"Eat fast, we roll in twenty minutes," Alex said. "Bal sits in the middle with Jason and Shaman flanking. Bart drives, I have shotgun. Elke and Aramis are tail gunners." He stuffed his own gear down even tighter and tossed out some of the rubbish that always accumulated in gear.
"I should ride shotgun," Aramis said. "It's the standard position for the plucky comic relief."
"You are not the plucky comic relief," Jason grinned.
Bishwanath sucked down the last of a package of beef stew—quite good, for a field ration, certainly better than goat jerky or pickled fish.
"I am ready," he said.
"Sit here until we are," Shaman said, indicating space on the bed. It was well worn, having been used by the two of them to sleep in. Jason and Elke had slept in the other one with everyone else on the floor and a rotating watch. The constant movement had prevented a solid six hours sleep, but the enforced rest and napping had helped. Bishwanath was alert enough to be nervous again. He wanted to move now. It seemed ages until they piled in.
That was a lesson in preparation. Alex stood next to the vehicle and said, "Go!" and they did.
Elke and Aramis strode straight out the door, climbed in with their bags as cushions and unlimbered weapons they'd wrapped in blankets. Shaman and Jason moved one ahead and one behind of Bishwanath, settled in, and started positioning small arms. Bart mounted up front as Alex locked the room door, leaving the old-style key card inside.
There was only one route going where they needed, and it had a certain level of military traffic on its five lanes. That traffic would decrease the further they traveled, but it was possible there would be checkpoints, too. From discussion, they were prepared to blast through or detour around as indicated. Bishwanath let himself slump back into the apathy and dullness he'd learned when young. Sometimes, it was the only way to stay sane on this world.
****
Alex wasn't thrilled with having one vehicle, although it was in great mechanical condition. He was paranoid that one breakdown was a hundred-percent mission kill, rather than fifty percent or less. He was also nervous that the vehicle might be IDed, transponder and locator signatures aside. On one hand, distance took them further from obvious recognition. On the other hand, the further they went in a good condition off-planet vehicle, the more obvious it would be. Fuel would also be a problem. Diesel fuel would work for a while, but it wasn't the best formula for a precision turbine, and would also crud things up eventually. Any debris in it would play hell with the fuel system, too.
They were adequately armed now, with a belt-fed grenade launcher, three machine guns with ammo including some Bart salvaged off the Medusa, plus their carbines with grenade launchers and pistols. Jason had been and was still busy disabling safety circuits, and several of the local weapons were needing ongoing percussive maintenance to keep things working. Elke had a few kilos of HE salvaged from the rockets, plus her shotgun with only two cassettes, the third cassette having been expended leaving the palace. The video of that was impressive. He'd had her burn a spare file on the one computer they still had, just in case the evidence would help them.
He kept watch out the window in the rapidly falling dusk. It was amazing how big a city could be when it was nothing but shit. Most of the continent wasn't terraformed, roads were few and mostly dirt tracks, so the population strung out along those few roads. When infrastructure and commerce collapsed, they moved closer and closer to the few functional centers. A historical example was Mexico DF, which at least had had electricity and some plumbing. This was a nightmare of filth.
"You know there are golf clubs back here?" Jason said, drawing one from the storage tube under the seat and along the turbine hump.
"You're kidding," Alex said, bringing his attention back inside.
"Nope. Not a full set, just two drivers, a wedge, and a putter, I think. I'm guessing. I don't play golf."
"Can we salvage them?" That was weird. He'd swiped this from sewage contractors, who apparently had more downtime than they admitted.
"Possible carbon fiber tube, molded grips, possible trade goods as is," Jason said.
"Then keep them for now."
"Traffic is building up," Bart said.
"Yes, I noticed that. Tail gunner?"
"There are a few vehicles, yes. Mostly trash," Elke said.
Trash was true. There were a dozen vehicles or so within a kilometer. Most were missing windows and were jury-rigged in various ways. Most were piled with cargo. One actually had cages of chickens atop, a donkey trailer behind, and kids hanging off the roof. God help them if they fell. Even after the beating so far, this vehicle stood out, dammit.
"Don't use lights," he ordered. A few moments later, he added, "Snarl up ahead," as an advisory. The road had been fused at one point but was broken rubble and dirt now, rutted and rough. Still, it was better than cross-country, which was why it got the traffic it did, which made it worse.
"Why the snarl?" Bart asked.
"I'm not sure. There's an intersection ahead of that market." He sighed. He was starting to hate local markets.
"I see the awnings and carts. I see cars. I see one empty corner lot full of people and three buildings," Bart offered as confirmation and as intel for those who couldn't see.
"Two-story shacks, not real buildings," Alex said.
"And traffic is stopped." Bart braked. They were three vehicles back in a four-wide jam against three-wide coming the other way, with vehicles stuck across. At least they could see the cause of the trouble now. Two ******s were mating in the middle of the intersection. No one wanted to get too close, and Aramis's experience was probably a good reason why.
"That may be the most ridiculous and disgusting combination I have ever seen," Shaman offered, laughing.
"It certainly lacks dignity," Bart agreed.
"I'd hate to think how pissed off those things are if you interrupt them getting a piece," Aramis said. "If your car has broken windows, you're not likely to mess with them."
"Can you get us through here? I hate being stuck," Alex asked. That wasn't the right phrase for it. He wanted maneuvering room now. People were staring at the truck.
Then some were moving.
"I think we're about to get jacked," Elke said.
"I think you're right," Jason agreed.
Alex said, "I'll take Elke and cover the left. You take Aramis and cover the right. Bart drives escape if needed. Shaman, stay with Bal. Bal, do as Shaman says."
There were "roger" and "check" all around, and shuffling to move positions.
"Are we getting out, then?" Elke asked.
"If they get closer and we're still stopped, yes. We'll take the fight to them. Much safer for our principal."
"Terrain sucks," Aramis said. "Close quarters, cars, small buildings. Fire and maneuver. I see three potential hostiles on this side."
"Confirm three," Jason said. "Pistols and clubs."
"Four on this side, rifles and pistols," Elke said. "Fire and maneuver, because there's a potential mob. I think it's a case of entertainment and loot rather than grand theft. I will not be anyone's entertainment."
"Sure you will," Jason said. "Just drama, not comedy or romance."
Alex said, "Stand by," as Elke said, "This could be quite funny," and dropped her shotgun on its sling in exchange for one of the Bushy carbines. He looked approvingly and turned his attention back. Elke could take care of her job just fine.
The men were closing in on both sides, in practiced, darting movements. Two were in front of the car now, the others near the doors. Behind them was enough of a crowd to make the threat serious.
"Maneuvering, BRACE!" Bart said, and gunned the engine. The bumper squashed the two in front against the truck ahead of them, eliciting howls and horrifying expressions as the two men flopped across the hood, arms flailing in agony. Their legs were shattered, and survival unlikely from the trauma inflicted.
The car tilted and stopped, and Alex yelled, "Go!"
He
and Elke kicked their doors and fired their dump guns. Two cacophonous, sustained bursts chewed at vehicles, storefronts, and the two immediate hostiles. The crowd started to pull back, with several people slapping at wounds.
Alex shifted to his primary carbine, and Elke raised the shotgun. If the sound of the carbine now abandoned in the footwell was impressive, the 15mm shotgun was a bolt from God with impressive muzzle flash.
BANGBANGBANG! Her three shots sounded like a burst of auto, and were followed by several sharp cracks of explosive and billowing smoke. She'd shot gas rounds.
Alex cursed, "Warn me before you pop smoke, dammit!" and picked point targets, skipping left, or forward on the vehicle, to keep clear of the cloud. He took a scan.
Bart darted his head around, watched all four unass from the car, then gunned the engine and pulled forward left. There was a tiny little trike there, petro powered, or possibly vegetable oil. The exhaust from it stank. It was small and he was able to intimidate the driver into backing up until he crashed into the vehicle behind, which left just enough space for Bart to rumble through the space, denting and gouging every vehicle in the area. That should scare and piss off a lot of people, Alex thought.
Jason and Aramis came out fast, Aramis slightly ahead. The kid burped off a burst that was probably effective, but also used up a lot of ammo against a pair of fairly tame targets. Jason held a golf club, and took a mighty swing.
"Forebrain!" he shouted, before burying the steel inside a skull with an egg-cracking splat. Letting it go, he raised his carbine and shot one neatly center mass, then again in the throat, and turned to place one round in the head of the other, who had taken a couple of rounds from Aramis's burst.
BAD joke, Alex winced.
If anyone survived or made a point of recording for study, they would notice that he didn't actually engage the sights. He point shot, plain and simple. Damn, the man was good.
Bart bashed through the intersection and blocked traffic. The four backed rapidly toward the vehicle, slip-steps and skips, looking like some macabre dance routine. Shaman and Bishwanath opened doors, and the four fell inside in heaps as Bart goosed it hard, turned left, and took an alternate route.
"Bal, goddamit, you stay well inside and do not expose yourself!" Alex shouted. Seeing his charge jerk back, he slowed down and said, "Sorry, sir, but without you we're just criminals or hired guns in the ass end of nowhere. You have to stay out of it. We sure can use the help, and appreciate your courage, but you are no use to us dead."
Bishwanath nodded. He likely didn't get chewed out very often. "You are correct. I apologize."
Alex wasn't enjoying the stress. At this point, they'd all committed enough crimes to be convicted of felony conspiracy to commit murder, grand theft, hypothetically kidnapping—though that wasn't likely to be stickable—arson, assorted weapon violations, insurrection or rebellion or both . . . They had no contract, no orders, and couldn't pretend they weren't able to get in contact. While he'd been ignoring his phone at first, and then pulled the capacitor because he knew he wouldn't like the messages that had to be filling it, not to mention how it could be used to track him, he couldn't claim he was unable to send a message through other means with a pocket full of cash and bullion and comm companies in every town.
"Okay, how do we arrange to avoid towns from now on?" he asked.
"You can't," Bal replied from behind him.
"Sir?" he asked, turning enough to make courtesy eye contact.
"The roads are few, so towns are on them. The roads connect mines, ports, large farming areas. Otherwise, no habitation except bush folk."
"Can we skirt the towns?" He turned his attention back to the road, which was dusty, bumpy, but nevertheless well-cleared from regular use.
"The outskirts will be pricier, less well-equipped, more on the lookout for interesting loot. Inside where the gangs and tribes are is fairly safe—status quo. The fringes are where the fighting is. Except for the capital which is the free-for-all arena, unfortunately." He sounded bitter.
"Right. So we're stuck going through towns as obvious offworlders and hoping not to be either made or taken down," Alex said.
"It gets worse," Bal said. "There is only the one port—Witrand—we can make use of to cross the Strait. Surface travel really limits our options." He seemed to be having second thoughts. It was too late for that.
"Yes, but we can change routes and hide on the ground. We don't have that option in the air," Alex said.
"Yes, the anonymity and space help, but sooner or later we run into a block."
"Sooner in the air," Alex reiterated.
Bald didn't reply. They listened to the bumps and spitting gravel and the tone of the engine. Diesels had an almost musical tone compared to turbines. This was a whine.
After a while, Alex added, "Sir, I know you're nervous, and there is no good answer to this. We'll just have to do what we can."
"It's worked so far, Alex. I hope it continues."
"So do I."
Vapor rose in the compartment. Something stank. Bad. Again. The food they'd been eating was loaded with unfamiliar spices, or were military rations, and both caused the intestines to hold chemical warfare drills.
"Goddam, who shit in their pants?" Bart asked. "It is worse than the aftermath of a sauerkraut and beer festival."
"Actually, that was me. I do apologize," Bishwanath said. He looked somewhat embarrassed.
"Ah, good one, sir," Aramis said, with Elke and Jason joining in. The joke played up to his position, and everyone laughed. Hell, if you couldn't stand the farts, you could get out and risk the weather or the bullets.
****
Bart drove.
He was good at it, with years of experience in both EP and now combat driving. He enjoyed it. That didn't mean it was fun to drive all night in a nation like this.
He had to fight highway hypnosis on the long straights between villages, while watching for overhead threats. He wasn't sure what he could do about them if he saw any, but he had to be aware. As dusk turned to near dark, he snapped his fingers and pointed, and Alex handed him night vision binox. Those gave him vision, and even color, but it was coarse and grainy even with enhancement. Add in little things like the seat not being quite right, and it turned into a chore rapidly.
It was his chore. He also wasn't keen on not being able to shoot generally. The driver had to control the vehicle, and if he had to shoot, things were really down the dump-filled toilet. He would find it reassuring to be able to shoot, though.
"How far?" he inquired.
Alex was snoozing, which he needed to do. The man kept long hours and was going to be making more decisions. Jason was right behind Bart and said, "Two hundred klicks to the port. How fast?"
"Forty, tops, so five hours."
"Aggravating." Jason sounded groggy.
"Yes, it is."
Conversation died again. Bishwanath slumped against Shaman and slept restlessly. Shaman was out hard. Aramis had the energy of youth, and Elke always seemed alert. He wasn't lonely, really, but it was quiet, which was disturbing in its own way.
The one advantage was that as dark as it was, any approaching vehicle would be easy to spot. So would habitations with lights. The hazy enhanced image gave Bart all the info he needed for what he was doing.
It was going to be a long night.
****
Jason woke aching. He'd had a long night, with intermittent sleep and wakefulness, a cold breeze from the AC vent on his face and left ear, tight confines making him sore all over, neck especially, and he was hot and sticky against the seat. The only way to keep cool with this many people was to crank the AC high, and that created zones of hot and cold. The windows had to stay closed as much as possible to keep out dust and to keep interference down. It was actually easier to hear inside with them closed, especially with mics placed on all sides.
There was a clear whiff of sea and signs of a port ahead. They were driving through the edge of a port to
wn, which had to be Witrand.
"We're shipping from here?" he asked. It was a rhetorical question. Of course they were.
"Yeah," Alex said, barely awake himself, rumpled and mussed even in the casual stuff he was wearing. He needed a shave badly. After a quick rub, Jason realized he did, too. His hair was flat on one side. At least by growing it he looked closer to the local style of chop-it-off-when-it-gets-in-the-way.
"I will drive past the docks," Bart said. "Shout if you see something good."
"Don't get too close. I wouldn't bet on them not monitoring," Aramis suggested. "We've got at least one military vehicle to the rear."
"Coast Guard?"
"Naval Port Security."
"That's actually a good sign," Jason said. "We'll use them as a cover if we need to."
"Hard cover?" Aramis joked.
They drove for several minutes, getting a feel for the area. There had been a shipyard here, now shut down, the gantries and scaffolding all in disrepair and collapsing. There were kids playing and adults fishing in the ways. The fences along the docks were coated steel with concertina wire topping, no modern measures. There were breaks, gates, and cuts that rendered them largely useless. People wandered through drunk or high, selling fruit, parts, or themselves.
"I'd prefer to sell the vehicle as we leave," Alex said. "We can use the money."
"You'll never get what it's worth," Jason replied. "Not around here." There was little in the way of money or its results to be seen.
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