Peace in an Age of Metal and Men by Anthony Eichenlaub Page B

figure if it was broken. It didn’t seem to be.
    Zane stood above me. “You thought you’d play a joke on me, J.D.? Or were you actually trying to get me—”
    I kicked Zane hard in the gut. He staggered backward, and by the time he regained his balance, I had my shoulder in his chest, and I was pumping hard and driving him backward away from the ledge.
    Zane slammed against his car, shoving it back several meters. My right hook connected awkwardly with the side of his neck, hurting my fist more than anything. Zane punched me hard in the gut as the two of us toppled into the dust. My breath was violently forced from my lungs and Zane pinned my non-metal arm. His face was centimeters from mine and we both breathed clouds of mist into the cool night air.
    And we stayed that way.
    Long moments passed with neither of us willing to move.
    “Tucker gave you some trouble then?” I said, giving Zane what I hoped would be interpreted as an apologetic look.
    Zane’s whole body relaxed. He stood up and offered a hand, which I took. He heaved me to my feet. “The man was barely civilized.”
    I nodded.
    “He stuck me in a gravity well and refused to let me leave until I’d admitted that the ranchers and farmers were better than city folk in every way.”
    “Did you?”
    “Well, I didn’t mean it.”
    I grunted.
    “And he wouldn’t help.” There was a tone in his voice that I couldn’t quite place.
    “He’ll change his mind.”
    Zane looked at me quizzically.
    “Yes, we still need his help. What we’re looking for is in the bank. Like I told you before, Tucker’s got the skills you need, even if he lacks the stability.”
    “Right.” Zane picked his cane up from the ground, where he’d dropped it. “But as I said, he’s not going to help.”
    “He’ll help, and he’ll like it.” I rubbed my jaw. “Did you really need to—”
    “Yes.”
    I nodded. “Well, first we’ll need to sweeten the deal. Tucker was a munitions expert and bomb maker. If we get the right combination of toys, he’ll come help just so he can play.”
    “So we’re taking the violent path?”
    “It’s under consideration.”
    Zane cocked his head, like he was trying to figure something out. He must not have figured it, though, because he didn’t say anything.
    “Down there,” I said, pointing over the ridge, where a steep drop overlooked a seemingly empty ghost town. “Group I’ve had dealings with makes its home there.”
    “Friendly dealings?”
    “Nope.”
    Court and her gang Cinco Armas had a healthy respect for the law, due to an impressive display of force by Sheriff Trish several years prior. Trish had proven the fastest draw and she’d shown that she wasn’t going to back down. She also sported some of the fanciest mods outside of the city. The gang respected her, which meant they respected law.
    Respect is not obedience.
    The gang had sought a façade of legitimacy in the years since I’d left the sheriff’s office. Legitimacy brought profit and presence in the more reputable areas of the wasteland. Where previously their dealings had been with petty robbery, senseless violence, and occasional bounty hunting, now they pursued far more profitable ventures. They’d begun dealing with the legal machine trade, including weapons, explosives, and vehicles. They moved livestock and people for a price. Of course, there was always more profit in smuggling. There was always better money in more dangerous weapons. There weren’t many laws regulating the trade of weapons or explosives, but they did exist. There always was a line to cross, and crossing it was always such tempting profit. Respect for the law had made Cinco Armas a significantly more dangerous organization.
    “What do you need me for? Backup?” Zane’s fingers brushed the handle of his silver-handled pistol.
    “Nope.”
    “What then?”
    “Watch. I’m going to walk down there. If they shoot me, you go tell my people what happened. It’s not polite to