Playfair's Axiom

by James Axler

  He thrust out his staff at the companions, who stood facing him across the plaza, with its grisly shrouded altar.

  “Death! Death is the only punishment possible. Death, moreover, in such a manner as will impress upon the enemies of Soulardville the terrible price of trespassing against us. They shall not be forgiven!”

  With some blatant prompting from the acolytes the crowd began a chant of “Death, death, death!”

  “Sure doesn’t take them long to get into it,” J.B. remarked, not bothering to keep his voice down. His companions had to strain to hear him as it was.

  “The beast lies barely hidden within every human breast,” Doc intoned.

  Brother Joseph held high his staff. The crowd fell silent.

  “We will not slaughter them all, crudely and at once,” he declared. “Oh, no. We must spread out the lessons over time. Vary the teachings, so that the utmost may be learned. Today one shall meet his or her well-deserved fate. And as a reward to you, the faithful people of Soulardville, and in celebration of the safe return of our baron to us, today’s execution will entail one of these evil intruders taking the place of our next lottery winner!”

  The crowd cheered lustily at that. Acolytes hustled forward to yank the canvas cover from the altar and roll it at one side.

  “Hum stopped, anyway,” Jak said.

  “Figured,” Ryan said.

  “And the first to suffer the just punishments for their many and hideous crimes,” the preacher declaimed in his most ringing voice, “shall be the mutie boy called Jak Lauren!”

  “You shitmouth old nuke-sucker,” Jak screamed. “I no mutie!”

  It took all the sec men on hand plus a dozen young male acolytes to beat down the companions’ furious resistance. Doc laid about himself enthusiastically with the silver lion’s head of his cane. Even J.B. climbed out of his wheelchair to jump on the back of a tall buzz-cut blond kid in a sunburst T-shirt, only to be dropped with a crack to the back of the head by a black-clad sec man.

  Garrison sauntered across the plaza to stand and watch. Even as Ryan flung himself upright from where four sec men thought they’d had him pinned to the pavement, scattering his attackers with an angry-bear roar, he could see the sec boss gesturing for his men to lay off those already brought down.

  Ryan lunged for him, but two waves of sec men crashed together in front of him. As he battered at them with his bare hands, he felt lightning blast through his own kidneys in a flash of white that filled his whole body with pain. He dropped to his knees, then a club smashed across the crown of his head and he fell on his face. The world spun and his limbs dissolved.

  A sec man knelt on his back and turned his face to watch as Jak, his arms tied behind his back, was dragged to the altar. The albino twisted savagely and managed to sink his strong teeth in the cheek of a black-garbed man. The man screamed and yanked his head back, leaving a raw patch on his face and a strip of skin in Jak’s jaws. The other sec men rained blows on the boy in fury, defying Brother Joseph’s and Garrison’s commands to stop, payback for his comrades who had injured hands when they’d grabbed Jak’s jacket.

  They laid off only when the sec boss, his sunburned face gone redder than usual, bellowed that the next to land a blow on Jak would take his place on the altar. The albino teen was left sprawled on his belly on the slab, his face hidden by hair dyed scarlet with his own blood. He was clearly breathing, Ryan could see, but unconscious.

  There was no additional ceremony today. Clearly Brother Joseph was afraid of further outbreaks. He raised his staff toward the heavens, now streaked pink and yellow and blue with sunset, and cried the invocation to King Screamwing.

  A lone black figure appeared in the sky to the north, approaching swiftly with deceptively slow beats of its long and powerful wings. If the Soulardville crowd expected another spectacle like the girl’s sacrifice a few days before, they were doomed to disappointment.

  The king came alone. Whether it was by some whim, or trick of screamwing biology, or because Brother Joseph had the knack of summoning the monstrous flock alpha alone, he left his retinue of crestless, seagull-size horrors behind. Only he descended, his wings beating with audible booms that sent down blasts of air so strong the spectators were bodily driven back.

  He didn’t deign to land, this terror-toothed monarch of the skies. He descended only far enough to sink gigantic talons into the back of Jak’s jacket. The bits of glass and steel sewn there bit into his feet. The monster screeched.

  But King Screamwing was made of stern stuff. He tightened his grip in the fabric, beat hard with his monstrous wings and bore Jak’s limp form up and away toward the black fanglike tower that was his stronghold.

  AS BEFORE, Mildred tried to clean and bind their wounds as best she could with the material at hand, by the light of a pair of candle lanterns. Garrison’s watchful presence had prevented any permanent damage being done to the rebellious prisoners. They suffered no concussions nor broken bones, just bloody contusions and bone-deep bruises that were already turning a sort of tainted rainbow of smudged and muted colors.

  It was a quiet house as night settled into Soulardville. The evening bowl of communal gruel that had been thrust through the hatch at them sat against one wall, neglected.

  Ryan sat in a corner by himself. He said nothing. He had no words to say.

  “I still can’t believe that monster could carry Jak,” Mildred said as she cleaned a cut across Doc’s forehead. “I know it managed with the girl. But still.”

  “Jak was a light lad,” Doc said. “Undoubtedly that facilitated the monster’s task in bearing him away. But truly, it staggers the mind that a creature of such prodigious size could fly itself, much less carrying such a burden.”

  Ryan found his voice. “Don’t say ‘was,’ Doc.”

  The old man drew his head back on his stalk of neck, blinking in astonishment. “Surely you do not imagine the boy still lives?”

  “Denial isn’t your style, Ryan,” Mildred said, rinsing her rag in a bowl of brown-stained water.

  “Moreover, Ryan, are you sure you want to wish such a fate upon the lad, as still to be alive in that lair of monsters?”

  “Jak isn’t dead,” he said. “And I reckon he isn’t getting eaten, either.”

  Krysty stroked his shoulder. “How can that be, lover? You know how those muties are. And the little ones, I think they’re the most vicious breed of screamwing we’ve ever encountered.”

  “Jak’s smart,” Ryan said, “and he still got his blades. When I see his body, I’ll believe he’s chilled.” “I’m with Ryan,” J.B. said. “Don’t underestimate the pale little runt.”

  Doc shook his head sadly. “I fear we have as much chance of seeing him alive again as of ever seeing his corpse, or whatever may remain. The former would require a miracle on his behalf, the latter, a miracle on ours.”

  From the door came a now-familiar pounding. They had shut the inside door, wanting to shut out the outside world and its horrors more than they wanted the extra breath of air in the still, hot evening. They couldn’t see who was knocking.

  For a moment nothing changed. Mildred went back to examining Doc’s head. The others sat.

  The pounding returned, sharper, more insistent.

  “Mebbe Strode’s come to tinker up our bruises,” J.B. said. “Mighty conscientious, that one.”

  “Doesn’t sound like her,” Ryan said. “Then again, it doesn’t sound like that stoneheart Garrison, either.”

  With massive effort he heaved himself to his feet and walked stiffly to the door. He opened it.

  Tully stood on the porch. Beside him stood a stocky guy with brown hair, brown eyes and a goatee.

  “One-Eye,” the goateed man said, “you gave us one triple pain in the ass.”

  “Here for the payback? You’re Dan E., aren’t you?”

  “Yeah, I’m Dan E.,” the man said.

  Tully unlocked the door. “Where’d you get the key?” Ryan asked.

 
“Off somebody who didn’t need it anymore,” the tall ginger-haired man said. His long face was sallow and his voice clotted with emotion.

  The sec door opened. Tully and Dan E. stepped aside. A couple of men Ryan recognized from the patrol that had captured them backed in, bent over. They dragged a pair of men in sec-squad black. The fronts of their black jerseys glistened. A shockingly bright wound gaped in each man’s throat. The stink of voided bowels filled the room, crowding all else to the corners.

  The newcomers dragged the chilled guards to the side of the room, leaving two broad gleaming smears of red on the floor.

  “Now what?” Ryan asked.

  “Done my part,” Tully said. “Much as I hate to do it, I have to tell you, thanks.”

  “Same for me,” the scavvie boss said. The pair had followed the corpses inside. “Don’t have any idea why you’d want to help us after kidnapping one of my people. Especially help us get her back.”

  “Not sure you’re going to get her back.”

  The brown eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Mebbe she’ll choose not to go.”

  “You should probably leave now,” Tully said. “We’ll take it from here. You’re not the most popular people here in Soulardville right now. Not even after hooking us up with Daniel, here.”

  “We’ll shake the dust off this place,” Ryan said, “and soon. But we’ve got some business to take care of first.”

  “What would that be?” Tully said.

  “We’ve got to get our gear, and we’ve got to help you get Emerald free. Then we’ve got to settle accounts with Brother Joseph.”

  “That’s still a pretty risky mess of doing,” Daniel E. said. “Why not just walk while you can?”

  “Because,” Ryan said, “we owe Bro Joe a debt. And like I keep telling and telling you people, we always keep our deals, and we always pay our debts.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Earl and Verle were bored.

  After a day like today, standing sentry duty flanking the door to the baronial palace was stone anticlimax.

  “You see that white-haired mutie boy scream and squirm?” Verle asked his partner. Verle was the taller and blockier, and had a dark red beard wrapped around his lantern lower jaw. “Good times, bro. Good times.”

  “Bullshit,” said Earl. He was narrow and dark-haired, with razored sideburns. He thought they went well with his sec-man black. “Wanted to see the little ones rips his guts out. That’s the real show there.”

  “Naw. You just wanna see boobies. You get hard when the bitches are tied to the alter. Don’t lie to me. I see you.”

  Earl moistened his lower lip with a quick stroke of his tongue. “So I like to see the bitches get theirs sometime. What’s wrong with that? You know what bitches’re like. Wag their little tails at you all inviting, but try to go for the goods and they push you all off like you’re covered in shit. And the baron backs them. Even Garrison backs them, when they’re holdin’ out on sec men! ‘Rule of law,’ he says. What a load of glowing night shit.”

  “Well, we got a new man in charge now,” Verle said. “Things’ll change.”

  “Yeah.” Earl licked his lips again. “I bet he tames that bitch Emerald triple-quick, now. She’s a handful, though. Mebbe he’ll need help. Mebbe he’ll, like, send somebody down here to say—”

  “Evening, boys.”

  Earl felt his eyes stand out from his skull as if they were being pulled by magnets. It was a redhead, tall and unbelievably lush bodied, with a face from a wet dream and green eyes that glowed like jewels in the lights of the lanterns hung above the door guards. Her red hair stirred restlessly about her shoulders though there wasn’t even a hint of breeze. And the front of her white shirt was pushed way, way out by what hung beneath. As Earl’s pulse quickened so hard he felt it beating like fists in his temples.

  “What’re you doin’ out?” Verle demanded hoarsely. “You’re one of them outland kidnappers, aren’t you? You should be locked down.”

  “You sec boys should know a woman has her ways,” she said, her voice throaty and low. “She also has her needs. And two strong sec studs are just what I need to help me with mine.”

  “Now, wait,” Verle said, “this ain’t right—”

  “Verle, don’t be a droolie! Look at what’s offered!”

  “I dunno. I think we need to call for backup.”

  “How’re these for backup,” the redhead said, pulling open the front of her shirt, which apparently she’d been holding shut with her hands rather than having buttoned.

  Two large pale-skinned breasts plopped out as if eager for the open air. The pink firm nipples looked at Earl like wide eyes.

  They were the last sight his own eyes saw. All-consuming blackness smashed into the back of his skull. He felt his world break apart as redness filled his vision. Then white.

  Then nothing.

  THE TALL BEARDED sec man’s eyes stood out from his face as his partner dropped forward onto his hatchet face. Mildred stood behind him with an ax, its blade dripping gore and brains and wisps of hair.

  “And that’s my rule for bastards like you,” the physician declared in a fierce whisper. “Do harm first.”

  The remaining sec man’s hand scrabbled for the blaster at his hip, but a hand clamped on his bearded lower jaw and yanked his head back hard. Then the edge of a panga was drawn across his exposed throat with such fury that it cut through arteries and windpipe and tendons.

  As she stepped daintily aside to avoid the sudden arterial gush of blood, Krysty heard steel grate on neck bones. She buttoned her white shirt quickly.

  “Good to see you still got it,” J.B. said. He had his hat tipped back on his head and was toting his big scattergun. He moved like an old man, but it thrilled Krysty’s heart to see him back in action again. And where he belonged: with them.

  “Dang,” said one of the mixed crew of Dan E.’s scavvies and Tully’s men, coming out of the shadows into the plaza behind the companions.

  Next stop would be the former baron’s bedroom.

  The palace’s front door wasn’t locked. Mildred turned the handle and opened it quietly. Doc was first inside. He had his cane stuck through his belt, his LeMat handblaster in one big knobby-knuckled hand, his sword in the other. Mildred came next, holding the bloody ax across her chest. Hastily finishing up the front of her shirt, Krysty drew her S&W 640 and went in after. Ryan had knelt briefly to wipe his blade clean on the seat of the fallen door guard’s trousers. Now he brought up the rear, panga sheathed, SIG in hand.

  Doc stopped to sweep the darkened entry room and dining hall with his handblaster. J.B. checked the other direction. Mildred took up station at the bottom of the stairs. A curious rhythmic sound came down, similar to the noise the strange night creatures made in the trees of the shattered metropolis.

  Without a word Ryan blew in like the wind and up the stairs, followed by Krysty.

  All this happened with no talk and little noise. Bro Joe might not think it necessary to lock his front door, but he had a couple of guards on his bedchamber. These sat in chairs with their heads nodded to their chests, snoring. That accounted for the cicada sounds.

  “Huh?” said the one on Krysty’s right. His eyes blinked once, then his head snapped up. He reached for his handblaster.

  Krysty shot him in the gaping mouth, and his head snapped aback against the wall. Blood blossomed around it on the brick.

  Ryan backhanded the other out of his chair. As the guard scrambled to clear his sleep-addled wits and rise, Krysty heard Mildred’s Czech-made ZKR 551 handblaster bark twice from the stairs, filling the upper landing with yellow pulses of light. The man rolled to the wall, streaming blood.

  Ryan yanked open the door. A blast of humid, rank-smelling air hit Krysty in the face. It was weighed down and shot through with the smells of incense, some cloying sweet, some astringent. But they couldn’t mask what they were clearly intended to: the smell of unwashed bodies, prolonge
d sickness and nasty death.

  Brother Joseph sat bolt upright in the middle of the canopied bed. His mouth gaped and his eyes blinked in the light of hundreds of candles placed all over the room. He couldn’t seem to assimilate what he was seeing. Krysty was surprised to see he was alone. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed.

  One way or another the task of liberating Princess Emerald would fall to others. Well, those others were ready, willing and able. She’d have just been in the companions’ way. Their business lay elsewhere.

  Following close behind Ryan, Krysty swung right and dropped to a knee to cover that way. J.B. was next in. He stepped left to clear the door and covered his side of the room with his shotgun.

  Ryan marched to the bed, reached through the half-open silk curtain, grabbed Brother Joseph by the front of the pair of baronial purple silk pajamas he was wearing and, turning hard, hurled him onto an ornate rug.

  The guru landed hard and slid on his side on the rug almost to the feet of Mildred, who stood in the doorway while Doc guarded the landing.

  Brother Joseph pushed himself up on one arm. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, spittle flying from his mouth.

  “Is that the best you’ve got to say?” Mildred demanded. She brandished her ax with her left hand. “If you go on and say we’ll never get away with this, I’ll chop parts off your piece of shit phony Jeffrey Dahmer ass.”

  One thing Krysty had to say for the fraudulent spiritual leader: he recovered his composure quickly. He rolled to a sitting position and blinked around at them, as mild as a lamb.

  “But what will you say to my parishioners?” he asked. “What of the compact?”

  “I got your compact right here,” Ryan said, emerging from behind the diaphanous curtain. He had clambered across the big bed on all fours and now was coming back. “Literally.”

  He thrust out a hand. It held a strange boxy assemblage of what looked like green plastic with random bits stuck to it. In the light of the many candles it took Krysty several beats of her hard-driving heart to recognize the object.