talk, beyond the routine checks of switches and contacts. It was something that
J.B. had introduced to the Trader, stressing the importance of everyone knowing
not only his own duties, but the jobs of at least two other members of the crew.
And time and again that insistence had saved all their lives.
Standing outside the vehicle, Ryan knew precisely where they were all positioned
and what they would be doing. Ches in the driver’s seat, eyes ranging over the
dials, automatically checking fuel, pressures and temperatures. O’Mara in the MG
blister, dry-firing the piece, making sure of the ammunition. Even Loz would be
busy, stacking away all the pots and pans, seeing that in the heat of a fight
there would be no cooking knives or cleavers flying around inside the armored
cabin.
And the Trader?
Normally he would be at the helm, here and everywhere. A gruff question perhaps,
and a firm hand on a shoulder. His eyes flicking all about, giving a word of
praise or a word of criticism. But now he was lying on his bunk, asleep from the
drugs Krysty had given him. It was the first time in all the years that Ryan had
known him that the Trader had agreed to take any medication. Which said a lot
about his condition.
The out-ranging guards had fallen back from their perimeter and had been joined
by a man and woman from the war wag. Each of them stood watch at a corner of the
huge combat vehicle, scanning the blank walls of the forest all around them.
Ryan found Fishmouth Charlie changed from the black uniform into a pale fawn
coverall, a brown denim hat pulled down low over her thick, curling hair. In the
first pale hint of dawn’s light, he could make out the tiny, pouting mouth and
the goggling eyes that had given the woman her name.
“Ready, Charlie?” he asked.
“Sure am. Regular little army the Trader’s gotten his-self. Didn’t find ’em too
friendly at first, but they kind of accept us.”
“How’s Kurt?”
“Not good. Figures everyone’s out to kill him. He knows you’re headin’ into the
Darks and he keeps mumbling ’bout the fogs there.”
Ryan rubbed a long forefinger down the side of his nose, glancing back over his
shoulder at the nearest entrance to War Wag One. It was about time they were off
and moving in case Strasser—
Blood and splattered brains blinded him for a moment. Sharp fragments of bone
from the shattered skull stung the side of his face.
“Hellblast,” he hissed, half turning, ducking as he did so. He was conscious of
the sound of the gun. A high-velocity rifle, fired from a couple of hundred
paces away, among the screen of trees. It had fluked a hit on poor old Charlie
at his side. Probably one of the countless M-16s he’d seen around Mocsin, hefted
by the sec men.
Such thoughts took him a splinter of frozen time. More lead ricocheted off the
side of the war wagon, leaving a splash of silvery metal to the right of the
nearest door.
“Lights!” Ryan yelled, realizing what a great target the golden rectangle was.
But someone inside, no doubt J.B., was quicker, and the lights went out even as
he shouted the warning.
The firing became heavier, all concentrated on Ryan’s side. In the false dawn he
saw the muzzle-flashes and he snapped off a burst from the LAPA, not waiting to
see if they had any effect. Charlie’s corpse was still at his feet, twitching,
arms and legs flailing in the residual movements of death mimicking life. The
bullet had hit her through the right side of the cheek, angling upward,
dislodging one of her bulbous eyes, exiting near the top of her skull, and
flipping the cap off in a welter of blood.
Ryan ducked low, wincing as a shot from the darkness hacked up a burst of mud
and water barely inches from his left foot. Already there was the deafening
racket of death from the war wag as everyone poured lead into the forest, giving
covering fire for Ryan and the four guards to scramble back inside.
Three made it.