Skylock

by Paul Kozerski

  Damn it! He couldn't fold now. Had to keep going. Get to his feet before the leg swelled and left him lame. He straightened halfway with certain difficulty.

  "American!"

  The shout curdled Trennt's blood and brought him fully erect. From the breeze-stirred treeline stepped his adversary. The web belt of mud-caked vials hung about the major's shoulder in plain sight. But the man possessing them was no longer the steely-eyed hunter of yesterday. Now, just a survivor. Damaged goods, same as himself.

  Dobruja's left cheek was shiny purple with swelling. His eye, changed to a sunken black slit, was set in tight billowing flesh. He moved into the open, favoring his right shoulder, yet obviously inflated with a certain exhilaration at this ultimate confrontation.

  Speaking took him some effort. Still, Josef's English remained impeccable.

  "I see you are alone, as well."

  Trennt nodded. "I am."

  "I have a proposal."

  "I'm listening."

  "It is not proper for two professionals such as us to waste time and strength chasing each other. Let us finish the matter here and now, on a field of personal honor." Dobruja grinned appreciatively. "Looking at our equally deplorable conditions, I would say neither of us has the advantage. Would you not agree?"

  Trennt didn't answer. "I found our truck," he said instead. "And the man you took from us. Just so you know. He wasn't a researcher. He was a priest."

  The major shrugged pragmatically.

  "And the unfortunate casualty of an automobile accident, I'm afraid. But let us pursue more important things."

  Josef removed the bandoleer and offered it enticingly. With a quick snap, he flung it to the flinty dust midway between them.

  "To the winner, go the spoils."

  For a time the men merely regarded each other. Reluctant combatants hunched over in the teetering sway of weary apes, stale air worked through their slack mouths. Neither possessed strength enough for a long fight, but both were matter-of-fact about the prize set between them.

  The Russian lunged forward. Trennt met his charge. They collided with the awkward ferocity of grade-school wrestlers in a flurry of bared teeth and labored grunts. Greasy hands flailed for a grip. Their exhausted struggle took on the appearance of a sloppy, pathetic dance.

  Aware of Trennt's weakened ankle, Dobruja focused on it. He pulled and twisted, craftily widening his adversary's stance. Finally, he felt the proper shift in weight and levered Trennt around and down in the dirt.

  Trennt kicked his good leg straight back into the major's gut and scrambled quickly out of reach. They separated and regrouped.

  "Good move," congratulated the Red. "Perhaps the next round won't go so well."

  Taking stock of himself, Trennt knew the man was right. His ankle was unreliable. His vision, blurred. And his skull throbbed with the fevered beat of temple-high drop hammers. He gazed mournfully at the bandoleer and Josef's cold, wolfish grin.

  "Come on! Come on now, Yankee man!"

  Trennt realized the only way to end this matter was through total and absolute abandon. But his heart ached. What for so long would have been welcomed as a rightful penance, now crushed down on him in excruciating loss. His soul filled with a new anguish—the bitter irony of an unrealized and forsaken dream.

  Trennt drew his breath slowly and tightened his stance. There was no time for rehearsing. Just get it done. Head down, he came on.

  The major read his charge and braced for a simple kick and shove. Yet at the last second, Trennt's courageous rush became a cheap dive for the prize.

  Dobruja threw his eyes wide in realization and alarm. His shock erupted in a rolling scream of denial.

  "NO!"

  Josef chased after his retreating foe. Just steps ahead, Trennt scrambled determinedly toward the ledge. Bandoleer clutched tight, he mule-kicked at the hands struggling to restrain him. A half dozen flailing snaps landed on Dobruja. But the man endured them all to snag a pant leg.

  Down went Trennt.

  In a moment the major was on him from behind, one arm about his neck, and the other grabbing at a loose tangle of bootlace, working the injured foot painfully backward.

  Trennt managed a wild, roundhouse elbow to the man's swollen eye. The major spat a lizard's hiss in pain, but kept his grip. He fired a retaliating punch into Trennt's kidneys. A second, third, and fourth.

  Trennt had no further intention of fighting back. He'd committed every last ounce of strength to making the cliff edge and struggled on tortoiselike, dragging both men slowly forward.

  Josef's unobstructed punches landed harder and faster. A karate chop to the base of Trennt's skull finally dislodged the bandoleer. Trennt felt it leave his hand as his face plunged forward into the grit.

  In his exhaustion, he hoped vainly that the belt had somehow fallen over. But its broad coarse weave soon dragged down across his face. It skipped off his chin and clamped viselike about his throat.

  Behind it, Dobruja levered in a maniac's grip. Trennt could feel his neck bones pop and his windpipe flatten. The edges of his sight dimmed. His consciousness bled off and retreated to a wobbly orbit somewhere high above. Oxygen-starved brain cells went wild, fast-forwarding through snapshot glimpses of his life.

  Paying out like slack chain through a runaway pulley, random slices of boyhood times flashed by. The army. His life as a woodsman, husband, and father.

  A bittersweet image of Geri materialized. Then even it faded as his mind whirled helplessly toward the inevitable rush of approaching black.

  Trennt felt his body surrender, his arms go limp. He knew he must now die.

  His ears filled with a snake's sudden and angry hiss. A sharp crack, like leather on leather, slapped hard in the sullen air. Trennt heard the sounds of thrashing feet, gurgles and snorts, the bellowing cough of a hog clearing its throat.

  The strangling noose abruptly relaxed. His executioner's grip fell away and glorious scalding air flooded his gullet.

  Trennt managed a feeble roll to his side. Through blurred, tearing vision he saw the Russian major fully erect and on his toes, ballerina style. The man waltzed drunkenly sideways, his hands worrying insectlike at a hardwood arrow lancing his neck.

  Confused, Trennt struggled to his knees, as Dobruja continued past. The web belt dropped from his grasp and to the ground. Stumbling on, the major paused at the cliff edge and glanced back.

  Dumbfounded, he toppled gracelessly off into the rift.

  A blaze of colors on the fatal arrow caught Trennt's eye. It was a curiously familiar fletching blended of red, green, black, and yellow.

  On hands and knees, Trennt painfully raised his head. Across the divide he saw two black men. Hunters. One was lean with gentle features. But it was the well-muscled archer, standing with fired bow still in hand, who captured his attention.

  No expression showed on the face bearing long keloid scars of nobility. Yet a hand did raise the bow a notch, indicating a direction of travel.

  Trennt dropped his head and struggled to work his voice. Rising again, though, he found the other cliff empty and his benefactors gone. His only companion was the filthy belt.

  CHAPTER 28

  Trennt dragged up the forfeited prize and climbed back to his feet. Shuffle-walking along, he proceeded in the direction indicated. Not certain why, he didn't know for how far or how long.

  Then from nowhere hovered the apparition of a soldier. Baby-faced and dressed in crisp G.I. fatigues, he stood with weapon low, watching.

  Trennt hunkered on past, close enough to touch, but certain it was just his spent mind conjuring a mirage.

  His attention, went instead, to a broad shining lagoon just yards ahead. It was water as clear as any he'd ever seen. Sweet and deep and long. He remembered once learning to swim in just such a place. Maybe the owners would let him take a dip now.

  But the phantom persisted. It addressed him in a respectful, almost apologetic tone.

  "Sir?"

  Trennt walked on
, tugging at his belt as the ghost spoke yet again.

  "Sir. This way, sir. They're waiting for you."

  Trennt finally stopped and wheeled painfully about. In much the manner of a doorman, the soldier swept out a hand, indicating a path to follow. But doing so, he made no attempt to either force Trennt or disarm him of his hard-earned prize.

  Trennt inspected the youth head to foot and back. For reasons completely unknown, he complied. Turning from the lagoon, he limped into the broad mouth of a sloping gully and descended a narrowing chute leading to the small shoreline encampment set at its end.

  Through a clutch of trees Trennt saw the ocean. It rolled gently on with peaceful green swells, but to his disappointment, shared none of its cooling breeze. Rather, it selfishly drew the stale land air seaward, instead.

  A pair of high-speed, inflatable rafts sat on the rocky shore. Maybe a dozen people moved about. None looked familiar, save one.

  Dressed in a crisp blue jumpsuit stood Royce Corealis.

  The director waited expectantly in the open, hands astride hips and handsome face struck in stone-cold respect. His voice rang bell clear as Trennt approached.

  "Look what stands before you, people! The very definition of valor itself!"

  Corealis raised his head in something of reverence, shaking it with slow and absolute wonder.

  "This man took on all odds and comers to fulfill his duty. My god, Trennt, what a noble specimen you are!"

  Trennt did not reply.

  The silent moment also brought a pause to the director. In it he found time to express his contempt for all those of less virtue.

  "I remember seeing mountains of grain when I was a boy. Vast golden hills lying out in the rain because there weren't enough bins to hold the harvest. And still, my farmer father struggled, scraping up enough money to buy us kids shoes.

  "I saw surplus potatoes dumped in the ocean; milk poured in sewers, cattle shot rather than sold for low prices. And, the supreme idiocy, land shelved to lie fallow. All inefficiencies and theft perpetrated by the white-collar criminals in their high tower city lairs. Patronizing those they feared with welfare handouts, encouraging the free breeding of drug addicts and psychotic criminals, just to insure their own rank."

  But this reverie held no significance for Trennt. "I have what you want," he proclaimed. "Good people died helping me get it and I want to know why."

  The director took no offense at the interruption, nodding amicably.

  "As a soldier in your country's service, you have indeed earned the right. We are at war, Mister James Trennt. Without guns or armies, we are still very much fighting for our very survival. And what you hold in your hand is key to our victory.

  "Skylock has reduced all world powers to economic square one. And those same powers share a common denominator in the bulk of their unserviceable populations.

  "In years past that problem was exercised with real war. It thinned the people, rebuilt industry, and strengthened the currency. Throughout history, all that shooting has ever amounted to was a chess game of mutual consent. An economic cure-all, fueled by propaganda and patriotism to make it honorable.

  "But nuclear proliferation ended those easier days. And no workable alternative was available. Until now. Painful as it's been, Skylock has provided us with that alternative. But it is breaking, diminishing even as we speak. The solar storm is losing strength and once the poles complete their reversal, there will be a full return to geologic and atmospheric stability.

  "Yet under those new friendly skies and solid ground will also be the stark potential for at least fifty years of a cashless, bartering society. We know it and the Manna Project steering committee knows it. Whoever gets their currency to the table first will call the shots. And no one wants it to be us. So the question becomes a personal one for you.

  "Would you deny your country its chance to set the bar? A chance also to rebuild its cities without slums? Recreate a stronger America, whole and proud, instead of one owned by foreign dollars and run on cowardly welfare programs?"

  Corealis took a step forward and spread his arms.

  "Don't mistake my presence as the result of a love for being in charge. Rather, more because of its curse. But I learned long ago that no one can legislate morality. That all decadent societies need to be extinguished in order to be rebuilt. And someone needs to step up and brutally take the reins in order for that to happen.

  "In the last decades, the United States had become the same as the old Roman Empire; beyond its golden age and on a pathetic slide away from the sanctity of family, hard work, and proper codes of conduct. It dove headlong into the unbridled dregs of sexual excess, drug abuse, and mollycoddling legal systems.

  "Then, just like the Bible, with its Old Testament plagues, Skylock arrived to provide a practical springboard to regeneration. It cleansed our ranks and left a nucleus of righteous people to take up the yoke of their society, people willing to sacrifice and deny themselves in order to ordain its proper destiny. And you have just proven your mettle as one of them."

  The cold beacon of his logic was blinding. Trennt was being sweetly lulled by values dear and concepts valid. And he found himself wanting to agree, nodding idly in accord.

  In body, as well as now in mind, Trennt was too weak to resist further. He had to take full and swift action.

  With a quick twist, the ampoules were underfoot.

  "I hope you have a reserve plan!"

  Royce suspended his argument. His face clouded with genuine distress as he nodded. "Of course I do. But your choice does disappoint me."

  Trennt hovered, poised to crush the vials as Corealis motioned behind.

  "Let me introduce a new factor to help you reconsider."

  A soldier appeared, leading Geri, hands bound, behind her.

  Trennt felt the raw comfort of his rage desert him. He stumbled back and gawked.

  Yet even free to beg, the woman refused. Instead, her green eyes burned as fierce and determined as ever.

  "Do it Trennt!" She commanded. "For God's sake, do it!"

  Her cry wasn't what should have passed between lovers and for a fleeting moment the balance of power tipped with Trennt. But it fell immediately back with Baker's appearance, a second later.

  "How long've you been working for him?" Trennt heard himself ask.

  The gunman shrugged. "All along—same as you. I said it before, Pard. This ain't nuthin' but business. And nuthin' in business stays a secret. What we give to Uncle Sam today, he might well trade away or sell off tomorrow. But then that's his privilege. In the meantime, we're just givin' somethin' back to the people who own it, anyway. And whatever happens later will or won't, with or without us."

  Baker stepped closer.

  "Think on it, Jimbo. Our profession's like ball players. Ain't much call for middle-aged couriers or mechanics. And that's where we're headed. But here's our brass ring and there's room enough for us both to grab a hold. Take it with me."

  "Listen to your friend," Corealis encouraged. "He makes good sense. And don't be too hard on him for being practical. He made the only logical choice. In the meantime, look at yourself. Dead on your feet and nothing to show for it."

  Trennt disgustedly flung the belt ahead. "Eat 'em!"

  Corealis, in turn, motioned to his guards. Geri's cuffs were unlocked. She ran to Trennt's frail embrace, touched fingers to the fresh blue and purple strangle marks on his throat; kissed his filthy cheeks and lips.

  Royce gently removed the surviving ampoules and inspected each one. Carefully resetting them in a larger insulated box, he took a moment to sadly regard the lovers.

  "A supreme disappointment," he murmured to Baker, beside him. "After such a fine vocation, he folds for what?"

  The gunman shook his head.

  "Don't. Don't hard talk my friend."

  Royce shrugged off the matter.

  "As you wish."

  Royce then called out.

  "I've accepted your flag of surrender, M
ister Trennt. And I am not out to make this episode into anything personal. So, we'll be on our way. And you can be on yours."

  Geri sneered, looking back.

  "Always so easy for your kind, isn't it? Just use people up and move on."

  The director offered her a small, benign smile.

  "People make their own choices, kitten. You've made yours."

  Royce motioned to another soldier, who brought up a haversack.

  "For understandable reasons, I can't allow you a firearm. But inside the sack you will find rations enough for a week. It's the best trade I can make. You're free to go."

  His eyes never leaving Corealis, Trennt lifted the goods. He offered no thanks, but took Geri's hand and started a slow, deliberate march back up the gully.

  "Jimbo!"

  They didn't look.

  "Jimbo!"

  Still no acknowledgement.

  Finally, Baker jogged up, stopping at their backs.

  "Jimbo, wait! Hear me out."

  There, Trennt did stop. But facing away, he still didn't speak. Remaining behind, the shooter mewed uncharacteristically.

  "It's all just a silly game. Companies, countries—everyone wantin' to be in charge. Bigger 'n' better. First in line. So what? Sooner or later they get ours and we get theirs. Why not cash in on the deal?"

  Trennt slowly came about. His quiet stare made the man squirm.

  "Don't look at me that way, Pard. Like I'm some two-bit chicken thief."

  But Trennt didn't condemn. Instead, he praised.

  "That was some pretty convincing talk you gave at the church. 'Maybe we should quit, Jimbo. Turn back.'"

  Baker's face tightened.

  "At the time, I meant it. With all my heart."

  Trennt gazed protectively at Geri.

  "Not keeping her safe, you broke a bigger trust, to me." He nodded behind. "Go on. Your master's waiting."

  The couple moved off.

  Baker didn't follow, but continued his plea.

  "Pard, we been through too much to quit like this. I'd rather take a bullet than see you just turn away. Say somethin'. Please."