Remember Tomorrow

by James Axler

  Ryan wrestled with the steering, keeping the wag on the blacktop with a squeal of tires. The weight of the barrier pulled it out of its tenuous hold on the frame, the indentation made by the impact not deep enough to keep the metal barrier attached to the wag. It fell onto the road, pushed to one side by the front of the wag, the weight making the steering tear at Ryan’s already straining forearms. He hoped that it wouldn’t fall under the wheels. There was no telling what the barbed metal would do to the underneath of the wag, ripping holes in fuel and brake cables as well as ripping tire rubber to shreds.

  The wag groaned, bucked and rode the impact of the barrier, but there was no telltale pull from tire damage, no indication that anything else was damaged. He would have to hope for the best.

  Ryan kept the wag going straight down the blacktop, killing the lights and trusting his own senses. He didn’t want the taillights to be seen, as they would surely be visible from a vast distance when there was nothing except the blackness around to highlight them.

  “What the fuck was all that?” Buckley asked, bewildered. The chief didn’t seem to have taken in quite what had happened and his people were still obviously shocked. But Jak and Mildred had kept triple frosty when it counted. Ryan called over his shoulder. “Anything?”

  “Empty,” Jak said simply.

  “Like the grave, boss man,” Mildred added. “Doesn’t look like they’ve got it together to follow us.”

  “Let’s get the hell back to Nagasaki the quickest way,” Ryan yelled.

  He kept on the blacktop for another twenty or so minutes, eating up the asphalt with his foot down. His only worry was that the wag would run out of fuel, but he figured there was little he could do about that right now, so it was best left to fate. As the sky began to lighten, he turned off the blacktop, killing the speed so that the battered wag’s suspension could cope with the sudden switch from a relatively smooth road surface to the hard-packed earth and loose dirt of the uneven wasteland. Leaving a cloud of dust billowing up behind it, the wag headed across the wastes toward the hidden shantytown of Nagasaki.

  Each of the three companions in the wag thought the same thing, though their thoughts were phrased differently. They had escaped potential disaster in Duma, but were returning with nothing in the way of supplies or jack. Moreover, it was obvious that they had been expected. If the sec in Duma knew where they were from, then they would be hunted down. So even if Buckley let them go despite their failure, then they would still have to face the wrath of Duma along with their captors.

  It was more than a rock and a hard place. Either way, they would have to fight when they were exhausted.

  But first they had to get back Doc and Krysty.

  RARELY HAD NAGASAKI SEEN such activity. The people were so convinced that their chief’s master plan would bring them food and jack that they had set to with a vengeance, clearing out old buildings and cleaning them. This was far from easy, as the shantytown was encrusted in generations of filth. But they were determined to preserve the food and goods that the road would bring them.

  Krysty and Doc were set to work with the others, despite the still fragile nature of Doc’s health as his wounds healed. It was hard work and they had to keep one eye on the ville dwellers, some of whom eyed them through the night as though they could be useful meat for enjoyment now that the chief was away.

  But despite that, things didn’t really sour until one of the taller, facially deformed dwellers came running into the center of the ville. He gabbled out to anyone who would listen something about the barn. Krysty and Doc strained to understand him through the quickness of speech and the distortion of his cleft palate. It was impossible to make out all of the story, but that didn’t matter. They already knew what he had discovered—that the last surviving captive in the barn had been set free. And from the way that the ville dwellers were eyeing them, it was obvious that they thought the outlanders had something to do with it.

  “I fear, my dear, that this could get a little difficult,” Doc murmured.

  “I wouldn’t often say you had a gift for understatement, but this time…” she replied, trailing off as the ville dwellers closed on them.

  Before she or Doc had a chance to make a serious move toward defending themselves, they were overwhelmed by the mass of inbreds, who wrestled them to the ground. Hands and fingers gouged and poked, and for every hand they fought off, others pulled at them. They were stripped of their weapons and their hands and feet trussed.

  “Chill the fuckers,” yelled one dweller, a call taken up by the others with alacrity.

  “No,” boomed one of the fat, wart-encrusted women, standing over them. “Take them to the barn. Wait until the chief comes back and then we can have some fun with all the fuckers in one go.”

  THE PALE LIGHT of early morning had begun to spread tentatively across the wastelands as Ryan drove the wag into the hollow that sheltered the shantytown of Nagasaki. The wag was spluttering, almost out of fuel, or else suffering blockages in the fuel feed caused by the traumas of the past few hours. The two Nagasaki dwellers had bought the farm and Buckley was now depressed, realizing that the mission had been for naught.

  Ryan cursed to himself as the wag drifted the last few hundred yards into the center of the ville. From the way that the dwellers clustered around, and from the fact that Krysty and Doc were nowhere to be seen, he knew there was trouble. Looking over his shoulder, his eye met with Jak’s and Mildred’s gaze. They were thinking the same thing.

  In his self-pity at how things had gone wrong, Buckley seemed not to notice that anything was amiss.

  Ryan killed the engine and before he had a chance to move, the door was wrenched open and hands reached in for him, pulling at him, not giving him the chance to reach for his panga, or the Sig Sauer. He was hauled out into a mass of humanity, stinking and angry. In the back of the wag, Mildred and Jak were subjected to the same thing. Jak was able to palm one of his razor-honed knives from its hiding place in the heavily patched camo jacket, but despite a few thrusts that drew blood and caused one or two hands to be withdrawn, they were too swiftly replaced by others, which beat at him until the knife was dropped and his hands were pinned.

  Buckley hauled himself out of the wag, suddenly galvanized by what was happening.

  “Whoa, there. I know y’all are unhappy we’s come back with nothing, but y’all can’t just blame—”

  “Why you come back with nothing?” yelled a voice from the crowd.

  “’Cause they was ready for us—don’t know how. Only got out ’cause of Ryan’s way with the wag,” Buckley blustered.

  A mutter went through the crowd. Voices yelled at the chief, too quickly and too close together for him to make out what they said. But then one cut through the others. “’Course they’s know you’s coming—one-eye there and his fuckers emptied the barn.”

  What little color there was drained from Buckley’s face. “What? What y’all say?” he yelled, his authority now restored by his anger. “Let the fuckers go, but take their blasters and blades first,” he commanded.

  The companions felt hands move over them while they were constrained, removing their blasters. Ryan felt the panga unsheathed from his thigh, and Jak was stripped of his camo jacket. Then—and only then—were they released to stand.

  Buckley stood in front of them, quivering with rage. “Y’all let the prisoner go and he’s gone told the coldheart fuckers in Duma to be ready for us,” he said, as though this guess were confirmed fact.

  “I released him,” Ryan confirmed, figuring it was pointless to lie at this stage. “But he couldn’t have let the sec in Duma know. He went in a different direction and he was going off to take the last train west. He was chilling on his feet and wanted to buy the farm alone. I figured that wasn’t too much to ask.”

  “You figured…you figured, did you?” Buckley gritted before spitting in Ryan’s face. Ryan lunged for the chief, but the butt of an old Lee-Enfield long blaster caught him in the kidney,
the sudden shock making him gasp and drop to his knees. Buckley took the opportunity to swing his boot so that it caught Ryan in the chest. It could have been worse. Had the chief put the whole of his not-inconsiderable weight behind the kick, and had it connected with Ryan’s jaw, it may very well have dislocated it. As it was, the one-eyed man still went down heavily, coughing up bile.

  “So you thought you’d spoil our fun by letting our prisoner go, did you?” Buckley screamed. “And you gets us in an ambush, two’s chilled and no jack or supplies at the end of it? You think we’s gonna let y’all go for that? Fuck no. But I’s a fair man, you knows that. We’s have a little trial for you and then you get punished. And we’s make you suffer. If’n we ain’t got no food, at least we’s can have ourselves some fun with y’all. And who knows, Ryan boy, mebbe y’all gonna be real good if’n we’s cook you. Gotta eat something, right?”

  Buckley looked around his people. The thought of torturing the companions after a summary trial had cheered them all up and there were even a few who were cackling in anticipation. The three companions, by contrast, met his gaze with grim stares.

  “Where the fuck’s the red girl and the old man?” Buckley asked peevishly, realizing for the first time that Doc and Krysty were missing.

  “They’s already in the barn. Put them there soon as we realized what had happened,” the wart-covered woman who had earlier taken control yelled as she stepped forward.

  Buckley looked at her and grinned. “Y’all got brains, I’ll tell y’all that. Barn’s the right place for them. Put these fuckers there and we’ll deal with them when we’s dealt with our chilled. Get that sorted and let these fuckers think about what’s gonna happen to them. Now get they’s out of my sight,” he shouted with a dismissive gesture, turning away and heading for the ranch house.

  The companions found themselves lifted by the throng of irate Nagasaki dwellers and swept along toward the barn, the bridge pulled rapidly into place. The door was disbarred and they were flung into the gloomy and stinking building, the door slammed shut behind them.

  Ryan, Jak and Mildred were covered in cuts and contusions, and they dragged themselves to their feet, looking around. For Ryan, it was too familiar and he thought of the condition Gill had been in when he found him. They wouldn’t even get that far, it seemed.

  Doc and Krysty shuffled out of the darkness, the redhead supporting the older man, who was breathing heavily. His jaw was puffy where he had been struck and one of his eyes was closed by a bruise. Krysty was also cut and covered in blood from scratches.

  “My dear Ryan, welcome back. So nice to see you again,” Doc husked with as much irony as he could muster.

  Chapter Fourteen

  J.B. could hear voices…distant, as though they were at the end of a tunnel, but voices all the same. He tried to speak, but all that came out was an incoherent scream. He could hear the voices telling him to take it easy and it made him want to hit whoever said it with a gren. It was important he speak, but he couldn’t.

  With an immense force of will, the Armorer dragged himself out of the dark tunnel and forced his eyes open. Everything was blurry, indistinct. He realized he wasn’t wearing his spectacles and swore heavily, groping for them. One of the three figures looming over him passed them to him, and despite having to narrow his eyes against the light, violent as it was after the tunnel of unconsciousness, everything came into focus.

  J.B. was lying on his bed in the armory, with Olly, Esquivel and Ella-Mae standing over him. The first two had been in the wag park with him, but how Ella-Mae got to be there…Shit, it all started to come back to him. He’d seen Mildred, he was sure of it. And Jak. The reason he was sure was because he’d got a good look at Ryan and just stopped Olly from putting a hole through him with the Weatherby.

  J.B. knew who they were. He knew where he had been for the past few years. He was kind of hazy, but he could even remember something to do with dogs and a cave-in getting him here in the first place. Dark night, he thought. Ryan had been leading the raid on the ville. That put J.B. in a quandary: should he let on what he knew or should he try to play dumb for the moment?

  “Dude, say something,” Esquivel said, waving his hand in front of J.B.’s face. “You’re with us, but not at the same time. Care to share what the fuck went on out there?”

  J.B. looked at the sec man, still undecided. It was Olly who tilted the balance. The young man said, “C’mon, J.B., something went on and it had to do with that guy I was gonna take out. He only had one eye.”

  “Shit, you’ve remembered,” Ella-Mae breathed. “It’s all come back to you.”

  J.B. nodded. “Too quickly, I guess. But that’s why I couldn’t let you try and chill him—I couldn’t let Ryan get shot.”

  Esquivel whistled. “The famous Ryan Cawdor turns up near you after all and he’s blowing fuck out of our people. Xander is not gonna like this.”

  Olly bit hard on his lip, showing all too clearly the thoughts that were racing through his mind. “How did he come to be involved with those mutie inbred fuckers? And why was he doing something so stupe as driving into a trap? And why—”

  J.B. cut him short with a raised hand. “Not that simple, Olly. Ryan wasn’t on his own.” He went onto explain about seeing Mildred and Jak, and also that he hadn’t caught sight of Krysty or Doc, giving them the barest detail on each to save time, but also to make them see that the six had traveled together so long that strong bonds had been forged.

  Esquivel whistled. “So if they were two down, then what are the odds they’re safely tucked up back in the pesthole those scum come from?”

  “Exactly,” J.B. said, levering himself off the bed and pausing as the room spun before his balance was properly restored. “I need to see Xander about this.”

  “He’s gonna be real mad and out for blood. He won’t be happy until they’re all chilled, J.B. Tonight won’t make him look good—word’ll spread real fast and that was the one thing he really didn’t want.” Olly shook his had ruefully. “I don’t reckon it’ll matter who they are. He’ll want to go in and wipe them off the face of the desert.”

  “But that’s the point,” J.B. snapped. “Those inbreeds may be shit fighters usually, but with Ryan and the others working with them, there’s no way it’ll be easy for your people, especially if Hammick fucks up again.”

  “So what do you suggest, dude?” Esquivel asked softly.

  J.B. stopped. It was true. He hadn’t thought of an alternative course of action. “I dunno,” he said softly. “But I guess I’ll think of that when it comes to it.”

  He pushed past them and swept out of the room, intent on heading for Xander’s palace. Esquivel hurried after him and Olly was about to follow when he noticed that Ella-Mae was holding back.

  “What is it?” the dreadlocked youth asked her, puzzled.

  She shook her head, smiling sadly. “You see the look on his face when he talked about them? We’ve lost him. Not matter what happens, we’ve lost him.”

  Down in main section of the armory, Budd was detailing sec men to strip and distribute weapons from the storage rooms while he kept record of what was released. He looked up as he heard the Armorer descending the staircase.

  “What the hell happened to you out there?” he asked, barely able to keep the smug satisfaction out of his voice. “The great J. B. Dix lose his nerve?”

  J.B. glared at him. “Another time,” he said, brushing past the old man. Esquivel, close on J.B.’s heels, kissed his teeth at Budd. This was no time for petty scores.

  Budd ignored them, devoting his attention to his son, who was now chasing after the Armorer and his sec shadow, Ella-Mae at his heels.

  “Hey, son. Heard you did well out there before you were screwed over. Mebbe this’ll show that you’re the one to—”

  He was cut short by his angry son. “Dad, this is about more than just you and me and J.B.,” Olly snapped. “He doesn’t want your job and he doesn’t want mine. He doesn’t even want to be her
e…and neither do I,” he added, brushing his father aside to follow the Armorer.

  Ella-Mae, following, could only think of the look on J.B.’s face when he mentioned seeing Mildred. One way or another, a lot of lives were going to change this night.

  XANDER STRODE THE FLOOR of his ornate throne room, anger boiling within him, the seething silence broken only by the halting attempts of Hammick to explain why the action had gone wrong. It should have been simple, he knew that, But no one had figured on the convoy crew wanting to join in the action and getting in the way. And surely Xander could see that Hammick couldn’t risk chilling any of them. What would the baron have said if he had to give a trader compensation to stop word spreading? Come to that, surely he knew that word would spread anyway?

  Hammick, halting and stumbling through his report, going back over details to try to justify himself, looked to Grant for help or any indication of sympathy. But the healer and sec adviser sat at the throne’s right hand, looking impassive. He hadn’t intended to scheme and leave Hammick high and dry, but at the same time he was too old and had lasted too long under Xander and his father to step in and take some of the storm that was about to break.

  As Hammick paused once more in his halting address, Xander stopped pacing the floor and swiftly and savagely moved across to the sec chief, catching him across the face with a backhand blow that stunned him. Xander wore several heavy silver jeweled rings; these scored Hammick’s cheek, drawing blood that he touched delicately as he tried to rise to his feet.