Special Delivery
Steve Crow
"Damn!"
Sheila Mirabella steered the maze runner hard to port as she caught a glimpse of something large
moving up ahead in the channel. It wasn't the first time she had seen a Maze Dragon. However,
unlike Scooter and Big Jake, or Mitobu, Sheila had no desire to take one on, whether with a
shotgun or in hand-to-hand combat.
Fortunately for her, the Dragon had the poor eyesight of all its kind. It could home in on violent
motion like a shark, but Mirabella's runner was moving under sail. As she glided the ship down
a side passage and out of the creature's line of sight, the Dragon moved deeper eastwards into the
Maze. Most of the mine entrances were above the creature's reach, but it was too stupid to know
any better. Besides, sometimes it got lucky, or found a tenderfoot who had started digging too
low.
It wasn't any of Sheila's concern. The big outfits like Sweetrock wouldn't touch her, but no
matter how many little independents got wiped out, there were always more to replace them.
And they kept her in business.
Inwardly, the maze pilot sighed. She could have had a comfortable job with Sweetrock, but Max
Baine repulsed her. From what she had heard, he was number two in the company's western
branch, now. That made him in no way any more attractive to her.
At the sound of rockets, Sheila glanced up. Robert Holmes waved to her as he went by some 50'
overhead. Mirabella waved in response. They were both in a similar line of work, although she
kept herself open to all employers (Well, almost all - I wouldn't take the Whateleys' money no
matter how hard up I was, Sheila amended mentally). Holmes stuck with the Collegium, though.
As they took their battle with the Rats into the Maze, the Collegium had requisitioned Holmes
into make deliveries to their men in the field.
Not that Sheila could blame them. She had skipped past the Typhoon a half-dozen times. Baine
might be the most offensive man in the Maze, but scum like Mitobu and O'Malley were only a
step behind.
Comparing the current passage to the mental map she retained in her mind, Sheila steered her
runner to port at the next passageway, avoided a concealed shoal, then took a right. This brought
her to a small dock some twenty feet above the waterline.
Carefully, Mirabella tied off her ship to one of the support pilings. Reaching behind her, she
grabbed a small bag of supplies then climbed up the ladder.
"Hold it!" a voice called out.
Sheila sighed. They went through this every time.
"It's Mirabella. Your delivery gal, ya know?"
She pulled herself the rest of the way up the ladder and on to the deck. Ahead of her was the
mouth of a small strike, the Harlot's Haven. Ironic, ain't it? Sheila thought to herself as a
woman emerged out into the light.
The woman had reddish-brown hair, and a revolver in either hand. Like Sheila, she wore a
man's shirt and jeans, and a duster thrown over the entire assemble. There was a sneer on her
face. Ungrateful bitch Sheila cursed mentally.
"Took you long enough," Rachel Sumner snarled.
Sheila shrugged as she dumped the bag down on the dock. "Hunter has Deputy Powell watching
the docks. I slipped by when he was talkin' to somebody named 'Johnny' who wasn't there.
Suppose that's natural enough for Gomorra, I guess."
Sumner advanced warily across the dock, guns at the ready. She kicked the bag, once, then
waited for a few seconds. For what, Sheila had no idea. A rattler, maybe.
"Food and supplies, a week's worth." Mirabella couldn't resist adding, "Same as always. More
than that, and Sam would start to wonder."
"I don't take anythin' for granted," Rachel snarled back. "That's how I've stayed alive so long."
Apparently satisfied for the moment, she holstered one gun and picked up the sack. Holding it
by the neck, she pulled at the draw string with her teeth and peered in.
Nodding, she shifted her grip on the sack's neck. With one final glance, she then holstered her
remaining revolver.
"So what's the news in Gomorra?"
That was the other part of the ritual. Sheila replied, "You mean, since you gunned down
Warwick?"
Rachel nodded. "I had a debt to pay. He was the first, but he won't be the last."
"Your boss, Jackson still hasn't been spotted yet. Flint's relatives are starting to drift into town.
If you thought he was a piece of work, you should see them."
"I never liked him anyway. What about Father Juan?"
"Still at the Mission House. Rumor has it that he's sheltering Jackson, but Hunter's been through
there a half-dozen times and seems satisfied. Victor's still at large, but he hasn't got hold of me.
Why should he? This here's just our little secret, and no reason he should connect me with you."
"Damn straight. Anybody else?"
"The ones who survived? Haven't heard from them, either. There's some fella called Titus
stirring up a fuss, claiming Jackson was innocent and all."
"That little camp-follower? Nobody's innocent, Jackson least of all. What about the Dogs?"
"Pretty much recovered, them's that are left. Like I told you last time, a couple of new deputies,
and your pal Templeton is still out there."
"Surprised nobody's bushwacked him yet. Guess I'll have to take care of him when the time's
right."
"And that'll be...?" Sheila asked.
Sumner frowned. "You got a problem? Ain't like I'm not payin' you enough."
Mirabella shrugged. "I'm not complain' about the pay. You can stay out here as long as you
please, for all I care - makes me no never mind. But things are pickin' up in Gomorra and
around it. You've heard the sounds: the Rats and the College are goin' are it full-bore. Elijah's
'flock' is growin' every day. I think you'd be tempted to go after his collection plate, if nothing
else."
"It's on my list."
"I'd think that'd be a higher priority then pickin' on defenseless old men."
Sumner frowned. "Don't be takin' no airs with me. I don't recall you bein' any friend of the
Judge."
"Maybe so. But I can tell you this for a fact. The townsfolk of Gomorra ain't impressed, and
neither am I. All this big talk of revenge, but you don't have the guts to gun down anyone except
some old fart in a nightshirt and an unloaded scattergun."
Rachel tapped her fingers on her holstered revolvers ominously. "Is that so?"
Sheila shrugged. "That's so. Hide out here if you want, but don't expect anyone to be
impressed. Far as I'm concerned, you're just another two-bit crook on the run, makin' threats
but doin' nothin'. So don't be takin' no airs with me, Miss Sumner. Shoot me, and who's going
to make your deliveries? And judgin' by all your talk and none of your action, you're goin' to be
needin' deliveries for a long time to come."
Tension filled the air for a few seconds. If Rachel took it into her head to gun her down, there
wasn't a thing Sheila could do about it. But she didn't kow-tow to anyone. She'd taught Baine
that, and damn if she wouldn't show Sumner as well.
Finally, slightly, Sumner relaxed. She glanced around, at the Harlot's run-down dock, and a look
of disgust passed her face. Whether at herself or at the hideout her crimes had driven her to,
Sheila couldn't swear to.
"You delivered your news. Now, are you taking passengers?"
© Stephen Crow, 1999