by Nick Travers
Chapter 33
I touch down on the periphery of Cutter’s End platform with a thump, my Whisper at the ready. I scan the area, a scarf over my mouth and nose, ninja style. Nothing moves so I hang the Whisper on a belt hook, haul in the parachute and shrug out of the harness. If there were any sign of company I would have cut the chute free and let it go.
My heart beating like a frightened bird, I check the compressed air canister and magazine on the Whisper self-loading crossbow again. I know it’s nerves and I know I checked them many times aboard the Shonti, but I need the reassurance they are fully functional. The balance of the Whisper comforts me—it’s so perfect it feels like an extension of my arm.
I sling the Whisper on its shoulder strap, an arrangement that allows me to whip it up and shoot from the hip if needed. With the Whisper stowed, I unhook one of the pistol sized versions, crouch low and scout out the warehouses in the immediate area of my landing zone.
The light body-armor I’m wearing, from the same source as the Whisper, affords my torso some protection against close quarter action, but I don’t fool myself it will save my life. The reserve chute packed on my chest, though it restricts my movements somewhat, might absorb a crossbow bolt or two. Other than that, I might as well be naked out here, so I go ultra-cautious.
Nothing. This corner of the platform looks to be deserted.
Happy I’m alone; I repack the main parachute and hide it under a pile of rubbish for possible later use—just in case.
When facing combat in an unknown zone, and if time allows, take every opportunity to hedge your bets.
The main action appears to be concentrated in the center of the platform. Cautiously, I make my way from one dark building to another. My racing heart slows as I find no sign of Reavers—good, now I can think and plan clearly. I stop, and force myself to take several deep breaths and clear my mind.
A scout ship is moored near my landing site. For the first time I get a close look at the strange craft used by Reavers: The blimp is nothing more than a cigar shaped balloon filled with hydrogen, below is slung an open hull made from the same laminated and riveted plant material as the Shonti, but instead of painted and highly polished, this hull is rough and bare; between the blimp and the gondola, two sets of large spars protrude out at right angles either side; sails are neatly furled on the spars—this is a cloud drifter, a sail ship.
I also get my first sight of the infamous hamster wheels that drive the propellers hanging below the stern—except these cages are far too big for hamsters. Reavers disdain solar power and electricity, or cannot afford the materials, the only thing that drives these blades is manpower: the hamster wheels are human treadmills, slung in groups at the stern of the ship.
I cannot imagine the misery of being a Reaver slave, forced to run in those treadmills, constantly exposed to the elements. And if Borker’s tails are true, facing a horrible death should you stop running.
With any luck, the Reavers will have imprisoned Trent as a slave to restock the treadmills, which must have an insatiable appetite for new victims.
I duck into a doorway as I spot a single Reaver guard, compression riffle in hand, guarding the airship. In the dim light he looks like anyone else.
I work my way towards the center of the platform. The going gets slower as I’m forced to detour around larger groups of Reavers. They’re living it up on the spoils of their victims, there’s lots of drinking and eating, singing and laughter. And fights, lots of fights. If Reavers have a national sport it’s fighting, in fact it appears to be the only way they possess to solve disagreements, and they seem to disagree often.
Eventually, I reach the center of the platform. Here there are a lot more comings and goings, so I have to slip nimbly from shadow to shadow avoiding individuals and groups of Reavers. Everything looks different from how I remember it such a short time ago, so I climb onto a large crate hidden in a dark corner to get a better view.
The trading post warehouse is gone, flattened along with the surrounding buildings to form a large plaza, which is heaving with squabbling Reavers. There seem to be as many women warriors as men, all carousing, arguing, and fighting over the food roasting on small fires. Who in their right minds would set fires on a wooden platform, but they appear to be keeping them under control.
My stomach heaves at the sight and I avert my eyes from the carcasses roasting on spits over the fires. I force my mind to concentrate on finding Trent.
Around the edges of the plaza, high on the rooftops, Reaver guards patrol and keep watch. Fernando is right—this isn’t some wild raiding party, this is something else.
I notice one large band of Reavers sitting calmly and ordered near the center of the heaving plaza. They all have big dread-locked hair adorned with shinny trinkets. There are as many children as women and men in this party. Other Reavers patrol the edges of this group roughly shoving back anyone who tries to barge in on the gathering.
The clothing worn by this group is more refined and colorful than the surrounding throng. I must be observing Reaver leaders. The women wear short, big bustled skirts which reveal brightly colored leggings, and tiny top hats that are no more than ornaments perched on their piled up hair. Their men-folk sport long frocked coats and large top hats.
The way the group calmly discuss and debate fills me with more dread than the crowd wildly carousing around them. This is a new level of organization for Reavers, one I have neither heard about nor imagined.
Somehow, the thought of Reavers as savage, mindless, animals has always taken the edge off their threat—we are smarter, cleverer, and therefore better. This deliberate, considered action is something I have never associated with Reavers—a much greater danger.
Then, set back around the edges of the plaza, I notice new structures: cages. There is movement inside some of the cages and I realize they are people, the former residents of Cutters End; the Reaver’s newly acquired slaves—ready for the hamster wheels. Trent must be in one of those cages.
Suddenly I squeal, as something grabs my ankle.
