The chopper pilot had lifted out of the space between the buildings and fired no more. No doubt the initial attack had not been to kill, but to jar his prey into the open. It was a decent strategy against any but the Ndelante.
The pilot flew back and forth now, lobbing stun bombs. They were so far away that Wili could barely feel them. In the distance, he heard the approach of more aircraft. Some of them sounded big. Troop carriers. Wili kept running. Till the enemy actually landed, it was better to run than to search for a good hiding place. He might even be able to get out of the drop area.
Five minutes later, Wili was nearly a kilometer away. He moved through a burned-out retail area, from cellar to cellar, each connected to the next by subtle breaks in the walls. His equipment pack had come loose and the whole thing banged painfully against him when he tried to move really fast. He stopped briefly to tighten the harness, but that only made the straps cut into his shoulders.
In one sense he was lost: He had no idea where he was, or how to get to the pickup point the Ndelante and the Jonques had established. On the other hand, he knew which direction he should run from, and—if he saw them—he could recognize the clues that would lead to some really safe hole that the Ndelante would look into after all the fuss died down.
Two kilometers run. Wili stopped to adjust the straps again. Maybe he should wait for the others to catch up. If there was a safety hole around here, they might know where it was. And then he noticed it, almost in front of him: an innocent pattern of scratches and breaks in the cornerstone of a bank building. Somewhere in the basement of that bank—in the old vault no doubt—were provisions and water and probably a hand comm. No wonder the Ndelante behind him had stayed so close to his trail. Wili left the dark of the alley and moved across the street in a broken run, flitting from one hiding place to the next. It was just like the old days—after Uncle Sly but before Paul and math and Jeremy—except that in those old days, he had more often than not been carried by his fellow burglars, since he was too weak for sustained running. Now he was as tough as any.
He started down the darkened stairs, his hands fishing outward in almost ritual motions to disarm the boobytraps the Ndelante were fond of leaving. Outside sounds came very faint down here, but he thought he heard the others, the surviving Jonque and however many Ndelante were with him. Just a few more steps and he would be in the—
After so much dark, the light from behind him was blinding. For an instant, Wili stared stupidly at his own shadow. Then he dropped and whirled, but there was no place to go, and the hand-flash followed him easily. He stared into the darkness around the point of light. He did not have to guess who was holding it.
“Keep your hands in view, Wili.” Her voice was soft and reasonable. “I really do have a gun.”
“You’re doing your own dirty work now?”
“I figured if I called in the helicopters before catching up, you might bobble yourself.” The direction of her voice changed. “Go outside and signal the choppers down.”
“Okay.” Rosas’ voice had just the mixture of resentment and cowardice that Wili remembered from the fishing boat. His footsteps retreated up the stairs.
“Now take off the pack—slowly—and set it on the stairs.”
Wili slipped off the straps and advanced up the stairs a pace or two. He stopped when she made a warning sound and set the generator down amidst fallen plaster and rat droppings. Then Wili sat, pretending to take the weight off his legs. If she were just a couple of meters closer. . . . “How could you follow me? No Jonque ever could; they don’t know the signs.” His curiosity was only half pretense. If he hadn’t been so scared and angry, he would have been humiliated: It had taken him years to learn the Ndelante signs, and here a woman—not even an Ndelante—had come for the first time into the Basin, and equaled him.
Lu advanced, waving him back from the stairs. She set her flash on the steps and began to undo the ties on his pack with her right hand. She did have a gun, an Hacha 15-mm, probably taken off one of the Jonques. The muzzle never wavered.
“Signs?” There was honest puzzlement in her voice. “No, Wili, I simply have excellent hearing and good legs. It was too dark for serious tracking.” She glanced into the pack, then slipped the straps over one shoulder, retrieved her handflash, and stood up. She had everything now. Through me, she even has Paul, he suddenly realized. Wili thought of the holes the Hacha could make, and he knew what he must do.
Rosas came back down. “I swung my flash all around, but there’s so much light and noise over there already, I don’t think anyone noticed.”
Lu made an irritated noise. “Those featherbrains. What they know about surveillance could be—”
And several things happened at once: Wili rushed her. Her light swerved and shadows leaped like monsters. There was a ripping, cracking sound. An instant later, Lu crashed into the wall and slid down the steps. Rosas stood over her crumpled form, a metal bar clutched in his hand. Something glistened dark and wet along the side of that bar. Wili took one hesitant step up the stairs, then another. Lu lay facedown. She was so small, scarcely taller than he. And so still now.
“Did . . . did you kill her?” He was vaguely surprised at the note of horror, almost accusation, in his voice.
Rosas’ eyes were wide, staring. “I don’t know; I t-tried to. S-sooner or later I had to do this. I’m not a traitor, Wili. But at Scripps—” He stopped, seemed to realize that this was not the time for long confessions. “Hell, let’s get this thing off her.” He picked up the gun that lay just beyond Lu’s now limp hand. That action probably saved them.
As he rolled her on her side, Lu exploded, her legs striking at Rosas’ midsection, knocking him backward onto Wili. The larger man was almost dead weight on the boy. By the time Wili pushed him aside, Delia Lu was racing up the stairs. She ran with a slight stagger, and one arm hung at an awkward angle. She still had her handflash. “The gun, Mike, quick!”
But Rosas was doubled in a paroxysm of pain and near paralysis, faint “unh, unh” sounds escaping from his lips. Wili snatched the metal bar, and flew up the steps, diving low and to one side as he came onto the street.
The precaution was unnecessary: She had not waited in ambush. Amidst the wailing of faraway sirens, Wili could hear her departing footsteps. Wili looked vainly down the street in the direction of the sounds. She was out of sight, but he could track her down; this was country he knew.
There was a scrabbling noise from the entrance to the bank. “Wait.” It was Rosas, half bent over, clutching his middle. “She won, Wili. She won.” The words were choked, almost voiceless.
The interruption was enough to make Wili pause and realize that Lu had indeed won. She was hurt and unarmed, that was true. And with any luck, he could track her down in minutes. But by then she would have signaled gun and troop copters; they were much nearer than Mike had claimed.
She had won the Authority their own portable bobble generator.
And if Wili couldn’t get far away in the next few minutes, the Authority would win much more. For a long second, he stared at the Jonque. The undersheriff was standing a bit straighter now, breathing at last, in great tormented gasps. He really should leave Rosas here. It would divert the troopers for valuable minutes, might even insure Wili’s escape.
Mike looked back and seemed to realize what was going on his head. Finally Wili stepped toward him. “C’mon. We’ll get away from them yet.”
In ten seconds the street was as empty as it had been all the years before.
29
The Jonque nobles believed him when Wili vouched for Mike. That was the second big risk he took to get them home. The first had been in evading the Ndelante Ali; they had walked out of the Basin on their own, had contacted the Alcalde’s men directly. Not many Jonques had made it out of the operation, and their reports were confused. But the rescue was obviously a great success, so it wasn’t hard to convince them that there had been no betrayal. Such explanations might not have w
ashed with the Ndelante; they already distrusted Wili. And it was likely there were black survivors who had seen what really happened.
In any case, Naismith wanted Wili back immediately, and the Jonques knew where their hopes for continued survival lay. The two were on their way northward in a matter of hours. It was not nearly so luxurious a trip as coming down. They traveled back roads in camouflaged wagons, and balanced speed with caution. The Aztlán convoy knew it was prey to a vigilant enemy.
It was night when they were deposited on a barely marked trail north of Ojai. Wili listened to the sounds of the wagon and outriders fade into the lesser noises of the night. They stood unspeaking for a minute after, the same silence that had been between them through most of the last hours. Finally Wili shrugged and started up the dusty trail. It would get them to the cabin of a Tinker sympathizer on the other side of the border. At least one horse should be ready for them there.
He heard Mike close behind, but there was no talk. This was the first time they had really been alone since the walk out of the Basin—and then it had been necessary to keep very quiet. Yet even now, Rosas had nothing to say. “I’m not angry anymore, Mike.” Wili spoke in Spanish; he wanted to say exactly what he meant. “You didn’t kill Jeremy; I don’t think you ever meant to hurt him. And you saved my life and probably Paul’s when you jumped Lu.”
The other made a noncommittal grunt. Otherwise there was just the sound of his steps in the dirt and the keening of insects in the dry underbrush. They went on another ten meters before Wili abruptly stopped and turned on the other. “Damnation! Why won’t you talk? There is no one to hear but the hills and me. You have all the time in the world.”
“Okay, Wili, I’ll talk.” There was little expression in the voice, and Mike’s face was scarcely more than a shadow against the sky. “I don’t know that it matters, but I’ll talk.” They continued the winding path upward. “I did everything you thought, though it wasn’t for the Peacers and it wasn’t for Delia Lu. . . . Have you heard of the Huachuca plaguetime, Wili?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but rambled on with a loose mixture of history—his own and the world’s. The Huachuca had been the last of the warplagues. It hadn’t killed that many in absolute numbers, perhaps a hundred million worldwide. But in 2015, that had been one human being in five. “I was born at Fort Huachuca, Wili. I don’t remember it. We left when I was little. But before he died, my father told me a lot. He knew who caused the plagues, and that’s why he left.” The Rosas family had not left Huachuca because of the plague that bore its name. Death lapped all around the town, but that and the earlier plagues seemed scarcely to affect it.
Mike’s sisters were born after they left; they had sickened and slowly died. The family had moved slowly north and west, from one dying town to the next. As in all the plagues, there was great material wealth for the survivors—but in the desert, when a town died, so did services that made further life possible. “My father left because he discovered the secret of Huachuca, Wili. They were like the La Jolla group, only more arrogant. Father was an orderly in their research hospital. He didn’t have real technical training. Hell, he was just a kid when the War and the early plagues hit.” By that time, government warfare—and the governments themselves—were nearly dead. The old military machinery was too expensive to maintain. Any further state assaults on the Peace had to be with cheaper technologies. This was the story the Peacer histories told, but Mike’s father had seen its truth. He had seen shipments going to the places that were first to report the plague, shipments that were postdated and later listed as medical supplies for the victims.
He even overheard a conversation, orders explicitly given. It was then he decided to leave. “He was a good man, Wili, but maybe a coward, too. He should have tried to expose the operation. He should have tried to convince the Peacers to kill those monsters. And they were monsters, Wili. By the teens, everyone knew the governments were finished. What Huachuca did was pure vengeance. . . . I remember when the Authority finally figured out where that plague came from. Father was still alive then, very sick though. I was only six, but he had told me the story over and over. I couldn’t understand why he cried when I told him Huachuca had been bobbled; then I saw he was laughing, too. People really do cry for joy, Wili. They really do.”
To their left, the ground fell almost vertically. Wili could not see if the drop was two meters or fifty. The Jonques had given him a night scope, but they’d told him its batteries would run down in less than an hour. He was saving it for later. In any case, the path was wide enough so that there was no real danger of falling. It followed the side of the hills, winding back and forth, reaching higher and higher. From his memory of the maps, he guessed they should soon reach the crest. Soon after that, they would be able to see the cabin.
Mike was silent for a long time, and Wili did not immediately reply. Six years old. Wili remembered when he was six. If coincidence and foolhardy determination had not thrust him into the truth, he would have gone through life convinced that Jonques had kidnapped him from Uncle Sly, and that—with Sly gone—the Ndelante were his only friends and defenders. Two years ago, he had learned better. The raid—yes, it had been Jonque—but done at the secret request of the Ndelante. Ebenezer had been angered by the unFaithful like Uncle Sly who used the water upstream from the Ndelante reservoir. Besides, the Faithful were ready to move into Glendora, and they needed an outside enemy to make their takeover easier. It worked the other way, too: Jonque commoners without lords protector lived in constant fear of Ndelante raids.
Wili shrugged. It was not something he would say to Mike. Huachuca was probably everything he thought. Still, Wili had infinite cynicism when it came to the alleged motives of organizations.
Wili had seen treacheries big and small, organizational and personal. He knew Mike believed all he said, that he’d done in La Jolla what he thought right, that he’d done it and still tried to do the job of protecting Wili and Jeremy that he had been hired for.
The trail dipped, moved steadily downward. They were past the crest. Several hundred meters further on, the scrub forest opened up a little, and they could look into a small valley. Wili motioned Mike down. He pulled the Jonque night scope from his pack and looked across the valley. It was heavier than the glasses Red Arrow had loaned him, but it had a magnifier, and it was easy to pick out the house and the trails that led in and out of the valley.
There were no lights in the farmhouse. It might have been abandoned except that he could see two horses in the corral. “These people aren’t Tinkers, but they are friends, Mike. I think it’s safe. With those horses, we can get back to Paul in just a few days.”
“What do you mean ‘we,’ Wili? Haven’t you been listening? I did betray you. I’m the last person you should trust to know where Paul is.”
“I listened. I know what you did, and why. That’s more than I know about most people. And there’s nothing there about betraying Paul or the Tinkers. True?”
“Yes. The Peacers aren’t the monsters the plaguemakers were, but they are an enemy. I’ll do most anything to stop them . . . only, I guess I couldn’t kill Delia. I almost came apart when I thought she was dead back in the ruins; I couldn’t try again.”
Wili was silent a moment. “Okay. Maybe I couldn’t either.”
“It’s still a crazy risk for you to take. I should be going to Santa Ynez.”
“They’ll likely know, Mike. We got out of LA just ahead of the news that you ran with Delia. Your sheriff might still accept you, but none of the others, I’ll bet. Paul though, he needs another pair of strong hands; he may have to move fast. Bringing you in is safer than calling the Tinkers and telling them where to send help.”
More silence. Wili raised the scope and took one more look up and down the valley. He felt Mike’s hand on his shoulder. “Okay. But we tell Paul straight out about me, so he can decide what to do with me.”
The boy nodded. “And, Wili . . . thanks.”
; They stood and started into the valley. Wili suddenly found himself grinning. He felt so proud. Not smug, just proud. For the first time in his life, he had been the strong shoulder for someone else.
30
What Wili had missed most, even more than Paul and the Moraleses, was the processor hookup. Now that he was back, he spent several hours every day in deep connect. Most of the rest of the time he wore the connector. In discussions with Paul and Allison, it was comforting to have those extra resources available, to feel the background programs proceeding.
Even more, it brought him a feeling of safety.
And safety was something that had drained away, day by day. Six months ago, he had thought the mansion perfectly hidden, so far away in the mountains, so artfully concealed in the trees. That was before the Peacers started looking for them, and before Allison Parker talked to him about aerial reconnaissance. For precious weeks the search had centered in Northern California and Oregon, but now it had been expanded and spread both south and east. Before, the only aircraft they ever saw was the LA/Livermore shuttle—and that was so far to the east, you had to know exactly where and when to look to see a faint glint of silver.
Now they saw aircraft several times a week. The patterns sketched across the sky formed a vast net—and they were the fish.
“All the camouflage in the world won’t help, if they decide you’re hiding in Middle California.” Mike’s voice was tight with urgency. He walked across the veranda and tugged at the green-and-brown shroud he and Bill Morales had hung over all the exposed stonework and hard corners of the mansion. Gone were the days when they could sit out by the pond and admire the far view.