Sins of Honor

by James Axler

  “You’ll need to clean that with fire, alcohol, and then fire again, before using it on food,” Mildred warned, sitting on a rock. “My head swims at the idea of all the kinds of bacteria it can be carrying after being inside those sec men.”

  “Since our hurried departure, there has been no time for such militant ablutions,” Doc said.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Besides, every man carries the seeds of his own destruction inside his heart,” Doc stated, reaching down to clean his hands on a bank of snow.

  She snorted. “That’s kind of grim, even for you.”

  “Ah, but grim is just another word for reality without the sugar-coating of hope.”

  “Are you okay, Doc?” she asked in concern.

  Trying to smile, the man shrugged in reply. “We’re so very close to Vermont from here,” he said wistfully, staring at the snowy horizon.

  “No sweat, Doc. Got spare,” Jak said, a knife dropping into his waiting hand from inside a sleeve. He flipped a wrist and the blade thudded into a tree stump between the man and woman.

  Coming out of his reverie, Doc nodded his thanks, extracted the slim knife and got busy. Any further conversation was held in check until the rabbit and cornbread were completely consumed.

  Afterward, the companions used the bushes in shifts, one of them standing guard while another answered the call of nature.

  Cradling the Steyr in his arms, Ryan kept his back to Krysty squatting in the greenery, and listened to the thick silence of the foothills. The air was oddly still, unbroken by the touch of a breeze, or even the chatter of squirrels in the trees. The entire world seemed peacefully asleep, as if there was nothing left alive in the mountains except for the companions and their horses.

  “Don’t much like this,” J.B. said, zipping up his pants while coming out from behind a birch tree. “It’s too damn quiet.”

  “Agreed. Something big has spooked everything else in the area.”

  “Mutie?” Ricky asked, washing his hands clean with snow.

  “Hopefully,” Ryan said, the word almost visible in the cold air for a moment.

  Frowning at the cryptic reply, Ricky got busy feeding the horses from the dwindling supple of oats recovered from the corral. As they happily munched the crunchy foodstuff, he dutifully checked the animals for any stone bruises on their hooves. The ride here had been pretty rough. But the iron shoes on their hooves had protected the horses from any damage incurred by the long climb.

  “These Granite guys know iron,” Ricky stated, easing down a hoof.

  “A little chem, too,” J.B. added, going through a saddlebag and extracting a pipe bomb. “Some of these are filled with black powder, but that one the major tossed at us was packed with plas ex.”

  “Homemade C-4?” Ryan asked, sounding impressed. “Got any more of those?”

  “Don’t know. So far, I’ve only found black-powder bombs,” J.B. replied, unscrewing the cap from one to glance inside. “Hey, this isn’t black powder... Dark night!”

  At the exclamation, everybody hands on weapons, spun.

  Deathly pale, J.B. began walking backward, away from the horse, the open pipe bomb cradled in both hands.

  “Booby?” Ryan asked, starting closer with the panga in his hand.

  “I wish! This damn thing is full of nails and a predark stick of seventy percent!” J.B. said, a bead of sweat trickling down his face.

  “Farming dynamite?”

  “Yep.”

  “Is it...sweaty?” Krysty asked, her hair coiling protectively to her head at the implications.

  “Like a virgin on her wedding night,” J.B. whispered.

  Nobody laughed. Dynamite was just liquid nitroglycerin poured into some neutral material like dirt, or sawdust, to make it more stable and easier to transport. But when the sticks got old, dynamite started sweating out droplets of pure nitroglycerin.

  “Fireblast, we probably only got this far alive because of that cornbread,” Ryan said. “It acted as a cushion for the pipe bombs. Only now—”

  “A single bump and my ass lands on the moon,” J.B. whispered, ever so slowly turning. “Along with all you folks, too, so everybody back off!”

  “Not a chance in hell,” Mildred said, dragging a branch out of the man’s path. “What can we do to help?”

  “Get clear, damn it!”

  “No, John.”

  “Just pour the wretched stuff onto the snow,” Doc suggested, unable to take his eyes off the lead tube. “Then we can set it on fire with a match. Burning off sweaty dynamite is the thing to do!”

  “Can’t. The cold made it jell,” J.B. whispered. “This isn’t predark stuff, but some homemade shit.” He swallowed hard. “We light it on fire, and who knows what would happen next.”

  “Did the locals use rusty nails?”

  “And black powder as a primer!”

  “Feebs.”

  “My point exactly!”

  Never lifting his boots off the snowy ground, J.B. finished turning and walked forward toward the nearby cliff. Glancing over the edge, he took a breath and simply let go of the pipe bomb. The instant it left his hands, the man dived backward. He hit the ground rolling and came up at full run.

  Standing partially behind a rhododendron, Doc scowled. “Really, John Barrymore, how powerful do you think this homemade concoction is?”

  Just then, there was a thunderous detonation in the valley below. A geyser of smoke, flame and snow erupted past the cliff, and all of the nearby trees violently shook from the maelstrom of subsonic gravel.

  “Nuke me,” Ricky whispered as the booming echo of the blast endlessly ricocheted off the valley walls, to slowly faded into the distance.

  “If the major had used this bomb back at the clearing...” Krysty started to say, then stopped, unwilling to finish.

  “However, he didn’t, which is why he’s aced, and we’re still sucking air,” Ryan stated, striding toward his horse. “Okay, everybody back off a way while J.B. and I check the rest of the bags for any more sweaty dynamite.”

  “I can help,” Ricky offered, then stopped as they heard a low groan from the valley, the noise nearly indescribable.

  “Mutie?” Jak whispered, fisting back the hammer on a .66 flintlock longblaster.

  “Don’t care,” Ryan muttered, opening a saddlebag to examine the jumbled contents. “Just let me know if it comes any closer.”

  “And if it does?” Mildred asked tersely, her ZKR at the ready.

  Ryan gave no reply as he carefully unscrewed the cap from a pipe bomb and looked inside. His face went hard, and the man started walking toward the cliff.

  “This is taking too long,” he growled, walking heel-to-toe. “Everybody remove your saddlebags and leave them on the ground.”

  “Not toss over cliff?” Jak asked, rushing to his mount.

  Gently, Ryan laid the pipe bomb on a patch of undisturbed snow. “Too risky. We want a—” He stopped.

  Suddenly a screamwing appeared from over the trees, throating its classic battle cry. Leathery wings flapping, the mutie bird swooped toward the companions. As they clawed for weapons there came a brief hum from the valley below and the screamwing violently exploded into a red mist.

  Instantly four more of the winged muties launched from the snowy treetops, snarling and hissing in unbridled fury. More low hums sounded and the each of the creatures detonated into bloody gobbets.

  Sliding his 9 mm blaster back into the holster, Ryan motioned to the rest of the companions to keep working, then pointed at Mildred and jerked a thumb at the cliff.

  Rummaging in her medical bag, Mildred unearthed an old dental mirror, then did a commando crawl to the edge of the rocks. Easing the mirror over the cliff, she angled it for a few moments, then sharply inhaled. Quickl
y, she withdrew.

  Pausing in their work, the companions asked her a silent question. She replied with a hard shake of her head, then pointed at the horses.

  Setting down the saddlebags, the companions took the reins of their horses and started walking directly away from the cliff. Nobody dared speak for a while, and the only sound was the soft crunch of the fresh snow compacting under combat boots and hooves.

  “Okay, what is?” Jak finally asked in a low whisper. “Droid?”

  “Close, a robotic tank,” Mildred replied, casting a nervous glance over a shoulder. “I recognize the model, a Ranger. We faced a similar model in West Virginia a while back.”

  As they started around a limestone escarpment, Doc gave a snort. “Ah yes, the Beast. As I recall, it took quite a Homeric sacrifice for us to escape.”

  Scowling darkly, Ryan said nothing, his thoughts private.

  “Robotic...” Ricky said slowly. “So there’s nobody inside?”

  “Just comps,” Krysty replied grimly.

  “How did it ace the mutie birds? I didn’t hear a cannon or a rapid-fire.”

  “The tank in West Virginia used a rail gun, a kinetic-energy weapon,” Mildred replied, then paused as his frowned deepened. “Here, I’ll show you.”

  Reach into a pocket, she pulled out a bullet and tossed it at the youth. Holding on to the reins of his horse, Ricky tried to dodge, but the cartridge hit his arm to harmlessly bounce off.

  “Why aren’t you aced?” Mildred asked.

  “How could I be? The bullet wasn’t traveling fast enough,” Ricky said, confused, then his face brightened. “This tank fires something that moves so fast it blows you apart like a gren when it hits?”

  “Smart lad,” Krysty said, leading her mount around the copse of birch trees.

  “Mildred, did this Ranger have smooth, curvy armor?” Ryan asked, walking around a large patch of ice. “Or was it regular armor, but covered with small blocks?”

  “I only had a glance,” she said. “But this stuff was angular, all different sizes and colors. Like it was pieced together from other machines.”

  “Dark night, that’s composite armor,” J.B. muttered, hunching his shoulders. “Triple tough! We’d need an implo gren to get through that.”

  “Or another Ranger,” Ryan added with a frown.

  “Got one, old buddy?”

  “Sure, hidden up my ass.”

  “That’ll keep it nice and warm.” J.B. grinned. “Just keep it handy, in case that thing makes it up the cliff.”

  “Not possible,” Mildred interrupted. “The Ranger is broken. The treads were missing on both sides.” She gave a half smile. “It can’t move an inch.”

  J.B. scowled. “Hover jets?”

  “Not with all that ivy growing over it. The Ranger must have been trapped in that valley for decades, maybe longer.”

  “Glad to hear,” Jak said, patting the neck of his stallion. Then with a gasp, he unexpectedly flew out of the saddle a split second before the rolling boom of a high-powered longblaster sounded from the distant hills.

  Chapter Six

  As Jak disappeared into a gully, his horse reared on its hind legs, whinnying in terror and pawing the cold air with its hooves. Then the animal jerked and blood began gushing from a missing eye. The rolling thunder of the distant sniper arrived a heartbeat later, as the panting animal lay in the snow, trembled all over and went still forever.

  “Incoming!” Ryan bellowed, diving sideways out of his saddle.

  The man hit the ground hard, the breath exploding from his lungs at the impact. Disorientated for a moment, Ryan instinctively rolled away from the frightened horses chuffing and stomping their hooves.

  He came to a stop inside a patch of snowy bushes and swung around the Steyr. Working the arming bolt, he peered through the glistening leaves for any glimpse of the enemy sniper. Even through the telescopic sight, Ryan couldn’t locate anybody hidden on the nearby hills or in the swaying pines.

  “Anybody hit?” Ryan asked in a hoarse whisper, easing the barrel of the longblaster through the tangle of branches.

  “Not that I can see,” J.B. replied, wiggling further behind a snowbank. “But I’m nowhere near Jak.”

  “Not...aced...” Jak wheezed from a shallow gully, only his boots in view.

  “Naturally, I’m delighted, my friend,” Doc rumbled, crouched behind a tree stump. “But how is that possible?”

  “Not...shot...” Jak panted. “Fell on...rock.”

  “Did you hit your head? Is your vision blurry?” Mildred demanded. The ZKR target revolver was in her fist, the other hand tight on the strap of her medical kit. “Does it hurt to breathe? Any taste of copper?”

  Breaking into a ragged cough, Jak gave a long sigh and went still. Without hesitation, Mildred broke cover, zigzagging across the open ground until diving into the gully with the unconscious man.

  “Any idea where the sniper is?” Ricky asked from a low-hanging branch of an elm tree.

  “Snipers, there’s two of them,” J.B. corrected, the Navy telescope peeking out of a pile of loose snow.

  “Zero them,” Ryan growled, tightening his grip on the longblaster.

  “See the big rock on the eastern hill that looks like a dog? Track fifteen yards north, then follow the curving crack in the rock face until—”

  “I see them now,” Ryan stated, working the arming bolt on the Steyr.

  * * ** * *

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Sergeant Sue Jones demanded, slapping the man across the back of the head. “The queen wants these outlanders alive and kicking, not meat in a box!”

  “They were getting away,” her husband said, his face shiny with barely controlled excitement. Lovingly, he caressed the Browning longblaster with an open palm.

  “Of course they were,” Jones agreed, sneering, risking a peek over the rocky escarpment. The plateau below was covered with glistening snow and edged with trees, a perfect chilling zone reaching all the way to the booming cliff. “Who’d you get, their leader?”

  “Well, I got the guy with the best clothing,” Jones replied in a haughty manner. “That’s gotta be the chief, right?”

  “Almost always.”

  He grinned. “Better get the major to release a pigeon with the location before—” The man jerked as the back of his head exploded, spraying bones, brains and a clear fluid across the startled woman.

  Transfixed, the sergeant paused at the terrible sight, then frantically dived for the ground just as something red-hot scraped alongside her temple.

  * * ** * *

  “FIREBLAST,” RYAN SWORE, rising from the bush. “I aced the man for sure, but the woman moved at the last second.”

  “Aced?” Krysty asked.

  He frowned. “Unknown.”

  “Which means,” J.B. said, thoughtfully tilting back his hat, “she might just be pretending to lure us closer.”

  “Exactly.”

  “We should do a recce anyway,” Ricky stated, starting across the snowy field.

  “No, we ride,” Krysty stated, stepping into view. “If any more sec men arrive, we’d be caught between them and the Ranger.” Her crimson hair was a wild corona around the woman, the living filaments endlessly flexing.

  “Meat in a grinder,” Ryan said, slinging the Steyr Scout.

  Just then, the cliff shook again and a section of the parking area broke into chunks, the pieces of pavement tumbling out of sight.

  “Best to leave while we can,” Mildred said, helping Jak to his feet.

  “Hurts breathe,” he mumbled. There was blood on his shirt and his chest was wrapped in multiple layers of gray duct tape. His normally pale face was flushed an unnatural pink.

  “You’re lucky those ribs are only bruised and n
ot broken,” Mildred told him, fingering the crude bandages. “You’ll be fine in a few days.”

  “Can he ride?” Ryan demanded sharply.

  “Always,” Jak wheezed with a weak smile.

  Nodding, Ryan watched the hill for any suspicious movements while the rest of the companions quickly gathered the horses. The animals were wary, but not obstinate.

  “I am surprised they did not bolt at the gunfire,” Doc said, removing the saddlebags from the dead horse and draping them over his own mount. “But then, trained for sec men, these animals are probably used to loud explosions.”

  “Can’t ride with, too heavy,” Jak muttered, an arm hugging his chest.

  “Share with Ricky. He’s the lightest,” Krysty asked, walking her mount closer.

  “Plenty of room,” Ricky said, patting the back of his palomino.

  “Thanks.” Climbing onto the horse, Jak moved awkwardly, trying to hide it, but his face registered the amount of pain he was suffering.

  “How bad is it?” Mildred asked in concern.

  “Like eating glass,” Jak muttered, settling between the saddle and the saddlebags. Then he gave a wan smile. “But better than eating dirt!”

  “Only the living feel pain,” Ryan said, sliding the Steyr into the gunboot.

  “Well said, my friend,” Doc agreed. “‘Now, half a league, half a league, half a league onward—’”

  “Finish that poem, old man,” Mildred interrupted, “and I will remove your frenulum with a pocketknife.”

  Chucking the reins of his horse, Doc gave a half smile. “My fen...frem...my what now, madam?”

  “Trust me, you’ll miss it!”

  The parking lot shook again, the cracks spreading outward like dark lightning. Taking that as their cue, the companions kicked the horses into a full gallop. Since speed was important, they stayed on the old highway, riding along the gentle curves edging the ragged mountains until the parking lot was out of sight. Soon after that, the low hum of the Ranger faded away, and they rode onward accompanied by only the clomping of the horse hooves and the murmuring breeze blowing through the mountain valley.