Desolation Crossing. James Axler

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      So how the hell the rest of them would take him—especially someone like Hunn—was an idea that kept Trader amused for the rest of the day.

      Next morning, Trader felt that he should go and conclude this business himself. Mulling it over while drinking the night before, he’d almost made up his mind to ask the kid to join them without even waiting to see what his work was like. Hell, he could see that from everyone in this rotted ville. The only real question was how the kid would fit in. He’d either fit or fuck off pretty damn quick. So scratch that. The real question was whether the kid would want to fit with them.

      Only one way to find out.

      When Trader arrived at the ramshackle hut in which J.B. had made his home, he found that the kid was ready and waiting for him.

      “Sit down,” J.B. said, gesturing to a chair. Trader eyed it warily. It looked like it might collapse under his weight. He very carefully sat. The kid met his eyes, staring at him as though trying to work him out. It was rarely, if at all, that it was this way around, and Trader found it an unnerving experience. “So,” J.B. said finally, “why are you jerking me around?”

      “What makes you say that?”

      The briefest of smiles—only the vaguest of amusement—flickered across his face as he gestured to the immaculately cleaned and restored blasters that lay on an oilcloth by the table.

      “There was nothing wrong with your blasters. Least, there was nothing wrong till you or one of your people tried to mess them up.”

      “What makes you say that?” Trader repeated, keeping his voice even.

      “Normal wear and tear, stupe assholes misusing ordnance…that’s easy to spot. Just like it was easy to spot that someone had tried to make these blasters looked misused, and to fuck up the most difficult shit to fix. That just doesn’t happen in regular use. Mebbe one in ten, if you’re unlucky. But not every single one.”

      Trader grinned. “You got me. I wanted to see how good you were.”

      “Why?”

      “Because I want you to join us. I don’t know why you’re stuck in this pesthole, and truth is, I don’t care. But I do know this—you’re wasted here. We could do with someone like you.”

      “Whoever messed those blasters for you knew what they were doing.”

      “True enough,” Trader agreed, “but while they might have been able to put them right, they wouldn’t have known that they’d been deliberately messed with to begin with. That, Mr. Dix, is a true talent. And I could do with true talent. I’ve got the best convoy in these lands, and I got it by keeping my eye open for opportunity. Way I figure it, we pick up armament to trade cheap that are fucked up, you fix them and we make a good profit. More than we do now. And with you one of us, we get to have the best armory of any convoy should anyone try to mess with us.”

      “And I get?”

      “Good jack. I look after my people in other ways, too. You play straight with me, you won’t find a better boss nor baron anywhere. I figure that if I treat my people good, they won’t rip me off or run. Mind, you step out of line and I’ll chill you myself.”

      J.B. said nothing for some time, just stared at the man in front of him. Trader felt like the young man was trying to stare deep into his soul, to work him out. It wasn’t pleasant, but it was promising: someone this careful was liable to screw up easily.

      Finally, Dix broke his silence. “As long as there’s no more stupe tricks or tests like this one,” he said, indicating the oilcloth of blasters, “then I’m in. It’s about time I got out of this no horse shitheap.”

      Trader’s face split in a broad grin. “Reckon you’re about right,” he said simply. “Welcome aboard War Wag One.”

      Chapter Three

      The Present

      In the moments since Eula had spoken, a silence had spread uncomfortably over the oddly clustered group. On one side stood Eula and the trader. On the other stood the six friends. J.B. was staring at the young woman. The others were dividing their attention between the Armorer and Eula, trying to fathom what ghost had just snaked from J.B.’s past, and how it would affect them.

      J.B. was aware that whatever he said next would be of the utmost importance. The armored wag in the distance was linked to the trader—and probably the young woman who was the convoy armorer—by the discreet headsets they wore. Only now, up close, could he see the small stalk of clear plastic housing the mic as it sat in the trader’s beard. Eula’s was a little more obvious. No doubt they were powerful enough to be picking up every word that was said out here, so close were the two sides.

      Problem was, he had never seen this young woman in his life, and had no idea who she was. The name meant nothing to him. The face, likewise. If he said as much, how pissed would these two people in front him be? And if they were, then how much would that affect the actions of the armored wag that lay some distance back? Take out these two and take scant cover, and what chance was there of surviving attack? With the mics, was there even the chance of taking that cover before being picked off?

      They were outnumbered and unsure whether the supposed enemy actually was the enemy at this moment. The wrong word was all it would take to make the situation explode.

      For a man whose way with words veered between minimal and clumsy most of the time, this was a no-win call. But he had to say something. The weight of expectation was upon him. That was a phrase he’d heard Doc mutter in the past, and he had never understood it until now.

      “Listen,” he began haltingly, “you say you know me, but I gotta tell you, I don’t recognize your face, and you’re not that old. I mean, I spent a lot of time with these people over the past few years, and you would have been a child, and…”

      He could feel the others watch the trader and the woman, could feel the tension as they waited to read body language, the tightening of their posture as they prepared to act.

      The trader looked at the woman beside him. She looked, in turn, with a level gaze at J.B.

      “Well?” the trader asked.

      She shrugged. “He’s right. I remember him, but it was a long time ago, now. I was just a kid, and he wouldn’t have noticed me back then. Always interested in ordnance. People came second. Bet they still do. Got a point, though. Blasters don’t let you down like people do.”

      Was it Mildred’s imagination, or did Eula look just a little too hard at John when she said this last? Was there an undertone there that suggested she should be watched, that she should not be trusted?

      Mildred looked along at the others, a sidelong glance intended to disguise her intent. It was hard to tell if they had also picked up on this. Back in the days of her youth, they called it a poker face. Her father would denounce the effects of gambling on a Sunday, but wasn’t averse to a little poker on the Saturday night with a few friends. He always lost a little, but never gambled much. He said it was because he liked the social side of the game, and knew his face was too honest, too open. That was why to take it seriously would have meant ruin.

      J.B.’s answer was important. No one knew that better than him. His words were measured, much more than СКАЧАТЬ