely electronic systems don’t cut it out here. This desert has its heat and sand and other dangers—as we’ve covered earlier and altogether.”
Wernt nods understanding, pinches his nose and says with sincere-insincerity, “I appreciate you’re continuing to earn your tour payment, Once-Other. Yeah. Keep going.” He wipes his sweaty palms on his suit and lowers the temperature.
“Well okay. You start a SandMaster one engine at a time. First toggle the Starter lever and hold it closed—they are spring loaded. Engage Magnetos one after the other. Then the Boosters and hold as well.”
He shakes his head as to rid himself of what I had said and with a hissing snarl says, “Yeah! Real essential information. Thank you oh so much Once-Other.”
I slide around his hissing voice and say, “Important for one reason and one reason only.” I wait.
His nose twitches. “Okay. What?”
“Requires two hands to start a SandMaster one-two-three and altogether.”
The primer plunger goes clunk-clunk, the black leather dressed Desert Driver snarls like a wild animal trapped by shadows and fearful of them. He closes the rear-engine starter-switch and holds. The starter shrieks as though suffering under the throes of roller-bearing dementia.
He closes the magneto switches—one after the other. He leans forward and holds the Booster closed with his chin. I smile at that—he will never let another touch his SandMaster’s controls nor ask for help.
The exhaust coughs spewing thick white-blue smoke and bellows a hard continuous roar as all seventeen cylinders come alive. Engine bay cameras show no fires. He keeps to a medium rpm as the rear engine warms. Once idling smoothly, he starts the forward engine, warms it, syncs them and both snarl a double roar at which Wernt jerks and almost leaps out his seat.
With heart suddenly cold my attention snaps onto the sound coming from the exhausts. It is the same whistling note I had heard out in the desert, near home, and around Sand Lake Flats.
So it was Peter dressed as a Nomad doing a deal with this Desert Driver—I should never have dismissed that. But! How did he contact them? We don’t have access to Desert Drivers let alone the public from EB. Mid thought, the muzzle of Peter’s gun appears beside me.
“The tour,” he hisses. “How many times must I tell you to keep talking?”
I continue but behind the talking I am planning with increased urgency.
How am I going to inform Madsen and any others what I’ve figured out about this Peter Wernt? I have no answers right now, but it’s time to get Peter’s attention off of me as much as possible. “SandMasters have two enormous central computers—,” I say.
“What for?” he snaps.
“Hundreds of sensors here Peter. All the graphic indicators around and above the start-up switches are readouts. Two entirely separate computers control everything. One for the rear, one for the front.” He lowers the handgun and waves me on.
Relieved, I continue. “There are so many computations going on that at times the two computers argue over where to go.”
“Who designed that idiot Here-Born piece of so-called technology?” he asks and the Desert Driver sends him an evil glare that Peter fails to notice.
“Well, I believe the manufacturers, two of them, sure did a damn fine job of disagreeing with one another. EB vendors of course.”
“Ah...how expertly you slid that one in.” He sniffs the air, glares at the gas tanks and says, “You know gasoline is passé on Earth? Right?”
“Okay,” I reply entirely disinterested.
Sudden gunfire erupts.
Wernt hits the floor and curls up into a tight ball.
The Desert Driver and I stare blankly more startled by this than by the gunfire. Peter peeps out from behind his arms and blushes. I note that he didn’t let go of his handgun, though. He stands up, brushes himself off, sits down and crosses his arms and stares dead ahead.
The Poip pair charge toward us at a rapid stumble, ankle deep, guns blazing. More shots ricochet off the armored bodywork. One screams by below the raised roof, deflects off the rear gas tank and showers sparks in all directions.
I hold my breath in fearful expectation but thankfully no explosion. Again something new and unpleasant—gunfire without warning.
Due to their weight the Poip make little and far from rapid progress. They keep coming, though, their fire pattern getting more-n-more accurate.
I glance at Wernt. He bites his lip and jerks with each shot fired. At their third shot, he accidentally fires off a round. It ricochets several times whining as though unhappy at not finding a worthwhile target, clangs against the ceiling and screams off across the desert.
The Desert Driver glares at him. I glare at him.
He stands up and waves his handgun in apology. We freeze as the muzzle passes us by. He gulps on realizing where he is aiming, seats himself and points it elsewhere.
The Desert Driver gives him another glare and honors me with one as well. Then he laughs with a peculiar off humor, draws his handgun, fires back at the Poip without any real attempt to hit them, holsters it, tightens his seat-belt and grabs the controls.
“Argh...here we go,” Peter mumbles, ejects the spent round, tosses it overboard and loads a fresh one.
The door slides closed with a hiss-n-clunk and seals. The song of two powerful engines easily leap multiple decibels as their voices curve up the rev-counter. We accelerate off and I’m pressed firmly into the seat’s backrest, as is Peter.
Gasoline splashes in the twin-gas-tanks.
“You hear that splashing?” I ask Peter.
“Yeah. I’ve been wondering...I mean ah...how much?”
“The sound of three thousand gallons of gasoline.”
“The what of what?” he says.
“There’s two engines, two gearboxes, twelve gears in each. There’s shifting sand and steep dunes. But most important of all—not wanting to run out of gas in the deep desert makes three thousand gallons a minimum requirement.”
“How many miles per gallon we talking here?” he asks.
“Well...on average we’re talking one to three gallons per mile.” His mouth drops open like a flytrap.
Lucky for him none are about.
We charge onwards.
Sand swirls over us then trails as speed increases.
Once out of range Poip gunfire ceases.
Within minutes, we break free of Sand Lake Flats headed northwest along the Eastern Freeway.
Now.
This is not a journey I’d planned. Not an outing either.
There is one purpose only, my impending execution.
Despite this, I must keep my mind busy elsewhere.
Tomorrow is where. For therein lies that for which I campaign—our children and theirs.
May I serve them well.
May my life bring peace to Here-Born.
Despite this, I have not surrendered nor given up.
I can but hope I will survive.
CHAPTER 48
Of Relationships, Water Criers, Arzerns And Roanark Braers
Beneath the SandMaster’s wheels, the Freeway unfolds at a steady eighty-five mph. Wind howls in concert with the roar of exhausts. Behind us sand-clouds blow off our wheels blocking out the sun.
After fifty miles of this he swings right and heads up the Northern Freeway. The empty Northern Desert is no place to be—not even in a SandMaster.
There, sheer mountain faces rain rocks to pound at the only road around them—Dead Man’s Alley. Getting to the Alley means navigating around rivers of sand with rapids worse than any EB river. Their turbulent flowing sands wind southwards from the mountains, but unlike rivers, one cannot swim in nor sail upon them.
More importantly, we will need to be wary of quicksand so difficult to discern stepping in and vanishing is often the sole method of discovery. Only Desert Drivers and Northerners know the safe route.
Despite the heat, cold shivers race down my spine. I take a deep breath and cast out mental images of impending death.
However, they remain. I sit back and close my eyes.
As the hours elapse my hard seat grows harder.
Next to me, Wernt drips sweat despite his fan-n-fit suit. He lowers the temperature and glances at me. His gaze lingers as that of passersby at a stranger’s funeral. The Desert Driver drives onwards his teeth clenched against pain.
The Half-Day-Moon rises heralding midday. Sand beneath our eight wheels switches from soft as the pillow that welcomes one’s head to slumber and semi-hardened...not ideal in support of several tons of steel thundering along at high speed.
Significant damage would occur should we hit a ridge of packed sand or worse, a Ball Rock hidden below the surface. Yet he does not slow down by a single mile per hour. Swift flying birds of steel born of shredded gearboxes and engine parts haunt my imaginings.
Despite eight-wheel-drive the SandMaster slides, lurches and once or twice almost tumbles across the rugged terrain. Each time the Desert Driver’s expertise brings us back on course. By the same token, I am thrown left-n-right in my seat, not comforting in the least.
I look around the Desert Driver to the steering wheels and find he has his severed arm hooked onto the rim of the outer one and his good hand grips the inner steering wheel. Pain is present in his eyes, anger as well. Nevertheless, he will never give in to either.
His eyes remain on the way ahead. His back and arm muscles bulge as he wrests a path through sand.
Next to me, Wernt’s fingers remain tight around the pistol grip. He spies me watching, lets out a long slow breath and eases his hold on the handgun. He has held on to it with white knuckles ever since first pulling it out. How deep does his fear run? So deep he can’t relax?
How strong is his commitment to his purpose?
Deadly, I fear.
I shuffle in search of comfort, fail to find any. I sit still as possible and stare at the desertscape in hopes of forgetting an aching posterior. Without warning, we slam into a Crier field, bounce over burrows and in our hard seats.
The Desert Driver holds to a steady speed and steers diagonally across. The warren ends and we storm by a pile of bleached Crier bones, evidence of the pillage and plundering of Arzerns. In corroboration, scattered Arzern skeletons lie in silent witness of a counter attack. Mostly Criers flee Arzerns but when two or more are trapped together, they’ll stand and fight.
“Peter,” I say, “note that Arzerns have feasted on Criers here.” He glances outwards, nods and raises an eyebrow in query.
“Criers and Arzerns conduct the strangest of relationships. I mentioned informing you about this. Well. You know Criers have water but how do Arzerns find water—there’s none on the surface?”
“I care deeply about their predicament, Once-Other,” he says.
“You wish for this tour to end now?” I ask.
“Yeah. No. Tell me. Where do Arzerns get water?”
“From Criers,” I reply and he jerks as though struck across the face.
“What? And they eat them?”
“Yes. The old and sick are culled by Arzerns. But Criers provide the sole source of surface water for all animals. Roanark Braers as well. To survive Arzerns and Braers, and most all other creatures developed a safe-call. It calms Criers and allows the birds to land and drink their fill—they never feed at the same time—and Braers are offered an open pouch as well.
“But, how do sand-snails get water? Those tubes Criers fashion down to water leak a little. That serves sand-snails more than adequately.” I smile at him.
“Interesting relationships. You okay Once-Other?”
Poison has come a-visiting. I close my eyes in hopes of lessening the pain. The muzzle of Wernt’s handgun touches my ear—not a feel good moment. I glance sideways to find his finger hooked around the trigger. Each time the SandMaster lurches he involuntarily takes up the slack.
I swallow several gallons of virtual sand for through the head is dead. After several more deep and careful breaths I say, “You can put the gun away. I’ve nowhere to run.”
He blinks and glances about as though seeing our environment for the first time. “Don’t lose sight of who is the in-charge here,” he says and lowers the revolver.
“Thank you,” I reply in honest relief and shuffle about but find no comfort.
After many more hours, Peter abruptly says, “Tell me again how you claim radial engines got here.”
“I don’t care to—find out for yourself.” His gun settles at my temple and with a foreshadowing grin he snicks the hammer back.
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