had been shooting, and was beginning to feel his lack of food, drink and sleep. This was the end of the trail for a while.
'Is there anywhere to get a meal and a bed around here? The state will pay.'
The man grinned bitterly. 'Wee do not accept loncheon vouchers or cashplastic, Trooper. Seelver dollars or
'I have metal money.'
'Een that case, I serve you best cheellee you have in your life. An' yiu can get a room over at Tiger Behr's motel. I am Pedro Annindariz. Seence Meester Cass lose hees head thees afternoon, I guess I am Mayor of Welcome, Areezona. Thees ees my saloon.'
'Trooper Nathan Stack, at your service. Out of Fort Apache.'
'Yiu a long way from home, yellowlegs.'
Stack stretched, trying to dislodge the pain from his lower back.
'You're telling me. It's been a hell of a patrol.'
'Theengs ain't been so good roun' here thees week, neither.'
Shots rang out. Permanent anaesthetic they called it on the Cav training courses. Stack had never had to apply the treatment, but had seen it done. It wasn't pleasant.
'Start your chilli boiling, Pedro. I guess I better check out the church.'
'Yiu can't meess eet. Jost follow thee holes een thee houses.'
He could see what Annindariz meant. The cruiser had ploughed through the whole town. One family were standing around, looking at half of their perfect home, salvaging pots and pans from the rubble. Stack followed the tyre tracks through the town to the church.
After he had checked out the scene there, he should try to find a phone or a radio and report in. He knew Major General Younger would be having Siamese kittens over this patrol. He wouldn't be surprised if a Cav helicopter gunship were combing the mesas looking for them. If tradition was anything to go by, Tyree would get a posthumous medal, and he'd be quietly court-martialled out of the service. He needed some explanations.
St Werburgh's was a little way out of town. It stood in its own plot of land. There were people digging in the graveyard, and a pile of bodies stacked against a fence. A Gaschugger with his right forearm replaced by what looked like a giant iron lobster claw was scooping earth out of a shallow grave.
'Looks like the well's up for grabs,' someone said. A couple of Gaschuggers were emerging from the church with sloshing buckets of water slung peasant-fashion on wooden yokes.
He climbed the ruined steps and went into what was left of the church. There were people there, standing still, but they weren't praying. They were staring.
The cruiser was there, bellied up to the altar, and between them was a crushed priest. He had been a big man, but he was a broken doll now, his head lolling at an angle. The car had grown some sort of spear and stuck it through him.
'How are we gonna get him loose to bury him?' someone asked. It was a skinny old man in shorts and a string vest. He had metal plates in his chest, his skull and stomach. His entire left arm, his lower right arm and hand, both his knees, his left foot, his right shoulder and his right eye were gone and replaced. Lights flashed and wheels revolved inside him. He had been rebuilt with durium-laced plastic, now badly scuffed, and old-fashioned robo-bits. He would have been chinless but for a sharp jawguard. Half his skull was metal, the other half still sprouted clumps of red hair.
'Yup, that's right, Trooper,' the composite said. 'Surf city radical, ain't it? There's still some of me in here. Behr's the name. Tiger Behr.'
'Yup. That I do. I used to be an angel.'
That sounded unlikely, especially in a church.
'Hell's Angel. Albuquerque chapter, 1965 to 1993. It was a life.'
'I'm sure.'
'We was macho men then, not faghaggs like these Maniax and 'chuggers and such.'
A couple of overalled youths muttered darkly. Behr laughed, opening his mouth. He was toothless but for four metal prongs that replaced his eyeteeth.
'Now, there's more doodads than flesh 'n' blood. But I kin still lick anyone in the house. Anyone.'
'Consider me registered, Tiger. Now, stand back. I'm going to check this out.'
Everybody eagerly stood back. This was one of those rare occasions when civilians were only too glad to obey orders. Stack warily approached the cruiser. It seemed to be dead, but he didn't trust the thing to stay that way.
He had his gun out, safety off and one in the chamber.
There was a sudden creak, and his finger tightened on the trigger. He fought the trembling shudder that ran through him. The rear door of the cruiser, bent and buckled out of true, fell off. Inside, the upholstery was unmarked. Kling's silvery jacket was bundled up, a scatter of powdered glass spread over it.
Stack touched the car with his gunbarrel. It didn't move.
'Careful, Trooper,' Behr said. 'That there thing is mucho dangeroso.'
He tried to feel any vibes that might be coming off it. He remembered how it had seemed back at Slim's. It had been
'I think it's dead,' he said.
'I don't care what frequency your brainwaves is on,' spluttered Behr. 'I saw Carl Cass spread over a wall this afternoon. And I'm seeing poor ole
He exposed the doorlock, and tapped in his personal entry code. Nothing. The electronics were down. The plastic keys were blackened and cracked.
'Give me a hand,' he said.
'I ain't messin' with that bring-down city jazz, Trooper.'
Stack levelled a grouchy stare at the half-machine old-timer. 'Then shut up and stand back.'
Stack kicked the lock with a steel-capped heel. It caved in. The door swung open with a horror movie sound effect.
The cruiser was empty. The dashboard lights were dead. Stack clambered over the rubble, getting too close for comfort to the stiffening priest, and slipped into the driver's seat.
Leona's keys still dangled from the ignition. There was an Aztec figurine on the ring. Stack had given it to her in Managua. He reached across to take the gift back. Maybe he would need a keepsake, to remind him who Leona Tyree was…
The steering column thrust forwards, pinning him to the seat. The synthesised voice crackled to life.
'Hi there, Trooper, here's a present.'
An electrical discharge came up through the steering wheel and hit him in the sternum.
'Did that shock you? Here's another.'
Stack twisted, and the seat broke. He slithered backwards. The shock hit him in the legs, and he had to pull himself free by his hands and arms.
Everybody else had got out of the church in treble time.
The remaining hood lase was up and swivelling. Scrambling away, Stack found he had plunged his arm into a bucket of water. Without thinking, he picked it up and hurled it, bucket and all, at the lase.
The effects were surprising, to say the least.
The cruiser screeched like the Wicked Witch in
The show was over. The audience came back.
Behr crossed himself, and said 'Freakin' A!'
Someone else prayed in a loud mumble; The dead priest's hair stood up like the Bride of Frankenstein's, and Stack's nostrils caught a strong tang of electrical discharge. Stack got the impression there was a point being made and that he was sorely missing it.
