James Axler - Outlanders 10 - Outer Darkness

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Sky Dog turned, his face locked in a grim mask

"Runnins Bird and three others rode all nisht to get here. They were hunting when they came

across a large party of wasicun about sixty miles north-westward."

"Roamers?" Kane inquired. Sky Dog shook his head, black tresses flying. "Not unless

Roamers have traded in horses for Sandcats and their rags for black armor."

A cold fist seemed to punch deep into Kane's belly, from the inside out. He was barely

aware of saying, "Mags."

Sky Dog nodded gravely, fear glinting in his

jet-black eyes. "If they're on their way to the

Darks—"

"I think that's a safe bet," broke in Grant.

"—they'll pass right by our settlement. And if they started rolling at sunrise..." Sky Dog's

words trailed off as he tilted his head back to consult the position of the sun.

Kane finished the shaman's sentence. "They could be here any minute."

GMBIFC

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

JAMES AXLER

OUTER DARKNESS

THE LOST EARTH! SAGA

BOOKS

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."

To Melissa—who is equal parts Brigid, Fand and completely herself.

First edition September 1999 ISBN 0-373-63823-X

OUTER DARKNESS

Special thanks to Mark Ellis for his contribution to the Outlanders concept, developed for Gold Eagle Books.

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 M3B 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 die 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.

From Brig o' Dread when thou may'st pass, On Purgatory Road thou travel at last. —Old English dirge

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 locationa! 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^ 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

Abrams looked at the distant jagged peaks looming against the backdrop of stars. The Bitterroot Range

reminded him of fangs, and the glittering constellations above them were like the multitudinous eyes of an

enormous predator, waiting hungrily for prey to come within reach.

Abrams repressed a shiver as a chill wind gusted across the flatlands. As the flames of the campfire

leaped and flickered, black shadows writhed across the ground. On the far side of the camp, colossal

aspen trees rose amid tangled, thorny thickets. He didn't like the woods, either, his imagination

populating them with all variety of menaces, from mutie wolves to mutie people.

Nearly thirty years had passed since Abrams had worn the combat armor of a Cobaltville magistrate.

During those years he'd become the administrator of the Magistrate Division. He'd liked his position and

he'd been good at it. Now all of that was on the line—along with his Me.

He was tall with a neatly clipped gray beard that was presently stained white from the road dust he'd

been exposed to all day. Judging from the dryness hitting the back of bis throat with every breath, and

the heaviness in his lungs, he'd been inhaling that dust as well. Sitting on the outside of the camp where

10

JAMES AXLER

Outer Darkness

11

the Mag force had bedded down for the night after a day's hard travel, he watched over the other eleven

men who sat around the two Sandcats they'd brought with them from Cobaltville.

Abrams hurt all over, especially the leg that Kane, the renegade former Magistrate, had lamed. He'd

forgotten how much the Mag armor could chafe when a man had to wear it all day. And he stank. He'd

also forgotten about that part. He'd have given anything for a bath and a bed, but he didn't know when

he'd see either one of those again.

He was still resentful of Baron Cobalt for ordering him to take a Mag team over the road himself instead

of simply assigning a team to the mission. But the baron had told Abrams more than he should have, had

revealed more of the baron's weaknesses than a man trained to follow command should ever know.

Baron Cobalt had told him that Salvo had been telling the truth; Lakesh was working with Kane. In

addition, the baron had told him he hadn't been in touch with the Archons. Both of those declarations

had shaken Abrams's belief systems.

Abrams sighed and sipped his lukewarm coffee sub. He accepted his lot with a warrior's stoicism, but

with an experienced man's resentment of an unexpected reversal of fortune. Looking up at the starlit sky,

he realized that if all went according to plan, the squad would arrive at the foothills by sometime

tomorrow afternoon.

Somewhere in that mass of mountains was a buried redoubt. Abrams knew that for certain. Once, it had

been called Redoubt Bravo, but Lakesh had pronounced it unsalvageable. At that time, Baron Cobalt

had trusted the old chief archivist of the Historical

Division. That was no longer true. In fact, if the baron's information was correct, Lakesh was an even

bigger traitor than Kane.

Baron Cobalt had declared that the redoubt was actually the bidden base that Kane and Lakesh were

operating out of with other fugitives. Abrams sipped his coffee sub again, watching the other members of

his own team. Sometime over the next two days, he'd find out if the redoubt actually was abandoned

and unsalvageable or if Kane was holed up in it.

If the redoubt was abandoned, Abrams was convinced Baron Cobalt was going to be angry enough to

have his head from his shoulders for proving him wrong. And if Kane really was there, even with a full

force of twelve Mags, Abrams knew they were going to be in a fight for their lives. There would be no

stopping a full squad of hard-contact Mags, but Kane and Grant would undoubtedly kill some of them.

Abrams tried to smother his rising apprehension. The Darks had long been shrouded by superstition, the

deeply shadowed ravines exuding an almost palpable atmosphere of death and fear. He thought he could

detect the odor of malevolence on the breeze blowing from the peaks.

Some of the other Magistrates smelled it, too, judging by the way they paced restlessly around the

perimeter, eyeing the silhouetted mountain range over their shoulders. Most of them sat around the fire,

sharing the last of the night's ration of food from the self-heat packages. Weary after a dawn-to-dusk

ride in the bellies of the Sandcats, they stared at the flames, then at the Darks as they smothered yawns.

Leaning against the heavy metal hull of one of the vehicles, Abrams dashed the rest of the coffee sub

12

JAMES AXLER

out of his cup and did his best to fight off the fit of melancholy gloom. Every member of his squad was

supremely well trained, they were well armed and, in tandem with the Sandcats, they were an essentially

invincible force.

Built as a fast-attack-vehicle, the Sandcat had flat, retractable tracks supporting the low-slung,

blunt-lined chassis. Armored topside gun turrets concealed a pair of USMG-73 heavy machine guns.

The wag's armor was composed of a ceramic-armaglass bond, shielded against both intense heat and

ambient radiation.

The interiors comfortably held eight people. At the front of the compartment, right beneath the canopy,

were the pilot's and copilot's chairs. In the rear, a double row of three jump seats faced each other.

As Abrams thought of the man who had shattered his knee, his gloved hand tightened on his cane. The

prospect of finding Kane somewhere in the mountains did not make him feel differently about the

mission. Abrams was not on a vengeance trail, but Baron Cobalt, despite his reasoned justification for

dispatching the squad, secretly harbored revenge as the ultimate goal.

The official reason for the mission was that it was part of a cooperative initiative of the nine villes that

ruled the former United States of America. Nearly a year before, Kane and Grant—two veteran

Cobalt-ville Magistrates—turned renegade, escaping the ville and taking a condemned prisoner with

them. In the process, they had chilled several fellow Mags, shot down two Deathbirds, assaulted the

baron himself and—Abrams grimaced as his poorly reconstructed knee twinged—crippled him.

Outer Darkness

13

After that, the insurrectionists had vanished into thin air, falling so completely from sight it was as if they

had never existed at all. Abrams knew they had uncovered, either by accident or by design, one of the

most ruthlessly guarded secrets of the pre- and postdark generations—the mat-trans units, known

sometimes as gateways.

As Abrams understood it, the matter-transfer gateways were major aspects of the predark scientific

project known as the Totality Concept. Most of the units were buried in subterranean military

complexes, known as redoubts, in the United States. Only a handful of people knew they even existed,

and only half a handful knew all then- locations. The knowledge had been lost after the nukecaust,

rediscovered a century later, then jealously guarded. There were, however, units in other countries, so it

was possible that Kane, Baptiste, Grant, Lakesh and even Salvo himself could be anywhere on Earth.

"Sir? Am I disturbing you?" whispered a husky voice.

Abrams started, snatching up Ms cane before he recognized Pollard looming in the wedge of shadow

between the two Sandcats. Like all the other men, Pollard was a veteran hard-contact Mag, and his

burly body was encased hi the black polycarbonate armor. The close-fitting exoskeleton was molded to

conform to the biceps, triceps, pectorals and abdomen. Even with its Kevlar undersheathing, the armor

was lightweight and provided no loose folds that could snag on projections. The only spot of color

anywhere on the armor was the small, crimson, disk-shaped badge of office emblazoned on the left

pectoral. The stylized, balanced scales of justice were

14

JAMES AXLER

superimposed over a nine-spoked wheel. The badge symbolized the Magistrate's oath, of keeping the

wheels of justice turning in the nine villes.

Pollard carried his helmet under his left arm, keeping his right hand, his gun hand, free. Like the body

armor, the helmet was made of black polycarbonate, and fitted over the upper half and back of his head,

leaving only a portion of the mouth and chin exposed. The slightly concave, red-tinted visor served

several functions: it protected the eyes from foreign particles, and the electrochemical polymer was

connected to a passive nightsight that intensified ambient light to permit one-color night vision. The tiny

image-enhancer sensor mounted on the forehead of the helmet did not emit detectable rays. However,

its range was only twenty-five feet, even on a fairly clear night with strong moonlight.

The Magistrate-issue side arm, the Sin Eater, was holstered to Pollard's right forearm. A big-bored

automatic handblaster, the Sin Eater was less than fourteen inches in length at full extension, the magazine

carrying twenty 9 mm rounds. When not in use, the stock folded over the top of the blaster, lying along

the frame, reducing its holstered length to ten inches.

When the Sin Eater was needed, all a Mag needed to do was tense his wrist tendons. Sensitive

actuators activated a flexible cable in the holster and snapped the weapon smoothly into his waiting

hand, the stock unfolding hi the same motion. Since the Sin Eater had no trigger guard or safety, the

blaster fired immediately upon touching the Mag's crooked index finger.

Pollard had not been selected for this field duty, but enthusiastically volunteered. Stocky and blunt

Outer Darkness

15

jawed, he was the perfect Mag. But Abrams knew he was not driven by duty. Like Baron Cobalt,

Pollard's motivation bubbled from a wellspring of vengeance.

He was the sole surviving member of Salvo's ill-fated Grudge Task Force, an elite squad tasked

specifically to apprehend Kane, Grant and the fugitive archivist, Brigid Baptiste. Pollard had suffered

two indignities at the hands of the insurgents. First Kane had shot down his Deathbird, and months later

Grant had tricked, then very nearly beaten him to death.

Under ordinary circumstances, Pollard would have faced a termination warrant for witnessing a

mat-trans unit in operation as it whisked the fugitives out of the reach of ville justice. However, Salvo

had named Pollard as his lieutenant in the task force. When Salvo vanished, apparently spirited out of

Co-baltville by Kane and Grant, Pollard had been allowed to live, since he could provide information,

and his commander was suspected of being in cahoots with the criminals. Later, when Baron Cobalt

announced that his initial assessment of Salvo's treachery had been hasty, Pollard pounced on the chance

to redeem himself.

The other Mags in the squad did not share Pollard's passion. Although Grant and Kane might not have

been loved by their fellow Magistrates, they were respected and admired. Their abrupt disappearance

and conviction in absentia of sedition and murder had seriously damaged Mag Division morale.

"What is it?" Abrams asked, his tone stiffly formal.

Pollard's bulldog features twitched a trifle, as if he resented the thinly veiled disrespect in Abrams's tone.

16

JAMES AXLER

Outer Darkness

17

"I've been walking the perimeter," he replied, his rough voice pitched low. He waved toward a copse of

ponderosa pines. "I think we've got company."

Abrams was too experienced to make an obvious show of turning toward the woods, although he

doubted Pollard's opinion. He cast a casual glance toward the snarl of undergrowth between the tree

trunks. Quietly, he asked, "What makes you think that?"

Pollard tapped the motion detector strapped around his left wrist. The liquid crystal display window

glowed faintly.

"I picked up movement. Four hits."

"Animals probably. Maybe deer."

"Maybe," Pollard agreed. "Or outlanders, or Roamers. Or Indians."

Abrams said nothing for a moment, considering the man's words. Many tribes of Amerindians believed

the nukecaust was the purification promised by ancient prophecy, and over the past two centuries they

had reclaimed what was left of their ancestral lands, protecting them ruthlessly from invasion.

He stole a glance at Pollard and wished he would put on his helmet, simply so the visor would conceal

the spark of malice mat continually burned in the man's small, flesh-bagged eyes.

Pushing himself away from the Sandcat, Abrams declared, "Very well. Let's check it out."

Creases of consternation appeared on Pollard's low, broad forehead. "Me and you?"

"You and me," Abrams replied, bending down to pick up his helmet. He slipped it over his head,

snapping the underjaw lock guards. Pollard did the same, and the two men moved

away from the flickering light of the campfire. As they strode into the shadows bordering the woods,

Abrams did his best to minimize his limp. His night-sight image enhancer brought into sharp relief

everything around him.

The wind seemed to grow colder the farther they walked from the campsite. As Abrams marched

beside Pollard, he cast wary glances into the encroaching darkness. The trees stood up blackly in the

starlight The leafy cover of the woods could conceal anything or anyone. All the premonitions of danger

he had experienced since coming in sight of the mountain range returned.

The two armored men came to a halt at the outermost edge of the undergrowth. Extending his left arm,

Pollard made a slow, left-to-right sweep with the motion detector. It registered nothing and he showed

his stumpy teeth in a grimace, half disappointment, half embarrassment.

"I swear I picked up four signatures at this spot, sir."

Abrams eyed the deep black pools between the trees and muttered, "Animals, like I said. They satisfied

their curiosity and moved on."

Pollard wasn't satisfied. "Let's take another position and—"

The motion detector emitted a discordant electronic beep. Almost at the same instant, a blood-freezing

howl burst from the dense foliage. Four arrows ripped through leaves, their steel points clattering against

the breastplates of Abrams and Pollard. The wooden shaft of one splintered as it struck Pollard on the

molded left pectoral barely a millimeter below the red disk-shaped badge.

18

JAMES AXLER

Pollard's reaction was immediate. The Sin Eater flashed into his hand, and his index finger depressed the

firing stud. Flame and thunder gouted from the barrel. He let loose with a long, stuttering, full-auto volley

into the woods. The 280-grain rounds crashed into tree trunks, shearing away bark and slashing through

leaves.

Although Abrams had unleathered his own blaster, he didn't fire it He turned to shout orders at the men

in the camp, but there was no need. A half-dozen men were already racing toward them, fisting Shi

Eaters and unlimbering the chopped-down subguns known as Copperheads.

"Form a line" Abrams yelled, gesturing. "Form a line!"

The nervous Magistrates swiftly bracketed Pollard and Abrams in a fire line.

"Open fire!" Abrams shouted.

Staccato jackhammer roars ripped through the quiet of the night, and spear points of orange flame licked

at the gloom, smoking shell casings spewed from ejector ports. The fusillade of full-auto fire whipped the

foliage with the fury of a gale-force wind.

"Cease fire!" Abrams commanded.

Bullet-shredded twigs and leaves showered down in a rustling rain. Night birds screeched their outrage,

taking flight with a steady flapping of wings. No more arrows darted out of the shadow-shrouded

woods, but the motion detector beeped steadily, the volume diminishing until the sound faded into

inaudibility.

Staring into the LCD, Pollard announced grimly, "Whoever the bastards are, they're getting away."

Outer Darkness

19

Abrams toed an arrow lying at his feet, noting the delicate fletching of hawk feathers and how the

crudely forged steel point was affixed to the shaft.

"It's fairly obvious who they are," he said. "Indians, probably a hunting or scouting party. No sense going

after them."

"They assaulted Magistrates, sir. We can't let them get away with it. It's bad policy. Says so in the

bylaws," Pollard growled.

Abrams didn't even try to disguise the contempt in his voice. "As the Division administrator, I set the

policy standards. But if you want to go after four lice-ridden savages who know this region like the

backs of their hands and tell them about our bylaws, you have my permission."

He paused and added, "However, if you're not back by daybreak, we'll leave without you."

Some of the angry tension went out of Pollard's posture. He looked uneasily at the tangled dark hell of

the woods and muttered, "I apologize, sir."

Abrams turned toward the rest of the squad sprinting up and waved them back. "As you were. False

alarm."

As the Mags returned to the camp, Abrams said sternly to Pollard, "You will stand watch the rest of the

night in case you're worried they'll come back."

"It's not those four I'm worried about," Pollard retorted defensively. "It's another two dozen of them."

Abrams nodded. "If that happens, you'll have the perfect opportunity to explain to them about

Magistrate Division policy."

He left the man there and marched back to camp, less apprehensive about turning his back on the forest

20

JAMES AXLER

than on Pollard. The other men were out here in the field because they were Mags and it was sufficient

they had been ordered to be here.

Pollard operated on his own personal agenda, but as long as it didn't interfere with the mission, Abrams

would keep him on a loose leash. He glanced again at the silhouette of the distant mountain range and

tried not to think about the leash around his own neck.

It was far longer than Pollard's, stretching all the way back to Cobaltville, but it was cinched much tighter.

Chapter 2

The sky was as blue as a summer dream, full of lazy shadows and wispy white clouds. It was one of the

most beautiful days Montana had ever produced, before or after the nukecaust.

Grant thought about all the beautiful days he had missed in his life, and the pang of nostalgia was mixed

with a touch of self-pity. Then the greasy crescent wrench slipped on the bolt, and he skinned a knuckle

against the manifold.

Turning his face to the deep blue sky, Grant bellowed earnestly, "Fuck this shit!"

Kane poked his head out of the side window and asked mildly, "Did that do the job or do you need

another set of wrenches?"

"Another set of knuckles would be more like it." Nursing his throbbing hand, Grant eyed the huge engine

block with something akin to hatred. Never, not even during his mechanical-aptitude tests at the Mag

academy, had any piece of machinery ever given him such problems. After a few more moments of

glaring at the monstrosity beneath the open engine cowling, he went back to his tinkering.

Grant stood a few feet above the floor of a small clearing, surrounded by walls of bushes, shrubs and

foliage. The massive war wag nearly occupied every square foot

22

JAMES AXLER

The armor plate sheathing the huge vehicle was pitted with rust, but its dark hull bristled with rocket

pods and machine gun blisters, and was perforated by weapons ports. A mobile army command post of

predark manufacture, the wag was around forty feet long and weighed at least fifty tons. The

doublethick-ness steel planking showed deep scoring in places where AP rounds had almost penetrated.

It crouched on flat metal tracks, like a petrified prehistoric beast of prey.

The engine block was eight feet off the ground, so Grant stood upon an elevated wooden scaffolding.

Even with the aid of the platform, he was forced to stretch to his full height of six feet four inches to

reach beneath the propped-up cowling. A broad-shouldered, deep-chested black man, Grant wore his

grease-and-sweat-stained khaki shirt unbuttoned. Although the vehicle stood in a wooded glade, the

noonday sun blazed down with a merciless heat. The strip of cloth tied around his high forehead was

soaked through with sweat. Perspiration trickled down bis face and dripped from the ends of his fierce,

downsweeping mustache.

Inside the stuffy cockpit of the war wag, Kane was also drenched with sweat. He had been able to open

James Axler - Outlanders 10 - Outer Darkness

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