Time Castaways

by James Axler

  Although seriously impatient to be under way, Ryan still spent several minutes stroking Alvira’s muscular neck. As he checked the straps on the saddlebags, Ryan noticed his Desert Eagle was gone, then saw it tucked into Jak’s gunbelt. He had seen the teen lose the Para-Ordnance in the fight with the cats and didn’t mind the loan. Ryan already had two blasters, and that was enough for him. In the Deathlands, carrying too many blasters was almost as bad as not having enough.

  Leaving the campsite, the companions crossed a misty field of grass at an easy lope, letting the animals warm to the work of the day. In a few hours, the companions encountered a wide field of wheat, the tufted stalks waving gently in the cool breeze. There were no rows or furrows anymore. No tractors, plows or silos. Any sign of cultivation was long gone. The grain grew random, choking itself in some areas, and painfully thin in others, the ever-present fog giving the landscape a faintly surreal appearance.

  Grabbing handfuls of the stalks as they rode along, the companions wisely tucked the grain away to feed the horses later. There was plenty of grass, but wheat had more protein and the animals would need all of their strength soon enough.

  Between Liana’s directions, J.B.’s use of the sextant and map and Ryan’s telescope, the companions found the dried river by noon. Several yards wide, it began at the base of a dead waterfall, the bare rock of the cliff tinged with green moss. Snaking away, the riverbed meandered through the rolling hills, forming a natural highway that disappeared into a mist-shrouded forest of elm and pine trees.

  “The sec men say in the spring this is whitewater,” Liana said, shifting her position on the leather saddle behind Doc. “Impossible to cross because of the mutie fish that swim upstream to breed at the falls.”

  “That’s probably what the flapjacks normally feed upon,” Krysty said, studying the scattered bones embedded into the desiccated mud.

  Stopping to light torches made of wooden table legs wrapped in oil-soaked rope, the group proceeded down the sloping bank and onto the cracked mosaic of dried mud. Both banks grew steadily higher, the grassland giving way to thorny brambles and then a dense forest. Overhead, the branches reached out to almost touch, forming a cathedral effect, the dappled light sprinkling the ground with pinpoints of starlight in the middle of the day.

  Keeping a tight hold on the reins of their nervous mounts, the companions rode slowly along, everybody holding a crackling torch as high as they could. The firelight banished the shadows, and the thick smoke wafted into the canopy of overlapping branches. There was no sign of the flapjacks, but there was constant movement in the treetops wherever the smoke touched. Staying sharp, the companions kept a close watch on the greenery, their hands never far from a loaded blaster, until the forest was far behind them, lost in the cottony fog bank.

  Slow hours passed, and it was late afternoon when they crested a hill, and the companions slowed their mounts at the sight of farmland, rows of leashed slaves digging in the dark loam with their bare hands, while fat overseers smoked cigs and occasionally lashed out with a whip to make the men and women work faster. Only one guard was mounted, the gunboot of his saddle filled with a feathered lance. The sec men were dressed in warm furs and heavy boots, while the slaves were in rags, mud covering most of the skinny bodies as crude protection from the afternoon chill. Ratty canvas bags full of seeds were suspended from the wooden yokes around their throats, and they crawled along, kneading the earth to plant a single seed then moving forward a few inches to endlessly repeat the process.

  “Look alive, ya gleebs,” an overseer bellowed, snapping the bullwhip a few more times just to make the slaves jump with fright. “The winter snow will be here soon, and without the clover as ground cover there’ll be no food in the spring!”

  “Lessen we eat you!” A female overseer laughed heartily.

  “Oh, don’t bother talking to them,” the corporal said from atop the chestnut gelding. Popping the cork from a canteen, he took a long drink, then returned the cork with a thump. “Slaves be too stupe to understand how—”

  Tossing away the canteen, the fat overseer reeled in the saddle, the barbed point of an arrow sticking out the side of his head. Opening his mouth as if to speak, he only flapped his lips for a few seconds before slipping off the horse to fall facedown into the furrows.

  Spinning fast, the other two guards gasped at the sight of the mounted companions. “Sound the alarm!” the sec woman shouted, then doubled over, clutching the arrow that protruded from her stomach.

  Frantically clawing inside his jacket, the last overseer pulled out a whistle and raised it to his lips. Then there came a distant crack and his hand burst apart, fingers spraying across his face. Stumbling backward, the wounded guard tripped over a furrow and went sprawling. In a mad rush, the slaves swarmed over the norm, pounding him with rocks, their strong fingers ripping at his clothing. Trying to pull a wooden machete, the overseer disappeared within the howling mob, and soon warm red blood flowed along the cold ground.

  Turning around in the saddle, Jak scowled fiercely. “Why do?” he demanded hotly. “Overseers disappear, ville get alert!”

  “Kin helps kin,” Liana said simply.

  “Quite right, my dear,” Doc agreed reluctantly, low ering the LeMat. “Freeing slaves is always laudable! However, you should have consulted with us first before acting. Now, we must continue on foot.”

  “Why?” Liana asked, clearly puzzled. “There are no more sec men in sight.”

  “That know of!” Jak retorted, furious over the newbie’s mistake.

  “The horses will help the slaves get away faster,” J.B. growled. “And the more sec men that go after them, the less there’ll be to protect the dockyard.”

  “This may actually make it easier to steal the boat,” Mildred offered, trying to cover for the other woman. The physician applauded the intent, but the results could prove disastrous. Act in haste, repent in leisure, as her Baptist minister father always used to say.

  “Maybe, or maybe not,” Ryan growled, holstering the SIG-Sauer. “Only now we have no choice in the matter. We gotta help them, to help ourselves.”

  “Can’t take them on a boat, anyway,” Liana said in a rush, as if that had been her idea from the beginning. But the feeble defense fooled nobody.

  “Depends on the size,” Krysty countered, watching the slaves exact their gory revenge. Her voice and face were calm, but her animated hair revealed her true feelings.

  Sliding off his horse, Ryan unslung the Steyr and worked the arming lever. “However, Liana, if you ever do something this stupe again…” He didn’t finish the sentence, unsure of how far his temper would go.

  The words so simply said sent a shiver through the woman. Having heard countless threats in her life, the former slave instinctively knew this one was real and dumbly nodded. She wanted to apologize, but Ryan and the others were already off their horses and pulling items from the saddlebags.

  “Either with us, or not,” Jak declared roughly, tucking a pipe bomb into a pocket. “Make choice!”

  “Doc,” Liana replied instantly, looking into his face. “I stand with Theophilus.”

  Trying not to smile, Doc reached out to gently touch her shoulder, speaking volumes without saying a word.

  Cutting across a section of farmland, the companions tramped along the muddy furrows heading due north.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Darkness slowly descended, then the full moon rose, bathing the island with its clean, silvery illumination. The surface of the bay was calm, the gentle waves lapping listlessly against the thick wooden pylons of the dock. There were no cicadas to disturb the stillness, no owls, wolves or winged muties. After the kraken attack a few days earlier, everything had fled the area, leaving the ville by the bay in unaccustomed peace and quiet.

  The docks were deserted that time of night, the fishing done for the day. A score of heavily patched nets hung from racks to dry, the barge poles and oars stashed safely
away in wicker lockers, the ropes neatly coiled, hawsers and wooden pulleys swaying from raised hoists.

  Extending along the entire waterfront of Northpoint, the dockyard was full of different size boats, each expertly moored to stone cleats with thick hemp ropes—small birch-bark canoes, rowboats covered with elaborate symbols of protection, a few crude barges used for hauling lumber across the wide bay and, of course, the Warhammer.

  Several times the size of even a cargo barge, the mighty Warhammer dominated the dockyard. The freshly scrubbed gunwale gleamed, and there were lovingly tended rows of predark car tires lashed to the painted hull to prevent it from becoming damaged by rubbing against the reinforced pylons.

  Carved deep into the hull was the proud name of the vaunted warship, and the delicately carved female figurehead at the bow strongly resembled the local baron. Proudly bare-breasted, Brenda Wainwright defiantly faced outward, brandishing a lightning bolt and a blaster, as if ready to challenge the world. The sec men appreciated the likeness, but kept any and all comments to themselves. The baron could stroll stark naked through the ville if she wished, but anyone stupid enough to mention the event out loud was doomed.

  The hull was studded with thick planks of dense wooden armor, the sides bristling with long spears. Even the mooring lines sparkled in the dim moonlight from the shards of glass woven into the tough fibers. Plus, strategically placed around the deck, were large canvas mounds, one at the front, and two at the back, the material lashed down tight as protection from even the fiercest storm. A large metal smokestack rose from the middle of the Warhammer, cutting through the end of a small wheelhouse. However, there was nobody inside to stand a turn at the circular helm at the moment, and the spacious glass windows looked across the shimmering waves of the bay with unseeing eyes.

  Edging the dockyard, the wall of the nearby ville inadvertently blocked some of the moonlight at this hour, a thin slice of darkness masking the base of the mas sive barrier. Standing like black giants, the guard towers rose over the slumbering ville, the sec men inside huddling close to their only source of heat, a small oil lantern.

  On the boardwalk of the dock, overlooking the Warhammer, a sec man was sitting on a small keg, puffing contentedly on a cig of dried seaweed, mixed with a little wolfweed smuggled in from the outer islands. The zoomer was strictly forbidden, but since the baron also smoked the stuff, the punishment was only having the cig confiscated, so he really didn’t care. Besides, a man needed something to keep his mind sharp during the long and boring night.

  Muffled voices could be heard from inside Northpoint: drunken laughter, a badly played piano, a woman crying and the low, monotonous work song of a trusted slave.

  Sighing dejectedly at the music, the sec man concentrated on his smoking. Wearing a long coat of thick fur, he was armed with a crossbow, a half-arrow already notched into place, ready for instant use. Mostly, he aced the rats trying to climb the mooring line and get onboard the Warhammer to raid the stores of fish oil. The smell attracted them the way horse sweat did a flapjack. There was a small wicker basket near his fur-lined boots already partially filled with the little corpses, a testament to both his marksmanship and their unrelenting determination.

  More important, there was a small whistle hanging from a cord around his left wrist. There hadn’t been any trouble with the Hillies or outlanders for several months, which meant it was just about time for them to try to sneak into the ville to see what could be jacked. Just like the rats, the damn fools always got aced, but at least it gave the sec men something to do to pass the time.

  Just then, there was a scratching noise near the mooring line, and the sec man instantly rose with the crossbow at the ready. But as he started forward, he heard a subdued cough from the darkness, and he gasped, the weapon falling from his limp fingers. A ghostly pale hand caught the crossbow before it hit the dock, and a pair of strong arms grabbed the dying man to haul him back to the keg. Sitting the corpse on top, Ryan lashed the warm body into place with some rope. Then slipped back into the night to join Jak in the gloom under the dock.

  Creeping along the mossy beams supporting the boardwalk, the two companions approached the Warhammer, the slosh of the waves masking the sound of their combat boots. Ready and waiting, Doc already had a loose plank prepared, retrieved from a dry dock only a hundred paces away near the trees. Working together, the three men eased it upward from the blackness to rest on the gunwale of the warship. It settled into place with a thump, and they tensely waited for any reactions from additional guards onboard. No baron would ever trust a single sec man with a treasure like the Warhammer. Sure enough, a few minutes later they heard the sound of steps from inside the wheelhouse, and a door opened, exposing a grumpy sec man armed with a spear and carrying a lantern.

  “Fragging rats,” he muttered, shuffling along, the lantern held low and the spear raised high to strike.

  Without a pause, Jak threw a leaf-bladed knife, which pierced the man’s heart. Doc darted out to grab the spear and the lantern.

  Sighing into eternity, the sec man seemed to deflate, easing slowly to the deck before becoming still. While Jak stood guard, Ryan took the body and lowered it over the gunwale. Krysty and J.B. took the corpse and dragged it under the dock and out of sight.

  Moving stealthily, the rest of the companions gathered on the aft deck of the boat, then separated to start a fast recce. Several more sec men were found inside the craft, one of them asleep in a bunk, while another was making a pot of what smelled like fish stew in the small galley. Using his sword, Doc cut the throat of the sleeping man, and Jak dispatched the other.

  Finished with the wheelhouse, the companions proceeded down the stairs and into the hold. This part of the vessel clearly belonged to the baron. Everything on the boat was elaborately carved, mostly scenes of the lady baron defeating giant muties, and standing triumphant on top of a mound of her fallen enemies. Mildred had to smile at the classic propaganda. Even in a land where nobody could read, the government still found a way to feed the people a steady diet of bullshit.

  At the bow was a large room with a feather bed and a well-stocked liquor cabinet, plus a small assortment of crossbows and knives. Knowing that barons always kept a blaster nearby, J.B. searched the headboard of the bed, and sure enough found a sliding panel. Attached to the side was a predark rat trap that nearly took off his finger, but J.B. escaped intact, and nestled inside the hidey-hole were two loaded flintlock pistols and, wonders of wonders, a fully functional 9 mm MAC 10 machine blaster in excellent shape. There was even a spare magazine!

  Warily inspecting the weapon, J.B. scowled in disgust. The stupe bitch had left both of the magazines fully loaded, and who knew how long they had been waiting here. Most likely, the springs in the magazines would be weak by now, and the rapidfire would jam after only a few rounds. However, the brass seemed in fine condition. Experimentally, J.B. cut open a round to make sure it was packed with gunpowder, and was delightfully surprised to find that it held predark propellant, the good stuff. Happily, the Armorer extracted all of the 9 mm rounds, and split the windfall with Ryan to use in his SIG-Sauer, while Doc got the black powder for his LeMat.

  Going down to the engine room, the companions found the fuel bunkers fully stocked with dried wood, along with dozens of small kegs full of what smelled like rancid fish oil.

  Easily filling half of the hold was a colossal steam engine, the boiler patently recovered from a factory, or apartment house, that still used steam heating radiators. Looking over the machinery, Ryan nodded in grudging approval. The conversion was actually very bastard clever. Junk parts from a hundred machines combined to make a functioning engine for the warship. Ryan’s opinion of Baron Wainwright went up a few notches. Whatever else the woman might be, she was no fool.

  Laying a hand on the iron side of the boiler, Krysty found it ice cold, and, checking the firebox underneath, she saw that it was spotlessly clean.

  “This’ll take hours to get hot and build up enough
pressure,” Krysty whispered.

  “Then you better get busy,” Ryan ordered, holstering his blaster. “Liana, get back to the galley and burn the stew, that should help disguise any smoke coming from the furnace.”

  With a nod, the woman turned and dashed up the stairs.

  “I’ll start chopping wood,” Doc announced, tucking away the LeMat and pulling an ax from a chopping block. He was pleasantly surprised to find it was from before skydark, the head made of steel. Carefully testing the edge on a thumb, the scholar drew blood. Excellent, it was razor-sharp.

  “Make pieces small,” Jak suggested, rolling a keg of fish oil closer to the boiler. “That make burn faster.”

  Taking the kindling, Jak dipped it into the reeking oil, then tossed the damp pieces into the firebox.

  Going to a porthole, Ryan swung back the louvered hatch and looked outside. There was no visible movement from the nearby ville, either along the top of the wall or in the guard towers. But he knew that could change at a moment’s notice.

  “How soon till we’re mobile?” Mildred asked anxiously. She knew a fair amount of computers, but steam engines were from long before her day.

  “Couple of hours at least,” J.B. replied, running his hands over the complex array of levers and pres sure gauges. “This is like no steam engine I’ve ever seen before.”

  At the news, Ryan tried not to scowl. Hours. He had hoped they could get under way a lot faster than that. Now, it was a race against time. Man versus machine.

  “All right, we better get ready to defend this tub,” the one-eyed man announced. “Mildred, help Doc and Jak get that boiler started. Krysty, stand guard by the porthole. If anybody comes this way, ace them with a crossbow, then let us know.”