Skylock

by Paul Kozerski

  But once the disease was stemmed, Josef wanted out. He volunteered for the most exotic post he could manage and accordingly found himself on the California frontier.

  The post-quake shore states had taken on a separatist mentality that encouraged foreign legion occupation. Inhabitants willingly traded outpost space for the supplies that their own country could not afford to give—not that any occupying force had much to spare, either. But the combined benefit reaped from billeted East European, South American, and limited Asian militaries actually allowed a better standard of living here than was granted most of the States' urban countrymen.

  Josef's nation was the only one determined enough to invest seriously, and he resented the high price imposed on those left back home for whatever obscure futures might exist here. Expensive petrol, hard goods, and food reserves were diverted halfway around the world to bribe frontier officials and fuel the efforts of treasure hunters who combed the old Silicon Valley ruins for high-tech odds and ends.

  A few scientific finds had been noteworthy. The economic mainstay, however, was mostly a trade cycle of rendered electronic gold, silver, and platinum; for which Mother Russia traded dearly—and witness to it all was the impatient major.

  Dobruja had originally been promised command of an expeditionary battalion. He was to be given free rein in the extermination of those northern crazy bands and convict tribes liberated from asylums and prisons when the Great Quake hit. Such a policing action had been planned to endear the peasant population to a growing Soviet presence. And the combat experience was certain to assure Josef a prominent role in establishing a string of Soviet forts across the new West Coast.

  But there was always one bureaucratic delay or another preventing Josef from starting the crusade and establishing his name. Some in government even questioned his enthusiasm and methods. It made him angry and long for a return of the old Communist hardliners—people who would understand and approve, not reprimand his efforts like the indecisive weaklings now in power back home.

  The wait had frustrated Josef enough to dare some unauthorized search and destroy missions into the northern Wilds and eastern nonpartisan sectors. Most were paltry victories over bands of wretched woodland crazies, but one recent patrol had proved worthwhile.

  He chuckled grimly. How pathetically easy; textbook to a fault. A classic X-shaped ambush of five South American search trucks drawn to a brief and questionable S.O.S. call. Dobruja had considered a more in-depth search of the call, afterward, himself. But the signals were far distant and had long faded. So back here, to the drudgery it was.

  The major shouldered his way through another gaggle of American rubes. Walking along, he sighed. Military Governor Dobruja. The title carried such a nice ring. But the wheels of the gods moved so pitifully slowly. He'd long realized that his only hope in expediting his career would be the orchestration of some grand maneuver. But what of any consequence might ever happen in this dung heap?

  Josef's instincts were suddenly roused by an unformed flash of alarm. His hunter's eyes darted about the vagabond commoners and zeroed in on two approaching men. They too shared the notion, for they eyed him in return. The taller one offered a deferential nod as they passed. But the other stayed coolly neutral, a hawk's raw keenness in his face. Josef made a mental note of the pair.

  * * *

  Further down the crowded street Baker spied Geri. Standing on an opposite corner, she quietly watched them.

  "Well, lookie there."

  Trennt did look. But he kept his pace, making no effort to communicate with her. In moments, though, it was she who came jogging up behind them.

  "I can imagine what went on last night," she spoke with a hint of respect to their backs.

  "Too bad you weren't there to share it," answered Trennt over a shoulder. "I wouldn't say they're real happy with you, either."

  Coming alongside, she offered a dismissive shrug.

  "That doesn't matter. What does is your decision on me going along."

  Trennt stopped. "Where?"

  "To find what's lost," she replied.

  "What makes you think we'd look?"

  Her green eyes slashed between the pair.

  "Because nobody sends your kind packing. And because I've got as much right to be part of a search party as either of you."

  "How do you figure?"

  "Squatter's rights," she declared. "I spent almost two years with some decent caring people, ones who deserve more from their labors than a cheap race to their findings, while lying forgotten, burned to ash and shredded."

  Trennt frowned.

  "Where's the satchel of papers?"

  "I have it. Say 'yes' and you can have them back."

  "What we've been through might be nothing compared to what's ahead."

  "I'd carry my share."

  Trennt hissed cruelly. "How? On your back?"

  A hand swept toward his face, which he caught and twisted aside.

  "Those papers!" he demanded.

  Her green eyes met his with an equal glow of contempt.

  "Break both my arms if you want, tough guy. Either I go along or you'll never see them."

  Trennt held his grip for seconds more, but she matched his stare, unafraid and every bit as unyielding. He finally flung her hand away.

  "I go along?"

  No answer.

  "I go—or no papers."

  "Yes, dammit," he growled. Without saying more he walked off.

  Behind, Baker flashed Geri a wink.

  "Welcome aboard, Sweet Thang."

  * * *

  The old man was making some under hood adjustments to his truck as they approached. He greeted them in the old-fashioned slang he seemed to enjoy.

  "What's shakin', dudes?"

  Trennt nodded. "You?"

  "No complaints."

  The old man set down his wrench, wiped his hands, and motioned the trio aside. He dipped a couple of fingers into his shirt pocket. Out came a hefty clump of folded scrip money, which he handed over.

  "From your goods."

  Trennt took the cash and peeled off a handling fee to stuff back in the old-timer's pocket. Top accepted it with a nod of thanks. Before he spoke again, he glanced about, then shook his head in disbelief.

  "I got something else, too. A wild-ass story, that's so far-freakin' out it just might be true. If you'd want to waste your time listening, I can tell it."

  "Top," confided Trennt, "we've got nothing but time."

  Leaning back against his truck, the old Marine relayed his previous night's encounter. When his audience didn't laugh, he advanced a proposal.

  "From what Fibs said, this plane is working its way to the northwest, just about what you figured should be its direction of travel. Don't know where it goes to or comes from. But if it keeps on flying and we could spot it every couple of days, simple dead reckoning should get us close enough on its trail for shits and giggles—providing it doesn't keep on and wind up out in the drink."

  Baker was skeptical. "Jimbo, you don't really think . . ."

  Trennt puffed his lips. "It does match what Kosinski told me about it."

  He offered back the remaining fold of trade money.

  "You up to leading the way?"

  Top waved it off.

  "Let's take a ride out first and see if Fibs' story is real. I'm curious enough to scope that out for free. If we boogie all night, we could make a good vantage point by dawn tomorrow. We'll talk trip and pay later. In the meantime, burn some of those Commie bucks and get yourselves a hot shower and change of clothes. They'll be the last you'll have for a while and you cats need 'em. Be back here and ready to book at sundown."

  The group disbanded. Nothing in their brief exchange appeared any more noteworthy than would any other discussion among pickers over the next few days. But even so, their talk had been specifically observed and noted by a familiar young Russian corporal casually trailing behind.

  * * *

  Top fired up his truck at
dusk. Slipping on a priceless set of visual-display-monitor glasses, the old-timer deftly adjusted their 3D and latent heat imaging sensors. Resetting the truck's compass from solar to celestial, he spoke over a shoulder.

  "I know the terrain. I'll handle the drive. We'll still be way inside the safe zone. So you dudes zee-out if you can manage."

  From his place in back, Baker leaned forward between Top and Geri, riding shotgun up front.

  "Say Sweet Thang," he offered in his best Okie twang, "if y'all get chilly up 'ere jus' 'member you kin share my blanket any ole time."

  The woman smiled grimly. "I'll be fine, thanks."

  Top intervened, glancing over a shoulder with an exaggerated drawl of his own. "Where'd you-all buy that accent, Tex?"

  "I'm not from Texas," Baker declared. "I'm from Oklahoma."

  The old-timer winced. "Hmm. Guess we all got our problems in life."

  Top and Geri shared a smile as he shifted the truck into gear.

  The night's travel passed uneventfully. The truck's confident motion and monotonous engine drone lulled its passengers into a bouncing, fitful doze. At first light, Top hung a broad, sweeping turn. He aimed them toward the approaching dawn.

  "Up and at 'em troops! This is the place."

  Trennt sleepily searched the sky, rubbing his stiff neck.

  "Any idea when?"

  "According to Fibs, any time now."

  The wait began. A fingernail paring of spent moon and cold dot of the morning star gave the only skyward reference points. The sooty horizon slowly yielded to an indigo bruise. Healing lines of pink and gold invaded and bloomed. Minutes ground on. The first rays of a new sun pried brutally between earth and sky.

  Then came a presence—no sight or sound, but an approaching sensation that brought Baker's field glasses up.

  "There!" He pointed, coming to his feet. "Just below Venus!"

  Heads raised to look at a faint dot in the distant sky. A growing sound confirmed it: the flat, low whistle and steady blowtorch "whoosh" of a jet plane.

  The dot lengthened, then sprouted wings and a swept tail. It entered their view battered and streaked with grime. Its once brilliant white airframe had gone to a shocking gray. A moderate list to its damage side was obvious, as was the broad dark square of a jettisoned panel on its hollow belly.

  At its nearest point, the craft passed just a thousand feet overhead. Free as a child's lost balloon, it glided high and truant, answering to no one but itself.

  Then it slowed and began the odd hovering maneuvers as Fibs had described. Wings went to a raised angle of attack and the craft made a series of difficult one engine lateral moves, as if indeed pondering a place to settle. But something in its guidance system wouldn't allow a landing and it awkwardly returned to normal flight. Shedding its wings, it receded to the same tiny dot.

  "Hot damn!" proclaimed Baker, breaking the group trance. "I'd never've believed it! But it's gotta be her, Jimbo! Gotta be! How long yah reckon she's been up there?"

  "Three weeks, maybe."

  "Shoot, all that time without landin'. You don't think the pilot's still onboard?"

  Trennt slowly shook his head, eyes yet chasing after the departed craft.

  Behind the steering wheel Top chuckled, orienting a map.

  "Freaky as hell," he said in wonder. "But for once old Fibs was telling the full truth."

  He turned for Trennt in the back seat.

  "You make the call on chasing her, Cap. But if we go and there's anything of value aboard, I say Fibs deserves some cut of the action for even getting us this far."

  Trennt nodded. "Agreed."

  The old man lingered.

  "Something else. The travel alone will be enough of a ball-buster. But know this, they don't call them, the 'Wilds' for nothing. And I'd guess we might be going deep inside before we're done.

  "Bunch of strange stuff boiled up that way since the Quake: hot springs, quicksand, and mud flats that're straight poison from all the chemical dumps that got opened up and mixed in. Just the fumes'll blister your skin a mile off.

  "Even worse are the tribes—crazies and killers. Hundreds, thousands, were all freed when the jail and asylum walls caved in, and just the worst are left to deal with these days."

  His eyes skewed toward Geri. "Only prisoners they take are better off dead."

  Baker scoffed, leaning over the front seat. "Don'cha worry none, Sweet Thang, I'll protect yah."

  Top answered without looking over.

  "I've been out there before, Slick. Going is the easy part. It's getting back that's always hardest. What I need even less is bad karma on my case from somebody a little too anxious."

  He looked to Trennt, speaking flatly.

  "For anybody else, I wouldn't go. But I think you're a righteous dude, Cap. So for you, yes."

  "Is there money enough?" asked Trennt.

  "I'd say so. Enough volunteer farm crops grow wild to keep us from starving. Those scrip bucks should cover the hard goods we'll need. We'll divvy up a shopping list, so no one person draws heat from the man. Just hang loose and be cool if someone shows interest in what you're buying."

  "Any chance that guy Fibs might shed more light on the matter?"

  Top frowned. "With him you never know. I can try."

  Reaching for the truck's ignition, the old man offered a last warning.

  "Understand, I won't guarantee anything. Not even getting out empty-handed. Everybody be sure this is what you want."

  "It is," declared Trennt, speaking for the group.

  "Okay, then. Let's rock."

  CHAPTER 17

  Royce Corealis settled back comfortably in his meager hotel suite, watching his evening caller depart. He now glowed with success on all counts. His hasty goodwill trip west was working out far better than he'd ever hoped. His medicine show approach of simply drumming up folks on street corner stops about Freeville provided him with an audience far from the hostile lot he'd anticipated.

  To the contrary, they gathered eagerly to hear his news of the struggles endured back east. They seemed vexed by their former president's untimely passing and sympathetic toward stories of what their less fortunate city-bound cousins contended with. Royce's vague proposal of a future election stirred their craving for a return to normalcy and he enjoyed free movement through the crowds, offering optimism and hope.

  He now smiled. Snake oil and democracy, one and the same.

  The local Red military contingent was understandably reserved at his presence. But they did not hamper his entourage and stayed as pleasantly tolerant as their stiff-necked military courtesy would allow. Even this, Royce felt, could be put to eventual use.

  Corealis' true purpose was also netting results. Agency scout teams had easily infiltrated the Rendezvous crowds and were probing for information on the lost plane. Better yet, he was now armed with confirmation that his previous agents had indeed disregarded his warning and were aggressively pursuing leads of their own. Things couldn't be working out better.

  The director watched his aide pouring cups of Russian coffee.

  "It's rewarding to know that values such as integrity and propriety are still very much the fabric of dedicated people like our freelancers. I'm certain our task shall be made much easier by their vengeful efforts."

  The director's grin tightened as he took a cup.

  "We'll continue following the northern coastline on our goodwill junket and let our crusaders proceed. But maybe at an appropriate moment, we should also play the role of good neighbor and leak word of them as possibly dangerous insurrectionists to the local authorities. A little extra driving force, if you understand my meaning."

  * * *

  Aboard the anchored cargo sub, Major Dobruja was listening to a status report of his own.

  "Corporal Lansky saw this himself? The very same two men we passed in the street yesterday also spoke to this bunch of visiting dignitaries?"

  The sergeant nodded. "Yes, sir."

  "He's absolu
tely certain?"

  "He has no doubt. He was on sidewalk duty when the American dignitaries went past on a tour of the town. They were shaking hands with everyone like politicians do. But at the soup kitchen they singled out the pair as though they knew them.

  "The corporal couldn't hear what was said. But shortly tempers rose between Corealis and the taller of the pickers. The group went outside to finish. By the time Lansky managed to work his way around, they'd split up.

  "There's been no further contact between the two groups, but Lansky made a point of trailing the pickers on his own for a time yesterday, and they have since hooked up with a woman and an old man. They drove off together last night and were seen again today. This time they split up and spent the entire afternoon bartering for travel goods and fuel enough to go a long distance."

  The major pondered the matter. It did strike him exceedingly odd that random pickers would be singled out for such contact by the politicians. And the two men in question did raise his own suspicions, just by their presence.

  But otherwise, their actions spoke of nothing different than any other pickers would ultimately wind up doing. Even provisioning so early into Rendezvous usually meant something as minor as simply getting a jump on the competition for some newly rumored treasure field.

  Still, Dobruja sensed more. And it bothered him.

  His sergeant voiced the obvious. "Extremists?"

  "Maybe," Josef answered wryly. "We are, after all, not loved by everyone. Might at least make our own lives more interesting, to deal with some actual radicals. Public trial and execution, maybe. But we've been reminded time and again, by superiors back home, to watch our manners."

  Dobruja's thoughts returned to the recent arrival of the American diplomats. He regarded them with typical disdain.

  "Our new guests appear to be just more stuffed shirts on a phony goodwill tour, gravely surveying damage they can't possibly correct and making promises of public aid not worth the breath to say them. Still, what could be the connection between two such groups?"

  "This Corealis does have a way about him," remarked the sergeant. "Seems to be a good talker. People listen."