Dragon City

by James Axler

  When Ullikummis and his army had neared the Cerberus redoubt, utilizing folded space to evade many of the surveillance systems, his presence had triggered the hidden stones that lurked in several of the personnel within, among them Edwards of the bullet-bitten ear, resulting in the whole team’s incarceration in Life Camp Zero, a claustrophobic prison carved out of rock. While the Cerberus team had ultimately managed to overpower their jailers, one final revelation remained: the warrenlike Life Camp Zero was in fact the Cerberus redoubt, altered almost beyond recognition by the rock-shaping abilities of Ullikummis. The once-proud military base had been rendered unusable by the manipulations of the stone god, and the remaining Cerberus personnel had been forced to flee, dispersing into small groups and hiding themselves across the country as they struggled to survive in a world turned against them. Beyond the walls of the redoubt, the Cerberus warriors found the cult of Ullikummis had grown at an alarming rate, and though they could not possibly know the exact figures, the loyal subjects who would now lay their lives down for their Annunaki master numbered over one million.

  It had only been in the past week that Lakesh had begun to establish this new, temporary headquarters for the Cerberus operation. This facility was in actuality an embassy for the Tigers of Heaven, a warrior class operating out of New Edo in the Pacific. The Tigers’ leader, Shizuka, was a longtime ally of the Cerberus team, and she had graciously donated the manse for the duration of the Cerberus team’s exile from their own headquarters, providing what additional equipment she could and granting the team the added security of a squadron of her own fearsome warriors, the samurai-like Tigers of Heaven themselves.

  Thus it was that the director of Cerberus, Mohandas Lakesh Singh, now found himself standing in the hastily established monitoring suite of the CAT scanner, watching the multicolored brain maps appear as the scan carved its invisible path through Edwards’s skull. A cyberneticist and physicist by training, Lakesh appeared to be in his mid-fifties, with dusky skin and a well-built body. His high brow and piercing blue eyes gave clear indication of his vast intelligence, while his aquiline nose and small, refined mouth suggested a man of culture, as well as scientific learning. Lakesh’s dark hair was brushed back from his face, streaks of white peppering the wisps that ran at his temples and over his ears. While Lakesh, as he was affectionately known, looked to be about fifty-five, he was in fact closer to five times that age; he had been born in the middle of the twentieth century and had worked as a scientist on various military projects, including the development of the mat-trans system of teleportation. Through cryogenic suspension and a program of organ replacement, Lakesh had survived to his 250th birthday. Most recently, an encounter with a Quad V hybrid called Priscilla had regenerated Lakesh’s ailing body, fixing him at the physical age he now appeared.

  Lakesh wore a white jumpsuit, the standard uniform of the Cerberus personnel. With all of the disruption that the team had suffered over the past two months, Lakesh felt that appearances were crucial to restore that sense of teamwork once again among his dispirited personnel.

  Lakesh was joined in the small surveillance lab by Reba DeFore, longtime Cerberus physician. DeFore had long, ash-blond hair, which she had arranged in an elaborate French braid atop her head. She had endured psychological trauma during the attack on Cerberus, and Lakesh was pleased to finally see her appear to be acting more herself once again. The last time he had seen her, her eyes had been red-ringed from continuous crying, and her hair had been in a state of disarray that was utterly out of character for a woman who so prided herself on her own appearance. Like Lakesh, DeFore wore one of the simple jumpsuits, its white contributing an almost ghostlike pallor to her already pale skin. After the attack on Cerberus, she had gone into hiding in one of the safehouses provided by another Cerberus ally called Ohio Blue, an independent trader who had gray-market connections across the country. DeFore had had the difficult job of monitoring Edwards who, after his traitorous turn against Cerberus, had been kept chained and imprisoned while they were in hiding. Even now, as he lay on the bed of the CAT scanner, Edwards’s hands were tied with rope, metal manacles being out of the question while in the presence of the powerful equipment that would magnetize them immediately. Like Kazuko, DeFore was here to bring medical expertise.

  Though an expert in her own field, the third Cerberus operative in the darkened booth, however, was not there to provide medical insights. A slim, dark-haired woman in her forties, her name was Mariah Falk and she was a geologist, an expert on rock formations and strata. Though not conventionally pretty, Mariah had an engaging manner and an enthusiastic smile that could win the heart of almost anyone she encountered. Even now, she was smiling as she watched the CAT scanner’s report take shape, her narrowed eyes alive with interest. Rocks were at the root of Cerberus’s problems just now, which had elevated Mariah to the level of critical advisor for the duration of the Ullikummis infiltration.

  The slim form of Dr. Kazuko pointed to something on the scan, a dark mass appearing like bubbles to the left-hand side of Edwards’s head. “This appears to be a foreign body,” he explained, “possibly cancerous—it’s hard to tell.” Despite this alarming news, Kazuko had a calm, level voice that well suited his low-key manner. He was a short man by Caucasian standards, standing at a little over five feet tall, with the golden skin and almond-shaped eyes of the Orient, and short black hair slicked back from his forehead. Unlike the others, Dr. Kazuko was dressed in layers of leather armor the color of red wine, and he wore a long scabbard—currently empty—at his belt. As well as being a medical doctor Kazuko, like all Tigers of Heaven, was a highly trained warrior. “Whatever it is,” Kazuko continued, “the pattern and spread suggest that it is not static—it’s growing.”

  Lakesh nodded, a grave look of concern on his features. “A dreadful thing,” he muttered.

  “My guess is it’s the rock,” Mariah confirmed as she watched the scan unfold, “but it’s difficult to get a proper idea of what’s in there.”

  The final person within the room spoke up then, his voice deep as faraway thunder. Grant was another Cerberus field operative, and he took particular interest in this case not least because he was also an ex-Magistrate like Edwards. Grant was a huge figure, with dark skin like polished ebony and a body that was all muscle, with not an ounce of fat. Unlike the others, Grant wore a shadow suit, a gossamer-thin armored weave that offered protection from radiation, environmental contamination and extreme climates. He had augmented this with a few simple adornments, dark pants and a pale shirt, which he wore unbuttoned like a jacket. The grimness of his bearing could not be mistaken; his interest in this case was personal. “I remember Edwards having some trouble with his Commtact a while back,” Grant said, referring to the subdermal radio system implanted in the mastoid bone of the user. “Seemed he could hear transmissions but his own reports weren’t coming through.”

  Lakesh nodded wistfully as he remembered. “That’s correct, my friend,” he said. “Edwards had been out in Hope at the time, providing medical help to the refugee populace. We’d had trouble contacting him while he was out there, but other events had seemed to overshadow that problem.”

  The “other events” in question had included a visit by an alien called Balam, as well as Edwards himself getting knocked unconscious during a religious rally celebrating the coming of Ullikummis.

  DeFore spoke up then, her voice sounding rather loud in the confined area. “We need to operate,” she announced. “Whatever this thing in Edwards’s head is, we need to see what it’s doing and how. That could provide a valuable insight into how Ullikummis is spreading his influence.”

  Dr. Kazuko nodded in assent. “Loath as I am to open a man up like this, it seems the only option left open to us,” he agreed. “And if, as you say, it’s some kind of stone that’s in there, then not doing anything will be far more dangerous than operating. This man’s brain is calcifying as t
he growth spreads. Left unchecked, he could lose his power of speech, his rational will—he would be left as a vegetable.”

  Lakesh’s brow furrowed as he considered what the two doctors were proposing. “Do we have the facilities here to operate?” he asked Kazuko.

  The Tigers of Heaven doctor nodded. “I can call for everything we require,” he said. “We could likely operate as soon as tomorrow, if you’re agreeable, Dr. Singh.”

  With weary reluctance, Lakesh slowly nodded. “Whatever it all means, it’s time we got to the root of the problem.”

  * * *

  WITH THE ASSISTANCE OF two Tigers of Heaven guards, Grant escorted Edwards back on a gurney to a windowless room that was located just belowground level in the vast complex of Shizuka’s winter palace. Edwards was strapped down, hand and foot, to the gurney. However, despite being sedated, he still had some fight in him, and he glared at Grant as the larger man escorted him to his cell.

  “I don’t like doing this much, either,” Grant assured Edwards as he saw the rage burning in the man’s eyes.

  Under Grant’s instruction, the Tigers of Heaven prepared to move Edwards from the gurney to the single futonlike mattress that lay against one wall. The guards untied the straps that held Edwards’s feet down, but his ankles remained bound to one another so that he had no hope of escape. Then they moved up to his wrists, untying the tight straps and freeing his hands, a guard standing on either side of the gurney.

  Grant watched warily from the end of the cot, his face emotionless as Edwards was untied from the gurney. Like everything in the winter palace, the room was pleasantly decorated, the peach wallpaper featuring a flock of white doves soaring over its sunset colors. Despite the austerity of the single mattress, featuring as it did four horizontal straps that could buckle the occupant in place, it still looked typically artistic, the dark swirl of pattern there mixed with gold thread that caught the soft side lighting of the room. A low occasional table had been placed against one wall, a vase of dried flowers in its center to add color to the room. This hidden room had likely been used as servants’ quarters once upon a time, and in other circumstances it could seem quite delightful, Grant was sure. As was, however, it had been pressed into service as a jail cell, its lack of windows ideal to prevent any chance of escape. Edwards was sedated and kept restrained, but even so, he was an ex-Magistrate, one of the class of highly trained enforcers in the towering villes that dotted the country. Any enemy underestimated him at their own folly.

  But as the Tigers of Heaven guard unstrapped Edwards’s bound right wrist, the ex-Mag moved, lashing out with his fist and knocking the warrior backward. Already unstrapped, Edwards’s left hand snatched at the other guard’s arm, yanking him with such force that the man flipped over the gurney and crashed headfirst to the floor.

  “Dammit,” Grant cursed as he came at Edwards from the foot of the gurney.

  Although they were still bound together, Edwards kicked out with both feet, striking Grant high in the chest.

  Grant staggered backward, his breath bursting out of his mouth with a great “whomph.” He had righted himself in an instant, and he turned once more to Edwards, his hands forming into fists.

  Behind the gurney, Grant saw the twin Tigers of Heaven recovering. Both men were well trained in the arts of ninjitsu, and while Edwards’s attack had come as a surprise it had not been enough to render either man inoperative. They circled the gurney, warily approaching Edwards from above and behind his head.

  “Kill you!” Edwards spit, mouth foaming, his hate-filled eyes fixed on Grant.

  “Not this time, bucko,” Grant assured him as he grabbed Edwards’s kicking legs, fixing them a moment later in a two-handed grip.

  “Kill you!” Edwards snarled again as he writhed in place, batting at the Tigers of Heaven as they tried to restrain him.

  “Let’s get more sedation,” Grant instructed as he held on to those kicking legs. “Quickly now, I’ve got him.”

  One of the warriors reached into the cloth bag he wore at his hip on a crosswise strap, producing a hypodermic syringe. In a half minute he had prepped it with sedative, flicking it to pop any bubbles that remained in the clear mixture. Grant continued to hold Edwards’s legs as the man kicked back and forth, his body tossing on the gurney like a struggling fish on a hook. The remaining guard tried to hold Edwards’s hands above his head and found himself almost knocked aside by several attempts by the ex-Mag.

  Then the other guard approached Edwards with the hypo, and Edwards watched it with angry eyes.

  “Just be a moment,” the Tigers of Heaven warrior promised, his voice calm despite how fraught the situation was.

  “Fuck you,” Edwards growled, pulling both arms across his body and tossing the other guard across his chest as he hung on there. The guard tumbled over the gurney and slammed into his companion, head smashing against head with the brutal thump of bone on bone.

  Grant watched as the two guards slumped to the floor, both of them dazed by the impact as the syringe rolled out of reach. Faster than thought, Edwards folded his body at the waist, aiming his forehead at Grant’s. Grant reared back, releasing his grip on Edwards’s legs.

  “Utopia is upon you,” Edwards hissed, the madness burning behind his eyes as he flipped himself on the gurney.

  “Yeah,” Grant snarled, taking a step toward the rocking gurney, his fist drawn back. “Well, let’s not get too excited about it just yet.”

  With those words, Grant snapped out a solid punch at Edwards’s jaw. Grant’s fist connected with a crack, and Edwards shook on the gurney as he struggled to defend himself.

  “Hate to do it, man,” Grant explained as he pulled his fist back for a second blow. But as he did so, Edwards’s own struggles proved the man’s downfall. The rocking gurney suddenly upended, and Edwards was thrown to the hard floor in a tumble of limbs. With his ankles still tied, the ex-Mag lay struggling there as the gurney crashed down beside him.

  Grant watched as the gurney slammed against Edwards’s side, and the already sedated man slapped against the floor.

  “You still got any fight left in you?” Grant asked as he stood over Edwards’s fallen form.

  “Kill…” Edwards muttered, blood on his lips.

  “Yeah,” Grant said as he picked up the hypodermic syringe, “that’s what I thought.”

  A moment later Grant had pressed the needle into Edwards’s vein as the man struggled woozily from the blow he’d taken. Thirty seconds later, Edwards lay restrained on the futon, happily snoring as he drifted off to sleep.

  Grant checked on the two guards who had accompanied him to house Edwards. Apart from a little wounded pride, they both seemed pretty much okay. “You need to watch this guy,” Grant reminded them both. “Used to be a Magistrate—he’s trained to turn impossible odds against you.”

  The Tigers of Heaven genuflected appreciatively as Grant left the cell.

  Chapter 2

  For Grant, Edwards’s condition was something personal. He made his way through the Cerberus operations center, a temporary arrangement consisting of four laptop computers attached to a powerful server hub that hummed in one corner of the room. The room itself was originally a simple communal area, a sparsely decorated living room with several low tables and a wide mat covering the floor. The mat had been rolled back to allow for the wiring to trail across the room. Donald Bry, the ginger-haired assistant to Lakesh, was busily linking two of the laptop units together. He lay on his back with a screwdriver in one hand and a pen between his teeth, his mop of copper-colored curls in its usual disarray.

  Beside him, Brewster Philboyd, another of the trusted Cerberus team, was running a diagnostics check on the expanding computer system. A tall man with a high forehead, dark hair and black-framed spectacles perched on his nose, Brewster was a trained a
strophysicist who could generally turn his hand to most technical problems.

  “How’s it going?” Grant asked as Philboyd caught his eye.

  Philboyd held up his hands in mock despair. “It’s getting there,” he said begrudgingly. “Satellite feeds are scanning properly, but we’re still amassing the data.”

  For years now Cerberus had relied on the data from two satellites in geosynchronous orbit around the equator, the Vela-class reconnaissance satellite and the Keyhole Comsat. The feeds from the two satellites provided empirical data from across the globe and also allowed for real-time communication via the Commtact units that many of the field operatives had had embedded beneath their skin. The task of monitoring these satellite feeds had been interrupted with the recent attack on Cerberus, and it was only now that Lakesh had begun to reassemble his team and initiate the arduous task of checking the information that had been stored in their absence.