by James Axler
“It’s empty,” he breathed as he moved back into cover behind the pillar and indicated the same to his father, standing opposite, with a gesture.
The one-eyed man nodded curtly. It was time to put his plan into action. Gesturing to J.B., he indicated that they should move out from behind the pillar and take the empty rooms to establish a base of operations. And there was little time. The approaching enemy was now audible to all the companions, not just Jak. The advancing force seemed to be small, and was moving slowly. It wasn’t hard to guess that they were taking the corridor section by section, as well, not underestimating how difficult and smart their enemy may be. This gave the companions enough time to move, but suggested to them that they may be in for a small war of attrition rather than a straightforward firefight.
Looking ahead, both Ryan and J.B. could see that the corridor was clear at present, but about a hundred yards ahead of the sec door was a sharp bend that presented them with a blind spot. The sec door itself was about twenty yards distant, giving them a total of about 120 yards between themselves and any enemy sighting.
It wasn’t a lot of distance, and it didn’t buy them a lot of time.
Ryan and J.B. swung out from their cover in unison, J.B. clutching the M-4000 and Ryan holding the Steyr SSG-70. They would provide covering fire as Jak and Dean, followed by Mildred and Krysty, and finally Doc moved around them and into the empty rooms. Jak and Dean provided cover while Ryan and J.B. moved forward to join them.
The unseen enemy force was stealthy, but was gaining ground. The first group tentatively rounded the bend, risking the blind corner.
J.B. raised the M-4000 and fired into the middle of the group of three. They consisted of two men and a woman, all of whom were moving low, trying to present as small a target as possible. Two of them had blasters that looked from this distance to be Heckler & Koch G-12 caseless rifles, of the type that were sometimes found in the redoubts. The woman was carrying a 12-gauge, double-barreled shotgun. The Armorer took it in at a glance and wondered, at the back of his mind, how she had come across what appeared to be a Purdey, a rare and beautiful thing to J.B., and something that he had thought never to see, though he had read of them.
This thought stayed in his mind as the approaching enemy raised their blasters. He let fly with a cartridge from the M-4000, the explosion of the scattergun sounding large off the low ceiling of the redoubt tunnel. The air was filled with the heat and smell of the charge, and the load of barbed metal fléchettes found its target with ease, spreading out over the hundred or so yards to the target.
The three approaching people were hit by hot, barbed metal that tore into exposed flesh and ripped through the motley collection of clothing they wore. The man in the center took the majority of the charge. His scream of agony as the metal hit his face and chest was choked off by the blood that flooded into his throat and lungs as arteries were ripped and torn by the metallic onslaught. The force of the impact threw him backward, the H&K flying away from him.
Instinctively, the woman threw up her arms to protect her face, the Purdey raised above her head as she did so. Fléchettes bit into the area of her chest and stomach exposed by the movement, the thin material of her shirt and undershirt providing no protection as they were shredded to ribbons by the hot metal, ripping into her flesh and scoring the breastbone and ribs beneath. She crumpled, gasping for breath in lungs that had been lacerated by the barbs, unable to draw any air into her shattered rib cage.
The man on the far side was slightly quicker. He managed to loose off one shot from the H&K that hit the ceiling above J.B.’s head, dislodging chips of concrete and making the Armorer duck his head as the concrete dust rained down. But there was no chance for a second chance, as the fléchettes again found their target, taking out the man at the shoulder, ripping into flesh and severing tendons, causing him to drop the H&K and stumble in agony into the wall. Sliding down, he used his free arm to try to staunch the flow of blood from his shattered arm and shoulder.
J.B. pulled back into the cover of the dorm as the next wave followed. The enemy had dropped lower, using their fallen comrades as cover, loosing off shots that were intended to drive J.B. back rather than hit him.
Looking ahead, Ryan squinted, trying to count the number of the opposition. Three were down, and four had come into play behind them. He caught the glimpse of movement from the angle of the tunnel and felt sure there were at least two more in reserve.
So they had been outnumbered to begin with. J.B.’s opening volley had leveled the field a little, but the number of people lurking around the corner was an unknown quantity.
With ammunition running low and the possible numbers unknown, there was only one move that Ryan could see as viable at this point. He turned to Jak and Krysty.
“I’m going to try and close the sec door,” he said softly. “It leaves us trapped behind here, but at least those coldhearts will have to be the ones opening the door again, making them vulnerable.”
“We’ll cover you,” Krysty replied in an equally low tone. “But what about the others? We can’t tell them without making those bastards out there aware of what we’re doing.”
Ryan grinned. It was mirthless and almost vulpine. “Just cover me, lover. J.B.’ll soon pick up on it.”
With that, Ryan shouldered the Steyr and unleathered the SIG-Sauer. He would need a blaster for his own cover and safety while he was out there, and as he planned to punch in the sec code, a handblaster represented the best option.
“Okay?” Jak said, standing ready at the doorway. Across the hall, through the open door of the dorms, Ryan could see J.B. and Dean. He gestured with his blaster, and the Armorer gave him the briefest nod of understanding.
In the corridor, all was quiet. Uncannily so, given that there were seven people in the two side rooms, and at least nine people at the bend of the tunnel—although two of those were chilled, and the only sound that broke the silence was the low moan from the survivor of the first wave, now almost delirious and drifting close to unconsciousness from loss of blood.
The silence was about to be broken. Ryan, standing where he could be seen from the opposing door, indicated with a slight inclination of his head that he was about to leave the shower room.
J.B. and Jak swung into place at the edge of the door, and on a mental count of three both men swung out and laid down a covering fire as the one-eyed man darted from the doorway, under Jak, and headed for the sec door panel.
The sudden movement caught the opposition off guard, and there was a second of silence before the opening fire was returned. The enemy was torn between firing at Jak and J.B., or trying to pick off Ryan as he moved rapidly along the wall. He had twenty yards to make, and only a couple of seconds in which to do it.
“Dammit, he’s going for the door. Concentrate on One-eye!”
The voice had been low and drawling, but had carried a steely authority that cut through the noise of the blasterfire. Ryan mentally marked that down as the voice of the opposition leader as he reached the panel.
“Try to take out the panel,” the voice called over the fire, and suddenly Ryan found that the only threat he faced was that of ricochets and flying concrete chips as the fire became less heavy, and concentrated solely on taking out the panel on the other side of the sec door.
Fireblast, the one-eyed warrior thought, the man’s smarter than I thought. For Ryan knew that the closed door put the opposition at a disadvantage, and the best way to stop the door closing, at that distance, was to try to disable the mechanism rather than chill him. If the panel on the other side was shot up, then the door’s closing mechanism would jam.
By this time, Ryan had reached the panel and was tapping in the sec code, hoping that his luck would hold and that some sharpshooter on the opposing side wouldn’t get lucky. J.B. and Jak were doing their best to tilt the odds by laying down a covering fire that was preventing the opposing marksmen from being able to take full aim.
Sweat dripped down the one-eyed man�
�s forehead as he punched the last digit of the code, stinging his good eye and running into the empty socket behind the eye patch.
“Work, dammit, work,” he gritted as the last digit was entered, and the door began to creak into action, moving from its housing in the wall. Ryan flattened himself against the wall, sheltered from any real danger by the pillar housing the control panel. He had the SIG-Sauer leveled, barrel pointing slightly downward, ready to blast anyone who may be so foolish as to try to spring into action before the door closed. He just hoped it would close fully; otherwise it would leave a gap someone could fire through, and would make it difficult for him to retreat back to cover.
Jak and J.B. had ceased firing once the door reached halfway closed, unwilling to waste any more ammo than was necessary. The opposition obviously felt the same, as the blasterfire from their side decreased to the odd shot.
The door creaked the last few inches and came to rest on the wall, effectively sealing them off from their enemy.
Tentatively, the companions emerged from the two rooms to join Ryan, who was now standing before the door, able at last to relax the muscles that ached with the tension of battle.
“So what now?” Mildred asked.
“Ah, now that is the question, is it not?” Doc said, leaning on his sword stick. “I believe we are in what is commonly referred to as stalemate.”
“What?” Dean asked with a puzzled expression.
Doc favored the youth with an indulgent look. “Ah, my dear boy, it is something that comes from a time before this. Once, when men could afford to take time out from the affairs of the world, there was a game of skill and tactics called chess. The object, as in all games, was for one of the competitors to win. But—and here’s the rub—if both players were equally matched, then often the game would end with neither in a position to win.”
“Sorry, Doc, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with a stale mate….” Dean pronounced it as two separate words, and looked to the others for assistance.
“The old game survived some,” Krysty said quietly. “Mother Sonja and Uncle Tyas McCann would play for days back in Harmony. You see, Dean, to get in a winning position would be mate. To win totally would be checkmate. But to be stuck in a position where it was impossible for either to win would be stalemate.”
“And that’s just where we are,” Ryan added. “Stuck.”
The one-eyed man took a step back and surveyed the sec door. There was nothing else they could do now except wait. If their enemies on the other side wanted to attack them, they would have to operate the door and so give the companions the opportunity to take their covering positions and pick them off as the door opened. But they couldn’t go forward without risking the same. Their defensive position was secured, but at the expense of moving farther up the redoubt. Their only option would be retreat to the mat-trans.
An uneasy few minutes ensued on both sides of the sec door, as the leader of the opposing force was having similar thoughts to those of Ryan. Except for one extra fact that was bothering him intensely. How the hell had these people gotten into the old place that was his camp? For his people occupied the upper levels and didn’t risk coming too far down because of the giant worms and the damage they caused. It made the lower levels too unstable to live in safely. So mebbe there was some other way into the tunnels from the outside that they didn’t know about.
“Hey! You on the other side! Only one of you I’ve seen is One-eye, but I guess from the blasterfire that there’s more of you back there—you wanna talk?”
Ryan exchanged glances with the other companions. J.B. shrugged. Krysty gave a noncommittal shrug, but her hair hadn’t tensed any more. Dean and Jak wore skeptical expressions. Mildred shook her head gently, muttering, “See what the guy has to say. We don’t have to open the door to hear it, right?”
Doc smiled broadly. “I would say it was an excellent sign, my dear Ryan,” he whispered urgently. “After all, the fact that the gentleman is willing to exchange in dialogue suggests a certain intelligence, does it not?”
“Guess so,” the one-eyed warrior said quietly. Then, more loudly, “Okay, what you got to say? You started, so you go first.”
“Strikes me that we’ve got ourselves in a stupid situation,” the drawling, low voice said. “See, we live here, and when we hear a firefight going on, we’ve got to look after our territory, see that we’re safe. And you? Well, way I see it is that you don’t know who the hell we are and you’ve gotta see you’re safe. So we had a firefight and you chilled Janny and Ken. Cy, he’s probably gonna be okay eventually…time’ll tell. But that don’t mean we need to chill you to get our pride back, y’see that?”
“Fine words, but how can we trust you? How can you trust us?” Ryan queried.
“Fair point, my friend,” the voice said.
“I’m not your friend yet,” Ryan countered. “I don’t like shouting through this bastard thick door, so let’s get to it.”
“Okay,” came the response. Yet, despite the thickness of the metal sec door, the man on the other side didn’t seem to have to shout for his voice to be heard clearly. “Let me ask you something, stranger. I don’t think you came in through some tunnel that we don’t know about.”
“That’s not a question,” Ryan countered.
“No. So how about if I ask you if you got into the tunnels through that place where all the colored lights flicker and change all the time?”
Ryan was momentarily stunned to silence. Had this man guessed the secret of the mat-trans that they were among the few to know?
“Why do you say that?” Ryan asked slowly.
“Because it’s old tech and it still works…must, otherwise the lights wouldn’t be working. We’ve got some idea of how bits work, but the rest of it is still a mystery.”
Ryan paused before answering. A lot would hinge on his next few words. He obviously paused a little too long, as his opposing number was spurred to speech, perhaps making Ryan’s decision easier.
“Hell, don’t clam up on me now,” the low drawl said with a vaguely sardonic undercurrent. “Listen, I’m kind of like the baron around here, though we’re too small to be a ville. The name’s Joe Correll, and I’ll tell you as much as this. We know all this stuff comes from before skydark, and we can tell that a lot of it here still works…but how to work it, and what it does? Well, we sure as shit don’t know that. But we know where we can get what we need to know, and I’m figuring that mebbe you know something, if you came here by using some of it. But mebbe you need to know more. See, I can’t see any reason you’d come to this shithole unless it was an accident. So mebbe we can help each other. Sure gotta be better than this or a chilling, and it’ll come to that if we go on this way.”
Ryan bit the skin on the end of his thumb in concentration. “Okay, listen up,” he finally said. “We know a little—enough to travel using some old tech, and mebbe to use some of the old comps. But there’s a lot we half know, and mebbe if we join you and find out some more, then we can get to use a lot of the old tech to our advantage. So I guess I’m saying yes, Joe Correll.” He looked at his people as he spoke. They all assented.
“Okay, then,” Correll drawled. “I’m gonna open the door. We all keep our blasters to hand, but we hold fire. Yeah?”
“Yeah,” the one-eyed man agreed, glancing at his companions.
“Okay…I’m hitting the numbers now,” Correll said. “Get ready.”
The door began to move, and in their state of tension it seemed to take an eternity to open.
Chapter Four
The door had reached three-quarters of the way to the tunnel ceiling, pulled three-quarters of the way across the breadth, before their opposition became fully visible, and Ryan and Joe Correll came face-to-face.
Correll stood about the same height as Ryan, but was rangy and lean, with the appearance of one who had, at one point, been malnourished and had found it hard to build up his muscles once more. This impression was born out by his fa
ce: it was long, with gaunt, high cheekbones that only accentuated the sallow skin stretched tight. His eyes were deep-set, with a darkness underneath them that made his steady, staring gaze seem all the more intent. His nose was scarred and had been broken several times, and the long, thin blond hair that he wore tied back into a ponytail was an ash blond, flecked with more gray than should have been evident in a man of his years. He wore old, tattered fatigues that hung on his lean frame, and a Heckler & Koch was hanging by his side, still grasped in his hand but with the barrel pointing downward.
His eyes met Ryan’s gaze, and locked there. The one-eyed man knew immediately that Correll would tear them apart if they crossed him, but would play by agreed rules if they were going his way. He would be a good ally, but a dangerous enemy.
Correll was thinking much the same thing as he sized up Ryan. He was impressed by the obvious strength of the man, and the fact that he had lost an eye, had a jagged scar to prove it had been a tough fight. That he had obviously chilled the opponent and was still here was proof of his abilities. Correll’s gaze flickered over the rest of the companions. Mildred fascinated him, as he hadn’t seen a black woman for many a year; Krysty was an obvious beauty, and looked strong; the white one showed the signs of many battles, and from his size Correll would have expected him to have been chilled long ago—obviously a good fighter; the old man seemed crazy, smiling to himself as he stood there with an ancient blaster in his fist—yet he had to be able to look after himself. Likewise the boy, who was barely in his teens, yet had to be a good fighter, as this group was far too small to carry any passengers. Besides, he looked like One-eye, mebbe a son, so he probably learned to fight from his father.
They were a small group, and looked too odd to have taken on and outsmarted his people. So mebbe they could help after all in the task ahead.
Ryan noticed the movement of Correll’s gaze, and wondered what was going on behind the impassive countenance. He heard a small grunt in the back of Correll’s throat, the slightest nod, as if to himself, and then Correll spoke.