Pandora's Redoubt

by James Axler

  Rifle shots sounded somewhere not very distant, and a pack of dogs howled in hot pursuit, the noise trailing off quickly.

  "Door," Ryan said, pointing at J.B., Doc and Krysty.

  The rest of the companions stayed in the office, their weapons ready to give protective cover fire for the three as they sprinted down the corridor to the door.

  "Locked," Krysty said.

  J.B. tried the keys on the ring, but none of them fit, so he used the lockpick. Turning toward the office, he tapped his chest twice with a closed fist, then gave a thumbs-up. The people at the door used their weapons to track the approach of the five.

  "Dean, Jak, check the window," Ryan ordered, a hand on the latch.

  The albino cupped his hands, and Dean stepped into them. He climbed the rough wall as Jak shoved him upward as high as possible. His head made it over the sill, and the boy ducked down to only peek between the. iron bars. Dean then offered a clenched fist, flattened it and pointed at the ground. Jak brought him down.

  "Big room ahead of us is clear," he reported. "Doors to the left, right and straight ahead."

  "Dogs?" Jak asked.

  "No sign of them."

  "Good enough." Wincing with pain, Ryan eased open the door, and they moved through in single file.

  "This place is huge," Dean stated. "What is it used for? Parades, or storage, or something?"

  "Not used for anything," Shard said, stroking his rifle as if it were a rabbit's foot.

  Mildred pointed to the walls. "Look there. Those faded numbers painted on the walls. That's the Dewey decimal system!"

  "This was a library," Doc said. "Where are all the books now?"

  Shard stared blankly. "Books?"

  White-faced and sweaty. Ryan stumbled a bit, holding his side tightly. Mildred moved closer and gave him a shoulder for support. He said nothing, but accepted the assistance.

  "Mildred, why would the kitchen be near the kennels?" Dean asked. "To feed the dogs?"

  "Yes. But they also probably eat the dogs when they die."

  "Of course." Shard smiled. "Roast dog is fine."

  "Which way to the kitchen?" Krysty interrupted, scanning the distant walls for possible enemies.

  "To the tight. But the back gate is to the left."

  "What's ahead?"

  "That leads to the ward's private quarters."

  "Don't want to go there," J.B. said, making a face.

  Turning their backs on the door to the outside, they traveled deeper into the rapidly awakening prison. Reaching an intersection, they retreated nearby while a group of armed guards passed by marching information Turning the corner, Ryan encountered a sec man at a table assembling his blaster while drinking coffee. He left the body slumped over the table, head cradled in crossed arms as if the dead man were merely asleep.

  "Won't fool a sergeant of the guards," J.B. commented.

  "If they have one," Krysty noted.

  "Doubt it," Ryan said, shaking his head to focus his vision. "These folks rely too much on intimidation."

  "Indeed," Doc agreed. "The guards are so positive that we are terrified of them, they assume that we would escape as quickly as possible via the shortest route."

  "Sloppy," Jak agreed.

  "I would have caught us long ago," Dean added.

  Cutting through a storage room, then creeping down a flight of stairs past what smelled like a brewery, the companions froze as they spotted some slaves in tray rags listlessly mopping the floor.

  Ryan asked Shard a silent question.

  "They won't report us," he said. "That would involve meeting with the ward, a pleasure few survive.

  "No reward for helping to capture intruders?"

  "Stupe."

  Staying on the far side of the hallway, the companions moved past the workers quickly. The men and women bowed their heads, refusing to even look at the armed people walking in their midst

  A locked door barred their progress for only a few moments, then they were inside a plush room of tapestries and carpeting. Sumptuous chairs, expertly patched in places, stood before a cold fireplace. A curtained alcove lay beneath a raised balcony and suits of old armor lined the walls in brickwork niches. It was a perfect place for an ambush, and Cawdor's instincts flared.

  "Just down there," Shard said, starting to walk. faster. "Only a bit more."

  "Jak, shake the bushes," Ryan ordered, leaning against the wall.

  The rest assumed combat positions as the teenager grabbed a chair and threw it. The crude wooden projectile hit the. embroidered curtain, tipping it from the traverse rod and exposing three men in suits of armor, swords in their gauntlets.

  "There they are!" cried one, starting forward.

  At the cry, more men with crossbows popped up over the balcony on the second floor. Aiming at the armored sec man, J.B. cut loose with the Thompson, but the .22-caliber rounds bounced off the thick medieval armor. Mildred and Doc fired their .38 revolvers, the bullets denting chest plates and making the sec men stumble back a step.

  A flurry of arrows hit the furniture around them as an older man with chevrons on his tunic called out for them to surrender. In response, J.B. hosed the balcony with a stream of .22 rounds, killing most of the archers. Then Ryan and Krysty cut loose with their Browning rifles. Neat holes appeared in the chest plates, and crimson sprayed onto the ripped curtain. The armored sec men fell to the floor, pumping blood.

  "Plate metal armor?" Jak scoffed, kicking one to make sure he was dead. He was. "Stupe. Have blasters."

  "Guards might not know that," Mildred said, dumping her two spent shells and sliding in fresh rounds.

  "They do now," J.B. observed, struggling with the bolt to clear a jam. The bent shell popped free. "Doc, sweep the balcony. I'll cover."

  Doc went up the stairs at a bound with blasters up and ready.

  "Armor," Jak repeated in disgust.

  "Against unarmed slaves, these would be fearsome and deadly opponents," Mildred said, watching Ryan. "The ville might be low on ammo for their blasters, and the baron might be trying to conserve rounds."

  "But they got lots of black powder," Dean reminded them.

  "Can't use it in modern blasters," J.B. said. "Fouls the mechanisms. And it won't work in an autofire."

  "I didn't know that."

  "Now you do."

  "Clear," Doc announced, coming down. "You got them all."

  Krysty lifted a faceplate. The person inside was only a little older than Dean. "A child," she whispered.

  "Tough," Ryan growled, "but take the job, and you get the pay."

  "These are only trainees," Shard said, the unfired rifle still in his hands. "New sec men. Placed here as a precaution."

  "Or else the guards know about the garbage chute." Ryan pressed a hand to his damp forehead. It was so hot in here, it was becoming difficult for him to think clearly, but he was getting an awful suspicion. "Shard, have you ever been to the laundry?"

  "No. I work in the mines."

  "Know anybody who has worked in the laundry?" Ryan beat the man with words. "Anybody at all? Ever?"

  "No," he replied, backing away, "b-but we've all heard about the chute."

  "From who?" Ryan demanded.

  "Well, I-"

  "It's a trap for runaway slaves!" Krysty declared, dropping into a combat crouch. "Dean, unlock the door! Whatever is past that curtain, we want no part of it."

  Dean dashed for the door and flipped the latch. Instantly, a pack of dogs charged for the opening, their claws scrambling on the smooth stone floor. With a cry, Dean slammed shut the door, almost catching one of the beasts by the tail, and shoved home the bolt, but several bad gotten through. The animals didn't bark or snarl, but silently ran straight for the companions. Everybody opened fire as J.B. triggered the Thompson, riding the chattering submachine gun in a figure-eight pattern, mowing the beasts down.

  The last dog in, a brutish pit bull, turned from the carnage and sprang at Dean. He frantically dodged, and the beast o
nly sank sharp teeth into his flapping vest. As the boy scrambled for distance, the animal leaped for his throat. Dean raised both of his pistols and fired. The dog slammed into him, and they both went down in a tangle of limbs. Rolling from underneath, Dean found himself streaked with blood. The pit bull lay where it had fallen.

  "I got it," he said with a note of astonishment.

  "Damn near," Jak said, pulling a leaf-shaped knife from the dog's chest. The teenager wiped off the blade, and tucked it into his belt.

  "Owe you one," Dean said solemnly.

  Jak shrugged.

  Suddenly, a pounding sounded on the door. "We know you're in there!" a muffled voice shouted. "Surrender or die!"

  Kneeling, Krysty put a single round through the door at groin level. A man shrieked, and a few seconds later some fool put his eye to the hole. She fired again with the expected results.

  Kicking aside the dead dog, Dean slid a chair under the latch, as Jak snapped off a knife inside the lock.

  "That won't hold for long," Mildred said. "We better move."

  "Double time," Ryan added, lurching forward, using his rifle as a cane. "Into the alcove!"

  "We're going in?" Shard asked.

  J.B. tightly wound the spring feed on the cheese-wheel clip of his tommy gun. "Unless you want to try and shinny up the chimney flue."

  "But we know it's a trap!"

  "And we might be the first to enter it knowing that," Ryan said, gritting his teeth, "which gives us an edge."

  The alcove proved to be a short tunnel with a high curved ceiling and no windows. An ordinary door stood at the end of the passageway, a key in the lock.

  "Forget that," J.B. growled, putting a single .22 round into the stout door.

  At the impact the door opened a crack, and axes swung out of slots in the walls, bright sparks flying as the blades glanced off each other, so tight was their passing. The axes churned the air for a while, then retracted into the walls.

  Experimentally, J.B. fired at the floor with no results. He fired again at the door, and watched the blades carefully.

  "Very nice," Ryan commented, resting against

  Mildred. "Never seen anything like it before."

  "Sounded like it's powered by clockwork gears and springs," Mildred said. "Maybe taken off a church tower clock. Did you hear the clacking?"

  "Of course."

  "With some explosives we'd be through in a second," J.B. said, shouldering the Thompson. "As it is, we have to run for it."

  "At least it isn't locked."

  "We could don the suits of armor," Dean stated. "No, forget that. There's not enough to go around."

  "Are you insane?" Shard demanded. "This is suicide!"

  "There is a brief lag," Doc said, ignoring the interruption, "between contact and the blades."

  "How long?"

  "A second, maybe one and a half."

  "So we have to get through instantly," Krysty said. "Any hesitation and we're dead."

  The sound of chopping started coming from the room behind them.

  "Together then," Ryan said, taking a deep breath. "We might need muscle, just in case there's something blocking the exit."

  "Such as a body?"

  "Or more guards."

  The companions bunched together tightly and held their weapons very close to avoid tripping.

  Licking dry lips, Shard kept glancing between the door in front of them and the one behind.

  "Go," Ryan urged.

  Charging over the short span, the companions hit the door in a crushing pile, digging in their heels and shoving for all they were worth. The wooden portal bent under the impact, holding for one long terrible instant, and then burst open just before the swinging blades arrived.

  Tumbling to the floor, the friends rolled to their feet ready for battle, but they were in a deserted courtyard. The enclosure was bounded by a two-story-high wall of stone blocks topped with a spiral coil of razor wire, old and rusty, which only made the stuff more dangerous. To the right was a fourstory building with grilled windows, behind which rose a castlelike tower. Eugene's dungeon. The siren was louder outside the prison, and the sky was a light gray, with yellowish clouds high in the sky.

  "Rain in a few hours," Dean noted calmly. "That'll give us cover."

  "Excellent," Doc said. "The acid will hide our tracks from the dogs."

  "Hell of a choice," J.B. said. "Rain or dogs."

  Returning to the door, Jak shoved a knife blade under the jamb to hold it firmly in place. "Has to slow for a heartbeat," the teenager explained in cold rationale.

  "This is too easy," Krysty stated, her hair coiling and uncoiling. "Where are the sec men?"

  "Inside searching for us?" Dean suggested.

  She studied the high walls, a thin wind moaning through the bare stone turrets. "Mebbe."

  "Keep moving," Ryan whispered. He shook and almost fell in spite of his makeshift crutch. "Got to find shelter from rain."

  "Shard?" Doc demanded in a no-nonsense manner.

  The man made a vague gesture. "Past the tower is the side gate. Guarded, not guarded, I don't know anymore.

  Ryan took a tentative step and started to slump. Mildred caught the man and carefully placed her shoulder under his good arm and braced him upright. Shoving her pistol into a pocket, the stocky doctor slung his rifle over her shoulder and started to walk. Krysty and Dean moved beside them and stayed close by.

  Hugging the wall for protection, the companions moved along as quickly as possible with J.B. in the point position, his stolen Thompson carefully switched from single shot to full-auto. The cold wind was getting stronger by the minute, dry leaves swirling about the isolated courtyard. There were water troughs and hitching posts for horses. Also an old gallows, the noose twisting in the wind.

  Edging past the tower, J.B. called a halt, then urged them on faster. Coming into view was a huge door of riveted steel set into the stone wall.

  "How are we getting through that?" Mildred demanded.

  "Dunno," Jak said, frowning deeply.

  "The...gallows," Ryan whispered faintly. "Use the rope..." His voice faded away completely, and the man went limp.

  "To do what?" Mildred asked, shaking the wounded man, trying to rouse him. "Come on, Ryan. Use the rope to do what?"

  "Hot pipe!" Dean pointed with his revolver.

  "Look there!"

  Over by a tiered array of wooden crosses was a large familiar-looking canvas lump, big military-style tires clearly discernible under the stiff covering.

  "Dark night, it's Leviathan!" J.B. cried. "We can blow our way out the door!"

  Rushing over, the companions dashed underneath the canvas,and there was the massive tank, covered with hundreds of metallic cylinders.

  "Run!" Krysty yelled, backing away. Instantly, there was a hissing sound from Leviathan and from the ground underneath them. The redhead weaved drunkenly and then dropped.

  "No!" Mildred screamed in frustration. She suddenly realized that the entire courtyard had to be one huge trap! Holding her breath, the physician tried to race away on melting legs and fell onto the cobblestones, taking the unconscious Ryan with her.

  Spitting curses, Doc collapsed, followed by Dean, Jak and Shard. In raw desperation, J.B. wildly fired the Thompson at the ropes holding the canvas awning in place, hoping to cut it loose and let in the wind to disperse the gas. But the shots ricocheted harmlessly off the granite and only a single rope was parted. The world began to spin around him, and the stubborn Armorer tried once more to trigger the weapon as he gently floated off into a bottomless hole of warm inky blackness.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The long windowless corridor was lined with wall torches and electric lights. A plush blue carpet covered the stone floor, and every five yards a grating closed off the passageway with sec men standing rigidly at attention behind iron kiosks. The lieutenant hurried along the corridor, the sec men rushing to open the grates for him, and then hurrying to close them behind. No password wa
s asked for, or given. The dire expression on his face was more than enough security clearance.

  The corridor opened to a small room with a squad of sec men in attendance. All gambling stopped as they silently watched his approach with growing trepidation. Two heavily armed guards flanked a high-vaulted portal suitable as a bank-vault door.

  The large sec men stood at parade rest, the butt of the M-16s resting next to the soles of their boots, the barrel held in a tight grip a full arm's distance from their spotless uniforms.

  "Lieutenant Anders," the officer said crisply, "to see the deputy and lady ward."

  "Password," the corporal guard muttered, his black face without expression. It was as if he had been carved from obsidian.

  "Raincloud."

  "Pass," said the white private. "And good luck."

  The lieutenant paused, his hand an inch away from the door. "They're in a bad mood?"

  "Been talking to their father," the corporal said, still staring straight ahead.

  Sighing, Anders polished his boots on the back of his trousers, then exhaled into the palm of his hand to check his breath. Straightening his collar, and adjusting his dress uniform of Army fatigues with gold epaulets, he knocked firmly on the door and stepped through without waiting for a response.

  WHATEVER FUNCTION the audience room had originally been used for was impossible to tell, after so many generations of decoration and alteration. There were countless tapestries and embroidered curtains, some hiding secret doorways, some covering blank wall space to confuse invaders. A fireplace large enough to roast a person stood on either side of the cavernous room, yet walking along the slim blue ribbon of carpeting Anders could feel no heat from the crackling flames. Overhead, the cathedral-style ceiling was dotted with crystal chandeliers, bathing the place in the unnatural illumination of electricity. A chained pack of pit bulls was growling in a corner, chewing on some femur bones and tiny skulls. In the opposite corner sat a strictly utilitarian nest of sandbags fronting a squat and ugly large caliber machine gun called a Maxwell. A three-man team stood behind the machine ready to unleash its awesome destructive powers.

  Ten steps, pause, ten steps, pause. Anders exactly followed the formula for approaching the presence of the ward and his heirs. Their massive chairs rested on a raised marble dais. In one chair sprawled the lady ward, half dressed as usual, although heaven and hell save the commoner who noticed her lack of clothing. Young servants were brushing her hair and massaging her feet as Amanda sipped wine from a golden chalice and stared angrily at the lieutenant. Not a good sign.