Sky Raider. James Axler
Chapter One
A hot, listless wind blew across the expanse of dried earth to form little dust devils that swirled around the group of armed men. An old weathered oak tree stood nearby, its gnarled trunk strong in spite of the constant flash floods that swept the river valley. The bare branches offered the men little shade from the scorching sun, and high overhead a pair of eagles soared on the thermals, calling their defiance to the storm clouds darkening the distant horizon.
Tied to the tree with a length of dirty rope, an old mule snorted in annoyance and shuffled its hooves on the hard ground. The animal was heavily laden with bulging canvas sacks and leather water bags. Nearby, old wooden planks had been laid across two big rocks to form a crude table.
“Look, ya wanna trade or not?” Digger snarled, leaning forward to rest his palms on the table.
Sitting behind the table, Baron Jeffers said nothing in reply. But the two sec men flanking the baron instantly worked the bolt on their longblasters, ready to start firing at the slightest hint of trouble. If Digger noticed them, he gave no sign.
The three men from Indera ville were dressed in rough clothing, the usual mix of predark cloth and home-cured leather. The baron also wore a fancy jacket with a military design, and had a big-bore longblaster slung across his back.
Only fifty or so yards away a gigantic mesa rose straight from the ground and dominated the valley in every direction. Its sheer rock sides were impossible to climb, but at some point in the past, a big section of the mesa had collapsed to create a large hollow with a rock overhang. Indera ville had been built directly below the overhang. A tall semicircular wall sealed off the ville from the hostile desert, along with the brutal men and muties that prowled the shores of the desert river. The rock overhang gave the population precious shade from the hot sun, and vital protection from the deadly acid rains that swept across the landscape every spring.
Crossing his arms, Baron Jeffers studied the skinny trader standing across the crude table. Indera ville was at the crossroads of a pass through the Diana Mountain and the sluggish Ohi River, so they had a lot of outlanders passing through. Which is why they had established the dealing tree.
Some of the newcomers wanted to stay in the ville. That was forbidden, even if the person owned a working blaster or was a healthy young woman. The ville was full and had plenty of homie weps, mostly crossbows and such, but more than enough to defend the ville. Most outlanders just wanted to get past the walls to see what they could jack, or to recce the ville for a raid. If they did and were caught, they were crucified, nailed to the dealing tree so that others would know better.
Jeffers scowled. And then there were a scant handful who came to trade, bits of predark metal for a bowl of soup, seeds from a nonmutie apple tree, and once, a whole box of predark meds! Of course, that had been many winters ago, when the Trader had stopped by in his armored war wags selling tech and books, and giving away hope for free. His deals were honest, his blasters always primed. The Trader didn’t steal, and killed faster than summer lighting if somebody else even tried. Nobody crossed the Trader and lived.
Baron Jeffers sighed at the memory. But the Trader was long gone, vanished into the glowing mists of the western desert, and now there were only men like this Digger, usually on foot, occasionally on horseback, and sometimes riding in wooden carts pulled by chained slaves. Their deals were rarely fair, and they always stole whenever possible. Still, the ville needed whatever it could find in the way of tools. Life was hard.
“Okay, show me what ya got,” Jeffers growled, sitting back in his chair, making it creak slightly. As he adjusted his position, the dark green canvas coat swept back to expose the brace of pistols jutting from his lizardskin belt.
The sec men standing on either side of the baron scowled menacingly, but their blasters packed only air. However, the razor-sharp bayonets attached to the end of each rifle barrel were real enough, and sharp enough to end the life of anything that made a move toward the baron. The real danger came from the sec men standing on the ville, wall-armed with crude crossbows, the powerful hand-built weps more than capable of putting a barbed arrow completely through the chest of an invader standing near the wizened tree. The plant thrived on the blood spilled there.
“What, right here?” Digger asked, squinting his eyes at the guards along the wall. He licked dry lips. “I was kinda hoping we could talk biz inside. Out of the sun, ya know.” He gestured vaguely. “A little shine, a couple of sluts…
“Not going to happen,” Jeffers said, scratching at his belly, his hand closer to the checkered grip of his pistols. Unlike the rifles, his deadly blasters weren’t just there for display. The brass was old, but the black powder was fresh and the split-lead bullets could blow a man in two. Weps were at a premium in the ville. Always had been. The armory had less than a hundred rounds of live bullets, and those were being saved for a dire emergency.
Digger smiled innocently. “Hey, there, I was only—”
“Nobody goes in but ville folk and sec men,” the baron stated gruffly, placing both of his dusty boots on the ground as if about to stand. “And you ain’t either of those, outlander.”
“Okay, okay,” Digger said hastily, raising both hands, the fingers splayed to show he held no weapon. “No corpse, no crime, right? Let’s talk.”
Grudgingly, the baron took his seat once more, and Digger exhaled in relief. Outlander, damn. Well, at least the baron hadn’t called him a coldheart thief. That was something, at least.
Digger headed to his mule. On the ville walls, crossbows followed the trader as he flipped back the top of the lizardskin pouch and pulled out a wide rusty can. Returning to the barter table, Digger placed it in front of the baron and carefully removed the clear plastic top. The baron tried to hide his excitement, but his eyes shone. He could read just enough to know that military label on the predark can said coffee. Had the outlander found a food store buried under the mud somewhere and recovered a stash? Coffee was more valuable than predark liquor. Shine could be made these days, but no matter how carefully they were planted, coffee beans never grew.
Reaching inside the can, Digger pulled out a wad of greasy cloth and laid it on the table. The contents of the bundle gave a metallic click as he folded aside the cloth to reveal a dozen shining rounds of ammunition.
His gut surged with adrenaline at the sight, but Baron Jeffers locked his face into neutral, trying not to show his amazement. Black dust. Each of the brass was spotless, and the lead bullet was jacketed with copper in the old way that no wep-man could duplicate these days. Even more, they were long cartridges, designed for rifles, not pistols. Rifle cartridges! The sec men standing behind the baron shuffled their patched boots in the dusty soil at the incredible sight.
Reaching out, Jeffers lifted one of the rifle cartridges and weighed it in his hand. The brass felt as good as a woman’s breast, delicious and