The Doomfarers of Coramonde

by Brian Daley

  Morrows threw the switch back and the view faded. He was sweating and his hands were trembling badly.

  “Okay,” said Gil, “here’s the scam.”

  * * * *

  That evening he returned home, supposedly from visiting Jack McKinny, a former squadmate in the LURPs. The next day he cashed in his U.S. Savings Bonds, closed out his bank account and began a painstaking buying spree, starting with the bookstores. Deciding and redeciding what to take, he concentrated largely on law, political science, philosophy and selections in mathematics, psychology and education. He took everything he could lay his hands on about guerrilla warfare; he added them to his own collection, manuals he’d felt the U.S. Army would never miss. Too, he brought works on medicine and agriculture.

  It had been his intention to pick up a quantity of rifles, maybe army surplus or some Belgian FNs, to take back with him, but the drawbacks stopped him. First there was the problem of teaching backward peasants to shoot and not freak out at the noise and blast, something he would have had to do without any other cadremen to help, except possibly Van Duyn. He’d worked with Vietnamese Civilian Irregular Defense Groups, and knew how frustrating that could be.

  Then there was the snag of maintenance and cleaning, tough to impress on members of a nonmachine culture. Add the bulky haul of ammunition and magazines, cleaning kits, spare parts, solvent, oil and repair tools, and the whole idea became untenable, not counting the cost factor. Too, Van Duyn felt a moral imperative not to introduce firearms on any large scale to Coramonde.

  In the end he took only those weapons he would use himself. The only gun he owned was a Mauser pistol, a ten-round Waffenfabrik commercial model with the solid-head “new safety” lever. Chambered for nine-mm cartridges, the pistol had adequate accuracy and hitting power, though it was a bit old, and would fire the same standard ammunition as Van Duyn’s Browning. Gil located an old canvas military holster to accommodate the Mauser, along with a braided lanyard and three ammunition pouches for extra clips.

  He asked with exaggerated casualness if his father would care to sell his M-1 carbine, trophy of the war in the Pacific. Mr. MacDonald silently took the carbine down, fetched clips from a locked drawer and handed them to his son.

  Gil’s next acquisition was a Browning Hi-Power, shoulder holster and extra magazines. At the same time, he purchased a good deal of nine-mm and carbine ammunition. He also decided to take his bowie and trench knives.

  He spent most of that week around the house. He found everyday life a trifle unfamiliar. Not beyond his ability to adjust, just . . . bland. Nights watching TV didn’t interest him except that his parents evidently enjoyed it, and he got to talk to them. He’d never told his mother he was leaving and didn’t know that his father had. She appeared to know.

  On his final evening at home, a Saturday, he stood at his dresser sorting out his finished plans. He’d packed his cargo into the Chevy. He looked through the things he’d decided to leave behind. Insurance and credit cards, car ownership certificate, Social Security card, proof of membership in this or that organization, address book, dog tags, draft card, voter registration card, army inoculation, Geneva Convention, ration and meal cards; all were fanned out on the dresser.

  My life in paper.

  He left them, with the single exception of the driver’s license. In Coramonde they’d mean nothing. Diplomas, licences, documents and deeds wouldn’t be as significant as one bullet. He dropped all his keys, save those for the Chevy, into a drawer.

  He lingered over dinner but ate little. For once there was no dispute with Ralph, but all his attempts at humor failed. Finally he rose and kissed his mother. “I’m going. I’ll, umm, I’ll try to keep in touch.”

  He shook hands with his brother, both of them ashamed and regretting that anger had driven them apart. With a burst of emotion that surprised him, he hugged his father. Then he drove off into the night, uncertain of the wisdom of it.

  He drove slowly at first, savoring the world around him; but coming to the smoky refineries and mazed roadways of northern Jersey, he speeded up. For a moment he had a view of New York City across the Hudson River near the George Washington Bridge. It looked star-lit and infinitely inviting, an enchanted realm to rival Coramonde. He’d been there a number of times, and knew differently.

  He hunted up a motel near the Grossen Institute and slept until the next day, waking just before noon.

  He called Morrows who, when Gil identified himself, said it was arranged, then hung up. Good. That means he’ll be somewhere else when I break in, and have a cover story.

  He dressed in a khaki shirt, wash-faded denim pants and jacket and his weather-beaten boots, and checked out. He spent the afternoon on his stomach near the unused gate, eating sandwiches and peering through the chain link with binoculars. Once, a jeep made a slow circuit of the building but no one even bothered going in. Under the round glass stare of the binoculars his mouth split into a grin. Perfect.

  The Jeep made another circuit at about five, just as Morrows had said it would, even as he was preparing to go in. He pulled a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters out of the car and went to the locked chain securing the gate, then paused for a moment. If he went ahead, he’d not only commit a serious crime or three, but might also exile himself irrevocably. Unexpectedly, his thoughts went to the job his former boss had offered him, to return to the mailroom with a promise of management training.

  “To hell with that!” Gil MacDonald realized in that moment that he wouldn’t have cared to be president of the company. He much preferred to seek Coramonde and something that might be called adventure. He fumbled the heavy snips into place.

  Getting the gate open was difficult, but he persevered. Leaving the car where it was, he ran across the open field to the lab and jimmied the door by main force with a small crowbar. He propped the broken door closed, raised the delivery door and dashed back to his car. He drove into the building without incident, not forgetting to close the gate behind him, and pulled up next to the contiguity framework.

  He ran through the preoperative sequence, satisfied that all instruments appeared to be working correctly, though he doubted that he could spot it if they weren’t. He connected the heavy cables and was about to activate the interface between universes when a voice behind him said, “The deal was for you to leave this mysterious information of yours behind when you departed.”

  Morrows, of course. Morrows with a Luger in his hand. Then Gil saw that it wasn’t actually one of the German military pistols, but an imitation model, probably a .22 caliber.

  “The deal,” Gil said calmly to hide his dismay, “was for you to be somewhere else while I ran this stunt.”

  The researcher laughed nervously. “Should I be? I’d be a fool then, wouldn’t I?”

  “Gad, has all trust gone out of the world?” asked Gil. He wished bitterly that he had a gun with him instead of having left his in the car.

  Morrows ignored the crack. “Now you’re through blowing smoke at me. I want answers and I won’t wait for them. You’d have a lot of explaining to do to the cops.”

  Gil stepped closer to him. Time to shoot craps, man.

  “And if I tell you to shove it? You gonna shoot me with that miserable plinking gun? What’s in it, twenty-two shorts? Even if it’s hollowpoints, you sure you’ll stop me? Cause if you don’t, your damned head’s getting ripped right off, Jack.” He hoped he’d read Morrows right.

  The other was confused, suddenly seeing clearly that a gun isn’t a magic wand—wave it and anyone else must obey. A man with a gun must be ready to use it, and he wasn’t. He let his pistol and confidence waver for a moment, and Gil kicked the gun sideways with the inside of his foot, karate fashion, and followed up with a quick hand combination, sending his opponent reeling. Gil hopped once and uncorked a snapping side-kick to the crotch that bent Morrows double in the old, old reflex, and was instantly behind him securing Hadaka-jime, the forearm choke. The other struggled for a moment, then relaxed
as the ferocious hold cut off wind and blood to the brain. Gil maintained it until he was sure that his victim would be out awhile, then gradually loosened it, watching for a ruse.

  He hadn’t been totally unprepared for this. From his glove compartment he took a broad roll of surgical tape. He bound the unconscious man tightly but left him ungagged and lugged him to a tree by the road leading to Institute Administration. He judged that Morrows would be safe here and be quickly found when Security came to check out the rumpus he planned to make.

  He returned and took two more items from the trunk of his car. From Explosive Ordnance Disposal, demolitions specialists and others he’d met in the service, Gil had picked up a fair knowledge of explosives and even obtained manuals. It was startling to find out how easy it was to produce one’s own mercury fulminate for blasting caps, make blasting gelatin, TNT and a dozen or more types of dynamite, not to mention low explosives. With small investment and considerable risk, he’d built two explosive devices. They’d been his primary worry on the way up from Philly, but he’d been fairly confident they’d take the trip safely. Each had a basic alarm clock timer. He set them for one minute, placing one under the control console and the other beneath the programming bank, not bothering to tamp them. He felt a twinge of conscience at the destruction they’d cause, but he had to erase his trail and destroy the prototype machine. He could see the damaged party only as the faceless Institute. With this rationalization, he went on with his work.

  He started the Chevy. Leaving the engine running, he threw the switch to activate the apparatus. Again the landscape of Coramonde snapped into view. He started each of the alarm clocks, jumped into his car and gunned it through the interface into Coramonde.

  He didn’t stop directly beyond the contiguity, but pulled off to one side to avoid flying debris from the impending explosion and halted twenty yards away. He shut off the motor and waited. Thinking to scan for any company in the area, he remembered he’d left the binoculars hanging in their case by the fence at the Institute and made a grossly offensive remark about them. Would there be fingerprints? Hell with ’em; going back was out of the question. He regretted the loss as he waited.

  Thirty seconds filed past and the contiguity spewed forth a ludicrous tongue of flame which seemed, from his angle, to spout from nowhere and end abruptly. Much of the force of the blast had probably been cut off when the machinery was destroyed and the gateway disappeared. In other words, he’d succeeded in sabotaging his only sure way home.

  You’re a Doomfarer now, son. Whoopee!

  He shucked off his jacket, drew the Browning from under the Chevy’s front seat and shrugged on the shoulder holster. He spotted what had to be the streambed Van Duyn had described to him, and started the car again. In the distance he saw the village the scholar must have spotted that first evening, but it looked deserted and burned out.

  The downgrade to the streambed was steep but he took it in first gear and let the transmission work for him. Wear and tear didn’t matter; he’d never use the car again. The stream was a wide, shallow flow with broad, sandy banks. He stopped under a willow and shut the engine off for the last time. Taking his trench knife, a relic of WWI with a foot-long blade and brass knuckles on the grip, he began cutting down shrubbery and branches to conceal the Chevy.

  He began to sing:

  “I’m a rambler, I’m a gambler, I’m a long ways from home, and them as don’t like me can leave me alone . . . ”

  He was sweating hard and had removed his shirt by the time he artfully placed a final branch just so. He’d taken the carbine from the trunk and left it on the front seat, and now he squeezed in past his camouflage and bided his time.

  It was dark by the tune the sound of hoofbeats came to him. He flicked the carbine’s safety off and silently opened the window wider, poking the barrel through the loophole he’d left himself and aligning it directly out before him in practiced night-marksman form. The moon wasn’t especially bright, but seconds later he made out a party of riders. They halted at a bend in the stream, difficult to make out at thirty yards and not a promising target. He was unworried; friends or enemies, they’d have no firearms.

  He jammed thumb and forefinger into his mouth, gave a piercing whistle. With impressive speed they traced the sound and ranged themselves around the overhanging willow. They were seven, with two extra riderless horses. Six held lances or drawn bows. The seventh, coming forward, said in a warm female voice, “If you are Gil MacDonald, name your metal machine to me, from which Chaffinch was slain. But if you are not, make your peace with your gods.”

  He laughed. “Hey, hey, cut me some slack Babycakes; its name was Lobo. How’re long-term parking rates around here?”

  The joke was lost on her.

  Chapter Twenty

  Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough gleams the untravelled world.

  —Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Ulysses”

  They dismounted in haste. Gil slid from his car to meet them. The woman who’d spoken, plainly in command, was dressed in helmet and mail. He could make out little else in the dark except that the top of her helm reached just above his eyes.

  “Are you in readiness to accompany us?” she asked formally.

  He had a hundred questions but held them. Instead, he said, “Semper paratus,” and began to bring out the Chevy’s cargo. Much of it they bundled onto one riderless horse, which was fitted with a pack frame. The rest they divvied among them, except for Gil’s personal things and weapons. He wondered at the care with which they handled the books, almost a reverence, and began to understand Van Duyn’s liking of his Promethean role.

  He put on his shirt and jacket and fastened his pistol belt with bolstered Mauser around his waist. He loosened the sling of the carbine as much as he could and slipped it over his head and shoulder. The rest of his possessions were in two small packs fastened at either side of the saddle of the other spare horse. He mounted awkwardly.

  He bade the old Chevy farewell, but doubted it would.

  They started, the girl leading and Gil right behind, and he could tell from the first that the others were holding their pace down to accommodate him. They rode without difficulty in the scarce light and he got the impression they could have ridden full tilt without trouble. His own riding style was more the Sunday-afternoon variety, but he hung in doggedly, rifle slapping his back, and did his best to keep up.

  They rode for much of the night with no word except to change point men. He thought of offering to take a turn but decided that it would be as useless as one of these horsemen trying to con Lobo for him. They used narrow trails and game tracks, frequently cutting overland with many a backward glance. He knew that they must want to get away from the area of the contiguity. A wise move; the sound of the blast might have attracted attention, and sooner or later the car would be found.

  They stopped after long hours without a break and made a primitive bivouac, leg-hobbling their horses—Gil had to be shown how to do it—and throwing themselves down on the ground to catch precious sleep. He thought about introducing himself, or at least engaging the girl in conversation, but they didn’t look interested; he let it pass. He, too, was tired and used to roughing it—if not quite in this way—and had no trouble falling asleep.

  Awakening was another matter. He’d stiffened up; leg muscles protested their unaccustomed strain and refused to respond. He tried to ignore them after doing a few quick exercises to loosen them. He saw that his horse was already saddled and his companions were almost prepared to leave.

  He took the opportunity to scope them out. The men were tough-looking, clad in woolens and scale armor. They carried lances and short bows, straight swords and small shields of leather-covered wood rimmed with iron. He saw that they were equipped for speed and maneuverability rather than heavy fighting.

  These were prowler-cavalry, an elite even among Bonesteel’s crack Legion. Horsemen nearly as adroit as the Horseblooded themselves, the prowlers were skilled trackers, ad
ept at scouting and deep-penetration patrols. They could live off the land indefinitely, find their way over strange terrain almost instinctively, go undetected in hostile territory and outride pursuit on swift, surefooted horses. The six here were a quarter of all the prowlers in Bonesteel’s command.

  The girl was something else again. She was winding her waist-length, honey-streaked hair up to pull on her conical helmet. She fitted it on and he studied the beautiful, deep-gray eyes behind her helm’s nasal piece. She was no older than eighteen or so, and wore a mail byrnie and baggy pants tucked into high boots altogether like those of the prowlers; she bore a slender, unadorned sword at her side. He didn’t know if she had slept with it close to hand, and it occurred to him that it could be dangerous to find out, especially since the others treated her so respectfully and would be inclined to feel protective.

  She considered him frankly for a moment and he found himself uncomfortable. “I am Duskwind,” she said, “and to me has been entrusted the task of bringing you back to Freegate.”

  “Gil MacDonald. I guess Springbuck and Van Duyn and the others got to whatsisname, Reacher?”

  “The Wolf-Brother has rallied many of the steppes tribes to him and some of the forces of Coramonde have defected to our side. Things are more heartening now than formerly.”

  “The Wolf-Brother?”

  “Reacher is known by diverse names in many places. Wolf-Brother is one.”

  She gestured over her shoulder and their horses were led up. They mounted, and the six prowlers took to their horses. Gil was about to sling his carbine when he noticed an empty quiver at the side of his saddle, fixed there to carry an unstrung bow or short javelins. He found that it held his light weapon satisfactorily, even with the thirty-round banana clip in it.