by James Axler
A thousand tons of granite and shale thundered down into the gorge floor, boulders skipping and bouncing. Dimly, above the grinding rumble and crash, Kane heard the screams of Roamers as they were crushed and buried beneath the falling cliff.
A boulder almost the size of the Hotspur rumbled end over end past him. Kane sprinted madly toward a jutting shelf of stone projecting five feet above the ground. He ducked as a small rock no larger than a pumpkin hurtled over his head and smashed itself into five pieces against the blacktop road.
He bounded at the ledge, clawed at the rim and heaved himself atop it to huddle in a shallow depression beneath an overhang. Before a whirling dust cloud obscured his vision, he saw a wave of shattered stone sweeping across the floor of the gorge to crash like tidal surf against the base of the opposite cliff. The impact sent black cracks zigzagging through the wall of rock, triggering new falls.
Kane sheltered his face from flying fragments, squeezing his eyes half-shut against the stinging particles of pulverized rock. A couple of stone splinters nicked his hands, and an egg-sized chunk of granite fetched him a painful smack on his left hip. He crouched there as the earth heaved and trembled around him.
The shuddering crash of tumbling, rolling rock slowly faded as the avalanche bled itself out. Settling stone continued to click and grate. Lowering his arms, peering through the thick pall of dust, he saw a vast, high heap of broken earth, shale and titanic boulders completely filling the gorge. He stood ankle deep in loose dirt and pebbles. Yet only a trickle of the rock-slide had reached his ledge.
Unless the Magistratesor the Cerberus personnel, for that matterwanted to undertake a major excavation project, there was absolutely no chance of getting through the pass even with the most advanced ATVs.
Of the Roamers, he saw no sign, except for a few blood-and-grit-encrusted arms and legs protruding from the litter of the avalanche. Perspiration trickled into his eyes, burning them until he blinked it out.
"Kane!"
Brigid's voice had an odd, stereophonic quality to it, emanating from both his trans-comm and faintly, somewhere on the other side of the dust cloud.
"I'm all right," he said into the trans-comm clipped to his shirt, squinting through the shifting planes of gray powder.
"What happened?"
He coughed, fanning the air in front of his face. His tongue was coated with dust. "Looks like we chilled two birds with about a million stones. Settled the Roamer problem and blocked the pass at the same time."
"Do you need us?"
"Negative. Stay where you are. AH this shit is still settling. I'll make my way to you. Stand by."
He moved cautiously out into the rubble. His visibility was limited, and the sun was veiled by the clouds of swirling dust. The welter of chipped stone clattered loudly under his bootsso loudly he didn't hear the crunch of feet on gravel until it was too late to evade the attack.
Le Loup Garou landed a blow on Kane's left shoulder with the butt of his tap-pistol. Pain exploded up and down his arm, into the base of his neck. He heard the splintering of the trans-comm's plastic casing as he fell onto sharp-edged rocks. Training and experience turned his fall into a roll so that a clubbing hammer-blow missed his skull by mere inches.
Kane came to his feet, skidding on the pebbles and soft dirt beneath him. Not truly aiming at the shadowy figure in the dusty gloom, he pressed the trigger of the Sin Eater. It refused to move, frozen in place by tiny particles of grit
Le Loup Garou hurled his pistol at Kane, but it passed well above his head, spinning end over end. He crossed his arms at his waist, then spread them out in a flourish, a knife gripped in either fist. One was a slender stiletto barely five inches long, the other a wickedly curved, foot-long kukri with a spiked knuckle-duster hand guard.
Kane pushed the pistol back into its holster and took a long backward step as Le Loup Garou took a long forward one. The Roamer chiefs clothes hung in tatters, revealing shallow lacerations on his hairy torso. His hair was plastered with sweat, and he breathed deep through expanded nostrils. Purple veins stood out on his temples like bas-relief carvings. Froth flecked his lips, the ends of his drooping mustache. Coated from head to foot in a shroud of dust, like some gray phantom of vengeance, he said nothing.
Le Loup Garou slashed the kukri in a whistling stroke that threatened Kane's groin. As he leaned away from the mirror-bright blade, the stiletto flashed in and opened a rent in his shirt and the flesh beneath. Only his reflexes kept the knife from plunging between his ribs.
Kane backpedaled carefully, the Roamer chief following, swinging and stabbing. Both men's movements were slowed by the uncertain footing. A stone turned beneath Le Loup Garou's boot, and he stumbled. As he regained his balance, Kane's right hand shot down and closed around the nylex handle of the combat knife in its boot scabbard. His fingers touched the positive-release push button.
He whipped up the fourteen-inch, tungsten-steel, titanium-jacketed blade. The double-edged, razor-keen metal was blued so it would have reflected nothing had any light penetrated the dense canopy of floating dust.
Le Loup Garou's expression of homicidal fury didn't alter at the sight of the knife. Instead, he feinted with the kukri , thrust with the stiletto. Kane parried both blades, steel clashing loudly against steel. He kicked at the Roamer's left knee, but dirt slid beneath him and he almost fell.
He staggered, going to one knee and avoided a scything, decapitating back swing from the kukri . Kane slashed at his calves, hoping to hamstring him, but Le Loup Garou skipped backward with the agility of a wolf. His heels struck a stone, and he sat down heavily.
Kane lunged, knife held out before him. The Roamer chief launched a kick that connected solidly with his chest. Kane went with the force of the kick, threw himself to one side as a vicious follow-up swing of the kukri missed his face by a finger's width.
Both men scrambled to their feet and stood for a moment, panting and glaring, chests heaving. Le Loup Garou stank with a strong, vile smell as human as it was animal. Neither one dared to take deep breaths, fearing the dust-saturated air would trigger coughing fits. Kane knew Grant and Brigid lurked somewhere near, concealed by the curtain of grit-laden mist. With his trans-comm broken, he could only hope they would hear and follow the sound of the struggle but wouldn't distract him by calling his name.
He also hoped that when visibility improved, Grant would be near enough to shoot Le Loup Garou and so end the duel. The fight wasn't a matter of honor. The bastard had brought it upon himself by ignoring Kane's warning and refusing to withdraw when he had the chance.
Kane understood the thirst for revenge that drove the Roamer chief, but he had no sympathy for it. The man was beyond all appeals to reason or concern for his own life.
Le Loup Garou bounded to the attack again, flailing with his glittering blades. Kane parried desperately, metal clanging and rasping. One of the stiletto cuts got through his guard and sliced into his right shoulder. Fiery pain streaked down his arm.
Wrenching his body backward, he awkwardly blocked an overhead strike of the kukri . The force of the blow staggered him. As he fought to recover his balance, a large section of the rockfall collapsed beneath his weight, sliding away like a wave of earth and gravel.
Kane tried to surf it, but the dirt shifted, crumbled, and he was carried down in a head-over-heels tumble. He fell heavily on his back, and a blanket of stone-littered earth half buried him.
Coughing, blinded and nearly smothered, he struggled against the pressure of the dirt covering him from boot tips to his chest. He craned his head, desperately blinking away the kernels of grit stinging his eyes. He dug frantically with his left hand, but for every bit of dirt he scooped aside, another collapsed in its place.
Le Loup Garou leaped into view above him, standing on the crest of the pile of rubble. His weight caused more soil and stones to spill down. Kane spit and sputtered, forced to squeeze his eyes shut to keep them from filling with dirt. He swished his combat knife in menac
ing arcs.
He heard the man husk out a low chuckle, a savage, gloating sound. Kane thrashed wildly, trying to free himself from the suffocating, pinioning weight. Le Loup Garou snarled out his laughter and stomped on the lip of the earth slip. Dirt rivered down, heavy clods thudded onto Kane's chest, nearly driving all the air from his lungs.
The Roamer chief no longer cared about cutting out his heart; he was intent on burying him alive. Kane tried to find the oxygen to call out for Brigid or Grant, but only a gasping rattle passed his lips.
For an instant, images of all the enemies he had either chilled or escaped flitted through his mind. The notion that a rag-assed Roamer bastard would be the one to put him underliterallywas at once grimly amusing and humiliating.
Then he heard a smacking sound like a heavy rock dropped into mud, and the pelting of rock and soil stopped abruptly. Clearing his vision with a fast, desperate swipe of his left hand, Kane opened his eyes just in time to see Le Loup Garou plummet straight down toward him.
Instinctively Kane swept his right arm up and out. The Roamer chief fell directly onto the upthrust blade of his combat knife. Le Loup Garou hung there for a moment, folding in the middle, transfixed by the fourteen inches of steel piercing his solar plexus. Kane felt and heard the point grate against the spinal column.
Black eyes wide, they showed no expression but confusion. The man's mouth gaped open, and a sharp spur of metal glinted at the back of his throat. Bloody bubbles formed on his writhing lips. They popped, and liquid strings of scarlet drooled down onto Kane's face.
Making a wordless utterance of disgust, Kane heaved the body aside, letting it drop heavily facedown onto the ground beside him. For the first time, he saw the long wooden shaft projecting at an angle from the back of the man's neck, at the base of his skull. The arrow was tipped with bright red feathers.
Looking around, trying to work his knife free from Le Loup Garou's guts, Kane kicked at the heap of dirt trapping his legs. He calculated the arrow's trajectory and turned his head in that direction. Through a momentary part in the dust cloud, he saw a rangy form standing atop the tall, primary pile of rubble that had fallen from the gorge wall.
The man's long black hair fell in two braids halfway to his waist, and he appeared to be wearing fringed buckskin. What Kane could see of his face was painted in bright yellow jagged designs, like lightning bolts. He held a wooden bow in his right hand. He stood about thirty yards away, well within arrow range, and he held the high ground.
The man didn't nock another shaft. He gazed at Kane in silent surmise, then called out, " Wopila, hota wanagi! Wopila !"
A breeze wafted a streamer of dust in front of him. When it dissipated, the man was gone.
Kane exhaled a deep breath, then determinedly began to dig himself out. He was free to his thighs when he heard the crunch and scutter of feet above him. Dirt and pebbles pattered down, covering the part of his body he had just cleared. He swore loudly.
"Kane?" demanded Grant, his voice hoarse from inhaling dust. "Where the hell are you?"
"About six feet under if you're not careful," he called out.
Grant cautiously leaned over the edge of the earth fall, then shouted over his shoulder, "I found him."
Carefully climbing down, eyeing Le Loup Garou's arrow-impaled corpse dispassionately, Grant kneeled beside Kane. Brigid joined him a moment later. Both of them were so coated with gray dust they looked like wraiths.
As they helped to dig him out, Kane tersely told them what had occurred. Grant nodded. "I figured the Indians were on their trail. Guess they got their people back and their revenge at the same time."
Kane kicked his legs loose, crawled back a few feet, then unsteadily rose. "The bowman yelled something at me. Probably a threat to do me like the Wolfman the next time he saw me."
"What did he say?" Brigid asked.
Kane repeated the words, stumbling over the pronunciation. To his surprise, she laughed. He asked, "What's so funny, Baptiste?"
She slapped at the layer of dirt covering his clothes. Dust puffed up in little clouds. "He wasn't threatening you. He was thanking you."
Kane raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Don't tell me you speak Indian among your other languages."
"I don't, but when Lakesh told us our nearest neighbors were Sioux and Cheyenne, I read the Lakota-to-English dictionary in the database."
She didn't add that she'd memorized it. She didn't have to. Brigid Baptiste's eidetic memory had proved useful more than once over the past few months.
"What did he say?" Grant asked.
"I can't be sure, never having heard the language spoken, but I think he said, 'Thanks, gray ghost. Thanks.'"
"Gray ghost?" echoed Kane. "Why'd he call me?"
He broke off, glancing first at Brigid, then Grant, then down at himself. Judging by their appearance, he was at least as ghostly gray as they were.
Gingerly he probed at his rib cage. Though his fingertips came away shining with blood, the wound was superficial, as was the one on his shoulder.
Brigid took him by the arm. "Let's get back to the wag and treat you."
He allowed himself to be pulled along. Surveying the carnage, the vista ruin all around them, he remarked, "A job well-done is a job done well."
"Imagine that," Grant said dourly. "Especially since you were making up shit as you went along."
"We accomplished what we set out to do, didn't we?" retorted Kane.
"Of course we did," Grant drawled sarcastically. "We blocked the pass, buried some human garbage in our own little landfill and scored a public-relations coup with our nearest neighbors. You got shot at and stabbed and damn near buried alive. Yeah, I'd say we accomplished a lot."
Brigid smiled wryly, shaking dirt particles out of her mane of hair. "Regardless, you can't deny this day has been better than most."
Grant opened his mouth to voice heated rebuke, thought over her words, then closed it. She was right.
Chapter 4
Lakesh found Domi standing on the edge of the precipice. He eased out of the partially open sec door, wincing at the twinge of pain shooting across his lower back. The place where Pollard had kicked him was still sore, and though his body was tender elsewhere, his bruised kidneys flared up if he moved too quickly. He'd been lucky to have been rescued from the covert interrogation session carried out by Salvo in Cobalt-ville.
DeFore had released him from the wheelchair a few days earlier, and despite the polyethylene joints in his knees, his legs felt weak and wobbly. He walked carefully across the plateau, not wanting to startle Domi. The abyss beneath her plunged straight down a thousand feet or more to an old streambed. The rusted-out carcasses of several vehicles rested there, more than likely old personnel carriers.
His step was soft, and adjusting his eyeglasses, he paused for a moment to admire the highlights the setting sun struck on Domi's slight white form. Suddenly she turned toward him, crimson eyes blazing. Her hearing, honed from her upbringing in the Outlands to razor sharpness, detected the faint rustle of his bodysuit despite his stealthy approach.
The blaze in her eyes faded, and her lips twitched in a slightly abashed smile. Domi looked heartachingly small and fragile standing there against the awesome backdrop of the glowing western sky and towering, grim, gray rocks. Small as she was, a little over five feet tall and weighing a shade over a hundred pounds, she wasn't frail, even by the loosest definition of the word.
Her skin was perfectly white and beautiful, like a fine pearl, and her little, hollow-cheeked face was framed by ragged, close-cropped hair the color of bone. Her eyes, as bright as rubies on either side of her delicate, thin-bridged nose, looked at him with melancholy.
Like him, she wore a white, tight-fitting bodysuit. Unlike him, her right arm was crooked at the elbow and pressed tightly over her torso by a canvas body brace. Her shoulder bulged unnaturally, swathed by heavy bandages.
"Darlingest Domi," Lakesh said by way of a greeting. "You may be pushing the enve
lope of your recovery time."
Domi tried to shrug, caught herself and replied, "Been bit worse by bedbugs back home."
Lakesh didn't doubt that, since home for Domi had been a squalid settlement on the Snake River in Idaho. Guana Teague, pit boss of Cobaltville, spotted her on one of his periodic forays into the Outlands and was smitten by her exotic looks and spitfire personality. In return for smuggling her into Cobaltville, she gave him six months' sexual servitude. When Teague tried to change the terms, she cut his throat and escaped with Kane, Grant and Brigid into the Outlands. Her people back in Idaho were all dead now, murdered by the forces of the villes.
The Cerberus redoubt was now her home, though
Lakesh preferred to think of the trilevel, thirty-acre facility as a sanctuary for exiles.
Constructed in the late 1990s primarily of vanadium alloy, the redoubt boasted design and construction specs that had been aimed at making the complex an impenetrable community of at least a hundred people.
It held considerably fewer than that now, an even dozen human beings, counting Kane, Brigid and Grant. Balam couldn't be counted, inasmuch as he was a prisoner and not truly human.
The redoubt contained a frightfully well-equipped armory and two dozen self-contained apartments, a cafeteria, a decontamination center, a medical dispensary, a swimming pool and even holding cells on the bottom level. Its mat-trans gateway unit was the first one built after the prototype proved successful.
The ragged remains of a chain-link fence enclosed the plateau. Though they couldn't be seen, it was also surrounded by an elaborate system of heat-sensing warning devices, night-vision vid cameras and motion-trigger alarms. A telemetric communications array, uplinked to the very few reconnaissance satellites still in orbit, was nestled at the top of the mountain peak.
The main multiton security door opened like an accordion, folding to one side, operated by a punched-in code and a hidden lever control. Nothing short of an antitank shell could even dent the vanadium alloy.
Lakesh shivered as a chill breeze gusted up from the chasm. He'd been born in the tropical climate of Kashmir, India, more than two hundred years earlier, and his internal thermostat was still stuck there. Although he had spent a century in cryogenic stasis, and though it made no real scientific sense, he had been very vulnerable to cold ever since.
