Seedling

by James Axler

  "How much better is a whole lot better?" Ryan quizzed.

  Doc laughed. "Wasting time, my dear friend. You can never get any professional—doctor, lawyer, whatever—to give you a definite yea or nay. Can't be done. Why, they all suffer from piles—spend all their lives sitting on the fence."

  Mildred stood, shaking a fist at the cackling old man. "I'd really like the chance to operate on you for piles, you leering—"

  "Come on, come on," Ryan said. "J.B., I guess it stays with you. This is going to be real hard. Might see some farm-buying for us. Long as there's a baseline where you feel you can keep going, then that's fine with me."

  The Armorer took off his spectacles and looked at the flames through them, angling to see if they had any smears on the lenses. "Long as I don't have to tackle any full-grown scalies, I'll be all right. Line me up against a platoon of day-old kittens and I'll have a damned good try at kicking the shit out of them. Yeah, Ryan. I'll be there."

  "That's good."

  Talking through a working plan for the actual at­tack only took about ten minutes, then all they had to do was wait for the arrival of Harry Stanton's recce wag.

  "NINETEEN TWENTY-EIGHT," J.B. said, checking his wrist chron. "Stanton keeps his word."

  Outside, the street seemed to be filled with the thunder of the powerful six-cylinder, turbo-charged engine.

  Ryan slid the door open, climbing the steps to greet their visitors. To his surprise it was the head of Harry Stanton himself that emerged, beaming, from the turret.

  "Greetings and salutations." He was wearing crimson again, maintaining his resemblance to Fa­ther Christmas.

  "Hi. Didn't think you'd be coming along your­self, Harry."

  "Wouldn't miss a chance to have a quick word with J.B. How is he? Those drugs do their stuff for him?"

  "Yeah. Not a hundred percent yet, but ninety and rising."

  Harry clambered out of the cockpit of the LAV 26, calling, "Sam, stay there. Lee, you come on in with me. Keep the engine running. Looks like there might be some serious snow on the way."

  Ryan already figured that. The temperature had risen, and the sky had clouded over just before sun­set. Now there were already some stray flakes blow­ing across the deserted streetscape.

  Lee was short and skinny with a hooked nose and thinning hair. He wore a Beretta 92-SB pistol in a fast-draw rig, tied with a leather thong, low on the right thigh.

  Harry made a florid entrance to the basement, flapping snow off his hair and shoulders. "By God, but that's a fine ripe smell," he bellowed. "Either you've taken up cheese-making or something's died in here. J.B. Dix, by all the stars in Hollywood!"

  He embraced the Armorer, lifting him clear off his feet. J.B. introduced Mildred and Krysty. Doc in­sisted on introducing himself.

  With a low, sweeping bow, hand on heart, he said, "My dear Mr. Stanton, it is a true pleasure."

  "Likewise."

  "And I hope very much that I shall be able to visit your remarkable palace of memorabilia."

  "Good to show someone around who'd appreci­ate my little place."

  Ryan was starting to heave the slab of wood across the entrance again when Stanton turned and stopped him.

  "No, leave it. Forgot the damn hamper of good­ies! Stupid of me."

  Ryan glanced at J.B., seeing the almost impercep­tible nod. It wasn't in the plan, but adaptability was always essential.

  "I'll go get it, Harry. You warm up. Shall I ask Sam to come in?"

  "No, no. Need someone to watch over that baby. Remember that a road accident doesn't determine who's right. Just who's left."

  Mildred laughed out loud. "By God! I remember that line. My Uncle Jack used to quote it whenever we went out driving. From some TV program. I know. Highway Patrol, wasn't it?"

  "Right, lady, right. How come you say you went driving and watched Brod Crawford? You mean you know someone got a collection of vids?"

  "No. I mean that—" Suddenly she saw the gaping chasm that yawned in front of her. How to explain to this man that she was a freezie, born on the seventeenth day of December in 1964, that she'd gone into hospital thirteen days after her thirty-sixth birthday for minor abdominal surgery, that it had gone wrong and they'd used her as part of an experimental cryonic program?

  "What?" Stanton prompted.

  "I mean, it wasn't what you'd call a real collection. Just a couple of parts of bits of one of them. But I saw it a lot."

  "Which one was it? Which episode?"

  Ryan saw the conversation slipping away from them and interrupted Stanton. "What about this hamper? Want me to go get it?"

  "Sure, sure. I'll talk a spell to J.B. here about the old days. Great days. Yesterday was always better than today to us, J.B. and Ryan. Lord, how given we old men are to the vice of lying."

  Stanton threw himself onto a pile of torn blankets and furs, wincing at the cloud of dirt that spiraled up from it. "This is where I belong, my friends. Such company I have never met. You know—" his voice dropped and became barely audible, "—I have such surroundings for my life, but nobody to truly share it with. What was it that Tennyson's Sir Bedivere said in 'Arthur's Death'?"

  It was Doc who answered him. "I know what you mean, Mr. Stanton, for I have often allowed the line to prey upon my own mind. 'And I the last go forth, companionless.' Yes?"

  Stanton nodded.

  From against the wall Lee cleared his throat and spit into the fire, the saliva hissing in the flames. A look of distaste crossed the red face, half hidden be­hind the great white whiskers, but Stanton said noth­ing, lying still and looking around him.

  "The hamper?" Ryan reminded.

  "Yes, yes. There's some special delicacies from the rearmost shelves of my larder. Quails' eggs and rare fruits in brandy syrup. Some beluga caviar that would have cost a president's ransom. I have smoked salmon and some brandy from the nineteenth century. A good sancerre and a fine claret. Just little gifts to brighten this dark evening and the bitter times in which we few must dwell."

  Ryan was conscious of every one of his compan­ions trying to catch his eye, but he ignored them. A plan was a plan.

  "I have waited years to meet such a group as you five. With so much wisdom and knowledge, will you not spend some time with me?" Stanton's voice im­plored them.

  "Love to," Doc said, the words exploding from him. "I mean…" His face betrayed his confusion.

  His back to Stanton, Ryan silently drew his SIG-Sauer.

  "Put your pistol away, Ryan," Harry said gently.

  "What's that, chief?" Lee exclaimed, straighten­ing and fumbling for his Beretta. But the flap over the top of the holster defeated his cold fingers.

  "Leave it, Lee," Harry ordered. "Had they wanted they could have chilled us as we came in. Since they didn't I wonder why."

  Ryan turned around, suspicious of a trap. The Trader had always reminded his men and women to be cautious of people who seemed open, honest and frank. "You have to ask yourself why the bastard's lying to you," he used to say.

  Lee stood still, mesmerized by the sight of the blaster. Stanton sighed.

  "We talked about taking you out," Ryan said. "Or whoever you sent. Didn't know you were coming yourself."

  "And what did you decide in your council of war? Do tell."

  Krysty answered. "We agreed we'd try and take them out and hold them. Once we were in the wag they couldn't harm us, so we'd let them go. And you'd get the wag back after we were done with it."

  "And now?"

  "Same," J.B. said. "You stay here. We go. Then you go."

  "Laconic as ever, J.B., aren't you?"

  "Yeah."

  Harry laughed, shaking his head, the burst of merriment making Ryan tighten his finger on the trigger of the automatic. "Why didn't you just ask me?"

  "He gave you the fucking map," Lee snapped.

  Ryan ignored the gunner. "If I'd asked you, then you'd have said no."

  "Perhaps."

  "You didn't get to be the king by
being triple-stupe, Harry. Once I'd asked you, then you'd know me and you'd know I'd try to take the wag."

  "Correct. Correct in every point. Trader taught you well."

  "Yeah. So now you'd better get Sam in and we can demolish this hamper of yours. And then we'll get on with rescuing my son from the scalies."

  Stanton stroked his long, silvery mustaches. "Very well. But there is one thing, Ryan, to remember."

  "What's that?"

  "If we were ever to meet again, I fear I should have to chill you. Hard and slow. You understand. Noth­ing personal."

  Ryan nodded. "I know, Harry. Just business."

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  THE FOOD AND drink were disappointing. After the great buildup Harry Stanton had given his magical hamper, the whole thing turned out to be a letdown. The main problem was the age of most of the con­tents. Some of the cans showed sell-by dates in the first couple of months of the year 2001. Just after sky-dark.

  And not much of it had survived the century un­tainted by time. The quails' eggs had turned into to­tally inedible rubber bullets. The fish was undeniably off. The vaunted white wine was like creamy vinegar, and the claret so filled with sediment that it proved impossible to filter. In the end they finished off the dried fish and meat they'd been keeping in the cellar.

  Harry leaned back and belched loudly. "Truth is, ladies and gentlemen, that I hardly ever venture to broach any of the rarities from the edible and comes­tible section of my little home. And now I know why."

  "Perhaps I could entertain you with an account of a wonderful eighteen-course banquet that my dear wife, Emily, and I enjoyed once in Paris. The fin de siecle glamour of the city. The women, powdered and elegant. The men of letters and the young bloods, strutting and preening. And the food and the wine. I remember that we commenced with a delicate—"

  "Shut it, Doc," Ryan said.

  "Yeah," J.B. agreed.

  "Don't want to hear about it," Mildred added.

  Krysty smiled. "And I go along with everything the last three speakers said, Doc."

  Harry coughed. "I'm aware that my position here is a touch precarious. But after that disgusting di­saster of a meal, I think it's better if you don't sicken us by telling us about some wonderful meal you had in Paris. In the fin something or other. Whatever that is."

  Sensing they were again moving into difficult ar­eas of Doc's time-jumping, Ryan stood. "Time we were leaving."

  "How about our blasters, outie?" Lee snarled.

  The driver, Sam, punched his right fist hard into his left hand. "Leave us here bare, and we won't make it back to base. Might as well put a bullet through our heads."

  "Could still do that," J.B. said, tugging at the brim of his fedora.

  Harry heaved himself to his feet. "Yes. Why haven't you done that, Ryan? Or is that still the plan before you go?"

  "This won't make an inch of difference, but I don't like taking your wag, Harry."

  The blue eyes, hooded by the bushy white brows, stayed as cold as Sierra meltwater. "Talk's cheap, Ryan, isn't it?"

  "Sure. You think I relish this, then you're more damn stupe than I figured."

  "You go do what you have to and leave us here. You get the wag back to me, that's good. But it won't do anything to change the last page of the book. I'll still take you out if I ever get a chance."

  "Doubt we'll meet up again, Harry," J.B. said.

  "I can wait."

  "Be a long time," Ryan told him, wrapping the scarf around his neck. It had grown cold again, and there was something close to a blizzard raging outside.

  "Like I say, I'll wait. Long as the grass grows, Ryan, I'll wait."

  "We'll leave your blasters by the wheels of the wag at the last minute. Soon as we're all safe inside. You can come get them then."

  Stanton nodded.

  It crossed Ryan's mind that he was making a lethal mistake, one the Trader probably wouldn't have made.

  "Don't ever," the older man had said, "ever leave an enemy alive. Not if you think there's the smallest chance they might come after you one day. Like placing a cold razor against your own jugular."

  But Harry Stanton had saved his life, plucking him from the claws of the scalies, and he'd been helpful.

  "Feel some pangs of guilt, don't you, Cawdor?" Harry stated. "Difference between you and Trader, I guess. Could be I'm lucky like that. Trader would have chilled me. Oh, real courteous and quick. One through the back of the neck. But it don't make much difference at the last how you get it."

  "Bullshit!"

  Everyone looked at Mildred. She stood, eyes blazing with a ferocious anger, staring at Harry Stanton.

  "What?" he said.

  "Romantic macho bullshit! Course it makes a difference how you die. My daddy was burned alive by a bunch of cowardly redneck peckerwoods in white sheets. Think that's a good way to go? Just the same as a quick and painless death? You triple-stupe bastard."

  The cellar was quiet, with only the sound of the burning wood. Stanton nodded slowly and gave the black woman a half bow. "Sometimes my mouth gets to working before my brain's aware of it. I'm real sorry about that."

  There wasn't a whole lot more conversation.

  SAM AND LEE REMAINED inside in the warmth. Only Stanton came to see them off. The snow was driving in, great clumps falling and settling everywhere. It softened the harsh lines of the century-old ruins, reducing visibility to less than a hundred paces.

  The Light Armored Vehicle was designed to take a crew of only three, and it was a tight squeeze with five of them inside. J.B. took over the driver's controls, and Krysty settled herself behind the automatic cannon. Mildred and Doc niggled ill-temperedly as they squirmed their way into bits of remaining space. Finally Ryan climbed on the outside, ready to take the commander's seat. He held on to the blasters of Stanton and his two men. "So long and thanks."

  Stanton blinked up at him, snow gathering on his head and shoulders. The eyes glittered in the golden light of the twin headlights. Ryan had just decided that he wasn't going to get a reply when Stanton fi­nally spoke. "Good luck in finding the boy, Ryan. If you get yourself too big a problem, you could mebbe come see me."

  "Thought you were going to have me chilled on sight," Ryan reminded, grinning.

  Stanton, straight-faced, nodded at him. "Damn it! You're right. I was, wasn't I? Well, just take care out there and make sure you do it to them before they do it to you."

  "That Highway Patrol?" Ryan asked, raising his voice over the rumbling of the engine.

  "No. Hill Street

  Blues. Good luck."

  Ryan lobbed the weapons down into the snow at the feet of Harry Stanton, dropped into his seat and lowered the hatch, sliding the lock across.

  Almost immediately he heard the ringing sound of a bullet striking the metal, close by his head.

  "That Stanton?" Krysty asked. "Maybe we ought to get moving fast."

  J.B.'s voice floated from the dark interior. "No worries. Steel like this'd stop most anything."

  "Just his way of saying goodbye to us," Ryan said. "Come on, driver. Let's go."

  Nearly nine tons of armored steel lumbered for­ward as J.B. struggled to master the controls. It was a bit like steering one of the immeasurably vaster war wags. The LAV had top speed of more than sixty miles an hour over good metal, but its effective range on a full tank was a lot less—about five hundred miles if it was coaxed.

  In the command seat Ryan had switched on a small overhead light, studying the map that Harry Stanton had so thoughtfully provided for them. It marked all the main avenues and cross streets, indicating which no longer existed because of the nuking, or had been permanently blocked.

  The fringes of the scalies' territory was shown in a thin, dotted red line, though Harry had pointed out that this was very approximate. You never quite knew where you might suddenly find yourself among scal­ies. There were a number of blocks set up to stop any attempt to attack their underground headquarters from above, which lef
t only two alternatives—get down into the sewers and passages with them, or cir­cle out into the river from an entry point farther north, up toward West Forty-sixth Street, then come in slow and careful, feeling your way past the ruins of the old docks.

  And this was where Harry's neat map became vague and blurred.

  "On your own past here," he'd said, jabbing at the map with a stubby forefinger. "I never got anyone in that deep. Well, I could've got them in, but I sure never would've got 'em out again."

  Several times the recce wag slithered sideways in the deepening snow. The brakes protested, and the whole vehicle shuddered.

  "Dark night! Like driving a mule up a ladder! Can't see properly through this ob-slit!"

  "Take it easy, J.B.," Ryan said. "We get jammed in this and we're in serious shit."

  "Can't get the brakes to bite properly. Think they're iced up."

  Doc's voice filtered through the black interior. "Might it not possibly be something to do with their extreme age? I have a similar problem myself."

  "Yeah." J.B. coughed violently, and the wag skid­ded around the corner of a block.

  "You all right?" Mildred called, unable to hide her anxiety.

  "Sure, sure. Just got some dust in my throat. Feel great. Good to be back on the road again."

  "Soon have to be making a sort of detour. A right and then left after two blocks. Left again and then another right and left." Ryan angled the piece of paper toward the light. "By then we should be far enough north to head toward the river. Map shows a place where the road slopes in gently."

  The snow continued remorselessly.

  There were heaters inside the LAV, but they were overridden by the icy air that lanced in through the open ob-slits. The only good thing was that there wasn't likely to be any kind of ambush. Nobody would be out in a storm of this intensity.

  Though a couple of minutes later, Ryan had a strange and unsettling vision. Out of his side window he saw a figure moving alongside them. His instru­ment repeater showed a speed around fifteen miles an hour. The eight wheels lurched and bounced over rubble and deep potholes, against the background of the roaring engine.