Outlanders 15 - Doom Dynasty

by James Axler

  "He's dead."

  "When?"

  Kane wasn't inclined to explain how he had shot Salvo atop a Manhattan rooftop on New Year's Eve 2000 in an alternate-past timeline. He had lived through the experience and barely understood it him­self, so he said simply, "A long, long time ago."

  Gruffly, Grant demanded, "Is that all you know?"

  "Yeah, that's it," Pollard answered. "I'm just a grunt, always an unlucky bastard, operating on a need-to-know basis…just like you used to do…" Pollard's voice trailed off into incomprehensible mur-murings.

  Grant arose swiftly, stiffly and stalked away, shoul­dering between Shizuka and Kiyomasa. Shizuka hes­itated, then followed him. Kane gazed after Grant, able to guess at the kind of thoughts wheeling through his head. An old guilt returned, making Kane's belly churn with the sickness of self-loathing for a moment. More than a year before, when he had turned against Salvo and broken his lifetime of conditioning, it had resulted in the convictions of Grant and Brigid as his accomplices.

  He could have dealt with the consequences of his actions if they had landed solely on his shoulders, but he'd dragged two good, innocent people into exile with him. There was no way he could ever make it up to them, especially to Grant. He had hoped the man had come to terms with his exile, his criminal status after all this time.

  True, the peeling away of their Mag identities had been a gradual process and hard to endure, especially during the first three months in Cerberus. Now, when Kane thought of his years as a Magistrate, it brought only an ache, a sense of remorse over wasted years.

  Superficially, Grant had handled his exile better than Kane, but the man was always stoic in the face of physical and emotional pain. Grant had followed Brigid's lead, who was the most adaptable of the three of them, and he seemed devoted to the new work Cerberus offered.

  But old Mag habits died very hard. Kane managed to push most of them to the back of his mind, storing them with his memories of all the other things that were past and he wasn't particularly anxious to think about.

  Except when he collided head-on with a reminder like Pollard, and then they swarmed out like bugs from beneath a lifted rock.

  A full-throated scream suddenly cut across the courtyard, piercing and full of torment. It terminated in a wet, ghastly gurgling as of a man choking to death on his own blood. A ragged cheer burst from within the swimming pool.

  Pollard's glazed eyes snapped wide at the sound. "Are you going to let 'em do that to me?"

  "Why not?" Kane asked coldly. "You deserve it more than your men. You led them, ordered them."

  "Just following my own orders, Kane. You know how that is. You haven't forgotten what it's like."

  "No," Kane affirmed darkly. "I haven't, no matter how much I wish I could. But being a good soldier doesn't justify a massacre."

  Pollard clutched at his forearm, at his holstered Sin Eater. "Chill me yourself, then. Just put your blaster to my head and pull the trigger. Don't let me die like that. It's not right, not for a Magistrate."

  Kane gazed down steadily into the man's damp face for a long, contemplative moment. A Magistrate is virtuous in the performance of his duty. The pan­egyric phrase drifted through his mind. The duties and obligations that came with his badge and blaster were drilled into him—all Magistrates, for that matter— from the day they first entered the academy. The oath was a part of their every action and reaction—a jus­tification and a reason to live, a moral sword and a shield for the work they performed in service to main­tain order, in service to the baron. And as Kane and Grant learned, in service to a lie, a conspiracy hatched hundreds of years before any of them were born.

  Kane glanced up into the immobile face of Kiyom-asa, then back down at Pollard. Quietly, he said, "It's not up to me. You chilled a man's woman and his child she carried. Even if you didn't do it yourself, you commanded it to be done or you didn't stop it. Someone else will decide how and when you'll die. Not me."

  He pulled away from Pollard's grasp. "If it means anything, I'm sony."

  "It doesn't," Pollard said in a gasping snarl. "Fuck you, traitor."

  Kane rose to his feet, automatically dusting his hands as if they were dirty. After a moment, Brigid stood. Another scream cut through the night air and pimpled Kane's flesh beneath his armor. Brigid glanced toward the pool with slitted eyes, then turned smartly on a heel, marching away into the shadows until it was over. Kane knew it would be several hours before the last of the screams stopped.

  Facing Kiyomasa, he said lowly, "I would be in your debt if you can see your way to stopping the torture."

  Kiyomasa sighed. "Torture is not our way, either, Kane-san. But the people whom these men abused, whose families they murdered, whose homes they burned have earned the right to balance the scales." He paused, hefting his katana. "As have I. Please do not interfere with what I must do so the spirits of my woman and baby can rest easily."

  "Can you at least promise to make Pollard's end swift?"

  Softly, apologetically, he answered, "Forgive me, Kane-san, but I can promise nothing of the sort."

  Kane stared into the man's expressionless face, as impassive as if it were carved from ivory. He nodded in resignation and turned to walk away, to find Brigid. He had taken only two steps when he heard a scuff and scutter behind him and a sobbing laugh.

  A jarring, stunning blow against the back of his head caused multicolored pinwheels to spin behind his eyes. He fell sprawling face first against the flag­stones, nearly driving all the wind from his lungs. As he went down, he heard Kiyomasa blurt in angry sur­prise, men a peculiar swish of sound.

  With his left hand, Kane heaved himself onto his back, his Sin Eater slapping into his right palm. Pol­lard towered over him, one boot lifted as if preparing to stomp the back of his head. Temples throbbing, Kane leveled his blaster, ready to fire. Pollard did not lower his foot. He simply stood there, looking ludi­crous while he balanced himself on one foot.

  Then light glittered dully from the flat silver spur projecting from the junction of Pollard's right shoul­der and neck. Kiyomasa stood behind him, his face set in a grim mask. He had slid his sword with ap­parent ease through armor, flesh and bones, moving the blade up at a thirty-degree angle until the point broke free of Pollard's body. Then, with a whipping motion, Kiyomasa pulled the katana free of the man's polycarbonate-encased torso and lifted it high.

  Kane wasn't sure he even saw the downstroke. One second Kiyomasa's sword was in the air above his head, then it was down in a slashing blur and coming back up, the razor edge shearing through Pollard from groin to chest.

  Pollard dropped to his knees, his intestines stream­ing out of his body cavity. His eyes were wide, and his mouth worked as if trying to cast one last curse at Kane. Then his body toppled forward, scarlet spreading in a widening pool around him.

  Before Kane could climb to his feet, there was an­other flashing sweep of Kiyomasa's katana. By the time he stood, Kiyomasa held Pollard's head aloft by his hair.

  Bitterly, he asked, "Was his end swift enough for you, Kane-san?"

  Chapter 15

  Grant strode deliberately out of the confines of the walled courtyard, past the eviscerated and decapitated bodies of several Magistrates and into the surrounding darkness. He was glad when he could no longer taste the chemical tang of lingering CS gas, but he did not stop to take in the fresher air.

  He continued walking, entering a tangle of under­growth. He came to a halt when he heard a muffled whimper at his feet. The Mag he had rendered un­conscious lay where Grant had dumped him, his jaws still distended by the makeshift gag. Ambient moon­light gleamed on his terror-wide eyes. Grant reached down for him, but he cringed, a whine bubbling around the tough fabric of the web belt in his mouth.

  "Shut up," Grant told him in a fierce whisper, slid­ing his hands under the man's armpits. He dragged him to his feet. "If I wanted to chill you, I'd have done it twenty minutes ago."

  The Mag trembled violently, his knees qui
vering, saliva drooling down his chin from beneath the gag. His face was pallid, drained of all color, his eyelids fluttering like the wings of a crazed butterfly.

  Spinning him, Grant unsheathed his combat knife and slashed through the nylon cuffs. "I'm not going to hurt you, understand?"

  A prolonged, liquidy scream arose from the com­pound, and the Magistrate jerked in reaction to the sound. His teeth tried to chatter around the strip of leather and cloth in his mouth, and he clawed at his gag, managing to pull it down around his neck.

  "Think you can find your way back to the instal­lation in the mountains?" Grant asked quietly.

  The young man did not answer for a moment. His eyes darted from Grant to the direction of the court­yard. Tersely, impatiently, Grant continued, "I'm not going to chill you. Can you get back to the redoubt or not?"

  The youthful Magistrate had lived the past half hour in such intense terror it could not be easily al­layed. He managed to choke out, "I think so. Yes. Yes, sir."

  Grant gave him a shove out of the thicket. "Then prove it."

  The man stumbled forward and regarded him fear­fully over his shoulder. Once again Grant was struck by how familiar his features seemed. "What's your name, boy?"

  "Mace," he stammered.

  "You have a brother in the division?"

  "Had a brother. He's dead, over a year ago now."

  "How?"

  "He was blasted down in Tartarus, trying to arrest terrorists."

  Grant managed to conceal his reaction. The man's brother had been in the force of Magistrates led by Salvo to apprehend him, Brigid and Kane. He had always known the furious firelight that ensued had claimed the lives of at least three Mags, possibly more.

  "Get going," Grant ordered.

  Mace hesitated. "I don't know if I can operate that—that—"

  "Gateway?" Grant supplied.

  He nodded, a spasmodic bobbing of his head. "That thing that brought us here. Don't know if I can work it."

  "If you get back to the redoubt alive and can't figure the gateway out, just wait for me. I'll send you back home."

  Mace said in an aspirated whisper, "Thank you, sir," and began a shambling run into the darkness.

  Grant waited until he disappeared into the gloom and left the tangle of thorns and vines. He removed his helmet and saw with a twinge of anger the tremor in his hands. He told himself it was the aftereffect of combat, of adrenaline, but he wasn't able to convince himself.

  He knew on a deep gut level he wasn't just dis­gusted with the slaughter and the torture, but was also profoundly shaken by it. He had no idea why. In his twenty-odd years as a hard-contact Magistrate, he had not only witnessed but participated in events of such bloody carnage that even a swampie would have nightmares.

  A month or so previous, Grant had realized the simplest answer was that he was getting old—too old to take violence in stride anymore, too old to simply shove scenes of horror away in a dark, cobwebby cor­ner of his mind.

  The last five years he spent as a Magistrate had been fairly routine. He had looked forward to a trans­fer to a deskbound administrative position, and the prospect of hanging up his blaster and putting his ar­mor in storage hadn't disquieted him at all.

  When he sacrificed all of that to join Kane in exile, he had harbored the secret hope, one he'd never spo­ken of, that his involvement in bloodshed would be minimal. Instead, it was far worse than even his first few years as a Mag. The irony weighed on his mind, no matter how many mental tricks he employed to either justify it or not think of it.

  When they first joined the Cerberus exiles, Grant made a concerted effort to get to know the other per­sonnel. They were brilliant and wayward members of different divisions in other villes who, through La-kesh's machinations, had fallen afoul of baronial laws in one fashion or another. Again through Lakesh's machinations, they ended up in Cerberus as insurrec­tionists rather than facing executions.

  Grant had tried to view them as fellow expatriates, comrades-in-arms, all joined together to throw off the heel of an oppressor. But the ingrained habits of a lifetime couldn't be cast aside in the course of a year. On occasion, he still thought of his fellow exiles as slaggers, as criminals, and of Lakesh as a dangerous subversive.

  Another agonized scream floated from the court­yard, and he reflexively turned his head in that direc­tion. Shizuka padded up to him, her elaborate helmet tucked under an arm. Her face was begrimed with a sprinkling of dried blood on the graceful column of her neck. She gazed into his face searchingly. "Are you all right, Grant-san? You don't require medical attention?"

  He shook his head. "As long as I can walk, I'm fine."

  She smiled at him slyly. "Spoken like a true sam­urai. You fought very well, very bravely."

  "It's what I do."

  "As do your friends, particularly the little ghost girl."

  "She tends to get carried away."

  Shizuka stepped closer, her penetrating dark eyes fixed unblinkingly on his face. "Is she yours?"

  Grant felt his heartbeat speed up. "No," he said frankly.

  "So you don't get carried away?"

  A dismissive retort leaped to Grant's tongue, but he swallowed it before he could utter it. "Not like that I don't."

  She gestured to the darkness. "So that is why you freed one of the killers." Her voice was flat, holding no particular emotion.

  Grant narrowed his eyes, glowering down at her. Tilting her head back, she met his stare unflinchingly. He asked, "Why didn't you stop him? Mince him up with that supersharp sword of yours?"

  She shook her head. "It was not my place. His life was yours to do with as you willed. The captain may not have approved, but he wouldn't have interfered, either."

  "It's good to learn your samurai code makes some allowances for individual actions—like mercy." He didn't bother softening the sarcasm in his voice.

  Shizuka did not seem to be offended. "The otoko no michi is complex and multifaceted. Do not make snap judgments until you learn more abbut it and us."

  He felt a twinge of shame at the quiet note of re­proach in her voice. Falteringly, he said, "I would like to learn more about New Edo, about you."

  "I am of a samurai family and to learn about me is to learn about New Edo."

  "I'd like to see it one day."

  She nodded. "Mayhaps you shall. It is not far off the coast or hard to find." She smiled impishly. "If you know where to look, that is."

  Shizuka's smile was replaced by a troubled ex­pression. "But like this country it is torn by dis­agreement. I fear that after this day's atrocities com­mitted against our allies, the disagreement may explode into actual strife."

  "Why so?" Grant inquired.

  Shizuka sighed heavily, sweeping her hair back from her high forehead. "I should not speak of it. You are gaijin, an outsider. Yet I feel I can trust you."

  Grant waited silently and with another sigh, Shi­zuka said in a breathy whisper, "Captain Kiyomasa and my daimyo, Takaun, disagree about the path the future of New Edo should embark upon. Lord Takaun wishes to remain isolated, as self-sufficient as we can manage."

  "And Captain Kiyomasa doesn't see it the same way?"

  "He does not. He wishes to expand our influence into the mainland, over this section of the Pacific coast. He seeks trade agreements, mutual nonaggres-sion and protection pacts with settlements. He wants to establish a sovereign colony here."

  "The barons may have a little something to say about that," Grant interjected wryly.

  Shizuka's lips quirked in a fleeting smile. "That is Lord Takaun's main objection, inasmuch as we have precious little intelligence about the military might of your baronies."

  "I see." Grant cleared his throat. "I can tell you one thing about them—they won't come at you with World War D-vintage longblasters loaded with only one round."

  She acknowledged the comment with a self-conscious chuckle. "Very true," she admitted. "Our armament is not what you would call state-of-the-art, not even
by the standards of the year of the holocaust. Ammunition is expensive and hard to come by. We don't have the natural resources to manufacture much of it ourselves."

  "So why only one bullet per gun?"

  "Actually," she answered, "only Jozure had one bullet. As the poorest marksman, that's all the captain felt he deserved."

  Recalling her remarkable prowess with the bow, Grant said, "Then why didn't he give you a long-blaster with a full clip to carry?"

  "Captain Kiyomasa did not feel I was worthy of one." Seeing the skeptical expression crossing his face, she added, "It's a misconception that an archer's skill can be applied to firearms. Besides, none of us—including the captain—have had suffi­cient ammunition with which to practice. Our daimyo prefers we hoard it until we face a genuine emer­gency."

  "In that case," Grant said, "even if you manage to plant a colony here, the barons will take it away from you, burn you out, just like the Mags did to Port Morninglight."

  "Perhaps." Shizuka's voice lowered in volume to a husky whisper. "But if we have allies who might be inclined to trade guns, bullets and training with us…" Her words trailed off.

  Grant perceived her line of thought and picked it up. "What can New Edo provide in exchange?"

  "Some of the science and technology that we have revived."

  "Like how you can hone a blade so sharp it cuts through anything?"

  "Much of that is due to training," she responded. "But yes, that and much more."

  Grant fingered his chin contemplatively. "I'm not much on making business deals, especially in circum­stances like these. But your proposal has a lot of merit. First we'd have to see your tech, which means we'd have to visit New Edo."

  "I'm sure that can be arranged. If we leave at day­break, we could be back there by this time tomorrow evening."

  He shook his head. "We've got our own mission to complete."

  She cocked her head quizzically. "I presumed you had completed it. You questioned that man Pol­lard—"

  "And learned very damn little," he broke in. "We know what he was doing but not the why. He didn't know, either, so we have to return to our home base and make further plans."