Part 31 (1/2)
”France,” Rice said vaguely. ”What's up?”
”Trouble, man. Sutherland flipped out, and they've got her sedated. At least six key people have gone over the hill, counting you.” Mozart's voice had only the faintest trace of accent left.
”Hey, I'm not over the hill. I'll be back in just a couple days. We've got-what, thirty other people in Northern Europe? If you're worried about the quotas-”
”f.u.c.k the quotas. This is serious. There's uprisings. Comanches raising h.e.l.l on the rigs in Texas. Labor strikes in London and Vienna. Realtime is p.i.s.sed. They're talking about pulling us out.”
”What?” Now he was alarmed.
”Yeah. Word came down the line today. They say you guys let this whole operation get sloppy. Too much contamination, too much fraternization. Sutherland made a lot of trouble with the locals before she got found out. She was organizing the Masonistas for some kind of pa.s.sive resistance and G.o.d knows what else.”
”s.h.i.+t.” The f.u.c.king politicals had screwed it up again. It wasn't enough that he'd busted a.s.s getting the plant up and on line; now he had to clean up after Sutherland. He glared at Mozart. ”Speaking of fraternization, what's all this we stuff? What the h.e.l.l are you doing calling me?”
Mozart paled. ”Just trying to help. I got a job in communications now.”
”That takes a Green Card. Where the h.e.l.l did you get that?”
”Uh, listen, man, I got to go. Get back here, will you? We need you.” Mozart's eyes flickered, looking past Rice's shoulder. ”You can bring your little time-bunny along if you want. But hurry.”
”I... oh, s.h.i.+t, okay,” Rice said.
Rice's hovercar huffed along at a steady 80 kph, blasting clouds of dust from the deeply rutted highway. They were near the Bavarian border. Ragged Alps jutted into the sky over radiant green meadows, tiny picturesque farmhouses, and clear, vivid streams of melted snow.
They'd just had their first argument. Toinette had asked for a Green Card, and Rice had told her he couldn't do it. He offered her a Gray Card instead, that would get her from one branch of time to another without letting her visit Realtime. He knew he'd be rea.s.signed if the project pulled out, and he wanted to take her with him. He wanted to do the decent thing, not leave her behind in a world without Hersheys and Vogue s.
But she wasn't having any of it. After a few kilometers of weighty silence she started to squirm. ”I have to pee,” she said finally. ”Pull over by the G.o.dd.a.m.n trees.”
”Okay,” Rice said. ”Okay.”
He cut the fans and whirred to a stop. A herd of brindled cattle spooked off with a clank of cowbells. The road was deserted.
Rice got out and stretched, watching Toinette climb a wooden stile and walk toward a stand of trees.
”What's the deal?” Rice yelled. ”There's n.o.body around. Get on with it!”
A dozen men burst up from the cover of a ditch and rushed him. In an instant they'd surrounded him, leveling flintlock pistols. They wore tricornes and wigs and lace-cuffed highwayman's coats; black domino masks hid their faces. ”What the f.u.c.k is this?” Rice asked, amazed. ”Mardi Gras?”
The leader ripped off his mask and bowed ironically. His handsome Teutonic features were powdered, his lips rouged. ”I am Count Axel Ferson. Servant, sir.”
Rice knew the name; Ferson had been Toinette's lover before the Revolution. ”Look, Count, maybe you're a little upset about Toinette, but I'm sure we can make a deal. Wouldn't you really rather have a color TV?”
”Spare us your satanic blandishments, sir!” Ferson roared. ”I would not soil my hands on the collaborationist cow. We are the Freemason Liberation Front!”
”Christ,” Rice said. ”You can't possibly be serious. Are you taking on the project with these popguns?”
”We are aware of your advantage in armaments, sir. This is why we have made you our hostage.” He spoke to the others in German. They tied Rice's hands and hustled him into the back of a horse-drawn wagon that had clopped out of the woods.
”Can't we at least take the car?” Rice asked. Glancing back, he saw Toinette sitting dejectedly in the road by the hovercraft.
”We reject your machines,” Ferson said. ”They are one more facet of your G.o.dlessness. Soon we will drive you back to h.e.l.l, from whence you came!”
”With what? Broomsticks?” Rice sat up in the back of the wagon, ignoring the stink of manure and rotting hay. ”Don't mistake our kindness for weakness. If they send the Gray Card Army through that portal, there won't be enough left of you to fill an ashtray.”
”We are prepared to sacrifice! Each day thousands flock to our worldwide movement, under the banner of the All-Seeing Eye! We shall reclaim our destiny! The destiny you have stolen from us!”
”Your destiny ?” Rice was aghast. ”Listen, Count, you ever hear of guillotines?”
”I wish to hear no more of your machines.” Ferson gestured to a subordinate. ”Gag him.”
They hauled Rice to a farmhouse outside Salzburg. During fifteen bone-jarring hours in the wagon he thought of nothing but Toinette's betrayal. If he'd promised her the Green Card, would she still have led him into the ambush? That card was the only thing she wanted, but how could the Masonistas get her one?
Rice's guards paced restlessly in front of the windows, their boots squeaking on the loosely pegged floorboards. From their constant references to Salzburg he gathered that some kind of siege was in progress.
n.o.body had shown up to negotiate Rice's release, and the Masonistas were getting nervous. If he could just gnaw through his gag, Rice was sure he'd be able to talk some sense into them.
He heard a distant drone, building slowly to a roar. Four of the men ran outside, leaving a single guard at the open door. Rice squirmed in his bonds and tried to sit up.
Suddenly the clapboards above his head were blasted to splinters by heavy machine-gun fire. Grenades whumped in front of the house, and the windows exploded in a gush of black smoke. A choking Masonista lifted his flintlock at Rice. Before he could pull the trigger a burst of gunfire threw the terrorist against the wall.
A short, heavyset man in flak jacket and leather pants stalked into the room. He stripped goggles from his smoke-blackened face, revealing Oriental eyes. A pair of greased braids hung down his back. He cradled an a.s.sault rifle in the crook of one arm and wore two bandoliers of grenades. ”Good,” he grunted. ”The last of them.” He tore the gag from Rice's mouth. He smelled of sweat and smoke and badly cured leather. ”You are Rice?”
Rice could only nod and gasp for breath.
His rescuer hauled him to his feet and cut his ropes with a bayonet. ”I am Jebe Noyon. Trans-Temporal Army.” He forced a leather flask of rancid mare's milk into Rice's hands. The smell made Rice want to vomit. ”Drink!” Jebe insisted. ”Is koumiss, is good for you! Drink, Jebe Noyon tells you!”
Rice took a sip, which curdled his tongue and brought bile to his throat. ”You're the Gray Cards, right?” he said weakly.
”Gray Card Army, yes,” Jebe said. ”Baddest-a.s.s warriors of all times and places! Only five guards here, I kill them all! I, Jebe Noyon, was chief general to Genghis Khan, terror of the earth, okay, man?” He stared at Rice with great, sad eyes. ”You have not heard of me.”
”Sorry, Jebe, no.”
”The earth turned black in the footprints of my horse.”
”I'm sure it did, man.”
”You will mount up behind me,” he said, dragging Rice toward the door. ”You will watch the earth turn black in the tireprints of my Harley, man, okay?”
From the hills above Salzburg they looked down on anachronism gone wild.