Robinson Crusoe 2246: (Book 3)

by E. J. Robinson

  “Your face is like a rainbow. So many colors.”

  He sniggered. Then he heard a buzz. He looked up to see Robinson and Friday returning.

  “You! Was I not clear?”

  Friday ripped the staff from Fang’s hands and slammed him in the gut before breaking it over his back. She had a knife to his neck before the Reds could blink. Only Snapdragon rushed forward until a thunderous crack filled the room as her spear exploded in her hands.

  Robinson lowered the laser eye of his pistol to her heart. “Change of plans.”

  They’d taken Fang and Snapfinger to the holding room where they were forced to listen to Dustynose’s breakdown of the Fire Lords. In the beginning, her words were met with resistance and hostility, but slowly, surely, the message got through.

  Fang’s anger transformed, first to disbelief then to fear. Snapfinger could only sit alone in the corner, arms folded, glowering at Friday.

  “You only come back for the Fives,” Fang said.

  “I ’spect you see it so,” Dustynose retorted. “But if’n it was true, why wouldn’t I just dirt you here and now? The bones mean zeroes to me, Fang. Same as the colors. I ain’t here for them or the tree or you. I’m here for the Orphans. Fact is, once the game’s won, me and Under will walk with the Lopers … I mean, Crusoe and Friday, if Troyus still stands. To that we give crosses.”

  “Crosses,” Underfoot repeated.

  “But first we need to ‘tect O City from game over. Now, can you stand the roots and say the words? Or do you want to sniff piss ’n here while Troyus burns ’round you?”

  In the end, Fang saw the logic. And despite his cruel nature, Dustynose knew she needed him to lead the Reds. It was Snapdragon she worried about, and she told Robinson and Friday so.

  “I can watch the girl,” Friday said. And that was that.

  By early afternoon, Dustynose and Fang had gathered a war council at the base of the Tree. Snapdragon had opted to patrol outside instead.

  “They Fire Lords like to attack at night,” Dustynose said. “So as to keep their numbs hid and let the rumble of ’urt drive terror before ’em. When the flames follow, most clans panic. We can’t. If the Os stand together, we got a chance. If they run, we’re dust and done.”

  “How many big wheels?” Fang asked.

  “Four what’s called trucks. Three if the one Crusoe and I done stays done. These haul fighters. Smaller wheels do the launchin’. It’s the motos we’ll itch over. They lead the charge. Each carry two Lords. A rider and a thrower. The thrower’s job is to toss fire glass at key places. To soften ’em up.”

  “No doubt they’d flown over enough times to be familiar with the place,” Robinson said. “If what Dustynose says about their tactics holds true, they’ll target several, if not all, of the mall’s entrances simultaneously. That’s two to the south, one east and west, and the main one here to the north. Their goal is to clear the way so the trucks can get inside. We can’t let that happen.”

  “Why’d they want inside?” Fang asked. “You says you smoked their home. Why ain’t they after the revenge?”

  Dustynose answered. “They be needing the edi’s. If they believing they can win Troyus straight up, they’ll do it, dirting enough Orphans to make right for last night. But they’ll be wanting some alive too. For slave labor. And worse.”

  “The good news is,” Robinson said, “the southern parking lot backs up to this arroyo, which means we only have to worry about is this slope here. If we can block it and this inlet on the eastern side, that’s three of the five entrances out of the equation. That’ll force the Fire Lords to concentrate their attack here, to the north.”

  “Why not attack the western entrance?” Friday asked. “It’s the most open. I would hit it first.”

  “I know,” Robinson said. “That’s why we’re going to put the plane there. Just inside the windows where it can be seen. Dustynose says the Fire Lords see the plane as more than just a vehicle. To them, it’s a symbol of their prowess. If they truly want it back, they won’t risk damaging it unless they have to.”

  “Big risk,” Fang asked. “’sidering you burned up the juice to feed her.”

  “Hey, nothing’s guaranteed,” Robinson said before nodding to Dustynose. “But she says it’s worth the risk, and I believe her.”

  “So we box ’em to the north,” Fang said. “They still got the numbs. And wheels. And weapons. What’s stopping ’em from overpowering us?”

  “Law of the sticks,” Friday said. “Spread them out, and they’re weaker.”

  “That’s right,” Robinson said. “We’ll use the old carriages to bottle this chokepoint. And we’ll take out this bridge just after their motorcycles cross.”

  “How?” Underfoot asked.

  “Leave that to me,” Robinson said. He turned to Fang. “Do you have metalworkers?”

  “You seen the tree, ain’t you?” Fang asked.

  Robinson slid over a piece of paper with a sketch on it. “You know what that is?”

  Fang took the paper and looked at it. “Pieces o’ game from the far and back. Shorts play it. Named Bounce and Pick.”

  “We called it Jacks. Historically, they were called caltrops. Armies used something similar that impeded cavalry and vehicles on the battlefield. I need your orphans to make as many as possible. Fist sized with sharpened ends.”

  Fang nodded and tucked the paper into his shirt.

  “I have a few other tricks up my sleeve, but the main goal here is to parse the enemy into waves so we can take them on separately. The bulk of your Reds will man the high ground atop Troyus with bows, arrows, and whatever else you can think of. Friday will lead them.”

  “Snapfinger won’t like it,” Fang said.

  “She won’t have to,” Friday said.

  “The archers will target the motorcycles. Dustynose and the Greens will extinguish any blazes set to the main structure. And the rest of us will take out the trucks when they arrive.”

  “And how will we do that?” Fang asked.

  “Easy. We’ll fight fire with fire.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Preparations

  The Master stood atop the tree-lined knoll watching the children below through binoculars.

  “What are they doing?” Viktor asked.

  “It appears they are preparing for an attack.”

  The preparations were crude, but might be effective depending on their enemy. The Master was paying particularly close attention to Crusoe, who led the operation. He had children rolling large, heavy barrels to various locations around the old parking lot while others strung thin wires between poles.

  “By whom?” Viktor asked.

  “That has yet to be determined. Whomever it is, Crusoe seems to believe they’re formidable. Or at least he’s preparing as such. Has Cassa run across any scouts?”

  “No,” Viktor answered. “Only the children’s patrols, which he’s avoided as you directed.”

  “Good. I’d like to see how this plays out.”

  “Even if it puts your adversary in danger?”

  The word “adversary” irked the Master. It implied the boy was an equal when clearly he was nothing of the sort.

  “I wouldn’t worry about Crusoe. He has an uncanny knack for escaping tight spots. Besides, I want the girl too. And she hasn’t appeared since they returned.”

  “We were so close,” Viktor said. “Another few hundred feet up the road, and we would have had them.”

  “He that can have patience can have what he will.”

  “Benjamin Franklin,” Viktor said. “Quite apt, sir.”

  “Your intellect is truly a desert flower in this wasteland, Viktor.”

  Viktor bowed. It’d been a long time since someone had complemented him on anything other than his creations. For a man whose spirit was once inexorably tied to his individuality, it rekindled something dormant inside him and made him swell with pride. Then the Master turned again.

  “But it’s th
e depth of your depravity I value most.”

  Viktor’s smile fell. “That I owe to you, Master.”

  Robinson plucked a sprig of basil from planter box and held it to his nose. The sweet, minty smell brought back memories of home. How formal dinner had seemed back then. The expected etiquette. The stony faces. And yet there was always an undercurrent of love beneath. Robinson missed it. As he watched Friday approach, he wondered if they would ever have such a routine.

  “Did you eat?” Friday asked, slipping a hand over his shoulder.

  “Earlier. You?”

  She nodded as she sat on the lip of the building and looked out through one of the many windows that had been repurposed as embrasures. Beyond the mesa, the sun had dipped between the snow-dappled peaks of twin mountains, their ringed halos shimmering across the distance. The moon loomed opaquely in the unclouded sky, as if eager for the battle to start.

  “Won’t be long now,” Robinson said.

  Friday followed his gaze to the west where a black brume of dust and exhaust rose over the city.

  She wrapped both arms around his neck and lay her head on his back.

  “Would you hate me if I said part of me missed this?” Friday asked.

  Robinson understood she meant the call of battle because he felt it too. “No,” he said. “But I must remind you you’re fighting for two now.”

  “And she will always come first, behind you.”

  Robinson kissed her hand.

  “If things start to go bad—if we’re overrun or the enemy makes it inside—I want you to lead as many of the children as you can into the ravine out back and head east. I’ll catch up to you when I can.”

  “We will not fail. We are Aserra.”

  “The skies are full of Aserra that failed, Friday. And one day we’ll both join them. I just want to be sure it’s not today. East, okay?”

  “I’ll be waiting,” Friday said.

  The children had gathered around the Tree of Gifts a final time, asking for their Gods, Ton-Bra and the Ark Brothers for courage in the face of battle. When Fang let loose a battle call, the children answered in kind, filling the massive structure with a din that shook the rafters. Then the Reds scaled the tree, armed with their bows. The Greens fell in as support behind them. With the yellow handling injuries and messages, that left Fang and his Blues on the ground.

  “I gone to the store,” Fang said as he approached Robinson. “Learned Troyus has been attacked eight times since the far and back. Last was forty-three leaders past. Orphans won the day then. And will today.”

  “Did you consult your eye as well?”

  Fang nodded reluctantly. “Black Eye of Infinity says all signs point to ye-uh.”

  “Good. What did you decide about those in the nest?”

  “Took your ’vice. Had the swoles and whelps escorted out of O. They’ll be safe ’til it’s time to ’turn.”

  “I have to say, while I don’t think much of your methods as a leader, you would have made an excellent battle commander. Unless you fold when the fighting starts.”

  Fang smirked. “We’ll see who’s standing when it’s all over, Loper. See you at dewday.”

  “See you then.”

  A chill wind trickled in after the passing of twilight. Moonlight lit the tree limbs swaying in time. An unfamiliar energy radiated from the Blues that had taken position behind hastily erected barricades surrounding the northern entrance. They were nervous and fearful to be sure, but they also sensed that something significant was about to happen and that they had a chance to play a part. Robinson hoped they would all rise to the challenge.

  First contact came in the form of a single motorcycle rider, whose engine purred as he neared the embankment atop the northern parking lot. He rode slowly past the barricade of mounted car shells before continuing to the northeastern bridge. Once his recon was done, he hit his throttle and sped back the way he came.

  A strange silence settled. The evening felt almost serene. Then the quiet was shattered by a chorus of high pitched wails, intensifying as the convoy approached. Their yip-yip-yip sounded like a pack of coyotes or a murder of crows startled to flight.

  An orange glow lit the sides of the buildings atop the ridge. Then, one by one, the motorcycles arrived, howling across the upper road like banshees. They held torches, and in some cases, they threw old glass bottles of fuel to light up the night.

  The show was meant to terrify them. And to a degree, it worked. Robinson saw one boy in red wet himself. Another girl whimpered. None fled.

  As the riders kicked up dust, a deep rumble preceded several large trucks and smaller cars. The column broke in two, settling outside each of the mall’s entrances. Once in position, the engines howled in unison, and torrents of fire shot high into the air. Then all at once, the din died away until the only sound was idling engines.

  A moment passed before the largest truck bound forward, its engine roaring as it picked up speed and rammed into the northwestern barricade. The sound of the impact split the night air as the tower of cars buckled and fragmented. But the barricade held.

  The driver put the truck into reverse before striking the barricade again. This time, black smoke billowed into the air as the barricade shifted and fell atop the truck.

  Fang stood and screamed, “Ton-Bra!” The Orphans around the mall joined him.

  For a moment, Robinson thought they might win this thing. Then a second horn roared, and the motorcycles attacked.

  “Here they come!” Robinson shouted.

  Friday and the Reds watched from the roof as the motorcycles sped over the embankment, a cavalry charge of two dozen strong. The orphans waited with bated breath as the bikes screamed forward, the passengers of each carrying two flaming glass firebombs.

  Halfway across the parking lot, the foremost riders were violently upended like rag dolls, their glass firebombs breaking on the cement, engulfing both Lords in flames. They manage to make it to their feet, writhing and thrashing, until the conflagration consumed them.

  Several more riders also struck the wire that had been strung between ancient light poles, including one whose head toppled to the cement. Eventually, the wire snapped and the other bikes continued. Only then did they see the littering of caltrops that had been strewn about like seedlings. Tires punctured, riders were tossed, and flames lit up their bodies and the darkened sky.

  While six fell, another fifteen broke through. Friday waited until they were twenty-five meters out before she gave the order. A score of red archers sprung up and loosed a volley of arrows. Another half dozen riders fell. The rest managed to swing close enough to launch their glass firebombs toward the northern entrance. The barricade erupted in flames, as did the wall above it. Robinson heard Friday call out to the Greens.

  Green Halfers rushed across the roof with vats of water, hurling them over the edge until the flames were snuffed. Friday shouted again, and the archers prepared for the next wave.

  The motorcycles came in wild loops, throwing firebombs as they dodged arrows. The intense heat kept those on the ground behind their barricades until one rider ventured too close, and Robinson stepped out and shot him. As he keeled over, his bike hit the curb and bounced into the street, its engine still running.

  A horn blast signaled the second wave of attackers, led by the Fire Lord’s largest truck, a military vehicle of some kind. As it plodded onto the northeastern bridge, Robinson signaled Underfoot.

  “Bridge!” he shouted.

  Underfoot raced into the mall and relayed the order up the tree to the roof where six Greens levered a set of construction beams off the southern edge of the building. The counterweight wrenched taut, whipping hundreds of yards of cable in an instant. The bridge’s concrete piling snapped, and the bridge teetered before the massive truck careened into the ditch. The Orphans let out another rousing cheer, but the Fire Lords weren’t done by a long shot. The remaining convoy found the most forgiving gradient of the embankment and began funneling down. />
  The motorcycles continued to circle around tossing firebombs at the mall, only to return to the convoy when they ran out of ammunition.

  The Blues near Robinson had coated their spears with poison from the desert snakes. When one of the riders ventured close enough, a Blue would step out, sling his or her spear, and impale the rider. With the cover from Friday’s Reds, the smaller forces were being kept at bay.

  Then a large truck rumbled across the parking lot; its target: their barricade. Robinson knew the battle would hinge on what happened next. If his gambit worked and they could take out the trucks before they reached the building, their chances of success were good. If the trucks drove them back, Troyus was almost sure to fall.

  “Fang!” Robinson shouted across the gap to the rival barricade, pointing to the cables at the teen’s feet. “Get ready.”

  Fang nodded and had his team of Blues grip two of the four cables. Robinson, Underfoot, and another Blue grabbed the others. Now, all they had to do was wait for the trucks to reach the front line of light poles.

  But to their surprise and dismay, the trucks stopped one hundred feet short.

  “What are they doing?” Underfoot asked.

  Robinson wasn’t sure. He could only watch as the trucks turned sideways as group of Fire Lords began pulling the canvas coverings off the back. When Robinson finally recognized what was in the back of the truck, he was filled with dread.

  “Oh no,” he said.

  “What is it?” Underfoot asked.

  Robinson didn’t have time to answer. A moment later, the giant mechanism sprang to life. and a firebomb ten times the size of those the bike throwers yielded vaulted high into the air before arching down and striking the side of the mall, erupting into a towering wall of flame.

  The Fire Lords had four massive trebuchets—catapults capable of assailing any structure from afar. As soon as the blinding projectiles began to fill the sky, Robinson knew the battle was lost.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fire With Fire

  The Master watched the fiery projectiles streak across the sky like a storm of meteors, only to erupt into tsunamis of flame when they crashed against the mall’s edifice. Amidst the screams of children atop of the structure, a woman’s shouts could be heard, followed by bouts of water that gave too little relief.