James Axler - Outlanders 25 - Talon and Fang

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"It has tot flatly. "S( solution 1

"Yes, I know." gentle.

"Someone has to save humanity or what's left of it. We have to act for mankind...and even if

we die in the attempt, at least the world will survive to judge us."

Grant said nothing. He stared at Kane across the table, not blinking, not moving, or even

appearing to breathe. Kane felt some of the tension drain away from himself. He was right

and he knew Grant was sure of it. Then he saw a tiny glitter of moisture within Grant's

deep-set eyes.

Grant lifted one hand in a gesture. He spoke one word: "Tomei."

Kane caught only a blurred, fragmented glimpse of gleaming metal from behind him, then

the edge of the female guard's butterfly sword touched his throat, forcing his head back.

"I'm sorry, Kane." Grant's voice was a hoarse whisper of anguish. "Give me the memory

cards without an argument, and I'll arrange for you to get back home safely. But I don't ever

want to see you here again."

Other titles in this series:

Exile to Hell Destiny Run Savage Sun Omega Path Parallax Red Doomstar Relic Iceblood Hellhound Fury Night Eternal

Outer Darkness Armageddon Axis Wreath of Fire Shadow Scourge Hell Rising Doom Dynasty Hgers of Heaven

Purgatory Road Sargasso Plunder Tomb of Time Prodigal Chalice Devil in the Moon Dragoneye Far Empire Equinox

Zero

.»James Dxler

Outlanderc

TALON AND FANG

A GOLD EAGLE BOOK FROM

WORLDWIDE

TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN MADRID • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as

"unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this

"stripped book."

First edition May 2003

ISBN 0-373-63838-8

TALON AND FANG

form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography,

photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written

permission of the publisher, Worldwide Library, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada MSB 3K9.

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever

to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or

unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

® and TM are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and

Trademark Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries. Printed in U.S.A.

Rent by talon and fang.

Death comes without a pang;

But where its black shadow lay

All of love and hope were torn away.

—Justin Geoffrey

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 iocational

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.

Chapter 1

From the flatlands, the old blacktop road looked like a frayed ribbon stretched across the grassy plains

to the foothills of the Bitterroot Range. Deeply cracked and furrowed, the road was dotted with thistles

and weeds that sprouted from the countless splits in its surface. When the crumbling strip of asphalt

reached the foothills of the mountains, it began looping and curving like a snake crazed by heatstroke.

The ancient two-lane highway wended its way up toward the chain of mountain peaks that comprised

the Continental Divide and formed the natural boundary between Idaho and Montana. Twisting in a

serpentine trail through a tumble of chert outcroppings, the road climbed toward a hogback ridge.

Against the blazing glory of fusing sunset colors loomed great crags of granite.

At the crest of the pass, Tanvirah stumbled and fell to her knees. Her lungs burned as if they were on

fire, and her breath came from her open mouth in rasping pants. Sweat stung her eyes as she looked

northward toward a parallel mountain range, the Beaverheads. Its highest peak, the Garfield, was

snowcapped, and she desperately wished for a sudden wind storm to blow in and cool her off.

10 JAMES AXLER

A deep, thickly wooded gully yawned below the crest on which she knelt. The forest was a riot of early

autumn tints, orange and red and gold. On her left, beyond the tree line, rocky ramparts plunged straight

down to a tributary of the Clark Fork River a hundred feet below. The tall trees were fir, pine and

aspen. The shadows between them were very dark and coolly inviting.

She could see how the road leading up from the foothills to the Cerberus plateau skirted hell-deep

chasms and sheer cliffs. Acres of the mountainside had collapsed during the nuke-triggered earthquakes

more than two centuries before. The path was far more rugged than even her father had described, but

more than a quarter of a century had passed since he had even seen it, much less walked it.

For the past six hours, she had been dragged behind the eight survivors of the Pischaca war party, two

of whom were seriously wounded. They left a wet red trail in the road dust, but they continued to march.

The Pischacas had attacked the company of half a dozen Magistrates her father had assigned to escort

her to Cerberus.

When the Sandcat reached the edge of a rockfall blocking the road, the driver was forced to brake. The

entire group disembarked to see what could be done about finding a way around or through the

barricade. Tanvirah's father had described a camouflaged egress. When everyone had left the safety of

the vehicle, the Pischacas attacked. One group of the stunted, ugly

TALON AND FANG 11

goblin-men had lain hidden in the tall grasses in the tree line. They rose and loosed a shower of arrows

on the astonished Mags. Tanvirah caught only glimpses of the creatures she had been told were extinct

for the past fifteen years.

As the Magistrates tried to retreat to the Sandcat, more Pischacas shoved up from shallow pits in the

ground, discarding the cut sections of grassy turf they'd used to disguise themselves. Like the others,

they carried axes and war hammers, swords and clubs, and attacked without fear.

Greasy, greenish-gray skin sagged around their frames, loose and thickly knobbed with fist-sized warts,

tough as leather armor and proof against a poorly aimed blaster shot. The clots of hardened flesh gave

them a half-formed appearance, as if their creator had forgotten to smooth out their bodies—something

that Tanvirah knew was possible. The hairless, goril-loid faces of the Pischacas were broader from side

to side than their heads were deep from front to back.

Their mouths were straight horizontal gashes, with almost no trace of lips. Their deep-set eyes had hazel

irises and tiny pupils, like black beads. Shaggy animal hides covered their genitals. Knife and sword

sheaths were crudely woven into them. They carried primitive war hammers and stone axes, as well as

bows and arrows.

There were scores of the creatures—they sacrificed at least two dozen of their brethren to draw the fire

of the Magistrates, waiting until their Spectre autoblasters

12 JAMES AXLER

were emptied before swarming out in a howling wave. They pulled the black-clad men down one by

one, wrenching off their helmets and splitting their skulls with blows from their sledgelike war hammers

or battle-axes. The latest version of Mag armor—jet-black BDUs composed of a

Nomex-Kevlar-Neoprene weave and charcoal-colored porcelain helmets with face masks that covered

everything but the eyes—provided only temporary protection from the assault.

But the Magistrates weren't accustomed to fighting adversaries as strong and as fierce as the Pischacas.

The creatures courted death so they could deal death. Tanvirah had often heard her father decrying the

poor combat skills of the postwar generation of Mags.

The Pischacas spared Tanvirah's life. She knew the reason why; she was a woman, young, fresh and, by

their standards, beautiful. She doubted the Pischacas knew she was the daughter of the Imperial

Authorities of High River—or if they did know, they wouldn't care. In fact, it was best they didn't. When

one of them began to bind her wrists with rawhide thongs, she drew a knife from a sheath in her boot

and stabbed at its side, but the point of the blade only scraped against one of the cartilaginous knobs,

barely scoring the surface.

The goblin-man had laughed at her attempt to kill him and easily disarmed her. While he tied her, he

indulged in a bit of rough fondling, which she silently endured. The Pischacas were taller than her, and

their oil-sheened flesh gave off a virulently repulsive odor.

TALON AND FANG

To keep from getting sick, she had to breathe through her mouth.

Tanvirah was forced to run behind the survivors of the war party as they loped off toward the mountains,

arms laden with salvage. She fell several times but her captors didn't stop for her. She scrambled to her

feet, abrading her hands and knees. She knew if she didn't rise, she would be dragged until she died.

She had never known fear, despite the tales her father had told her of the Pischacas—or at least the

body of myth from which their name derived. According to him, the Pischacas were part of the unholy

family of Rakshashas of Hindu India. The lord of all of the Rakshashas was Ravana, who had ten heads

and twenty arms that grew again as soon as they were cut off and a hideous body sporting scars and

open wounds. Like all the Rakshashas, the Pischacas were dedicated evildoers and the vilest branch of

the family.

But these Pischacas weren't demons spawned from Hell. Rather they had been birthed from

stainless-steel wombs filled with synthetic amniotic fluid. They weren't mutants, either, not the distorted

caricatures of humanity accidentally spawned by the toxic residue of the long-ago nukecaust.

Tanvirah recalled tales her father told her of how, hi the first century following the atomic megacull,

mutants were feared and hated, particularly the stickies. They were monstrous, mutagenically altered

human beings with sucker pads on their fingers and toes and a great hatred for normal people. The

Pischacas' ha-

14 JAMES AXLER

tred for humanity was no less intense than that of the stickies.

If the goblin-men didn't take pleasure in her pain, they were certainly oblivious to it. Every breath she

took was agony. The torture of the tight thongs half buried in the flesh of her wrists soon ebbed to

numbness, but the rest of her body was not lost to feeling. Tanvirah cried out sharply as she stumbled

and fell to her knees. The Pischacas dragged her the last few yards, the rawhide bindings biting so

deeply into her wrists that blood oozed out around them. The Uma stone and its coil of silver chain

hidden in an inner pocket of her bodysuit cut into her right hip.

The Pischaca who held the plaited length of leather cast a glance over a shoulder at her and grinned at

her, exposing stumpy, discolored teeth. He tugged on the tether as if to urge her to rise, but no strength

remained in Tanvirah's legs. Sharp rocks rasped against her thighs, stomach and breasts.

When they reached the crest of the pass, the war party stopped. A rocky crag thrust out seven or eight

feet above the roadside, like a crooked shelf. Tanvirah struggled dizzily to her knees, blinking at the

descending sun as it turned the blue-gray panorama of the sky into crimson-hued dusk.

The Pischaca dropped the length of leather to the ground and swaggered toward her on bare,

splay-toed feet He didn't seem the slightest bit out of breath, despite dragging her and other heavy items

salvaged from the Sandcat. She lifted her chin and met his yel-

TALON AND FANG

low gaze defiantly. The goblin-man contemptuously kicked her in the left side, just between her hip and

ribs.

Tanvirah folded, writhing in the dust, hearing the Pischaca's hoarse laughter over her own gasps. She

struggled to her knees again. This time the creature's thickly callused foot caught her on the side of the

head. The kick made a thousand multicolored stars flash before her eyes. She fell again, only dimly

aware of the Pischacas laughing uproariously.

She lay on the roadbed, tasting blood and gasping through an open mouth. One of the warriors knelt

beside her and pulled her arms back and up, peeling the rawhide thongs from her wrists. Before

circulation could return to her hands, he pinned them against the ground, which she knew didn't come

close to requiring all of his strength. Her legs were left free and a Pischaca knelt between them. Gripping

her knees, he forced them apart effortlessly.

Deeply socketed eyes gleaming, the Pischaca fumbled with his loin covering. He inhaled deeply through

his open mouth, and the loose flesh at the base of his neck swelled. The swelling rolled down his chest.

His stomach muscles flexed in wide, regular ripples that slid down to his groin. When the undulation

reached his pelvis, his penis engorged and curved out in an erection of monstrous proportions.

Tanvirah stared, horrified into immobility for a long second by its greenish color and wart-encrusted

length. It reminded her of a bludgeon, the inflamed crown

16 JAMES AXLER

looking almost as large as her fist. The testicles sagging beneath it were correspondingly huge and

equally revolting in appearance. She had believed the Pischa-cas were bred without organs of

reproduction at all, much less functional ones.

The creature apparently understood her astonishment, because he winked at her conspiratorially. The

wink broke her paralysis, and she cried out in fear. Tanvirah didn't have much leverage with which to

power a kick, but she tried, straightening her legs out and up like springs. The Pischaca caught her by

the ankles and wrenched her violently forward. Her back scraped along the rough surface of the road,

her elbows digging little grooves in the dirt.

Heedless of the zipper, the creature ripped open her bodysuit, from the collar to just above her pelvis.

Arching her back, Tanvirah twisted her body to one side, freeing her right leg with a fierce tug. She

kicked him with all of her strength in the lower belly. The Pischaca grunted and she kicked him there

again, this time pistoning her heel into his sagging testicle sac. The creature didn't appear to feel the blow.

Panic overwhelmed Tanvirah, causing her to thrash and flail madly at him with her free leg. She smashed

the sole of her foot into his face, then into his throat and chest. The Pischaca took it all, grunting softly

with each kick. He allowed her foot to smash him until she was utterly exhausted, panting and covered

with sweat. When she felt his thick fingers squeezing her breast,

TALON AND FANG

she barely mustered a feeble foot nudge, much less another kick.

Tanvirah lay limp, her respiration labored. She couldn't rise or fight anymore. She decided to let the

monsters rape her or kill her or whatever the Pischacas did to human women they seized. She kept her

eyes closed, waiting for the entrance of either a blade or a disfigured male organ.

Neither occurred. The Pischaca removed his hand from her breast, and she heard the creatures

muttering uneasily to one another. She didn't understand a word of what they said. In fact, she felt a

distant quiver of surprise that the creatures even had a language.

The Pischaca restraining her wrists released her. She sensed and heard the creatures shifting and

shuffling all around. Opening her eyes, Tanvirah carefully raised her head from the roadbed and looked

around. On the crag overlooking the crest of the pass stood a tall man.

She couldn't see him clearly, since he was backlit by the fiery setting sun, but she could tell he was six

feet or more in height and as lean as a spear. He wore a long coat that appeared to be made of supple

black leather. A wide, wing-tipped collar was tugged up high around his neck.

Tanvirah slowly hitched around to face the man, half expecting one of the Pischacas to cuff her. But they

were as entranced by the silent apparition as she. The man grimly looked over the eight Pischacas and

the girl on the road. The creatures eyed him nervously,

18 JAMES AXLER

but the man neither moved nor spoke. Sunlight winked dully on a strange object cradled in his arms.

By squinting, Tanvirah could just make out a skeletal, riflelike shape. The sectionalized barrel terminated

in a long cylinder, reminiscent of an oversized sound suppressor made of a crystalline substance.

The man met her gaze. Tanvirah suppressed a shiver when she looked into his cold, pale eyes. They

were almost the same color as the high western sky, blue with just a touch of gray. They blazed in a

gaunt, bearded face. Tanvirah absently noted how the man's face was too harsh and hard to be

handsome, even without the long, jagged scar cutting like a lightning bolt from left to right across his face,

from hairline to jawline. His dark, silver-stippled hak hung loose past his shoulders, stirred by a touch of

the wind.

He was a lone man, outnumbered and apparently underarmed, yet he exuded an ominous, menacing

aura that was almost supernatural. That aura kept the Pischacas from mounting an attack or even

challenging him. They muttered and grunted apprehensively among themselves. Tanvirah received the

distinct impression they knew the man—if not by sight, then by reputation. She realized if the

bloodthirsty monsters had encountered any other human on the mountain road, they would have gleefully

dismembered and disemboweled him on the spot.

But the Pischaca apparently knew this man. He. wasn't a legend to the creatures, Tanvirah knew. He

was more of a ghost story. The greasy green goblin

TALON AND FANG

looming over her swallowed noisily and uttered a word that Tanvirah understood.

Gutturally, the Pischaca murmured,' 'General. General Kane."

Chapter 2

Kane found himself staring fixedly at the vision of dark beauty lying on the road. Even though she was in

a half-prone position, he could tell the young woman was tall, with a voluptuously curved body. Much of

it was visible through her torn open garment. Her blood-bedrabbled face was full cheeked and bold

nosed, her skin the rich brown of coffee and milk, her eyes large and black and flashing.

Despite the fresh blood staining them, her wide, sensuous lips were set in a defiant line. Her sleek,

straight hair was a thick, ebony cascade sheening over her shoulders from a part in the middle of her

scalp. There was something familiar about her, but because of the dimming light and the poor vision in his

right eye, he couldn't be sure. She looked to be in her early twenties. It had been a long time since Kane

had been so close to a woman so young and beautiful—or a woman at all, for that matter.

When the Pischaca with the deflating penis grunted his name, Kane couldn't help but smile coldly. "That's

my name. You have the advantage of me."

The Pischaca slapped his chest. "Sweet William. I served under you in the battle of Snakefish."

TALON AND FANG

Kane snorted as if he didn't believe him. "Right. Release the girl, Sweetums."

Sweet William performed a passable imitation of his own snort. "Kiss my ass. One man with no

blaster— I don't care how bad they say you be, Kane. You ain't givin' us no more orders."

The other Pischaca growled slobbering agreement with Sweet William's declaration. The goblin-men

apparently didn't recognize the pulse-plasma rifle in his arms as a weapon, or if they did, they didn't

consider it much of a threat.

"I wasn't giving you an order, Sweetums." Kane pitched his voice low. "I was giving you a choice.

Release the girl or die."

The Pischaca chief laughed scornfully, lips peeling back to reveal his discolored, tusklike teeth. "Funny

guy-"

Then Sweet William's temper changed in the mercurial way of his kind. The grin became a ferocious

snarl, and he narrowed his eyes. He grabbed the girl by the back of her neck with one hand and clasped

his softening organ with the other. "She's mine! I'll fuck her brains out with this and then let my clan have

what's left!"

Kane didn't move, keeping the surge of revulsion he felt from showing on his face. He noted how the girl

grimaced in pain but didn't cry out. The breeze blew the foul stench of the creatures to him. He knew

their noisome smell had less to do with matters of poor

22 JAMES AXLER

hygiene than with an essential biological characteristic of the genetically engineered race.

"Well?" Sweet William challenged.

"Well..." Kane narrowed his eyes. In a voice barely above a whisper he said, "Set the girl free and get

off my mountain, shit-spawn."

Sweet William sneered. "Or what? You kill us all?"

"That'll be up to your clan, Willy-boy, whether they want me to kill them or not. But I sure as hell will kill

you."

It wasn't a boast, not even a threat. There was a quiet, confident ring of a promise in his tone and words,

and Sweet William didn't like the sound of it. He didn't release his grip on the girl, but he loosened it,

judging by the relief that showed on her face.

Sweet William growled, "You and me got no reason to fight, Kane. The war is over. All the barons are

dead, and you're not an imperial general no more."

Kane shook his head as if he found the Pischaca's words so pathetically stupid, he could scarcely

believe the creature had even uttered them. "We're not talking about what we were in the past,

Willy-boy. It's just me and you and your piss-breathed crew here on my mountain. It's the next twenty

seconds you should be worrying about, not the last twenty years."

Sweet William had narrowed his eyes to slits. Kane could easily guess the kind of thoughts lumbering

through his brain. Regardless of what else was said, the Pischaca chief intended to attack him. He had no

TALON AND FANG

choice. If he backed down in front of Kane, his clan would not forget and his position as their leader

was doomed.

"This isn't necessary," Kane said softly. "No more of your kinsmen's blood has to be spilled here."

The Pischaca's swart, greasy face contorted at the mention of blood. He released Tanvirah and shoved

her away as if she were of no more use to him. She sprawled on her face. Moving hi an unintentional but

ludicrous parody of dignity, Sweet William closed up his loincloth and rose to his feet. Kane knew the

goblin-man was no longer intimidated by him, and his finger caressed the firing plate of the plasma-pulse

rifle in his arms.

Sweet William stared unblinkingly, directly into his face, inhaled deeply, then roared, "Kill him!"

Before the echoes of the goblin-man's bellow had begun to fade, Kane swung the barrel of the rifle in a

short arc, depressing the trigger switch. Lightning bursts pulsed from the small, bell-shaped bore in a

blinding blue-white flare. There was no recoil. The crackling torrent of incandescence engulfed the

Pis-chaca, and he instantly burst into flame, transformed into a flailing, fire-wreathed scarecrow. Then

Sweet William's body exploded from within, and his viscera splattered the ground for twenty feet all

around.

The other Pischacas recoiled from the spray of warm flesh and ruptured internal organs. They snatched

at their weapons and squalled with fury. As one, they lurched toward the outcropping on which

24 JAMES AXLER

Kane stood. He noted with approval how gracefully the captive girl rolled to one side, getting out of their

path.

Kane kept his finger tight on the trigger switch of the pulse-plasma rifle and sprayed the wave of

blue-white light as if it were water from a- hose, swinging the muzzle in a wide field of fire. The energy

charge sliced through a pair of Pischacas standing shoulder to shoulder, carving them open at their

waists. The two halves of then: bodies fell away from each other and thumped wetly to the roadbed

amid bright showers of blood.

The five remaining Pischacas cried out in horror and dismay and retreated from the shelf of rock, then

the rifle hi Kane's hands emitted a sputter and the beam of plasma disappeared. He quickly consulted

the small LCD window near the trigger plate. Three zeroes glowed redly against a black background.

The weapon was drained of energy. With a curse, he tossed it aside. It was far too lightweight to be of

much use as a bludgeon.

The Pischacas growled in bloodthirsty gratification when they saw him discard the rifle. The growls

turned into mutters of surprise when Kane reached up behind him, over his head with both arms, then

snapped them up and out with a swift, sharp gesture. Sunlight flickered briefly on the polished surface of

the flat sword blade.

Kane cut a figure-eight pattern in the air, the razor-keen steel of the katana humming. He didn't really

TALON AND FANG

want to stain the sword with foul Pischaca blood, so he gave them the chance to rethink their attack and

retreat. The samurai sword was a wedding gift from Shizuka, made by New Edo's reigning craftsman. It

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