by Paul Kidd
IMPRISONED IN THE VOID BY VENGEFUL GODS, THARIZDUN—THE CHAINED GOD, THE ELDER ELEMENTAL EYE—SHARES HIS EXILE WITH A POOL OF ABYSSAL LIQUID CRYSTAL THAT IS ALL THAT REMAINS OF A RUINED UNIVERSE. IT IS THE VOIDHARROW, AND IT SHALL BE HIS GIFT TO THE WORLD …
A DUNGEONS & DRAGONS®WORLDS-SPANNING EVENT
DUNGEONS & DRAGONS, DARK SUN, FORGOTTEN REALMS, WIZARDS OF THE COAST, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries. ©2011 Wizards.
Apocalypse means never having to say
you’re sorry …
As far as accidents went, it had certainly been colorful. One moment, happy little researchers were stomping on atoms and making “universe particles.” Seconds later, they had fed the multiverse into an nth-dimensional blender and hit frappé. Countless alternative Earths had been smashed together. Bits and chunks collided in bright and interesting ways. Environments withered, cities warped, oceans went belly up and died. Civilization gave an embarrassed sneeze and simply disappeared.
In its place there were radioactive wastelands and a shattered wilderness. Predators and nightmares from different versions of Earth grappled in spectacular battles to survive. Mutagenic particles warped the survivors into countless new shapes and forms.
Ah well, there went the neighborhood …
Mind you, things were not all bad. A century and a half later, things seemed to have adjusted to a weird and colorful status quo. The new world, Gamma Terra, was a very odd place. It was a dangerous place, the kind of place where a man could tend his flocks and prune his own fig tree provided he didn’t mind the fig tree pruning him back.
Radioactive wastelands, ancient ruins, weird mutations, three-headed monsters … What’s not to like?
NOVELS BY
PAUL KIDD
GAMMA WORLD™
Red Sails in the Fallout
Neue Europa
Petal Storm
Dreamscape
Lilith
Mus of Kerbridge
Fangs of K’aath
Fangs of K’aath 2: Guardians of Light
Fey
FORGOTTEN REALMS®
The Council of Blades
GREYHAWK™
Queen of the Demonweb Pits
Descent into the Depths of the Earth
Dungeons & Dragons
Gamma World: Red Sails in the Fallout
©2011 Wizards of the Coast LLC
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC
DUNGEONS & DRAGONS, D&D, FORGOTTEN REALMS, GREYHAWK, GAMMA WORLD, WIZARDS OF THE COAST, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries. Other trademarks are property of their respective owners.
Cover art by Jason Chan
eISBN: 978-0-7869-5921-1
620-31417000-001-EN
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v3.1
For Tornassuk, with much joy and thanks.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
GAMMA WORLD™
Welcome to the post-apocalyptic world of Gamma Terra
IN THE FALL OF 2012, scientists at the Large Hadron Collider in Geneva, Switzerland, embarked on a new series of high-energy experiments. No one knows exactly what they were attempting to do, but a little after 3 p.m. on a Thursday afternoon came the Big Mistake, and in the blink of an eye, many possible universes all condensed into a single reality.
In some of these universes, little had changed; it didn’t make a big difference, for example, which team won the 2011 World Series. In other universes, there were more important divergences: the Gray Emissary, carrying gifts of advanced technology, wasn’t shot down at Roswell in 1947; the Black Death didn’t devastate Europe in the fourteenth century; the dinosaurs didn’t die out; Nikola Tesla conquered the world with a robot army, and so on. The Cold War went nuclear in eighty-three percent of the possible universes, and in three percent the French unloaded their entire nuclear arsenal on the town of Peshtigo, Wisconsin, because it had to be done.
The year is now 2162 (or 151, or 32,173, or Six Monkey Slap-Slap, depending on your point of view). Fluctuating time lines, lingering radiation and toxins, and strange creatures and technology transposed from alternate dimensions have combined to create a world the Ancients would think of as the height of fantasy. But to the inhabitants of Gamma Terra, fantasy is the reality.
CHAPTER 1
It was another glorious, dusty, postapocalyptic day.
Mornings in the desert were always the best of times. The world felt cool and fresh, with a delicate kiss of dew. The sands gave off a sharp, delicious scent of earth and dust. Here and there, the last few desert creatures moved about their business, little critters bustling happily about, hoping to make breakfast out of one another.
It was another beautiful day on the sands.
Soft, gray light spread out over the endless ocean of rock, scrub, and sand. Standing in her saddle, Xoota pushed up her sand goggles and dug at her belt for her binoculars. One lens was smashed, but the other still worked. Using the thing as a telescope, she scanned the desert for anything of interest—a sharp angle, a glint of metal, the tinge of rust in the soil. Below her, Budgie fluffed out his feathers then made a little side step as he decided to investigate a bush. With her view jolted, Xoota glowered down at the critter in displeasure.
“Must you?”
The bird chirruped, utterly unconcerned. Xoota shook her head and went back to scanning the horizon.
To the west, there was only the great salt plains. To the north and east, the restless sands. Here and there a rock outcrop jutted from the ground. Spindly bushes looked more alive than dead. Xoota sucked one fang then decided to move west, in the direction of the morning wind. Perhaps the sands had shifted and uncovered something new. She put her binoculars away and tried to draw a bead on images of many possible futures.
West felt right. There was an immanence in the air; something pervasive was settling on Gamma Terra. Xoota settled her weapons and flicked at Budgie’s reins.
“Come on, birdbrain. Let’s go.”
She kicked the giant blue budgerigar into a trot. The bird ambled happily across the sands, heading toward the dark, cool west. He wagged little flightless wings and loped off on his way.
Peace and quiet. Xoota told herself that she loved it.
As far as mutant humanoid animals went, Xoota was a fairly typical, fun-loving child of the apocalypse. She was a mutated quoll: a short, compact female figure dressed in sun vei
l and leathers. Xoota had the thighs of a rider, an archer’s muscles, and tawny fur covered in bright white spots. Across her belly, below the navel, she had a neat little marsupial pouch, and a handful of whiskers jutted from her scruffy muzzle. Her nose was pink, her ears long, and her prehensile tail often twitched in irritation. She wore a leather halter around her breasts, a ragged cloth around her head, and at her belt hung a mace made from metal cogs. A powerful crossbow rode across her lap.
The wastes were no place for the incautious.
She smelled none too fresh. Were it not for a pair of feathery antennae jutting from her head, she would have been perfectly hard-core and predatory. The antennae were inarguably cute, which irritated Xoota to no end. As said, that irritation often was evident in her twitching tail, but sometimes it led to more grievous action. The citizens of Watering Hole, her hometown, had in fact voted Xoota “Sentient Creature Most Likely to Punch You in the Neck” three years running.
Still, at least there were no particularly absurd alpha mutations in the wind. There were days when one could wake up purple, with tentacles, or covered in a crusty shell. It was all part of the fun of life in the wastelands.
Xoota and Budgie trotted their way westward, up over the sands and into a land of short, brittle shrub. Here and there an immense plant jutted a stalk high into the air, usually with one or more eyes blinking on the top. Xoota gave the things a wide berth. The Great Sky-Bunny only knew what the things were looking for. Most likely it was breakfast, and a mutant quoll on a riding budgie might score pretty high on the list of desirable cuisine.
Budgie trotted happily along, chattering madly to himself, as budgerigars do. He seemed to have the parakeet version of Tourette’s. Xoota just endured the noise and watched the world, her eyes sharp, her antennae questing. She sniffed about for any sense of something different, dangerous, or wrong.
When chunks of ancient asphalt peeked up through the sands, Xoota was immediately interested. She followed the line of the ancient road, hoping to come across something worth digging from the soil.
Finally she came to a hollow in the ground. Half buried under the rust-streaked sand were the bodies of several cars. Keeping her distance, Xoota stood up in her stirrups and scanned the shrubbery.
The wind gusted, hissing as it swept through the dead, dry bushes. Xoota pulled off her head cloth, baring her tall ears to listen carefully. She heard no untoward sounds, no movement.
She circled the site carefully, moving downwind, sniffing for any signs. She shushed Budgie and dismounted. Crossbow at the ready, she edged slowly toward the cars.
Budgie kept quiet but he fluffed his feathers in warning. Xoota sank down into cover.
The old cars were total wrecks. Someone had ripped away the engine blocks, seats, and doors, leaving the chassis gutted like rabbits. The cars formed a windbreak, and in the middle of the sand was a campfire—just a mound of cold ashes but still fairly fresh, no more than a day old.
There were bones around the campfire, big ones. They were humanoid. Something with a taste for sentient prey had sat down for a barbecue.
Razorbacks.
Most of the year, the pig mutants kept to the outer desert. But the Big Dry had arrived early. If the desert watering holes were drying up early in the season, then the pig tribes might migrate closer to civilization, and that could mean trouble.
Xoota moved in and began to inspect the ruined cars.
One of the cars had been a “hybrid”—useless on Gamma Terra to man or beast, even for parts. But there were a few tools in a cubbyhole in the trunk—always good. She found a combination tire iron and nut wrench, two screwdrivers, and something that looked like two metal octopuses wrestling but was probably a collapsible jack.
Not too bad.
There was nothing left in the other cars—no tires, no light bulbs. Seat belt webbing was always useful, though, and the buckles were intact. There were two side mirrors that were worth taking. Xoota was wondering if it was worth the effort of trying to strip the battery out of the hybrid, when she suddenly spied a little glitter of red beneath the sand.
Nyaha. Treasure.
There was an old road sign beneath one of the cars. The pole was bent, but there was an octagonal sign on top, made from a wonderfully tough piece of Kevlar sheet. It looked light and sturdy. One side was red and covered in runes. Xoota dusted it off then took out her tools and undid screw fastenings, freeing the thing from its pole. It would make a perfect shield—light and handy. All it needed were arm straps and a bit of glue.
Excellent.
Xoota secured her finds on Budgie’s saddle then unshipped her tools, ready to cannibalize the transmissions of the old cars. They were not much of a find, but at least they were something. The days of finding spectacular treasures seemed to be long past. With razorbacks on the loose, it was time to go home.
One of the penalties of being the sole sensible creature in a land of nitwits was a lack of bosom buddies. So Xoota spent her time out on the sands and in the scrub, prospecting for junk. She found scrap metal and little artifacts then dragged them back to Watering Hole for trade. Watering Hole was a backwater burg, but it was the most populated for kilometers in any direction. Scrapping was a radical improvement over farming or water prospecting, and it had the added bonus of keeping her far away from idiots. With a little bit of salvage in hand, she could head back and cash in the scrap for essential supplies—bug bars, meat, and tea. She would think about hunting her way south to the rim of the Great Rift and see if the tremors had unearthed anything of interest.
A couple of chunks of old scrap steel was a pretty poor return for two weeks in the field. Being a quoll had its disadvantages. She needed decent food—bugs and other meat, preferably dead. A regular morning and evening cup of tea, with milk, was essential. Without it, she was even more foul tempered than usual.
It was getting harder and harder to scrape a living out of the desert. Unfortunately her world was bound by hard and deadly walls. No one had ever crossed the northern and eastern deserts and returned. No one could possibly survive the endless salt plains to the west. To the south, a vast landslide had plunged the world away down a sheer drop that was at least a thousand meters’ fall. Everything was dust, death, and radiation, and the only things that ever came out of the desert were gamma moths … and sandstorms.
Thinking of gamma moths, Xoota made a quick scan of the skies. The morning sun was on the rise, and the temperature would soon be up. It was time to camp: to dig a deep, cool scrape in the dirt, set up the sun shields, and try to rest through the heat of the day. Xoota jerked her shovel down from Budgie’s saddle packs but stopped when a distant, tinny sound tinkled in her ears.
The quoll went stiff. The sound made no damned sense. But there was a ripple in Xoota’s perception, a twist in the world. Her antennae were picking up a shift in probabilities.
It was odd. Damned odd.
What was that noise? Singing? The sound came and went, carried on the breeze, caught only by the quoll girl’s huge, sensitive ears.
Music. Bad music and bad singing. Razorbacks were on the loose, the deadly heat of the day was about to smash down over the sands, and someone was out there apparently happy as a lark. Xoota clambered up onto Budgie and stood on the saddle, boosting her modest height far above the tallest scrub. There, far off to the west, she saw a little blink of light and a regular flash of motion.
Was that out on the salt? It couldn’t be. The whole shoreline was radioactive.
Xoota used her binoculars, making the image slowly worm into focus. There was something out there, just a hundred meters or so away from the shore. Mounds of dirt, some regular shapes …
Whoever it was, they were going to get themselves killed. If Xoota could hear it, then every predator, weird-ass mutant, and razorback in the area must be tuning in as well. Xoota kicked Budgie into gear and raced toward the distant sound of song.
The bird sped through the brush, leaping over rocks and fall
en wood, past a fat bluetongue skink that was shooting berries off the bushes with its laser eyes. When they reached the edge of the sands, Xoota kicked her bird out onto the salt.
The bird balked, dancing back from the radiation. There was a good reason desert riders preferred budgerigars. But Xoota had no time to argue. She kicked Budgie in the flanks, driving her mount out onto the salt plains, hoping to rescue an absolute idiot from disaster.
“Hi-yah. Go, Budgie. Yah!”
Budgie charged hard and fast across the salt. Radiation prickled—it wasn’t hurting yet, but it was there. Xoota’s skin crawled yet she urged Budgie on to greater speed.
Budgie said, “Arrrrrk,” his standard interjection.
“I know. I know.”
Xoota swerved Budgie past an outcrop of rocks, past an ancient boat lying rotting on its side, then saw a weird little campsite just ahead. A massive, rusting, steel tube was jutting up out of the salt. Beside it, some idiot had set up for a holiday. A bicycle had been propped neatly in the shade of the steel tube, next to a rather natty parasol. There was a carefully weighted picnic rug and some sort of little box that bellowed out the music. It was loudly playing one of the majestic, ancient classics: “Tainted Love.” Xoota brought Budgie to a panicked, skidding halt beside the rug and vaulted from the saddle. She grabbed the music box but could see no way of turning the damned thing off. Xoota looked around in panic, expecting mutant hordes to be racing toward her. She felt horribly exposed out on the flat, white salt plains.
A voice was singing raucously in tune to the music. Dirt flew as someone dug away inside a hole excavated beside the steel tube. Feeling radiation stinging at her skin, Xoota ran over toward the hole.
