Despite practising the procedure a hundred times, despite knowing the car inside-out from having helped build it, Jesse was overtaken by panic. He couldn’t remember where the chaff button was. The side of the wheel. Well, punch the damn thing, screamed the guardian angel in his head. He pumped the little button with his thumb and from the back of his car emerged flares and showers of metal foil. Flares in case the missile was a heat-seeker, foil in case it was radar-guided.
Heat seeker. On the screen, Jesse saw it contact with a flare about 20 metres back. There was a dull whumping noise, followed half a second later by an ear-splitting crack. Jesse remembered too late to open his mouth to spare his eardrums from the shock and he was deafened. For all that, he could still hear and feel the rocks, dried mud and shrapnel spattering against the back of his car.
He kept his foot on the gas and after a few seconds realized that he and the car were still in one piece. The Rolls had fallen behind a little, but now he could see it emerging through the curtain of dust hanging in the air where the missile had exploded, with the metal-foil chaff fluttering violently in its slipstream.
Jesse yanked the wheel down hard and pulled a rightward U-turn, keeping it as tight as possible to try and avoid exposing his side, which wasn’t armoured. As he came out of it, he saw the Rolls 150 metres dead ahead.
In case the Duke tried the laser trick again, Jesse put his head down as low as he could, driving by the camera and the targeting monitor. But they were approaching one another too fast to take decent aim. Jesse let off a three second burst in the Rolls’s general direction and hoped for the best. The cars passed, missing one another by inches.
The Rolls must have turned on a dime, thought Jesse, for the next thing he knew it was on his tail once more. Yet another missile was poking out of the front.
They started racing again, back in the direction they’d come from, with the Duke holding it a steady 130 metres behind. The missile fired, Jesse pumped chaff and flares, but still the thing was coming at him. On the camera monitor he thought he saw a tiny filament glinting in the sun behind the missile. It was wire-guided.
That meant his opponent was still controlling it. To try and deflect his aim, Jesse pulled the sharpest left he could manage.
This time, he remembered to keep his mouth open—for all the good it would do, since his ears were still ringing after the previous explosion. This time it was much louder, and much nearer. It had gone off just a few feet from his tail, and jolted the car sideways. Jesse drove on. There was smoke coming from the back of the car, but the engine seemed to be responding still. He jettisoned his six remaining mines in case fire got to them.
Now there were bullets tearing into the unarmoured side of his car. Turning to avoid the missile had exposed his flank to the Rolls. And where the Duke was supposed to have headlamps, he had machineguns.
Jesse pulled off with bullets cracking past his ears. He managed to get away, his clock hit the peg and in a matter of seconds they were playing racing cars again.
The Duke of Bedminster had just made his first mistake. As they raced along, Jesse noticed the Rolls was no longer directly behind him. He was a little to the left and he was closing fast.
Jesse found time to wonder if he could afford a new set of tyres as he slammed on the brakes and went skidding forward for what felt like half a mile, with the belts nearly cutting off his arms at the shoulders.
It had worked. The Duke went shooting off ahead of him, probably wondering what the hell was going on. With the engine complaining bitterly, Jesse took off again, and was now on the Duke’s tail, watching carefully for any little tricks he might get up to, watching the graticules on the targeting monitor converge on the Duke of Bedminster’s blue-blooded rear end.
It occurred to Jesse that it would have been real neat to kill the Duke and keep that classy auto of his and bring it home. If they couldn’t use it in Pleasant County, it would still have made a great trophy. But when he got down to it, he decided it was best just to let him have both belts in total.
On the targeting monitor, the cross-hairs met.
Jesse drove his thumb savagely into the button. The car shuddered gently as he drove on, pumping a cocktail of tracer, lead, incendiary and, occasionally, hideously expensive DU shells into the back of the Rolls.
The Duke tried a sharp turn, but his engine decided it had had enough. It occurred to Jesse that he’d just fired off the equivalent of a month’s salary in a few seconds. He decided to carry on and make it two months. Just as the last of his ammo was about to leave, the Rolls quietly burst into flames.
Jesse stopped his car, got out and walked towards the blazing Rolls Royce, wondering if the Duke was still alive in there. When, however, his ammo started popping off, he figured this was best left alone. Remembering there might be more of those noisy missiles in there, he went back to his car and drove it well out of harm’s way before radioing back to George to tell him everything was fine, but to put the town on yellow alert anyway just in case the Duke’s men came looking for vengeance.
Then he saw the TV bird was still up there. He whooped and hollered at it, making obscene gestures. It was time to go home. Half a mile away, the Rolls exploded noisily and Jesse wondered if he’d ever get his hearing back properly.
“Ooooooooh Susannah, oh don’t you cry for meeeee!!” he sang as he turned off the highway and headed back to New Carthage. He found that singing loudly seemed to be getting rid of some of the fug in his ears. On the whole, he was feeling very good indeed.
But his mood changed about five klicks down the road to town. There up in front of him, blocking his way, was the TV chopper. Jesse stopped the car and got out, intending to tell these damn parasites that he didn’t give interviews. At least not unless they wanted to donate 100 grand and a new set of tyres to the Pleasant County Community Fund.
“Hell, I shoulda known it, shouldn’t I?” he muttered to himself as he got out of his car and saw that out of the helicopter was getting not Lola Stetchkin or one of the TV interviewers, but the Duke of Bedminster, in his red coat and buff britches, and with what appeared to be a flintlock pistol in his belt.
“You cheated,” said Jesse quietly.
“Certainly not, young man. There was nothing in the rules about not being allowed to appoint a champion. I appointed poor Farquahar as my champion. Perfectly permissable, don’t you know. I was half-expecting you to appoint George Crane as your champ.”
“Like hell. I won fair and square, didn’t I?” Jesse asked, surprised that he was sounding like a kid whose football had been taken away.
“You certainly did, my friend, you certainly did. But I’m a teensy bit miffed about what you did to Farquahar and my Roller. Have you the faintest idea how much those bloody things cost?”
“What things? Rolls-Royces or Fark-Wahrs?”
“There’s no need to be facetious, young man. Now, let’s get this business over with,” he said.
“What! Another duel?”
“Exactly. Just as in your cowboy films. Go for your gun, pardner, and all that sort of thing.”
“Uh-huh. I got a pistol in the car. Mind if I go get it”
“Be my guest.”
Jesse went over to the car with no intention of playing High Noon with this madman. He reached into the glove compartment and got out his Magnum .44. The Duke, he noticed, was watching him all the way, and was now standing side on to him to present as small a target as possible. His cheek was on his right shoulder, looking down his arm, at the end of which he held the flintlock.
Jesse took the gun in both hands, leaned on the car’s roof, took rapid aim at the Duke and fired.
And missed.
Before he could get off another shot, the Duke fired his flintlock, hitting the car. There was a small explosion as the car windows blew out, blasting Jesse onto his back. The Duke was clearly not using the same kind of pistol that was around in George Washington’s time. It was obviously some fancy piece got up to look like an
antique in keeping with the Duke’s public image.
Jesse picked himself up as another shot from the flintlock whistled uselessly overhead and, taking more careful aim to allow for recoil, fired. This time he hit, and the Duke staggered backwards, clutching his side. But he squeezed off one more shot in the direction of the car, causing more damage inside with the exploding shell and once more knocking Jesse off his feet.
Jesse got up, to find the Duke standing in front of the helicopter as large as life. He knocked on his chest, causing a hollow, wooden sound.
“Now you wouldn’t expect a knight to go jousting without his armour on, would you, matey?” he sniggered.
Jesse said nothing, but raised his gun again for a head shot. Before he could squeeze the trigger, the Duke had fired.
Everything went blank for a moment. Jesse realized that his gun had been shot from his hand. And that the explosive bullet the Duke was using had burned him on the arms and chest, tearing his shirt-front to shreds. He suspected that two of his fingers were broken as well. He looked a real mess. He fainted.
He could only have passed out for a second or two. Through the wheels of his battered car, he could see the Duke was still standing where he’d been before, probably wanting to be sure that the Sheriff was definitely out for the count.
He saw what looked like the damaged remains of his Magnum a couple of yards away. There was no point in trying to get to it. The Duke would finish him off before he got there, and even if he made it, the gun looked useless. He groaned and raised his head a little.
Next to his hand, among some of the debris blown out of his car, he saw the handset for triggering the Scimitar mines. Where was the one nearest here?
It would be number 13. Unlucky 13. He switched on the LCD. It seemed to be working. The Duke fired another shell at the car, presumably hoping to hit the fuel tanks. Jesse keyed in 13, punched the ARM and DETONATE keys and covered his head with his aching, bleeding arms.
He remembered to keep his mouth open again. The explosion was deafening, and it was followed by another as it caught the Duke’s helicopter and ripped through its fuel tanks.
A minute later, rocks, mud, pieces of road surface and the debris of the chopper were still falling to the ground. Jesse felt more than heard a heavy object thumping into the dust next to him. He opened his eyes and got up painfully to drive—or more likely walk—back to town. He saw that what had landed next to him was the Duke of Bedminster’s head. Yep. His Grace really was dead this time. Lucky 13.
Stuart County, four days later:
“Yo! Izzat you Cal? Yeah, it’s me, Vinny. Listen up, Cal. Got a serious business proposition for you and your people. Me? Hell, it’s a long story. Okay, okay. Well in short we was bounced six months back. Yeah. Didn’t stand a chance. Yeah. Powerchord got it, and Wasp, and Smeg an’ Vulture an’ Flamethrower Phyllis. All of them. Yeah. Too bad. Anyways, outfit who did it were working for this crazy Englishman called himself the Duke of Bedminster. Yeah! No kidding! They got me, patched me up and put me to work. Slave labour, kinda thing. Yeah, working in this room growing shamburgers. Tell you what, I’m a friggin’ vegetarian from now on. Anyways, hey listen will ya? This Duke feller and his sidekick Leff-Tenant Fark-Wahr got rubbed a few days back by some hick Sheriff. Duke’s goons here got to arguin’ among themselves ’bout who’s boss, so I organized the slave rebellion an’ took over while they was fightin’ among themselves.
“Cal, I got 85 renegades here madder’n hell from bein’ treated like slaves an’ just rarin’ to go. We got some real badass vee-hickles in the Duke’s motor pool. Yeah, cars, bikes, armoured trucks, everything. We even got horses, but I guess you’ll wanna eat them… Back off, Cal, just kiddin‘, huh? You should see the weapon store, Cal. You could fit the GenTech blimp in it. What I’m proposing is we join up. You can junk that rusty old bike o’ yours. Hey, don’t get sore! Sure, ’course it is. But look what I’m offerin’ instead—a real English Rolls Royce—real leather seats, executive boozebin, missile pod and twin sixes, runs as smooth as a ball-bearing on a mirror. Straight! If you’re my number two, you’re gonna need the second-fanciest tourist in the garage. You think about it, Cal, but not too long, huh? Hey, wait up a minute… CAN YOU LOSERS QUIT THAT RACKET AWHILE!!… Yeah. Boys’re doing a little body-cutting right now. An’ everything needs a complete respray… What? Hey! I knew you wouldn’t skirt out on me, Cal. Thass great! Yeah. Room for everyone, sure. Okay, you got a map? Stuart County. ’Bout three days ride. Give you a few days to get settled, do any customizing you want, then we go kick some ass. Okay! Don’t be late now, y’hear?”
Thicker than Water
by Brian Craig
Carl climbed on to the top of a rusted tanker which must have been hijacked ten or twelve years ago and run off the road into the swamp-water when its contents had been siphoned off. They were still some distance from the half-dozen buildings which were all that remained of the town, but he figured that it was worth looking to see if there was a light. If there was, it would probably mean that the girl was there, as Doc Zarathustra had said she would be.
Behind and below him Bro cursed, loudly and imaginatively. Bro had always been one for swearing, ever since they were kids. He wished that he had a dollar for every time he’d heard someone telling Mom how different her two sons were, Carl being so calm and polite while his little brother—even then people hadn’t used his name much—was so angry and foul-mouthed. Mom and the whole world had tried to tell Bro how much nicer it would be if he were more like Carl, and Bro had taken stubborn delight in telling Mom and the whole world where to stick their advice. But Carl had always tried to look after Bro, because Mom had told him to do it, and now she was dead there was no way to resign from the job.
“What’s the matter, Bro?” asked Carl, tiredly. There was a light up ahead there. Someone was in town. But he could also hear something, though it wasn’t easy with the bullfrogs croaking. He could hear music, and if he could hear it at this sort of range, whoever was playing it must have the volume turned way up high. He couldn’t imagine that the girl would do that, because she surely knew that Doc Zarathustra would send someone after her.
“The matter is I’m bein’ bitten to death by freakin’ skeeters!” said Bro, in the whiney voice which he always had when things weren’t going his way.
“Mosquito bites won’t kill you,” said Carl, as he jumped down again, trying to avoid going knee-deep into the stagnant water.
“Oh yeah?” countered Bro. “I heard tell of guys who got AIDS from skeeter bites, ’cause the freakin’ skeeters hadn’t been too choosy about who they’d been bitin’ earlier that night, see?”
Carl made a disgusted noise. “People are thin on the ground in these parts since the greenhouse effect turned Louisiana into a salt-marsh. That burg up ahead where the lady was raised has been a ghost town for ten years. Where do you think the mosquito that bit you would find a Hivvie? You’re probably the first square meal it’s had this year, and I bet you taste so bad it’ll stick to wild dogs in future. Anyway, bitten or not, you keep quiet from now on, you hear—there’s someone partying up ahead and if the girl is there, she may not be alone.”
Bro was equally disgusted. “Smartass!” he said. “First you tell me there’s no one for the freakin’ skeeter to’ve bit, then you tell me to shut up because there’s a freakin’ army up ahead. Make up your mind, hey?”
“Just shut up, Bro, okay? And turn off that light.”
Bro switched off the flashlight and hung it on his belt. He didn’t seem to mind that—probably because it let him get both hands back on the machine gun. Since they transferred from the shotgun squad to special duties Bro hadn’t had so many opportunities to carry heavy weapons. Carl was only carrying a dart-gun, because Doc Zarathustra wanted the girl alive, but Bro would have to cover him if things got hairy.
They set off towards the town. They’d been walking on the road until now—it was in surprisingly good shape, considering what sort of
mess the swamp had made of the fields either side—but Carl soon took them off into the bushes, because he could hear the music quite distinctly now, and he figured that whoever was partying would probably have left a lookout to watch their vehicles.
Bro, needless to say, didn’t like walking where he might get his feet wet. “Should’ve brought the feakin’ truck,” he complained—though he had just enough sense to keep his voice way down low.
“Sure,” said Carl. “It really pays to advertise when you’re trying to creep up on folk.”
Bro muttered something else, which might have been “Smartass!”
When they got closer they saw that the lights were inside an old roadhouse, which must have been on the outskirts of the town when it was a town, before the stealthy swampwater swallowed it up. There were no lights outside, because the sentry wanted to be in shadow, but by the light that came through the broken windows Carl could see that an armoured jalopy and three or four bikes were parked there.
The jalopy wasn’t in the same league as the sneaker which Carl and Bro had brought—that was one of GenTech’s finest, virtually uncrackable and rigged out with state-of-the-art frying pans that could trash virtually anything else on the road. Nevertheless, it was no soup-can, and it packed an autocannon as well as the usual 6mm MGs.
Once Carl had spotted the lookout, who was up on the roof, he figured out a way to get round the other side of the roadhouse and come in close without being seen. He managed to get close enough to read the logo on the jalopy, which just said SATAN in big black letters. Satan’s Stormtroopers were one of the biggest gangs in Houston, but they had no chapter this far east, which was nomansland as far as all the Angel Legions were concerned. They were just out joyriding.
Carl wondered for a few anxious moments whether they might have come looking for the girl, but that didn’t make sense. If anyone but Doc Zarathustra knew that she was worth something—if anyone but the Doc even knew she’d escaped from wherever he’d had her penned up—they’d have sent bounty hunters after her. Satan’s Stormtroopers might be tough, but they couldn’t be trusted to pick up fragile packages and get them home in one piece.
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