by James Axler
Beside her was the deputy ward, in full formal regalia, tassels on his boots, plumed hat, waistcoat, vest, ruffles and cape. He appeared to be a dandy, a fop,as they used to say,but in truth he was a brutal commander, and the deadliest blade known.
Deputy Ward Richard Coultier was sitting forward on the edge of his chair, using an oily cloth to polish a predark saber of astonishing sharpness.
An even worse sign. The anger of the son of the ward struck like lightning, coming from nowhere without warning, and the saber was his preferred death tool. Once it left the scabbard, it was never returned without first tasting blood.
Anders was somewhat relieved to note the curtain hanging behind them was closed, cutting off any possible view of the ward. At least he wouldn't have to cope with that today.
Removing his helmet, Anders bowed to the heirs of the ville, low for the son, lower for the Lady, and he damn near kowtowed to the closed curtain.
"My lord and lady, I come to report bad news," he said in a single breath, the words almost gushing out.
Richard glared, and Amanda dashed aside the chalice, red wine spraying over the floor.
"We know! What happened to them, Lieutenant?" Amanda shrieked. "Where are they! Where? Where?" Her hands formed claws upon the wooden arms of her chair, her expression radiating an insane madness beyond words.
"Milady, we went into the courtyard as soon as the sleep gas was gone," Anders said, his heart pounding in his chest. His right hand was tucked into his wide leather belt, and surreptitiously fingering a derringer, ready to blow out his brains before becoming a toy for Eugene.
"And?" Richard growled, drumming his manicured nails on the curved arm of the chair.
"And they were gone," Anders finished lamely. "There was no sign of them."
"Unacceptable," Amanda spit "Who led the guards to collect them?"
"Corporal Phinious."
"Kill him," Richard commanded, daintily straightening his cape.
"No," Amanda corrected. "Strip him of all rank and send him to the mines."
"B-but, my lord!" Anders stammered. "The slaves will kill him with their bare hands!"
A new chalice was given to her. The blonde raised the golden cup and took a sip. "And your point is?" she asked sweetly.
"What I want to know is," interrupted Richard, "did they escape, or were they rescued?"
"Both actions are unthinkable!"
"Yet one must be true. Either the gas had no effect..."
"Impossible." She paused. "Or perhaps we have a mutie in the yule. Somebody immune to the vapors who removed their sleeping bodies."
"Before the guards arrived? Also impossible," Richard snorted, gripping the sword at his hip. Golden tassels dangled off the pommel and silver threads entwined the scabbard in ornate finery.
"They aren't inside the tank," Anders reported.
"We can see through the front window, and there's nowhere for even a single person to hide."
"That you know of."
He admitted this was true.
"So Ryan and his people are free," Amanda said, handing away her chalice, uncaring of who took it. "Search for them, Lieutenant. Inside the ville and in Detail. Send scouts into the Wheel and an ambassador to the Sons of the Knife. Offer the cold-hearts anything they wish, but those people will be found."
Reclining backward, Richard said, "Place a reward of freedom and food to the slaves. Interrogate the gaudy sluts and servants, torture thieves, slaughter whole families! But find them, or else find us a way into their locked vehicle!"
"We try our best," Anders said, avoiding eye contact. "But the doors resist our best thieves, and the metal is proof to saws and acids. May I use explosives?"
"Not yet. What about the windshield?"
"We could probably smash through," the sec man said, "but then we would still have to get past the grating. It's made of a predark metal beyond our knowledge. Some sort of super steel."
"An alloy," Amanda said softly to herself, "or an althropic composite."
"My lady?" Anders asked, puzzled.
She waved the matter away.
"Continue in your efforts to gain entrance, Lieutenant," Richard ordered.
"And bring us success soon, or else you'll beg to be turned over to Eugene," Amanda finished in a soft purr. "Do you understand?"
"At once, Your Highness," he said, blanching.
"Certainly. With all due speed."
Richard grandly gestured with the saber. "Then go."
"And report to us at sundown," Amanda said, smiling at the trembling man, "with good news."
Spinning on a heel, the sec man marched away on trembling legs, his camou fatigues splotchy with sweat stains.
When the lieutenant was far enough away, Richard turned to his sibling. "Do you think he told us the truth?" he asked, testing the edge of his weapon on a thumb. The steel drew a thin line of blood and, satisfied, he sheathed the blade with a flourish.
"I could smell the stink of fear on him," she answered. "Yes, he told the truth. And was yet brave enough to face us with failure."
"Does that mean he does not fear us enough?" Richard asked, a tinge of eagerness deepening his voice. "Perhaps we should reorient his attention."
"Later, my sweet," she promised, resting a dainty hand on his thick arm. "First, we must find the people who control the tank. With it at our command. nobody could stand before our troops."
"We could rule the world," he burbled, "from coast to coast!"
She smiled at the ignorance. "From sea to shining sea."
"Yes. Yes!" He raised a clenched fist, then lowered it and glanced nervously about the room. "Do you really think Ryan is still here, even if free?"
"Naturally," the woman said in total conviction.
"He admitted that he was a former ruler. He'll want the Citadel."
The deputy ward turned red. "Never! Death is too good for them!" He stood, flourishing his sword. "By Father's blood they shall all die for his impudence!"
"Rabbit stew," Amanda said, toying with her pearl necklace.
"What do you mean?" he demanded hotly. "The recipe for rabbit stew, dear brother," she said, crossing her knees, her gown rising to expose a great deal of creamy thigh. "First, catch the rabbit."
"Perhaps we should flood all of Novaville with sleep gas and then have the sec men sort the bodies," he suggested. "Many would die, but how could he escape that!"
"How did he escape this time? Besides, if our guards are unconscious, then who shall do the work? Am I to do a slave's task?"
He kissed her hand. "No, of course not. But they must not escape!"
"That vehicle is the key to everything we want."
"I only wish I knew how they locked its doors when they were asleep."
"Some clockwork mechanism, or a comp."
Richard snorted. "Bah, comps. Machines that think? Fairy tales for fools and peasants."
"If you say so, dear brother," Amanda demurred as a servant refilled her chalice from a silver tureen.
She took a sip and frowned.
"Too sweet," Amanda said, pouring the brew onto the girls kneeling at her feet. They were drenched to the skin, but ignored the action and made no move to clean themselves. Gushing apologies, the servant hurried off to the kitchen for another bottle.
Turning slightly, Richard glanced at the closed curtains. "Perhaps we should awaken Father and ask his counsel."
"He'll be cross," Amanda spoke quickly. "He hates to be disturbed."
"Do we have another choice?"
She sat back. "No, we don't."
"Captain of the guards," Richard said loudly.
The little man scurried into view from a curtained alcove. The dogs responded to his passage, but didn't try to attack him. "Yes, my liege?" he asked, bowing. "How may I serve?"
"Clear the room. My sister and I are going to awaken Father."
The man clapped twice, and everybody departed quickly, even the see men at the machine-gun nest.
Alone in the great room, the heirs ascended the few steps of the dais to the next level and pulled the cord to part the heavy curtains.
IN RAGGED STAGES, he started to become awake, distorted images swirling around him like a fevered nightmare; the Ranger...the ivy...Leviathan...trap!
As the last wisps of sleep departed, cold adrenaline surged and Ryan came fully awake, scrambling for his rifle. It was nowhere to be found.
Sitting upright, he found himself on a pile of rags forming a crude bed on a bare rock floor. The rest of his group was also nearby on rag beds. None of them appeared to be hurt, or constricted in any way.
Glancing about, he realized they were in a cave of some kind, the light coming from oil lanterns set into holes in the irregular walls. It was quiet and cool, very restful. That was when he noticed his side didn't hurt much, and exploring fingers found he was expertly bandaged. It was a little difficult to catch his breath, but the pain was almost entirely gone. Also, he seemed to have been washed and dressed in clean clothes. His own clothes, the rips sewn and holes patched. Rubbing his chin in contemplation, Ryan was shocked to find himself shaved. Even his Army boots were polished. What the hell was going on here?
Some wooden tables formed a square under a hanging lantern, and stumbling over Ryan discovered their weapons lying there. Not the ones they had taken from the hack room, but their personal weapons: his Steyr SSG-70 and SIG-Sauer, Krysty's Ruger, Jak's big bore .357 Magnum, and Doc's oddball LeMat and swordstick. It was all of the supplies and equipment they had when that blond bitch gassed his people after they saved her from the bikers.
He lifted his pistol and checked the ammo clip. Incredible. The blasters and knives appeared to have been cleaned and oiled, and there were boxes and boxes of ammo, a lot more than they had taken from the hack room. There were even some HE grens and an old box of dynamite, the coil of fuse lying nearby, but not too close.
"What's going on here?" he asked aloud, shoving his blaster into its holster.
His voice acted as a clarion call, summoning the rest from their induced slumber.
Yawning mightily, J.B. staggered over. "What's going on here? We pass out in the courtyard and wake up in a cave?"
"Lightning hit us, and the courtyard collapsed?"
Krysty suggested, her hair in knotted tangles, a sure sign she wasn't fully cognizant yet. "Or did J.B. hit something with his tommy gun?"
Then she stared at her hands. "Clean nails? Hey, I've been bathed," she said as a fact. "And the rips are mended."
"Blasters are over here," Ryan said, shouldering the Steyr.
With cries of astonishment, the weapons were reclaimed.
"Our own weapons?"
"Hot pipe, look at all the ammo!"
Pockets were stuffed.
"Better also check them for blocked barrels," Doc said, peering into his pistol. "Maybe this is an intelligence test of some kind."
"Mine's clear," Ryan announced, closing the SIG-Sauer.
"Clear," Krysty said.
Mildred closed her target pistol. "They're fine, you old coot. Don't go paranoid on us."
"Even paranoids have enemies," Doc stated loftily. "Besides, how do we know this ammunition is still viable?
Weighing a full box of .357 bullets in his palm. Jak examined a round, then slid a single bullet into his blaster and fired. The Magnum discharge sounded like thunder in the confines of the cave, and the slug blew a hole in the wooden table the size of a fist. The furniture toppled over with a crash, and a leg cracked off in pieces.
"Seems okay," the teenager announced, reloading his revolver.
"Fool," Doc snapped. "You could have blown off a hand."
"Know another way to test ammo?" Jak asked bluntly, snapping shut the cylinder of his Magnum.
Doc glared at the teenager, then relented with a grudging smile. "No, sir, I do not. My apologies."
After acquiring the grens and dynamite, the Armorer slid his shotgun over a shoulder and then paused, looking at the Thompson .22 submachine gun lying next to his Uzi 9 mm submachine gun.
He patted the tommy gun fondly but reclaimed the Uzi, studiously checking it over for damage.
"J.B.?" Dean said, tucking away his Browning automatic, his vest once again bulging with ammo rounds.
"Yeah?"
"Can I have it?" he asked, pointing.
228
J.B. waved the boy on, and Dean took the Thompson. Cradling the ungainly blaster, he experimented with different grips until finding a proper balance. "Heavy pump," he grunted. "I have to wind this key before firing, is that right?"
J.B. showed him how. "And work the bolt."
"Like this?"
"That's it. But be careful! It snaps into place like a rattrap."
"Gotcha."
"I also found it shot to the left, so take that into account."
"Okay." The boy lifted the weapon and peered along the sights. "This will take some getting used to."
"But it's the best thing for .22 rounds," J.B. told him.
There was a tap on Dean's shoulder, and he turned.
Jak was holding a box of 12-gauge shells and the pump-action Mossberg. "Mine now."
"Fine by me."
"Wonder who our benefactors are?" Krysty asked, sliding the Ruger into her belt. "And why aren't they here to greet us? Obviously they're on our side."
"Mebbe, mebbe not," J.B. said. "Could be fattening us up for the kill."
"Winter hogs?" Jak asked, tucking a knife into his boot.
"Exactly."
"And who says they are not here with us?" Doc countered, holstering the LeMat. With his frock coat on, pistol holstered and swordstick in hand, the old man felt safe again, the alien cold that sometimes caressed his soul and threatened his sanity kept at bay.
"We've been rescued, cleaned, washed, our wounds bandaged and given back our weapons."
Ryan looked around them, studying the walls. "I think we've been hired as mercies."
"For what job?" Dean asked.
"To kill the ward," a strange voice said, "and his hellish children." With a rumbling noise like a hungry stomach, a section of the rock wall disengaged and swung aside. A tunnel beyond was filled with people in the patched clothing of slaves.
J.B. and Dean dropped low, their choppers at the ready, as the rest of the group assumed a combat stance. Fingers rested on triggers, ready to fire on Ryan's spoken command.
A group of five people entered the cave, their hands raised. "Don't fire, we mean you no harm," a lean tall man said.
"That remains to be established," Ryan replied coldly. They were dressed as slaves, but also wore blaster belts and knife sheaths. Empty at present. Making a decision, he lowered his rifle barrel.
"However, you have definitely grabbed our attention for a while."
"If you are the ones who rescued us and brought us here," Krysty added, her eyes narrow slits of concentration.
"We are," said a tiny redheaded woman.
A hand still on his weapon, Ryan waved them toward the chairs. "Sit, and let's palaver."
"Thank you, Mr. Cawdor."
Ryan stared at her.
"Yes, we know your names," she said, taking a seat. "We have known about you since the lady ward brought you here in your own tank."
Jak hawked and spit on the stone floor.
The large man with the square jaw curled a lip in disdain. "I see you feel toward the heirs as we do."
"Bullet in the head," the teen said with feeling.
"We would prefer something slower, and much more painful."
"But her death is more important than revenge," the slim brunette hastily added. The other visitors agreed.
"And who exactly you are?" Mildred prompted, holstering her blaster and leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
The brunette touched herself. "I'm Lisa, the large man is Tray, the thin man is Clifford, the hawk is David and the redhead is Kathy."
Ryan and the others had no problem putting faces to names. And
the hawk was right. David carried an expression like an attacking bird of prey. Ryan had a feeling he would be a difficult man to beat in a fight.
"No numbers?" Krysty asked.
"We're the resistance," David said proudly, thumping his chest. "We're free people, and people have names, not numbers like vehicles."
"Hallelujah," Doc rumbled in his stentorian voice.
"We have a proposition," Lisa said, resting her elbows on the table.
"I'm listening," Ryan told her.
Krysty stayed behind him, her .38 plainly in view, while Tray stood to the rear of the brunette. He was balanced on the bails of his feet, his large callused bands hanging half closed at his sides, seemingly capable of anything. The others moved a little bit away from the leaders. Nobody spoke for a while, and the tension grew thick in the air.
"Where are we?" Mildred asked. "In a deadhead?"
The people looked at her in surprise.
"That is correct," Kathy replied. "This is a tunnel of the coal mine that was exhausted decades ago. The heirs ordered it sealed off, but we left an air shaft open."
"And now it's one of our bases," Clifford added. Ryan heard a small pause there and guessed it was actually their only base of operations. Lie whenever possible. It was the first rule of negotiating.
"And the sec men can't find you?" Dean asked in disbelief.
"The excavations for the mines are miles deep into the mountain beneath us," Clifford said smugly. "With hundreds of side shafts and deadheads."
"Resembles a tree root," Tray spoke knowingly.
"Sludger?" Jak asked.
"Timber boss."
"Good job, 'cept dust."
"You got that hot, chum."
One big and black, the other slim and pale, the two men nodded at each other in a friendly manner and Mildred could feel the tension ease in the cave. Because he was reticent to the point of absurdity.
She often forgot how intelligent Jak was. He had done this deliberately to smooth the way for Ryan.