Sunchild

by James Axler

  The showers were still working. As with several of the redoubts they had encountered so far, the lighting in this one was erratic. But the water was still on, and the heaters still worked. The first streams of water were lukewarm, flecked with some decay and foreign matter from the pipes, but after a minute or so by Ryan's wrist chron the water was clear, flowing freely and of an even temperature.

  They took turns to shower, keeping a guard at all times. It seemed that the redoubt was deserted apart from their presence, but they could never be too sure. The friends had been taken unawares on a previous occasion.

  It was a simple matter to find clean clothing. The store rooms for all redoubts were situated in the same place, and in this redoubt they were lucky enough to find underclothes and thermally insulated outerwear that had lain unused for over a century. They took the opportunity to change clothes and would later launder what they usually wore.

  One strange thing, thought—the clothes weren't the usual regulation khaki and olive-green, or white. Some of the clothes were in colors that seemed, under the dim lighting, to be black or a dark blue. Some of it, under the better lighting of the corridor, even revealed itself to be purple, a color rarely if ever seen in predark sec conditions. And the lighter colors were yellows and sky-blues. It was a small but significant difference.

  "These make a change," Dean remarked as he dressed, "but it doesn't seem right to me."

  "You're right," Krysty agreed. "The armies from before skydark would never have used this." She held up a purple T-shirt that seemed, in the light, to have streaks of a faded pattern running across it. "This is no ordinary military redoubt."

  "Built on the same lines, though," Ryan said thoughtfully. "Odd. Most of the nonmilitary redoubts we've jumped to have been different. But this…"

  "I know," Mildred said. "It's uncanny, and maybe just a bit creepy. It's a military base, but with so many nonmilitary touches. If only it wasn't so damned dark…I'd swear that these rooms are just a bit smaller than the usual size. It's like someone got the military blueprints but had to downscale just a bit." Mildred shivered. "It just gives the place a screwy atmosphere, like looking into a distorting mirror."

  Jak looked at her, puzzled. "Not feel danger here," he said simply. "Old sec weird. Seen plenty weirder."

  Doc, who had so far been silent, leaned thoughtfully on his swordstick, hands clasped over the silver lion's head. "I wonder…" he mused, then lapsed into silence.

  "Wonder what, Doc?" Ryan asked gently, knowing that when the old man was straining to recall, it was best to keep patience and coax it from him.

  "Whitecoat paranoia," Doc continued. "You know, those fools always believed there were secret cabals out to overthrow them—private armies, hidden money and knowledge. All power, I suppose. But perhaps…"

  "If this was such a place—another sec force—then mebbe it's got a good armory." J.B. almost smiled as he jammed his fedora onto his closely cropped scalp. The twinkle in his eyes betrayed his excitement.

  "We could do with a few new blasters, mebbe some grens," Ryan said. "Should be easy to find the armory if this follows standard layout, right?"

  They all nodded agreement.

  "Well, I vote we get some sleep first," Krysty said with a sigh. "We know we can't stay here too long, and I can't feel any danger at all, lover."

  "Okay. We'll search for the armory after we've slept, mebbe see if we can access some information. This place seems to be in good order, so mebbe the comps won't be too fucked up."

  The weariness with which his companions agreed and the fact that the Armorer was content to leave the weapons search until after sleeping were sure signs that the friends badly needed some rest.

  As they had all suspected, the dormitories were easy to find. Echoing Mildred's impression that the redoubt was on a smaller scale than most old sec installations, the dorms housed only a few beds per room. In fact, it looked as though the total personnel of this redoubt couldn't have been more than thirty at most.

  Dean, Jak and Doc took one room. Mildred and J.B. another, leaving Ryan and Krysty to take their pick of the remaining dorms.

  Shutting themselves away from the others, and gaining a rare privacy since the beginning of their travels, they settled into one of the beds. The controlled environment of the redoubt had kept the linen fresh, and little dust or dirt had accumulated over the preceding century.

  Krysty moved closer to Ryan, molding herself to his body and running a fingernail over the ridges of the one-eyed warrior's ribs.

  "Still tense, lover?" she asked, feeling the knotting of his muscles.

  "Mebbe it's got to where I've forgotten how to relax," Ryan replied. "It's too quiet, too calm. I don't like it… It's not right. Too easy."

  Krysty drew circles with her nail on his rippling muscles. "Mebbe so… I can't feel anything, and I'm cherishing the calm. Gaia knows we don't get too much of that. It's not a calm and peaceful world, so finding an oasis of peace for just a little while… Do you think you'd be able to settle if we ever did find the promised lands?"

  Ryan smiled at her choice of words, knowing that she had deliberately picked them to amuse him, relax him. "Mebbe. And mebbe I just can't think of that now when there's a fight around every corner. Guess I've spent, hell, we've all spent too long having to be on our guard. Peace like this just feels like the calm eye of some rad-blasted storm."

  "Well, we're in the eye of that storm right now, so we may as well make the best of it," she replied softly, moving on top of him, using every muscle in her body to coax the tired warrior away from his concern and into focusing on her. And their togetherness.

  Krysty was so skilled, and moved so intuitively, that Ryan found his restlessness draining away, and his attention drawn entirely to his lover's body as she roused him to a passion that they had too little time to consummate.

  And afterward, he slept his first entirely dreamless and restful sleep since he couldn't remember when.

  Chapter Two

  Both Ryan and Krysty awoke the next day refreshed. Ryan felt easier, and on examining his wrist chron found that they had slept for almost twenty-four hours.

  After he and Krysty had risen and dressed, they ventured out of the dorm. The unearthly quiet that always accompanied a deserted redoubt was broken by the distant and muffled sounds of talk and the clatter of dishes. Exchanging puzzled and amused glances, they followed the sounds until they became more audible.

  "…don't give shit. Not eating slop when self-heats there."

  "C'mon, Jak. Doc's done his best, and it would make more sense to keep the self-heats and take them with us." Mildred's exasperation was showing through in her edgy tone.

  "Yeah, but this crap'll kill us before we get out of the main door, so then we won't need self-heats anyway, will we?" There was a wry edge to Dean's tone that suggested he was enjoying helping Jak to exasperate the more sensible Dr. Wyeth.

  Who was looking for backup. "John, don't just sit there and say nothing. Help me out on this one."

  "Leave me out of this, Millie," came J.B.'s laconic tones. "This crap isn't really edible, but then I don't like self-heats much, either."

  Ryan and Krysty entered what was obviously the redoubt's kitchen to find their companions arguing at a table, with the exception of Doc, who was standing over a pan that bubbled busily on a hot plate. He greeted them with a sheepish grin.

  "I fear I may be the cause of some discontent," he began. "Upon finding a supply of self-heats, but also some foodstuffs that had been dried and preserved, I reasoned that it would be sensible to try to make a meal from the latter, thus preserving the self-heats for our travels. However, I must confess that my attempts at the culinary arts have not been altogether—shall we say—successful."

  Krysty wrinkled her nose at the stale stench emanating from the pan, then glanced at Ryan. He, too, had noticed the smell. Doc noted their silent exchange.

  "Precisely," he replied to their unspoken question. "The desiccated foods
tuffs and—well, what they were I can only assume—seem to be as stale as the spices with which I have endeavored to enliven them. Also, the consistency leaves a lot to be desired."

  "It's not going to kill us," Mildred argued. "It'll still be nutritious, and that's the main thing. We can't waste self-heats."

  Ryan looked from Mildred to Doc. The old man shrugged once more, and smiled, revealing his eerily perfect teeth.

  "I suspect I know exactly what you're thinking," he stated. "If I had merely dismissed the dried foodstuffs as so much dross, and merely pointed out the discovery of the self-heats, then all this argument could have been avoided."

  Ryan laughed. It was the first time for ages that he had felt able. "Don't worry about it, Doc. Guess you're right, but it's nice to just be somewhere for a while where we have the time to argue about nothing."

  Doc grinned, his gleaming white teeth in his tightly drawn and lined face giving him the appearance of a skeletal jester. He said no more, but tossed the one-eyed warrior a self-heat, which Ryan opened.

  "Let's just enjoy it for now," Ryan added, opening the container and setting off the process by which the contents were heated.

  Doc distributed some more of the containers, and even Mildred conceded that, as poor as some self-heats could be in terms of taste, they were still superior to the bizarre hotchpotch, still bubbling gently if a little malevolently, Doc had thrown together on the hot plate.

  They ate in silence, none of them realizing until that moment how hungry they were, and how tired they had to have been to sleep without even thinking about food prior to this.

  When they had finished, Jak placed his container on the cluttered table and belched. "Air getting bad," he muttered.

  "And you're not helping," Dean pointed out.

  "Seriously, though, Jak has a point," Mildred added. "We're going to have to think about leaving. The air conditioning plant won't be able to cope with us for much longer, and the air's just going to get worse."

  "Okay, we'll find the armory, check it out, then head on out," Ryan said decisively. "Let's check ourselves first, though—don't want to be too relaxed."

  The group ran through their weapons and supplies. As well as his leaf-bladed throwing knives, Jak also carried a .357 Magnum Colt Python with a six-inch barrel. It was, as always, in immaculate condition. Dean checked his Browning Hi-Power, Mildred her Czech ZKR 551 .38-caliber target revolver, which she favored because it fitted in with her predark shooting skills that had seen her win an Olympic silver medal.

  Doc's favored blaster was a LeMat double-barrel percussion pistol, usually firing two different kinds of shot. It was effective as a scattergun at longer ranges, and deadly in close quarters. A .38-caliber Smith & Wesson Model 640 was Krysty's preferred blaster, and this was also checked. Ryan shouldered his Steyr SSG-70 rifle, and inspected his SIG-Sauer handblaster.

  Mildred and Krysty made sure that they had gathered the remains of the self-heats and tucked them into their backpacks.

  They were ready, if still relaxed. Now to check out the armory.

  As with everything else in the redoubt, it was ridiculously easy to find. And there was no sec lock on the door, which was easily opened.

  "Dark night," J.B. growled. "I knew it was too damned good to be true."

  The Armorer and Ryan walked into the room that had once housed the armory. It was empty, apart from one open crate, which contained several rifles.

  "Something's better than nothing," Ryan commented, removing one of the rifles from the crate and handing it to J.B.

  "Guess I was mebbe expecting too much," J.B. replied, pushing his fedora back from his forehead and taking the rifle with his other hand. "But what's this?"

  "I was kind of hoping you could tell me that, partner," the one-eyed warrior replied as he, too, examined one of the rifles.

  They were of a fairly conventional shape, although the lines of the barrel and stock seemed to almost blur as they molded into one. The blaster was of some alloy with which they were both unfamiliar, and had a large, round red sight on the top, which was non-detachable. There was a crystal in a cage at the end of the barrel, instead of an opening, and there was no way of inserting ammo.

  "You thinking what I'm thinking?" Ryan questioned.

  J.B. put the rifle down and carefully wiped his spectacles. "Yep, guess so. Mebbe some kind of laser tech. Who knows how that kind of shit works? Never come across enough of it to figure that out. So if these were left here because they're defective…"

  "Then we leave them because they're just deadweight to us."

  The Armorer nodded. "One way to find out."

  Ryan nodded agreement. Making sure that the armory was clear apart from themselves, they tried each rifle, toying with the settings. None would fire; most wouldn't even fire up the digital displays that came up in the red sight. Those that did had low power readings and error messages that made little sense without a trained tech or a manual.

  J.B. threw the last one to the floor in disgust—a disgust measured by his treatment of something he would usually cherish.

  "Knew it was too good," he repeated.

  "Guess we better just watch that it's as bad as it gets," Ryan said quietly.

  He and J.B. returned to the others. There was no need to explain, as they had gathered the results.

  "So we head out?" Mildred asked.

  Ryan assented. "Recce on the way to see if we can pick up anything of interest."

  They began to walk the corridors that led toward the elevators, emergency stairwells and upward ramps that would take them to the surface. The corridors were dingy, with just enough light to see in front, but not enough to stop the corner of vision from being obscured by shadow. They passed through several sec doors that were permanently open.

  "Hey, has anyone noticed something weird?" Dean asked suddenly as they passed through yet another open door.

  "How would you define weird?" Doc queried.

  "Well, because all these doors are open I wouldn't swear to it being the same all the way through, but I've looked at the last couple of sec panels, and they haven't got numbers scratched on them."

  Ryan frowned. It was something and nothing. Pre-dark sec men sometimes scratched the sec-code numbers onto the scratch plates on the reverse side of the sec door, in case they forgot the number sequence.

  "So you think what?" he asked his son.

  Dean shrugged. "Don't know. Guess mebbe this wasn't a regular military place. Whoever was stationed here, was here all the time, and wasn't likely to forget."

  "And why all open?" Jak added. "Not usual."

  Ryan shook his head. "No, this isn't an ordinary redoubt. What—"

  He looked round sharply, guided by an instinct that told him Krysty had stopped behind him. She was staring at a closed door, and the hair around her nape had formed tendrils that hugged her neck.

  "Mebbe we'll find an answer in there," she said. "It feels bad, but not like danger…just residual bad feeling."

  "If it can't hurt us," J.B. remarked, throwing a glance at Ryan. The one-eyed warrior gestured, and the Armorer stepped forward to the door. It had a computerized lock with a blank digital display, and when he tried the handle underneath, the door failed to yield.

  With a shrug, he took a small piece of plas-ex from one of his pockets, added a detonator fuse and set it. Waiting until the others took cover, he activated the fuse and hurriedly stepped back himself.

  The lock and display on the door was of glass and a soft metal, and the small blob of plas-ex was enough explosive to make the metal buckle and yield. Waiting for the friction-heated metal to cool for a few seconds, the Armorer tried the door once more, and it swung open. The smell of the explosion lingered in the poor air, catching at their throats.

  Personal artifacts were strewed across the desk and the carpet, as though someone had wrecked the room in a rage. A swivel chair lay overturned on the door side of the desk, and the remains of a body were visible in the hollow ben
eath the desk.

  Mildred moved around to get a better view. The body was dressed in a black T-shirt and combat pants, with scuffed boots. It looked paramilitary rather than military to her, reminding the woman of the punks and metalheads from her own predark days who had become obsessed with apocalyptic and militaristic imagery. Strands of hair still clung to the skull. The skeleton still clutched a gray service-issue Colt .45 with a customized mother-of-pearl pistol grip. The cause of death was obvious: part of the skull was lying across the room, splintered by the bullet that had passed through the right temple and out somewhere above the left ear.

  Ryan noticed a poster on the wall. It was faded and crumbling, and over a dreamlike image were written, in gothic lettering, the words "Grateful Dead."

  "Guess he was," Ryan said grimly, indicating the poster.

  The comp terminal on the long-dead man's desk would give them no clues. It had been thoroughly trashed and was beyond repair, with the keyboard dismembered and the screen smashed. There were only a few pieces of paper scattered about. They were fragile with age and crumbled when Dean or Ryan bent to pick them up. The fragments that remained were so faded with scrawled ink that they were unreadable.

  "It seems to me that we are in the hands of some apocalyptic cult or other," Doc commented mildly, squinting to read several posters that were still hanging—just—from the walls. They were faded, and the light was poor, but there was enough for him to see that they all had biblical imagery or photographs of dead, dying and starving people. The slogans beneath spoke of humankind—what was left—rising like a phoenix from the ashes of mass destruction.

  "Creeps knew what coming," Jak commented.

  "I don't think this was anything to do with the military," Mildred said, looking around her. "Can you imagine predark soldiers having these weird posters?" She gestured at the walls, and then looked at her companions. "No, I don't suppose you'd know, really," she added lamely, suddenly feeling the weight of her years.

  Doc broke the silence. "From my somewhat limited knowledge, I would have to agree. I suspect this truly is some kind of nonmilitary base. In which case, it may be worth our searching for clues, as we may find information—if not weapons—that can be used to our advantage."