The short barrelled weapon had a magazine inserted into the lower chamber in front of the trigger guard. Olsen released it and weighed it in his hand. It felt about half full. The air pressure read-out was above the red line. Good enough. Olsen clipped the mag into the chamber, eased off the safety and fired a single volley into the air.
Chuww-wiittt! Chuww-wiittt! Chuww-wiittt!
‘At least something’s working,’ he grunted.
A flak-jacket with its interlaced webbing harness, magazine pouches and air-bottles lay beside his sleeping bag. Olsen knew it was something people on the overground should wear at all times but he didn’t want to load himself down. Ever since he put the helmet on it had made his neck ache. It was like a ten-ton weight pressing on his spine.
His present wretched state was not unlike the hangover that came from smoking sour grass and drinking joy-juice at one and the same time. Olsen knew he hadn’t done either. The last meal delivered to his cell had been spiked. And while he had lain unconscious – for an undetermined period of time – someone had injected a cocktail of drugs that had left him physically and mentally hamstrung.
With his rubbery legs splayed in an effort to keep his balance Olsen shambled over to the nearest of the sleeping figures and prodded it awake with the butt of his carbine. And he was not at all surprised to find that the occupant of the bag was someone he knew. The bleary face that appeared out of the hood belonged to Marv Dandridge, a close colleague, one of the top men running the blackjack ring and one of his neighbours on death row.
Dandridge hoisted himself up on one elbow and tried to get his sodden brain into gear. He looked around him with growing amazement then shook his head. ‘I don’t believe this. What the hell are you doing dressed up like –’ He broke off as he realized he was wearing a similar outfit. ‘Ohh, jeezuss …’ He turned an anguished face towards Olsen. ‘Jake – is this for real?’
‘You’d better believe it.’
Dandridge sat up. ‘Where are we?’
‘How the fuck do I know?! I ain’t never been overground! All I know is we’re in deep shit.’
Dandridge’s drugged brain was slow on the uptake. ‘Why? Wass-happnin’?’
‘Fer crissakes, Marv!’ cried Olsen. ‘D’you think they dressed us up in these uniforms for fun?! This is why we all got that stay of execution! We’ve been set up! Well and truly shafted!’
‘Christo!’ Dandridge scrambled to his feet and threw an arm out to steady himself against Olsen. ‘Hey! My arms and legs feel kinda funny.’
‘Mine too. That’s cos they doped us up to the eyeballs before they dumped us out here.’
The words took time to register. ‘You mean … to be killed?’
‘What d’you think they’re gonna do – pin a fuckin’ medal on us?! This is a scam set up by the First Family, and we’re the meat on the hook! Dead meat if we don’t move fast!’
‘Christo …’ The threat restored a measure of lucidity to Dandridge’s brain and put some life back into his leaden limbs. ‘How are we gonna get outta this mess?’
‘We have to find where we are first.’ Olsen patted Dandridge on the shoulder. ‘There’s a load of equipment lying around. See if you can find a map case while I check out who else is here.’
Dandridge surveyed the sleeping figures, some of whom had begun to stir. ‘These are … our people?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘Evil bastards …’
‘Yeah,’ laughed Olsen. ‘Y’gotta hand it to ’em. A nice twist, huh?’
He didn’t know everyone who’d been involved in the blackjack operation but among those he found awake, or managed to rouse were fifteen people he’d worked with or met when many of those arrested had shared communal cells while waiting to be interrogated. To have one of your number taken out and marched away then returned several hours later beaten and bloodied and unable to stand never failed to sap the morale of those whose turn had yet to come.
Those fifteen, when they could stand on their feet, found others they knew – all incapacitated to some degree by the drugs that had been pumped into them. Olsen’s worst fears were confirmed. The First Family had emptied death row at Grand Central. But along with those sentenced to death for their part in the blackjack operation there were Code One offenders from other divisional bases. There were even some Code Two’s who’d been sentenced to ten years of hard labour. Put in to make the number up.
Tough …
Olsen rejoined Dandridge and some of his other cronies who were clustered round a map. ‘There’s a hundred of us, all told. Anybody figured out where we are?’
‘Yeah,’ said Dandridge. ‘Jerry here’s the expert. If this map is kosher, then from what he can see of the lie of the land, he says we’re somewhere around here.’
Olsen looked at the point indicated by Dandridge’s finger. ‘Iron Mountain …’
‘North of navref Cheyenne,’ explained Jerry. ‘We’re in Southern Wyoming. North of Colorado.’
Olsen mastered another spell of giddiness. ‘You mean we’re not even in the fuckin’ Federation?!’
‘No,’ said Jerry. ‘This is Plainfolk territory.’
Olsen closed his eyes. ‘Shit and corruption! I knew it, I knew it!’
‘The nearest way-station is Pueblo. I don’t know how far that is. This map doesn’t cover Colorado but it must be several hundred miles.’
‘What are we gonna do?’ asked Dandridge.
‘Well, we can’t go to Pueblo, that’s for sure!’ cried Olsen. ‘We’re under sentence of death, remember? We’ll just have to make a stand right here.’
‘Against what?’ asked someone in the group that had gathered behind him.
‘How the fuck do I know?’ exclaimed Olsen. Then, addressing the group as a whole he said. ‘The only thing we can be sure of is the Family didn’t put us jailbirds here because they thought we needed the fresh air! I don’t know how you guys feel but I vote we grab hold of as much of this gear as we can and get under cover. Find a cave, or somethin’.’
He turned back to Dandridge and Jerry the mapreader. ‘Is it getting to you?’
Dandridge frowned. What?’
‘The space! There’s too much fuckin’ sky! I can’t handle it! When I first woke up I was okay but now it’s givin’ me the shakes!’
‘It’s this dope they slipped us.’
‘No, it isn’t. I heard about this. Lots of guys go down with it – end up not bein’ able to move.’
‘We’ll be okay if we stick together,’ said Jerry. ‘Ground-sickness can be beaten. You just gotta have the right mental attitude. Keep your eyes down. Don’t take in too much at once.’
‘You been overground before?’
‘Yeah. Two years with Mines and Mills.’
‘And you never felt bad?’
‘You get acclimatized. The new guys spend the first three months on internal duties – inside the plant buildings. You work up to it by looking out of the windows and when you’re good and ready you step out into the Big Open. The guys that can’t handle it get reassigned’
‘Well, I aint had three months to get ready! I went to sleep in my cell and I woke up here! And it’s beginning to scare the hell out of me!’ Keeping his eyes on the ground in front of him, Olsen pushed his way through the group and shambled across the slope to the sleeping bag he’d vacated earlier.
By the time he reached it, tears were streaming down his face. Even a prison cell, for as long as you occupied it, was your own space. Out here, there were no walls, no roofs, nothing to keep out this oppressive emptiness. The sleeping bag and the piece of earth on which it lay was the only thing he could relate to; the only point of contact with the concrete cocoon in which he spent the weeks since his trial.
He fell to his knees beside it. He had gone back to get the flak-jacket. Given the jam they were in, it made sense to put it on. Attached to the webbing straps were pouches of ammunition for the carbine, a hand grenade, machete, and battery pac
ks to power the radio and target acquisition arrays on his visor. Once the helmet umbilical was plugged into the butt of his carbine, he’d be able to hit anything he aimed at.
Like a bunch of screaming Mutes. Out here that was the most likely thing to happen. A firing squad would have been better. Cleaner anyway. Out here, after they’d stuck your head on a pole and hammered it down so’s the point came out through the top of your skull, they cut the rest of you up and turned you into smoked meat twists.
There was no point in moving camp. Best thing was to try and dig a hole under the trees. Get some earth round you and some branches over the top and hope you were asleep when it got dark. It would be a good idea to take some ration packs and –
Olsen heard someone shouting. Then other people calling to each other. He looked around and saw one of the camouflaged cee-bees standing on a rocky outcrop further up the slope. He was holding a ‘scope.
Dandridge came over. ‘We’ve spotted what looks like a bunch of renegades moving across a flat-topped ridge below us. An’ y’know what? They got horses! Just like in the archives! You can’t see ’em from here. D’you wanna come up and take a look?’
‘What for?’
‘C’mon, Jake! They’re our kind of people! If we could hook up with them …’ Dandridge saw he was getting nowhere. ‘Some of the guys want to send up some signal flares.’ He shrugged. ‘What the hell? We might as well try. Things can’t get much worse – right?’
‘Right …’
Olsen watched his one-time associate hurry away. Good old Marv. He was doing a great job holding it down, but he’d never been overground either, and he was getting the shakes too.
A green signal flare soared into the air, and was quickly followed by several more. A dozen or so cee-bees were clustered on the outcrop, and more were scrambling up towards them.
Someone shouted: ‘They’ve seen us! Look! They’ve put up a green.’
The news drew a ragged cheer from those who had found the energy and the will to get up and stay on their feet. But there were many, like Olsen, who had slumped back onto the ground, enfeebled by the drugs pumped into them, disoriented by their surroundings or simply overwhelmed by their predicament.
Zzzhhahhwikkk! Zzzhhahhwokkk!
Olsen, who had slumped down on his knees on reaching his sleeping bag and hadn’t moved since, turned in time to see two cee-bees knocked off their feet. Neither had flak-jackets. And as they hit the ground, he saw several inches of metal rod sticking out of their chests.
The air was filled with blood-curdling screams and more flashing darts of silver then a horde of Mutes armed with knives and machetes burst out of the trees behind the guys further up the slope.
Ohhh, shiiiiit! Olsen’s fumbling fingers searched for the safety on his carbine. Full auto! C’mon, c’mon, c’mon! He started to get up, bring the carbine across his body and into his shoulder. Something struck his chest knocking the breath out of him. A searing pain filled his lungs. The force of the blow pushed his head forward and as he toppled over, he saw the tail end of the crossbow bolt that had gone in at an angle under his rib cage.
Yep … looks like this is it, Jake. Almost …
Screams and shouts filled the air. People running in all directions. Guy firing. Trying to …
Olsen’s helmeted head hit the ground. Above him was the huge clouded vault of a late spring sky. A Mute warrior leapt over him. He’d be back later. Or one of his friends would. When they’d killed everybody. That was when they collected the heads. With luck he might be dead when they got around to him. The earth felt as if it was turning under him. His dug his fingers into the soil in a desperate effort to stop himself falling towards the clouds.
If this was the blue-sky world they could … keep…
* * *
Cadillac surveyed the scene as the M’Call Bears began the grisly task of collecting the heads of the dead Trackers. The bodies had been stripped of their uniforms. These, together with their weapons and equipment were now being collected and added to the heap in the centre of the clearing.
The attack had been more successful than he had dared hope. Malone’s renegades had diverted the attention of the sand-burrowers but it hadn’t really been necessary. Their defences had proved absurdly easy to penetrate. No perimeter guards had been posted and many of the soldiers had only put up a half-hearted resistance.
Three Bears had died but they had been avenged by their clan-brothers. So far more than eighty sand-burrowers had been killed. The others who had fled into the trees below would be dealt with by Malone’s men as they made their up in an extended line towards the campsite.
Yes. It had been easy, thought Cadillac. Too easy … or was that feeling due to his eternal dissatisfaction? Since meeting Steve Brickman, he had become increasingly suspicious of everyone’s motives.
Two Bears, Rain-Dancer and Diamond-Head, lugged a metal box over to where Cadillac was standing and deposited it at his feet.
Rain-Dancer unclipped the hinged lid. ‘There are things inside which bear the marks of silent speech. Should we carry them away?’
The outside of the box carried the legend: CAUTION/ EXPLOSIVES 12 x AP108. Cadillac hunkered down to examine the contents – twelve flat, round metal containers about six inches across and four inches deep. Printed in yellow on the top of each dark grey container were the words: AP108 ANTI-PERSONNEL MINE followed by the instructions for arming the pressure fuse and concealing the device in the ground.
Cadillac unclipped one and looked inside. The mine, with its fusing device protected by a clear plastic cap, nestled snugly in the container. He had never seen such a device before but he had seen the destruction wrought by the explosives supplied to Steve by the Federation for use against the Iron Masters. It would be a good idea to make sure these devices did not fall into the wrong hands.
He snapped the lid shut and handed the container to Rain-Dancer. ‘You have done well. Put this in your carrying-pouch’. He handed another to Diamond-Head. ‘Now, as quickly as you can, find ten of your most trusted clan-brothers and give them one each. They are to place them in their pouches, as you have done, and they are not to speak about them or show them to anyone but me! Do you understand? This is a secret treasure that gives us great power! No one must know we have found it – especially the red-skins!’
Both Bears got the message. ‘And the box?’ asked Rain-Dancer.
‘The sand-burrowers have spades. Bury it. Hurry!’
It was a close run thing. The first renegades – those on foot – came up through the trees as the two warriors appeared above the rocky outcrop and signalled the completion of their task.
Cadillac walked down to meet Malone and the other riders. Several were leading their mounts. All of them had dead Trackers hanging head down over their backs; some carried two or three.
Malone responded to Cadillac’s greeting with a cursory nod and took in the scene. ‘How’d it go?’
‘Much better than I expected. You could almost call it a pushover.’
‘Yeah, well, the discipline in these signal units ain’t what it used to be. A lot of these overground boys are smoked out of their skulls.’ Malone gave a dry laugh. ‘Make the most of it. It’s gonna be a hell of a lot tougher’n this gettin’ on board Red River.’
‘Can’t wait,’ said Cadillac.
‘How many did you nab?’
‘Eighty-three …’
‘Good. With what we’ve got here, makes ninety-eight. Couple must have got away. Never mind. They ain’t goin’ very far.’ Malone slapped this thigh. ‘So what’ve we got? Uniforms? Helmets? Rifles?’
‘Yep. And smoke grenades, flares, radios, maps, rations …’
‘Anything interesting?’
‘A lot of camping equipment. I imagine you could make good use of that.’
‘No, plastic?’
‘Plastic what?’
‘Plastic explosive. Detonators.’
Cadillac shook his head. ‘You’d better tak
e a look around yourselves. None of my people would know what that looks like.’
Malone turned to his lieutenants. ‘Check it out…’
While they searched the campsite and the heaps of looted equipment, Malone and Cadillac got one of the M’Call warriors to don a set of camouflaged fatigues, then added a flak-jacket and all the equipment. The warrior complained about the boots, and the lumps on his forehead made the helmet a tight fit but with the visor lowered, and his carbine plugged in to the helmet umbilical, he looked just like the real thing.
Malone ordered him to walk up and down, and as soon as he started to move, it was clear they had a problem. The warrior was not carrying the carbine properly, and he didn’t move like a sand-burrower.
‘These guys are gonna need some knocking into shape,’ grunted Malone. ‘This one’s walking like a ruptured shitehawk.’
‘Don’t worry, We’ll iron that out …’
Malone’s men came back to report that no explosives had been found.
‘Shame. Might have come in useful.’ He shrugged off the news. ‘Never mind. We’ve still got enough here to equip a small army.’ He slapped Cadillac on the back. ‘Didn’t I tell you that good ole Matt would deliver the goods?!’
‘You did,’ said Cadillac. And you have, my friend, you have…
The small packs of plastic explosive that Malone’s men had searched for in vain, a rigid wallet containing detonators and miniature timing devices lay safely concealed in his own carrying-pouch.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Five days after the M’Call Bears staggered back from Iron Mountain, dragging their share of the plunder on tracking poles, the sentinels posted to watch the northeastern approaches to the the settlement, sighted the returning trade delegation. It included a horseman but the group itself was barely half its original size.
Cadillac was one of a large and extremely anxious posse who ran out to meet them and it was clear from the muted response of the returnees to their shouted greetings that something dreadful had happened.
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