7th Sigma (32 page)

The colonel gestured at Hodges, who answered, “Yes. They hadn't been heard from for three weeks when the family started asking. We have a record of them going through access control at Andrews, and they were remembered at two different water holes. But then nothing.” He was speaking quietly, but he was hunched slightly and his eyes darted sideways to the colonel as he talked.

“Satellite archives?”

“They looked, but there's too many wagons in the territory. And three is a pretty common number. It was a dry spell, too, but our patrol didn't find any sign of them leaving the road. Those filters don't weigh much, but they piled them high.”

“Unless the tracks were hidden,” Kimble added.

The colonel spoke. “That's one possibility. The real problem is that while the boys weren't heard from, some of those water filters did show up—at two different stores
here
in town.”

“Other peddlers
do
carry water filters.”

The colonel said simply, “Serial numbers.”

“Ah. And what do the vendors say?”

The colonel gestured to Hodges again, who said, “They bought them from an itinerant peddler and he is long gone.”

“Fell off the back of a truck, no doubt. You believe them?”

“Hard to say. They're established vendors. Upstanding citizens and all.”

“Still no sign of the boys, though?”

“None. We considered they were just avoiding paying back the money, using this to get away from home, but one of them was engaged to be married. They were top of their class—not exactly the kind of boys you'd expect to rip off the parents who backed them.”

“How about the wagons—anything special about them?”

The colonel glanced at Hodges again.

“Yes and no,” Hodges said. “They were boat-tight Conestogas—a little fancy, but common enough around here—but the father said the sides of the wagons had been marked with his ranch's brand, both sides, right behind the driver's box. Melted in good, then filled with contrasting paint.”

“What brand?”

“Rocking sunrise.”

“I'm not picturing it. Semicircle below, the rocker, right?”

“Yes. Joined by smaller half-circle above with three rays at ten, twelve, and two o'clock.”

Obviously you couldn't use a metal branding iron in the territory, but the marks were still used, whether applied with a ceramic “iron” or indelible dye writ large and renewed annually. Wire fencing was another casualty of the infestation, so open range grazing was common. Some form of tagging was necessary.

“You've looked, obviously.”

“Yes. We have a territorial alert out.”

“And for the boys, of course,” added the colonel.

“Of course.”

“It's not just that one time, though, right?”

“Right. There've been three others,” said Hodges.

The colonel added, “That we know about.”

Hodges flinched. “Yes, sir.” He took a deep breath. “A party that was headed for the capital left from Midland-Odessa last month. We tracked them on the same route that Mendez took and further, to one more asequia where the keeper remembered them. But then nothing. Two of the women and one of the men were doctors going for a tour with the TMS. One of them was an internist who was bringing experimental diagnostic packs—metal-free biotech for blood work. The Medical Service launched that inquiry. We haven't seen any of the medical gear resold, but a coat ended up at a local flea market.”

“Identified how?”

“A laundry mark. You only saw the writing if you pulled the hood out of its pocket.”

“How many people?”

“Six adults.”

“Vehicles?”

“Three horse-drawn FlyWeight buggies and a U-Haul wagon and team. No—no sign of them.”

“Were those the ‘three' you were talking about?”

The colonel answered. “I wish. I meant three other
incidents
. The other two were both single peddlers hitting their suppliers at access control and then heading back out. We haven't seen any of their stuff show up, but they disappeared in roughly the same area. The most recent one happened
after
Lujan was airlifted out.”

“Okay. Let's talk about Lujan.”

“Lujan was following the merchandise. He was looking at the two merchants who had the water filters and the flea market vendor who was selling the coat. He'd been here a week and really had nothing to report, yet, but he said he'd been developing sources.”

“Have you heard his status?”

“He's fine. They had to remove his spleen and he'll have to be careful about infections. No more unpasteurized milk and all that. Your boss says he really hadn't made any progress with the merchants.”

“And the sources?”

“Some street vendors and beggars. Sort of a Baker Street Irregulars, I gather,” the colonel said.

Hodges looked puzzled at the reference, and Kimble said, “People he could use for low-level surveillance, messages, etc.” It took a conscious effort not to scream
Sherlock Holmes, you illiterate idiot.
“Where was he shot? And I don't mean the spleen.”

The colonel gestured to Hodges, who answered, “We were supposed to meet south of the barracks at our regular rendezvous. There's a small seep coming out of a rocky outcropping overlooking the river valley where the farm road bends to the east. When I got there, Lujan's horse was cropping grass, but there was fresh blood on the saddle and down the side. I'm not much of a tracker but the blood trail was clear. He was only a hundred yards away. I got him back to the barracks. The unit medic put him on IV fluids, glued him shut, and prepped him for airlift.”

Badly injured casualties were sky-hooked off the ground in padded capsules connected to balloon-lifted lines stretching above the bugosphere. Special aircraft hooked them and reeled them in, getting them to the outside trauma centers within an hour of pickup.

If you were important enough. Lujan was an undercover Ranger.

Ordinary people would've had to take their chances with a local surgeon using glass scalpels and composite needles. No X-rays. No CAT scans. Minimal lab work. Respiration and heartbeat monitored the old-fashioned way. That is, if they were anywhere near a local doctor.

“Did Lujan give Control any names?”

“Yes, but considering he was shot sometime after that, shouldn't they be avoided?”

The colonel and Kimble both stared at Hodges, whose eyes widened. “You think
I
blew his cover.”

“Why not? You blew mine.” But then Kimble shook his head. “I don't know that. It was probably the airlift that connected them to you in the first place. My money is on the merchants. Not that they shot him but that they probably talked to whoever supplied them with the filters. But rest assured, I'm not interested in being a target. Still, I want those names and anything else he had.” Kimble stopped talking as the dialog from the stage stopped for a scene change. When the crowd began laughing a few minutes into the next scene, he asked, “Tell me why it wasn't a Ranger that shot Lujan.”

Colonel Anson handled this one. “Didn't say it wasn't a Ranger. What we know is that it wasn't Ranger-issued ammo.”

“But it was a gyro?”

“Oh, yeah. Same kind of ammo. But they're tagged, every one, and this serial number came out of a batch supposedly used at the factory test range.”

“Where's that?”

“Geneseo, Illinois. Nowhere near the territory, if that's what you were wondering. The feds are checking that end.”

“And the rifle?”

“That part's trickier. The rifles are really just graphite tubes with stocks and sights. The high-tech side is the self-stabilizing rockets. There's no rifling to mark the projectile. The friction tag is pulled by the firing mechanism and stays with the rifle and, even if we recovered it, the mark left by the mechanism is generic.”

“Is this the only time you've detected unauthorized gyros in the territory?”

“So far. The bomb sniffers at access control have the rocket fuel's chemical fingerprint. There have been smuggling attempts before, and accidental carries—Rangers on leave with ammo in a uniform pocket—but this is the only one we know about.” Colonel Anson sighed. “I'm wondering what we'll find, though, if we locate the missing parties.”

The episode below ended to applause. One of the ingénues came out and sang a song for the closing act, accompanied by a nylon-strung guitar and a gut bass.

“Names from Lujan?”

Hodges gave Kimble a sheet of paper.

“Right. Let's limit further communication to message drops for now. There's a loose brick at knee level to the right of this theater's stage door. There's a little hollow behind it and I plugged the space below with mud to keep any messages from falling down into the wall. The brick has a spot of dried paint on the face at one end. If the spot is closer to the stage door, there's a message. If away—nothing. You leave a message, put the brick back in with the spot toward the door. You remove a message, leave it away. If I leave a message there will also be a piece of grass stuck in the cracks. That way you won't be checking your own messages. Got it?”

The colonel answered, “Sure. Toward the door and a piece of grass, ‘Ding—we've got mail!' Toward the door and no grass—it's for you.”

“Hodges is being watched, so he stays away. Better if you can get someone in mufti to carry the messages, but be sure of them, okay? Rangers on the whole aren't used to hiding things from normal citizens. They're not the
enemy
after all. They drink with them, they buy from them, and they sure as hell try to sleep with them, so pick someone who can keep his mouth shut.” Kimble stopped talking abruptly and blushed. “Sorry, sir. Forgot who I was talking to.”

The colonel laughed softly.

Kimble continued. “There are no windows in the alley and you can get out at either end. Anything else? I want to leave in the first rush.”

Hodges said, “What code? For the messages?”

Reluctantly Kimble said, “Book code. You'll find a sealed envelope on your codes shelf—it's labeled L F underscore D D. Go ahead and open it.”

Hodges repeated it. “Authorization?”

“All the world.” Kimble repeated it slowly, making sure that Hodges was getting it. Colonel Quincy nodded, as well, so Kimble thought it would be all right.

He touched his palms together to the colonel, then crept out of the box and sat on the stairs. When the first wave started out of the seats below, he merged into the crowd, walking as if he belonged to a family group. He left them two blocks later, turning off into one of the unlit residential streets.

Five minutes later he was outside of town.

20

Stolen Wagons and Bible Verses

Kimble found Pierce in the shantytown south of Pecosito, sleeping under a length of plastic roofing material supported by two sticks and a cinder block. His mattress was scraps of cardboard and his blanket was knotted together burlap sacking. A spare shirt was draped over his face to keep the mosquitoes away.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. I'll buy you breakfast.”

Pierce thrashed out, startled, and knocked out one of the supports of his lean-to, dropping the roof onto him.

“It's not the first time,” he said later. He'd washed his head and torso in the river, put on his cleanest shirt, and now they were walking to town.

“That your lean-to fell over?”

“Two days ago it was the deputies and vigilantes from town, riding through like the Cossacks riding through Anatevka. Bastards. I mean, it's out of city limits. They have no right.”

“What did you do outside, Pierce?”

Pierce peered at him sideways. “This and that.”

“White collar?”

Pierce drew himself up. “If you must know, I was a financial advisor.”

“Ah.”

“What do you mean, ‘Ah'?”

“Just that you didn't deal with the law much. Other than the one time, of course.”

Pierce's eyes looked haunted. “What do you mean?”

Kimble shrugged. “You're not in the territory for your
health
.”

Pierce shook his head angrily.

“I could talk to the Rangers about it,” Kimble said. “I still have your fingerprints on that cup you used.” This was a gross prevarication. He'd washed it several times since their encounter. “I'm thinkin'… embezzlement.”

“Shut up!”
Pierce stared around. They were on the river road and the only other person in sight was a man on horseback several hundred yards away.

“Hit a nerve, did I? Didn't think it was anything violent.”

“What do you want, dammit!”

“Got a job for you. Easy work. Not illegal. Give you a chance to buy some clean clothes, maybe get a job and stop sleeping in the dirt.”

Pierce calmed down. Kimble heard his stomach rumble.

“Why don't we discuss it over
breakfast
?”

*   *   *

PIERCE
had been in Pecosito only a little longer than Kimble, having snagged a ride with a ranch family traveling south to the Soccoro area, then freighters traveling east through Pecosito on their way to the Clovis territorial access point. He'd spent that brief time, though, among the kind of people that Kimble was looking for.

Pierce already knew two of the people on the list. Kimble wrote down the names of the others and what particulars Lujan had recorded. “Begs at the theaters evenings” or “turns tricks behind the Dog and Trumpet” or, in one case, “Catholic Aid.”

“Just identify as many as you can. Try not to be obvious about it, okay? If anyone asks, say you're collecting hard luck stories for an article.” He caught Pierce's eye. “Don't talk about me. You do, I'll turn you in to the Rangers.”