Kevin Anderson - Ill Wind

“Now, if you’re frightened, I can help you. All it takes is a quick pull—” He hadn’t finished his sentence before the woman viscously yanked back the line.

The catapult slammed forward and banged against the restraining bar in front. Seventy pounds of rusty bolts, twisted nails, sharp cutting pieces of metal flew in a low arc like a cloud of bees. The team watched the metal disperse until they lost sight of it; seconds later, it rained down in a cloud of dust a football field wide, kicking up debris as though an invisible warplane had strafed the desert floor.

The old woman cackled. She clenched both fists above her head in triumph. “Ha! Just let those bastards try and get through that!”

“Bank’s going hot,” Gilbert Hertoya said at the railgun controls. “Charging capacitors!”

“Notify Bobby—we’re ready for ranging.”

Spencer put a finger in his ears to muffle the sound in case one of the capacitors pre-fired and caused a catastrophic failure. It was another weak point in the defense—they were using research apparatus for weapons, and no one seemed concerned but him. Even though this was a full dress rehearsal, things still hadn’t come together. His stomach was sour with worry.

Gilbert jerked a thumb at Rita by the control blockhouse twenty yards away. She knelt next to Romero, who was relieved to be back from his hours with the catapult team. The two busily worked a makeshift telegraph connected to a severed telephone line. Wires, a small speaker, a battery, and a couple of resistors with a switch completed the apparatus.

Two days ago, the dead telephone line had run along Route 57, as useless as a magic wand in a science lab. Rita had supervised tearing the wires down from the utility poles, and now one end was connected to Romero’s telegraph machine; the other ran to Bobby Carron’s observation balloon a thousand feet in the air.

The short scientist dug an elbow in Spencer’s side. “Think she’s worried about Bobby up there?”

“The way they’ve been acting, you’d think the petroplague removed their libido inhibitors. No wonder the other ranch hands are sulking around and not getting their work done.”

Gilbert threw Spencer an exaggerated glance. “You aren’t jealous are you?”

Spencer dropped his hands, totally shocked. “What, jealous about Rita? ” He had never even looked at Rita that way. After years of working together, she was just “one of the crew” to him.

“Whatever,” Gilbert said, “but personally, I think you ‘doth protest too much.’”

Spencer snorted and looked away. “I’m not even remotely jealous.”

“Right.”

“I’m not!”

Gilbert raised an eyebrow.

Spencer started to speak, but stood quiet for a long minute. “It’s just that Rita is the last person I’d expect to see getting dopey over someone. I guess I was starting to feel lonely myself.” He smiled wearily. “Looking for that girl with the sunburned nose, I guess. Too many Beach Boys songs.”

Gilbert smiled. “No problem, old man. I miss my own family, and they’re just in Alamogordo.”

Arnie yelled from the blockhouse. “Charging complete. Five seconds!” They put fingers in their ears, anticipating the sound.

A loud crack sizzled through the confined chamber. Spencer tried to follow the five-pound sabot as the railgun accelerated it down the tracks in a blurred streak. He smelled metallic ozone from where the plasma armature ionized the air.

“There it hits!” Gilbert pointed downrange. Spencer had to squint to see the dust kicked up where the wide-area munition pummelled the desert.

Rita waved from where she and Romero squatted by the telegraph. She slapped the radio man on the back and straightened, then pointed up in the air to Bobby’s balloon. “From Bobby’s guesstimate the projectile hit five miles away and spread out in an elliptical area fifty by twenty yards. If the metal bearings separated like we think, everything in that area should be shredded like mozzarella cheese on a pizza.”

Spencer brightened. “Get the results analyzed by tonight’s tech meeting.” He shook his head as Rita threw him a snappy salute. She’s totally lost it , he thought.

But Gilbert looked dismayed when Spencer returned to the railgun. The small engineer had a foot up on the base of the gun, reaching up to run a hand along the railing. Scorch marks marred the surface of the once-gleaming metal.

Spencer frowned. “What’s the matter?”

Gilbert shook his head. “We shorted out some capacitors. Unless we get this whole rail replaced, we’ll be up a creek.”

“But you’ve got miles of railing to work with.”

“That’s not the problem,” said Gilbert. “Yeah, we can replace the railing, but we have to take the whole friggin’ railgun apart to do it—and that will take nearly five days.”

Spencer tried to sound upbeat. “You can do it—”

Gilbert interrupted irritably, “Don’t you understand? Even if we get the railgun fixed, that doesn’t mean it’ll work again. What’s to prevent the same thing from happening?” Gilbert turned to the blockhouse. “I can’t believe I wasted the last three weeks and damaged our satellite launcher for one shot!”

Spencer started after the man, but stopped. It had been three weeks, and what did they have to show for it? The railgun worked, but it might have fired its last projectile. The citrus explosives were still not finished; and their only defense besides the Alamogordo townspeople was a medieval catapult!

It chilled him. Maybe Bayclock would laugh at them after all.

The pregnant girl from Oakland gave birth to a baby boy in the middle of the afternoon. The young father hovered beside her in a panic throughout the ordeal, in deeper shock than the mother herself. He chewed the ends of his fingers and kept asking, “How long is this going to take? How long is it going to be?” The commune’s three self-proclaimed midwives tended the girl.

When they finally brought forth the baby, everyone began cheering and singing in a way that embarrassed Iris Shikozu. One woman ran out and hammered on the iron triangle that served as their dinner bell, raising such a celebratory alarm that several men came running in from the wind turbines.

While this baby was certainly not the first to be born in the Altamont settlement, it was the first since the petroplague. The midwives—all of whom had proclaimed the wonders of natural childbirth—used cool, dampened rags to wipe clean the mother and baby. The fifteen-year-old girl lay trembling and exhausted, holding the baby against her as the father stroked her forehead.

Iris sat down outside the small house and was glad no one had even asked her to boil water. She knew nothing about the birthing process.

Daphne Harris came up and extended a hand to pull Iris to her feet. “Come on, get off your butt! There’s work to do!”

“Gee, thanks for cheering me up,” Iris said and brushed dry grass from her pants.

Daphne looked so healthy and full of restless energy that she practically glowed. Upon first arriving at the commune, Iris had liked Jackson Harris’s wife immediately. Daphne appeared driven, consumed by an ongoing battle inside her; now that she had settled down, she seemed more at peace… but she still required some way to burn her restless energy.

“We need to clear some spots down by that cluster of live oak, then you can help me set up a few new tents. We got some more people showing up for the concert, even though it’s still a month away.”

Iris raised her eyebrows. “Musicians this time, or just spectators?”

Daphne shrugged. “I didn’t interview them, girl! Some of both, I guess.”