Outlanders 24 Equinox Zero, page 9
However, everyone was given at least a superficial understanding of all the redoubt's systems, so they could pinch-hit in times of emergency. Fortunately, such a time had never arrived, but still and all, the installation was woefully understaffed. Their small numbers had been a source of constant worry to Lakesh, but with the arrival of the Moon base personnel, there was now a larger pool of talent from which to draw.
Grant and Kane were exempt from cross-training, inasmuch as they served as the enforcement arm of Cerberus and undertook far and away the lion's share of the risks. On their downtime between missions, they made sure all the ordnance in the armory was in good condition and occasionally tuned up the vehicles in the depot.
Brigid Baptiste, due to her eidetic memory, was the most exemplary member of the redoubt's permanent staff, since she could step into any vacancy. However, her gifts were a two-edged sword, inasmuch as those selfsame polymathic skills made her an indispensable addition to away missions.
Nora Pennick, another émigré from the Moon, stepped out of the gateway unit. She looked nothing like the woman Grant, Kane and Brigid had met in the DEVIL control nexus only weeks before. Then, she was dirty, undernourished looking and her long dark hair was a tangle of uncombed Medusa snarls. Since her arrival in the Cerberus redoubt, she had been dipping into the supply of cosmetics left there by the female personnel of the installation before it had been abandoned in the days preceding the nukecaust.
The white bodysuit she wore clung tightly to her trim, small-waisted figure. Her hair was coiffed, neatly trimmed and the makeup she had applied to her face was evidently in fashion before the nukecaust.
By way of a greeting, she declared, "There's a lot of valuable tech here you've been overlooking. You just didn't recognize it for what it was."
"And how kind of you to point out our ignorance," Brigid retorted with icy sarcasm. "I don't think those of us who were born in the twenty-second century can be blamed for not being as familiar with artifacts manufactured in the twentieth century as the people who were alive at the same time."
Nora flushed slightly in embarrassment and she ducked her head quickly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound patronizing. You're right, of course."
A thinly veiled attitude of superiority had been displayed by several of the recent Manitius Moon base transplants, particularly by a scientist named Neukirk. The base personnel seemed amused by the Cerberus exiles' ignorance of a number of twentieth-century events and items. Neukirk seemed to enjoy expressing himself in condescending tones.
However, still stinging from Brigid's defense of Philboyd, Kane said gallantly, "Forget it, Nora. Nothing to apologize about."
Smiling self-consciously, Nora said, "I'm just sort of awed by this place, that's all. I heard rumors about black tech, experiments in time travel, of course...crazy things about the Montauk Project that were so over the top nobody could take them seriously. But this place—"
She broke off, gesturing helplessly, at a loss for words. Even Brigid couldn't blame her. Redoubt Yankee, the main Operation Chronos installation, was indeed awe inspiring. Before skydark its engineering and computer centers were second to none, and its accomplishments in the field of physics were never matched, much less exceeded.
"If we could get all the computers back online," Nora continued, "there's really no telling the kind of data we'd find in storage."
Musingly Philboyd said, "We might be able to reboot the dilator's basic diagnostic systems, providing the hardware failure isn't total."
Grant's brow furrowed in consternation. "Why in hell would we want to do that? Hasn't it caused enough problems—?"
A prolonged rumble of an earth tremor interrupted him Shizuka had reported mild tremors for some time, and they had become so commonplace in the region of New Edo that her people were scarcely aware of them any longer. Even Kane, Grant and Brigid had experienced them a few times during their return trips to Thunder Isle.
But this one was much stronger. The Cube shifted around and under them, and a jagged crack appeared in the ceiling, showering them with dust.
The crack intersected with an inset light fixture, and it shattered with a jangle of glass and a brief sputtering flurry of sparks.
Nobody cried out or even staggered, but the tense silence following the rumble was broken by Domi's murmur of "Don't like this much."
"Me, either," agreed Brigid. "It would be helpful if we found some seismographic equipment to measure the severity and frequency of the tremors. They seem to come more often now."
"They do," Shizuka confirmed. "And the sea level is rising, as well...we've had some coastal flooding during high tide. Nothing major, but we may be looking at saltwater incursion into our freshwater supply if it keeps up."
"Isn't Dr. Singh studying some sort of phenomena occurring in the Antarctic?" Nora inquired. "Something about the polar ice cap shifting?"
"That doesn't mean anything," retorted Kane dryly. "Lakesh is always studying some sort of phenomena."
"Still and all," Shizuka said, "something is causing seismic disturbances on the entire New Edo island chain."
Philboyd stated, "Since the islands are connected by an undersea ridge, it could be you're undergoing a tectonic shift due to a weakening in the fault lines. Maybe you ought to think about relocating...at least until it's over."
Shizuka's face locked in a cold, hard mask, and the slit-eyed glare she threw at Brewster Philboyd caused him to stop speaking almost instantly. Brigid, Kane and Grant could read the normally inscrutable woman's emotions easily. For better or for worse— and New Edo was certainly better than most of the Western Isles—the island was her home. Dangerous, but still hers. Moreover, she considered the well-being of its citizens her responsibility.
A few months before, during an attempted insurrection, Lord Takaun was grievously injured and the former captain of the Tigers, Kiyomasa, was slain. It fell upon Shizuka's slender shoulders to end the rebellion, and she did it in the only way that would satisfy the honor of both factions—by killing the seditionist leader in single combat, literally slicing him in two with her katana.
The rebels saw only two options—to continue to press their faltering coup and die to a man, or to swear loyalty to the samurai who had slain their leader. They decided to swear loyalty and to live. Ironically many of them did not live long after making their oaths. They perished repulsing the invaders dispatched from Baron Snakefish. Despite the losses New Edo suffered, Shizuka had led them to victory over a tactically superior force.
After that New Edo obeyed her every command, appeased her every whim with a kind of devotion different yet more powerful than that they would have given to a man. Shizuka was not viewed as a woman or even a Tiger of Heaven—she was revered almost as a goddess.
Scratching at the dried mud caked on her arms, Domi demanded impatiently, "Can't we talk about this back home? I want to get clean."
DeFore's full lips quirked in a smile. "We've already packed enough stuff to keep us busy inventorying and cataloging for a week. No reason to linger."
The medic stepped into the chamber, followed by Nora. Philboyd gazed uneasily at the eight-foot-tall gateway chamber, peering through its open door. The ceiling was patterned with interlocking, hexagonal raised metallic disks. The pattern was repeated in the floor. Although Philboyd had been alive when the mat-trans units were pressed into secret, limited service in the late twentieth century, he had only recently screwed up enough courage to travel by hyper dimensional pathways. He had muttered cryptic references to rematerializing with the head of a fly, but nobody bothered to question what that meant.
Kane was the last one to enter the jump chamber and when he realized Grant hadn't followed him in, he stepped to the heavy, counterbalanced door. Grant still stood at the base of the platform. "Well?" Kane challenged. "You waiting for a formal invitation or what?"
Grant's expression was unreadable. He drew in a long breath, released it slowly and said, "Well..." Then he began to talk.
Chapter 8
Grigori Zakat stood on the foredeck of the Fafnir and drew in deep lungfuls of air. The smell of brine and kelp and the wet, wild wind sent shivers of excitement through him. The hull vibrated slightly as the dragon ship's turbines were notched up in order to continue the pursuit. The prow cleaved a foaming path through long, white-edged rollers, throwing up salt spray.
Zakat looked over the watch, impressed again with how the yellow-haired sailors knew their business despite the discomfort they felt from the heat and humidity. Most of them were stripped to the waist, and their pale skin was pink from the sun. Two armored guards stood at the bow and stern, their powerful hands gripping the hilts of heavy longswords that rested before them with the chapes of the scabbards on the floor. Snorri, the helmsman, kept his eyes on the compass and held the wheel with a practiced hand. If the blond, bearded giant seemed bored by the chase, he didn't show it.
First had come the cry from the lookout station and then the sighting of the distant sail, almost on the edge of the horizon. The chase had continued for the past two hours. The prey was a wooden vessel riding high above the waterline, its configurations suggesting sharp angles, arches and buttresses. The sails didn't look like broadcloth. They reminded Zakat of window blinds made of a waxed and oiled paper. He had seen a number of junks in the few weeks the Fafnir had ranged the Cific coast, but he let them go on their way.
According to Chaffee, most of the junks were part of the Chinese Tong fleet out of Autarkic, their ships identified by bright scarlet chops painted on the hulls. Chaffee explained they weren't just the average Tong pirates, either—judging by the Chinese characters marked on their craft, they belonged to Wei Qiang.
Even the most ambitious trader and vicious freebooter gave the Wei Qiang Tong crews wide berth. As the warlord of Autarkic, more or less the capital trading center in the Western Isles, Wei Qiang handpicked his men, and all of them were hardened killers. Their chosen weapon for close-in fighting was a single-bladed hand ax. They had invaded the Western Isles many years in the past and had set up an empire there.
Zakat and his crew made a port of call on the island. They had been entranced by the people of all colors, with monkeys and parrots for sale. There were vendors of magical charms for the healing of wounds and curing of scurvy. There were sellers of maps who offered charts of submerged predark cities and their treasures—and there were tales of four outlanders who had reputedly defeated Ambika, the Lioness of the Isles. They spoke of how the she-devil of the seas had found a mate, a pale-eyed, scar-faced man who then turned on her when she threatened a woman with hair the color of sunset. The man's name was Kane.
Zakat learned what he needed to learn on Autarkic and didn't overstay. Besides, there was something a bit too poignant, too bitter-sweet about the exotic, barbaric place when he knew that in a short time, it would once more be beneath the waves, taking all the vendors, monkeys and parrots with it.
After the visit, Grigori Zakat settled for chasing down and scuttling trading craft from the mainland. The Fafnir had swiftly gained a fearsome reputation in the short time she hunted in the coastal waters. The crews of the trader ships shuddered at the tales of the serpentine craft that no vessel could outrun, manned by iron-clad warriors whose savagery could not even be equaled by great white sharks. They whispered also of the giant blond Amazon who wielded a sword like a cleaver.
Or so Zakat liked to believe. He really had no way of knowing the extent of his ship's reputation. But the junk the Fafnir had been pursuing certainly seemed to know something of them. It had veered sharply, running for the line of surf that boomed along the palm-fringed shore of a distant island. Zakat wouldn't have ordered a pursuit at all if it had borne the identifying Chinese characters of Wei Qiang. Since it didn't, the ship was fair game. However, since the vessel had managed to maintain a steady distance from the Fafnir, it was apparent it was outfitted with an engine and wasn't relying strictly on the wind.
At the sound of heavy footfalls thumping on the deck behind him, Zakat didn't bother to turn. After the past few weeks of sailing with the man, he recognized the gait of Chaffee.
Life at sea didn't agree with the man. Grigori Zakat had learned that very little did, particularly Sif. His fractured left wrist was still tightly bound in a splint made of wood and leather. Zakat didn't feel sorry for the ex-Mag. Months ago he had learned that Sif always gave fair warning to the men who became overly familiar with her. Perhaps with the way romantic moonlight gleamed from her enormous bosom, Chaffee hadn't believed her or understood her words. Either way, she had broken his wrist when she removed his hand from her thigh.
"How long is this going to go on?" he rasped angrily. "We've wasted the better part of a day chasing after these goddamn slants."
Mildly Zakat inquired, "What else should we be doing, tovarich?"
Chaffee ran his hands over his gray hair, now cropped so short it resembled a gray skullcap of bristles. "Mebbe you should start living up to your end of the bargain and sail us to Thule."
Zakat studied the man for a silent moment, noting how the wrinkles in his leathery skin were caused more by exposure and stress than by advanced years. It was as though the ex-Mag had been cooked by the sun and leached by acid rain until only bone, muscle and sinew were left.
Both men were dressed similarly, in supple tunics of soft leather that left their arms and legs bare. Zakat wore a black glove on his right hand. Gesturing to the hold belowdecks, Chafee continued acidly, "We've already have enough different kinds of seeds and plants for six farms. What makes you think that boat has anything more valuable aboard it than the last two or three we boarded and sank? This isn't part of the mission objective."
Grigori Zakat smiled slightly at the use of the military vernacular. He distrusted soldiers as a general rule, even though by the strict definition of the term he had been one himself. Outside of bureaucrats, he had never met a more hidebound, dense, play-by-the-numbers bunch. Most of them had the imaginations of tree stumps.
Chaffee was incapable of visualizing anything unless it was within the pages of a manual. He was such a rigid thinker, Zakat found that just being near him for any length of time lowered his energy levels. Chaffee smelled of bad karma, and after everything was in place, he intended to put the man out of sight and out of mind.
"Need I remind you," Zakat said in a silky soft tone, "that I informed you of the mission objective I intended to accomplish before we returned to Thule. You provided the initial intelligence of Kane sightings in the vicinity."
Chaffee did a poor job of repressing a groan of frustration, but he did roll his eyes. "If I'd known you planned to cruise all over this part of the fucking Cific after one standard-issue renegade—"
Grigori Zakat lost what was left of his patience, but he kept his temper in check, even when he hit Chaffee. He drove his left fist into the man's diaphragm, just below his breastbone. He knew from his District Twelve training the blow, if delivered properly, was incapacitating, even paralyzing.
Chaffee fell, wheezing, his features squeezing together like a fireplace bellows. Zakat nudged him with a foot. "There is nothing standard issue about this particular renegade, I assure you. I explained to you the spiritual debt I owe this man and how I cannot simply write it off."
Watching the man writhing on the deck with his skinny arms folded over his middle, the two guards guffawed.
"You hear that?" Zakat asked. "My Thulians, my Norsemen. The best seamen on Earth, the best warriors—stubborn, superstitious, hard drinking and ill-tempered, but they're loyal to the last breath. Loyal to me. I expect the same loyalty from you, tovarich...or over the side you go—in chains."
Sif emerged from the small galley beneath the poop deck, shading her eyes with a hand. When she saw Chaffee twitching on the deck with Zakat towering over him, she laughed. She was nearly naked, clad only in a white linen shift that was little more than a T-shirt. Her heavy breasts pressed against the thin fabric. A thin silver diadem held her long blond hair away from her face.
Zakat smiled and he beckoned her over. Sweet, brave Sif who was stronger than even most men on the ship, whose long arms could clasp with passion or break bones. On bare feet, she padded over and in the ancient Teutonic tongue of the Ultima Thule, he asked her to take Chaffee below until he felt better.
Sif grinned, nodded and bent over the gagging Chaffee, sliding her huge hands under the man's armpits. She hummed softly as she effortlessly swung the lean man astride the wide yoke of her shoulders. Zakat recognized the tune. It was a snatch of Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries." He wasn't surprised that she hummed it. He had taught it to her, after all.
The tune made him think back to another wild ride, but it was not romantic or operatic in nature, despite its inherent drama. Memories of that day's dawn, now feeling like a thousand years ago but in reality only two, swept through Zakat's mind in fragments.
When he awakened in the first gray light to the wild cries of the Mongols thundering into the Russian base on their war ponies, he didn't even wait to look out the barracks window before grabbing his side arm. In that same kind of dim light, three daybreaks before, his commanding officer Colonel Sverdlovosk, three Americans named Kane, Baptiste and Grant and four troopers had left the base, escorted by Boro Orolok and a handful of his Mongols. They were traveling to the main camp of the Tushe Gun's followers, some fifty kilometers away.
Neither the colonel, the soldiers nor the Americans had returned, but a quick glance showed him that almost all of the Tushe Gun's followers were storming across the compound, borne on their fleet, shaggy steeds.
It didn't matter that most of the horde's firearms consisted of single-shot, matchlock muzzle loaders and two-century-old handblasters—not only did they wield them with blood-chilling accuracy but they also outnumbered the base personnel by a five-to-one margin.
