James Axler - Deathlands 43 - Dark Emblem

by Dark Emblem [lit]

  "Good evening, Doc," Allan said. Tanner was sitting up in his bunk, his back propped up against the wall with a pillow. He was holding a scuffed hardcover book with the unlikely title of A Brief History of Time.

  "Salutations, my friend."

  "What you reading?"

  "The theories of a man named Hawking. I have studied this book half a dozen times since my arrival. He seems to have unknowingly hit upon some of the techniques being carried out within Operation Chronos, and yet while agreeing some of the time, he goes off in entirely different directions. According to Hawking, much of what is being done here is impossible as the world now understands science."

  "Yeah, I guess. You hear all kinds of rumors, Doc. My favorite has the U.S. government in an alliance with some alien cartel that gave us all this technology."

  Tanner snorted. "Poppycock."

  "I know. It does sound like a crock, doesn't it?" the burly security man agreed. "Glad to see you're back in your old habits. After that escape attempt, I guess you're settling in, Doc, from what I've been hearing."

  "Aye, noble Allan, that I am." The security man shrugged. "Looks can be deceiving, though, can't they? I mean, you know and I know that you're not exactly doing what the bosses think you're doing, are you?"

  "No, I am not." Doc flashed his teeth. "Nothing is ever what it seems."

  "They might have killed you instead of just limiting your access in the redoubt, you know," Allan said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  "I was willing to take the risk. If I succeeded, to hell with them. If I failed, well, I am beyond caring whether I live or die. I have outlived all I knew, all my friends, my-" and his voice caught "-my loved ones. My family. No, they did not kill me. I remain too valuable. They yearn for my agreement." "Agreement?" Allan looked puzzled. Doc put down the book and stared at the flickering television set. "I am but a cog in a greater plan, Allan. Their wishes are my own. They wish to send me back home to my proper time and place."

  "So, what's stopping them? Or you? I mean, that's what you want, right?" "Yes...and no." "So who's the hold up?" Doc sighed. "I am." "You?"

  "Me. And my hesitation comes from what they call an 'alternate event horizon.' See, if I had not been taken away from Omaha in 1896,1 would have gone on to become a very important man. I am not bragging about this, merely stating a fact. My studies and oratory would have influenced generations."

  Allan whistled. "No shit?"

  ' 'None. Now, how this was to have occurred, I do not know, but I have been assured that eventually I would have had access to the president's ear, and as such, would have, could have, influenced national policy in times of great crisis. The two world wars I have read about? Those and other pivotal events would have been substantially altered by my presence."

  "Damn. For better or for worse?"

  "Who can say for sure? That's why they call it an alternate event horizon. The flow of time-the time line would have been different."

  "So what? Go back anyway. What will be, will be."

  "Que sera sera, Allan?"

  The sec man showed off his own shining white teeth. "Damn straight. And fuck Doris Day."

  "I would risk doing as they wish, my friend, but with the knowledge I now possess, who is to say how I might change things? My own guess is that if I go back with their mental programming, the facts of the future I already know consciously or subconsciously would assure them of occurring...at least, within my sphere of influence. However, I would not be in full control of my actions. They will not tell me how or why, only that my cooperation must be absolute for the planned mental programming to work. To regain my wife and children, I must become a pawn and follow a combination of predetermined maneuvers on the chessboard. To take back what I have lost, I must give them my soul." "Can you do that?" "No, Allan, I cannot."

  "Then you're going to need some help." Allan opened the door to Doc's cell, stepping inside.

  "Now, if I were to turn my back on you, like this, I might be accidentally opening myself up to another one of your escape attempts, mightn't I?"

  "Yes," Doc said, feeling his heart sing in response to Allan's ploy. He got to his feet. "You just might, were I the type to betray your trust."

  "And there wouldn't be a damned thing I could do if you bashed me over the head with that bookend next to the TV, would there?"

  Doc reached over and picked up the object, hefting the heavy ceramic bookend in both hands. "Not if you were taken by surprise, no." "Two things before lights out, Doc." "Yes?"

  "Take my tunic and pull up the hood like I was wearing it before and you might make it past the security cameras in this sector. Once you're past the cell block, they won't be looking for you immediately, and you can move a bit more freely."

  "Very well. What is the other thing you wished to relate to me?"

  "When you raise that bookend up and clobber my noggin, try not to kill me."

  DRESSED IN THE SECURITY bodysuit with the hood pulled up over his head, Doc hoped Allan was right in assuming he would escape detection from the security video cameras scanning the hallways of the redoubt. He had quickly memorized by rote the numbers to push for entry into the control room of the Chronos mat-trans device, and was hoping against hope the chron-jump transport was still using the same command codes.

  As he already knew from his previous freer days, a skeleton crew would be on duty inside the control room. Looking inside through an observation portal, he spied three figures-two men and a woman. Doc hovered outside the access door for a moment, his fingers poised to tap in the entry code, and then he decided to wait. He nimbly stepped into the nearby men's room and went into a stall and sat. He knew the shift break would come soon, and if he were quick, he could go inside with the advantage of having only a single technician watching over the dormant equipment. Tune-trawling tests were rarely done after daylight, and those on watch inside were only there to run computer simulations, more or less.

  Doc checked his wristwatch, also liberated from Allan. He'd made note of the patterns of the curious lair he was kept within and found all of those who shared his world in the redoubts to be almost painfully predictable in a military sort of way. If, at a designated time Tab A were to be inserted within Slot B, nothing short of World War Three could prevent such an order from being carried through.

  Reciting bits of poetry and famous monologues from the theater in his mind to pass the time, Doc was rewarded when his ten-minute wait passed quickly.

  He stepped out of the washroom and peeked back through the small window into the mat-trans control room. Only a single figure now remained, the other two having retired for coffee and conversation in the commissary two levels up. They'd be gone for fifteen minutes.

  Fifteen minutes. An eternity if one knew how to use the time well.

  Doc looked up at the warning sign posted above the doorway. In red and black letters on a laminated yellow backing, the sign read: Entry is Absolutely Forbidden To All But B12 Cleared Personnel Or Higher. The word Forbidden was underlined for added emphasis.

  "I'd say I've regained my former rank and clearance," he said softly, counting on the masters of the redoubt to not have changed the locking codes for the heavy vanadium steel door. Taking a deep breath and mentally crossing his fingers, Doc punched in the trio of digits for the entry code, tapping first the number three, followed by five and then two. He was rewarded by the door sliding upward silently into a ceiling slot, allowing his entrance. Turning, he reversed the code and the door slid down and locked into a floor groove, sealing the control room from the rest of the complex.

  The man on duty turned from a flickering computer screen. He was slight of build and very short, coming in at a height of five feet. He wore wire-rimmed glasses that accented his tanned skin and Asian features. Doc had hoped he wouldn't encounter anyone he knew, but as their eyes met, he knew his luck had finally run its course.

  "Good evening, Dr. Tanner," Chan said. "Can I help you?"

  Chapter Nine


  Dawn arrived with the fabulous multicolored beauty of the Caribbean sky.

  Before beginning the day, Ryan decided to pay Dr. Silas Jamaisvous a quick visit. In the doctor's bedroom, he discovered his host was doing a most curious thing, and since it was an action Ryan had never associated with the male member of the species, it made the sight even more unsettling. Once he identified it, the feminine undertones made him wonder about their host.

  Jamaisvous was carefully, studiously, meticulously filing his fingernails with a small brown nail file, vigorously rubbing it back and forth in a sawing motion, pausing every thirty seconds or so to look at the back of his hand to make sure the manicure was proceeding as planned.

  The doctor was nattily dressed in a similar manner as the day before, now wearing a black-and-gray patterned blazer with a new burgundy dress shirt and narrow black necktie with matching black slacks. The long white lab coat was draped over the back of a nearby chair.

  "Good morning, Ryan Cawdor."

  "Morning. Thought I might take my boy and look around the island some today."

  "What a delightful idea! I only wish I could spare the time to come along. Your good Dr. Tanner will be assisting me today with my continuing attempts to use the matter-transfer unit for something besides a glorified ferryboat."

  "What's the situation outside the fortress walls?"

  "Well, the western side of Puerto Rico suffered terrific losses and from what I understand is nigh uninhabitable, unless one enjoys squalor and disease."

  "Rad sickness, I'll bet. Must've been a nuke," Ryan guessed. He'd noticed upon their arrival in El Morro that the tiny rad counter on his long coat hadn't Indicated dangerous levels of radiation, but that didn't mean other parts of Puerto Rico hadn't suffered from the same radioactive fire that had plagued the rest of the planet.

  Pausing to blow on the nails of his left hand, Jamaisvous responded in the negative. "No, Ryan, no nukes. At least, no major direct hits. The island's trials have been generated thanks to the queen of havoc herself, Mother Nature. Hurricane season used to run here all summer and fall. Storms would develop out in the Atlantic, then wind their way northwestward, sometimes striking Puerto Rico, but as a rule, the island was spared. After the nukecaust, the storms seemed to increase in ferocity and regularity, and Puerto Rico was no longer so lucky. I have suf- fered through two powerful storms myself, but none as deadly as the one that hit the western side." "So, any dangers I should know about outside?" "In Old San Juan? Not hardly." "Fair enough. Thanks for the advice." Exiting the expansive grounds of El Morro by way of the short stone bridge stretching across the moat around the fortress, Dean, Krysty and Ryan went out after his talk with Jamaisvous to look at the sights. In reality, Ryan needed to assess their surroundings, be prepared and familiar enough to move through the area without hesitation, if need be. Besides granting his hearty approval, their host had also suggested they leave as early as possible to avoid the heat of the afternoon.

  Outside El Morro, the first thing they encountered was the ruin of the Santo Domingo Convent as they stepped out onto Cristo Street. Even in its dilapidated condition, Old San Juan was magnificent, rich in the coin of history. The night before, Jamaisvous had commented that this part of Puerto Rico was essentially his own private lair. The old part of the city had originally been separated from the mainland by three bridges, and in addition, the buildings of the inlet were walled off, surrounded by high imposing towers thanks to the old fort nearby known as Castillo de San Cristobal.

  Before leaving El Morro, Dean had taken a printed leaflet from a wire rack in the foyer of the fortress, next to what was once a combination information desk and souvenir stand. The pamphlet had obvi- ously been designed for the edification of visitors, and the boy had delighted in reading from the tri-folded sheet of glossy paper as the three of them walked along the narrow sidewalk.

  "See that chapel, Dad?" Dean asked, pointing to a little building at the end of Cristo Street.

  Ryan took in the decrepit church, noting the cross jutting from the roof was the only part of the construct still completely intact. "Sure," he replied.

  "They built it because a slowie retard was racing his horse and couldn't stop before hitting the wall," Dean said confidently. "The retard's mom and dad wanted to help prevent more racing accidents from happening to other stupes."

  "Keep it up, son, and you'll be giving Doc a run for his windpipe," Ryan replied. "You're telling me a lot more than I want or need to know."

  "Well, I appreciate it," Krysty said, giving Dean a quick hug as they walked. "Somebody has to play tour guide."

  "Place feels like the walls are closing in. Lots of places for an ambush," Ryan noted.

  "Says here the streets and sidewalks are so narrow that ped...pedestrians must often walk single file," Dean read, his voice stumbling over the unfamiliar word. "What's a pedestrian, Dad?"

  "Beats me," the tall man replied. "Means 'people,' I guess. You'll have to ask Doc when we get back."

  Krysty's attention was on the street beneath their feet. The roadway was made up of a series of rectangular bricks of a dark blue substance. "Feels kind of strange here, walking down paths thousands of years old," the redhead said. "Not a bad feeling, just... strange."

  "Old ghosts?" Ryan asked.

  Krysty nodded and gave him a dazzling smile. "Mebbe so, lover."

  "'Some of the streets in Old San Juan are still paved with the original blue-glazed blocks brought over on old Spanish sailing ships,'" Dean read aloud.

  "Need to get your nose out of that pamphlet and look at what's around you, Dean," Ryan suggested, plucking the booklet from the boy's hands and shoving it into the back pocket of his trousers. "You're missing half the sights by reading about them."

  The morning air wafting through the streets of Old San Juan was pleasant, and Krysty was glad for the opportunity to lose the extra layers of clothing she and everyone else had grown accustomed to wearing at all times. It was much easier to wear a jacket than to tote it. Not having it on your person could also mean forgetting the item of clothing and leaving it behind if trouble started.

  However, here in Old San Juan, things appeared to be much more relaxed.

  A few of the locals gazed at the three, but didn't approach or speak. One man nodded in passing but kept his eyes lowered. Once, on Luna Street-identified as such by a rusted old street sign-Dean spotted a deeply tanned boy who looked to be his own age and he walked over to speak. However, the child responded to his greetings in Spanish, and Dean returned to Ryan and Krysty wearing a frown of disappointment.

  The houses along the streets were a crowded sprawl of color and design. Some were in good repair, others obviously abandoned. The narrow streets were the dividers between multiple grilled balconies, brass-studded doors housed in ornate doorways and an explosion of colorful flora. His own curiosity working against him, Ryan returned the tour book to Dean and asked the boy to go ahead and tell them what they were looking at. Meanwhile, he scanned doorways and walk-through buildings fronting on two streets and noted dead-ends.

  Krysty felt as though she had been on the receiving end of an unexpected chron-jump. According to Dean's informational booklet, Old San Juan dated back to the year 1521, and the architecture that remained intact along the streets and alleyways supported the claim. A mix of Spanish colonial mansions mingled with colorful plazas and shops.

  "Blue," Krysty said, speaking aloud.

  "What?"

  "First time since I was a little girl back in Harmony I can remember the sky being the right color. My Uncle Tyas, he said the world above us was supposed to be blue, and he always made a point of showing me the right hue in picture books or bits of old vids. I've seen the sky colored blue before, but it was always dark, like a storm was brewing. More often than not in Deathlands, sky was orange, red, pink. You got used to it, but I always wanted to see that color of blue Tyas told me about. Nice to see he was right, as usual."

  " 'Natives say that the sky in Pue
rto Rico is bluer than any other place on earth, and the white clouds are whiter,'" Dean chimed in, reading a predark line of advertising copy.

  "Doesn't surprise me," Ryan said easily, stooping to pick a smallish bright red flower that had grown up in a bare patch of dirt near the curb.

  "You should give it to the lady, senor," a voice said. "It matches the crimson of her hair."

  They looked up to see a heavyset man in a straw hat looking down at them from a second-story window.

  "Yeah, I was going to do that," Ryan said warily, handing the flower to Krysty.

  "Thank you." Krysty was slightly annoyed at having her private time with Ryan and Dean interrupted by the native's appearance. She'd been charmed by rogues before, and knew the drill. Still, her mutie ability to read a person was giving her an all-clear signal regarding the man looking down, as opposed to the conflicting impressions that radiated like flaming tendrils from the always smiling Silas Jamaisvous.