“Explosives from night soil?” Lisa asked, staring at the companions as if she questioned their sanity.
“Close enough. Crystals form under deposits of waste. The older the better. The crystals are saltpeter, one of the chemicals needed to make black powder.”
This news was received with excitement.
“Unfortunately, we have no latrines,” Clifford said glumly. “The night soil of the ville is flushed into the river.”
J.B. exhaled and tilted his hat backward. “Great. Well, what about silver? Coins, cups, anything will do.”
“We can get some, yes,” Lisa said. “But for what purpose? Any supplies needed we don’t buy, we steal.”
“Then steal me silver,” J.B. ordered. “And white sugar. Lots of it. All you can.”
“There is beet sugar,” Kathy said hesitantly. “But it’s reserved for the heirs, and it’s much more closely guarded than ornamental metals.”
“Get me enough, and I can make us explosives.”
“From silver and sugar?” Troy demanded.
“And water and sunlight and old rags, yes.” J.B. tapped the wooden box of dynamite with a fingertip. “I’ll use these as primers and centers. Should do the job just fine.”
David frowned. “Use them to do what?”
“Get us more plastique,” Ryan told them. “Plus, grens, ammo and anything else useful we can find.”
“Never waste time trying to reinvent the wheel,” Doc explained. “Why make crude weapons, when we can steal good ones?”
“Steal.” Lisa chewed on the word. “You plan on raiding the ville armory?” Her words ended on a high note.
“Sure. Last thing anybody would expect.”
“You aren’t cowards,” Troy admitted in spite of his reservations. “Invade the Citadel. I don’t believe that has ever been attempted.”
“Good,” Ryan said. “Then security will be lax.”
“Excuse me,” Dean interrupted, stepping forward, “but I wanted to ask, what happened to Shard?”
“Who?” Lisa asked, furrowing her brows.
Krysty glanced around the tunnel room. “Shard, the prisoner who was with us. Where is he?”
“Shard?”
“Tall skinny guy,” J.B. said. “Bushy beard.”
The slim brunette looked at her associates, then directly at the companions. “I’m sorry, but we don’t understand. There wasn’t anybody clse in the courtyard when we found you.”
“Are you sure?” Ryan prompted with a scowl.
“Mebbe he got away, or the guards captured him.” She shook her head. “Nobody.”
Chapter Fifteen
Washlines heavy with laundry wove a crazed netting over the filthy street. Marching in formation, a squad of sec men tramped through the squalid huts, pushing aside everybody in their way with a complete lack of concern. An old woman fell sprawling into the mud and half-naked children ran screaming for their mothers’ skirts. Strong men stood silent as the armed guards went by, many of them hiding a clenched fist behind their backs.
“This is it,” a corporal said, pointing at a hovel.
The house was made from bits and pieces of plywood and sheet metal, the tar paper roof sealed with mud. The whole thing was bleached gray from exposure to the acid rains from the west.
One savage kick from a private and the door broke apart into kindling, pieces of wood still clinging to the rusty hinges.
Inside, a girl was using a bare stick to stir a pot of something cooking over a small fire of coal fragments. As the sec men entered, she dropped the stick and folded her hands, bowing as low as possible.
“Good sirs,” she spoke to the ground, not daring to look directly at them, “command me.”
“Where are the strangers!” the corporal demanded, wrenching her face upward. “We know they’re loose in Detail. Tell us where.” Underneath the layers of cooking grease and dirt, he saw she was a beauty indeed, and wondered why this one had never before been brought to the barracks for a week of bed duty. Sloppy recruiting.
“Strangers, good master?” She blinked, wringing her hands.
“Outlanders, pretty one,” he stated, tracing her face with a finger. Her cheek muscles twitched, but she didn’t flinch. “Mutie invaders come to kill us all.”
“I haven’t seen them, master. I’m a good prisoner!” the teenager pleaded. “I obey the law.”
The corporal released her and moved aside. Stepping closer, a burly sec man slapped her across the face with the back of his gloved hand. She hit the dirt floor, sobbing wildly.