Point Apocalypse (12 page)

I stumbled and grabbed at the wall.
Wladas turned to support me.

Once agai
n, my thoughts turned to jelly. The clones seemed to be the stumbling block. It was probably better not to concentrate on them for a while. The FSA specialists had warned me of the possibility of a glitch when memories merged blocking certain areas. The contact might help but now I had to forget about him too, at least for a while.

The Chinese walked down a flight of stairs. The voices subsided. I heard
a rustle, followed by the clacking of gun bolts.

"
Wong," I called out. "Step back."

He didn't seem to hear me. He squinted
, his index finger squeezing the trigger.

"
Don't," I ordered. "Come back here. Now!"

His eyes glistened.
He started moving back up the steps. Another step. And another. Only then did he lower the gun.

"Wait h
ere," I took the shotgun from my shoulder, handed it to Wong and walked downstairs.

Bright
light hit my eyes. The sun hung over the roofs opposite. Four long shadows stretched from the front door down the hallway. I had to avoid confrontation at any cost: that would mean the end of the mission. I had no idea how many men surrounded the hotel nor how many were already inside. Neither what weapons they used.

"
Please don't shoot! I have a proposal for Mr. McLean!" I spread my arms wide. "Who can I talk to?"

A burly gorilla-l
ike raider stepped forward blocking the light. Behind him in the hallway three men clutched their guns. Beside them, a scared Rita clung to the wall, a raider grasping her arm.

"
Let the woman go. We're coming out. Wong, Wladas, come down!"

The gorilla approached, removed my handgun
from my holster, turned me face to the wall and pulled the Colt from behind my belt.

"Well, well, well," a voice spoke from the front door.
"What do we have here? Or should I say,
who
do we have?"

A man
in a brown Stetson entered the hallway, broad-shouldered and taller than the gorilla raider. A deep scar crossed his furrowed long face. A black patch covered his left eye. His right eye, gray and unfriendly, shifted to my men descending the steps.

"
Your Russian is good, McLean," I said.

The gorilla
gave me a shove in the back and swore under his breath, then headed toward Wong and Wladas. McLean waited while his man searched them and removed their guns. Then he walked over to me, pushed his Stetson back and whispered in my ear,

"Actually, I
half-expected you yesterday, mister..."

"Mark," I turned to him.

"Your skin is too white," he looked away at my men and whispered again, "Haven't been in the sun lately. How did you expect to-"

"I'm Mark Posner," I spoke in a firm voice. "Tell your men to let the woman go and
leave the building. We don't need to attract attention."

McLean
pivoted toward his men and barked a command. As they cleared out, he rearranged his hat again and said,

"Please,
Mr. Posner," he made a welcoming gesture. "After you."

Was he
always such a poser? Or was he just nervous? I walked past Rita and turned my head to the open bar door. Claudie and a hunched old man with a beard sat at the table - probably, the Uncle Vanya that Claudie had mentioned last night. Next to her stood another man, unshaven and squat. For some reason, I decided he had to be French with his black hair, a square chin and black eyes glistening over a Gallic nose. He reminded me of someone. Who could that be? Obeying McLean's command, the man started for the door.

I
glanced over my shoulder. Tex walked behind me. My men followed, overseen by the gorilla raider bristling with guns. Frenchie trailed behind. Idiots. McLean was a cretin. Wong and I could disarm them at our leisure, and then the conversation would take a very different turn. Their buddies outside wouldn't even know what had hit them. Shame we had to keep up appearances otherwise I'd be only too happy to give Tex the third degree.

We walked out onto the street. It was crowded with people
, armed and unfriendly. On both sides of the hotel, the road was blocked with truckfuls of people, their machine guns pointing in our direction. Engines purred; heated air curled over truck hoods. The truck we'd hijacked from Famba's men the night before had already been driven into the shade at the house opposite.

I stopped
a few feet past the front door squinting at the sun. It was bright and too white.

"These are my boys,
Mr. Posner," I heard behind my back. "They'd love to know what happened to Famba, Kathy, Muller, Kurt, Baxter and Red Johnny."

"They'll live," I turned to
McLean. "Nobody's hurt. Might be here by midday."

"Fine," Tex rearranged his hat and
slipped on an enormous pair of sunshades. "We'll wait till midday. In the meantime, Mr. Posner, be my guest. We'll talk about your proposal."

Now I could
get a good look at him. Well-tanned, he wore a brown coat with a pale shirt and a dusty pair of cowboy boots over oilcloth pants. The only thing missing was a pair of spurs. McLean lay his hand onto the silver buckle of his wide leather belt. The hem of his coat swung to one side revealing a narrow holster with the handle of what looked like an expensive and seriously rare handgun.

How could it
have got here on Pangea?

"I can see you're a connoisseur,"
McLean noticed my interest. He took out the gun, pushed the trigger guard with his middle finger, broke the long nickel-plated barrel and shook out a rifle cartridge. "Have a look."

He
snapped the barrel shut and handed me the unloaded gun handle first.

"Go ahead, don't be shy."

I inspected the gun. It looked very much like a Contender, but... you could tell it was a homespun job. The cocking mechanism was too tight and the weight distribution a bit off. The handle also needed some work as it lay a bit awkward in hand. Still, it must fit Tex' broad claws.

"Local job?" I looked up.

McLean nodded, took the gun and walked to one of the trucks. Someone shoved me in the shoulder advising me to move my ass and get into the truck. I looked back. Wong was smiling as he walked with his hands folded peacefully, apparently oblivious of the others. Wladas' eyes shifted. He was pale, his head and T-shirt soaking wet with sweat.

Once we got
into the truck, McLean leaned sideways against the back of the cab waiting for everyone to settle on the benches. My men took their places opposite me, Gorilla and Frenchie at our sides. One of the gunners raised and locked the tailgate. The other turned his back to us and pointed his gun forward.

McLean
slapped the cab roof, "Off we go!" He stretched his arm toward the bay far beyond.

"I thought you might want to do a bit of sightseeing,
Mr. Posner. Unless you'd rather I call you..."

"Mark is
good enough," I rose and stood up holding onto the tailgate.

The truck moved down
Broadway. The city lay before us. Its size and ambition surprised me, considering this was here on Pangea unknown to man until thirty years ago, with next to no technology. Houses cascaded toward the ocean, their roofs orange to our left and blue to our right. Further by the bay, the roofs were red and green. It really helped to find one's way amid the city blocks. On every roof stood a cumbersome rainwater vessel of some description. All the houses' walls were rendered with white clay.

Deportees hadn't wasted their time here.

"Enjoy what you see," McLean said, pleased. "We'll take you across the city to the other side of the bay. We're going to show you the port and the seaweed farms - everything we've done in these past years! Very soon New Pang will have its own plumbing. Can you imagine? I'm building it. And I have no intention of leaving it to anyone!"

Tex shoved a cigar between his teeth. His fist
crunched. His face darkened, his jaws moved. What a strange reaction. Shame I couldn't see his eyes. It looked as if he was scared shitless even as he spoke so he tried to replace fear with anger.

"How long will it take?" I asked.

Out of his inner pocket, McLean produced a gold-plated timepiece on a chain and flipped the lid open. "A half-hour. Why, are you in a hurry?"

I
shook my head. "Not me, no."

Good. E
nough time to think. I glanced back. Hotel guests and passersby had started gathering by the hotel. One of them could be my contact. Rita stood by the front door, together with Claudie and Uncle Vanya. The latter hugged Claudie's shoulders, his head cocked to one side, urging her. The girl sniffled and wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. The owner watched us leave. Some of the guests tried to ask her questions, curious about the details. Rita didn't notice them. She stood there watching the trucks disappear along Broadway.

Chapter Seven

Comrades in Misery

"A
cigar? A drink?" McLean snapped his fingers at the steward busy by the serving table near the verandah door. Then he turned away while staring at the ocean.

The harbor
spread below the cliffs that housed the baron of New Pang. He lit up, sat back in a wicker armchair by a rattan screen and rested his feet on a stool carved from a whole piece of wood.

The steward - a m
ute crew-cut man of about thirty - placed two full tumblers onto a tray, added a cigar and a lighter and brought the tray to me.

I motioned the cigar away, took the tumbler and
tasted the amber drink. Jesus, this man had real Bourbon!

"So, what do you think?"
McLean said without taking his eyes from the ocean. "You don't get whiskey like this on Earth any more. It's the cao fruit I get from loggers. With its juice we make excellent whiskey like this one, feed the pulp to the cattle and use the dried rind as fertilizer. Lots of interesting plants Pangea has to offer, Mr. Posner.

I nodded. He sat half-turned to
ward me. The steward took him the other tumbler and returned to his post at the serving table by the exit. He moved a massive stone ashtray aside, lined up the bottles, placed the cigar back into its box and shut the lid closed.

"To welcome
company," McLean toasted me with his glass and leaned back sipping his whiskey.

I took
another swig and glanced into the room behind the rattan screen. Two men sat there on a bench: Frenchie and the gorilla who'd confiscated my guns. Wladas and Wong were kept in the yard downstairs, guarded by a few raiders. The house had three levels: the second one served as the entry, opening into the yard. A rough spiral staircase led downstairs from the verandah. The first level was built into the cliff, supported by wide beams that stuck out far above the water. A net was stretched under the beams - just in case.

From the net to the water had to be fifty feet or so. Worth a try. I leaned against
the log railings and tried to estimate the depth. I could barely see the bottom. No rocks on the surface. Easy to get out onto the shore, too: all I had to do was swim to the left, along the cliff toward the pier that separated the port from the seaweed farms. Further from the pier, several abandoned jetties stretched into the sea.

The shore bustled with people
carrying heavy bails on their backs to a pontoon wharf behind the jetties. Two motor boats and a few junks rocked there, moored along the wall. Further on, fishermen dried their nets stretched wide on poles. An ancient barge lay stranded on the shore sunbathing its black tarred side. Shells covered its bottom below the water line, and a good dozen locals were busy scrubbing it clean.

"My boats will be back in two hours,"
McLean said. "I'll have to go there and inspect the catch. One needs to keep an eye on these people."

I got the message.

"It won't take long," I finished my whiskey and stood with my back to the ocean.

My head still
swam after the memory release. Every now and then colored circles flashed before my eyes. Probably, drinking wasn't such a good idea. I concentrated on my heart, still beating fast like I'd just finished a cross country run. McLean glanced at me from under his hat and puffed on his cigar waiting for me to go on.

I really didn't want to
speak first but I had no other option.

"Are you going to help us?" On my way there, I'd decided I'd
put my cards on the table. Pointless trying to keep secrets from him. Tex knew about me and the FSA. I'd already dropped a few hints about General Varlamov; now I needed to know everything New Pangers knew about him.

McLean
's eye, gray and cold, stopped blinking. His face froze. Then he laughed out loud, his mouth wide open, his head dropped back. The steward watched the scene, indifferent, his hands folded at waist level.