by Jake Bible
“Yeah, we’re dead,” Clay said.
“Quitter,” Firoa said and left the saloon.
“You want me to have that roller of yours ready to go?” Mrs. Ventura asked, still standing on the stage, hands holding her revolvers. “I think you’ll need to leave in a hurry when this is all over. Sorry your plan didn’t work out, Nasta. Sometimes that’s how the wind blows.”
“This all blows,” Nasta said.
Hank patted her on the shoulder and shook his head. He signed for a couple of seconds, making Nasta smile.
“What did he say?” Clay asked.
“He said to just point him in the right direction and he’ll win,” Nasta said. “He must have been reading Firoa’s lips.”
Hank turned to Clay and gave him a thumbs up.
“Yeah, okay, buddy,” Clay said, returning the thumbs up. “I’ll point you in the right direction.”
Despite probably the entire town, including all of the visitors there for the coming tournament, lining both sides of Del Rado’s main street, there wasn’t a peep or whisper to be heard. The spectators stood silently as Clay and Hank walked down the steps in front of the saloon and out into the dusty street.
Nuggins and the Captain were about thirty meters away, heads bowed as they conversed about the showdown. Clay watched them for a second then turned to Hank so they were facing each other.
“You see them?” Clay asked.
Hank leaned around Clay’s head, squinted, then nodded.
“Really?” Clay asked.
Hank shook his head and held up a hand, seesawing it back and forth.
“So they’re just a blob, right?” Clay asked.
Hank nodded.
“Okay, we can work with that,” Clay said. “I’ve had my targeting system go down in the middle of a foggy night and I’m still standing.” He put both hands on Hank’s shoulders. “Read my lips closely, okay? This is how you are going to handle it. I know my showdowns and there are always rules and procedures. I’m going to make a request. Go with it.”
Hank gave him a puzzled look, but nodded.
“Hey, Sheriff?” Clay asked as he turned to find the man in the crowd.
The man was back sitting on his horse at the mouth of an alley that was perpendicular with the center spot between the two fighting parties.
“What is it, Mr. Longfellow?” the sheriff asked. “Or is it Mr. MacAulay? Not sure now.”
“MacAulay,” Clay replied. “Sorry for lying earlier.”
“I’m used to it,” Sheriff Trang said. “What do you need, MacAulay?”
“More light,” Clay said. “The sun has pretty much set and these oil lamps are casting some mighty nasty shadows on this street. Makes it hard for both shooters to see.”
“I’m fine,” Nuggins called out.
“Shut up!” Firoa shouted.
“Well, my guy isn’t,” Clay said. “Can we get some reflectors out here? Maybe brighten things up a little? I’d hate for the reason a poor spectator catches some stray lead to be because there just wasn’t enough light to see by.”
That got the crowd whispering. Sheriff Trang noticed it immediately and started barking orders to find the big storm lights and reflectors. It took about fifteen minutes for everything to get set up. Clay smiled at the thick geothermal cables that ran to the spotlights that had been spaced every few feet up and down both sides of the street.
“That to your liking, MacAulay?” Sheriff Trang asked as the last light was switched on.
“Yes, sir, it certainly is,” Clay said and smiled. “But could you move that one there just a bit forward?”
Clay pointed to the light about a foot behind Nuggins’ right side. A man ran over and pushed it forward so it was exactly parallel with Nuggins.
“That good for you, Captain?” Sheriff Trang asked.
“Don’t matter to me,” the Captain said, patting her man on the back. “Nuggins can shoot the wings off a fly blindfolded.”
“I ain’t tried it blindfolded,” Nuggins said.
“Any other requests you want to make to drag this out, MacAulay?” Sheriff Trang asked.
“No, sir,” Clay said. “We’re ready.”
Clay leaned in close to Hank so there was no mistaking what he was going to say. He mouthed the words, not making a single sound, and Hank smiled then nodded. Clay smiled back and patted the man’s cheek. He walked over to where Nasta and Firoa were standing by the steps to the saloon.
“You aren’t going to stay there and direct him?” Nasta asked.
“I already did,” Clay said. He placed a hand on Nasta’s shoulder and squeezed.
She reached up and took his hand in hers, holding it tight as if her life depended on it. He was surprised and looked down at her, but her eyes were locked on Hank.
“I’m going to count to three and then you two will fire,” Sheriff Trang announced then sighed and shook his head. “Dammit. No, I ain’t. Not with a deaf shooter. Shit. Who’s got a handkerchief or bandana?”
The comunistas all raised their hands. Sheriff Trang pointed at one and made a gimme gimme motion with his hand. The comunista ran over and handed the sheriff her red bandana. He held it up and looked at Nuggins. Nuggins just stared blankly at him.
“When he drops it, you fire,” the Captain said before she moved off to the side of the street.
“Got it,” Nuggins replied.
The sheriff looked down to Hank and the man nodded to him.
“Then here we go,” Sheriff Trang said.
The whole street held their breath. Three seconds went by and the sheriff dropped the bandana. Two shots rang out then a third. A woman screamed, a man screamed. The crowd went wild.
Sheriff Trang pulled his scatter gun and shot twice into the air and the chaos calmed downed. Everyone cleared the street and he walked out to the man that lay dead.
“Well, that settles that,” he said as he nudged Nuggins’s body with his boot. There was a huge hole in the center of the man’s chest and his right hand was a mangled mess. “I guess that means… Hey! Where the hell did the Captain go?”
Everyone looked about, but the scarred woman was nowhere to be seen.
“Dammit,” Sheriff Trang said.
He left Nuggins’s body in the street and walked the length of the road down to where Hank was standing while Clay slapped the man on the back over and over.
“Looks like you don’t get your full spoils,” Sheriff Trang said to Clay. “But I’ll keep an eye out for the woman. She’ll get her dues.”
“Thank you, Sheriff,” Clay said, holding out his hand.
The sheriff ignored the offered hand and instead jabbed a finger under Clay’s nose.
“Now you and your friends get out of my town,” Sheriff Trang snapped. “I don’t care what reason you have to be here, you’re done in Del Rado. You have thirty minutes to conduct your business, settle up any tab inside Haggie’s place, and be outside town limits or I put some lead in you myself. We understood?”
“Clear as a bell,” Clay said.
“Good, because see that woman over there? The one bleeding?” Sheriff Trang snapped. “That’s the mayor’s wife. She caught a stray bullet to her leg when your boy shot the gun out of Nuggins’s hand. Ain’t your fault, ain’t your boy’s fault, but you’ll take the blame once the dust settles and the mayor finds out why his wife will walk with a limp the rest of her life.”
“We are gone,” Clay said.
There was some honking and the crowd parted so a roller could get through. Firoa was driving and Nasta was already inside. They waved at Clay and Hank to move ass.
“Come on,” Clay said, grabbing Hank by the arm and pulling him to the roller. “See ya around, Sheriff.”
“You goddamn better not,” the sheriff replied as he flipped Clay off and headed to where the mayor’s wife was howling and crying, a throng of folks surrounding her as a doctor slit her dress and tended to her leg.
Clay opened the back door of the roller
and pushed Hank inside. He followed in and slammed the door then reached up and patted Firoa.
“Perfect timing,” he said. “We should probably go.”
Hank flapped his hands and Nasta turned around, read his signs, then pointed down at her feet.
“I have your duffel right here,” Nasta said.
“Sorry things didn’t work out with the comunistas,” Clay said.
“We aren’t done with them yet,” Nasta said and gave Clay a harsh smile. “We’re going to meet them out on the range and see what kind of mech they have.”
“We’re what?” Clay asked. “You have to be joking.”
“I’m not,” Nasta said. “I didn’t want to do this, because I find it less than honorable, but you have forced my hand. Clay MacAulay, I am calling in a life debt. I saved your ass now you’ll help save ours.”
“Goddammit,” Clay growled as he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “No fair.”
Twenty
It took them an hour and a half to reach the rendezvous point. Once they left Del Rado, they had to circle around and head the opposite direction that they had come in from. Clay watched the sky darken, darken, darken, until it was nothing but an inkwell filled with bits of glitter. Hank snored lightly next to him in the backseat, his head tilted back and mouth open, a streamer of drool headed straight for his chin.
“You got a handkerchief up there?” Clay asked.
“Will a bandana do?” Nasta laughed.
“Funny,” Clay replied. “Wait, you don’t actually have one, do you?”
“No,” Nasta said, handing back a clean rag. “Hank uses this to clean his guns.”
Clay took the rag and dabbed at Hank’s drool. Least he could do since the guy risked his life in a showdown for him. As he tossed the rag back to Nasta, Clay wondered if he owed Hank a life debt. Being beholden to the undergrounders wasn’t exactly part of his life plan. But whatever worked to get his mech and Gibbons back was good with him.
He knew the second he was in his cockpit he would be long gone anyway. Adios, Northeast MexiCali and hello NorthAm. Take care of some business there and it was new life, new start, new Clay MacAulay.
“Around the bend there then look for an antelope trail,” Nasta said to Firoa. “There’s a wide arroyo where they stashed their mech.”
“An arroyo?” Clay asked. “You mean a canyon or seriously deep ravine, right? An arroyo will be too shallow to hide a battle mech.”
Nasta didn’t respond and Clay began to worry. Not that he hadn’t been worried before, but the feeling that hit his wounded guts was different. Alarm bells were going off in his head and he had the distinct feeling he was not going to like what they found in the arroyo.
Firoa took the turn and bounced the ancient roller along a barely visible trail. Even with the headlights on, and a spectacular moon high in the sky, the shadows from the nearby mesas made traversing the trail a tricky event. Firoa navigated the deep ruts and the stray boulders like an expert. Until they came to a small rockslide that distinctly said the rest of the way would be on foot.
Before they got out, Nasta opened Hank’s duffel bag and started handing back weapons. To Clay’s surprise, Hank was wide awake and smiling. He took a small leather bag from Nasta, opened it, and began reloading his revolver. Clay took a nice-looking carbine, military issue with a collapsible stock and an LED light under the short barrel. He flicked the light on and off a couple times to make sure it worked then gave Nasta a thumbs up and stepped out of the roller. Then he gladly took his own holster and pistol as it was offered to him by Hank.
“Nice to see this again,” he said.
Firoa had a scatter gun in each hand and she held the barrels pointed down like she didn’t have a care in the world. The tension in her shoulders said different, though. Clay hoped the woman didn’t shoot her feet off if things got tricky.
Nasta had a hell of a hand cannon gripped in both hands. She held it out in front of her, letting it lead the way as she started walking around the rockslide that had blocked the roller’s travels.
“Let’s go,” she said.
Firoa was right behind her and Clay looked over his shoulder to see if Hank was ready. But he was gone. Not a sign of the man. Clay shrugged and followed the women, knowing Hank hadn’t ditched them. The man was taking the initiative to cover their asses during the meeting. Good call.
They made it around the rockslide and only had to walk about a half kilometer until they reached the edge of the arroyo. It was a big one, deeper and wider than most empty gulches, but it wasn’t even close to thirty feet high on either side. Yet the mech that stood on the flat bottom of the dry riverbed was well hidden.
Clay cursed to himself. His gut feeling had been right. The whole situation was a giant mess.
“That’s a cargo mech!” Clay shouted. “A freaking cargo mech! Used to haul equipment and shit!”
“Keep your voice down,” Nasta snapped. “Sounds carry out here.”
“You know what else carries? That freaking thing!” Clay growled, pointing at the four-legged mech that squatted in the arroyo. “It carries crates and boxes! It is not a battle mech!”
“All we could get ahold of,” Willow said as she stepped out from under the mech and looked up at them. “But to an experienced pilot like you a mech is just a mech, right?”
“What? No!” Clay yelled. “A mech is not just a mech!”
“Keep your voice down,” Nasta hissed. “We don’t know who may have followed us out here.”
“No one followed us,” Firoa said, looking offended. “I got us here without company. I don’t know about them though.”
“We’re clean,” Willow said as her people joined her. A couple of them were wiping the legs of the mech with heavy duty rags, as if that would make it more effective in combat. “How about you all come down here and see what this machine can do?”
“Fuck all, that’s what it can do,” Clay grumbled under his breath. He watched as Nasta and then Firoa worked their way down a steep path cut into the arroyo’s side. He sighed and followed. “A mech is just a mech. Please.”
Once down in the arroyo the mech looked a lot different. It looked worse. Clay nearly started to cry when he saw the pits and gouges in the metal. And the rust. So much rust. It wasn’t like his mech which was designed to look rough. He’d taken great care in creating the facade of neglect. But this? This was real neglect, real damage that had gone untreated for years upon years.
“Oh, I can’t wait to hear what it sounds like when it’s powered up,” Clay said, running his hand along a crack in the left foreleg of the machine.
“Dandelion? Go start her up,” Willow ordered.
An extremely tall and skinny woman nodded and jumped to. She climbed up one of the legs and popped open the cockpit hatch. She was lost from sight for quite a few minutes before the mech’s engines rumbled to life. They coughed and groaned then smoothed out, but Clay could hear the weakness in the power cells almost immediately.
“Care to climb up and have a look at the controls?” Willow asked.
“Have, uh, Dandelion, was it? Yeah, have her send the lift down,” Clay said and patted his shoulder. “Climbing is not my thing right now. Been a rough evening.”
“Yes, well, the lift doesn’t work at the moment,” Willow said. “I have my best mechanic on it, though. Crystal? Where’s Crystal?”
A man came walking out from behind one of the rear legs, his face coated in grease. Actually, his whole body was coated in grease. Only his eyes shown white in the bright moonlight.
“Yeah, Willow?” Crystal asked. “What ya need?”
“This is Crystal Leafblower,” Willow said to Clay. “He is the best mechanic we have.”
“Good for Mr. Leafblower,” Clay replied. He really hated comunistas. Especially ones that had co-opted names from the Flower People. Mixed causes bugged the hell out of him.
“Is the lift operational?” Willow asked.
“The lift?
Why would I be working on the lift?” Crystal asked. “You said to prioritize. I’ve been hammering this back strut into place for the past three hours. Worked on the cooling system before that.”
“Cooling system? What the hell is wrong with the cooling system?” Clay asked. “No, wait, don’t tell me.”
He studied the mech for a few seconds.
“This is a Haverschmidt 1800 Cargo Mech,” Clay said. “They were put into use early in the Bloody Conflict, but relegated to behind the lines duty once they realized that the machines couldn’t handle deployment into the theatre. Cooling system ruptures in the sixth elbow coupling when used in reverse too often. That the problem? The sixth elbow coupling?”
Crystal moved closer and squinted hard at Clay in the dim light.
“You know your mechs, son,” Crystal said. “Yes, that is precisely the problem.”
Clay realized the man was way older than the rest of the comunistas. Had to be in his seventies, at least. But his eyes were bright and clear and there wasn’t a trace of the confusion old timers get at that age.
“I better know my mechs,” Clay said. “That’s the whole reason I’m here.”
“Yes, well, most young ones like you only care about the battle mechs,” Crystal said. “You like the glory of combat.”
“I do like the glory of combat,” Clay said. “But I come from mech people. Been in my family for generations, going back before the Bloody Conflict.”
“That so?” Crystal asked and his eyes twinkled. “How far back?”
“A ways,” Clay said.
“Biochrome or poly? That far back?” Crystal asked.
“Back,” Clay said.
“Hmmm,” Crystal mused. “You may have something more to you than a cocky swagger.”
“He ain’t even got a cocky swagger,” Firoa said. “Man can barely stand upright for more than ten minutes.”
“Not going to argue there,” Clay said. “But I don’t have to stand upright to pilot a mech.” He waved his hand at the machine in front of him. “Especially not one like this. Cargo mechs don’t have suit integration. All hand and foot controls from the pilot’s seat.”
