Thunder Road (18 page)

It was so juvenile that she would have been inclined to dismiss it as the ravings of a crazie. He expected her to drop her friends because of something she had seen on an old vid? Because of something that he had told her? Because of the trail of pointless devastation that he had left in his wake?

And yet, there was that devastation. And the means that had produced it. And the knowledge that he had the means to produce far, far worse if left to his own devices. Especially if he couldn’t get his own way and reacted like a spoiled child.

No matter how ludicrous she felt, and no matter how absurd the idea of dressing up and becoming Storm Girl appeared, she knew that the only chance she had of engineering his demise and saving her friends—let alone any other poor bastard who might get in his way—was by going along with it.

He was looking at her, expectant. He was waiting for her answer.

“Thunder Rider, you and Storm Girl are gonna clear this land of the scum, and make it fit for decent folk once more.”

He was so excited that he was almost crying. He grabbed hold of her, embracing her so tightly that it seemed as though he would crush her ribs.

“You will not regret this, my Storm Girl,” he whispered in her ear.

I sure as hell hope not, Krysty thought.

R
YAN HAD BEEN FIDDLING
with the locket for some time. It was small and delicate in his large, scarred fingers to begin with, and he had no real notion of how it worked. Anxiety was making him clumsy, and he cursed to himself as he tried to find a way of opening and activating it.

Doc came around to where Ryan and J.B. were hunched. He was carrying coffee-sub. He coughed softly. “Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “perchance I could ask you what you are attempting to do?”

While Ryan still puzzled over the locket, J.B. explained briefly. Doc nodded sagely. He held out his hand.

“My dear Ryan, if you please.” He gestured impatiently with his fingers. Ryan, his brow raised, handed over the locket. Doc examined it, turning briefly toward the firelight, then back again to shield his actions from any prying eyes, human or mechanical. “There are times, my dear boy,” he said softly, “when being an exile from the past has its advantages. More years ago now than I would care to remember, I bought such a locket for my darling Emily. It was, if I recall correctly, on a rare trip to Boston where I was to speak at the college. A jeweler in the best part of town, but of course. And a pretty penny it cost me, too, as the saying went in those days. Of course, this is of no interest to you—why should it be? And, for all that, it is of no matter as that locket and my dear Emily have been as dust for more years than anyone should have to endure. Nonetheless, to discourse about it has given me time to recall the knack to prising the damn thing open, so that…Voilà!”

As he exclaimed, the locket popped open, revealing—instead of the cameo that would normally be seen inside such a thing—a small flashing light, which immediately began to pulse.

“That’s it?” J.B. murmured. “That’s going to bring them?”

“If it sends out a signal, then it does not matter what size it may be, dear John Barrymore,” Doc said.

“Guess we just have to hope and wait until they come, or until those bastards out there—” Ryan gestured in the direction of the ranch “—make a move and mebbe give us an opening, there’s jackshit we can do except sit here and wait.”

“Mebbe not,” Jak murmured. “Mebbe taunt into action. Mebbe force hand.”

“How?” Ryan asked, although he was sure that he already knew the answer.

“Let me,” Jak said, turning, his red eyes glowing in the dark with a fire that told of his burning frustration at being constrained.

“With the mines? No, we keep it tight tactically, we don’t risk personnel.”

“No risk—not mine exists beat Jak Lauren.”

“Fuck’s sake, Jak, they detonated them by remote and could have blown up the wag,” Ryan said, exasperated.

Jak gave him a sly grin. “Sure, but want alive. And out wag. Can see lines in sand where mines under earth. Hold all cards, right, Doc?”

Doc shrugged, then looked at Ryan imploringly. “I can see the lad’s point. They want us alive, it seems. He has the skill to avoid obvious traps, and I doubt very much whether they would wish us to purchase that freehold in the skies. They have other plans for us—I dread to think what, but nonetheless, it could force their hand, as the lad says.”

Ryan shook his head, then sighed. “Keep safe, Jak. The rest of you, try to keep as hidden as possible and get ready for incoming.”

Jak said nothing by way of reply, just grinned, nodded and moved away from them.

They dispersed as much as was possible in the small space allowed by the buildup of dune and the bulk of the wag. Doc climbed in, the better to handle the bulky LeMat out of view of any prying digital eye. Ryan and J.B. clustered, using their bodies to shelter their actions. Mildred was able to check her ZKR with ease, as the target pistol was smaller than the others’ blasters, making it easier to conceal. Jak, for his part, wandered away from the group. His Colt Python was not a priority for him. As far as he could see, it was simple. He had to be sharp and quick to avoid getting blasted by the mines, but he couldn’t fire back at it. If sec men came for them, then the others could fire. His priority was to not get blown up.

They all had their roles, and they were soon ready.

All they had to do was to take their cue when Jak sprang to action.

J
AK WANDERED AWAY
from the body of the wag, away from where the others were clustered. He looked out across the desert night. The sky above them was clear, the few stars in this sector of the sky glittering distantly, the crescent moon reflecting a gray light over the sandy topsoil. It was flat as far as could be seen, broken only by the darker craters of the mine detonations. To the horizon was a seemingly flat expanse.

Seemingly, Jak’s red albino eyes were better suited to a nocturnal life than those of his companions, and as he studied the flat expanse, so that flatness revealed itself to be a lie. The land was a series of planes and contours that dipped and curved into and against each other. The rolling waves of the contours were subtle, almost invisible to the naked eye at times. But as Jak stilled his breathing and allowed his body to fall into rhythm with the land around, so the secret movements of the earth were revealed to him. He could see how the chem storms, the winds, the movements deep within the ground, had all caused the surface to distort and warp. And with this, there were areas where the shifts in the natural curves of the earth had been disrupted by objects that had blocked the flow of energy and force, objects that Jak could make out more clearly the harder he looked.

Breathing now slowed to such a degree that, to the casual observer, he would have astonishingly seemed to have ceased taking in oxygen, Jak could see the whole path of the minefield laid out in front of him. The crisscross of paths between them were as clear to him as if they had been painted in. All he had to do was to follow the path, and he would avoid being blown up by stepping on a mine.

Of course, that didn’t mean that the coldhearts would trigger one near him and catch him with the shrapnel. The size of the craters, let alone the memory of what it had been like inside the wag, was enough to make him aware that even a glancing encounter with one of the mines would be enough to buy the farm.

But he had a safe haven. The triangle of cratered soil—it was a large enough space that, if forced to, it could provide an area where no exploding mine could get him. He had enough confidence in his instincts to take him that far, at least.

He began to run, picking his way along the route that only he was able to see in the gray light. Sure-footed, swift, he didn’t stop to think. Instead he listened to everything that his body told him. He could feel his breathing, could feel the blood pumping around his circulatory system, could hear the hissing of his central nervous system in his ears. He could smell the distant fire, the sweat of his friends, the dry decay of lizards and small mammals that had perished in the scorching heat of the day and were slowly rotting, the damp of the sand and soil thrown up by the mines detonated earlier. He was aware of the very air around him as it vibrated in the night breezes, as it moved around the disturbance he created.

He knew that he wouldn’t get far, knew that he would get only a few hundred yards at best before some kind of response was initiated.

H
OWARD WAS ALMOST
incandescent with impotent rage as he stared at the monitor. It was a natural conclusion to the kind of confusion that had now overtaken him. He banged his fist on the console as he spoke. His voice was just below a yell, strangled in the way that only a voice barely under control could be. Krysty would have considered him absurd if not for the firepower she knew that he controlled—and which could be directed at her friends.

As Howard spoke to Sid and Hammill, Krysty’s attention was taken by the monitor screens. Jak was running, dodging in what was a definite pattern, though for the life of her she couldn’t work out what the pattern was, and how he had worked it out.

“Hammill, disable the mines,” Howard yelped, voice barely contained. “He mustn’t trigger one.”

“Little chance of that,” came Hammill’s response. “It appears that he is able to see the layout of the network, and is picking his way between the explosives.”

“How the—No, scratch that, it doesn’t matter. He mustn’t get through, not yet. We’re not ready. This isn’t how I planned it. How can we drive him back?”

“SMGs are operational near to the ranch,” Hammill replied, “but do you wish to let him get that far? It would take him a half hour at current speed.”

“No, I don’t want him to die, or even be injured if it can be helped. He’s Storm Girl’s friend, and we don’t hurt our own.”

It didn’t stop you trying to blow them up earlier, Krysty thought, a shiver traveling down her spine at the use of the Storm Girl name. She was about to speak when Hammill cut in again.

“There is a gas dispersal system that is operational. I could load it with tear gas and send remote units within the next three minutes, ETA five. This would drive him back, but not necessarily harm him.”

Howard nodded vigorously. “Initiate.”

He turned to Krysty. There was a look on his face that was equal parts spoiled-child rage and an imploring need for approval. “Why is he doing this?”

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. Jak was always an unknown quantity. He’s not predictable.”

She was lying, of course, and hoped that his ingenuousness would allow her to get away with it. She had always been a crap liar, which had been a real problem at times. This could be one of them. Truth was that she knew what Jak was doing: drawing a response, breaking the impasse, giving Ryan and J.B. some idea about the forces they were up against so that the Armorer could estimate ordnance and Ryan could think tactics.

“If only people would act like they should,” Howard said, almost to himself, “then it would be so simple. All I need is the chance to explain it to them, but they won’t wait until I’m ready. Why do they—”

Hammill’s voice broke across. “Tear gas loaded, ready to launch.”

Howard flicked a switch and one of the monitors blurred briefly and flickered before changing from an exterior view to one of inside the bunker, a small room, with what looked like airfoils fitted with rocket engines lined up, three abreast. There were six rows. Only the front two—farthest from the camera—were in use. She knew this as they carried a payload that the others lacked, and they were surrounded by multiarmed cylindrical robots that moved on wheels and tracks. It was a smooth, impressive operation, as the robots readied the airfoils for launch, then moved away.

It was only as they did this that it hit Krysty—these were the workers of whom Sid had spoken. These were the remains of the original staff, their brains deployed in machinery, their humanity long since vanished into the mists of time and the fog of mechanical and electronic pain.

She felt sick. She was not one of the family. That could have been her. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have your identity ripped from your body and placed in a tin can, to be slowly drained until there was nothing left of your essence. Did they know what they had once been? How had it felt to have your soul disappear? Was there a point where you ceased to exist, where you were nothing, chilled to all intents and purposes? Or was there just a small piece of awareness still in there somewhere, screaming impotently for release?

Another reason to make sure that this hellish place was destroyed, and the trapped souls given release.

Her attention snapped back to the airfoils and away from any abstract ideas as the first row moved forward and were launched at Howard’s command.

She could follow from monitor to monitor as the airfoils left their hangar and traveled up a shaft that led to the surface. The entrance to the shaft was well hidden, and it was only when they broke the surface, scattering sand and topsoil, that she was able to pinpoint the exits on the relevant monitor.

“Launch success one hundred percent. Target arrival 120 seconds and counting,” Hammill intoned.

Howard turned to Krysty. “Jak won’t be hurt, Storm Girl. That isn’t my intention. Don’t look so worried. The tear gas will merely be enough to force him back to where the others are—” He broke off, turning back to the monitors.