Pandora's Redoubt

by James Axler

  "The outer wall, how high is it, how thick?" Ryan asked, probing for weaknesses in the ville defenses. Ancient wrongs didn't concern him. The dead were dead. "What materials, wood, stone, concrete?"

  "Stone blocks, like the walls of the Citadel. Two feet thick and twice the height of a man." Lisa produced a goose feather, and, dipping it in a colony of oily ink, drew a rough sketch on a blank space. "There's a walkway along the top fronted by a coil of thin metal that cuts better than a knife."

  "Razor wire," J.B. explained. "Probably looted from the city you call Wheel. No way the prison stores could possibly have enough to cover a wall miles in length."

  "Nobody makes anything anymore," Mildred snorted. "Humanity has been reduced to jackals feeding off a corpse."

  "O brave new world," Doc whispered.

  "And this is the only road," Ryan noted forcibly returning to the subject. "Describe it, dirt, gravel?"

  "Flat and hard. Black as coal."

  "Yellow flecks down the middle," Troy added.

  He was partially turned toward the door as if listening to a distant conversation.

  "Sticky in the summer?"

  "So say the hunters."

  "Asphalt," Ryan stated. "Good. Excellent, in fact. And it ends at the prison?"

  "Yes. At the front gate. That is made of wood beams an arm's length thick, banded together with iron and covered with numerous sheets of steel."

  "Flexible and strong," J.B. mused. "Tough to smash through. Very tough for explosives, unless we had a lot." Then he grinned. "But Leviathan could blow it to pieces with a single volley of the 755."

  "Hear something?" Jak asked, joining Troy.

  "Thought I heard sec men, but they're gone now."

  Jak pulled out a leaf-shaped blade. "Let's make sure."

  Troy glanced at Lisa. She nodded, and the two men slipped through the rock door, closing it tight behind them.

  Shifting pages. the remaining companions studied another map, a much older one, the paper yellow and brittle from age.

  "This is the interior of the Citadel," Lisa said. "We have no idea why it is white lines on blue paper. Perhaps an effect of the bad air."

  "Architectural blueprint," Mildred explained, grabbing two of her plaits and tying them together behind her head to keep the rest out of the way when she bent over. "It was a cheap way to make multiple copies. Or least it was before laser printers and computers."

  Ryan rotated the paper toward him. "Hmm, a lot of these spaces are blank. Probably a safety precaution in case prisoners got a copy. So they couldn't find weak spots to try to escape."

  Lisa flinched at the forbidden word.

  "We can guess what's in these rooms forever and never get it right," Krysty complained. "Whatever they were in the predark, surely they're something different now."

  "Apples never fall far from the tree," Doc said cryptically.

  "Doc's correct. You wouldn't make a kitchen a horse stable, but you might convert it into a laboratory."

  "I see," Krysty said softly. "Very good."

  "What does this matter?" Lisa demanded, annoyed. "We know where the armory is."

  "I'm betting you don't," Ryan said, glancing at her. "I'll wager no slave has never been near the real armory."

  "Then how will you find it?" she shot back. "Magic?"

  "Where are the prisoners not allowed to go?"

  "Many places," Lisa replied, waving her hand.

  "Show us. One of them will be what we want."

  "And how shall you know?"

  Ryan stared at the blueprint as if envisioning the walls and corridors. "Oh, I'll know."

  "How?"

  For the second time in as many days, Ryan almost smiled. "Because I'm an even bigger bastard than the heirs are. All I have to do is consider where I'd put my storehouse of blasters."

  "Throne room?"

  "That's not what they call it," he corrected. "But yes. Only much too obvious."

  "But definitely close by," J.B. said, raising and lowering his fedora. "Mebbe near where they sleep?"

  Ryan stabbed a blank area on the map with a finger. "Not close by, J.B.," he corrected. "Inside."

  "That's the ward's bedchamber."

  "Exactly."

  "They sleep in the armory?" Lisa's voice took on a squeak.

  "A pair of paranoids, like the heirs?" Mildred scoffed. "Certainly. It was probably their nursery as children."

  "Bedchamber," Dean mused. "Going to be a lot of guards, no, wrong. That would defeat the whole purpose. It will only have a few specially chosen guards."

  Ryan slapped the boy on the back in approval. "So our best chance to gain entrance would be during the day," Dean said, preening under the attention.

  "Midnight," Ryan stated, circling the area with a broken piece of chalk. The white ring enclosed two corridors and a room with no doors or windows shown. "Yes, that's got to be it."

  Lisa recoiled. "We attack when they're both there asleep?"

  "Infiltrate," J.B. corrected sternly.

  "But why?"

  Ryan folded his hands and looked at her again with the full intensity of his cobalt-blue eye. "Because that's when you're going to start the riot."

  Chapter Sixteen

  The dark sky was full of ominous clouds, heavy, black and pendulous, threatening to unleash deadly rain at any moment The ground was soft underfoot, not mud, but freshly plowed. It was like walking on a pillow, then on something solid. The sec men didn't seem to care as they patrolled the fields like dogs on the hunt, shoulders hunched, weapons sharp.

  Off to the side, a team of rag-clad slaves pulling a plow continued their endless journey of turning the soil in preparation of a late planting. Every day that good weather permitted, the farms were worked. Every scrap of edible plant meant more would survive the coming winter with its acid snow.

  "Try there!" Sergeant Kissel ordered, pointing toward a barn.

  A squad of men approached a haystack and began ramming wooden pitchforks into it.

  "No blood yet!" one man announced, adjusting his grip on the wooden shaft for a better hold:

  "Get every inch!" Kissel snapped, both hands on his blaster belt, fingers nervously tripping the handles of his blasters. "Don't miss a section!"

  A guard appeared from within the barn, cradling an armful of iron and rope. He hurried over to the waiting sergeant, jingling every step of the way. "I found some hooks, sir," the guard stated. "And more than enough rope to do the job."

  The sergeant didn't turn from the haystack. "Excellent. Then start dragging the sewers."

  "In this weather?" The guard gave him a puzzled smile. "Sir, do you really think anybody could survive-"

  Wheeling, Kissel backhanded the man hard, sending him to the ground in a tangle of rope and limbs. The noise sounded like a blastershot in the quiet stillness of the field. The other sec men tried to hide their sneers, and the slaves plowed on, neither slowing nor caring.

  "Never question my orders," Kissel hissed, his breath fogging from the evening chill. "Especially in front of the slaves! Now get going, and you will do the job personally."

  "Yes, sir," the guard replied, rising hesitantly to his feet. He flinched as the burly sergeant made a sudden move toward him, but no additional strike was forthcoming. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Without delay."

  As the guard hurried off across the plowed field, the jingling was drowned out by the sound of a low purr announcing the approach of a motorcycle, Kissel turned to salute.

  Braking to a halt in a plow fold, Lieutenant Anders killed the big engine of the BMW motorcycle and kicked down the stand, his boots resting on the parallel lines of turned earth. The soil was gray on top, dead and sterile as the moon, but rich, black and alive underneath.

  "I can see the lack of success written on your face," Anders declared with a scowl. When he removed his leather gloves, fresh blood left moist streaks on his embroidered silk cuffs, but no cuts or abrasions marked his skin.

  "We're looking everywh
ere, sir," Kissel replied hastily.

  "Up chimneys? Under floorboards? Inside the manure piles?"

  "That was the very next place I was going to have the men check, sir."

  "Do so," Anders said, scanning the darkening farmland. Kissel gestured to the bloody shirt cuffs. "Any luck with the prisoner you were interrogating?"

  Anders took no notice of the remark. "The lady ward has contacted the scavengers, and they pledge nobody has climbed over the walls. Which means Ryan and his people are still in the ville. Mebbe even disguised as see men. Or slaves."

  "Disgusting." Then Kissel glanced about quickly, and stepped as close as he dared to an officer. "Or mebbe the rebels have them?"

  "There is no underground of armed slaves," Anders said brusquely. "However, the matter is being looked into."

  "By our spies among the slaves, eh? I hear that the armory was blown apart by Ryan, and hundreds of blasters are missing."

  "You heard wrong," the officer answered, turning his collar to the cold. "That explosion earlier was the testing of a new cannon. Nobody died, and nothing was destroyed. Understand?"

  Kissel went ramrod straight and saluted. "Absolutely. You can count on me and my men, sir!"

  "I sincerely hope so," Anders said, kicking the BMW into life. The muted rumble shook him to the bone for a brief instant, then waves of warmth radiating from the engine soon vanquished the chill.

  Forcing himself not to shiver, Kissel looked hungrily at the motorcycle, but said nothing. Such was the privilege of rank.

  "If anybody asks, I'll be reviewing the guards on the south wall. Time is short," Anders added. "Our masters grow more impatient by the minute with our failures. If we don't find Ryan soon, our beloved leaders will consult with the ward over this matter."

  The sergeant blanched, his eyes going wide.

  "I concur with your opinion," Anders said, revving the throttle a few times to clear the carburetor.

  A single puff of dark smoke drifted from the fluted tailpipes. "If the heirs think there's going to be another food riot, a mass escape attempt or a full-fledged attack on the Citadel, then we're all doomed."

  "Amen," Kissel whispered, then he snapped off a crisp salute. "We'll find them, sir, or die trying!"

  "That's the general idea," Anders said. He drove off, following the planting gully, a black-clad bubble of heat in the rapidly descending purple darkness.

  THROUGH A PAIR of predark military binoculars, Amanda watched as the lieutenant moved off on his bike toward the south. "He's doing a perimeter sweep," she stated.

  "Or checking that damn bridge," Richard stated, squinting into the distance. "I told you we should have torn it down years ago."

  "An escape route is only good if you can use it, dear brother," Amanda replied, tucking the binocs into a cushioned pouch. "It's there for our protection. Nobody but you and I know about the boat hidden in the river cave."

  He grunted in reply, admitting neither that he was wrong nor she was correct

  A chill evening wind moved across the front of the Citadel, the grayish stone turning black in the evening light. The heirs sat in chairs on the front porch overlooking the execution dock. They knew it was always wise to be plainly seen by the slaves in times of trouble. It quelled unrest.

  Large braziers heaped with coals lined the courtyard around them, deaf slaves wrapped in discarded furs fanning the smoke upward, and directing the heat toward their masters. Richard often worried about discussing important matters in front of the slaves, until Amanda discovered that a simple thrust of an ice pick rendered anybody permanently deaf. And with the adroit application of a sharp knife, their personal servants were no longer able to speak about what transpired in private bedchambers. Amanda took great pride in the fact that Eugene could only kill, but she was able to "fix" prisoners and make them more valuable than before.

  Patrolling the courtyard were armed sec men, their longblasters wrapped in sleek furs to keep the bolt grease from congealing and hindering the firing mechanism. Autumn in the mountain valley was approaching with its usual savagery, and soon the acid snows would descend, piling tall drifts of burning white crystals.

  Prominently off to one side was a large canvas lump, the stiff sheeting firmly tied down against the wind by numerous iron spikes driven deep into the granite cobblestones.

  "There won't be an autumn crop," Amanda said, checking the figures in a ragged book. "We'll be eating horse by March."

  "Unless we get their tank. Then we'll feast on the limitless supply of canned food from the Wheel."

  "Hope for the best, prepare for the worst."

  Richard tossed a leg over the arm of his chair and curled a lip. "That's what Father always told us. But he was weak! We'll rule this land, all of this land! We'll walk like gods among the lower classes, sowing death as befits our whims!"

  As befits our whims? "You've been reading books again," she said angrily. "I told you that would damage your eyes."

  "You read them," he snapped.

  In consternation, Amanda realized he was growing suspicious of her again. Damn his paranoia. Gently, she reached out to stroke his unshaven cheek. It was like caressing a porcupine, but he responded by moving against her hand.

  "I'm a mere woman," she purred. "What matters my vision? My whole purpose in life is to please you, my brother."

  He grunted in acknowledgment of the statement, took her hand, kissed it and shoved it aside.

  "Anders is a good man," Amanda stated, changing the subject to a military matter. Her brother was placated for the moment, but in the growing excitement, she was losing her control over him. He was acting more and more independent, taking charge, making decisions. Absolutely intolerable. She would either have to finally give herself to him, which meant losing her greatest hold on the heir apparent, or arrange for their public marriage. An equally disgusting idea.

  "The lieutenant? He suffices," Richard grunted, tugging a cloak tighter about himself. His sword was thrust cumbersomely under the arm of the chair, making it almost impossible for him to draw quickly. However, twin black blasters nested in a double shoulder holster. He had loaded the clips himself from their precious stock of predark ammo:

  Glasers and Talons, horrible bullets that entered a body and then shattered, spreading out an internal wave of bloody destruction.

  "About Anders..." Amanda started again. "Perhaps this is the time for us to grant him a promotion."

  "What? There hasn't been one since Father's accident!"

  She agreed with a nod. "Anders is ambitious. We must promote him, or kill him."

  "Kill him, then," Richard said, twisting the pommel of his sword.

  "Competent men are few these days," she reminded him.

  "We have no need of such," he replied haughlily. "Fear has always controlled Novaville. Fear of us, fear of Eugene, fear of the scavengers, of the Sons, of the Beast. Our slaves feast on fear as we do bread."

  The lady ward looked over the assemblage of men and women fanning the flames for her comfort. None dared look back at her or her brother, but there was an air of unease, a sense of tension, the normal feeling of their total surrender was no longer palpable. Amanda felt oddly vulnerable, and didn't like it one bit.

  "What is the status of our gas?" she asked quickly, her hand going for the electronic switch in the pocket of her clothes.

  He sniffed. "There is enough, no, there is more than enough."

  Amanda kept a neutral expression to the bad news. That was their private code. When in public, if either of them added a negative response in the middle of a sentence, it meant the entire sentence was a lie. So there was just barely enough gas in the vaults to protect them.

  "Emergency storage?" she asked pointedly.

  "It's finished cooking, no, it was finished yesterday. There's all we should need and more."

  Blast! More bad news. Nervously, she rose from the chair and crossed her arms. Her long blond hair was piled high on top of her head. Her gown was the purest whit
e, her slippers crushed velvet, the sawed-off shotgun tucked into her sash delicately covered with the finest silver filigree.

  "They can't have gone," she declared aloud, referring to the missing captives, as if trying to convince herself. "So they must still be here. But where? And what are they planning?"

  "Escape is most likely. Unless they're really Sons of the Knife, paving the way for the coldhearts to try another raid."

  "Paving the way, bow?" she asked. "We're on full alert. That only makes us harder to attack."

  "Right now, yes," Richard countered, squinting slightly as a stray breeze brought smoke to his face. In the courtyard, a whip cracked, a slave screamed and the fanning increased vigorously. "But after ten, twelve hours we'll be tired," he went on. "Hell, mebbe they're sacrifices, trying to make our father use up all of the spare gas."

  Damn, what an unpleasant idea that was. "No," she decided. "The tank is the target. It must be. I think we had better have the guards prepare all of our wall weapons."

  "Whatever for?" Richard asked, honestly puzzled. "Their vehicle is already inside."

  Both turned toward the canvas tent. It was beyond the circle of braziers, rich with shadows, and from underneath the sheeting came the noise of workmen banging steadily.

  "Appears as if it's still there, Doesn't it?" Richard said in satisfaction.

  "Do you really think Ryan will fall for the same trick twice?" Amanda asked.

  "Even if he's told the tank isn't under the canvas," Richard said with a smirk, "he'll still have to send people to double-check. Whether it's Ryan himself, his brat or bitch, we'll be ready."

  "Unless they avoid the gas again. It only repelled them last time," Amanda glowered. "And if they should find out where their machine really is and get it started, how will we stop them from reaching the northern pass without the wall blasters?"

  "Bah. The defensives along the main road-"

  "Are designed to keep the invaders out, not prisoners in." She rubbed her lip, gently adjusting her new tooth. "We should triple the guards in the tower or, better yet, have them remove the tires."

  Richard blinked. "Remove? Why not just slash them? It's a lot easier and faster."