Chewing a lip, Stephen rested his arms on top of the steering wheel. Straight ahead was a fork in the road, the left branch going to some nameless pesthole ville, the right heading directly toward Front Royal. Strategically positioned between the branches was a stout blockhouse made of whole logs cemented together into a formidable structure. Blaster slots were notched into the thick walls, the only door fronted by a half circle of sandbags a full yard high. A dozen sec men armed with blasters stood behind the sandbags watching him sitting in the lead wag, but that wasn’t what made Stephen so apprehensive. It was their clothes. They were wearing the wrong clothes.
Setting the parking brake with a yank, Stephen stared at the leader of the sec men as he came closer. The rest of the troopers stayed where they were, their longblasters held casually, but with their fingers on the triggers. They weren’t expecting any trouble, just ready for it. From previous trips, Stephen knew there were more sec men hidden in the trees to give additional support should the need arise. This fork was a major approach to the ville and was always well-defended.
It was the shirts that bothered him. The material was brown, not the blue of Overton’s private army. What had happened in Front Royal during his absence?
As the sergeant stopped well away from the van, Stephen rolled down the window and managed to smile, politely keeping both of his hands in plain sight. He had a revolver at his hip, and a shotgun was clipped to the ceiling. But the slightest move toward either of those weapons would probably be the last thing he ever did.
“Hey,” the sec man said in greeting.
Stephen nodded. “Good morning, sir. How much?”
Hooking thumbs into his gun belt, the sergeant snorted a laugh. “That’s all done with. No more tolls on this road by order of Baron Cawdor.”
Something was wrong here; Stephen knew it and took a chance. “Cawdor?” he asked, trying to sound puzzled. “I thought the baron here was named Overton.”
A sneer replaced the smile. “He’s dead. Got chilled by his own troops. Nathan Cawdor is the rightful baron here.”
Dead? So the invasion failed. Sweat broke out over Stephen’s body as he smiled to the news. “Great! I heard Overton was a real son of a bitch.”
“Pretty bad,” the sec man agreed, looking at the line of trucks. “All three of these wags belong to you?”
“Yeah, we caravan through the hills together. Safer that way, you know, muties and coldhearts.”
The smile returned, but not with much warmth. “I hear you. Much trouble in the passes?”
“No. A few stickies, nothing more. We travel at night when it’s too cold for anybody to try jacking us.”
“Pretty smart.” The smile stayed, but the eyes became hard. “What’s the cargo?”
Stephen started to say wire, but stopped himself. For some reason Overton had wanted insulated cable from predark buildings and lots of it Who knew why? Mebbe he wanted to electrify all of Front Royal. Yeah, right. Few villes were able to sustain a constant supply of electricity. Most folks considered it a myth. And there was no chance that Nathan would want the cable for the same purpose as Overton. But what else could copper wiring be used for? An answer was needed immediately, and Stephen surprised himself by dredging up a vague memory of a phrase he heard somewhere.
“Refined metal,” he lied smoothly. “For making jacketed bullets.” The sec man looked properly impressed. “Plus, a few passengers.”
“Muties?”
“Norms, I assure you.”
Narrowing his eyes, the sergeant seemed skeptical. “How many?”
“Ten.”
“Any skilled workers, carpenters, masons?”
“Hell, I have no idea,” Stephen answered honestly. “You’d have to ask them.”
“Mebbe I will. Any jolt or weed?”
“I don’t traffic in drugs,” Stephen snapped, then hastily added, “sir.”
The sec man chuckled. “Saved yourself a hanging here, friend. You must have been here before.”
The words were so matter-of-fact, Stephen almost admitted the truth. Only a lifelong habit of lying stopped him. So the sec men were looking for folks who dealt with Overton, eh? That news could be worth something to a smart man.