Outlanders - Tomb of Time Part 6

Generally, a man and a woman were bound together for a term of time stipulated in a contract.

Once the child entered a training regimen of one of the ville divisions, the parents were required to separate, particularly in the case of male children recruited by the Magistrates. Certainly, babies still needed to be born, but only the right kinds of babies. A faceless council had determined that he and Olivia could not produce the type of offspring which made desirable ville citizens.

Grant remembered how, after breaking the spirit-rending news to her, he prowled the promenades of all four levels of the residential Enclaves, seeking a way to escape his own grief. He had considered barging in on Kane, but then he would have been obliged to explain his presence at 0300, and he simply didn't have the words.

Years later, he still didn't have the words. He had only spoken of the incident to one person, confiding his heartbreak only to s.h.i.+zuka. Although the pain hadn't completely left him, she had helped it become a little less sharp, blunting some of the jagged edges. And now, when he thought of Olivia, more often than not, s.h.i.+zuka's eyes superimposed themselves over the image of her face.

Her eyes were just as dark, just as wise, but they held a proud glint like that of a fierce young eagle. He would have never admitted to anyone, certainly not within earshot of Domi, that he missed her very much.

He'd never really given much thought to kids after Olivia, at least, not to having any of his own. But lately, since meeting s.h.i.+zuka, he'd started thinking about it a bit more seriously. He wondered if creating a new life might not be a way to balance out the lives he had taken over the years.

Grant and DeFore crossed the face of the crater with little difficulty, and made for the nearest thoroughfare. Weeds sprouted from cracks in the pavement and footpaths, sickly greenish-black growth with ropy stems that twined around streetlight poles like serpents.

At an intersection, Grant stopped to consult the compa.s.s and get his bearings, then he turned right. A narrow lane between two burned-out buildings stretched before him, shadowed by the late-afternoon sunlight. A rectangular stone block, nearly five feet tall, rose above the sidewalk. Letters were painted on it, and though they were faded to near illegibility he was able to read Pedestrians Only.

Some seventy feet away, the lane terminated in an arched entranceway cut into the facade of the building, like an oval with a squared-off bottom. Grant strode toward it purposefully. As he drew closer, he saw it was tunnel. On the far side, light gleamed feebly.

He suddenly realized DeFore was hanging back several yards. Glancing over his shoulder, he snapped gruffly, "Close it up."Reba DeFore's temperament was quick and volatile. Her dark eyes flas.h.i.+ng in anger, she retorted curtly, "Whoever castrated that man we saw earlier could be in there."

"I know," Grant agreed. "If so, their eunuch-making days will be over."

To punctuate his declaration, his Sin Eater sprang from the holster on his forearm and slapped into his right hand.

The tunnel wasn't very long, barely a hundred feet. Brackets that had once held fluorescent lights were arranged at regular intervals on the arched ceiling. It opened onto a narrow ramp, a footbridge spanning a drainage ca.n.a.l. On the opposite side was another lane running between two buildings. A partially dislodged manhole cover lay on the ground.

Grant stopped to study the layout, but DeFore's quiet voice intruded upon his concentration. "Look at this."

He turned around and saw her kneeling over a spattering of crimson liquid on the ground. More scarlet droplets speckled the waist-high barrier that ran the length of the bridge.

"Blood," Grant stated unnecessarily.

"Blood," DeFore repeated, touching her index finger to one of the largest drops, smearing it over the concrete. "Fresh blood at that. It hasn't had the time to dry out."

Tension knotted at the base of Grant's spine as if a fist closed around his vertebrae. He glanced over the side into the ca.n.a.l but saw nothing but a sluggish stream of muddy water.

"Let's keep moving," he said, marching across the bridge. This time DeFore followed him closely, drawing her small pistol. They strode through the debris-clogged lane and out into a very broad avenue.

The street, though rutted and deeply furrowed, was wide enough for them to avoid the heaps of rubble that had fallen from the ramparts of the taller buildings. Grant led the way past the rusted out husks of automobiles, noting how they had been stripped of anything salvageable years, if not decades ago.

Although bushes sprouted in profusion, all of them were blighted.

Among a collection of buildings that seemed more or less intact, Grant saw a church. The shape of a bell could still be identified hanging from a cross bar in the steeple. He eyed the bell tower closely as they approached it, then came to a sudden halt.

DeFore nearly trod on his heels. "What is it?" she demanded in an annoyed tone.

"An idea," he responded absently, then he swiftly headed toward the wide steps that led up to the big door.

"Where are you going?"

"To call Kane and Brigid," he replied. "Or at least, let them know we're around."

She followed him up the crumbling steps. "How do you figure to do that?"Grant shouldered open the church door. The wood was only partially rotted, the planks still held together by rust-streaked bands of black iron. He entered the central chapel area. All the pews had long ago been removed by scavengers. Only pegs jutting from the floor showed where they had once been anch.o.r.ed. Feeble shafts of sunlight streamed in through the broken stained-gla.s.s windows. Dead leaves covered the floor in an ankle-deep layer. Moldering rubbish was heaped in the corners.

An ornately bal.u.s.traded gallery, about twenty feet above, encircled the chapel. He saw a flight of stairs leading up to it and on the far side, a black, wrought-iron spiral staircase corks.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up into the darkness among the roof beams.

"Are you going to answer me?" DeFore's tone held an edge of impatience.

Grant pointed toward the shadow-shrouded roof. "Morse code. If that bell still works, I'll ring it in code.

If they're anywhere within earshot, they'll hear it and come a-running."

He didn't need to add, "If they're still alive, that is."

At first DeFore's expression remained a skeptical mask, then an admiring smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "That's actually a pretty good idea."

"I have them occasionally. Stay here."

Grant crossed the chapel and went up the steps to the gallery. At the foot of the spiral staircase, he paused long enough to take his Nighthawk micro-light from a pouch on his web belt. He attached it to his left index finger by its tiny Velcro strap, wearing it like a ring.

Grant scaled the first few treads of the stairs, testing them, noting how the risers and handrails were flecked and flaking with rust. The steps creaked a bit under his weight, and he heard little showers of rust sifting down from the undersides, but the staircase seemed solid enough.

He began climbing, casting the Nighthawk's 5,000 minicandlepower beam ahead of him. The staircase squeaked and groaned alarmingly during his upward progress, and he couldn't repress a sigh of relief when he reached the trapdoor.

Throwing it aside and ripping out the hinges in the process, Grant climbed up into the little cupola, sweeping his gaze over the terrain below him. On the far side of an area overgrown with tangled shrubbery, he saw the white domed building. It rested inside a fenced compound, reminding him of the rains of a prison he had seen during his Mag days on a foray into the Arizona Outlands.

He quickly examined the bell. No rope dangled from the pivot, and the outer sh.e.l.l was rust-eaten, as was the iron clapper, but neither one was in danger of falling apart. The tone of the bell would be rained by rust, but he wasn't interested in making music.

Grasping the bell, he swung it back and forth. The resulting gong was not melodic, but it was certainly loud and that was all he hoped for.

Chapter 8

The tolling of the bell meant nothing to Brigid Bap-tiste. It was just a noise completely unconnected to her present circ.u.mstances. The clangor only dimly penetrated the fog of panic clouding her mind.

The Furies either didn't hear the brazen peal or they decided to ignore it. The white-hot tip of the poker didn't falter or slow on its inexorable way to her eye. Brigid strained against the hands holding her, continuing to cringe.

Megaera stiffened at the sound, her masked face swiveling sharply toward the door. From beneath the thin layer of gold burst an incomprehensible garble of surprise.

The Fury wielding the poker hesitated. Brigid let her body go limp in the hands of the black-clad faceless men. She allowed her knees to bend, as if she were losing consciousness, and the Furies s.h.i.+fted position to keep her body upright. They hadn't expected her to sag within their grips.

Before they could cinch up on her arms, Brigid managed to plant both feet flat on the floor. When they jerked her upright, she straightened her legs like springs, kicking herself off the concrete, using the faceless men as braces.

With a whiplash motion of her body, Brigid turned in midair, her feet slamming against the poker-wielding Fury's torso, literally walking up his body horizontally.

The toe of her right boot knocked the poker aside, and her left foot connected hard against the underside of the Fury's jaw, lifting him up on his toes and sending him staggering backward. The poker described a smoking eddy as it fell from his hand and clanged loudly on the floor. Arms windmilling as he tried to regain his balance, the man fell against a black statue. The impact caused the body to topple to the floor. The limbs splintered and fragmented, and a cloud of black oily smoke poured from the cracks in the petrified flesh.

Brigid's body continued turning. A year ago, the very suggestion she could have performed such a stunt without a serious physical consequence would have made her laugh. Now she performed the back flip like a veteran acrobat, somersaulting between the two Furies and wriggling out of their grasps in the same motion.

She landed a little clumsily, but she turned her misstep into a forward lunge, tucking and rolling, shouldering aside the faceless men. Her path was blocked by the Fury whose bodysuit bore the muddy imprints of her boot treads from lower belly to clav- icle. Stooping, he tried to s.n.a.t.c.h up the smoldering poker before she dodged around him.

Brigid came out of her roll and her right arm scythed down, the edge of her hand striking the neural center where the back of the Fury's neck joined his shoulders. The blow hammered him to the floor, and Brigid continued her forward bound toward the elevated platform.

Megaera stepped back, but not quickly enough. Brigid grabbed her by the hem of her robe and yanked.

With a crowlike squawk of alarm, the old woman fell from the platform into Brigid's arms. Her golden mask clattered to the floor. Brigid swung the old woman around with enough violence to lift her from her feet and placed her between the approaching Furies and herself. They continued moving.

Grasping Megaera by the right wrist, her hand completely encircling it, Brigid forced her brittle left arm behind her back. She said, "Tell them to stop, you demented old b.i.t.c.h, or I'll break every bone in yourbody."

Megaera writhed like an animated skeleton in her grasp, and Brigid tightened her hold. "Monster!

Blasphemer!" Megaera hissed.

"Send your Furies away or I'll show you how much of a monster I am." Brigid's tone was hard with conviction. "I'll start with breaking your fin- gers, one at a time. At your age, it takes a long time for bones to knit."

Megaera spit out a clucking, nasal stream of vituperation. When she was done, the Furies lurched to a halt. Brigid's fingers briefly explored the woman's wristband, careful not to exert too much pressure on the opals.

' 'Why didn't you carbonize me when you had the chance?" she asked quietly.

Megaera didn't answer, and Brigid squeezed her pipe-stem arm. The old woman cried out in angry pain.' 'The sentence for your sin had yet to be meted out. It was still inside you. I would be guilty of murdering a soul had I done as you say."

Despite the situation, Brigid couldn't help but smile sourly. Mad the old witch might be, but she was just as bound by protocol and procedure as the most officious archivists Brigid had known in the Historical Division.

"Which one of these b.u.t.tons removes the spider?" she demanded.

"Spider?" the woman echoed.

"The oubolus."

Megaera shook her head. "That I will not say. Do not expect to escape my justice."

"Yeah, and n.o.body expected the Spanish Inquisition, either. Answer my question."

Lifting her chin at a prideful angle, Megaera declared pompously, "That I will not do."

Gritting her teeth in frustrated anger, Brigid wrenched the woman's right arm backward and found the catch on the wristband. She opened it and pulled it off, evoking another spitting snarl of "Blasphemer!"

from Megaera.

Brigid started to retort, then suddenly realized the brazen tones of the bell she had almost tuned out were not a series of random clangs. Megaera s.h.i.+fted position and said petulantly, "There is no escape-"

"Shut the h.e.l.l up," Brigid commanded. She listened intently for a moment, then relief washed through her, so intense her knees went momentarily weak. The chiming of the bell sounded more like a smith banging on an anvil, but when she recognized the dot and dashes of Morse code, it was the sweetest music she had ever heard. The message was simple but profoundly comforting: "Grant is here. Come to the church.

Grant is here."

Brigid began slowly backing toward the double doors, dragging Megaera with her. She resisted and shrilled, "I cannot leave here with you!""And why is that?" Brigid asked distractedly, her eyes darting from the Furies to the statues.

"Your sin is still with you. If I accompany you, I will be judged for allowing a sinner to escape justice."

Brigid knew the old woman was terrified by the concept of sharing a sinner's fate. Three Furies were circling warily, sliding among the statues, their oub-olus rods in plain sight, their masked faces opaque.

"Tell them to back off," Brigid snapped.

' 'I cannot, for they will not,'' Megaera stammered in a high, wild voice. "They will fulfill their duty."

Brigid jerked the old woman to a stop. The Furies froze almost at the same instant. Glancing to her left, she saw the statue of the woman whose nose had been cut off. Although it caused her a pang of guilt, as if she were desecrating the dead, she launched a stab-kick at it. The body shattered into fragments and acrid plumes of thick, sulfurous smoke boiled out.

Brigid took quick advantage of the distraction. She thrust Megaera into the arms of the nearest Fury and heeled around in the direction opposite the exit. She was certain at least two of the black-clad faceless men had skulked behind her to cut off her retreat.

With the furious shrieks of the old woman ringing in her ears, Brigid dodged among the petrified people, zagging one way and then zigging the other. Knowing that Megaera couldn't trigger the spider on her neck made her feel a little more confident, but not so much she became careless.

She sprinted into a long corridor and reached a flight of steps that slanted downward into complete, impenetrable blackness. Brigid paused, heart racing, staring into the well of darkness and listening to the scuff of running feet behind her. From somewhere outside the building came the sharp report of an explosion.

THE DARK-HAIRED WOMAN who aimed the blaster at Kane's head reminded him of an undernourished monkey with a serious nervous affliction. Her thin brown hands never ceased their disconcerting jerky movements along the barrel of the muzzle loader.

It appeared to be a musket, but in the dim light he couldn't be sure if it wasn't just a piece of narrow-gauge pipe. Her small, intense face was a ma.s.s of tics and spasms, and her large, dark-ringed eyes appeared incapable of focusing on one spot for more than a second at a time.

Kane didn't move. "I mean you no harm."

The woman ran her tongue over her chapped lips. "Heard that before, mister."

"I'm sure you have," Kane replied as calmly as he could. "I won't bother repeating it, then. But let me point out that your blaster is a one-shot piece of s.h.i.+t. You could miss with it or it could misfire." He paused and added, "Or it might not fire at all."

The woman's back stiffened, and her tongue returned to her mouth. Kane saw a sudden relief register on her face, and her eyes darted to a point behind him. Before he could turn, a hand grasped his shoulder and spun him deftly, slamming him against the wall. The cold tip of a gun barrel touched theback of his neck and a knee slid between his thighs, positioned uncomfortably against his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es.

Kane felt hot, rancid breath on the side of his face, and a deep voice growled, "Don't move, sec man."

The woman exclaimed happily, "You did good, Hub!"

"Thanks, Zit," he replied. "I was taught by the best."

Kane said in a slow, deliberate tone, "Like I said to her, I mean you no harm."

Hub snarled out a derisive laugh and grabbed Kane's right forearm. Kane saw with dismay that the beefy paw nearly closed completely around his arm and bolstered Sin Eater. "f.u.c.kin' Mag come in here and tell us he mean no harm."

"You think I'm a Mag?"

Zit demanded, "Who else carries a blaster like that...in a holster like that?"

Kane forced himself to relax. Sec man was an obsolete term dating back to preunification days when self-styled barons formed their own private armies to safeguard their territories. It was still applied to Magistrates in hinterlands beyond the villes, so Kane figured Zit and Hub were either Roamers or Farers. Roamers were basically marauders, undisciplined bandit gangs who paid lip service to defying the ville governments as a justification for their depredations.

Farers, on the other hand, were nomads, a loosely knit conglomeration of wanderers, scavengers and self-styled salvage experts and traders. Their territory was the Midwest, so Farer presence in and around Chicago would not have been unusual. Regardless, Magistrates were feared and despised all over the Outlands by Roamer and Farer alike.

Impatiently, Kane asked, "Lady, if I was a Mag, wouldn't I have killed you as soon as you opened your mouth?"