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rockets, pawing the machine guns in their blisters, even toying with the
rear-firing cannons.
He identified deeply with this machine, and with its firepower, which was,
after all, a product of his own imagination and sweat.
To Trader, it felt like they were playing with his privates.
There was plenty of room in the MCP's driver's compartment for all of them.
They could stand or they could sit in the jump seats along the rear wall. The
first thing Shabazz did was to shoo his crewman out of the driver's seat.
"Stand over there by the door," he ordered the man as he plopped down in the
worn contour chair behind the steering yoke. "And keep your blaster pointed at
these three."
The crewman drew his wheelgun from its shoulder holster, aimed the
double-action .38 Colt at belt height and held it steady.
"You can fill me in on the forward-facing fire controls as we go," Shabazz
told Trader over his shoulder. With that, he gunned the big engines, and with
a lurch, they set off at the head of the file.
The driver's compartment window hatches were undogged and tipped up to let in
the breeze. Trader watched the MCP's
headlight beams sweep over the ville. When they rumbled past the jails again,
Shabazz honked the air horn at the jailers, who waved and whistled back at
them. The sun was just breaking over the tops of the distant hills when they
reached the barricade. Shabazz had to slow down considerably to wind his way
through the obstacle course of offset concrete bulwarks.
The violent lurching from side to side started Trader feeling weak again. He
thought for a second he was going to have to make a mad rush for the head.
Then he belched, and lava came up in the back of his throat. It left an evil
taste in his mouth metallic, rancid. He gritted his teeth and swallowed hard.
"What does this red button do?" Shabazz asked, holding his thumb over the
cannon trigger.
Trader didn't feel up to explaining. "J.B.," he said, "you tell him. Tell him
anything he wants to know."
"That's right, J.B., you tell ole Shabazz all about it."
Trader was only half listening as the Armorer detailed the sighting and fire
control for the fixed cannons. It was only the beginning of a long
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interrogatory. Shabazz wanted to know about the rocket pods, about the Cat
tracks, about the maximum ramming speed.
"Sounds like you've got big plans for War Wag One," J.B.
commented.
"Sure do."
Sensing an opportunity, Trader pulled himself together.
"Yeah, so how about your finally letting us in on them? After all, we're all
in this together now."
Shabazz reflected on this for a few seconds, then said, "Sure.
Why not. Place we're headed is a pass. It's mebbe twenty-five klicks from
here. Guarded by a band of inbred maggots."
"These inbreds, they're what's keeping you from what you're after?" Trader
asked.
"Yeah, they're blocking the way to Spearpoint."
Sam and J.B. glanced at Trader. The question on both of their faces was the
same: was this shit for real? He shrugged.
Hell if he knew.
Hell if he cared.
"Must be some triple-tough maggots if you need something like the MCP to get
through them," Trader said to Shabazz.
"They got the place well defended. There are steep rock walls on either side
of the road, makes it like driving in a ditch. These inbreds have cut deep
trenches across the road to trap any wags trying to use it. They got
heavy-caliber machine guns, and the droolie bastards know how to use them.
It's like a shooting gallery."
"A setup like that would make it pretty tough going for Zeal's regular sec
wags," J.B. said.
"Make it suicide," Shabazz agreed. "I know because we already tried that, of
course."
"Of course," Trader said. "So, that means these inbreds are probably not going
to be surprised to see you again."
"Mebbe not, but when they see what we brought with us this time, it should
make them squirt shit."
Trader thought about Ryan, Poet and Hun, about how maybe they were already
chilled. About even if they weren't, how slim the chances were of their being
able to stop and defeat an entire convoy. If there was no rescue attempt
forthcoming, Trader and the others were going to have to try to overpower
Shabazz and his crew without a diversion from the outside.
The bearlike trader had to have been reading his mind.
Over his shoulder, Shabazz called out to his crewman, "Better put some leg
irons on these three. And make triple sure the black bitch is cuffed good and
tight. Hate to see our passengers get themselves into trouble."
Chapter Twenty
Ryan was awakened not by the sound of the shift whistle but by a chorus of wag
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