Sunchild

by James Axler

  Dean made no move, but neither did he relax. His adrenaline was racing, and time seemed to be moving at half speed as he frantically searched for a way out. His eyes searched past the sec chief to the room beyond. It seemed empty.

  "You're right," Dean said simply. "I'd have to be triple stupe to try and chill you. But on the other hand, you'd have to be more than that to chill me. You know there'd be trouble if I went missing."

  "You forget that you're on my territory, boy. Your father and his few rad-blasted scum against the whole of Raw? What kind of odds are those?"

  "Odds I'll have to take," Dean breathed almost to himself, conserving his energy for his spring forward. He had estimated that one break, like starting a sprint in training at the Brody school, would propel him forward with enough force to catch the sec man in the midriff and push him back. Harvey would land, hopefully winded, on his back. Dean would roll forward from the thrust and be on his feet first, heading for the corridors. His only hope was to head back to his father and his companions. Harvey would then be in a difficult position. He may have to act covertly, which would hamper his ability to do them harm, especially if they were on triple red.

  All these thoughts raced through the boy's head in a fraction of a second as he threw himself forward, lowering his head to catch the sec man off guard and in the solar plexus.

  Which was exactly what he did. Harvey had instinctively read the movement of Dean's body, and was ready for the attack, but was a fraction of a second slower than the youth in reaction time. A vital fraction of a second as Dean's head caught him beneath the breastbone, driving the air from his lungs with a gulping gasp as the sec chief tried to replace the air almost immediately.

  But Dean was already in a forward roll, his legs cutting through the air, using the prone Harvey as a cushion against his impact on the hard floor.

  The young Cawdor sprang to his feet, almost stumbling as his ankle twisted on the uneven floor, but managing to stay erect with only a sharp knife of pain, too brief to stop him, to mark the stumble.

  He had made two steps to the door, leaving a floundering sec chief twisting on the floor, cursing and trying to pull his Colt from where the holster had slipped on his belt, almost underneath him, when he was brought up short by a wave of paralyzing fear.

  Dean had seen rabbits before they were chilled, frozen in a sudden burst of light. He had seen a mutie fox, so terrified at being cornered that its muscles were almost frozen in rigor before its chilling; but he had never experienced such a crippling fear—nor did he think it was possible for a human being.

  But now he knew differently. Try as he might, he was unable to move a muscle voluntarily. They trembled and quivered in his legs as though they would, at any moment, dissolve to liquid. Although he could hear the cursing sec chief struggle to his feet, although he could hear him free his blaster, still Dean Cawdor was frozen, unable to move from his absurd position of being midrun.

  And it wasn't just his being frozen; it was the fear itself. He had been scared before—terrified, even. His father always told him that fear could be a positive thing in a dangerous situation. It would help you clarify and make priorities when things were tough. But this was a different kind of fear. This was a blind, all-encompassing terror that made it impossible for Dean's mind to focus on one thing, flitting as it did from moment to moment between abject terror at dying, fear of torture, and even a ridiculous scaredness at wetting himself in his terror, feeling the urine flow down his leg.

  "Well, I'll be fucked by a mutie leper!" Harvey exclaimed. "The little fucker can't even move—and he's pissed himself. I've got to hand it to you, babe…"

  Dean was confused. Who was Harvey talking to? And then she entered the room. Although Dean couldn't conquer the fear, or think clearly through it, a part of his brain suddenly realized why he was so scared.

  It was Jenna. The baron's mutie wife stepped through the outer door. She had obviously been waiting for Harvey to clean up the situation, but since he had failed she had decided to step in herself. Both Jak and Krysty had mentioned her obvious feelie ability, and now Dean was aware of how strong it could be when she chose to exercise the faculty.

  Her sharp, pointed face was clouded with anger as she stood in front of the boy. The raven eyes glittered with nothing so much as childish petulance, and the dark curtains of hair that hung down over her shoulders only accentuated those eyes…the eyes that bore into him.

  Dean's fear grew to the point where he wanted to gibber and moan with fright, even though some still rational part of his brain frantically tried to scream to him that it was all manipulation.

  Jenna's face, which could, if not clouded by her twisted nature, have been beautiful, contorted with hate as she spat into Dean's face. Her acrid spittle stung his eyes, but he was unable to blink, his vision blurred by the liquid.

  "Harv, you're a fuckwit," she said in a quavering voice. "You can't even get the better of a whelp like this. You know I hate using the taint in my soul unless I have to, so why make me have to?"

  "Kid took me by surprise," Harvey muttered in return.

  "Yeah, right," she said, sneering. "Nothing to do with you getting old and useless." Harvey, now in front and facing Dean, tried to slip an arm around Jenna's waist. "That's not what you say when—"

  "No, not now," she screeched, shrugging him off violently. "You moron, you always were led totally by your dick."

  Harvey's face hardened, but he said nothing. Dean figured that he would be the one to pay for the sec chiefs humiliation, and knowing this didn't help the fear that was still flowing through him.

  Jenna stepped back from them both and crossed her arms, looking askance at the young Cawdor.

  "You're obviously a bright boy, like your father. And you'll grow to be as handsome as him… No, you won't, because you won't live that long. Shame. Mebbe I should take your father instead of old Harv here," she said mockingly.

  Harvey was stone-faced, his attention fixed on Dean.

  Jenna continued. "I suppose you feel disgusted by what you've seen here. And I'll grant that my experiments have not been that successful as yet. But progress takes time, and that fireblasted war came far too soon. You see, boy, one of the little projects the Illuminated Ones were working on was the creation of the perfect human being. It wasn't a widely known project, even within the group. Everyone has their secrets. But my father worked long and hard on it, trying to rebuild what his father had started, and what had been smashed when they left the redoubt and came into the open. Oh, yes, there were many little wars within the group, some of which even Alien knows nothing…despite what the fool thinks."

  "You sure you should tell him this?" Harvey asked, still stone-faced, his eyes fixed on Dean.

  Jenna shrugged. "He's going nowhere. Anyway, I want him to see that this has an aim, a point." Her eyes began to shine. "Some of the Illuminated Ones were against the idea of the perfect human being, but those with vision could see it was the only way forward. A way that became more of an imperative when skydark happened. How else are we ever going to rebuild? It's too late for me, cursed as I am by these mutie traits. But for others? Those children are the future. They may not be perfect yet, but they tell me much for the next time around. And when I have reclaimed that lost knowledge, then…"

  She trailed off, lost in thought. Dean struggled to assert his will over his own body, hoping that her reverie would cause to weaken—if only for a moment—her grip on his mind.

  He was right. It took an immense effort on his part, but he managed to move his limbs, could feel the strength start to flow back into his muscles. He made as if to move forward.

  But he was too sluggish, still too much in thrall to Jenna. He was far too slow. Harvey stepped forward and punched Dean, using the time the boy's sluggish movements allowed him to draw back his arm and put all his weight behind the blow, knowing that Dean wouldn't be able to move his protesting body quickly enough to protect himself from the blow.

  Dea
n saw it coming toward him, but was unable to get out of the way. The fist hit him like a jackhammer in the face. He felt the blow as if in slow motion, blood filling his mouth as one tooth loosened and others bit into the flesh of his cheek. The bone of his jaw groaned and grated in protest, perhaps at breaking point.

  He was aware of the evil smile on Harvey's face as consciousness slipped away from him.

  RYAN WAS AWARE of the jackhammer pounding in his brain as he slowly slipped back into consciousness. He slowly lifted his head, which felt as though it had little connection with the rest of his body. Looking around the sleeping unit, he saw that he and Krysty were alone.

  The flame-haired beauty was wrapped around him, her body heavy with sleep. As the one-eyed man slipped from beneath her, he remembered with a smile the way they had made love, long and passionate, savoring the opportunity to take a few moments of peace and use it in that manner, knowing that they could—just for the moment—let down their guard on the outside world and be totally wrapped in each other.

  But before that? The celebration was little more than a set of random images, each distorted by that fearsome brew and its incredible strength. As Ryan planted his feet on the ground and felt the impact travel up each calf, he wondered how the others felt as they awoke.

  JAK HAD AN aching head, but the will to dismiss it. Too long had he spent hunting and living in hostile territories to let a hangover get to him. He smiled as he spotted Doc, attempting to rise among a heap of bodies. Considering that the surrounding ville dwellers were used to the brew and mostly much younger than Doc, it was a measure of the old man's constitution and wiry strength that he was conscious before the majority of them.

  The albino stepped over the bodies and assisted Doc to his feet.

  "My thanks, Jak," Doc said, wincing at the apparent loudness of his own voice in his aching head, "I fear that I—in common with most—imbibed far too much last night."

  "Not much celebrate in this place," Jak commented. "Why not enjoy?" he added.

  "True, true…but there was something troubling me last night. Something I felt I had to speak to Ryan upon… But I cannot for the life of me remember. Where are the others?" Jak shrugged. "Too busy to notice."

  "A fair point." Doc grinned. "I have not been that drunk since New Year's in Vermont. For one wild, intoxicated moment I could almost have been back there…" His eyes misted over as he recalled his beloved Emily, and his children, Rachel and Jolyon, long since dead and buried even before skydark.

  Jak took the old man's arm. "We find them," he said.

  Doc looked confused for a moment. "What? Why, yes. It was just that I could almost see them, before that hard rain began to fall and— Wait!" He gripped Jak's arm so hard that the albino felt Doc's bony fingers bite into the muscle. "The hard rain—Sunchild. That's what I wanted to remember. Something I saw at Samtvogel. They have more than just blasters, and now that they have been routed, let us pray that he does not know how to use it, or that it isn't operative."

  Jak frowned and took Doc's chin in his free hand so that he could focus his red eyes directly into Doc's.

  "What worry you?"

  Doc seemed to struggle for the words. "Hard rain…like the cursed whitecoats and their appalling methods of destruction. It must have come from the redoubt or a silo nearby. Thank whatever God is left that they didn't somehow detonate it then."

  "Doc!" Jak barked, snapping the old man back to attention. "What it?"

  Doc's voice was reduced to a whisper. "A nuke, my friend. They have, in the middle of their ville, a nuke. The very thing that created them. A splendid irony, is it not?"

  WHEN DEAN REGAINED consciousness, he felt no pain from the blow that had rendered him unconscious. He felt no headache, nor any of the pain and nausea from concussion or waking from unconsciousness. In fact, he felt as though he were adrift on a sea of wool, muzzy but completely happy. He felt drugged.

  He slowly realized that had to be the case, as he became aware of the fact that his wrists and ankles were secured and that he was lying on the table in the middle of the room.

  Turning his head, he saw Jenna. There was no sign of the sec chief. Dean smiled stupidly at her, unable to do anything else.

  Jenna returned his smile, but with a sinister edge. "As you may have guessed, young Cawdor, you've been sedated to keep you quiet and make you more malleable. You'll make an interesting experiment. I've never had a subject as young or as fit as you, nor one from outside this gene pool. I hope you're not hiding any mutie traits, or that the redheaded mutie bitch isn't your mother. Unfortunately, it's not easy to synthesize the drugs that were used on previous experiments, not with what I have available at the moment. But I do my best. I think you'll find the chemicals I'll be using on you will perhaps hurt more than they should, which is why I've put you under such a heavy dose. We'll begin tonight, after I've appeased my idiot husband for disappearing from his stupe celebration last night. Until then, rest well, my little one."

  She came over to him and kissed him gently on the lips before turning to go.

  Dean smiled stupidly, although every fiber of his being screamed silently, unable to find release through the drugged haze.

  He was still smiling when she locked the door, imprisoning him until his ordeal would begin.

  Chapter Twelve

  "Ryan, my dear boy. The teeth of the hell-monster are forever housed in slavering jaws that await nothing more than our perennial destruction. We are forever condemned by our past to not only repeat its mistakes but to enlarge upon them, increase them in volume to a deafening roar that cuts across the world—such as it now is—in a wave of increasing fear and loathing, even in Las Vegas, that will—"

  "Doc!" Ryan roared, taking hold of the shaking, rambling man and holding him still, trying to penetrate his wild-eyed gaze with the steely glare of his good eye. It was no use. Doc's head was rolling wildly from side to side as the old man was gripped in a convulsive anxiety attack.

  He had burst into the sleeping unit a scant few seconds before, disturbing the peace. Krysty had joined Ryan in the land of the waking, and like him was suffering from the results of the potent ville brew. It was unlike any white lightning or spirit they had encountered across the Deathlands, and for the first time in what passed at this moment for a memory, she had a hangover, her head thumping and the lights seeming too bright.

  She and Ryan had conversed in muted, hushed tones, trying not to trigger each other's headaches. They both recalled similar segments of the previous night, and there was enough time for a moment of fond remembrance—a time that was in short enough supply.

  Their muted reverie had been broken by the return of J.B. and Mildred. They had found an empty unit for themselves, wanting their own privacy as much as granting Ryan and Krysty theirs, but in contrast, both seemed to be suffering no ill effects from the spirit.

  "Simple," Mildred said when Krysty asked her. "Just a lot of water and some juice. It may be mutie fruit, but it has something resembling vitamin C in it."

  Krysty remembered back in Harmony, when Uncle Tyas McCann had taught them something similar. But it had taken Mildred's predark medical-trained and methodical mind to remember this, even in the midst of such a celebration.

  "So do we go on or do we stay?" J.B. asked eventually, polishing the minisextant he carried with him.

  Ryan was aware that the Armorer's producing the instrument as he posed the question was by way of a hint, and not a very subtle one. But then, J.B. was a straightforward man, not given to subtlety…unless it was in the line of a booby trap.

  "I think we should go, move on. These aren't the Illuminated Ones. Yesterday's firefight would have been a lot easier if they had been. These people have little old tech remnants, and even though that doomie wife of Alien's gives me the creeps as much as all of you, I think Alien's on the level. He's a good man, doing his best to live by the code they set up here. There's no great stockpile, no Erewhon here." J.B. nodded agreement. "Harvey's a co
ldheart who doesn't like us around. I don't like the idea of wasting time and ammo on an unnecessary firefight. That's triple stupe, but that's what it'll come to if we stay." Mildred agreed, and was about to tell Ryan and Krysty of Harvey's willingness to leave them to fight alone the day before, when she was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Doc, bursting in wild-eyed and anxious.

  And now, after he had blurted out his half story, Mildred was helping him to one of the beds. He was breathing fast and heavy, sweat spangling his forehead and sticking strands of snow-white hair to his skull. His head turned wildly from side to side as he lay, the whites of his eyes all that showed as his eyes rolled in their sockets.

  "Shit, the old fool's really got himself worked up about something," Mildred stated. "I need some kind of sedative to calm him. His heart will burst, the way his blood pressure's going."

  Ryan crouched beside them. "No. He was trying to tell us something important. The last thing we need is him out of his head on something."

  "Ryan, I'm not disagreeing with you," Mildred said through gritted teeth, "but unless we get him calmed down, we'll never find out what the old fool means."

  The one-eyed warrior nodded. "I know where the medic is in this ville. I'll take you."

  Mildred rose to her feet, turning to Krysty. "Keep an eye on him," she said with a trace of worry in her voice. "It'd be just like the crazy buzzard to buy the farm before telling us something important."

  JAK KNEW exactly where he was headed. He had listened to Doc's story, and although finding it hard to fully understand the rambling tale, he could grasp enough through the old man's excitement to realize that it was vitally important that Ryan know of it. So he sent Doc back to the unit to tell his tale, while the albino took it upon himself to find Dean.

  As with many things, Jak would have found it impossible to explain why he knew Dean wouldn't be with the others. But something was telling him that Dean had gotten himself into big time trouble. He knew that his little exploration of a few days before had whetted the boy's appetite for the ville, and for nosing out his suspicions of Jenna and her activities. In a way, Jak wished he hadn't mentioned the metal door at the end of the isolated corridor.