第15节

their skins with your mind's eye and stood 'em

alongside three good ole boys you'd be hard put to tell the

difference.

And when Griff thought about the time he'd spent watching the training

videos about bug-ugly Mutes - poisonous savage vicious animals that had

to be ruthlessly exterminated - he couldn't help wondering why the

First Family hadn't told Trackers the whole story: like the fact that a

bunch of breakers could live alongside Mutes and not end up with their

heads on a stick.

Yeah . . . it was a puzzle right enough - like trying to figure out

why anyone would want to sit on top of one of these four-legged freaks

they'd been landed with. Especially when they had teeth that could

bite right through your hand and back legs that kicked like a fuggin'

jack-hammer. Okay, this bunch had come complete with a seat on their

backs and leather straps for steering 'em round corners but it was a

helluva way to travel.

Griff could see that horses would be useful for carrying gear but even

that had its drawbacks. Leading a string of pack-horses just made you

a bigger target and there was always the risk that the beasts might

decide to bolt with your precious possessions. Better to travel light

than start relying on a transportation system that a passing Skyhawk

could blow away in nought seconds flat.

On the other hand, if he put his own feelings to one side, Griff could

see what Malone and his new Mute friends had been getting at. If you

managed to stay in the saddle and figure out how to get the thing in

gear, you could cover a lot of ground pretty fast. Fast enough to

outrun a Mute. Some of the guys had already cracked the problem and

when he watched them show off in front of the others, Griff could see

it gave the riders a real buzz.

There was no two ways about it. It was impressive- but it wasn't

natural. Or practical. You just had to take the problem of

maintenance. Horses weren't like wheelies.

If one of those broke down you just ran the onboard diagnostic

programme and ordered whatever new part was required. With horses, you

were totally screwed. To begin with, nobody knew what went on inside

and you couldn't bolt on new legs like you could wheels. If one of

those broke that was it. You couldn't even cannibalize the unit to

create a stock of spare parts. You had to ditch the whole bundle.

Griff picked up the wood and leather saddle, admired once again the

handiwork of the unknown craftsman then positioned it on the back of

his horse. 'Steady, friend,' he muttered. 'I know you hate this as

much as I do but the boss-man wants us both back on the trail..."

He drew the girth tight around the horse's belly then pulled another

notch through the buckle. He'd already done one slow roll off his

mount to the raucous cheers of his companions and he didn't intend to

make that particular mistake again.

Malone experienced similar misgivings as he gazed down at Cadillac.

The Mute was one problem he could have done without. Although he

parlayed with Mutes and observed the ground rules of peaceful

coexistence, he did not share Griff's qualified forbearance. Malone

didn't like Mutes. Period. But then Malone wasn't a renegade, a

breaker on the run from the Federation. Some of the men he led were

genuine deserters - brave enough to seek an independent existence on

the overground but also a treacherous heap of garbage. Malone didn't

mind.

That was what he been sent out to run: a garbage disposal unit. Malone

and the core of his renegade band were mexicans, agents of the

undercover organization controlled by Commander-General Karlstrom.

Trapped between the worlds of Tracker and Mute, renegades were

basically scavengers; wanderers who roamed the overground with no

particular destination and no home to return to. Death was the only

welcome they could expect from the Federation. Fortunately there were

large areas which had not yet attracted the attentions of the

Trail-Blazers and where Mutes were thin on the ground. Like the Rocky

Mountains for instance.