Eden’s Twilight (21 page)

“Bet that's the drug he put in our food,” Jimmy sagely guessed, crinkling his nose. There was no smell, but somehow he felt unclean just being near the mutie drek.

“Better save some of it,” Ryan suggested. “Mildred is always saying how shine isn't enough for real surgery, and we've never be able to successfully cook something she calls ether.”

“Yeah, my healer says the same thing,” Roberto admitted. He disliked the idea of using the foul stuff, but anything was worth a chance if it saved the life of a crew member. “Jimmy, take two jugs. Ryan, the rest is yours. We'll torch this pesthole on the way out so it can't be used on anybody else.”

“Fair deal,” J.B. said, giving his highest compliment.

The third room was full of canned goods, a treasure trove of predark food, each precious container coated with a thick layer of wax to keep out the corrosive damp. Wicker baskets would have to be retrieved from the war wags, and the goods hauled away to be inspected by both of the healers. Nothing in this pesthole could be trusted at face value.

The next room was empty, the wooden wall racks designed to hold the homemade bazookas and bags of rockets. After that, the group found a different type of torture chamber, the wooden tables covered with leather straps to hold the victim firmly in place, legs spread wide.

“Sweet Jesus, we wouldn't be able to chill that bastard
baron anywhere near enough,” a female crewman said with a dark scowl as they left the room.

Heading for the last door, everybody braced for an attack when it suddenly swung aside with a loud creak. Then a battered sec man stumbled into view, his face and clothing covered with blood. He was a living nightmare; both eyes were completely crushed, the gelatinous sludge oozing down his bruised cheeks, red snot dripping from his broken nose and dark blood running freely from both ears.

Blind and deaf, the pitiful thing staggered past the armed group, his trembling hands feebly clawing the air.

With a very solemn expression, Doc aimed the LeMat, then lowered the handcannon. “My sincere apologies, Roberto,” he said. “This odious task is yours to fulfill. You lost kith and kin to these foul brigands, while we did not.”

“Thank you,” Roberto said in a deep growl, extending the S&W .357 Magnum blaster until it almost touched the face of the pitiful thing that had once been a man.

“Don't waste the lead, Chief,” a crewman growled, pulling out a wicked knife. “I'll do it for you.”

“We don't torture, newbie,” Roberto stated, cocking back the trigger, the tiny noise seeming preternaturally loud. “You got an enemy, you chill him. Torture only makes you worse than them.”

“But my sister was on Three!” the crewman growled, taking another step forward. “My kid sister, Beth!”

“As well as many of my crewmates,” Roberto said in a monotone, and triggered the blaster.

The muzzleflash of the Magnum round actually touched the chest of the whimpering sec man. Hit point-blank, the man jerked from the impact of the hollowpoint round, staggered, then dropped to the floor. Feebly, the sec man tried to rise, then went still.

“A debt of blood has been paid in blood,” Roberto said, cracking the cylinder to extract the spent brass. “You can
have his blaster and boots. Leave the rest for the stingwings. Satisfied?”

“Never,” the crewman snarled, sheathing the blade. “But it's enough for now.”

Suddenly there came the sound of running boots and a score of crewmen charged down the stairs, blasters leading the way.

“Trouble, Chief?” Jessica asked, her Russian blaster in one hand, a crackling torch in the other.

“Just finishing the job,” Roberto said, sliding in a live cartridge and closing the cylinder with a snap.

“Any chance it's the baron?” Jessica asked hopefully.

“No, just a wounded sec man,” he answered, tucking away the blaster.

“Pity,” the woman muttered, coming closer and lowering the torch for a look. As the mutilated face came into view, she inhaled sharply. “Nuking hell, I know this man!”

“How?” Ryan demanded, his hand unconsciously tightening on the checkered grip of the SIG-Sauer.

“It was five, no, six years ago,” Jessica muttered, kneeling closer to the corpse. She reached out to touch his hair, then withdrew her hand, wiping the fingers clean on her pants. “We met once on the docks at the Hollywood Islands. We played cards until dawn and spent the night together.” She stood, her face bright from the firelight. “Sir, his name was Emile Thornton, and he rode with Broke-Neck Pete.”

“Are you serious?” Roberto asked, his words dripping scorn. “He was crew?”

“A chief mech, yes, sir. Emile knows…knew machines like Eric does comps.”

“Interesting,” Roberto muttered thoughtfully, rubbing his jaws. “Then he's not somebody Pete would ever let go willing.”

“No, sir.”

“Well, he wasn't a prisoner, that's for damn sure,” Ryan stated, gesturing with the Steyr. “He's packing iron.”

“Mayhap he was a spy?” Doc offered uncertainly.

“Well, of course he was a fragging spy. The question is. who did he work for?” Jessica demanded. “We know that Conway liked to jack travelers, so was Emile here to learn more about the ville to help Pete take it down, and loot the armory?”

“Or was he working for the baron to try to lure in Pete to get jacked himself big time.”

“No loss there.” Jimmy sniffed, leaning against the wall. “Broke-Neck Pete is the biggest son of a bitch I ever met. Cheats on deals, sells blasters to slavers and cannies, and even trades brass filled with dirt if he ain't coming back to your ville.”

“He ain't nothing but scum on wheels,” a crewman added emphatically.

“Yeah, jacking the ville makes sense,” Ryan said slowly, thinking out loud. “Unless Pete was actually waiting here for you folks to arrive.”

“What for?” Roberto asked, creasing his forehead. “To join my crew as a mech, and learn where I hide my caches of supplies?”

“That's sounds like Pete, sure enough,” J.B. stated, tilting back his fedora. “He's been known to do it before.”

“Has he?” Jessica asked sharply. “I never heard that.”

“Oh yeah. Pete once tried to sneak a spy onto Trader's convoy…the original one, I mean,” Ryan added diplomatically.

“Dark night, when Trader found out, he went Magnum, full-auto!” J.B. said with a hard laugh. “He shoved a gren in the mouth of the damn spy, pulled the pin and heaved the bastard off a cliff!”

“Then he tracked down Pete and hung the son of a bitch from the blaster turret of his own war wag,” Ryan added.

“But…” Jimmy started to ask.

“Yeah, of course, Pete lived. He's a tough little bastard, I'll give him that much,” Ryan relented grudgingly. “But his neck has been crooked ever since.”

“Trader did that?” Roberto asked in surprise.

“Bet your ass,” J.B. stated with pride.

“Indeed, a most disreputable blackguard,” Doc said, leaning on his ebony stick. “It is only logical that Pete must be after your hoard of supplies.”

“Damn straight!” a crewman agreed.

“Unless, of course, he was trying to obtain that journal you have locked away somewhere in War Wag One.”

Everybody stopped talking at that, and the night suddenly felt much colder as a hard wind blew into the open basement, carrying the reek of powder, diesel fumes and death.

“What…what did you just say?” Jessica whispered.

“Why, nothing of import, madam,” Doc demurred, slightly askance from her overreaction. “I was merely postulating on the remote possibility that—”

“Nuke-sucking hell, that must be it!” Roberto interrupted, his face contorting in a feral snarl. “That lily-livered piss-pants Pete would never have the brass to risk crossing me, unless the stakes were massive! Unbelievably huge!”

“And there's nothing bigger than Cascade,” Jessica agreed.

“The problem is,” J.B contributed, “if Pete is seeking allies in this…”

“Then the secret is out,” Roberto finished roughly, running stiff fingers through his hair. “God's tits, we're going to have every fragging trader alive on our ass all the way to Cascade, plus an army of coldhearts, mebbe even the triple-damn slavers!”

“Then we don't go,” Jessica said simply. “If we can't get there safely, we don't even try. We can try again next spring.”

“Do you really think Pete will lose his hard-on for Cascade after only a couple of months?”

“No,” she admitted honestly. “But someday he will.”

“But what about all those new blasters!” a crewman asked.

“Frag it,” Jessica sniffed, hitching up her gunbelt. “We have enough.”

“Unfortunately, we have to go,” Ryan stated in a clear loud voice, drawing everybody's attention. “You don't have the only doomie in the world, and if somebody else has learned where the predark city is hidden, it could be ashes when we get there next year. Hell, next month!”

“Yeah, I thought of that, too,” Roberto said unhappily. “Just wanted to see if anybody else reached for the same can of beans as me.”

“Besides, if Broke-Neck Pete, or any of a dozen other rat-fuck traders, ever got their hands on unlimited ammo and blasters,” J.B. added brusquely, shifting his munitions bag, “it would be the start of a nukestorm across the whole damn continent that would make the Mutie Wars seem like a fucking Sunday afternoon tea in a gaudy house.”

“Orders, sir?” Jessica asked, snapping a salute.

“We bury everybody in Three,” Roberto directed. “Recover anything that can be repaired, Molotov this fragging basement, and leave. Time is short, and we better haul ass.”

“Check!”

“You forget one thing,” Ryan added. “We need to make sure that Pete can't get supplies here anymore.”

Already walking toward the stairs, Roberto stopped to turn around. “Yes, I know,” he said softly, the words almost lost in the wind.

“My dear Ryan!” Doc cried in shock. “Are you suggesting that we smite the entire ville as retribution?”

“Have to,” Jessica replied curtly. “We have got to send a message across the Deathlands that nobody can try to jack a trader, any trader, and live.”

“It's unconscionable! Barbaric!”

“But there's no other choice. It has to be done! There's not
much civilization out there, and traders doing business are the only thing holding it together. If we fall, it's over.”

“Fair enough,” Ryan acknowledged. “So how about something worse than chilling every person? A lot worse. Something that'll strike fear into every fat gut of every baron, in every ville, from the Washington Hole to the Western Islands.”

“Sell them to the cannies?” Jimmy guessed wildly.

“Even better than that,” J.B. replied with a smug grin.

Frowning deeply, Roberto started to ask a question, then comprehension dawned and the big norm slowly stood taller, the crushing weight of a hundred graves removed from his back.

“Yeah, that'll do just fine,” he growled, almost smiling.

Loping across the countryside, the two hellhounds almost lost the scent at the water-which-burns that came from the ground with an angry roar, the air clean of any smell whatsoever. But the physical tracks of the enemy vehicle were plainly discernable in the soft mud, and the hunt continued.

Both of the proto-animals were burned deeply in numerous spots, from trying to get into the metal cave. Opening the black wall had not been hard. They had found a small box of pebbles set into the wall, and several of them smelled of target, while the rest did not. Dimly remembering this procedure from their training session in the white-place-of-pain, the genetic constructs used their tentacles to press only the pebbles that had been touched. Nothing happened for a very long time, and the sun was low in the sky before there came a dull thud, a series of clicks, and the mammoth black wall split apart to grant them entry.

But before they could set paw into the cave, the bioweps had been attacked by a Class Two guardian, and the constructs had been forced to retreat, licking their wounds. With no other way into the cave, the hellhounds had gone to default hunting techniques, and circled the earthen dome, ever spiraling outward until suddenly relocating the bitter smell of the enemy once more.

Following a cool stream of water, the bioweps came upon a prime specimen of
ursus arctos horribilus
munching apples. The grizzly bear was ten times their size and weight, but its
teeth and claws were no match for their vast arsenal of killing tools, and soon the Hellhounds were feasting upon the rich, tender meat. It was good, oddly flavored with the sweetness of apples, but it was nowhere near as satisfying as the screaming redflesh of the enemy.

Eating their fill, the hellhounds washed in the stream to remove any trace of blood and thus reduce the possibility of being detected by the pungent copper smell. The urge to hunt was almost overwhelming in their minds, but the hellhounds had been programmed to sleep for two hours every night, even when on a mission, and so they unwillingly obeyed, each one taking a turn to stand guard while the other was temporarily vulnerable.

The moon was high when the second hellhound awoke, refreshed and rejuvenated, its wounds completely healed. There were a great many scavengers finishing off the ragged carcass of the
ursus arctos horribilus
, and they greedily consumed several of the smaller creatures before charging down the muddy banks of the little babbling creek. The smell of the metal box was sharper now, fresher, and twice they found the spoor of the enemy behind some bushes.

Growing more and more excited, the bioweps raced faster through the night, the darkness bright as day to their augmented sight, the urge to feed upon the enemy growing stronger with every passing minute.

 

R
ATTLING SLIGHTLY FROM THEIR
loose armor, the three war wags drove into the center of Newton and parked in a triangular formation where their blasters could easily cover one another. The UCV's Fifty was fully supplied now, some of the linked brass coming from
Tiger Lily'
s wreck.

The ville was dead quiet, with nobody in sight. To the companions, it seemed that half of the ville had been damaged in the fight. Several of the larger buildings were gone, reduced to smoldering ashes. Most of the smaller fires had burned out
by themselves, or been extinguished by civies using buckets of water from the well.

Incredibly, the dead sec men had been lined up in neat rows, all of their blasters and boots still in place. Baskets near the bodies were filled with the spent brass from the fight.

“These aren't townspeople, they're slaves,” Mildred muttered hatefully, a fist pressed against the scratched window of the UCV.

“Not anymore,” Ryan said from the driver's seat, his hands resting comfortably on top of the steering wheel.

“Now hear this,” Roberto's voice boomed from the loudspeakers on top of War Wag One. “Now hear this, ya slack-brain feebs! Everybody in the square in five, or I start blasting.”

Mere seconds later, a wide assortment of people swarmed out of doorways and alleys like half-dressed cockroaches. A few were holding torches, the pitch crackling and spitting; the rest were carrying landels, a candle placed inside a drinking glass to protect the flame. The combination was surprisingly effective, and in the flickering light the companions could easily see the absolute terror in the eyes of the people obediently gathering in front of the massive war wag.

“All hail the new baron!” a wrinklie shouted feebly, waving a skinny arm, the flesh hanging loose underneath. “Hurrah for Baron…uh…Baron…”

“Hurrah for the trader baron!” the blacksmith supplied, and the townspeople erupted into wild cheering.

With the sound of working hydraulics, the armored hatch of the wag lowered, and out stepped Roberto, his face as grim as death. Impatiently, he waited for the noise to die away.

“Eagleson,” the trader growled, climbing to the ground. “The name is Roberto Eagleson, and you damn well will never forget it again!”

“Y-yes, my lord,” a woman said, giving a curtsy. “All hail Baron Eagleson!”

The uneasy crowd took up the cry again, clearly trying to appease his wrath. Tolerantly, Roberto let them continue for a few minutes before snapping his fingers.

In unison, every machine gun in the convoy cut loose, firing streams of hot lead into the sky, the muzzleflashes overwhelming the torches and candles, the military fusillade sounding louder than the destruction of the bunkers.

Instantly, the townsfolk shopped cheering and cringed.

“All right, enough of that bullshit!” Roberto said into a hand radio, and the blasters stopped.

His boots patting on the brickwork, the trader walked closer to the mob, and placed fists on his hips. “Baron Conway is aced,” Roberto announced loudly. “Along with most of the sec men. There is nobody here anymore to protect you, no more law and order, no more control.” He paused. “Only me.”

In the front of the crowd, a young girl began to openly cry, and numerous others hung their heads in abject submission, waiting to hear what new doom was about to fall.

“On the other hand, I'm also not your new baron,” Roberto continued, watching the looks of amazement and confusion grow on the multitude of faces. Young, old, man, woman, there were a lot more people here than the measly hundred he had previously guessed. Good. So much the better.

The words seemed to echo across the decimated ville, punctuated by the crackle of the countless small fires and the occasional bark of a black powder round cooking off from the mounting heat.

“My lord?” a young boy asked, a clenched fist holding up his ragged pants.

“I said that I'm not your fragging baron,” Roberto repeated, driving home the point. “And I never wish to see this fragging pesthole of a ville again! Do you have any idea how many of my crew I lost tonight? One of them even died from eating too much bread.” For a moment, the trader let his anger slip loose, his voice rose to a bellow. “Aced by a loaf
of bread! Is that any way for a motherfragging trader to board the last train west?”

Breathing heavily, the townsfolk bowed their heads and said nothing, the wind coming in from the hill carrying the faint smell of destruction and death.

“Only one of you showed the juice to give us a warning,” Roberto continued, slightly softening his tone. It was an old negotiation trick. Start hard, rattle their cage, push the other fellow to the wall, then step back, give a little, and get everything you wanted.

“Only one of you bastards showed the wisdom of a baron, and the guts of a seasoned sec man!” Roberto continued, then raised the radio and pressed the transmit button. “Will the woman called Yurizane come to the ville square! Yurizane, front and center!”

There was a commotion among the civies, the confused people moved aside, and the busty gaudy slut shuffled out of the crowd. Her cheeks were smudged black, her loose bodice burned through in spots, showing dimples of flesh.

Obviously she had been helping to fight the fires. Roberto approved. Ryan was right, this was no ordinary slut.

“What do you wish of me, my lord?” Yurizane asked uneasily, her soot-stained fingers toying with the hem of her dress.

“You tell me.” Roberto smiled, crossing his arms. “Because, as of this moment, you're the new baron in Newton.”

The pronouncement galvanized the crowd, ripples of excited murmurs running quickly through the astonished people. Some blinked stupidly, others raised disbelieving eyebrows, a few scowled in outrage and damn near everybody looked as confused as a stickie in a revolving door.

“Is…this a joke?” Yurizane asked hesitantly. “Hell, I'm not even the madam of the gaudy house!”

“And now you never will be,” Roberto said, placing a hand on his chest and giving a little bow.

“Are you out of your fragging mind!” a fat man screamed, unable to restrain himself. “A slut as a baron? Blind Norad, I've fucked that bitch, and now I'm supposed to kowtow and salute! To die at her whim?”

Without warning, the heavy machine guns of the war wags fired a brief burst into the air once more, then lowered the hot barrels to point directly at the assemblage. The people went stock-still, their expressions ranging the full spectrum of emotions.

“You better obey her commands,” Roberto said, radiating malice as he pulled out the sawed-off Remington. “Or else start walking out the gate with the clothes on your back.”

A sea of anxious faces turned in that direction. “Beyond the gate” was another way of saying chilled. Outside the ville was the abode of coldhearts, muties, slavers, cannies and much, much worse.

“In fact, everybody in this ville has to kneel before the new baron and swear loyalty, or I level this shithole here and now!” Thumbing back a hammer, Roberto grinned without humor. “Your choice!”

There was some shoving among the townsfolk, a few muttered curses, and then Stewart lumbered forward. Walking to Yurizane, the huge blacksmith knelt. “Blood, honor and obedience,” he said formally.

Wordlessly, the woman nodded, and Stewart stepped aside to glare defiantly at the others. The skinny waitress from the tavern followed next, then a couple of other sluts, a cobbler, then the wife of an aced sec man. That opened the floodgates, and one by one, everybody knelt and pledged allegiance to the pretty woman in the dirty dress, until there was only one plump man left, the dissenter from before.

“Never!” he snarled hatefully, drawing a derringer from a pocket. “I'll never bend a knee to a filthy little—”

Yurizane darted a hand into her bodice, and Roberto went for his blaster, but Stewart moved faster and jerked a hand
forward. The thrown hammer slammed into the face of the fat man, teeth and blood spraying outward from the powerful blow. Staggering about, he triggered the derringer into the ground, then the handle of a knife was suddenly jutting out of his belly. Groaning, he collapsed to the street, trembling and soiling his pants.

“Finish it,” Yurizane commanded, her face flushed.

“By your command, Baron,” Roberto said, and triggered the shotgun. The buckshot and bent nails tore into the dying man, flipping him over to expose his riddled guts to the stars, then with a soft gurgle he stopped moving.

That stopped the cheering for a moment, then it came back louder than ever.

“Got a last name?” Roberto whispered, reloading the sawed-off. “Some don't. I didn't. Chose Eagleson for myself.”

“Hinchey,” she answered softly, nervously running stiff fingers through her volumes of loose hair. “Yurizane Hinchey.”

Closing the blaster, the trader shouted, “Newton! I present to you, the most noble Baron Hinchey!”

The machine guns cut loose a third time, the spent brass raining down to musically ting-a-ling on the brick street. Raggedly, the crowd broke into wild applause, and a few repeated the earlier cries and huzzahs.

Keeping his features neutral, Roberto knew this was a terrible waste of ammo, but if the woman, a girl, really, had half a chance in hell, this was the only way to secure her power. It was either this, or blow the ville off the map. One way or the other, he was spending brass tonight. Better it went to save lives than take them.

Through the windshield of the UCV, Ryan and the other companions watched the trader weave his deal. There was nothing they could do to help at the moment but act as part of his crew.

“One heart, one mind, one life, one goal,” Doc said in his stentorian bass. “Peace. Blessed, blessed peace.”

“And revenge,” Jak added with a smirk.

While the cheering continued, Roberto draped an arm over the woman and pulled her close. “Okay, got somebody you trust?” he inquired. “Trust with a loaded blaster to your back?”

“My brother,” Yurizane replied promptly. “Marine.”

“Where is he?”

“Out hunting.”

“When he comes back, that's the chief sec man. What about the rest?”

“Who do you suggest?” Yurizane asked, trying to sense a trap.

He scoffed. “Nuking hell, woman, they've been in your bed! Nobody should know these folks better.”