Charles Ingrid - marked man 02 The Last Recall

by Charles Ingrid

  She wondered if Sir Thomas suspected. She knew of his reputation for Truth-reading, but he had not put her through that. On the surface, then, she must have convinced him she was what she said she was.

  She put the reins in her teeth and swung down with a groan, muffled by the salty leathers in her bite. Using the sheepskin was the only smart thing she'd done so far. Without it, her legs would have been chafed raw. As it was, she didn't think she'd ever walk again. Clinging to the saddle with both hands was all that kept her on her feet.

  She looked up to see Stefan overshadowing her. He was frowning, facing into the western sky.

  He took the gelding's reins, tugging them gently from her mouth. "First days are the hardest," he said. "You must have eaten a lot of dust back there. I'll bet you came up from Laguna Hills by wagon."

  Afraid to speak, even with her newly coarsened voice, Alma merely nodded.

  Stefan gave a tight grin. "Thought so. You've got a soft butt, kid. Well, Sir Thomas means what he says. Rub your horse down and water him before you come over for chow." He flipped the rein ends over the rope-line and sauntered away.

  Alma ducked her chin over her shoulder, trying to look at her rear. Would they all know she had a soft butt? Feeling somewhat mystified, as if she'd entered a fraternity she did not know had existed, she began to unbuckle her horse's girth. She felt vaguely disappointed that Stefan had not recognized her in spite of her chopped off hair, and hat, and oil-tanned skin. She would have known him anywhere. What was lacking in her that he couldn't look into her eyes and see her looking back?

  She pulled the saddle off, grabbed a grooming cloth out of the pack and began rubbing the gelding down vigorously. He rolled an eye at her, flipped an ear which was oddly folded over, and leaned into her as she rubbed. She hardly noticed as she went over in her mind the months of marriage within which they'd shared everything a man and woman could share—how could he not know her? It was true they'd separated months ago and he'd scarcely seen her since, but she'd not forgotten him, how could he have forgotten her?

  Unless he did not love her or unless she was that easily forgotten. Weariness and dust slapped up from the gelding's hide filled her eyes until she could scarcely see. One of the other boys trudged past with a water bucket for her. There was pity on his brightly sunburned face— Rubio it was, she knew him, and now the apple shine on his face matched his name. He didn't recognize her either nor would she have expected him to. The hide bucket sloshed within its collapsible frame as the gelding nosed at it eagerly.

  "He'll founder if you let him drink too much," Drakkar said easily, quietly, before she'd even felt his shadow fall across her. He held a plate of something smelling remarkably good in his gloved hands. He wore the gloves most of the time. She thought of those raking, poisoned spurs and shuddered without looking up.

  "I know that," she said irritably. "But there's not enough water here to founder a mouse."

  "Ummm," he said. "There is that." He shoveled a forkful into his well-shaped mouth. "Looks like you've done well by him. We'll move the line later, to open up new grazing. They've got enough within reach to keep 'em quiet until we've eaten."

  She finished, pulled the tack off, the bridle off his head, but leaving it buckled around his neck as the others kept theirs, and pulling the heavy saddle off to the side where the others were stacked. She was aware of Drakkar's burning gaze at her back every step of the way. She walked to her dinner, her legs bowed and gait stiffening with every step.

  Thomas sat back as the last of the light faded from the canyon tongue they'd taken root in. The boys were trading ribald jokes, the younger ones laughing too loudly and too shrilly at punch lines they did not always understand, the weaker ones quiet, the road already taking its toll on them. Mentally, he was separating them out. If he were lucky, there would be twelve sturdy youths to send onward from the College Vaults. If not ... he did not see how any survey party could survive with lesser resources. Jenkies left with his younger brother Bill to reset the horse-line.

  He worried about sending boys to do a man's job, but he thought that the younger ones were tougher, unwilling to believe that anything was impossible, more resilient, quicker to mend, all factors that would make up for the lack of experience. Stefan was as close to man-grown as they had and he would have to have the experience for them all.

  He picked something out of a tooth with his fingernail. "Stefan, set sentries." The young man would need to take command before he officially turned it over to him.

  Drakkar looked up sharply across the campfire before Stefan even said his name.

  "Drakkar, take the first watch."

  "No." The young man shook his head. Feathers rattled like porcupine quills.

  All joking stopped abruptly. A distant coyote's tentative yap sounded throughout the camp.

  Thomas said, "I beg your pardon?"

  Drakkar answered evenly, "I think not."

  Stefan sat stiffly. He'd windburned in the two days, despite the hat he'd worn, and his cheeks blazed as crimson as the campfire. "You ride with us, you'll do duty with us."

  Thomas thought to say something else, and changed his mind. He settled back to see how the two would work this out.

  "Perhaps," Drakkar said. He stretched out on his packs and crossed his leg at the ankles. "But I won't stand first watch, tonight or any other night."

  "You'll do what you're told," Stefan said. He had a slight edge to his voice, inherited from his mother's accent, and it sharpened now.

  "Then you're an ass," Drakkar said, "to put being in charge over being intelligent. I probably have the best night sight of anyone in camp. You're wasting my abilities at twilight and first watch." He rolled over as he flipped a blanket over him. "Wake me for second watch."

  Shocked, Stefan looked to Thomas. He seemed uncomfortably aware of the stares of every other mapper in camp.

  Thomas shrugged. "He's got a point. Would you rather be right or in charge?''

  The new boy, Diego, who'd not said a word since stumbling in for dinner said, "One would hope one could be both."

  Stefan cleared his throat abruptly. "Right. We'll give Drakkar second watch tonight. Anybody else with good night vision or any other Talents to add?"

  Thomas listened as Stefan fielded comments from the boys. Then he dealt out new assignments. With a smile, Blade leaned back on his pack. He would not sleep particularly well regardless of who Stefan put out on the rocks, but then, that was his duty. When most of the boys were asleep, he'd go set his wards and then settle to rest.

  Drakkar's arrogance bothered him. And he missed Lady. No, tonight would not be a particularly restful night.

  Chapter 13

  "This is In-City," Thomas said, reining up. He waited as the boys grouped about him. Drakkar pulled up off to the side and slung a leg over his saddle as if bored. Stefan took his hat off and mopped his forehead with the back of his cuff. Indian summer had turned suddenly to cold fall nights, and the resulting ground fog had swaddled them all within its clammy folds. The wreckage of the inner city rose out of that fog with an eerie unreality. The smell here had changed too, tinged slightly with sulfur and mildew and decaying things, instead of sere grass and salt ocean.

  He waited until all the boys had pulled close: Jenkies and his brother Bill, wiry, mousy-haired boys with violent brown freckles all over their bodies; Diego, still and secretive; the cook, Bottom, who tended to be somewhat of a bully; Montez, the cobbler's boy, who repaired their stepped on reins and snapped girths with the same ease his father showed with a needle|;|Jeong,the weaver's son, intent on mapping even these known regions, his Asian yellow fingers always stained with ink; scarlet-faced Ru-bio whose sunburn was painful to look at; and a dozen others he was getting to know as well as the palm of his hand.

  leong pulled out a scroll of paper and began writing and sketching feverishly even as Thomas began speaking.

  "They call it In-City, but its real name is Death. Some of you have been down here before
, in spite of the fact it's off-limits. Don't let that fog fool you—it doesn't take nature to hide its danger. You've been raised in the neighborhoods outside the major manufacturing centers and old In-City structures. There's a reason for that. In there, like the landfills, you've got a toxic waste situation that poisons everything about it. It's seeped into the earth itself. There's no clean water or forage. There are areas where toxic fumes can billow up, exploding out of the concrete walkways. And there's simpler deaths. There's rusting wire forms inside those chunks of concrete. Let your horse step on one, or yourself, and the chances of getting lockjaw are pretty good. The subway system tunnels under most major streets and if one should collapse under you, your mount's got another good chance of snapping a leg. And there's wolfrats, coyotes, sidewinders, black widows as big as your hat. The quickest way to kill a man is to bring him In-City unprepared."

  Machander looked across at Blade. He was a good-looking young man, dark hair in a widow's peak over a wide forehead. A birthmark on his right cheek marred those good looks with its purple splotch, but he seemed unaware of his blemish. He said mildly, "But you're a ruin crawler."

  "I know what I'm doing. I take my gauges with me, watch the radiation and toxicity levels—and I like killing wolfrats. But I don't recommend any of you take up the hobby. This is also nester territory and they'll kill you if In-City doesn't."

  A late morning sun burned the haze away, corroding it from the ruins even as they watched it. Concrete canyons ran as far as they could, shoulder to shoulder, dispersed only by the streets and alleyways. Broken spires poked upward, yawning maws gaped downward. A loping figure crossed what had once been a street. From their distance they could see it was a wolfrat, half as big as the mounts they rode. The boys drew in their breaths almost as one, as if afraid it would scent them.

  Blade pulled Harley about. "No one rides alone," he said. "Pick a trail buddy and stick with him. Know where he is at all times because he's there to protect your back and you're there to protect his." He heard the fervent murmurs at his back as eager as if the boys were choosing up sides for a stickbail game. "Stefan."

  "Yes, sir." The young man kicked his horse even with Harley.

  "Check your gauges. Tell me what you think about the

  readings."

  Stefan pulled at the hand-blown and sealed gauges hanging about his neck. He read his compass, then checked the other gauges. "This area appears okay, but—"

  One of Thomas' brows went up. "Yes?"

  "It wavers. Varies. As if we're getting bad air through here, but not on a steady basis."

  "That's good. You're right. There's a natural deposit of methane gas that runs under much of the L. A. basin. It breaks through here and there. We're not as far from the Fire Ring as you think. So we're talking not a man-made problem here, but a natural one. Methane's only deadly if it's all we're breathing, but it is highly flammable. Don't strike any matches before you check your gauges." The Fire Ring burned in what had been Signal Hills, drawing ever steady fuel and life from what must have been a vast underground store of petroleum at one time. The immense towers and drums had been smoldering for as many generations as anyone could remember.

  Stefan's icy blue eyes flickered. "I won't," he said. He dropped his gauges back onto his chest. "Makes you wonder how they lived."

  "Actually," Thomas answered, "quite well. Until the disasters hit." He raised his voice. "Everyone got a partner?" There should be an odd man out because of their numbers, someone forced to partner with him.

  Bottom said, his chunky face mottled with anger from being spurned, "I d-don't, sir."

  "You do now. Fall in behind me, the rest of you line up accordingly." The cook joined him, packs and pots and pans rattling on the two mules he led. Thomas pulled his hat down tightly. "I don't want any heroes."

  Drakkar, who was holding his horse back to ride drag gave a tight smile as if receiving a private message. In his shadow was young Diego. Diego had toughened up over the past week, but Blade still felt uneasy about the youngster's presence. The boy stayed to himself, was painfully shy and body conscious, and though Blade no longer felt him a menace personally, Diego knew that his own youth and inexperience could jeopardize the company. The fact that Drakkar looked out for him was the only saving grace of the situation. Blade felt that Drakkar could probably look out for most of them without raising a sweat. The Mojavans were tough—had to be—because of their native territory. The desert was almost as unforgiving as In-City. Drakkar met his appraisal with a faintly mocking smile.

  "Stay close," Thomas finished. He put a boot heel into Harley's flank and moved him onto the path he'd chosen that would take them along the fringe of In-City. This was their initiation, the threshold they had to pass before Blade felt confident enough to let them go on alone. He'd go inward to take them to see the great crater itself, awe inspiring to see the cavernous hole responsible for the death of L.A.

  Despite the hard riding and teaching, he did not sleep well at night. He set his wards much as Stefan set his sentries; Blade did not place stock in either of them. There was too much here to protect—his wards were spread far too thinly. As for the sentries—how many nesters could a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old boy kill if jumped from behind? If he had been trained by Blade, perhaps two or three. But trained to be a mapper, it was doubtful if the boy could even get a shout out in time. Why set a sentry, then? Because even some hope was better than none.

  And despite those reservations, he found himself tumbling into a deep, exhausted sleep ten days into the trail. Sleep came welcome, took him soaring into the sky. He spread his wings and dreamed he was a bird coasting over the devastation, keen eyes picking out the signs of resurgent life. Even in the devastation, greenery was beginning to erupt through the asphalt and concrete cracks. The smoldering streams of ash and smoke from the Fire Ring had begun to thin. Dared he hope to dream of rejuvenation?

  Then his soul winged eastward and northward until, exhausted, he sought an encampment and a cote, chimes ringing as he brushed his way inward to safe nesting. A huge, pasty, beefy hand reached for him. Thomas looked up from his bird's eyes to see the massive man he'd known as the Dean of the College Vaults reaching for him with a low, feral chuckle. He leapt, but his wings were pinioned against his side. Cruel fingers twisted about Ms neck. His bird heart drummed wildly inside his chest and as he struggled, the chimes rang and rang and rang. . . .

  Blade bolted awake with a low cry. Sweat covered him from boot top to chin. His hands were groping at his side. Shaking, he brought them to his forehead where he rubbed away the last of the dream from his eyes. Then, like a piercing echo, someone in the camp screamed.

  He was on his feet and halfway to the sound, knife in hand, when he heard the hissing like an overflowing tea kettle and knew what it was that attacked in the night. The boy beneath the wolfrat struggled valiantly. Fangs gnashed and the beast's beady red eyes glowed like the last of the campfire as it slithered around to face Blade, trampling its victim beneath it.

  "Help!" the boy panted. "Get him off me!"

  It was Watkins, a boy he'd only come to know recently, a geologist and a promising mapper. Also a lazy boy, slow moving and introspective. Even as Blade moved to protect him, he thought that Watkins had probably fallen asleep on duty. A red cloud flowed blackly in the night beneath his head, but the boy still clawed and kicked, alive enough that Thomas had hope for him.

  The attacker snapped at Blade as he swung his knife through the darkness. It came forward, but not enough to free the boy. Thomas licked his dry lips. Salt from his sweat-soaked nightmare met his taste.

  "Come and get me," he said. He was aware from the noise behind him that the rest of the camp were awake now and struggling to get to their feet.

  "Move aside," Stefan called softly. "I've got my rifle."

  "No. Watkins is still kicking. He'll block your shot." Literally, as the boy began to bicycle his legs furiously into the wolfrat's stomach.

  Like a gig
antic snake, the creature's tail whipped through the dust. It kicked back, claws slashing. Watkins let out a cry of hurt and rage.

  "Get him off me!"

  "Save your breath," Blade counseled. He attacked again, knife edge meeting yielding flesh. The rat's fetid breath hissed over the back of his wrist, yellowed tusks just missing him. He followed his cut with a vicious kick from his left boot. The wolfrat grunted as the blow caught it below the ear. It rocked back. Watkins scrambled free. He crawled out on hands and knees and then hunched over, vomiting into the brush.

  Blade shouted as the rat charged him, "Get clear, Watkins, run for it!"

  The wolfrat's tail snapped out. It cracked across the boy's back, knocking him to his side. Blade met the beast full face as it reared up, talons raking the air. Its red glare seemed unnatural in its snarling, lethal face.

  He closed with it once. His knife moved, leapt out and returned, a smooth motion much practiced. As he jumped back out of the wolfrat's reach, it stayed reared on its haunches. Its forepaws clawed the air. Then, as if in surprise, it clawed at its own throat as it began to gurgle and blood spurted into the night air. It toppled.

  Stefan was at Thomas' side and they reached Watkins together. The boy's scalp had been raked back from his left ear. That was, apparently, what had done all the bleeding. The pain from it reached him now and he retched again in reaction to the wounding.

  His shirt sleeves were in tatters. Thomas let Stefan roll him over and then pick him up, the man staggering under the weight of the boy.

  "Doc!" bellowed Stefan. He half-slid, half-strode down from the rocks.

  Thomas said, "Get him fixed up well enough to ride." He raised his voice. "Jenkies!"

  The spotted boy appeared out of the dark. "Sir Thomas."

  "Break the horse-line down. Get everybody tacked up and mounted as soon as you can."

  Jenkies gulped. "But why?"