The wag slowed suddenly as it came around the front of the building and ran into the crush of people that they had noticed on their entrance to the ville. All around them was a heaving mass of people, jammed too close together within the confines of the ville. The street surfaces were of stone and tarmac, but some areas had been stripped where old buildings had fallen and been cleared, and the dry earth beneath had been revealed. These sections of the roads and walkways threw up clouds of dust that mingled with the sweat and odor of the too densely packed population, forming an almost visible cloud that choked the atmosphere, making breath hard to grasp.

 

 There was an immense noise that hit them as they rounded the corner, like walking into a wall of speech and song, the sounds of people trading, conversing and arguing as they went about their daily business. People hung from windows, shouting at those below while the subjects of their attention returned the favor with an equal volume. There was the clash of metal on metal as barrows and bicycles collided, while workmen hammered and sawed, and the sound of brick, stone and wood being beaten down by everyday life. And to complete the overload to the senses, there was a riot of color as people from Salvation and the villes who were part of the alliance collided in the street with an array of hair and skin tone, clothes in an assortment of wildly colored rags and fabrics.

 

 If there was an order to what was occurring, if there was any reason to the tasks and any purpose to the actions, then all of this seemed lost in the general melee.

 

 "Makes the desert seem kind of attractive," J.B. muttered, observing it.

 

 "You may not be saying that if where we're headed is anything like this, John," Mildred pointed out.

 

 Doc stroked his chin and smiled mirthlessly. "Like a maze fit for rats, and possibly populated by them. Ah, if the encampments at the well and refinery bear even the most passing of resemblances to this Byzantium, then proverbs involving needles and haystacks spring readily to the mind."

 

 Dean looked at the seemingly old man, a puzzled expression on his face. "I keep trying to tell you, Doc—less words, more meaning," he said wearily.

 

 "Second that," Jak agreed.

 

 Krysty decided to interpret. "It's an old predark phrase. Doc just means it'll be a triple-stupe task, like looking for an honest man in a gaudy house."

 

 The wag made its torturous way through the streets of Salvation until it came to the ville walls, following the roadway around until it reached the gateway. Whether this was the same one they had come through, or one of the other compass points of the ville it was impossible to say, as they weren't as yet familiar enough with the ville of Salvation.

 

 The fact that they were with the baron of the ville meant that the gates were opened and they were allowed to pass with the maximum of speed and the minimum of good-natured banter. Another point Ryan noted was that the sec men were almost in awe of Baron Silas, suggesting that he ran a hard regime among his sec forces.

 

 Looking back as they drove away down the road from Salvation, they could see the gates being closed on them, and the teeming life beyond, which was in stark contrast to the desert that stretched out around them. The road they traveled was made of concrete, the long slabs being joined together by tar that had worn away in places, making the ride less than smooth. From this, and from the fact that the sun had moved in the sky, they could tell that they were leaving from a different road, and that their destination— the well and refinery—were to the east of the ville.

 

 The desert sun beat down on them, unprotected in the rear of the wag. It was a different kind of heat from that in the ville: drier, more directly intense as they traveled under the sun with nothing to break up the orange-red orb's rays.

 

 It wasn't long before they were sweltering. Even the breeze created by the speed of the wag, which had picked up under Baron Silas's hand since they left the confines of the walled ville, wasn't enough to dull the heat.

 

 Ryan stood up and made his way to the front of the wag, clinging to the iron bars that lifted naked into the desert air and swinging the top half of his body around so that he could put his head in through the open window on the driver's side.

 

 As he swung around, he found himself staring a blaster full in the muzzle.

 

 "Fireblast!" the one-eyed warrior yelled involuntarily as he switched the weight of his swing, using the momentum to carry him out of the range of the blaster as the muzzle exploded with a deafening roar, a brief burst, seemingly of flame, and the stink of cordite as the slug ripped past the space where his good eye had been a fraction of a second before.

 

 The wag swerved and screeched to a halt, and Ryan was thrown from his tenuous position, hitting the ground in a roll at a force that took the breath from his body. It was just fortunate that in swerving, the wag had turned so that he was thrown onto sand rather than the concrete road surface that would have pulped his shoulder and ribs.

 

 As he straightened painfully, he saw his friends leap from the back of the wag, and the driver's door open to disgorge Baron Silas.

 

 "You triple-stupe bastard!" yelled the baron, coming over to Ryan. "Why the fuck did you do that? Instinct made me draw and fire before I could think."

 

 "Guess I should be impressed," Ryan hissed painfully through gritted teeth as he rose to his feet. A look to his companions told them to withdraw hands that were poised to unholster blasters.

 

 Baron Silas stopped in front of the one-eyed man and offered him his hand. Ryan took it, and as the baron helped him to his feet, Silas said, "You shouldn't have done that. I've been jumpier than a stallion with fleas and a mare in season since this shit started to go down. Anyone comes up on me like that is likely to end up chilled."

 

 "I'll remember that," Ryan said with feeling. "All I was going to do was ask how long till we reached our destination."

 

 " 'Bout as long as it takes to get over there," Baron Silas replied, casting his arm out and pointing to the horizon.

 

 There, shimmering in the heat haze, an oil derrick and a cluster of buildings were visible. To one side was a motley collection of shacks and shelters.

 

 And in the middle of it all was an oily cloud of smoke bespeaking a fire.

 

 "Looks like we're riding right into trouble without being able to draw breath," the one-eyed man remarked.

 

 "They not know what hit them," Jak replied, shielding his eyes to stare into the distance.

 

 "That's what I'm relying on," Baron Silas countered.

 

 "What we're all relying on," Doc added.

 

 They remounted the wag and the baron fired it up, turning and heading toward the oil well…and toward a firefight in more ways than one.

 

  

 

 Chapter Eleven

 

  

 

 As they approached the well and refinery, they could see more clearly that the thick, oily black cloud was coming not from the area of the well or the refinery buildings, but from the encampment where the workers had their shacks and settlements.

 

 "Looks like they're trying to chill each other this time, not fire the well," Krysty remarked, the wind from the speeding wag making her hair whip in its wake.

 

 "Yeah, and if we're headed for action we'd better be ready for it," Ryan replied, wincing as he flexed his battered shoulder. As he rotated the ball in its socket, it grated and sent a wave of pain down his arm as far as the elbow. He could think of better times for this injury than when he had a firefight in view, but what choice did he have now?

 

 As the wag jerked and bumped at high speed over the derelict concrete road, the companions checked their weapons, making sure that they were in working order after their brief sojourn with Baron Silas's sec men. All weapons were loaded with cartridge, shot or shell, and rounds were chambered ready for action, which was getting closer with every twist and turn of the road.

 

 There was no indication of where the well and refinery area actually began or ended. Ryan remembered the baron saying that the sec force he had on-site was stretched thin, but how thin was nonexistent? For, as far as his eye could see, there was little sign of any sec force actually standing guard over whatever passed for the perimeters of the area. Maybe they'd all had to hightail it over to the area where the smoke originated from. That would leave the area wide open if that was a decoy. Right at that moment he wished he could ask Baron Silas about the sec setup, but at this speed and with the baron in the driving seat, that was an impossibility.

 

 The one-eyed warrior turned to his people, all of whom had completed their weapons check and were now perched on the bench seats, riding the twists, turns and bucking motion of the old wag.

 

 "Okay, we don't really know what we're riding into here, but it's going to be a tough one. We don't know how many sec men Silas has in there, or whether they'll recognize us. And if there's some kind of firefight going on between the different workers, then it'll be a free-for-all."

 

 "Won't be the first time, won't be the last," J.B. remarked. "Anyway, where are these sec men of Silas's anyway? I haven't seen jackshit as we've got near. Anyone could move about and screw up the well."

 

 "Anyone could if they could get across this desert," Mildred said thoughtfully. "But what if the trouble in the camp is a diversion, because maybe there's some sabotage at the well or refinery."

 

 Ryan nodded. "If the sec force is that thinly stretched, that'd be the way to do it during daylight. Mebbe we should take a little diversion and have a recce, just because…"

 

 The one-eyed man strode to the front of the wag and rapped hard several times on the roof of the cab with the butt of his Steyr. The finely shaped and molded stock made a sharp cracking sound on the battered metal of the wag that cut through the full-throated roar of the wag's engine. At first, Baron Silas ignored the constant rapping, but Ryan kept hitting the roof, cursing to himself at the stubbornness of the baron in ignoring him.

 

 Eventually, the wag slowed, almost to a halt, and Ryan yelled, "I'm coming around!" before swinging himself around, wincing at the pain forced down his arm from his shoulder, to face the baron through the window.

 

 "What the hell is it?" Baron Silas asked, keeping the engine ticking over and the wag moving at a walking pace.

 

 "Your sec force—they'd move to sort out trouble at the camp, yeah?"

 

 The baron assented. "That's their job. What else would—?"

 

 Ryan cut him off. "Then if they're as thinly stretched as you say, it could be that they've left the well and refinery open to attack."

 

 "The workers on there have blasters, they could hold off until—"

 

 "Until what? If you're right, then they might be the ones out to wreck the well. They could be fighting among themselves even now."

 

 Baron Silas's jaw dropped. It was an obvious assumption, but one that had momentarily escaped him in his determination to reach the camp. "Shit," he muttered quietly, "then we'd better—"

 

 "Yeah, take the long way around and check out the well first. Now go!" Ryan swung himself back into the main body of the truck.

 

 Needing no second bidding, Baron Silas Hunter gunned the engine into life once more, slamming his foot down and putting the gears through torturous changes in his eagerness to get the vehicle up to its maximum speed. He slewed off the road and took the short route across the dusty but hard-packed earth of the Texas desert, driving the wag over terrain that wasn't meant to take an ancient vehicle with poor suspension.

 

 "Assuming that we arrive in one piece, will we be able to see straight enough to aim and fire at any particular enemies?" Doc asked grimly as he was thrown across the width of the wag.

 

 "That'll be nothing if we can do this without breaking any bones," Dean retorted as he, too, was flung to the floor of the wag.

 

 J.B. joined Ryan at the front of the wag, both men standing firm against the back of the cab, using the metal stanchions to support themselves as they fixed their gaze on the well and refinery buildings, which were approaching at rapid speed.

 

 "Seems quiet enough," the Armorer remarked.

 

 "Too quiet. I can't see anyone moving…or is that just these damn spectacles?"

 

 Ryan allowed himself a smile. "You need glasses, and I've got just the one eye, but between us we should be able to see if there's some fireblasted activity, and I sure as hell can't see anything, either." As they came even closer to the derrick and outbuildings, it became obvious that there was little sign of any work taking place, or of any workmen on-site. The wag came up close to the derrick, and from their position on the back both Ryan and J.B. could see that the workers had left the site in a hurry. There were tools and partially completed works everywhere, discarded and left where they had been dropped.

 

 "What do you reckon?" Ryan asked his oldest friend.

 

 "Figure they saw the smoke, ran for the camp," J.B. mused. "It'd work as a diversion."

 

 "You mean they all run for the camp except those who know that trouble's coming, and then they get a clear run to do whatever they want."

 

 J.B. nodded. "Yep, that's just about the size of it."

 

 The wag came to a halt, and Baron Silas and his sec guard scrambled out. Ryan and his group stayed in the rear of the wag. Silas looked back toward them.

 

 "Y'all not doing anything?" he asked, his voice half anger and half bemusement.

 

 "Not just yet," Ryan replied calmly. "First of all, I want to know a few things. How many work on the site?"

 

 Baron Silas furrowed his brow and gave Ryan a searching glance before framing an answer. He couldn't see why the one-eyed man wanted to know, and to him it just seemed that they were wasting time. Finally he said, "Guess there's about two hundred all told, most of them on the refinery works. On the derrick, I'd say about fifty, mebbe sixty when there's some heavy construction."

 

 Ryan nodded absently as he took the figure in, then asked, "So how many people all told in the camps?"

 

 Baron Silas answered heatedly. "Most of them have got womenfolk with them, some with kids… mebbe double that, a little over. But what the hell has this got to do with—?"

 

 Ryan cut him off. "It's got to do with playing numbers. That's a shit load of people for anyone to sec, let alone a few of your people and just us. And that's also a real easy number to get lost in. Any saboteurs in there are really going to be able to hide easily—too damn easily."

 

 "So why the fuck are you standing there pissing in the wind when there could be some sabotage going on right now?" Baron Silas yelled angrily.

 

 "Because anyone who's up to anything would have heard us arrive, and they'd as sure as shit hear you now. The camp is how far?" Ryan added, appearing to go off on a tangent as he looked around to locate the camp. It was easy to find by searching out the column of smoke that was rising above it. It seemed about a mile off to the southwest. "How long does it take to reach there?" he added before Baron Silas had a chance to answer the first question.

 

 "Not long by wag," Silas replied.

 

 "But how do the workers do it?" Ryan quizzed.

 

 "By foot. I guess it takes about fifteen minutes," Silas said after a little thought.

 

 J.B. was staring into the distance toward the camp. "Fire must've been going longer than that, because there's no one in sight. So they're either in the camp, or still here."

 

 "They?" Silas asked.

 

 "Whoever's sabotaging the refinery—if that's what's going on," Mildred replied, climbing down from the wag, where she was joined by Jak and Dean. "Because they aren't in sight, and they aren't here at the derrick. So, if anyone's still around to do a little quick sabotage, then they're at the refinery buildings. It's simple when you think about it," she added with a touch of sarcasm that didn't escape the baron.

 

 "Then shouldn't y'all be doing something?" he retorted.

 

 "That's just what we're about to," Ryan answered in a cool tone as he dismounted the wag. J.B., Doc and Krysty joined the others, until they were all standing on the side of the wag that faced away from the derrick and toward the refinery, which was a couple of hundred yards distant. The one-eyed man faced his people after a searching glance at the refinery buildings, and the maze of pipework that connected the two.

 

 "Okay," he began, "we don't know the layout and we don't know what we might be facing, so let's go triple red and stay frosty. J.B., you and Dean take the first two buildings, while Mildred and Jak take the other two. Krysty and Doc, come with me. We'll split into three and take the pipe sections one at a time. Be real careful. That's a real maze in there, and there's a shit load of places for any coldhearts to hide and chill us. We're looking for more than just people. Keep a sharp lookout for any plas-ex that may be around, and careful of booby traps." He looked at his companions. They had taken in every word, and were ready. He nodded, as much to himself as to anyone else. "Okay, let's go."

 

 They separated into the three groups and headed off—J.B. and Dean toward the blocks nearest, and Mildred and Jak circling to take in the more distant of the two refinery buildings.

 

 The buildings were all alike—old red brick constructions surfaced in concrete, with old wire reinforcements over window openings that had lost their glass many decades ago. J.B. and Dean arrived at theirs first, flattening themselves on either side of the open doorway.

 

 J.B. held the Uzi, set to single shot, which he figured was his best option in an enclosed space. Dean had his Browning Hi-Power ready. The two fighters exchanged glances, and J.B. signaled with a brief, almost imperceptible nod.

 

 The Armorer went first. Turning swiftly, he flung himself into the open doorway, Dean behind covering him. Crouching, J.B. sought cover and found it behind a large metallic pump, coming up with the barrel of the Uzi resting on top of the metallic structure. His eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom, noting that the running strips of neon that took the length of the ceiling hadn't been repaired, and that the light that existed within the building came from low-level oil lamps that were used to spotlight the actual work sites in progress. They had been left burning, suggesting that the evacuation to the camp had been swift and sudden.

 

 Dean had reached the same conclusion as he sought cover behind a console that controlled that range of pumps and filters in the building. He listened intently, and like the Armorer was sure that the building was empty. He looked across to where J.B. was reconning the area, and their eyes met in the gloom. Dean picked up a piece of metal tubing and held it so that J.B. could see it. The Armorer knew what the boy intended to do. With an overarm throw the young Cawdor tossed the metal tube into the air, following an arc that took in most of the length of the building before clattering on a workbench and piece of machinery, then rolling noisily across the floor before coming to a halt against the far wall.

 

 It was followed by total silence. There was no sound, no sudden reaction of blasterfire, nothing to suggest that anyone else was in the building.

 

 J.B. looked across at Dean and made a motion with his arm, indicating that they take the sides of the building, staying close to the walls to give themselves protection. At the drop of J.B.'s hand, they ran down the sides of the building, taking each aisle and indented position where an enemy could hide with a combat stance, ready to fire first and ask questions after.

 

 They reached the end of the building in less than thirty seconds. It was empty. The second building was connected by a corridor and then a covered walkway. J.B. and Dean stopped by the doorway.

 

 "I'll take it first. You cover me," Dean said breathlessly. J.B. nodded, and the boy weaved his way down the narrow walkway to the far door while J.B. covered him with the Uzi, set to rapid fire.

 

 Again it was silence. Dean assumed a secure position at the far end and took guard as J.B. ran down the walkway to join him.

 

 "Same as before?" Dean said shortly. J.B. nodded, and they repeated their procedure for the second building.

 

 It, too, was empty.

 

 As they walked back through the buildings—still on triple red, in case a hidden intruder should have evaded them—J.B. remarked, "I wonder if there is anyone here?"

 

 IT WAS A QUESTION that Mildred and Jak were also asking themselves. It took them a little longer to get to the far buildings, which were of a different shape. Where the ones that J.B. and Dean investigated were rectangular, these were square buildings, and were the two main pump houses for the whole refinery site.

 

 Which meant that there was little cover inside. The open doorways showed once more that the only lighting was supplied by oil lamps, and the interior was deathly quiet and Mildred and Jak stood on either side of the first door.

 

 "Me first—cover," Jak whispered, his .357 Magnum Colt Python seemingly too large in his small hands. Mildred nodded, her ZKR ready to provide cover as the albino sprang into action.

 

 Jak was through the door in a blur, his red eyes adapting to the gloom with ease, in fact preferring the lower level of light to the desert sun outside. There was little cover afforded by the inside of the building, as large piston-driven pumps took up the majority of the space. The good thing about this was that if it afforded little cover for Jak, then it would also afford scant cover for anyone else who was still in the pump house. Jak found himself a niche in a space between two piston housings, and took up a covering position. Mildred saw him settle in, then followed into the building, flattening herself to the wall and crouching as she sought cover.

 

 It was obvious that the pump house was empty, but they double-checked, with Mildred covering Jak while the wiry albino hunter combed every crevice within the walls. He drew a blank and returned to her shaking his head.

 

 "Next one," Mildred said quietly, to which he nodded.

 

 Unlike the buildings that J.B. and Dean had investigated, the two pump house buildings weren't connected by a walkway or corridor, and there was only the one door in and out. So Mildred and Jak had to leave and traverse the side of the building they had just investigated before reaching the other. They took it in relay turns, one covering the other and using any cover available until they had moved across the short distance between the two pump houses.

 

 "Same as before?" Mildred asked quietly as they reached the doorway. Jak gave her a brief nod, his stringy white hair snaking across his scarred face, red eyes glinting through, before disappearing through the doorway as Mildred swung around to provide cover with her ZKR.

 

 They repeated the same procedure and found this building also empty.

 

 "If planting plas-ex, then in Ryan's place," Jak commented as they exited the blockhouse.

 

 BACK AT THE SYSTEM of pipes that traveled the distance between the well and the refinery, Ryan, Krysty and Doc were dividing up the territory. It wasn't easy, as the pipes took in both the well and refinery areas, and also the storage tanks for the final product, which stood some distance apart. There was nowhere to hide within them, as they weren't housed in buildings, standing open in the sun. But they could provide cover for anyone who wanted to stand surveillance on whoever may come along the pipe system. So the open nature of the ground left Ryan, Krysty and Doc with a problem—recce it without being an open target. The only good thing was that, by the same token, anyone who may be opposing them would have the same problem.

 

 "Doc, you take the route from the outbuildings to the tanks," Ryan said as he sized up the problem, and the trio stood by the wag. As he spoke, the one-eyed man used his SIG-Sauer to indicate the nearest set of buildings, which were just about to be scoured by J.B. and Dean. Doc nodded briefly at that, understanding that Ryan had given him the nearest point to begin as he was the least swift of them.

 

 Ryan switched the point of the SIG-Sauer barrel to the far buildings, and indicated the point where Jak and Mildred were about to enter their recce position. "Krysty, you take the pipe system from that point. We work our way toward the tanks. I'll take it from there," he continued, indicating a third position out to the farthest side from the refinery buildings, where the pipes came from the derrick. It was the greatest distance, and also the most open.

 

 "Okay, lover," Krysty said softly, "we meet at the storage tanks, and stay calm. In that tangle of metal we don't want to make any mistakes, right?"

 

 "Yeah, that would be kind of embarrassing, at the very least," Ryan said with the hint of a smile. "One more thing—let's just try and hold back on the blasterfire unless necessary. These pipes'll ricochet, and I don't think Baron Silas here will thank us for ripping holes in his system when that's what we're supposed to be stopping."

 

 He looked over at the baron, who, with his sec man, was standing against the wag, allowing the one-eyed man to take control. Just as though it were a test, which, in a sense, it was. Their first real test for Baron Silas Hunter.

 

 Ryan glanced back to Doc, who was cradling his LeMat percussion pistol ruefully. "I shall endeavor, my dear Ryan, to refrain—if necessary, then I shall use the ball alone," Doc said. "After all, the shot would cause more damage—although that is, of course, its primary intent."

 

 "Fair point," Ryan said. "Just stay triple alert, triple red, and keep moving as fast as possible, just in case there are any fuckers hiding among all that metal."

 

 The trio parted to begin their search.

 

 Doc moved toward the nearest buildings, half running to conserve energy under the hot sun but also keep up speed. He could hear the movement of Dean and J.B. within the building, but as attuned as they all were to the sounds of one another, he could tell that they had so far found nothing, and so could devote all of his attention to traversing the pipes.

 

 The metal was dull and dusty, but still acted as a conductor to the heat, and as soon as Doc moved into the snaking maze of pipes, he could tell that the heat had increased. It was an oppressive, dull and heavy heat that seemed to weigh down upon his brow, making him sweat harder and forcing a band of pressure around his forehead, making his skull ache and his eyes seem heavy and unfocused.

 

 Pausing to shake his head to try to clear it, Doc began his recce of the pipes. Treading softly, and with his eyes darting glances to each side, he moved slowly along the middle of the narrow dirt path that had been formed between the pipes, presumably for the purposes of maintenance access. The pipes ran in stories of two or three, and were supported by large metal brackets that held them together. Between the pipes there was a little space with which to see on either side. They twisted and turned rather than running straight. Doc could only presume that this was to give them a greater overall running distance and so allow whatever processes were taking place in the refinery to settle in the precious liquid before it reached the storage tanks.

 

 Right now, all it did was make life harder for Doc. There were a few blind bends on the way, and he slowed as he came to them, straining his eyes and ears for the slightest sign of movement. But there was nothing. In some ways, he would gladly have welcomed some action: it would have been a relief to nerves stretched almost to the breaking point.

 

 The heat and the unending vista of dull and dust-encrusted metal began to get oppressive, and Doc found himself getting unaccountably angry. Why was he doing this? Why were they in thrall to an idiot cowboy who wanted to rebuild a technology that had taken him from his home and placed him in two futures that had prematurely aged him and taken his sanity? Why—?

 

 Doc stopped suddenly, frozen to an almost uncanny stillness by a sound. It was getting nearer… Soft footsteps, but in a familiar rhythm. Very familiar…

 

 Doc looked up instead of around. The towers of the storage tanks stood almost before him. He allowed himself a small smile. The footsteps were those of Krysty.

 

 Like Doc, the woman had found the heat within the reflective surfaces of the pipes to be oppressive. Her hair coiled close to her neck with a combination of sweat and mutie sense—not exactly danger, but more an acute awareness that she was not at her best in this kind of atmosphere, so she had to exercise more caution.

 

 Which she did, her flashing green eyes rapidly scanning the area around, taking in as Doc had the gaps between the brackets and stories of pipes. She moved fastidiously, her silver-tipped boots making little noise on the densely packed, dry earth, throwing up little clouds of dust around her ankles. She held her Smith & Wesson Model 640 blaster, its .38-caliber shells capable of blowing away anyone who would try to jump her. But she was unwilling to use it in such a confined area, and would rather rely on her strength and suppleness in hand-to-hand combat if it came to it—which it might, she reflected, as the enclosed space would make it hard for any attacker to use a blaster without endangering themselves.

 

 She just wished it weren't so claustrophobic, an impression increased by the heat that seemed to beat off the metal pipes in waves and hit her around the head, making her eyes swim with a shimmering haze that she couldn't be sure wasn't external rather than just in her head.

 

 And that tapping and shuffling… Was it for real or was it her imagination?

 

 It was real. Krysty snapped from the fuzzy haze of her head into a hyper-real consciousness where pure instinct took over. She was still moving forward, but now everything was clearer than it had ever been, her instincts switched on to alert her to the slightest move. Looking ahead, she could see that she had almost arrived at the end of the pipe maze and was now within sight of the giant storage tanks. Her heightened senses also identified the only sounds other than her own: Doc. She relaxed slightly as she realized that they had both arrived at their destination simultaneously. There was a point ahead where they would both emerge into view: a point where the pipes finally began to feed into the tanks.

 

 She slowed, and noticed that Doc's pace had also slowed.

 

 "Doc," she said in a firm and clear voice, "it's me. I haven't found a damn thing."

 

 "I know it is you, dear lady. I would recognize that most delicate of steps anywhere. I fear that I have also found nothing. Could it be that the site truly has been deserted, and we're not going to strike lucky with a saboteur?"

 

 "That's a funny way of looking at things, wanting to find trouble," Krysty replied with a smile as they came into view of each other. "Though I guess if we did find someone messing with the site we could get a whole lot of answers out of them."

 

 "It would simplify our task somewhat," Doc mused. "But sometimes things don't run as smoothly as—"

 

 He was cut off by the sound of voices and blasterfire. Without even looking at each other, both he and Krysty immediately set off to assist Ryan, who evidently had stumbled on something.

 

 THE ONE-EYED MAN had been making similar progress to that of his companions. He jogged out to a point where the single pipeline from the oil well hit a series of wheels and junctions that carried the raw product off to the refinery buildings and then ferried it back before diverting it to the tanks. The knot of pipes, some piled four stories high with heavy metal brackets between, was a denser maze than the points he had sent his two companions to recce: but Ryan believed without question that, as leader, he had to take the most difficult tasks. Otherwise, what right had he to call himself leader and make decisions for others? Although his upbringing in Front Royal had ended in deceit and treachery, his father, Baron Titus, had certain ideas of what a baron or leader should be. His son had learned lessons that he carried with him always.

 

 So Ryan took the hardest route to anything. There were always things to learn from that route. Although sometimes you could regret such ideas—such as now, when you were jogging across open ground toward an area where someone in concealment could pick you off as easily as shooting crows.

 

 But this was a fortunate day for Ryan Cawdor, as he reached his destination with nothing in the way of danger. Squinting down the single pipeline to the well, he could see no sign of any activity or habitation. So anything that was going on would be within the knot of pipes that now stood to his left.

 

 The one-eyed warrior didn't hesitate before plunging into the morass of metalwork, taking it in with a single glance. Although there was a complex maze, there was little room within for maneuver, and so it would be difficult for any enemy to conceal himself. But there was still that chance.

 

 Ryan soon found the conditions as troublesome as Doc and Krysty had on their own recces. The reflected heat and the dust made his head pound, forcing him to concentrate even harder…which, in turn, made his head begin to ache even more. But he grimly set his jaw, ignoring the sting of salt sweat that ran into his one clear blue eye, and trickled beneath the patch, tracing the line of his scar and settling in the empty socket.

 

 It was because he could be so focused that he heard the slightest of movements to the left of him, about ten yards ahead. A snuffle of breath, a shuffle of foot…it was enough for him to seek a cover position.

 

 In the maze of twisted pipes, there was little to be found, but he had just turned a corner, and a quick step back took him to the cusp of the turn, allowing him a slight angle in which to seek cover.

 

 "I got you," he yelled, "get into view with your blaster butt first and I won't rip you to shit."

 

 "Big words when I've got the cover," returned a voice with a slight lilting brogue to it. It then said something in a language that Ryan couldn't understand. He had a feeling that it was something Krysty and Mildred had spoken about after their mat-trans jump to what remained of the United Kingdom. A language called .Gaelic. But it was impossible to think—

 

 This had run through the one-eyed man's head in the space of a few moments, during which time he had taken that step into cover and flicked the safety on the SIG-Sauer so that it was ready to fire. At the same time, his free hand snaked to the panga strapped to his thigh, the finely honed blade glinting even in this dull tight when he slipped it free.

 

 "Show yourself," Ryan yelled.

 

 "Show myself and get chilled by some bastard that wants our jack bonuses? You think I'm as thick as you say we all are?"

 

 Ryan's brow furrowed at the man's words. What the hell was he talking about? "You mean you're not here to wreck the pipeline?" he asked.

 

 The hidden man laughed. "You think I'm going to fall for that? Go 'Oh no, of course not,' step out and get myself blown to hell? Mister, I knew that the fire downtown was caused by you people, and when everyone else went like a herd across the plain I was damned if I was going to let that happen again. That's why I'm waiting for you."

 

 "I think you've got the wrong man, friend, but there's no way you'll believe that unless I make a gesture. If I throw down my blaster—"

 

 "You'll have another behind your back," the hidden man retorted. "You think I'm some kind of simpleminded stickie or something?"

 

 With which he decided to stop talking and start firing. Stepping out from his cover, he fired two rapid shots from a blaster that looked like a small but powerful handblaster—maybe a Smith & Wesson remake. But Ryan didn't intend to investigate too closely. Right now it didn't matter what the blaster was, only that it could rip holes on him and buy the farm.

 

 The one-eyed man slammed himself up against the pipes on the angle of the turn, sideways on so that he made a smaller target. The ricochets from the two shells cannoned around him, but he ignored them, steeling himself. If they hit him, there was nothing he could do about that, as there was no point giving into his reactions there. Instead, he focused his entire attention on the man who was now standing out in the open.

 

 Stupe. He was an open target, his fury and desire to chill Ryan making him forget the most basic ideas of keeping cover. That was always assuming that he had ever known them in the first place.

 

 It would have been good to have just wounded him, perhaps keep him alive so that they could question him about what had been going on. It was highly unlikely that he had anything to do with the sabotage, especially as his avowed aim had been the same as that for which Ryan and his companions had been hired. But that was immaterial. Right now he was an enemy, a danger, and like a mad dog on the loose. There was only one thing to do with him.

 

 The one-eyed man raised his blaster and leveled it, aiming at the man's head. While the stupe stood in full view, trying to sight the partially concealed Ryan for another shot, the one-eyed warrior squeezed the trigger, loosing a 9 mm shell from the P-226, the blast muffled through the built-in baffle silencer.

 

 There was a sudden silence, the muffled blast fading quickly and leaving no ricochet as the bullet hit home. The man stood for a moment, an expression of surprise crossing his face and then fixing there as life drained from him, freezing his features. The entry hole was small, but the exit wound at the back of his head was larger, part of the skull detaching and splattering on the earth behind, blood and brain bringing a small measure of moisture to the dry soil.

 

 The blaster dropped from nerveless fingers, followed shortly after by the crumbling figure of the blaster's owner, now a lifeless husk.

 

 Ryan bolstered his SIG-Sauer and sheathed the panga before stepping out of the scant cover and taking the few strides covering the short distance between him and the corpse. One thing for sure—the man was no fighter, as he had left himself open to attack and had missed a man in little cover from a short range.

 

 Kneeling in front of the corpse, Ryan checked for any other weapons, or any plas-ex or grens. There was nothing that could suggest that this man was a saboteur. He moved away from the chilled body and checked the area where the man had been hiding. Again, there was no sign of anything that could remotely have been used to damage the pipeline. Adding this to what the man had said, Ryan could only assume that he had been taken for a saboteur himself.

 

 He was still checking the area when Krysty and Doc arrived. He explained to them what had occurred, and was in the middle of this explanation when the others arrived. He filled them in briefly, and after he had finished, Mildred spoke.

 

 "The Molly Maguires," she said simply.

 

 "Which means?" J.B. asked, scratching his head beneath his fedora.

 

 "It was something I remember from history lessons—the Gaelic Ryan mentioned triggered off a memory. It dates back to the end of the nineteenth, turn of the twentieth century. A group of migrant workers, from Ireland originally. Only I think it was coal rather than oil…maybe near Kansas. Anyway, they formed themselves into a secret society called the Molly Maguires, and set to a campaign of sabotage where they were working. It was designed to win them better working conditions, better pay. Maybe that's what's happening here. We should ask Baron Silas if he ups the jack bonuses every time there's trouble and the work falls behind schedule."

 

 "Ask me now," the baron drawled as he and his sec man came up to where the companions were gathered. "I see you got one of the bastards," he added, pushing through and prodding the chilled corpse with the toe of his boot. "From the look of him, I'd say he was one of Silveen's people, from Mandrake. They dress that way," he added, remarking on the vest and open undershirt the man wore, along with his heavily patched denims, thick leather belt and heavy boots. "So they're behind it, eh?"

 

 "Don't jump to any conclusions," Mildred answered. "You heard what I was saying, right? Well, the Maguires used sabotage to up their pay and conditions, and maybe an equivalent group is doing this to up their bonuses. But maybe it's really just an interville fight that's spilled over onto your well. Just because the Maguires were Irish, and this man spoke Gaelic so I assume that Mandrake has a heavy Irish-descended population… Well, just because of that it doesn't mean to say that the Mandrake people are behind the sabotage. After all, Ryan found no evidence."

 

 "Mildred's right," the one-eyed man added. "This man had no plas-ex or grens on him, and there's none hereabouts. And from what he said to me, he thought I was the one who was going to plant them. So I reckon this poor stupe was trying to stop any sabotage, but wouldn't calm down enough to listen to me. It's not going to be that simple."

 

 Baron Silas Hunter fixed Ryan with a steely glare. "It better be some easy, or else you may find that you don't get your easy passage out. Remember why I hired you." He turned on his heel and stormed off toward the wag, followed by his sec guard.

 

 "Touchy, is he not?" Doc remarked quietly.

 

 "Guess you'd be if you had a whole heap of barons on your back and a big project like this that was screwing up on you," Dean replied.

 

 "That is a fair point," Doc agreed before turning to face the camp, where the oily plumes of black smoke had decreased in intensity. "It looks as though whatever happened back there is under control, so perhaps our friendly baron may wish to show us the forces he expects us to marshal."

 

 "You mean people he want us sec?" Jak questioned, then shook his head sadly when Doc assented, "Breath you waste on words chill me," the albino remarked.

 

 "C'mon, let's go," Ryan said, leading them back to where the baron's wag was waiting, leaving the chilled corpse behind to be dealt with by another sec party, when the workers returned to their posts.

 

 Baron Silas was waiting behind the wheel of the wag, the engine ticking over, staring impassively ahead. The sec man sat next to him, as blank a cipher as any living being could be. The companions climbed into the back of the wag, and Ryan leaned around the side of the wag again to talk to the baron.

 

 "Looks like the trouble in the camp has died down, but now seems as good a time as any to see what was going on. So how about you take us there? And one more thing," he added as the baron put the wag into gear. "Getting pissed at us is no answer to your problem. We can't do jackshit until we've actually looked the area over and got to see the people in their own shit. Don't get heavy on us, because that isn't going to help anyone."

 

 The baron's cold eyes met Ryan's ice-blue orb. He said nothing for a second, as though assessing the one-eyed man once more, then grunted. "Okay, but I need results bad."

 

 "Fair enough. You'll get them, but it doesn't mean to say you'll like them," Ryan commented as he swung himself back into the rear of the wag and the vehicle lurched into motion.

 

 The wag careered across the harsh desert surface, raising clouds of dust in its wake as it followed a track beaten into the earth by the constant tramping back and forth of the workforce. As they neared the camp, the companions could see the workers coming toward them in ragged lines, policed by a group of sec outriders who were mounted on unruly, flea-bitten horses that they could barely control.

 

 "Horses?" Mildred yelled.

 

 "I guess they save on fuel for the sec men and Baron Silas," J.B. said, "and until he gets that well and refinery running, every drop of fuel is like burning jack. Especially if he's into the other barons for a lot of that jack."

 

 Dean laughed. "Hot pipe! If those are the best horses they can get, then we really are gonna be up to our necks in horse shit."

 

 Ryan said nothing. He was too busy watching the faces of the workers as they went by. A mix of different peoples, even in procession they had segregated themselves into groups that bespoke of their villes. From the state of some it was obvious that whatever had caused the fire in the camp had been precursor to a fight. There were abrasions and contusions on many of the workers' faces and exposed arms that showed a pitched battle had taken place. And from the small size of the sec force, it was also clear that the number of people involved had been hard to control.

 

 The one-eyed man already knew that their task was to be difficult. This was brought home even harder when the wag entered the camp, and he could see the almost visible dividing lines between the different peoples. It was visible from the way the huts and tents were constructed, from the ways that the children, running ragged, played and stuck to lines that were so clearly demarcated that they could almost have been drawn, and from the appearance and dress of the womenfolk tending to the camp.

 

 They all had one thing in common, though: the hostile glares with which they greeted the wag as it passed.

 

 This was going to be harder than Ryan had thought.

 

  

 

 Chapter Twelve

 

  

 

 Baron Silas took the opportunity to give Ryan and the companions a tour around the camp. With the workers on their way back to the refinery and well, and the fire and interville fight quelled, it was the right moment to show them what they would provide sec for with the minimum of interference.

 

 The fire that had emptied the work site was in the part of the camp that housed the migrant workers from Water Valley. As they entered this quarter, the companions noted that the dwelling switched from the blanket, material and wooden pole constructions of the Running Water people into the much harder lines of huts constructed from scrap wood and sheets of corrugated iron, the wood gouged deep with running joints for the metal to slide into, securing it against the vagaries of the weather.

 

 "Those Crow's people," Jak said to Dean, pointing out the Running Water women, who were dark-skinned with dark hair, and dark-eyed children at their feet.

 

 "Yeah," the younger Cawdor replied, "and I'd guess they get less trouble with the elements than these guys—" he indicated the run of huts "—but they must be near to each other, their villes, because they seem to at least tolerate each other."

 

 "Which makes one wonder," Doc added thoughtfully, "who started the fire…"

 

 They had taken a circuitous route through the camp in order to get to that point, taking a counterclockwise path that had led them from the remnants of the fire at first, taking in the other areas, before landing them back to their point of origin.

 

 A couple of sec men, their horses tied to a post supporting one of the Running Water dwellings and attracting the attention of children from both Running Water and Water Valley, were helping the womenfolk from both villes to clear the scorched debris of the fire.

 

 As they dismounted from the wag, it was easy to see why the folks of Water Valley and Running Water stuck together. Whereas the vast majority of the camp was Caucasian, albeit from different areas and with different tribal and predark origins, the two villes whose homes were water based were of a different stock. The Running Water people were, as the companions had guessed from what both Baron Silas and the Crow had told them, a Native American people, which made them stand out. And the Water Valley dwellers displayed a much wider mix than anything they had seen in the camp. The women and children who were clustered around the huts showed Native American, black and Hispanic blood among them, the children having a glorious array of skin tone and features that made them a truly eclectic tribe.

 

 Mildred looked at them, taking in the multiplicity of human types, and turned to J.B. "John, this is the sort of thing they could still only dream about before skydark. When I was young, my daddy used to tell me that one day the people of the earth would be one. Shit, he didn't think it'd take a holocaust to do it." And for a moment she stopped being Dr. Mildred Wyeth and became once more the little girl at her daddy's knee, listening to him tell her tales of the marches with another Dr.—Martin Luther King. Then she looked at the remnants of the fire, and her heart burned with a fire of anger. "One thing, John," she continued, "if that's why this is happening, and it's not the oil well, then some bastard's going to pay."

 

 "Dark night, keep calm," the Armorer replied softly. "I don't know why it's gotten to you—how can I? But I do know we're gonna need to keep frosty or get chilled." Mildred looked at him. "I know you're right, but it might be a little hard." Baron Silas and Ryan walked from the wag over to the site of the fire, where the sec men were kicking over the ashes to kill any last smoldering sparks.

 

 They deferred to the baron as he reached them, and he said, "What happened?"

 

 "Hard to say for sure," replied the taller man, who had a finely honed musculature and a long gray beard. Ryan reckoned him to be past fifty, but still a match for any fighter. And from the way the stockier, younger sec man let him answer, he obviously had some kind of authority. The sec man continued. "Trouble is, as always, they waited till a patrol was past these parts before firing up. Asked a few questions, but answers are garbled. Sounds like kids—too old to be around the women, but not yet old enough to work on the well. Guess they got bored, listen to their fathers talk shit about each other, and decided to have a little fun and make a little trouble. Lord alone knows we ain't likely to catch them—not from the descriptions. Could be anyone, from almost any ville, though some do stand out," he added with a glance at the women and children around.

 

 "You don't think it was intended to cause a diversion and bring the workers back?" Ryan asked.

 

 The sec man sized up the one-eyed man before answering, and his reply was slow and considered. "Figure it could be to do with fucking up the well, eh? Mebbe I'd agree if there'd been any damage at the well, which I guess there hasn't 'cause you're here not there, Baron," he added to Baron Silas. "And mebbe I'd agree more if it'd been at night. But this ain't right for that. There were too many people about to see who fired it up, and it's too early in the day—even if you could pull everyone off-site, there's still the chance of being seen." He shook his head firmly. "No, this is villes hating each other, but it ain't the well."

 

 Ryan nodded. "Okay, sounds good," he said simply. Everything the sec man had told him made sense, and the one-eyed man needed to let him know that he would trust his judgment. If this sec man was in charge of camp sec, then it was important Ryan establish friendly relations.

 

 Baron Silas introduced him as Myall, the head of camp sec, as Ryan had deduced, then explained who Ryan and his companions were. The one-eyed man wasn't surprised to see the distrust cross Myall's face when the baron revealed their reason for being there. If Ryan had been in Myall's position, he knew that he would have felt slighted and snubbed by the introduction of an outside force. It implied that Myall couldn't do his job, and that he was lesser in the view of both the baron and—ultimately—his own men and the people he was policing. In which case, how could he carry on? So it was important they establish a rapport and that Ryan and his people were careful not to step on any existing sec toes…unless, of course, it became an imperative.

 

 When Silas had finished explaining, Ryan stepped forward and proffered his hand. "Fireblast, this is a difficult situation for us all. We'll need you if we're to do anything. We're extra firepower, and we need you as a guide. Are you with that?"

 

 The tall, gray-bearded sec man paused for a few seconds, then took the proffered hand. Although he was wirier than Ryan, he was a couple of inches taller, being almost the same height as Crow, and his grip was iron strong.

 

 "We've got some interesting times ahead," Myall said with a grin. "Welcome aboard."

 

 THE SEC BASE for the work camp was on the northern edge, fenced off from the camp itself by a barbed-wire fence that ran ten feet high and was designed as much to keep the horses in as to keep the workers and their dependents out. The sec men slept in a bunkhouse made of wood and sheet metal, and ate in a tented shelter. Baron Silas drove the companions to the bunkhouse, followed by Myall and McVie— the name of the second sec man—on their horses. Baron Silas discharged the companions and left them in the care of Myall, who showed them the scant facilities and directed two of his men to build a tented shelter for them to sleep. He and McVie then led them to a small shack on the far side of the compound, away from the sleeping quarters and the mess tent.

 

 "Guess you should stay outside," Myall said as he opened the door, stooping in the low doorway, '"cause there ain't enough room to swing a rat, let alone anything bigger, in here."

 

 Looking over his shoulder, they could all agree. The shack had room enough for one table with a large radio receiver on it, and a chair, currently occupied by a fat sec man who looked up bleary-eyed when Myall entered.

 

 "This my change of shift?" he said in a monotone. "Feels like I've been in this bastard oven forever."

 

 "Then it's gonna seem that way some more, Todd," Myall said good naturedly. "It ain't time yet. Harv's still out on patrol. But hang in there, boy, won't be long.

 

 "See, it gets so hot and boring in here," he continued to the companions, "that the poor boys in here damn near go mad with heat and nothing to do. But they know their shit, and that's all that matters."

 

 "Todd," he said, turning back to the fat sec man, "these here people are new sec that the baron has brought in. So you all tell them about these." He gestured to a rack that hung behind the bleary-eyed sec man.

 

 "Okay, if that's what you want," Todd said without enthusiasm. "Y'all familiar with old tech like this?" he asked, and when they assented he added, "Not that I'm being funny with y'all, but you'd be surprised. Some of the people out there, when I'm on patrol, look like they've seen weird mutie shit when they hear a voice come out of this, you know?" he explained, tapping a handset that he had taken from the rack.

 

 He went on to explain in great detail how the radio worked and how to pump the batteries, and it soon became apparent why he was one of the few who were detailed to the radio shack, for despite the drone of his monotonal voice, he couldn't help but enthuse over the way the old tech worked. To the companions, who had encountered much more in their travels, it was a case of waiting for him to cut to the chase. However, it soon became apparent that this salvaged tech was used by the sec patrols to keep in touch with one another and with their base camp while they were out, and report any trouble that may arise.

 

 "Yeah, but it don't have to work, does it?" Dean whispered to Doc.

 

 "Of course not, young Dean—I assume you are thinking, as I am, that if the saboteurs have a set, as well, they can track their opposing numbers with ease." Doc commented, to which Dean readily agreed.

 

 Todd finished his lecture and handed out handsets to the companions, making sure that they knew how to use them to an almost pedantic degree. When he had finished, and Myall had dispatched him back to his post, closing the shack door, McVie allowed himself a chuckle.

 

 "You'll have to excuse the boy, but I reckon all that heat does something to the brain," he said, making a screwball motion against his head with his index finger. "But what the hell," he continued, "it ain't your brains that are gonna get shaken up now…am I right?" he asked Myall.

 

 The head sec man laughed, throwing back his head. "Last thing, boy. Last thing…"

 

  

 

 Chapter Thirteen

 

  

 

 It took a few days for the companions to break and to completely master the horses Myall assigned to them. None of the friends had done as much horseback riding in such a short space of time in their lives, and the rough riding combined with the ability of some of the beasts to throw them to the ground meant that the companions had more than a few contusions and cuts. Most of all, they had aching muscles in places that hadn't been tested in such a manner before. The most common complaint was a stretching of the muscles in the small of the back. Krysty and Jak were able to counter this with massage techniques that differed slightly but had a similar result, and had been learned in their own villes.

 

 "Easy strain muscle while hunting. This help you get out again quick," Jak commented while pummeling J.B.'s back.

 

 "You sure you got that right?" the Armorer winced as the pain seemed to increase instead of decrease.

 

 Krysty's technique was subtler. Learned in Harmony, it involved a manipulation of the sore muscle with the balls of her thumbs, softly at first in circles but digging ever harder and ever deeper until it became like a burning needle into the flesh. Her "victim," Ryan, bit hard into his lip as the pain reached a pitch that he hadn't known for a long time.

 

 "Hurts whatever way it goes, so don't think I'm getting off lightly," he said through gritted teeth at his friend.

 

 It was Doc and Dean, however, who gave the greatest cause for concern. Doc had been thrown four times, and although his body was prematurely aged by his experiences, and he was little older in truth than any of the others. Still that premature aging had given him some physical aspects of a more elderly man. He had landed heavily on his back, and Mildred was worried that he might have damaged his spine.

 

 "Trouble is, osteopathy was never my strong point, especially among geriatrics," she explained to Doc as she probed along his backbone with her finger and thumb, manipulating the flesh and muscle to feel for the vertebrae.

 

 "Despite that, and despite your insistence on calling me a geriatric," Doc said somewhat peevishly, "I still find myself—perhaps to my utter amazement—trusting your judgment." He winced as she hit a sore spot. "Even though it quite literally pains me," he added.

 

 Mildred finished her examination, and Doc rolled over onto his back before sitting up. He could see that, despite their apparent antagonism, there was a look of relief on her face.

 

 "I take it from your apparent relief that you found nothing seriously amiss?" he asked.

 

 "Unfortunately, no," she replied with a wicked grin. "I think you might just outlast us all, you old buzzard. Although," she added, "I'm concerned that, if there's a hairline fracture to one of the vertebrae, I can't find it just by feel, and it would make you extremely vulnerable to another fall."

 

 Doc nodded slowly. "I appreciate what you are saying, but it does occur to me that the same could be true of any of us. After all, we've all taken at least one tumble…not to mention what we've been through before this."

 

 "So stop worrying about you, right?" Mildred queried. And when Doc nodded, she added, "As if I could be bothered about an old fool like you."

 

 "Madam, I would expect nothing less," he countered.

 

 Which just left Dean. Mildred had found some steroid and antihistamine cream in the medical supplies she had looted from the redoubt, and there was also a steroid solution in one of the sealed hypodermics that she had secreted in her coat. The injection had calmed the boy's raging immune system, and the cream, sparingly used, had soothed the itching hives that had erupted on his skin.

 

 But there was only one other steroid injection, and even though the cream was being used sparingly, there was only the one tube, so Mildred was a little concerned about what would happen if the cream ran out, and the effects of a possible second injection subsided, before they had completed their mission.

 

 "I don't understand it," Dean complained as Mildred checked his skin. "I've ridden horses before, and we're always out in the wild among shit like this, but I've never had anything like this."

 

 "Well, for a start we hardly ever get close enough to get bitten," Mildred pondered. "Animal fleas need to jump on, bite, then jump the hell off. And we aren't stupid enough to get close to most of the mutie critters we come across for the fleas to make that jump. And as for riding horses before… I'd guess that the problem lies in the fact that animals and insects across this pesthole land are all mutated in different ways. Those horses aren't like any we've seen before, so mebbe the fleas aren't, either. So you just lucked out, Dean."

 

 "Great," Dean replied sardonically. "So what do I do if the cream doesn't last, and we don't nail these saboteurs first?"

 

 Mildred stayed silent for a second. "Not much any of us can do," she said. "Krysty's looked for the right plants to make you something, but we haven't had much luck. So I guess we've got to hope that the luck comes in nailing the bastards who are causing the trouble."

 

 She exchanged a glance with Dean. It wasn't a satisfactory answer, but it was the only one. Just one more factor to be added to their race against time.

 

 Just another pressure to be added. Like the others.

 

 FOUR DAYS into their stay at the sec camp, Myall arrived. The companions had completed their riding training under the watchful and amused eye of McVie, and had found that the sec man was, despite his apparent humor at their mishaps, keen to assist and teach. He watched them all carefully and, after using them as the butt of his jokes, had given insights into their riding techniques that helped them master the animals quicker. They saw less of Myall, as the sec chief was called away to marshal his meager forces in the camp and workplace. There hadn't been any more instances of sabotage, but the ville groups were at one another's throats constantly, each accusing the other of wanting to destroy the project.

 

 And Baron Silas was getting restless. Each day Myall had to go to the sweatbox radio shack and talk to the baron about the progress of the new sec force; Ryan always asked him on his return what the baron's view was, and the sec chief had confided that the baron was less than pleased.

 

 "Hell, I think you're doing good 'cause I know just how awkward those bastard creatures are to master, and a fresh face and more of them is gonna help no end when we get out there," the sec chief had told the one-eyed man, "but the baron wants results yesterday, and there doesn't seem to be anything I can tell him to make him see otherwise."

 

 "Yeah, if you'd sent us out straight away it would have been impossible to control those beasts, and the workers would have branded us as easy," Ryan said. "But there haven't been any more attempts to stop progress on the project?"

 

 Myall shook his head. "It comes and goes in waves. Right now, I'd say that whoever is doing it is either lying low to see just what you're like, or they're too busy fighting other battles in the camp."

 

 The sec man took a long drink from a canteen and offered it to Ryan, who took it and found his throat assailed by a raw-vegetable distilled spirit. He had been expecting water, and it was all he could do to stop from choking at the bite of the bitter alcohol.

 

 "It's the only way we've been getting through this," Myall said, noting Ryan's surprise. "Helps you sleep—that's for sure."

 

 "As long as it doesn't stop you from being triple red when you're out there," Ryan added.

 

 Myall grinned. "Hell, I sometimes think that'd be better. Y'know, if I died tonight I think hell would be like this…stuck in the middle of nowhere with a whole bunch of misfits who want to blast the fuck out of each other, and no idea who's really doing shit to who."

 

 "Sounds like everyday life to me, not just here," Ryan commented.

 

 "Yeah, well, mebbe that's why it stinks worse than those bastard horses," Myall said, taking back the canteen and sinking some more of the spirit. "I'll bid you good-night, my friend. And one more thing," he suddenly added as he rose to leave.

 

 "Yeah?" Ryan queried.

 

 "Crow arrives tomorrow."

 

 "What's he been sent here for?"

 

 Myall allowed himself a grin that was entirely devoid of humor. "To get you out there. Baron Silas is a hard man, and he demands payment for everything he does. It's your time to pay, I guess."

 

 "We're ready," Ryan said evenly.

 

 "I know that," Myall said simply before leaving the one-eyed man alone with his thoughts.

 

 THE NEXT MORNING Ryan rose to find the giant Native American breakfasting with the sec force in the mess tent.

 

 "So we meet again," Crow said with a glimmer of good humor in his low, quiet voice. "Under more pleasant circumstances this time, however," he added.

 

 "That rather depends on what you mean by 'pleasant,' " Doc returned with an equal tone as he seated himself beside Crow and Ryan.

 

 "It's a relative term," mused the Native American, "but at least you're not half dead from heat exhaustion and lack of food and water. And at least you get to keep your weapons this time. Let's just hope you get a chance to use them."

 

 "Wouldn't it be better to say that we don't get a chance to use them?" Ryan countered. "If us just being here stops any more sabotage, then the well and refinery can open, the workers get their jack, the barons get their power, and everyone's happy."

 

 "In a perfect world, mebbe," Crow said at length. "But you're no fool, Ryan Cawdor—you know it won't be that way. Whoever is behind this will crawl out of their little hole again, regardless of if you're there or not. Mebbe even because, if they feel it's a challenge. So what happens then?"

 

 "Okay, you make the point well," Ryan conceded. "But we won't know for sure until we actually get out there."

 

 "Which will be when?"

 

 "Today," the one-eyed man replied. "That's why you're here, after all."

 

 Crow allowed a smile to crack his impassive, leathery features. Under the shadow cast by the brim of his hat, his eyes glittered.

 

 "To say that's very perceptive would be an insult in your case," he said softly. "Are you ready to go?"

 

 "As ready as we'll ever be," Ryan said. "Right, Doc?"

 

 Doc winced slightly as he thought of his sore back. "I think it is safe to say that, my dear boy."

 

 As the sec force went about its daily tasks, the rest of the companions joined Ryan, Doc and Crow in the tent. And when they were replete, they walked out to the paddock, where McVie was waiting for them.

 

 "Hey, the big day, right?" he said as they approached, sparing a nod of greeting for Crow. "You're on second watch, and your route will be through the camp rather than the work sites. Myall reckoned it would be better for you to check that out tonight, as that's when most of the sabotage has occurred anyway. He figures it's better for you to get a night view from the start—besides which, if you're seen today it might stir some action."

 

 "Seems a reasonable course of action," Ryan mused. "So when do we head off?"

 

 " 'Bout two hours," McVie replied, "so I guess you've got plenty of time to get your blasters stripped and ready."

 

 Ryan nodded. "So who's giving us the lowdown on the camp as we patrol?"

 

 "I am," Crow said before McVie had a chance to reply. "I know all of these peoples. I traveled a lot before coming to work for Baron Silas, and they all know of me. I can fill you in on any background you need."

 

 "And report back on us to the baron, right?" Ryan added.

 

 Crow shrugged. "I'd be a fool to deny that," he said simply.

 

 Ryan nodded and led his people away from the paddock and back to the tent they had made their base in the sec camp. Crow stayed with McVie, knowing that it was right to give them space.

 

 When they were in the tent, and had begun to clean and check their blasters—a task that was made easy by J.B.'s continuing insistence on blaster maintenance that made each clean and check an almost perfunctory matter—the Armorer asked Ryan, "Do you think we can trust Crow?"

 

 "Everything we say and do will go back to the baron. But other than that, I think he'll be straight with us. Hell, he has been so far. He didn't have to tell us he would report it all back."

 

 "Open man," Jak commented as he checked his .357 Magnum Colt Python, chambering a round. "No bullshit."

 

 "Yeah, I don't get a bad feeling about him," Krysty said. "He's just got his job to do and a line to walk. Same as all of us to different degrees, right?"

 

 They finished checking their weapons, and J.B. went through his stock of grens and plas-ex. "Won't need these in the camp," he commented. "Far too closed in to risk it. More likely to chill ourselves than anyone else. But mebbe later, when we get to the work sites."

 

 Ryan checked his wrist chron. "Time to go. Let's stay hard out there, and triple red for everything."

 

 THEY MOUNTED their horses and rode from the sec camp across the short distance to the outskirts of the workers' camp, passing the incoming patrol on the way. They had nothing to report apart from the usual complaints and insults among the different ville tribes. There had been no fighting and no sign of any real trouble.

 

 "Looks like you may get broken in easy," Crow commented as they rode on, "which'll at least give you a chance to learn about these people before you have to start chilling them."

 

 None of the companions were sure if the deadpan Native American was joking, and refrained from comment.

 

 The first nest of huts and tents belonged to the people of Haigh, whose baron was John the Gaunt. A severe name for a severe baron, and that was reflected in the dour and downbeat appearance of their encampment. The material that comprised the tents was of dull, stained colors, and the women and children were quiet, going about their chores and play with a deadened demeanor, as though just going through the motions. They hardly looked up as the patrol passed through.

 

 "Can't see these being much trouble," Mildred said. "What are the men like?"

 

 "Like this," Crow replied. "They work hard and keep themselves to themselves. Haigh's not a rich ville, and they've had to work their land hard and drive hard bargains based on work rather than jack. They like to keep their energy for work, because that's all they had to keep them alive for a long time. The road and the well will bring them more than they could ever dream, but John the Gaunt won't let them get soft on it. I'd figure they were part of some old religion before skydark, and that harshness has stayed with them. They're the last ones I'd bet on to be sabotaging the works. One thing, though—don't be fooled by how quiet and peaceful they seem. You cross these people, and they're the hardest fighters you'll ever come across. Even the bastards from Mandrake avoid them, and they'll fight anyone."

 

 As Crow finished speaking, a woman holding a roughly made broom walked toward them, unflinching of the animals as they twitched at her approach.

 

 "Good day to you," she said in a monotone. "There is no need," she added as she noticed hands ready to unholster blasters. "I have no quarrel with you. I merely wish to ask a question."

 

 "Well, that's fine," Crow said in an even and friendly tone. "Ask your question, my friend."

 

 "I know of you," she said, looking directly at Crow. "You are from the Baron Silas. I would be thinking that these are outsider mercies brought in to stop the sabotage."

 

 When Crow answered her with a nod, she continued, now addressing the companions. "Do you be thinking that you can stop an entire army? For that is what this camp be. I have no love for any others, and they not for me. But if they wish to cause war, then are you enough?"

 

 "I don't know," Ryan said simply. "It depends on who is causing the trouble."

 

 "Are you so naive that you do not realize that all cause trouble for all? We fight each other, because it is not right for us all to be so close."

 

 "But mebbe the sabotage isn't from you all," Ryan said. "Mebbe your fights only give cover to those who want to stop the well."

 

 The woman said nothing, but assessed the one-eyed man shrewdly before finally saying, "I think you may be capable." With which she turned and returned to her hut, sweeping as though they were no longer there.

 

 The patrol moved on, and when they had reached the obvious demarcation point between one ville and another, Dean whispered, "Are they all that weird?"

 

 Crow allowed himself a wry grin. "Start with the strangest and everything else is easy to take in," he answered cryptically. "You'll see, son, you'll see."

 

 The lines marking the boundaries between the different groups within the camp were clear. Within a few yards of the spot where they had stopped to speak with the woman, they turned a corner and entered somewhere that seemed entirely different.

 

 The huts, shacks and tents were constructed in a different matter, seeming to veer over and be ready to collapse. It was obvious that little effort had gone into their construction, although they were garishly decorated in paints and dyed fabrics in a collision of orange, white and green. The women talked, the area was dirty and the children ran riot. There had been some indication of this in the distant noise as they had rode through the quiet of the Haigh sector, but nothing could have prepared them for the sudden contrast.

 

 The children whirled in and out of the horses' hooves, disturbing the animals and causing all the companions to tighten their grips on the manes. The women ignored their children and carried on conversing in loud voices, not caring what was occurring and seeming not to notice the riders among them.

 

 "Bedlam," Doc whispered.

 

 This part of the camp smelled strongly of distilled spirit, and there were signs of smoke from some of the huts that suggested the inhabitants were either brewing spirit or else had forgotten to extinguish fires and were about to lose their homes. Not that it seemed that they cared.

 

 "So who are these?" Ryan asked, trying to keep his voice level.

 

 "This, my friend, is the Mandrake sector. Putting these people next to those from Haigh wasn't the best piece of foresight anyone ever had," Crow remarked sardonically. "To say they loathe each other would be an understatement."

 

 "So this is a source of trouble?"

 

 Crow shook his head. "Baron Silveen is a rich man, and he wants to be richer. He's sunk a lot of jack into this, and he won't be too keen on it going west because of some squabbling. These are fierce, short-tempered people, but they fear their baron more than anyone else."

 

 "Enough to stick to his word when they're this far away?" Ryan queried, looking at the groups of women who were eying them suspiciously, the children who were throwing stones at one another—and at the horses' forelocks when they thought no one was looking—and at the few older men who lurked in the doorways of the huts, eying the patrol suspiciously.

 

 Crow laughed. "If you'd ever met Baron Silveen, you wouldn't be asking that question. Take it from me, no one would want to cross him. That's not to say that some, fired up by the spirits, may not."

 

 "And they're the ones to watch out for," Ryan muttered.

 

 "Yeah, but how do you tell?" added J.B., who had ridden up to join them. "Ryan," he continued, "don't be fooled by the way they look—take a look at some of the blasters, then sniff the air."

 

 Ryan frowned, and tried to get a look at the blasters carried by the women without being spotted. The Armorer was right. Although the women seemed unkempt, and their clothes were colorful, tight fitting and sluttish, the handblasters that all of them seemed to pack were, as far as he could tell from what was visible, highly polished. If they kept the visible part of the blaster in that good a condition, then chances were that the mechanisms were also well maintained. And the air? The one-eyed man was about to comment to J.B. that he could smell the chemical aroma of plas-ex being broken down and reconstituted, and possibly homemade explosives, too, when a sudden flurry of violent activity distracted him.

 

 A fight had broken out among one group of women. Ryan hadn't heard the argument that led to it, but Krysty and Mildred had. Two women were arguing about an old man who lurked in the doorway of one of the huts, and did nothing to stop the argument. In point of fact, he seemed to revel in the sudden chaos he had caused.

 

 "I tell you he wouldn't go with you if you was the last woman on the face of the world, which you'd have to be to get any attention from a man," the younger of the women added to drive her point home.

 

 The older woman—who was about a hundred pounds heavier and had dark red hair shot through with silver—replied angrily, "Shit, he must hate being the father of such a gaudy slut. How many of these kids are his?"

 

 This was too much for the younger woman. Despite her inferior weight, she yelled in incoherent fury and threw a haymaker punch that caught the older woman on the side of the head, making her stagger backward with a startled yelp.

 

 She recovered quickly, however, and charged back at her opponent with a snarl, catching her under the chin with a roundhouse blow that would have rendered her unconscious had it properly connected. It didn't, but it was still hard enough to knock her backward into the rest of the women, who were now beginning to draw up sides for the fight.

 

 It looked as if it could get out of hand quickly, and Krysty and Mildred knew they had to act. They also knew that it would stamp the companions authority hard if they were the ones to quell the disturbance, rather than the men.

 

 The two Mandrake women were locked together now, wrestling in a small circle, the better to try to gain the upper hand. The other women were closing in, swapping insults with each other depending on the sides they had chosen. There were some blows being flung, but so far it hadn't escalated into a full-scale fight.

 

 And it wouldn't if Mildred and Krysty had anything to do with it.

 

 Both women were off their horses and into the midst of the fledgling fight before anyone had a chance to react. A glance between them determined that Krysty would take the older woman and Mildred the younger. Krysty was slightly taller than Mildred, and would have the height and leverage advantage to overcome the weight of the older woman, whereas Mildred's lesser height would enable her to fight face-to-face with the younger woman.

 

 But first they had to get them apart.

 

 The speed and unexpectedness of their attack gave them an advantage in breaking through the crowd, both women using their elbows and heavy boots to crack shins and cause the crowd to part as their ribs became the object of a series of blows. It didn't take a second for Mildred and Krysty to reach the center of the action.

 

 The two Mandrake women were still locked together, neither giving ground, all their attention focused on each other. This made it simple for the outsiders to part them. Mildred jabbed her opponent beneath the rib cage with a straight-finger blow that sent a searing pain through the woman's kidneys and took her breath away. She folded onto one side and tried to throw her balance over to compensate.

 

 Her opponent could have used this to her advantage if she, too, hadn't also come under attack. Because of her weight and stance, there was no option for Krysty to do anything but take a handful of the woman's hair and pull back. She had to hope that her opponent was sensitive to having her scalp pulled, and didn't have the kind of bull-like neck muscles that would preclude it working. In this she was lucky. With a gasp of surprise and sudden pain, the older woman jerked her head back, leaving her throat and neck open to attack.

 

 Krysty wasn't slow in following this up. Still grasping the older woman's hair firmly, she chopped at the exposed throat, hitting hard on the windpipe and cutting off the woman's breath. It was all she could do to stop herself from blacking out at the sudden shock, slumping against Krysty and almost throwing her off balance. But Krysty yielded to the slump and then pushed back, reversing the momentum so that her opponent was thrust away from her. As the older woman careened away, Krysty still kept hold of her hair, using it to twist the woman's head and deliver a punch to her temple that caused her to fall the rest of the way into unconsciousness. She dropped like a stone as Krysty let go of her hair.

 

 Mildred was also in the process of finishing off her opponent. Doubled with agony, and with no breath in her body, the younger of the two Mandrake women turned to face Mildred, her face contorted by pain and rage. She made to grab at the black woman's swinging plaits, but Mildred was too quick, dodging her grasping hands and swinging up her leg in the same movement, catching her opponent in the abdomen with the toe cap of her heavy boot. As the woman pitched forward, Mildred finished her off with a blow to the back of her neck, delivered with the straight edge of her right hand.

 

 Before both Mandrake women had settled in the dust, Krysty and Mildred were back-to-back, ready for the rest of the pack to attack.

 

 It didn't come. Instead there was a sudden hush, and the other women stood around, not knowing what to do or who would be the first to break forward.

 

 Mildred stalled them. "Listen to me. I don't know what that was about, and I don't care. I just know that we're here to keep the peace, and if it means beating the shit out of every last one of you, then that's what we'll do. But you don't give us crap and everything'll be fine. You understand me?"

 

 There was a silence, followed by a low rumble that could have been a grudging assent, but was certainly not dissent.

 

 "That's okay, then," Mildred said as she and Krysty relaxed slightly, then made their way back to their mounts. "Just remember that, and we'll have no argument with the people of Mandrake."

 

 As soon as Krysty and Mildred were on horseback, Crow kicked his steed into motion, and they left the narrow street in the Mandrake sector of the camp, with a grudging respect and possibly resentment behind them.

 

 When they were out of earshot, Crow murmured, "That was impressive. They'll be looking out for you now. Mebbe need to watch your backs from some, but you'll get less shit from others."

 

 "That," Mildred replied, "is the general idea."

 

 THE REST of their journey around the camp was less eventful. The sectors that housed the people from Water Valley and Running Water they had already encountered on their journey into the camp with Baron Silas. There was nothing new for them to learn from there as of yet.

 

 Moving on, they came to the sector where the people from Salvation itself were housed. It came as no surprise to anyone that they had the best-constructed home site. The huts and shacks were put together from a better quality of salvaged material, and the manner in which they had been constructed suggested that a ville of engineers had been at work. Even the tents were of a stronger fabric, which looked as though it had been chosen with care from that available to make a series of moveable homes that could be transported and reerected with ease. Ryan, and J.B. in particular, had to admire the way in which the host ville had managed its section of the camp. Crow was well known here, and it soon became apparent from the comments they met with that word of this new sec force had spread among the natives of Salvation. The companions were told that it was up to them to stop the sabotage and keep the jack bonuses going up for the workers and their families.

 

 "One thing I do notice, though," Ryan commented as they left the Salvation sector. "They all blame different villes for the damage, just as the woman from Haigh blamed someone else."

 

 "Could be bluff," Crow replied. "Could be that they want to blame someone else to cover themselves. Could be they want to blame someone else just because they're different."

 

 "Yeah, and it could be that no one there actually knows anything about it," J.B. countered.

 

 Crow looked at him shrewdly. "Ideas?" he asked simply.

 

 J.B. shrugged. "Not yet."

 

 But the Armorer continued to think about it as they traveled around the rest of the camp. They had already seen the work sites, and knew the layout. It was hard for anyone to hide there, and so the sabotage had to be perpetrated at a time when everyone not involved on the task would be safely out of the way. There was too much risk of anyone being seen during daylight and working hours, as not only were there sec patrols but also it was highly unlikely that any of the individuals involved would want to sabotage their own areas of work and so put their own jack bonuses at risk. Other areas and other workers' bonuses, maybe, but only a stupe would do that to himself. And J.B. was sure that this was not the work of a stupe.

 

 So if the sabotage couldn't be done by day, then it had to be done by night. By necessity, the sec patrols at night were concentrated on the camp, to stop any fights that may break out inside. This left the work site relatively open to attack. But the problem any saboteurs would then have was in getting out of the camp, going about their tasks, and getting back into the camp without being seen—if not by the sec, then by someone from a rival ville. The fact that no one seemed to have any definite facts, within such a closed hothouse atmosphere, made J.B. wonder if Baron Silas and his sec men were looking in the wrong direction.

 

 As this passed through his mind, he wondered if he should talk to Ryan about it, so they could begin asking questions. But one look at the one-eyed man riding next to Crow dissuaded him. It wasn't that the Armorer didn't trust the Native American, it was more that he didn't want anything of his notion getting out—particularly to Baron Silas—until such time as they had a chance to investigate its validity.

 

 Besides, there were still four sectors of the camp with which to become familiar.

 

 Crow led them into the sector that housed the workers and their families from the ville of Dallas. It was immediately obvious to all that Baron Silas had deliberately planned the camp so that the poor folks of his original home ville would have their noses rubbed in the dirt by being placed next door to the richer constructions of his new ville. For the Dallas camp was dirty and disheveled, and the women and children who were on view seemed downtrodden. They had no life or energy and appeared to be almost completely disinterested in the mounted party as they rode down the small streets of the camp. Their huts and tents were hovels that hung loosely together, constructed of materials that the other villes would have thrown away, and completely devoid of color under a mantle of dust.

 

 "I fear these are least likely to be our culprits," Doc murmured as they passed by almost unnoticed.

 

 "Could be that they want revenge," Dean argued.

 

 Doc shook his head sadly. "No, my dear child. These are people with the fight knocked out of them. They just want the scraps from the table—though they do appear to be the kind of whipping boys who would be singled out for blame, should it need to be apportioned."

 

 "No one believe it," Jak interjected. "Smell of fear, being chilled. Quarry," he added dismissively.

 

 "I'd agree with you there," Crow said, listening intently. "Thing is, for a variety of reasons everyone I've shown you so far would be too obvious. Dallas is too downtrodden. The people of Water Valley and Running Water look too different to hide easily. Haigh is too strictly run, and Mandrake is too damn loud to do anything except out front."

 

 "And Salvation?" Ryan queried.

 

 Crow allowed himself a smile. "The enemy inside? Mebbe, but there's too much for everyone to lose. These last three villes, though… They don't look 'different,' so they could blend in easy. And they've all got reason to hate the other villes, and each other."

 

 "Yeah?" Ryan stopped his horse. "Fill us in some background before we look them over."

 

 Crow also stopped, and when the horses had clustered, he said, "Carter, Baker and Hush are basically parts of the same old predark stock. They have common stories relating to oil jack from before the nukecaust. Like a lot of areas that were old well places, they're very white, which means they hate the villes that aren't, and even Mandrake they hate because of it's predark allegiances. They're also pissed because they aren't rich. And because Salvation will be. Never mind that their barons have done this to get a share of the jack. They don't think like that. And they're close to those they hate, and the place that represents their being under the hammer to Salvation. So if they get some spirit, or some jolt…" He shrugged.

 

 Ryan nodded. "That's worth bearing in mind." And he indicated that Crow should lead them on.

 

 Considering the differences they had seen between the other villes and their sectors of the camp, the differences between the last three sectors were remarkable for their lack: the huts, shacks and tents were constructed in a similar manner, and the materials used betrayed a home ville that was scraping around for trade and salvageable merchandise. The people seemed to be from the same stock, and the way in which they dressed and colored their environment with their clothes and the decorations in their camp sector was almost exactly the same. As was their attitude of sullen and mute hostility to the companions and Crow. The burble of conversation and activity died to silence as they passed, and they were watched closely, even though no one spoke directly to them.

 

 It was an uncomfortable ride, the focus of hostility seeming to be Crow and Mildred.

 

 "That was fun," Mildred said sardonically when they emerged from the camp and made their way back to the sec camp.

 

 "Wasn't it," Crow replied. "So what do you reckon?"

 

 "Mebbe this isn't going to be as easy as Baron Silas hopes," Ryan said.

 

 Crow shook his head. "He won't want to hear that."

 

 "I don't give a shit what he wants to hear," Ryan answered. "The fact is that the camp covers a lot of ground, and so does the work site. There's only a dozen sec, and only seven of us. And a shit load of possible trouble. We may be able to stop attacks, but I figure it'd be better to get to the root of it. And we've got a lot of options to cover with no time to do it."

 

 "So?" Crow said softly.

 

 "So Baron Silas has to decide whether he wants us to get to the bottom of this or just blast everyone. I know which I'd rather do, and which is better for us," the one-eyed man stated, dismounting his steed. "And it's not acting like a triple stupe and blasting your workforce out of existence. So tell Baron Silas he may get results, but not necessarily the ones he wants."

 

  

 

 Chapter Fourteen

 

  

 

 Trouble came looking for the companions with a rapidity that surprised them all.

 

 After Crow bade them farewell and returned to Salvation, they rested for a short while, ate and waited for Myall to return from his patrol out at the work site.

 

 "Figure we'd better get some kind of routine established, and triple fast," Ryan said to the others. "The women and kids have seen us, and the workers saw us when we arrived. So now we need—"

 

 "To let them know we're here and here to stay," Mildred interjected.

 

 "Exactly. And the only way to do that is to keep visible."

 

 "Yeah, that's okay," J.B. said thoughtfully, "but I really think we should concentrate on the well and refinery next. That's the root of the trouble."

 

 Ryan gave his friend a sideways glance. "There something you're not saying, J.B.? Because you sound like you've got a few ideas. Mebbe you should share them."

 

 "Sure." The Armorer nodded. And he outlined his theory that perhaps a force outside the camp was responsible before explaining that he didn't want his notion to get back to Baron Silas via Crow. "So I figure that our best shot is to hit the well and refinery tonight, see what happens. Besides, it'll be good to recce it in the dark and get used to it."

 

 That was something with which they could all agree, and when Myall returned from patrol Ryan was able to agree on a patrol roster. They would take the first watch at the work site and would travel to it via a roundabout route through the camp.

 

 "I STILL DON'T GET why we have to go this way," Dean whispered as the procession of horses made its way through the Haigh section of the camp and cut across to go past the Mandrake section.

 

 "Because, my dear boy, it is a show of strength, a display, if you will, of our presence," Doc returned in a low voice. He was riding directly in front of Dean, with Mildred and J.B. at the rear behind the younger Cawdor, and Jak and Krysty in front of Doc, with Ryan in the lead.

 

 "But they know we're here, especially in this place," Dean added, taking in the glares they were receiving from the men and women of Mandrake, accompanied by low muttering.

 

 "Yes, but they also have to know that we are— right now—on our way out to the work site. Word will spread, and then we will see if they have the nerve to attack. Or, indeed, if it is anyone from here."

 

 "Guess you're right," Dean said uneasily, "but I can see us getting into a firefight here and leaving the work site unprotected."

 

 "A first-night risk," Doc returned. "I suspect Ryan has weighed the odds."

 

 But what about the odds on stumbling onto an interville fight? The one-eyed man had expected an attack on themselves, but what happened next hadn't occurred to him.

 

 As they left the Mandrake sector and were about to cross into the Salvation sector, all hell broke loose.

 

 At the crossroads that marked the clear delineation between the villes, a bunch of men were standing on the Salvation side. They were drunk on home brew, and Jak's keen night vision could detect that their eyes, in the flickering lamplight of the camp, were dark with the effects of jolt. They watched the seven horses cross, and also the posse of Mandrake workers that had followed at a distance, a tactic that had failed to spook the companions or their mounts, but set up the Mandrake men for what followed.

 

 "Hey, assholes," yelled one of the Salvation men, "I hear your women got beaten by the new sec women." When there was no answer from the sullen Mandrake men, he continued, "I guess the women could take you as well, right? You are a bunch of shit, right?"

 

 As one, the companions stopped their horses, Ryan wheeling his around to face his people. He didn't have to speak. One look at them told him that they could all sniff the danger in the air and the trouble that was about to break.

 

 Behind them, the Mandrake men were muttering among themselves. They weren't replying to the taunts of the Salvation drunk, but were obviously contemplating a response.

 

 And in the middle were the seven horses and their riders, waiting for the storm to break. It didn't take more than a second.

 

 "Yeah, bunch of shit." The Salvation man laughed, turning to his friends. It was as he turned away that the knife skimmed past his ear, nicking the skin enough for blood to flow like a stream down his neck, before embedding itself in the arm of a man behind him. Caught unawares, with the sharp blade embedding itself in the muscle and sinew of his biceps as he stood there, the shock and pain made the man scream in a frantic, high-pitched tone.

 

 "Fireblast! Get them," Ryan yelled, swinging himself off his mount.

 

 With a chorus of yells and whoops, the Mandrake men charged across the space between themselves and the startled and temporarily wrong-footed Salvation men. In the middle were the companions, who were prepared to make this a fight without blasters unless necessary. Mildred, Krysty and Dean would have to fight unarmed, while Jak palmed a leaf-bladed knife into each hand. Doc's silver lion's-head stick revealed the blade of finely honed Toledo steel that was hidden within. J.B. and Ryan, at each end of the line, were prepared with their blades, J.B. his Tekna and Ryan his trusty panga. Each of the companions picked a direction in which to face the oncoming mob, knowing that the adjacent companion covered his or her back.

 

 Recovering from the shock that had temporarily frozen them, the Salvation men rushed forward to meet the Mandrake men. It wouldn't be a fight of skill and savagery, but rather a drunken brawl where those who get hurt usually end up being hurt by accident.

 

 A Salvation worker threw himself past Doc and landed on an oncoming Mandrake man, throwing him backward onto the dirt where they wrestled aimlessly, neither able to get a satisfactory grip. Doc earmarked them for attention in a moment. His more immediate problem was being sandwiched between two more men, both of whom had blades in hand.

 

 As one dived, Doc sidestepped and brought up the swordstick, the upward thrust catching the diving man's blade and diverting it skyward. Doc followed through in an arc and brought the sword down, slicing at the wrist of the opposing fighter, drawing blood and making him drop his knife. From there, it was simple for Doc—who wasn't befuddled by spirit or jolt—to take the LeMat from his belt and use the heavy butt to render one of his opponents unconscious while kicking the other in the groin and making him collapse. From there, he turned elegantly to deliver another kick that separated the two wrestlers. The hand of one snaked toward his blaster, but a sudden slice from Doc's sword split open the flesh of his arm and caused him to cease, and his opponent to scuttle away in the dirt.

 

 Three Mandrake men, incensed by the earlier incident and forgetting their Salvation opponents, headed directly for Ryan, who took out one with a backhand slash of the panga, and attended to another with a kick from his heavy combat boots that caught the man in the chest, making him collapse. That left one man, and Ryan was left partially vulnerable. Although he left no area of attack open, he was still distracted enough by the two opponents to be unable to fully counter a full-on attack by the third man, who flung himself at the one-eyed man. There were no vulnerable areas that he could attack, but the force of his onslaught did drive Ryan onto the ground. But experience taught him to go with the fall, letting his body go limp so that the impact and any possible damage were lessened. His opponent hit him hard, but rolled off the one-eyed man with the force of his impact, enabling Ryan to turn swiftly so that he was on top of him. One swing with the handle of the panga caught the man under the jaw, snapping him instantly into unconsciousness.

 

 All around, the companions laid waste to their foes. Jak was a whirling blur of white hair and flashing knives, the cuts slashing at the faces and hands of his opponents, rendering them useless through pain and defenseless as their own weapons dropped. Dean, Mildred and Krysty had more than held their own without blades, while the Armorer had found it unnecessary to use his as a few maneuvers in unarmed combat rendered his opponents defeated.

 

 Within a few minutes, the area was a scene of carnage, as blood soaked into the earth and dyed it dark beneath the semiconscious and unconscious bodies that lay around, with only the companions still standing. An audience of women and other men had gathered on each side of the divide, but neither showed any willingness to come forward and either collect their wounded or carry on the fight.

 

 At a signal from Ryan, they mounted their steeds and made ready to head off to the work site. But before they left, Ryan paused and spoke out.

 

 "They're alive because Baron Silas needs them to work. But I warn you all now—anyone else tries to attack us, or any of the sec patrols like this, then we'll chill the bastards."

 

 "Weren't attacking you, were attacking the others," came a voice from the Mandrake side.

 

 Ryan turned to face it, unable in the dim lamplight to single out who had spoken.

 

 "Doesn't matter. This shit stops the work being done, and that's what we're here to see. You do that, then that's attacking us. Understood?"

 

 And before anyone had a chance to answer, he charged his horse and led the line out of the area of the fight, and through the rest of the camp toward the expanse of desert that separated the work site from the workers' dwellings.

 

 No one spoke as they traversed the sandy earth, each lost in his or her own thoughts, until Ryan spoke up, spotting the incoming four-man sec patrol and hailing them when they were a few hundred yards from the storage tanks.

 

 "Hey, how's it going?" asked the leader of the sec patrol as they came within recognizable distance under the light of the crescent moon. The returning patrol was lit by the lamps they carried and was led by McVie. "Hell, you look like you've been in a fight," he added when he could see the companions more clearly. And when Ryan explained what had happened, he whistled low. "Shit, that's gonna make a few people drop their load. And that kind of shit will flush out any troublemakers triple fast, 'cause they're gonna be way pissed with you."

 

 "That is partly the idea." Ryan grinned. "If we're going to fight, then I want to know who."

 

 McVie acknowledged this with an inclination of his head. "Fair point, big guy. So you're covering the site now?" And when Ryan assented, he continued. "Well, it was all clear up to half hour past. Trouble is with only four of us, by the time we've covered one sector, then anything could be happening back where we started. And you ain't got any lamps, either," he added.

 

 J.B. answered, "Don't want them. With more of us we can cover more ground and mebbe catch anyone unawares. So having no lamps would be a real bonus."

 

 "Fair point," McVie conceded. "You take it easy out there. It's quiet so far, so mebbe you've had all your action for one night."

 

 "Let's hope so," Ryan said. Although it crossed his mind that at least a sabotage attempt may give them some clues as to the perpetrators.

 

 WHEN THEY REACHED the work site, it was deathly quiet, but Jak seemed to be concerned about something.

 

 "Ryan, something happening," he whispered as they brought their horses to a halt by the storage tanks. The one-eyed man had intended to split them into three groups at this point, and cover the whole site in a staggered, circular route so that anyone trying to avoid one part of the patrol was likely to be picked up by the following group. His plans were stayed by the sudden reaction of the albino hunter.

 

 "No noise, but smell," Jak continued. "Not sure…like gas."

 

 "We're at an oil well. I'd be surprised if you couldn't smell fuel of some kind," Dean uttered, perplexed.

 

 Jak shook his head. "Not like this," he said shortly, indicating the tanks behind them. "Like gas used on a wag…like shit belching out behind."

 

 "You can smell wag exhaust?" J.B. asked. "But how come the last party missed it? Dark night, it wouldn't be like you couldn't hear a wag out here!"

 

 "Mebbe enough time between them leaving and us arriving to sneak in," Krysty answered, "especially if it was someone who was familiar with the patrol schedule."

 

 "Which makes your idea ever more likely, my dear John Barrymore," Doc mused. "An outside saboteur. Intriguing."

 

 "Mystifying more like," Mildred snapped. "Let's get the bastard and find out just what is going on here."

 

 Ryan nodded. "We need to move fast and silent. Leave the horses here and go on foot. Mildred, you and Dean take the pipeline with Doc. He's familiar with it. J.B., you and Jak cover the refinery buildings. Krysty and me'll take the wellhead. Jak, any idea where the smell comes from."

 

 The albino shook his head. "Not get direction. Just know here."

 

 "Okay. Let's go. Triple red, people," Ryan added before setting off for the wellhead.

 

 Mildred, Doc and Dean took the route along the pipeline, dividing into three in order to cover every inch thoroughly. In a hoarse whisper, Doc described the manner in which the pipes were laid out, and warned that there was little cover, both for any saboteur and also for themselves. The three companions took a different pipe route, knowing that they would all end up at the refinery buildings.

 

 Which was exactly where Jak and J.B. were headed, the albino and the Armorer moving across the desert floor at a run, crouched low lest they be seen against the horizon. They stayed silent, saving their breath for the run, and their concentration for any signs of activity ahead of them, ignoring what lay behind as that was in the capable hands of their companions.

 

 Krysty and Ryan headed toward the derrick, which stood out starkly against the night sky, illuminated even by the dim light of the crescent moon. It was obvious from the sight of it that any attempt to damage higher up the derrick would be seen, the scaffolding and gantry of the construction providing no cover.

 

 "Think they're here, lover?" Krysty asked. "Mebbe. What do you reckon?"

 

 "I can't feel it. I don't think it's here."

 

 "Okay, but we keep triple red in case," he replied. At the base of the derrick, there were enough piles of construction material, and a small brick blockhouse containing the derrick valves, to provide cover. The duo split up and covered each side of the derrick, finding it clear, until there was only the brick valve housing. It was a large enough building to hide someone, and blowing the valves would cause major damage to the wellhead.

 

 Ryan and Krysty exchanged glances. Without a word, the one-eyed man went to the door, crouching, while Krysty took a covering position. He opened the unlocked door and flung himself to one side of the wall. There was silence. Counting to three, he entered the blockhouse, ready to fire at the slightest sight or sound.

 

 There was nothing. It was then that the sound of a wag firing up, and blasterfire, distracted him.

 

 Mildred, Dean and Doc were also brought up short by the firing and the explosions of the wag engine. They cut short their search and headed toward the source of the sound—the refinery.

 

 Jak and J.B. had reached the refinery in triple-fast time, and each man knew the layout of one of the refinery buildings, as they had each searched one before. Using eye contact only to signal, they had opted to take the double building, joined by a covered walkway, as their first target. It had proved to be empty, and it was as they covered the ground to the second block that Jak suddenly stretched out a hand to stay the Armorer.

 

 In reply to J.B.'s quizzical look, Jak pointed to the open doorway of the block. A shadow darker than the others was moving out of the interior.

 

 J.B. swung his Uzi off his shoulder and clicked to rapid fire. He pointed to the block, indicating that Jak take the building while he followed the shadow.

 

 It was as he did this that the shot whistled over their heads, the shadow suddenly bolting for the rear of the building. J.B. didn't hesitate. He took off at a full run, knowing that he was too far away to waste ammo on blasting at his target. It also registered somewhere in his mind that the shot over their heads sounded to him like a fairly heavy caliber handblaster—a .44 or .45, but not a .357 Magnum like Jak's. That could be information worth storing for later.

 

 But right now, he had quarry to pursue.

 

 Jak was also in pursuit of prey. Moving swiftly and close to the ground, the albino approached the open front of the building, using any darker patches of shadow cast by the moon's feeble light to hide himself. His dark camou pants and the patched jacket provided some degree of disguise, but his white mane and pale skin still gave him away. Coming around to the open door, he held his Colt Python blaster in his hand, gripping the butt tightly with his index finger looped loosely around the trigger.

 

 Flattening himself to the outside wall, he ignored the sounds of J.B.'s pursuit and concentrated on what he could smell or hear from within the building.

 

 It was almost silent: one sound could be heard— a light ticking noise that was barely audible. But he was sure that the building was empty. The warm smell of danger and fear was absent.

 

 Jak entered the building, still cautious of any booby traps.

 

 Meanwhile, J.B. was chasing the lone saboteur across the dry earth. The man was tall and rangy, and his long strides carried him faster than J.B., despite the Armorer's strength and speed. J.B. cursed under his breath and lifted the Uzi. The movement disturbed his momentum and he lost more ground. But it didn't worry him. There was no way he could catch up to the saboteur before he gained his wag, which had been parked to the rear of the buildings, leading off into desert and the ribbon of old road that lay beyond. It was an old jeep, and would be swift across the desert, far swifter than their horses, even presuming they could have brought them nearer.

 

 There was only one course of action that the Armorer could take. Dropping to one knee, he steadied the Uzi, using his knee to prop one elbow and take good aim. In the time it took him to do this, the saboteur had clambered into the jeep and fired the engine. J.B. could hear the grinding of gears loud across the empty desert sand as he took aim. He squeezed the trigger as the vehicle leaped into life and began to move across the land, a stream of bullets spitting from the muzzle of the blaster.

 

 The jeep was moving away fast, but not so fast that the shells didn't at least strike home. In the dark, the Armorer had been trying to take out the rear tires of the vehicle, as he wanted to disable it and question the saboteur if possible. But in this light, at this distance, there was also a chance that he could just take out the fuel tank and blow the wag off the sandy earth. It was a chance he was willing to take, and in the event it proved that neither option came to anything. There were flickers of sparks and light in the darkness as bullets struck the rear of the wag and ricocheted harmlessly into the air. But neither tires nor tank was touched as the wag roared off into the night.

 

 "Dark night, Jak!" J.B. muttered as he let the Uzi drop. One man may have gotten away, but did Jak need assistance?

 

 IN THE DARK and still of the building, it took the remarkably honed senses of the albino little time to locate the ticking that he could hear. It was muted because the source was a small chron attached to a package of plas-ex that was hidden beneath a valve leading from one part of the system to another. Take out that valve and the piping system supplying the entire building would collapse from the shock wave, the delicate balance of the still not fully restored refining system being upset beyond repair.

 

 The light was too dim to see the device fully, so Jak lit one of the lamps that had been left in the building when the day's work had concluded. Turning up the light and positioning it so that no shadow was cast over the immediate area, Jak could see that the device had no booby attached, and had been hidden only to maximize its impact on the intended target. It was a simple timing device, and had been set for ten minutes to allow the saboteur enough time to make good his escape.

 

 "Jak? You okay in here?" came J.B.'s voice from the doorway. "Bastard got away," he added in a rueful tone.

 

 "Left gift," Jak replied. "Timer, plas-ex…only few minutes."

 

 "Want me to take a look?" the Armorer asked as he came up to where Jak was crouched.

 

 The albino nodded, and J.B. knelt in front of the device while Jak drew back to allow the Armorer room to work. He also turned to stop the others from entering, as he could hear them approach. Having met up as they all made their way to the sound of the disturbance, they were clustered just outside the refinery block.

 

 "Take cover. Bomb," Jak said simply.

 

 Outside, glances were exchanged. Ryan nodded briefly at Jak and motioned the others to move back a little.

 

 Inside, the Armorer was studying the bomb. He knew more than enough about the construction of timers and bombs to know that this was a crude but effective device. In truth, there was more than enough plas-ex to do the job, and more worryingly there were signs from an initial study that the wiring was crudely connected to the chron. There was every chance that the device may not go off on time. More alarmingly, it could be that the wires would short when he disconnected them because of the way they were fitted. Actually disarming a bomb like this was simple—if it was well made. It was the crudity that made it dangerous.

 

 "Jak, get out and get the others to take cover," he said levelly.

 

 "Sure?" Jak asked simply.

 

 "Uh-huh. And hurry," the Armorer replied.

 

 Without taking his eyes from the bomb, dissecting every part of it to see if there were some flaw he could detect, J.B. listened while Jak left the building and told the others to take cover. He heard them move back in the otherwise silent night, and only when their footfalls told of a sufficient distance did he move.

 

 His hands steady in the lamplight, J.B. took one of the wires joining the chron and the plas-ex, and straightened it out so that he could see how much slack he had to play with. The wire stretched for six inches, and he could lay it on the flat metal surface of a valve plate. He then took his Tekna knife and steadied the wire as it lay flat. This was something he had to do quickly and cleanly. He had no wire cutters, so he had to use the whetted blade of the Tekna to slice through the wire in one swift cut.

 

 There could be no second chance, no opportunity to take a second cut.

 

 J.B. was suddenly aware of the quiet around him, and the sweat that was gathering on his forehead and running toward his eyes. It was now or never, before the slightest glimmer of nerves or doubt caused his rock steady hand to waver.

 

 With his jaw set so tight that he could feel his teeth grind together, J.B. sliced with the Tekna. The wire cut clean through in one move, and the blade scored on the metal valve plate.

 

 He could hear the ticking of the chron, could hear the in-time pounding of his heart and the blood that coursed through his veins, could hear the silence around and running through these as he was aware of one thing and one thing alone.

 

 The bomb hadn't gone off, and he was still alive.

 

 The Armorer slumped slightly, and then, drawing a deep breath, he sliced the other wire and threw the chron across the room. He examined the plas-ex, thinking that it would come in useful after he had ascertained whether or not it had been stolen from the site's stocks. And only then did he call the others.

 

 THEY COLLECTED the horses and rode back to sec camp after checking for any traces that could be found. Jak retrieved the chron from where the relieved Armorer had thrown it, and it told them nothing, being just part of an old wrist chron that was battered and dust gritted. The plas-ex didn't come from the work site, as they immediately checked the types of plas-ex in the store area. Not only was it of a different type, but also the store showed no signs of breaking and entering. The tracks of the wag could have been from any vehicle, and headed off to the road where they would be lost. There were also no signs that the fuel tank of the wag had been hit. At least a trail of lost fuel would suggest a chance of catching up with the saboteur.

 

 Ryan reported the matter to Myall, who checked it in with Baron Silas via the radio. When he asked why they hadn't used their handsets to call for assistance, Ryan told him simply that no one could have arrived in time to help, a point the sec chief had to concede.

 

 Their patrol ended in the knowledge that they had stamped their authority on part of the camp and had thwarted another attempt to sabotage the refinery, but were still no nearer finding out who was responsible.

 

 Although the odds were getting better on it being an outside job, as J.B. had suspected. If so, it was then a matter of who or why.

 

 Something it would be hard to answer as long as trouble continued to distract them within the camp.

 

 THEIR NEXT PATROL was the following evening, and they had spent the day resting and maintaining their arms before getting in a little more practice on the horses. Mildred was still worried about Dean's allergy, and after he had spent some time on horseback during the afternoon she had him in their sleeping quarters, stripped and laid out on one of their makeshift beds.

 

 "How's it been feeling?" she asked, examining the hives that littered his upper body and thighs.

 

 "Could be better," Dean replied, wincing as she probed at a small cluster on his ribs. "At least I don't have any on my balls, which would drive me crazy, or too many on my face. If they were near my eyes…"

 

 "Yeah, that could be tricky," Mildred replied in a distracted tone. "Tell me—and be honest—how have you been feeling?"

 

 "Like I said, they don't itch too much, and they're manageable—"

 

 "I didn't mean the hives," Mildred cut in, with her voice showing an underlying concern. "Tell me if you've been feeling unclear or drowsy."

 

 Dean propped himself up on one elbow, meeting her steady gaze. "I haven't had anything like that. What's this about?"

 

 Mildred paused for a moment before replying. "It could be that I'm worrying unnecessarily, but the injections I've had to give you for this allergy can lead to symptoms that would affect your concentration. And—"

 

 "And the last thing we need right now is me letting anyone down because I'm not triple alert at the right time," Dean interjected. When Mildred assented, he continued. "Honestly, I haven't had anything like that. If I had, I would have come straight to you because I was worried. The last thing I want to do is set myself or anyone up for a chilling because of a bunch of horse fleas."

 

 Mildred nodded. "Okay, I believe you on that. But I had to check. Still, you won't have to worry about that anymore, because we've just run out of injections. All we can do now is eke out the cream and hope for the best. There may be enough residual of the drug in your system to keep the irritation to a minimum, but it may get unpleasant from here."

 

 Dean shrugged. "This place is already a pesthole, so I guess I can live with it—as long as we can clear this up quickly."

 

 "Lord, don't we all want that." Mildred sighed.

 

 Sentiments that were echoed not just by the rest of the companions. Shortly before they were due to begin their patrol, they were joined by Crow, who had ridden in on the sec camp supply wag, bringing food from Salvation.

 

 "What brings you here?" Ryan asked the Native American as he walked across the compound to them. Despite his apparently friendly greeting, there was an undertone to the one-eyed man's voice that suggested he was less than pleased to see Baron Silas's right-hand man.

 

 Crow smiled, slow and easy, and replied in a manner that suggested he was only too well aware of Ryan's attitude. "Well, I was just heading out this way to catch me some sun, and I thought it might be good to drop in and see how you're all doing. No, you know why I'm here. Baron Silas got Myall's report and wants to know more."

 

 "There's little more to tell," Ryan replied. "Mebbe we'll find out more tonight. Mebbe whoever it is will come back and try to finish the task."

 

 "Mebbe," Crow replied with a thoughtful nod. "I figured that was how it was. But the baron's more nervous than a virgin first time around. Mind if I ride with you? Mebbe I can report back then and let you guys get on with it."

 

 Ryan glanced at his fellow riders. There seemed to be no dissent, so he replied, "Okay, get a horse. We're about to leave."

 

 Joined by the Native American, the sec party rode toward the workers' camp. In answer to Crow's unasked but obvious question, Ryan told him of their fight the previous night.

 

 "If they want trouble, they can have it. Mebbe it'll give us some clues. But as far as I can tell, all they want to do is beat shit from each other and blame each other for the trouble at the well. We'll see."

 

 They didn't have to wait long. The Haigh sector was quiet as usual, the dour ville men keeping themselves to themselves, but as they entered the sectors where Running Water and Water Valley crossed with Hush, they found that they were riding into a full-scale battle.

 

 "Fireblast!" Ryan swore in lead as he heard the sound of blasterfire in among the clashes. "Some-one'll get chilled, and that'll fire up the whole camp."

 

 Crow assented. "Better get in. Hush men are hard fighters, and the water villes aren't in the same league. Even outnumbered, I'd back the white-meat boys." The Native American kicked his horse, spurring it to greater speed.

 

 "Watch him," J.B. yelled to the others. "Running Water is his ville. This is one time we can't trust him."

 

 The horses clattered through the streets, turning into crowds massed around the area where the three sectors met. The outlying edges of the crowds were more people rubbernecking, trying to see the fighting rather than join in, and it was relatively simple for the companions to push their way through, scattering those reluctant to actually fight. The core of the action was centered on one street, and Crow was already in the thick of it, trying to break up the fighting men and women from the three villes. He had opted to stay on horseback, and was kicking at the fighters, figuring that he stood a greater chance of hitting a larger number and not being brought down himself if he stayed mounted. But he was making little impression alone.

 

 Ryan turned to his people. "Off the horses, we'll make better progress on the ground," he yelled.

 

 And that was true. Where Crow was hemmed in by the fighters, the companions were able to dismount and attack at a ground level. Although some blasterfire had been heard, the majority of the fighting was still hand-to-hand, with knives, sticks and pieces of glass and metal used as weapons. Dean, Mildred and Krysty were quick to pick up such pieces and put them to good use, while Jak once more palmed two of his leaf-bladed knives and used them to slash at the crowd of fighters, moving swiftly through to the center of the conflict with his flying feet causing as much damage through his heavy combat boots.

 

 Ryan and J.B. had their own blades to hand, and both men had learned to fight hand-to-hand the hard way over many a year. They took the flanks of the fighting crowd, picking off the pairs and groups of fighters in the mass brawl, their fists and feet doing most of the work to be followed by incisive blows from the panga and the Tekna when necessary. While this was going on, Doc made a path for himself down the center, heading straight for the Native American, his unsheathed blade of honed Toledo steel doing its utmost to assist his passage, none of the fighters expecting such a seemingly frail old man to be so tough and fight so strongly.

 

 Within a few moments, the companions had cleared a path to Crow, and left in their wake a bloody and defeated crowd of Native Americans, blacks, Hispanics and whites, united in their defeat.

 

 "So will anyone tell me what the fuck this is about?" Crow yelled over the sudden silence, encircled by the companions, backs to him, ready to fight more if necessary.

 

 "We know these scum are responsible for holding up the project," one of the Hush men said, rising to his feet.

 

 "Bullshit, it's you people and your hate of anyone not white," replied a Hispanic woman. "And those fuckers are just as bad," she added to Crow, indicating the companions. "You're a traitor to your people, Crow."

 

 "I have no people," he replied. "And they—" he indicated the companions "—are on all our sides."

 

 "Yeah?' With a black and a mutie?" the Hush man shouted. "Like hell. They'll only help their own."

 

 "We don't belong to any of you," Krysty said heatedly. "We just want to do our job and leave."

 

 There was a general mutter of disbelief as the crowds began to disperse, leaving the companions and Crow almost entirely alone in the center of the roadway.

 

 "Great," Mildred said. "One side thinks we're prejudiced against whites, the other that we hate all other colors…and none of them are going to help us to get at who's really causing the damage."

 

 "Stupe bastards," Ryan muttered, surveying the emptying street. "They don't deserve anyone's help. Shit," he spit in disgust, "let's get mounted up and get out to the work site. At least it doesn't smell so bad out there."

 

  

 

 Chapter Fifteen

 

  

 

 Over breakfast the next morning, Crow and the companions sat in an uneasy silence. Around them the midmorning sun beat down on the sec compound. The heat was dry but still heavy, flies buzzing in the sun, drawn to the paddock by the horses.

 

 The meal seemed slow and as heavy as the heat, the silence almost oppressive, until finally the Native American spoke.

 

 "Guess you feel like this is a hopeless task after last night," he said softly. "If everyone feels you're against them, not only are you not going to get any breaks, but you're risking being under attack, which will only cloud the issue of the sabotage."

 

 Ryan considered that, then nodded. "That's about right," he said simply.

 

 "So what do I tell Baron Silas?" Crow asked blandly.

 

 Ryan cast his good eye over his gathered troops. J.B. stared back with his impassive, stoic expression. Ryan knew he could count on the Armorer to back him all the way, and also knew that his old friend hated not seeing things through. And then there was Mildred. Her dark eyes stared across at Ryan, her face set. She had faced challenges all her life, both before skydark and in the world she had awoken in as a freezie. Mildred hated stepping down, and wouldn't start now.

 

 Krysty would back him all the way. A strong sense of natural justice ran through her, cultivated by the influential Uncle Tyas McCann from her days in Harmony, and her anger at injustice could run as red as her hair. Next to her sat Dean. Looking at him was like looking into a mirror for the one-eyed man, and he saw himself as a youngster, with fire in his veins. The only thing Dean lacked was experience, and traveling with his father was giving him plenty of that. Dean had Cawdor stubbornness. He wouldn't back down from anything.

 

 That just left Doc and Jak. The old man was mentally unstable at times because of the things he had experienced in his bizarre and unique life. But the bottom line was that Doc's determination and fire kept him mostly sane, and was what had caused the prenukecaust whitecoats to push him further forward in time after plucking him from the past. Doc wouldn't like the idea of walking away from a job half-done. And Jak was another matter altogether. He was a born fighter and hunter who had lived through seeing his wife and child killed before tracking down the killers and exacting revenge. The albino was the last person to leave anything undone.

 

 It seemed to Ryan like forever since he had last spoken, and he was aware of Crow watching him intently. If the Native American reported back to Baron Silas that Ryan and his people couldn't or wouldn't do the job, then would the baron decide that they had a price to pay for opting out?

 

 The attitudes he knew his friends to hold, and the possible repercussions of leaving, were two factors that combined to make only one answer possible.

 

 "Tell him we're going to get the fireblasted shitters behind this, and to hell with what those stupes think. We don't run away from a fight if we can win it, and this one we can win."

 

 Crow allowed a rare smile to crack on his heavily tanned and lined face. "I kind of figured you'd say that. So is there any plan of action that you want to tell me, or would you rather keep it to yourselves?"

 

 "I don't see any harm in sharing it with you or Baron Silas except for one thing—we don't really have a plan," Ryan replied. "That's what we need to get together before we patrol tonight."

 

 J.B. sat back, pushing his fedora up on his forehead and scratching at his head as he spoke thoughtfully, "I guess what we really need is to get an overall idea of the layout. We've ridden it, but we need to quarter it up so that we can plan a series of watches."

 

 "Exactly," agreed the one-eyed man.

 

 He turned to Crow. "Are there any plans of the sites that are down on paper and that we can use? I'd guess there should be."

 

 The Native American agreed. "Myall must use something to plan his patrols. I guess the best thing is to ask him."

 

 "Let me," Jak said, rising to his feet.

 

 The albino walked out into the sun, screwing up his eyes as the harsh and brilliant light hit him. He walked over to the paddock, where he could see McVie coaching some of the sec riders.

 

 "Hey, Whitey, how's things?" McVie greeted Jak as he approached. "Hear you and Crow had some trouble last night."

 

 "Stupe fighting," Jak said offhandedly. "Myall around?"

 

 "Sleeping. He was on late patrol out at the well," McVie replied. "Unless it's real necessary I wouldn't like to disturb him, so is there anything I can do?"

 

 "Mebbe. Got paper for this?" Jak asked, indicating the immediate area with a sweep of his arm.

 

 "What, the sec camp or the workers' camp?"

 

 "Both. And well and refinery," Jak added.