Invasion from Uranus (14 page)

THE BEAM WOULD CORE ME LIKE AN APPLE.

From the open doors of a blacksmith shop, a man with human arms and cybernetic hands was pounding red-hot iron on an anvil with his fists. There was the smell of soap and soup in the air. A potter was banking her kiln for the night. Music tinkled in the distance. Somewhere children were laughing,

chicken cackled non-stop and then sounded the steady chop of a butcher hard at work. Ah, life. It felt good to be among people again.

A fortified high school seemed to served as the mayor's palace, armed guards walking patrol on the rooftop, and in the town square an empty gallows had a large piece of shale leaning against the structure with over a dozen names listed, along with the crimes of the deceased. Bank robbery seemed to be very

popular, but so was cheating-at-cards, and treason.

LOCAL POLICE TAKE THEIR JOB VERY SERIOUSLY.

"Ever seen a badder attack, or a slavers raid?" I said, grimacing. "I have."

IS... he paused. IS THAT WHAT YOU WERE RUNNING FROM WHEN WE FIRST MET?

I said nothing, and he did not push the issue. Wise man.

Then I caught the aroma of raw alcohol, and headed around a corner to find the local library. The building was more heavily guarded than the mayor's home, sandbag walls topped with barbwire, and guards with guns standing watch over a line of gleaming motorcycles. Ah, perfect. Just what we wanted.

Hobart and I had heard about these folks on the road, a local gang call the Cannibal Biker Librarians. They sort of worshipped books, yet would still lend them out to anybody who asked. For a price, naturally. However, if you lost or damaged the book, the fine would cost you an arm and a leg. Literally.

They also sold information and soon became invaluable members of any town they took residence in. Curiously, the members assumed the names of literary figures upon joining the biker gang. The guard at the front door was called D'Artagnan, the woman who took my book in trade was Oscar Wilde, and the Chief

Librarian was Madame Bovary. She was a big beautiful human female who carried enough weaponry to level a small continent, some of which was soon pointing our way. Hobart seemed to be scaring the hell out of everybody, and it took some finagling before she would deal with us. I could only assume somebody in powerarmor had once attacked the town and probably done a lot of damage before leaving.

Eventually, the Chief Librarian deemed to ask what we wanted. I told her and offered a book in exchange for information. She was very impressed with the condition of the volume, and she should be because it had been in my back pocket when I went into the freezer and thus was in darn near perfect shape.

As an honor guard carried the western away, Bovary informed me that there was only one man who dealt in old tech equipment. Iron Mike, a smuggler, thief and worse, who owned a piece of The Acorn Inn. He controlled all of the local buying and selling of tools and guns with no living competition. I got the idea. Sounded like a swell guy, but he was our only choice.

Then Bovary added that if we got into trouble I could trust the village sheriff, Hangin' Harry. A former pirate, the mutant was a cold-blooded killer whose lone saving grace was that he now worked to protect the village. At any cost. I filed the names away, promised to avoid him, and took our leave.

Finding the Acorn Inn was easy, I headed for the sound of drunken singing and there it was a ramshackle supermarket that was now the main tavern in Battle Ground.

A guard armed with a baseball bat at the front door watched with bulging eyes as Hobart thumped into the tavern and the crowd inside hastily scrambled to get out of our way. I was starting to realize how unpopular powerarmor was from their reactions.

The windows were covered with wooden shutters on the inside, most likely to protect the glass from flying chairs during fistfights. Alcohol lanterns hanging from chains brightly lit the supermarket, sawdust and nut shells thickly covered the floor. Redwood picnic tables with attached benches filled

the right side of the tavern, some with folks eating food, but most held drinkers. The customers were a little bit of everything, humans, reptiles, mutants, animals, and a busty waitress with damn nice artificial legs who was cleaning tables and serving drinks.

A long counter served as bar, with a million gold coins worth of prewar booze stacked behind thick wire screens. The bartender was a lizard with a moustache.

On the other side of the converted store was a similar counter. But this one was stacked with widgets and gadgets of every description: fishing reels, a big assortment of knives, CD players, car jacks, combat boots, huge trays of transistors and computer chips, then rifles, hand guns, and rows of ammunition,

each individual bullet carrying a price tag. Also packs of blackpowder, flintlocks, butane lighters, and pieces of anti-rad shielding for personal use.

A lot of folks were just looking, a few buying. Behind the counter was a burly human, with jigsaw-puzzle face of spare parts and scarred flesh. One ear was clearly plastic, and a steel eye gleamed from under his bushy eyebrows.

THAT'S GOT TO BE HIM.

"A Gamma knight!" the patchwork man cried out in delight, raising four arms as we approached. "How wonderful!"

HUH?

"Beats me," I shrugged inside Hobart where nobody could see. "Maybe it's an old name for powerarmor."

HMM.

"You Iron Mike?" I asked, going to the counter.

He gave a nod. "That's me. Now what do you need? I have top-notch lasers, implosion lances, missiles, you name it. And if I don't have it, I'll...acquire it for you."

HE MEANS STEAL.

Reaching under the counter, Mike produced an intricately woven belt of circuits and chips with huge synergy power cells balanced on each hip. "You're in luck. This is a lovely anti-grav belt. Only worn by a recon android who never saw combat. Nice and cheap at a thousand gold coins. Why, I'm practically giving it away because I like you."

"Oh brother," I sub-vocalized, so only Hobart could hear me speak.

NOW ASK HIM TO TELL US THE STORY OF THE THREE LITTLE PIGS.

I leaned closer, and so did Mike.

"We need some spare parts," I said softly. "Something special."

His eyes brightened. "Ah! What kind of special stuff are we talking here, nerve gas? Land mines?"

This guy had weapons of the brain. "We're looking for some insulated cable. Big stuff. High voltage, twenty meters."

"The kind that comes off high tension towers," Hobart added over his external speakers.

Iron Mike blinked at the double voices, but made no comment. He probably saw stranger than us every day.

"Electrical cable," he mused crossing his arms, while rubbing his chin. "What for? Going to try and fix that old dam? Ya can't even get inside!"

OH, HE'S GOOD.

Playing it cool, I said nothing.

"Or can you?" Iron Mike said in a cunning tone. "Listen, I got what you need, but the price is high. I want in on the deal. You get that dam working again, and we could make a fortune selling power to villages all across Settle, recharging weak synergy cells, arc welding, all kinds of stuff. What do you say, partner?"

THERE GOES HALF OUR PROFITS!

I hesitated.

"Okay. Sixty, forty, my final offer," he said and held out one of his flesh arms.

Since we had nobody else to buy from, I decided what the hell. The most important thing was to get the dam working again, the details of who did what when could be figured out later.

"Deal," I agreed, and carefully shook his hand. Then we moved into the back room to talk in private.

Several of the customers closely watched us leave with Iron Mike and began whispering among themselves. I didn't like that and decided to keep a special watch out for an ambush outside.

But nothing went wrong, and with Iron Mike's help, we had the new cable spliced into position by noon the next day. Once more Hobart hit the master switch in the control room, only this time lights turned on in every room of the powerplant. In the office below us, a CD player burst into music. In the corner, a small refrigerator began to hum, and every telephone in the whole plant started ringing for some unknown reason. Hobart flipped a few switches and they went silent.

"Rad me," Iron Mike said in astonishment, then delight. "It actually works!"

Rushing over to the instrument wall, I checked some of the readings. "Looks like we have enough electricity to power a dozen villages," I said happily. "We are about to become famous, and very, very rich."

"But what if the generators break down?"

I waved that away. "Those babies are really tough. This plant will run for decades with minimum service. A monkey could operate this place now."

"Then I really don't need you any more, do I?" Mike laughed bitterly, drawing a plasma pistol. "Time to die, ticktock!"

Moving with machine speed, Hobart slapped the gun out of his grip, bones breaking from the brutal blow and the weapon discharged as it hit the floor, a fat energy bolt vaporizing a large chunk of the wall. Cradling his busted hand, Iron Mike staggered backwards cursing nonstop, his jigsaw face twisted into a feral rictus of pain.

"Shut up, traitor!" I said over the external speakers, advancing upon the wounded man until he was cringing in the corner. "The Chief Librarian warned us about you and she was right. Now we give you a choice. Walk out now, or we toss you over the side."

NO WAY.

I cut off the microphone. "I'm bluffing. Play along."

GOTCHA.

"Maybe we should break some more bones first," Hobart growled in a really nasty voice, reaching out with his huge metallic hands.

That did it. Iron Mike went deathly pale and started screaming for help. Wiggling past us, he raced to the office door, threw it open and dashed down the catwalk.

"They're wise!" he shouted at the shadows under the humming transformers. "Zap 'em both!"

Several armed men stepped out of the pool of darkness with plasma rifles in their hands. Oh crap. It was the men from the tavern.

AMBUSH!

Those plasma rifles would burn us faster than marshmallows in a microwave. Time to play the bluff card again. I gave a contemptuous chuckle over the external speakers. "Are you fools really going to use energy weapons inside a power plant?" I asked laughing. "That'll blow the whole place higher than the

Seven Sisters! With you inside!"

"Just brought these for insurance," one of the men snarled, jerking a cybernetic thumb. "Our hounds will handle you two."

"Yeah," another agreed with a smirk. "They'll eat ya alive"

Huge black dogs wearing armor plating sprang out from behind the hairy men, their snarling mouths full of steel teeth.

HELLHOUNDS!

As the monstrous beasts charged, I cursed myself for not taking the fallen plasma pistol and fired the laser while Hobart started banging away with the .357 Magnum. But neither weapon seemed to have any effect on the stentorian hounds.

"Got it, my liege!" the knight cried, rushing out of a tent.

Seated at the campfire sipping a mug of hot brew, Sir Matheson turned. "Where," he demanded, taking a sip. The lord prided himself on never showing undue emotion before his troops.

"Two miles due south by south west," the technician cried. "Massive energy weapons fire. Definitely some sort of battle is happening."

Rising from his seat, Matheson went to the telescope placed at the edge of the ledge and adjusted the focus to scan in that direction. There was nothing in sight but a waterfall...no, the water was flowing out of the middle of the cliff, not over the top. By the Maker, it was the dam!

"Mount up!" the lord shouted, drawing his sword. "Our moment of glory is here! Soon the Great One will be ours to command! Let nothing stop us now. Victory, or death!"

"Victory or death!" the soldiers chanted, and climbed onto their horses, preparing their crossbows and a carefully cushioned stack of limpet mines.

Kicking at one of the dogs to make it retreat, I slid my arms out of Hobart's sleeves and jammed fingers into my ears. "Hit 'em!" I shouted. "Full power, no mercy!"

NOW YOU'RE TALKING.

Hobart slapped a gauntlet over the hole in his chest and immediately cut loose with the sonic Screamer cannon on full power, maximum dispersal. My buddy actually vibrated as the subsonic blast filled the powerplant with concentrated sound waves. Contained by the thick walls, the Screamer was magnified ten times in force - doors slammed open, glass shattered, tools flew off tables, and chairs toppled over. The hellhounds were dropped flat, while Iron Mike and his gang grabbed their heads and toppled over, bleeding from the ears.

As the Screamer clicked off, I quickly searched the twitching men, stuffing their assorted handguns, rifles and grenades into my trading bag. Children should not be allowed to play with dangerous toys. Two of the men had portable missile launchers in their backpacks, obviously brought along to deal with Hobart. I took the four best missiles and loaded them into our empty

launcher. The rest I ripped apart and ground to pieces under our boots.

OKAY, TIME TO TAKE OUT THE TRASH.

"You betcha." Starting with the drooling hounds, I hauled their limp, but breathing, bodies outside and neatly lined them up on the roadway. It took a few trips, but soon the whole gang was lying in the sun. Doing a brief recon, we found six more of Iron Mike's men laying on the floor unconscious in various

rooms. The ugly creep certainly did not do things halfway, I'll give him that.

NOW WHAT, CALL THE SHERIFF?

I started to answer when an explosion faintly shook the dam.

THAT WAS C-10 PLASTIC, Hobart reported, sounding surprised. AND A LOT OF IT. COULD BE REINFORCEMENTS.

"Only one way to find out." Drawing a plasma pistol, I rushed to the edge of the dam and risked looking down. Near the spill pool was a dozen or so people in medieval armor placing something round and fat inside a smoking crater in the side of the dam. They ran away and there was another explosion. When the smoke cleared, the hole was much bigger. "Holy crud, they're trying to bust the dam apart!" I cried.