by James Axler
He was simply a solid block of human, tall enough to look both Ryan and Six in the eye, and he was neck and neck with Six for sternest scowl. He carried a heavy, unstrung recurved bow in a case with several dozen arrows slung at his side. He’d thrust a big-bore, single-shot, break-open handblaster through his belt and wore a brutal, paddle-shaped war-club with the handle sticking up over his shoulder.
Six looked the two scouts up and down and seemed not to totally disapprove of what he saw. “You have been to Manitoba?”
Donnie Goosekiller’s smile went up a few watts. “Oh, yeah! Me and Boo been all the way ’cross to the Porcupine Hills in Saskatchewan, and all the way up Lake Winnipeg to the Ross Island trading camp.” Goosekiller’s smile turned shy. “Not like the back of our hands you know, but we can get you ’cross it. Heck, Boo made it all the way up to Hudson Bay once, in winter.”
Blacktree grunted once in affirmation. “Yup.”
Toulalan turned to Six and nodded. Six opened the bed of one of the wags and unfolded two blankets full of Diefenbunker trade goods. “For each of you, a sleeping bag, ground cloth, pad and two blankets each, predark. Two C-7 blasters, with mag, six spare mags, all loaded, cleaning kits, plus web gear, bayonet and canteen. Poncho-shelter half. You want to sleep indoors, you sleep in the med wag, unless someone wounded is in it. You eat at our table, our food, with us.”
Ryan smiled. The mess wag had prepped for this interview. They were cooking Diefenbunker pancakes and the scent mixed with real coffee. The two scouts sniffed the air.
“Two more longblasters and accessories each,” Six concluded, “if we come back alive.”
Toulalan held up his wampum belt. “Whatever happens, you will be rewarded.”
Ryan watched the two First Nations scouts fondle the merchandise. It represented a tidy fortune. The fresh out-of-the-box blasters alone would trade for enough to live like kings for a year. Goosekiller touched each trade item individually. He liked what he saw. He turned to Toulalan. He was still smiling, but his small dark eyes were hard behind the thick glasses. “Heard you got Mace Henning after you.”
“I do.”
Goosekiller eyed Ryan. “He isn’t one of you. Who is he?”
“A friend, like you, who we met on the path.”
Goosekiller tilted his head back to look Ryan in the eye. “He looks like a good friend to have if Mace Henning is after you.”
“He is. Are you with us?”
Goosekiller turned to Blacktree. “Boo?”
The archer looked up from fondling the digital, camo-pattern Canadian armed forces poncho in the truck and nodded once in affirmation. “Yup.”
“We’re in!” Goosekiller grinned. “My name’s Goosekiller, but you can call me Goose. Boo’s name is Boo, but you best call him Blacktree until he tells you different.” Goosekiller’s nonstop smile grew even bigger. “He won’t.”
Toulalan made an expansive, French gesture. “Please, join us for breakfast.”
Blacktree beelined for the pancakes. Ryan called to his diminutive partner. “Donnie Goosekiller. That’s a good name.”
Goosekiller waved a dismissive hand. “Aw, gee, no one calls me the whole thing unless it’s a lodge meeting. We’re in the same convoy. Call me Goose.”
“The First People in the Deathlands call me One-Eye Chills.”
Goose regarded Ryan soberly. “That’s a good name, too.”
Ryan stuck out his hand. “You call me Ryan.”
“Aw, gee!” Goose blushed. “Good to meet you, Ryan.”
“Good to meet you, Goose. I’ve been on a couple of convoys and caravans in my time. Led them, sec’ed them and scouted for them.” Ryan allowed himself a small smile. “You’ve got to stay on the good side of your scouts.”
Goose wagged a finger in agreement. “Now that’s true. You look like a scout. And I heard the Deathlands are wicked rough.”
“Tell you the truth, Goose. Canada seemed all gaudy soft at first,” Ryan countered. “Then I met some pigs that were all wormy, and met Mace Henning and his boys. Taught me different.”
Goose nodded sagely. He dropped to his heels and began drawing a remarkable map of Ontario with a twig. He tapped the Lakes and the peninsula they bordered. “The big peninsula between the lakes, that’s worm country. It’s like what you might call a local phenomenon. Once we’re off the Bruce, we leave the worms behind.” Goose scratched his head and readjusted his tuque. “Baron Henning’s like a nonlocal phenomenon, and sounds like he’s on us like winter.”
Ryan liked the way the little scout was already saying “us.” Jon Hard-knife had sent them good men. “You were right. Me and my friends aren’t part of the convoy. But we’re with them for the duration. But just between you and me, you watch our asses and we’ll watch yours.”
“Us scouts gotta stick together!” Goose enthused.
“Got that right.”
The shriek of steam whistles split the morning calm. The crowd on the docks exploded into whoops and cheers. Ryan and Goose rose and joined the mob. Ryan had to admit he had doubted, but Toulalan had done it. Leviathan bore down on the docks. Toulalan had really, really done it. A floating citadel steamed its way toward the point. Black smoke belched into the morning sky from the thick, central smokestack. The chug of her engines was reminiscent of a locomotive. Ryan’s companions quickly found him. Though heavily modified the vessel was clearly predark.
“What do you make of it, Mildred?” Ryan asked.
“It’s a RO-RO,” Mildred said.
Jak squinted at the ship. “Not a row boat.”
“No, not row-row-row your boat, Jak. RO-RO, it means roll-on, roll-off. It has a ramp front and back.”
“Bow and stern,” Doc corrected her.
Mildred made an impatient noise and forged on. “You just drive on to it and then drive off the other side when you get to your destination. It’s easier than loading with a crane or an elevator or having to turn around. It’s a ferry.”
“Queen of the Lakes!” Goose pointed excitedly. “The old girl hasn’t been seen around here in years!”
The vessel had seen some extensive modification. A heavy wooden catapult squatting on an iron lazy Susan dominated the forward observation deck. Sandbag revetments were roped into place against the guardrails. A pair of heavy ballistae flanked the catapult. The barrels of machine blasters poked out of the sandbags. Every window had iron shutters. Nearly every inch of the vessel was cratered with bullet strikes old and new. Dozens of canoes hung from her sides. Except for the ramps, the first six feet of hull above the line was strung with double-thick curtains of storm fencing. Ryan made her about three hundred feet from ramp to ramp. The steam whistles shrieked again and tuques flew into the air like a flock of birds in response.
“Goose,” Ryan asked, “why hasn’t the Queen been seen on the Huron?”
The man scooped up his tuque. “Boycott.”
“Boycott?”
“Oh, there’s pirates on the Lakes, and everyone agrees they need chillin’ wherever and whenever you find them. Well, this one pirate, Thorpe, got himself a plan. He got a bunch of boys together and rebuilt the locks guarding the Soo Canal. Started demanding a toll from anyone who wanted to get on the Superior or leave it. McKenzie is the captain of the Queen. Biggest thing on the Lakes as far as I know. Well, he refused to pay and Thorpe nearly sank him. McKenzie said he would boycott the Huron until the Soo Lock pirates were cleared out. Been doing his hauling strictly on the Ontario and Erie every since.”
“No one has cleared out the locks?”
“Lot of talk about it. Putting an army together. But it’s hard to get two barons to agree to anything. Besides, any baron who takes the locks from Thorpe would probably just go into business himself.” Goose sighed and leaned on his weapon. �
��First Nations had a bunch of powwows about it. There was talk of sending a fleet of war canoes, taking the locks and making them a trading camp. But Thorpe is dug in like a tick. People talk, but most people either pay or take a land route to the Superior.”
“And now McKenzie is back on the Huron.”
“Yeah,” Goose said with a grin. “He sure is!”
The Queen of the Lakes reversed engines and slowed to a stop before the dock. Her original auto ramp had been replaced by timber sandwiched between sheets of iron. The hydraulics had been replaced by human muscle. Dozens of crewmen strained against the fore and aft capstans, and heavy chains rattled and clanked as they lowered the ramp to the dock like a drawbridge.
Captain Robert McKenzie stood in front of the crowd. To Mildred’s twentieth-century eye he bore a startling resemblance to Popeye’s old nemesis, Bluto, right down to the barrel chest and bushy black beard. The long red tuque spoiled the effect slightly. His badge of office appeared to be a sword of some sort. All of the gold plating was gone, and at somewhere along the line the blade had been broken. Someone had chiseled a new point on it, and the three-foot ceremonial sword had become a wicked two-foot-long stabbing knife. McKenzie waved the blade around like a willow wand, pointing at things that displeased him and bellowing orders at his crew.
Jon Hard-knife and a First Nations delegation stepped next to Toulalan. Goose shook his head in admiration. “Toulalan, he did it.”
McKenzie stomped down the ramp and stood in front of Toulalan. He looked long at the big rig and even longer at the two armored LAVs. “Yoann, you really did it.”
Six popped a bottle of Diefenbunker champagne on cue. Toulalan shrugged modestly and held out the foaming bottle. “Welcome back to the Huron, Captain.”
Chapter Eleven
Ryan rolled the big rig into her birth for the trip. Engines rumbled and echoed on the vehicle deck as McKenzie’s loadmasters scrambled and yelled and instinctively distributed vehicles and cargo to keep the Queen of the Lakes in sailing trim. The loadmaster was lanky, long-haired, potbellied and missing his front teeth. He waved his tuque for Ryan to come forward into his spot and then shoved out his palm to stop. He shot Ryan the thumbs-up and the Deathlands warrior cut the engine. The convoy wasn’t the only cargo or the only passengers. There would be a trading stop at Manitoulin Island. Fatty was bringing a nonworm-infected herd of pigs to Manitoulin Island. Some whose trading was done for summer were paying for a birth on the Queen just for the thrill of her being back on the Huron. It was big news. The fact that she was going to run the Soo Locks for Lake Superior in direct defiance of Thorpe the pirate king was even bigger.
Canoes and small boats had already left the Bruce in swarms.
Ryan knew Thorpe would be waiting.
He climbed down out of the cab. Work was going on everywhere, but Ryan he could tell McKenzie had far more crewmen than he needed. They all seemed like sailing men, but a lot of them had nothing better to do than clean their blasters and comment on the state of the passengers and cargo. McKenzie was overcrewed and the extra men were sec. He was spoiling for a fight. Twenty-five of Hard-knife’s men had volunteered for the battle on the locks, and Toulalan had paid each with a new longblaster.
There was a ruckus shaping up on the ramp. Ryan took his Scout longblaster in hand and went to see what was up. Six, Sylvan and Alain stood at the top of the loading ramp. Red, Tag and a half dozen of Mace Henning’s buckskinned sec men stood at the bottom surrounding a pallet of trade goods. Captain McKenzie was bellowing like a bull between them. “There’ll be no fighting on my ship!”
“No fighting,” Red acknowledged. “Just trade.”
“Trade?” McKenzie spit into the water. “I know your father is at war with Val-d’Or, Red! What’re you trying to pull? Are you saying you want to go to Manitoulin and stay with the Haw eaters until I get back? You ain’t coming with me to the locks! Not this trip!”
“That’s it exactly. Baron Mace Henning wishes to extend his hand to Baron Poncet on Manitoulin. I bring him gifts, and on your return trip I hope to bring back his goodwill, as well as hawberry wine and other goods for trade.”
Six’s blaster was in his hand, but he kept it lowered. “He’s a snake, McKenzie! Don’t trust him!”
McKenzie purpled. “That’s Captain McKenzie to you, you black frog!”
Sylvan and Alain paled. Ryan expected Six to explode. Six’s sudden icy calm was even more dangerous. “What is his cargo, I wonder?”
Red lifted his chin in challenge. “Baron Henning’s business.”
McKenzie gave Red an ugly look. “And if it goes on my ship, it’s my business! Last I heard the only thing Mace Henning’s villes make is sec men!”
Red nodded at his men. Eight, yard-long, green-painted metal cylinders were strapped to the pallet and packed in ice. One of his men went to the one on top, pulled open the hinged lid and pulled out a frozen black chunk of meat and handed it to Red.
“Baron Henning’s got three things in abundance, Captain. Sec men, blasters and, come summer, bison.” Red held out the meat. “We got livers and tongues. On ice, for as long as it lasts. Figured Baron Poncet might be tired of eating lampreys and hawberries on that island of his.”
McKenzie regarded the liver grudgingly. “Best part.”
Red nodded. “I’m only takin’ two men with me as a delegation. You can confiscate our blasters if you want. The rest of my men’ll stay here on the Bruce under camp law until I return.”
“Ain’t necessary.” McKenzie snatched the organ out of Red’s hand. “Ship law is like camp law. You start anything, you swim. You endanger my ship, you walk the plank with your pockets full of rocks.” McKenzie tossed the liver to his third mate. “Mr. Niall! Take this to Skillet! Tell him I want it fried in onions for supper.”
“Yes, Captain!” Niall ran through the passengers and crew thronging the lower deck. “Make a hole! Captain’s dinner coming through!”
“Loadmaster!” McKenzie bellowed. The man stepped forward. McKenzie pointed at Mace Henning’s cargo. “Find a place for Baron Henning’s trade! And try not to put it in the sun!”
“Yes, Captain.”
McKenzie turned and looked at the convoy delegation. “Six, Ryan, you have state rooms upstairs. Get settled in. I have a meeting in an hour with Yoann. Your attendance is required.”
IT WAS A COUNCIL of war. Ryan, Jak and J.B. sat with Toulalan, Six, McKenzie and his first mate, Mr. Smythe. Goose and Blacktree had been through the lock a dozen times and sat in, as well. A man named Loud Elk represented Hard-knife’s contribution. Doc was in the room because although at times he was known to ramble, he was an intelligent and thoughtful man. Doc was currently peering intently out the porthole at something as the Queen of the Lakes chugged across the main channel toward Manitoulin Island doing a sedate eight knots. The sun was low. Loading the convoy had taken a long time, and the captain had been forced to meet with endless delegations at the Bruce Point camp. They wouldn’t make Manitoulin before dark.
“How many are we expecting?” Ryan asked.
Toulalan looked at the captain. McKenzie shook his head. “Too many. Last time I faced him he had over two hundred pirates under arms. He’ll have more now. He’s had the Superior corked up like a bottle for years. He just keeps getting fatter and stronger.”
“How’s it fortified?”
McKenzie laid out a crude but serviceable map of the Soo Lock. “It’s like two forts, one either side of the canal. Then two smaller ones on the islands in the middle. Built up on rammed earth and each topped with a wooden palisade. The lock is draped like a curtain between them, but our first obstacle is about half a dozen timber chains roped together across the canal. Getting through those will stop any head of steam we can get up. Then there’s the lock itself. Double timbered. Takes two dozen oxen on
either side to open it. Even with a running start and at full steam I couldn’t ram it without sinking the ship.”
Goose looked at the map admiringly. “Captain’s got it about right. Me and Boo been through the lock just last year. We’d better expect at least three hundred, maybe four hundred pirates. And they live off the tolls. That lock is their sausage and syrup. They’ll defend it, and defend it hard.”
“Yup,” Blacktree agreed.
“Anything else we should know about?” Ryan asked.
“There’s a lesser gate in the lock itself on the northern side. It lifts up. They open that for canoes and small boats.”
Ryan filed that away. “So what’s your plan?”
Toulalan shrugged. “Simple. We deploy men in canoes to cut the timber chains. Meanwhile the catapults bombard the lock and break it. The LAVs will cover these activities respectively.”
Ryan stared at the picture. “That’s your plan?”
“As a matter of fact—” Toulalan nodded “—yes. Why?”
Ryan looked at Six. “This is your plan?”
Six made a derisive noise. “My plan was to stay in Val-d’Or, wrap my woman in furs of mink and sable, and make love all winter.”
“Not a bad plan,” Ryan admitted.
“Yes, well, now I’m here.” Six looked at Ryan challengingly. “You have a better plan?”
“I’ve seen your catapults. You’re going to have to get real close to use them, and the Queen will take a thousand blaster hits while you try, and your crews will be exposed. You don’t just have to break the locks, you need to punch a hole big enough to sail through, and do it without the wreckage bogging you down. If you don’t get that done by dark, you’re going to have a hundred boats trying to board you by night, and if Goose is right, we’re outnumbered by more than three to one.”