Heather brushed dirt from her jeans. “Just point me to the bathroom and some wash water, then I’ll be ready to work.” She wrinkled her nose and scratched. “I don’t suppose you have anything to treat a sunburn?”
Spencer stopped, stunned. Sun-burned nose? He managed to shake his head. No matter how bad things looked, he had a feeling that the sun was going to shine extra bright tomorrow morning.
“Halt! Who the hell are you?” a woman’s voice growled.
Todd Severyn stood his ground, but he could see little in the dark. “Yeah, who the hell are you?”
He heard the sound of a rifle brought to bear. “You’ve got five seconds, cowboy, or you’ll be dancing without any toes. Identify yourself!”
His arms waved in the air. “I’m Todd Severyn—I’m waiting for Rita to show up. Spencer Lockwood sent me.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth? Bayclock could have sent a point squad.”
Why do I always meet women who’d rather wrestle rattlesnakes than bake cookies? “Are you going to ask me who won the World Series in 1964, for Chis’sakes!” He tried to remember the right words even if he didn’t understand them. “I’m supposed to say something about a plan to zap Bayclock with the Seven Dwarfs.”
He saw the rifle being lowered, then heard a chuckle. The woman spat tobacco to one side. “Okay, Tex, you can tell Spencer that Rita’s back. Let’s get moving.”
Todd sourly brought down his hands, wishing that someone would recognize his Wyoming accent and not call him Tex.
Spencer sat next to Heather in the enclosed trailer as dawn broke, working on three crude workstations at once. Even with the nonvolatile memory and low-energy cathode-ray tubes, the battery drain was substantial, and they could only refine their simulations for another hour or so without running down the batteries.
Soft battery light reflected off of Heather’s face. She had tied her damp hair back after scrubbing up, and Spencer could see a pinkish cast of sunburn on her nose and cheeks.
Juan Romero’s circuit board took up most of the table, and naked wires lay in labyrinthine paths. Heather pushed knife-switch buttons down laboriously, inputting code from Spencer—one letter at a time. She stared at the phosphors on the glass screen of the canted cathode-ray tube. “Okay, I’ve keyed in the equation you gave me. You’ll have to take over from here.”
“Thanks.” He slid into the seat next to her as he waited for the code to compile. Inside the trailer, the heat pouring from the primitive circuit board felt stifling, and he prayed he could stave off a meltdown for a little while longer.
Just having Heather present to type in the long-winded perturbations to the orbital equations freed him to calculate the necessary solid-viewing angles by hand with pencil and paper. If everything worked, they might be able to nudge the Seven Dwarfs to redirect their microwave transmissions away from the antenna farm and onto Bayclock’s encampment. Temporarily increasing the power output by a factor of four was trivial compared to this, requiring much less code.
“Spencer?” Rita’s voice came from the trailer entrance. She sounded weary. He turned and saw Todd standing with her just outside the door.
“Rita! How did the raid go?”
“The grenades worked well enough. Got some dozing soldiers to wet their beds, but once they realize we didn’t cause much damage, they’ll just be pissed off instead. The cowboy here tells me you need another scouting party.” She looked at Heather. “Oh, hello.”
Heather brushed back a strand of hair. “Hi.”
Todd worked his way into the trailer. Rita pulled out a chair by the workstation and ran a hand through her hair. Her long legs pushed up against the table. “The telegraph’s up. Romero made his way back from the launcher—he apparently ran all the way here, while the others tried to put out the fire and barricade themselves in the facility.”
Spencer sat up, ignoring the satellite calculations. “Romero’s back! What’s the report?”
“Gilbert is badly injured—both his legs, I think. One tech is dead, and the railgun ist kaput. Arnie stayed behind to watch everything, but if Bayclock sent some point men up, he doesn’t have much chance to hold them off by himself.”
“Great,” Spencer said. He wanted to pound on something. “Now what do we do?”
Rita wiped her forehead. “Bobby’s going up in the balloon again at first light to get a good look. He thinks Bayclock will probably hold off attacking for another day. So far we’ve zapped him with one salvo from the railgun and tossed a bunch of grenades into his camp—he thought we were a bunch of unarmed wimps, but now he’s not going to take any chances. I say we keep giving the general a healthy respect for our abilities.” She glanced at Heather, then at Spencer, and raised an eyebrow. A grin slowly grew on her face.
Spencer stood, more to dismiss any comment from Rita than anything else. “Okay, let’s hit them with the catapult first thing in the morning. After that, we call in the townspeople.”
Exhausted, sore, and bleary-eyed from lack of sleep, Juan Romero stood next to his gang-that-couldn’t-shoot-straight catapult operators. Morning light spilled over the gypsum plains in a whiter shade of pale; the shadows of the mountains retreated across the white sands.
Below, Bayclock’s army began forming up and making ready to relocate. Romero’s people took longer than expected to move to the highlands where the hidden catapult waited to hurl projectiles. From what they could tell, the single shot with Gilbert Hertoya’s railgun had dealt a shocking and devastating psychological blow—but Romero had little hope that his shorter-range medieval weapon would do the same.
Lieutenant Bobby Carron had built a fire in the metal gondola of his bright survey balloon and rose aloft on the tether cable, sending telegraphed messages back to another listener in the blockhouse at the antenna farm. Romero wished he could be down there instead of up here, watching his team make all the mistakes he expected of them.
The old retirees argued with each other about who would turn the crank, who would aim the shot, who would release the hook. Then they started arguing about which of the barrels of scrap metal would make the best first load.
Bayclock’s army began to spread out, breaking camp and marching in several prongs—one headed toward the burned-out railgun facility, another toward the microwave farm. A small group of riders mounted up, ready for a charge. A large part of the troops remained in camp, preparing a second-wave assault.
“Come on, people!” Romero shouted. “If we don’t use the catapult soon, we’ll lose the most concentrated target.”
“We’re just about ready!” one of the old men snapped.
“We won’t hit anything, so it doesn’t really matter,” someone else grumbled.
“Now there’s optimism!” an old woman scolded. “One more word like that and you’ll be in the bucket for the first shot! Now give me that range finder!”
Finally, they cranked down the arm and cocked the weapon. It took three people to work the pulley and hoist the barrel of rusty scrap iron into the cradle. Fully loaded, the catapult seemed to vibrate with tension, ready to spring.
Romero took the trigger cord himself. In his mind flashed a ridiculous scene from a Road Runner cartoon, when Wile E. Coyote had used a similar catapult against the brainless bird—no matter where he stood, the seige machine somehow managed to dump its boulder on top of him.
Romero held his breath and yanked the wire.