Necropolis

by James Axler

  Kane grit his teeth, knowing that if he was to stand a chance in hell, he was going to have to keep the vampires and the cobra men busy, distracting them so Fargo could accomplish the task of supplying Brigid with the necessary tools.

  With that thought, he turned and moved into the darkened hallways of the subterranean city. He trod heavily, footsteps echoing now that he wanted attention.

  And, as if in answer, he heard the footfalls of his pursuers.

  Chapter 17

  Grant decided to take a risk and affixed the Commtact plate to his jaw; the implanted pintels sealed the communicator in place. He turned it on and left it in passive reception mode, not needing to give away the fact that he had an operating transceiver by sending out a signal. He listened, allowing his muscles to relax from the effort of picking his manacles’ locks with the one tool he’d been able to manage—bones from a long desiccated rodent. He wasn’t having much luck, and his hands were cramping from the effort. He could feel the rawness of his wrists where the steel cuffs dug into his flesh.

  Maybe, just maybe, Kane had had the foresight to get his Commtact operating, and maybe he also had access to radios so that he could key in the encrypted frequency of the cybernetic devices.

  For a while, he let the soft static buzz through his skull. It allowed him to retreat into a meditative state that restored more energy to his tired and battered flesh. He settled into letting the white noise carry his thoughts on divergent streams, calm soaking through his cells, allowing him to bring up thoughts that otherwise would have been lost in the clutter of conscious thought.

  Grant lost track of time while in this serene state, but he did figure out a more comfortable position to better get an angle on his keyhole. He’d put the length of bone between his teeth and bent over the manacles. That would keep him from tearing up his arms.

  Then he heard the young woman’s voice. “Kane. We’ve got movement up at the surface. Eight of the vampires are returning to the entrance. I repeat, we’ve got movement up at the surface.”

  Grant immediately pegged this as Lyta, the girl who’d stayed behind to deal with the men who had employed the Panthers of Mashona. She was a young woman, attractive despite her shaven pate and the bruises all over her when she’d first appeared. After a while, though, all her scrapes and abrasions had faded, possibly because of her proximity to the staff. In a way, Lyta reminded Grant of Domi when they’d first met.

  The albino girl Domi had been an outlaw, a robber, a killer and a sex slave forced to claw her way through life as the servant of the Pit boss named Guana Teague. And yet, a simple act of decency on Grant’s part had turned Domi from feral enemy to staunch, loyal ally. From there, the young, uneducated woman had grown into a leader and a matchless defender of the weak and helpless.

  Lyta was in contact with Kane; he was the only other person who would have had the Commtact and was free. Either the man had picked up a spare or found one of the devices discarded by their gelatinous captors.

  “Read you,” Kane finally said, even as Grant’s mind raced.

  “’Bout time you activated your Commtact,” he said, letting his friend know that he was aware. He then quickly set about putting his bone lock pick between his teeth and started on his manacle. All the while, he heard Kane speaking to another person, someone who was alongside him. Grant narrowed down the likely suspects to one, just based on tone of voice and their place on the globe.

  Austin Fargo. He’d taken a powder, seemingly long before the final assault by the Kongamato and the Panthers of Mashona, which meant that he was being used as someone’s ace in the hole. Logic dictated that Fargo was working alongside Durga, but it might have been one of the members of the Millennium Consortium, or another member of the militia’s leadership.

  Careful, not too fast, he cautioned himself, working the bone pick. Too much pressure and he’d be without a tool to disengage his manacles. Then he’d have to rely on someone else to free him.

  While it wasn’t much of a matter of ego, it would still sting to have to be rescued when he was in the middle of breaking free on his own. Grant concentrated, working his teeth and lips to maneuver his pick. His neck muscles ached from the stretch and the effort.

  Kane’s Commtact went silent. He’d already ordered Lyta to go quiet, so he listened for any signs of technology peeking in on their transmissions. Grant wasn’t quite certain what would betray the enemy, but if anything was transmitting or receiving, there might be a rupture in the static running through his communicator. Even so, he remained quiet, most of his effort going into breaking loose.

  Once he was free, Grant knew that his shoulders and clavicle would hurt like blazes from the long-term sustained effort of picking the lock. But mild aches and stiff tendons were a minor issue when compared to being left to either starve to death or become the flesh suit for one of those blob things who’d taken Brigid, himself and the others captive. He hunkered down, jostling the tumblers within the keyhole with the slender rat bone.

  He caught a flicker of movement past the little gap where water would sluice under the door into the depression in the floor, making an extremely low-tech and potentially sickening water dish. It was just the movement of a shadow, no sound accompanying it, and then it was gone.

  Kane sent his ally down to the dungeons, probably with something that could help.

  Grant conceded that the most likely target of that assistance would be the brilliant Brigid Baptiste. While Grant was a powerful fighter, Brigid showed she had all manner of resourcefulness. Freeing her would hasten the freedom of the other prisoners. Kane probably also figured that Grant would have either broken his bonds or would be in need of actual tools and outside assistance. Either way, the big former Magistrate would be the second one checked on.

  And Grant was logical enough to know that it was simple triage. If he couldn’t escape a cell of his own devices, then he’d actually need more than his own resourcefulness and brute strength to be freed. These chains were more than enough to entrap a buffalo or an elephant. There was no shame in being unable to break them, and given the tools at hand, or rather at mouth...

  Click.

  Grant’s right wrist was loose in an instant, and he slumped back against the wall, taking a deep breath. With one hand free, he took the pick from his mouth and began working on his other manacle, freeing it from the loop in his restraint belt. He had a good two feet of heavy, dense links, which could be turned into a weapon if not a tool for smashing out the cell door.

  Things were not made easier by using his good hand to undo the lock on the other bracelet. The tumblers were different, or maybe it was simply an illusion as he was now using his manual dexterity, rather than the cunning of his teeth, tongue and lips. It was likely an illusion, and Grant forced himself to be gentle, careful just in case he snapped the rat bone. Even so, his confidence was up, and he wanted to at least have his hands free before Brigid appeared at the cell door.

  And then he heard the rustle, the rattle of handles and bars on the other side of the cell door.

  Sure enough, there stood Brigid, and Grant finally clicked the other manacle off his wrist. He held the chain, the hinged bracelets hanging at either end, and nodded to the woman in the doorway.

  “Ah, no wonder you’re not the one opening my door,” Brigid mused. “That hardware is some serious heavy metal.”

  Grant nodded again. “Thanks for getting the door for me.”

  With a groan and grunt, he got off the floor, closing the bracelets around the chains themselves to give him some brutal flails to crash into an enemy skull. Sure enough, though Brigid had her Commtact and a folding multitool in her possession, she didn’t have a weapon. Grant’s might and martial skill meant that he was the first one she released on her liberation.

  “Who gave you the gear?” Grant asked.

  “They were ju
st stuffed under the door,” Brigid responded. “I was able to unlock my cell, but whoever it was had left.”

  “Fargo,” Grant grumbled.

  “Likely. He’s the only one out there who’d be helping Kane while Lyta babysits Nehushtan,” Brigid concurred.

  Grant stretched out. He’d been cramped by his chains, and he was glad to have a moment to limber up before trouble came after them again.

  Brigid closed the door gently behind her, and Grant stayed still.

  “I heard movement outside in the hallway,” Brigid warned.

  Grant nodded and stepped to the door lightly, clenching his fists around the chains that had imprisoned him.

  They were primed and set to free him now.

  Brigid had her Commtact in place, and Grant’s own plate did not go unnoticed by her. “Too bad we can’t get in touch with either Nathan or Thurpa.”

  Grant nodded. “But we can connect with Kane, as long as we’re certain that Durga is not listening in on the party line.”

  “I’m going to have to err on the side of expediency with this,” Brigid responded. “Durga has not shown the capacity to listen in on us, nor has he done anything which was in anticipation of one of our maneuvers. Even with Thurpa among us, the evidence of surveillance on his part has been utterly negligible”

  Grant mused over that for a moment. “You’re certain?”

  “The only evidence of possible spying upon us accompanies the fact that Fargo may be in collusion with Durga,” Brigid replied.

  “And he’s the one who gave us our radios back,” Grant added.

  “I know,” Brigid returned. “But if Fargo and Durga are allied with each other, then it’s likely they won’t be operating in concert with Neekra.”

  “As in, Durga is hoping Fargo is his way out of an alliance with a woman who might eat him,” Grant said.

  “Just like last time. He’s pitting his enemies against each other. It’s likely why he took us alive, too,” Brigid said.

  Grant frowned. “So he convinced Neekra to take us?”

  Brigid thought about it for a moment. “She has need of one of us. Either to obtain the artifact or to awaken and liberate her true body. Perhaps a combination of both.”

  Grant smirked. “This isn’t the first time we’ve been used by someone else to slog through a temple of doom. Though, you’d think by now they’d actually learn that having us open the old Pandora’s box tends to blow up in their faces, not ours.”

  Brigid shrugged. “In their defense, not too many of them survive, let alone talk to each other.”

  The two fell into silence, listening for the sound of any movement in the hallway. Both had their ears pressed to the door, and while there were footsteps moving between the cells, nothing else seemed to be occurring Grant looked at the monolithic door and how perfectly it was set into the jamb. The only cracks of light and sound came from the trough through which they were to receive their water. He didn’t like not being able to see where the opposition was, but at least he could estimate where the sentry in the hall stood by the sound of his feet.

  Gunfire rumbled distantly for a brief instant.

  Kane was already doing work, battling Durga’s Nagah clones no doubt.

  Hang in there, Kane, he thought, putting more energy into it than usual. Kane wasn’t a doomie, a person with psychic abilities, but he and Grant had been partners for years. Their relationship had gone from professional to friendship to a depth of brotherhood stronger than any random DNA code or accident of birth.

  Grant had trusted that Kane would come to their rescue, or set the ball for their release in motion. And his brother had not failed him. Even a positive thought, a jolt of goodwill, was something he had to give. Maybe, somewhere in the subconscious ether that divided dimensions, where quantum mechanics worked to set up a world that the human mind could discern and translate, Grant’s thoughts actually became real, tangible, a brief surge of adrenaline or an extra spark of neuroelectric activity that jerked Kane out of the path of a deadly blow.

  Lakesh had spoken of the three of them, Kane, Grant and Brigid, as a confluence of personalities whose presence seemed to ensure victory. Grant had enough aches and memories of injuries to realize that luck didn’t come without sacrifice or hard work, but maybe it was that bit of unmeasurable quantum influence among them. Maybe their teamwork forged a lattice that could somehow disrupt the probabilities and odds stacked against them.

  That was something for Grant to ask one of the Manitius station scientists, probably W. Stephen Waylon, the diminutive genius who had reworked the time scoop when he’d been stranded at the dawn of human history, becoming the source of the myth of Enkidu, the man-bull who’d befriended Gilgamesh. Though Waylon himself wasn’t intimately familiar with that kind of science, he’d gleaned a better understanding of the concepts from his friendship with other scientists, many of whom had perished when Cerberus had been turned inside out with the invasion of a renegade Annunaki.

  With that thought dog-eared in his mental to-do list, he concentrated on what he could do, which was plan out mayhem. He was familiar with the links of chain in his hand, again from when he was displaced temporally, split between a bodiless mind and a memory-less body, both of which were mere shadows of his true form, lost in the folds between dimensions. The weight of steel links in his hands was familiar, and he recalled being bound as a prisoner, though it was not his true body held captive.

  On more than one occasion, he’d broken the chains; the tesseract of his temporarily displaced form had far more strength than his normal body, and he’d used the chains against the guards holding him captive, keeping him a living trophy for the dread, leonine scion of Enlil that called himself Humbaba.

  His muscles ached with the memory of crushing necks and smashing in skulls with the kind of links he now held. Grant stilled himself, controlling the unconscious urge to build up for fight or flight. If he hit an adrenaline peak too soon, he’d just end up running out of steam when he most needed it. He closed his eyes, concentrating on returning his heartbeat to normal, on calming the butterflies in his stomach, the surge of energy in his limbs.

  It was one thing to have great strength and endurance. But to properly control it, to know when not to use it, that was what made Grant the success that he was. He’d survived countless battles, and he was fully aware that restraint was as much a part of surviving as brute power.

  He would have to bide his time.

  Brigid’s face was wrought with concern and the gnawing need to chomp at the bit. Kane had put himself in peril for their sakes, and the two of them could only wait for an opportunity to get loose, wait for the best moment in which to act, when their efforts could assist and not hinder their friend’s attempt.

  The measurement of that time was visible as Grant looked into Brigid’s eyes. Her mind was swift, adept, capable of almost magical leaps of intuition. At least it seemed magical, if only because with her photographic memory, the young woman had immense masses of data at her disposal, and she could then put that information back together, drawing from the sum of knowledge that she’d studied to assemble correlations of different, seemingly unrelated instances.

  There were times when Grant found himself dumbfounded by what she could remember or anticipate, but, in the end, everything she operated on was based on solid evidence and observable data. To those who didn’t appreciate awareness, the power of the human brain, she could have been seen as a witch. Grant, for one, was glad for her witchcraft.

  “The hallway is clear,” she whispered. “You check up the hall. I’ll head down. I don’t know which cells the others are in....”

  Grant nodded.

  The cell door swung open. Thankfully, there was no whine or squeal of metal on metal as the hinges flexed, a small favor, probably due to the impeccable construction of the necropolis. Gra
nt went left and Brigid went right. Both remembered the way they’d come in, and Grant headed toward the entrance to this section of the subterranean dungeon. He paused at an unlocked door and prodded it open, but from the loosed bindings on the floor, he could tell it had been Brigid’s compartment.

  Grant advanced to the next cell, also unlocked. No person was in there, but he could see that there were empty chains on the floor. The water “dish” was still damp; droplets spattered where his boot landed in the shallow puddle. He knelt and touched the moisture, took a sniff of it.

  He grimaced. It didn’t smell quite right, but for someone who was thirsty, exhausted from trying to get out of his imprisonment... He wouldn’t have noticed the smell or would have attributed it to the old musk of desperation in the cell.

  Grant scanned about for signs of tools and saw that there were none. He examined the manacles and noticed that there were scales stuck to them. This had been Thurpa’s cell. For some reason, Durga had enough interest in the wayward Nagah to take him out of this row of imprisonment. Grant stood up and looked to the open doorway.

  Brigid was there. Nathan was beside her, rubbing his wrists, looking concerned.

  “They have our fourth,” Grant said, holding up the sticky scales on his fingertip. His nose wrinkled.

  “So much for an impromptu card game,” Brigid murmured. “Durga’s interested in his former minion. Did Thurpa go quietly?”

  Grant shook his head. “They poured some water for him. It doesn’t smell right. And it looks like he’d already got the cuffs off.”

  Nathan’s brow furrowed. “Almost as if he had his own long, slender tool with which to free himself.”

  “Fang,” Grant and Brigid said in unison.

  “Duh,” Nathan responded. “So, Thurpa’s breaking out—”

  “Takes a drink and goes to sleep,” Brigid explained. “Durga wanted him.”