by James Axler
"Ah! This reminds me of those carefree days in Moscow," Doc said, his frock coat buttoned to the collar. "We were with a colonel then, too. Nasty fellow at first, but he turned out a decent enough chap."
"Moscow? Where's that?" a sec man asked, hunched under his dirty blanket. His breath fogged in the air, often hiding his unshaved face.
"It's an island to the south of here," Mildred lied, remembering only at the last second that the farther south you traveled in this hemisphere the colder it got. Almost said it backward. "Little place, lots of wolves."
"Folks nice?"
"Baron was tough, but excellent shine."
"Good enough." Ann tried to laugh, but the sound died away in the cold breeze moaning around the craggy peaks and bare outcroppings.
"What the hell," Dean muttered, slowing his mount and staring off to the side. There was a tiny cloud that appeared, and disappeared, near one of the snowbanks. Breathing out of the side of his mouth to see better, the boy suddenly realized the odd cloud was exactly like breath foggy from the cold. He drew his Browning semiautomatic pistol, and jacked the slide. Could be another buried coldheart like back in the cannie camp. Should he warn the others quietly or attack?
The decision was taken away when the snowbank charged at the group with only the soft crunching of the new-fallen snow under its soft paws.
"Mutie!" Dean cried and fired, both rounds missing. Hot pipe, that sucker was fast.
The rest of the mixed group spun as the snowbank leaped on Ann, the blow shoving her off her horse. The girl hit the ground, rolling with the thing, blood spurting from deep gashes in her chest. Instantly, everybody had their blasters out, but withheld firing. The girl and mutie were so entangled it would be impossible to shoot one without hitting the other.
"Shoot it!" Ann screamed, beating at the snowy white creature with both fists. Her blanket was ripped, taking most of her clothing with it, and she pulled the big flintlock from her belt and fired, the boom echoing along the crags sounding like a hundred blasters. The discharge cloud masked the two until the wind pushed it away. Shapeless white covered her neck for a moment, then went away and blood fountained into the air from severed arteries as her throat was neatly removed. She gurgled horribly, her hands at the ragged flesh of her neck, then the snow mutie moved to her belly and once more hot blood spewed.
"Ann's dead, chill the fucker!" Ryan ordered leveling the Steyr and firing. The round missed striking the dying girl and only startled the creature.
As the companions fired a barrage of lead, the creature turned toward them and Ryan could only see a vague outline of a bestial face under the blood; the rest was only shapeless white. Good enough.
Working the bolt, he aimed between the eyes and pulled the trigger. The mutie flipped over sideways and hit the snow, green blood pumping onto the ground like a chem spill. Framed by its own blood, the thing was now an easy target. Mildred used the shotgun, tearing the carcass apart with a full charge of flechettes. Dean got it in the face again, while Jak, Doc and Krysty aimed for the chest. Facing the opposite direction, J.B. was sweeping the wintery landscape with the Uzi for any more of the strange creatures.
Dismounting, Mitchum and Ryan slowly approached the mutie with drawn blasters, the others holding back, controlling the scared horses and reloading their assorted weapons. The strained breathing of the creature could clearly be heard, but even at ten feet away it was difficult to focus clearly on the thing. It was a blob of fuzzy white floating in green—that was all. Jacking in a fresh round, Ryan fired the longblaster at point-blank range. The creature bucked from the impact and went still. The puffing of its breath disappearing for good.
"It's aced," Mitchum reported, holstering his piece.
"Something local?" Ryan asked, looking over the thing.
The officer frowned. "Never saw or heard anything like it before. Must be a newbie."
"A new mutant," Ryan translated.
"Yeah, sure, get them all the time from the north."
The direction of the Bikini Atoll where the American government tested all those nukes in the past. Made sense.
Sliding off her mount, Mildred passed the reins to J.B. and hurried over. The physician burned with curiosity to see the mutation closer. Moving past the men, she stepped into the blood and crouched near the body, running her hands over the cold corpse. It couldn't have lost body heat that fast. It had to be cold-blooded, like a lizard. But then, how could it move so fast?
The body was huge and draped with gossamer-fine fur as pale as the snow. It was broad daylight, but the sun didn't reflect off the hair filaments. The nose, even the eyes, were as pale as ice, and the entire body was draped with a fringe of the translucent fur, including the face.
"Some sort of cat, like a cougar," Mildred said, lifting a paw for study. The claws were six inches long, as sharp as knives and a smooth dull white where they weren't coated with blood. She opened its mouth and noted that even its gums and tongue were white, only some plaque on the lower teeth adding the smallest tinge of yellow. It was the most amazing natural camouflage she had ever seen. Made stick-bugs and chameleons pale in comparison. No way this was a result of natural selection; it was much too perfect. Designed was the word that came to mind.
"Bitch to see," a sec man stated, squinting at the mutie. "There be snow falling, it could have easily chilled the whole group."
"I saw its breath, but wasn't sure until it moved," Dean said, his expression of a mixture of serious and embarrassed. "Then it was too late."
"Not your fault," Ryan said, resting the stock of the Steyr on a hip.
"Strangest mutie I have ever seen," Mitchum said, hitching his blanket closed more against the wind. "Only hope it's traveling alone."
Jak slid off his horse and walked closer to it. "Want see paws," he said. "Case find tracks elsewhere."
"Good idea," Mildred said, and pressed a paw into the snow. Together, they scrutinized the pattern closely, logging the details of the pattern into memory.
"How odd. It's sort of like that symbol for Forbidden Island," Mildred whispered softly.
"Yeah," the teenager agreed. "Not like."
Walking her mount to the dead girl, Krysty bowed her head in prayer for a minute, then said, "We should bury Ann. But without shovels, I don't see how."
"Leave her for the birds," Ryan stated, glancing at the sky. Condors were already circling the area. Blasterfire always meant food for the scavengers. Also gave away their position. The one-eyed man didn't like that, but there was nothing he could do about birds. What could not be changed, had to be endured, as Doc liked to say.
But more important, with Ann on the last train west, it meant the companions now depended on the goodwill of Mitchum and his sec men. And Ryan didn't like that one bit. Ann owed them her life; these folks only owed them their freedom. It wasn't the same thing.
"This is bullshit," a sec man grumbled, rubbing his blaster as if it were a source of warmth. The air fogged before the man, his visible breath mixing with the exhalations of the horse. "Colonel, how do we know these folks ain't tricking us somehow. Get the ville gates open and in pour the cannies!"
"Shut up, trooper," Mitchum snapped, glaring at the shivering man. "These are the folks who hauled us out of the stew pot. I'll trust them with my life."
Ryan said nothing, hoping it was true.
"Yeah?" the sec man said rudely, then pointed. "Including the freak?"
Jak looked up from studying the mutie, his snowy hair billowing in the cold wind, his red eyes and ruddy cheeks the only touches of faint color in his pale face.
"Got prob?" the teenager asked, in a dangerous tone of voice.
"Bet your ass I do! You look like the thing!" the sec men raved on. "Sir, mebbe he worships it or something."
"A mutie? What a load of spent brass," Mitchum shot back. "Listen up, feeb. They saved us from the cannies to feed to the mountain cats?"
"I say we should ace the freak to make sure!" the sec man shouted, gr
abbing the flintlock at his side to brandish the weapon in the air. "Who's with me?"
Nobody said a word, the only movement the windblown snow and the horses shifting their legs to stay warm. The companions exchanged glances and judiciously walked their horses out of the line of fire. They could smell death coming.
"You can see he's a stinking mutie!" the sec man shouted in argument. "By the baron's law, we're supposed to ace any human muties!"
Feeling her red hair flare angrily at the pronouncement, Krysty kept her features neutral, but filed that information away.
"Shut mouth," Jak said, opening his jacket to expose the Colt Python holstered at his side. "Or go steel."
"Think I can't take you, freak?" the trooper said, sneering, the flintlock already in his hand.
Reaching behind his back, Jak pulled his jacket out of the way. "Any time, stupe," he said softly, flexing his blaster hand.
"You in on this?" Mitchum asked, flicking a look at Ryan.
He shook his head. "Between them."
"Agreed," the colonel said. "Anybody helps this asshole gets on the wrong side of me. Natch?"
The rest of the troopers nodded in agreement and moved away from the lone gunman. Suddenly realizing he was without backup, the sec man dropped the blaster to his side, then whipped out a second pistol from inside the blanket, the hammer already cocked and ready to fire.
As the weapon swung toward Jak, the teenager drew his own piece and jerked his wrist the second it cleared the holster to shoot from the hip. The booming Magnum round hit the sec man square in the face, eyes and teeth blowing into the wind as the primed flintlock discharged, the miniball buzzing past Jak so close he felt the passage of its wind on his cheek.
The sec man toppled from the saddle to hit the ground in a crumpled ball. Red blood puddled around the corpse, wisps of steam rising off the warm pool of life fluid.
"Nuke me." Mitchum exhaled a held breath, creating a small fog. "Never seen speed like that. You're good, boy, damn good."
Jak shrugged in response, then slid his Colt Python back into its holster and zipped his jacket over the blaster to help keep it warm. There was nothing special about chilling a stupe. World was full of them, always making noise and getting in the way. They were just a minor annoyance, like skeeters or flies.
"Sir, I could use his boots," another sec man said eagerly. Then others called out for his blasters and poncho.
"Ain't mine to give," Mitchum said, tilting his head toward the albino teenager. "Talk to the owner."
"Help self. Not want any," Jak said, climbing back on his horse.
The troopers grinned in delight and proceeded to strip the faceless corpse. Ryan was pleased. Letting them have his stuff was another point in favor of the companions. Besides, it was painfully obvious that nobody had liked the dead man very much, or seemed to mourn his passing.
"It has occurred to me," Doc said in his deep voice, "that such a creation as this should naturally be antithetic to heat. If we traveled with some torches, the flames should hold off any more of its kind."
"Most animals hate fire," Dean agreed.
"Except stickies," J.B. added, leaning forward. "But it's a damn good idea. I still got some juice left."
"What'll we burn?" Mitchum asked, hugging his blanket tighter. There was nothing in sight but a few bare trees, icy rocks and snow in every direction.
Crunching through the ankle-deep snow, Ryan went to Ann and started cutting away her clothing. Dean rode off to get some branches from a tree with Krysty and Jak on his flanks for protection. Until they had the torches, nobody was going anywhere alone.
Unexpectedly, there was a sharp crack and a riderless horse dropped lifeless to the frozen earth.
"Dinner is served," Mildred announced, holstering her smoking ZKR and drawing a sharp knife.
WITH RAW HORSE filling their bellies, the mood of the group improved noticeably and tempers cooled. Riding through the day and into night, the travelers kept the torches burning with strips of diesel-soaked clothing and took turns sleeping in the saddles. Along the way, the nervous sec men fired a dozen times into the snow, chilling a couple of rabbits and wounding something that bled green, but it ran off so fast nobody was able to get a second shot. Might have been a snow cat, or it might not. It was impossible to say.
By dawn, the group was past the frost line and descending into the warmth once more. As the sun crested the horizon, the torches were tossed away and everybody relaxed. Now that they were past the snow, the snow cats wouldn't dare to attack. Here in the green grass and trees, their weird color would only make them incredibly visible. Easy targets for anybody.
"Better." Jak sighed and unzipped his jacket.
"This is my fav time of day," Mitchum said, smiling, luxuriating in the golden dawn. "It's what Ratak means in some old speak, sunrise."
"Any more meat?" Dean asked, riding over to Krysty.
"Sure," she answered, passing over a strip. The dead animal had been skinned, and its hide made into a sack stuffed with snow and the best cuts of meat. Now that they were warming up, the snow wouldn't last long, but with any luck it was only a few hours to the ville.
"You know, I once read that the ancient Mongols used to place raw meat under the saddles first thing in the morning, and when they stopped at night would eat the meat cooked by the heat of their horses."
"That's just an old wive's tale," Mildred retorted. "The Mongols put raw steaks on their horses to help heal saddle sores. Nothing more."
"Work?" Jak asked, stroking the neck of his mount. The horse whinnied in response and bent closer to the teenager's touch.
"Works fine, or so I've been told," Mildred replied.
"Raw meat as a bandage," Colonel Mitchum muttered. "Pretty smart. Must remember that."
Reaching level ground, the group found grass for their horses and let them eat their fill, before kicking their mounts into an easy gallop. The riders had no wish to tire the beasts after the long walk over the mountain.
The sun rose toward its azimuth as the miles flew by without incident. Birds exploded from the trees as they rode by, and monkeys of various sizes chattered furiously at the invasion of their territory and threw handfuls of fresh feces at the riders to seriously discourage them from returning. A near hit made a sec man fire his flintlock, and the chimps disappeared into the thick canopy of flowers of vines, screaming and chattering in fear.
"There!" a corporal called out, gesturing ahead of the group. "Tide bridge, sir! We're nearly home."
Brushing the hair out of his eye, Ryan could see they were approaching another shallow bay like the one on Crab Island. But here rocks had been piled in the water until forming a wide bridge over the ocean. Old rusty pipes stuck out of the rocks below the surface to allow the tide to flow freely.
"Will that support a horse and rider?" J.B. asked in concern. The bridge had no mortar or concrete. It was just a pile of rocks, nothing more.
"Always has before," Mitchum said, guiding his mount down the bank and onto the rocks. They moved at every step, but the sec men rode their animals along the crude construct with no real difficulties, so the companions soon followed. There was no sign of crabs anywhere.
Reaching the far side, Ryan noticed a wide area where there was no grass, and in the center was a deep hole. Checking his rad counter, he saw no dangerous readings, and there wasn't any glassy slag at the bottom from a tac nuke.
"See that? Our fathers killed a tin can there," a sergeant said with pride, slowing so the others could take a look. "Fifty sec men died, but they aced the mofu."
"Tin can," Krysty repeated. "Some sort of machine?"
"They say it was a crazy thing," Mitchum answered grimly. "Didn't resemble a wag, or a boat. It was built like a cartridge, round and flat on the bottom. Had rotating red eyes and floated off the ground like a soap bubble, but it was made of steel. They say miniballs only dented it at close range."
The companions knew the description well. It was a sec hunte
r droid, and it had to have already been damaged for a bunch of sec men with blasters to bring it down. Ryan had one chase him and J.B. for miles a while back, and it had been a triple bitch to stop. Damn near aced both men.
"I assume it detonated once damaged sufficiently," Doc inquired politely. This was clearly a site of great importance to the local sec force, and it was only wise to pay it proper respect. In his own time period, Doc would expect no less of a visitor from another country upon viewing Gettysburg or Bunker Hill.
"Detonated?" the sergeant snorted a laugh. "Naw, that's what everybody thinks, but it's the other way 'round."
"Our fathers dug a hole, filled it with kegs of black powder and lured the tin can there, then lit the fuse," Mitchum said, his vision unfocused as he imagined the past event. "The blast blew it to dreck."
"The shrapnel aced most of the sec men," Mitchum said. "Lost my father and two uncles in that fight. But they saved the ville."
"Good men," Ryan said.
"Damn straight they were."
Riding onward, they found a path leading through the jungle, the dirt road speckled with a layer of loose gravel pounded into the soil under countless hooves. Protection against erosion from the rain.
"Bad storms here?" Jak asked.
Mitchum snorted in reply. "Like nothing you've ever seen," he stated bitterly.
The roadway was fairly level, although filled with potholes, and in a short while, they exited the jungle and rode onto a grassy plain with countless tree stumps dotting the land. A lot of the stumps were deeply charred. Krysty knew that was how you removed a stump, burn it deep and the roots died, then after a year it could be easily chopped from the ground. Lacking machines and explosives, there was no other way to do the job.
A ville rose in the distance, its wall made of tree trunks notched and laid on top one another in layers to form a zigzag pattern for maximum strength. Bits of broken glass and shards of clam shells jutted from every crack, making climbing the wall a risky proposition. Thorny vines were draped over the top in the manner of barbed wire, and armed sec men walked the parapets with muzzle-loading flintlock rifles in their arms.
