Gaia's Demise

by James Axler

  At the bottom of the quarry was a runoff pool to catch the rain and divert it from the workers. An electric sump pump sucked out the muddy water, a feeder pipe rising along the quarry wall and disappearing over the top. The feeder pipe was festooned with concertina wire to discourage climbing. Near the pool was a set of stocks, where an unconscious slave still stood, flies covering the bloody shreds of his back.

  On the cutting floor, an APC backed near a stone block, and the driver got out. Carefully, he inspected the block for cracks, then measured it with a yardstick and finally used a plumb line to make sure it was squared off neat.

  "This'll do," he announced. "Hitch the bitch, boys."

  A team of slaves moved forward and began to attach long lengths of steel chains from the APC to the block so it could be dragged off to join the hundreds of others that were part of the wall ringing the complex.

  "Where we at?" an overseer asked, smoking a cigarette and offering the pack. The slaves looked on with greed, but said nothing and continued to work.

  "Thanks." The driver took one and lit it with a stick match. "Just starting the second course. Another month, it'll be ten feet high!"

  "Shoot, what a sight. Ain't no mutie gonna get over that."

  "Hell, boy, we couldn't smash through it now even with one of the rocket-tube things."

  "Ain't it the truth, brother."

  When the slaves were done, the overseer checked the links around the block, while the driver checked the tow bar on the APC, then climbed inside. The slaves stood nearby, savoring the moment of not doing anything.

  "All set here!" the overseer called. "Roll away!"

  "Back in a few!" the driver answered, waving an arm through the top hatch and driving off slowly, the mammoth stone dragging behind sounding like a baby earthquake.

  "All right, break's over," the overseer called, hitching his pants. "Get your lazy asses back to the face. We want another block by sunset."

  The slaves shuffled off toward the bare rock face of the quarry, joining other slaves already edging blocks and driving in wedges with heavy sledgehammers. The newcomers had been chained in pairs, Mad Dog with Cooler, Snake with Digger. The odd man out, Scarface, was paired with an old slave called Bo, probably with the notion that the whitehair would help slow down any possible trouble from the huge, burly cannie.

  Dragging the length of chain between his legs, Scarface picked up a sledgehammer from a line of them and moved to a nearly finished block. Bo placed the wedge in the thin crack outlining the stone, then Scarface swung the sledgehammer, driving the steel wedge deep into the surrounding stone. Bo placed another wedge into position, and the cannie shifted his stance, pausing to spit on his hands to get a better grip.

  "Keep working," an overseer snarled, and flicked the tip of a bullwhip lightly across the man's wide shoulders.

  Scarface didn't flinch at the contact: he merely grunted.

  As the overseer moved on to harass another, Scarface and Bo stepped into the cool shadows under an overhang created by the removal of a block. The rest of the crew was already there. Their whole shift had received a beating for making the mistake of undercutting the face, but it had been worth the pain. The recess gave them a spot on the floor where they could be out of sight for minutes at a time, sometimes more.

  "We can't take much more of this," Scarface said to the rest of his chained crew. "They feed us crap and work us like dogs. Couple more days of this, and we'll be too weak to even try and escape."

  "Good thing about the accident," Snake growled.

  Bo shivered, but Scarface agreed. A slave had fallen between a moving stone block and the wall, getting crushed to death. The overseers wanted nothing to do with cleaning the mess, any more than the slaves did. However, Scarface and his crew walked to the front of the line and offered to do it if they could have bigger water rations. Laughing contemptuously, the overseers whipped them to the task, which was exactly what the cannies wanted in the first place. The dead slave was in such bad shape, nobody noticed the body was missing an arm and a leg when he was buried.

  Cooler and Mad Dog wanted to cook the limbs, but the smell would have tipped off the guards, so they were forced to eat the flesh raw. The food fueled them with new strength, but they wisely continued to drag their feet like all the other starving slaves, and struggled to do work that was easy for them. Even Bo had eaten the forbidden food. He got horribly ill afterward, but ate again next time and kept it down.

  "Only the leg remaining," Cooler said, watching the movement of the armed people outside the hole. "We need a plan. And to choose just the right moment." Snake nodded. "Aye, we won't get a second chance."

  "We fail, we die," Digger agreed, licking the sweat off his arms. He made a face, but kept at it. The salt kept you strong during such hard work. That was all that mattered. Only strength would give them a chance for freedom.

  "So how about now?" Scarface said. "Right fucking now."

  Sitting on the ground, Bo perked up his head. "In broad daylight?"

  "Say the word and we follow," Mad Dog stated simply.

  Scarface grunted. "You know what I gotta do," he said, hoisting the sledgehammer.

  Mad Dog nodded. "I'll pay the price to get us outta here. Just do it fast!"

  Digger and Snake took the man's arms, holding him motionless, while Cooler stuffed the man's mouth with a shirt. Scarface swung the sledgehammer. The lump of steel slammed onto Mad Dog's foot, crushing it flat, the bones completely pulverized. His eyes wide with pain, the cannie wildly fought to get loose, then Bo slammed a rock onto his head and the man went still. Snake slid the shackles off Mad Dog's soft foot.

  "You're free!" Bo gushed in excitement. "But how does that help the rest of us?"

  "Don't help you at all," Scarface said, and the sledgehammer swung again, caving in the whitehair's head. The decapitated corpse trembled and fell to the ground. Scarface then crushed the dead man's foot, and he was free.

  Swinging the length of iron chain, Scarface gauged its weight and reach. When satisfied, the two men walked from the hole side by side, as if shackled together.

  Moving across the cutting floor, the men shuffled along like good slaves to the sentry shack at the foot of the spiraling ramp. The one-room shack was located on a ledge above the floor, the only access a ladder the overseers drew inside.

  Snake leaned against one of the support posts, and Scarface climbed up to the man. Cresting the deck, Scarface looked about to make sure the coast was clear, then wiggled onto the platform. On the ground, Snake went behind the latrine and waited.

  Sliding behind the shack where he was out of sight from the rest of the quarry, Scarface put an ear to the wall of the shack and listened. Muffled sounds could be heard, but those might be anything. Ten sec men talking business, two just telling jokes.

  Going to the window, he peeked inside and smiled. A naked slave was facedown on a table, one sec men pumping at her face, the other thrusting between her legs. Easing to the door, Scarface wrapped the iron chains around his right fist and quietly entered.

  Grunting and laughing, neither sec man noticed the presence of the sweaty slave until he was upon them. Scarface slammed the nearest man with the fist weighted with iron. The overseer's face caved in, pinkish brains smearing over the cannie's armored hand.

  "Black dust!" the other cried out, and pulled himself free to reach for his blaster. But his pants were down around his ankles, the folds of cloth tangling around the wheelgun. Scarface tipped over the table, tumbling the girl onto the sec man. They both fell to the floor in a tangle of naked limbs.

  Rushing forward, the cannie wrapped the chain around the neck of the blue shirt and pulled it tight The sec man gasped for air, punching weakly at the massive arms of the coldheart, his straggles growing weaker by the second. Finally, he resorted to clawing at the cannie with his nails, raking bloody furrows into the tan skin. Annoyed, Scarface jerked the chain once, and the sec man toppled over, his eyes distended and hanging loose o
n limp white stalks of slimy ganglia.

  "Who are you?" the girl whispered, drawing her rags protectively closer. Blood dribbled down her thighs, and one eye was swollen shut.

  "Just an escaped slave," Scarface said, stripping one corpse and then the other. Their clothes were ridiculous small for the giant, but he draped a gun belt over his shoulder as a bandolier and checked the load in the wheelgun. It was clean and serviceable.

  "Thank you," she whispered, and rushed forward to hug the killer. "Oh, the things they did to me! I'll never feel clean again."

  "Not a problem," Scarface said, taking her head in both hands as if about to bestow a loving kiss. Then he savagely twisted his grip. Her neck bones snapped, and the dead girl slumped to the floor on top of the bleeding overseers. A peg on the wall held a ring of keys, and Scarface easily found the one that unlocked his chains. Wrapping the spare blaster in the two uniforms, he opened the door of the shed and looked outside. Slaves were working in the quarry, the overseers watching the slaves, but not one another. The fools.

  Beyond the quarry, he could see green trees, and, rising above those, was the dish, the shiny bowl dominating the valley.

  Scarface looked again, wondering why it had caught his attention, then he saw the machine was moving, rotating slowly. Curious. Some sort of radio—that much he knew. But who were the whitecoats talking to?

  Crawling to the edge of the platform, Scarface dropped the bundle to Snake.

  Rummaging through a small bookcase in the corner, he found a pack of cigarettes, matches, a knife, a whistle and a pistol with a signal flare inside. There was also a lever-action longblaster of a type he was unfamiliar with, and a shotgun, both with extra shells sewn into loops along their straps. Mighty useful indeed.

  Stuffing the weapons into a bag, he slung it over his shoulder, then paused and returned to the dead. Lifting the girl onto the table, he chose a spot and bit in deep, his pointed teeth tearing away a mouthful of tender flesh. He chewed the bloody gobbet quickly and swallowed.

  "Fresh meat" he said, sighing. "Been too damn long."

  There was movement at the door, and he spun with the blaster ready. Scarface relaxed as the rest of his crew came inside the shack and closed the door. Snake and Cooler were dressed as overseers. Mad Dog was pale and dripping sweat but held on to Digger and stayed upright.

  "Now what?" Snake asked.

  Scarface passed over the shotgun. "Gonna get us some transport for Mad Dog. Ain't leaving him behind."

  "We steal a wag, they follow us forever," Cooler warned, testing the edge on the knife. "And they got some machines like I never seen!"

  "That doesn't matter," Scarface replied coolly. "Nobody can track us if they think we're already dead."

  "Dead?" Mad Dog whispered.

  "Not just us," Snake said, smiling in understanding. "You mean everybody is dead."

  "Exactly." Working the lever on the longblaster, Scarface inspected the round, then inserted it into the side port of the breech. "Help yourselves to the meat, but don't stuff your bellies. We'll have to move fast when the chance comes."

  A SEC MAN in a crisp blue shirt drove a shiny clean Hummer down the spiral ramp and onto the cutting floor. A sec man at the sentry post waved as he passed by. Rolling through the slaves, coming very close to a few and making them jump, the driver slowed to a halt near the runoff pool. Sitting before a small wooden shack was an overseer armed with an AK-47. He rose and walked to the wag.

  "About time you showed," he growled. "I was about to start giving out the dynamite and have the slaves whack it with hammers to set it off. We got a bastard ton of rocks to clear before we can start cutting more blocks. The major don't like it when we fall behind schedule."

  The driver climbed from the wag and reached behind the seat to lift a bulky bag into view. "Stuff it, shithead, and help me with the new explosives."

  "We got explosives!" the overseer replied hotly. "What we needed is fuse, ya idiot."

  "Not like this stuff, you don't," the driver retorted. Going to the rear cargo area of the military wag, the sec man released a collection of rubbery straps holding a large plastic box in place on top of a damp folded blanket Lifting off the top, wisps of mist wafted away, exposing fifty new sticks of explosive charges nestled inside, soft sponges separating each stick.

  "Color's odd," the overseer grumped. "You sure this dynamite is still good?"

  "Ain't dynamite."

  He scowled. "Looks like it."

  "Ain't."

  "So what is it?"

  "Something called TNT," the driver said, easing a stick from the packing. "The major says it's much stronger, mebbe ten times, so we better use a lot less."

  The overseer glanced toward the vertical rock wall hanging above them. "Ten times!"

  Lifting out a single stick, the driver carefully crimped a detonator cap on the end and added a fuse.

  "One stick," the man said. "Well, if it ain't hot shit, one stick won't cause us no prob. Mebbe chill a few slaves."

  "What are we supposed to do with this old dynamite?"

  "Boss says burn it."

  "Burn it?"

  The driver scoffed. "Easy as pie. I done it lots before. Slit the dynamite open like a fish, then toss on a match. Nothing to it. This TNT's supposed to be lots safer than dynamite. When that stuff gets old, it starts sweating and becomes mighty unstable, blows if you fart hard. Some damn fool slave drops a rock on it, and our dicks hit the moon."

  "Don't wanna do that," the overseer said, leering. "Found me a slut for tonight and plan to do some riding."

  "Enough for me?" the driver asked hopefully. "The major been working the slaves so hard on the dish, it's like doing a corpse."

  "Always room for a bud." He smiled, nudging the man with an elbow. "You like dark meat or light?"

  A shrug. "Ain't choosy."

  As the men grinned at each other, a sharp crack echoed across the quarry. The stick of explosive in his hand jumped, and the sec man stared in horror at the gaping hole in the paper tube.

  "Nuking hell!" he screamed.

  "SHIT-FIRE!" Scarface cursed, working the lever to chamber a fresh round. "The bullet didn't set it off!"

  "And now they know we're here," Digger growled, wiping his bloody mouth. "Better run while we can."

  "Ain't leaving just so we can get caught and dragged back here again," Scarface growled, firing another round.

  The dirt kicked near the box of dynamite, and the sec man backed away, unable to think of what else to do. Then there came another crack. The box jumped, and the whole world vanished as a titanic blast ripped apart the face of the cliff, spewing out rocks and debris for hundreds of yards. The entire side of the mountain seemed to shift position when a second explosion sounded. Although muffled by the avalanche, the concussion was still louder, much more powerful, and a geyser of stone rose into the sky on a column of boiling flame.

  "Well, fuck me," Scarface whispered as the concussion buffeted the sentry post with strident force.

  The sides of the quarry rose and moved inward, dust filling the air as thick as mud. Then the countless tons of granite fell on top of overseers, sec men and slaves. More explosions came from the wags and storage sheds, but they were pitifully weak compared to the earth-shattering detonation of the fifty sticks of pristine TNT.

  Welling from the depths of the vibrating quarry, a boiling cloud expanded over the site, obliterating everything from sight. In the nearby complex, sirens began to howl, and the great dish trembled from the quake of the blast.

  Already rushing up the crumbling spiral, the cannies reached the top and dashed onto green grass seconds before the sloping road broke apart and the pieces tumbled into the smoky abyss.

  Some sec man came charging out of a barracks, and the cannies gunned them down, pausing only to take their blasters. A line of trucks and a lone APC stood on a bare patch of ground nearby. Not knowing how to rig a tank, Scarface bypassed the military wag and used the stock of the longblaster to bre
ak the window of the best-looking truck. Climbing inside, he reached under the dashboard and ripped wires loose, then started touching one to another until the engine started. Twisting the connections closed, the cannie chief shoved the wag into gear and roared off at top speed.

  "Where now?" Cooler asked, breathing hard.

  Scarface shifted gears. "We're going home."

  "Virginny is due north of here," Snake said. "Mebbe a tad east."

  "Too dangerous. I heard them say they were setting traps for someone named Ryan," Digger answered, hugging the moaning Mad Dog close to his chest. "He be coming after their boss. Got the roads covered north, east and south of here."

  "Remember that caravan we attacked? Heard someone yell for 'Ryan.' Mebbe that's him. Great! Let the fuckers kill each other," Scarface decided, steering into the trees, plowing through bushes and greenery. "We'll avoid both by heading west."

  Chapter Eighteen

  High above the polluted world, the Kite floated along through the cold vacuum of space. Tiny retro jets flared occasionally to correct the satellite's altitude, adjusting pitch and yaw against the complex gravitational forces of the Earth below and the moon above.

  A thousand more satellite's moved around the world like bees buzzing about a hive. Some were large and slow, barely tethered at the extreme limits of Earth's gravitational field. Others were small and fast, beeping antiques from a bygone age. Most sported huge dish antennae, simple communications relays for television and the multinational businesses of the predark world. Both as dead as dinosaurs. A few of the satellites were of unknown purpose or origin, strange ovals whose hulls were a flat black, making them nigh invisible against the starry backdrop of space.

  Several hundred miles away, a squat armored sphere bearing the design of an American flag became alive with dim lights, and spun weakly about on its vertical axis, pinhead sensors flickering as it registered the presence of the huge oncoming satellite. Radar beams scanned the goliath, and the master computer couldn't find a match within its military data banks.