"Couple more of those and we would have been on the last train west," Ryan stated, reloading the SIG-Sauer.

 

 "Tough like hellhound," Jak said, checking the clip on the rapidfire.

 

 "What's that?" J.B. asked.

 

 "Big mutie in bayou. Tough kill."

 

 J.B. pulled the clip and checked inside. "Ten left," he announced, slamming it back into the breech.

 

 "Out," Jak said, dropping the rapidfire to draw his .357 Magnum pistol.

 

 "See big black dog, shoot in eyes," he said cryptically, cocking the hammer with a callused thumb. "Just eyes. Not stop firing till say."

 

 Using their butane lighters, they lit the lamps along the corridor but stopped when they found a piece of rag caught between a door and the jamb. J.B. checked for boobies, while Ryan and Jak stood guard. When satisfied it was safe, J.B. picked the old lock and got out of the way. Then Ryan kicked the door open without entering. Taking a lamp from the wall, he thrust it into the darkness. Dirty human faces stared back. People were sitting on the floor, and one of them stood to walk toward the light, a hand covering her face.

 

 "You okay?" Ryan asked, looking her over for injuries that might slow her. The longer they stayed down here, the more time the cannies had to regroup. Time wasn't on their side.

 

 "Ryan? You came!" Ann cried, then threw herself at the man, weeping uncontrollably.

 

 Holding her by the shoulders, Ryan pushed the woman away and slapped her hard across the face. She recoiled in shock.

 

 "Stay focused if you want to live," Ryan snapped. "We're up to our ass in dreck and low on ammo. Where's the ship?"

 

 Ann blinked in confusion. "What?"

 

 He squeezed her arm. Pain always made a person more aware. "Said you know where a ship was to be found. Tell me and we all leave together."

 

 "There is—" Ann hiccuped with nerves and tried again "—there's a ville, on the far side of the island, past the Black Mountains. It's a port. Lots of ships dock there."

 

 "You know the way," Ryan said. It wasn't a question.

 

 "Yes! Of course, I do. Used to live before—"

 

 "I know the way," someone said, hobbling to the doorway. He was a big man, gaunt from hunger, but his former strength was clearly visible in his sheer size. Black hair and almond skin, he was dressed in bloody and torn clothes of very good cloth. A wide leather belt around his waist proclaimed the man a sailor.

 

 "Ann said you would come after her," he added. "Guess she was right."

 

 "Here for her. Not you," Ryan said bluntly, and jerked a thumb. "Leave if you want. But don't follow us. Get in the way and you're zero days."

 

 "I know the way through their pungi-stick wall," the man said, reaching out with his hand.

 

 "The creek. Found it already."

 

 The man lowered his gaze to the 9 mm pistol in Ryan's grip. "Then again, mebbe you don't need us," he said in awe. "Does that thing actually work?"

 

 "It's how we got here," J.B. stated, lifting the Uzi for the prisoners to see. The men gasped at the sight, and backed away deeper into their cell.

 

 "Stop talking. We have to leave!" Ann urged, impatiently moving from foot to foot. The motion made her dress sway and exposed a lot of skin. There had been little of the dress remaining before she started ripping off pieces. "They can come back any tic. Hundreds of them!"

 

 "Who the hell are you?" Ryan demanded, ignoring the interruption. Every minute wasted was ammo against them. But with more men they had a better chance of reaching the surface alive—if he could trust the prisoners not to throw the companions to the cannies to slow down pursuit. Better to travel alone than with enemies.

 

 "I'm Cal Mitchum, sec man for Baron Thayer of Ratak ville. That's the ville she was talking about on the far side of the island. There's more, but they're rad-pit dreck holes, without a single working blaster or a tin pot to piss in. But you want a ship, you got it. Just take us with you."

 

 "Big words. You got the powder to deliver that lead?" Ryan asked. The SIG-Sauer was still in his hand, the barrel pointing steadily at the stranger.

 

 The others in the room stared longingly at the open doorway, but the dead black eye of Ryan's blaster kept them at bay.

 

 "Fucking right I do! I'll get you a ship if I've got to steal one," Mitchum stated forcibly.

 

 He was too confident, too sure of himself, Ryan decided and took a chance. "Major, behind you!" he shouted, and pointed the blaster away from the sec man.

 

 Mitchum spun, hands reaching for a blaster not there. Then he turned, his face a controlled mask of rage.

 

 "Tricky bastard. Okay, I'm Colonel Mitchum," he stated through grit teeth. "Sec chief for Ratak ville."

 

 "Ryan," the Deathlands warrior said, "J.B. and Jak."

 

 "The rest of the prisoners are my troops. Can't leave them behind."

 

 "Can and will," Ryan stated firmly. "Unless I decide they're useful."

 

 "Need them to get me," Mitchum shot back.

 

 A noise echoed down the corridor, and Jak moved out of sight.

 

 "They're coming back!" Ann whispered. "We must leave now!"

 

 "Do we have a deal?" the sec man insisted, sweat on his brow.

 

 Ryan knew he was negotiating for the lives of his troops. That said a lot about the man. "Deal," Ryan said.

 

 Relief easing his countenance, Mitchum exhaled. He extended his hand, and the men shook.

 

 "Everybody start walking," Ryan ordered. "We have horses at the surface. Lag behind and we leave you, deal or not."

 

 The companions herded the freed prisoners along the corridor, carefully retracing their steps. Ryan was very glad he had made a map. The scraps of cloth had been moved to new locations and they would have been seriously lost following those.

 

 Rounding a corner, Ryan and Jak opened fire as a gang of teenagers burst out of a room, their arms full of flintlocks. The teens cried out as the SIG-Sauer and Colt Python took their lives, displaying their sharply filed teeth. Bleeding badly, a girl tried to bring a weapon to bear, but J.B. emptied the Uzi into her, driving the body backward under the brutal assault of the copper-jacketed rounds.

 

 Stepping over the twitching bodies, Ryan checked the room they had come from and saw it was an armory. Big wooden barrels of black powder filled the room, wall racks held dozens of flintlock rifles and a barrel was jammed full of Navy cutlasses. The cannies had to have eaten a lot of pirates. Good for them. Ryan smiled as he noticed a couple of Firebirds on display, the lacquered tubes resting on wooden pegs jutting from the wall for fast access. He debated taking one, but the risk of their being booby-trapped was far too great. It's what he would have done, and he always had to consider what the enemy could do, not what they might. However, the flintlocks should be safe.

 

 "Everybody grab a blaster and ammo," Ryan said, taking a pistol and tucking it into his belt. There was a post covered with short pegs, plump ammo pouches hanging conveniently near the door. Whoever the cannie quartermaster was, he knew his stuff.

 

 "Flintlocks?" Jak said, arching an eyebrow.

 

 "Take spares for Doc, and the others also," he added.

 

 "Camou. Gotcha," J.B. said, his face brightening in understanding, and he shoved several hand-cannons into his munitions bag. Next he added a coiled length of dried grass as a fuse. Then he spied the S&W M-4000 shotgun on a table. Reclaiming his alley-sweeper, J.B. checked the weapon to make sure it was okay, then draped it over a shoulder. Back in business.

 

 The sec men eagerly armed themselves, passing over a few of the flintlocks to take others. Mitchum tested the black powder by licking some from a palm, and nodded in approval. Trained hands loaded their weapons in amazing speed, and the group exited the armory with longblasters in their hands, and two handcannons tucked into every belt.

 

 J.B. was the last to leave the room, and he spent a few moments breaking the lock on the door. Then he jammed a copper knife blade into the jamb and snapped off the handle.

 

 "Wouldn't open that easily," he smirked, tossing the handle away.

 

 "How long?" Ryan asked.

 

 "Roughly minutes. It's not my fuse, so I can't know for sure. Might be eight, could be twelve."

 

 "Fair enough. Everybody, double time!" Ryan shouted, and took off at a run.

 

 The group hustled through the zigzagging corridors, encountering no resistance until reaching the last intersection. Two cannies were dragging away the pile of dead dogs on a bamboo litter. The men dropped the animals and hastily ran away at the sight of the heavily armed party. Ruthlessly, the prisoners gunned down the cannies from behind, and spit on the corpses as they hurried by.

 

 Reaching the collapsed section of the warren, Ryan paused at the right turn and signaled it was all-clear to Doc.

 

 "Lady Ann, we meet once more." The scholar smiled, then looked over the sec men. They were as rough and tumble a group as he had ever seen. "Your entourage, I assume?"

 

 "Six minutes and counting," J.B. said brusquely, patting his munitions bag.

 

 Doc said nothing, but his eyes went wide, and he started up the mound of loose dirt. Reaching the surface, Doc unlimbered the M-16 and stood guard while the others clambered out of the blast crater. Exiting the tunnel, the group quickly got away from the depression in the ground as the rim was soft and crumbled easily under their boots and bare feet.

 

 "This way!" Mitchum cried, waving a blaster and heading for the water pool.

 

 "Forget it! Follow me," Ryan countered, and started up the inclined ramp at a full sprint.

 

 In ragged formation, the group charged past the pungi-stick wall, and braked to a halt upon reaching level ground. Masked by moon shadows, Krysty and Mildred were waiting there with blasters drawn. Dean was nowhere in sight.

 

 "Hello, Adam," Mildred said, her blaster out, but not quite pointing in the direction of the sec men.

 

 "Hey, Claire," Ryan responded, and the women relaxed.

 

 Mitchum arched an eyebrow at the exchange and said nothing. But it was patently obvious they were exchanging some kind of a code. Who exactly were these outlanders?

 

 "Nice to see you again, lover," Krysty said, resting the barrel of the Steyr on a shapely shoulder.

 

 Ryan pulled her close for a hard kiss and took the longblaster. "Move fast. We lit their armory."

 

 "Dean, get the horses!" Mildred shouted.

 

 Instantly, the boy bolted from the stand of bamboo and dashed into the darkness of the night.

 

 "Horses? Scorch me, we might live to see daylight yet!" a sec man said, grinning widely.

 

 J.B. tossed Mildred the scattergun. She caught the blaster and pumped the action to chamber a round. Watching the exchange, Colonel Mitchum was impressed that a lowly woman knew anything about blasters.

 

 Just then there was a loud bang and a sec man fell to the ground, a jagged hole in his chest. In unison, the companions turned and fired down into the ville. A group of cannies armed with longblasters took cover in the smoking rubble, and started to reload.

 

 Leading the way, Ryan sprinted along the path through the bamboo forest and found Dean slashing the ropes tethering the horses. Most of the animals were bareback but there was no time to find and cinch on saddles. Clumsily, the people climbed onto the placid animals and rode out the swinging gate. Once outside, they kicked the beasts hard and started to gallop away from the hidden ville at top speed.

 

 The companions and the sec men had just cleared the patch of dry land and were splashing through the beginnings of the swamp when a flash of light lit up the sky. As wind buffeted man and horse, they watched as a column of fire and smoke formed a classic mushroom shape that reached for the stars.

 

 "Mother of God," Mildred said, watching the mushroom cloud expand over the shaking bamboo. "How much powder did you use?"

 

 "Everything they had," J.B. replied curtly.

 

 Just then the ground tremors arrived, and the horses reared on their hind legs, screaming in terror. The riders fought to control their mounts.

 

 "Watch for debris!" Ryan warned, even as the first of the wreckage started to plummet from the sky.

 

 Charred heads splashed into the soggy landscape, along with bent blasters and unrecognizable things blackened by smoke and fire. Racing into the trees, the group waited until the grisly rain finally ceased. A reddish light swelled to fill the world, and they could see the bamboo forest was on fire, the flames illuminating the surrounding countryside for miles.

 

 "Which direction to the ville?" Ryan asked, settling the Steyr into a more comfortable position across his back. He was dirty and tired, but they couldn't make camp until far away from here. A few of the cannies might have survived and could come after them in a nightcreep. Best to get some distance for safety.

 

 Gazing at the stars overhead, Ann turned in the saddle and pointed. "That way. North."

 

 "No, we should go east from here," Colonel Mitchum corrected her. "Then north after passing the rad zones."

 

 Reining in his horse to keep it steady, Ryan studied the two people, debating their answers.

 

 "How far?" he asked suddenly.

 

 "A week on foot," the girl answered after a hesitation.

 

 "Day or so, on horseback," Mitchum added. "Easy traveling, flat land, lots of freshwater."

 

 Moaning across the land, a warm wind blew over the group, rustling the leaves on the trees and carrying the smell of fiery death.

 

 "East it is," Ryan said, not believing a word said by either of them. Personally, he much preferred fighting cannies. At least you could see them coming.

 

  

 

 Chapter Nine

 

  

 

 The bedroom was lit only by candles, the flickering light playing across the waiting people. Dried flower petals mixed into the wax gave off a sweet perfume. The only door was shut tight and locked with a heavy wooden bar, and a cheery blaze burned in the predark fireplace, giving off soothing waves of warmth. The window shutters were closed, and the silence was broken only by the soft crackle of the burning logs in the fireplace.

 

 Standing on a small rug in the middle of the room, a slim woman with long blond hair slowly unbuttoned her shirt and let it slide off her body. The cloth fluttered to the floor, and she ran delicate hands across her taut stomach, then upward to cup her heavy breasts. The pink nipples hardened immediately, and the tip of her tongue played along her sensuous lips. Tugging on her waistband, she released her skirt to join the shirt on the floor. She was shaved clean, ready for this special evening, and small tattoos adorned her pale skin, which only made her appear even more naked, if that were possible. A finger was missing from her left hand, and the brand of a slave was burned into the satiny skin of her shoulder.

 

 "You, too," the giant man on the bed said, taking another sip from his 40 mm brass goblet of wine.

 

 The other woman removed her top and held it out at arm's length for a moment before letting it fall. Her breasts were small but firm, the oversize nipples already protruding. She laughed, the sound as gentle as the rain, and ran her long hands down her waist to push off her cotton pants. She stepped out of the pile of clothing, and kept her legs spread wide, then ran her ringers across her taut stomach and down to the juncture of her thighs. Her skin was as dark as coffee, her raven hair set in bouncy coils that dangled loosely and partially hid her features. There was an acid scar on her neck from when she had been caught out in the rain as a child. Her nails were long and sharply pointed. The brand of a slave marked her bare shoulder.

 

 "Come close," the huge sec man ordered, slurping his wine. He shifted position on the bed and let his robe fall open, showing that he was fully ready for the women. His body was colossal, and more heavily muscled than a field slave's. White dots marred his thickly hairy chest, showing where he had been shot many times. A thin scar ran across his forearm where he had blocked a knife thrust, and a small gold ring glistened from his right ear, disguising the fact the lobe was gone, bitten off in a bar fight.

 

 "Do me," the giant demanded, placing aside the artillery shell of red wine. "Do me now."

 

 The women joined him on the bed. Going to either side, the gaudy sluts pressed breasts onto his face and both wrapped their hands around his throbbing cock. Almost suffocating from the delicious softness, he ran rough hands over their bodies as he sucked on one nipple, then bit another.

 

 The blonde lifted a leg onto the mattress and guided his hand to her moist softness. His stubby fingers played with the delicate folds as the brunette wrapped her strong fingers around his shaft and started to stroke the sec man, but he pushed her off. Not yet, too soon. He wanted this to last the whole scorching night.

 

 "You," he panted, grabbing the blonde by the shoulder hauling her to the floor.

 

 Obediently, the woman took him fully into her mouth and began to use her talented tongue. He groaned in lust as she rotated her head around his throbbing shaft, playfully using her teeth at just the right spot.

 

 "Nuke me," he hoarsely whispered. "Again. Do that again!"

 

 "No, that's quite enough," a new voice said calmly.

 

 The giant snapped his head around and tried to focus on the figure standing in one corner of the room. A thousand questions filled his mind, but his hand instinctively darted for the blaster in the gun belt hanging from the nearby bedpost, only to find the weapon gone. Frantically, the sec man tried to extract himself from the ministrations of the two naked sluts, so pleasurable before, now a deadly trap. But the women hung on tighter, digging in their nails to hold him in place.

 

 As he struggled to get loose, the stranger walked into the firelight, raised an ax and brought it down with unbridled fury. The blade passed through the arm the sec man raised to protect himself. The pain rooted him to the spot, and as he tried to scream, the women pulled long thin needles from within their hair and stabbed upward through his jaw, pinning his mouth shut.

 

 Unstoppable, the ax fell again, opening his chest, and the women hastily backed away as his beating organs slithered out of the red body cavity.

 

 The giant fell backward, reeling from the loss of blood, and the ax descended once more, permanently ending the matter.

 

 As the stranger yanked the ax free from the dead man's head, he saw the exposed heart suddenly beat a brief flurry, and then go still. Nukeshit, the huge man had been hell to chill. Perhaps the hired coldhearts hadn't been lax in their failed attempts to ace the battle-scarred goliath. Pity he couldn't be bought. He would have made a wonderful bodyguard.

 

 "Good work, my pets," Chancellor Griffin said, wiping the crimson blade on the sheets. Blood was still flowing from the warm corpse, and he had trouble locating a dry patch to clean his weapon. As he shifted a blanket, the gun belt became visible tucked far underneath the bed. Completely out of reach.

 

 The two slaves bowed to their master, then raised smiling faces, plush lips smeared with blood.

 

 "You're filthy. Get washed and visit the next man on the list," the chancellor commanded. "And be quick, there is much to do tonight."

 

 Gathering their clothes, the women hurried off, exiting through the same hidden doorway their master had entered.

 

 Removing a bit of skull from his weapon, Griffin tested the nicked edge of the blade and decided it was still in good enough shape for one more kill. After that, silence wouldn't be necessary, and he could move openly.

 

 Lifting the brass cup, he drank the wine in a victory toast. Everything was going precisely on schedule. Nothing could stop him now. Not even the mighty Lord Bastard himself.

 

 ARMED GUARDS walking in front and behind, Kinnison walked down the main corridor of the mansion, waving and smiling at the cheering people lining the way. He had a son, an heir to carry on his reign! Triple-damn fools had better cheer, or he'd rip the bones from their flesh.

 

 The pain in his limbs was especially bad today, but the baron forced a smile and continued along with the procession. Slaves threw rose petals in the air, an old man blew a tune on a harmonica and the sec men stayed very close to the chained midwife carrying the newborn baron.

 

 But Kinnison was annoyed his preparations for the parade had failed so miserably. Every step was agony even though he was wearing fresh bandages boiled in clean water, had smeared ointment on every open sore, and even took an extra dose of jolt to ward off the pain from his disease. The baron knew the drug was rotting his mind even as the disease did his flesh, but he had no choice. Twelve more winters and he could die. Not until then would the boy be big enough to rule the islands, and their hundred villes. That was the age he was when he pushed his own father off a balcony to seize the Iron Throne.

 

 His grandfather had once told him how the secret of black powder was found in an old book. Just a book, sitting forgotten on a shelf for decades. Amazing. Unfortunately, it wasn't the strange silvery stuff in predark military blasters. Nobody had ever been able to duplicate that smokeless brew.

 

 But the grainy black powder did operate muzzle-loading blasters, and if ground very fine it would work in rapidfires, at least for a while. They always jammed.

 

 Only his family knew the formula for the precious black powder, and protected that prize by having a hundred different chems delivered to the mills when he needed only three. In recent years, Kinnison thought he would be the last of the noble line, taking the knowledge to his grave. But now he had a son to carry on the reign. In some indescribable way, that made him feel immortal.

 

 Oddly, while black powder was the source of his island's wealth, the Firebirds were its strength, the power that made his words into law. The sleek missiles obeyed his commands as if alive, and would never swerve from a target once it was in view.

 

 More than a dozen times since skydark, other barons, coldhearts, pirates and muties had attempted to seize control of Maturo Island. But the Firebirds always slaughtered the invaders, and nobody had tried open rebellion for quite a while. However, the local barons were constantly testing him by sending old fish and sick slaves as their tribute. Sometimes even beer they watered down with piss. Each "mistake" was savagely answered by a barrage of Firebirds, and there would be no more trouble for years. That was, until some fool decided to try again. The dockyard dogs of his island feasted richly on the entrails of those who dared to challenge his power.

 

 Approaching the throne room, trumpeters blared a herald for the arrival of the baron and his son, which naturally made the infant start to wail in fear. Seriously annoyed, Baron Kinnison glared at the men, and they quickly retreated down a side passage. Fused-brain idiots.

 

 "My lord, a moment!" a sec man called from the attending crowd.

 

 Turning in the doorway, Kinnison stared at the disturbance. It was a corporal from the coast watch. Evander something, good man, had chilled a guard with his bare hands for sleeping on a watch.

 

 "What?" the baron demanded.

 

 "My lord, pirate ships have been spotted on the horizon," he reported. "And the quartermaster is unhappy with the number of Firebirds we have ready. I understand this is an important moment, the coronation of your first son—congratulations, my lord—but the safety of the ville may be in danger. Would it be completely out of the question to—?"

 

 "You talk too much," Kinnison snapped, and turned to the midwife.

 

 "Take my son to his room. Double the guards and stay there until called. Understood?"

 

 "Yes, my lord," she said, bowing her head. "I shall guard the boy with my life."

 

 "You better," the baron growled, touching the blaster at his side. The woman paled and raced away with a full squad of sec men in her wake.

 

 Anxiously, the crowd waited to be told what was happening.

 

 "Evander, with me, the rest of you stay here," the baron commanded, and started along a corridor at his fastest pace.

 

 Murmuring among themselves, the attendees did as ordered, nobody wanting to be the first to leave and risk the wrath of their brutal lord and master.

 

 The sec men easily matched the speed of the ill man, and spread out in a standard defensive arc as he reached a massive door set in the stone block wall. It was a new section of the mansion, formed of solid granite blocks taken from the ruins of a lighthouse at the far end of the island.

 

 Kinnison unlocked the door and opened it a crack to reach through and fumble with something on the inside. When the booby trap was deactivated, the baron swung the door wide and marched straight inside. The room was narrow and dimly lit by a single oil lantern hanging from the ceiling, the wick barely glowing red it was turned down so low. At the back was a honeycomb of bamboo tubes, every one filled with a Firebird, and both of the walls were lined with shelves filled with small bowls. Something in the bowls splashed about at his approach, and tiny tentacles writhed in the air as if waving in greeting.

 

 Suddenly, Evander entered the room with a torch, the crackling light filling the tiny room with brilliant illumination. The things in the bowls began to shriek and wildly thrash their tentacles in blind panic.

 

 "Out!" Kinnison yelled, and shoved the man into the corridor.

 

 Evander stumbled from the room and dropped the torch. It rolled away, leaving a trail of burning pitch on the cold stone.

 

 Leaving the room, Kinnison ever so gently closed the door, then turned on the sec man. "Idiot!" the baron shouted, backhanding the officer to the floor.

 

 "I just wanted to see…" Evander began hesitantly. Suddenly, he felt the cold gaze of the other sec men directed toward him.

 

 "The pilots are terrified of fire!" Kinnison raged. "You've weakened the defensives of the entire island! If the pirates attack now, we may lose because of this. It will be days, even weeks before the pilots calm down!"

 

 Kinnison found he had trouble speaking, his mind was a hurricane of dark thoughts. To lose everything because of one small mistake. There was no torture awful enough to serve as punishment for this crime. Wait. Yes, there was.

 

 "Guards, seize the traitor," Kinnison commanded. "But no blasters! I want him alive when we feed him to the pilots."

 

 Evander went pale and backed away, clawing for his blaster. But the other sec men pounced on the former guard, easily disarmed him, then bound his hands behind his back.

 

 "Mercy, my lord," Evander stammered, tears running down his bruised face. "Castrate me, burn me at the stake. But not this! Anything but this, please!"

 

 Kinnison said nothing as he watched the weeping prisoner dragged away, then sighed and sagged against the stone wall. He was feeling weaker every day, and the drugs were helping less and less. Death would be a sweet release. But this unexpected excitement of pirates and Evander had drained him completely. He felt sick to his stomach, and itchy.

 

 "Here, my lord," a sergeant said, offering a gourd. It sloshed from the slight motion.

 

 "And what is this?" Kinnison demanded suspiciously, not accepting the container.

 

 "Chancellor Griffin commanded us to start carrying some of your medicine with us while on duty," the guard explained smoothly. "There is no reason our baron should ever be in pain."

 

 Kinnison looked at the gourd as if it were a fanged insect. "Thank you, Sergeant," he spoke in an even tone. "Take that to the launch pods on the roof. I'll be there shortly to direct the attack."

 

 "But…" The sec man stopped and saluted. "As you command, my lord."

 

 As the guards marched away, Kinnison decided that Griffin had to go to Davey. This was the most clumsy attempt on his life ever, and if the chancellor was this poor at his job, then of what possible use could he be to the ville? None. Simply more jetsam for the sea.

 

 Flanked by the remaining sec men, Kinnison rushed along the corridor as quickly as he could, and forced himself up a flight of stairs to reach his private level. The guards at the iron gate saluted as he went through. Going directly to his bedroom, Kinnison used two keys to unlock the steel door. The guards stayed in the hallway as he went inside and threw the heavy bolts. Then he paused to catch his breath. His temples were throbbing like a ship's cannons, his bandages felt tight, breathing was difficult and his skin felt prickly as if he were standing near a roaring fire. That sec man had been right; he needed more jolt immediately. But he wasn't accepting any as a gift. How stupid did Griffin think he was? Something was happening, and the baron began to strongly doubt there were any pirates in the waters around his island. The real danger was under his own roof.

 

 Rushing to a hidden compartment in the headboard of his bed, Kinnison slid back a grooved wooden panel that perfectly matched the rest of the intricately carved mahogany. Quickly, he extracted a jar full of white powder and shook some into his trembling palm. There was spring water in a crystal pitcher on the table, and red wine in sealed bottles filling a shelf near the rack of longblasters, but those were much too distant. Lapping the drug from his hand, he stayed kneeling on the quilt until the tremors passed. Feeling better by the second, he drained the pitcher of water and sat down in relief.

 

 Kinnison first knew something was terribly wrong when a fuzzy warmth spread outward from his enormous belly, stealing the strength from his limbs. He tried to rise and found it impossible. What was happening? Had he finally crossed the line and was dying of an overdose? The baron had to concentrate to breathe. His fingers twitched for the bell rope to summon his healer, but the effort was too great. He felt woozy and confused, and trying for the rope was too great an effort.

 

 The door swung open, and in walked Griffin with a huge revolver in his grip. Kinnison recognized it instantly; it was a gift to Samson, one of his personal guards, for saving the baron from a night-creep attack. But the sec man was fanatically loyal to Kinnison and would never give up the weapon. Unless he was chilled.

 

 "Yes, he's gone," Griffin said with a grin, cocking back the hammer. "And the ones I didn't ace personally, my gaudy sluts did. Every man and woman who supported you is dead. The palace is mine."

 

 A great well of fury boiled inside Kinnison, but he could do nothing. The chancellor seemed to be at the far end of a long white tunnel. The baron mouthed the wordtraitor , but nothing came out.

 

 "Oh, I'm much more than that, you fat bag of pus." The man chuckled and went to the door to slide back the heavy bolts.

 

 As the door swung open, in came a dozen young sec men, their faces grim, hands full of rope.

 

 "Hi, tubby," Evander said, grinning. "Was I a convincing enough fool to bring on one of your fucking attacks?"

 

 "I am baron," Kinnison managed to whisper hoarsely. "This is my ville!"

 

 "Was," Griffin corrected with a grim smile. "Report, Colonel, how goes the revolt?"

 

 "The mansion and armory are under our control. A few of his guards escaped into the jungle, but we released the Hunters to bring them down, so they're meat in the ground. The gates of the ville are closed, the petey boats have only our men on board, and we have control of the Firebirds on the roof. The slaves tried to escape in the chaos, as you said they would. We shot some, and the rest went back to work. There is some fighting at the docks, but nothing we can't handle. All is secure."

 

 It was so easily said. Maturo Island had fallen. Kinnison couldn't believe he heard the words. Nightmare. This was another wild hallucination brought on by the jolt, nothing more. His ville was fine, everything was fine.

 

 "Excellent work, Colonel," Griffin said.

 

 "Thank you, my lord."

 

 There it was. Chancellor no more.

 

 "You and you," Baron Griffin said, gesturing. "Bind that sack of shit with rope. Don't worry about cutting off his circulation. It isn't important."

 

 Pulling on canvas gloves to protect them from his sickness, the sec men bound Kinnison tightly. He wanted to fight back, to reach the machine pistol hidden in the bed, but his strength was gone. He felt like a fish on the beach, fighting to move, trying to breathe.

 

 "How…?" Kinnison said, then broke into a cough, bloody flecks staining the floor. The sec men moved farther away. Dragging in a lungful of air, he tried again. "What…did you…give me?"

 

 "Exactly what you came here for, fat boy," Baron Griffin said with a sneer. "The jar was full of jolt. Not your painkillers and flash, with a trace of the drug. But pure quill jolt. Enough to stun a whale. I guessed it should be enough to dull your quivering bulk. Your own healer told me of the secret stash. I knew if a sec man offered you some openly, your natural paranoia would make you rush here for some clean drugs. You fell right into my hands."

 

 "And if you died," a corporal said, "who'd give a fuck?"

 

 The others agreed, some laughing, others staring with open hatred. Kinnison gave no reply, the growing buzz in his ears drowning out the world. He began to surrender to the warmth and closed his eyes. Then pain took the baron as his head snapped to the side, and he realized somebody was slapping him awake.

 

 "Don't you die on me," Griffin snarled, back-handing his prisoner again. "I haven't begun to take my revenge yet. Colonel, send some of your men to cast that new brat of his into the sea with a stone tied around its neck."

 

 "Yes, my lord." The man grinned and exited the room.

 

 "No!" Kinnison screamed, and in a rush of strength stood and charged for the usurper. Two sec man grabbed his bandaged arms, and he shook them off, the urge to kill driving him onward like a Firebird in flight. But Griffin merely laughed as the sec men wrestled him to the wall, pinned helpless under their combined weight.

 

 "Not even a good try," Griffin said haughtily.

 

 "You'll never keep the throne," Kinnison growled, feeling the rush of strength ebbing away like the tide. "You can't control the Firebirds!"

 

 Leaning past the guards, Griffin whispered something into his ear and Kinnison went pale.

 

 "Did you really think I never followed you?" Griffin asked, delighted at the expression on the man's face. "Or listened at a keyhole? The rockets will obey my commands. I am in absolute control."

 

 "There's still Lieutenant Brandon, sir," a burly sec man reminded. "He's got a dozen peteys, could be trouble. The ass is actually loyal to this blubbering thing."

 

 Griffin waved that aside. "Brandon is dead. That healer, Glassman, is in charge of those boats, spreading the word about the outlanders. If Captain Glassman tries anything, we nail his family to the front wall until he surrenders. Then we blow him out of the water with my Firebirds."

 

 Kinnison narrowed his piggy eyes and said nothing. For once he was thankful for the bandages that masked his features.

 

 "What about the outlanders?" a sergeant asked. "I heard they took Cold Harbor ville in less than a day."

 

 "Send the word, chill them on sight."

 

 "Yes, my lord."

 

 Exhaling loudly through his nose, a guard moved his head away from the huge prisoner. "Shitfire, this diseased pus bag stinks something awful!" he stated.

 

 The other guards muttered in agreement. They had never been this close to the former baron before, and were beginning to understand why dogs wouldn't go near him, and his bed partners got drunk before and after sex. He reeked worse than a dead seal on a hot beach.

 

 Baron Griffin sniffed the air and made a face. "Nuke me, he is pungent. Well, he'll smell a lot worse when I'm done with him. Sergeant, have your men haul his wretched ass to the dungeon. I have something very special planned for our former lord and master."

 

 "Yes, sir!"

 

 Dragging Kinnison into motion, the sec men kicked and shoved the fat man along the stony corridors of the mansion and down into the cellar. When Kinnison heard the telltale booming of the heavy door closing, he knew that there was every possibility that he would never leave the dungeon alive. A flare of pride overlook him, and he found the notion intolerable that the hideous tortures he did so often to others would now be done to him. Kinnison decided to try for a clean death. When the guards cut off the rope to shackle him to the wall, he'd grab a blaster and start shooting. They would be forced to chill him then, and he would be spared the humiliation of being taken apart under the sharp knives and red-hot tongs of his enemies.

 

 But the sec men seemed to have expected that move on his part, because they shackled him first, and then cut away the ropes. Dangling helpless from the iron cuffs attached to the ceiling, Kinnison stood before the jeering men utterly helpless. They could do as they pleased with him now, and there was no way he could stop them. He was already dead. If he had a single minute alone, he might have a fleeting chance of escape, but that would never happen. Griffin was proving himself worthy to be a baron in every way.

 

 "Let's carve him up a little first," a guard said, poking at the man with the tip of his knife. "Mebbe set him on fire first."

 

 "Cut off his fingers, feed them to the dogs!" another shouted.

 

 "Don't be ridiculous," Griffin said, testing the anchor bolt that held the chains. It was good and solid. "His heir is dead, his reign is over. Let him live out the rest of his miserable life down here in the cold and wet. The sickness will eat him alive, and without his drugs or shine, it'll be a much more painful death than anything we could do to him."

 

 Dribbling blood and pus from tied hands, Kinnison heaved for breath and remained quiet.

 

 That wasn't the reaction he wanted, so Baron Griffin took a bottle from a nearby table, grabbed Kinnison by the chin and forced him to look upward.

 

 "Live forever," he whispered, and pulled the cork with his teeth to pour the contents over the man, front and back.

 

 Kinnison had only a moment to wonder what was happening before he smelled the strong aroma of alcohol. He watched in horror as the clear liquid seeped through his bandages and reached the open sores covering his skin. The screams exploded from him as searing pain burned into his flesh, his anguished cries almost drowning out the laughter of his captors. The agony seemed to last for years as he was doused with more shine, and then again, until he was finally swallowed whole by sweet blackness.

 

 KINNISON AWAKENED with a scream, and it took a moment for him to realize he was alone in the cell. Then he shuddered in memory of what they had done. He ached from the beatings, and every sore felt brand-new, as tender as a bullet wound. Plus his clothes were filthy. The blood and pus had soaked through the bandages and stained his shirt and pants. His sandals were gone, his bare feet resting on the cold stone floor, and his left arm was broken, the job expertly done. There were no splinters of bone through the skin to cause major blood loss and a fast death. He could feel the splintered ends grinding against each other, but after a decade of pain, it was only a minor annoyance.

 

 The cell was as he remembered, small and damp. There was only ambient light in the cell, a soft glow seeping around the door from the torches in the corridor outside. The wall shelf had been emptied of any tools. There were no sounds, but the scurrying of rats in the dank straw piled near the waste bucket.

 

 Patiently, the man forced himself to wait, making sure he was truly alone. Griffin had made a terrible mistake letting him live. Soon he would answer for his crimes against the state. And for the death of his son.

 

 Suddenly, Kinnison not could wait another second, and he clumsily swung the broken arm to his mouth and started tugging at the shirtsleeve with his teeth. The fine cloth ripped easily, and he started on the stained bandages. Steeling his stomach to the task, the man started chewing off the filthy strips. The smell of his diseased flesh turned his stomach, but he continued until inadvertently swallowing some saliva. The taste convulsed his entire body, and he violently retched.

 

 Gasping for breath, he heard the rats arrive as if they knew what the sound was. They gathered around the sour puddle, and he crushed one underfoot, then kicked it into the corner. The rest converged on their wounded member and started to feast. Dripping sweat, Kinnison redoubled his efforts to get the putrid strips of cloth off his arm. They would be even more hungry when finished and would immediately turn on him. Now it was a race.

 

 Ignoring the pain and taste, he ripped at the bandages madly until the last layer peeled away making the sores bleed anew. But there it was, a small iron key taped just below the break. Breathing through his nose, he lipped the item out of the slimy sore, and quickly jerked his head to the right, grabbed the key from his mouth and retched again, until his body was racked with dry heaves. The rats didn't seem to notice or care.

 

 Commanding himself, Kinnison twisted about and brought his hands close, awkwardly inserting the key into the lock of the manacles and turning it ever so gently. As the catch released, his arm dropped free and he bit back a scream, trembling with the effort. As the circulation was restored, the pain subsided, and he forced the shaking limb to reach up and unlock his right wrist. The click was like music, and he quickly caught the broken arm so it wouldn't drop again. Very gently, he tucked the aching arm into his shirt, then rigged a crude sling with his own bandages. It was uncomfortable, but more important, he was free, although locked in a rat-infested cell deep underground, surrounded by traitors.

 

 Trembling with weakness and covered in filth, Kinnison grimaced in triumph as he climbed onto the pile of straw and fumbled with the ceiling. Even in bright lantern light it appeared to be solid stone. Finally, his fingertips found the pattern of a Firebird carved into a stone, and he started to pound with his right fist. After a few minutes, the stone came loose and he reached into the hole to start removing handfuls of items: a zip-top plastic bag full of fresh white bandages, plastic film canisters of his drugs, clean clothing, candles, a tinderbox, a gourd of wine, glass jars of food and clean water. Then came the weapons: a slim dagger and a pre-dark revolver in oiled cloth, with a full box of live rounds. His emergency supplies in case of a rebellion. This hadn't been done with every cell in the dungeon. That would have been too dangerous. Only this special one had been kept empty of prisoners, even when he had five or six packed into the others.

 

 Now taking his time, Lord Baron Kinnison lit the candle, the light making the rats flee back into the walls. Stripping naked, the fat man washed the filth from his body and plotted revenge as he wrapped his sores and began to dress. By the time he was rigging a new sling for the broken arm, Kinnison already had a plan to bring down Griffin and the rest of the cowardly traitors who had planned this Judas strike.

 

 "Live forever," Kinnison throated through his gritted teeth, tightening the sling. "No, I won't, but I'll live longer than you bastards. Oh, yes, I will."

 

  

 

 Chapter Ten

 

  

 

 As the train of horses plodded along the mountainous trail, Ryan fought off a shiver, his coat offering little protection against the strong winds.

 

 There had been enough horses for everybody, more in fact, but only saddles for about half and no supplies. Most of the freed sec man were in thin clothing. As the group climbed into the hills and the temperature quickly dropped, Krysty had gotten the horse blankets from under the saddles, and cut holes in the centers to make crude ponchos for the cold men. It helped, but not much. The horses were unhappy, but they didn't have a vote in the matter.

 

 Good thing the companions were wearing jackets, although only Krysty was actually warm in her bearskin coat. And those fingerless gloves J.B. wore were a godsend. Ryan's own coat was too thin to be much protection against the bitter winds of the higher peaks, but it was a hell of a lot better than those ponchos. Mildred had loaned Ann some of her spare clothing, but the thin girl still looked pale and weak. Ryan wasn't sure she could last much longer without a hot meal. The cholera had taken a lot out of her.

 

 And everybody was hungry. The cannies hadn't fed their prisoners since they had planned on eating them, and while the companions had lots of MRE food packs, they hesitated to display the predark wealth of the foil envelopes. Ryan had convinced Mitchum that the companions found their rapidfires and revolvers in the cannie armory. The lie was accepted at face value, but if they started showing MRE packs, flashlights, rad counters and such, the only possible conclusion would be that they were outlanders, and strangers got aced in these islands by order of the lord baron.

 

 With a week's worth of food in their backpacks, the companions rode along with Mitchum and his troops, stomachs growling, and watching the landscape for anything they could shoot for dinner, then breakfast and now lunch. Thankfully, there was lots of grass for the horses to munch on the lower hills, and plenty of snow for water. Filling a canteen only gave a few cupfuls after it melted from body heat. But it tasted pure and clean.

 

 "Ville much farther?" Jak asked, his teeth chattering. The albino teenager had one hand stuffed into a pocket, the other holding the reins. And he switched them often. He couldn't understand how it could be so damn cold in the tropics. But then, he'd seen a swamp turn into a desert in under a year in the Deathlands. Bastard weather was screwy across the globe.

 

 "Mebbe by tomorrow morning we'll see Ratak ville," Colonel Mitchum said, tightening the belt strapped around his poncho. The wind kicked up tiny blizzards of snow and constantly dusted them with flakes. The officer filled his mind with memories of warm days on the beach, and savored what little heat came from the animal he rode.

 

 "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, grabbing 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 hunter 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.

 

 The front gate was very small, only slightly larger than a regular door, just barely big enough to walk a horse through. Riding into the ville would have been out of the question. There was no way coldhearts or pirates could force enough troops through the door to forcibly hold the passage open. A handful of sec men could defend the door with nothing more than axes. With blasters it would be a slaughter.

 

 "Impressive," Krysty said.

 

 "Best ville in the Thousand Islands," Mitchum boasted.

 

 Looking around, J.B. noticed a break in the trees to the far right, indicating another road. "That lead to the docks?"

 

 "Where we keep the ships," the colonel corrected. "Wouldn't call them docks, exactly."

 

 Ryan reined in his horse. "Before we go any farther, you and I need to talk."

 

 "Yeah? What about?" Mitchum asked suspiciously, a hand moving dangerously near his blaster.

 

 "Our deal. A ship for your freedom."

 

 "I'll pay your price," the officer said. "Don't worry about that. Just one of these flintlocks will buy you a rowboat large enough for everything but the horses."

 

 "And you can keep the horses once we're gone. All we want is a boat."

 

 "Fair enough, but you better hide those fancy blasters. I know you got them from the cannies, but if Thayer spots those, he'll take them away. Road tax, defense budget, whatever he feels like calling it this month."

 

 "He can try," Dean said stoically.

 

 "Won't just try, lad. Baron Thayer would get them any way necessary," Mitchum stated. "That's a fact. And we'll help him do it, too. We owe you big, but the baron has our oath."

 

 Yeah, Ryan thought as much. But they had walked this razor's edge before and survived. Briefly, he considered having J.B. stay outside and keep watch, but decided it would be wiser to keep everybody together. Otherwise, they might have come back for the Armorer through an army of sec men. Besides, they had a few special items that Mitchum knew nothing about in case of trouble.

 

 "Hide the weapons," Ryan commanded.

 

 Reluctantly, the companions removed their gun belts and holsters, hiding the blasters and ammo inside their bedrolls and backpacks. Flintlocks were tucked into their belts now, ammo bags of black powder and lead shot slung across shoulders to distribute the weight.

 

 Shaking the reins, Ryan made a clucking sound with his tongue and started the horse at a canter through the field heading toward Ratak ville. Mitchum galloped to catch up and stayed alongside, while the rest of the group followed close behind.

 

  

 

 Chapter Eleven

 

  

 

 As the companions and the sec men rode toward the jungle ville, Mitchum started to wave at the guards on the wall.

 

 "Gotta show we're friendly," he said, "or we don't even get close. Standing orders are to shoot on sight."

 

 "Shoot who?" Mildred asked, rocking to the movement of her mount.

 

 "Everybody," the colonel answered. Then he pointed at a sec man on the wall, who was sitting with his legs dangling over the top and sipping from a gourd. "Pierce! Put down that shine!"

 

 The startled sec man dropped the gourd and quickly stood, wiping his mouth on a sleeve. Squinting down at the riders, he broke into a smile. "Fuck a mutie, it's the colonel. Hey, Sarge! Colonel Mitchum's back!"

 

 "I saw him five minutes ago," the sergeant stated calmly.

 

 Raising a hand, Mitchum brought the riders to a halt a short distance from the front door.

 

 "Open the gate, Sergeant Whyte."

 

 "Sure thing, sir!" the man said, lowering his blaster to point at them. "Be glad to, just as soon as your new friends back away."

 

 "Better do as he asks," Mitchum told the others. "And don't draw a blaster or he'll shoot without warning."

 

 "Tight security," Ryan said, noting the placement of the guards. "Must have a lot of enemies."

 

 "Not anymore."

 

 Shaking the reins, the companions walked their mounts away from the sec men and watched the group enter the ville through the door. It closed behind them. But after a few moments, the door swung open again, and Mitchum waved them inside.

 

 Ryan took the lead, and single file the companions guided their mounts through the narrow doorway. Doc was the last, and as it thudded closed the sound reminded him of a coffin lid slamming shut. An unnerving comparison.

 

 After the gate closed, armed sec men struggled to slide a wooden beam as thick as a horse across the portal.

 

 Mitchum and his troopers had stopped in the middle of a street and slid off their mounts to look around the ville and clap each other on the back. It was obvious they were glad to be back home.

 

 Sidling closer to the sec men, Ryan studied the place. Logs with steps cut into them served as a ladder to reach the walkway set along the inside of the wall. Boxes and barrels placed at regular intervals probably held ammo, arrows and such for the sec men to use in case of attack. That was smart. Ryan had seen many a ville fall because the baron kept every round of ammo in his home, and didn't arm his guards fast enough to stop an attack.

 

 The streets were dirt with gravel walked into the ground as protection from the rain. The ramshackle buildings were mostly trailer homes, with a few log cabins and one big structure made of brick and stone. The baron's home, obviously. A well stood in the middle of a stone plaza, a bamboo-and-thatch roof standing guard over the precious clean water. A door stood wide on a blacksmith shop, tan men pounding iron on an anvil made of stone, and a thick waxy smell came from a tiny van whose chassis was sunk into the ground, smoke rising from a vent in the roof and rows of candles hanging from a clothesline to cool and harden in the sea breeze. And looming darkly over the ville was a row of gallows, the light-color palm-tree wood stained with blood.

 

 From somewhere there came the steady crack of a whip, followed by an anguished cry. The noise continued, with the cries becoming weaker.

 

 Straggling in, a crowd of people was forming in the street to greet Mitchum and his troops. The locals were dressed in the usual assortment of homemade hides and bits of predark junk. Many wore sandals cut from tires, and there were lots of vests and skirts made from shag carpeting. An old man was smoking a wooden pipe, and a young girl was suckling a newborn in her arms.

 

 Suddenly, the crowd parted for a big man in shiny boots and tight denim pants worn light blue at the knees. The big man was shirtless, revealing his hairy chest and massive muscles with long arms that nearly reached his knees. Mildred thought he looked like an ape, the man was so simian in nature. As the only person carrying a blaster, he had to be the baron. The weapon was a .22 revolver, small cartridges filling half the loops lining his rainbow-colored belt. Some sort of lizard skin, the physician assumed.

 

 Covertly, J.B. and Ryan exchanged looks. If that was what the baron carried, then the man would happily chill them to get his hands on the .357 Colt Magnum or the Uzi machine pistol.

 

 As the ape man came closer, Mitchum and his troops quickly stood in a rough line.

 

 "Sir!" they chorused and snapped salutes.

 

 He tried not to show it, but Ryan was impressed. He hadn't seen disciplined troops since the Shiloh slave camp of that crazy whitecoat.

 

 "At ease, you bastards," the baron grunted in greeting, returning the gesture. "Mitchum, glad as hell to see you and the troops alive. After a week I figured you were aced."

 

 The colonel frowned. "Damn near, my lord, but we're still sucking air thanks to these folks," Mitchum said, looking at the companions.

 

 "That so," Baron Thayer said, glancing at them for only a second. "So what happened, pirates attack?"

 

 "It was those cannies that been hunting us since last winter," Mitchum explained. "Aced half my squad, and was working their way through the rest when Ryan and his people busted in and blew the place apart."

 

 "What do you mean?" the baron asked, confused.

 

 "They set fire to the armory, Baron," the colonel said. "You should have seen it!"

 

 "Those cannies won't ever be bothering us again," a private added.

 

 "That true?" Thayer demanded, scowling in disbelief.

 

 "Close enough," Ryan said, sliding out of the saddle to talk with the man on an even keel. The Trader always said that talking face-to-face put a man more at ease, and they needed the baron's goodwill to acquire that boat.

 

 Rubbing his chin, Thayer studied the companions closely, a thumb in his pocket, resting his hand inches from the little blaster. "I'm Harlan Thayer." he said at last, "the baron of Ratak ville. Who the hell are you folks?"

 

 "Just some explorers," Ryan said, crossing his arms, so that his own hands hung near the loaded flintlocks tucked into his Army belt. "A forest fire burned down our ville of Moscow, and we set out to find a better place."

 

 "Lord Baron Kinnison doesn't like wanderers," Thayer growled. "Says they're often spies working for pirates."

 

 The statement sounded like a trap of some kind, so Ryan took the offensive. "Don't give a hot shit what the Lord Bastard likes," he stated firmly. "And if somebody stuffed a Firebird up his ass, I'd gladly light the fuse."

 

 The crowd froze in terror, but the sec man laughed and Thayer shifted his frown into a momentary grin. "Well, you got balls, One-eye, that's for sure. Everybody hates the fat rotbag, but few dare to say it aloud. What are your names?"

 

 Introductions were made all around.

 

 "Mighty good horse," Thayer said, going to a mare and stroking its neck. The animal stayed in place and shuffled its hooves in pleasure under the petting. "What'll you take for them?"

 

 "The ones ridden by Mitchum and his men are yours," Ryan said. "As are the blasters they carry. They bought them with blood."

 

 Thayer continued to stroke the beast, but seemed confused that the offer of payment had been declined, the animals and weapons turned into a gift. If he didn't know better, the baron would have sworn the stranger was trying to buy his goodwill.

 

 "Sell you these others," Krysty countered, draping the reins over the pommel of her saddle. "Food and good beds for a week."

 

 Amused, Thayer looked over the red-haired beauty. He had thought she was only Ryan's bed warmer, but now he saw she carried a blaster. Odd folks these outlanders. A memory tickled the back of his brain, something about strangers with fancy blasters. But these folks had only flintlocks, so it couldn't have been about them.

 

 "Keep the horses. I'm offering food and good beds for a month," Baron Thayer stated loudly. "That's what I pay as reward to anybody who aces a hundred cannies and saves my men from the pot. Food and beds, or three full pounds of black powder. Your choice."

 

 The old man dropped his pipe, and the crowd gasped at the incredible offer, unable to believe what they were hearing.

 

 "Take the food and beds," Ryan said, easing his stance and offering a hand.

 

 "Agreed, Blackie," the baron replied.

 

 They shook on the deal, and Thayer added, "Mitchum, take these folks to the Grotto and tell Sal they're my guests. And after they're fed, bring them to the palace for drinks. Got some coconut wine that'll melt a cannonball, and I'd like a talk with folks who have seen other islands."

 

 "Yes, Baron," Colonel Mitchum answered, snapping a salute.

 

 "Just a second there, dead man," a gruff voice said from the crowd, and the people parted to admit a burly officer.

 

 "Colliers," Mitchum growled, drawing his blaster. The rest of the sec men did the same, and the cocking of hammers sounded like tree branches snapping in the sudden quiet.

 

 "You were gone for a week! Now I'm the sec chief in this ville!" Colliers stated, stabbing his chest with a thumb. "Ain't just going to roll over like a gaudy slut and give it back to a feeb who let cannies catch him!"

 

 "A fight to the death," Mitchum said, his weapon neither moving nor wavering. "Not first blood, but a chilling. No quarter, no rules."

 

 "Fine by me," Colliers snarled, and pulled a blade with lightning speed.

 

 "No rules at all?" Mitchum insisted.

 

 "Agreed!" Colliers spit, starting for the man.

 

 Calmly, Mitchum fired the flintlock in his hand, the .75 miniball punching a round hole in the other man's face and blowing out the back of his head, spraying bones, brains and blood over the crowd.

 

 Most of the people broke ranks and ran; only a few stayed to watch more.

 

 "Only a triple stupe would agree to no rules," Mitchum said, holstering the smoking weapon, "when you got a loaded blaster pointed at your guts."

 

 "Wondered how you two would settle this," Baron Thayer said, waving away the cloud of gun smoke. "Was going to make it a formal match, in the pit with no weapons but bare hands. Don't have to do that now."

 

 "No, sir," Mitchum stated. "Private, drag the body to the cliff and toss him into the sea. But keep the boots and that blade. We'll give those to the sec man we take on to fill his place."

 

 "I'll do it," a teenager said, stepping forward. "Want to be a sec man. Chill me some pirates."

 

 Baron Thayer arched an eyebrow, but Mitchum looked the boy over closely. He was barefoot and dressed in a piece of canvas, crudely stitched into shapeless clothing. His face was gaunt, but the teen stood a good head above the rest of the crowd, and his hands were gnarled weapons of grisly scars. Good food would fill in as solid muscle, and the ville would have a useful chilling machine in their fighting ranks.

 

 "Name?" he snapped.

 

 "Samms, Virgil Samms, sir. I live down by the docks, in the dolphin cove with the—"

 

 "Shut up! Never waste an officer's time with horseshit, boy. Now help dispose of the body, and remember," the colonel added sternly, "Brad Colliers was a stupe, but also a sec man. He gets full honors and prayers before going to Davey. You'll taste the lash if I hear about you missing a single word. Get me?"

 

 "Aye, aye, sir," Virgil said and saluted.

 

 "Sailors say that dreck, not sec men," the sergeant said, smacking the boy in the back of the head. "Now salute your baron, and get to work!"

 

 The fledgling sec man shakily gave Thayer a salute and held it until the baron returned the gesture. Then a couple of the sec men joined the boy and helped drag the dead man away, leaving a gory trail in the dusty ground.

 

 "Waste of a fisherman," the baron said, tucking thumbs into his belt.

 

 Pulling out a pouch, Mitchum reloaded his blaster. "Just green, that's all, my lord. Started off that dumb myself."

 

 "Your call," the baron said. "First time he fucks up bad, you get the lash for him." The baron gave Ryan and his crew a long look as if somehow they were involved in the fight, then turned his back and started to walk up the street toward his palace.

 

 "Sharp move," J.B. said.

 

 Mitchum closed the pouch by pulling on the drawstring with his teeth, then tucked blaster and ammo away. "Not really. Colliers always had a tough time controlling his temper. That made him a bad commander. Bastard had to die for the sake of the ville."

 

 Ryan filed that information away. There was a lot more to Mitchum than was readily apparent.

 

 "But now that he's gone, I'm in charge again." The colonel grinned as he freed the reins of his mount and passed them to a private. "Put her in the stable and have them give her a good rub-down."

 

 "Yes, sir," the sec man said, and started off with the animal in tow. It followed placidly, waiting to be beaten or fed, whatever was the choice of its new masters.

 

 Then Mitchum slapped Ryan on the shoulder. "Come on, let's get chow. Don't know about you folks, but I'm starving."

 

 "Could do with a bite," Ryan admitted. Taking his own horse by the reins, he began leading it down the street of the ocean ville.

 

 "Hot food sounds good," Dean said, rubbing his stomach.

 

 Then Mitchum bumped shoulders with Ryan. "Also got a gaudy house," he added.

 

 "Brought his own," Krysty said, a touch of ice in her voice.

 

 The officer broke into a grin. "No offense meant."

 

 "None taken," she replied. "This time."

 

 Walking their horses down the street, the companions found that between the trailers were tiny plots of farmland, set out in neat squares, edged with brick and covered with oily canvas supported by rusty poles.

 

 "Protection from acid rain," Mildred said, excited. Before they sailed away, she had to find out what the locals used to coat the canvas. That was info she could trade to villes across the Deathlands and help save a lot of lives.

 

 The public latrine was far from the wells, and noisy chickens were in a bamboo coop behind a woven wicker fence. Big dogs were on rope leashes before a lot of the trailers, and there were no slaves in sight. No decomposing bodies hung from torture poles, or any of the things they normally found in a ville.

 

 "Nice place," Doc said, resting his ebony stick on a shoulder.

 

 The sword cane was too long to hide easily in their bedrolls. Besides, there was no reason anybody would think it wasn't just a support for the old man.

 

 "Best in the world," Mitchum stated proudly.

 

 Since the colonel had never seen Front Royal in Virginia, Ryan held his peace and let the man enjoy the fantasy.

 

 LEANING OUT OF a second-story window, a beautiful girl allowed her robe to gap open in front and expose a lot of cleavage. Several men passing by on the street took notice, but there was no reaction from the strangers walking with their horses. Still they were new, and that was nice. The gaudy slut smiled at the prospect of meeting outlanders, and for a moment the twin tips of her forked tongue darted into view. She could almost taste them already.

 

 Then the boy in the group glanced her way and gasped. She smiled gently, letting her robe part to expose her perfect breasts. A knock on the bedroom door made her turn away, and in walked a grisly sec men and an old skinny woman.

 

 "There you go, Lieutenant," the madam of the gaudy house announced. "You pay for the best, you get the best."

 

 "Fantastic," he exhaled in admiration.

 

 The slut by the window had the figure of a nubile young girl barely in her teens, but when she turned there was the face of an adult. Long black hair reached to her knees, and her shape was something out of a predark girlie mag.

 

 He'd been saving a long time for this. She cost a lot, and only the baron had her on a regular basis. But now that the sec man saw her, he knew she was worth it for looks alone. And if the tales were true about two tongues, one in her mouth and the other elsewhere, this was going to be one hell of a ride. Sure, she was a mutie, but he wasn't here to breed with the slut. Just bed her.

 

 Impatiently, he slapped the pouch of black powder into the old woman's hand. "I'll take her for the whole day," the lieutenant said.

 

 "Oh, that'll cost more than this," she said quickly. The madam could hear the sound of raw lust in a man's voice. He'd pay all he possessed to have the girl just once.

 

 The lieutenant turned on the madam and drew his blaster. "Going back on our deal?" he growled.

 

 The madam shrugged in response and walked from the room. She had tried; that was enough.

 

 "Come here, girl," he said loudly, but there was already a loss in his words. He could borrow, but never possess.

 

 "Lucinda," she lisped, knowing the human name emphasized her forked tongue.

 

 The man repeated her name in a whisper.

 

 Chuckling to herself, she padded across the room, dropping the robe to expose her flawless body. Her breasts swayed at each step, and she mentally commanded her aureoles to tighten. The sec man began to rip off his clothes, buttons scattering across the bare wood floor.

 

 As their eyes met, his expression softened from lust to love, and she decided to pleasure the fool all the way, in every way, then more, and make him her absolute slave. Already her brethren had taken over a ville to the south. Now she would start the process again here. One day all of the villes would be owned by the Sisters, and the humans who created the skyfire would be no more. Purged from the New Earth.

 

 It was only a matter of time.

 

 ON THE STREET, Krysty shivered and glanced around quickly.

 

 "Something wrong?" Ryan asked, a hand snaking inside his coat to touch the grip of the SIG-Sauer.

 

 The woman didn't reply, but hugged herself tight and kept walking. There had just been the oddest sensation, almost as if the companions had walked past a deadly predator and it let them go only because there was bigger prey to feed upon. Unseen danger lurked in the ville, and Krysty would warn the others to stay alert.

 

 A group of men was in the street rolling dice made from carved bone, knives and animal pelts passed back and forth as bets were won or lost.

 

 "Move," Ryan growled.

 

 "Fuck off," a man said, glancing up from the game. Then he saw the amount of weapons on display and tried to grin, but failed miserably.

 

 "My friend said move," Mitchum added in a dangerous tone.

 

 Scrambling to their feet, the gamblers left their dice and pelts to race away, never once looking back. Continuing onward, the companions walked their horses over the spot, crushing the skins and dice to bits under the pounding horse hooves.

 

 "Sailors," Mitchum said in explanation. "Useless bastards."

 

 "Local ship?" Ryan asked as casually as he could.

 

 "Naw, I know those men. They're off a trader from the Rougelap Islands."

 

 "That's north of here, right?" J.B. asked. "Near Forbidden Island."

 

 "Pretty close, yeah," Mitchum said, then grimaced. "Wherever you're going with your own boat, be sure to stay away from that hellzone. Bitch of a place. The currents can tear the hull off a ship, and on shore, there's nothing but rad pits and muties."

 

 Ryan and the others said nothing, not even daring to exchange glances. But now they had a goal. Why row through the shark-infested waters when they could buy a ride? Finally, some good luck was coming their way.

 

 Turning a corner, the companions dropped off their horses at a stable and walked over to the inn. A big sign hanging out front was decorated with the single word Grotto and a hand-painted picture of a fork for those who couldn't read. The front door led to a foyer with another door and a metal turnstile. Inside, the pink walls were heavily decorated with faded pictures and torn posters of nude women. A row of small booths along the back wall was full of wire racks holding garish paperback books whose outlandish covers left nothing to the sexual imagination.

 

 "It's a converted porn bookstore," Mildred said in disgust. No wonder the inn was so popular with the sec men.

 

 "What that?" Jak asked, studying a poster. Nice.

 

 The physician scratched her head before answering. "Sort of a gaudy house," she said slowly. "For folks who didn't actually want to have sex."

 

 Jak stared at the woman as if she were insane, and Mildred shrugged. She couldn't think of another way to explain the establishments.

 

 Vacant redwood picnic tables filled the room, and the only customers were a couple of sailors eating a roast of some kind at the far end of the room. As the companions took the largest table, Mitchum went into the kitchen to talk with the cook, and then departed to handle some official duties. But he swore to come back around dusk to take them to the baron for drinks.

 

 Easing straps off shoulders, the group removed their backpacks and eagerly settled down to wait for the food. The cold horse meat had fueled their bodies, but tasted like red clay. There were no utensils of any kind in view, so each dug out a wooden spoon from their clothing, being very careful not to reveal any of the military hardware hidden under their clothes.

 

 Ryan placed his two muzzle-loaders blatantly on the table, with both hammers cocked to forestall any trouble from the locals. The sailors at the far table noticed the weapons, and immediately stopped talking to concentrate on their own meal.

 

 A few minutes later, the kitchen door swung open and out came two girls carrying an enormous iron pot. The servers dripped sweat as they hauled the cauldron of soup to the table, while an old man with no teeth placed cracked bowls before each person. The bowls were clean, but had seen hard use. Mildred recognized it as a nearly unbreakable brand, which was guaranteed to last a lifetime. She had to admit, for once, Madison Avenue hadn't lied about the durability of a product.

 

 Careful as if they were delivering liquid nitro, the girls ladled the hot soup into each bowl, filling them to capacity. Not a drop fell as the plastic ladle conveyed the steaming brew. As they hauled their cauldron back to the steamy kitchen, the old man returned with small loaves of bread. They were all of a different shape, but a smooth even brown and smelled wonderful.

 

 Jak snatched one from the platter and took a bite.

 

 "Made breadfruit," he announced, chewing steadily. "Good."

 

 "At least they didn't serve us fish heads," J.B. said, stirring the contents of his bowl.

 

 "No, sir, please sir!" the oldster gasped, backing away in fear. "No sweepings for nobles! Is good stew! Please, don't beat me, sir!"

 

 "The stew is fine," Ryan said, unmoved by the display of fear. He had seen similar faces all his life. In most villes the people were little more than slaves, tortured and chilled at the whim of the sec men who ruled. Apparently, the same was true here; the strong ruled the weak. At least until the weak got blasters, then everything went to hell.

 

 "Could we have some water, please?" Krysty asked politely.

 

 Bobbing his head nonstop, the man hurried away. "Yes, sir! At once, sir. Without delay, sir!"

 

 "Sweepings," Dean said thoughtfully. "Must use the stuff that falls on the floor to make soup."

 

 "Probably what's left over in other folks' bowls, too," J.B. agreed.

 

 "Horrid," Doc muttered.

 

 From somewhere outside the sound of a whip was audible again, but this time the cries were female.

 

 "Seen dogs treated better than these people," Krysty said softly, tasting the stew. It was very good, hot and thick, full of fish meat, crab, mussels, some odd veggies, with floating bits of herbs for flavor.

 

 The girls returned with coconut shells cut in two, the bottoms flattened to make crude mugs. The other put a bamboo bucket full of water amid the dinner, and Mildred slipped some bread into the girl's pocket. The child glanced once sideways, but made no other indication that she knew what had happened.

 

 "Baron idiot," Jak said, dipping a loaf into the soup and tearing off a chunk. "No food, folks can't work."

 

 "They'll turn on him," Krysty agreed, "and I hope they win."

 

 "When we sail away," Dean said softly, "mebbe we could leave these flintlocks behind."

 

 Slurping clean a spoon, J.B. nodded agreement. "Won't need them once we're at sea. Might even make some friends in case we come back this way."

 

 "An exemplary idea." Doc smiled. "The enemy of my enemy, and all that."

 

 "Freeze, outlanders!" a voice cried out from the doorway.

 

 The companions looked up to see three sec men enter the room, blasters in their hands. Two of the men were dressed as sailors, while the third was a local sec man.

 

 "Keep your hands away from those flints," the sec man ordered, "and mebbe you live for a while longer."

 

 His flintlocks on the table, Ryan placed his hands in his lap and eased the safety off the SIG-Sauer hidden under his shirt. Unfortunately, the new arrivals' weapons were already drawn. He needed a diversion to get a bead on them.

 

 Without warning, Mildred jerked her arm while Jak flipped his hand. The plate from under the bowl skimmed through the air and smashed into the face of a sailor, and the sec man staggered backward to the wall with a knife in his throat. The attack startled the last man for only a second, but before he could react, Doc lunged forward and buried his blade into the man's throat, slicing vocal cords and the jugular.

 

 By then Ryan had his piece out and finished them off with a whispering round to the head. The lifeless bodies collapsed to the floor, as Mitchum appeared from the kitchen with a primed flintlock in both hands.

 

 "Run! They know!" the man shouted, then stopped, taking in the scene. "Shitfire, they beat me here."

 

 Ryan swung his 9 mm pistol toward the man and the two stayed motionless until Mitchum slowly lowered his blasters.

 

 "You have to leave immediately," Mitchum stated urgently. "I was with the new sec man picking up his things from the dock when a fleet of peteys arrived. Some big caliber named Glassman told us that you're all wanted by Lord Baron Kinnison, dead or alive. Baron Thayer is closing the ville like screwing the lid on a jar, and wants you trapped in here."

 

 Mitchum gestured at the corpses. "Those fools must have decided to try and capture you themselves and not share the reward."

 

 "Has he sealed off the front gate yet?" Ryan asked, his blaster still pointing at the sec chief.

 

 "Blocked solid. You'd never get out that way now."

 

 "Any other exits?" Krysty demanded, pulling on her backpack.

 

 Mitchum made a sour face and looked away before speaking. "Just one," he growled, as if there were a bad taste in his mouth. "There's a secret escape tunnel for the baron. Only Thayer and myself know about it."

 

 "And them," J.B. said, gesturing over his shoulder at the sailors in the corner.

 

 With a grim expression, Mitchum suddenly noted the sailors and fired his blasters. The two men slammed into the pink walls, the double booms of the muzzle-loaders rattling the bowls on the tables, and the framed pictures on the walls, making a couple fall to the floor and smash.

 

 "Hated to do that," the colonel said sadly. "I knew them, good men both. But there was no other way."

 

 "Is the kitchen staff alive?" Krysty asked.

 

 "They ran away when I walked in with my blaster out."

 

 "Good."

 

 "Come with us," Mildred said, putting the bulky flintlock and ammo pouch on the table, then drawing her .38 ZKR target pistol.

 

 Mitchum sadly shook his head. "Can't. Thayer will chill my brother and his wife if I'm caught helping you."

 

 LeMat and sword at the ready, Doc went to the front door and checked outside. The ville was still, no reaction yet to the sounds of battle. Strange, it was almost as if the bookstore was soundproof.

 

 "So, where is the exit?" Ryan demanded, getting rid of his own excess weapons. Then he holstered the SIG-Sauer and unwrapped the Steyr from his bedroll.

 

 "Go to the baron's home. There's a locked latrine on the south side. That's a fake. Ladder inside leads down to a tunnel. That's the only way out, aside from the front gate."

 

 "Any traps?" J.B. demanded, working the bolt on the Uzi.