Watersleep

by James Axler

  "Good man," Poseidon said brightly, as if talking to a beloved pet. "Now, back to our discussion. There's change in the wind, Cawdor. Wild cards such as yourself are due to be eliminated. The more pow­erful of the barons are starting to communicate for the first time in decades. They speak on a regular basis by radio and through intermediaries via travel­ing caravans, and do you know why?"

  "They were getting lonely?"

  Poseidon looked at Ryan with a pitying expression. "Scuttle the sarcasm, Cawdor. You don't have the timing for it. No, they're starting to align themselves for protection from murderous thugs like you, self-serving renegades who roam Deathlands in packs, like mangy wolves, slinking into law-abiding villes and stealing food and supplies."

  Ryan couldn't help it. Even if it meant another blow from the rifle butt, he had to laugh aloud. "You're crazier than I thought."

  "Don't mock civilization, Cawdor. It's what makes man rise above the animals."

  "Civilization is also what destroyed the world. As I understand it, the barons in power back then didn't bother to ask anybody's permission when they wanted to do something, and it's still the same today. Once a baron gets some food in his stomach and some prop­erty and the jack to hire a sec squad, he stops listening to anyone but himself."

  "But the ones in power will listen to their peers," Poseidon replied.

  "I doubt it. Most of the villes I've been in have been hotbeds of hatred, closed-off parcels full of ha­tred and inbreeding. There's no way in hell there's going to be any sort of alliance."

  "You're not thinking, Cawdor—that, or you're just being thick to annoy me. As many barons and villes as you and your merry band of outlaws have brought down, how could you expect otherwise? You aren't alone in spreading the seed of destruction, nor are you the first. There have always been the fringe elements who refuse to conform."

  Ryan leaned back farther in the chair slowly, so as not to give any indication of an attack, then swung up one of his long legs, placing his boot heel on the top of Poseidon's desk. "Those arrogant bastards in charge of their pissant baronies and villes couldn't stop shouting and posing long enough to make a group decision on what kind of meat to serve at their first communal meal, much less come to any kind of agreement."

  "I shall be a part of a grand new alliance, where a council of baronies shall rule," Poseidon said confi­dently. "I am at the forefront of the new wave to help reconnect the world."

  "How?"

  Poseidon spread open his arms. "The sea, Cawdor, the sea! No air travel! No safe and efficient way to crawl across the radiation pits scarring the landscape! What does that leave?"

  "Let me guess. The sea."

  "Correct! From the day man crawled up from the muck and the slime onto dry land, the control of the seas from whence he sprang has meant dominance. All the great generals from all the great wars have been forced to take possession of the waters surround­ing their territories, their lands. And once they lost the sea, they lost the war, and they lost their com­mand."

  Poseidon paused. "I have no intention of losing my power, Cawdor. Only increasing it."

  "With a bunch of hired mercs who would just as soon chill you as follow an order? I don't think so," Ryan said with a sneer. "And I wouldn't count on any villes backing up your master plan, either. People always look out for number one, Poseidon. You're living proof of that."

  "Fear has a way of creating strange bunk mates," Poseidon replied. "And I wonder how my standing in their eyes will increase once I present you for their entertainment."

  "Bring it on."

  "However, I indeed do tend to look out for myself, as you pointed out. That's why I collect reports—oral tales of a one-eyed man bringing retribution across the scarred lands of what's left of this great country of ours, and I have to dismiss much of it as fictions created beside a warm fire to amuse. Or do I?"

  "You tell me," Ryan replied, not sure in what di­rection the Admiral was taking the conversation.

  "The primary reason the reports are not to be be­lieved is due to sheer logistics. You appear one day in West Virginia, and then a week later you're spotted in New Mexico. Reports have you in Maine, then you show up within days in Snakefish, California. And I think, How? How is this possible?" Poseidon said, walking past Ryan's chair. "I think to myself, Could there be more than one man claiming to be Ryan Cawdor?"

  "Looks like you caught me. I'm twins," Ryan said with as much hate and venom as he could muster up. "You can tell us apart by the eye patches. My brother wears his on the right eye. Says it's his best side—"

  Poseidon's hand cracked out like it was spring-loaded, catching Ryan in his good eye. He grunted, but didn't move from the force of the blow, even as a multicolored explosion of pain blossomed in his right temple.

  "You'll shut up, or I'll finish blinding you my­self," the big man said, returning to his desk, where he composed himself and again steepled his large hands beneath his bearded chin.

  "Then it occurs to me. Why not combine one tall tale with a second? There have been rumors of a fu­turistic method of traveling, a teleportation device ripped from the pages of old science-fiction novels. None of my contacts have ever seen or encountered anyone with firsthand knowledge, so all I have is the­ory, rumor, innuendo. Now I have someone with that firsthand knowledge."

  "I'm afraid I'm going to be one colossal disap­pointment," Ryan said with a dry laugh.

  "My plan to master the seas is one thing, but if I can control any who would challenge me with the forbidden secrets of instantaneous land travel, then I shall be master of the entire world, both surface and underwater."

  "Good fucking luck."

  "You're the luck I needed, Cawdor. You are the key to the gateways."

  Ryan felt his bravado sink down into his boots. The son of a bitch knew.

  "Take your best shot, Admiral. I have nothing to say to you."

  "Then perhaps I have another way of convincing you," Poseidon said. He sat back down and pressed a button on a desk intercom. "Bring in our guest."

  "Going to kill another woman to try and show me the error of my ways?" Ryan asked.

  Poseidon ignored him. "There's an interesting fact about the sea, Cawdor. Things can be thrown into the depths and never seen again, or things can be thrown into the depths only to be found by those who know what to look for. In fact, life in Deathlands is much like life at sea—you scavenge and try and live off the remains of the past, am I right?"

  "If I say yes, will you spare me another lecture?" Ryan asked bitterly.

  There was a knock from outside the thick office door.

  "Come."

  A man, also in a naval dress uniform, stepped into the room. He snapped off a quick salute to the Ad­miral, which was returned. "Ah, Commander Bronan. Glad you could join us. Mr. Cawdor isn't being cooperative. I need a persuader. Do you have it?"

  "Outside, Admiral."

  "Then bring in the lady, please."

  The door opened, and as Ryan turned his face for a look, he discovered for once in his life he was struck totally speechless. A mix that was equal parts joy and anger swept across his soul as he stared in joyful dis­belief at the woman standing between a pair of frown­ing, armed sec guards.

  "I believe you know Miss Wroth," Poseidon mur­mured.

  "We've…met," Ryan rasped, seeing the same ex­pression on Krysty's face that he knew had to be on his own craggy visage.

  "I thought you were dead," she said softly, tears welling in her luminous green eyes.

  "I was," Ryan replied, fighting to keep himself seated and calm as he battled the urge to race over and take her in his arms. "Not now. Not anymore."

  "Take her back to the brig—the secure cell. You may leave the albino where he is," Poseidon snapped. "See that she gets anything she wants. Food, drink, vids. Keep her happy and safe. However, double the watch, just in case Mr. Cawdor gets any foolish no­tions."

  "Yes sir, Admiral." The commander gestured with a curled thumb, and the two
armed escorts backed Krysty out of the room. Brosnan turned to close the door behind their departure, and the room fell silent.

  "Yes, you never know what's going to turn up in the sea," Poseidon mused, getting up once more from his leather chair. The polished wood squeaked in pro­test as his enormous weight left the seat.

  "You were there," Ryan said flatly, "the night the mine blew up our boat."

  "Yes and no. I was there after the explosion, be­neath the ocean and the storm in a minisub, a routine cruise interrupted by your stumbling into my do­main."

  "You're scum," Ryan snapped.

  Poseidon smacked the top of Ryan's skull. "Don't go all sanctimonious on me! You're the one who rode in here, destroying my property and killing my men! That whore from upstate? No loss! Her husband? He's the one who came in here making demands of me! Me! So I keelhauled his whiny ass and gave him fifty lashes and he couldn't take it!"

  The large man straggled to contain his anger. Ryan knew then and there he was peering at madness in human form. He was certainly familiar enough with it to know the signs.

  "I saved her, Cawdor, along with that white freak," the Admiral said. "You owe me."

  "I owe you dick."

  "Then perhaps I'll take her back where I found her—half-drowned, unconscious and dying." Posei­don reached over and grabbed Ryan by the hair of the head, bending the one-eyed man's shoulder back over the top of the chair. "Don't try and bluff me, you snot-nosed punk. I'll break you like a glass bottle if you keep sassing me. That raspy voice and eye patch may frighten the ignorant and the stupid, but they hold no truck with me."

  "Just what in the fuck do you want from me?" Ryan asked tightly.

  "Information."

  "Such as?"

  Poseidon let Ryan's hair go and strode back to his desk, as calmly as if he'd never shown even the slightest glimpse of anger as opposed to the full­blown performance he'd given since killing Shauna. "Numerals. Symbols. The arcane scripture from the world when mankind was still in command of his manifest destiny."

  "Could you be a little more specific?"

  "Certainly. I want you to tell me everything, Caw­dor," Poseidon said, his black eyes gleaming bright. "But first, what do you know about the access codes needed to get into a military redoubt?"

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ryan was alive. Alive!

  The thought wouldn't leave Krysty's brain.

  He was alive, and Poseidon had lied. Krysty couldn't be sure if Ryan had just arrived or had pre­viously been on the base. Her instincts told her the former; otherwise the Admiral wouldn't have brought her in to show off like a prize heifer. She was smart enough to know when she was being used as a bar­gaining chip.

  The question was, why? What could he want or need from Ryan to use her as a hostage?

  After allowing her and Ryan to glimpse each other, Poseidon had ordered her jailers to march her back, but not to the hospital psych ward where she'd been previously kept with Jak.

  This time she was walked across the compound to a flat, ugly building made of the same off-white stone as the rest of the base. Apparently this had once been a mass of offices and tiny cloth-walled cubicles. Inert comp terminals were in each little half room. Some of the desks still held photographs in frames or other personal mementos that were very different from the ones she was used to seeing inside the utilitarian mili­tary redoubts.

  Two cells had been assembled at the end of the largest central conference room.

  Krysty had seen this type of setting before. Once, this was a building used for the conducting of military business. Now, a part of it had been remodeled as a brig for those who displeased Poseidon.

  "Sit tight, bitch. We've got some smokin' plans for you once Cawdor shows the Admiral where the fireworks are hidden." The leering sec man gave her a shove, and she half fell, half stepped into the windowless room. The man who pushed her had an­swered part of her question. Krysty was being held to force Ryan to show Poseidon where something was hidden.

  Krysty decided to play dumb. She didn't turn back or give off an angry retort to the sec man. If she kept quiet, perhaps he would stupidly say more. She merely went over and sat on the small mattress on the floor in the corner of the room. She attempted to wear her best beaten-down expression, the wilted flower, the helpless woman—whatever was most con­vincing.

  Unfortunately for her plans, the sec man chose not to gloat any more, and blew her a kiss as he slammed the heavy door shut.

  After the door closed, she waited. The sound of a lock being turned came from the steel frame. A dead bolt. This bit of information was filed in her brain, although she really wasn't dwelling on the immediacy of her surroundings at the moment. Krysty Wroth wasn't a passive type of woman. She was ready to go on the offensive. If she could escape, her value as a wedge would cease to exist, and Ryan would be free from his obligation to help Poseidon in exchange for her safety.

  Her green eyes closed to slits. She wasn't seeing the outside world anymore; she was looking within. She drew her long legs beneath her in the lotus po­sition and began to whisper in a soft, breathy voice a string of words, sentence fragments and prayers—a mantra she never relished in calling up from her un­conscious because of the dangers to herself and to those around her.

  But Krysty was alone now, and there was no one around her but her enemies.

  "Earth Mother, help me. Aid me now, Gaia. Help me and give me the strength," she whispered.

  She had been trained since childhood to hone this empathy by being in tune with the electromagnetic energies of the great Earth Mother, Gaia. By tapping into these hidden pools of energy, Krysty sacrificed her humanity to become a creature with the strength of a sheer force of nature, but only for a limited time, and the transformation took a terrific toll on her physi­cal and mental well-being.

  She hoped she would be strong enough to free her­self now.

  "Help me, Earth Mother, I need your embrace. Aid me now, Gaia. Help me and give me the strength," she chanted, faster now, her face simultaneously calm and urgent. "From the center of the world to souls of your children, give me the power…"

  KRYSTY STEPPED UP to the door, a crooked smile of dark amusement on her face. She looked like a living embodiment of a dream, a walking human dream caught up in private songs and hidden thoughts. Her long fingers traced the frame of the reinforced cell door. Even in the near state of delirium that calling on the power of the Earth Mother always placed her mind in, she knew that one or both of the men who had brought her into the building would be outside guarding the door.

  Two wouldn't be enough to stop her. Not even close.

  The brutal ballet that was about to begin would be vicious and ugly, and luckily for the two walking dead men assigned to watch over her, blessedly brief.

  One of the pair, a fortyish man named Murphy, heard a faint scratching noise come from behind the reinforced steel door.

  "What's that?" Murphy asked, tilting his head and trying to pick out the source of the sound.

  "What's what?" his younger partner, Fade, impa­tiently responded.

  "I hear scratching," Murphy insisted.

  "Probably rats. This building is crawling with the bastards. Screw 'em. Sit down and we'll play a hand of cards or something."

  The older man had stepped up to the door of the cell now and placed his ear against it. "Sounds like they're inside with the girl," he observed.

  "Lucky them," Fade retorted.

  "Think they could hurt her?" Murphy asked.

  "Naw. Not as long as she doesn't turn her back on them," Fade said. "Besides, what the hell difference does it make? Once the Admiral gives the order, we're going to pull a fuck train on that little morsel that'll cause her to be walking on her hands for months afterward."

  "Oh, yeah?" Murphy was interested now. He felt the telltale sensations of an erection starting to grow in his denims. "I didn't know that. I haven't gotten laid in months."

  "Hell, yeah! I heard that, bro. You kn
ow how Po­seidon feels about women. Thinks they carry disease. Said we could do as we wished as long as we wore protection," Fade said with a chuckle. "Protection. She's gonna need it! I'm gonna ride that bitch so hard, she's liable to split in two. God damn, but I love the military!"

  Fade stood up and walked over to Murphy. "Take a seat, Pops. Let me take a listen. If there are rats in there, I don't want them touching that girl 'fore I do."

  The two men switched positions. Murphy sat at the small industrial green desk and picked up the deck of well-worn playing cards that Fade had been shuffling earlier. The middle drawer of the desk was crammed full with old porn mags that were near rags, and var­ious other sedentary amusements to help pass the time when watching over a prisoner.

  Meanwhile, Fade listened.

  "Nothing," he announced.

  "No, no, you gotta bend down. The sound is coming down lower. You think rats would be standing six feet high or what?" Murphy said.

  Fade shot his companion a glare, but went ahead and got down on his knees. He leaned into the door, and damned if the older guy wasn't right. He did hear some scratching sounds.

  Suddenly the sounds abruptly ceased. He pressed his ear closer and waited for them to start a second time.

  By doing so, Fade never saw what was coming as the door crashed hard into his skull and shoulder from the terrific two-handed push delivered from the inside, a push of such force the steel frame came free along with the locked door, dripping bits of metal, plaster and wood. The end result was the temporary immo­bilization of the sec man on the floor, and a jagged hole where the cell door had been.

  Standing there, framed in the ruin and still wearing the beatific smile, was Krysty.

  "Knock, knock," she said in an innocent whisper.

  Her eyes shone with cold fire now, the pupils blaz­ing as she took in the scene. The two men reacted as quickly as they humanly could, which didn't mean a thing to the voluptuous creature now in their midst. The parts of herself Krysty called human had been submerged, replaced with a red molten force. A lover of life and all it entailed, she was now the destroyer, no longer a creator, no longer a preserver.