by James Axler
“…approach…research file. The gas…prepare for entry…”
She knew that she was about to find out the extent of the rider’s resources. Part of her was glad. Now she could start planning for her escape. Part of her was terrified. What if the odds were overwhelming, especially as she still felt weak?
Determined to note every detail, she kept herself focused as the man guided his vehicle around the rear of the ranch house and toward what had to have been a barn. It was little more than a few sticks of wood marking out an area of dust slightly different in hue to the land around.
She was impressed, but not perhaps as surprised as he would have liked, if he but knew, when a section of soil and sand raised up slowly on hydraulics. It rose at an angle until it was standing about six feet off the surface of the ground. The topsoil remained, only some dust falling from the edges, running backward. Perhaps sheer weight kept it in place, as the ascent had been measured. Perhaps it was secured in some way. Whatever, she could see that something kept it in place so that the hydraulic platform would descend with no indication that this piece of land had ever been moved.
Beneath the platform, a concrete slope led down into the earth. Lights were inset in the walls, providing an illumination that was less than the sun, but still more than enough by which to see your way.
The rider guided the bike down the slope and into a tunnel. She immediately felt the coolness of an air conditioner hit her, something she had not felt outside the redoubts they had visited. There was something about the quality of the air in these places: a kind of dryness, a lack of any scent or musk that was natural, that maybe the regular inhabitants had never noticed but was startlingly different and alien to her. She felt it every time they had landed in a redoubt, and this place was exactly the same.
The motorcycle slowed to a glide, taking the curve of the tunnel with ease. It was a shallow incline, but the curve told her that they were circling to go deep without a steep gradient. So the rider’s base was far below the surface. That figured. How else could it have survived so long? She tried to work out the circumference of the spiraling circle they were circumscribing, but she was still too weak and disoriented to get a real impression. She did know that the deeper they went, the stronger the lighting. She didn’t notice it at first, but she realized as she was forced to squint that the wall-mounted lights gained in power as they descended.
The bike suddenly came out of the mouth of the tunnel and into a long, wide, concrete-lined bunker lit by fluorescent tube lighting that made her momentarily squint her eyes, preventing her from getting a good look at the surroundings. Her eyes were still screwed shut when the motorcycle slowed to a halt, and she felt the rider flick down the stand. Carefully, he untied her arms from around him and dismounted. She felt as though she might fall without his help, as she was so weak. It was only when she didn’t that she realized how well he had secured her to the vehicle.
Gradually, the light through her lids became less painful and she carefully opened her eyes. The rider was standing in front of her, his hands behind his back, observing her…impassively? It was hard to tell, as his goggles were still in place, and so his eyes gave nothing away. His body language and posture were unthreatening, but she was still wary.
Besides which, she was trying to cast a glance around her without giving it away, looking over his shoulder rather than at him, hoping that he wouldn’t notice.
The long bunker was well-equipped, looking for all the world like a mechanic’s wet dream. The motorcycle she was still secured to was one of three such vehicles. And the tools: she had never seen the like outside of military redoubts, which this wasn’t—there was none of the insignia, none of the signs, the rules and regulations that came with such places. The vehicles weren’t painted in camou colors or a uniform shade. In fact, a nearby armored wag was a bright scarlet, the like of which suggested that this had been a base with no military affiliations.
She knew enough about the jack before skydark to know that this would have cost big. So if not remnants of military, who were these people?
There were five doors at points along the walls. She would have loved to know what lay behind each. Maybe later. For now, she had to find out more about the crazie who stood watching her. Were the rest of the people here like him? Or—Gaia forbid—worse?
A thin smile cracked the face of the rider. It looked sinister, but was belied by the warmness of his tone.
“Good, good, you are awake. I trust you have recovered from your illness as we journeyed here. For that I must apologize. I have had no call to use the gas before, and that was an effect that was not on the file. I shall have to see if this unfortunate effect can be remedied before any further use.”
Nice—so he had every intention of putting others through that less-than-charming experience. She felt that she had to choose her words carefully.
“That’s…good. Yes, it’s good that you want to avoid anyone experiencing discomfort…”
He inclined his head. “You seem a little upset, a little less than reassured by my assurances. I know that it was neither the best nor the friendliest way to introduce myself, but as I stated, it was the most expedient. And that is my priority right now. The notion of having to do what may not necessarily be the right thing per se, but is the right thing for that moment, must surely be something with which you are familiar, Krysty Wroth.”
Gaia, but she was having trouble following his arcane speech. However, she had been able to follow it enough to make her point. Looking down at the bonds that held her secure, she said, “If you know who I am, and you want to gain my trust, then the first thing you’d know is that I don’t take kindly to being tied up like this. You can explain anything else you want in whatever way you want, but it isn’t going to mean shit while you’ve got me trussed up like road chill.”
The rider shook his head and moved toward her. “Please forgive me, that was most remiss,” he said hurriedly. “You are, of course, correct.”
He took off his goggles and hung them over the steering column of the bike. Taking in as much as she could quickly, she saw that the goggles were high tech. It looked like a scope, a speaker and a mike attached to it, and she caught a glimpse of some other circuitry, the purpose of which was beyond her, before the rider moved in front of her and blocked the view. As he leaned over, she also caught a brief glimpse of startling blue eyes—not just the color, but something else that she didn’t have time to fully absorb.
With a tenderness that she would not have expected given her perception and slight knowledge of him, the rider loosed the bonds and took her weight as she swayed, weaker than she thought. He picked her up gently.
“Please. You are still weak, and your circulation will have been momentarily impaired by the bonds and the journey. Allow me…”
He carried her across the floor of the bunker toward one of the five doors. Part of Krysty balked at letting him do this. He was the enemy, and she felt that could in no way let him gain the advantage. Yet, at the same time, she could feel how weak she was. Anything that would let her regain her strength, give her time, was a good thing. Besides, she figured that she could fake being more exhausted than she was, and take the opportunity to try to observe as much as possible of the complex in which she found herself.
“Sector Three, open door two, please,” the rider said, seemingly to no one.
Still, one of the doors glided effortlessly open, with no human hand to guide it. The whole area of the mechanics bunker had to be miked up; probably cameras, too. She was triple glad she had been too weak to try anything. An attempt at escape would likely have brought a whole sec squad down on her. She was going to have to watch every word and action.
He exited into a corridor that was noticeably more ornate than the bunker. The walls were painted in an eggshell-blue, and the lighting was concealed. A soft-hued tone lit the corridor with a less harsh glare, and the doors leading off this corridor—all, frustratingly, closed—were made of old w
ood, varnished, polished and ornate. The floor was actually covered with an old, predark-style carpet. In a shade to match the walls, no less.
Hell, this was certainly no redoubt. So what was it?
She allowed herself to be carried, taking all this in—even though, in truth, it told her very little.
Even so, it was a surprise when the voice seemed to slip out of the walls around her. She looked around as surreptitiously as she could, but could see no sign of the speaker, or even of a remote speaker from which the sound could emanate.
“Howard, your request for addition to file 444/720G has been noted and attended to. Work is currently taking place on synthesizing an element to eliminate the noted effect. Until this is achieved, the remaining grenades will be removed from the Ordnance Depot.”
“Thank you, Sid. Would it be possible to have records of the missions available by 0700?”
“This can be done. Is there anything else?”
“Inform Hammill that I would like schematics for the cruiser available first thing. There’s still a lot of work to be done, but I think it may not be too long before we have allies in our quest.”
“That is excellent news, Howard. I shall refer the request immediately.”
“Thank you.” He looked down into Krysty’s eyes, reading the question. “Sid is the hub of this base. Without him, the whole Thunder Rider project could not have been launched.”
“‘Thunder Rider’?” The name bemused her. It seemed to have no meaning that she could discern. And what was with this Sid and Hammill that he had mentioned? Names and voices but no sign of the people?
He smiled. “Don’t concern yourself at this stage. It will all become clear to you soon. But first, you must rest. I fear that the effects of the gas are more wide-ranging than the files would have led me to believe.”
They had reached the end of the corridor. A staircase wound around an elevator shaft. It looked something like she had seen in old vids or photographs. The stairs were carpeted like the corridor, and the elevator was of open ironwork, the cage decorated in a design like leaves and flowers, while the cage within was open.
No, certainly no military redoubt. What the hell was it? Krysty’s mind raced as she tried to piece together what she knew…which was very little, but was beginning to make an intriguing picture. From the old vids and photographs, she knew that only people with a lot of jack lived in places that looked like this. She also knew that anyone nonmilitary with this much tech would also be loaded with jack. Put that together, and you had someone who had serious power and influence before skydark. That would also account for the staff—the invisible staff. She’d feel happier when she’d seen them, had some idea of what they looked like.
So you had people with a lot of power who’d taken to their bunker when the nukecaust happened. And Howard—which didn’t seem somehow threatening enough for such a coldheart—was the result of several generations underground. There had to be a bigger gene pool down here than she’d reckon, as he was nowhere near as inbred as she would have figured. No drooling, stunted stupe. But there was something about the eyes, a kind of coldness that made her hair curl around her protectively, made her wonder what was going on behind those ice-blue orbs.
While this had been racing through her mind, and she had been doing her best to keep it from her face, Thunder Rider had entered the elevator, and they had ascended two floors. They were now partway down another corridor, decorated in a similar style. He paused outside a door.
“Level Four, door seven, please.”
The door clicked softly before opening. He carried her inside a room that was lushly decorated in pinks and oranges, and placed her on a bed covered with a richly decorated pane.
“This was my sister’s room,” he said softly. “I think you will be comfortable here.”
Krysty didn’t know what to say. Thankfully, he turned and left before she had need to frame a reply, leaving her lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Where, she wondered, were the monitors? What was the Thunder Rider project he spoke of? Where was his sister? And most of all, what was lurking behind those eyes that made her skin crawl?
There was nothing she could do right now except get some rest. Until she’d had a chance to find out more, any thoughts of escape would have to wait. She turned onto her side and tried to sleep, but the knowledge that something in the room was watching her made that far from easy.
Just like everything was going to be far from easy.
Chapter Seven
Day two, coming up for thirty-six hours since they had lost Krysty. A day and a half. That was without the added time it would take them to catch up. And there was nothing they could do about it. Their pace was fixed by the horses and couldn’t be increased.
There was nothing to do. Nothing except watch the wastelands up ahead, and the territory they had already covered to their rear.
Ryan had never felt so frustrated, so helpless. It was a feeling he didn’t like. He was used to taking action, to being in charge of a situation…or at least trying to take that charge. Now he could do nothing, and the tension and frustration was like an itch under his skin that he could not scratch. It crawled in his gut, making him edgy. It had no release: there wasn’t even anything he could do to take his mind off the nagging doubts. Could he have done something to protect his people back at the camp? Could he be doing something now?
His frustration was nearly boiling over, waiting for an outlet.
“Incoming, eleven o’clock,” J.B. muttered. Those three words, said in a laconic tone, referred to something so far away that Ryan couldn’t even, at this point, hear it. But it was enough. Galvanized, he felt like a coiled spring given release.
He had been brooding in the back of the wag, J.B. taking the reins while Doc stared out the back, trying to stop his mind wandering more than usual. Jak and Mildred were trying to sleep, but in the silence of the seemingly endless wastes even the murmur of the Armorer was enough to rouse them.
Ryan was out the front of the wag, crouching beside the Armorer, before his words had even had time to die away. Following the direction of J.B.’s gaze, Ryan could see a cloud of dust on the horizon, seemingly floating in midair as it hovered at the point where sand and sky meet. But with a rapidity suggesting great speed, it moved away from the vanishing point and became a much more corporeal figure on the landscape. The cloud billowed, and even at such a great distance it was possible to make out the rough impression of a wag.
“Our coldheart?” Ryan mused.
“Figure not,” J.B. replied. “Our boy’s trail leads more one o’clock, and this isn’t any kind of a bike. Even a big fucker like his.”
“He could have more than a bike,” Ryan cautioned, “but I take your point. So someone else, then. Question is, are they looking for him, too?”
“Mebbe. Not our problem if they are, though,” J.B. drawled.
Ryan nodded. “Exactly. They’re just gonna see this wag, see the horse, and think easy meat.”
J.B.’s mouth quirked. “Better advise them of their error, then….”
The others had been listening to this exchange, and as Ryan turned to them he could see that they were already going through the routines of checking and preparing their blasters. Truth was that they were always combat ready. It did no harm to make triple sure.
“You heard that, right?” He looked at them, could see he was correct, and continued without pause. “We don’t know who these people are, but they’re better protected than us in that wag, and they’ll see us as easy. I want them to think there’s just J.B. and me on board. You stay here, stay down, and get ready to move out the back and adopt firing positions at the least provocation.”
“Think you want much as me, Ryan.” Jak grinned, his teeth showing in a vulpine leer.
Ryan shrugged. “Glad I’m not the only one feeling it.” He looked over his shoulder. “Shit, they’ve got some speed…Get ready.”
He moved to the front of the
wag, settling himself beside J.B. The Armorer had kept up the same pace and direction as before. Anything else would have been noted by the approaching wag. No way did he want to give them any cause for suspicion. They were bigger, and they were better protected. He didn’t want them to start blasting from distance, or else the companions were really screwed.
And the wag—whoever was in it—was definitely taking an interest in them. While their course had remained constant, the wag had deviated from the line it had been taking from the horizon, so that it arced around to come closer to them. It was still throwing up clouds of dust to its rear, but from the front they could now see that it was an old military armored wag. It had a gun turret with a front-mounted machine blaster, with two ports below, under the windshield. Most of those old wags had originally had comp equipment so that they could drive blind. J.B. would guess, from the slightly erratic line, that the driver was having to rely on visual alone. A bubble-mounted blaster on each side, with a full 180 rotation; two wheels on each side at the front. He couldn’t see the rear, but he was guessing caterpillar tracks.
A formidable vehicle against five people with a couple of horses and a hunk of wood.
It sped toward them with no sign of diminishing its speed. It was fortunate that the horses had their remarkable placidity, or even a more experienced horseman than J.B. would have had trouble controlling them. As it was, they showed no interest in the approaching wag, and the Armorer was able to handle the reins with one hand while slipping his mini-Uzi from his shoulder so that it rested by his hip. Similarly, Ryan had slowly dropped the Steyr from his back until it rested casually across his lap. The two blasters wouldn’t be much good against the armor-plated wag, but both men figured that whoever was inside would feel just confident enough against a horse-drawn wag to want to show their faces. They’d seen enough sloppy fighters in their time to lay odds on this.