by James Axler
“Fair enough,” Ryan acknowledged. “So how about something worse than chilling every person? A lot worse. Something that’ll strike fear into every fat gut of every baron, in every ville, from the Washington Hole to the Western Islands.”
“Sell them to the cannies?” Jimmy guessed wildly.
“Even better than that,” J.B. replied with a smug grin.
Frowning deeply, Roberto started to ask a question, then comprehension dawned and the big norm slowly stood taller, the crushing weight of a hundred graves removed from his back.
“Yeah, that’ll do just fine,” he growled, almost smiling.
Chapter Sixteen
Loping across the countryside, the two hellhounds almost lost the scent at the water-which-burns that came from the ground with an angry roar, the air clean of any smell whatsoever. But the physical tracks of the enemy vehicle were plainly discernable in the soft mud, and the hunt continued.
Both of the proto-animals were burned deeply in numerous spots, from trying to get into the metal cave. Opening the black wall had not been hard. They had found a small box of pebbles set into the wall, and several of them smelled of target, while the rest did not. Dimly remembering this procedure from their training session in the white-place-of-pain, the genetic constructs used their tentacles to press only the pebbles that had been touched. Nothing happened for a very long time, and the sun was low in the sky before there came a dull thud, a series of clicks, and the mammoth black wall split apart to grant them entry.
But before they could set paw into the cave, the bioweps had been attacked by a Class Two guardian, and the constructs had been forced to retreat, licking their wounds. With no other way into the cave, the hellhounds had gone to default hunting techniques, and circled the earthen dome, ever spiraling outward until suddenly relocating the bitter smell of the enemy once more.
Following a cool stream of water, the bioweps came upon a prime specimen of ursus arctos horribilus munching apples. The grizzly bear was ten times their size and weight, but its teeth and claws were no match for their vast arsenal of killing tools, and soon the Hellhounds were feasting upon the rich, tender meat. It was good, oddly flavored with the sweetness of apples, but it was nowhere near as satisfying as the screaming redflesh of the enemy.
Eating their fill, the hellhounds washed in the stream to remove any trace of blood and thus reduce the possibility of being detected by the pungent copper smell. The urge to hunt was almost overwhelming in their minds, but the hellhounds had been programmed to sleep for two hours every night, even when on a mission, and so they unwillingly obeyed, each one taking a turn to stand guard while the other was temporarily vulnerable.
The moon was high when the second hellhound awoke, refreshed and rejuvenated, its wounds completely healed. There were a great many scavengers finishing off the ragged carcass of the ursus arctos horribilus, and they greedily consumed several of the smaller creatures before charging down the muddy banks of the little babbling creek. The smell of the metal box was sharper now, fresher, and twice they found the spoor of the enemy behind some bushes.
Growing more and more excited, the bioweps raced faster through the night, the darkness bright as day to their augmented sight, the urge to feed upon the enemy growing stronger with every passing minute.
RATTLING SLIGHTLY FROM THEIR loose armor, the three war wags drove into the center of Newton and parked in a triangular formation where their blasters could easily cover one another. The UCV’s Fifty was fully supplied now, some of the linked brass coming from Tiger Lily’s wreck.
The ville was dead quiet, with nobody in sight. To the companions, it seemed that half of the ville had been damaged in the fight. Several of the larger buildings were gone, reduced to smoldering ashes. Most of the smaller fires had burned out by themselves, or been extinguished by civies using buckets of water from the well.
Incredibly, the dead sec men had been lined up in neat rows, all of their blasters and boots still in place. Baskets near the bodies were filled with the spent brass from the fight.
“These aren’t townspeople, they’re slaves,” Mildred muttered hatefully, a fist pressed against the scratched window of the UCV.
“Not anymore,” Ryan said from the driver’s seat, his hands resting comfortably on top of the steering wheel.
“Now hear this,” Roberto’s voice boomed from the loudspeakers on top of War Wag One. “Now hear this, ya slack-brain feebs! Everybody in the square in five, or I start blasting.”
Mere seconds later, a wide assortment of people swarmed out of doorways and alleys like half-dressed cockroaches. A few were holding torches, the pitch crackling and spitting; the rest were carrying landels, a candle placed inside a drinking glass to protect the flame. The combination was surprisingly effective, and in the flickering light the companions could easily see the absolute terror in the eyes of the people obediently gathering in front of the massive war wag.
“All hail the new baron!” a wrinklie shouted feebly, waving a skinny arm, the flesh hanging loose underneath. “Hurrah for Baron…uh…Baron…”
“Hurrah for the trader baron!” the blacksmith supplied, and the townspeople erupted into wild cheering.
With the sound of working hydraulics, the armored hatch of the wag lowered, and out stepped Roberto, his face as grim as death. Impatiently, he waited for the noise to die away.
“Eagleson,” the trader growled, climbing to the ground. “The name is Roberto Eagleson, and you damn well will never forget it again!”
“Y-yes, my lord,” a woman said, giving a curtsy. “All hail Baron Eagleson!”
The uneasy crowd took up the cry again, clearly trying to appease his wrath. Tolerantly, Roberto let them continue for a few minutes before snapping his fingers.
In unison, every machine gun in the convoy cut loose, firing streams of hot lead into the sky, the muzzleflashes overwhelming the torches and candles, the military fusillade sounding louder than the destruction of the bunkers.
Instantly, the townsfolk shopped cheering and cringed.
“All right, enough of that bullshit!” Roberto said into a hand radio, and the blasters stopped.
His boots patting on the brickwork, the trader walked closer to the mob, and placed fists on his hips. “Baron Conway is aced,” Roberto announced loudly. “Along with most of the sec men. There is nobody here anymore to protect you, no more law and order, no more control.” He paused. “Only me.”
In the front of the crowd, a young girl began to openly cry, and numerous others hung their heads in abject submission, waiting to hear what new doom was about to fall.
“On the other hand, I’m also not your new baron,” Roberto continued, watching the looks of amazement and confusion grow on the multitude of faces. Young, old, man, woman, there were a lot more people here than the measly hundred he had previously guessed. Good. So much the better.
The words seemed to echo across the decimated ville, punctuated by the crackle of the countless small fires and the occasional bark of a black powder round cooking off from the mounting heat.
“My lord?” a young boy asked, a clenched fist holding up his ragged pants.
“I said that I’m not your fragging baron,” Roberto repeated, driving home the point. “And I never wish to see this fragging pesthole of a ville again! Do you have any idea how many of my crew I lost tonight? One of them even died from eating too much bread.” For a moment, the trader let his anger slip loose, his voice rose to a bellow. “Aced by a loaf of bread! Is that any way for a motherfragging trader to board the last train west?”
Breathing heavily, the townsfolk bowed their heads and said nothing, the wind coming in from the hill carrying the faint smell of destruction and death.
“Only one of you showed the juice to give us a warning,” Roberto continued, slightly softening his tone. It was an old negotiation trick. Start hard, rattle their cage, push the other fellow to the wall, then step back, give a little, and get everything you wanted.
“Only one of you bastards showed the wisdom of a baron, and the guts of a seasoned sec man!” Roberto continued, then raised the radio and pressed the transmit button. “Will the woman called Yurizane come to the ville square! Yurizane, front and center!”
There was a commotion among the civies, the confused people moved aside, and the busty gaudy slut shuffled out of the crowd. Her cheeks were smudged black, her loose bodice burned through in spots, showing dimples of flesh.
Obviously she had been helping to fight the fires. Roberto approved. Ryan was right, this was no ordinary slut.
“What do you wish of me, my lord?” Yurizane asked uneasily, her soot-stained fingers toying with the hem of her dress.
“You tell me.” Roberto smiled, crossing his arms. “Because, as of this moment, you’re the new baron in Newton.”
The pronouncement galvanized the crowd, ripples of excited murmurs running quickly through the astonished people. Some blinked stupidly, others raised disbelieving eyebrows, a few scowled in outrage and damn near everybody looked as confused as a stickie in a revolving door.
“Is…this a joke?” Yurizane asked hesitantly. “Hell, I’m not even the madam of the gaudy house!”
“And now you never will be,” Roberto said, placing a hand on his chest and giving a little bow.
“Are you out of your fragging mind!” a fat man screamed, unable to restrain himself. “A slut as a baron? Blind Norad, I’ve fucked that bitch, and now I’m supposed to kowtow and salute! To die at her whim?”
Without warning, the heavy machine guns of the war wags fired a brief burst into the air once more, then lowered the hot barrels to point directly at the assemblage. The people went stock-still, their expressions ranging the full spectrum of emotions.
“You better obey her commands,” Roberto said, radiating malice as he pulled out the sawed-off Remington. “Or else start walking out the gate with the clothes on your back.”
A sea of anxious faces turned in that direction. “Beyond the gate” was another way of saying chilled. Outside the ville was the abode of coldhearts, muties, slavers, cannies and much, much worse.
“In fact, everybody in this ville has to kneel before the new baron and swear loyalty, or I level this shithole here and now!” Thumbing back a hammer, Roberto grinned without humor. “Your choice!”
There was some shoving among the townsfolk, a few muttered curses, and then Stewart lumbered forward. Walking to Yurizane, the huge blacksmith knelt. “Blood, honor and obedience,” he said formally.
Wordlessly, the woman nodded, and Stewart stepped aside to glare defiantly at the others. The skinny waitress from the tavern followed next, then a couple of other sluts, a cobbler, then the wife of an aced sec man. That opened the floodgates, and one by one, everybody knelt and pledged allegiance to the pretty woman in the dirty dress, until there was only one plump man left, the dissenter from before.
“Never!” he snarled hatefully, drawing a derringer from a pocket. “I’ll never bend a knee to a filthy little—”
Yurizane darted a hand into her bodice, and Roberto went for his blaster, but Stewart moved faster and jerked a hand forward. The thrown hammer slammed into the face of the fat man, teeth and blood spraying outward from the powerful blow. Staggering about, he triggered the derringer into the ground, then the handle of a knife was suddenly jutting out of his belly. Groaning, he collapsed to the street, trembling and soiling his pants.
“Finish it,” Yurizane commanded, her face flushed.
“By your command, Baron,” Roberto said, and triggered the shotgun. The buckshot and bent nails tore into the dying man, flipping him over to expose his riddled guts to the stars, then with a soft gurgle he stopped moving.
That stopped the cheering for a moment, then it came back louder than ever.
“Got a last name?” Roberto whispered, reloading the sawed-off. “Some don’t. I didn’t. Chose Eagleson for myself.”
“Hinchey,” she answered softly, nervously running stiff fingers through her volumes of loose hair. “Yurizane Hinchey.”
Closing the blaster, the trader shouted, “Newton! I present to you, the most noble Baron Hinchey!”
The machine guns cut loose a third time, the spent brass raining down to musically ting-a-ling on the brick street. Raggedly, the crowd broke into wild applause, and a few repeated the earlier cries and huzzahs.
Keeping his features neutral, Roberto knew this was a terrible waste of ammo, but if the woman, a girl, really, had half a chance in hell, this was the only way to secure her power. It was either this, or blow the ville off the map. One way or the other, he was spending brass tonight. Better it went to save lives than take them.
Through the windshield of the UCV, Ryan and the other companions watched the trader weave his deal. There was nothing they could do to help at the moment but act as part of his crew.
“One heart, one mind, one life, one goal,” Doc said in his stentorian bass. “Peace. Blessed, blessed peace.”
“And revenge,” Jak added with a smirk.
While the cheering continued, Roberto draped an arm over the woman and pulled her close. “Okay, got somebody you trust?” he inquired. “Trust with a loaded blaster to your back?”
“My brother,” Yurizane replied promptly. “Marine.”
“Where is he?”
“Out hunting.”
“When he comes back, that’s the chief sec man. What about the rest?”
“Who do you suggest?” Yurizane asked, trying to sense a trap.
He scoffed. “Nuking hell, woman, they’ve been in your bed! Nobody should know these folks better.”
“Yeah, I suppose so,” the new baron muttered thoughtfully. Most of the menfolk were liars and cheats, nothing new there. It was probably the same thing the whole world over, she supposed. But there was her brother, that blacksmith, a few women that she could trust. Not many, but some. That was enough for a start, anyway. The decision made, Yurizane decided to handle this new position just like any other of her old work, assume everybody was a liar and get the jack up front.
“How about blasters?” Yurizane asked, straightening her shoulders. “What’s left in the armory after your take?”
Roberto tried not to grin. Now she was negotiating! “We didn’t take a thing. We’re also not leaving you anything. If this is to be your ville, you have to make it work.”
“Fair enough,” she said. Lord knows, there was enough on the ground to get the ball rolling.
At that thought, Yurizane walked to the line of corpses and looked them over carefully. Choosing the least damaged weapons, she took a bolt-action longblaster from one and a big-bore auto-loader from another. Returning to stand by Roberto, Yurizane retrieved her knife from the fat man, wiping the blade clean on his shirt. Clumsy in bed, stupid in life.
Draping the gunbelt across her chest like a bandolier, Yurizane positioned the blaster in the middle for an easy draw, then abruptly tossed the longblaster to Stewart. The blacksmith made the catch in a huge hand and worked the arming bolt to chamber a round.
“Baron Hinchey!” the giant bellowed at the top of his powerful lungs.
Now the entire ville went absolutely insane, hooting and laughing and really cheering, the sound completely different from the earlier platitudes.
Studying the heartfelt reactions, Roberto nodded in satisfaction. Almost there. Time to seal the deal.
“All right, I’m leaving now,” Roberto said over the radio, the words relayed through the loudspeakers. “But I’ll be back by the new moon. If I roll into the ville and discover that the new baron has fallen down a well, been eaten by stingwings, or died of the Red Cough…” He didn’t bother to finish the threat, leaving the dire results of what would befall the townsfolk in that eventuality to their imaginations. From the pale expressions on their faces, it seemed that they were doing a much better job of scaring themselves shitless than he ever could.
Turning, the trader climbed into the war wag, but paused in the d
oor to motion Yurizane closer. She approached with a determined walk, the blacksmith following close behind.
“Mind a little advice?” Roberto asked, addressing her from the steps.
She looked up. “All I can fragging get.”
Smart woman. “Choose four assholes that everybody hates, and four decent folk. Ace two of the assholes tomorrow morning, and reward two of the nice people in the afternoon. Then do it all over again the next day. Savvy?”
“Reward and punish. Like training a mule.”
By Stephen, mebbe she would make a good baron after all!
Somebody inside the wag handed Roberto a radio, and he passed it to the young baron. “Doesn’t work,” he muttered. “But they won’t know that.”
Nodding in understanding, Yurizane moved clear of the ramp, then paused. “I heard that another trader name of Broken Feet, or One-Eye Pete, some damn thing like that—”
“Broke-Neck Pete.”
“That was it. Well, he’s after your ass. If he comes here, what would you like for us…for my sec men to do?”
“Trade with him, or not, your choice,” Roberto said. “But don’t trust him any more than you would a slaver, and if I ever hear of you harming a trader, even one I hate, I’ll fucking gut you myself.”
Now she grinned. “Wouldn’t want to waste the bread,” the new baron answered resolutely. “However, no wag but yours will ever see the inside of this ville ever again. Fair deal?”
“Fair deal.”
She offered a hand and they shook.
Looking over the crowd one last time, Roberto moved back and let the armored door cycle shut and lock.
“All right, let’s get this convoy rolling!” he shouted over the rumble of the diesel engines. “We’ve got thirty miles to the next fuel cache!”
“And then?” Jessica asked.
“Straight on to Cascade!”
Black fumes belched from the louvered exhaust pipes of War Wag One, and it started forward, the Mack truck and the UCV close behind. Parting quickly, the townsfolk got out of the way, and the convoy rolled past the destroyed cannon emplacement and stopped in front of the gate.
