“All right,” Voss said as he put the report on his desk. “Have someone feed and hose her down. I will speak with her shortly. In the meantime, send for Mrs. Winters.”
A good fifteen minutes passed before Voss heard a knock on the door. He said, “Come,” and watched Winters waddle into the room. The overseer was one of the most repugnant creatures he had ever seen. It wasn’t her size so much as the doughy face, the piggy eyes, and the excessively servile manner. She curtsied in front of his desk. “You sent for me, lord?”
Voss forced a smile. “Yes, I did . . . You may recall that I had a member of your staff thrown into the hole.”
“That would be the Larsy bitch,” Winters said caustically. “If anyone deserved it, she did.”
“Exactly,” Voss agreed smoothly. “But as it happens, she may be in possession of some important information. I’ll be speaking with her soon, and if she proves to be recalcitrant, I would like to have some leverage.”
“Recal— what, sir?”
“Difficult. If she’s difficult.”
“Yes, sir. I take your meaning. Clara, sir. She likes Clara.”
“Clara the maid?”
“Not anymore, sir. She’s a seamstress now.”
“Okay, fine. Have Clara brought to Mr. Appleby’s office. She can wait there.”
Such was Winters’s knowledge of current events that she didn’t ask who Appleby was. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”
“And Mrs. Winters . . .”
“Sir?”
“Keep up the good work.”
The look of pleasure on Winters’s face was plain to see as she backed out of the room. She would, Voss felt certain, continue to be an asset.
It was nearly dark outside by the time the mercs brought Lora Larsy into the study. She was clean and dressed in fresh clothes but looked emaciated, not surprising after days without food. But Voss could see something else in her face too—something he didn’t like. And that was a look of grim determination. She’s a strong one, Voss thought. But I have the means to break her. Appleton followed the mercs into the room. “Slave Larsy, sir. Per your request.”
Voss looked Larsy in the eye. Her chin trembled. “We meet again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know why I sent for you. All I want is the location of the habitat where you grew up. Give it to me and I will free you. Think about that . . . You could leave the valley and go wherever you want. Or, if you would prefer, you can stay here. So how about it? Will you tell? And make it easy on yourself?”
“No, sir.”
Voss’s fingers drummed the desk. “Okay, we’ll do this the hard way. Bring her in.”
Appleby left and returned moments later. He had Clara by the arm, and she looked scared. Voss turned his gaze to Larsy. “You know who this is.”
“Clara,” Larsy said weakly.
“That’s right,” Voss replied. “Your friend, Clara. Here’s the deal: tell me where the Sanctuary is, or one of my men will shoot Clara in the knee. The pain will be excruciating. But worse yet, she won’t be able to walk without crutches. Of course, that’s acceptable where a seamstress is concerned, since they work sitting down.”
Larsy looked at Clara, and Voss could see the look of anguish on her face. As for Clara, she was shaking like a leaf and looked like she might faint. When the words came, Voss could barely hear them. “What was that?”
“I’ll tell,” Larsy said pitifully.
“Excellent,” Voss said. “You made the right decision. Clara, you can return to your quarters. Appleby, please take Larsy here into your office and have her show you where the Sanctuary is on a map. And once you’re satisfied, let Mrs. Winters know. I’m sure she can find something for Larsy to do.”
Larsy was sobbing as Appleby led her away. The mercenaries followed. Voss glanced at the Rolex on his wrist. Dinner was half an hour away. Would he tell Sara about her brother’s exploits? Or keep her in the dark? The choice was his, and that felt good.
The next few days were busy as Voss sent a succession of food convoys east. Each one included twenty wagons, hundreds of mules, and an escort of mounted mercs.
Finally, having dispatched the last caravan, Voss returned to his home with plans to work on the trip north. According to Lora Larsy, the Sanctuary was located near Fort Vermillion, Canada. To get there and arrive with enough troops to conquer the place would be a major undertaking, especially since there was a strong possibility that he and his men would have to fight their way through the area controlled by the increasingly active Crusaders, the ever-vigilant Blackfoot Indians, and the half-crazy Blood Kin.
So with Appleby at his side, Voss was working on a list of supplies required for the expedition when he heard a commotion in the entry hall. That was followed by a knock and a formal request from a stone-faced footman. “Mr. Winthrop is here to see you, sir. He says the matter is urgent.”
Voss frowned. He wasn’t expecting a visit from Charlie Winthrop, and good news was rarely urgent. He nodded. “Send him in.”
As Charlie entered, Voss saw that the other man’s suit was soiled and his left arm was in a sling. Voss rose to circle the desk. “Charlie . . . what happened? Are you okay?”
“I’m too old to be okay,” Charlie replied. “Mind if I sit down?”
“No, of course not.” Then, once the visitor was seated, Voss turned to Appleby. “This is Charlie Winthrop—an old friend of mine. Please send for refreshments.”
“Especially if the refreshments include a shot of whiskey,” Charlie put in. “I’d drink my own stuff, but I know what’s in it.”
“No need to wait,” Voss said as he went over to a side table and selected a bottle. “You’ll like this. It was distilled back when my father ran Star Valley.”
Charlie accepted the glass, drank half the amber liquid in a single gulp, and smiled appreciatively. “Now, that was smooth . . . Your father knew what he was doing.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Voss said. “Now, what happened to your arm?”
“I was down south again,” Charlie began. “Past the town of Border. And that’s when I came across your mercs.”
In the wake of the conflict with Hashi, Voss had stationed a group of mercenaries at the southern border of what he considered to be his territory for the express purpose of keeping an eye on the techno bitch. “Yes, what about them?”
“They’re dead,” Charlie answered evenly. “All six of them.”
Voss swore. “So the Ronin attacked them.”
Charlie tossed the rest of the drink back and put the glass down. “No, sir . . . I don’t think so. It wasn’t like that. When I found ‘em, they’d been dead awhile. It looked like most were in their sleeping bags, or had been, before some sort of bombs went off. And the others, the ones on watch—their guns were full up. They never fired a shot.”
Voss’s mind began to race. In post apocalyptic America, nobody left loaded guns lying around. Not when ammo was so valuable. So Charlie was correct. Had the mercs been attacked by Hashi’s Ronin, they would have taken everything of value. So what did that leave? The toy airplanes! What if Hashi had located the scouts using her drones and used aircraft loaded with explosives to attack them? Yes, that would fit. But why? He looked at Charlie. “Give me the rest of it.”
“I continued south,” Charlie said, “but I didn’t get far. Once I spotted columns of smoke in the distance, I turned around. But it was too late by then. Half a dozen Ronin came after me. The dogs attacked them and that gave me a chance to cut a horse loose. They winged me and captured the wagon, but I outran them.”
“And Blue?”
Charlie looked away. “Dead.”
“I’m sorry,” Voss said, and meant it. “I can’t replace Blue. Nobody can. But Jonathan will pay you a fair price for the wagon, your horses, and the poison you call ‘medicine.’ Plus something for your time.
“Now, given the circumstances, I hope you won’t be offended if I get to work. Most of my mercs are east of h
ere, escorting food convoys, and chances are that Hashi knew that. So she’s making her move.”
Charlie stood. “Can you stop her?”
Voss shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s holding most of the cards. Here, have some cigars.”
Charlie scooped a handful out of the open humidor and tucked them away. Then, with a nod to Voss, he allowed Appleby to lead him out into the hall. Voss swiveled around to look out at the road. Hashi was coming and wouldn’t be happy until she owned Star Valley. The war had begun.
Within hours after receiving the report from Charlie, Voss briefed a group of scouts about the possibility of remotely piloted drones and sent them down to replace those who had been killed. The next step was to gather his forces and move them south. The problem was that nearly sixty percent of the mercs were on convoy duty, and Voss couldn’t remove the rest from the valley without running the risk of a slave rebellion.
The answer was to call on the mayor of Afton for assistance. Since more than half of the people in town were directly or indirectly employed by Voss Enterprises, the response was quite gratifying. Within a matter of hours, the mayor was able to field three companies of militia totaling about three hundred men.
That was the good news. The bad news was that while all of them could shoot and ride, they hadn’t trained together, weren’t used to military-style discipline, and would constitute a tremendous drain on Voss’s resources. They would need ammo to fight, large quantities of food, and all the support services required by cavalry in the field. That included blacksmiths, farriers, and saddlers. Never mind the wagoners, cooks, and medical personnel required. All of which was made more painful by the fact that Voss expected to lose at least two-thirds of the militia to Hashi’s Ronin. Terrible casualties, to be sure, but worth it if he could use the townies to buy more time. Then, once his defenses were ready, the mercs not required in the valley would move forward to engage the Ronin. That would constitute the real battle.
Behind the militia, and marching as quickly as they could, were two hundred male slaves, all armed with farm implements. They couldn’t be expected to fight but would be invaluable when it came to preparing the necessary defenses. And finally, with guards all around, were the three wagons carrying Voss’s field gear—plus something else. Rather than leave Sara at home, where she might cause more mischief, Voss had chosen to bring her along. Her prediction, if it could be dignified as such, was that thunder would roll, a steel rain would fall, and blood would flow like a river. But who’s blood? She couldn’t or wouldn’t say.
Such were Voss’s thoughts as he led the battalion of townies down Highway 89. The merchants, tradesmen, and clerks were all in high spirits as they joked with one another, traded insults, and passed bottles of whiskey back and forth. Voss thought about putting a stop to the nonsense but decided to let it go. Most of them would be dead soon, so they might as well enjoy life while they could.
The battalion passed through a number of hamlets before arriving in the tiny town of Geneva. It marked the narrowest part of the valley and represented a natural choke point. Thankfully there were no signs that Hashi’s troops had made it that far, as two of his scouts rode out to meet him. The lead scout, a man named Kovo, touched the brim of his hat as he brought his horse to a standstill. “They’re coming this way, Mr. Voss. Hell, they’d be here now if it wasn’t for the tractors.”
“The what?”
“Caterpillar tractors. They’ve got six of them, all of which are fully operational and have armored cabs.”
Voss hurried to process that information. Somehow, someway, Hashi had been able to recondition the machines and find fuel for them. She knew about the narrow spot and planned to literally bulldoze her way through it. But forewarned was forearmed. And if Voss could slow the invaders down, there was a chance that he could stop them.
Immediately after the ill-fated expedition into Hashi’s territory, Voss had recognized the need to strengthen the defenses along his southern border and spent a king’s ransom to buy, transport, and site three 155-millimeter howitzers. Now, in his hour of need, they were hidden in the hills off to the west. Each pre–civil war weapon could theoretically fire four rounds per minute and strike targets up to eighteen miles away.
Unfortunately they were vulnerable from the air, and while they were well camouflaged, he couldn’t fire them without attracting Hashi’s drones, aircraft that, judging from the way the scouts had been killed could attack and kill. Machine guns might bring some of them down, but since Voss was badly outnumbered, he couldn’t afford to lose a single howitzer. Therefore, a team of mercs had been dispatched to Thermopolis to buy heat-seeking missiles and the launchers required to fire them. Once they arrived, Voss would be able to rain high-explosive shells down on that section of the valley with impunity. All of that and more flickered through Voss’s mind as he eyed the scout. “Understood. And the Ronin?”
“Most of them are massed five miles south of here waiting for the tractors to catch up with them.”
“How soon will the tractors arrive?”
“That depends,” Kovo replied. “If they stop for the night, they should join the main force by noon tomorrow. If they travel at night, they will arrive before dawn.”
Voss thought about that. “What about fuel?”
“It’s on a tanker truck that follows along behind the tractors.”
“Could we destroy it? Tonight?”
Kovo’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe . . . if we went wide, rode south, and attacked from behind. But even if we were successful the Ronin would be there to cut us off.”
“What if I have a way to keep the Ronin busy?”
Kovo’s expression brightened. “That would make all the difference.”
Voss nodded. “Choose two good men in addition to yourself. I’ll supply the rest. Meet me here at six p.m.”
Kovo touched the brim of his hat, pulled his horse around, and rode away.
Voss glanced at the Rolex. It was 3:22 and there were a lot of things to get done. By the time darkness began to fall, Voss had put the slaves to work digging trenches to slow the tractors, a strategy intended to give the inexperienced gun crews more opportunities to strike their targets. And with his help, the mayor of Afton had been able to position two companies of cavalry so they could sweep out into the valley and attack the enemy on both flanks. The third company, which was under the command of a prominent merchant, was scheduled to attack the Ronin just before dawn. Then, once the techies were committed, the townies were supposed to run like hell. Never having fought such an action before, the fools thought they were going to have a bit of fun. Voss figured it would be a miracle if a third of them survived.
In the meantime, Voss, three of his scouts, and six handpicked townies were going to find Hashi’s fuel truck and destroy it. That was the plan, anyway, and Voss was ready when Kovo and his men arrived. They were armed with pistols, military-style assault rifles, and saddlebags filled with hand grenades.
The townies appeared out of the quickly gathering gloom a few moments later, led by a man named Hollings. He had dark skin, green eyes, and a reputation as gunfighter. He and his riders were armed with two pistols apiece and twelve-gauge shotguns, the assumption being that whatever fighting took place was likely to be up close and personal.
Voss nodded approvingly. “All right, men . . . Kovo will take us across the valley and down the east side. That will put us in position to attack the techies from the rear. Meanwhile, a company of cavalry will charge the Ronin from the north. Our goal is to find the fuel truck and destroy it. Once that’s accomplished, we will run like hell. Any questions? No? Let’s ride.”
As the sun sank in the west and the hills threw dark shadows across the valley, the raiders rode east. Kovo led them across a concrete bridge and into a fallow field. Tall grass swished as the horses passed through it, insects whirred away, and Voss took pleasure in his surroundings. Here, now, in this particular moment, there was nothing to worry about other than the mission
he had assigned to himself—not because he had to, but because he wanted to, although he was aware that his actions would inspire others.
They passed the remains of a melancholy farmhouse, splashed through a creek, and climbed the bank beyond. As stars began to populate the sky, Kovo kicked his mount into a ground-eating trot. It wasn’t long before the dark bulk of the eastern hills rose to block the way. Then, with only starlight to guide them, the riders turned south. They were following an ancient fence, and the vibration from the horses’ hooves sent small creatures scurrying for safety.
To the south Voss could see the flickering points of light that represented Ronin campfires. Did that mean they had settled in for the night? Or did that mean they wanted him to believe that? Such was his greatest fear—that Hashi wouldn’t wait for the tractors. Voss knew that if the Ronin attacked right away, they would cut through the townies like a hot knife through butter. And given how inexperienced the gunners were, it would be easy to hit friendly forces during the hours of darkness. Then, having cleared the choke point, Hashi’s forces would surge into Star Valley. Could the remaining mercs stop her? Maybe . . . but the outcome would be far from certain.
The campfires grew gradually brighter, came abreast of Voss, and began to dim as the riders continued south. Voss saw a shooting star streak across the sky and hoped it was a good omen. Kovo turned west a few minutes later and led the group into an ocean of darkness. The campfires Voss had seen earlier were off to his right now. But there, straight ahead of him, were three points of light. The rearguard, perhaps? Including the personnel associated with the fuel truck? He hoped so.
According to the luminous dial on the Rolex, the townies weren’t due to launch the diversionary attack for another fifteen minutes. So Voss wasn’t surprised when Kovo led the group down into a ravine and sent a scout up to keep an eye on the enemy. It was a good opportunity to take a pee, let the horses drink from the creek that flowed through the ravine, and cinch their saddles. And that’s what the raiders were doing when the drones attacked.
The Seeds of Man Page 23