Seedling

by James Axler

  "Alive?"

  "Alive."

  Ryan looked at her. "I don't have a single moment of choice, Mildred. I have to believe Krysty—and Doc—are still living. Now let's go and find them."

  THE SCALIES DROVE THEM faster, briefly out into the open and then into another deep passage that Krysty suspected might have once been linked to some kind of subway system. One of the slaves ahead tripped and fell, bringing down four others. Several of the guards also carried short, club-handled whips with vicious wire flails. They moved in quickly, using them unsparingly until everyone was back on their feet again.

  "That woman," Krysty whispered to Doc. "Third in the line."

  "I see her. Was she not the one who tried to speak to Ryan back in the market? I do believe it was she."

  Even in that shifting half-light there was no mis­taking the dreadful facial scarring, or the missing thumbs. And she still wore the small metal locket around her neck.

  "Wonder where we're going?" Krysty mused.

  A whip cracked across her shoulders in a shocking explosion of sound. "You be going to have tongue cut off at back if you talk again," the scalie at her elbow said.

  Krysty nodded.

  THERE WAS A PLACE

  where several of the linked pas­sages all joined up, under what had once been a large dome. Now it was flooded with bright sunlight, showing the tracks of a large number of people who'd passed there recently. Ryan and J.B. crouched in the snow, studying the marks intently.

  "That's Krysty, all right," the Armorer agreed. "Think these here are Doc, but he's walking funny. Like he's limping some."

  "And there's a load of folks in ragged shoes. But what about…?" Ryan pointed to the number of cleated boot marks, all more or less identical, crisp and clear in the fresh-fallen snow.

  "Some kind of baron's sec men?" J.B. suggested, his voice revealing his doubts. "Not around here. Not this kind of a ruined ville."

  "That scalie gang Dred said were near the west river. Got to be them." Ryan straightened. "Must be a dozen or more of them."

  "Could be they saw us, and they might leave a couple of snipers behind."

  Mildred shivered. "Day'll be done soon. Shouldn't we be thinking about somewhere for the night?"

  Ryan turned toward her, and she winced at the to­tally empty expression on his face. Then it was as if someone had wiped a cloth over it, restoring the pol­ish of humanity again. "Tonight? Soon. But not yet."

  THE SCALIES HAD REACHED their destination. Krysty could taste the salt of the river, close by, and there was a bone-damp feel to the air. They had stopped at what looked like a linked complex of warehouses and in­dustrial installations. The jagged skeletons of old cranes were etched against the bright sky.

  They were herded, with the neck-chained group, into one of the massive buildings. All around the outer walls were huge metal tanks that had once held hundreds of thousands of gallons of various chemi­cals. Some still had painted symbols on their sides, faded and barely legible.

  But there was no time to look at them, not with so much bustle going on around them. One of the scalies pushed them down onto the floor, waving the metal butt of his whip to reinforce the order.

  "Be glad when Ryan and the others arrive with much blowing of bugles and waving of banners," Doc whispered.

  "They can forget the bugles and banners. Just as long as they get here."

  Chapter Twenty

  RYAN LEARNED THE hard way that pursuing Krysty and Doc was going to be a whole lot more dangerous than he'd hoped. It was one of the moments when the trail took them out into the open air. They'd been moving as fast as they dared, with Ryan leading, Mildred second and J.B. in his habitual position at rear guard.

  An archway was supported by heavy iron girders, opening into a street, and Ryan led the way under it, stopping so abruptly that Mildred bumped into him. He backed away, dragging her with him.

  She had the sense to keep her mouth shut, flatten­ing herself against the rough bricks of the wall be­hind her. There was the sound of boots clattering over stone, and voices singing a flat, atonal chant. The ugly, harsh words made the hairs prickle at the base of her skull.

  Ryan leveled the G-12 at his hip, finger tight on the trigger, while J.B. had drawn his blaster, head turn­ing around to make sure they weren't going to get cold-cocked from the rear. Mildred pulled out her own target pistol, swallowing hard and struggling to calm her breathing.

  The feet and the song disappeared together, fading into the distance.

  "Scalies," Ryan said, "like we thought. This part must be filled with their bastard runs."

  J.B. sighed, taking his glasses off to give them an extra polish. "Know what worries me about them, Ryan?"

  "What?"

  "The noise."

  "Sure. They must feel safe here, singing and stamping. like they're snug as bugs in their own part of the ville. Could be we'll run into a lot more of them."

  Mildred began the motion of reholstering her blaster, then changed her mind, keeping it fisted in her hand, ready.

  THE LEADER OF THE SCALIES, its beret sporting a crimson flash alongside the lightning symbol, stalked over to stand in front of Krysty and Doc. "Up."

  Both of them knew from bitter experience that there was a time to resist and a time to obey. This was one of those latter times. They both stood, Doc moving clumsily because of the long swordstick down his pants.

  "Outies?"

  "Indeed that is correct," Doc replied. "Strangers passing through your beautiful town."

  "Words needed are yes and no. Nothing more. Understand?"

  "Yes," they said in unison.

  There was no response from the mutie, no flicker of life or emotion in the green soulless eyes. A sinu­ous tongue darted out across the protuberant lips.

  "Can I ask a question?" Krysty said, pitching her voice low, making sure she avoided any sort of eye contact.

  "What?"

  "Will we work here for you? Or are you going to take us somewhere else?"

  "It's all same, outie. We got roads all through the ville.Under-roads."

  "Sewers," Doc offered.

  The long head moved slowly toward him and the jaws opened an inch or so, revealing its edged teeth. The hand holding the whip began to lift, then stopped. "You didn't ask to speak, old man."

  "I'm sorry. Yes. I'm sorry."

  A considered nodding came from the scalie. "Not tell again, old man."

  "Can we eat, please?" Krysty asked.

  "Work ends, then eat. Then go to sleep place. Have neck chains fitted. Now, end questions." The scalie left them alone.

  Doc glanced at Krysty, then looked around to make sure none of the scalies were nearby. "If they move us…"

  "He'll be here," she replied confidently.

  "THINK THEY'LL KEEP moving than?" J.B. asked.

  Ryan hesitated, finally stopping and turning. "Could be. Number we've seen means it's going to be triple-tough to spring them free, and they seem well organized. More like mutie sec men. Got loads of prisoners, so they must have a system for feeding and working them. And places for them to sleep."

  Mildred looked around. "Didn't Dred say some­thing about them using a lot of the tunnels? The old sewers and subways of New York? There must be hundreds and hundreds of miles of tunnels. A maze of them."

  Ryan glanced at the sky. "Going to be night, and I'm not sure we're close yet. Probably they'll cut right back on their patrols after dark. What we need is to try and find them before then. Make a try in the blackness."

  One of the scalies, a rippling belly hanging out of its pants, waddled to a great triangle of iron, like the one that had been used to summon the ferry raft. The creature hammered at it, filling the cavern with ring­ing echoes.

  "Food!" the scalie shouted in a thick, barely com­prehensible voice.

  Doc clambered to his feet, knees cracking, helping Krysty to stand. But one of the nearby muties lashed at him with its whip, hitting him a stinging blow across the upper
arm. "Not you!" it croaked.

  "I'm really most frightfully sorry, my dear freak of genetic accident."

  "Don't push it, Doc," Krysty warned.

  Around them the hustle of meaningless work was ceasing and the nonscalies were filing in groups, chains rattling, toward the central area. There was a large fire there, with a long metal trough suspended over it. From the steam and the smell it appeared to be supper.

  The guards had also gone to eat, leaving Doc and Krysty unattended. They were between two of the monstrous tanks and Krysty rapped thoughtfully, first on one and then on the other. The first one rang empty, but the second sounded dull and solid.

  "Full," Doc said. "Wonder what it's got in it? This place looks as if it was some kind of chemical store back in those good, good old days."

  "Lettering on it. Can't… The light's so bad. Un­less I can move to…yeah, I can read it now."

  "What's it say? The Colonel's lip-smacking Spe­cial Sauce?"

  "Letters. An H, then an M. No, it's an N with a streak of paint on it. And then a zero or an O. And at the end, kind of tucked underneath, there's a little number. Three. And a bit more in brackets. This bit's in red. The rest was white. It's a word. Conk. What's that?"

  "Is that spelled Cone or Conk?" he asked with a strange note of tension in his voice.

  "With a C.Why?"

  He sniffed. "Because I know what's in this tank. Must have a special lining to have lasted all these years. By the three Kennedys! Suppose it is!"

  "What, Doc?"

  "HNO3. Cone. It means concentrated nitric acid, Krysty."

  "Scalies have taken the collars off some of them," Krysty observed a moment later.

  "Women, so they can serve the food. I suspect it's probably the most appalling gruel, but the smell is beginning to tantalize the taste buds."

  "Looks like they won't be tantalized any longer. Young girl's been told to… Hey, see that?"

  "Yeah. Woman from the park took the bowls off her. Wonder why."

  Her gray ponytail swinging slowly behind her, the elderly captive was picking her way over the uneven floor toward them. In each thumbless hand she held a steaming can.

  "See the way the floor slopes down from us?" Doc asked quietly. "Interesting."

  "Why?"

  "Later."

  Now the woman was very close to them, her head darting over her shoulder to keep looking behind, making sure none of the scalies was anywhere near her.

  "That punk kid made up that stupid name, didn't he?"

  Now she was so near that the zigzag pattern of scars on her face was even more striking. Krysty found herself wondering, with a shudder of revulsion, what the wounds must have looked like when they were fresh-made.

  "Didn't he?" she repeated.

  "What?"

  "You were with him. Both of you. In the park there by the food market. They caught me that same after­noon. Came out of the pipes in the road. Took me and some friends."

  "We thought we saw you there?" Doc said cautiously reaching up for the cans. "Allow me to re­lieve you of the burden of those containers of nourishing—" he looked into it, "—gunk."

  "Knew you. Not many's old as you in this ville. Been here with…here for months. On me quest. What I call it. Your hair. Red like fire. Remembered that was what she said."

  "Who?"

  "Rona. Dead now. Best out of it. But handed me her quest. Trusted me. Said to find him."

  "Find who?" Krysty asked, taking one of the hot tins from Doc, finding it contained what looked like mushy fungus in a watery stew.

  "The one-eyed man. Knowed that wasn't his real name. Shit-stupid punk. Chiller. Not his real name. Rona knew him."

  Krysty nearly dropped the container as she "felt" an almost overpowering wave of shock, sensing something apocalyptic was in the air.

  "Who?"

  The woman smiled, distorting the scarred mouth further. "Ryan, lady. Ryan Cawdor."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  THE SCALIE HAD appeared out of a well of shadows be­neath one of the great tanks and struck the gray-haired woman a single, clubbing blow across the side of her head, felling her to the dirt. He stooped and locked his claws in her ponytail and hauled her, with effortless strength, back toward the cooking fires, where they saw him dump her among some other women. Not a single word had been said during the attack.

  Doc and Krysty silently began to slurp up their food. It was bland, unsalted, but it was hot and seemed to contain plenty of mushrooms. Only when they were sure the guard wasn't returning their way, did Krysty speak in a low whisper.

  "What did she mean, Doc? Ryan's name. A quest. Rona. You ever hear Ryan speak of someone called Rona? No, me, neither. And she was covering up something else, or someone else."

  "I fear we should deposit this mystery at the rear of our minds. There are more pressing worries, my dear lady."

  "What?"

  "I believe they will be driving us elsewhere after the meal is done. Then come the chains and the collar. If we are to effect any chance of escape…"

  "But Ryan's name? Something that…" She bit her lip. "But you're right, Doc. Time we thought about getting away from here. I know Ryan sometimes quotes Trader. 'Best chance you get if you're caught is right at the beginning. After that it gets harder.' Whats your plan?"

  Doc looked behind and above them. "See this tank? If we are correct and it's still filled with acid, then it would be interesting to open that red handle and see what transpires."

  Krysty peered at the large metal faucet, seeing a crust of yellowish rust around it. "Looks like it hasn't been moved in a hundred years, Doc."

  "If you used the power, Krysty?"

  She looked at him. "Oh."

  RYAN, J.B. AND MILDRED were crouched in a nar­row alcove, a side passage that ended in a blank wall of fallen rubble after about twenty feet. It was pitch-dark. Every now and again a patrol of the scalies would stomp by, boots crashing in the confines of the corridors.

  "Now what?" the woman whispered.

  Ryan sat in silence for a few moments, trying to think what was the best plan. They could go out and get back into the open by way of the ghostly relic of the bus terminal, even if they had to shoot their way past any muties they encountered. But that would draw attention to them and might seriously harm any chances of rescuing Krysty and Doc.

  The patrols were so frequent and numerous that it didn't seem worth the risk of going deeper into the complex. From an occasional burst of distant noise and the strong smell of food, they knew they were very close. Probably less than two hundred paces.

  "We stay here and wait," he finally decided. "Maybe they wind down their guards after mid­night. We could go then."

  "If they haven't moved," J.B. said.

  "Right."

  THE MEAL SEEMED to be nearing its end. Doc and Krysty were in one of the darkest parts of the old warehouse, but there were dozens of scalies between them and the main exit. None of the reptilian muties took much notice of them, and Krysty was able to stand and surreptitiously check out the massive han­dle without drawing attention to herself. She threw all her considerable strength against it, but it was totally unmovable.

  "Well?" Doc said, as she sat down by him, breathing hard.

  "No hope. Take plas-ex and plenty of it."

  "But if you used the power, Krysty?" She was using her healing techniques to bring her respiration quickly back to normal. "Might not even be acid in there. You know I can hardly walk after I use it. Suppose I manage and out comes fifty thou­sand gallons of rusty water?"

  "Then they'll probably kill us, my dear," Doc re­plied.

  Krysty managed a quiet laugh. "Sure, Doc. But if I don't try, then they'll probably kill us."

  "If you don't have dreams, then how can your dreams ever come true?"

  "THEY'RE GETTING READY to move," Doc said sometime later. "That woman is on her feet, but they haven't chained her to the others yet. If it's to be done, my dear young friend, then it is as well that we
do it quickly!"

  "But what about the prisoners if…?"

  "Might it not allow them the opportunity to seek their own freedom?"

  "Right."

  She stood up, feeling her knees trembling. Her nails clenched so hard into the palms of her hands that they nearly drew blood. The power of the Earth Mother had been slowly and painstakingly taught to her by Mother Sonja during her adolescence in Harmony ville. The key phrase was to "strive for life," and it had been drilled into her that the power was some­thing special and secret. And should only be used in the direst need.

  The dark warehouse began to fade from her as she gripped the cold, damp metal. Krysty closed her eyes and began to send herself into a trance.

  Help me, Mother Sonja, she prayed, her pale lips moving soundlessly. May the force of Gaia flow through my body and give me power.

  She could sense the hot sun of summer on her shoulders and taste the freshness of new-mown hay in her nostrils.

  Cool fresh water was flowing over her naked breasts as she stood beneath the weir that surged past the old mill. Now the power was coming, rising within her like a fierce, uncontrollable fire, racing through her nerves and muscles, making her skin tingle. Krysty's mouth opened, and her tongue danced out across her dry lips. A quivering moan forced its way out between the clenched teeth.

  Doc was standing by her, anxiously watching, part of his attention directed back toward the fires, hop­ing that none of the scalies decided to come and in­vestigate what was going on in the shadows.

  Now the sun was in her eyes, dazzling her, a hand on her shoulder that was her mother's, gripping her. The sun, bright and golden. Burning.

  The sun.

  "Gaia!" she whispered.

  Doc watched, mesmerized, his mouth sagging open. He could actually hear her muscles cracking with the strain. There were a few strands of rotted hose beneath the foot-wide faucet, and they trem­bled and dropped to the floor. The rust crumbled into powder.

  He reached out a hand to try to lend his own puny help, but jumped back as though his fingers had en­tered a high-voltage energy field. Somewhere behind him he heard a voice shouting, but nothing else mat­tered.