by James Axler
J.B. slammed the boots onto the counter. “I’ll take these,” he snapped, bringing the conversation to an end.
“How you gonna pay for them?” Boney asked. “Way I figure it, you ain’t got no jack and I don’t give credit.”
“Here,” Esquivel murmured, pushing forward a handful of jack. “Budd’ll take it out of what the dude gets paid.”
“So he’s working in the armory, then?” Boney grinned, having established what he really wanted to know. “The rumors are true?”
“Depends what the rumors are,” Esquivel drawled, “but ain’t no rumor about the way Xander treats shit that gets out of hand.”
It was an obvious warning and J.B. was intrigued to see the way that the relationship between the two men, which had previously been that of long-established friends or acquaintances, suddenly changed.
“Whatever you say, Es,” Boney muttered coldly, taking the jack. He returned to his work without another word and the two men turned to leave the shop. They were stayed by a woman who flung the door open and barged past them to the counter, slamming down a pair of damaged boots, heels and soles coming away.
“Listen shithead, I had to work two nights to pay for these, with a piss-poor lamp, trying to work out why the crankshaft on Xander’s personal wag was fucked. Probably some asshole like you who fucks it up in the desert,” she flung a look over her shoulder at Esquivel. “Last thing I want is to blow hard-earned jack on shit that falls apart in a week,” she added, gesturing to the boots.
“Honey, you could earn some jack making me hard and then blowing it,” Boney said with a sleazy grin. “And then you’d have all the boots you want, without having to get on your back. Ah, I dunno, though…” He looked across to J.B. and Esquivel, winking to bring them in on his little joke.
It didn’t work on the woman. Without warning, she hit him with a right jab that knocked him backward. He stumbled and fell into the shadows at the back of his store.
“Don’t try that shit on me, asshole. I ain’t got a price, ’cept for putting back together the pieces of old tech that you assholes can’t work properly.”
Boney lifted himself to his feet—J.B. could now see that he was only about five feet in height—and rubbed his jaw ruefully.
“No need for that, Ella-Mae,” he said sadly. “I’ll replace the goods. But the offer still stands.”
“I ain’t for sale,” she hissed.
“Shit, babe, everyone’s for sale one way or the other. I sell myself for boots and shoes so’s to get by. You sell yourself for fixing stuff—”
“But I ain’t selling my pussy,” she interrupted.
“You be the only one who ain’t,” he answered, but without any rancor or judgment. “It’s a seller’s market and there’s always men who want pussy. You could do a whole lot better—”
“Mebbe my idea of better ain’t the same as yours,” she snapped. “This is over. Just give me the boots.”
Boney took another pair and placed them on the counter. She turned and made to leave without casting another glance at him. But she did come face-to-face with J.B. and Esquivel, who were still standing by the door.
“Yeah, and your problem is?” she rapped, as they were slow to move out of the way.
“No problem, just curious,” J.B. said softly.
“’Bout what?” she snarled.
“’Bout why you’re so pissed at everyone. And mebbe about a few other things.”
“Yeah? And mebbe I’m more than a little curious about you—a man who comes out of nowhere, claims to have no memory and just mebbe is some kind of legend to the likes of Xander. That’s a bit convenient for you, isn’t it?”
J.B. shrugged. “Mebbe. But I’m not making it that way. That’s other people.”
“Tell ’em that when it blows up in your face,” she said in a softer tone. “Mebbe they won’t see it that way.”
J.B. paused, then nodded. “It’s a fair point, Ella-Mae.”
She smiled. “Yeah, and if you want to discuss it some more, then come and see me sometime. Laughing boy here knows where I am,” she added, gesturing to Esquivel before leaving the store.
All three watched her go, then Esquivel indicated to J.B. that they, too, had to leave. As they departed, Boney was still rubbing his jaw thoughtfully.
Out on the sidewalk, Ella-Mae had disappeared into the crowds. J.B. looked out for her dark, curly hair tied up on her head and the oil-stained jeans and cotton shirt that she had been wearing. But she was only about five-four and easily vanished among the people crowding the streets.
“She’ll be around, dude,” Esquivel said. “She’s always around.” When J.B. shot him a questioning stare, he continued. “See, in some ways this place ain’t run like other villes. Trade is what we’re all about and anything that can be traded is. I mean everything. And everyone.”
“So what Boney was saying about pussy?”
“Is about right,” Esquivel told him as they walked on to a store that sold linens and cottons, where J.B. could pick up a change of clothes. “See, I don’t actually come from here. I was in a convoy, fell out with the trader running it and figured that I’d do a little sec work until I could find another convoy. Mebbe I never will. Been here a long time now and it’s hard to get out. There’s a lot of good things here, but…I dunno, gaudy sluts are gaudy sluts and other women don’t wanna do that or don’t have to or whatever. Most guys wouldn’t want their old lady to be one. But here, it’s like who can get the most jack any way possible and every woman will sell it—her old man may even sell it for her. That was kinda weird at first. Everyone doing it. Thing is, Xander actually expects it and if you don’t get your old lady to sell her pussy to any passing convoy, he gets kinda pissed at the way you’re turning up the chance to make jack, specially as he gets a cut.”
J.B. shook his head. “Can’t say it seems familiar to me. But Ella-Mae doesn’t sell herself?”
Esquivel shook his head. J.B. added, “Then how the fuck does she get away with that?”
“What you heard her say about the wags? She’s the best mechanic I’ve ever seen. She’s got an affinity for old tech in the same way that you—if you’re who Xander thinks you are—have an affinity for blasters and shit. Girl’s a natural and that’s bought her ticket out of doing what she don’t want.”
“Must have been a gamble telling Xander that,” J.B. mused.
“Yeah, well, ain’t many who can cross the big man and come out of it in one piece, y’know?” Esquivel said with a wry grin. “Listen, we better stop this. Mebbe too many ears to hear this kind of shit, y’know what I’m saying?”
J.B. looked around at the passing residents of Duma, going about their business, and the passing traders from convoys, looking for some action during their down-time. There was a certain sharpness, wariness about the place, something J.B. felt certain he’d have to tune into if he was going to survive in Duma.
They picked up a change of clothes, Esquivel paying in the jack that was Duma’s currency, and headed back to the armory.
“You’ll be eating with Budd tonight and I’ll tell him how much the clothes and boots amounted to. He’s gonna have fun with that,” Esquivel smirked.
“Yeah, what’s going on?” J.B. asked after a moment’s pause. “Soon as Xander left, the old man seemed to change.”
“You’ll find out soon enough, dude, without me telling you,” was all the sec man would tell him.
Back in the armory, J.B. found where he would be sleeping. It was an airy, well-lit room at the back, on the upper floor. While he had been out, Grant had seen to the delivery of the Armorer’s bag and as he checked it he felt sure that none of the ammo or grens had been taken from him. His own blasters—the Smith & Wesson M-4000 and the Uzi—had been returned, as had his Tekna knife. Oddly, though, he noted that he had supplies of ammo for other blasters. Did this mean that he hadn’t been traveling alone? If so, what had happened to the people he had been traveling with? Come to that, who were t
hey? And if he had been alone, did that mean that he had carried other blasters with him that had been lost along the way?
He also found a mini-sextant in among his belongings, and just holding the thing in his hand felt right. It also sparked a feeling of unease within him. It held within it a secret about who he was and what he had been doing. It was such a familiar object and yet even though he thought long and hard about it, he couldn’t recall anything about how he had obtained it or the last time he might have used it.
Frustrated, he packed the instrument away, along with his change of clothes. Looking around the room he had been given, he could see a table, a chair and a bed with a good mattress, clean sheets and blankets. Inside, he knew that this stirred some kind of memory, but as with everything else, it was just that fraction out of reach. One thing he did know: to find such luxuries was rare for him and he was loathe to think about being without them again. And yet he had the feeling that circumstances may be working against him to pitch him out before he had a chance to settle and gain some new memories to replace the blank spaces in his head.
Putting these thoughts to one side, he decided to go down and join Budd. He was hungry and he also wanted to work out why the old man’s attitude had changed so rapidly. It was obvious that he had feigned his enthusiasm for J.B. so as not to piss off the baron. But the big question was why he didn’t want him around.
J.B. found that the old armorer ate with the sec men in the kitchen at the back of the house. It was warmer there than anywhere else, with a middle-aged woman, glistening with sweat, working over a log-fueled stove. Several sec men, including Esquivel, were sitting around a long wooden table that showed signs of heavy age and use. Budd was with them. As soon as J.B. entered the room, the hum of conversation died.
“So you’ve joined us,” Budd stated flatly.
“If you’ve got no objections,” J.B. countered.
Budd shrugged. “Not my call. Sit down and eat with us. You know Esquivel,” he added. “These others are Drury, Caine and Easy.” He pointed to each in turn and they acknowledged J.B. “They’re on duty here tonight. Xander works a rotation system on the sec around here—Xander wants Esquivel to stay here on permanent duty and keep an eye on you,” the old man added with relish.
J.B. wasn’t surprised that the baron wanted to put a guard on him. Caution wasn’t a bad thing, despite the fact that the baron was convinced of his identity. Duma had enough of an armory to make that an imperative. But he was damn sure that Budd wasn’t supposed to let this slip—something confirmed by the look Esquivel shot him. The air suddenly grew frosty once more, despite the heat of the kitchen.
J.B. sat and the woman put a plate in front of him, with fatback bacon, beans and cornbread. “Yeah, and I’m Liza, though that ignorant old fart thinks I don’t count, seeing as I’m only a woman,” she said.
The sec men laughed and J.B. was glad for her breaking the tension that had suddenly sprung up. But he still wanted to know why Budd was hostile. And seeing as Esquivel had evaded the subject, he’d just have to find out for himself.
They ate in silence for a while, none willing to risk the old man’s rancor and ruin the meal. But something had to break the uneasy quiet. It came in an unexpected manner.
Just as they were finishing, J.B. heard something behind him. Someone else entered the kitchen, and as he looked up and caught the expression on Budd’s face, he could tell that it was someone the old man was pleased to see.
“Hey, wonderin’ where you were, boy,” Budd said with undisguised warmth. “Y’nearly missed the eats.”
“I was just trying to work out why that MP-5 wasn’t working—I can’t find a damn thing wrong with it.”
The voice was soft and firm: a youth, but one who was old beyond his years. J.B. shifted in his seat to get a look at the newcomer, who was also eyeing him with curiosity. The lad was only about eighteen, with light brown skin and long dreadlocked hair that was tied up behind his head. He was about five-eight, and only a hundred or so pounds. Despite the obvious lack of bulk, he carried himself in a manner that suggested a wiry strength. For a moment, it reminded the Armorer of someone—maybe more than one person. The long hair, but plaited…And yet a flash of something pale and milky white. It was there and gone before he had a chance to focus on it.
Their eyes locked for several seconds, each trying to assess the other. J.B. knew instinctively that the young man was the reason for Budd’s hostility toward him, but couldn’t quite work out the reason.
Esquivel broke the silence. “Olly, guess you didn’t get to meet the infamous J. B. Dix earlier. And J.B., this is Olly, Budd’s son.”
Dark night, now it became clear. The old man had been training his son to succeed him. And from the comments the lad had made about the MP-5, he was a keen student. But now Xander had installed J.B. and ruined the old man’s plans.
J.B. didn’t blame him at all for being hostile. But, at the same time, he found himself with no say in the situation.
“So you’re the one that rode with Trader,” Olly said slowly, looking J.B. up and down as though merely looking could divine his secrets.
“That’s what they say. I can’t remember a fucking thing, and like I keep telling your father,” he added pointedly, “it’s not me who’s making these claims.”
“Same effect, though,” Budd grumbled.
“Leave it, Dad,” Olly murmured, seating himself. “It’s too late tonight, but first light tomorrow we’ll see if he’s as good as they say.”
Esquivel shot a wry grin at J.B. The sec man was aware of J.B.’s earlier encounter with Budd and the impressive results. But let the boy find out for himself.
There was tension in the air now and J.B. felt that he didn’t need to be around this shit. He got up and made to leave the room.
“Till tomorrow, then,” he shot back over his shoulder. He walked out without looking back and was halfway to his room when he heard footsteps behind him. Instinct kicking in, he whirled and went into a defensive crouch, moving toward his tracker. Engaging the enemy in an arm hold, he flipped him onto his back and had the point of the Tekna at his throat before he realized it was Esquivel.
“You’ve been here too long,” J.B. murmured, “I could have had your throat out before you reacted.”
“Mebbe, mebbe not,” Esquivel replied calmly. “I could have taken you out, but Xander wouldn’t like it. I had to risk you’d look before striking. ’Sides which, you’re a little jumpy.”
“Yeah,” J.B. replied ruefully, coming to his feet and resheathing his blade. He held out his hand in placatory gesture and Esquivel took it, allowing the Armorer to assist him to his feet. “I figure that must mean I’ve had to be lately.”
“Yeah, well, just watch yourself in here. Any more stunts like that with another sec, or better still with Budd, and they may just use it an excuse to buy you the farm.”
“What about the boy?”
Esquivel shrugged. “He’s okay—a nice kid with a real gift for this. If you take over, I figure you’ll keep him. It’s just that his father wanted to hand it over totally to him. You’re a problem he didn’t need.”
“Y’know, the stupe thing is I understand that,” J.B. mused. “I didn’t want this any more than he did. But he’d better not try to fuck me over.”
Esquivel shook his head. “He’s too scared of Xander to do anything—unless he could pass it off as accident or your fault, which is why you need to get off the wire. As for Olly, he wouldn’t do anything ’cause it’d come back on his dad. Besides which, if you really know your stuff, he’ll get too interested to hold any grudge against you.”
J.B. looked shrewdly at the sec man. “Guess Xander knew what he was doing when he put you on my back.”
Esquivel shrugged again. “Listen, I know why you wanted out of the kitchen and I figure you haven’t had some fun for a while. So, seeing as you’ve got the rest of the night and fuck all to do, why don’t we hit a few bars and you can see a little more
of Duma and what it’s like.”
“You got the jack,” J.B. said.
Esquivel grinned. “Yeah, but Budd’ll enjoy taking it out of your pay.”
NIGHT IN DUMA WAS different to day only in the amount of light that was artificially generated. Oil, generator-powered incandescents and old salvaged neon lights cast a series of conflicting glows and shadows across the sidewalks and roads of the ville. Unlike the farming-oriented villes or those that had to be careful of their resources, Baron Xander had built Duma into a ville that was possibly one of the richest across the Deathlands. By attracting convoys and making it a meeting and trading point for them, and by schooling his subjects in the art of draining every last drop of jack from the convoy teams while they were in the ville, Xander had found a way of keeping the wealth of the convoys within the boundaries of his fiefdom.
And the best way to get jack from a convoy team was by offering brew, jolt and pussy—mebbe not in that order.
Along the crisscrossing main streets of the ville, which were broken only by the blacktop that ran through the center, virtually every building offered all three—at a high price. There was no cost-cutting or free enterprise in Duma, no bargains to attract the customers. They would come anyway and Xander set the prices, which weren’t to be tampered with.
The teeming streets were full of drunk and high people, the women competing to take in patrons. The drunker the better. That way they could get them in and out quickly, making way for the next paying “guest.” The noise, smoke and stink of sweating, drunken humanity was almost overwhelming. But if this was to be his new home, then J.B. figured he’d better get used to it.
By that time of night, he was also getting less attention than he had earlier in the day, as the people around were too drunk and too absorbed in their own interests to care. The Armorer and the sec man slipped into a bar.
