Breakthrough

by James Axler

  It was a matter of perspective. There was no way to appreciate real loss until you experienced it. You couldn't understand real love until you felt it.

  The way Dredda viewed that whole experience now, she had been merely an actress, reading from a script written and produced by Regis Otis Trask. According to that script, Dredda was as incapable of emotion as her father. With his lifelong neglect, his unreachability, he had trained her well for the part; a parent's unconditional love was never part of their relationship. A cold, grasping octopus of a creature, Regis Otis Trask had planned, consciously or unconsciously, for her to turn out the same, a perfect reflection.

  And she had not disappointed him.

  The octopus Dredda, despite the flow of tears at her father's elaborate funeral, had been secretly glad that he was dead because it meant she would finally come into her own. The tears had been a sham, an act for the vid cams recording the reactions on the reviewing stand. She had milked the drama of the moment to consolidate her control over the mid-and upper-level technocrats. That was her father's technique to a tee.

  She pushed those dark memories out of her mind and visualized the face of Kira, recapturing the power of her beauty. Beauty lost. Kira, like Dredda, like the others, had not yet fully blossomed. And now she never would. Potential lost. Her companionship, and the joy it brought, was likewise gone, forever. Love lost. Real tears streamed down Dredda's cheeks. Real grief twisted her heart. Her pain was physical and it was enormous.

  Curious what a little dose of virus could do.

  It had given her sisters, where before she'd had none.

  It had given meaning to her life, where before she'd had none.

  Not only did the Level Four females have an implanted genetic heritage in common, but they also had a shared experience of transformation and a common, connected future that was still unfolding. They were, in fact, much closer than sisters.

  This wasn't some sort of insectlike hive consciousness, but rather a clan consciousness, an intense kinship that they all felt. Every one of them believed that they, the ten, were at the core of something as yet incomplete, something mysterious and new. Something more perfect. Something magical with its own unique destiny and right to exist. The crescendo of their world had sent them hurtling across realities, as if everything, all four billion years of its existence, had led up to that single pregnant moment.

  Despite the changes they had undergone, the sisters, Dredda included, still saw themselves as women, only much improved. They knew that the male troopers called them "she-hes" behind their backs. Even though it was scientifically untrue, since there was nothing male about them, they allowed the practice to continue because the reference to their strangeness and physical prowess had discipline value. It kept the enlisted ranks in line without the need for demonstrations of force.

  In both universes, it had been fashionable at one time or another to speculate that there would be no wars if women ruled the world. There was no way to test the hypothesis, of course, since women never had that kind of absolute global power in either reality. Dredda and her sisters subscribed to a slightly different idea. They believed that there would be war, but only one. This, because women, if granted the means, would conquer utterly; they would do the job right for the sake of their offspring. Women, because of their biological function, their much more intimate connection with the future, were prepared to take this longer view. And stick to it. History taught that in victory, men always had sympathy for the male foe they had vanquished, that they always took pity because they could see themselves in his position, as if war were a jolly game to be played over and over with alternating winners. Men were the reason that nothing ever got solved. The Level Four females didn't view war as a game. Or jolly. They believed that if they waged it once, and properly, they would never have to face it again.

  The "they" part was something Dredda hadn't anticipated. When she'd taken the Level Four plunge, she'd realized that she would have no control over how she changed or what she became. She'd done what she'd done for a reason, a sound reason, because she felt she had no choice. It was another case of being backed into a corner, then leaping before looking. After only a month in Deathlands, her previous existence seemed like a dream that belonged to someone else. A parade of empty acts and pointless accomplishments that fulfilled someone else's plans. Dredda was becoming herself in a way she never imagined.

  The idea that on Shadow World she could be ruler of everything—a living god—was no longer the stimulus that drove her on. The Alexander the Great, or Regis Otis Trask syndrome—"I win! I survive!"-had been replaced by "We win! We survive!" The appetite for power and the aptitude for beating animate and inanimate into submission was still alive and well, but it was now a cooperative venture.

  The death of Kira had forced the sisters to examine their own mortality, something their heightened physical abilities had made seem remote, at best. Kira's tragedy had shown them that in some circumstances, being stronger and faster wasn't enough to save their lives. It also showed them that they needed to produce offspring as soon as possible, to replace those lost in battle. If they were the ultimate survivors of their world, Ryan Cawdor was the ultimate survivor of his. Which was the reason why Dredda wanted his genetic material. With it and the viral transformation process, the sisters could birth a legion of indomitable warrior daughters, which their portable Totality Concept technology could then spread across the unmapped realities, like seeds on fertile ground.

  "What we have lost today cannot be replaced," Dredda said to the others. "A piece has been ripped from our hearts. Kira was brave and strong. And she loved us as we loved her. Her love and her bravery made us proud. Whatever we do after today, whatever we conquer, wherever we travel, she will always live in our memory."

  With that, Dredda bent and gently tipped the body bag over the edge. It made a slithering sound on the glass, growing fainter and fainter. The black bag slipped over the bulge five hundred feet below and disappeared into the shadowy crease. The sisters held gauntlets in silence. Moments passed, stretching longer and longer. There was no sound of impact.

  As they turned from the chasm toward their waiting wags, Dredda noticed something strange on the side of Mero's neck. It looked like an abrasion from the collar of her battlesuit. "What's that there on your neck?" she said.

  "It just appeared overnight," Mero replied. "It itches a little, but not too much. I think it might be from the battlesuit."

  "That's odd," Dredda said. "I've got some minor irritation, too. But it's on my shoulder. Could be from friction."

  They had been living in the battlesuits for weeks now, and only getting out of them in order to sleep. Under the circumstances, abrasions weren't unexpected, even with the lubricant sprays they used to coat the inside of the armor.

  Dredda knew that she and the others were spending way too much time in their battlesuits, but to be outside the artificially intelligent armor was almost unbearable. Without her suit, without the deluge of information it provided, without the access to its nanosecond response lethality, she felt incomplete if not crippled, and disconnected from her sisters. They felt the same.

  "Jann," she called, waving over the medical officer. When the blonde she-he stepped up, Dredda said, "Mero and I have got superficial skin rashes. Could be from our battlesuits."

  Jann looked at the side of Mero's neck, noting the small patch of redness near the suit collar. "When we get back to the base," she said, "I'll give you both a topical ointment. An anti-inflammatory and local anesthetic. And I'll take skin cell scrapings for analysis. I don't think it's anything important, but it never hurts to make sure."

  Chapter Eleven

  When Colonel Gabhart spun at the sound of his name, he lost his balance. Ryan caught him as he fell, and since he seemed too wobbly to stand, helped him to a seat on the ground.

  "Shadow Man?" the colonel said, squinting up through eyelids so puffy they were nearly swollen shut. "So the murdering bastards got y
ou, too. What about the others?"

  "Sit still," Ryan told him. He beckoned to the companions and they came running.

  When they saw how ravaged the colonel was, they couldn't hide their shock. They were speechless.

  "I guess I'm pretty messed up, huh?" Gabhart said, trying to laugh and choking.

  "Take it easy now," Ryan cautioned him.

  Mildred pointed at Gabhart's badge, which glowed bright green, even in daylight. "He's really giving off the rads," she said. "Try to touch him as little as possible."

  "How long have you been here, Colonel?" Ryan asked.

  "Twelve days." He nodded in the direction of the trooper standing guard at the water tank. "The fuckers won't give out extra water. When you start to get the nuke sickness, you get so damned thirsty."

  "What about Captain Jurascik?" Krysty said. "Is she here, too?"

  Gabhart shook his head. "She died the day before yesterday. It was horrible."

  "Was it from the radiation?" Mildred asked.

  "No," Gabhart said, "it was from the stickies. The geniuses from my world who are running this operation captured a big group of stickies to help work the mines."

  "They're trying to put stickies to work?" J.B. said. "That's crazy! You can't train stickies to do anything."

  "They didn't figure that out until it was too late," Gabhart said, "after they'd already let them loose in the mines. They actually thought they'd scared the sucker-fisted bastards into cooperating. Must be close to a hundred roaming free underground. They can't get rid of them now. It's a maze of crevices, side tunnels and air shafts down there."

  "Stickies can squeeze through some mighty small spaces," J.B. agreed. "Got weird mutie cartilage. It lets them squash down their skeletons. Even their skulls compress a little."

  "But the laser cuffs…?" Ryan said.

  "They only activate after you run a certain distance from the center of the road," Gabhart said. "The stickies aren't running away from anything. They like it in the mines."

  "The lasers can't be selectively activated?" Ryan said.

  "There's no way to target individual slaves, if that's what you mean. The only way to get rid of the stickies now that they're loose is to trigger all of the cuffs on all the slaves, which would make the entire work force useless. The stickies are hiding deep in the mines. That's where they jumped me and Jurascik. There was nothing I could do to help her. Nara was weak from the rad sickness, much worse off than me—most of her hair had fallen out, and she was coughing up blood. Stickies attacked and separated us, and then they dragged her off."

  "Killed her," J.B. said.

  "Fucking ate her," Gabhart stated, bitterly. "There's nothing to eat around here, except whatever you catch yourself under the glass. That's why the stickies like it down there. The food comes to them. As you get weaker, you make easy meat. Easier than rats, because the mutie bastards have to chase them. Believe me, the stickies are the only ones getting fat around here."

  With a great effort, the colonel forced himself to his feet. "Got to get back down there," he said. "Got to make my ore quota or no more water today. Thirsty. I'm so damned thirsty."

  "We'll go with you," Ryan said. "What do we have to do?"

  "Pick an empty sledge from over by the mine entrance," Gabhart said, "and push it down the hole."

  The ore carts consisted of battered metal boxes, five feet by three feet, that sat on pairs of crude, ski-like, metal runners. Each box had a number scribed into the side. Ryan and the companions chose one of the sledges. Shoving it ahead of them, they followed the colonel down into the mine.

  "He's not long for this world," Mildred whispered to Ryan. "He's in the terminal stages of radiation exposure. The linings of his intestines and lungs will start to slough off soon. The internal bleeding will be massive. Then he'll collapse and he'll never get up."

  That was pretty much what Ryan had figured.

  "Be sure and keep your bandannas on," Mildred told the others. "We've got to try to keep from inhaling the radioactive dust."

  The entrance angled down steeply between gray glass walls for about twenty-five feet, then the floor leveled out. The companions used a rope tied to the rear of the box to brake the empty cart on the way down the slope. As they descended, another cart, this one fully loaded, was being hauled up by four slaves using a rope tied to its front end. There was just enough room for the two sledges to pass side by side.

  A short distance farther on, the main shaft branched in two, and the fork was guarded by a pair of troopers. The area where they stood was brightly illuminated by klieg lights on tripods.

  "Too many bodies on that sledge," the trooper on the left said as they pushed their cart toward him. He used the muzzle and butt of his pulse rifle to shove Doc, Mildred and Jak to one side. "You three, go back up top and get another one. The rest of you go that way," he told Ryan and the others. "Move it."

  There was nothing Ryan could do about the split up.

  "Do not fret," Doc assured him. "We'll be fine."

  Jak nodded.

  "See you later," Mildred said as they turned back for the entrance.

  A short way down the right hand tunnel, which angled down slightly but steadily, Ryan and J.B. helped Gabhart get into the sledge box. It was either that or abandon him. No way could he keep up.

  As they pushed on, Ryan stared into the eyes of the people coming the other direction, pushing or dragging heavily loaded carts. They were exhausted and terrified, their faces and hands bleeding, their radiation sensitive badges glowing like spotlights on their chests. The greenish pall cast by the badges made them look like zombies.

  It wasn't long before they started seeing people dead and dying in the dark corners of the shaft. Some of the dying ones appeared to be delusional; others were having out and out fits, foaming at the mouth while they rhythmically bashed their heads against the wall.

  Nobody paid them any mind.

  There was nothing anybody could do for them.

  The side tunnel continued its gradual descent, one foot of vertical drop for every hundred feet of horizontal distance. The available natural light grew dimmer the farther they went, filtered as it was through a growing thickness of glass overhead.

  Gabhart raised his chin from his chest and said, "This tunnel dead ends around the bend ahead. We've got to leave the sledge there. Past that point, the turns are too tight for it to pass. Somebody will have to stay behind and guard the cart, or the other slaves will steal our ore. As you've noticed, there's no honor among the damned."

  At the end of the tunnel a group of half-filled sledges sat parked. Each cart had at least one miner standing in it or in front of it, with a short-handled rock ax ready to defend the cargo.

  Ryan stopped their sledge against the tunnel side wall and helped Gabhart out. The colonel pointed to the numerous man size tunnel openings in the walls. "We've got to go in one of those crevices, follow it until we find the seam of the hot stuff, then hack it out with our axes, bag it and drag it back here."

  "You aren't going anywhere, Colonel," Ryan told him. "You're too damn weak. Just sit here with J.B. and Dean, and rest. Krysty and me will go in, check it out and bring back the first load."

  "Watch out for the stickies," Gabhart said. His voice cracked and whistled in his throat; he was badly drained from the effort he'd expended. "They like to hide in the low-rad spots where the badges don't give off much light, and then they get hold of you from behind. Once they get hold of you, you don't get away."

  Gabhart sucked in a ragged breath, then continued. "Be careful of cave-ins while you're hacking ore. When the glass comes down, it comes down huge, and it cuts like a band saw. Another thing, keep those rags over your noses and mouths. We've got Mind-burst mushrooms growing down here. They're one of the few things that seems to be able stand the radiation. It's just them and the rats. The rats live off the mushroom caps, but they'll take a piece out of your nose if you fall asleep in the wrong place."

  "You'll find
the mushrooms sprouting up along the horizontal cracks and seams in the glass. Any place there's a ledge. If you breathe in their spores, you'll start to hallucinate within minutes. If you breathe too much, you'll collapse and fall into a fit. If you accidentally get stoned on Mindburst down here, you're as good as dead. You'll get lost. And one way or another, you'll get killed. There must be a thousand ways to die in this hellhole, and none of them are quick and painless."

  "A trooper talked to us on the way in," Ryan said. "He told us about this third gender business. What do you know about it?"

  "The women, the officers, had some genetic engineering done before they came over from our Earth," Gabhart said. "The men are scared of them, and with good reason."

  Gabhart's lips, which were crusted over with a mass of scabs, cracked and started bleeding a thin line down his chin. Though his eyes were almost shut, and his voice was losing its power, he kept talking. "When I first arrived at Ground Zero, the troopers spoke to me because I used to be one of them. They talked out of earshot of their officers, of course. As far as the she-hes are concerned, the male troopers are expendable, like us slaves. They take better care of the troopers, of course, because they're more difficult to replace, you know, because of the training and so on. It's the same old story. Everything is a product. Everything has a price."

  "Do you think the troopers would turn on their officers if given the chance?" Ryan asked.

  "No way of telling that, Shadow Man. These are conglomerate mercenaries, not FIVE regular army. Their allegiance is to themselves, first and foremost. I'd say they'll stay loyal to the officers as long as they think they might end up paying for a rebellion with their own blood. If the odds change, and it looks like there's no penalty, it could be a different story."