Deathlands 075: Shatter Zone

by James Axler

  “My lord, no one has ever survived that many strokes,” Stirling interjected. “Perhaps, we could—”

  “You heard the ruling,” the baron said in a flat voice. “The same law is for all men. There are no exceptions. None! Not even for those of my bloodline.

  “Such as it is,” the baron added softly in disgust.

  Saying nothing, Mildred and Doc both looked sick at the dire pronouncement, but the rest of the companions accepted it without a qualm. For sec men, discipline was a hard fact of life. When Ryan and J.B. traveled with the Trader, they had both chilled people for cowardice or some other crime—theft, drunk on duty, or rape. The weakness of one guard could get everybody else chilled in their sleep. The sec men stood strong, or the ville fell. The equation for life was as simple as that.

  “Proceed with the punishment at once,” the baron commanded, turning away. Then he added over a shoulder, “If…if my nephew lives, take him to the Citadel to recover. If not, inform my sister and burn the body outside the wall.”

  “Uncle!” Davies cried out, struggling against his bonds. But the sec men holding him were much larger, and both knew that if the prisoner should escape, they would take his place on the whipping post.

  On the roof of the three buildings, sec men stood with longblasters in their hands. The scene occurring below was none of their concern. They watched the walls and the sky. Clouds were gathering on the horizon and rain was imminent. Whether or not it was acid rain, could only be told when the first telltale whiff of sulfur was carried on the heralding wind.

  The baron started toward the central building. “This way to your rooms,” he said, his pace neither quickening nor slowing.

  Watching the one-armed man walk away, Ryan knew that the baron was trying to show he had no feelings on the matter, like any good ruler. The law was the law. Period. End of discussion. But O’Connor’s posture told the world how deep was his sorrow at the craven act of cowardice. The one-eyed man tried to imagine what would have been his reaction if his nephew had run away from a fight, but found the idea impossible to conjure. Nathan was a Cawdor, and would gladly die to protect his ville.

  “Uncle, please…” Davies whispered plaintively, the words dying on the desert breeze.

  “Tie him to the post,” Stirling ordered, going to the wooden stake and removing a coiled length of leather from a peg.

  The two guards shoved the prisoner along and lashed his bound wrists securely to the iron rings. With his hands raised, Davies barely reached the ground, his boots resting on their toes.

  Crossing to the whipping post, Doc pulled an empty leather ammo pouch from his pocket. “Bite hard on this,” he suggested to the prisoner. “It will stop you from screaming.”

  Panic was wild in the sec man’s eyes, but Davies opened his mouth and accepted the gift.

  “Be sure to count between the strokes,” Doc added softly. “Then tense before each one hits. It will make them hurt more, but do less damage. Be brave, and you will live.”

  Starting to drip sweat, Davies grunted in reply.

  Darkness swept across the ville as the setting sun moved behind some dark clouds, the shadows rich in wild hues. The civies on the Square started to leave, casting fearful glances at the rumbling sky.

  “Sir, is that allowed?” a sec man asked frowning. “The outlander giving Davies—”

  Flicking his wrist, the sec chief made the whip crack loudly on the ground. Dust puffed up from the hit.

  “What outlander?” Stirling asked, coiling the smooth length. “Private, there is nobody here, but you two, me and the prisoner. Right?”

  “Absolutely, sir,” the second guard said stiffly.

  “Good.” Stirling tested the whip once more on the ground. “Okay, let’s get this started.”

  Pulling knives, the two guards started to cut away the bound man’s shirt, exposing a back already covered with old, badly healed scars. Obviously, this wasn’t the man’s first taste of punishment.

  “Let’s go,” Ryan said, turning to leave.

  But Doc stayed near the prisoner, watching the preparations. His hand began to move toward the blaster on his hip.

  “Now, Doc,” Ryan ordered in a tone he rarely used on a friend.

  That jarred the Vermont scholar. Almost reluctantly, Doc let go of the LeMat and rejoined the others. “Barbaric,” he muttered under his breath.

  “And not necessary,” J.B. added, starting across the darkening Square. “Davies should have been quietly aced in the ruins. A public beating like this only makes the civies nervous.”

  “Bad for ville,” Jak agreed.

  “Good God, sir, is that all torture means to you?”

  “This isn’t torture, Doc, but punishment,” Ryan replied without any emotion. “Besides, I really don’t give a flying fuck what they do to a bastard coward. A sec man who runs is worse than any invading cold-heart.”

  Just then the crack of a whip split the air, closely followed by the muffled grunt of pain.

  “I took sixty once,” Doc said in a whisper, a hand going to touch his ribs. “Passed out at that point, and they let me be. Even Cort Strasser had a touch of mercy.”

  “Or mebbe it wasn’t any fun for him without a scream,” J.B. commented pragmatically.

  Solemnly, Doc said nothing, but nodded at the possibility. That was a part of his life the time traveler would rather forget entirely.

  “At least we can be sure there’s no woodchipper,” Mildred said with a sigh. “If they didn’t feed the idiot into a grinder for this transgression, then we’re safe enough.”

  “Guess so,” Krysty added with a scowl. “But it’s a hell of a way to find out.”

  The sound of leather on flesh came again, but there was no noise this time from Davies.

  As the companions entered the front doors of the middle building, lightning flashed in the distance. Thunder boomed a few seconds later. There could be no doubt that a storm was brewing in the north and that it would arrive very soon.

  * * *

  Chapter Fourteen

  A low hum could be heard as swirling electronic mists filled the mat-trans chamber, building, increasing, sparkling with a million tiny star points of bright light. Then just as quickly as it appeared, the quantum fog sank into the solid floor, exposing Delphi.

  Striding from the chamber, the man briskly entered the antechamber, the bottom of his white robe moving around his moccasins like foaming water. Delphi had checked the chamber and couldn’t find any trace of the jump sickness that hit unauthorized travelers, which meant that either Tanner and his people had solved the secret of a controlled jump or this was one of the many traps laid throughout the system for the escaped prisoner.

  Checking his palm monitor, Delphi saw that this color redoubt was in Arizona. The Zone, as it was called in these barbaric days. He almost smiled. Excellent. The Rogans were very close. Soon, Tanner would be captured alive and then…

  Delphi eagerly entered the control room and stopped. Kicked into a corner was the smashed remains of probe droid, a USB cable lying nearby.

  Kneeling on the floor, he gently laid out the largest pieces, trying to reconstruct the device. A lot of the camouflage chassis was reduced to pieces too small to utilize, but a few chunks were relatively intact. A neat hole penetrated the chassis on one side, the other totally smashed. Then among the circuit boards and thinking wires, he saw an irregular lump of metal that was clearly a bullet. The cyborg boosted his vision and swept the room, but couldn’t find the ejected brass from a pistol. Didn’t Tanner use a black-powder weapon? No, wait, the albino and redhead carried revolvers. Okay, mystery solved. The machine had to have found Tanner, but his companions shot the probe before it could link with the main computers and relay a message to Operation Chronos.

  Slowly, Delphi stood. Excellent. The less Chronos knew, the better it was for TITAN, and for Department Coldfire.

  Going to a security outlet, Delphi jacked himself into the system and his left eye began fli
ckering through the video cameras secreted in every room. Soon, it was obvious that Tanner and his people weren’t present. Then he found the broken Vulcan minigun, and checked inside the Deep Storage Locker. As expected, it had been looted. Double checking the inventory numbers of the munitions boxes, he scowled at the sight of the empty case that had once held implosion grenades. But if the test subject was armed with real weaponry…

  Switching to an external view, Delphi cursed at the sight of the exploded U.S. Army Hummer inside the ruined tunnel, a Balisk-class guardian reduced to its smashed cybernetic framework. Oddly, the guardian hadn’t been killed by implosion grenades. Then he realized the truth. They had sent the Hummer through the blast door loaded with high explosives. Damn, these people were smart! Perhaps too smart?

  Changing to the exit door of the tunnel, Delphi couldn’t find any indication that Tanner had departed the tunnel this way. Strange. Backtracking through the entire length of the access tunnel, Delphi paused at the sight of a ragged hole in the flooring. An explosion crater. He tried to get a view into the depths, hoping to find the rotting bodies of the people, but the angle was impossible. No choice then.

  Disconnecting from the system, Delphi left the control room and headed for the elevators. Wherever Tanner went, he would follow. But first… Using his cybernetic implants, Delphi mentally sent a string of encoded commands to the main computer of the military redoubt.

  A few moments later, a hidden wall panel slid aside on the bottom level, and another Balisk-class guardian rolled into view, the gelatinous biowep moving to rendezvous with its new master.

  THE BRIGHT LIGHT of alcohol lanterns illuminated the interior of the Two-Son building. Ryan couldn’t see the baron anywhere. Baron O’Connor either needed to be alone right now or he had more pressing business at hand. Most likely, it was a mix of the two.

  “Good evening, honored guests,” a wrinklie said, shuffling forward with a lantern in her hand. She smiled, displaying a mouth full of missing teeth. “I’m Suzette, the head maid for the Citadel.”

  Her dress appeared to be made of window drapes and her moccasins were worn thin in spots, but she was clean, well-fed and carrying a large machete hanging at her side. Obviously, this was a highly valued member of staff. Few barons armed their maids.

  “Good evening, dear lady,” Doc replied, bowing slightly.

  Unaccustomed to such things, Suzette blushed at the courtesy. “Please come this way,” the old woman said, starting toward an open stairwell. The door had been removed and the concrete steps were covered with red carpeting that looked like it came from a movie theater.

  “The baron has given you a room on the second floor, which is quite an honor. That’s where his family lives,” Suzette said with obvious questions in the words. Who were these ragged rists to receive such an honor?

  Brushing back his thick black hair, Ryan snorted in reply. Honor, his ass. The truth was that the baron just wanted to keep the companions under observation. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer, as the ancient saying went.

  At the first landing, Suzette pushed open a door adorned with a painting of a screaming eagle, then entered a hallway well lit with lanterns set into wall niches with pieces of mirrors behind. The reflected light filled the hall bright as any halogen or fluorescent tube inside a redoubt.

  “Somebody must have read the biography of Thomas Edison,” Mildred said out of the corner of her mouth.

  “I can only agree, madam,” Doc replied.

  At the far end of the corridor were several armed men behind a sandbag bunker. A pair of drapes were pulled apart to reveal a door bearing the eagle design, only done in more colors and in much greater detail.

  “Ah, the west wing.” Mildred chuckled, shifting her backpack.

  “Oh, no, madam, that’s the southside,” Suzette corrected primly, going to a door bearing the hand-painted sign Royil Gest Rom.

  Ill amused, Doc exhaled at the horrible spelling, but said nothing. That wouldn’t have been polite for a “guest” in any century.

  Going inside, Suzette hurried about lighting more lamps, then removed several tiny predark bars of hotel soap that she laid reverently on the washstand next to a crystal punchbowl, along with a matching carafe filled with clean water. The walls were covered with paintings of Two-Son when it had been called Tucson, as well as a collection of portraits of unknown people. A sideboard had several liquor bottles without labels, and a dozen slightly cracked drinking glasses on a silver tray.

  Immediately, Jak began a sweep of the wall, studying the pictures very closely.

  “If you need anything, just ring the bell,” Suzette directed, gesturing at a brass fixture that had to have been liberated from a firehouse. “Dinner will be ready soon. Baron O’Connor requests your presence at your earliest convenience.”

  “Thank you, that will be all,” Ryan told her, looking around the place. The woman gave a curtsy, something the man hadn’t seen in some time, and left the companions alone.

  The internal walls had been removed from the office to make one large room. There was some brickwork along the former divisions, and Ryan could only hope the people who did the modifications knew what they were doing and the whole place wouldn’t come crashing down on their heads in the middle of the night. A long row of ten beds lined the opposite wall, piles of sheets, pillows and blankets already laid out and waiting. A plastic bucket with a snap-on lid was placed discreetly under a wooden stool with a hole in the middle. Its purpose was obvious.

  “Not exactly trying to impress us with their wealth, are they?” Krysty said, gratefully dropping her backpack onto the floor.

  “Actually,” J.B. answered slowly, chewing a lip, “I think they are.”

  “No spy holes,” Jak reported, doffing his own backpack. The teenager straightened his shoulders, then gently rubbed the bandage on his head. “Starting itch,” he complained.

  “I’ll fix that,” Mildred replied, searching in her med kit.

  Sitting the teen down in an office chair, she got busy with the bandages and soon the bloody wrapping was replaced.

  “Better,” Jak said in relief. “Thanks.”

  Taking turns, the companions washed as best they could in the punch bowl. Ryan went last, carefully removing his gloves before gingerly washing his red hands clean, then applying more lotion before donning the leather gloves again. Mildred had been right. His fingers were feeling better every day, and once his arm healed, he would be in good shape.

  Ringing the bell summoned a young serving girl. Doc asked for more water, and she returned with a full bucket. Thanking her profusely, Doc tried to shoo the servant away, but she kept smiling shyly at the scholar and pretended to misunderstand him until Krysty took the girl by the collar and marched her out of the room.

  “I think you made a conquest there, you silver-tongued devil.” Mildred chuckled in amusement.

  “What? Do not be absurd, madam,” Doc admonished, carrying the bucket to the washstand to exchange the used water for fresh. “I am old enough to be her father, grandfather!”

  “Which only means you’re smart enough to stay alive, and rich enough to have two blasters,” Mildred teased, trying to hide a grin. “That makes you quite a catch these days.”

  Turning his back on the physician, Doc merely grunted in reply, not trusting his tongue to discuss the matter. He was married back in his time, but had been with several women in the present.

  Taking turns, the companions rinsed their clothing, then hung the garments over the frames of the portraits to dry, and to cover any possible spy holes they might have missed. After putting on fresh clothing, everybody checked their weps.

  After adjusting his fedora, J.B. placed his backpack in the middle of a bed, then rigged a gren underneath.

  “Antipers?” Ryan asked with a scowl, buckling his gunbelt.

  “Nope, just a stun gren,” J.B. replied, minutely adjusting the spring trip taken from a mousetrap. “But we’ll be able to hear the bang
outside, and the flash will blind anybody in the room.”

  “Good enough. We don’t want to blow the rest of our stuff to hell and gone just to sound the alarm.”

  “I got it covered.”

  Leaving the guest room, the companions found Suzette impatiently waiting for them in the hallway.

  “This way!” she announced, leading them up a flight of carpeted stairs to what seemed to once have been a suite of conference rooms but was now the baron’s dining hall.

  This carpeting was a rich blue, clean and in good condition. More alcohol lanterns lined the walls, but this time full mirrors had been placed behind them to double the brightness. The wallpaper was slightly faded, but the elaborate design was still discernable, and there was an enormous skylight in the center of the ceiling. Luminescent clouds were flowing past the twinkling stars, and lightning flashed somewhere off to the side.

  There were no armed guards in here, but plenty of longblasters rested in open gunracks for fast access. Bare swords decorated every wall, along with Medieval shields and a couple of full suits of armor.

  “Those must have been scaved from some museum,” Ryan guessed softly. “Probably where they got that first catapult, too.”

  “Well, it’s not the Beverly Wiltshire Hilton,” Mildred observed dryly.

  Set in the middle of the room was a long conference table covered with a clean white cloth and intact china plates. Silver candelabra held clusters of sputtering tapers, the soft yellow light mixing with the alcohol lantern to give a pleasant combination of illumination.

  Privately, Doc wondered if everybody in the ville lived in such sumptuous plenty, and wisely decided that it wasn’t likely. Rank did have its little privileges.

  “Good evening,” Baron O’Connor said, gesturing from the head of the table. “Please, be seated.”

  As the companions walked closer, they studied the other people watching their approach. Sec Chief Stirling was to the left of the baron, and alongside him was a dour-faced man of indeterminate age, and several woman. Across from them were two children barely into their teens.