The three walked slowly to the hangar, past the other men who had returned to their previous work. When they had disappeared into its depths, Wentworth’s shoulders relaxed.
“Looks like you were right,” he pulled his canteen out of his belt, unscrewing the cap, “Right about Jenkins. He’s no victim. There’s something in him now that wasn’t there before.”
“It was always there. It was just hidden under false piety.”
Wentworth swished the water around his mouth, washing away the sleep. The Mechanic seemed to have a penchant for archaic language. “Raxx, if there’s something going on here that you understand and I don’t, I’d appreciate it if you told me.”
Raxx chewed his lip ring for a moment, then lit a cigarette to collect his thoughts. “Wentworth — here’s the thing — you’ve been a lot of places, and seen a lot of things, but sometimes I think you miss a lot of what makes people tick. If you don’t agree with what some group thinks, well, then you just sort of dismiss them.”
He raised an eyebrow, “You know as well as I the type of nonsense most of them believe in. You said yourself, last week, how they don’t accept the truth, even when you hand it to them on a silver platter. How’s that relevant?”
“If you’re going to predict what they’re going to do, then you need to know what they think.”
“To a certain extent, sure, but listen, Raxx — when you get right down to it they all basically think the same. Doesn’t matter what city you go to, you watch their movements, you look at their faces, and you can figure out ninety percent of what they’re all about. Add on another nine percent if you hear them talk for a few minutes. Any of the cultural stuff just isn’t that important. Maybe if you’re trying to live with them, then maybe it matters, but when you’re trying to figure out whether or not they’ll riot?” he shook his head, “Get right down to it, they’re all just animals.”
“I’m not explaining it right. It’s like — okay, how about this — remember what you were saying last week about the difference between tactics and strategy?”
“To be honest, not really. But if I said something like: ‘Tactics is the Battle, Strategy is the War,’ then yeah.”
“That’s what I mean. You’re talking about — knowing if someone’s about to go for their knife, or whatever — reading their body language — that’s the tactics of the situation, right? And I’m not saying that you’ve got any problems there. You’ve got the ninety-nine percent. But to figure out the strategy — to figure out what someone’s going to be doing, not five minutes from now, but five days from now — you need that other one percent. It doesn’t matter in a bar fight, but when you’ve got a mess like the one down in that mine pit there — well, yeah. Knowing
Wentworth tapped his fingers then pulled out a cigarette for himself. “Okay… let’s say you’re on to something. What does that mean here? What’s that one percent that I’m missing?”
Raxx let out an exasperated breath, “Honestly, I’m mostly going by instinct right now; something’s bugging me about them, but I don’t totally understand. I guess… I’ve seen other groups that are like them. I’ve seen this sort of behaviour before.” He took a puff of his cigarette, “It’s the religion. It’s there in the corner, motivating them — they’re confident about something — too confident. Like they know something they couldn’t. Nobody gets that way without religion involved.”
“Religion…” During their conversation his subconscious had been breaking down the band’s milling about. A pattern was beginning to emerge. “I guess that makes sense. There was a reason they tried to ban it before the War, after all. Maybe if they’d done a better job…”
“Don’t blame that on religion. It didn’t start the war.”
“Yeah, well, maybe not. Anyway, that’s a conversation for another time. I think I’m beginning to suss out the organizational structure of these guys.”
As the day wore on, a sheet of clouds rolled across the sky, dimming the light to a washed-out grey. The sweat and dust of the morning had given way to an unseasonable cool. Several crickets mistook it for dusk. Jenkins stayed holed up in the hangar, and Slayer’s band carried on as before. The clang of metal on metal, and the grunt of meat on meat did little to fill the silent air.
Atop the cliff, they’d divided up the responsibilities. Raxx kept a close eye on the small group servicing their vehicles. He watched them perform various minor repairs and maintenances. Every so often he’d make notes about the vehicles’ conditions.
Wentworth stayed focussed on the bulk of the men. They were clustered in three separate groups, spread out across the cleared area of the compound. The group furthest from them, lined up by the side of the hangar, were practicing weapons drills. One of the sergeants he’d spotted earlier, a wiry man with eye-liner tattoos, had been demonstrating the operation of different small arms — thankfully no heavy weapons, just rifles and submachine guns — then when that was over, they’d started target practice with a dozen-odd cross bows of different manufacture. Wentworth surmised that they must not have any chemists in their group; that would explain why they were conserving ammunition.
Another group was gathered out front of the hangar, closer to the cliff face. A heavy-set sergeant with a thick, black beard had been running them through different combative drills. The moves he was teaching were a mixture of boxing and some of the more ornamental martial arts. Nothing too impressive, but it would be enough for the local Mennite population.
It was the third group that had him most worried. They were spread throughout the structures abutting the entrance, practicing different run-and-gun manoeuvres. Some of them he recognized — ripped straight from the pages of documents in his Datapad. Their sergeant was a man almost as large as Slayer himself, with a sheer black mohawk across his head. He drove the other band members at a frantic pace, firing them through the moves, repeating them, forcing them to get it right.
He was getting a bad feeling about this. They were unskilled, but weren’t amateurs. These men would know how to work as a team.
“Looks like they’re not just mechanics.”
“Huh?” he’d been so focussed on what the others were doing; he’d missed seeing the group working on the vehicles wander off towards the hangar.
“It looks like they’re cooks, too.”
“Porters.” Several had grabbed some of the raided supplies on their way to the kitchen. “So, learn anything about their fleet?”
“The vehicles? Yeah. They’re all in working order, the worst are a couple that’re burning oil. There might be a couple of other minor problems, I couldn’t say about the alignment — oh yeah, one of them’s got bad suspension — but none of that’ll stop them from moving. I don’t think these guys are the one that restored them, though.”
“Why do you say that?”
Raxx shook his head, “The work they were doing wasn’t that good — the guy with the welding torch seemed okay, but welding the body-panels on like he was doing isn’t something I’d expect to see from a mechanic that
“Maybe you shouldn’t second guess yourself, Raxx. You see that group running around the sheds there? What sort of organization do you notice?”
Raxx stared down at them for a long moment, lips parted. “Well, they seem to be working in teams of two.”
“They are — but look bigger. They’re also working in bigger teams of four, and two big teams of eight.”
“…okay, I think I see what you’re saying.”
“Remember what I said about the two of us doing this together?”
“You said the difference was exponential, not linear?”
“Yeah. Well, the same idea here. These guys are organized, and some of the manoeuvres they’re using are based on lots of history and practice. It’s a good thing we didn’t try and take them out last night — drunk or not, at least a few of them would have reacted in time. They aren’t good at what they do — but they’re working together.”
“That’s bad, right?”
