Dark Reckoning by James Axler

“What about the Claymores?” Sheffield demanded, rising from his throne.

“None of them went off, sir. Ain’t worth shit.”

“Fuses are set wrong again,” the baron muttered, worrying a fist. “Lieutenant Brandon, get on the intercom and assign more troops to the gap immediately. Then order the last two war wags to shove that dead tank into the gap. That’ll cut the hole down from fifty feet to twenty. And have somebody reset the fuses!”

“Yes, sir!” the officer replied. He strode across the room to a distant table and started to press buttons on a small control panel. A tired voice answered from the speaker, and he replied in a harsh tone.

Furious, a sergeant spit on the floor. “Shitfire!” he growled. “What are we going to do about these fucking blasters? No matter what we do, no matter how much cloth we wrapped around them, they always jam!”

Glumly, a private added, “If the slaves ever find out, we’ll have another revolt.”

“Got that right,” another sec man agreed succinctly.

With a curse, Collette swung her squat Ingram around to point it at a musician chained to a chair near the fireplace. The slave continued to softly blow a happy song on her harmonica. She hadn’t been told to stop and knew better than to disobey a command.

“Whoa there, sir! Ain’t no need for that. Lorna is okay,” a private said, stepping between the two women. “Totally faithful to the blues, she is. Good as a dog.”

“Idiot,” Collette snarled, snapping the arming bolt. “Slaves are faithful only to the whip.”

The private turned to the baron. “Sir?” he asked hopefully.

“Kill them both,” Sheffield ordered calmly. “I won’t have fools working for me as bodyguards.”

The sec man gasped and Collette fired from the hip, the chattering machine pistol hosing a stream of soft-lead rounds. The trooper tried to dodged out of the way and failed, his body spinning to topple onto the dirty floor. Unable to move, the girl simply continued to play the harmonica until the bullets came her way, slamming her backward against the chair. The tattered body slumped forward to dangle limply from the chains, the broken harmonica tumbling away to land in the fireplace next to the electric heater.

“Anybody ever speaks like that in front of a slave gets more of the same,” Collette stated, slapping in a fresh clip. “We kill with blasters, but rule through fear. Understand?”

The men murmured agreement, trying to ignore the splashes of blood and gore adorning their uniforms.

“Wh-what about me, sir?” the wounded corporal asked hesitantly.

As if debating options, Sheffield waited a minute before answering. “You did good, Trooper. Go see the healer about that wound, then get some sleep. You deserve a rest. No patrols for a week. You’re assigned to the bunker.”

“Yes, sir!” He smiled and gave a crisp salute. The sec man hurried past the corpses and throne, heading down a long hallway for a distant section of the armory.

“That was generous,” Collette commented, shouldering her blaster.

“Carrot and the stick,” Sheffield replied. “Only a fool tries to rule by only one of those.” Loosening the scarf around his neck, the baron sat in the throne chair and pulled the maps closer. “Lieutenant Brandon, take some men and drag the bodies outside. We’ll save them for later in case we run low on food for the slaves.”

“Right now?” the officer asked, glancing at the billowing blanket covering the closed door. “But sir, the storm gets worse at night.”

Sheffield lowered a map and said nothing, merely staring at the soldier.

Swallowing hard, the lieutenant gathered his weapon and joined the other sec men at the door. Covering their faces with masks of cloth, one by one the men slid under the blanket and out into the roaring tempest.

“Now we’re alone.” Collette smiled, removing her shirt completely.

“Later,” the baron snapped, studying a map. “I have an idea that might solve our present problem nicely.”

She leaned closer, letting him feel the warmth of her skin. “Tell me,” the woman encouraged.

“We can’t move the dish,” he said, tracing a river on the paper with a finger, “but mebbe, just mebbe”