"Good enough." Ross pulled off his static-filled headset and grabbed Ringo's, but it was off-line too.
He switched fire control to his console. "We're surrounded by hostiles. Don't know how many." He held the targeting lens to his eye, but it wasn't working. He tossed it aside.
"Ah, screw it." He held down all the buttons. The ship's cannons roared front and rear, shaking the ship like it would break into pieces.
Several riderless chanouks started and ran. Anouks raced for safety. A few were hit and killed instantly.
Then the cannons clicked and whirred empty. Ringo pulled two Hellrazors off the rack behind their seats. He handed one and an ammo belt to Ross who pointed out his side window.
"See that rock outcropping over there? We get our backs to the wall and we hold them off till relief comes."
"Sounds like a plan," Ringo said quietly.
"Don't fret, kid. We're both here."
"Let's go then!" Ringo gave up a smile, determined not to show fear regardless of the overwhelming odds.
Ross threw the door open and fired a burst. He leaped to the ground. Ringo dropped behind him and they started across the open floor of the canyon toward a jagged stand of black tannis rock fifty yards away.
A black lance jabbed into the ground a few feet from Ross. Ringo whirled. Two Azeel tribesmen stood on the roof of the Stallion. One drew back his arm to hurl another javelin. Ringo stopped and raised his rifle, sighted down the barrel, and fired twice into the Azeel's chest. The anouk toppled backwards. The second tribesman had an atax ready to throw. It was a thick star-shaped discus that spun with purple energy as it was hurled. Properly charged, these weapons could even cut through the UN's fabled Wolverine power-armor. Ringo hurled himself to the ground, but too late. The atax flashed and slashed through his left thigh.
He screamed and held the trigger. The stream of bullets hit the Azeel, but the atax had already circled around back to its owner's hand. The anouk hurled it again instantly, but Ringo's bullet struck the warrior in the shoulder and sent the spiritually charged missile slightly off target.
It sliced through Ringo's jacket and narrowly missed his rib cage.
A strong hand grabbed the back of Ringo's coat and pulled him onward.
"C'mon, kid!" Ross yelled. "Run!" Ross shoved the hobbling young Ranger ahead of him while he swept out a pattern behind with his rifle. Then he saw three warriors astride their massive chanouks charging at them from up the canyon. Two of them wielded black lances and one had an atax at the ready. The Azeel screamed their war cry as they charged the two humans.
"Keep running!" Ross shouted and stopped.
Ringo limped forward, but turned and sprayed his rifle from the hip. The chanouks all reared, bred for centuries to protect their riders from danger, and took the shots. A few bullets rang off the armored breastplates strapped under their necks. Other shells penetrated their rolling sinewy flesh, but without apparent effect. The beasts dropped to their heavily clawed front paws and continued charging.
Ross placed a head shot on the outside warrior, the one most likely to chase Ringo. He was also the one with the atax, the weapon with the longest range. The rider was slammed from the saddle, his weapon falling useless to the ground. Both of the remaining anouks turned their fearsome gazes on Ross.
The Ranger dropped to a knee and opened up on the tribesmen. The chanouks reared again, balancing on their hind legs, front paws clawing the air. They roared as Ross's shells plunged into them. This time he saw blood oozing from wounds. He emptied the magazine, giving Ringo time to stagger behind the rock outcropping.
When the rifle was empty, the chanouks dropped down and a lance flew. Ross had faced these weapons before and instinct took over. He rolled to his side, swatted out with his rifle, and knocked the javelin out of the air. Like the atax, anouks were able to charge any weapon made of tannis with some sort of energy. Whether it was magic or simply the property of the strange rock found throughout Banshee, no one yet knew.
The anouk who threw the lance yelled in surprise and admiration.
Ross saw that his rifle was damaged by the impact of the lance. He threw it aside, stood, and drew his Colt. The Azeel were only twenty yards away, coming hard. He raised his arm and thumbed back the hammer. He had two shots at most before the beasts were on him. And then he would be dead.
Suddenly, the two Azeel reined in their chanouks. Clawed feet gripped the sandy earth as they came to a skidding halt. Both warriors spun their mounts and galloped away up the canyon.
Ross was so surprised he didn't drop the hammer. Anouks were a ritualistic people, particularly in war. He had never seen a ritual charge and wheel to honor a brave enemy, but then he hadn't had much contact with the Azeel tribe; they were warlike and distant, and the only humans they trafficked with were the Reapers.
Still, he felt strangely honored by their display. And damn happy to be alive. He eased down the hammer of the Colt and gave the pistol a fancy spin to slip it in the holster. He smiled.
Then he felt something ruffling his duster. He spun and drew his pistol.
Stallion Two hovered behind him, twenty feet off the ground, cannons ready. Stew and Ngoma waved. Ross gave himself an embarrassed laugh and returned the wave with the pistol before putting it away slowly. This time with no flourish.
Debbi knelt beside Ringo.
The young man grinned up at her. "There must've been ten of 'em, Dallas! Maybe twenty! I got three or four. Ross got the rest." He fingered his bandaged thigh. "Tsukino thinks there's no poison."
"I'm sure he's right," Debbi said.
"Those anouks are fast!" the kid went on. "I hardly blinked and he got off two throws."
Debbi patted his shoulder. "Rest. I've got to help with the civilian casualties."
Ringo started to get up. "Yeah. I can help too."
"Just rest." She shoved him down.
She stood and glanced at Boston Fitzpatrick. He had a nasty shoulder wound and was heavily sedated. He was resting as comfortably as possible. Hiro Tsukino was a first-class field medic and he had set up a triage area where he was doing his best to care for the wounded. Here in the Bosporus, casualties among the caravaneers were fifteen dead and thirty wounded. Reports from out on the plains were worse.
As Debbi moved among the shocked and relieved caravaneers, her eyes unconsciously went to the figure of Ross as he strode through the condensing chaos barking orders and lending a hand. She had a brief flashback to the flood of relief she had felt when she boarded Stallion Two and saw Ross and Ringo, safe and relatively sound.
Numerous exhausted faces greeted Debbi. These were people who had seen too much. Caravans always carried a supply of sad-eyed, bone-weary refugees who had given up on lives of isolation and danger, and decided to seek safety in towns like Temptation. These refugees were largely single men and women, hardened by the frontier to a life of solitary existence.
There was, however, another type of traveler with caravans. It was a small group, but growing. These were humans who had been born on Banshee. They were young and vigorous. They were eager to build families and rebuild their world.
These men and women took Debbi's hand as she passed and thanked her. Some small children smiled up at her; others were too shell-shocked to do more than stare.
Debbi identified with these vigorous young natives. She understood that settlers must do their best to cooperate with the anouks. Human problems on Banshee could no longer be solved long-term through the barrel of a gun. Humans were outnumbered. Debbi wondered if early pioneers in the American West felt the same way toward the Indians. She prayed that things would work out better here than they had back on Earth.
Debbi saw Ross moving through the crowd toward her. He pointed at her and jerked his thumb back.
"Let's go. Just got a call from Curtiz out on the flats. Sounds like he found the black guns."
Ross commandeered a motor vehicle, and he and Debbi raced through the Bosporus onto the plain. They covered
the ten miles in a few minutes. They saw a Colonial Ranger standing near an overturned truck. Rumer Curtiz was a dark-skinned man with a heavy moustache and thick, black hair. His hooded eyes looked as if he was on the verge of tears. Human and anouk bodies were scattered in the dust around him.
When Ross and Debbi approached, Curtiz pulled a tarp back from the flatbed of the truck with crates strapped to it. The crates were stenciled "Spare Parts." Several of them had been broken open and indeed they were spare parts, precious enough in this place. But one crate was smashed and it did not contain spare parts. From the crate, Curtiz pulled an old model automatic rifle with the black gun tube attached. He tossed it to Ross.
Ross held it up to show Debbi. Then he turned back to Curtiz. "Every vehicle of this caravan gets searched before getting into the Depot."
Curtiz went a little wide-eyed.
"Every single one," Ross reiterated. "And it's your job to make sure of it, Curtiz. I want all of these attachments seized. Got it?"
"Yes sir."
A speeder bike roared to a stop nearby and a tall man dismounted and pulled off his goggles. He wore the traditional flowing bluish black desert robes and curved sword at his waist of his Tuareg ancestors on Earth. Only his piercing eyes were visible through the slit in the ghutrah wrapped around his head.
"Ross, thank you for the help." Sharif pulled the black cloth from his long, angular black face; his cheeks bore ritual scarification. He touched his hand to his heart, lips, and forehead. He then shook hands with Ross.
"Reapers really pounded you, Sharif. Sorry we didn't get here earlier. We didn't get word until a little earlier this morning." Ross extended his hand toward Debbi. "This is one of my new people, Debbi Dallas. She got the info on the raid. Dallas, this is Ahmed ibn Sharif, caravan master."
Sharif looked at Debbi curiously. "Debbi Dallas? That sounds just like an old."
"Glad to know you," Debbi rushed before he could finish his thought.
Ross bobbed his chin at the truck. "This yours?"
"Oh no," Sharif answered. "It belongs to a trader. He joined us at a cutoff between here and Makeshift. Never seen him before."
Ross laughed hard. "Good. I've got a lot of questions for the man that's bringing contraband guns into my territory. Where is this trader?"
"That's him." Sharif pointed to a corpse on the ground.
Ross regarded the dead body and looked up at Debbi. "That really pisses me off."
Chapter 15
"When are you going to rebury all these bodies?"
Donald Fairchild asked the question as he stood petulantly with balled fists on his hips. Debbi stared at him, suppressing her anger. They were outside Doc Dazy's office where she'd been visiting Fitz, who was recovering from his wounds secured in the fight at the Bosporus Straits the day before. Fairchild was there to demand the Doctor's support in demanding disposal of the newly killed bodies of the undead that were stacking up in the vacant lot behind the infirmary.
"The stench is disgusting," Fairchild stated. "It's distressing the citizens. And the bodies are a threat to public health because of disease, not to mention the danger from all the carrion eaters they're attracting."
He pointed up into the clear afternoon sky where a flock of gray komodos circled; they were dark reptilian creatures about the size of a large eagle. They had a nasty reputation for swooping down and carrying away small children, but Debbi knew they were just scavengers.
"I understand your concerns, Mr. Fairchild," Debbi replied. "But there are the problems of identification and the fact that the cemetery isn't secured yet. There is still a lot of wandering undead out there. And our spotters say more dig out every day."
"Well, good God! Get out there and shoot everything that's moving! I've been in touch with some of my people near Makeshift; they don't have walking dead wandering the streets! None of these outlandish problems are occurring there, or anywhere else. Just here in Temptation! We need some law and order around here! First all this crap around here and now the Reapers are on the warpath! Maybe you didn't hear what they did to Ghost Rock City!"
"I heard," Debbi said evenly.
Fairchild ignored her warning tone and continued raving. "They'll be coming after my mines too. Thank God I've got my paramilitaries because I sure as hell don't expect any help from the Rangers! Why don't we just go ahead and give the damn planet to the Reapers? They're gonna end up taking it anyway! Hell, you Rangers can't even handle dead people. How do you expect to stop Nicolai? What are you doing to insure the safety of the people of Temptation? The people demand action!"
"You're going to want to stop shouting at me, Mr. Fairchild." Debbi stepped down into the street and pushed past him.
Fairchild grabbed her arm.
Debbi quickly clamped her thumb and two fingers onto his wrist and twisted, breaking his grip and bringing him to his knees in pain. Fairchild groaned through clenched teeth and tried to pull away. He was strong, but Debbi had a solid hold and dug her nails into his nerves. His arm went limp and he stopped struggling.
"And you're going to want to never put a hand on me again." She released his wrist and his arm flopped uselessly at his side. "The Rangers are doing the best they can to insure public safety. There were plans to rebury the undead in a mass grave outside town, but we received complaints from some members of the Town Council that a number of citizens were upset by this treatment of their dearly departed. The matter was forwarded to the Committee for Public Safety, so perhaps you should talk to your fellow committee members. At this time, we have no intention of sending men into the cemetery and taking a chance of more casualties. However, we are reevaluating that policy even now. We believe the zombies have been cleaned out of Temptation, and we're doing our best to keep more from getting in. That is our first priority. In addition, we are keenly aware of the increased Reaper activity. We'll deal with that if it comes to it. We appreciate your input and your concerns."
"You broke my arm!"
"Nah." She glibly touched a forefinger to her forehead and sashayed away.
High above Banshee, the Tunnel watched. This vast technological marvel had been built decades ago to facilitate travel to and from Earth. For years, ships, equipment, and people poured through the Tunnel to flood the new frontier of the Faraway System and Banshee in particular. Most, if not all, of the travelers were drawn by the lure of ghost rock or to support the ghost rock mining culture. They prospected the wind-wracked surface of Banshee and the haunted asteroids of dark space. Or they sold things to those who did.
The Tunnel was built by Hellstromme Industries, maintained by Hellstromme Industries, and profited Hellstromme Industries. Not a nugget of ghost rock passed through the Tunnel back to Earth that didn't put money in HI's pocket. Although smugglers and pirates were a constant problem and there always was some leakage of profit, official competition was squelched, if possible, by Hellstromme's shrewd monopolistic action and, if necessary, by squads of HI Marines.
When the United Nations had sent their multinational Expeditionary Force to Faraway to crush the anouk revolt on Banshee and make the planet safe for human ambition, Hellstromme Industries viewed the military adventure with skepticism. They already had to deal with the annoyingly independent Colonial Rangers, who never felt as beholden to HI as they should. But Hellstromme was nothing if not flexible, and soon they were operating well with the seemingly permanent presence of EXFOR.
Oddly enough, the inexplicable and disastrous day when the Tunnel went dark and Faraway was cut off from Earth, only increased Hellstromme's power. Some colonists even suspected HI shut down the Tunnel on purpose. In the bold, new world of scarce resources that followed the Tunnel's failure, Hellstromme found itself the only institution in Faraway that was set up to design and build things. The UN had their warships and battalions of heavily armed troopers, but they didn't know how to make anything. Hellstromme had space stations and ground installations full of scientists and technicians for R&D as well as workers for th
e hard tasks of mining, processing, and manufacturing.
Unfortunately for them, when the suppressed and restive anouks realized that the human colonists were cut off from their far-off home, they rose up against the interlopers. The hellish Skinnies went to work creating a massive weapon. Hellstromme personnel evacuated their planetside stations for the Tunnel base in orbit. Ghost rock mines were abandoned and factories destroyed. The HI directors watched from above as the sorcerous storm devastated nearly everything they had taken the trouble of shipping from Earth and installing on Banshee.
The small-time prospector and miner continued to extract ghost rock to be processed in the few factories that remained. This noble frontier grit impressed the orbiting Hellstromme directors while they began to debate how and when to reassert their hegemony over Banshee's economy.
Both Hellstromme Industries and the UN Expeditionary Force were waiting for the proper moment to return to Banshee. The UN wouldn't go until they were assured of falling on the anouks and destroying them utterly, particularly their lich-like witchdoctors. Hellstromme went to work to make that possible because their own return to Banshee was predicated on the cover of UN firepower.
The person who fancied herself the linchpin at the center of this alliance was a woman named Lithia. She was a Hellstromme Industries project manager and her project was directly linked to giving the UN the force needed to wipe out the Skinnies and the quasi-mystical anouks and their bastard relatives, the blacklining Reapers. She often stared at the prototype on her desk - a thin metal tube about two feet long and barely an inch thick. The black gun. Lithia was sure this technology would insure human superiority in Faraway. And it came from her lab.
Lithia had much in common with the black gun. She was thin and pale, like clean gunmetal. Her appearance was sharply attractive with clean lines and hard edges. She habitually wore a simple white shirt and black skirt. Her ink black hair was pulled tight against her scalp. In action, she preferred to do her damage with little fire and smoke, if possible without the victim knowing they were under attack until they were already dead. She was like a well-designed product with nothing to distract from the basic function - that of rising to the top of Hellstromme Industries by any means necessary.
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