by Alex Wells
In the file about Rouse, there were a lot of conflicting reports, about how many had invaded, how well trained they were, everything. But everyone had agreed – they’d been led by an older man, his left eye covered by a patch.
Maybe it was coincidence. Considering that TransRift hadn’t even allowed a single Federal Union safety inspection on this world during its century-long industrialized period, accidents that could destroy a worker’s eye – or worse – were probably commonplace. On a planet where most of the population was kept starved for technology, half by design and half by necessity, he had no trouble believing that decent cybernetic replacements, let alone lab-grown organs, were in short supply. And yet.
Shige had learned long ago that in his line of work, one did not ignore apparent coincidences. Because it was those little, silly similarities, so easily dismissed by someone that was overworked and focused on a different goal, that could be the difference between a living, hopefully successful spy and a We regret to inform you letter to one’s family.
His mouth still sweet with the taste of strawberries, he opened the next file, labeled: Witch Hunts.
Chapter Nineteen
“Over a month and he ain’t getting any better.” Dambala’s massive shoulders filled the doorway to Nick’s office. Hob looked up from the stack of worn flimsies she was midway through sorting. Someone had needed to figure out what they had in the way of supplies, and what obligations were coming due. And then someone needed to figure out how to get them more food, more supplies, more jobs. No one else had volunteered. Hob privately thought they were all too damn scared to go into the old man’s office without him.
“Then what do we do about it?” Hob turned from where she sat in front of Nick’s desk, in one of the uncomfortable metal chairs that he kept there for anyone wanting to stop by for a talk. Made sure those talks were always as brief as possible.
“He needs a proper doctor.”
“Can’t take him into any of the towns around here. They all know who he is. And we can’t take him further out.” The far-off towns might already know the story as well – Mariposa had a way of spreading word when someone made them real angry – and she didn’t think he’d last through that sort of trip anyway.
“Then we got to bring one here.”
“You mean snatch one?” They’d always just doctored themselves as best they could, which wasn’t too bad when it was all flesh wounds and broken bones and they could steal half-decent medical supplies.
Dambala shrugged, crossing his big arms over his chest. “Wouldn’t have much of a choice but to look at him, that were the case.”
Hob frowned, rubbing her cheek with one hand like she was Nick and expecting to rasp stubble. She didn’t much like the thought of kidnapping someone – they’d always made a big fuss about how they weren’t criminals to anyone but TransRift – but it wouldn’t be permanent if they blindfolded any doctor they snatched up. As it was, why worry over giving Mariposa another reason to hunt them down? Almost being in open warfare brought with it a certain kind of freedom. “Probably would need some fancy medicine too, right? We got next to nothin’ here.”
“We need more bandages and pain meds and the like anyway. And some more of that brown antiseptic stuff. We’re damn near out of everything.”
She nodded. “You feelin’ good enough to ride?”
“Cut in my back is still pullin’ somethin’ fierce. I could do it, but then you might have to sew me up all over again.” His lips pulled up in an odd, secretive smile. “I want you to go for me.”
“Me?”
“Ain’t talkin’ to the girl standin’ behind you.”
Hob snorted. She could see it clear. Any shit rolling downhill from Nick would stick on her, then, not Dambala. She made a good scapegoat. Well, fuck it, she was tired of being cooped up on base anyway. “OK, fine. Who am I going with?”
“Coyote’ll keep an eye on you.”
“Are you–” She stopped herself. Dambala and Coyote were always thick as thieves. This was starting to smell like a scam. Like Coyote’s work. “Send me with Lobo too.”
“Now you’re thinkin’.” He flipped her something like a salute, but it didn’t feel mocking. Hob shook her head and stood, stretching against the rusty ache in her back and legs. Things kept going like this, she might have to give in and use Nick’s chair or risk being permanently crippled.
Lobo and Coyote were there already, but so were Freki and Geri. Freki gave her a silent shrug when she looked at him, but Geri said, “Heard tell you were inclined to do somethin’ interestin’. Gettin’ big for your britches, ain’t ya?” He turned toward Coyote, as if expecting the man to agree.
Coyote shrugged. “Perhaps you ought to try being interesting sometime yourself.”
“It’s Bala’s idea of interestin’, not mine.” Hob bit back a snort. But having Geri giving her that look made her want to own the idea all the more, just to annoy him. “Gonna see if Mag can point us at a doctor who won’t be missed if we take him for a day or two. She’s like to have the lay of the land by now.”
“We’re comin’ with you,” Geri said, jaw taking a stubborn set.
“Fine enough. If we’re gonna be doin’ some crime to get our medicine, couldn’t hurt to have more. Get suited up.”
Lobo caught her eye; his look eloquently asked just why the hell was he even here. Lobo was competent with a gun or a knife as any other man on the base, but he was also the oldest by at least a decade. People called Nick “Old Nick” because he had a decent amount of salt and pepper in his hair and beard and played it up extra cantankerous. But Lobo was Grandpaw, his leathery brown face deeply lined by laughter and frowns, his close-cropped hair and eyebrows iron gray. Only no one had the balls to call him Grandpaw to his face. He was old, and he had problems with his back that made him plain mean, which meant everyone was happier that he was just taking care of the base and cooking some damn fine meals because he was still fast as a striking snake when he had his temper up – and he kept his kitchen knives real sharp. Lobo also had a trike instead of a motorcycle to fit his bulk and help out his back; it had a special trailer so he could go off on supply runs.
Hob shrugged. “Figured you might like to get some sugar or sommat.”
Lobo laughed. “Well ain’t you a good, thoughtful girl. Maybe I’ll make us all a cake when we get home with that sugar.”
They stopped just out of sight of the Ludlow guard towers, where there was a bit of shade to be had at the feet of the rocks. Hob took off her helmet and replaced it with a hat; she looked ordinary enough, like someone that had hopped off a train or truck. She figured guards would be looking for Old Nick, and all the talk she’d overheard of the Wolves seemed ignorant of the fact there were any women in the group. Annoying, but maybe useful. “Head to the other gate, Lobo. Rest of you, stay cool here.”
“You serious?” Geri asked, looking at Coyote. “When’d she get put in charge?”
“Shut up.” Coyote grinned, pulling a pack of cards out of his pocket. “I can hear those chits rattling in your pockets like they’re hot.”
That certainly explained why Coyote had wanted to take the twins along, Hob thought as she strode across the sand flat to the walls. She knocked on the little door set into the gate. Sweat ran down her face and neck, pooled at the small of her back. The guard that opened it eyed her suspiciously. “Bit hot to be out, ain’t it?”
“Just comin’ to see my ma. She took sick. People I hitched with were in a hurry, didn’t want to take me all the way.” She grinned at him. “Not dyin’ of thirst yet, but I might if you keep me standin’ too long.”
He didn’t fall for the friendly act, demanding names and times and more details. She picked up quickly that he wasn’t acquainted with everyone in Ludlow; mostly he was just trying to catch her in a lie. With enough names to drop, she bluffed her way through without bothering to feel worried.
Mag opened the door at Clarence Vigil’s house. With a strangled yelp, she
yanked Hob inside and into a tight hug that made her ribs about crack. “I heard… Hob, I heard so many awful things!” Mag gasped into her ear, sounding on the verge of crying.
Hob gave Mag a tight squeeze, then her arms went awkwardly loose with Mag still not letting go. “Lost some people. They lost more. But they ain’t tracked us down yet.”
Mag sniffled. “What about Uncle Nick? I heard…”
“Old Nick’s the reason I’m here.”
Mag finally released her, wiping at her eyes with one hand while the other clutched at her apron. “Is he…?”
“Not last I checked. But he ain’t well, either. Man’s taken sick, like I never seen in my life.”
“Sick how?”
“He’s coughin’ up a storm, and he’s weak as a kitten. There’s blood, when he coughs. And we got no medic. Only one of us knew much about that stuff, and he got shot through the head in Rouse.”
Mag shut her eyes tightly at the sound of that name. “Why’d you go?”
Hob shrugged. “He told us to follow, so we did.” She patted at her pocket, then remembered that Mag didn’t like the smell of cigarettes and Clarence probably wouldn’t take kindly to it either.
Mag stared at the little square made by the cigarette case in the pocket of Hob’s coat. “Don’t know what could be givin’ his lungs fits,” she said, tone edged with sarcasm.
Hob laughed. “Gives the rest of us fits if we don’t let him.” She didn’t want to have this fight, because she couldn’t explain the compulsion that took her and Nick. “You know any doctors we could borrow a day or two without them being missed?”
“I might have somethin’ better. One you can keep permanent-like.” Mag smiled. “Come along.”
Mag led Hob to one of the sheds where ore was inspected before loading. In one corner of the huge, hot room, a young man worked to repair a broken mine cart. He looked sweaty and thoroughly miserable – he also had some of the darkest skin Hob had seen outside of Freki and Geri, too dark for him to be a miner.
“Davey Painter, this is Hob Ravani.” Mag let them shake hands before continuing, “I know you ain’t been real excited about the mining work. Well, Hob does somethin’ else entirely, and she needs someone that can do a bit of doctorin’.”
Hob regarded the young man suspiciously; she’d never seen a doctor look anything like him. She also told herself to give it a chance, since Mag had always been a good judge of character, and smart as a whip besides. “It ain’t easy. But it’s sure different from this.”
“What sort of work?” Davey asked.
“We guard, hunt bandits, the like. The sort of stuff Mariposa don’t stir themselves to do. Whatever folks’ll pay us to do. It’s a livin’. And not a bad one.”
He inspected Hob closely, brows drawn together. “Don’t look like it feeds you much.”
Mag burst out laughing, covering her mouth with her hands. “Don’t let that fool ya, Davey. She’s just always looked scrawny like that. You should see some of her friends. Got arms as big around as my head, all beef and bark.”
Davey didn’t look entirely convinced, but he did crack a smile. “I ain’t a real doctor, though. I was just learnin’ to be a veterinarian.”
“You think if we got you supplies, like real doctors got, you could make do?” Hob asked.
“Mayhap. And I know how to read just fine, so if you get me some books about people, I could learn.”
It wasn’t ideal, but Hob reminded herself that beggars couldn’t be choosers. “If’n you’re interested, we’ll give you a try.”
Davey nodded, but before he could say anything more, Mag interrupted. “I got another idea. You two bide a bit and talk. I’ll be back.”
Davey watched her go, frowning. “Don’t know what she got all excited about.”
Hob shrugged. “Means it’ll be good. Look, we also got to get more medicine and the like. You know the names of good stuff, what kind of boxes it’d be in?” Hob started off by telling him what Dambala had said they were out of, then described to him what was wrong with Nick.
They’d moved on from medicine to Hob telling Davey stories about bandit hunting, her running the big gun with Freki and Geri as pups, when Mag came back. From under her apron, she produced two books and offered them to Davey.
He grinned, reading over the titles. “Well, if you want me to be a proper doctor, these’ll be a start.”
“Where’d you get those, Mag?” Hob asked.
“Can’t rightly say.” Mag smiled. “Might have looked something like the company doctor’s office.”
Hob grinned right back at her, but a corner of her mind wondered how the hell Mag had gotten in there and back out without a soul seeing, all while stealing something that hefty. “Thanks, Mag. But I got one more favor to ask.”
“If it’s somethin’ I can give, you know I will.”
“There’ll be a supply train to Rouse tomorrow, right?”
Mag’s smile faded, but she nodded. “They like it to be clockwork, and there ain’t been any storms big enough to cause delays.”
“Write down the schedule for me. You got that stuff memorized, right?”
“Not going to do somethin’ foolish, are you?”
“Oh, you know me. Ain’t got a foolish bone in my body.”
* * *
The guard shift had changed by the time Hob took Davey out of the town. She just pretended they were a couple, sneaking away for a few minutes of canoodling in the shade of the walls during their break, even holding Davey’s hand and pretending to be shy. The guard made a lot of nasty jokes, mostly about how much taller Hob was, but let them pass.
The Wolves had drifted around with the shadows, though as soon as he spotted her, Coyote gathered his cards back up, slapping the sand off them as he did. Nearby, Lobo’s trike sat ready, loaded up with boxes and bags, all netted down to keep anything from moving even a squeak.
“This here’s Davey, boys. Not quite a doctor, but we get to keep him so that oughta make up for it. You take him back to base so he can start workin’ now, Lobo. Rest of us will be back tomorrow.” Lobo’s only answer was a nod, then he started getting his trike ready for a passenger to come with him, putting the books away in his saddlebags.
Geri opened his mouth to protest and got a fist in the gut from Coyote. The short, brown man grinned. “Find a bit of fun for us while you were in town?”
Hob grinned right back at him, her confidence building. Coyote might be a slippery customer, but he was one hell of an ally to have. She pulled the slip Mag had given her from her pocket. “We got a train to catch.”
Chapter Twenty
The air in Primero stank of acrid fear thick enough that it made every swallow metallic. It was a bizarre counterpoint to the brass band, horns winking and flaring eye-gougingly bright in the sunlight, blatting away a cheery march in welcome. A red-faced, black-coated preacher stood on a crate nearby and attempted to bellow over the slightly out-of-tune music – hellfire and brimstone stuff, witchcraft and devilry. Shige Rollins kept his expression distant, neutral, pleasant, as if none of those things could touch him – even if he felt them keenly with biologically enhanced senses.
He was still rather surprised that Ms Meetchim had sent him to the first stop on the witch hunt by himself, as the liaison between Mr Green and the town – almost as surprised as he’d been by the series of inoculations he’d received in preparation, supposedly to protect against the contaminants found in the desert. It felt like some sort of test. The question was what constituted pass or fail.
“He just about ready, Mr Rolland?” the town’s security chief asked.
“He’s been ready,” Shige answered. “Is your town?”
The security chief grimaced, eyeing the heaving, surging crowd that spilled out into the streets beyond the train station. A ring of green-uniformed security men, broken only by the presence of buildings, surrounded the crowd, hemmed them in: a none-too-gentle reminder that attendance was mandatory. “Still waiting
for the final check signal. They’re going building to building.”
Shige offered him a friendly enough smile. “How distressing. I would have hoped your residents would understand that they’ve nothing to fear.”
“People ain’t out here in the wastes ’cause they were smart enough to do better for themselves,” the chief growled. He waved his hand in a signal, and seemed satisfied with the reply. “We’re ready.”
“I’ll fetch the Weatherman.” He returned to the train car. The door sliding shut cut off the noise and heat as neatly as a knife blade slicing through butter, a relief destined to be short lived.
Mr Green waited inside, hunched over in his plush seat as he played with a bit of string, weaving it into intricate knots. He hummed to himself, though it sounded more like an angry cat growling than anything cheerful.
Mr Green didn’t look like a man who had been close to dead a month ago. The spare parts and enhancements had done their work well, though his voice had remained a ruined, gravelly croak. They hadn’t bothered to bring spare vocal cords. Speech wasn’t necessary for what the Weathermen did and, according to Ms Meetchim, little they said ever made sense anyway.
But his recovery time had been well used. Guards had been drafted, specific guards who knew how to handle a Weatherman, who understood that little rules like never to look directly into his eyes existed for a reason, not just as useless etiquette. The route had to be planned, and campaigns of whispers set out across the locations. A witch hunt, Ms Meetchim had carefully explained as if Shige was a child who had never sniffed the underside of politics (good, it meant his cover was working nicely) was nothing without the tide of fear that carried it, reminding people that there were those who walked among them that were different and other and not the good kind like the Weathermen, who were special people who served humanity. Preachers had thundered from their pulpits about the guises of the devil, and how much like burning perdition Tanegawa’s World had been before TransRift had brought along the first Weathermen to tame the storms. Personnel from Mariposa had whispered here and there, letting people overhear them talk about the freaks they found on the dunes, how in this town or that town, their cousin or former coworker had seen something terrible, a person made monstrous by the wilds eating the flesh of humans – anything guaranteed to both titillate and horrify.
