Outlanders 14 Hell Rising, page 17
Grant wasn't sure if it was due to the nagging pains of the injuries inflicted by the man-ape, or whether he was simply emotionally and spiritually drained. Rather than seeing the thumbprint when he closed his eyes, he kept seeing Cotta's arm being ripped from his body, like a vid tape on continuous replay.
He had witnessed many violent deaths, and even been responsible for dozens of them during his Mag days and after. Why Cotta's death should disturb him so profoundly wasn't that much of a mystery. He feared the most obvious answer: he was getting old.
His last five years as a Magistrate had been fairly routine. He could count on the fingers of one hand how often he had fired his service weapon. His transfer to an administrative position was pending, and had he not opted to join Kane in exile, he would now be sitting at a desk reading requisition reports. The prospect of hanging up his blaster and putting his armor in storage hadn't disquieted him at all.
A knock sounded at his door, a familiar three- sequence rap, and he repressed a groan: He knew he'd hurt Domi's feelings earlier, but he had no desire to spend time apologizing to her. The rapping repeated, this time impatient and demanding.
With a curse, Grant heaved himself up from the floor and crossed the room. As soon as he opened the door, Domi slipped in, a little white wraith in the semidarkness of his quarters.
As he closed the door behind her, she pivoted to face him, hands on her flaring hips, head tilted at a challenging angle. "Why did you act that way to me before?"
Grant ran a weary hand over the liquid-bandage film on his forehead. "I don't know, Domi. I'm sorry. It wasn't you. I guess I was shook up. I'm still shook up."
Domi wasn't appeased. "Cotta knew the risks. If he didn't, he was stupe. And Brigid is strong. She'll get better. But I don't want to talk about them. I want to talk about us."
Grant forced a smile to his face. "We've talked about 'us' before. I've tried to make it plain how different we are--"
Domi interrupted, blurting angrily, "Something wrong. Is it me? Something about me? I disgust you, make you sick?"
Grant tried to laugh. "Of course not."
Domi slitted her ruby eyes, regarding him suspiciously. Always before he had tried to make the gap in their ages the reason he didn't want to get sexually involved with her. He knew how lame the excuse was, since Domi was certainly no stranger to sex, not after spending six months servicing the gross lusts of Guana Teague.
In truth, she represented a simple kind of innocence, a waiflike winsomeness he didn't want to complicate. And hovering always at the back of his mind and emotions was the memory of Olivia, the only woman who'd truly claimed his heart.
Domi had been patient and understanding over the past year, but now, he realized with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, she was tired of waiting. She wanted to quench the sexual appetite that had long been building.
"What is it, then?" she asked sharply.
Grant sighed. "I'm sorry, Domi. It isn't your fault."
Domi didn't even try to mask her scorn. "If you can't do it, if you're impotent, then let me know right now so I can make plans."
Fury surged through Grant, and he was barely able to restrain himself from striking her. Not a slap to the cheek to punish her for her insolence, but a closed- fisted blow of rage. "I'm not impotent," he growled.
"Then it is me, you lying sack of shit."
Either Domi didn't guess how near she was to harm or she didn't care. "So if you don't want me, you wouldn't care if I went down the hall to Kane's room, or Farrell's or even Wegmann's?"
"Why stop there?" Grant retorted. "Why not Lakesh, too?"
Domi's lips curled. She flicked her gaze up and down his near naked body. "Big man, big chest, big shoulders, legs like trees. Guess they don't tell the story, huh?"
She pushed past him, yanked open the door and stalked out. She tried to slam the door shut behind her, but Grant caught it by the edge. He found himself on the verge of calling out to her, but the words stuck in his throat. He watched her stride away with a furious, hip-swinging gait, the personification of wounded female pride.
It wasn't until he returned to his place on the floor and resumed his cross-legged position that he realized he was in a high, hard state of arousal. At first he was surprised, then pleased, and finally annoyed by yet another distraction.
RACING ACROSS the emerald-green hills, rider and horse blended into one powerful creature galloping toward the cliffs. Below them, waves crashed against the craggy boulders on the shore. Brigid was truly thankful to be alive on this beautiful spring day. The countryside of Le Havre had worked its usual magic on her mood, and the rhythm of the huge beast beneath her soothed and excited her at the same time. Scarcely minutes before, she had been melancholy, even sad, but no sooner had she mounted Trillium than her mood lightened.
In the sheltered cove that was her special retreat, Brigid dismounted. The wildflowers, bluebells and fuchsias in the surrounding fields filled the air with a heady perfume that mixed with the smell of the sea to produce a wildly exhilarating scent. What a glorious day, if only there was someone by her side with which to share it all.
Brigid began to feel the smallest bit melancholy again. Sometimes it seemed she was always alone, always yearning to fill the emptiness. When would her opportunity for love ever arise? She was almost eighteen, and had not as yet had even one serious prospect since her debut last year. She understood that the rumblings of discontent with the reign of Louis XVI and his queen, Marie Antoinette, had spread out from Versailles and were now directed against the rural well-to-do, like her family. The Great Fear, as it was coming to be known in Paris, was a significant worry, particularly among eligible bachelors.
As it was, she had met only one man recently who had actually attracted her, an American merchant seaman whom she knew only as Captain Kane. He had seemed not only dashing and dangerous, but also strangely familiar. He was handsome in a rather cruel way, deeply tanned from the suns of many climes, his eyes faded to a pale blue-gray, like the color of high sky at sunset.
Her father, though not averse to doing business with him, had dismissed him contemptuously as an adventurer, a soldier of fortune. Brigid led Trillium along the shoreline, not trying to avoid the breakers that threatened to soak her shoes. With a smile, she recalled how Captain Kane had surreptitiously given her a book, essays by Edmund Burke, a British scholar, brought all the way from London, as if he knew in advance she was bookish and would appreciate such a volume far more than a bauble.
It was true she had read almost every volume in her lather's library by the time she was sixteen, and perhaps that was the problem, after all. Brigid knew a lot of pointless facts, but she never could seem to apply them to situations in the real world. What in heaven's name was the use of knowing Greek philosophy if you couldn't apply it to getting yourself a good match?
The sunlight glinted from a glassy substance right at the shoreline. Halting, she squinted at it, realizing it was a corked bottle. Holding Trillium's reins in one hand, she knelt in the wet sand and dug it out. Within she saw a sheet of paper. For some reason, her heart pounded. She knew, without knowing just how she knew, that the message was meant for her.
After she wrested out the cork, it took several attempts to remove the paper. She unrolled it and read the swirling, cursive script, obviously inscribed with a crow-quill pen. "Come back to us, Brigid. Come back to me, anam-chara."
Brigid smiled and slipped the note inside the bodice of her dress, next to her heart. She whispered, "Not just yet, Kane. Not just yet."
Chapter 17
The two men stood in the cold and bleak dawn, among ankle-high grasses glistening with dew. Grant tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat and remarked unnecessarily, "Things have changed."
Both Kane and Grant wore the Mag-issue black, ankle-length Kevlar-weave overcoats. The right sleeve was just a bit larger than the left, to accommodate the Sin Eaters holstered to their forearms. Fingerless black gloves encased their right hands and their eyes were masked by dark-lensed glasses. Their ensembles weren't for show. The lenses of the glasses allowed them to see clearly in deep shadow, and the overcoats were insulated against all weathers, including acid rain showers. Trans-comm circuitry was sewn inside the lapels, terminating in tiny pin-mikes connected to a thin wire pulley. If they were searched, the transceivers would pass a cursory inspection. Long combat knives, the razor-keen blades forged of dark blued steel, hung from sheaths at their hips. The gloves allowed secure grips on the butts of the Sin Eaters.
Under their coats, they wore high-collared sweaters, combat harnesses, tough whipcord trousers and high-laced, heavy-treaded boots. A flat case containing survival, stores like bottled water and concentrated rations hung from Kane's shoulder. A motion detector, not much larger than a chron with an oversized LCD window, was strapped around Grant's left wrist.
They stood midway on a gentle grade that slanted down toward a narrow stream. Behind them yawned the mouth of a tunnel that stretched back to a tree of mind-staggering proportions. The trunk was more than massive, more than huge—it was a pillar fifty yards around at its narrowest point. Interwoven limbs and branches joined nearly two hundred feet up in the air, roofing the entire area with its leafy canopy.
Even the smallest boughs were three times the breadth of Grant's body, the twigs thicker than his thigh. The tree butted up against the base of a gray mountain, looming high above them, the new sun blocked by the peak. The mountainside showed no vegetation whatsoever, stripped of turf and topsoil, showing only the dull gleam of dew-damp rock. The gigantic tree was all that remained of the community of Wildroot.
Scarcely twenty minutes before, the two men had materialized in the same gateway chamber to which they'd jumped a little more than half a year before. The unit was not part of the official Cerberus network, nor was the tree-fortress directly related to any Totality Concept project.
The details about the community were sketchy, derived mainly from the Wyeth Codex, purported to be the journal of a woman scientist by the name of Mildred Wyeth. Allegedly, Wyeth had been in suspended animation during the nukecaust, and she'd survived skydark and the long winters. Revived a century later, she had traveled the Deathlands with Ryan Cawdor.
Sometime during her wanderings, she'd found a working computer and recorded her thoughts, observations and speculations regarding the postnukecaust world, the redoubts and the wonders they contained.
Three decades before, Lakesh had discovered the journal and seen to its dissemination throughout the Historical Divisions of the villes.
According to Wyeth's narrative, a century or more before, the community of Wildroot had been established by combining the ancient Druidic principles of nature worship with bioengineering sciences, applied to flora rather than fauna. A gigantic tree had been developed to act as both a symbol and a home for a new society where plant life was the dominant species.
The community's leader, the self-styled Lord Boldt, intended to release a plague bacteria into the underground water system of Britain to kill most, if not all of its human inhabitants. A revolt among his- Celtic followers and an assault by a militia based in New London ended the scheme—not to mention the intervention of Cawdor and his band of survivalist warriors.
But the enormous tree was still a marvel, a wonder of the world. Kane and Grant retraced their steps through it, Sin Eaters unleathered, combat senses at high alert. They crept stealthily through the circular resin-smelling passageways; the root-tunnels did not bend, they curved gently to the left and to the right, then back again. The floors, walls and ceilings resembled fibrous wood bark that had been sanded, polished and overlaid with lacquer. Even the staircases were formed from a continuous growth of the fibrous wood, showing no seams or mortise joints.
When the two men reached the point where they had been set upon before by a contingent of Imperial Dragoons, they came to a halt, straining their ears for even the most distant of sounds. They heard nothing, which in one way alarmed them more than if they had heard small noises.
During their previous visit, they had learned how thermal-imaging scanners broadcast the change of interior temperature to a nearby guard post. So they waited, fingers hovering over the trigger studs of their blasters. When three full minutes passed with no sound or registration of movement on Grant's motion detector, they descended the staircase, went through a root tunnel and out of the tree.
They strode down the slope to the narrow stream and crossed the wooden footbridge spanning it. The high fence surrounding the cube-shaped blockhouse still stood, as did the stone building itself, but the garrison of dragoons was nowhere to be seen.
"This makes no damn sense at all," Grant said, unconsciously lowering his voice. "Where are those slaggers? I thought this was a permanent outpost. Strongbow was afraid the Celts would use Wildroot as a rallying point."
"Fand said the Imperium was no longer Strong- bow's," Kane murmured, making a careful visual circuit of the vicinity.
"So his soldiers just abandoned their posts once he disappeared? They seemed a lot more disciplined than that."
Kane's shoulders lifted in a shrug beneath his coat, and he stepped through the open gate into the compound. As they drew close to the blockhouse, they saw the marks of many feet in the soil, and where twigs had been stepped on and broken. The concrete facade of the building bore hundreds of bullet pocks.
Grant bent and picked up a small brass object, revolving it between thumb and forefinger. "A cartridge case from a 7.62 mm assault rifle. A hell of a firefight went on here. But between the dragoons and who?"
The steel-reinforced door to the blockhouse hung slightly ajar, and by the feeble sunlight peeping through the high, barred windows they saw a wide aisle cutting between a double row of consoles and comp stations. Chairs and desks were smashed, and the walls were smeared with blackened scorch marks and perforated with bullet holes.
All the consoles had been blasted into twisted masses of metal, plastic and broken glass. The interior looked as if grens had been lobbed into it. Everything had been shot, smashed and torn, and there was nowhere for anyone to hide. There didn't appear to be a square foot of floor not covered by debris.
"Like you said," commented Kane darkly. "A hell of a firefight."
The door on the opposite side of the blockhouse hung askew on one hinge. Outside on the concrete parking apron, they saw more scattered shell casings, as well as rust-red stains of dried blood.
A broad-axled Hummer lay on its side a few yards away, completely burned out. As they strode past it, Grant stooped to peer through the cracked and soot-black windshield. The charred skeleton of a man lay crumpled within, the exposure to searing heat contorting him into a fetal position. Clasped between the corpse's fleshless hands, he saw an H&K MP-5 sub- gun, the standard-issue blaster of the dragoons.
At the far end of the fenced-in compound stood an open-sided vehicle depot. The concrete floor showed oil drippings and tire tread marks, but no wags were to be found.
"Shit," Grant swore. "Don't expect me to hoof it all the way to New London and the coast."
Kane didn't respond to Grant's declaration. He stepped around the corner of the structure and found, half-hidden by fuel drums, a motorcycle leaning against the wall. Heaving it up by the handlebars, he used his hip to push a fuel canister out of the way. Drawn by the noise, Grant came around the side of the depot.
"What's that?" he demanded, eyeing the two- wheeled vehicle suspiciously.
"A way to spare your delicate hooves," answered Kane, inspecting the machine.
A peeling decal on the gas tank showed the winged- serpent insignia of the Imperial Dragoons. The bike proved to be a BSA Lightning, a heavy brute of a machine. The rear fender was bent, but the motorcycle appeared to be in good condition.
"I'm not riding on that goddamn thing," said Grant flatly. "I'd rather have a mule. Besides, it's probably more than two hundred years old."
Kane nudged down the kickstand and tested the throttle controls. "So are Deathbirds, but I never heard you complain about them."
Deathbirds were modified AH-64 Apache attack gunships, dating back to the tail end of the twentieth century. Most of the Deathbirds in the Mag Division fleets had been reengineered and retrofitted dozens of times.
"At least I know how to jockey a Bird," Grant countered gruffly.
Although motorcycles weren't a completely unknown mode of transportation in the outlands, they weren't commonly used, either. Even the best roads were in a serious state of disrepair and lone cyclists were too exposed, too vulnerable to the weather or sniping coldhearts.
A few motorcycles had been in use by outriders of Chapman's ore caravan in Utah, but they were wired- together rattletraps.
Kane rocked the bike on its stand and heard gasoline sloshing in the tank. He checked the oil sump and found it full, though slightly dirty. There was still the ignition. He switched it on, mounted the torn leather saddle, closed the choke lever and gave the start pedal a kick, Nothing happened except that he lost his balance and nearly tipped the machine over.
