“No,” Tilson admitted. “The trip was my idea. I would like to meet with Judge Ramsey.”
“Can you ride?” Hunter inquired noncommittally.
“Yes.”
“Okay, once I’m aboard, swing up behind me.”
Tilson did as he was told and quickly discovered that there were five men in all. One of them was leading a mule with a dead deer tied across it, which accounted for the rifle shot he’d heard earlier.
The hunting party trotted through broken country with the assurance of men who knew exactly where they were headed, which turned out to be a ravine that led straight towards a softly rounded hill.
A few inches of water was flowing along the bottom of the draw. It splashed and ice crackled as the horses passed between a pair of bushy saplings and a pair of guards before entering a huge drainage pipe. Or that’s what Tilson thought it was until a series of widely spaced electric lights appeared, and the passageway opened onto a railway tunnel complete with a stationary train.
There were walkways to both sides, and people turned to look as the horses appeared, but none of them seemed to be surprised as Hunter pulled up next to the last passenger car. Tilson jumped to the ground, where Hunter joined him a few moments later.
“The judge is a busy man,” Hunter said. “So you might have to wait. But I’ll check to see if he can meet with you.”
Hunter disappeared into the railroad car, and Tilson was left to stare at his surroundings, as Tunnel-Through’s well-fed citizens came and went. The town had more people than Haven. A lot more. And Tilson was impressed by the purposeful feel of the place. Not to mention the steady rumble of a generator, the electric lights, and how warm it felt. Much warmer than Haven’s tunnels.
Such were Tilson’s thoughts as Hunter appeared on the platform above and waved him aboard. “You’re in luck. The judge has fifteen minutes between meetings. Please leave your weapon with one of the guards.”
After surrendering the Bullseye, and passing between a pair of grim-looking regulators, Tilson was shown into a richly furnished office. A man in a black suit came to his feet and extended a pudgy hand. “Welcome to Tunnel-Through. I’m Judge Ramsey.”
“My name is Tilson. Mel Tilson. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
“Please,” Ramsey said. “Have a seat. Mr. Hunter tells me that you’re a citizen of Haven.”
Tilson couldn’t help but feel pleased by the way in which he’d been received. And, contrary to the stories Roger Shaw liked to tell, Ramsey was a pleasant man. “Yes, sir. My wife and I had a shoe store there back before the stinks took over. We were part of the original group that dug tunnels between basements to create a safe place to live.”
“Except it isn’t safe, is it?” Ramsey inquired shrewdly as he lit a cigar. “Because safety flows from strength, and there aren’t enough of you to go it alone.”
“That’s what I told them,” Tilson agreed, “after Mr. Hunter came by. But they have heard negative stories about Tunnel-Through. So the proposal to become part of your new government was voted down.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ramsey responded, as a halo of cigar smoke formed around his head. “So what brought you here?”
Tilson shrugged uncertainly. “I wanted to talk to you and see Tunnel-Through with my own eyes.”
Ramsey nodded. “That makes sense. I’d do the same. Tell me, Mr. Tilson … Are your fellow citizens aware of your trip?”
Tilson shook his head.
“That’s just as well,” Ramsey said judiciously. “There’s no point in getting people all riled up. Now here’s what I would suggest! How ’bout you and I stay in touch? Mr. Hunter could help you establish a message drop at the edge of town.”
There were some obvious dangers associated with the proposal, and Tilson discovered that his mouth was dry. “What would you want to know?”
“Just everyday stuff,” Ramsey said reassuringly. “What folks are talking about, community projects, that sort of thing. I feel certain that the rest of the citizens will come around eventually. And when they do, I’ll need someone I can trust to provide the community with leadership. Do you follow me, Mr. Tilson?”
Tilson nodded eagerly. “Yes, Judge, I do.”
“Excellent! We’re of a mind then. Mr. Hunter will work with you to make all of the necessary arrangements. But, before you go, I have a gift for you.”
Ramsey pressed a button and a man entered the office a few seconds later. He was small of stature, wore his hair parted in the middle of his head, and looked at Tilson through a pair of round lenses that were perched on the end of his nose. “This is Doctor Haffey. And if you would be so kind as to roll up a sleeve, he’s going to vaccinate you against the Chimeran virus. More than that, he’s going to send you home with a dose for each member of your immediate family. Just one of the benefits that will accrue to the citizens of the New American Empire.”
“Thank you,” Tilson said gratefully, as he rolled a sleeve up. “Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome,” Ramsey replied indulgently. “And one more thing …”
“Yes?”
“If you take care of me, I’ll take care of you.” Tilson winced as the needle went in. “You can count on it.”
Ramsey nodded. “I will.”
Haven, Oklahoma
Snow slanted down as Capelli and Rowdy slipped into a dark shadow. They paused there, and when he was certain that he hadn’t been followed, Capelli aimed a penlight at the clock tower. The signal was answered by two blips of light.
It was clear, so the twosome dashed across the open plaza and slipped into the bank. In less than half a minute they had pawed a pile of debris out of the way. The steel trapdoor was locked, just as it was supposed to be. Capelli made use of his rifle butt to rap on it three times. Then, having placed his mouth over a twisted piece of pipe, he gave the password. Metal squealed as two lock bars were withdrawn and a rectangle of buttery light appeared.
Rowdy was used to the trapdoor by then, so Capelli heard someone swear as eighty pounds of wet dog landed in her arms. But no one got hurt. Rowdy was on the floor shaking himself dry as Capelli arrived at the bottom of the ladder. “That dog smells worse than a Chimera,” Katy Morris complained, wrinkling her nose.
“Tell me about it,” Capelli replied, shrugging his pack off. “I had to sleep with him for three days.”
“Which raises the subject of your odor,” Susan said primly, as she entered the room and came over to kiss him on the cheek. “I heard you were back.”
Capelli feigned surprise. “Me? I’m fresh as a daisy.”
“Come on,” Susan said, taking hold of Rowdy’s collar. “It’s time for a bath.”
The couple left the ladder room for a corridor that led past the bank vault, which now served as the town’s arsenal. And when Capelli walked past the open door he could see the racks of weapons that lined both walls, as well as the narrow workbench that ran down the center of the rectangular space. That was where Kosmo was busy putting an Auger back together. He waved as the Capellis passed by.
The image of more than fifty gleaming weapons should have been comforting. Especially given that there were at least that many racked in homes or kept close at hand throughout the community. But Capelli was painfully aware of the fact that the arsenal was barely adequate to meet Haven’s growing needs, never mind those of the alliance the council hoped to create.
Susan eyed him as they followed a succession of lanterns down a side tunnel towards the public baths. “No luck, huh?”
Capelli shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Most of Kaw City is still standing, but it looked as though there had been a major battle at the police station, and you can guess how that turned out. So I came up empty. Whatever weapons the boys in blue originally had are gone.”
She nodded understandingly. “Don’t feel badly. It was a long shot. Everyone knew that. Besides, I’ve got what might be a lead.”
“Good,” Capelli said, as they enter
ed what had been the basement of the local five-and-dime. “We’re due for a break.”
With the help of a convergence of pipes and a functional boiler, the space had been converted into showers plus six bathtub-equipped enclosures. “You haven’t been around to use your allotment of hot water, and I saved mine,” Susan said as she tied Rowdy to a vertical pipe.
Capelli brightened. “You mean …?”
“Yes, I do. Followed by dinner in our start.”
Capelli looked around the steamy room. A man was singing on the other side of a plywood partition and a child was putting up a fuss somewhere close by. “That sounds good. But what about the neighbors?”
“Try not to make as much noise as you usually do,” Susan said sweetly. Then, having taken Capelli by the hand, she towed him into one of the enclosures, and closed the door behind them. Clean towels were waiting.
During the next half-hour Capelli discovered that the hot water felt good, as did his wife’s soap-slippery skin. It was good to be home.
Later that night, after an absolutely delicious dinner of Vienna sausages and baked beans, the two of them sat side-by-side on their big four-poster bed. A literal steal from a house on the edge of town.
“Look at this,” Susan said as she handed Capelli a package wrapped in a piece of oilskin. “Tell me what you think.”
Once he’d unwrapped the notebook, the first thing Capelli noticed was the nicely executed drawing of a VTOL on the front cover and the name Suzy Q directly below it. “Lt. Tom Larson” was inscribed across the bottom in military-style block letters.
Capelli had seen dozens of similar notebooks over the last few years. Some of them functioned as diaries, others as sketchbooks, but most were quite utilitarian. That seemed to be the case with this one. Among other things, it contained a hand-drawn chart that showed how much fuel the Suzy Q could be expected to consume while carrying various payloads. It included a crew roster too, notes from briefings, and an unfinished letter to a girl named Betsy.
But the most interesting page, to Capelli’s eye anyway, was the very last one. It was decorated with what might have been a splotch of dried blood, the words “Ordnance 6,000 lbs,” and a string of numbers. Because of Capelli’s military background, he recognized them as coordinates. He looked up and found that Susan’s eyes were waiting to make contact with his. “Where did you get this?”
“It was lying under a partial skeleton,” she replied. “We found it on a hunting trip two days ago. His bones were scattered about. Dogs, probably. But I found these near the book and the remnants of a uniform.”
When Susan opened her hand, Capelli saw a dog tag with the name Larson on it and a pair of badly tarnished wings. “So the notebook was his, and judging from the last entry, his VTOL was loaded with weapons when it went down.”
Susan nodded. Her eyes were shining.
“And the coordinates?”
“I looked them up.”
Capelli smiled. “I’m not surprised.”
“So, are you going to ask?”
“Yeah, I am. Where did the Suzy Q go down?”
“About twenty-five miles east of here,” Susan replied. “That’s the good news.”
“And the bad news?”
“That’s inside the Osage reservation. And they don’t like uninvited visitors. That’s what Mr. Potter says, anyway.”
“Then we’ll have to arrange for an invitation,” Capelli responded. “Because this could be what we’re looking for.”
“So, I did good?”
“You did real good.”
“Does that mean I get a reward?”
Capelli saw the look in her eye. “Again?”
“What? You aren’t man enough?”
“Come here,” Capelli said and Susan obeyed. The dog tag and the wings made a rattling sound as they hit the wooden floor.
Osage Reservation, Oklahoma
The meeting took place on a large sandbar near the eastern bank of the Arkansas River. The sun was out, and a thick layer of crusty snow sparkled, as a cold wind blew in from the west. Both of the groups were mounted—but they were very different. Susan, Tilson, and the rest of the delegation from Haven knew how to ride; Capelli was the only exception. They had good horses brought in from a variety of locations but they weren’t familiar with the animals, and it showed.
The Osage had better mounts and sat atop them with the easy confidence of men who rode every day. They were twelve warriors in all, varying in age from about sixteen to sixty, and were armed with everything from powerful longbows to Chimeran Augers. All of them were dressed warmly, and some wore elaborate necklaces made out of stink fangs. Except for some red plaid here and there, they looked much as their ancestors had a hundred years earlier.
The Osage leader was notable not only for his skillfully made buckskin clothing, but a powerful physique and a shock of prematurely white hair. He sat with one leg crossed over his horse’s neck. His boots were handmade and came almost to the knee. “Stick Walker sent a message. You wish to cross our land.”
Capelli knew that the Osage called the banker “Stick Walker” because of his cane. Back before the stinks came, Potter had been willing to loan the tribe money when other people wouldn’t, and the native Americans hadn’t forgotten. “Yes,” he said. “That’s true. Thank you for agreeing to meet with us. My name is Joseph Capelli.”
“I have three names,” the other man replied. “I am called Pahusca, my council name is Papuisea, and my war name is Cahagatongo. But,” the Osage added with a friendly grin, “my friends call me Bo.”
Capelli smiled. “And my friends call me Joe.”
“Good. So, Joe, what’s on your mind?”
“Two things. First, the town of Haven would like to enter into an alliance with your people—and second, we would like your assistance in locating what might be a large shipment of arms.”
A horse snickered and the river gurgled as Bo eyed Capelli from a dozen feet away. “An alliance against whom? And for what purpose?”
Susan took over the negotiations at that point, spending the next ten minutes describing Judge Ramsey’s plans and laying out the reasons why the Osage should oppose him.
Eventually Bo nodded. “You make a convincing case. I will raise the matter with our council. In the meantime there is the arms shipment to consider. Let’s suppose that it exists and that we manage to find it. What then?”
The possible split had been the subject of a good deal of discussion prior to leaving Haven. Some, like Mel Tilson, felt it should be 90–10, 80–20, or 70–30, all in Haven’s favor. But Potter, Locke, and a majority of council members agreed that anything other than 50–50 was unrealistic. Not to mention the fact that an even split would not only help bring about an alliance with the Osage but serve to strengthen the native American community as well. So Susan made the offer.
Bo raised an eyebrow. “Now that we know the shipment is on our land, perhaps we should keep all of it.”
“You can try,” Susan admitted, as her horse took a step sideways and she pulled up on the reins. “But you haven’t happened across it yet. And what if the stinks or Ramsey’s regulators find it first?”
Bo was silent for a moment. Then he uncrossed his leg and nodded. “You have a deal. Let’s ride.”
It took a day of hard riding to reach the area where the Suzy Q had gone down. Capelli had qualms about traveling in broad daylight, and was in considerable pain after hours on horseback, but there was no stopping Bo and his war party. They all maintained that the Chimera were afraid to enter the reservation because of the large number of casualties they had suffered during past incursions.
While respectful of the Osage nation’s fighting prowess, and inclined to believe many of their boasts, Capelli was more than a little cynical regarding the theory that the stinks were afraid to enter the area. The Chimera didn’t have emotions so far as he knew. But the hive-mind had a limited number of forms available to do its bidding. So perhaps the sparsely populated
reservation had been spared so the aliens could focus their energies elsewhere.
In any case there was no denying the fact that Bo and his warriors were very skilled at using whatever cover was available, hiding their tracks in streams, and avoiding open areas where the stinks could spot them from above. Which was one of the reasons why the party was able to reach the half-frozen floodplain called Broken Waters without incident.
The name stemmed from the way Hominy Creek split into a half-dozen competing channels before coming back together a few miles farther on. The water level was low at the moment, but Capelli could see where the creek had been pushed out of its bed by seasonal floods, and had stripped most of the surrounding soil away. Beyond that a white-capped bluff could be seen, with a line of bare-branched trees at the bottom, just back of the high-water mark.
Judging from Lieutenant Larson’s coordinates and Susan’s much-folded map, the Suzy Q was nearby. But where? The light had begun to fade, so there wasn’t enough time to look around.
“We’ll make camp,” Bo announced authoritatively. “Then, when the sun comes up, the hunt will begin.”
It was a good plan and, truth be told, the only one that was likely to work since stumbling around in the dark would almost certainly be fruitless. As those who weren’t on guard duty sat around the communal campfire and tried to stay warm, Susan took advantage of the opportunity to lobby Bo regarding the possibility of an alliance.
And while Tilson peppered the mostly taciturn Osage warriors with questions about where they lived, and how large the tribe was, Capelli took the opportunity to clean his weapons.
Then it was time for Capelli and Susan to take a short walk before slipping into their sleeping bags. A flat rock sat next to one of the channels. Capelli swept a layer of snow off it before allowing Susan to sit down. With an arm around her shoulders, Susan snuggled in. “Joseph?”
Capelli took note. Whenever Susan switched from “Joe” to “Joseph,” it generally meant that something serious was at hand. “Yes?” he answered cautiously.
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