by James Axler
Baron Thulia snorted through delicate nostrils. He was much like the atmosphere of the extreme Northeastern territories he claimed—impenetrable. A white wisp of a man, his thin, feathered hair resembled a patina of early-morning frost, and his movements reminded Erica of the shifting of mist. "Let us dispense with the amenities and fripperies, then. We all know why we are here."
Without preamble, Erica said flatly, "I've completed the calculations. By the model I constructed, all of you have a maximum of three months of relative health and vitality left to you. After that, I can only approximate the degree of deterioration. That depends upon your individual metabolisms. Regardless, your autoimmune systems will definitely fail. I believe it is safe to say that inside of eight months, the entire oligarchy will be dead."
None of the barons spoke for a long time. A high, wild tittering from Baron Sharpe broke the silence. He put his fingers to his mouth as if to cram the giggling back in. "Pardon me," he murmured, then he giggled again.
The barons ignored the outburst. Of all the oligarchy, Sharpe displayed the most human range of emotional characteristics, all of them unstable. He was driven by capricious whims and ridiculous impulses. They all knew of his bizarre delusion that he had died before and crossed back and was therefore immortal. He was further distinguished by the fact he was the only baron other than Cobalt who had faced off against Kane.
"The Dulce facility is beyond repair?" Baron Beausoleil inquired.
The woman's black hair, pulled back from a pronounced widow's peak on her high forehead, fell down her back as straight as a frozen flow of India ink. Her teardrop-shaped face was of marble whiteness, and her slanting eyes were a deep violet in color. Those eyes, rich with suspicion, flicked back and forth between Cobalt and Sharpe.
Erica had wondered a time or two why Beausoleil had not taken the title of baroness, but she supposed it had something to do with the patriarchal tradition of the ruling class. More than likely, only her personal staff in her ville knew she was female.
Samarium answered her question. "The damage is, for all intents and purposes, total."
"How do you know?" Baron Palladium inquired.
He had a languid, scholarly manner about him, but there was nothing relaxed in his gimlet hard green eyes. He was frightened.
"Brother Sharpe and I toured it a short time ago. The nursery and gestation facilities are completely unusable and unrepairable. Therefore, it is far more logical to relocate what can be salvaged to a new installation."
Rather heavyset for a hybrid, Baron Mande shifted in his chair. The expression on his face was one of perpetual disapproval. "If one exists. None of the redoubts in our territories has the necessary equipment to begin immediate treatment. And then there is the lack of material with which to work—"
"Yes," Baron Snakefish broke in. "That is another subject with which we must deal." Long hair as yellow as flax was tied back with a coil of silver, and his piercing silver-gray eyes bored in on Cobalt. "The limited supply of genetic material stored in Dulce was destroyed. Even if we located another properly outfitted installation in any of our territories, we no longer have an efficient method by which to harvest and transport replacement merchandise/'
He employed the old euphemism for raw human tissue and organs. Snakefish dropped his voice to a ghostly, sepulchral croon as he addressed Baron Cobalt. "However, there are inefficient ways. For example, two days ago I received a strange report from my Outlands territories. A seaside settlement had been completely wiped out. Massacred. Oddly, only the infirm and the old were killed.
"Further investigation deeper into the zone turned up a number of dead Magistrates. Curiously, several of them carried ville scrip." The man paused and added almost nonchalantly, "Cobaltville scrip."
One by one, the eyes of the assembled barons turned toward Cobalt, who sat with his slender arms crossed over his chest. His face acquired an expression of detached amusement.
"So," Baron Snakefish continued, "if you were wondering when your troops would return, allow me to set your mind at rest. They will never come back. Whoever killed them made certain of that."
' 'My lord, I believe your family is waiting for some kind of explanation," Erica van Sloan ventured.
Baron Cobalt's brow ridges arched. "I owe no one an explanation, Adviser. However, for the sake of discussion, let us assume for the nonce I dispatched a squad of Magistrates to brother Snakefish's territory.''
"If so," Baron Palladium intoned, his voice silky soft and menacing, "let us assume you intentionally violated the treaty."
"Treaties made nearly a century ago did not take into account matters of survival," Cobalt retorted coldly. "Each and every one of us has the right to defend their villes. And to do so we must stay alive. And to stay alive, we must take drastic action."
He nodded, tilting his crested headpiece in the direction of the one vacant chair. "Consider what has happened to the late brother Ragnar's ville since his unfortunate assassination. All the decision and policy making is in the hands of his staff and his division administrators. All of them humans."
The last word passed his lips like a drop of venom. "Word has leaked out the baron is dead. Riots in the Pits are daily occurrences, chaos runs unchecked. Do we wish the same fate for our own villes? A return to the anarchy of the Deathlands?"
"It is not our place to violate the treaty, regardless of the cause," Beausoleil snapped. "Such crises are within the purview of the Archon Directorate."
Cobalt chuckled, but the sound did not warm the blood. It was a low, dry rustle of contempt. "I am both shocked and saddened that any of you still subscribe to that pathetic belief. You are like human children praying to a savior for deliverance. There is no Archon Directorate. I doubt if ever there was. Keep in mind that everything we were led to believe about the Directorate was conveyed to us by—" he cut his eyes over to Erica "—humans."
Erica felt paralyzed by shock, but she was able to mask it. She had never totally accepted the hard reality of the so-called Archons, regardless of what she had been told upon her resurrection. She had focused on the hybrid barons themselves, their physiology, linguistic modes and social patterns.
Whatever they really were, mutants or the final phase of a genetic experiment, they were intrinsically superior to man, but less effective, as well. Without the supervision of the Archon Directorate, the superior qualities of the barons would eventually breed superior ambition, even though none of them had ever displayed such behavior before.
Never had it occurred to her that any of the barons would ever doubt the existence of the Archons. With a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach, she realized that regardless of their indoctrination, not even the nine barons really knew who the Archons were or where they came from.
Eventually it would occur to them how they actually knew little more than the same dogma they shared with members of the Trust, the inner circle of their respective villes. However, she was less disquieted by Baron Cobalt's sneering dismissal than by the lack of outraged reaction to it among the others. She then understood all of them had reached the same conclusion as he had.
"With all due respect, my lord," Erica rasped, "if you are not a bridge between the Archons and humanity, then what are you? From whence do you come?"
Cobalt's eyes blazed with haughty, imperious anger. "Why ask me, Adviser?" he hissed. "You should know the answer to that better than I, better than any of us."
Erica did not reply and decided to say nothing more. As an adviser, her authority was purely informal. She was not safe from the wrath of any of the barons.
Cobalt returned his attention to the assembly. "In the past few months we've witnessed the most blatant examples of violence against the baronies since the institution of the unification program. Where are the Archons?"
Everyone elected to remain silent.
"I believe all of you have suspected the same thing as I," Baron Cobalt declared. "As
the baronial hierarchy acts the control mechanism for the human race, the myth of the all-seeing, all-powerful Archon Directorate acted as the control mechanism for the barons. Our belief in them curbed our individual initiative."
"That is what you call covertly sending your troops to my territory—individual initiative?" Baron Snake-fish snapped.
"No," Cobalt retorted. "I call it insuring my survival."
Thulia eyed him distrustfully. "How? Even if you abducted the healthy people from the settlement, without processing facilities your actions are pointless and unconscionable. If the rest of us so desire, we can interpret such an incursion as an act of war."
Baron Cobalt favored him with a thin, smug smile. "Declaring war on the one man who can save you— all of you—would be the pointless act, my brother."
That self-confident, arrogant pronouncement elicited a scandalized reaction from the barons at the conference table. The babble of suspicious questions, demands for clarification and aspersions on Cobalt's sanity reached a point where all of them spoke at once. Although Erica felt it was her duty to restore some kind of order, her voice was not strong enough to be heard over the cacophony. Besides, she wasn't inclined to draw attention to herself.
Baron Cobalt sat through it all, smiling his coldly aloof smile. Finally, when the questions and insults trailed away, he declared, "Unlike the rest of you, once I learned of the destruction of the Dulce facility, I did not enter into a state of denial or wait for the Archon Directorate to save me. I embarked on a search for an alternative."
"As did we all," Samarium growled.
"Unlike you," Cobalt continued, "I found one."
Baron Mande leaned forward, his eyes wide. "Where?" he demanded skeptically. "Not the Anthill."
"No. My scouts reported that place would be useless to our needs."
Snakefish's lips twisted in anger. "You sent scouts there?"
Erica van Sloan understood his anger. The Anthill was the one place forbidden to the barons, shrouded in so much secrecy it became a taboo. Since all the villes were standardized, equally matched in terms of technology and firepower to maintain a perfect balance of power, none of the barons dared mention what unclaimed wonders might still lie within Mount Rush-more.
Even a word of wonder about it might be construed as a tendency toward ambition, something strictly forbidden by the tenets of the Program of Unification.
"Why shouldn't I?" Baron Cobalt shot back. "The installation is within my territorial jurisdiction, is it not? So, yes, I sent scouts not just there, but to all redoubts on record that were connected to bioengi-neering research."
"And?" Beausoleil inquired, a challenging edge to her voice.
Cobalt fluttered a dismissive hand. "Useless, all useless. During unification, everything of value was moved out of mem and into Dulce. However, I managed to locate one facility that played host to a number of Totality Concept-related projects at one time or another—including Excalibur.
"Although its medical equipment is not as advanced as that in Dulce, and will require some additional work, the place will adequately serve our needs."
"Where is it?" Palladium demanded. "How did you find it?"
"To answer your questions in reverse order," Baron Cobalt replied smoothly, "I simply knew where to look. My former high adviser was senior archivist in the Historical Division. He was an antiquarian of unchallenged erudition and knew the location of every major secret base of predark America.
"After he disappeared from the ville, I had all of his personal papers and computer files analyzed. It took quite a bit of time, but that's how I found it. As for where it is—" the cold smile stretched into an equally cold grin of malicious triumph "—that you will only learn if you meet my terms."
He surveyed the high-planed aristocratic faces staring at him, now all contorted in expressions of shock, fury and incredulity. Baron Sharpe laughed as if Cobalt had just reached the punchline of a particularly clever joke. "Well played, brother!"
Cobalt's grin vanished. "It's no game. The rule of the barons has reached a crossroads, a crisis undreamed-of by the drafters of the unification articles. All the established procedures, laws and protocols are meaningless. We cannot appeal to a higher authority, inasmuch as we all seem to be in agreement that the Archon Directorate does not exist. Therefore, an entirely new set of rules must be developed and applied if we are to continue to hold the reins of power."
"What do you propose?" Baron Thulia demanded.
Leaning back in his chair, Cobalt steepled his inhumanly long fingers beneath his pointed chin. "I propose we adopt and adapt lessons from ancient history. The Roman Empire was governed by a senate but ruled by an emperor. I propose we revive that system."
"With you," inquired Beausoleil darkly, "as the imperator?"
Cobalt nodded gravely. "I shall serve as the final arbiter in matters pertaining to ville government. Before, we always acted interdependently, unified in name only. Now we will establish a central consortium."
Face suffused with the blood of rage, Palladium said, "You suggest we become your viceroys, plenipotentiaries in our own territories?"
"Is that so onerous? You were content to serve as plenipotentiaries for the Archon Directorate, were you not? This is no different, except now you know exactly who is the guiding authority." Cobalt paused, then added gently, "And since a slow, painful and more than likely a disgusting death is your only alternative, I think you can learn to accept it."
The barons exchanged silent, wary glances. They looked toward Erica expectantly.
"Her input is unimportant. She has nothing to do with us," Cobalt snapped.
"We must have proof of your claims," Mande said.
"I realize that. I shall provide it—but only after I receive your assurances of cooperation."
Beausoleil cleared her throat. "A vote must be taken."
"Then do so," Baron Cobalt said impatiently. "A show of hands or a secret ballot will suffice. Just get on with—"
His lips suddenly writhed back over his small, perfect teeth, and a cry of pain burst from his mouth. Voice high and wild, he said, "Get out of my head—"
As the barons and Erica van Sloan watched, shocked into speeehlessness, Cobalt fell forward onto the table, his headpiece rolling off and falling to the floor. He clasped the sides of his head as if he feared his skull would break apart. Blue veins throbbed in his temples. His "Stop it!" was a pleading cry of agony.
A voice spoke, a hoarse, scratchy whisper. "A vote will not be necessary."
All heads turned toward the doorway. Erica puffed air into the control to turn her chair. Every eye was glued to the pair of figures framed in the doorway, backlit by the muted lighting of the corridor. Neither figure was tall, but both of them carried a palpable aura of otherworldliness.
Both of their bodies were draped in flowing robes of a yellow saffron hue, almost identical to those worn by the barons. They did not wear headpieces; hooded cowls cast their faces in deep shadow.
The two figures stepped into the council room, the taller of the pair holding the hand of the smaller as if he were a toddler. He wasn't much larger than a five-year-old child. Erica, dimly aware that her hair was standing up stiffly on the scalp, noticed how they walked with the same kind of bizarrely beautiful dan-ceresque grace possessed by the barons.
Baron Snakefish was the first to recover a modicum of his emotional equilibrium and a trace of his arrogance. "How dare you interrupt this conference? Who are you?"
The taller figure lifted a slender arm. Six long, spi-dery fingers, all nearly the same length, pushed back the cowl. A low cry came from Baron Cobalt's lips when the head was revealed.
The figure's high, domed cranium narrowed to an elongated chin. His skin bore a faint grayish-pink cast, stretched drum-tight over a structure of facial bones that seemed all cheek and brow, with little in between but two great upslanting eyes like black pools. His nose was vestigial,
and his small mouth only a tight, lipless slash. The huge, tear-shaped dark eyes regarded them alertly. His slit of a mouth parted. A voice issued from it, a faint, strained whisper.
"I am Balam," he said. "I am here to answer your questions about the Archon Directorate…and settle the matter of who shall lead you."
Chapter 18
The sky was a heavy, leaden gray. The snow flurries had stopped, but the wind still whipped around the high peaks, gusting over the plateau and rattling the scraps of chain-link fence. It blew over the cracked tarmac, sluicing the drifts over the far edge and down into a hell-deep abyss.
The snow sifted in thin blankets over the two gravesites on the slope at the opposite side of the plateau. The headstones glistened damply in the diffuse sunlight. Brigid stood between the two sites, her back to Beth-Li's grave. The fabricated markers bore only their last names, Cotta and Rouch. There were no other inscriptions, no birth or death dates, no poetry. She wondered briefly how many more such austere markers Farrell would fashion in the redoubt's workshop before their work was done.
When Brigid first awakened from her coma, she did not recall that Cotta was dead despite the fact she had witnessed his dismemberment in Antarctica by the mind-controlled Jacko. Curiously, though, she remembered Beth-Li Rouch was dead, even though she had not seen Domi drown her in the swimming pool.
Swallowing a sigh, she tucked her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket and slowly surveyed the plateau. Recessed within the rock face of the mountain peak, vanadium alloy gleamed beneath peeling camo paint.
Redoubt Bravo, as it was officially designated, was from outward appearances only a sec door within stone. Surrounded by a wilderness of trees, house-sized boulders and grass, it seemed no more than a broad, wind-scoured plateau enclosed by the remains of a fence and rusted-out metal stanchions that had once been steel guardrails.
A narrow road looped and curved away from the plateau, twisting down like a path cut by a broken-backed snake writhing in its death throes. One side of the road butted up against the great, overhanging crags, and the other bordered sheer cliffs, formed when acres of mountainside collapsed during the nuke-triggered earthquakes of nearly two centuries ago.
