by Jack Yeovil
"Natural disaster? Act of God? Lightning?"
"We're checking that out. It's a remote possibility, I think."
There was a commotion in the background as Rintoon was talking. He was having to keep looking over his shoulder. People were shouting at each other. Younger glimpsed Captain Lauderdale and another officer gesturing wildly as they argued in front of a flashing screen.
"Keep discipline there, Vladek."
Rintoon turned and talked sternly. There was a hush. Lauderdale and the other man, Lenihan, broke apart.
"How badly are we hurting?" Younger asked.
"Difficult to say, sir. What we're losing is input. Finney is shutting down all systems contiguous to those affected. We may be able to seal off our own database that way, but that doesn't tell us any more about the nature of the enemy or the situation in the field. We're just drawing in and readying for a siege. I've alerted Faulcon, Badalamenti, McAuley and Doc King, and they're being recalled to duty."
"Have you asked around the datanet?"
"Finney has had provisional exchanges with the night operators at GenTech and ITT in Phoenix and the Winter Corporation in Tucson. They've got the same problem, and are trying to put up the same blocks."
"El Paso?"
"Nothing yet."
"Well get on it, man, that's the railhead. If El Paso goes down, we'll blank half the United States."
Finney was talking to Rintoon.
"Sir," he said, "we just lost ITT. They've cast us adrift."
"What?"
"We're it, sir. Phoenix and Tucson cut us loose. The disturbance is in the shared datanet, but it's concentrating on us. The corps are disengaging from the shared line. The private sector is out of it. It's just us now, and the federal information exchange, and the Roman Catholic Church and a few other minor leaguers."
"The Winter people slammed the door behind them," said Finney. "They've blown all the links and burned out their interfaces. They must have had them mined. My guess is that they know something we don't. They just shot sixty or seventy million dollars out the window, and will have incurred more than that in fines for damaging government property and violating interstate information passage laws."
"Will their action limit the damage? Are we the only people on the line?"
"Temporarily," snapped Rintoon. "Arizona is sparsely netted. It's easy to get out of it. But El Paso is a computer interface jungle. It would take years to dismantle all the connections."
"And what's between the input and El Paso?"
"We are, sir. The only major node between the disturbance and El Paso is us, Fort Apache. We've got to entrench and stop it…"
Finney cut in, "…it's like a tidal wave, building up out there in the desert and coming our way."
Rintoon said, "We have to break it."
"I'm coming right down."
Finney, headset pressed to her ear, "here it comes. Computer holocaust. ETA twenty seconds."
Younger punched the door controls next to the elevator.
"…fifteen…"
Nothing was shaking, there were no alarms.
"…ten…"
Lenihan handed Rintoon a note. The colonel turned to the screen and said, "we've isolated a point of origin, sir."
The elevator indicator showed the cage was climbing up towards the kitchen. It seemed to take forever.
"…five…"
"Welcome, Arizona. Say, isn't that where…"
"…three…two…"
The elevator was outside. It pinged like a microwave, and the down arrow lit up.
"…one…"
"…that Swiss woman went?"
"It's here."
The elevator doors didn't open.
Finney asked, "Has anything changed?"
Younger stabbed some buttons.
"I don't think so," said Rintoon. "It must be a monitor error."
The elevator doors wouldn't open.
"Cat," said Rintoon, dripping relief. "Don't ever do that to us again. I just shat the World Trade Centre."
Younger turned back to his screen. Rintoon was smiling, but Finney had deep lines between her brow and was punching buttons.
"It doesn't make sense, colonel. It's not registering, but it's here. I've a bad feeling. This is one smart bug."
Behind him, in his perfect kitchen, a rack of electric carving knives buzzed into life.
Younger barely felt the first blade vibrate its way through him.
VIII
It must be MOR night down at The Silver Byte. Liberace's version of "Glad to Be Gay" was burbling on the jukebox, and an imbecilic old man in a bathchair was nodding along to it while playing dominoes with a nine-year-old hispanic girl. Stack walked the length of the bar, laid one of his shotguns down, and asked Armindariz if the chilli was still on.
"Sure theeng, Trooper. Commeeng right op. Hey, Pauncho, rustle op a cheellee dog for thee nice man."
A seriously fat individual with a cook's hat perched on his head agreed with Armindariz and spooned out a bowlful of meat stew with beans and peppers. There was a sign over the bar. "WARNING—CHILLI HOT." Stock crumbled his crackers, and stirred them in with his spoon. He hesitated.
"Say, Pedro, just how hot is this chilli?"
Armindariz showed his teeth. His gold fang shone.
"Yiu remember thee A-Bomb tests een thee feefties?"
"Not personally, but I've heard of them?"
"Well, there ees a place op in Nevada where they let off too manee beeg ones, an' now no one can ever leeve there again."
"Yeah?"
"Well, Pauncho's cheellee ees hotter man that."
"Which is cheaper here, whisky or water?"
"Whisky, Trooper."
"I'll have that then."
Armindariz poured him a shot. Stack lifted the spoon to his mouth…
"Before yiu eet, thee government eet say wee have to geeve yiu thees card." Armindariz shrugged and handed over a much-battered oblong the size of a cashplastic.
"The Surgeon General has determined that coronary heart disease is the major cause of death in this country, and you are strongly advised against consumption of foods containing red meat, saturated animal fats, irradiated salts and growth-enhanced vegetables. Have a nice day."
Stack gave Armindariz back his card. They shrugged at each other. Stack shoved a spoonful of chilli into his mouth, then took a drink. He swallowed the combination, and gripped the bar as his entire oesophagus took fire.
Armindariz and Pauncho laughed.
"That's freakin' hot chilli, Pedro."
"Wee got a reputation to ophold, Trooper."
Stack finished his chilli, taking sips of the rotgut between mouthfuls. His teeth were heating up, and his tastebuds would probably be burned clean away, but it felt good to have something in his stomach again. A little more of this treatment, and he would probably feel like a human being.
The chilli over, he ordered himself a treat. "Water."
"That ees expenseeve."
"I don't mind. I've had a bad day."
Armindariz pulled a plastic carton out from under the bar, and filled Stack's glass. He sipped it.
"Why, you cheating sonofabitch," he shouted. "You've been doctorin' this water with your lousy whisky!"
Armindariz cringed. "No, no, Senor Trooper, yiu jost dreenk both from thee same glass. Eet ees natural meestake."
Stack laughed, and finished the water.
"Tell me, Pedro, you got a phone?"
"Si."
"Where is it?"
"Out on thee garbage domp. Eet don' work so good seence thee Gaschoggers reep eet off thee wall and jomp on eet."
"Shame. Radio?"
"AM or FM?"
"Two-way. I need to call in."
"There's a…what yiu call eet? There's a germeenal een thee chorch."
"Terminal."
"Si, a termeenal. Eet may be broke. Thee ronaway car smash eet op a leetle."
"That's just great. Thanks, anyway."
"No trouble, Senor Trooper."
Stack would have to go back to Tiger Behr's, and light out in the morning. He wasn't sure what the nearest real town where he could make a call was, but he'd find it before his borrowed cyke ran out of gas. Meanwhile, he had best look after himself.
"Another whisky?"
"Sure theeng, Senor." Armindariz poured again.
Stack sipped his drink. He held it up to the light, and gave a silent toast. To Leona Tyree…
Leona. She had been a hell of a woman. Cav all the way.
"Senor?" Armindariz butted into his reverie.
"What is it?"
"Would yiu mind payeeng for your cheellee and dreenks now?"
"No, why?"
Stack realized he wasn't alone at the bar.
Armindariz leaned forwards confidentially. "I theenk maybee thee Gaschoggers keell yiu later on thees evening, then I no get my monee for thee goods I geeve yiu, and that ees bad for beesneess."
A hairy hand fell on his arm, forcing it to the bar. His drink spilled.
"Plenty sloppy, ain't ya?" sneered a tattooed heavy. His breath stank of gasoline.
The Gaschuggers got their name because of their drinking habits. They had all had their bladders souped up so they could drink gas and whisky and piss high-grade fuel into their cykes' tanks. None of the gangcultists the Cav had ever brought in had been able to explain the appeal of the practice, but there you were…
"Maybe the yellowbellied yellowlegs needs some lessons in etiquette, Exxon," somebody said.
"Yeah," said the tattooed guy, Exxon. "Maybe he does. Maybe his yeller streak runs up the side of his legs and goes all the way up his back too."
"Stand down," Stack said. "I've got no quarrel with you."
Armindariz was down the other end of the bar, paying close attention to some stains he was wiping up. The game of dominoes was heating up, and Pauncho was kibbitzing. Stack was on his own. He judged there were five or six 'chuggers. Exxon would be the big chief. That was the tag the leader of the pack always drew.
Slowly, be turned round on his stool. He had guessed right. Five guys, counting Exxon, and one girl. All stinking of gas.
"You're Cav, ain't ya?" asked Exxon.
Stack nodded, his hand resting on the butt of the pumpgun. It would be awkward to prime and fire it from the stool. He'd never drop them all before they got him. Maybe they would all explode. With their lifestyle, spontaneous combustion must be a a regular health hazard.
"Well, the Cav is always always always down on the 'chuggers for no reason. And you represent the Cav, so we're mixing it with you."
Shit, he was going to die.
And he hadn't figured out what the buzz was with the mad cruiser and Leona and the impaled priest yet.
"Mobil," Exxon said, "get the man a drink. Not that piss-poor firewater he's been abusing himself with all evenin'. A real drink."
Shit, shit, shit. He was going to die, but first he was going to have to drink gasoline.
Mobil was the runt of the litter. He jumped up and sat on the bar. He took Stack's glass and threw the whisky onto the floor.
"Sorry, Pedro," said Exxon.
"That's okay, boys," replied the bartender. "Jost clean op after."
Mobil took a canteen and poured pink liquid into the glass. Paraffin. He sniffed the bouquet, said "a very good year," and knocked it back.
"After a good drink," he said, "what better than a relaxing cigarette?"
He produced a pack and a fliptop lighter.
"Me, I prefer the cool, mellow taste of Sandino's, the cigarette with a longer-lasting tang and that macho muchaco whiff."
He lit the lighter, and beamed across the flame.
Stack flinched backwards as his eyebrows were singed by the fiery cloud Mobil had exhaled. It went out in an instant. Stack's face felt hot, but it was nothing compared to Slim's Gas 'n' B-B-Q.
"Caramba," said Mobil, finishing off the ad, "but dat is some wild cigarette."
"Looks like we got us a blackface entertainer," said Exxon. He used his stubby forefinger to smear the soot into Stack's face, especially around the lips and eyes. "One thing you have to say about nigras is that they sure can be entertainin', eh amigos?”
The Gaschuggers laughed in unison.
"Remember how them Voodoo Bros danced for us…"
Exxon was smiling wistfully now, remembering the good times.
"…when we strung 'em up."
Mobil had another shot of parrafin poured. He lifted it to Stack's lips, and tipped. Stack gulped, hoping the chilli had permanently done for his sense of taste. He got it down without spluttering. Mobil was waving his lighter around near his face, flicking the flame on and off.
"What kind of entertainin' do you reckon Sidney Freakin' Poitier here'd be best at, chugbuddies? Singin', dancin', acrobatics, sleight o' hand, tellin' them funny stories, mind-readin'?"
Mobil put his head uncomfortably close to Stack's and said, "no, I reckon we gots us one o' them meat-packin' pore-nographic superstuds. Them nigras 's always at it, jus' like rabbits 'r somethin'. I'll jus' bet Al Freakin' Jolson here rakes in the big bucks stickin' his tubesteak into dawgs and hawgs and French ladies and just plain dumb ole greasy holes in the wall, that's what I figger."
Mobil was getting excited. Good, that might make him careless. That might give Stack a chance.
"Mobil's a pervert, you know," said Exxon. "It's a shame, but there it is. A man can't help the way he was brung up."
Mobil was double-dyed redneck from way back—the Ozarks or somewhere—but Exxon's sneer was a put-on. Slack reckoned he might have done some time at Harvard or Yale. This was an educated panzerboy.
"My guess is that you're not a porno stud. Who'd pay to sec a skinny little thing like you pumping in the bunk with some fat whore? No, you're something more sporting. Like a jockey."
Stack didn't move.
"No? Maybe a basketball player. A lot of your tinted ethnic types bounce the ball pretty fair, I hear. Nah, you're a shortie. And you've got no coordination."
The pumpgun had been eased out from under his hand and passed to the back of the saloon. The lone 'chugger girl—a fourteen year-old with ancient eyes and a plumed pompadour was cradling it like a child.
"Does your mother know where you are?" Stack asked her.
"Freak off, faghagg!" she spat in a high, vicious, little voice.
Exxon hardballed a fist into his gut. His burns flared up, and the chilli and paraffin shifted in his stomach.
Shit, shit, shit. He was going to die with vomit in his mouth.
"Don't talk to white ladies, nigra. That's a hanging offence in this county. Why, we don't cotton much to darkies talking to dawgs. If n they start pesterin' the womenfolks, who knows where it'll all stop?"
One of the Gaschuggers—the one with the robo-claw—was black, but he wasn't upset by Exxon's speeches on racial subjects.
"I know what you are, boy. You're a fighter, ain't ya? Bare knucks, one on one, two guys bloodying each other's titties. Maybe you wear a couple of sharp rings to cut deeper."
Exxon shadowboxed in front of Stack's face, occasionally tapping him lightly on the chin or the cheeks.
"You could'a bin a contendah, Sugar Ray, instead of a bum, which is what y'are."
The big one was coming. Stack tensed his aching stomach, and gripped the bar. Mobil held his shoulders, fingers positioned like a masseur's but ready to dig in, and one of the other 'chuggers had his arms behind him. Exxon danced and punched the air.
"You see Rocky VIII, boy? I just love it when ole Sly puts Whoopi Goldberg down on the canvas and sticks it to the bitch? That's my idea of a fair fight."
Stack grit his teeth. Exxon drew his fist back and took a good shot. Stack's jaw popped, and he felt rather than tasted his mouth fill up with blood. He tried to roll with it, but he was held so that only his head could move. His skull rolled on his neck like a punchball. Everythng was shaking. His lips were mashed against his teeth, his cheek w
as squeezed against the bone. Blood was trickling from his nostrils.
"Ouch, that hurt," Exxon complained, holding up his hand. His knuckles were red and black with blood and soot.
"Well, looky looky looky here comes cookie, what have we got here?"
He wiped his hand on his overalls, then took an oily rag from his pocket and rubbed Stack's face. The soot came off.
"Pardonnez-moi, Trooper Damfool. We've been labourin' under a misapprehension, ain't we boys? You sure ain't a person of the negroid jungle bunny persuasion after all. You're as white as they come."
The 'chuggers laughed. The black 'chugger caressed his claw and gave a slow-burning grin. One of his teeth was inset with black dots like a die. He snapped the air with his robobit. It looked like expensive workmanship. GenTech, maybe, or Sony. He clacked his claw like a lobster.
"Such a shame. We got laws here in Welcome, Trooper. Don't you know it's an offence to impersonate a nigra? We gonna have us a trial."
The 'chuggers whooped and cheered.
"Mr Persecution?" Exxon asked.
"Yes, your honour," replied Mobil.
"Sum up the case for the State of Arizona versus Freakin' Zeroid Ratskag, here?"
Mobil shoved his thumbs under the lapels of his overalls, and strutted up and down. "Well, Your Judgeship, it seems to me that what we have here is a plain case of violation of the law. The accused ain't no nigra, that's clear as can be. But he certainly was attemptin' to deceive the good folks of this township. I calls me a witness. Call Mr Shell…"
The lobsterman stepped forward. "Present."
"Mr Shell," began Exxon, "do you promise to tell the whole truth, the only truth, the truthiest truth and nothing but the Big T truth or else Gawd come down and rip your gazebos off?"
"Ah do," Shell said in a rich bass, holding up his claw.
"Have you anything to say?"
"Yeah, Ah'd like a babycham!"
"Objection!" shouted Mobil.
"Suss-stained," said Exxon. "Witness will keep to the point."
"Sorry, your dealership," said Shell. "But it's as clear as the day is long. Honky moonfaced motherfreakin' pig whiteboy cracker candy-ass citified whelk-lovin' yellowlegs old cowhand from the Rio Grande scumsuckin' geek here is guilty as Judas and twice as dead."
