“One damn fine storm you’ve brought us to,” I say.
“It doesn’t change anything,” Wernt says.
Ozerken ignores us.
I turn away and stare unblinkingly at the drive-by-camera screens.
On the screens, the desert ahead is flat. Here and there sand-geysers spew fifteen sand-paces high leaving ghostly apparitions to hang motionless for an instant. Then they crash back to sand in imitation of a torrential tropical downpour.
Some are large enough to swallow a SandMaster or two.
I adjust the Bondo-Preserve bandages and pat them down.
Wernt eyes me and pats the grip of his revolver.
Which, with my acceptance of impending death, sets my mind towards duty and Neatness. I must somehow end his campaign but I have so far found no way of doing so. No appeal to this treasonous Desert Drive will work. Any physical attack on Wernt by myself would be too easily thwarted.
My death will only enhance his will to destroy us, to steal our wealth, to enslave us all. Helplessness engulfs me and I silently curse Wernt, Odentien and both these damn no good treasonous Desert Drivers despite how worthless such cursing is. Wait! A possible answer.
Yes. This leaves me with a single defense for now; my attempts at sowing confusion on what-n-all I’ve told him to date.
I silently curse them once again. Wernt looks up and chuckles and even Ozerken glances over his shoulder at me, a cold smile in place. But I am the first to notice a change and my attention leaps outwards beyond our confines, beyond any tactic.
Out there the wind blows with greater violence. Our engines scream louder in defiance. Yet I hear Wernt’s heavy breathing and the Desert Driver’s leathers squeak-n-groan as he leans to his task.
“Hang in there Once-Other you don’t want to deny your fellow patriots their just and due bonuses,” Wernt gloats and smirks. The satisfaction in his eyes strolls along my wounds and deepens with each step it takes.
I make to reply but without introduction nor any forewarning a huge sand-geyser erupts across our bow leaving a gaping hole in its wake. The SandMaster plunges in nose first. I groan in despair at the sight of a massive Ball Rock rushing upwards from below sand to greet us.
“God help us,” I murmur.
Wernt spits and glares at me. Ozerken’s eyes snarl at Wernt. Back to his tasks and in a blur of speed he points drive-by-cameras to under chassis view.
We slam into the Ball Rock with a dull thud-n-crunch followed by the screech of agonized metal. Peter and I fly off the bench as the left front tire jams into a crevice and we stop dead. My head slams into Ozerken’s back, bounces off and I land on the floor—chin first.
Peter falls on top of me.
So concentrated on his task Ozerken barely notices.
Wernt digs his elbows into my back as he rolls off. I struggle up and onto my seat and strap in with shaking hands. My wounds express their displeasure at these antics with blades of pain and renewed bleeding.
Wernt crawls up onto his seat as well, his hands shaking.
Overhead the howling wind returns in all its fury. Ozerken kills the engines and switches the rear mounted drive-by-cameras to look ahead and licks his lips. Driven sand beats at the lenses reducing visibility to literally zero.
Steel groans in further agony as the Ball Rock settles dragging us deeper. We hang on as every square finger’s worth of armored steel cries out in anguish.
Overhead raging rapids of sand pour in and quickly cover the viewports. Ozerken engages periscope-n-intake and kicks over to cell power. Outside the bullet-proof windows and windshield, a wall of sand hugs tight against the glass.
Our suddenly tiny world is beset by electronic groans as the engines shut down, and cell power comes online. Periscope-n-intake pans three-hundred and sixty degrees as it rises to reveal the desertscape above. Sand drums against the lens climbs up and buries it. It rises again.
With Here-Born suddenness the sandstorm passes. Silence, eerie as the graveyard, surrounds us as we wait in what may be our grave.
“We’re done for,” Wernt says.
We of Here-Born ignore him.
Sweating, I watch as Ozerken raises the periscope-n-intake until it breaks completely free of sand. A gauge indicates we are beneath ten sand-paces of it. Five-hundred some sand-paces back, Pe’truss’ periscope-n-intake thrusts up above sand as well. They too had fallen foul of a sand-geyser.
Barely able to breathe evenly, I watch Ozerken working to extend all our lives beyond this moment, this grave. His hands flash about the controls. One after the other Fragger Units power up. Wernt hisses air through his teeth, adjusts the temperature of his suit downwards, half closes his eyes and I note, pays full attention to Ozerken’s actions.
At each critical point, he makes mental notes.
As always, I perceive what he is doing but not the content. I curse silently to myself and Wernt sniggers. I fear him and the knowledge he’s acquiring. How can these damn Desert Drivers allow this? Are they not patriots?
Ozerken taps the cell power indicator—it drops a quarter dial. He nods and motions we are to remain seated and not move. We nod in ready agreement, but he is already running Fragger programming. Done, he cuts the blowers driving hot surface air in. With his hands poised above the controls, he glances at us and says, “Eyes closed—bright lights coming,” and fires the Fraggers.
A throaty electrical moan-n-thump. Its power rocks the SandMaster. On the screens, sand turns into liquid, bubbles and flat sheets of rainbows flash outwards. I quickly close my eyes and bury them in my palms. A sudden blinding flash of white light.
I glance about, but all to see are bright spots dancing before my eyes. I blink, squeeze them and focus.
Ozerken works busily at the controls.
Over his shoulder drive-by-cameras show success.
Sand above and around us is gone. The newly designed surfaces have formed into a wall of molten sand and hardened.
Ahead a ramp to the surface awaits us. The rear of the SandMaster had dropped and we now lie level. However, the surfaces created by Fraggers in sand do not last long and tend to crack at inopportune moments thus allowing sand to pour back in. Those poor souls buried are never found.
“Look where you have taken us,” Wernt hisses.
No one replies. I shake my head at such wild illogic.
Ozerken opens a hatch in the roof and examines the sky, appears satisfied, indicates for us to remain seated and gets no argument. He stares long and hard at me, and I know why. He has taken a time-out to inspect me and Wernt and the interior of his SandMaster.
Wernt appears puzzled though but remains silent watching all.
Besides sand walls possibly collapsing around us, at any instant the storm could return and bury Ozerken beneath thirty feet of sand. If that happens, Wernt and I will keep him company for the next few hundred years, maybe longer altogether—unless I am able to get Wernt and myself out before all power fails.
It is a moment of courage for Ozerken. A timeout in which to say, “Adieu, break a leg.”
He climbs up, closes the hatch and his boots thump along the roof.
After several seconds of silence, he appears and waves into a drive-by-camera, goes to one knee and feels around the crevice beneath the trapped wheel. He nods and pans his Nomadi across the A-frame, wheel, suspension mounts, brake caliper and disc.
The output appears on-screen superimposed over standard system diagrams. They align precisely indicating nothing has bent nor broken.
He nods pleased. I sigh more than pleased. Ozerken changes settings and scans the crevice in which the wheel is jammed. System displays the capacity and shape of the crevice.
A schematic with dimensions inserted evolves on-screen. Ozerken enters a code into his Nomadi. The schematic rotates and fills with rocks of various size, each one numbered.
Wernt takes careful notes—laboring at his task some now that stress hits.
CHAPTER 55
Of Tire
Repairs And Argumentative Computers
Has Peter stretched his skills beyond their abilities? He glares at me as one genuinely insulted—perhaps not then.
I dismiss my questions as Ozerken hits the quick release on a Fragger unit, plugs his Nomadi into it and downloads the information as the Fragger powers on. He lays his Nomadi on sand, pulls on a set of gloves, aims the Fragger at bare rock and fires.
A single rock fragment flies off its shape and size conforming exactly to number one in the schematic. Juggling it hand to hand he places it into the crevice at the indicated position and fires at the rock again. Another fragment flies off. He repeats over-n-over.
After the last fragment is in place Ozerken sets the Fragger to a pencil beam. He enables auto detect and aims at the rock-edge next to the tire. With rainbows and white light firing in all directions, he cuts away the sharp edge against which the tire is jammed.
The SandMaster settles on the rock fragments he had placed into the crevice. He nods in satisfaction and oddly we three all glance to the sky at the same time. At the sight of bright blue skies, we sigh as one as well.
His movements sure and exact, Ozerken leans in around the back of the wheel and cuts off the opposing crevice edge ensuring it will not cut the tire when we drive out.
His face carved hard as Rocklands black-rock, he leans close in and inspects the tire by running his Nomadi across the surface. It beeps loudly and he lies prone, checks the inside sidewall and locates a deep gash where the tire had jammed.
Grunting his displeasure, he gets up and from a side compartment extracts a tire repair kit.
Working quickly, he attaches its connector to the rear of the Fragger, aims at the gash and fires but this time he strokes the Fragger as though painting a wall. Every couple of seconds he glances to the sky.
Each time he does, I bite my tongue wishing he would stop doing that...it is a waste of time and we need to get out of this hole.
Wernt suddenly leans forward as the rubber of the tire wall bubbles, smooths over, hardens and one-two-three the damage is repaired.
Ozerken opens the front engine bay and frags sand until it’s cleared. He then removes sand from the rear engine compartment. Quickly returns the Fragger to its mount and clambers up the side to the roof. There he pauses and inspects the sky again. After a moment, he drops in through the hatch and looks us over his face flushed with pride.
Seated and business-like he lowers the periscope-n-intake, adjusts focus on the under chassis drive-by-cameras, fires up the engines, blips the throttle and the radial engines snarl eager to perform.
Screaming a high RPM protest song over having been so unceremoniously silenced, we slip and slide our way upwards as the ramp crumbles beneath us. We all hold our breath as the SandMaster abruptly shudders and then slides backward.
Images of sand pouring in from overhead swamp me. I hold my breath as the tires grip-n-hold-n-slip. With engines screaming, we roll back toward the waiting grave. Sand-clouds spew off our wheels and surround us providing yet another preview of life within the tomb.
Without apparent cause, my back comes alive burning as though sliced open by a whip applied by the hand of pure cruelty. I close my eyes and concentrate, inspect my back to find there are no wounds. But vague images of a hand swinging a whip inside a darkened tomb hover over me.
Eyes opened, I stare hard at Ozerken and the fires across my back subside.
The wheels hunt traction yet we slid backward.
Ozerken curses.
Wernt stares at the floor his face twitching. With the raging screams of spinning tire on sand, the rear end drops into a sand hollow the wheels themselves had dug. In the same instant, the computers begin to argue with each other and all the dash readings light up maximum.
The SandMaster shudders rocking back-n-forth.
Sand breaks away beneath our wheels.
“What…?” Wernt says, but I wave him silent.
His face pales.
I channel my hearing around the roar of my beating heart and evaluate the shudder. Our rear wheels have turned left; front ones steer a half-turn to the right. The engine revs high screaming a demented howl as though inviting death to the hunt.
My heart stops as Ozerken cuts power, reboots both computers and synchronizes them. We slide slowly backward into the grave. I close my eyes. Wernt mutters incoherently.
The engines roar into life, gears growl, wheels spin and we lurch sideways. The sudden thrash of engines, the howl of exhausts and the scream of tires slipping on sand. Ozerken corrects steering, reduces power at the front, sets traction control to a higher auto setting, drive to fully auto, and whips his boots off the foot brake and accelerator.
Groaning like an old man woken too early we climb slowly upwards. A shudder shakes the SandMaster as though it is a fragile skeleton fighting a windstorm. We totter on the edge of tomb and sand. Screams. Howls. Suddenly direct sunlight hits and we all smile in relief.
Twenty some sand-paces along the top of the dune Ozerken changes into high-ratio and floors it. Behind us Pe’truss’ SandMaster emerges shedding sand from the roof like a Crier shaking itself after sand-bathing.
Ozerken points us northwest away from the storm’s path and runs system tests as speed builds. All checks come up good.
He glances my way his countenance set like the face of a clock; expressionless save for the inevitable passage of time.
Yes. I know. I have very little of it left.
We charge along the canyon bed that runs the length of Iron Ridge Mountain. I look back but am unable to discern Iron Rock Falls far off to the east. The dry riverbed we travel is the only road that goes around, up and over the mountains to the Highlands above and beyond. It is also the most dangerous route on all of Here-Born when it becomes Dead Man’s Alley.
With rugged rock walls to our left and right, we thunder onwards. The roar of exhausts bounce off the walls multiplying their cacophony. Soon I long for the rasp and grate of Poip voices directly into my ears and at close range.
At noon alarms sound. We have reached Dead Man’s Alley.
Loud thundering and clangs welcome us to rocks falling upon us from the heights above. I peer outwards to where rocks thud into sand like a boxer’s gloves against a soft chin. Sand splashes high when soft but where sand is hard the rocks hit and tumble along, solid tumbleweeds.
Wernt’s right foot shakes as though he is attempting to flee for safety despite that there is nowhere to run. I smile. He grabs his knee, squeezes, and the shaking eases.
Ozerken, his attention fixed on the overhead view drives around a salvo of rocks. Yet he is unable to avoid them all. Loud clangs reveal how many plummeting down from the heights of Iron Ridge Mountain make contact.
Who drives this road more than once? Desert Drivers do.
I glance at his back rippling with muscle as he wrestles with the steering. We dart around three and between two. He brakes hard and swerves left, accelerates, swings right around two more. He floors it just as a four hands wide rock smashes into the windshield. A spread of dust and fragments leave a rock-spot across glass. The windshield glass remains intact.
We thunder onwards close to unscathed thanks to overhead cameras and his skill. He smiles to himself and pride creases his face once again. He turns his head a fraction left and his eyes, reflected in the control screen, find mine. I’m rendered brain-dead by this first Here-Born styled direct contact between us.
I watch with my eyes turned to him, but my face pointed outwards towards sand. He glances left, back dead ahead then straight down and back at me. I look down to find the press-stud end of the strap around the handle of his knife hanging free.
Our eyes meet once again. His are alive with dedication.
So, the Old Soldier still lives in this Desert Driver.
But why did he show me this? He has not hinted at any allegiance to me, to Franciscoa nor any call to unite. If he wanted, Wernt would lie dead in an instant and I would be free to go about
my life and campaign. Yet nothing.
Pain flares alive savaging any further thought. I fight it as Crier poison assaults my mind in combination with burning from the Bondo-Preserve bandages at my chest and back. Despite the bandages, both pains multiply and suck my attention inwards—not a good thing.
I will need all my reserves, my willpower, my physical strength, my Here-Born Foundation and desert skills if I am to take advantage of any opportunity and snatch life back from my impending execution.
I stroke the goose bumps that creep up my arms. Roll my head as to relieve pain while observing Wernt from the corner of an eye. He appears exhausted as he dozes eyes closed, arms slack and feet splayed.
I consider potential advantages beckoning.
First, I must get possession of Ozerken’s dagger, the fur coat, and some Bondo-Preserve bandages. I feel around my leg pockets and find my Crier fan is secure. I shift about on my seat and, as comfortable as is possible slip into a light slumber with hopes of recuperating.
I awaken on my back lying upon sand.
Wernt stands spread-eagled ten paces away.
Ozerken leans over me his foot on my chest, handgun staring at the spot between my eyes. Wernt walks closer his handgun cocked-n-ready. His boots crunch in sand each footfall clear enough to count the grains of sand rubbing against each other.
I feel alone but am not alone.
Beyond him, Pe’truss and Odentien lean against Ozerken’s SandMaster puffing cigarettes, indifferent as anyone awaiting the arrival of a later than usual bus. They whisper-n-snicker like old comrades do—but opportunity knocks as Ozerken nods at Wernt and turns side on to me.
Diving forward and up I grab the knife handle and pull it free of the sheath. Wernt cocks his handgun. Ozerken spins around and his revolver finds my chest.
Wernt fires. Ozerken fires. And each fires again.
I gasp at the sudden numbness wondering why there is no pain. Then all changes. Four flesh tearing, bone splintering explosions slam home. A fist of extreme agony punches upwards into my head. It explodes, my internal light turns off and all is dark. Away in the distance loud whooshing thunderclaps followed by sand shaking thuds beat a heavy rhythm.
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