Maniax, and people like them. They sacked the towns that were losing it, raped and murdered at random, destroyed property, looted on an industrial scale.'
'Their average age, I hear, was fifteen.'
'Maybe so, you don't ask for a birth certificate when you're hand-to-hand with a genetically-engineered homicidal psychopath'
The Maniax were only the largest of the gangcults, Chantal had heard. By no means, the worst. She had been briefed back in Rome by her superiors on the groups she might come across. She had a special dispensation to commit suicide if captured by The Bible Belt, the fundamentalist crazies who viewed the world as a large-scale Sodom and Gomorrah and saw it as their duty to bring down the Wrath of God upon all sinners. She wasn't worried. She had been trained—in the language of the States, she was a 'Proper Op”—and she could deal with most eventualities.
A bugle call sounded on the tannoy, and gates appeared in the hitherto seamless walls. The column crept into the fort like a maggot crawling into an apple. Barked orders carried on the still air. The last vehicle in the convoy was an open truck. People stood up on the flatbed, shackled together.
'More Maniak stragglers. Captain Badalamenti has the mop-up detail. We'll be bringing them in for months.'
The prisoners were dragged off the truck and led into the fort by guards. One Mohawk-haired giant shouted defiance, and a Trooper struck her with something. There was a crackle and the Maniak fell to her knees, screaming.
'Cattle prod,' Lauderdale explained. 'It's the only thing they understand. Pain.'
As the Maniak twisted in agony, the prisoners she was chained to were pulled off their feet. They fell badly, leg and wrist irons clanking. The grossly fat Sergeant in charge of the detail took the prod from the Trooper and touched it not to any particular prisoner but to a length of the chain connecting them. Sparks flew, and sixteen men and women screamed in unison.
'Pain, Ms Juillerat. They're experts at inflicting it. It's our job to turn things round.'
'O brave new world…'
'I beg your pardon?'
'…that has such
II
Brevet Major General Marshall K. Younger examined his reflection in the glass that covered the life-size portrait of Charlton Heston which had pride of place in his office. He tried to match his head and shoulders to the Ex- President's, and fell only a little short. You could do a lot with your body if you exercised regularly and took the Zarathrustra treatment, but, unless you wanted to become a complete cyborg, you were stuck with the bones you were born with. Younger wasn't ready for that yet. He thumped the sides of his stomach with both hands, relishing the way his tight fists bounced off leather-supple gut muscles. Younger stuck a foot-long Cuban cigar in his face, bit off and spat away the wet end, flipped his zippo and touched flame to the tip. He sucked thick smoke into his GenTech remodelled lungs.
'Ain't no way you're gonna give me cancer, you long brown bastard,' he said to his cigar, puffing deeply, 'so you can just give up trying to mug my alveoli.'
It had been a simple treatment, and was available at a massive discount to serving officers in the Road Cav. The corp wanted the interstates open, and didn't mind throwing a few favours around to keep in with the law enforcement community. And as a brevet ranking, Younger was grateful for the perks of the trade.
Younger snapped off a perfect salute at Heston. Big Chuck had been the man who authorized the revival of the United States Cavalry. Before that, keeping the peace on the roads had been down to the Highway Patrol, and the interstates had been warzones. Now, Out West at least, you could guarantee your wrappers would get through. Big Chuck had done a hell of a lot for the country. His Moral Re-Armament Drive, and his Youth Pioneer Scheme had given the country some backbone again. And, of course, him and Senator Enderby had pushed through the Enderby Act and opened up the field of law enforcement to private individuals and organizations. The Cav wouldn't be here if it weren't for Enderby and Big Chuck.
Too bad about Senator Enderby. Younger had never believed anything those three Filippino houseboys had said on teevee during the MRA hearings, and he knew for a fact that the alleged monies paid by the Hammond Maninski and T-H-R Agencies to the Senator had been in the nature of remuneration for his work as a consultant with regards to the niceties of the law he had designed. But Big Chuck had let Enderby go to the wall. Younger bet the President had cried about it, but you had to put personal relationships beneath duty, service, your country and what was right. That was the only way to be.
There was a framed photograph of President North around somewhere, but Younger couldn't bear to put it where it showed. After Big Chuck, Solly Ollie was such a come-down. Heck, who needed a Prezz who couldn't cut it in the Marines and had to fall back on
Younger had been using his few minutes' peace and quiet to indulge himself. He had unlocked the cabinet in which he kept his leather-bound books. This was his private library, his one indulgence. On the spines, they all had titles like
Today, he had turned up one of his favourite peccadilloes. Potato dishes.
He ran through the variations. Creamed potatoes with soured cream and chives. Creamed potatoes with nutmeg. Stuffed jacket potatoes with garlic and herbs.
He ran his fingers over the glossy illustrations. He checked off the ingredients against his mental inventory. His kitchen was reasonably well stocked for this ass-end-of-nowhere posting, but there were so many things he had not been able to get shipped out, even with his pull in the service. His mouth was full of saliva and smoke. He swallowed them both, and slipped the cookbook back into its space, locking the case.
He saluted Big Chuck again. The Ex-President would understand Younger's needs.
He checked his quartz digital pocket watch against the antique long-case clock from the original fort. It was time to make the rounds, time to prod the people who needed prodding and give a nod of approval to the personnel who didn't.
Outside his office, he accepted the salutes of several passing junior officers. Colonel Rintoon, his second-in- command, was waiting for him, clipboard tucked under his arm.
'Good morning, sir,' he snapped.
'Morning, Vladek. Any surprises overnight?'
'Overdue patrol, sir.'
'Hmmn. How long?'
'The full twelve hours. No radio contact. No distress blip. Tyree, Stack, and a T-H-R Op, Kling.'
'Well, we can't lose one of our associates like that. Get a fix on their current position, and try to re-establish lines of communication. Anything else?'
Vladek looked at his clipboard. 'Weekly convoy just in. Badalamenti reports sixteen pick-ups on the road. Maniax mostly, but we've got a stray Virus Vigilante, and a Psychopomp.'
'The 'pomps are supposed to be history since that business at Spanish Fork.'
'There are one or two left. Always are.'
'It's not Jessamyn Bonney, by any chance?'
'No sir, I would have said. It's some low-rent ratskag. She barely shows up on the seedings.'
