Sunchild Read online

  Ryan gave the baron a quizzical look. Would he mention the mutie's threat to Harvey later, when they had privacy?

  Even as the baron spoke, Mildred began the task of attending to the wounded. There were two sec men with blaster wounds, four who had knife wounds of varying degrees, one of who would need to be carried home, and twelve minor bite-and-scratch lesions. Blake was one of these, with two scratches on his face and a bite out of his left arm. Jak also had scratches on his face and on his neck, the red weals standing out ugly on his white skin.

  "Hey, Jak, think those'll turn us into stickies?" the sec man joked.

  "Chill me if fingers start to suck," the albino returned good humoredly. He admired the way the sec man fought, and felt a rare trust to have the wizened warrior at his back.

  Alien took one end of the improvised stretcher holding the seriously wounded sec man. "Come, let's return," he said simply.

  Ryan, admiring the way the baron automatically took the load, grabbed the other end of the stretcher and followed Alien as he led the way back.

  The one-eyed warrior pondered Sunchild's warning, and also the dark glances Harvey received from J.B. and Mildred. Things were perhaps coming to a crossroads.

  Chapter Eleven

  There were celebrations in Raw when Alien returned with his sec force. Celebrations that were obviously muted for the baron by the injury to one of his men. While the majority of the ville celebrated in the central hall with the help of their local brew and a band of musicians whose sobriety and ability to keep in tune was severely called into question by the end of the proceedings, the baron was at one point noticeable by his absence.

  The reserve that the majority of the inhabitants of Raw had held for Ryan and his people evaporated on the strength of their performance during the firefight with the mutie raiding party. Blake in particular, his arm around Jak partly from comradeship and partly from the need to hold himself upright, was vociferous in retelling the events of the day.

  There was no mention of the fact that Harvey had attempted to hold his men back from the attack, although J.B. did notice that Downey and Rankine, after an intense discussion, had thrown a few askance glances in the direction of the sec chief. It was something worth noting for later, something he would discuss with Ryan. That was, if he could find his friend and leader.

  Ryan had slipped away from the celebration. He had noticed Alien exchange a few words with Jenna, who had nodded dismissively, before the baron had unobtrusively left the proceedings.

  The one-eyed warrior was curious: why would a victorious baron wish to leave a celebration that was basically in his honor? Following him to find out would leave Ryan open to trouble if he was caught, and the baron had slipped away for some reason that was dangerous to himself and his companions. But if it wasn't, then Ryan was sure he could talk his way out of trouble. Ryan had more to his armory than his fighting skills.

  The baron moved through the near deserted corridors of the subterranean ville, his ceremonial cloak of faded, wine-stained damask billowing behind him, his hair moving in rhythm with the heavy tread of his bulky frame. Only those citizens with vital tasks to perform weren't in the main hall, and the baron greeted them cordially as he passed. They returned his greeting, then quizzically viewed Ryan as he followed a few yards behind. He made no attempt to conceal himself, as that would only have been ridiculous given the geography of the ville.

  After five minutes' striding through the maze that was Raw, the baron came to a halt in front of a unit that had a ragged curtain across its entrance. With a delicacy and care that surprised Ryan, Alien lifted the curtain and looked in. Ryan heard him whisper "Good time to see him?" and wait for a mumbled reply before stepping in.

  As he did, he turned to the one-eyed warrior. "You may come, as well, if you wish, Ryan Cawdor."

  Ryan, feeling like he did when Baron Titus of Front Royal—his father—had caught him at mischief when a child, followed Alien into the sparse unit.

  It was obviously a medical-care center, equipped as best as possible, and scrubbed clean, possibly by the woman who tended to the wounded sec man. He was unconscious, but seemed peaceful. Alien asked a few questions of the pale, haggard woman who tended him, listening intently to her answers before wishing her well and leaving, beckoning Ryan to follow.

  Outside, Ryan felt an absurd need to explain himself.

  "I wondered what you were doing, if there was anything wrong—"

  "And besides which, it doesn't hurt any to keep an eye on a baron in a strange ville when he wanders off in the middle of celebration." He waved silence as Ryan attempted to speak. "No, save your words. I would do exactly the same in a strange ville. You have your people to worry about, just as I have. I like you, Ryan. Most barons—and that is what you are in your own way—are concerned only with their own power, not with using that which they have. I know my ways may seem strange after all you have seen, especially if the stories traders bring with them about other villes and other barons are true. But I feel that you will understand me."

  The one-eyed man assented. "Mebbe I do. What you were taught you believe, and you try to live right by it. A man can do no more than try to live right by his code."

  The baron smiled, almost to himself. "A rare thing, to find two such as us together. Not a boast, but a sad reflection, I think." He looked back over his shoulder. "That young lad hasn't been under Harvey's charge for long, and it's doubly hard for his mother as she is one of our medics. Her own son… It's right to celebrate defending our way of life, though." He clapped Ryan on the shoulder, almost to bring himself out of his reverie by a forced goodwill. "Come, let us return."

  THE CELEBRATIONS continued for some time, with almost the entire ville drinking themselves into a stupor. For the companions, it was difficult to stay sober. The ville's own brew was a sweet vegetable liquor, with a syrupy texture, and was deceptive in its taste. It was, as Jak noted, far more potent than most brews they had encountered, and after a certain amount induced a mild hallucinogenic euphoria due to fungal spores that had crept in with the vegetable matter.

  Despite their best efforts to stay sober, only Dean managed to remain upright by the end of the celebration. He had a reason: the young Cawdor was suspicious not of the baron, but of his wife. Neither did he trust Harvey. Whether this dislike was exclusive, or whether it was because they were allied in some way he didn't know, but one thing was for sure: he would never get a better chance to explore the ville and find out what—if anything—the baron's wife was plotting.

  So when Krysty had settled a maternal eye on Dean and warned him against the brew, he was only too happy to play along with her for once, and swear off the alcohol. He carried a small cup with him for most of the evening, to ward off those who wanted in their exuberance to thrust it on him. He tried a sip, but found his abstinence helped by the fact that, to him, it tasted like he imagined sugared horse piss would taste. He feigned intoxication, and with almost everyone around him blissfully drunk, he was able to get away with it easily.

  As the celebration died down, the drunken revelers either found their way back to their own living units or just collapsed on the floor, resting happily among the debris. One of those sprawled in this manner was Jak, unconscious and beyond being roused. Dean discovered this with rising dismay, as he had hoped that the albino would take him to the section of the ville where he had discovered the locked room. For some days, Dean had been brooding on this, and was sure it held the answer to whatever questions he was asking.

  Now he would have to find it on his own. That was one problem. The other problem—perhaps two—consisted of Harvey and Jenna. Dean had kept a wary eye on both, and had noted that neither seemed to be drinking in any great amount. Both were now absent from the hall, and in the chaos he hadn't seen them leave, so was ignorant of their sobriety.

  If they were both alert and going about their business, then that could prove a possible danger to him. But Dean knew in his gut that he would never get a
better chance to answer any questions he may have. So it was now or never.

  He had been slumped against one wall for some time, feigning drunken stupor and sleep, using it as a shield from those who would try to get him drunk, and as a cover from which to observe his surroundings.

  The hall was now quiet, the silence broken only by snoring and sleep-addled mutterings. Carefully, Dean rose to his feet and picked his way over the prone bodies until he was out of the hall and into the maze of tunnels, basements and units carved in the walls that constituted Raw. His playground for now: a playground for a most serious game.

  Dean remembered Jak telling him that the room was located on an outer corridor, almost as far as the pipes would run, and that it was in the opposite direction to that in which they entered the ville.

  It wasn't much, but it was a start.

  Dean walked casually through the central sections of Raw, trying his best to create the impression of someone who was drunk and trying to find his way back to his unit. He had realized that there would be members of the community who had abstained from the celebration because of their duties, and he had no wish to attract their attention to him in any way other than that of being another reveler.

  It worked. The few people who saw him as he wandered around the tunnels smiled indulgently and left him to his wandering, thinking him drunk. His staggering gait also enabled him to wander down some passages and then out again without attracting attention to his methods. He wished that Ryan or Krysty were with him, as he felt the need of some kind of backup. He had seen them leave the celebration, as he had seen Mildred and J.B. leave. He guessed that they were snatching a few moments of relaxed peace together, and had no wish to disturb them until—or unless—he found something to justify his suspicions. Even Doc would have been good as backup; but he had seen Doc unconscious on the floor in the same manner as Jak, and so knew there was little hope of reviving him until he had slept off the brew.

  All the time he was thinking, he was searching, crossing off corridors in his mind, exploring nooks and crannies to see where they took him. He had plenty of time. A celebration like the previous night's would take a long while to sleep off, leaving him free to explore.

  One direction had been closed to him by Jak's words. That left three directions out from the area around the central hall. Three directions, all of which had more than one corridor or passage that led off like spokes from a wheel.

  But Dean knew what he was searching for: the metal door that Jak had told them about. That held the key, and that narrowed his search. Still so many corridors and passages, but at least he knew what he was searching for.

  His patience and nerve were beginning to wear thin when he finally found it. He shivered as he walked down the deserted corridor, feeling the drop in temperature and also feeling that his search was nearly over.

  The lamps were still lit, not having been doused because of the celebration, the lame lamplighter now lying drunk in the main hall. But although still alight, the oil was nearly used, and the lighting was dim, some of the lamps along the corridor guttering and casting a moving shadow across the wall. Dean found the corridor as eerie as Jak had done before, an atmosphere chilling the air more than the cooling pipes. The fact that, as he turned the final corner, he could see that there was no place to hide made the corridor even chillier for the young Cawdor.

  Dean lost the drunken gait, his footfalls now kept as quiet as possible and his posture changing. He walked now on the balls of his feet, his balance thrown slightly forward, springing on each step. He quieted his breathing until he could almost hear the blood flowing in his veins.

  The metal door ahead loomed large in his vision. Dean looked over his shoulder, and paused midstride. There was no sound behind him, and he could see nothing. He looked ahead at the patchwork metal door and took a deep breath.

  Stepping up to it, Dean reached out a hand, fingertips extended. His fingers touched the cold metal, pushing gently.

  He didn't expect the door to yield, but to his surprise it swung open on well-oiled hinges, belying its looks.

  The room inside was well lit. And empty. The door swung right back to the wall, confirming this.

  It was all too easy. Dean stood on the threshold, wavering for one moment, and then he was in.

  Dean advanced to the middle of the room, keeping alert for any sound or movement other than his own. It was only when he was certain that he was alone in the room that he allowed himself to relax enough to take in his surroundings.

  The room was lit by a number of lamps suspended from a beam across the ceiling. They were in a line, laid out to cast their light directly down on a workbench that occupied the center of the room. It was a scientist's bench, with retorts and tubes fashioned from junk. A closed book stood on one corner.

  Looking around the room, Dean could see that there was little else inside apart from a table that had not only been scrubbed clean down to the wood grain, but also had leather restraints for ankles and wrists. Just seeing it made Dean shiver with a barely restrained fear. His thoughts turned to the stories of predark whitecoats that Doc had told him.

  There were two other doors, one leading off each side of the room. The far wall, opposite the door he had entered, was a blank wall of concrete.

  Dean went to the door on the left. It was wood, with a bar lock that worked from his side. Listening up against it, he could hear faint sounds of breathing, sighs of sleep. Carefully, with infinite care lest he cause a sound, Dean removed the bar from its brackets, placed it against the wall, then opened the door. The room was in darkness, broken by a beam of light that streaked across the floor from the open door. Dean stepped into the room and saw that there were five sets of bunk beds. Eight of the ten beds were occupied by small children. Without disturbing them, Dean could see that they all were blond, but not if they were male or female. One thing for sure, though: he was certain that if he could have looked, he would have seen that they all had blue eyes.

  Unwilling to awaken them and cause a disturbance that would alert anyone to his presence, Dean crept out of the room, shutting the door carefully and quietly behind him before replacing the bar.

  So now for the other door. Dean shook his head to clear it, to focus his mind as he crossed the workroom floor. Why was Jenna producing little blond children? For he was sure that the baron's wife was behind this. Come to that, how was she doing it? He paused by the workbench and examined some of the tubes standing on the pitted and scarred surface. He tentatively sniffed at the chemicals in the tubes, and hurriedly looked away, nose wrinkled and eyes smarting at the tart and acrid fumes.

  Dyes of some kind. Dye the children's hair and perhaps injecting dye into their eyes?

  He reached the other door. It had a bar lock similar to the opposing door, and as Dean removed the bar he could hear whimpering from within the room. Whimpering from more than one voice, mingled with the low hum of a hard-fuel-driven generator. What it was powering, he couldn't imagine. Neither did he want to imagine what was whimpering.

  He would find out soon enough.

  Laying the bar up against the wall, Dean carefully opened the door.

  The room beyond was well lit by fluorescent tubes powered by the generator. Old tech equipment with digital displays and flashing lights stood against one wall, flanked by the generator. Cables and thinner wires ran from the equipment toward two beds that were against the opposite wall. The whimpering came from the beds.

  The two beds stood side by side, old hospital beds with Perspex sides raised above mattress level, obviously rescued from the remains of the city above ground. The Perspex was scored and scarred, which made it difficult for Dean to see what was lying on the beds, whimpering pitifully.

  Apprehensive, and feeling the bile of anticipation rise in his throat, Dean advanced toward the beds.

  When he was able to see over the Perspex, he wished he hadn't bothered.

  How the creatures in the beds had been conceived and birthed he co
uldn't begin to imagine, but it certainly hadn't been a natural process. They were children, but only just. The heads were too large for the stunted and twisted bodies, with overly large foreheads to which clung wisps of hair. Both had small torsos, with shortened arms and only vestigial fingers. The legs were withered. They looked almost identical, like twins or clones. They were pincushions for a number of tubes that fed liquid into them, then extracted it. They were the results of an ongoing and not particularly successful experiment.

  But they were still human beings, and their eyes showed constant pain.

  The bile rose in Dean's throat, choking him. He tried not to make any noise as the creatures looked at him with fearful eyes, and yet begged for pity. He couldn't face them any longer.

  Dean turned on his heel to leave, but was brought up short by the figure looming in the doorway. Silently, and with an infinite stealth, his pursuer had encroached on the room. Harvey.

  The sec chief stood easily, hand on hip, scratching his head. Neither hand was anywhere near the snub-nosed Colt Magnum Carry that was his chosen blaster. This was snug to his hip in its combat holster. "Well, son, looks like you've really blown it this time. You should have been more careful, like your pa. If you ever stumble on something, you don't pry and you don't snoop. That way you might actually get to stay alive."

  Dean was aware of his Browning Hi-Power. He could feel its shape and weight. Could he outdraw the sec man? Certainly, his body weight was much more poised and alert, whereas Harvey seemed much too relaxed.

  Uncannily, it was as though the sec man could read his thoughts. Without moving a muscle, except to lower the hand that had been scratching his head, Harvey said, "Now, you see you could try and draw, mebbe risk beating me. But if you do, then you've awakened the whole ville, and have to answer why you've chilled the sec chief. And that wouldn't be easy, 'cause my Jenna, well, she can wrap that old fool Alien around her pinkie."