Dark Goddess

Shaster braked the Jeep a few yards away and sat with the engine idling. He stared at Kane and Kane stared back.

After a few seconds, the tanned man challenged, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Are you trying to see how long it will take to pass out from heatstroke? Don’t you have a breakfast sit-down scheduled with B.B.?”

“You tell me,” Kane retorted.

“You do,” Orchid snapped petulantly, gesturing with the short barrel of the revolver. “Get your ass over here.”

Kane’s mouth quirked in a smile. “Don’t you want to frisk me, sweetheart?”

Shaster glanced toward the girl. “Don’t you, Orchid?”

She shook her head impatiently. “Maybe later. Right now it’s too goddamn hot. Besides, you were told to come unarmed, just like yesterday, right?”

The half smile disappeared from Kane’s mouth. “Right.”

“Good enough for me,” Shaster said. “Climb aboard, muchacho, so we can get back to the pool and the piña coladas.”

Swallowing a sigh, Kane crossed the stretch of scalding-hot sand, feeling the heat even through the soles of his boots. Orchid slid into the backseat, affording him a glimpse of her well-molded backside and the pink porpoise tattooed at the center of her back.

“Billy-boy really believes in this brand-recognition thing,” Kane commented as he climbed in on the passenger side. “Even on his hired help.”

He felt the cold tip of the pistol press against the back of his neck. “Shut the fuck up, sec man,” Orchid said, voice sibilant with spite.

Kane felt his shoulders stiffening at the epithet, then he forced himself to relax. “Sec man” was an obsolete term dating back to preunification days when self-styled barons formed their own private armies to safeguard their territories. It was still applied to Magistrates in hinterlands beyond the villes, so Kane figured Orchid was either a former Roamer or a Farer. Roamers were basically marauders, undisciplined bandit gangs who paid lip service to defying the ville governments as a justification for their depredations.

Farers, on the other hand, were nomads, a loosely knit conglomeration of wanderers, scavengers and self-styled salvage experts and traders. Their territory was the Midwest, so Farer presence in and around Florida was a little unusual. Regardless, Magistrates were feared and despised all over the Outlands by Roamer and Farer alike.

Shaster turned the Jeep and drove up the beach, the coarse sand flying from beneath the knobby tire treads in a double cresting of rooster tails. After a quarter of a mile, he turned off onto a bumpy asphalt road that led directly to a glass-walled toll booth. Within it sat a man wearing swim trunks and a gold chain about his neck, but little else.

He saluted Shaster with the barrel of a shotgun as the Jeep rolled past. The vehicle followed a narrow lane stretching over a moat filled with brackish water and flowering hyacinths. The canal Kane had been forced to swim less than eight hours before fed the moat.

The lane curved into a community of pale pink stucco houses with red-tiled roofs. Palm trees sprouted from the small lawns. The houses faced a beach that sloped gently toward the waters of the gulf. White-winged gulls wheeled over the shoreline. A number of boats floated on the brilliant blue sea, and although most of them looked like fishing vessels, Kane knew a number of them were disguised fast-attack craft. The bows of several boats bore the outline of leaping pink porpoises.

The beachfront marina was one great open market, just like the intel had indicated. Shops and stalls were brightly painted, the vendors selling the wares looted from other coastal communities by Billy-boy’s fleet. People from all over the region mingled with the tanned locals who came to trade, exchanging valuable items like drugs for guns or artifacts dredged up from the Gulf coast’s plentiful supply of submerged ruins.

Shaster steered the Jeep through an open gate in a five-foot-high whitewashed wall. Bracketing both sides of the gate, painted in pink on the surface on the wall, was a pair of sporting dolphins. A deeply bronzed blond man, stripped to the waist and cradling a lever-action 30.06 rifle in his arms, pursed his lips at Kane, blowing him a kiss as the vehicle drove into the compound.

Shaster cast Kane a sly grin. “Lucas is checking you out.”

“I noticed,” Kane grunted.

“He didn’t get the chance to formally meet you last night.”

“That’s a shame,” Kane replied blandly.

Brigid Baptiste had described the Porpoise compound as the model of an exclusive beachfront estate—it had been built as such more than two centuries earlier, when land development was the chief economic force on the Gulf Coast of Florida.

Kane had been less interested in the history of Billy-boy Porpoise’s little seaside fiefdom than the man who had put it together over the past few years. The only reason he and Brigid had traveled from Montana to Florida was to learn what kind of man he was and if he could be recruited into joining their struggle, as other former and potential adversaries had done.

Diplomacy, turning potential enemies into allies against the spreading reign of the overlords, had become the paramount tactic of Cerberus over the past two years. Lessons in how to deal with foreign cultures and religions took the place of weapons instruction and other training.

Over the past five years, Brigid Baptiste and former Cobaltville Magistrates Kane and Grant had tramped through jungles, ruined cities, over mountains, across deserts and they had found strange cultures everywhere, often bizarre re-creations of societies that had vanished long before the nukecaust.

Due in part to her eidetic memory, Brigid spoke a dozen languages and could get along in a score of dialects, but knowing the native tongues of many different cultures and lands was only a small part of her work. Aside from her command of languages, Brigid had made history and geopolitics abiding interests in a world that was changing rapidly.

She and all the personnel of Cerberus, over half a world away atop a mountain peak in Montana, had devoted themselves to changing the nuke-scarred planet into something better. At least that was her earnest hope. To turn hope into reality meant respecting the often alien behavior patterns of a vast number of ancient religions, legends, myths and taboos.

However, Billy-boy Porpoise had exhibited behavior patterns that were all too familiar to Kane. After inviting the two emissaries from Cerberus to a council with the promise of giving their proposal serious consideration, he had chosen treachery over diplomacy. Although not particularly surprised by Billy-boy’s choice, Kane had been enraged when Brigid was held hostage so as to force a new session of talks.

Shaster wheeled the Jeep down a crushed-shell driveway and braked to a stop at the foot of a flight of stone steps. Orchid stepped behind Kane and pressed the bore of the revolver against his back. “Let’s move it on up, sec man.”

Kane climbed the steps with the girl and Shaster walking behind him. At the top of the steps a gently sloping path curved through an area lush with shrubs and tropical plants—huge ferns, enormous, glossy elephant ears, green philodendrons and orange birds-of-paradise.

Kane heard the murmur of voices and the clanging rhythm of steel drums, as well as the bleat of trumpets and the wail of an electric slide guitar. He sidled between two date palm trees and came to a halt, looking down into a slightly sunken area dominated by a huge, blue-tiled in-ground swimming pool.

A score of people, most of them nearly naked and some of them completely so, milled around on the concrete deck of the pool. A four-piece reggae band played a vigorous piece that sounded like a tuneless racket to Kane’s ears.

He saw only two people in the pool. One was an enormously fat man sitting in an inflatable purple rubber chair, floating motionless in the deep end. A pink foam dolphin bobbed in the water beside his right hand. It was almost the same color as Billy-boy Porpoise’s bare skin.

On Porpoise’s left hand, reclining in an identical chair, was a tall woman of five-nine or so with flowing curves, long, lovely and unbruised legs—and an abundant bosom almost completely exposed by the two narrow triangles of yellow cloth that were scarcely more than token acknowledgments of clothing.

The woman’s thick hair shone with the fiery hue of molten lava, and although Kane couldn’t see her eyes behind the lenses of the sunglasses she wore, he received the distinct impression Brigid Baptiste was completely at ease as she lounged beside Billy-boy Porpoise.

Chapter 3

Kane strode down to the poolside, very conscious of how he was being ignored by the revelers. He wasted no time looking for hidden guns—it was enough to know they were around.

He saw a big moon-faced man, tall and wedge shaped, with a thick chest and wide shoulders that led to a size-eighteen neck. He had a flat face, with a bulging forehead and about two pounds too much jawbone. His hair looked like the sprout of black hog bristles. His skin was unhealthy, blotched, mottled by the scars of old radiation burns that came of digging around hellzones. The garish colors of the tropical-print shirt complemented his complexion.

The man’s gristle-buried eyes followed Kane’s every step, and the expression on his face was one of concentrated hatred. It took him a few seconds to put a name to the ugly face—Blister McQuade, the former pit boss of Mandeville who bore no one from Cerberus a feeling that even approximated goodwill.

A small girl, stark naked except for fluorescent pink body paint laid on in loops and a fall of blond, silken hair that covered her upper body like a cloak, glided up to him. Silently she handed him a fluted glass filled with a bright orange fluid.

Kane waved her off. “Too early for me, sweetheart.”

He spoke loudly in order to be heard over the band. Billy-boy Porpoise’s eyelids fluttered. His sagging pectorals with shocking pink nipples rose and fell. He inhaled, and then exhaled a deep breath, causing small wavelets to break at the pool’s edge.

He peered up at Kane with dark eyes surrounded by pouches of fat. They were round eyes with no discernible lashes and bore no resemblance to those found on a dolphin. Kane figured they had originally been intended for a barracuda but due to a production error, ended up in Billy-boy’s hairless head.

“Kane,” he said in a soft voice.

“Billy-boy,” Kane replied. “Sorry to wake you.”

“Nonsense. We were just conserving our strength.” He glanced toward Brigid Baptiste. “Weren’t we, doll-baby?”