by Mark Ellis
Even Kane, in his mind-befogged state, was impressed. If he had doubted Lakesh before, he didn’t now. To possess this kind of arsenal, only a step or two below the one in Cobaltville, the old man had to be tapped into a very special, very exclusive pipeline.
“Compliments of the Anthill,” said Lakesh grimly. He added, as an afterthought, “I hate guns.”
“Couldn’t tell it by this room,” observed Domi.
Gesturing to the Mag armour, Grant asked, “Where’d you come by that?”
“It belonged to a disaffected member of your former fraternity,” Lakesh said quietly. “Anson, by name. For a time, he was part of our little group here.”
“What happened to him?”
“He killed himself with his own side arm. He had seen too much, learned too much and the truth was far more than he could bear.”
Lakesh doddered out of the armoury, his face seamed with grief. “Come on, children.”
Another big chamber held a pair of all-terrain vehicles, a modified and armoured Hussar Hotspur Land Rover and a current version of the Sandcat. Its armour was rust free, the treads solid and sturdy, and a USMG-73 heavy machine gun was enclosed within a small turret. A diesel fuel pump stood in the corner.
Out in the corridor again, they approached the portal chamber. They filed into the control room and Lakesh gestured to the rows of computers. “All teletransducer units contain molecular-imaging scanners. Every pattern of every atom of transmitted matter is stored in the scanners’ memory banks. They can be replayed and reviewed, if you know how.”
“How are you able to operate this one under the noses of the barons?” Grant asked.
“Very easily, friend Grant. As the former overseer of Cerberus, the responsibility fell to me to determine which strongholds were still operable or repairable. Having retained a certain fondness for this one, I listed it as condemned. Since it is in such an extraordinarily isolated area, not to mention buried within a mountain, no one cared to challenge my decision.
“Nor can the portal’s energies be traced back here. I altered the modulation frequencies of the matter-stream carrier wave, so they are slightly out of phase with the other units in other places.”
Lakesh regarded Kane keenly. “You are unusually solemn. I assumed most of the inquiries would spring from you.”
Kane cleared his throat. “Maybe I’m afraid to learn more.”
Lakesh said nothing. He only smiled encouragingly.
Kane blurted, “You knew my father?”
“Yes. You might say I selected him.”
“Selected him for what? To join the Trust or join you?”
Lakesh sighed very, very heavily. He dropped into a chair in front of one of the consoles. “Haven’t you ever wondered on what basis baronial society is divided? Who determines who lives in the Enclaves and who lives in the Pits? Who chooses the elite, like you, Grant and Brigid, and who chooses those relegated to live in the Terra Infernus, like Domi?”
“We were taught it was because of our parentage,” answered Brigid. “Our grandparents and great-grandparents were citizens of the original baronies, the progeny of Night Eternal’s survivors.”
“That is part of it. A very minuscule part. The class distinctions are based primarily on eugenics, and this was determined by the Directorate. They had in their hands the findings of the Human Genome Project, you see. Everyone selected to live in the baronies, to serve in the divisions, had to meet a strict set of criteria, one established generations ago. The purer the quality of individual genetic characteristics, the purer the quality of the hybrid. Purity control. Now do you begin to understand me?”
Kane, Brigid, Domi and Grant exchanged baffled glances.
At length, Kane said, “No. You’re still talking in enigmas. It’s past time for final answers, old man. No more riddles wrapped in cryptic bullshit.”
“Dulce,” declared Lakesh firmly. “All your answers can be found in Dulce.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
LAKESH REFUSED TO speak any more about Dulce. “If you want to find your truth,” he said ominously, “you must go there, to the Archuleta Mesa. However, if you go and are discovered, a protracted, painful death is the best you may hope for. Anson sought the truth in Dulce. The day after he returned, he put his weapon to his head. So, think it over carefully. Sleep on it. When you’ve made your decision, we’ll talk again.”
The remainder of the day passed, and they ate, drank and rested. Kane, Domi, Grant and Brigid were assigned individual suites. According to the goateed man named Farrell, thirty self-contained apartments were within the stronghold, as well as a dormitory and a small dining hall.
That evening, in his quarters, Kane shaved and had another shower. When he came out of the bathroom, his armour and Sin Eater rested neatly on a chair. Rather than feeling relieved, he sat on the bed and lost himself in gloomy reflections.
Though he had known Anson only by name, he easily understood why the man had pulled the trigger on himself. Under the circumstances, most people would feel overwhelmed and hopeless, and suicide didn’t seem like such a cowardly option—but it did seem like an incredible waste, considering all he had gone through to be able to sit on this bed and contemplate it.
He recognized the symptoms of shock and tension. His aching muscles and outraged nerve ends screamed at him to be allowed to relax, to go to sleep. But every time he closed his eyes, Balam’s black orbs crowded into his mind, pushing aside all other thoughts.
Kane felt like a boy who had lifted a rock and then, paralyzed with horror, watched as nightmarish monstrosities with pincers and stingers scuttled out in a never-ending stream.
He had a sudden yearning for ignorance, to unlearn what he had learned and to be back in his little flat in the Enclaves or the drab dayroom with its bad coffee sub. He longed for all the times when he walked like a tiger, muscles gliding under his black armour, all the lesser breeds scrambling out of his way.
But beyond the loss of a life path, something else weighed so heavily on him that he wondered if it were possible for a Magistrate to weep. It was a strange concept, for he had never thought of shedding tears since he entered the division as a child.
A deep ache came over him for all the terrible things mankind had endured and for the darkness or extinction even yet to come.
He felt sick in every cell of his being. He lay down on the bed and allowed the waves of sleep to crash over him.
He slept, deeply and dreamlessly.
When he woke, he was fit, rested and grimly determined. His wrist chron told him he had slept for over ten hours.
In the bathroom, he showered. Next, he crossed the suite to his armour and inspected every piece of it, then field-stripped the Sin Eater, meticulously cleaned and reassembled it.
He donned the ebony exoskeleton with deliberation, taking great care to firmly snap together the joints and secure all the seals. Since this could very well be the last time he would ever put it on, he paid strict attention to every nuance of the procedure. Each snap, click and clack of the pieces joining together held a new, special significance.
When he was armoured up, the Sin Eater holstered in place, the helmet under his arm, he did something he hadn’t done in years, not since the first couple of months after receiving his duty badge. He examined his reflection in the mirror.
He liked everything he saw, except for the eyes staring back at him. They looked strange, different, almost unfamiliar. Slowly it dawned on him they were the eyes of a man who fully expected to die that day.
He turned smartly on his heel and left the suite. Out in the corridor, he looked straight ahead as he marched, wishing distantly that the alloyed floor didn’t possess such sound-absorbing properties. The echo of his measured boot treads would have made a nice accompaniment during his walk to the armoury.
Once inside, he took a Copperhead from
its case, made sure all its moving parts were oiled and attached it to his belt. He slid half a dozen clips of ammo into his belt compartments, three for his Sin Eater, and three for the subgun. Lifting the lid of a crate full of grens, he examined them in their foam cushions. As he eyeballed an incendiary like a shopper studying an egg at market, Grant stalked in.
“What are you armoured up for?”
“I’m out of here,” Kane replied brusquely. “No games, no horseshit, no hand-wringing. I’m out of here.”
“To where?”
“Dulce.”
Grant nodded curtly. “I’m with you.”
“No. I’m going alone. I’ve ruined your life, Grant. I don’t want to be the one responsible for you losing it altogether.”
“That no longer applies, knowing what I do now. How could I want it back? Besides, if I’m not going, then you’re not going.”
“Don’t screw around with me on this. If you were ever my friend, you won’t interfere with me.”
Grant jabbed an accusatory finger at him. “You’ve gone simple on me, Kane. There are protocols here, and it’s got nothing to do with friendship or sentiment. Hell, half the time, I don’t even like you. But it so happens that we’re partners, and partners walk the hellfire trail together.”
Kane turned his back on him, still going through the grens. “We’re not Mags anymore. The partnership protocols are dissolved.”
Grant stared at him speechless. Then he swore, whirled and stalked toward the door.
Kane didn’t look at him or try to call him back. Grant stopped before he went through the doorway. His faked anger hadn’t fooled either of them.
“All right,” said Grant in an uninflected, unemotional voice. “No games. No horseshit. You can run off, looking for the truth, wanting to die in a blaze of glory when you find it. I don’t blame you. I want to try to even up the score just as much as you do. But as long as you still wear that badge, we’re partners. So, here’s how the stick’s gonna float...we’ll both go, or neither of us will go.”
Kane threw him a bemused glance. “How do you propose to stop me?”
Grant folded his arms over his broad chest. “I’ll stop you.” His voice held no heat, no anger, only an intractable belief in his own words. Kane believed him, too.
“Okay.” Kane returned his attention to the explosives.
“Okay what?”
“Okay, we’ll both go.” He gestured to Anson’s Mag armour in the corner. “Armor up.”
Grant’s brow furrowed, his heavy jaw jutting out. “You could’ve argued with me some more, you know.”
“There’s no time, and I don’t have the inclination.”
“Good,” announced Brigid, sweeping into the room. “Neither do I.” Lakesh and Domi followed her.
“Why don’t we bring the whole stronghold in on this?” Kane asked. “Let’s ask Balam if he’d like to go.”
“No need,” replied Lakesh. “Since he was dragged here from Dulce, I’m pretty sure what his response would be. However, he can’t provide you with the layout of the place. I can.”
Brigid nodded. “Fine. Put it in a form I can study, either hard copy or digital. I’ll take a look and commit it to memory.”
Kane said wearily, “Let’s not have any more volunteers. This is a penetration, not a tour group.”
Brigid’s eyes glinted fiercely. “Grant’s going with you.”
“He’s my partner.”
“And so am I,” Brigid snapped.” You saw to that, Kane, whether you intended to or not.”
Kane didn’t respond in words. From a gun case, he removed an H&K VP-70 handblaster, holster and belt. He tossed it across the room toward her, and Brigid snatched it effortlessly out of the air.
“Good muscle tone,” he said. “But that’s not enough. This may be a one-way trip.”
“No,” she stated firmly. “You do what you have to do, what you do best. I’ll see to it that we come back.”
Grant glanced over at Domi. “Don’t you want to tag along, too?”
She shook her white, shaggy head vehemently. “Hell, no!” She paused, smiled crookedly and added, “But I will...always like to finish what I started.”
“You didn’t start this,” Kane pointed out.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t finish it, even if it doesn’t make any damn sense.”
Lakesh patted her arm fondly. “Flawless logic, child. Mind your ribs, though.”
“Won’t you be missed?” Kane asked Lakesh. “After what’s happened, won’t the baron call an emergency meeting of the Trust?”
“He won’t convene it over your escape. That’s a problem he’ll leave to Salvo to solve. Besides, Baron Cobalt is not in the barony at present. As for me being missed, Brigid can attest that my hours were unpredictable at best. One of the few privileges of my station and age.”
“There’s got to be a portal in the barony, then,” Grant said.
“Of course. On Alpha Level of the Monolith, known and accessible only to the baron, his personal staff and certain senior members of the Trust. I’d intended to use it to spirit Brigid here. It would have been a far smoother and faster trip than the one you endured.”
“When were you planning to ‘spirit’ her away?” Kane asked. “She was about ten seconds away from execution.”
Lakesh shook his head dolefully. “Yes, and you spoiled a perfect hairbreadth rescue. Enough recriminations. Domi, you and Brigid prepare. All of you meet me in the control centre in fifteen minutes.”
Brigid left the room with Domi and Lakesh. Grant donned Anson’s armour, relieved to discover they were approximately of the same physique and weight. The helmet was a shade too large, but he adjusted the locking guard to snug the fit.
“We must be operating on half a load,” Grant said. “We don’t even know if there’s a functioning teletransducer unit there.”
“There is,” replied Kane. “There has to be.”
They reviewed and supplemented their ordnance with gren-filled war bags, extra ammo clips and two flares apiece. After ten minutes, they walked to the control centre. Lakesh sat before a computer console, gnarled fingers busy working the keyboard. He grunted in acknowledgment of their arrival.
Chosen from the stronghold’s stores, Brigid wore a form-fitting, high-collared bodysuit made of black Kevlar and Neoprene weave. Her mane of hair was tied back so it wouldn’t get in her way. The gun belt rode low on her hips.
Domi had dressed for speed and stealth rather than protection. She wore black knit leggings and rubber-soled half boots. Her T shirt was also black. She had applied stripes of combat cosmetics to her arms and face.
“You seem a little light in the gun department,” Grant observed.
From a canvas scabbard at the small of her back, Domi drew the long knife with which she had cut Guana Teague’s throat. Holding it by the tip, she flipped it into the air, expertly caught it by the handle and returned it to its sheath in one smooth motion.
“Like this better,” she declared confidently. “Less noise, less weight. And I never miss.”
Lakesh hit another few keys and spun his chair around. “Come over here, please.”
Brigid leaned over the console, and Lakesh pointed to a colour image on the screen. A gigantic stone megalith rose sheer from gravel-strewn hills, thrusting up high into a sky ablaze with the first colours of sunset. Ages of erosion had cut deep fissures in its sides. A series of crumbling crags circled the base.
“The Archuleta Mesa,” Lakesh stated. “Like the Anthill installation, the interior is honeycombed with man-made tunnels, chambers, testing facilities and laboratories, although most of them are located beneath the mesa itself.”
He touched a key and the image of the rock formation vanished from the screen, to be replaced by a schematic. “This is a floor plan of Levels Four and Five. You’
ll arrive here, on Level Four, in the teletransducer. It was the prototype unit, and it’s still fully functional, though rather primitive in comparison to the later models.”
Brigid read aloud, “Stronghold Alpha. So that’s Dulce’s designation.”
“Yes. From there, you can make your way down through the maintenance stairwell past Level Five, and then onto Six. There are elevators, but it’s far too risky to use them.”
Grant asked, “How much opposition can we expect?”
Lakesh shrugged. “None until you reach Level Six. The only time Four is staffed is when a prearranged transmission takes place. This one, obviously, is unscheduled.”
“When I tried to verify the jump line for Stronghold Alpha before,” Brigid said, “I received an inactive signal.”
“Of course you did.”
Lakesh adjusted a toggle on the console, and a section of alloy spanning almost the entire far wall slid aside, revealing a Mercator-projection map of the world. Spots of light flickered in almost every continent, and thin, glowing lines networked across the countries, like a web spun by a radioactive spider. Kane was a bit surprised to see that the map delineated all the geophysical alterations caused by the Nukeday. As far as he had been told, very little was known regarding the topographical or sociological conditions overseas.
“Here are the locations of known functioning portal units, though not all of them are active all of the time. In Dulce, the matter-transit pathway is not open unless prior arrangements are made. What I will do from here is reroute and circumvent the target auto sequence initiator and activate the unit’s wave-guide conduits via an annular confinement matter stream.”
Kane and Grant exchanged glum glances, then Kane shrugged as if the matter were of little importance. As long as Lakesh understood his techno-babble, then he wasn’t going to worry about his own poverty of comprehension.
“Now,” continued Lakesh, “after you materialize, the unit will shut down automatically. I will reactivate it in two hours to the second from your arrival. The power will be on just long enough to initiate transmission. If you’re not in the portal, then there is nothing I can do. No rescue or search parties will be dispatched. Understood?”