Firedrake - Volume 1

by T. Mike McCurley

  “After a while, that wasn’t enough,” Shane continued. “They began to sabotage our equipment and then to attack us. I can tolerate loss of materiel, but I will not stand by and let anyone be harmed. So, I took an active hand in defending my staff. Once I did that, and they realized just what they were up against, they backed off. Everything was good for a few days, then this new fellow showed up. Big guy, wears chain mail. He’s got a sword, too. Cuts through metal like paper. He came in and started busting up the place.”

  “And you let him?” Drake asked, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Like I said, I don’t fight to protect equipment,” came the snapped reply.

  “Shane hates violence,” explained Lara.

  “And you?” Drake mused, using a claw to point to the pistol she wore. “Or are you wearing that shooter to the prom?”

  “No, I’ll use it if I have to,” she told him. “I just don’t want to have to.”

  “All right. Philosophy aside for now. As far as this project everyone seems to want to shut down, what is it you guys are doing?”

  “We’re laying the groundwork for a massive project of irrigation and agricultural terraforming,” Shane said, a touch of pride creeping into his voice. “When it’s finished, an area that might have produced a few dozen bushels of usable crop will grow enough to feed a small city. On top of that, we’ve come up with some enhanced new strains of vegetable that will thrive and replicate in the conditions we are establishing. Potatoes and lettuce, mostly, but genetically modified to be bigger and grow more rapidly, so that the end result is a field of crops that produces in two-thirds the time, then continues to produce throughout most of the year. From there, we’ll go on to enhance some other plants in the same way. Thing is, we have to establish this as a viable crop before anyone will be willing to make the jump to investing in the new plants. The Department of Agriculture has been working on these plants for a couple of years. They figure it is a worthwhile gamble.”

  “Ain’t it enough that we wound up boosted?” Drake demanded. His expression had darkened steadily during the speech that Shane had made, and now his temper flared over. “Now you’re gonna ’enhance’ a bunch of carrots and shit?” He threw up his hands in disgust and stared at Shane.

  “Now you listen, you - ” Lara began, pointing an accusatory finger at Drake, but Shane stretched out a hand to restrain her.

  “Relax, Lara,” he said, voice as calm as ever. “Agent Drake is just muscle, remember? Your words, not mine,” he added as he looked to Drake.

  “Yeah. Just muscle,” Drake said, lips peeling back to expose gritted teeth. “I ain’t gotta agree with what you’re doing here to get my job done.”

  “What we’re doing is for the benefit of everyone,” protested the woman. Drake whirled on her, eyes blazing as his mouth snapped open and shut with an audible clack. The proximity of the flashing teeth sent her stumbling back a step.

  “Listen up, slick,” he ordered. “I don’t care why you’re doing it. Fact is, folks get boosted all the time. Some of ’em come out of it real good, you know? Real pretty. Some of us don’t. I just don’t see a reason why we should be tinkering with the way food is made. You keep on screwing around, and one day there’s gonna be a ten-ton zucchini chasing your little ass through Las Vegas, running on the legs you saw fit to grow for it!”

  There was a pause as Drake stopped to let his words sink in. A moment later, Shane erupted into laughter with a sound like a garden rake being dragged on a sidewalk.

  “I’m sorry,” he said after a few seconds of laughing. He raised a hand to indicate that no offense was meant by his response. “It’s just that, well, the whole zucchini with legs thing…”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s just a little over the top, don’t you think?”

  Drake glared at Shane for a brief stretch of time, then the humor of the image struck him and he chuckled as well. He scratched the back of his head and sighed. “Look, I don’t guess it’ll go that far, but my point is -”

  “I understand your point,” Shane assured him. The stony man ran one hand down his body, drawing attention to his appearance. “Do you not see how I wound up when I was boosted? I did not ask for this, I promise you. But I would ask that you try to understand that we are doing what we can to try to alleviate the hunger problem that faces our nation.”

  “Yeah, like the food’ll go where you want it to,” Drake muttered. “First off, it’s a new plant. They’ll jack the prices into the sky so no one can afford it. Then only the rich folks can buy it, and once they find out it’s just another potato and not something fancy, they’ll lose interest. So your amazing new crop becomes just another commodity to be sold to other countries. You wind up back in the lab, trying to find yet another miracle, and the power players pocket more money by trading in your life’s work.”

  “Rather cynically stated, but for someone who is not a politician, you have an astounding grasp on how these things work,” Shane replied with a shrug of his mountainous shoulders.

  “Well, let’s just say that I’ve got a little experience with Big Brother screwing me over,” Drake said, making no attempt to disguise the bitterness in his voice. There was a noticeable twitch in the surface of Shane’s face that might have been an eyebrow lifting. Rather than explain, Drake gestured toward the truck. “So we going or what?”

  “Yes,” Shane said, leading the way to the truck. He stepped smoothly up onto the back of the flatbed, and it was Drake’s turn to raise an eyebrow. The vehicle settled on its springs as though four men had climbed aboard. Apparently the stone was not merely a surface effect. Lara slipped into position behind the steering wheel, and Drake leaped up to join Shane on the flatbed. Lara dropped the truck into gear and turned it tightly. Hot wind passed over the pair in the back as they accelerated.

  “There are the results of the last attack,” Shane said after they had driven for three minutes. He was pointing to the west as he spoke, indicating a pair of wrecked Caterpillar tractors that they were passing. Their tracks had been sheared from the sprockets that drove them, and something had sliced the cages clear of the bodies. Numerous long slashes through the metal showed plainly.

  “The sword,” Shane explained, seeing the way Drake was eyeing the cuts in the metal. “He cuts into the drive train and the engines. Makes the whole thing useless. Our mechanics can’t even get worthwhile parts from them.”

  “Nice,” Drake said dryly. “I take it they aren’t under warranty?”

  “Not quite,” Shane said with a quiet chuckle. “He does the same basic thing to our cars and trucks, pretty much anything that comes in here on wheels. We only just got this flatbed in here yesterday.”

  “So he’s isolated you out here? Pretty smart.”

  “Yes, but we still have the radios and telephones. That was how I managed to get word to Director Hart.”

  Drake snorted. “And surprisingly, she sent someone.”

  “What do you mean?” Shane asked as the flatbed ground to a halt. He jumped from the back, his feet raising clouds of dust as they hit the earth with a resounding thump. Drake followed suit, his legs flexing to absorb impact so that he hit lightly. He glanced quickly around himself. They had arrived at what was, effectively, little more than a collection of Quonset huts and agricultural equipment. A dozen people milled about, most dressed in work clothes, though Drake did spot a couple in lab coats. Nobody spared him more than a glimpse, used as they were to seeing a booster that was not human in form.

  “I mean she’s not the most forthcoming of people. Or the nicest. See, Hart kinda makes Hitler look like Santa Claus sometimes. Basically speaking, she’s the most calculating, hard-hearted, ruthless bitch I’ve ever met.”

  “She’s my sister,” Lara announced as she stepped from the cab of the truck. She fixed Drake with a murderous glare. He refused to quail before it, returning a gaze that held only boredom.

  “Yeah, well, that’s your problem, not mine,” Drake rep
lied with a shrug.

  “Lara’s kidding. She likes to push people’s buttons,” Shane said, waggling a finger at his driver. She grinned in response, winking at Drake to let him know it had, indeed, been merely a joke.

  “Anybody else, that comment would have had them stumbling over their tongues trying to apologize,” she said.

  “I guess. Like I said, though, I ain’t no politician. I got opinions, same as everybody else. The difference is I don’t bother keeping mine to myself,” Drake told her, managing to sound rather proud of the fact.

  Shane slapped him on the back, the impact causing Drake to wince. “We’ll show you to your quarters,” he said. “Then we’ll get you something to eat.”

  A siren sound split the air and Shane groaned aloud as the inhabitants of the camp scattered in response to the shrieking noise. “Looks like we might not have time for that yet,” he said. “That’s the warning. Incoming raiders.”

  Drake grinned widely, his teeth flashing in the sun. He flexed his shoulders, letting his wings rustle as he did so. His head tilted from side to side, the sound of his joints cracking competing for sonic supremacy with that of the siren. His claws caught the light as well as he wiggled his fingers menacingly.

  “Then let’s go say hello,” he growled.

  Chapter Five

  As the occupants of the agricultural community scrambled for cover, Drake walked beside Shane and Lara across the hot sand to the road that led onto the farm. He loosened his pistols in their holsters and, with a flick of one taloned finger, opened the snap holding his handcuffs.

  “Just getting ready,” he said in response to the puzzled looks from his companions. “I’m here to make an arrest if possible, remember?”

  The first vehicle to come into view was a converted Ford F150. It had been painted in a desert camouflage scheme by unsteady hands working with cheap spray paints. In the back were half-a-dozen rowdy-looking men, all whooping and shouting a mix of threats and obscene oaths. Many of them clutched rifles or shotguns, though a couple carried crowbars.

  Behind it were two others, both Dodge pickups, though one was weatherbeaten and worn. The bed of that one contained another handful of soldiers to support the first. Its mate was a gleaming silver in color, and it was that one that drew the lion’s share of Drake’s attention. In the back, left hand gripping a roll bar in classic Rat Patrol fashion, stood a man who was the only occupant of the truck bed. He wore what appeared to be, even at the distance it was viewed, a suit of some dull metal. In his right hand, raised high as a rallying point, was a long, wide-bladed sword. His head was covered by a full medieval-style helmet that looked to be made of the same metal as the armor and the sword. The matte metal of the helm was disrupted by a wide black slit for the man’s eyes and a small triangular grate over the mouth and nose.

  “That’s him,” Shane said, pointing to the man. “He’s the booster that’s tearing everything up.”

  “Gee, you think?” Drake replied with a snort.

  “We can hold the others back while you deal with him,” offered Lara, reaching for the pistol on her hip.

  “Not yet, kid,” Drake told her as he held out a restraining hand. “Give me a minute to talk to them.”

  “But talking doesn’t work!” she protested.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, “but if I don’t at least try, then they’ll say I attacked without provocation and they’ll walk in court. I’m a cop, not an assassin. You asked for my help, so back off and let me do my job.”

  The withering look he turned on her was enough to silence any further outbursts. As the vehicles neared, Drake sighed and, still favoring his injured left leg, walked toward them. He held up a hand, displaying his badge for the benefit of the approaching men.

  “Federal Agent. Stop your cars and drop your weapons,” he said. His voice sounded tired and bored, but the volume carried above even the shouts of the men aboard the trucks. Drake watched as the advance slowed and then came to a gradual halt.

  “You see?” he said over his shoulder. “They can be reasonable too.”

  “Foul beast of the pit!” shouted the armored man. He leaped over the cab of the pickup, turning a graceful somersault in midair, and landed with a heavy thump in the soft yellow sand. His eyes were a blaze of fanatic hate from within the helmet as he stalked forward, sword raised high. At this range, what had been a blurry mass revealed itself to indeed be chain mail that covered the man’s torso and upper arms, with a skirt of the same rings that fell to conceal most of his thighs. Greaves of the same metal covered his lower legs. It was then, looking at the sword and armor, that Drake realized what metal the man’s equipment was made from, and just how he had so easily carved apart the agricultural equipment. It was comprised of durite, the same metal that made up the reinforced handcuffs Drake himself carried. How this man had managed to get so much of it, let alone found anyone capable of or willing to forge it into the forms he had, was beyond Drake.

  “Yours is the filth of which we were warned!” the armored man continued, pointing his sword at Drake as though it were an accusatory finger. He turned for a moment to look at the men who had come along and who were even now staring at Drake in horror. “Beware, brothers! The Devil walks among us every day, and here is his emissary in the guise of the vile serpent himself! Look upon him with no fear, lest he drag you screaming with him back to the fiery depths from whence he has come!”

  “Oh, you did not just say that to me,” Drake replied, mouth falling open in surprise. “I was gonna be nice to you and everything.”

  “You have no hold over me, beast!” the man shouted, breezing past the flippant response. “I am Broadsword, and I am armored with the vestments of righteousness! You and this monstrosity,” he added, gesturing with the tip of his weapon at Shane, “shall not stand between me and my duty.”

  “All right, slick, before we start this thing, I’ve got a question for you,” Drake said, pointing a talon-tipped finger at the man. “What the hell is your problem, anyway?”

  “This foul abomination is tampering with the works of God Himself,” sneered Broadsword. He did not bother to indicate Shane this time, though no one present had any doubts as to the target of his words. “My brethren and I have come to see to it that he fails.”

  His words were delivered with a certainty that made Drake grit his teeth. He knew there was little or no chance of a peaceful conclusion to the day’s events, yet he was compelled to at least try, both from legal duty and a desire to protect the inhabitants of the agricultural community. He knew he would be lying to himself if he did not consider the risk to his own somewhat battered form, as well, but he was willing to jeopardize that if necessary.

  “Here’s the catch,” he said, hooking his thumbs in his belt and adopting a pose of feigned relaxation. “The boys in Washington have given this project the green light. They think it’s a good idea for him and his crew to do what they’re doing. Now I ain’t here to argue with you about philosophy or debate what could be or might be or blah, blah, blah. That ain’t my deal. I’ve been sent here as a representative of the Department of Justice to make sure you and yours leave him and his alone, and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do. Now you people go home,” he added, looking toward the men in the trucks. “Or you can all spend some time in a jail cell.”

  Broadsword laughed, a hollow sound that echoed from within his helmet. “These men are soldiers of His word, foul creature, and you are a mere puppet of Satan.”

  “I mean what I say, gentlemen. I will take the whole lot of you into custody right this minute,” Drake countered, still looking at the trucks. A couple of the men in those vehicles lowered their weapons and raised their hands. There was a fearful look in their eyes, and Drake dared hope they might actually listen and do as he had instructed.

  “Brothers!” Broadsword chastised them. “How dare you defy -”

  “You people defy me, and I’ll have your asses in a sling!” Drake shouted, easily interrupting the a
rmored booster with the nearly-deafening volume of his voice. He advanced a few steps, purposefully flaring his wings and allowing smoke to drift from his mouth and nose. It never hurt to put a little fear into those who were resistant, and Drake was an expert at making the most un-subtle hints on the planet. “You are failing to cooperate with a Federal Agent in the course of his duties and failing to accede to a lawful order! You have had your only warnings! Now disperse or you’ll go down with Sir Lancelot!”

  Broadsword whirled on the men, fury in his tone. “Do not listen to the words of this…this thing!”

  “And I’ve about had it up to here with you,” Drake told him, tapping himself on the top of the head. “Your ass is under arrest,” he said as he used his other hand to draw one of the massive slab-sided pistols from under his arm. He leveled the weapon at Broadsword and slipped back the hammer with an ominous ratcheting sound. “Now drop the knife and put your hands on top of your head.”

  The air filled with a high-pitched whistling sound and Drake realized that Broadsword had moved. The move had been so quick that it had almost failed to register to his senses. The long blade of the durite sword was returning to an en garde position when the front half of Drake’s pistol fell free from the rear, neatly severed just before the trigger guard. The barrel hit the ground with a soft thumping sound, clearly audible in the silence that had so suddenly descended. Drake looked down at the ruined pistol, eyes going wide with the realization of what had just occurred.

  “Do not think to put me at your mercy, beast,” Broadsword said with a haughty tone. Drake was still staring at his hand, though his teeth ground loudly enough for the sound to carry. He stammered out a reply, though his mind was racing far too quickly and too many comments and questions jammed his thoughts for the string of words to make any sense.

  “What the... you... did you just... Do you know how much that gun cost?” he suddenly shouted, throwing the remaining portion of the weapon to the ground. He saw the shift of Broadsword’s shoulders as the next swing began and dropped to the ground, using his hands as feet and running on all fours beneath the spinning attack. He slapped out with his tail in an attempt to bring his foe to the ground, but missed his target entirely as Broadsword leaped upward and cleared the flailing limb. Once past the armored man, Drake came up on his feet again. He gave thought to drawing the other pistol, but dismissed it as quickly as the thought had come. The durite blade could shear it as cleanly as it had the weapon’s mate.