Systemic Shock tq-1

by Dean Ing

  Collier dared to hope that a persistent CIA abstract from Canada was more than rumor, though Canada was equally persistent in her confidential denials to White House Deseret. Moreover, said the Canadian ambassador, any open rumor that Canadians had beaten keratophagic staph would only exacerbate troubled relations between Canada and the RUS; the beleaguered Russians would instantly demand the secret. A secret (the ambassador repeated) which did not exist. After all: if Canada had found a cure, would she not already be distributing it?

  The implied answer was 'yes'. The correct answer was 'no'. Canada needed time to produce her breakthrough against S. rosacea in quantity, and to distribute it selectively.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  "Selah," intoned the Prophet Jansen.

  Quantrill responded like the others, got to his feet, willed the pins and needles to leave his feet after an hour on his knees in a sweltering barn with fifty others. Rituals of the Church of The Sacrificed Lamb owed little to Mormonism, much to enthusiasm. Once again Seth Howell's briefings were verified in the field; the zealot gangs borrowed just enough from the LDS to attract some unstable Mormon rejects. Whatever crimes they committed would ultimately be placed, by gentiles, at the feet of the LDS. No wonder, then, that the Collier administration entrusted its remedy to T Section…

  "I see you got the grease out of your hair in time for devotionals, Brother Stone," said Prophet Monroe, a sallow-haired little man in a suit that had once been expensive. Monroe kept the financial books for the church, but had also helped with an engine change the day before. Barring his religious views, he seemed a reasonable sort.

  Quantrill, alias 'Lendal Stone', nodded; watched Jansen's approach from the corner of his eye. “Clean hands and a pure heart, Prophet Monroe, like you told me," said Quantrill. "Didn't want to be unseemly first time I showed up in church."

  "Plenty of wives and little vessels cuttin' their eyes at you, "Monroe grinned; winked. "If they had votes, you'd be Prophet Stone already." Quantrill did not comment on Monroe's fantasy. Most of the women and children seemed dull-eyed captives with all the personality of so many ears of corn in a crib.

  "Brother Monroe." The little man jumped, made a show of facing Jansen as an equal. Jansen went on, "Could you spare an acolyte for awhile?"

  Quantrill had been watching the man — had studied them all — for three days. Jansen stood tall and tanned in a suit of black, with a formal white shirt and black string tie. His dark gray Stetson and low-quarter black boots fitted well; lent authenticity to his leadership in the devotionals. But every afternoon, Monroe had said, a different prophet performed that solemn office. This was Quantrill's first gathering with the faithful, and it seemed to be an occasion for formal attire. Earlier in the day Jansen had worn work clothes, the tendons in his arms marking him as one familiar with hard work. But always he wore that stern look of command, and his flat twanging baritone implied that it was used to obedience.

  "Glad to oblige, Brother." And scared not to, Monroe's tone said. Since Quantrill was Monroe's only helper, the subtlety was shallow. Monroe formally presented Acolyte Lendal Stone to Prophet Jansen, excused himself, and hurried from the barn to seek the warm Texas breeze.

  Quantrill gazed up at the commanding face with a polite smile, waiting. Gradually the lines in Jansen's face grew more stern, the eyes more piercing, until Quantrill's smile became quizzical. Then, "Oh, "said the youth, and dropped his gaze.

  "Oh," Jansen mocked him. "That's better, boy. Insolent eyes aren't fitten in the young. Remember that."

  "Yessir, I will."

  "Yes, Prophet Jensen."

  Quantrill made his voice very small: "Yes, Prophet Jansen."

  Pleased, the baritone lifted a bit. "Prophet Beasley testified on your behalf Sunday morning. Some were in favor of consigning you and your vessel to perdition, but Prophet Beasley thought you might be worthy of the kingdom of God. I heard all about your pa and his ways and your pilgrimage back from Modesto." He paused, rocking slightly on the balls of his feet. The next moment his voice was almost singsong, as if murmuring to himself: "That's all a pack of lies, of course."

  Still looking down at his feet, Quantrill shook his head ever so slightly. “I know better'n to lie to a prophet, as God is my witness," he mumbled.

  "No you don't," said Jansen, enjoying himself. "I know Modesto like the back of my hand. Where was your pa's cafe?"

  If this was true, Quantrill had only seconds to make some decisions. Control could not hear Jansen; only Quantrill himself. Scuffing his feet in the dust, scanning his memory furiously for details of his cover, he said, "Out Route one-thirty-two on the right-hand side of the road, east of the shopping center. We had snooker tables and shuffleboard." Surely, Control would recognize this as an interrogation, but his critic lay silent.

  Judicious silence, then a chuckle from Jansen: "More of a roadhouse than a cafe." More silence, then suddenly:”What was your under-the-counter beer?"

  "Coors," said Quantrill, blessing Mason Reardon's thoroughness in the cover sessions. "But the black-and-whites knowed it; wasn't no secret."

  "I just bet it wasn't," Jansen chuckled again. "Well, you pass muster on that score — so you tell me why your pa would hide his treasures from his own seed, but trusts the secret to a vessel that isn't even family!"

  In a crystalline burst of insight, Quantrill realized that a man like Jansen was simply incapable of believing such a thing, true or not. He spoke huskily, adding a touch of nasality; tried to recover the lost credibility. "Pa showed us both, Prophet Jansen. It was down the road from a kilometer post, but I ain't that good at numbers. Delight, she's real good, why she — anyhow," he feared overdoing it, "I can't recall five-ninety-two or two-ninety-five, so what I told Prophet Beasley ain't really a lie. Not really," he whined.

  "And besides, you'd say anything to get your little hotsy out of the jug. Right?"

  "We made a vow. And I ain't seen her at all today," Quantrill said, not missing the practiced ease with which Jansen was removing his broad leather belt.

  "A half-lie deserves half-punishment," said Jansen, and began to swing the belt.

  If this was half-punishment, Quantrill thought, cringing in the dust, he hoped to be spared the whole article. Jansen had the knack of flicking the belt's tip, and of picking his spot. He picked a dozen spots on Quantrill's naked flesh; wrists, ears, the back of his neck. The young gunsel groaned and writhed face down, hands protecting his head. Quantrill's tears were real, half from pain and half from suppressed rage.

  "That wasn't for lyin' to Beasley," Jansen said when he had begun to reinsert his belt through its loops, breathing hard but speaking pleasantly. ' "That was for askin' Almighty God to bear false witness to your half-lie. All the prophets are equal in the sight of the Lord, Acolyte Stone; but I ask you in all loving kindness to be careful which one you talk to about your pa's stash on the Ozona Road.

  "Now I don't like to say things twice, so listen. We're missin' three vessels — missed 'em ever since the night you came, some fool thought Beasley was a posse and gave the alarm and off they went. A mother with a nine-year-old and a sucklin' babe. We got men out that you ain't — haven't — met yet, still lookin', since they were in charge when the three got away. It's fitten. If they make it to a highway, we might have to pull up stakes. Your vessel, Delight, is on a sweep with prophets right now. You're goin' with others to cover another area. Bring me a body. Mother, girl, or babe, where one is the others are — and that'll be the Lord's sign you're worthy of us."

  Quantrill got to his feet slowly, dusting himself off, disgusted with his own genuine fear of this cool merciless fanatic. “Yessir — Prophet Jansen. You want me to shoot on sight? I don't know what they look like; maybe I should bring 'em in for questioning."

  "Mother's skinny, short gray hair; hell, they'll look like strangers, Stone, that's all you need to go on. And you won't have a gun, but I don't need them three for questions. I have all the answers, all I need is bodies. Let it be a
challenge to you." The black eyes flickered in glacial amusement: “God put plenty of rocks out there to be used in His service." With that, the Prophet Jansen straightened his severe black suit, polished the tips of his boots before striding from the barn into God's own brightly-polished, midsummer wild-country sun.

  A half-hour later, Quantrill stood empty-handed in jeans and canvas work shirt and watched morosely as the terratired vehicle bobbed from sight over the toasted-meringue tints of Texas rangeland. He knew exactly where he was; had known it from the morning when he saw the way that barn listed like some shiplapped drunkard lost on broken limestone soil. He was on the Willard place, without the Willards. There were enough predators on two legs and four to dishearten the most hard-bitten of small ranchers. He had alerted Control, seeking confirmation that he was again in Sutton County east of Sonora with a raging case of dejd vu.

  Another man hopped down from the distant vehicle and waved. They paced each other in a slow march to the north, a red sun over their left shoulders, and Quantrill murmured his prayer to the great god Tau Sector.

  "We have an interesting sanction, Q," said the sexless Control as Quantrill moved down a gully in search of the escapees. He intended to ignore them unless they shot first, but could not afford to blow the assignment on behalf of some poor human flotsam. Control continued, "Pelletier and

  Quinn are reassigned to counter intrusions by Mexican nationals to the south. Their team will not, repeat not, be available to you."

  "That's interesting, all right. Doesn't help us much here," Quantrill replied.

  "Neg, Q; your new sanction is interesting. S has met two more prophets on picket duty to the south. She reports sexual harassment but stands ready when you are." Something almost humorous, rare in Control: "Even more than you are. From your team reports I make it twelve male prophets, seventeen adult females, ten immature females. No immature males; we doubt they intend to keep you long."

  "Figures," Quantrill.murmured, staring down at damp sand in a dry-wash. He knelt to study the hoofprints, thinking at first they had been made by deer. The split print was huge; a bandwidth long, almost as wide, trailed by small secondary marks. "Control, patch me to CenCom research."

  "Patching," then a voice indistinguishable from Control's: "CenCom research on standby." CenCom's site was never far from the soul of government. Now it was near Ogden, Utah.

  "I have a hoofprint in wet sand," Quantrill mused, "and I want to know what made it. Uh — identify an animal track, CenCom."

  "Please lay out a graphic plot," said CenCom, as if he had all the time in the world.

  "Neg. Work from oral description, CenCom. Ah, give me a human auditor."

  Somewhere an electronic mind was passing the buck without reluctance. CenCom could not care less, or more. Or at all.

  "Research auditor on-line for Tau Sector," said the same voice, no longer the same mind.

  "I have an animal track and need you to identify it." He was walking again, aware that he might be drawing the curiosity of the man on his flank, speaking now from memory. "Split hoof like a deer but a very wide splay in front. Bullet-shaped marks behind, the diameter of my finger and pointing outward. Width of print eight or nine centimeters, length ten or more."

  "Location?"

  "Oh; open range in Sutton County, Texas."

  "Searching," said the voice. Every five seconds it said,'searching' again. Finally, "No Olympic elk your area. Swine a possibility, but no known variety with prints those dimensions."

  "Check on Russian boar," he said, licking dry lips. Suddenly Quantrill wished very much that he had a weapon; and if possible, one much larger than a thirty-caliber brush gun.

  "Neg. Repeat, neg. Subject would mass four to five hundred kilos or more, the size of a Montana grizzly. A definite possibility if you downsize your figures."

  "Try upsizing yours," Quantrill snorted. "Thank you, CenCom; patch me back to Tau Sector Control." He advised Control of his suspicion that a red-eyed satan of five-hundred kilo mass was not far away. Then, "Now, about my interesting new sanction—"

  "Take all males; repeat, your team sanctioned to take all males. Do you copy?"

  "All the prophets? Good God, first you tell me Pelletier can't make a weapons drop, and next you call for a massacre!"

  Control's tone did not threaten. No threat was necessary in its, "You're aborting, Q?"

  "Neg. Maybe we can pick 'em off gradually. Listen, some of these guys are just harmless weirdos. Do I rate an explanation?"

  He had never heard a voder translate a sigh before. "Fourth Army can't spare troops into wild country for Mexican incursions. There are more vital things to protect further west. Civilian agencies are swamped and every one of those crazies is a potential nucleus of another group. They're just too good at what they do. Wait one, Q." Pause; a long one. Quantrill saw the man on his flank angling in his direction. Control again: "S has just reported that a Prophet Ryerson has killed a woman escapee. Now your sanction priority reads Jansen, Coates, Beasley, Ryerson, Contreras. The rest are secondary."

  "I don't know Coates or Ryerson."

  "Your partner does. Intimately," said Control. "They took their frustrations out on her."

  Quantrill quenched a rise of fury, coded out, squinting at a rock overhang swept clear in a recent freshet. Protected from the midday sun by the ledge, a shallow stagnant pool gleamed in late reflections. Quantrill spotted the tracks in gritty sand, hurried near, squatted by the puddle and ran his fingers over the deep prints. The hackles of his forearms were at attention.

  "What'cha got?" Striding up with his small arsenal was Contreras, the only latino prophet, who made no secret of his distaste for young 'Stone'.

  Quantrill stood up, stepped forward, planted a foot squarely on the print he had been studying. "Aw, shit," he mumbled and made a gesture of hopeless cloddishness. "Well, you c'n still see 'em. Biggest deer in these parts, I reckon."

  Contreras blanched, crossed himself, realized what he was doing and ended by scratching his right breast. “Come away from there. That's the devil's waterhole."

  Quantrill went quickly, glad that Contreras did not want a closer inspection. "The real devil, Prophet Contreras? Honest?"

  A gulp and nod. "I saw him once," Contreras said, gruff and matter-of-fact, climbing up a prominence in search of the truck. Quantrill knew he could take Contreras with or without weapons; but he was none too sure of the return route. Better to wait until he and Sanger could cover each other's flanks.

  "You seen the devil" Tell me about it," Quantrill pursued, because it seemed to put Contreras on edge.

  "Folks who used to own this spread told us he was here," Contreras said, scanning the brush in half-light. "Prophet Jansen, he said it was devil worship to set out sacrifices. He put three of us out as sentries ever' night. Then one mornin' we found a prophet tore all to pieces. His gun had been fired once. We seen the same prints you seen. We spread out and went after him afoot thinkin' it was just some ol' boar hog. It was after dark when I sat down for a breather, waitin' for the moon to show me the way home. Pretty soon I hear a snuffle. Looked around, but all I seen was this boulder on the rise above me.

  "And then I seen the boulder move," Contreras breathed. "It sort of growed, big as a chickenhouse, and he was lookin' down on me and I seen his horns and I didn't wait to see no more."

  Horns? Quantrill wondered if moon-silhouetted ears or tusks would serve up such a horrific vision. “Why didn't you try and shoot," he asked.

  "Shoot the devil? Shoot Ba'al? It's been tried, fool. I value my hide too much," said Contreras, staring toward the headlights that bobbed toward them in dusk, clicking his chemlamp in reply.

  The driver, Monroe, had already picked up Beasley, whose elation balanced Monroe's dejection. "They found the Grange woman," Beasley said, clapping a hand on the shoulder of Contreras. "She nearly made it to the Roosevelt Road."

  At the name, Quantrill forced his pulse to diminish. Not once, until now, had anyone men
tioned the names of the fugitives. It was the third one, the baby, that had diverted Quantrill's suspicion — and hope.

  Contreras: "She lead 'em to the others?"

  Monroe: "She might have, if Ryerson wasn't so trigger-happy. Jansen figures we'll find the kids around there tomorrow."

  "No point snoopin' around out here in Ba'al's back yard anymore," Contreras said in plain relief.

  "You see him again?" Beasley's religion was in his ammo clips. He fingered the safety of his carbine.

  "Just his prints. The acolyte here seen 'em first at a water hole. Why shit, he didn' know what he seen."

  The others laughed uneasily. Quantrill nodded as if the joke were on himself. In a way, it was. At first he had known only that a child's sandal had made a single print in the sand, later marred by the great deep incisions of a demonic hoof. Quantrill's foot had erased the datum. Probably, he thought in sympathetic dread, that grizzly-sized brute had already tracked the child; had sought his kill many klicks from any possible help. But now he was certain that the sandal had been worn by little Sandy Grange. How long ago had she made that print?

  Quantrill felt gooseflesh at his nape, arms, calves. The superstitious awe in these murdering fanatics was affecting him, he decided. He'd give a year of his life to be left alone out there with a night-scoped H & K — but the little truck was taking him away, toward a danger he understood, and to Marbrye Sanger whom he thought he understood. Unable to contact Control in such close quarters he sat sullen, silent, listening to Beasley exult over the murder of an exhausted woman; promising himself that Beasley's ledger would balance before long.

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Decanting from the truck between the Willard house and barn, Quantrill peered at moving figures, seeking Sanger. The dark earth was splashed with parallelograms of light from the house and, as always, the women and children cowered anonymously hoping to be overlooked. Near the husky terratired truck was a group of prophets, variously armed. At their feet lay a pitiful handful of rags. “Delight?" He'd almost shouted her real name.