Banshee Screams

by Clay Griffith

  "Ross! Ross!" Debbi tried to pull Peck from her boss's grip. "We need him! He has information! Stop! We need him!"

  Relenting, Ross threw Peck to the floor. He clicked on his comlink to Tsukino. "Down."

  The Stallion dropped and Ross jumped out of the back door onto the cathedral portico.

  Without turning, he said, "Take him in and lock him up. I'll finish here." He stalked into the church.

  Debbi walked into Mo's. It was very late, or very early depending on your perspective. The Gray Ones had been put into the lockup. Several of them advertised their civic prominence and demanded to be released. Others seemed to comprehend the humanity they had sacrificed along with the vagrants. They sat cold-eyed and slumped. None of them were happy about the staring eyes of the sweating and shaking Borneo.

  Debbi craved some decent human company. She needed to sleep, but she couldn't bear the thought of walking into the homey confines of Miss Etta's without a period of cleansing first. She didn't want to take the fresh dirt of work into her home. And Mo's was the best place in Temptation for wiping one's moral feet.

  The saloon throbbed with life. She stopped just inside the door and drank it in for a moment. She was assaulted by the wonderful sound of voices talking, laughing, and shouting. Acrid smoke filled the place with the vaguely sweet smell of a popular, smokable algae used in lieu of tobacco. It was the most important commodity on Banshee besides ghost rock, alcohol, and food. And sometimes, it edged out food.

  Debbi weaved through the crowd. Teamsters and miners nodded to her or ignored her. She paused to watch a card game, relishing the intensity of the players as they focused on the stakes on the table as the most important thing in their world. Then she reached the bar.

  "Evening, Mo."

  "Hey, Ranger. What'll you have?"

  "Is the beer fresh?"

  Mo gave her a sour look. "Of course it's fresh. I only got the best stuff in here." He smiled and winked. "It's real yeasty tonight."

  "Oh. Give me one anyway."

  He plunked the foaming glass on the bar and leaned behind it. "One of your compadres is over there." He pointed across the crowded saloon to where Stew sat alone at a corner table.

  Debbi had wanted to talk to Stew about the incident with his father at the cemetery ever since it happened, but their paths never seemed to cross when there wasn't some kind of crisis or shoot-out. At his table, Stew was clearly lost in thought and she hesitated to interrupt him.

  Mo said, "He's in here all the time. Just sits in the corner and drinks."

  She glanced at the bartender and he raised a knowing eyebrow before going off to refill drinks.

  Debbi moved across the saloon. Stew saw her coming and gathered himself. He shoved a chair out with his foot and drained his glass.

  "Here you go, Dallas," he said. "You can have this table. I was just leaving."

  Debbi sat. "How about sitting with me until I finish my beer?"

  Stew blinked his eyes heavily. "Sure. Everything settle down at headquarters?"

  "Pretty much. The lockup's jammed full."

  "Yeah. Did you put Peck in with that Reaper like Ross wanted?"

  "No." She sipped her beer. "It's been quite a week, huh?"

  Stew nodded and said, "You're doing a helluva job, Dallas."

  She stared at him in surprise. "No more than anyone else, but thanks."

  "No, it's hard enough being new without being thrown into a mire like this. I know you're impressing Ross."

  She wasn't sure how to respond. It was exciting to hear that Ross held her work in some esteem. She'd been trying very hard since she arrived in Temptation. But she always felt like she didn't know what she was doing and was making more mistakes than good impressions. She had no plan of action; she just responded to emergencies by the seat of her pants. She'd never had great confidence in her instincts, but maybe she was more competent than she, or her porn-loving father, had imagined.

  She leaned forward. "How are you holding..."

  "Hey, Dallas! Stew!" Ringo appeared out of the crowd and descended onto a chair next to Debbi.

  Debbi smiled to cover her annoyance. She noted the relief that flooded Stew's face. He obviously preferred to hide from his problems in silence or glib conversation and Ringo was an excellent buffer against the possibility of serious discussion breaking out.

  Well, she thought, she'd try to open him up later. Nobody would be served by Stew falling into a bottle. The Rangers couldn't spare him and she wasn't going to let even one slip away.

  She turned to Ringo. "How's the leg?"

  "Great."

  "No pain?"

  "Oh, yeah. Hurts like hell," Ringo shrugged. "But I don't want to be cut out of the action." He set his beer on the table. "So you two were both at St. Calixtus tonight? Man, I wish I'd been there!"

  "You didn't miss anything," Stew said.

  "Did you see that big worm-thing?"

  "No."

  Ringo signaled for a drink. "Can you believe Peck and all those others in that group? The Gray Ones. Killing all those vagrants. I just saw Ross. He's wound up fit to bust. Between the zombies and Peck's group and that thing in the churchyard and those weird guns. What's next around here?"

  Stew asked, "Any progress on those guns, Dallas?"

  "Not really. All our sources for information are dead. The miners. And the trader with the caravan. We're not even sure what the guns do." She pulled out her Dragoon to reveal that she had attached a black tube to the underside of her gun. "But I'm a walking beta test."

  Stew said with a faraway look, "Ross must be spitting blood. He hates mysteries. And he can't stand problems he can't fix by putting his hands on them. You know, he's turned down more promotions than we're likely to see put together because he can't deal with the politics. If it doesn't involve enforcing the law, he's not interested."

  Debbi smiled at the thought and then turned to Ringo. "Where'd you see Ross?"

  "Outside the office." He looked at his watch. "I've got duty at St. Calixtus in an hour. Sniper duty. Keeping watch for the worm-thing."

  Debbi suppressed a yawn. "Be careful. It's big and fast."

  "Dallas, get some rest," Stew said. "You've been pushing yourself too hard."

  "What about you?"

  Stew answered, "I'm going back on duty in an hour or so."

  "Have you gotten any sleep in the last few days?" Debbi asked.

  "I can sleep when I'm dead." Stew abruptly laughed without humor. "On the other hand, maybe not."

  Ringo laughed at the joke. He didn't know about Stew shooting his own father at the cemetery. Stew glared at him quickly, and then resumed his normal inward facade. He slapped the kid on the shoulder and stood.

  "I'll see you guys later. Be careful at church, kid." Stew drifted through the crowd and out the door into the night.

  Debbi stared after him and contemplated following.

  "Stew's a funny guy," Ringo said. "You want another beer? I'm buying."

  "No thanks. Rain check." She left the kid nursing his drink and went outside. She had a stray hope that Stew might be lingering, waiting for her, willing to talk about his problems.

  He was nowhere to be seen.

  The streets were full of people trying to be unaware of the dangers that surrounded them. They all went about their business or slept behind locked doors trying not to worry that their world might be spinning apart. But in a way, those sorts of fears were daily bread for Temptation. They even served as a perverse source of pride for the townsfolk in normal times.

  These fears weren't just the property of the townsfolk, Debbi thought as she started off down the street. She ignored the clenching pain in her stomach and thought about the tension she saw constantly in the faces of her colleagues. It wasn't just Stew; all the Rangers were feeling the pressure. They had been hammered by one crisis after another; first the unexplainable horror of the undead, then the sacking of Ghost Rock City and the rising threat from the Reapers, and now this unknown cre
ature brought into town by some of their own. They were body blows, every one. If the damage didn't let up soon, some of them, herself included, might bust wide open. She sensed that many of the Rangers, as they stood with guns in hand waiting for the next horror to appear, were questioning their desire to continue at their duties.

  Just the thought of Ross, the stone man himself, feeling the strain, was disturbing. She hated to think what Ross might have done to Peck if she hadn't been in that Stallion. Peck deserved whatever he got, but she'd hate it if the pressure drove Ross to abandon the values he'd laid out for her the night she wanted to kill Hickok.

  She wanted to shove these thoughts aside. Her stop at Mo's hadn't made her feel better. In fact, she felt worse. She needed sleep; her body was one massive ache. Once she arrived at Miss Etta's Boarding House, she went quietly and quickly to her room. She didn't want to eat or bathe. She sat cross-legged on the floor beside her bed in dirty clothes and took deep breaths.

  McDuff the cat nudged the door open and settled himself in the crook of her knee. She stroked his soft fur and felt worry-free purring under her hand.

  Her last thought before exhaustion overtook her was, What more can I do?

  Chapter 18

  Early the next morning, Debbi passed through Mo's on her way to headquarters. She was looking for Stew, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  Mo's was bustling despite the early hour. Caravan bosses and teamsters gathered within, some eating the Spartan breakfast Mo offered, others discussing lesser-used trade routes that might take them away from Reaper strikes.

  She grabbed a cup of coffee off the bar, tossing down a coin on the counter for the privilege and continued her wandering. A heated discussion in the back corner of the saloon caught her attention.

  Ahmed ibn Sharif was still decked out in dark robes and turban. He had struggled into town with his battered caravan late the previous night. He was currently arguing with an algae farmer. Debbi inched closer, sipping her hot coffee. Snatches of the conversation drifted to her.

  ".imagining things. There is nothing out there," Sharif insisted.

  "I'm telling you there is," shouted the algae farmer. His name was Charlie Newcomb, if Debbi remembered right. He was only forty years old, but he looked like he was well over sixty, his face pitted and marred by long hours in the harsh wind and extreme heat.

  "You have been sniffing your algae again, Newcomb." Sharif rose to leave, dismissing the man.

  The farmer's hand slammed down onto the table. "Damn you, Sharif! Listen to reason."

  Debbi stepped forward into the small, excited circle. "Is there some problem here?" Sharif and Newcomb both looked up sharply.

  "No, Ranger," the caravan master insisted. "There's no problem." He folded his arms in annoyance that Newcomb's outburst had attracted unwanted attention.

  Newcomb glared back at him and then shifted his gaze to Debbi. "There are strange things going on in the Red River Valley."

  Debbi raised her eyebrow, but it was Sharif who was quick to voice the obvious.

  "That valley is long dead. EXFOR and the Legion saw to that!"

  Sharif was right. The Red River Campaign broke the great anouk revolt in '76. It was the bloodiest battle in colonial history for natives and humans both. The last great anouk warlord, a female named Kreech, had holed up in a massive tannis fortress called Castle Rock deep in the vast Red River canyon system with a collection of rebellious anouk clans, a few Skinnies, and even some Reapers. The Syker Legion led the way for the UN army as they pushed their way foot by blood-soaked foot into the deep canyons. The Legion spearheaded the attack that breached the walls of Castle Rock. The hardship and slaughter were indescribable, but in the end Kreech was killed along with hundreds of thousands of her supporters. However, her body disappeared and has since become a mythical relic sparking occasional millennarial movements among anouks intent on driving the humans off their planet.

  Now the Red River valley was a desolate, haunted region and a place avoided by most people, even anouks and Skinnies. Only desperate squatters, like algae farmers, dared inhabit the region within a hundred miles of Castle Rock, and only because there was profit involved.

  Debbi took the seat opposite Newcomb. She had an interest in local legends, moreso because her father was a UN marine during the Red River campaign and had a part of making this one. "So, what was it you saw out there?"

  Sharif threw up his hands in frustration. "You're only encouraging him further, Ranger! He wants me to divert my caravan miles past his farm just so I don't disturb his algae. This is but a ploy!" The caravan master bent down to snarl at Newcomb. "It won't work, my friend. I've lost too much time already. I will be fording my caravan at Derleth Crossing in three days whether your algae is harvested or not."

  "You have no right!"

  "I have every right! It's not my fault you're so greedy you spread your damn algae up the trade route. I will not detour!"

  Debbi shouted, "Gentlemen! Please!" She turned to Sharif. "I want to hear what Newcomb saw out there, then we'll discuss land rights."

  Newcomb's broad smile did nothing to ease the situation, but the Tuareg did fall back.

  Debbi gestured to the farmer. "Now answer my question."

  "There's some sort of bizarre work going on out there! Men and vehicles. Digging, I think."

  "Digging?" Debbi knew that even the most foolhardy miners preferred to avoid the Red River Valley. The other possibility was a scientific expedition, but scientists from Hellstromme Industries' orbital lab were rarely if ever on Banshee these days. The world was in such chaos that surviving was the rule of the day. No one on Banshee had time for science outside of what it could do to provide more food and water. And the Red River Valley was no place to acquire either of those things.

  Even so, Debbi asked, "Is it Hellstromme Industries?"

  Newcomb shook his head. "Didn't see their insignias. But it might be geologists or archeologists or something."

  "Are they near your farm?"

  "No. They're back up towards where EXFOR kicked the snot out of the damn anouks. About fifty miles up river from my farm. Don't know what they want in that area. Nothing but death and wasteland. But they're out there all day and night. And I can hear this horrible wailing at times and the stench is godawful. I can barely stand to work out in the fields. Two of my hired hands are missing too."

  Debbi asked, "Sure they didn't just take off?"

  Newcomb gave her a hard, indignant stare. "Not these two. They were my best workers. And besides, they had pay coming."

  Debbi had to believe that. Money was such a scarce commodity these days, and no matter the situation, farm hands weren't going to leave before they got paid.

  "I'm in town to hire some new hands to replace them," Newcomb added. "If someone would just give me the time." He cast angry eyes to Sharif.

  Debbi rose. "We'll check it out." She turned immediately to Sharif before he could butt in. "And we'll see about the trade route dispute as well. If Newcomb has infringed on the caravan routes, you can bring it before the Caravan Administrator." Then she remembered the Caravan Administrator was in the lockup. Well, they didn't need to know that.

  Sharif announced, "My caravan leaves on tomorrow morning's rise. You have three days to move Newcomb. Otherwise, I'll move him myself." With a quick turn on his heel, the Tuareg left in a swirl of flowing robes.

  Debbi fixed an irate eye on the farmer. "You haven't encroached on the trade route have you, Newcomb?"

  Newcomb swallowed nervously. "Trade routes! Who can tell? These damned caravaneers think they own the planet! I'm telling you, the algae just sort of got away from us. It wasn't really my fault it drifted further upriver than normal, but there's no sense wasting it. All I wanted was another week to finish harvesting. If Sharif and his caravan come in before then, they'll ruin it." Newcomb's mouth spread into a glossy smile. "It's extra food on everyone's plate, Ranger. I'm only thinking of the hungry children of Temptation."


  Debbi scowled. The extra food was always welcome, but she knew Newcomb too. She could feel his slick oiliness from here. If he saw an opportunity to expand his spread and get away with it, he'd do it.

  She shook her head. "I'll talk to Ross."

  Newcomb nodded. "Thank you! Thank you!"

  Debbi smiled in a very unfriendly way. "Don't. You know Ross. Anything to keep the peace. And you're way out of our jurisdiction." She patted his shoulder. "If I were you, Newcomb, I'd hurry back to your farm and start working double shifts to get that algae in. Come the morning, trouble's coming to trample more than your crop and you won't have a leg to stand on."

  That wiped the smile from the farmer's face. Satisfied, Debbi strode out of the saloon and straight to headquarters.

  As if they didn't have enough problem.

  The Stallion blasted up waves of dust as it hovered. The Red River was half a mile distant. Its slow, crimson waters drifted between flat shores. Ross brought binoculars to his eyes.

  "There's Newcomb's farm." Ross gave a small grunt. "He's got a lot of gall."

  Ross had wanted to accompany Debbi on this mission. As soon as she had related Newcomb's story to him, he put Stew in charge and the two Rangers departed. He told her that it was more than just a land rights issue; it might have something to do with all the strange happenings in Temptation. He just felt it; and when an old lawdog like Ross had a hunch, it was wise to follow it.

  Debbi saw a gleam in his eye as they tore over the open plains in the Stallion. He looked ten years younger and she saw a glimpse of the stirring frontiersman who had helped tame this planet. Time in the saddle, away from the multiplying crises in town, was a tonic to him. It brought him alive. He actually sang an off-key version of an old Earth song "Red River Valley." It was a terribly sad song, but Ross seemed to enjoy it for some reason. She sat back and relished the aura of carefree adventure that washed off him. He personified that image of a wild Colonial Ranger that attracted her to the service as a young girl.

  The region around Newcomb's farm was relatively flat with widely scattered buttes and cliffs. The river here was wide, slow, and meandering. Vegetation was slowly reviving from the Worldstorm. Stunted trees and stands of high grass clutched precariously to life along the river bank. A hundred yards from the water, however, the landscape abruptly changed to dry, desert scrub.