by Jack Yeovil
The second blip was within twenty miles of the first, and closing fast. It was strange to see a potentially lethal combat reduced to a giant kiddie’s board game.
“Lenihan, patch Conway through the p.a. system,” ordered Younger.
A smart young lieutenant with a headset flicked some switches.
“… proceeding South-South-West… ” crackled a male voice. “No visual contact as yet… ”
“He means they can’t see it,” Younger explained.
The blips were getting close.
“… I have it… a cruiser, for sure, up to 150 per according to my clock… does not respond to radio transmissions… am pursuing parallel course… ”
The blips moved together, faster. The background mapscreen changed at the edges to accommodate the pursuit. The placenames they passed blurred.
“Make contact, Conway,” said Rintoon.
“… proceeding…”
There was a tearing noise over the loudspeaker, then a feedback whine. One of the blips went out.
“We’ve lost Conway,” said Lenihan.
“Lost?”
“Lost, sir.”
“Lost contact?” asked Younger.
“No…” Lenihan’s voice was nearly cracked. “Lost. We have a heat source, but no ve-hickle. Conway’s cruiser has been destroyed.”
“That’s not supposed to happen. What could Tyree be packing that could do that much damage?”
“I’d have to run that through the computer and get back to you, sir. A battlefield nuclear weapon would do it, but that doesn’t conform to the facts we have here. The best I can think of is a lethal malfunction in Conway’s cruiser, and that doesn’t fit the pattern either.”
“Your runaway is slowing down,” said Chantal.
The blip was dropping speed. The placenames stopped blurring on the map, and came into clear focus.
“Welcome,” she said.
The blip was definitely travelling on a backroad to a place called Welcome.
“What’s near Welcome?” asked Younger.
“Nothing,” said Finney. “The original Fort Apache, from the Indian Wars, is out there somewhere.”
“What’s in Welcome?” asked Chantal. The blip was slowing to a halt.
“Let me see,” Finney tapped keys. “It’s still nominally inhabited. At least, it was last time we did a drive-by. There’s a motel, operated by someone called Jonathan Behr, and something called the Silver Byte Saloon. That’s more or less home to a chapter of the Gaschuggers…”
“Could they pull off a hijack?”
“No sir, they can hardly handle their own rigs, let alone anything of ours.”
Chantal had a feeling that this was the thing she was here for.
“Is there anything else about the town?”
The blip was sitting there, flashing under the black letters of the name.
“Nothing, really. A couple of old-timers waiting to be killed. A large cemetery. No agriculture, no gas station. Used to be a Josephite Mission, but that’s closed down. All gone to Deseret, I guess.”
“I don’t understand, ma’am,” said Younger. “What are you interested in?”
“There’s a church still standing,” said Finney. “St Werburgh’s. A Miguel O’Pray is down here as the pastor.”
“A Catholic church?”
“I suppose so. It doesn’t say. He’s listed as Father O’Pray, that would make him Catholic, wouldn’t it? I’m a sufi myself.”
“Does it have a terminal?”
“Pardon?”
“A computer terminal. Is it on any of the datanets?”
“Uh, that’s… um… classified.”
“It wouldn’t be classified if there weren’t a terminal, right?”
“Um…”
“You’re excused, Finney,” said Younger. The woman looked relieved.
“Yes, there is a terminal. It’s a community church. They feed into our communications web, and then Phoenix, Nogales, Lordsburg and El Paso. They’re surprisingly well set-up.”
“That’s it,” Chantal said. “The church. Welcome, Arizona.”
Younger and Rintoon were still busy being befuddled.
“Gentlemen, get me clearance. I’m going out there.”
IV
There was a pause, as the Swiss looked to Major General Younger for approval. The c-i-c nodded.
“Lauderdale, help the lady out.”
Lauderdale saluted. He realized his back was hurting from standing up so straight. He was unable to relax in the presence of a superior officer. It was a survival-oriented trait in the Cav.
“Sir, yessir.”
Ms Juillerat was striding out of the Ops Centre. Lauderdale followed. He tried to look as if he were not fixing his gaze on her movements as she walked. The Swiss was undoubtedly in great shape.
Ever since he had drawn this assignment, he had been wondering who exactly this foreign woman was. He judged her to be in her mid twenties, but whatever she did she wasn’t new to it. She had confidence to spare, and had demonstrated a wide variety of surprising areas of knowledge. She knew cars and she knew guns, and she was well-briefed on the workings of the Cavalry. He understood that she was brought up to speak French and Italian and that English was the language she learned when she had mastered Latin (!), Spanish and Japanese. Lauderdale could get by in Spanish, but that was it. Whenever the conversation strayed from purely professional matters, she developed zipped lips. She wore no wedding ring and gave the impression of almost unapproachable singleness, but she had told the ostler she was married. The only thing she had let slip about her past was that she had been brought up mainly by nuns, and educated in Dublin, Rome and San Francisco.
“You will have my car fuelled and ready?”
“It’ll be done.”
“Good.”
Ms Juillerat was something in computers, he guessed. She had paid particular attention when being shown around the datanet hook-up and the information storage and retrieval system. But she had been very careful not to reveal who she was working for, and what her business with the Road Cavalry was. Considering her base of operations, Lauderdale wondered if she mightn’t be mafia. The Cav had made stranger allies in the past—it was common knowledge they had a treaty with the yakuza to protect certain business interests in return for a restraint on the part of the Japanese—and that would explain her reticence when questioned about her outfit. Like the yaks, the mafia probably broke no more laws in the course of its business day than the average multinat.
There was certainly a predatory cast to her fashion model’s features—large, dark green eyes; long, straight nose; full, little-girl lips; clear, pale complexion—and he could imagine her executing a gangland hit without distaste or compassion. Lauderdale was brought up in front of the teevee, and Ms Juillerat, from different angles, kept reminding him of actresses: Diana Rigg as Emma Peel in the way she held her shoulders, Charlotte Rampling, Nastassia Kinski, Zoe Tamerlis in Ms .45, Audrey Hepburn, Judi Bowker in Out of Africa, Irish McCalla.
“I’d appreciate it if your ostler checked out my onboard weapons systems and communications links. I’ve not had time to run a thorough field test, and I’d hate to be let down.”
One thing Lauderdale was certain of, Chantal Juillerat was an Op. A top-of-the-line Op, like Redd Harvest, Woody Rutledge, Harry Parfitt or the Cav’s own Captain Buffalo. She wore a black catsuit that showed her figure. She was well-rounded, unmistakably womanly, but lithe. He figured she would have the muscle tone of a young she-leopard. Her black hair was cut functionally short, and she carried herself like a fighter. She had the balance, and she had the reflexes. This would be one lethal little lady to tangle with.
“Have all your charts downloaded into my system. I only have the basic map software for the South-West. Rome may well be months out of date, and I think I’m going to need detailed intelligence.”
He nodded. They were about the same height, but he had the impression that he needed three ste
ps to keep up with her every one. He was getting a stitch, losing breath.
She wore no make-up, no jewellery except for a discreet silver crucifix on a chain round her neck. Her clothes bore no insignia, but gave the impression of a uniform. It was an outfit for fighting in.
They passed through the lobby. Ms Juillerat handed her badge back to the receptionist. The girl told them to have a nice day, and was rewarded with a tight smile.
In the courtyard, Ms Juillerat turned to him. “Get all those things done, and meet me at my car. I have to get some things from my room.”
She strode off before he could answer.
He would not have liked to be standing in her way.
V
Chantal sat cross-legged on the floor of the room the Cav had assigned to her, and tried to centre herself. She held her hands together, and touched them to her lips. Meditation always helped her before she went into the field. She cleared her mind, made everything go away, and brought the mission to the fore. This was the zen moment, the perfect focusing of achievement, becoming and intent. The mission was all she needed.
In moments, she was refreshed, prepared. She understood other Ops achieved the same ends through the use of stimulants. Glojo, Kray-Zee pills, speed. This was purer, less risky. The only side-effects were spiritual.
She pulled the metal box out from under the bunk, and put it on the plain desk. It was electrically sealed, and she had to key in the correct number sequence to open it.
The box took a few seconds to think it over, and then the lid rose silently. Someone had once told her she treated the box like a priest treats the pyx, the container in which communion wafers are stored. She would like to think that was stretching the point, but had had enough lessons in humility and self-awareness to know there was truth in it.
“Body and blood of our redeemer,” she muttered. “Father, forgive us.”
Here, laid out in their velvet-lined inset depressions, were the tools of her trade. The skeleton keycards slipped into the pockets at her waist. The tinkering tools slotted into the ring of thin hoops above her knee. The shoulder pads—each loaded with three spare ammunition clips—slipped into her jacket and velcroed into place. The gunbelt laced at the front, and hung comfortably on her hips. The black-leather sheathed bowie knife—forged, like Jim Bowie’s first model, from steel fused with star-born minerals from an asteroid—attached to her belt and thigh. The acorn-sized phosphorus fragmentation charges slid easily into the tight chambers of the belt. She tied her holster down. Then she took out her gun.
It was Swiss-made, a work of precision craftsmanship. Some invoked the name of Art, but Chantal thought of it as a tool. A beautiful, terrible, perfect tool. It was a SIG 7.62mm automatic, with a transparent grip of durium-laced glass. It was bulky, but well-balanced, designed to absorb the brunt of the shock of discharge. A two-handed gun, with fourteen rounds to the clip. The shells comprised bullet and solid propellant in one package, eliminating the need to eject cartridge cases. It could be set for automatic fire, but she prided herself on using it as a single-shot weapon. Hitherto, she had only ever needed one shot.
She heaved it, getting the balance again. The long hours of squeezing a medicine ball had paid off in the strength of her wrists. She passed the gun from hand to hand, reacquainting herself with its weight. It was like a part of her. She slid it into the holster and let it hang on her hip. She had been trained to walk differently when armed, so her weight was still dead centre. In the San Francisco dojo, she had punished herself on the parallel bars with a ten-pound lead weight strapped to her thigh. Now, the gun, the belt, all the hardware, made no difference to her agility.
She checked her face in the mirror, drew her forefinger across her forehead, microscopically adjusting her hair, crossed herself automatically, and left the room.
She hummed to herself, “Back in the Saddle Again…”
VI
Lauderdale had Ms Juillerat’s car ready, and was carrying out her orders. Her requests, rather. It was hard to remember she was just a civilian. Her authority over him was purely provisional. Grundy whistled as he checked out the sleek, lowslung machine.
“Look at the lines, captain,” the auto-ostler said. “That’s Ferrari. They say if Michelangelo had designed cars, he would have come up with the Ferrari.”
It was an impressive beast. Lauderdale thought of himself as an automotive philistine. He could only distinguish the different makes because he had had to take an exam in vehicle recognition at West Point. A car was an engine, four wheels, a weapons system and an ally or an enemy in the driving seat. No more, no less. He was a fort officer, not a road man. His field was siege defence and crowd control, and his own machines—the regiment’s cadre of armoured androids—were stored in their own area. He hadn’t been out on a patrol since his cadet days. Recently, he’d been stuck with admin and liaison work. Sometimes, he thought of his androids with longing…
“She checks out just dandy,” breathed Grundy with awe. “She’s such a beauty, it’d be a crime to drive her in the dirt. Look at the shine. You could shave in that, you know, or tie a bowtie.”
The car was a lot like Ms Juillerat. Beautiful, but dangerous. Perfectly shaped, perfectly calm, but with an awesome destructive potential. Reflective on the outside, but hiding everything. If this make had a nickname, it would be a plain chocolate expression, like Devil’s Whisper or Dark Thunderbolt. He couldn’t resist touching the ebony-mirrored skin. It was cool and hard to the touch, more like black ivory than steel. He shivered involuntarily.
“She’s fuelled to the full, sir. She has a capacity like you wouldn’t believe. The Italians sure can put one of these babes together.”
The hood was up, and a techie had a cyberfeed hose jacked into the onboard systems. A red light blinked as information was fed into the mini-mainframe. This would be a clever machine, Lauderdale knew. If it had half the capability he suspected, it should be able to out-think a Cav cruiser without tapping all its resources.
“Who is this lady, sir?”
“No idea, Grundy.”
The car had all it needed. The light flashed green, and the techie withdrew the cyberfeed. The hood closed like a clam. Its seam appeared to melt, as if the entire machine, doors and all, were moulded from one piece of metal.
“I’d love to get into that.”
Lauderdale nearly smiled. Grundy was in love.
“Imagine plugging into all those horses, and opening her up. That’d be a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”
“Too right, Grundy. Younger would have you in the guardhouse for eternity.”
Ms Juillerat appeared, her face unreadable. She was tooled up now, and walked like she was used to it. Her sidearm was something fancy with a for-show transparent grip. Guns, he did know. It was a SIG.
“Is the car ready?”
“Yes ma’am,” Grundy said.
She smiled a sexless, humourless smile and thanked him.
“She’s a true beauty.”
“He’s a he. At least, that’s how he’s programmed.”
Ms Juillerat keyed in the entry code and the driver’s side door hinged upwards like a wing. She stepped in and sank into the seat. There was a helmet on the dashboard, perched like a trophy between the steering wheel and the windshield. She pulled it on, and the controls came to life. There were more buttons, knobs, lights and gauges than you found on the average space shuttle.
Grundy slavered with undisguised lust.
Ms Juillerat took a CD out of the rack, and slid it gently into the deck. Lauderdale went round to the other side of the car, and waited for her to raise the door for him. It didn’t happen.
“Sorry,” she said, her voice amplified through a speaker positioned in a smooth hump on the roof, “but this is where we split up.”
The driver’s door hissed as it descended and locked.
“Major General Younger has detailed me to stay with you, to look after you,” he blustered. “It was an order.”
/> “Brevet Major General.”
The engine turned over, and the whole car seemed to be animated. It stood there like a tensed muscle, working up strength.
“But…”
“Sorry, Lauderdale. I have my orders, too. This is a solo mission. See you in the movies…”
The voice clicked off, and music came on. An odd choice. “It’s My Party, And I’ll Cry If I Want To.” Not the Leslie Gore version, The Chiffons’ cover of the hit.
The Ferrari moved fast, and was gone through the double doors. A Road Runner cartoon trail of dust rose as it streaked over the displaced bridge towards the horizon.
“Who was that masked woman?” asked Grundy.
“I wish to God I knew,” said Lauderdale. “I honestly wish to God I knew.”
Part Three: Welcome, Arizona
I
“Good morneeng, padre,” said Armindariz, cheerfully, “hair of thee dog that beet you?”
Father Miguel O’Pray, the doors of the Silver Byte Saloon swinging behind him, felt the bartender’s greeting like hands clapped over his ears. His head was still fuzzy, his chin sandpapery with salt-and-pepper stubble, his mainly grey hair greased and unruly and his mouth thickly lined with vomit-flavoured paste.
Armindariz grinned, showing off his gold tooth, and held up a green bottle of Shochaiku like the Japanese gaucho on the teevee ad.
O’Pray really didn’t want a drink, but he nodded anyway, and the Mexican filled a shot glass.
The priest knocked it back, and it hit his empty stomach like a dum-dum bullet. He held the bar until his guts settled. The Silver Byte was quiet at this hour, just before noon. Last night’s hellraisers would be sleeping it off over at Tiger Behr’s motel. Old Man Mose was still in his window seat, but he never left. The story was that he had a catheter plumbed in under his blanket and piped directly into the sewer. He never took solid foods. He was open-mouthed and snoring, ignoring the fly crawling on his bald head.
