Stew looked into the eyes of each Ranger in turn. "You're right, Miller. That's what Ross would do. But Ross isn't in charge, Dallas is. She's got a different plan. And I aim to see it done."
Miller, Fitz, and Chennault exchanged despairing glances.
Miller turned his back and stepped away, muttering, "Sure fine. What the hell, we're all dead anyway."
Fitz threw up his arm and shook his head.
Chennault holstered her Dragoon. Her voice was still quiet, but grim. "I think maybe you've got a blind spot too, Stew. You'd better be right about this."
As the setting sun cast long shadows through the town, the four Rangers walked up the street toward their headquarters. Wind drove clouds of dust before them. The whistling wind and their crunching footsteps seemed to be the only sounds in town. A gang of ten zombie troopers lounged outside the headquarters. When they spotted the approaching Rangers, they pushed themselves off their resting spots and stepped into the empty street with weapons at the ready.
Stew stopped and his three companions halted beside him. In one motion, they pulled their bandannas over their faces. The wind whipped through Stew's long coat. He saw the dark shapes of other Rangers and militiamen scrambling into position on nearby rooftops.
Stew shouted toward the headquarters building, "Marat!"
The door opened. Captain Marat emerged into a dull shaft of fading sunlight and smiled. "No need to scream, Ranger. I know you're out here."
Stew took a step and the Legionnaires brought their rifles up in a clash of metal. The Rangers' hands flashed to weapons. Stew raised a quick hand to warn off his three partners.
"Your people seem touchy," Marat said. "Are you here to start a fight?"
"No," Stew answered.
"Then why are you here?"
"You know why. Where's Ross?"
The undead Captain feigned good-natured confusion. "He's in his office. As usual. Why do you ask?"
"We need to see him."
"He's busy."
Stew's voice was both soft and tense. "Marat, I don't want to lose any friends and I imagine you're not anxious to go back into the cold ground. So what can we do to prevent that?"
Marat sneered. "Can you draw faster than I can think?"
"I wouldn't try anything." Stew's icy, blue eyes didn't waver from the zombie's cold, milky eyes. "Because when it starts, it won't stop until all of you, or all of us, are dead."
"I think it will be you."
Stew arched an eyebrow in response.
Marat's laugh was a strange, gargling sound. "Your leader, the red head, she is the one to blame. She keeps pushing and pushing and pushing. She can't leave well enough alone, can she? Now she's finally gone too far. I warned her what I would do if she continued."
Stew said, "I don't know what you're talking about."
Marat appeared genuinely taken aback, but only for a second. He recovered quickly. "I find that hard to believe."
"I said I don't know what you're talking about," Stew responded again.
Marat's voice was hard. "She attacked the prison camp and killed several of my men in the process of freeing your young companion. You didn't know?"
Miller laughed out loud and shouted, "Yeah! All right, Dallas! About freakin' time!"
Fitz and Chennault exchanged a few whispered words.
Stew stayed silent and kept his gaze fixed on Marat. He was elated to know Debbi had rescued Ringo, and killed a few Legionnaires in the process. Obviously, both she and Ringo were alive or Marat would be crowing about it.
Marat stepped to the edge of the sidewalk. He paid no attention to the other Rangers. Stew was in charge now.
Marat asked him, "Where is she?"
"I don't know," Stew answered.
"When is she coming back?"
"I don't know."
Marat's words were hard and deliberate. "I don't believe you."
Stew smiled and thumbed his hat off the back of his head. Then he raised his hands straight out. "Take a look."
"Stew! No!" Chennault shouted.
Marat's glance slid over the Rangers in the back. He then returned to Stew.
Stew felt the first light touches in his mind. They were almost physical, as if fingers were probing his brain inside his skull. Memories began to seep unbidden into his awareness. He felt sensations again. He could feel the spray of water droplets on his face as the wind blew across the tanks at Stryga Wells. He tasted the salt in his mouth. He could smell Debbi as she talked and he watched the red tips of her hair toss in the wind. He listened to her again and felt the same fear as she drove away in the Prowler.
He recalled the thrill he felt just seconds before at the news of her success at the Bone Camp.
Stew's mind suddenly erupted in fire. He bit down hard and his eyes rolled up in his head. He didn't scream in pain. His knees quivered weakly, but he didn't drop. If he showed he was in pain, the Rangers would assume Marat was killing him, as perhaps he was, and they would instantly retaliate. The war would start and he would have failed Debbi. With great effort, the former priest brought his gaze back down to meet Marat's with sweat dripping off his chin.
The syker stared intently. His rotting face was set in concentration and effort, even pain. Using his powers was an enormous strain.
The vise around Stew's brain released. The Ranger exhaled heavily and took a step forward to steady himself.
Marat slowly recovered his indifferent visage, pretending he had expended no great effort in wracking Stew's mind. They both knew Stew had beaten him this time. Marat had not been able to force an issue. But there was still one card left to play.
Marat said, "You knew her intention to attack the camp. Yet you didn't alert us. You knew the price of treason as well as she."
Stew croaked in a strained voice, "General Quantrill doesn't want Ross dead. And he wants Temptation kept peaceful."
"I am the military governor of Temptation. General Quantrill isn't here. I have full authority to keep the peace as I see fit. If none of you will follow your Captain's orders, what good is he to me? Quantrill would rather I burn the town to the ground than see it revolt against him."
"We're willing to follow Ross's orders completely. You have my word."
"I don't believe you. You Colonial Rangers are inveterate liars and opportunists. You're not soldiers; you have no honor."
The wind roared along the street and the air grew colder as the twilight deepened. Lights winked on thanks to the limited electrical power restored by the Legion.
The sound of footsteps from inside the headquarters heralded Ross's arrival. The Ranger captain walked out onto the sidewalk and stood next to Captain Marat. Ross's face was gaunt and pale. His sunken eyes were almost lost in the dark rings around them.
Marat turned his head slightly as if talking to Ross, but really directing his words out for all the Colonial Rangers to hear. "Captain Ross, your man here has abjured the actions of the rebel Dallas. On behalf of his colleagues, he has sworn to follow your orders to the letter. I would like to believe him, but the last few weeks have been a legacy of lies and obstruction on the part of your Rangers. Therefore, I require a gesture of good faith to insure their earnestness."
Marat leaned close to Ross and hissed words into his ear. Ross's exhausted expression didn't change. He moved stiffly like a marionette on a string.
Ross announced with a strangled cry, "Surrender the black guns."
Miller, Fitz, and Chennault erupted in protest.
Stew tried to consider the situation instantly with the shouting from behind and the steely glare of Marat in front. He studied Ross, tried to see what Debbi thought was still there, but he couldn't see any hint of the commander he had known and respected. Still, Debbi was sure. He couldn't think of the light in her eyes and the timbre in her voice and not believe her. He couldn't bear to think of that light fading when he told her that he had failed to keep Ross safe.
Stew pulled his Dragoon from his holster. He methodical
ly unsnapped the black gun attachment from the barrel and tossed it into the dirt a few feet in front of him.
"Stew, no!" Chennault yelled. "We can't do this! We might as well blow our own brains out!"
Miller growled, "That zombie's got him! He's mind-controlled too!"
Stew turned. "No. Give 'em up. We've got to."
"Maybe you've got to," Miller said with a sarcastic laugh. "Not me, brother. I don't even like Ross!"
"We've got to trust Dallas. Anything else is giving Marat the excuse he needs."
Fitz pulled his weapon and held it out to Chennault. "I've only got one arm here. Gimme a hand."
The woman hesitated. She glanced between the calm Stew and the agitated Miller. Then she made her decision. Chennault detached the black gun from Fitz's Dragoon, then removed her own. She threw both of them on top of Stew's.
"You're all crazy!" Miller yelled. "What are we going to use to fight these things?"
Chennault spun her sidearm on her finger. "We've still got cold steel and I'll take my chances with that any day. I just hope they're reading my mind as I pump some AP rounds through their skulls."
Fitz chuckled.
Miller waggled his head dismissively and yanked his pistol out. "Yeah, whatever. You people are all idiots." He fumbled awkwardly with the black gun before he finally wrenched it off. He threw it forcefully to the ground. "Dammit, Stew! I wish you'd stayed a priest. Cause only God Almighty can save us now."
"There," Stew announced to Marat.
The undead Captain nodded. "That's four. There are five more Rangers in town. Plus seventy-eight members of your militia. I want all their black guns within thirty minutes."
"I'll pass the word." Stew said flatly.
Ross stared at the small pile of weapons lying in the lamplit street. He slowly looked up and caught Stew's eye. Somewhere, deep down, Stew thought he saw a sign of disappointment and defeat. It shook Stew who whirled away quickly.
"You all right?" Chennault asked the icy-eyed Stew, but he moved past her without answering.
She followed and when they were out of Marat's sight, she grabbed Stew's arm and spun him around. "Don't second guess it now. You made the call. It's got to be the right one."
Stew clutched her shoulder with a slight but grateful smile. Taking back his resolve, he went to issue the order for the men and women now under his command to surrender the only weapon that gave them a fighting chance against their ruthless enemy. And it was all because he was willing to gamble their lives and the life of the town on a woman who was missing with a plan he'd never heard.
With time to consider it, it didn't sound very rational to him.
General Quantrill had taken over the finest house in Ghost Rock City. It had once been the home of the town's wealthiest mine owner and then it was the headquarters of the Reaper commander. It was built in a Victorian style and furnished in a fine manner with Earth teak furniture, lush brocade drapery, fine art, Persian rugs, and a once polished wooden floor that was now scarred and blood stained.
The mansion had a great ballroom that had once hosted the finest gatherings of colonial society. It was paneled in mahogany and it had a magnificent and intricate inlaid marble floor. Above the fireplace was a large portrait. The man in the painting was the original owner of the house, standing boldly before a landscape of conquered Banshee including a family of peaceful anouks in the background, the very ideal of the noble savage overawed by a superior culture. The painting was torn and stained from months of mistreatment by the Reapers.
This great chamber that saw balls and receptions and debaucheries had become the Legionary war room. Fourteen officers of the Legion were gathered inside. Some sat at the long, teak table under the cracked silver and crystal chandelier while others consulted maps that had been liberated from the mine offices and were nailed to the walls.
The large, double doors at the far end of the room swung open and Quantrill swept inside with his adjutant in his wake. The assembled officers scrambled to attention in a tumult of boots and chairs that echoed in the vast room.
"As you were, gentlemen." Quantrill took a seat at the head of the table. His chair was considerably larger than the others. He raised his hands and motioned his officers to take their seats around the table. They all sat and attentively regarded Quantrill, despite many dangling or missing eyes among the group.
"I have told you all individually, but I want to repeat in your gathered presence just how proud and gratified I am by the Legion's performance. You led your men with honor and professionalism. And I thank you."
Captain De Klerk, commander of the 3rd Division, spoke up with nasal, slurred speech due to his missing nose. "What's our next target, General?"
"We've bloodied the Reapers." Quantrill sat back with satisfaction. "I have spies watching their main base at Domburg Ruins. But until Nicolai decides to challenge us or I feel we have the power to assault Domburg, I intend to consolidate our position in this area. Ghost Rock City is ours. Our hold on Temptation is secure. I have just been informed by Captain Marat that the Colonial Rangers have surrendered their black guns as a token of solidarity. Clearly, they realize the Legion is the only solution for Banshee's future."
Several of the officers exchanged surprised glances and jealous murmurs. Quantrill watched with annoyance as resentments seep out just like in the old, breathing days. Even his new unitary command structure had failed to completely suppress the old squad rivalries. But perhaps Marat's success would spur all of them to seek greater achievement in battle.
Quantrill silenced the grumbling with a vigorous knock on the table. "The Reapers already know our power. Now I intend to educate the anouks. We fired a few minor settlements on the way south, but that doesn't deliver a strong enough message. The grapes need to know that the Legion will brook no rebellion. There are several sizeable native villages in the area and they must be reduced. I expect we'll encounter plenty of Skinnies as well. Are you gentlemen ready to take the fight to them?"
"Yes sir!"
"Excellent." Quantrill stood up. "We will have a war council at dawn tomorrow. For now, I would like to invite you all to enjoy a fine meal."
Taking his cue, the adjutant stepped out of the double doors behind the General and motioned up the corridor. Two troopers entered the ballroom carrying a heavy platter between them. The platter was three feet across covered with a silver dome. The troopers set their burden on the table and stepped back.
General Quantrill removed the platter's silver covering to reveal a man's naked body curled in the fetal position. The nude man was alive, his mouth was gagged and he was trussed wrist and ankle. His face contorted with terror.
"Tonight's main course comes courtesy of our old friends at Hellstromme Industries. It is a delicious dish that I believe goes by the name of Thomas." Quantrill stared into the bound man's panicked eyes and said to the struggling entree, "I fear I will be unable to return your gnawed bones to your supervisor because I intend to keep the shuttle you arrived in. But you can die content that you successfully ran your last errand. You delivered Hellstromme's message of alliance and friendship. I fear I will have to reject their proposal, however. Hellstromme Industries has nothing we need. And I personally have no respect for the greedy, self-absorbed technocrats who run it. And nothing will give me more pleasure than one day feasting on the entire board of directors of that heartless corporation."
Quantrill lifted a hatchet from the platter and held it out. "Captain De Klerk, would you care to carve?"
"Thank you, sir. It would be an honor." De Klerk took the shining, steel hatchet from his commander and examined the razor sharp edge of the blade before setting to work.
Chapter 12
Late at night, a week after the dark day the Rangers surrendered their black guns to Marat, five figures were seen making their way through the Depot in Temptation. One was a tall dark-skinned man wearing a simple dark robe and sporting a long scimitar at his belt. His face showed the ritual scarifica
tion of his Tuareg clan. Some of the caravaneers recognized the famed caravan master Sharif, but thought it odd to see him with his head uncovered, and without a caravan. In Temptation these days, however, it was best to mind one's own business. The other four people in his group were strangers. A lithe Chinese woman strode with him, her hand resting on her blaster. A thin, black man wearing a desert turban followed, his eyes darting quickly and suspiciously around him. A third man wore a heavy parka with the hood pulled up. In the lead was a medium-height figure whose head was swathed in black cloth that left only green eyes peering out, with a billowing black cloak that was too long.
As the group weaved their way through wagons and vehicles, they spotted an undead trooper wandering along the closed stalls at the edge of the Depot. The merchants and caravaneers who also saw the rotting Legionnaire instantly vanished. They drifted into their draped stalls and scurried out of sight into vehicles.
One poor soul didn't see the trooper. He was tying down a load on a wagon when the zombie walked up behind him and laid a gray hand on his shoulder. The man turned quickly and screamed. He tried to flee, but the zombie seized him by the shirt. The awful screaming continued as the zombie tore the shirt open and bit into the struggling man's shoulder.
The figure in the too long, black robes broke from the group and raced between stalls toward the melee. Sharif loped after, accompanied by the singing of his sword as it slid from its sheath.
The zombie shoved the man to the ground as it chewed a mouthful of his flesh. The man tried to crawl away, his screaming reduced to painful sobs. The undead trooper didn't hurry; it knew it could resume its meal at its leisure.
A motion to its side caused its head to turn in that direction.
In a swirl of black, Debbi Dallas leaped over a cart. Her Dragoon was out and she launched three silent, black needles at the zombie. They penetrated its head and chest. The thing jerked to a sudden halt.
Debbi landed in a crouch with her gun aimed at the zombie. It remained unmoving. She scrambled to the bitten man on the ground and examined his wound. The man cried out and grabbed Debbi's arm.
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