Chapter 5
Dust packed, collected his equipment for the mission and stepped out into the fresh morning air. In spite of what was to come, he enjoyed the prospect of being free again; escaping and being let out were two very different things and he found the air sweeter, the sun brighter, when he was being allowed to leave.
He looked around at the familiar sights of the Solution. Its facility was built like a castle; thick sandstone walls surrounded the central courtyard, where horses, prisoners and the enormous three-story main building were held. The stables were at the east-facing wall, where whinnying horses let their owners know how nervous the things stored deep in the facility still made them. The prisoners did something similar to the west, though they had hard labour to distract them from the weirdness below. The main facility stood on a slight rise, a mansion looking down at everyone else. Speaking of the Triangle’s toys, there was a small section of the northern courtyard for them, walled off and secured by wards. The various things the Solution kept would be taken there whenever a new weapon needed testing.
Because they didn’t just study Dust here, no. America’s bridges to the Indians had been thoroughly burned over the years and none of their spiritual leaders would share their secrets. Which Dust didn’t blame them for. The Solution only had Dust to rely on so it was widely accepted by that the best way, the only way, for them to fight the Triangle was to use their Old Gods’ strength against them. That was what the eggheads worked on all day, every day; toying with and probing at unholy things in the hope of weaponising them.
And people thought Dust was the scary one…
“Morning Dust,” someone said, nearly surprising Dust.
He turned. It was Jacky, a young uniform with a Jack Russell’s grin and a two-cent haircut. He was carrying two armloads of bandages and a severe sunburn. A combat medic by trade, he had taken a shine to Dust. Whenever Dust wanted some jerky without having to go through Dick, it would be Jacky who’d bring him it.
“Morning,” Dust replied.
Jacky grinned, his smooth face showing his age. “They finally letting you loose?”
“Something like that.”
Dust was not much of a talker, even with people he could abide. Most didn’t seem to mind that and women certainly seemed to like it. Perhaps that was what people wanted; a guy who’d listen and not make too much of a fuss.
“You watch out for yourself out there,” Jacky said. He rubbed his forehead against his shoulder to clear sweat from his brow. It was a pretty warm day. “The Badlands have been pretty rough lately; a few patrols have come back scared shitless, beaten to within an inch of their lives. We patch ’em up and try to gee ’em but it’s hard to make a fella go back out there when they’ve experienced something… horrible, y’know?”
“No, I don’t.”
Jacky laughed. “No, I suppose you don’t.”
Dust smiled.
“Say, speaking of being fearless, the Naismith… kid… is at the stables. Looks all excited, like a cat with cream.”
“I know.”
“She waiting for you?”
Dust sucked in some air through his teeth. “Yeah.”
Jacky laughed again. “Well, maybe you don’t need to watch out for yourself; you’ve got someone who’ll be doing it for you!”
“Very funny.”
“I thought so. Good luck Dust.”
Jacky shifted the bandages so he wouldn’t drop them, tipped Dust a nod and walked on. Dust watched him go and wondered idly how many men he’d treat that day; a few? Six? A dozen? Could the Badlands have taken such an awful turn since he’d last been out there? He could scarcely imagine that was possible but Jacky wasn’t the type to flap his gums on matters he didn’t understand.
Dust looked out to the east. Fifty soldiers hadn’t been enough to protect a Senator’s daughter so it must have gotten worse. Much worse.
Dust adjusted his hat and then blew air out through his lips. He’d put off meeting the Naismith kid as long as he could. It was time to begin what might be one long, sore trial of a mission. So he ambled over to the stables, a great wooden hut made from whole logs hammered into the dusty ground. The roof was made of slate and the strong smells of horse shit and sweat radiated from it. The culprits poked their heads out and greeted him with excited whinnies. Dust petted them as he passed. Animals liked Dust for some reason.
The kid was sat on a horse when he stepped inside, one that looked too fine to have ever been ridden in anger. Jacky hadn’t been exaggerating; she was almost bouncing in her saddle and played nervously with a bullet to assuage her impatience.
From what he understood, Eleanor Naismith was one weird child. She was maybe twenty but everyone at the Solution still called her a kid. After all, only a child would pursue a ludicrous fascination for the Badlands and anything relating to the Triangle. It was rumoured that William B. Naismith only supported the Solution as heavily as he did because of his only child’s sick fetishisation of the Dixie Problem.
“Ah, Dust, I’ve been expecting you,” she said, putting the bullet into her jeans pocket. Her voice was posh, Harvard posh. She sounded almost British.
She had longish blonde hair that someone plaited for her and a severe, wealthy face, one which likely never failed to let someone know what she thought of them. Even in jeans and a shirt, with a rifle slung over her back, she was no warrior; she looked like she should be holding a Bible and reading it out to young ‘uns. Not like someone he’d want with him on a mission.
Not that he had a thing against women; Dust had met Indian and Mexican women who could gut a man before he could even pull his pistol from his holster. He liked that kind of woman, wished he could have one along this mission. But he couldn’t. He had the Naismith kid.
“Morning,” Dust said.
She frowned at so simple a greeting and haughtily asked. “I trust you’ve been made aware of our mission?”
Dust walked over to stable nine. To Horse, his horse. A black stallion who loved him deeply, Horse was one of only a few possessions he’d been allowed to keep when he’d ‘volunteered’ to work with the Solution. It didn’t have an imaginative name but Dust apparently hadn’t felt particularly imaginative at the time.
“Yep,” he said, giving Horse a friendly pat on the head.
Horse shook his head and clopped happily. Dick had told him to take out a Solution mare but Dust knew he’d be better served by Horse. Besides, a Solution mare could tolerate the creatures of the Badlands but Horse would break their legs.
“Good. I happen to know Penelope so I think we should proceed with caution.” The Naismith kid breathed in deeply. “And you should hurry; I’d hate to see anything happen to her.”
Dust didn’t particularly want to see anything happen to Penelope either. Two responses, one sarcastic and one angry, vied to be said. But she was probably just worried for her friend so he settled for “I wouldn’t proceed with anything other than caution, Miss Naismith.”
“Please, call me Eleanor.”
“Sure, Eleanor.”
But he’d continue thinking of her as the Naismith kid. Especially whilst she treated him like a servant.
Dust led Horse from his stable and gave him the once over, made sure he was as fit as the day he’d been left here. Four legs, good muscles and a coat of hair you could sleep on; he was fine. Dust set up his saddle and loaded Horse up with supplies; enough water and food for a couple weeks of traveling. Hopefully they wouldn’t need it all.
When everything was secured, Dust climbed onto Horse and settled into the saddle. It would take a couple of hours to feel like home again but he knew it would eventually; you don’t wear a saddle down to fit you just right if you don’t love being on horseback.
He looked over at the Naismith kid. She had apparently watched him throughout his preparations and continued to stare as he made himself comfortable. This was going to be a long mission.
“I must confess,” she said, “I’ve not been on a mission for the Solution before…”
“No?” Dust asked before he geed Horse out of the stables.
The Naismith kid fell in beside him. Together, they trotted toward the north gate.
“It’s not been for a lack of trying,” she continued. “But Father has not been keen on the idea; you know how parents can be.”
“I do,” Dust said, simply because the kid might throw a fit if he didn’t seem interested.
The kid smiled, a thin gesture that seemed to hold no feeling. “But, when the General said that he was sending the great Dust out after Penelope, I saw it as the perfect opportunity; what better person to go out into the Badlands with than the Solution’s most valuable Eldritch Asset?”
Dust winced but let the comment pass.
They rode into a tunnel through the thick sandstone wall. The north gate at the end approached. Two uniforms, guys Dust sometimes played poker with, pulled at the thick wooden doors for them and made the way open. Bright sunlight poured in to the tunnel, heightened by the shade the curved ceiling gave.
Moments later, they were out in the great wilds. In America. It stretched out before them like a naked woman showing herself off to a lover. Dust had ridden across America for years in the before and had come to love her deeply. Being free to wander across her skin again, to climb and swim and ride, felt wonderful. He almost laughed with joy, even with the spectre of a girl’s life hanging over him. Almost.
They turned east, rode in silence for a while. The kid kept looking at him, coughing and shifting in her saddle, so Dust decided he’d better keep the conversation going.
“I’ve never heard that word.”
“Pardon?”
“Eldritch; it’s never been said to me before.”
The kid blinked. “Oh, of course. Yes, Eldritch. From the Old English, it means of a strange realm, the Other-world. It’s the term our researchers gave to the broad genus of fauna that come from the Triangle. Not that these beasts are easy to classify; they are often so singular, so unique. Our researchers also call the energy which animates the creatures Eldritch Energy.”
Dust coughed, noting her use of ‘our’ when discussing the Solution. “Is that so?”
“Well, I just said it was, so yes.”
“And I’m an Eldritch Asset?”
She at least had the good grace to look a little embarrassed. That was something. “Yes, well, technically…”
That irked him more than he’d thought it would. “Men shouldn’t be treated as ‘assets’.”
She looked away. “Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Father might disagree with you on that point.”
William B. Naismith was a big deal in the mining business. The big deal. Even Dust knew that. If you had any Texan iron or gold, the Naismith Mining Company had probably dug it out for you. Dust supposed a man with an empire that big might come to view people as objects; how else could he make some of the decisions he’d have to make? But that must be a sad view of the world to hold, one that must make a sad man.
“Your Daddy isn’t here.”
Her head shot back round and she gave him a look full of fire. “And what’s that supposed to mean? You should not talk to me like that.”
That was more like it. Dust had heard of the Naismith kid’s temper, of her Biblical fury if she didn’t get what she wanted. A great businessman old Billy Naismith might be but a good father he was not.
Dust grinned. Not a friendly grin either. He concentrated on his tattoo and felt no heat; he wanted to lay down the law and there was no warning against doing so. Dust didn’t like to be mean but he made exceptions when things had to be said.
“I just want to get a few things clear. I’m not an Eldritch Asset, I’m the one in charge of this mission. Your safety is my responsibility so you’re going to do what I say; the Naismith name carries weight in civilization but in the Badlands it’ll be worth less than a soap kettle. I’ve fought what we’ll likely face and lived. Most men can’t say that. Most women neither. I’d like you to be able to say it too, got it?”
She snarled. “How dare you, sir.”
“Because-” Dust snapped.
But he stopped. Because there was a burning sensation in his lungs, like he was drowning in boiling water. He put his hand to his chest but that only made the agony intensify. He didn’t so much as wince because it was a familiar pain; it was punishment from whatever lived within his tattoo.
“What’s wrong?” the kid asked, her haughty anger gone.
Okay, maybe he had winced. Damn but the pain was stronger than he remembered. It often triggered when he indulged himself, when he didn’t hold his nerve. Or his tongue. For some reason, it never triggered when he went out to Low Tracks or any other drinking establishment. So why go off now, without so much as a warning? It hadn’t messed him about in… well, in a long time.
Horse grunted, moved nervously; he sensed something was wrong as well.
“Nothing,” Dust croaked, patting Horse on the neck. He took in a breath and wiped a tear from his eye. “Nothing’s wrong.”
She crossed her arms. “It is not nothing, Dust.”
He withdrew his hand from his chest and relaxed his face; he wasn’t about to get sympathy from the kid. The pain didn’t matter any more. He couldn’t have her thinking him weak or ordering him around, not if things really went to Hell. As it were.
“Yes, it is. It’s nothing.” But his voice sounded like a rusty gate as he said it. He was fooling no-one.
After eying him for a few moments, she said “If there’s anything I should know-”
Dust interrupted. “I’d tell you. Remember, I want you back here alive.”
The kid favoured him with a smile. “I must say, I would rather like that too. So I understand that you’re in charge here. I’ll do as you say.”
“Thank you.”
The burning started to fade at that, became more manageable. Now was not the time for the tattoo to start playing games. Perhaps it had wanted to remind him it was there, that there would always be a price for indulging himself, that it was not his place to get what he wanted but to do what he ought to.
Or, at least, what it thought he ought to do.
They rode on for a while longer. Dust held his back straight, looked like he was fine. The pain faded as they went. When he felt like he could talk without sounding like his throat had been fried, Dust asked. “Can you shoot that thing? Do you often hit your targets?”
She looked over her shoulder, at her rifle. It wasn’t a make or brand Dust recognised. But the ornate pearl inlay and unusual alloy in the barrel showed that it was no normal gun. Perhaps it was custom, made by the Solution. If so, it might not even matter if she missed. “Yes, I’m quite an accomplished marksman.”
“Good.”
Looking back at him, her young brow creased. “Why do you ask?”
“I prefer having a good shot watching my back.”
She smiled timidly. “I’ll do my best.”
A little humility looked good on her. Dust decided to encourage it. “I’m sure you will, Eleanor.”
At that, the pain disappeared. So Dust geed Horse and started the mission proper.