by James Axler
Could Alexander the Great have succeeded if he had been a woman? Could Cortez? Or Napoleon? Her own Earth's history said no. In times of internal strife, during periods of conquest, males only respected other males, only feared other males. These were the lessons of Shadow World, as well. If Dredda failed to instill absolute terror in her adversaries on the parallel Earth, she knew her relatively small expeditionary force could not prevail.
And she not only had Shadow World males to contend with, but those in her own support units, as well. In a different reality, the old urges of one sex to dominate the other would surely resurface. The selective subordination and subjugation of females was bound to follow. Such an outcome was unacceptable to Dredda Otis Trask.
As her father had so often said, "Chains are meant for other people."
It might well have been the Trask family motto.
Dredda became aware of a ringing in her ears, the first sign of the spread of the genetically modified virus. Almost immediately, her body temperature began to rise, and as it climbed, the sedation was increased. Long before the infection's peak, she slipped quietly into a drug induced coma. She didn't feel the plastic tube slide down her airway or hear the rhythmic hiss of the respirator begin.
The tailored virus carried a limited set of genetic instructions, which as it replicated, it transmitted to all her cells. These instructions permanently altered so the chemistry of her body, reinitiating long dormant physical processes, reactivating the growth plates in the bones of her hips, legs, back, shoulders and arms. Under their new instructions, the targeted cells began rapid, controlled division. As her bones enlarged, cell layer by cell layer, they ached as if they had been shattered by sledgehammers; as they enlarged, the attached sinews, muscles and cartilage stretched to the splitting point. Nerve cells began multiplying in specific locations, as well, which only magnified the intensity of the skeletal pain. The transformation process was so agonizing that it required anesthetic narcosis—early test subjects who were fully conscious had died from the pain within a matter of hours.
Safe in a deep coma, Dredda felt nothing. She drifted in darkness while her body metamorphosed in its stainless-steel cocoon.
Inside and outside the chamber, the atmosphere was anything but tranquil. Biotech teams in three shifts saw to her considerable life-support needs around the clock. Her normal daily calorie intake was quadrupled, and she received constant electrical stimulation of new nerves and growing muscles.
Early on the morning of the ninth day, sedation was terminated. By 10:00 a.m. Dredda was breathing without a respirator. At 1:00 p.m. she opened her eyes. She was still securely strapped to the bed. Empty gauntlets hung flaccidly from the walls.
"How are you feeling?" said the voice through the intercom.
"I hurt," she said, her throat hoarse from the respirator tube. "I hurt everywhere."
"That is entirely normal, I assure you. We're going to release the restraints now. You need to start moving your arms and legs."
Technicians slipped into gauntlets on both sides of the chamber. Their gloved hands unfastened the straps, which slithered off her. When she sat up, she nearly bumped her head on the chamber's low ceiling.
"Please be careful," the voice warned. "You have grown four inches. You are now five feet eleven inches tall. You have gained sixty-three pounds."
Dredda looked down at herself. Even though she had known more or less what to expect from computer-morphed projections, she recoiled Her breasts were still there, and the same size and shape, but they looked smaller, flatter because of the expansion of her chest in bone and muscle. The new muscle mass was smooth, quick, not corded or bulked up. Like her breasts, her hips had remained the same size, but they now looked narrow relative to the increased span of her shoulders.
She ran her fingertips over her lips and chin and was relieved to find no sprouting of coarse facial hair. Although her jaw seemed a little heavier, as did her cheekbones and brow, there was no other apparent external masculinization. She had changed into a very tall, very athletic looking female, the tallest, most athletic female the limitations of her existing genetics could produce. Of course, that was just the tip of the iceberg as far as the changes went.
Dredda flexed her right bicep and, despite a twinge of pain in her elbow, was momentarily transfixed by its unfamiliar bulge.
"Based on the previous experiments," the voice told her, "your lean-muscle mass should continue to increase slightly for a more few days. The new neural connections are already complete, as is bone growth. You aren't going to get any taller."
"As you know, some experimental subjects, post-transformation, have displayed outbursts of extreme violence. We have only had combat simulations to work from, but it appears that spending long periods of time in a battlesuit under stress aggravates the problem. If you notice any loss of emotional control, you must start injecting yourself with antipsychotic drugs from the battlesuit medikits at once."
"What are their side effects?"
"Reduced reaction time and increased fatigue."
"But that would completely defeat the purpose of the procedure!" Dredda exploded.
The voice didn't respond.
"If I start dosing myself with these drugs, will I have to take them permanently?"
"I'm sorry, but that is impossible to predict," the whitecoat told her. "No one knows the long term consequences of the genetic treatment you have been subjected to."
The slowly simmering anger that had always been part of Dredda's consciousness was now paired with an entirely different level of agitation, tangible like a hairy-legged insect buzzing, bouncing off the insides of her internal organs. Everything was taking way too long.
"Unseal the door," she said.
The airlock remained shut, and the faceless white-coat talked faster. As he spoke, his gauntleted hands made emphatic gestures above her head. "The viral agent we've used is extremely infectious and prone to rapid mutation and genetic recombination with other, potentially lethal life forms. Understandably, we are very concerned about its containment. We strongly recommend that you spend another three days in Level Four quarantine to make sure it has all passed out of your system."
The other conglomerates that made up FIVE knew nothing of this lab's existence, nor were they aware of the genetic-engineering project that Dredda had made herself part of. All research connected to trans-reality and bioweapon technology was subject to the terms of FIVE'S founding treaty—only to be pursued as a joint venture. If the alliance got wind of what she was up to, they would turn on Omnico and subject it to a combined military attack that would make her escape to Shadow World impossible.
Moving in a blur, Dredda grabbed one of the white-coat's gloved wrists. He tried to pull back, but she held him fast, and as she did, she applied pressure to the slender bones on the back of his hand with her thumb. "Delay of any kind is unacceptable," she told him.
"I understand your impatience—just do not rip the glove. You must not break the Level Four containment. If you relax for a moment, everything will be fine."
The other gauntlets rapidly emptied as biotech workers moved out of her reach.
"Let me out of here now."
"Please, listen to reason…"
There was no reason but hers, no need but hers. Under the ball of her thumb, the small bones snapped like dry twigs. A piercing scream burst through the intercom.
"Open the door!" she shouted. Her booming voice made the walls of the steel chamber vibrate.
Seconds later, the airlock door popped open and she was free.
Chapter Two
Ryan Cawdor stepped over an exposed tree root, slick, dark and as big as a human corpse sprawled across his path. A profusion of bare roots laced the winding trail and made the footing treacherous. The dim light didn't help matters, either. Though it was high noon, everything was cloaked in shadow, thanks to the dense canopy overhead and the seemingly endless groves of black-barked trees.
In all his travels
, he had never seen this type of rad-mutated oak before. Its wood was like iron; hand axes bounced off of it, hardly making a dent. The bark and leaves were chem-rain resistant, as were the parasitic strangler vines that spiraled up trunks and limbs to reach the sunlight.
The forest's canopy had protected Ryan and his companions from the searing downpours they had endured since their last mat-trans jump, several days earlier. The intense storm activity of the past forty-eight hours had forced them to take shelter in a cave. From the safety of its entrance, they had winced at sizzling nearby lightning strikes and watched methane ice hail, as blue as robin's eggs and just as big, pound the earth. In scattered heaps, the chem ice had steamed for hours before it finally melted away.
If the local trees and vines had somehow adapted to survive the caustic rains, other types of foliage had not. There was no ground cover to speak of around the trunks, just slippery piles of fallen, blade-shaped leaves that rustled underfoot.
The passing storm front had left the air extremely hot and punishingly humid—it felt equatorial to Ryan. The weather was the only clue where he and the companions had materialized. The cloud cover and forest canopy had made it impossible for them to orient using the stars.
As he rounded a tight bend, he saw the group's pointman frozen like a bird dog fifty feet ahead. Ryan swung to hip height the scoped Steyr SSG-70 sniper rifle he carried, Jak Lauren, his pale skin and lank white hair almost luminous in the forest's half-light, held up a hand, indicating caution. Jak was a man of few words. Fiercely loyal, without an ounce of guile or deceit, he was a true wild child of Deathlands. Jak's weapon, a battle-scarred .357 Magnum Colt Python, remained in its holster. Whatever he'd found, there was no immediate danger.
"Cook fire," Jak said softly as Ryan stepped up, his albino eyes as red as rabies. He raised a hand to point downslope. "There…"
Ryan caught the faintest smell of woodsmoke, filtering up the winding trail through the forest. It was the first sign of another human presence since the mat-trans jump.
It smelled delicious.
For three days Ryan and his companions had been on starvation rations of mutie rattlesnake jerky and tepid water. The forest's lack of undergrowth meant there was no ground-dwelling large or small game for them to hunt. During the day, they had caught a few glimpses of little creatures darting about high in the branches, but the dense canopy made shooting at them a waste of ammo. And at night it was so black they couldn't see their own feet.
Though all their bellies rumbled, no one had complained.
A tall, skinny man, dressed in a dusty frock coat and tall boots, moved up the trail and closed ranks with Ryan and Jak.
Leaning on his silver-handled walking stick, Doc Tanner sniffed at the air, and said, "Dear friends, it would seem that Providence has seen fit to smile upon us once more." He inhaled again, savoring the aroma. "Somewhere below, the groaning board is piled high. Broiled flesh of some sort, I would venture."
Though Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner appeared to be a well-preserved sixty, chronologically he was four times that old. The Harvard and Oxford educated man was the first human time traveler, albeit an unwilling one. He had been ripped from the loving embrace of his family in 1896, and drawn one hundred years into the future by the whitecoats of Operation Chronos. The twentieth century scientists quickly tired of Tanner's ingratitude, truculence and general unpleasantness. Shortly before skydark, to rid themselves of the troublemaker, they had hurled him forward in time. In so doing, they had inadvertently saved him from the nukecaust that scoured away their civilization. Though Doc sometimes rambled in speech and broke into tears for no apparent reason, a consequence of his life's overload of trauma and tragedy, this day he was as sharp as the point of the steel blade hidden in his ebony stick.
A stocky black woman dressed in baggy camo BDU pants and a sleeveless gray T-shirt stepped up behind Tanner. Her hair hung down in beaded plaits. "Smells like somebody's had themselves a hearty breakfast," she said.
Dr. Mildred Wyeth had also time traveled, but in a much different fashion than her Victorian colleague. After a life-threatening reaction to anesthetic, she had been cryogenically preserved just prior to the all out U.S.-Russian nuclear exchange of January 20, 2001. She had slept in the land of the dead for a century, until revived by Ryan and the companions. Mildred's weapon of choice was a Czech ZKR 551 target pistol, the same gun she'd used to win a silver medal in the last ever Olympic Games.
"Whatever it is, it's making my mouth water," said the boy following close on Mildred's heels. At age twelve, Ryan's son, Dean, was already growing tall and straight like his father.
"Dear child, the human nose is by no means an infallible instrument," Doc cautioned as the last two members of the group—a tall, red-haired woman, and the rear guard, a short, bespectacled man in a fedora—moved up the trail to join them. "What we Homo sapiens take for sweet succulence might well be the effluvium of some wayfarer not unlike ourselves. Someone whose grim misfortune was to be caught out in last night's chain lightning. That hell struck sir or madam, could be down there somewhere, quietly smoldering."
Dean made a disgusted face.
"Or it could be a trap," offered the leggy, green eyed redhead. Because of the sweltering heat, Krysty Wroth, Ryan's lover and soul mate, had taken off her long fur coat and tied the arms around her slender waist. The only visible effect of the radiation induced mutations that skydark had inserted into Krysty's family tree was the prehensile ability of her long hair, which reacted to stress like a barometer. Her hair now hung in loose coils, indicating concern but not apprehension.
"Cook smoke could be the bait," agreed John Barrymore Dix, aka the Armorer. Ryan and J.B. shared a bond of blood that went back many years, to their wild and woolly days with the Trader, the legendary Deathlands entrepreneur and road warrior. J.B. rested the barrel of his well worn Smith & Wesson M-4000 12-gauge pump gun on his shoulder and tipped his sweat stained hat back on his head. "In a place like this," he said, pausing to thumb his wire rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, "with no game to shoot, nothing growing to eat, a scent trail could draw victims from a long ways off."
Though Ryan respected J.B.'s and Krysty's trail savvy, he didn't consider an ambush likely. There had been no sign of stickies or cannies. No grisly heaps of red bones and bloody rags strewed about. Stickies and cannies, Deathlands most murderous, subhuman residents, hunted in packs, like wolves, seeking out norms—nonmutated humans—and muties alike, and failing that, they would prey on the weakest of their own kind. The condition of the path told Ryan there wasn't much foot traffic, certainly not enough to support the appetite of a large predator, or group of predators.
"Trap or no trap," he told the companions, "we've got to follow the cook smoke, or we're going to starve in this bastard forest." He slung the Steyr and unholstered his SIG-Sauer P-226 pistol. "Triple red, everybody," he said. "Dean, middle of the file."
The boy didn't protest his position in the column, but watched with undisguised envy as Doc drew a massive revolver from the front of his frock coat. The gold-engraved LeMat was a Civil War relic. It fired nine .44-caliber lead balls through a six and one half inch top barrel. A second, shorter, big-bore barrel hung beneath the first, chambered for a single scattergun load of "blue whistlers"—odd bits of scrap metal and glass that added up to close range mayhem. Dean left his own weapon, a 9 mm Browning Hi-Power, buckled down in its holster. He was under standing orders from his father not to draw the weapon unless they came under direct attack, and not to shoot unless he had a clear lane of fire.
With Ryan in the lead, the companions headed downslope. If anything, as they descended the winding trail, the canopy became more dense, and the air more humid. As Ryan rounded a turn, harsh sunlight backlit the groves of oaks ahead. Through the trees came the sounds of high pitched, chattering speech and the rustle of movement. The one eyed man dropped the blaster's safety and pushed on.
No command to the rear was necessary.
> The companions reacted as one, spacing out along the path as they continued to advance. They dropped to their bellies and crawled the last few feet to the edge of the forest.
The clearing before them bordered on a sluggishly moving green river fifty yards wide. The activity was down by the water's edge. A group of three dozen people, men, women and children, all with straight black hair and skin the color of cinnamon bark, were tending thick, hand braided ropes that stretched back from the river almost to the trees. The children were naked; the men and women wore short kilts.
Inbreeding was common in Deathland's isolated, primitive communities. Noting the uniform distribution of low foreheads and underslung jaws, Ryan decided that these folks had been at it for a very long time.
Back from the river's muddy bank, nestled in the protection of the ironwood canopy, stood a ragged row of translucent yellow shacks made of tanned hide or skin that was stretched and tied over curving supports that looked like gigantic rib bones. Cooking pits lined with red hot coals had been dug in the soft earth. Whatever food had been roasted over them earlier had already been polished off.
Jak tersely summed up the cinnamon people's armament. "No blasters, just knives."
Ryan nodded. Their weaponry consisted of bows and arrows, spears, knives and short swords. And the edged weapons weren't made of metal, or even flint. To Ryan the blades looked like bone. Serrated bone. Given the twentieth century firepower he and the companions carried, the villagers presented no real threat.
The breeze shifted suddenly, swirling along the bank. Cook fire odors were overpowered by a terrific stench.
"Smells like dead fish," Dean choked. "Tons of dead fish."
"Ugh, I just lost my appetite," Mildred said.
"Don't trouble yourself over that, my dear," Doc stated pleasantly. "If past is prologue, it will return to you shortly, and tenfold…"
At one time, Ryan would have expected the black woman to go ballistic over the snide remark. Not because she was the least bit sensitive about her weight, which was appropriate for her body type, but because of the outrageous presumption that being a woman, she should have been sensitive about her weight. Mildred had learned to fight fire with fire when it came to dealing with the bony old codger's needling.
