Beluga Fay (Dragon Bone Hill) (29 page)

Most of the women in his past, and many of those here, had proven incapable of this. If they ever managed to do it, it usually came back to bite them on the ass, and the fallout would trail them about as a miasma of guilt. Titus wasn’t certain this would not be the case with Glenna in time—right now, however, she was concerned with survival and keeping her brother as alive as possible. Whether or not he was alive after the beating Tomás had thrown on him remained an open question, but since Chrislann had not been around much since the beating, he assumed there had been significant damage done. What the consequences of that were and would be remained unclear.

“Right up here,” pointing with a manicured finger, “and then straight for two blocks.”

Pym knew where they were going—everyone knew—but there was something about Glenna that needed control of these last moments in the city. Titus supposed she expected the plan to fall apart if she did not take personal charge. He was okay with that—it left him free to wonder where this was all leading. Pym expected one or more of them to take a run at him, but was there any real reason to believe this? Certainly he was being used by Glenna and her friends, and there had been disagreements with the woman and her brother. Did this mean they would try to kill him?

Of course it was a possibility, but then it was also possible the Sweats would burn itself out with this latest eruption or that Lander and Synon could end up married. Neither seemed remotely feasible, but he hadn’t a lot of data on which to base the determination. Deciding the probabilities of which way Glenna would jump, or allow herself to be pushed by her brother, was beyond his ability to calculate. This meant he had to be prepared for anything on the other side of the gate.

Pulling up to the closed and abandoned coffee shop, he killed the engine. The others were already there, which meant they had to have sped all the way. Perhaps if Titus had been them, he would have been as eager to get out of town. The group was locked in now—no going home if this didn’t work out, now that the Wall guards would know their names and faces. Pym assumed they and their families were well enough known that they would be recognizable to Torres and Tomás once they were seen. If they turned back now, they might be able to slip back into the ruin of their lives—that of their families too—but that wasn’t going to happen. As Pym stepped out of the car in the gathering dusk, he could see they were committed, and terrified by this.

“What...” but the sentence burst into a confetti of light and his tongue lost all feeling. Spinning about Titus was staring up at the western horizon, and the top of the sun, all fiery orange, was shimmering against the rooftops of the low-slung apartment buildings and office blocks. Something connected with his abdomen and he buckled. There was a woofing sound of air—that would be him—and behind him there was a cacophony of voices. Feet were milling about. Mostly they were sandaled—not good for a long hike on rough roads, but when did these people ever listen to him? He was, of this Pym was abstractly aware, being kicked once or twice more, then it stopped as the feet drew closer and there were the sounds of disagreement.

“No, not yet!” Thea was shouting, and others appeared to be agreeing with her.

“We need the stones,” Glenna said; then there was a pause. “Get the stones,” the woman said to her brother. At that, he was flipped on his back and staring up at Chrislann; then something struck him square in the face and his focus buckled. Voices continued, but Titus could not make out what was being said. Slowly, words, individually at first, reasserted themselves, and consciousness slowly realigned with the pain. Chrislann had found the pouch, pulled it from the pocket of his jacket, and turned about standing—holding this up.

The brother had always been a fool, and this time was no exception. As the group were laughing and jumping up and down, including Glenna, the man reached beneath his jacket and unsnapped the automatic. The clasp made a hard leather and metallic noise, and this seemed to capture the attention of Glenna. As she turned, it was too late, and the round barked out hard, catching Chrislann in the back of his left shoulder. As the man crumpled forward, the group dispersed. Some headed for their cars and others ran to the far side of the street. But Budiman lay on the street, the pouch of stones about a meter from his hand and about three meters from Titus.

He took a step toward the stones, but even then the vertigo grabbed him, and it was all he could do to hold himself upright. Managing this, Pym looked about for the others and saw Glenna in one of the cabal’s cars groping below the seat—he knew what that meant. Letting off another round toward the car, it missed entirely, but the next punctured the windshield, and Glenna ducked down. There wasn’t going to be time to get the stones, so he slipped back into his car. Leaning out the driver’s window, he threw another round at Glenna, and she had rolled out of the passenger’s door and was firing at him.

The keys had been left in the ignition, so he turned the engine over, and with a cough, it sputtered to life, and Titus was racing down the street backwards. Two rounds punctured the windshield but neither came close to him. Spinning the car at the intersection, he was tearing back into the city. Even as he turned the corner, he could hear the other engines coughing to life. Twisting down a couple more streets, he pulled sideways across the road and climbed out behind the vehicle. No one had followed him. They had to be racing for the gate, but he stayed where he was waiting for the vertigo to pass. After what might have been a few minutes, it did, and his head cleared. Then he was back in the car and after the cabal.

“Not yet?” Colonel Torres asked.

“No, sir.” The guard was scanning the neighborhood beyond the Wall.

“You are certain what you heard?” Captain Tomás asked.

Lowering the glasses the guard answered. “Yes, sir. Several rounds from small caliber weapons—we all heard them.” The other guards nodded agreement.

“A firefight—a few blocks in to Taguig? That seems too foolish—even for them.” The Colonel smiled at the Captain’s observation. It was foolish, no doubt of that, but for these people, perhaps not. Excepting that Pym fellow; he was no fool. That had been proven with Tomás and again with how he had managed the entire affair since showing up. The only reason Torres had allowed himself to be drawn out was Pym.

It had meant an end to their cash cow, but it also meant a big payday. Somehow they would have to find some others to milk when this was over, but these were some of the richest left in the city. Perhaps the Cartel could pick up the slack, or the Beluga Fay. The Colonel had been hearing more and more about them—especially since Pym had taken the fish markets in the South. Still, without their leader, how good could the Fay be? Torres’ first choice for extortion would be Salazar, but he still had the ear of the central government—that would end up badly for the Wall. Anything that went badly for the Wall went badly for him—for the time being.

The government had been fading for months now, but they were still, nominally, in charge, and this meant they could, in all likelihood, manage enough force to bring down his command. What would he do then? If captured, it meant imprisonment, or worse, banishment into the city—all that was coming out of the place now was rumor and conjecture, none of this, however, was good. Most of it was terrifying. What was coming out of the main island was about as frightening. If the international community didn’t come up with something fast, the navy was bound to attempt a run of the blockade, and they might just make it—though many on both sides would die. It wasn’t that this bothered the Colonel, he was indifferent to the death or what the Sweating Sickness would do to the rest of the world. Torres was, nonetheless, deeply concerned with what this would mean for him and his men—but, mostly, for himself.

There’d have been a time when his men would have come first, he made certain they believed this was still the case, but now all that mattered to him was himself and his family. Occasionally he had to remind himself his family still mattered—even though his wife had taken a lover and his son would not speak to him. All this a byproduct of a life spent in service to his country. Now, thirty years on, there seemed to be nothing left of either. Sighing, he took the night-scope from the guard and scanned the crumbling, deserted stores which faced the Wall—nothing.

“Get a couple of teams ready—vests, assault weapons, smoke, and concussion.”

Tomás nodded and gave the order.

Lowering the scope, the Colonel sighed. There were a lot of diamonds on the line, and most of these had already been budgeted into the Wall. If they didn’t get those stones, the maintenance of his command would, yet again, be forestalled and rations would again have to be reduced. Torres had given up on the promises of the government to restore their budget. What he did expect was this to be slashed by half—again. If that happened, that would be it. They were already having trouble with desertions and did not have the manpower to run those guards down. Occasionally, they were caught and returned, but more often they disappeared into neighboring islands.

The power of the Federal government no longer extended there. It wasn’t, precisely, civil war, but the outer islands had given birth to warlords, former military officers and regional governors, that had developed their own command structure and economy to pick up the slack left by the Federals. Any deserters wandering into their territories were either absorbed or executed—depending on the needs and whims of the new authority. Some of these regions, if rumor were to be believed, were practicing headhunting. The heads of their enemies were said to guard the checkpoints and mountain passes as a warning to refugees. Still, they were only rumors. Torres and Tomás supported the speculation and even expanded upon it in order to keep the guards in line. This, though, was no longer working as it once had.

A big part of the problem was the desperate letters from home. They’d tried censoring the mail, and this created discontent; then Tomás had cut off all mail delivery. This one act had nearly brought the Wall down in a matter of two weeks. Once mail service was restored, the guards had settled into a routine of sullen silence and the occasional desertion. The unfortunate part of the desertions was, the guards could no longer be replaced. The army, as well as all other branches of the military services, had their hands full with maintaining order in the major cities, excepting this one. They’d done their job well, so well that most of these had been reduced by half or more. Most had not been killed, but were now refugeeing it across the islands looking for a place where they could get adequate food and security. No such place was available. Wherever they did end up, there was normally a violent confrontation with the locals.

Sometimes the refugees won, if they had enough practice in dealing with the locals, but more often than not, the locals won and drove the refugees off. Those killed in the encounters were said to have their heads mounted on spears and displayed as a warning to others. What this did was to create a backwash. Breaking against the increasingly serious resistance about the countryside and on the neighboring islands, the refugees had been driven back into the cities. However, the military and Federal governments, having gained a grip on the cities, were not allowing former residents back. These precipitated even more violent clashes, but the military had always been successful. The end result was, the countryside between towns and cities, which could defend themselves, had become dangerous, excepting for heavily armed columns—and even these were increasingly at risk.

This is what these people wanted out into. To be fair, the Colonel hadn’t been very forthcoming with the particulars of the situation beyond the Wall. A part of Torres almost struggled with this. If he let the city know, they might be more willing to stay where they are, but then, with this latest outbreak, beyond the Wall might just offer the vaguest hope of salvation. Beyond this there was the issue of Governor Salazar and his contacts with the Federals. The Governor still had a stranglehold on the Wall, even though trapped within this—not only because of his political contacts, but because the Wall needed the produce from the agri-zone and the protein offered by the southern fish markets, though the latter had been torn away by Pym. One more reason the Colonel was happy to be seeing the backside of this group.

Turning from the Wall, Torres barked over his shoulder, “If you see any movement, call me.”

Nearly at the elevator, a guard raised the alarm. “Two vehicles at the central intersection—opposite the gate.”

Back at the Wall, Colonel Torres was again staring through the scope. “How many are there?”

Tomás called to another guard, “Have them exit the vehicles.”

On the speaker, the woman’s voice shook the gathering gloom. Dusk was now about gone and the night was beginning to fold over the Wall. Torres called for the floods, and the empty space between the Wall and the intersection exploded in hard, brittle LED light.

For a moment or two, there was no response, so the Colonel had the order repeated. At last, the passenger’s door on the lead vehicle slipped open, and the driver slowly exited the car. “Can’t tell if that’s Pym,” Torres said.