Kitabı oku: «Janus Trap»
Brigid didn’t let her finish the sentence
Her booted foot kicked high, thumping Skylar hard in the chest, knocking her backward once more until she slammed into the side of the desk. “The curious cat was killed, Skylar,” she said.
“What’s got into you?” Skylar wailed fearfully, struggling to keep her balance as she was forced against the desk.
“Never liked you,” Brigid said again, leaping forward, her hands closing around Skylar’s throat. “Nosy and arrogant because you know how to operate computers. That’s not a talent, Skylar. That’s barely even an ability.”
“P-please,” Skylar croaked as Brigid’s grip tightened around her neck, “Miss Baptiste. I think something is very wrong with you…please try to…”
She could tell that Brigid wasn’t listening, and she struggled vainly to loosen the grip of the taller woman. There was a dark, determined look in Brigid’s narrowed eyes, a horrible joy in the set of her smiling jaw. Skylar thought that she knew what it was—bloodlust.
Janus Trap
Outlanders®
James Axler
Special thanks to Rik Hoskin for his contribution to this work.
I turn and turn in my cell like a fly that doesn’t know where to die.
—Antonio Gramsci, 1891–1937.
The Road to Outlands—From Secret Government Files to the Future
Almost two hundred years after the global holocaust, Kane, a former Magistrate of Cobaltville, often thought the world had been lucky to survive at all after a nuclear device detonated in the Russian embassy in Washington, D.C. The aftermath—forever known as skydark—reshaped continents and turned civilization into ashes.
Nearly depopulated, America became the Deathlands—poisoned by radiation, home to chaos and mutated life forms. Feudal rule reappeared in the form of baronies, while remote outposts clung to a brutish existence.
What eventually helped shape this wasteland were the redoubts, the secret preholocaust military installations with stores of weapons, and the home of gateways, the locational matter-transfer facilities. Some of the redoubts hid clues that had once fed wild theories of government cover-ups and alien visitations.
Rearmed from redoubt stockpiles, the barons consolidated their power and reclaimed technology for the villes. Their power, supported by some invisible authority, extended beyond their fortified walls to what was now called the Outlands. It was here that the rootstock of humanity survived, living with hellzones and chemical storms, hounded by Magistrates.
In the villes, rigid laws were enforced—to atone for the sins of the past and prepare the way for a better future. That was the barons’ public credo and their right-to-rule.
Kane, along with friend and fellow Magistrate Grant, had upheld that claim until a fateful Outlands expedition. A displaced piece of technology…a question to a keeper of the archives…a vague clue about alien masters—and their world shifted radically. Suddenly, Brigid Baptiste, the archivist, faced summary execution, and Grant a quick termination. For Kane there was forgiveness if he pledged his unquestioning allegiance to Baron Cobalt and his unknown masters and abandoned his friends.
But that allegiance would make him support a mysterious and alien power and deny loyalty and friends. Then what else was there?
Kane had been brought up solely to serve the ville. Brigid’s only link with her family was her mother’s red-gold hair, green eyes and supple form. Grant’s clues to his lineage were his ebony skin and powerful physique. But Domi, she of the white hair, was an Outlander pressed into sexual servitude in Cobaltville. She at least knew her roots and was a reminder to the exiles that the outcasts belonged in the human family.
Parents, friends, community—the very rootedness of humanity was denied. With no continuity, there was no forward momentum to the future. And that was the crux—when Kane began to wonder if there was a future.
For Kane, it wouldn’t do. So the only way was out—way, way out.
After their escape, they found shelter at the forgotten Cerberus redoubt headed by Lakesh, a scientist, Cobaltville’s head archivist, and secret opponent of the barons.
With their past turned into a lie, their future threatened, only one thing was left to give meaning to the outcasts. The hunger for freedom, the will to resist the hostile influences. And perhaps, by opposing, end them.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Prologue
In a broken air vent, in a hidden bunker beneath the Caucasus Mountains, a woman dressed in strips of material was waking up.
Almost two days before, when she had awakened to find herself beaten and bloody on the floor of the bunk room, Cloud Singer had immediately engaged the implant at the base of her neck and tried to dreamslice. But, to her horror, nothing had happened, no jump, no transferral, nothing.
She had strained her ears, listening for a trace of the singing bull roarer, its promising salvation, but all had been silent. Then, as she listened, she had heard voices, people in the underground complex, walking along the corridor, and the beam of their flashlight danced in the open doorway.
She had moved quickly, despite the pain from all over her body, clambering into the broken vent on the wall of the bunk room, the one that Kane had shot to pieces. Inside, she had hidden herself from sight while her enemies went about their cleanup operation, sweeping the bunker for stragglers, but failing to find her.
And she had tried, periodically, to dreamslice, to step out of Realworld and into the Dreaming, but nothing had happened.
Tucked there, in the absolute darkness, beside the room full of skeletons, she had slowed her breathing and willed herself into a healing coma, her heart beating at an eighth of its usual pace.
Almost two days later, conscious once more, she found herself alone.
Cloud Singer blinked, bringing her electrochemical polymer lenses to life on the nictitating membranes that slotted over her eyes, granting her night vision in the pitch-dark bunker.
On silent feet, she walked from the bunk room, checking each doorway in turn, confirming her suspicion that she was totally alone in the complex. Alone except for the corpse of Neverwalk, a bloody ruin where his neck had been.
With none of her strike team left, no access to the Dreaming, Cloud Singer was utterly alone.
Alone but alive.
Chapter 1
Several months later
The whole of Cerberus redoubt was in pieces, or so it seemed when Donald Bry walked into the operations room.
Bry’s breath caught in his throat as he saw exposed wiring and circuitry littering the surfaces of the three desks farthest from the door. He held two mugs of freshly brewed coffee, and as he took a step closer, the petite-framed Skylar Hitch popped up from beneath one of the desks, so close that she almost knocked the mugs out of his hands.
Hitch was a timid woman in her twenties who stood a mere five feet tall. Her light coffee-colored skin was smooth and flawless, while her hazel eyes seemed alive with intelligence. This day, she had tied her glossy black hair back in an abbreviated ponytail that brushed against her nape as she turned her head. Like the other personnel in the operations room, Skylar wore a white bodysuit with a vertical zipper. She laughed nervously as she saw Bry standing before her.
“My goodness, I’m sorry, Donald,” she said, looking away from him in discomfort. “I almost knocked you flying.”
Although only a small man himself, Bry doubted whether Skylar Hitch would actually be able to knock him flying, even catching him unawares like that. He was a round-shouldered man with an unruly mop of curly, copper-colored hair. A well-trusted member of the Cerberus team, Bry acted as deputy leader for the facility. He wore his customary expression of consternation as though always unable to find the answer to a pressing problem.
The operations room itself was large and high ceilinged. There were two aisles of computer terminals, and a huge Mercator-relief map stretched the length of the wall over the entry. The map was dotted with lights of different colors that played across it like old-fashioned flight paths.
In the corner of the room where Hitch worked at the dismantled computers, far away from the main door, a small chamber was set inside a larger anteroom, its transparent walls made of smoked armaglass. This was the mat-trans unit and, back when the redoubt had originally been established, it had formed the centerpiece of the whole military-funded operation.
Coffee sloshed about in the mugs Bry held as he gestured to the mess of wiring and circuitry. “What is going on here, Skylar? I left you alone for fifteen minutes…”
“I’ve located our problem.” Skylar smiled. “The motherboards are overheating, and it’s causing the system to crash.”
Bry looked at her, astonished. Though timid and bookish, Hitch was a computer expert who sometimes gave the impression that she actually thought in computer language, she was so in tune with the machinery in the Cerberus redoubt. Over the past week, there had been several instances when the computers in the ops area froze, shut down or provided streams of gobbledygook on their monitors. Bry had genuine concerns that a virus was attacking their computers—a group in Australia had hacked into their system and fed the Cerberus machines false data only a few months ago—but he had been unable to find any obvious coding glitches.
Skylar Hitch was one of a number of IT experts who were on call for such problems, and she and Bry had spent the early morning running a series of system checks trying to diagnose the glitch. He had left her for a quarter of an hour while he used the bathroom and grabbed some strong coffee from the facility canteen, trusting Skylar to continue the diagnosis alone. The last thing he had expected to find on his return was three computers stripped down to their component parts.
“These computers are years old,” Skylar explained. “They’re just wearing out.”
Bry shook his head and sighed. “We’re all wearing out,” he grumbled, finishing his statement with a sip of hot coffee.
Skylar rolled a two-inch-long screwdriver across her fingers, a nervous tic. “I can keep replacing bits piecemeal,” she told Bry, “but ultimately we should probably look at updating or renewing the whole system.”
Bry nodded. “Replace what you can, Skylar,” he told her as he placed the mugs on the desk and offered to give her a hand.
Around them, the morning shift personnel filed in to begin their designated tasks, working the monitoring system and tracking the various field teams, all of them ignoring the disruption going on beside them.
ELSEWHERE IN THE VAST complex, Grant lay in bed in a darkened room, head resting against his upturned hand, admiring the beautiful woman lying next to him. He was a huge, muscular man, and he seemed like a coiled spring even as he lay peacefully watching his sleeping companion. Grant had skin like polished mahogany and his dark hair was cropped close to his scalp. A drooping, gunslinger’s mustache brushed across his upper lip, and the dark shadow of stubble was just starting to appear upon his chin. Grant was an ex-Magistrate from Cobaltville, whose labyrinthine life’s journey had brought him here to the Cerberus redoubt.
The woman beside Grant seemed tiny in comparison to the ex-Mag, but her slight frame was that of an athlete, her belly flat, tight knots of muscle visible on her arms and legs. Shizuka was a warrior born, but unlike Grant, her skin was a golden color accented with peach and milk, and her closed eyes showed the pleasing almond curve of her Oriental ancestry. She had full, petaled lips beneath a small stub nose, and her fine blue-black hair was cut so that it brushed the tops of her shoulders. Shizuka was a woman of astonishing beauty, and Grant knew that he would never, even for a second, take her for granted.
As he silently watched Shizuka, the woman’s eyes fluttered open. After a moment she turned to face him, a smile on her lips. “What are you doing?” she queried, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“Just thinking about how beautiful you are,” Grant told her.
Shizuka blushed, her smile growing wider. “What are you after, Grant-san?” she asked.
One of Grant’s mighty hands reached forward and, with infinite gentleness, brushed her dark hair from her face. “Nothing you don’t want to give, Shizuka,” he assured her, leaning across the bed to kiss her fully on the mouth.
Shizuka’s golden arms reached around and pulled the huge man closer, kissing him back with the same ferocious passion that she showed for battle.
SEVERAL FLOORS BELOW, in a long room at the end of a corridor that ran the length of the subbasement, two people stood side by side, blasting shot after shot from the guns in their hands as though their very lives depended on it. Four large speakers placed strategically around the room were pumping out loud, guitar-led music, filling the room with the strains of a long-forgotten rock and roll band.
One of the shooters was a muscular man with dark hair and steely blue-gray eyes. Like Grant, Kane was an ex-Magistrate from Cobaltville whose life in recent years had been intrinsically tied to the well-being of the Cerberus operation. He was built like a wolf, firm muscles across the upper half of his body, powerful legs holding him in a rock-steady stance as he reeled off a stream of bullets at the multiple targets that hurtled toward him from all sides of the room. He was dressed in casual clothes, a dark T-shirt and combat pants, and his eyes shifted from one target to the next as they appeared at various positions along the length of the firing range. His Sin Eater handgun blasted a continuous stream of 9 mm bullets as each item appeared, each bullet finding its target, not a single shot wasted.
Standing beside him, Kane’s companion was a tall woman with pale skin and dazzling red hair that fell in waves to almost halfway down her spine. The woman wore the standard white jumpsuit of the Cerberus redoubt’s staff, and it hugged her so tightly as to accentuate the curves of her trim, athletic body. Her emerald eyes narrowed as she scanned the room for new targets, the bulky TP-9 pistol held before her in a two-handed grip. Brigid Baptiste was an archivist-turned-warrior who excelled in both disciplines.
There was a clatter off to the left, its sound masked by the loud, pumping music, and a target dropped from the rails that ran the length and breadth of the ceiling. Kane and Brigid shifted their weapons toward the target in unison, their movements liquid smooth. Kane’s favored Sin Eater pistol spit bullets at the silhouette’s chest, scoring a hit dead center of the heart, while Brigid’s TP-9 semiautomatic pistol blasted a bullet through the silhouette’s forehead, leaving a craterlike wound in the upper half of the card target.
With a whir, the devastated target whipped back up into the ceiling while two others dropped from the right-hand side of the room. With an astonishing economy of movement, Kane and Brigid turned and sighted the new targets. As ever, Kane took the one that was farthest from the previous target while Brigid cut the other to pieces with a stream of 9 mm rounds.
Suddenly, a spinning red light flashed overhead, and a honking noise cut into the guitar chords blasting from the speakers. Fifteen minutes had passed; the gruelling training session was over.
Kane stood there, his gun still raised for a few seconds, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he brought his heart rate back to normal. After a moment, he turned to Brigid, openly admiring her as she steadied her own breathing, beads of sweat dripping down her nose, her red hair damp.
“You okay?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the saxophone solo that had interrupted the gritty voice of the singer from the wall speakers.
Brigid nodded, her eyes closed, a tentative smile on her lips. Then she turned to look at Kane, and her smile widened, showing two straight lines of perfect white teeth. “That was intense,” she said, her voice rich and husky. “What the heck setting did you use?”
“I got Hitch to rig up something with a little extra kick just for me and Grant,” Kane explained with a chuckle. “Too much for you, Baptiste?”
The redheaded woman checked the breech and holstered her semiautomatic at her hip before looking Kane directly in the eye. “I’ll let you know when it’s too much,” she told him, a definite challenge in her tone.
Kane couldn’t help but laugh at her bravado. “You know, you shape up pretty good for a bookworm,” he said, chuckling and reaching for the control panel and powering down the target-practice program as it waited on its standby setting. A moment later, he cut the music and followed his beautiful companion through the exit door and into the changing area.
A quick shower and they would be ready to face the day.
THE ANCIENT MILITARY redoubt that served as the headquarters of the Cerberus operation was located high in the Bitterroot Mountain Range in Montana, where it had remained largely forgotten or ignored for the two bleak centuries that followed the nukecaust of 2001. In the intervening years, a strange mythology had built up around the shadow-filled forests and seemingly bottomless ravines of the mountains. The wilderness surrounding the tri-level concrete structure was virtually unpopulated; the nearest settlement was some miles away in the flatlands beyond the mountains themselves, just a small band of Sioux and Cheyenne Indians led by a shaman named Sky Dog who had befriended several of the Cerberus warriors over the years.
The facility itself had not always been called Cerberus. Its official name was Redoubt Bravo, named, like all prewar redoubts, after a letter of the alphabet, as used in standard military radio communications. Redoubt Bravo had been dedicated to the monitoring and exploration of the newly developed matter-transfer network. However, somewhere in the mists of time, a young soldier had painted a vibrant rendition of the fabled, two-headed hound of Hades to guard the doors to the facility, like Cerberus guarding the gates to the underworld. The artist was long since dead, but his work had inspired the people who had taken over the facility to call it the Cerberus redoubt.
Hidden within the rocky clefts of the mountains around the building, disguised beneath camouflage netting, concealed uplinks chattered continuously with two orbiting satellites to provide a steady stream of data for the Cerberus operatives within. Accessing the ancient satellites had been a long process, involving much trial and error by many of the top scientists at the redoubt. The Cerberus crew could draw on live feeds from both a Vela-class reconnaissance satellite and the Keyhole communications satellite.
Despite its location high in the fresh air of the Bitterroot Mountains, the Cerberus facility was a self-contained unit. Its personnel had become accustomed to recirculated, filtered air as provided by vast air-conditioning units that continually churned and cleansed the facility’s air.
The Cerberus operation had been founded and staffed by a cryogenically displaced scientist called Mohandas Lakesh Singh, who had dedicated the redoubt to the continued survival and freedom of humanity.
Kane, in his previous life as a Magistrate at Cobaltville, had come upon evidence of a vast conspiracy that threatened the autonomy of humankind. Kane had stumbled on the first clues to the existence of a hidden alien race called the Annunaki who had been dabbling in humankind’s affairs for longer than anyone could comprehend. Appearing as gods to early man, the Annunaki had, from the shadows, guided the course of human history over the subsequent millennia, with an ultimate agenda of utter subjugation. Recently, the Annunaki royal family had revealed themselves on Earth once more, and Kane and his colleagues now found themselves in a deadly war of attrition against this seemingly unstoppable foe.
The Cerberus warriors were one of humanity’s last bastions in the secret battle for the freedom of humankind.
GRANT’S THOUGHTS were suddenly interrupted by the buzzing of the transcomm at the side of his bed. He lay there another moment, just gazing up at the ceiling in the darkness as he felt Shizuka’s lithe body stir beside him. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he leaned over and activated the button to answer the call.
After a moment, a man’s face appeared in the tiny window display beside the little unit, smiling in a friendly manner. The man had dusky skin, an aquiline nose and a refined mouth. Lakesh appeared to be about fifty years of age, his sleek black hair displaying just the first hints of white at the temples and above the ears. In actuality, the expert physicist and cyberneticist was two hundred years older than that, having endured an extended period in suspended animation after the nukecaust in 2001. Until recently, Lakesh had physically appeared to be carrying every last one of his 250 years, until a would-be ally of the Cerberus exiles attempted to court their favor by reversing the aging process and giving the elderly scientist, literally, a new lease on life. However, in the months since that, Lakesh had become increasingly conscious that this miracle may not be all that it seemed, and he wondered whether this bountiful gift had hidden strings attached.
“Yeah, go,” Grant said, looking into the screen where a tiny camera picked up his face and relayed the image to Lakesh up in the operations room.
“Grant,” Lakesh began in his mellifluous voice, “did I wake you?”
Grant shook his head slightly as he felt Shizuka sidle behind him and wrap her arms around his wide chest, pulling herself close to him and nuzzling against his neck. “It’s no problem, Lakesh. What’s going on?”
“We’ve just heard from our contact in Tennessee,” Lakesh explained. “The meeting’s set up and, as we discussed a few days ago, I want you to attend with Kane and Brigid.”
Grant nodded his acceptance. “The old crew back on the clock,” Grant muttered with a reluctant smile. “When do we leave?”
“The meeting’s set for 10:00 a.m., local time,” Lakesh said. “You jump in forty minutes.”
“No problem. I’ll see you there,” he vowed as he hit the button to cut the communication.
Behind him, Shizuka tightened her grip on his chest, grinding her hips against him. “Do you really have to rush off so soon, Grant-san?” she asked.
Grant turned his head to look over his shoulder. “Sorry, darling,” he said, “but it’s a simple pickup. It won’t take more than a few hours.”
Still holding him tightly, Shizuka kissed Grant beneath his ear. “I’ll wait right here,” she whispered.
After a moment, Grant extricated himself from the woman’s grip and made his way to the tiny bathroom cubicle attached to the room. Shizuka watched from the bed as Grant flicked the motion-sensor light switch to the cubicle and began running the water for the little shower stall within. After a moment, Shizuka pulled herself from the bed and, naked, padded silently across the room to join Grant in the shower.
WHEN HE ARRIVED at the operations room thirty-five minutes later, washed and shaved, Grant found the large room a hive of activity. Lakesh had spread a series of papers across his desk that included several maps of the area around the recently destroyed ville of Beausoleil, Tennessee. Beside him, the red-haired Brigid Baptiste was glancing over the papers as Lakesh pointed out specific items of interest. Brigid was dressed in a shadow suit now, a one-piece black body stocking that appeared to be so thin as to be a second skin, and yet the fabric had remarkable properties. The shadow suit worked as a self-contained, self-regulated environment, and the weave was strong enough to deflect a knife blow or other blunt trauma but could not redistribute kinetic shock.
Off to one side of the room, Grant’s longtime partner, Kane, rested against a desk as he spoke with Cerberus physician Reba DeFore. DeFore was a stocky but curvaceous woman with long ash-blond hair that she had tied up in an elaborately braided knot atop her head. Grant couldn’t hear the details of their conversation, but he could see Reba count off items on her fingers. Grant watched as Kane copied her, his brow furrowed as he tried to remember each item that she had told him. Like Brigid, Kane was dressed in one of the remarkable shadow suits, as was Grant himself. Kane had added a thick belt with a heavy copper buckle to the suit, along with a pair of combat boots, and on the man’s right wrist Grant could see the familiar pressure-sensitive holster containing a Sin Eater handgun.
Grant had added his favored long black duster over his own shadow suit, its dark Kevlar weave reaching past his knees. Like Kane, he wore the familiar weight of the Sin Eater pistol at his right wrist, tucked out of sight, just a little bulge beneath the sleeve. The weapon was a legacy from their days as Magistrates in Cobaltville, a position that Grant had held for almost two decades prior to his exile at the Cerberus redoubt. Kane had been his partner in Cobaltville, and the pair of them had defected together, along with archivist Brigid Baptiste, after stumbling upon the first hints of the Annunaki conspiracy.
Crouched at a desk beside the anteroom that held the mat-trans unit, Donald Bry and one of his technical team, a petite, coffee-skinned woman whom Grant had seen around a few times, were working through a bunch of wiring amid what looked like the remains of a half-dozen computer terminals.
Catching Lakesh’s attention, Grant pointed to the tangle of wiring. “Trouble with the mat-trans?” he asked.
“No, thank goodness,” Lakesh replied. “Just general problems with the old computers. Emphasis on old.”
“Happens to us all,” Grant said amiably as he joined Lakesh and Brigid at their desk to look over the paperwork that had been assembled for the mission.
Ten minutes later, Grant, Brigid and Kane were standing within the mat-trans chamber, ready to blast themselves through the ether in an instantaneous transition from Montana to Tennessee.
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