Beluga Fay (Dragon Bone Hill)

by Wellhauser, David S.

  “No, not yet!” Thea was shouting, and others appeared to be agreeing with her.

  “We need the stones,” Glenna said; then there was a pause. “Get the stones,” the woman said to her brother. At that, he was flipped on his back and staring up at Chrislann; then something struck him square in the face and his focus buckled. Voices continued, but Titus could not make out what was being said. Slowly, words, individually at first, reasserted themselves, and consciousness slowly realigned with the pain. Chrislann had found the pouch, pulled it from the pocket of his jacket, and turned about standing—holding this up.

  The brother had always been a fool, and this time was no exception. As the group were laughing and jumping up and down, including Glenna, the man reached beneath his jacket and unsnapped the automatic. The clasp made a hard leather and metallic noise, and this seemed to capture the attention of Glenna. As she turned, it was too late, and the round barked out hard, catching Chrislann in the back of his left shoulder. As the man crumpled forward, the group dispersed. Some headed for their cars and others ran to the far side of the street. But Budiman lay on the street, the pouch of stones about a meter from his hand and about three meters from Titus.

  He took a step toward the stones, but even then the vertigo grabbed him, and it was all he could do to hold himself upright. Managing this, Pym looked about for the others and saw Glenna in one of the cabal’s cars groping below the seat—he knew what that meant. Letting off another round toward the car, it missed entirely, but the next punctured the windshield, and Glenna ducked down. There wasn’t going to be time to get the stones, so he slipped back into his car. Leaning out the driver’s window, he threw another round at Glenna, and she had rolled out of the passenger’s door and was firing at him.

  The keys had been left in the ignition, so he turned the engine over, and with a cough, it sputtered to life, and Titus was racing down the street backwards. Two rounds punctured the windshield but neither came close to him. Spinning the car at the intersection, he was tearing back into the city. Even as he turned the corner, he could hear the other engines coughing to life. Twisting down a couple more streets, he pulled sideways across the road and climbed out behind the vehicle. No one had followed him. They had to be racing for the gate, but he stayed where he was waiting for the vertigo to pass. After what might have been a few minutes, it did, and his head cleared. Then he was back in the car and after the cabal.

  “Not yet?” Colonel Torres asked.

  “No, sir.” The guard was scanning the neighborhood beyond the Wall.

  “You are certain what you heard?” Captain Tomás asked.

  Lowering the glasses the guard answered. “Yes, sir. Several rounds from small caliber weapons—we all heard them.” The other guards nodded agreement.

  “A firefight—a few blocks in to Taguig? That seems too foolish—even for them.” The Colonel smiled at the Captain’s observation. It was foolish, no doubt of that, but for these people, perhaps not. Excepting that Pym fellow; he was no fool. That had been proven with Tomás and again with how he had managed the entire affair since showing up. The only reason Torres had allowed himself to be drawn out was Pym.

  It had meant an end to their cash cow, but it also meant a big payday. Somehow they would have to find some others to milk when this was over, but these were some of the richest left in the city. Perhaps the Cartel could pick up the slack, or the Beluga Fay. The Colonel had been hearing more and more about them—especially since Pym had taken the fish markets in the South. Still, without their leader, how good could the Fay be? Torres’ first choice for extortion would be Salazar, but he still had the ear of the central government—that would end up badly for the Wall. Anything that went badly for the Wall went badly for him—for the time being.

  The government had been fading for months now, but they were still, nominally, in charge, and this meant they could, in all likelihood, manage enough force to bring down his command. What would he do then? If captured, it meant imprisonment, or worse, banishment into the city—all that was coming out of the place now was rumor and conjecture, none of this, however, was good. Most of it was terrifying. What was coming out of the main island was about as frightening. If the international community didn’t come up with something fast, the navy was bound to attempt a run of the blockade, and they might just make it—though many on both sides would die. It wasn’t that this bothered the Colonel, he was indifferent to the death or what the Sweating Sickness would do to the rest of the world. Torres was, nonetheless, deeply concerned with what this would mean for him and his men—but, mostly, for himself.

  There’d have been a time when his men would have come first, he made certain they believed this was still the case, but now all that mattered to him was himself and his family. Occasionally he had to remind himself his family still mattered—even though his wife had taken a lover and his son would not speak to him. All this a byproduct of a life spent in service to his country. Now, thirty years on, there seemed to be nothing left of either. Sighing, he took the night-scope from the guard and scanned the crumbling, deserted stores which faced the Wall—nothing.

  “Get a couple of teams ready—vests, assault weapons, smoke, and concussion.”

  Tomás nodded and gave the order.

  Lowering the scope, the Colonel sighed. There were a lot of diamonds on the line, and most of these had already been budgeted into the Wall. If they didn’t get those stones, the maintenance of his command would, yet again, be forestalled and rations would again have to be reduced. Torres had given up on the promises of the government to restore their budget. What he did expect was this to be slashed by half—again. If that happened, that would be it. They were already having trouble with desertions and did not have the manpower to run those guards down. Occasionally, they were caught and returned, but more often they disappeared into neighboring islands.

  The power of the Federal government no longer extended there. It wasn’t, precisely, civil war, but the outer islands had given birth to warlords, former military officers and regional governors, that had developed their own command structure and economy to pick up the slack left by the Federals. Any deserters wandering into their territories were either absorbed or executed—depending on the needs and whims of the new authority. Some of these regions, if rumor were to be believed, were practicing headhunting. The heads of their enemies were said to guard the checkpoints and mountain passes as a warning to refugees. Still, they were only rumors. Torres and Tomás supported the speculation and even expanded upon it in order to keep the guards in line. This, though, was no longer working as it once had.

  A big part of the problem was the desperate letters from home. They’d tried censoring the mail, and this created discontent; then Tomás had cut off all mail delivery. This one act had nearly brought the Wall down in a matter of two weeks. Once mail service was restored, the guards had settled into a routine of sullen silence and the occasional desertion. The unfortunate part of the desertions was, the guards could no longer be replaced. The army, as well as all other branches of the military services, had their hands full with maintaining order in the major cities, excepting this one. They’d done their job well, so well that most of these had been reduced by half or more. Most had not been killed, but were now refugeeing it across the islands looking for a place where they could get adequate food and security. No such place was available. Wherever they did end up, there was normally a violent confrontation with the locals.

  Sometimes the refugees won, if they had enough practice in dealing with the locals, but more often than not, the locals won and drove the refugees off. Those killed in the encounters were said to have their heads mounted on spears and displayed as a warning to others. What this did was to create a backwash. Breaking against the increasingly serious resistance about the countryside and on the neighboring islands, the refugees had been driven back into the cities. However, the military and Federal governments, having gained a grip on the cities, were not allowing former re
sidents back. These precipitated even more violent clashes, but the military had always been successful. The end result was, the countryside between towns and cities, which could defend themselves, had become dangerous, excepting for heavily armed columns—and even these were increasingly at risk.

  This is what these people wanted out into. To be fair, the Colonel hadn’t been very forthcoming with the particulars of the situation beyond the Wall. A part of Torres almost struggled with this. If he let the city know, they might be more willing to stay where they are, but then, with this latest outbreak, beyond the Wall might just offer the vaguest hope of salvation. Beyond this there was the issue of Governor Salazar and his contacts with the Federals. The Governor still had a stranglehold on the Wall, even though trapped within this—not only because of his political contacts, but because the Wall needed the produce from the agri-zone and the protein offered by the southern fish markets, though the latter had been torn away by Pym. One more reason the Colonel was happy to be seeing the backside of this group.

  Turning from the Wall, Torres barked over his shoulder, “If you see any movement, call me.”

  Nearly at the elevator, a guard raised the alarm. “Two vehicles at the central intersection—opposite the gate.”

  Back at the Wall, Colonel Torres was again staring through the scope. “How many are there?”

  Tomás called to another guard, “Have them exit the vehicles.”

  On the speaker, the woman’s voice shook the gathering gloom. Dusk was now about gone and the night was beginning to fold over the Wall. Torres called for the floods, and the empty space between the Wall and the intersection exploded in hard, brittle LED light.

  For a moment or two, there was no response, so the Colonel had the order repeated. At last, the passenger’s door on the lead vehicle slipped open, and the driver slowly exited the car. “Can’t tell if that’s Pym,” Torres said.

  “No,” Tomás answered, “it’s a woman—Glenna Budiman.” As he answered, the other doors opened, and one by one, the elites exited their vehicles. Torres and Tomás took several moments looking for Pym, but neither could find him.

  Shaking his head, Torres turned to the Captain. “Take two teams, heavily armed, and see what’s going on. Find out what happened to Pym and if they have the stones.”

  Tomás didn’t hesitate, but he didn’t appear to like the idea of going out there himself. The Colonel, over his shoulder, made certain the Captain knew there was no choice.

  As the gate’s lock released and it swung out from the vehicles, there was a rustle of anxiety from the guards. “Settle down,” Tomás said, “and do not do anything unless you receive orders from me.” He wasn’t sure how well or long this command would last, but he needed to keep as close a grip on this encounter as he could. With the gate open and the hydraulics silent, he ordered the teams forward—slowly. Approaching the group, the vehicles split apart and one stopped on either side of Glenna’s cabal. The Captain could see the fear in their faces—that was never good. Frightened people were unpredictable, and this tended to infect the guards. The encounter had become that much more dangerous.

  “Where is,” Tomás asked, “Titus Pym?”

  “He,” Glenna answered from the far side of the car, “did not make it.” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the engines of the guards’ vehicles.

  Tomás shook his head and climbed out—before moving away from the vehicle, he ordered the guard to keep a close watch on any movement, and not to take any chances.

  “What do you mean,” Tomás asked, stopping in front of Glenna as her brother almost seemed to cower behind her, “he did not make it?”

  “We were attacked a few blocks back.” Although possible, Tomás did not believe her. Even though the woman was perfectly believable, the others had the look of dogs who just shit on the Persian.

  “Where are the stones?”

  “Safe.” Glenna answered.

  “I need to see them,” the Captain responded, taking a step forward. With Tomás’ step forward, Glenna took one back, bumping into Chrislann. She had them, of that Tomás was certain.

  “It was agreed we would turn over the stones on the other side of the Wall,” the woman’s cool seemed to be breaking.

  “That deal was with Titus. I don’t know what happened back there,” allowing his skepticism to drip over the reply, “but without Pym you need to prove you have the stones.”

  “You can deal with us as well as Titus,” a voice from the back of the group, a young woman’s.

  “We understood and trusted Pym—you children are another matter. Produce the stones or you do not get through.”

  Chrislann leaned forward, a hand on his sister’s shoulder, and whispered in the woman’s ear—his face drawn from the injury. Glenna Budiman shook her head, and Chrislann worried her arm. Still the woman shook her head. Tomás was on the verge of ordering the guards to find the stones when two other men stepped up, called by Chrislann, and took Glenna by the arms. Chrislann, as his sister struggled, pulled the pouch from around her neck and spilt a few stones into his trembling left hand—holding this up for the Captain’s inspection.

  Tomás motioned for the brother to hand these over, and after a moment of hesitation, he did so.

  Glenna moaned and broke free of the men’s grip, stepping up behind her brother. Chrislann pushed her back. “They are real.”

  Tomás looked at them closely, holding a couple before the lights of one of the flanking vehicles. They looked and felt real—as far as he could tell—but he’d never been very good at determining this.

  “They look it.” They would need to be tested, but for now, he returned them to the pouch and slipped it into his trouser pocket.

  “Just a damn minute!” Glenna shouted. Pushing past her brother, the woman was holding out a hand. “Those were to be surrendered on the other side of the Wall.”

  The Captain appraised the woman for a long, cold moment before answering. “I’ve no idea what happened out...”

  “He was killed by refugees, I think,” Glenna answered.

  “You have refugees in the city? From where?” Now the Captain was not attempting to disguise his disbelief.

  “The South. The outbreak of the Sweating Sickness this has created a significant number of people attempting to escape the effected neighborhoods. Not all of these are simple refugees—some are criminals and others may be Cartel.”

  The Captain nodded, but it was clear to Glenna he did not believe her. She really thought she’d been convincing. Finally, she looked about and saw the problem. Everyone else looked utterly guilty. She knew they should have waited until they got to the other side and well beyond the Wall. That would have been safe and quiet. The intention was not to have had a shootout, but Chrislann had been too anxious and then hadn’t followed through. This was always the case with her brother: great with the sweeping plans and strategies, but tactically inept. Details always managed to trip him up, and it was just that that drew them into a gunfight with Titus. This meant he was still out there.

  He was injured, but the woman had no way of knowing how badly. What she did know was that he would be out there, probably watching, and looking for an opportunity to hit back. His kind never gave up; always played the angles; was vicious; was remorseless; was vindictive; would have their pound of flesh and then some. It was the and then some which bothered the woman more than anything else—and there was a great deal that now worried her about him. The truth was, if there was any truth in their relationship, she cared for him and knew he would have been of more use than all the rest of her friends combined—most especially her brother. Since this whole mess began, she had increasingly been the one to carry the family.

  When the world was right side up, her brother, and even her father, dealt with problems just fine. Then the Sweats appeared, and slowly the ability of the men in her family to deal with the troubles began to decline, then race toward chaos. Not until she’d stumbled upon and was captured by T
itus had she seen any hope for herself and her friends. Before Titus, she never believed they would be able to do more than complain and plot. Then there was Pym, and they were getting action from the Wall; resources were opened to them; the guards were taking them seriously; the abuse had ended. Here is where the problems with Chrislann had begun.

  After the beating by the Captain’s men, the hatred for all things Wall and Pym became an obsession. Soon he was suborning their friends, and when not corrupting them, he was openly coercing these. Over time, even though Titus had taken them from strength to strength, it became plain he had become the main threat all were facing. Slowly, the outsider raised doubts, concerns, and fears. To begin with, he was not one of us; then he was an alien; then a criminal; then a killer. She knew where all of this had been coming from, but that did not matter. Glenna had neither the ability nor the interest to fight her brother on this. Still and all, it should not have ended this way. Now, this is what they were going to have to deal with.

  Suddenly the gate appeared in the distance.

  Continuing to hold out her hand, Glenna shook the palm upwards demanding the stones.

  The Captain smiled and turned his back on the group to speak with his people. “Check them for weapons.” With the officer’s order, several guards stepped forward.

  “You cannot have our weapons.” When she said this, everyone stiffened.