Desolation Crossing (13 page)

But what the hell. It had worked on Howie, who said, “Well…well why didn’t Luke just say that in the first place?”

“He was trying to,” J.B. said. That was a bare-faced lie, and the Armorer barely kept the grin off his face. “Anyway, the only way he can do this blaster by hand, which means you’ll have to leave it here. Can’t be done while you wait. Long job,” he added, just to make sure the little man got the point.

Howie sniffed, peered over J.B.’s shoulder at Luke, who glowered at him.

“Well, if some people would just say what they mean in the first place. I’ll call for it tomorrow. That okay?”

Luke gave the briefest and most condescending of nods. Howie sniffed hard again, returned the nod and left the old storefront. J.B. turned to Luke, the blaster still in his hand and a quizzical look on his face.

“Dude, you spoiled my fun,” Luke said gently.

“Mad little fucker looked like he was about to chill you,” J.B. murmured.

Luke’s face split into a grin. “Howie? Hell, no…I just like riding the little shit is all. He likes it, too. Gets his kicks from arguing with me.”

“His hand was getting a little too close to that Smith & Wesson.”

“Always does. Howie hasn’t so much as shot a mutie rabbit in years. He runs the dry-goods store across the road, and his wife does all the shooting if anyone tries to get away without paying. Oh, man, she’s the scary one. Twice his size up and half across. Face like an ax that’s been splintering redwoods all season. You know, that’s why he comes in here. Gets rid of all his aggression and anger. I’ve argued with him and rebored that rifle at least five times. Doesn’t really need it. You look.”

J.B. examined the blaster in greater detail. Luke was right. The bore showed signs of manual reworking, and with great dexterity. Recent, too. J.B. switched his attention to Luke, who was still grinning. Even when they had been deep in discussion about ordnance, it was rare that the big man’s face had cracked. Now, it was like watching someone else in Luke’s face.

Catching J.B.’s thoughts from his expression, Luke shrugged. “So I supply a public service, dude. It’s not only about the hardware, just mostly. And besides, it livens up the day sometimes.”

With which he turned and walked past the tattered drape and into the back room, leaving J.B. with the ancient but rebored rifle in his hand. Looking around, he saw that old guys playing cards had completely ignored the exchanges that had just taken place. Maybe it was just that it was all part of the order of the ville. Everyone knew about, but didn’t feel the need to explain unless an outsider tried to intervene.

He shrugged. Maybe most villes worked this way, and he’d just never noticed it before. Reading people as well as he could read blasters was something he felt he needed to improve upon. Maybe Luke was good at it, as he’d obviously been around. The big man had never talked about where he had come from, just as he had never asked J.B. about himself. But it was clear he didn’t come from around here. The reference to chopping redwoods gave it away. J.B. had heard of the giant trees, knew that there were some left still standing after the nuke winters of skydark, but they were on the other side of the continent. Luke had referred to them in the casual manner of someone who knew from experience what he was talking about.

So maybe he had some buried secrets. Maybe he was even more like the Armorer than either man suspected.

J.B. was somehow warmed by the thought.

EVEN J.B. HAD TO DO SOME work for Trader at some time during their stay. It had been several days stretching toward a week since they had arrived. Usually, the convoy was only in Hollowstar for a couple of days each side of their trek into the desolate lands beyond. Time enough to do a little trade and lessen the cost of the toll raised by the baron for using the only road to the east. Time enough for the crew of the convoy to have some downtime: drink brew, go to gaudy houses, rest up and have some fun before the arduous wastes that lay in wait for them.

This time was different. Trader kept only Abe and Poet in close counsel with him. For the rest of the crew he had a policy of strictly need-to-know. When things became relevant, that was the time to be open. They were loyal to him; many of them had traveled with him since their formative years, and Trader had a good eye for character. But it was also because of this that he knew he couldn’t tell them everything all the time. People were fallible. They got drunk and said too much, sometimes without realizing it. Enemies didn’t always need intelligence laid out on a plate in front of them. A sober, alert crew knew that. When drunk, the lines of judgment became blurred. The same was true of what a man or woman said in the throes of lust. Hell, Trader knew that he couldn’t trust himself one hundred percent, let alone anyone else. Poet and Abe had to know shit, in case something happened to Trader. But even then, it was still a risk.

So he had stayed silent to all except his two trusted lieutenants about the manner in which Baron Emmerton had been cagey about tolls and trade, delaying decisions and asking questions in and around the subject of Luke and J.B. It was starting to irritate Trader. He wished the fat bastard would just come out and say what he meant, so that they could deal with it. Trader wanted J.B. to stay with him and had no designs on Luke. But he figured that wasn’t what Emmerton thought. And he was pretty sure he knew what Emmerton wanted, the more he pondered it. Well, the greasy bastard wasn’t going to get it.

Which would mean nothing but trouble. Meantime, all that he could do was keep his people occupied, stop them getting into too many fights, and hope that Emmerton would come out into the open pretty damn quick.

“DARK NIGHT, how many more times are you going to have me doing this?” J.B. mumbled and grumbled as Trader took him through an inventory of every piece of ordnance carried by the convoy, both for their own use and for use as trade.

“As many time as I want, son. I’m the boss here, remember?”

J.B. shrugged. “I know, but I haven’t seen you this itchy before, and I’m figuring there’s a reason.”

Trader weighed up the slight, bespectacled figure in front of him. J.B. was shrewd, and he’d figure it out, more or less, if given time. Best to take a calculated risk and let him know at least part of the story.

“You’re no stupe, J.B. You must have realized from what the others have said that we don’t usually spend that
long here before moving out.” When J.B. nodded, he continued. “Truth of the matter is that I’m having trouble with Emmerton over the tolls this time out. I’m not sure why, but the fucker is being cagier than a pen full of mutie pumas. So we’re stuck here, and you know what some of us are like when we get cabin fever, or too much time and too much jack to spend.”

J.B. nodded once more. From the look on his face, it hadn’t occurred to him that Trader could have meant the Armorer himself. More likely he was thinking of Hunnaker, who had the capacity to go triple crazy with little or no provocation. It was a fair enough guess, as Trader did have some concerns in that corner. Nonetheless…

“Okay, well, you know the best way to stop that happening is to keep people busy. Keep them somewhere that they can’t raise hell and get themselves blasted from here to the farm, and leave us in the shit.”

J.B. shrugged. “Guess so,” he said in a slow drawl, “but shit, all I was gonna do was spend some more time with Luke. Could learn a lot off a man like that. And there won’t be that much time, as we’ll be on our way soon enough,” he added.

Trader was glad to hear that last sentiment, but he masked his satisfaction well. “True enough. But I got something else I need you to do for me, J.B. Y’all got some downtime tonight, and I know that Hunn is going to want to go and get wasted on the local brew. She always does it when we’re here, tries to fuck anything that’ll have her, and gets real feisty if something or someone gets in her way.”

Trader let the last words die away without feeling the
need to elaborate. From the look on J.B.’s face—a slowly dawning, pained expression—he knew that the Armorer had drawn the conclusion he wanted.

“Shit, no. I’ve got to bodyguard her all night and make sure nothing happens and no one buys the farm?”

Trader grinned. “Got it in one.”

“Fuck. I’ll do anything. Take the whole armory apart, grease it and reassemble it. Clean the shit off all the latrines. Hell, I’ll even let Abe try to explain the comm system to me again. But not that…”

Trader clapped a hand on J.B.’s shoulder. “I knew you’d understand, J.B. You and her get on better than anyone. Shit, I know enough to know that no fucker on the face of this rad-blasted earth can control her, but you’ve got a better chance of keeping her under wraps than anyone else on the convoy. It’s the shitty end of the stick, but sometimes that’s all there is to grab hold of and haul yourself out.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” J.B. mused.

Trader shook his head. “Tell you what. It sure as hell makes me feel better.”

As J.B. went back to his task, cursing under his breath for what he knew was to follow that evening, Trader congratulated himself on his double score. Not only had he kept Luke and J.B. apart for a while, to give Emmerton something to think about, he had also got the ever-present problem of Hunnaker under control for the moment.

It seemed such a simple solution. How could it go wrong?

“F UCK’S SAKE, I don’t need to be wet-nursed like a baby,” Hunn grumbled as she entered the bar with J.B. at her elbow.

“Who says it’s that?” J.B. queried in reply. “Mebbe I just want to have a few brews with—”

“Aw, bullshit, J.B.,” Hunn interrupted. “How many kinds of stupe d’you think I am? If you had your way, you’d be boring about bore with that lump of rock, Luke.”

“He didn’t want to fuck you, eh?” J.B. asked with a fleeting smile.

She waved dismissively as they approached the bar. “I didn’t want the big lunk anyway. Only thing that’d get him hard is a kind of blaster he hasn’t seen before…Not,” she added hastily, “that I’m saying the same thing about you, but—”

“I didn’t think you were,” J.B. replied, “at least, not until you mentioned it. Just for that, it’s your jack on the bar tonight.”

Even though it was still daylight outside, the bar was already in a twilight gloom. Like most of the storefronts that surrounded the sparse green of the ville square, it was lit by tallow lamps. Fuel for generators was always at a premium, and carefully conserved. Unlike most of the storefronts, the bar had a smoked glass that had been fitted where the others had clear. It had originally been taken from a building with a much smaller window space, as the frame of the front window had been extended by boarding to house the glass. From what he’d been told, the smoked glass had been in place for some time and had never yet been cracked or broken in any way. So he could only assume that the inhabitants of Hollowstar had some serious
sec enforcement when it came to their bars. And that Hunn had never yet run amok.

Hunnaker and the Armorer seated themselves at the old bar stools that were metal framed and bolted to the floor. Looking around, J.B. could see that the tables and seats in the rest of the bar had been taken from an old predark diner, and were similarly bolted down. Well, that explained at least in part why the glass had stayed in place so long.

The bar was more or less empty. It was still early, and most of the people in Hollowstar were going about their business. Everyone in Hollowstar had business—manufacture and repair of small goods, small holdings on the edge of the ville, education in trades for the children. The only people who had any kind of excuse to be in the bar at this time of day were those whose work kept them busy at night. Now was their time to take some rest and recuperation, before beginning the evening and night-shifts that ensured the ville worked 24/7. Emmerton and his predecessors had instilled in the community a strong work ethic.

Some may have asked why a community should work itself so hard for seemingly so little reward. Riches were not there to be had this far east, but, by the same token, a crushing poverty that could have wiped out the community was only a spit away. The work ethic, and the organization that it brought to the community, were what kept them afloat. The price of their freedom—of their very lives—was eternal diligence.

Women worked in this ville; however, many of them worked not in occupations but as wives and mothers. Children were important to keeping the machine that was
Hollowstar in motion, a new generation replacing the elderly—those that lived that long—at regular intervals. Despite the seemingly sedate pace of life that echoed the old vids on which the ville was modeled, there was a restless urgency lurking beneath the surface that was born of the high-tension wire on which their lives were balanced.

There had to be some release. And so those women who were not wives and mothers found themselves, at some time or another, doing service in the gaudy houses that lay on the outskirts of the ville, hidden behind the facade but common enough knowledge for the traveler to find them with ease. After all, they oiled the wheels of the local economy as much as they provided relief.

So what did these women do in their downtime? They drank in the bars of whatever ville they worked. Maybe to blot it out, maybe because they liked it, maybe…J.B. didn’t know, and could only guess. The reasons didn’t really matter to him. He just knew that this was what they did. Here as much as they did anywhere else. And they drank alone.