Northstar Rising

by James Axler

  "B 100."

  "Name?"

  "Cawdor. Ryan Cawdor."

  The giant consulted a piece of white parchment in his mailed fist. "Cawdor. Cawdor. Cawdor. Did you say Cawdor?"

  "Yeah."

  "Did you say Richard Cawdor?"

  "No, Ryan."

  "You said Richard!"

  "No."

  The weird weapon lifted toward the one-eyed man, its barrel reflecting the pink of the sky. "Ryan Cawdor, are you saying?"

  "Yeah, and you'd better not point that blaster at me, unless you aim to use it."

  The guard roared a rippling belly laugh. "Well, now. I call that mighty big talk for a one-eyed thin man like you, Ryan Cawdor."

  Ryan winced at the noise, finding it made his splitting headache even worse.

  "You going to let me through, or do I chill you where you stand?"

  "No need, outlander. My list has your name on it. This door is only for you. And now I'm going to open it."

  THE CORRIDOR HAD walls of pale gray, a floor of black tiles and a ceiling of peeling yellow paint. It stretched away ahead of Ryan, as far as he could see.

  Above him he could hear the noise of countless feet, marching in a stumbling dissonant rhythm, the sound muffled by the ceiling. On either side of the passage were rows of identical doors, each with a tiny peephole.

  Ryan paused and looked in the first one, then the second and the third, moving to the other side and finding that each peephole revealed exactly the same thing—a square concrete cell, with a bunk bed and an enamel chamber pot. The rooms were seven feet across and had a barred window of opaque arma-glass six inches wide.

  And in each room stood a naked person—alternately male and female—with their backs toward the doors. Their hands were manacled behind them, and bags of rough hessian covered their heads, knotted at the sides with purple cord.

  None moved or made any sound, nor was there a sign of anyone who might have been a guard.

  Ryan turned away and walked farther along, finding another corridor that opened to his left. It was a blind alley with only five doors, and these doors, like the others, had peepholes.

  In the first cell stood an old man, his head hidden under a sacking hood. On the bunk lay a folded kerchief, bearing a swallow's-eye design.

  The next cell held a man close to middle-age, but lean and muscular. On the bunk was a pair of rimless spectacles.

  A teenager stood motionless in the third, the hood revealing a trickle of snow-white hair beneath it. On his bunk was a dish that held a mess of pallid creatures that writhed and twisted about one another.

  In the second last Ryan saw a tall athletic woman, whose fiery hair had escaped beneath the hessian mask. On her bunk was a riding crop with a handle of carved ivory.

  There was nobody in the last cell, but on the narrow bed lay the corpse of a small puppy. From the angle of its head, Ryan could see that its neck had been broken.

  THE MAN WHO SAT across the table from Ryan was aged beyond measuring: his scant hair was without color and clung to the shrunken skull like moss to a boulder; his eyes were veiled and blind, lost beneath layers of pale wrinkled skin; the mouth was toothless, lipless, and seemed possessed of a strange ticking life of its own.

  Spittle dripped ceaselessly, running over the chin and down the scrawny neck, which was wattled like an ancient turkey. He was dressed in a collarless shirt that was tucked into baggy pants, and he smelled of urine and last week's stew, in roughly equal proportions.

  "You passed the gate built only for you. You passed without the word. And now you will witness the last and greatest mystery of them all."

  "No." Ryan swallowed hard to contain the vomit that he could taste rising from his churning stomach.

  "Indeed, yes, Ryan Cawdor, late of the ville of Front Royal. I will reveal to you what all men desire and all men fear."

  "What?"

  "The manner of your passing."

  Ryan tried to shake his head, but the pressure on his brain was too severe. "Don't fucking want it, old man."

  The tabletop between them was made of cold dark glass. As Ryan leaned forward to rest his head on his hands, it seemed that he could see flickerings of light and fire within the somber shadows. Once he thought he glimpsed the face of Krysty Wroth, twisted like that of a tormented soul, with a grinning, thin-lipped skull at her shoulder.

  "No man wishes it, but you are valued above all men, Ryan Cawdor. And this shall be your suitable reward."

  "Why?"

  For some reason the question amused the smirking dotard and he giggled, his voice high-pitched like a little girl's. "Because you are the meanest bastard that ever walked through the valley of Deathlands. That's why."

  "I have never taken pleasure in killing." Even as he spoke, Ryan knew in his heart that it was a lie. He'd killed men who deserved to die, and women. And to leave the earth a little cleaner was always a good thing.

  "That don't signify doodleysquat here, Ryan Cawdor. Now, look into the middle of this here table and you'll see how you get chilled, when you get chilled and where you get chilled."

  Ryan looked away, trying to make out what kind of room they were in. All he could see were folds of heavy material, draped in the corners. It could have been a tent, but it felt colder and the echoes didn't sound right.

  "Don't you want to know?"

  "No. Who are you?"

  "I'm now. I want to show you soon. Want to know if you marry? Have kids? I can show you all that. If it's there. But you have to see the end as well as the beginning. Might not be so bad."

  "No."

  "Could be you go in your sleep on your 120th birthday, your kin all around your bedside, weeping."

  "Could be it's in the gutter of some pesthole, looking up at the sky while the rain bounces off my eyes."

  The old man laughed again. "Look into the table, Ryan Cawdor, and find out."

  Unable to resist, the pain blinding him, Ryan leaned forward over the darkness. And watched.

  Chapter Five

  THE NOISE FADED AWAY.

  The metal plates set into the floor and ceiling of the chamber gradually ceased glowing and became cold to the touch. The vague mist that had flooded the red-walled arma-glass room dissipated.

  In the control room, filters and thermostats kept the temperature even. The comp-wheels spun, powered by the eternally vigilant nuke-generators.

  All things were as they should be.

  The triple jump had gone bitterly hard for all of the companions, but one by one they began to claw their way back from the swamping nightmares that had enveloped them.

  Ryan came out of it first. He blinked into consciousness, feeling as though he'd been fighting for hours, hundreds of feet deep in water. He was soaked with perspiration, and a jackhammer thumped ceaselessly behind his temples. His fingers crabbed across his face, and he felt the stickiness of drying blood over his chin. Wisely he made no effort to sit up. He sensed it would be impossible. The best he could hope for was to open his eye and see how things went with his four friends and the little dog.

  "Fireblast," he whispered through dry, cracked lips. Ryan had seen enough of death to know that Zorro had booked himself a ticket up the chimney. It wouldn't help Doc Tanner's always tenuous hold on reality.

  The others all looked as if death had been visiting with them.

  Krysty was moving, hands folded between her thighs, head shaking as though she were refusing an unwanted invitation. Ryan had never seen her red hair so tightly and defensively coiled about her head. Her angular face was gray with the pain of the most recent jump.

  Jak was curled into a ball, his hair tangled and stained with specks of vomit. Nothing could be seen of the boy's face, though Ryan thought he glimpsed the red coals of Jak's eyes behind the veil.

  J.B. lay flat on his back, as stiff as an oaken plank, hands at his side. He, too, had been bleeding from nostrils and mouth.

  Doc jerked awake as Ryan watched him. The old man looked appalling
. His face and clothes were smeared with a mixture of blood and sickness, and his deep-set eyes didn't seem to focus. He stared wildly ahead of him with a frightening lack of comprehension.

  "Doc," Ryan called, but there wasn't the least sign of recognition.

  "I've felt worse," Krysty whispered, her voice cracking.

  "Yeah?"

  "Just can't recall when."

  "Bad jump that. I really don't think I'd make it through another one."

  She nodded, and cautiously pulled herself into a sitting position, against the dull red walls of the chamber. "I had some triple-bad dreams this time, lover. Real dark side."

  "Same with me."

  "What'd you see?" She closed her eyes and drew in a long shuddering breath. "I saw things I don't ever want to see again."

  Ryan considered a long time before he answered her. "Old man showed me… showed me pictures of what he said was… No, I can't even tell you, lover. Sorry."

  Krysty nodded slowly. "I understand."

  There was a groan as J.B. struggled to reenter the land of the living. He rolled over on his side, boots scrabbling on the floor, while he fought himself into a huddled crouch. "That was about as bad as I want it, Ryan," he muttered.

  "I won't argue with you. Least we made it to someplace else."

  "The walls are a different color, and it feels a whole lot hotter than last time," Krysty remarked. "Hey, lover. I don't like the look of Doc."

  "He's come around," J.B. commented as he rolled over so that he sat next to the unconscious Jak Lauren.

  "His eyes are open, but he's not seeing anything. Give the kid a shake, J.B., and get him upright. He's puked a lot. Could choke."

  The Armorer pushed at Jak's shoulder, making him stir. The albino tried to sit up and flopped sideways, coughing and spluttering. Blood and half-digested food spilled from his white lips over his camouflage jacket. J.B. held him firmly, patting him on the back. The boy's eyes eased open, unfocused, like a newborn rabbit's.

  "Been sick, Pa. Sorry. Tell Ma…where the fuck are… What?"

  "Bad jump for us all, Jak," J.B. said gently. "Looks like we mostly made it. But the dog died, and Doc's not flea-jumping well."

  "No jumps, Ryan," the boy gasped. "Or make 'em on ownsome."

  Ryan turned his attention back to Doc. The lined face seemed somehow younger, as if most of the worry lines had been smoothed away during the horrendous jump. The old man pulled himself to his knees, smoothing his frock coat with gnarled fingers. His breathing seemed surprisingly slow and steady.

  "Doc? "Krysty asked.

  His eyes stared straight ahead, and there was no visible sign that anyone was home inside the leonine skull.

  "Doc? I know you can hear me. Tell us how you feel."

  Ryan had a little more success. At least Doc turned slowly in his direction.

  "He's in shock, lover," Krysty said quietly. "Mebbe best to leave him awhile."

  "Tomorrow's so devilish dangerous," Doc said, his voice as rich and deep as ever. But the eyes still didn't budge from gazing at some invisible point in a limitless distance.

  "Want sick," Jak muttered, easing himself away from J.B. He retched again, managing only to bring up a few threads of scarlet blood.

  "Shall we open the door?" J.B. suggested. But Ryan shook his head.

  "Give it awhile. I reckon all of us can do with a rest for a few minutes."

  RYAN TOUCHED the red walls, feeling the warmth that seeped through the heavy arma-glass. He wondered where in Deathlands they'd ended their jump, or if, in fact, they were in Deathlands at all.

  After their last adventure there was no longer the certainty that all of the gateways were within what had once been the continental United States. Perhaps the one in Russia had been unique. But they'd already seen some evidence, admittedly circumstantial, that there might even have been a gateway on one of the space stations that had circled the Earth before dark-day and the end of civilization.

  It was a thought that nagged at Ryan Cawdor, intriguing him with the possibilities, as did the thought of finding other cryonic centers and maybe, just maybe, managing to thaw out more freezies.

  "Guess it's time we made a move," he announced. "Everyone ready?"

  They all nodded or muttered their agreement. All except Doc Tanner.

  "C'mon, Doc."

  The old man sat still, as though he hadn't heard Ryan's voice. Krysty knelt at his side and touched his arm. "Doc?"

  He looked up then, squinting as if he couldn't quite focus on her face. "What is it? Who are… Is that you, Emily, my dear?"

  "No, it's Krysty, Doc. It's time we were moving on out of here."

  "Why?"

  "Get some food and drink." She winced as she stood up straight. "And a wash if we're lucky. Time's wasting, Doc."

  "And let it waste, we are no longer… You know that our yesterdays are ever present. Tomorrow is another now. We cannot say when life will end, and no man can say how." He smiled and nodded to himself.

  "Nice verse, Doc," J.B. said. "Won't load no mags for us."

  "Nor butter any parsnips, will it, my dear brother Cyril?"

  "Cyril! Who the—"

  "His mind's gotten locked way back," Ryan said. "He was like this when we first met him. Back in Mocsin. Best we can hope is that it was the third jump. Pushed him too hard. Should recover."

  "But we have to go," J.B. pressed, the edge to his voice showing his growing irritation. J.B.'s philosophy of life was that a man didn't show weakness, nor let down friends.

  In the Deathlands that often came down to the same thing.

  "Get up, Doc," Krysty said, helping him as he got unwillingly to his feet.

  "Very well, Emily. I shall be guided by you in this. Are we to take a promenade?"

  "Sure. All of us together." She nodded to Ryan. "I think we're ready as we'll ever be, lover."

  Ryan glanced around, motioning for Jak to move over and help Doc on the other side. Then he reached for the handle on the chamber door and turned it.

  Chapter Six

  THE HEAT outside the chamber was even more striking and oppressive.

  "Feels like home," Jak said. "Good Louisiana warm and wet."

  "Hot as the hobs of Hades." Krysty sighed. "Don't rightly know what that means, but Uncle Tyas McCann used to say it in summer back in Harmony."

  Ryan led them into the anteroom that they'd come to expect. Most of them had been evacuated and bare, showing signs that there'd been warning in some redoubts of the sudden conflict of 2001.

  But this particular room looked as though it had been abandoned about ten minutes ago. The small square table held four hands of cards, and a shelf contained some mugs and a tattered book. There were posters on the walls, faded and torn, revealing their age.

  The friends paused and looked around. Only Doc showed no interest, head drooping on his breast, eyes dull. It looked as though he'd have slumped like a discarded puppet if Jak and Krysty hadn't been supporting him.

  Ryan always felt a buzz of excitement at a moment like this. To find some sort of time capsule, undisturbed for a century, meant a thrill of glimpsing the lost past through this peephole.

  He looked first at the posters. One showed a Russian hammer and sickle, both dripping gobbets of blood, descending toward the skyscrapers of an American city. A young man stood legs apart, fists raised, ready to try to combat and deflect them. The, caption beneath the picture was vaguely familiar to Ryan, who'd seen it before:

  "Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for your country."

  Two of the other posters were what he knew used to be called pinups. One depicted a tall blonde, sitting astride a huge black and chrome two-wheel wag. She wore a pair of thigh-length boots in dark green leather. Other than the boots she wore only a bright smile. On the other wall was a life-size poster of a heavily muscled, bronzed man, wearing a smile similar to the woman's. But he wasn't even wearing boots. The caption simply said: Stud Study X.

  D
oc was near collapse, and Krysty helped him to sit down at the table, where he immediately laid his head on his folded arms.

  Ryan looked at the table. On one corner was a pile of small change that looked as if it had gotten rained on—the metal had sprouted a mold. "They were playing poker when the sirens sounded. Or the bells. Or whatever it was that told them dark night was on its way."

  Jak picked up one of the hands of cards. "Two pairs. Queens an' fours."

  Krysty smiled. "This hand won't beat you, Jak." She turned the cards over. "Pair of threes. Like I always say. There's some you lose, and there's some you draw."

  "I win," J.B. said, flipping over the third hand of cards. Three sixes. "Beat that, Ryan. If you can."

  One by one Ryan picked up the moist, rotting playing cards and turned them over. "Eight of clubs, ace of spades, eight of spades, ace of hearts."

  "Still not good enough," the Armorer told him, wiping moisture from his glasses. "Come on, Ryan. Turn it and see what you got."

  "I reckon it'll be good enough to beat you. Want a bet on it?"

  "With what? Last time I had a fistful of jack was… was so long ago I can't even remember."

  "Bet you first go at the next hot water we find," Ryan suggested. "How's that?"

  "You got it. Turn the card." The rectangle of pasteboard was clammy to the touch. "Ace of clubs. A full house. Aces on eights. I win, J.B., I win."

  "Dead man's hand," Doc Tanner announced in a frail, uncertain voice. "How's that?" Krysty asked.

  "Same hand Bill Hickok was holding when he was gunned down from behind. I saw him once. Out in Deadwood. I was about seven years of age. Didn't look like a hero to me. Blind as a bat, though bats see fine in the night. Dark glasses. Held aces on eights when he was shot down. Mount Moriah cemetery, if I recall it right."

  The voice faded away into stillness. Ryan sat down opposite the old man and tried to catch his eye. "Doc, you feeling better?"

  "Dead man, Emily, my dear. Only alive in the dear days of the past."

  "Doc?"

  This time there was no reply.

  At a word from Ryan, Jak slipped back into the chamber and removed the corpse of little Zorro, tucking it out of sight behind a corner cupboard in the anteroom. It seemed best to do what could be done to ease Doc's mind. His seeing the puppy dead wasn't going to be a help—though Ryan was concerned that the body would stink and rot too fast in the humidity and heat.