Flashing in anger, Anders bridled at that, but then backed down from the big man and left the galley in a huff muttering to himself.
“Damn fool.” Matilda sighed, placing a huge speckled urn of coffee on the table along with a tray of tin cups and a handful of mixed packets of powdered cream and sugar from MRE meal packs.
“Hell of a tech on the engines, though,” the giant stated, leaning against the wall and crossing his thick arms. “Okay, Ryan, you and your people grab some chow. The chief will be with ya in a tick.”
Feeding us so the sec men have enough time to search through our possessions, he realized, pouring a cup full of the black brew. Seven holsters but only six blasters would give vital info to anybody with a brain. It was a bastard smart move, and he would have done the same thing himself in their position.
Pouring a cup of the fresh coffee, Mildred studied the fluid as it went into the cup, then sniffed carefully and took a small sip, holding the brew in her mouth for a moment before swallowing and nodding to the others. If there were any drugs in the potent Java, they were beyond her ability to discern.
The companions divided the food into the bowls and dug in with gusto. While they ate, the big man accepted a steaming cup of Java from the cook and took a gulp in spite of the boiling temperature.
“Blessed be, when you joined the convoy, Matilda,” he said with a grin. “Our last cook could ruin food by opening the can, and his coffee was perfect for dipping pungi sticks into to poison muties.”
The woman merely smiled and returned to her work. With so many sec men in the convoy, her work was never really finished. Matilda was either starting a meal, serving it or washing dishes afterward. But this was still a hundred times better for her and Avarm than working in a ville. Almost a whole day had gone by so far and nobody had tried to rape her or steal Avarm to put him in slave chains. It was just incredible.
“Got a name?” Ryan asked in a friendly manner, spooning more stew into his mouth.
“I’m Fat Pete,” the man said, a hand resting on his thigh only inches away from the .357 Magnum S&W blaster riding at his side. “I’m the top kick here. Now.” The word was added to the sentence after a split second had passed, Ryan could make a guess what it meant. The XO for the convoy had been aced by Gaza, probably one of the bike riders dissolving outside in the mud.
“Nothing to do with us,” Ryan said firmly. “We’re just trying to find the Trader, ace Gaza if we can.”
“I like that second part,” Kate said, stepping into view from the corridor.
Laying aside his spoon, Ryan watched as the tall woman entered the galley. So this was the person using the name of Trader. The woman was clean and well muscled, with fancy boots and two wide gun belts on her ample hips; one sporting a big bore revolver, the other carrying a hand comm. Her shirt swelled from a wealth of breast underneath, and her golden blond hair was tied off in a short ponytail with a strip of camou cloth. Her nose had been broken once and set poorly, and a band of scars circled each wrist. A former slave, eh?
Her skin was deeply bronzed from the Deathlands sun, and her eyes were hard, but not cold. There was still a trace of compassion in the expression.
“You the Trader?” Ryan asked, laying aside his spoon.
“Just Trader,” Kate said, sliding back her Stetson hat until it hung down her back from the thong around her neck. “And inside these walls you can call me Kate.”
“Ryan,” he replied, indicating himself with a thumb, and then introducing the rest of the companions.
Leaning against the wall, Kate nodded at each in turn. They were lean and hard looking, but without that dead glint in their eyes of mercies or coldhearts. The redhead in the group was a real beauty, but she carried herself with a warrior’s pride and nobody was telling her to get them things. All equal, eh? She liked that. Mebbe it had been a good idea to cut these folks a deal. Never enough friendlies out here in the Deathlands.