Deathlands 51-Rat King

by Axler, James

  Turning her attention back to the direction of the giant lizard, she could see that the tongue had flicked in an arc and caught Tilly around the head. The speed and momentum of the tongue had hit her with a blow strong enough to knock her over. And it would have done. However, the tongue was rough, equipped with suction to grasp its prey. At such a speed and force, the tongue attached itself to her head and wouldn't let go. The momentum of the tongue was greater than the resistance of her neck, and her head was ripped from her shoulders, her anguished howls suddenly lost in the storm.

  Tilly's head wasn't firmly grasped in the tongue, and as it reached the farthest point of its wild loop, there wasn't enough suction to cling on to the severed head. It flew off into the storm, tossed by the currents in an irregular arc that carried it out of view.

  The wild swings of the dying lizard's tongue began to lessen, and it began to sink toward the earth. Underneath the throat, which was still spurting blood in gouts, Jak felt the lizard begin to tremble and sway. The clawed feet quivered in its death throes, churning up the mud pit its lifeblood had created.

  It was now or never. The head of the lizard began to drop, coming close to pushing Jak's head down, pitching him face first into the mud.

  The gap under the belly had closed. There was only the one way out—under the jaws and past the arcing, deadly tongue.

  Jak went for the narrowing gap, crouching low and pulling his feet from the bloody ground beneath him. He was still clutching the stinking, bloodstained knife that he had pulled from the lizard's throat as he emerged into the open.

  Sheltered from the storm by the bulk of the lizard's body, he was hit by the wind with a violence that pushed the air from his lungs. He gulped down clouds of dirt that made him choke, but even this felt clean after the stench and the blood.

  Ryan saw Jak emerge, coughing and stumbling, blinded by the storm and the shower of blood that still stung his face. He could see that Jak was trying to avoid the thrashing tongue, but that his vision was impaired and his senses still adjusting to the change in conditions.

  The tongue was beginning another arc. It was slower now, with less speed and momentum. It wouldn't rip Jak's head off, as it had Tilly's, but the venom would still be enough to cause him considerable injury.

  The arc of the tongue would take it right across Jak's path, and there was no way that he could see it from the angle at which he was headed.

  Ryan didn't waste breath shouting. There was only one course of action open to him, and he took it. Breaking cover with a push of his powerful leg muscles, the one-eyed warrior propelled himself across the expanse of earth between cover and Jak. The albino was stumbling over loose rocks, his eyes still partially blinded by the dust and blood.

  Noting Jak's position and speed, Ryan decided it would be better to keep his eye on the tongue as it swept toward them with an almost mocking slowness. Mocking because he still had to make up ground on an uneven surface that moved beneath his feet.

  Ryan felt his heart pound as he sprinted across the surface. His muscles ached as he pushed them against the resistance of the storm and the yielding earth, aiming for Jak as the albino stumbled, trying desperately to clear his vision.

  The tongue swished toward the albino teen who unwittingly turned toward it. Ryan cursed under his breath, unwilling to waste any of the oxygen in his bursting lungs as he launched himself forward.

  Jak gasped, the breath driven from his body, as Ryan crashed into him, pushing him back into the earth with a pile-driving force. The lizard's tongue flicked over their heads, reaching the apex of its arc before sliding back across them as Ryan pushed himself into the soil, regardless of the albino beneath him. He could smell the creature's blood on Jak as he crushed his face into youth's hair.

  A solitary drop of venom dripped from the end of the tongue and dropped onto Ryan's back, burning a small hole through his jacket and shirt, corrosive on his skin and burning a spot on his flesh. He gritted his teeth at the pain, his eye screwed up in concentration as he tried to blank the pain.

  When he looked up again, the creature lay on the ground, twitching violently as the last motor functions ceased to operate and the final sparks of life were extinguished.

  Ryan picked himself up, flexing his back muscles and feeling the raw spot of flesh throb. He'd have to get Mildred to look at that later. He reached down and held out a hand to Jak, helping the albino to his feet.

  "Owe you," Jak said, wiping the mud from his face.

  "Owe you," Ryan replied. "You chilled that bastard and saved us all."

  He and Jak returned to the main party.

  Mac and his two mute assistants were holding their blasters casually across them, not trained on any of the companions. Ryan gave him a quizzical look.

  "Guess I'm mebbe not as suspicious as Tilly was," he said in reply. "Whitey there risked a lot to save us."

  "How come you don't know how to fight against those things?" Dean interjected.

  Mac turned to the boy. "Son, you tell me how you're supposed to beat a mutie like that. Whitey risked everything, and let's be honest. He wouldn't have stood a chance if the fucker hadn't been busy chilling Tod—"

  "Woman took attention away," Jak added. He knew that he could probably have taken the creature anyway, but figured it would do no harm to get on the right side of their captors, now that the blasters were lowered.

  "More important, is there anything else like that out here?" J.B. asked.

  "Few weird things," Mac said vaguely. "Don't see them that much. We live on the rim—they live down here. Neither gets too interested in the other. You get my drift?"

  The Armorer smiled wryly. "Doesn't help us much at the moment, though."

  "Can't have everything," Ryan said. He looked past the lizard, in the direction they had been heading, men back at Mac. "We got much farther to go?"

  Mac shook his head. "Another half hour, mebbe." He looked at his wrist chron. "Should get us there before sunfall."

  "Then let's get going," Ryan said, wondering if Mac had realized that the balance of power had shifted within the group, and that Ryan's people now held the upper hand in terms of numbers and blasters. He noted that J.B. had retrieved Tod's giant blaster, and was carrying it across his shoulder with some effort, his pockets stuffed with the homemade cartridges.

  If Mac had noticed, he remained silent. He hadn't even mentioned Jak's knives. The potbellied valley dweller led the way, carrying his blaster over his shoulder.

  It seemed to Ryan that he had made a decision without even bothering to put it into words.

  "Let's go, people," Ryan muttered as his companions fell into step—with the mute sec men—in Mac's wake.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Doc's fragile mind was still reeling from shock as Murphy prodded him in the small of the back with his blue 9 mm Beretta, reclaimed from where it had been left in the armory. It was good to have the blaster back, and it gave Murphy a sense of confidence in handling the old man.

  "Come on, old fart—out of here," Murphy snapped. "You've got to be prepared."

  Wallace glared at him. "Treat him with some respect. He's going to be part of the mechanism. Besides, regs say that a POW should be treated according to convention."

  Murphy looked blankly at Wallace for a moment, then it clicked that the Gen was referring to a prisoner of war. He tried to hide the contempt in his eyes for the Gen. He had always believed that Wallace read the regs too literally, but this was just more proof.

  Doc dragged himself back into what he laughingly thought of as reality, prompted by the pain in his back where the Beretta's muzzle was digging into him. He assessed the exchange of hostile glances, put it together with what Ryan had said to them earlier about his feelings regarding Wallace and Murphy and shrewdly played the lunatic while he waited for a chance to drive a larger stake between the two men.

  "This pathetic old man—treat him with respect?"

  Murphy spit. "He wouldn't know if you were or not. He's m
ad!"

  Wallace looked into Doc's eyes. The old man hooded them with a film of madness, ironically using all the sanity and intelligence he could muster to create the opposite impression.

  "Hmm… You wouldn't be completely sane if you'd been through all the doctor has been through. I guess a little insanity is excusable. Besides—and strictly off the record—are we sure about the mental stability of each component in the mechanism?"

  Murphy shrugged. In truth he'd never even thought about it.

  "But it's their unity that gives them strength. The good doctor will actually benefit from being joined to the mechanism. It will help him regain his equilibrium."

  Murphy didn't bother to answer. Doc shuddered involuntarily and tried to hide the revulsion he felt.

  "Let's just get him prepared, then." Murphy's voice held a weary tone that he couldn't disguise. He pushed the muzzle of the blaster into Doc's back. "Come on— sir," he said with a barely disguised irony.

  They left Wallace looking at the rat king. Two tech in vacuum suits had entered the chamber through a decontamination anteroom, and were busy unplugging the dead component from the mechanism. Doc cast a sideways glance as he and Murphy left the observation room.

  The sight stayed with him as they walked down the corridor. The component being removed wore a military uniform denoting high rank in the Marines. Like the others, he was glassy-eyed, with skin stretched tight across his ancient skull, clothes flapping loose on his limbs.

  In truth the only thing to differentiate him from the others attached to the mainframe was that the vital signs on his own monitors had ceased to function. Just by looking at the once-human frame, there was no way of telling which of the bodies attached to the mechanism were alive and which were dead.

  As they left the room, Doc had caught a glimpse of one of the vacuum-suited tech beginning to unplug the diodes and leads from the one-time Marine officer's skull, pulling the ends from the cerebral cortex and frontal lobes, small pieces of decaying gray matter attached to their ends.

  With a grim chuckle Doc hoped that they would clean the leads before they plugged him in.

  Murphy frowned when he heard Doc laugh.

  "What's so funny, you old bastard?"

  "Nothing that would amuse you, my dear boy," Doc said sadly. Then, taking the opportunity of a conversational opening, added, "Do you really think that Wallace's plan will work?"

  Murphy shrugged noncommittally. "Hell, we all follow regs. That's all."

  "Is it really all? Do you not sometimes question a rule book that's over a hundred years out of date? Written for other times than these?"

  Murphy allowed himself a wry twist of the lips that might have been a grimace, might have been a smile. "Mebbe you aren't such a crazy old fart after all. You figure that me and the Gen don't exactly see eye to eye on some things?"

  "That's a distinct possibility," Doc said as Murphy led him into a lab and gestured to him to sit on one of the chairs in the center of the room.

  Murphy seemed to relax, but still kept the Beretta trained on Doc. "I guess there'd be no harm in me telling you, as you'll be chilled soon enough. Oh, yeah," he continued in acknowledgment of Doc's raised eyebrows, "don't think that this bunch of inbreds and muties is going to be able to wire you up to that thing."

  Doc mused that Murphy himself didn't seem that stable or without the faults he saw in his fellow redoubt dwellers, but decided it would be more diplomatic to say nothing at this stage.

  Murphy continued. "I think the Gen is barking mad. Not his fault, not after all this time. But we're getting nowhere stuck down here trying to keep all this old tech going. The idea that the Reds will be back, shit that died with skydark," he said.

  "Then why don't you take over?" Doc asked with as much ingenuousness as he could muster.

  Murphy gave another of his twisted half smiles. It suddenly occurred to Doc that these were a result of his own inbreeding flaws.

  "There is a cabal of us who want to change things, get rid of the heredity shit and try promotion on merit."

  Doc nodded sagely. He had no idea of the social structure of the redoubt, but wanted Murphy to keep talking.

  Murphy was starting to get enthusiastic. "See, the main problem we face is that we've got limited resources down here—in real terms, that is. We've got jackshit in the way of fresh blood, and although blasters are up to par, we're getting low on plas-ex and grens. We need to trade more, but that's not in the regs. Instead we waste time with old projects that go nowhere, like the rat king. Or all the old tech that stops and starts and can't be used against the outsiders. They're the enemy now, not the Reds. Anyway, R&D ain't that anymore, they're just a bunch of cretins, retards and muties who can barely keep the old shit in working order, let alone make something new."

  "Very fine words, Sarj. Are you going to repeat them in front of the Gen, or aren't you quite brave enough for that yet?"

  Murphy whirled at the sound of the cool, sardonic female voice. Dr. Tricks stood in the doorway, arching one of her perfect eyebrows in a way that made Doc go weak at the pit of his stomach. Truly, she was beautiful.

  "Don't do that to a man!" Murphy breathed heavily.

  Tricks walked into the room, no, perhaps glided with a hint of a wiggle would be more accurate, Doc thought, and put her arms around Murphy's neck. She kissed him delicately on the cheek.

  "What's the matter? Think I'm going to tell the Gen all about your little plan?"

  "I know you wouldn't."

  "Why?"

  "Because you want me, and you'll only be allowed when the regs are gone." Murphy smiled. "Then it won't matter if you're not good breeding stock."

  "Not like that pig Panner," Tricks breathed in his ear.

  It didn't escape Doc's notice that a flicker of irritation crossed Murphy's brow at the mention of the name. Remembering it was the sec woman he had chilled, Doc felt it best not to comment. But certainly there was a dynamic going on here that he wasn't, as yet, privy to.

  "Why are you telling the old man all this, anyway?" Tricks continued, not appearing to notice Murphy's brief flicker of irritation.

  Murphy shrugged. "What does it matter? He'll soon be chilled."

  "But I thought I was to prepare him for the Moebius MkI?" Tricks questioned, drawing back from Murphy.

  "Yeah, but he won't survive, will he? I mean, you aren't going to be able to cut open his brain, are you? Not like the others."

  Tricks shook her head. "Not like that. But the Gen doesn't want it like that." Murphy gave her a quizzical look, and she continued, "No matter what you think about Wallace, he's not entirely stupid. He's well aware that we just don't have the expertise to open up the skull, to trepan like the others and direct-inject the brain. That was lost a long time ago. I could do it, but there isn't anyone else around here that I'd trust to assist on the operation. You know how I feel about the techs I have to deal with. They're morons who can't be trusted. But Wallace is determined that I link up Tanner to the Moebius, and he wants me to work out a way of connecting the old man without cutting into his skull. He won't die."

  "For that, madam, I am in your eternal debt," Doc said with a mocking bow designed to disguise the relief he felt. While he was still alive, there was still hope of escape in some manner.

  Tricks gave him a look of pure disdain. "I don't think you'll be saying that when you enter the mainframe and become something other than what you are."

  Doc furrowed his brow. "You talk in conundrums, dear lady."

  Tricks shook her head. "I can't tell you exactly because I've never experienced it—obviously," she added with a small and musical laugh that was almost perfection. Perhaps, Doc mused, that was her mutation—to appear perfect in the midst of such imperfection. She cut short his thoughts by adding, "All I know is that Moebius takes the intellectual capacity of its components and fuses them into one intelligence. So you become something other than yourself as the others bleed into you."

  "I am not sure that I
like the sound of that," Doc said quietly.

  "Dr. Tanner, you don't have the choice," Tricks said.

  She turned to Murphy. "Strap him in the chair, then leave us alone."

  Murphy pursed his lips as he strapped the unresisting Doc into the chair, handing his Beretta to Tricks so that she could cover them. For his part Doc reasoned that there was no chance of escape at this time, and so allowed Murphy to manhandle him.

  "I'm not sure I like this," Murphy said to Tricks as he stepped back from the secured Doc and once again took charge of his Beretta. "Wallace won't like it."

  "The Gen has given me a free hand here," she replied sharply. "I've had to work out this damn procedure for myself, and I can't trust any of the inbreds or muties I have to work with to assist and get it right. I've got my tits on the line here…until we get the chance to change things, I have to go along with the Gen, okay? This is going to be hard, and I don't need any distractions."

  Tricks picked up a hypodermic from a tray on her workbench and flicked the end before squirting a thin stream of liquid into the air to knock out any air bubbles.

  "Get going, Sarj," she said with her back to Murphy. "Tanner can't give me any problems now, and I need to concentrate."

  "Okay," Murphy muttered tersely, investing the word with a multitude of hidden meanings. "I'll be outside. Wallace will expect that, at least."

  The automatic door slid shut behind him with a rusting squeal, making Tricks wince.

  "I wish the maintenance techs would sort that door out," she murmured before turning to Doc. "Now then, I can't promise this won't be unpleasant. But at least I won't be opening up your brain." She giggled at that, and for a moment Doc saw the creeping edge of insanity that seemed to dwell beneath the surface of everyone in the redoubt.

  Any further speculation was cut short as Dr. Tricks rolled up the sleeve of his frock coat, and the shirt underneath, before spearing him in the vein that ran down the joint of his elbow. She depressed the plunger on the hypodermic, and Doc felt a warmth spread through his veins, a velvet softness that hit almost immediately.