by James Axler
He could only hazard a guess at why the hybrid women were using some kind of aphrodisiac to bring about sexual excitement in the trapped human male, but he was fairly certain it had something to do with the dead fetus.
Without access to the cloning, ectogenesis and artificial-gestation techniques the hybrids employed to reproduce, they had become desperate enough to at least experiment with conventional means of conception. Kane did not even want to think about possible success ratios.
Kane tried raising Domi on the trans-comm again, but once more she failed to respond. He crept out into the corridor and back to the warehouse. He stood there, flattened against the wall, scanning the area just beyond the doorway with his eyes and the motion detector. He saw nothing, not even the corpses he and Domi had made.
As he stood there, trying to formulate a plan of action, he heard a woman crying out, faintly, but loud enough so he heard the fear and pain in her voice.
"Kane! Help me! Kane—"
Chapter 24
The gloom between the endless rows of containers made everything a flat gray monochrome to Kane's visored eyes. He moved swiftly about a hundred paces from the doorway, then paused in the deeper shadows next to a double-stacked aisle of the crates. He held his Sin Eater at waist level. Even with his night sight, the light was sullen and gray.
He had no idea where Domi might be. He was not even certain it was the girl who called for help. He tried to bring to mind the exact sounds, recalling the high pitch.
Forcing himself to breathe quietly and smoothly, Kane moved swiftly down between the rows, following one aisle, which seemed to always lead into another. Though he consulted the motion detector frequently, the LCD remained placid. Then, suddenly, it uttered a beep, and a green dot pulsed at the far edge of its face.
He came to a halt, peering ahead. Something moved through the shadows ahead of him, a ghost in the dimness, not clearly visible, then it was gone. He heard no sound of footsteps, and the indicator light no longer registered on the detector. He went on, coming out of an aisle.
The narrow-gauge monorail track led across the vast floor space to disappear in the darkness beyond wide-open double doors. The track was serviced by a small shifter engine whose chromed nose was thrust out between the doors that opened into the cavernous interior of the warehouse. Nobody was in sight.
A half-loaded flatcar stood on the track, and the shadowy figure Kane had glimpsed a few moments before flitted through the open double doors. He paused, refusing to chase after it. He was being deliberately lured somewhere—he had no doubt of it. He also had no doubt it was not Domi who had called out to him earlier. That meant someone in Area 51 recognized him, and the possibility of who it might be sent chills through him.
He stepped out from between the stacks, and walked along the track toward the doors. He saw nothing until he neared the flatcar, then he heard a flat, whipping crack and a bullet winged past his head. It ricocheted from metal somewhere behind him. The echoes of the shot were swallowed up by the high ceiling.
As he dived for the floor beside the track, the blaster snapped again and the slug hit the rail near his feet and screeched off into the gloom, leaving a bright scar on the steel to commemorate its impact.
Kane got up and sprinted toward the flatcar. A third shot followed him, but he received the impression it was an afterthought, as if the shooter fired only for effect. He found shelter behind the half-loaded flatcar, crouching beside it.
The female voice shrilled, "Kane!"
Straightening, he craned his neck to see over the boxes on the car. Another shot split the still atmosphere of the enormous warehouse, and a round gouged a furrow in a crate lid. Although it had struck nowhere near him, Kane ducked back and swore. At least he had spotted the shooter's position. A twinkle of muzzle-flash showed in a small window on the elevated superstructure.
Still and all, he was trapped in the huge, open warehouse, and though sheltered by the flatcar, he was too far now from the aisles to make a run backward, and too far for a sprint through the open doors. He had nowhere to go. Tentatively, he stretched out his left arm and moved it back and forth.
The motion detector lit up with green dots, beeping each time it registered a signature. The glowing icons slid across the LCD, marching inexorably on his position, from both sides. He counted eight of them. He suspected the sniper had deliberately missed his shots, firing at him to force him to ground while reinforcements advanced.
He cursed and looked around the flatcar he was crouched against. He noticed it had its rear channel chocked to prevent it from rolling backward. He saw how the track extending across the warehouse slanted toward the open doors, running right past and below the observation post.
Kane lowered himself to his knees and moved toward the front of the flatcar. The chocks jammed between the channel's bolster and track were little wedges of hard rubber, like doorstops. Fortunately, both chocks could be reached from his side, and he did not have to crawl under the car to loosen them. Even so, it was difficult to get enough leverage to release the stops. He had to lie flat on his back, working at them for several long minutes with his knife, pausing now and then to listen for footsteps. When he pulled the last chock of rubber free, he was drenched with sweat, and the flatcar still remained motionless.
Crouching, he crawled to the rear of the car, put his shoulder against one corner of it and shoved hard. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then he heard the creak of metal, a heavy groan, a screeching rumble of metal grinding against metal. Slowly, it rolled down the track.
Kane moved with it, staying in a crouch, using the crates on the car to shield his body. He thought he heard another cry, calling out his name. The flatcar gradually gained momentum, and within seconds he had to trot to keep up with its increasing speed. It was heading straight for the nose of the shifter that protruded out of the tunnel.
When less than ten yards remained, Kane leaped upon the flatcar, keeping low on the floor behind the crates and boxes. He wriggled between and around them to the other side. The car vibrated and rumbled beneath him as he lay flat. The chromed nose of the engine seemed to rush at him, swelling in his vision. At the last second, he rolled off, turning his roll into a running leap. He lunged for the shadows beneath the superstructure.
The crash when the flatcar collided with the nose of the parked engine was thunderous, echoing within the high, vault-walled room. Metal impacted against metal with a prolonged, nerve-racking screech.
The boxes and crates tumbled to the floor, breakables within shattering and jangling. Kane reached the protection of the stairway as the echoes of the crash died away. An almost continuous series of beeps sounded from the motion detector, and though he could not see or hear who was approaching him, they were close and they outnumbered him by a wide margin.
Not caring to stand his ground and shoot it out, Kane crept up the stairs, his body pressed against the right-hand rail. He held the Sin Eater in a two-fisted grip. When he reached the top of the stairs, he raised his head above the edge of the floor and took in the scene with one quick glance.
The square room was dark except for the feeble illumination peeping in through the window. There was no furniture except for a very old desk. A man, a human male, with broad, down-sloping shoulders and a face resembling old leather in texture and color, held a rifle to his shoulder. He was well over six feet tall, weighing perhaps 250 pounds. He was dressed in an olive-green jumpsuit.
A female hybrid stood beside him, standing on tiptoes to peer out the window anxiously. Delicate, lovely and with reddish-gold hair, she whispered, "I don't see him, Hank."
"That's because Hank's looking in the wrong place," Kane said quietly.
The man whirled to face him, moving faster than Kane expected, so he did not waste time with niceties. He squeezed the trigger stud of his blaster. The report was almost deafening in the enclosed space.
The roar that tore from Hank's throat when the 9 mm
Parabellum round slammed into the center of his chest was almost as loud. His bellow combined shock, pain and rage. As he fell back against the wall, he shoved the female aside and down behind the desk.
Kane heard the clang of metal behind him and pivoted at the waist. Another human male, dressed in the same kind of coverall, was making a desperate lunge up the steps, wielding a Calico subgun. He was screaming something in a language Kane did not understand.
The Sin Eater roared twice and clipped off the rest of the man's scream. One of the steel-jacketed slugs drove through the crown of his head, and the other punched a red-rimmed hole in the base of his neck. He tumbled head over heels down the stairway.
Kane turned his attention back to Hank, who was still on his feet. He fired the rifle from the hip, working the trigger. Pulling his head down, Kane heard the bullets ricocheting from the metal risers behind him and smash into the floor above his head. Splinters blew out in sprays.
Kane realized the man was wearing a Kevlar vest beneath his coverall, and when he raised his head and blaster again, he adjusted his aim and squeezed off a single shot.
A spot of crimson bloomed on Hank's broad forehead, and part of his skull and scalp floated away behind him. Throwing his arms out wide, the big man crashed backward against the wall, then toppled forward on his face. The entire superstructure shook from the impact of two-hundred-plus pounds of deadweight hitting the floor. To his amazement, a wail of horror arose from behind the desk, from the lips of the hybrid.
There was a scuff and scutter of rapidly moving feet behind him. Kane turned as another coverall-garbed man, a subgun in his hands, raced up the steps. He glimpsed more figures milling about below.
The expression on the man's face was a bare-toothed grimace of unthinking, murderous fury. "You fuckin' traitor to unity—"
Kane pointed the Sin Eater down the stairway and let loose with a short burst. The staccato hammering of the full-auto gunfire filled the stairway as five holes were stitched across the man's chest.
As he tumbled to the foot of the stairs, Kane called after him contemptuously, "Look who's talking."
Kane heaved himself up into the observation post, intent on taking the female prisoner and using her as a hostage if it came down to it She was stooped over Hank's body, weeping piteously. The sight so stunned Kane, he did not immediately react when he felt the floor under his feet give slightly.
Not breaking stride, Kane glanced down and saw he walked across a strip of flexible metal mesh, like a tightly woven web. Just as the recollection of the shock field in the desert outside of the Archuleta Mesa registered, he reached the edge of the material. He put one foot on the floor while the other remained on the mesh.
He heard a giant pop, as of a giant balloon bursting, and blue lighting flared before his eyes, dancing in an arcing skein along the barrel of his blaster. Pain erupted through every nerve cell. His heart pounded so violently he thought his ribs would break. The agony went beyond anything he had ever experienced or thought he could endure.
Everything crashed in against him, a marrow-freezing cold and a soul-shredding pain.
Kane could feel nothing at first. A throbbing pain in his head began, like a drumbeat slowly building to a crescendo. His mouth and tongue felt numb, so he couldn't even groan. He could neither feel nor move his arms and legs.
He tried to orient himself, but he could not tell which end was up—not his personal end or the world's. He shivered, then by increments, he became aware of his body again. He felt something cold and very hard pressing against his backside and shoulders.
A soft lilting voice said, "I won't let you die, Kane."
It was a familiar voice, but despite the words, the tone was not soothing or reassuring. It smacked of a threat.
"You won't die," the voice crooned, pitched so low it was a sibilant whisper. "I won't let you die."
Fear and memory exploded simultaneously in Kane's mind. With a straining, convulsive effort, he opened his eyes. He saw a room so dimly and indirectly lit, everything was blurred. He tried to rub his eyes and discovered he could not move either hand or his feet.
He squeezed his eyes shut, then carefully opened them again, focusing them on his body. He turned his head, first to the left, then to the right and finally down. His wrists and ankles were bolted securely by chrome cuffs to a steel-framed, canvas-covered latticework. His body was in a half-reclining position, and his hands were affixed to the frame at ear level. He also saw he was naked, just like the man bound to a similar framework—or the very same one. He opened his mouth and felt the plastic muzzle against his lips.
A pale hand moved into his field of vision and patted his cheek. The hand was slender, with exceptionally long, tapering fingers. "Back among the living," the melodic voice said. "If you can call it that."
Panic surged through him as his stumbling thought processes finally matched a face to the voice. Baron Cobalt glided to his side, his gaunt face creased in a smile of mock sympathy. He was dressed in robes of shimmering gold, the long flowing sleeves of which were edged with white fur. The satin draped softly over his slight, spare frame gave him a majestic appearance.
Stroking Kane's sweat-damp hair as if it were the coat of a dog, the baron whispered almost lovingly, "My beautiful, treacherous, murderous Kane. I knew you would return to me one day. I do so admire you, although your passions really should be more restrained." His smile broadened, but it did not reach his eyes. "Oh, we have so many things to talk about, so much to catch up on…so many mutual acquaintances to gossip about."
Propping an elbow up on the edge of the frame and leaning on a hand, the baron asked in a conspiratorial whisper, "Do you remember how you once throttled me, insulted me, defiled me? What was it you called me?"
Baron Cobalt pursed his lips, pretending to ponder the matter. "Oh, yes. Now I recall. You told me I was a laboratory monstrosity with an attitude—a vampire living off the genetic material of human beings. You called me disgusting."
Kane croaked, a harsh, incomprehensible gargle of sound.
The baron put his ear close to the slotted muzzle. "Pardon? I didn't catch that."
Kane coughed and with a great deal of effort managed to husk out, "Dickless…I also called you a race of jealous, dickless cowards." His voice was so faint, and muffled by the muzzle, he barely heard himself.
Baron Cobalt heard him. The twinkle of feigned good humor in his eyes blazed to fury, burning hot and molten. His delicate nostrils flared. "At least my kind are not genocidal monsters!"
The words burst from the baron's mouth in a high-pitched shriek of rage, amid a spray of spittle. His hands knotted into fists, the knuckles straining against the finely textured skin so tightly, it appeared as if they would split the flesh. "Which is worse, Kane? We use your kind, that is true, but we use only enough of you to survive. Your savage acts have brought my kind to the very brink of extinction!"
Kane tried to make himself laugh. In a strained, pained whisper, he demanded, "That's supposed to make me feel guilty?"
A sneer twisted the baron's features, turning his sculpted face into an ugly mask of contempt. There was desperation in his eyes, and the terror of a man driven beyond the bounds of reason. He inhaled a deep breath, as if to calm himself.
"We are a young race," he stated, no longer shrieking but with an unmistakable quaver under-scoring his voice. "We are hybrids of human and those you call Archon, but our Homo sapiens genes spring from the very best stock. And for that reason more than any other, you apekin hate us. But as we need your ape's blood to live, we spit on your ape minds."
Baron Cobalt passed a hand over his forehead and sighed wearily. "I told you once before that creation of the new humanity was a matter of natural selection, and to accept our intrinsic superiority as we accepted your kind's innate inferiority. We are better suited to this world, to guide it and reshape it in a new, more productive image.
"But your ape's mind wouldn't permit that, w
ould it? So now our carefully structured, orderly world is in turmoil. Hell creeps upon us, the dark angels of chaos, the very same angels you serve, wait to reap what you have sown. It is only right and just that humankind must provide our salvation."
The baron stepped away, paced nervously, then returned, breathing deeply through his nostrils. "Do you realize how little your kind has advanced in the last five hundred years? The last thousand? All of your achievements were transitory, shiny baubles and toys tinkered together to deceive and placate the masses. None of it was of any true worth, none of it had lasting value. There was no beauty or truth to any of it, or it would have transcended your ape roots and survived to be cherished by the generations that followed.
"Even now, two centuries after the nukecaust, humankind continues to live only by sheer momentum, by force of habit. You have no passion to create, only to destroy. Humankind is spiritually bankrupt and obsolete."
A dry laugh creaked out of Kane's mouth. His voice was growing stronger, no longer as hoarse. "But you still need us…the new humanity can't live without the old apekin."
Baron Cobalt nodded. "I've already admitted that. Aren't you the least bit curious why you're not dead? Don't you wonder why I'm telling you all of this?"
"Because you're a blowhard or crazy or both?"
The baron's mouth quirked in a moue of distaste. "Hardly. I've told you so you'll be prepared for your new life. You're staying with me, to serve me as you vowed to do upon your indoctrination into the Trust. I swear to you, I won't let you die…not until you have repaid your debt, returned what you have stolen."