Chapter Twenty-Seven

 

 

"What was it called?"

 

J.B. pushed back the fedora and scratched his forehead. "Damned if I can remember, Millie."

 

"But you are still completely confident about the exact quantities that constitute the thermite mixture, are you not, John Barrymore?"

 

"Sure I am, Doc," J.B. said, adding after a significant pause, "Least, I'm nearly completely confident."

 

"We running risk being blown up?" Jak asked, looking around to make sure that an escape route was open toward the safety of the forest.

 

The Armorer acted as if he hadn't heard the question. "I remember the book was real excellent and it was by some predark writer called Abbey."

 

"Science book?" Krysty asked.

 

"No. Kind of history about some good folks trying to stop the big companies from destroying the land. I found it in a ruined mall in the Shens. No cover on it. Couldn't decide if it was fact or fiction."

 

"Which is which?" Dean asked.

 

"Fact means it's true and fiction means it's made up," Mildred replied.

 

J.B. straightened, dusting his hands, looking down at the small metal cylinder that was half-buried in the damp earth in the clearing on the edge of the village. "There. Two-thirds mixture and one-third igniter."

 

"What's in it?" Ryan asked. "All stuff that you found in the old base?"

 

Doc beamed. "But of course." He ticked off the items on his long, bony fingers. "Forty pounds of iron oxide flakes. Like rust. Couple of pounds of powdered magnesium. Ten pounds of barium peroxide. Thirty pounds or so of powdered aluminum."

 

"And the mix?" Krysty asked.

 

"I vow that it could not be any simpler, my dear Krysty. Three parts of the iron with two parts of the aluminum equals thermite. It's as simple as that."

 

"What's the other stuff for?" Dean was staring, fascinated, at the narrow tube of metal as though he expected it to explode at any moment.

 

"Igniter," J.B. replied. "One part magnesium goes with four parts of the barium powder."

 

"Five hundred degrees centigrade," Doc said slowly, his hands folded in front of him as though he were reciting a part of the Athanasian Creed.

 

A twist of fuse stuck out the top, and J.B. knelt again, holding a pack of self-lights in his hand. "Ready or not," he said. "Here we go."

 

Everyone backed away, keeping about thirty yards between themselves and the small thermite bomb. Beyond them was a hesitant circle of watching natives, led by the tall figure of Itzcoatl, wearing his ceremonial green robe, and most of his senior councilors.

 

The self-light flared, its tiny red-and-gold flame almost invisible in the strong morning sunlight. A wisp of smoke came curling from the top of the fuse, and J.B. ran, crouching, to join the others.

 

"How long?" Ryan asked.

 

"Ten seconds," the Armorer replied. "Off goes the igniter and then the thermite itself."

 

The white serpent of powder smoke grew stronger for a moment, and everyone started to duck, when it went out. Went out and stayed out.

 

There was an audible hissing sound, then silence.

 

"That it?" Jak said.

 

J.B. bit his lip in annoyance. "Yeah, Jak. Looks like that's it."

 

"Know what went wrong, John?" Mildred asked.

 

"I have a feeling that I'm not sure. Don't want to make myself look a fool a second time."

 

"Back to the drawing board," Doc added.

 

Ryan slapped J.B. on the back. "Never mind. Leave it a while now. Plenty for us all to do in the village to get ready to receive our guests."

 

 

 

THAT HAD BEEN at the center of Ryan's plan.

 

"They'll expect to more or less take us by surprise," Ryan had said at the breakfast meeting. "Probably won't know we're here. Probably won't worry even if they know we're here. Just look to come in like always."

 

"But they might suspect we could stage an early deterrent strike," J.B. said.

 

"One thing they won't expect is for us to try and trap them here. Actually here in the village, the honey pot they think they're walking in to raid." Ryan pointed slowly around the table. "We'll turn this place into a fortress. Not to keep them out. To let them in and keep them in." He banged his fist into his palm. "That's the heart of the plan."

 

 

 

RYAN HAD CALLED his private council of war with his own six friends.

 

"Time's the problem. I don't know how long before they make the move against us here."

 

"Us?" Jak said. "Village is us?"

 

Ryan nodded. "Sure. For the time being, the village is us. Unless anyone here wants to break and run?" Nobody spoke. "Fine. So, we are us."

 

"Main thing is to work fast," J.B. said. "My guess is that they'll take a couple of days to regroup. Spend some time in their camp. Clean their blasters. Sharpen their knives. Rest. And they'll have to make contact with their own masters at the silver mine. Confirm orders. Yeah, three days."

 

 

 

J.B. WAS IN CHARGE of the conversion of the village into a sophisticated mantrap. It was vital that everything should look like it always did. Nothing should arouse the suspicion of the slavers.

 

Itzcoatl said that in big raids the Anglos generally came in on horseback, which pleased the Armorer. "We can hit animals more easily with pits and nets. Build some internal walls. They don't have to be high to block off freaked horses. Give shelter for us to do some shooting."

 

The actual armory of the natives was disappointing, consisting only of a couple of old Portuguese Savage pistols and three Mauser-Vergueiro rifles, with virtually no ammunition.

 

J.B. checked them and dismissed them out of hand. "Been neglected for a hundred years. Breeches worn and every part's looser than a sow's tits. Good chance that they'll blow out and take a hand and half the face off anyone using them."

 

He explained to Itzcoatl that it would be more efficient if everyone used their bows and their blowpipes, used the time to make plenty more arrows.

 

"And more poison," the chief added.

 

 

"Poison?"

 

Mildred was with J.B. at that moment. "You mean, like curare?" she asked.

 

Itzcoatl looked puzzled. "I do not know that name," he said. "Never known it. The poison comes from a mix of the blood of a secret plant."

 

"Sap," Mildred said.

 

"I do not know that word, too. What bleeds when you cut into this plant. It is fed to a dog. Dog goes" He pulled out his hands wide like a straight stick. "Stiff," J.B. suggested.

 

"Stiff," Itzcoatl agreed. "Dies with eyes open and bloody and jaw wide. We keep body until it has gone rotten. Very quick. Quicker than ordinary dying. Boil body and keep boiled until only little sticky water is left. Use that wiped on points of arrows and darts from blowpipes." He rubbed his hands together, grinning, showing his filed teeth. "Is very good."

 

Ryan agreed with his old friend's judgment, and the men of the village busied themselves with making dozens more arrows while the priests and older women brewed up vile-smelling cauldrons of the poisonous gruel.

 

And there was endless practicing, as J.B. sought to improve the already impressive marksmanship of the warriors.

 

The younger men and most of the women were set to digging traps and trenches, stringing up nets across the two main trails into the village, rigging them under Jak's supervision so that they could be pulled by hidden ropes at a moment's notice.

 

And in his spare time, J.B. worked with Doc on getting the recipe right for the thermite.

 

The fourth demonstration came toward the evening of the second day since Ryan and Krysty's safe return to the village. Like the other attempts, it was held a short distance from the perimeter fence, on a strip of level ground between lake and forest. Another of the small metal tubes was buried for three-quarters of its length in the dirt, with the curling end of the fuse protruding an inch from its top.

 

The second and third tries had both been total failures, with nothing more than the wisp of white smoke from the fuse, followed by stillness.

 

This time, only Ryan and Dean bothered to come and watch, the rest of the friends busy with the work of readying the settlement for the slavers' attack. A couple of the older women had also wandered by, stopping to watch the four mad Anglos at their incomprehensible games.

 

J.B. scratched the self-light, and the wavering flame was applied to the fuse. He waited until the white smoke told him that the potential bomb was lit, then scampered away to join the others.

 

"Fingers crossed," Doc muttered. "I am sure that we have the proportions correct this"

 

There was a flash of brilliant silvery white light from the metal tube that lasted less than a hundredth of a second, almost blinding the watchers. The two native women both screamed and clung to each other for support.

 

But after the flash, there was nothing.

 

"That it?" Dean said, rubbing at his eyes, not bothering to hide his disappointment. "Might scare them slavers for a whole bit of a minute."

 

J.B. shook his head, walking toward the smoldering patch of scorched grass. "That was just the igniter mixture going. But it didn't set off the thermite."

 

Doc brushed a fly from the corner of his mouth. "Let us look on the bright side, my friend John. As the great Welsh philosopher, Daffydd ap Thomas, remarked, one must overcome the large defeats and cherish the small victories. We are getting there, John. Oh, yes, we are getting there."

 

 

 

BY DUSK OF THE THIRD DAY, everyone in the village was starting to get restless.

 

Dean summed it up after they'd eaten supper and gone back to their own huts. "Whole place is antsy, Dad. Getting so they almost want Bivar and his gang to come so they can get it all over with, one way or the other."

 

Ryan sat on the bed, pulling off his muddied combat boots. The belt with the SIG-Sauer and the panga lay on the floor at his side. Krysty had gone to the lake to wash and cool off after the hard work of the day, leaving the father and son together.

 

"You think they're frightened, Dean?"

 

"No. Not scared. They seem to think that having Jak with them means that nothing can go wrong. And all the rest of us, as well. I keep overhearing them talking about the will of the gods and all that shit."

 

"Not shit to them, son."

 

"Guess not."

 

"Thing worries me is the way everyone keeps snatching quick worshiping looks at Jak, when they think nobody's watching them. Bothers me that they still hang on to this belief that Jak's the chosen one that their religion talks about. The god with the pale skin and hair like white fire that'll come and rescue them and make them all right forever and ever."

 

"Amen," the boy said.

 

"This business with the slavers could easy go wrong and twist in our hands like a broken knife. I get the feeling that Itzcoatl and his priests are going to want someone to point an accusing finger at."

 

"And that'll be Jak."

 

"That'll be Jak and us, son."

 

 

 

RYAN AND KRYSTY MADE LOVE that third night, savoring the exquisite pleasure of each other's body, the silken feel of skin over taut muscle, the mixture of stillness and movement, using hands and fingertips and tongues on each other, relishing the delight of giving delight.

 

Ryan gasped as he thrust deep into Krysty, his face pressed to her neck, while her arms tightened around him, long nails working patterns across his shoulders.

 

After they had reached the divine heights of a simultaneous orgasm, they lay quietly in each other's arms. She kissed him on the cheek. "Very good, lover." she whispered.

 

 

"Me too."

 

"Do you think they'll attack us soon?"

 

 

He took a slow breath. "Mebbe tomorrow. Who knows? But we still got tonight."