Peace in an Age of Metal and Men (7 page)

He nodded.

“Good.” I pointed to the spot not far away where Abi was silhouetted against the glow of the night sky. “That girl’s going to take us to a place in Dead Oak. Trust her. Do anything she says.” Dizziness was nearly too much for me. Bracing against my cane, I was barely able to keep myself up. My chest felt tight and breath was hard to come by.

“Sure,” Keith said. “What are you going to do?”

I gasped a few breaths. “Nothing,” I said. Without trying, I dropped to one knee. “Nothing at all.”

The last thing I felt was Keith catching me as I collapsed the rest of the way to the ground.

“Honey,” Josephine said, “you look like you let a butcher operate on you.”

Keith was doing his best to shrink into the corner. I lay on the steel table in the center of Josephine’s shack. Jo prodded me with tools that I didn’t even try to identify.

“Might’ve,” I said.

“Well, you know that was dumb, right? Nobody knows a body like a mechanic. Butcher’ll just cut you up into pieces.”

I tried to say something clever, but it came out as a pained grunt as Josephine dug a three-pronged device into my sore ribs.

“Not broken, you wuss.” She put the tool down and looked me right in the eyes. “And no, you don’t need no doctor. You’re half metal anyway, boy. What’s a doctor gonna do for you? A mechanic is what you need.”

“I’m getting tired of waking up on people’s tables,” I said.

“Always thought you were too soft, anyway. Little more tech will toughen you right up.”

Keith stepped up and helped me into a sitting position. I looked down at my chest. It was cleaner, but the left side where the bolt had hit had a dark purple welt the size of a fist. The welt now had three faint holes around it where Jo’s tool had burrowed in.

Josephine started cleaning her tools and putting them away. “I reinforced the ribs for you, in case there was a crack I couldn’t see. They’ll be tough as hell from now on. The tissue around them was badly bruised, but all I could do was numb the area. Your nannies ought to get things functional soon enough.” She eyed Keith. “Long as you don’t let a butcher get you, you should be fine.”

A fresh wave of nausea hit as I stood up. “I need help, Jo.” My voice was quiet.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Someone’s messing with tech around that town, Jo. And I suspect there’s something going on in the bank.”

Her expression darkened.

“What I mean to say is, we need to get into that bank and figure out what’s happening there. I know you’re good with tech. Get into their computers and find the info I need. It’s all I ask.”

Josephine’s jaw looked so hard I wondered if she might start breaking brick walls with it.

“I’ve got a plan, a start of one, anyway. I—”

“You used to be a decent sheriff, J.D.” Josephine’s voice was low. “Little bit of a technophobe and a little delusional at times, but we got to an understanding with you. You meant well.” She put a finger on my chest. “What you’re telling me now is delusion. We usually let you do your thing, but this is enough. I’m not going to get involved in anything having to do with that town.”

“Everything I’m saying is true. Just ask Keith.”

Keith’s eyes got wide.

Josephine shook her head. “If what you say is true, then call Trish in. It’s her business now, not yours.”

“Can’t.” My voice didn’t have much conviction.

“The hell you can’t.”

She was right. Zane wanted me to keep the law out of it. He backed it up with some vague threats. One call to Trish would set things in motion. She’d help deal with the problem, whatever it was. It made me wonder why Zane had wanted to keep her out of it.

“What if I get Zane, the guy from Goodwin, to explain why we can’t call her?” I shrugged into a clean shirt Josephine had given me, only wincing a little.

“That city boy ain’t welcome anywhere around here and you know it.”

I opened my mouth to speak, then shook my head when I couldn’t think of anything. I picked up my hat, put it on, and left the shack. Night had fallen. Abi sat on my skidder with a grin on her face. Intense flood lamps lit the scrap yard, shutting the night out into an inky backdrop. The air had lost the intense heat of the day and was edging its way toward cool.

Abi grinned at me. “She busted her ass for you, you know. Worked the whole time you were gone. I think she likes you.”

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

She gave me a sidelong glance. “Sometimes people are like that.” She slid off the skidder, walked over to me, and hip-checked me.

“I don’t know anyone like that.”

She checked me again, pushing me toward the skidder. “It’s working now. Functional, anyway.” Check. “I’ve never seen her turn around anything this fast. Not for a man, anyway.”

She checked me again and then I was next to the skidder.

It had fancy rockets. Four articulated, slender tubes ended with flared nozzles. The new parts were bright orange, except for the back left one, which was hot pink. She’d replaced the entire control panel with a slick new interface. Instead of an array of dials and switches, the panel was a black-iron slab with no apparent controls at all.

“I can’t use that.”

“Sure you can.”

“I was just getting the hang of the old controls.”

“No you weren’t.” She mimed me fumbling around with the controls. It was a somewhat accurate imitation, though I don’t remember her ever seeing me drive.

“It’s too complicated.”

Abi’s grin widened. “Just the opposite, actually.” She cupped my metal hand in her tiny palms. I felt cowed, like a monster being led by an innocent girl. She tugged gently on my huge, industrial claw and placed it in the shaped iron of the control panel. It fit perfectly.

“It was made for it—gah!” A pulse of tingling pain rippled through my arm, down my spine, and up through my skull. My thoughts echoed in my head, like my skull had grown eight times its size but the ideas were still little. I flexed my jaw, shrugged my shoulders, felt deep down into the length of my limbs. The throbbing pain of my artificial arm had stopped, but there was still feedback. I could feel the length of my arm, my elbow, my fingers. Sensations came from beyond my fingers. The four thrusters were extensions of my own body. The antigrav flexed like a muscle. My skidder was part of me, like it was designed to be part of me.

“Josephine has a good bit of army surplus sitting around.” Abi slapped the seat of the skidder, which I felt as a dull thump way down in my fingertips. “Old stuff, like Civil War era. Really old, like you.”

I swung my leg over and sat on the skidder. The control panel shifted and fit comfortably while I was seated. “They always wanted me to pick up more slack after they did this.” I indicated my metal arm. “I never did it, though. Then the war ended.”

“Yeah, I bet that didn’t make them too happy. What you have is an interface for a whole pile of fancy army stuff. This tech was new at the end of the war and the folks who used it nearly turned the tide.”

“Lot of them died.”

“Most of them died.”

“Tech doesn’t win battles. Tech doesn’t fix what’s broken. It just gives you a cocky attitude and a means to show it off.”

Abi was using her hand like a puppet, mimicking me talking. When she saw that I had noticed she put her hands behind her back. “Quit lecturing and give it a shot.”

Flexing the antigrav, I rose a few meters, then set the thrusters to spinning me. Faster and faster, I spun, till I was nearly out of control. Then with a burst of power I stopped. It was incredible, far better precision than I’d ever had before. Then, I felt closely at the new sensations coming in. There was more.

“Shields?” I asked.

“Yeah. Environmental, mostly. But they’ll stop small arms ammu…”

Silence. I’d flexed the shield and a bubble of warm, still air surrounded me. The lights shimmered, like heat rising from a hard-baked earth. Another flex and the bubble became opaque. Still another and the sound of an acoustic guitar started playing from unseen speakers.

I set the skidder down, dropping the shields. I winced as my hand detached from the console. My world snapped back in around me. The ache returned to my arm in full force.

A few minutes later, Josephine and Keith came out of the shack to find Abi and me smoking cigarettes. Abi was telling me all the latest news from Dead Oak and, well, I was listening.

Josephine looked me up and down. “I’m not helping you, J.D. You’ll go in there guns blazing and you’ll get nothing but dead.”

When I spoke, my voice was a deep rumble. “That’s not who I am anymore,” I said. “All I need is a way to see what’s happening there.”

Josephine’s mouth hardened into a thin line. Her eyes darted quickly around, looking from me to Abi, then to Keith. She breathed a deep breath through her nose. “Then what? Once you know what’s happening. How do you fix it?”

“It’s bad, Jo.” I thought about it a moment.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Josephine said.

“Nobody’s asking you to.”

Her eyes were wide. Something had her scared more than it should. What was she hiding? What was she so afraid to talk about? “No,” she said. “I won’t do it.”

“Then I won’t make you.” I spat my cigarette onto the ground, stepped it out, and mounted the skidder. Without another word, I jammed my metal hand into the control panel, launched straight into the air, and blasted off into the night.

Without her help, the job got a lot harder. There wasn’t time to visit Ben Brown at his ranch. A pang of guilt hit me at the thought of making him wait, but it was short lived. Ben could handle another day’s delay.

That wasn’t all of it, though. If I was being truthful with myself, I’d admit that I didn’t want to have anything to do with Ben Brown or his brother Francis. There was nothing but pain there for me. My influence on their lives had brought nothing but pain. Sure, the situation in Swallow Hill was more urgent than a visit to the Brown ranch, but I was afraid. I was afraid of how he’d look at me and the feelings he’d dredge up.

No, Ben could wait.

It was time to seek help from a less reputable source.

With gritted teeth, I fought to ignore the pain all over my body, from the metallic aching rhythm of my artificial arm to the more organic discomfort in my ribs. The pain in my ribs had subsided some, but whatever Josephine had done hadn’t truly healed the wound. Pressing at it with my fingers, I was able to locate an area of numbness, surrounded by the pulsing ache and deep bruising.

If there’s something that gets a man past pain, it’s anger.

I held onto my anger, letting it simmer my blood. Outrage still bubbled: the slow, justified anger of the righteous man. Anger at the world was set deep inside my bones. It had settled down there since the war twenty-some years earlier. There is a certain kind of rage a man feels when he sees a loss of control coming. It was the city folk. It had to be. Who else would want to control the masses so badly? There must have been some new mind-altering tech and Swallow Hill was the trial. Austin lived in fear of an uprising, so experimenting with something that would subdue the population made sense in a twisted way. Maybe it was the folks at Goodwin Dairy, but there were half a dozen other giant faceless corporations it could be.

There, on a ridge overlooking a ghost town, I looked down on the stronghold of a group that hated me just about as much as I hated them. Cinco Armas wasn’t an ally by any stretch. Might be they wouldn’t shoot me on sight, but what could I really hope to accomplish by talking to them.

Anger at Zane was rolling around in my gut too. He’d shown me that murder. Maybe his intentions were benign, but the more I thought of that kid hanging on the hook, the more I thought Zane must be manipulating me. Maybe he was doing it because it was the only way to get the right thing done. Somehow I doubted that. Either way, he was playing me. He’d made me leave my people. The Hopi were my whole existence for four years. I was comfortable there.

The knuckles of my fist cracked.

One good sucker punch hardly counted as violence. It’d feel good. All of that aggression and fierce rage that boiled in my blood demanded satisfaction. It demanded that I pound that city boy in the jaw when he showed up.

My shoulders slumped. No, I wouldn’t do it. With incredible effort, I took my rage and swallowed it. It burned in my belly, refusing to be digested, but it was under control. A few breaths of cool night air settled me, and I was able to manage a tip of my hat as Zane flew over in his sleek, shining car.

He parked a short distance away, near where I’d left my skidder. In the moonlight, I could see him with perfect clarity. He was wearing a crisp, clean suit and his hair was swept to one side. In his hand was a walking stick, flashes of light playing off of its jeweled surface as he strolled up the slope to where I stood on the ridge. When I saw him, all of that rage in my belly melted, and I relaxed.

He hit me hard with a sucker punch to the jaw.

“Tucker Hale?” he said as I tumbled to the ground. “Tucker fucking Hale?”

The stars of the spectacular Texan sky spun helplessly above me. My jaw stung and I flexed it to try to figure if it was broken. It didn’t seem to be.

Zane stood above me. “You thought you’d play a joke on me, J.D.? Or were you actually trying to get me—”

I kicked Zane hard in the gut. He staggered backward, and by the time he regained his balance, I had my shoulder in his chest, and I was pumping hard and driving him backward away from the ledge.

Zane slammed against his car, shoving it back several meters. My right hook connected awkwardly with the side of his neck, hurting my fist more than anything. Zane punched me hard in the gut as the two of us toppled into the dust. My breath was violently forced from my lungs and Zane pinned my non-metal arm. His face was centimeters from mine and we both breathed clouds of mist into the cool night air.

And we stayed that way.

Long moments passed with neither of us willing to move.

“Tucker gave you some trouble then?” I said, giving Zane what I hoped would be interpreted as an apologetic look.

Zane’s whole body relaxed. He stood up and offered a hand, which I took. He heaved me to my feet. “The man was barely civilized.”

I nodded.

“He stuck me in a gravity well and refused to let me leave until I’d admitted that the ranchers and farmers were better than city folk in every way.”

“Did you?”

“Well, I didn’t mean it.”

I grunted.

“And he wouldn’t help.” There was a tone in his voice that I couldn’t quite place.

“He’ll change his mind.”

Zane looked at me quizzically.

“Yes, we still need his help. What we’re looking for is in the bank. Like I told you before, Tucker’s got the skills you need, even if he lacks the stability.”

“Right.” Zane picked his cane up from the ground, where he’d dropped it. “But as I said, he’s not going to help.”

“He’ll help, and he’ll like it.” I rubbed my jaw. “Did you really need to—”

“Yes.”

I nodded. “Well, first we’ll need to sweeten the deal. Tucker was a munitions expert and bomb maker. If we get the right combination of toys, he’ll come help just so he can play.”

“So we’re taking the violent path?”

“It’s under consideration.”

Zane cocked his head, like he was trying to figure something out. He must not have figured it, though, because he didn’t say anything.

“Down there,” I said, pointing over the ridge, where a steep drop overlooked a seemingly empty ghost town. “Group I’ve had dealings with makes its home there.”

“Friendly dealings?”

“Nope.”

Court and her gang Cinco Armas had a healthy respect for the law, due to an impressive display of force by Sheriff Trish several years prior. Trish had proven the fastest draw and she’d shown that she wasn’t going to back down. She also sported some of the fanciest mods outside of the city. The gang respected her, which meant they respected law.

Respect is not obedience.

The gang had sought a façade of legitimacy in the years since I’d left the sheriff’s office. Legitimacy brought profit and presence in the more reputable areas of the wasteland. Where previously their dealings had been with petty robbery, senseless violence, and occasional bounty hunting, now they pursued far more profitable ventures. They’d begun dealing with the legal machine trade, including weapons, explosives, and vehicles. They moved livestock and people for a price. Of course, there was always more profit in smuggling. There was always better money in more dangerous weapons. There weren’t many laws regulating the trade of weapons or explosives, but they did exist. There always was a line to cross, and crossing it was always such tempting profit. Respect for the law had made Cinco Armas a significantly more dangerous organization.

“What do you need me for? Backup?” Zane’s fingers brushed the handle of his silver-handled pistol.

“Nope.”

“What then?”

“Watch. I’m going to walk down there. If they shoot me, you go tell my people what happened. It’s not polite to disappear without letting anyone know.”

“That’s it?”

“And don’t get yourself killed.”

Zane shook his head. “I can help, you know. Something like this is what I’m good at. This group you’re going down to see is just another corporation like Goodwin. They move toward profit and away from pain.” He straightened his bolo tie. “Groups like that are easy to motivate.”

“I’m sure they are.” My voice was harder than I intended.

“But you want to do this yourself…”

“That I do.”

Shaking his head, Zane strolled down to his car. He turned, tipped his hat to me, and slid into the vehicle. “At least use the earpiece,” he said.

It took me a moment to figure out what he was talking about. I still had the coin-shaped piece in my pocket.

“It’ll give you an advantage,” he said. “Plus I’ll be able to communicate with you.”

“You mean you’ll be able to listen in on me.”

“It doesn’t work that way. There’s encryption. It uses your own neural link to generate heavy encryption and the device can only be activated with your own brainwaves. Standard protocol, J.D. It’s proven tech almost as old as you.”

Not knowing how to take that, I left without another word. I mounted my skidder and drifted down to the edge of the shale cliff.

The town loomed in the moonlight like the ruins of a long-dead civilization. Domed hogans, like those in Dead Oak, sat seemingly empty; many of them were cracked open and filled with sand. Traditional buildings hadn’t fared much better, with whole walls toppled into the main street. The asphalt of the street was pocked with dozens of manhole covers as if the entire town were built with underground access in mind. Concrete and asphalt was all that was left of this doomed little down, but one building stood tall: the church.

It wasn’t a modern building, but it had been fitted with modernity. The red brick of the outer walls was laced with a dull black metal, similar to the metal that made up my left arm. The bell tower, far in the back, had fallen long ago, but was now replaced with a tower and turret. Similar armaments were nestled into the corners of the building, flickering spikes of unbridled aggression.

Two figures lingered in front of the reinforced double doors. A woman sat on the steps, flipping a coin with her slender metal fingers. She had long hair that glimmered in the moonlight and moved gently in the breeze. She had a young face, but her eyes seemed old, tired. She cradled a thick-stocked rifle in her arms.

Beside her was a man of medium height and deeply tanned skin. He wore shredded pants and no shirt, showing his full limb replacements of all four limbs. His knees bent backwards, and he leaned casually against one door smoking a cigar. He had a couple of pistols on his belt and a rifle across his back. I recognized him immediately as one of the thugs I’d chased long ago.

“Howdy, Legs,” I said.

The man with the fancy legs started laughing when he saw me, prompting a dirty look from the woman. He didn’t seem to care. He just kept laughing.

I didn’t remember his real name, only the nickname that people had called him ever since he modified himself with the fanciest legs money could buy. “You got yourself an upgrade.”

“Sure did,” he said. “Looks like all you got was older.”

I kept walking, not stopping till I was at the base of the steps. The woman narrowed her eyes at me. “You know him?”

“Rosa,” Legs said. “I know everyone. I’m a social butterfly, don’t you know?”

She didn’t seem convinced.

Legs came down to meet me, standing chest to chest. He was a full head taller than me. His breath smelled like oil and mint. “This man here is called Crow. He was the sheriff long time ago and now he’s just a guy.”

Rosa stroked her rifle. “Should we take him down?”

The modder seemed to consider this carefully. “No, I don’t think so. He’s probably just here to borrow a cup of sugar or something.”

“I’m here to see Court,” I said.

His smile widened. “Seems you came to the wrong place.” He waved a hand to show me the glory of the rundown town. “This here’s an empty ghost town, Sheriff. There’s nothing to see here but tumbleweeds and dust devils.”

“I didn’t come to stand out here and chat.”

“Of course not.” He stepped past me into the broken street. “You’re a man of action. You’ve come here for some sport. Fancy a game, old man?” His fingers wiggled near the grips of his pistols. “Maybe some shootin’?”

Rosa rolled her eyes.

“I’ve got no need no need for shooting, Legs. I’m here to talk.” I spread my arms wide so he could get a good look at me. “I didn’t even bring a weapon.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Person could argue the wisdom of that, old man. This here’s a dangerous neighborhood, don’t you think?” He drew one of his weapons, flipped it so the grip was facing me. “Here, you can have one of mine.”

When a person offers you a weapon it can mean one of a few things. It might mean that he intends to fight you honorably, or at least in a way that looks honorable. It could also be a sign of trust. He’s trusting that you won’t turn around and use that weapon to stop whatever device he happens to use to pump blood through his veins.

I glanced left and right at the turrets on the corners of the church.

It could also mean that he knows he has an overwhelming advantage in a fight and you’d be batshit insane to try anything.

The pistol felt good. Its grip nestled comfortably in my palm, with both a sleek design and the heft of good craftsmanship. The octagonal barrel ended in a snub nose, narrow enough that it must have either fired an energy payload or small-caliber ammunition. The piece wasn’t as heavy as the metal that I was used to carrying.

“You like her?”

“It’ll do.”

“Well, what you say we make a little bet, eh,
pendejo
?”

Shaking my head, I flipped the gun around and held it out to him.

He didn’t take it. “If you win, you keep the gun.”

It was tempting. “What if I don’t win?”

He clapped me on the back. “Friend,” he said, “we’re on the same side. It’s a cooperative game.”