Time Castaways (10 page)

In the open doorway of a log cabin, a beautiful young woman with an infant suckling at her breast was stirring a cauldron of bubbling maple syrup, the aroma so sweet to the companions that it was almost sickening. Crystallized sticks of maple candy hung from the eaves. At another cabin, a man was diligently smearing fresh mud along a wide split in a seam.

The busy ville was alive with commerce, and nobody paid attention to the companions as they strolled along. Which was just fine by them—the less they were noticed, the better. However, Mildred secretly reveled in the commotion. Any kind of civilization was better than none. Then the physician saw the dreaded learning tree, the wooden stocks and wide leather straps darkly seasoned with overlapping blood stains, and she quickly revised her opinion. Clearly some societies were better than others.

“Found it!” Ryan said in grim satisfaction, moving quickly in a new direction.

Lurching forward, Mildred rushed to stay close as the one-eyed man slipped into the bustling crowd and disappeared from sight.

Chapter Seven

Down in the bowels of the Harrington, the ceiling lights sluggishly flickered several times, then they came back on, filling the engine room with a blinding corona of power.

Surveying the assorted wreckage to the main engine and primary tokomac power reactor, the sec droid made a command decision. Several small hatches opened in the armored chassis of the machine and out rushed a score of small repair robots. Resembling mechanical spiders, the robots looked at the massive damage and started to rush forward when the sec droid issued an electronic command to override their programming.

Pausing for only a nanosecond to digest the new information, the robots changed direction to converge on the auxiliary power plant. Crawling over the hulking machine, they conducted a preliminary assessment, noting every nick and ding, then patiently waited until the sec droid gave them permission to start the repairs.

Instantly their dozens of small lasers pulsed into life, cutting away the dented access panels. As one of the heavy pieces of shielding came loose, the robots scuttled inside and crawled everywhere, measuring, testing and probing, to finely analyze the internal damage.

Patiently, the sec droid waited for their detailed report. Soon enough, power would be restored to the entire vessel. Then it would immediately turn the power back off, making the Harrington appear to be dead once more, a helpless prey for the invaders. When they eventually returned, the power would come crashing back on and every hatch would slam shut, trapping them inside. That was when the sec droid would attack. The invaders would be confused, and frightened, easy prey for the military juggernaut.

However, if for some unknown reason it seemed that the invaders might destroy the droid and seize control of the vessel, it would have no choice but to detonate the scuttling charges hidden inside the keel of the carrier. They were only atomic charges, no more than a few kilotons yield. But that would be more than enough to destroy the Harrington. Either way, win, lose or draw, the mat-trans would never fall into the hands of the enemy.

With the patience of steel, the machine began to run a systems check on its various weapons systems. Everything was under control. Now it was only a matter of time.

R EJOINING R YAN, Mildred matched his long stride, one hand artfully brushing the pocket of her dirty furs to check on her ZKR blaster. With any luck, they wouldn’t need weapons today. But luck had been evading the companions lately, and it was always wise to be prepared for trouble. The heavy gren in her pocket was a comforting weight.

Moving among the mob of civies, the armed sec men were easy to spot in their matching uniforms—all of them were shaved bald and sported a small goatee. Ryan could only assume they did it to help recognize one another even in the thickest fog. Actually, it was a bastard smart idea.

The homes in the ville were the expected conglomeration of rebuilt predark structures, log cabins and ramshackle huts. But they were all laid out in neat lines, the streets wide and paved with loose white stones. Harnessed elks pulled crude carts loaded with wood, and a sec woman rode by on a horse, a long line of slaves hobbling along behind. Lengths of rawhide were tied between their ankles and a thick rope was attached to wooden collars. In spite of the chill, they were dressed in rags, and hauling a wheeled cart full of giant arrows over ten feet long.

“So they have an arbalest,” Mildred muttered, glancing at the rooftops. “That’s good to know.” If she remembered correctly, the weapon had a tremendous range.

Grunting in reply, Ryan studied the ville, trying to get the feel of the place. A smart man could learn a lot with his eyes open and his mouth shut. Even if Liana had not told about the shortage of metal on the island, the companions would have figured it out for themselves in short order. Everything was either made of wood, stone or leather.

On a corner, drunken laughter came from a tavern, and gaudy sluts lounged in the second-floor windows, smoking home-rolled cigs, their breasts exposed for
potential customers. In a large corral, a herd of bleating goats was being milked by somber teenagers intent upon their task, and nearby lay huge wheels of cheese drying in the weak sunlight, the rind thickly coated with beeswax. Past that, a butcher was chopping apart the carcass of a moose, a line of civies waiting impatiently for the big woman to finish, their arms full of empty wicker baskets.

In the far corner of the ville was a row of gallows, the killing bar extended over the wall, a rotting corpse dangling from a noose and swaying gently in the breeze.

“Smart,” Mildred said, impressed. “Just leave the body there as a warning to newcomers, and when the flesh rots, it’ll simply drop off.”

“Plus, that high up, the wind would help reduce the smell,” Ryan agreed, trying to see through the bustling throng for the Wendigo. But so far, there was no sign of it.

Situated behind a split-rail fence, a sec man was sitting in a rocking chair, a loaded crossbow in his hands and a massive black wolf-dog panting on the ground near his boots. A spiked leather collar announced that the beast was a pet, and not a wild animal.

Protected by a stout wooden fence, the companions could just barely see a large iron kettle with a roaring fire underneath. A coiled copper tube attached to the top to slowly drip a clear fluid into ceramic jugs. The tangy smell of raw alcohol was thick around the still, almost overpowering.

“If the shine is here, the Wendigo must be close,”
Ryan noted, looking around the ville, through the hustling mob.

“Over there,” Mildred said, tilting her head.

Sure enough, the dreaded machine stood less than a hundred feet away, sitting in the middle of the ville square, for everybody to see and marvel over.

“Smart. Newcomers have probably never seen that much metal in their whole bastard lives,” Ryan sagely guessed.

“The Wendigo,” Mildred said, the name suddenly having resonance now that she could see the war wag. “This would really put the fear of the baron into their bones.”

Ryan grunted in agreement. According to Liana, Northpoint ville ruled the sea with their infamous steamship, Warhammer, but Anchor was the undisputed master of the dry land from the eastern shore to the western mountains with the deadly Wendigo.

Supposedly named after a mythical beast, the war wag was huge, as large as any predark tank, boasting overlapping armor plating and eight huge tires. There was no cannon, but it was armed with a brace of heavy machine guns, and what could only be a crude flamethrower. Blasterports dotted the sides, and two fluted exhaust pipes rose from the rear of the machine. Each was protected by a hood and surrounded by a small iron cage to prevent anything from being thrown into them and into the vulnerable engine.

Sitting motionless on the green grass, the Wendigo radiated a feeling of lethal power, and no fence or guards were necessary to keep the civies from getting
too close. In a land almost completely devoid of metal, the armed might of the Wendigo was disturbing, almost obscene.

“Now where is…Yeah. There he is,” Ryan said in quiet satisfaction. “I knew he’d be close.”

“The master likes to keep his dogs close at hand,” Mildred noted dryly.

Only a few paces away from the hulking war wag was a wooden dais topped with a pair of thrones. The chairs were ornately carved with an endless motif of eagles and stars, the backs draped with beautiful white wolf fur. Sitting in the thrones and holding court over some bound prisoners were the absolute rulers of the ville, Baron Griffin and his lady.

Stroking the feathers of a falcon resting on the arm of his throne, Baron Nolan Griffin was heavily muscled and covered with tattoos, more closely resembling a sailor than a ruling baron. His clothing was spotlessly clean, and he wore several pieces of metal to show his wealth, a thick silver necklace, a high school signet ring and a large predark wristwatch in remarkably good condition. A crude half-circle of hammered iron served the baron as a makeshift crown and two holstered blasters rode low in a fancy gunbelt.

Clearly much older than her husband, Lady Barbara Griffin was as plump as a gaudy house madam, yet her breasts were so small that they disappeared behind an embroidered leather bodice. Her auburn hair was long, and hung loose around a stern face that held no trace of mercy. The woman wore a flowing gown trimmed in white fur, with a silk scarf wrapped about her pudgy
throat. A sawed-off shotgun rode in a large holster that had to have been specifically designed for the ungainly blaster. Metal rings were on every finger, and silver loops hung from both of her ears.

Standing alongside an iron brazier full of glowing hot charcoal was a large man with a blond crewcut, his bearing, scars and holstered blaster proclaiming that he was either the only son of the baron or the sec chief.

Kneeling on the cold ground in front of the baron and his wife was a pair of men, their hands and legs lashed together. Their clothes were in tatters, and bloody welts crisscrossed their backs.

“But, my lord, I reported this man for stealing the salt from the barracks of the sec men!” one of the prisoners called in a hoarse voice. He had a full head of hair and wore the loose clothing of a civie. “Why am I also being punished?”

His head bowed, the other man said nothing, his fate already sealed. He could only hope for the clemency of a swift execution on the gallows.

“Why? You dare to ask that? Because you are also a thief!” Lady Griffin growled in barely contained rage. “You were seen licking the block when you thought nobody was watching!”

“B-but I had to make sure it really was salt…” the man said lamely.

“Don’t you have a nose?” Sec chief Donovan snarled in open hatred. “My lord, let me ace this fool here and now!”

Surreptitiously, Ryan and Mildred exchanged glances. Salt was in short supply, eh? That only made
sense on an island in the middle of a freshwater lake. They had seen what a lack of salt did to a person out in the broiling desert of the Deathlands. First came a terrible thirst, then mounting weakness, closely followed by mental confusion, and finally death. It was an ugly way to get chilled.

Placing the falcon on a nearby wooden perch, Baron Griffin thought about the request. “Granted,” he said without any trace of emotion. “Slit his throat and boil him down to recover the salt.”

Grinning, the sec chief leaped off the dais, pulling out a blade. The prisoner had only a moment to gasp in shock before the blade flashed through the air and he fell gurgling to the ground, his hot blood steaming as it pumped onto the cold grass.

Wiping the blade clean on the clothes of the dying man, Donovan sheathed the weapon, then hawked and spit on the fool.

“As for you…” the baron said, turning to address the thief. “Twenty-five lashes for the theft, and ten more for trying to escape.”

Prepared for much worse, the prisoner could not believe his good luck. Was that all? He was going to live!

“Then take his eyes so that he won’t be able to ever steal again,” Lady Griffin added, a hint of a smile playing on her full lips.

The surrounding crowd roared their approval and the terrified prisoner began wildly twisting and turning, trying to get free.

Snapping his fingers, sec chief Donovan pointed at the bound man and a gang of sec men descended upon
him with raised clubs and proceeded to pound every trace of defiance out of the condemned thief. Battered and bruised, the prisoner fell gasping to the ground, openly weeping. Then the hooded figure of the ville executioner walked out of the crowd, a curved blade held in a gloved hand.

Some of the civies watched in fascination, others turned away in disgust, but soon the odious task was done, and the unconscious prisoner was dragged off to the learning tree to wait until he woke to receive the rest of his sentence.

“Well, you were right,” Mildred said, shifting the boomerang in her belt to a more comfortable position. “The baron does like to hold court in sight of his war wag.”

“That’s just common sense,” Ryan replied, involuntarily touching the patch on his face in sympathy. “You always have to make the people remember you’re the greatest victory, or their own mortality. Sec men chill with blasters, but a baron rules through fear.”

Judging this was as good a time as any, Ryan raised an arm high and began walking toward the dais. “Metal!” he shouted. “I’ve got metal for the baron!”

As the startled crowd got hastily out of the way, the baron and his wife glowered at the stranger walking boldly forward. The black-haired man was not familiar to them, and carried himself with the calm assurance of a seasoned warrior.

Carefully studying the man, sec chief Donovan rested a hand on his blaster. He had no idea who the fellow was, but his guts said this was a nuke-storm of trouble coming.

“And who are you?” Baron Griffin demanded.

“Finnigan, sir,” Ryan replied, using the name of an old friend who no longer walked the Deathlands. “And this be my wife, Holly.”

Trying to appear humble, Mildred gave an awkward curtsy.

“Odd accent. Where are you from?” Donovan asked in a hard tone, his fingers tripping the handle of the big bore blaster.

“Saddle Brook,” Ryan replied. “A little fishing ville on the outer islands, near the Broke Place.” He had no idea what that meant, and neither did Liana, but she claimed that was all anybody called it, the Broke Place.