Last Stand of the DNA Cowboys (21 page)

The closest of the open tunnels was guarded by a squad of
militia, some in field gray and some in the fatuous bronze armor. There was also one of the troopers, a tall, metallic figure in his arcane battle armor. No officers appeared to be around, and the four would-be deserters walked boldly through. They must have exhibited sufficient confidence for the militiamen to assume that they were on legitimate business. It was only when they were some yards into the tunnel, fingers crossed that their bluff would not be called, that the armored trooper slowly turned with soft shrieks of metal against metal and shouted after them in a deep, electronically enhanced bellow.

'You there! Halt! Stand where you are or lethal force will be used.'

The four of them stopped dead in their tracks. The metal figure crunched forward down the tunnel on steel boots.

'You have been scanned and identified by the Datron. You are under contract to the city. If you go any farther, I shall treat it as a breach meriting capital foreclosure.'

The DNA Cowboys and Renatta glumly turned and walked back toward Krystaleit and its war. Reave halted in front of the trooper.

'So what happens to us now?'

'I'll overlook this attempted breach if you immediately report to your units.'

The Minstrel Boy folded his arms. 'It's like I already told the bureaucrat, we don't have a unit. We were never assigned to one.'

'So you elected to leave the city?'

'Something like that.'

'If you don't have a unit, you should report to the Master of Free-Lancers.'

Reave nodded resignedly. 'Where do we find him?'

'A temporary headquarters for unattached contract warriors has been set up at the Victory Café'. You know where that is?'

Reave nodded. 'We know where that is.'

Billy shook his head as though he could not believe what he was hearing. 'A headquarters in a tavern?'

The armored trooper inclined his head slightly. The Minstrel Boy got the impression that he was smiling behind the blank mask of his helmet.

'It seems apt. Besides, the space was donated to the defense effort.'

The Victory Café, and indeed the whole of the Bluecat, had changed in the short time since Reave and the Minstrel Boy had been there. All but the most dogged of the prostitutes had left the plaza around the cat idol, and the streets had emptied of the usual pleasure seekers. Martial music had replaced the usual boom-boom from the clubs and gin joints. Armed patrols tramped the lanes and alleys on watch for possible fifth column attacks, and a long line of prospective purchasers waited outside Churchill's Weapons. Reave was certain that he recognized some of the girls from the Rising Sun among them. All the people in the city were taking the threat of the raiders very seriously and were arming themselves rather than just relying on the organized militia to protect them. The Minstrel Boy noticed that, unlike a lot of places, the soothbooth he had visited after the munchkin attack was still open for business, although it did not have any customers. As they passed by, Reave nudged him in the ribs.

'If she was so smart, how come she didn't see all this coming?'

The Minstrel Boy shrugged. 'Maybe she knows something that we don't know.'

'You really think so?'

The Minstrel Boy shook his head. 'No, not really.'

Armed men and women lounged around the entrance of the Victory Café. A few looked up as Renatta and the DNA Cowboys approached, but nobody challenged their right to be there. The interior of the saloon was crowded. Hard-faced men and women with cold eyes that were constantly on the move had every imaginable type of weapon hanging from belts and shoulder harnesses or stacked within easy reach. They were waiting for something to happen with the patience and economy of energy of experienced fighters. Reave would never have imagined that there were quite so many or such a variety of mercenaries and freebooters in the city. Neoprimitives leaned on their power spears and watched the comings and goings with unfathomable eyes. Others needed more solid diversions. Bandidos from the section, with oiled hair and drooping mustaches, compared weapons and bragged about past campaigns and conquests that probably had never happened, or at least not the way they were telling it. A knot of nomad yahoos, a long way from their normal stomping grounds in the Lanfranc Margins, were down on
their knees shooting the bones, seven come eleven. Four farii sat on the edge of the deserted stage silently sharing a pipe. A half dozen Nulites with their veils in place were seated around a single table, fingering their prayer cylinders, while everyone else gave them a wide berth. The bar was closed, but there were bottles being passed around, and the air was filled with noise and smoke and a certain strange controlled anticipation. Reave knew from experience that if the waiting went on too long, fights would start breaking out among the defenders as the strain started to tell. A bunch like that would quickly become impossible to control.

There were a number of familiar faces among the mob in the Victory Café. One of the first the Minstrel Boy spotted was that of Clay Blaisdell. He was drinking whiskey with a group of cronies, and he was already close to staggering drunk. He spotted the DNA Cowboys at the same lime they spotted him.

'No shit, will you look who's here! The DNA Cowboys have come to save us all. I would have thought that you guys would have been long gone to the nothings by now.'

The Minstrel Boy, who was already pissed off enough at being stuck inside Krystaleit, stalked up to Blaisdell with dark anger flashing in his eyes. His voice was quiet and dangerous. 'You want to say that again, Clay?'

Clay Blaisdell laughed. 'Hell, no. I don't want to say that again. I wouldn't be here myself if the tunnels hadn't been sealed.'

Billy and Reave had come up behind the Minstrel Boy, who was thinking about how good it might feel to take out his frustration on the swaying Blaisdell. He still had not forgotten the needling that the other had put him through the last time he had been in the Victory Café.

Blaisdell was saved by a commotion over by the stage. Two militia officers and a short thickset man in a buffalo jacket and high, buckled boots had climbed up and were shouting for quiet.

'Okay, okay, let's all settle down. Shut up and listen up. My name is Reft Zill, and I've been put in charge of deploying this rabble. I'm your Master of Free-Lancers, and you follow my orders until somebody tells you otherwise.'

Reave let out a groan. 'I don't believe it.'

The Minstrel Boy glanced around. 'What's the problem?'

Reave pointed to the stage. 'That little fat bastard, that's the
problem. Reft Zill is an overweight blowhard who shouldn't to put in command of a kids' picnic.'

Reave was not the only one complaining. There were boos and shouts and catcalls from all over the room, but Zill homed straight in on Reave.

'You got some objection to my command, Reave Mekonta?'

Suddenly Reave was the center of attention. Fully aware of that fact, he took his time answering. He allowed his face to split slowly into a wide, shit-eating grin. 'Hell, no, Reft, everything else around here is fucked up. Why should this be any different?'

There was a general roar of laughter.

Zill had small, resentful piggy eyes, which regarded the room with something close to loathing. 'You may all think that you're hotshots, but as far as I'm concerned you're nothing more than a flea-bitten rabble.'

'You can call us scum, Reft,' Reave retorted, 'but there are a few of us here who remember you at Menute Falls and your noble advance to the rear.'

There was more laughter. Zill became red in the face.

'Make the most of it, Reave Mekonta. Have your fun and get it over with. After this, I'm quite prepared to hang you if you get in my way.'

Reave did not respond to the threat, but others did. Shouts of 'Oh, yeah?' and 'Just try it!' clearly indicated that Zill's command was not going to be an easy one. Everyone in the room knew that despite Zill's bluster, a force of mercenaries like this had to be handled with kid gloves. They would fight like maniacs, but if authority pushed them too hard, they would simply up and mutiny. The rancor went on for a while longer, but bit by bit things settled down, and eventually they were all paying attention as Zill outlined how they would be used in the defense of the city. Everyone in the room also knew that their collective back was against the wall and that it was no time to be screwing around, even if they disliked the setup.

The plan was anything but deep. Hampered by the fact that nobody would know from which direction the raiders' attack might come until they actually emerged from the nothings, the mercenaries would play a flexible, mobile role. They would be held in first-line reserve, ready to reinforce the militia and the volunteers wherever necessary. That at least met with the room's
approval. Any merc worth his or her salt bitterly resented being used as cannon fodder. They were specialists and expected to be treated as such. The citizens of Krystaleit could break the first fury of the raiders' assault with their own bodies.

Zill finally wound up his address by taking questions from the crowd. Billy Oblivion was one of the first to raise his hand. When Zill pointed to him, he did not mince words. He had as much cause to dislike Reft Zill as Reave did: He had also been at the fight at Menute Falls.

'If we're going to be so damn mobile, can we get our tank back?'

'What tank?'

'My partners and I arrived in an old Saab battlewagon. The city impounded it for the duration of our stay. It had a full weapons system, including a heat ray, and it would seem like a good idea if we got it back.'

Zill held a whispered conversation with the two militia officers. After a few seconds he turned back to Billy.

'The vehicle has already been requisitioned. It's deployed in another part of the city.'

'Is that legal?'

'Practically anything's legal under the state of emergency.'

'What about our heavy weapons? They were in the tank. I don't intend to go into combat with just a needler.'

Zill again consulted with the militia officers.

'The weapons from the vehicle have already been distributed. If you go to the militia armory, you will be issued bolt throwers.'

Billy was outraged. 'What am I supposed to do with a bolt thrower, goddamn it? I'm a technician. I work with sophisticated weapons. Bolt throwers are for bozos.'

'So go round to Churchill's and get what you want.'

'Will the city pay for it?'

Zill wearily glanced at one of the militiamen. The officer nodded. 'Yes, you can obtain suitable weapons on city credit.'

The Minstrel Boy turned and looked at Reave to see how he was reacting. Reave was quiet and thoughtful, in total contrast to his previous mood. The Minstrel Boy did not know that Reave had spotted another familiar face in the crowd. Menlo Welker was over in the shadows at the back of the bar. They had seen each other and exchanged brief, covert nods. The presence of
Menlo in the Victory Café was a warning that when the attack came, any number of the mercs in the room could turn on the others, attacking them from behind in a deadly surprise as the raiders came over the barricades. Reave could only hope that old times would prevail upon Menlo to tip him before the fifth column attacked.

The days that followed the excitement of the alert and the mobilization sank into a lull of anticlimactic waiting. Billy, the Minstrel Boy, and Renatta went to Churchill's and, after jumping the line with a display of swaggering, overbearing macho, selected weapons. Billy came out with a huge nine-function Questar multiplex, remarking that if he had to go into combat, he might as well have the most radical edge possible. Renatta picked out a pair of Doh-Bien wrist lasers in black steel with silver inlay. As they were walking back to the Victory Café, the Minstrel Boy questioned her choice.

'You know those things need weeks of practice before you stop being as much a menace to yourself as to the enemy?'

Renatta looked at him as though he were a total idiot and flexed her hands like a Balinese dancer.'You think I don't know how to play wrist lasers? You think I don't know anything?'

'Sometimes I wonder what you do know.'

'Well, pardon me for not being properly menued.'

The Minstrel Boy, after a lot of thought, had opted for a reproduction AK 5000 that had been converted to fire x-pando slugs in ultrarapid bursts. It was the model with the wooden stock, drum clip, and retractable twelve-inch bayonet. The way things were shaping up, the bayonet might prove useful.

The weapons were the last real diversion. They had spent a day practicing with them out by the nothings, but after that there was little to do but settle in and wait. The mercenaries were billeted in commandeered rooms in the Bluecat as close as possible to the Victory Café. Although Zill constantly attempted to create makework for the men and women under his command, the bulk of the waiting time was spent getting drunk, fighting, and engaging in last-ditch sexual encounters. Zill had, at least, managed to organize the fights into staged competitions rather than freestyle brawls. Reave and a giant yahoo called Gorshon Mass Goh held the house record for gambling receipts after a vicious fifteen rounds of contact wandweking, but by far the most memorable and crowd-pleasing bout was the no-limit, f
eral-feline hair-tearing confrontation between Su Wu Lu and Brawny Helda. That bout started some related but rather different confrontations. The sexual undertow was never below a dull roar, and the constant couplings and partings had a desperate quality that Billy had summed up the most aptly: 'We who are about to die tend to get horny.'