by James Axler
But right now, he had quarry to pursue.
Jak was also in pursuit of prey. Moving swiftly and close to the ground, the albino approached the open front of the building, using any darker patches of shadow cast by the moon's feeble light to hide himself. His dark camou pants and the patched jacket provided some degree of disguise, but his white mane and pale skin still gave him away. Coming around to the open door, he held his Colt Python blaster in his hand, gripping the butt tightly with his index finger looped loosely around the trigger.
Flattening himself to the outside wall, he ignored the sounds of J.B.'s pursuit and concentrated on what he could smell or hear from within the building.
It was almost silent: one sound could be heard— a light ticking noise that was barely audible. But he was sure that the building was empty. The warm smell of danger and fear was absent.
Jak entered the building, still cautious of any booby traps.
Meanwhile, J.B. was chasing the lone saboteur across the dry earth. The man was tall and rangy, and his long strides carried him faster than J.B., despite the Armorer's strength and speed. J.B. cursed under his breath and lifted the Uzi. The movement disturbed his momentum and he lost more ground. But it didn't worry him. There was no way he could catch up to the saboteur before he gained his wag, which had been parked to the rear of the buildings, leading off into desert and the ribbon of old road that lay beyond. It was an old jeep, and would be swift across the desert, far swifter than their horses, even presuming they could have brought them nearer.
There was only one course of action that the Armorer could take. Dropping to one knee, he steadied the Uzi, using his knee to prop one elbow and take good aim. In the time it took him to do this, the saboteur had clambered into the jeep and fired the engine. J.B. could hear the grinding of gears loud across the empty desert sand as he took aim. He squeezed the trigger as the vehicle leaped into life and began to move across the land, a stream of bullets spitting from the muzzle of the blaster.
The jeep was moving away fast, but not so fast that the shells didn't at least strike home. In the dark, the Armorer had been trying to take out the rear tires of the vehicle, as he wanted to disable it and question the saboteur if possible. But in this light, at this distance, there was also a chance that he could just take out the fuel tank and blow the wag off the sandy earth. It was a chance he was willing to take, and in the event it proved that neither option came to anything. There were flickers of sparks and light in the darkness as bullets struck the rear of the wag and ricocheted harmlessly into the air. But neither tires nor tank was touched as the wag roared off into the night.
"Dark night, Jak!" J.B. muttered as he let the Uzi drop. One man may have gotten away, but did Jak need assistance?
IN THE DARK and still of the building, it took the remarkably honed senses of the albino little time to locate the ticking that he could hear. It was muted because the source was a small chron attached to a package of plas-ex that was hidden beneath a valve leading from one part of the system to another. Take out that valve and the piping system supplying the entire building would collapse from the shock wave, the delicate balance of the still not fully restored refining system being upset beyond repair.
The light was too dim to see the device fully, so Jak lit one of the lamps that had been left in the building when the day's work had concluded. Turning up the light and positioning it so that no shadow was cast over the immediate area, Jak could see that the device had no booby attached, and had been hidden only to maximize its impact on the intended target. It was a simple timing device, and had been set for ten minutes to allow the saboteur enough time to make good his escape.
"Jak? You okay in here?" came J.B.'s voice from the doorway. "Bastard got away," he added in a rueful tone.
"Left gift," Jak replied. "Timer, plas-ex…only few minutes."
"Want me to take a look?" the Armorer asked as he came up to where Jak was crouched.
The albino nodded, and J.B. knelt in front of the device while Jak drew back to allow the Armorer room to work. He also turned to stop the others from entering, as he could hear them approach. Having met up as they all made their way to the sound of the disturbance, they were clustered just outside the refinery block.
"Take cover. Bomb," Jak said simply.
Outside, glances were exchanged. Ryan nodded briefly at Jak and motioned the others to move back a little.
Inside, the Armorer was studying the bomb. He knew more than enough about the construction of timers and bombs to know that this was a crude but effective device. In truth, there was more than enough plas-ex to do the job, and more worryingly there were signs from an initial study that the wiring was crudely connected to the chron. There was every chance that the device may not go off on time. More alarmingly, it could be that the wires would short when he disconnected them because of the way they were fitted. Actually disarming a bomb like this was simple—if it was well made. It was the crudity that made it dangerous.
"Jak, get out and get the others to take cover," he said levelly.
"Sure?" Jak asked simply.
"Uh-huh. And hurry," the Armorer replied.
Without taking his eyes from the bomb, dissecting every part of it to see if there were some flaw he could detect, J.B. listened while Jak left the building and told the others to take cover. He heard them move back in the otherwise silent night, and only when their footfalls told of a sufficient distance did he move.
His hands steady in the lamplight, J.B. took one of the wires joining the chron and the plas-ex, and straightened it out so that he could see how much slack he had to play with. The wire stretched for six inches, and he could lay it on the flat metal surface of a valve plate. He then took his Tekna knife and steadied the wire as it lay flat. This was something he had to do quickly and cleanly. He had no wire cutters, so he had to use the whetted blade of the Tekna to slice through the wire in one swift cut.
There could be no second chance, no opportunity to take a second cut.
J.B. was suddenly aware of the quiet around him, and the sweat that was gathering on his forehead and running toward his eyes. It was now or never, before the slightest glimmer of nerves or doubt caused his rock steady hand to waver.
With his jaw set so tight that he could feel his teeth grind together, J.B. sliced with the Tekna. The wire cut clean through in one move, and the blade scored on the metal valve plate.
He could hear the ticking of the chron, could hear the in-time pounding of his heart and the blood that coursed through his veins, could hear the silence around and running through these as he was aware of one thing and one thing alone.
The bomb hadn't gone off, and he was still alive.
The Armorer slumped slightly, and then, drawing a deep breath, he sliced the other wire and threw the chron across the room. He examined the plas-ex, thinking that it would come in useful after he had ascertained whether or not it had been stolen from the site's stocks. And only then did he call the others.
THEY COLLECTED the horses and rode back to sec camp after checking for any traces that could be found. Jak retrieved the chron from where the relieved Armorer had thrown it, and it told them nothing, being just part of an old wrist chron that was battered and dust gritted. The plas-ex didn't come from the work site, as they immediately checked the types of plas-ex in the store area. Not only was it of a different type, but also the store showed no signs of breaking and entering. The tracks of the wag could have been from any vehicle, and headed off to the road where they would be lost. There were also no signs that the fuel tank of the wag had been hit. At least a trail of lost fuel would suggest a chance of catching up with the saboteur.
Ryan reported the matter to Myall, who checked it in with Baron Silas via the radio. When he asked why they hadn't used their handsets to call for assistance, Ryan told him simply that no one could have arrived in time to help, a point the sec chief had to concede.
Their patrol ended in the knowledge that they had stamped
their authority on part of the camp and had thwarted another attempt to sabotage the refinery, but were still no nearer finding out who was responsible.
Although the odds were getting better on it being an outside job, as J.B. had suspected. If so, it was then a matter of who or why.
Something it would be hard to answer as long as trouble continued to distract them within the camp.
THEIR NEXT PATROL was the following evening, and they had spent the day resting and maintaining their arms before getting in a little more practice on the horses. Mildred was still worried about Dean's allergy, and after he had spent some time on horseback during the afternoon she had him in their sleeping quarters, stripped and laid out on one of their makeshift beds.
"How's it been feeling?" she asked, examining the hives that littered his upper body and thighs.
"Could be better," Dean replied, wincing as she probed at a small cluster on his ribs. "At least I don't have any on my balls, which would drive me crazy, or too many on my face. If they were near my eyes…"
"Yeah, that could be tricky," Mildred replied in a distracted tone. "Tell me—and be honest—how have you been feeling?"
"Like I said, they don't itch too much, and they're manageable—"
"I didn't mean the hives," Mildred cut in, with her voice showing an underlying concern. "Tell me if you've been feeling unclear or drowsy."
Dean propped himself up on one elbow, meeting her steady gaze. "I haven't had anything like that. What's this about?"
Mildred paused for a moment before replying. "It could be that I'm worrying unnecessarily, but the injections I've had to give you for this allergy can lead to symptoms that would affect your concentration. And—"
"And the last thing we need right now is me letting anyone down because I'm not triple alert at the right time," Dean interjected. When Mildred assented, he continued. "Honestly, I haven't had anything like that. If I had, I would have come straight to you because I was worried. The last thing I want to do is set myself or anyone up for a chilling because of a bunch of horse fleas."
Mildred nodded. "Okay, I believe you on that. But I had to check. Still, you won't have to worry about that anymore, because we've just run out of injections. All we can do now is eke out the cream and hope for the best. There may be enough residual of the drug in your system to keep the irritation to a minimum, but it may get unpleasant from here."
Dean shrugged. "This place is already a pesthole, so I guess I can live with it—as long as we can clear this up quickly."
"Lord, don't we all want that." Mildred sighed.
Sentiments that were echoed not just by the rest of the companions. Shortly before they were due to begin their patrol, they were joined by Crow, who had ridden in on the sec camp supply wag, bringing food from Salvation.
"What brings you here?" Ryan asked the Native American as he walked across the compound to them. Despite his apparently friendly greeting, there was an undertone to the one-eyed man's voice that suggested he was less than pleased to see Baron Silas's right-hand man.
Crow smiled, slow and easy, and replied in a manner that suggested he was only too well aware of Ryan's attitude. "Well, I was just heading out this way to catch me some sun, and I thought it might be good to drop in and see how you're all doing. No, you know why I'm here. Baron Silas got Myall's report and wants to know more."
"There's little more to tell," Ryan replied. "Mebbe we'll find out more tonight. Mebbe whoever it is will come back and try to finish the task."
"Mebbe," Crow replied with a thoughtful nod. "I figured that was how it was. But the baron's more nervous than a virgin first time around. Mind if I ride with you? Mebbe I can report back then and let you guys get on with it."
Ryan glanced at his fellow riders. There seemed to be no dissent, so he replied, "Okay, get a horse. We're about to leave."
Joined by the Native American, the sec party rode toward the workers' camp. In answer to Crow's unasked but obvious question, Ryan told him of their fight the previous night.
"If they want trouble, they can have it. Mebbe it'll give us some clues. But as far as I can tell, all they want to do is beat shit from each other and blame each other for the trouble at the well. We'll see."
They didn't have to wait long. The Haigh sector was quiet as usual, the dour ville men keeping themselves to themselves, but as they entered the sectors where Running Water and Water Valley crossed with Hush, they found that they were riding into a full-scale battle.
"Fireblast!" Ryan swore in lead as he heard the sound of blasterfire in among the clashes. "Some-one'll get chilled, and that'll fire up the whole camp."
Crow assented. "Better get in. Hush men are hard fighters, and the water villes aren't in the same league. Even outnumbered, I'd back the white-meat boys." The Native American kicked his horse, spurring it to greater speed.
"Watch him," J.B. yelled to the others. "Running Water is his ville. This is one time we can't trust him."
The horses clattered through the streets, turning into crowds massed around the area where the three sectors met. The outlying edges of the crowds were more people rubbernecking, trying to see the fighting rather than join in, and it was relatively simple for the companions to push their way through, scattering those reluctant to actually fight. The core of the action was centered on one street, and Crow was already in the thick of it, trying to break up the fighting men and women from the three villes. He had opted to stay on horseback, and was kicking at the fighters, figuring that he stood a greater chance of hitting a larger number and not being brought down himself if he stayed mounted. But he was making little impression alone.
Ryan turned to his people. "Off the horses, we'll make better progress on the ground," he yelled.
And that was true. Where Crow was hemmed in by the fighters, the companions were able to dismount and attack at a ground level. Although some blasterfire had been heard, the majority of the fighting was still hand-to-hand, with knives, sticks and pieces of glass and metal used as weapons. Dean, Mildred and Krysty were quick to pick up such pieces and put them to good use, while Jak once more palmed two of his leaf-bladed knives and used them to slash at the crowd of fighters, moving swiftly through to the center of the conflict with his flying feet causing as much damage through his heavy combat boots.
Ryan and J.B. had their own blades to hand, and both men had learned to fight hand-to-hand the hard way over many a year. They took the flanks of the fighting crowd, picking off the pairs and groups of fighters in the mass brawl, their fists and feet doing most of the work to be followed by incisive blows from the panga and the Tekna when necessary. While this was going on, Doc made a path for himself down the center, heading straight for the Native American, his unsheathed blade of honed Toledo steel doing its utmost to assist his passage, none of the fighters expecting such a seemingly frail old man to be so tough and fight so strongly.
Within a few moments, the companions had cleared a path to Crow, and left in their wake a bloody and defeated crowd of Native Americans, blacks, Hispanics and whites, united in their defeat.
"So will anyone tell me what the fuck this is about?" Crow yelled over the sudden silence, encircled by the companions, backs to him, ready to fight more if necessary.
"We know these scum are responsible for holding up the project," one of the Hush men said, rising to his feet.
"Bullshit, it's you people and your hate of anyone not white," replied a Hispanic woman. "And those fuckers are just as bad," she added to Crow, indicating the companions. "You're a traitor to your people, Crow."
"I have no people," he replied. "And they—" he indicated the companions "—are on all our sides."
"Yeah?' With a black and a mutie?" the Hush man shouted. "Like hell. They'll only help their own."
"We don't belong to any of you," Krysty said heatedly. "We just want to do our job and leave."
There was a general mutter of disbelief as the crowds began to disperse, leaving the companions and Crow almos
t entirely alone in the center of the roadway.
"Great," Mildred said. "One side thinks we're prejudiced against whites, the other that we hate all other colors…and none of them are going to help us to get at who's really causing the damage."
"Stupe bastards," Ryan muttered, surveying the emptying street. "They don't deserve anyone's help. Shit," he spit in disgust, "let's get mounted up and get out to the work site. At least it doesn't smell so bad out there."
Chapter Fifteen
Over breakfast the next morning, Crow and the companions sat in an uneasy silence. Around them the midmorning sun beat down on the sec compound. The heat was dry but still heavy, flies buzzing in the sun, drawn to the paddock by the horses.
The meal seemed slow and as heavy as the heat, the silence almost oppressive, until finally the Native American spoke.
"Guess you feel like this is a hopeless task after last night," he said softly. "If everyone feels you're against them, not only are you not going to get any breaks, but you're risking being under attack, which will only cloud the issue of the sabotage."
Ryan considered that, then nodded. "That's about right," he said simply.
"So what do I tell Baron Silas?" Crow asked blandly.
Ryan cast his good eye over his gathered troops. J.B. stared back with his impassive, stoic expression. Ryan knew he could count on the Armorer to back him all the way, and also knew that his old friend hated not seeing things through. And then there was Mildred. Her dark eyes stared across at Ryan, her face set. She had faced challenges all her life, both before skydark and in the world she had awoken in as a freezie. Mildred hated stepping down, and wouldn't start now.
Krysty would back him all the way. A strong sense of natural justice ran through her, cultivated by the influential Uncle Tyas McCann from her days in Harmony, and her anger at injustice could run as red as her hair. Next to her sat Dean. Looking at him was like looking into a mirror for the one-eyed man, and he saw himself as a youngster, with fire in his veins. The only thing Dean lacked was experience, and traveling with his father was giving him plenty of that. Dean had Cawdor stubbornness. He wouldn't back down from anything.
