Judgment Plague. James Axler
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over the incline and began to descend toward a ragtag sprawl of tents surrounding a cattle pen.
“Well, lookee here,” Bellevue muttered as he pumped gas to the engine.
The pen was populated not by cattle but by muties. There were at least fifty of them, and they each wore a see-through plastic, one-piece suit as they sat or lay sprawled out in the scorching midday sun like sunbathers. The muties were humanoid, and looked human enough, except that beneath their transparent coverings they were utterly hairless and their skin was red and cracked, with blisters and sores all over. That may have been the effect of the sun, though some of it was a natural defense for these types. Called sweaties, they oozed a poisonous compound from their sweat glands that, when imbibed, had a hallucinogenic effect on humans. People farmed them sometimes, distilling their sweat and selling it. The plastic jumpsuits they wore had a greenhouse effect, Magistrate Irons knew, and there would be a collection rig set in the rear that gathered the sweat they generated. The poor bastards were so ill-treated and so hot that they could hardly move. It was all they could do to lie there in the dust as the sun beat down on their roasting bodies, cooking them alive.
It was more than the magistrates had expected from the Deathbird’s fly-past report. Bellevue eased off the accelerator and the SandCat crept slowly toward the half-dozen tents that were set out beside the pen.
“What is this?” DePaul asked.
“Sweat farm,” Irons told him, reaching for his helmet. “We’re going out there, rookie. You’re going to need your helmet.”
Obediently, DePaul reached for his head gear. “They’re muties, right?”
Irons nodded.
DePaul had never seen a mutie before, not in the flesh, anyway. “Then what are they doing here? What are they doing to them?”
“It’s a drugs op,” Irons explained, checking that his sin eater pistol was loaded. “They make the muties sweat, then the farmers here take that sweat and refine it, sell it on.”
“Why?” DePaul asked, pushing his helmet down over his face. The Magistrate casque was black and covered the wearer’s skull all the way down the back. The front covered the top half of the user’s head, before meeting with a dark-tinted visor that protected and hid the eyes, leaving only the mouth on display. The result was intimidating, turning the mags into near-faceless upholders of the law.
“People want to get away from what they are,” Irons explained, “especially here in the Outlands. Trust me, kid, it ain’t much of a life that these people have.”
“But they’re breaking the law,” DePaul stated, “which means we stop them.”
“Be glad of it, too,” Irons said, “if any of that stuff is destined for Cobaltville streets. Which it probably is.”
Beyond the SandCat, the illegal ranchers were exiting their tents, watching the familiar mag vehicle pull up. They were a motley crew, six in all, dressed in undershirts and shorts, one woman among them with her hair—blond dreadlocks—tied back with a rainbow-patterned bandana. They all wore breath masks over their mouth and nose, and several openly wore blasters holstered at their hips.
“You got this?” Bellevue asked, as he pulled the SandCat to a halt.
“Sure, me and the rookie can handle these mooks,” Irons assured him. Then he gestured to the turret gun, above and behind where he and DePaul sat. “Keep your trigger finger handy, though.”
“Always do,” Bellevue confirmed, flipping open the secondary control panel on the dashboard that operated the twin USMG machine guns.
Irons swung back the gull-wing door of the SandCat and stepped out onto the dirt, with DePaul following a moment later. DePaul glanced behind them as he did, imagining he might still be able to see the golden towers of Cobaltville waiting like an oasis in the distance. He couldn’t; they were too far from its protective hub.
A rancher from the group spoke up, his voice sounding artificial through the plastic of the breath mask, his thumbs hooked in his belt loops, a smug grin on his mustached face. “You lost, Magistrate?”
“No, sir,” Irons replied, eyeing the group. Six people wasn’t enough for a farm like this; given the number of tents, he’d expect at least eight, maybe more if they employed extra muscle. He made a subtle gesture with the fingers of his left hand, enough that DePaul knew he needed to stay alert.
Behind Irons, the rookie looked around, scanning the tents and the plains, the high ridges of the mesa that loomed close by. Plenty of places to hide.
“Then you maybe come to see me,” the farm spokesman said, “but I not remember inviting you. Did I invite you?”
Irons disliked the man already. He was cocky—too cocky, even for a bandit. He thought he had the upper hand here and he wasn’t afraid to let the magistrates know that.
“This here is illegal incarceration,” Magistrate Irons said, gesturing to the pen where the muties agonised in their sweatsuits. “And you are on barony land. Now, we could do this easy or we could do it hard. I’m a little long in the tooth for hard, so what say you let these poor wretched creatures go, and close up this stinking operation, and I won’t cause you any more aggravation.”
“You think you’re going to cause me aggravation?” the cocky rancher challenged, taking a step toward Irons and the SandCat.
DePaul saw a movement over to his left in the distance. Someone was crouching there, behind a cluster of sand-beige rocks as tall as a man.
Irons stepped forward, too, pacing toward the edge of the cattle pen, with DePaul following.
“I’ve made you the offer,” Irons explained. “It’s nonnegotiable. Pack up your tents, close your farm and move on. Otherwise, I won’t hesitate to bring the full force of the law down on you.”
The rancher laughed. “Hah, full force o’ the law? What’s that mean—you and the kid here?”
“Yeah,” Irons said, turning to the rancher. “Me and the kid.” His eyes were hidden by the visor, and yet the rancher could make no mistake that he was being stared at.
“Bored,” the man said. Then he shrugged and made as if to turn his back on the two mags. The shrug was a practiced move, intended to disguise the way his right hand was reaching down for the blaster holstered at his hip. But he never got the chance to unleather it— DePaul saw it and moved quicker, his right arm coming up, hand pointing at the rancher over the shoulder of his instructor. With a practiced flinch of his wrist tendons, DePaul brought the sin eater pistol into his hand from its hidden sheath in his sleeve, propelled by the mechanism he wore strapped there.
A compact 9 mm automatic, the sin eater was the official sidearm of the Magistrate Division, and was recognized even way out in the Outlands. The weapon retracted from sight while not in use, its butt folding over the top of the barrel to reduce its stored length to just ten inches. The holster operated by a specific flinch of the wrist tendon, powering the blaster straight into the user’s hand. The weapon’s trigger had no guard; the necessity for one had never been foreseen, since the magistrates were believed to be infallible. Which meant that as the gun touched DePaul’s hand, the trigger was depressed and a burst of 9 mm titanium-shelled bullets spit from the muzzle, cutting down the rancher even as he grabbed the butt of his own pistol.
The man toppled to the dirt with an agonized cry, his hand still locked on the pistol he had not had the chance to draw. His breath mask was shattered, blood gushing over his jaw.
All around, the other ranch hands were reaching for their own weapons, some worn proudly on their hips, others stuffed in hidden places in their waistbands or tucked into the pockets of their pants.
Irons had his blaster in his hand a moment later, reeling off shots at the nearest of the illegal farmhands as they reached for their guns. Above and behind him, the twin USMG-73s came to life on the roof of the SandCat, sending a relentless stream of bullets into the ranchers as they ran for cover.