James Axler - Outlanders 03 - Savage Sun

Kane fell into Infinity

It wasn't exactly a fall—more as if he had tripped and soared headlons down a black

staircase stretching to the very edge of eternity.

Before him a coiling nebula glowed with a pure, blinding radiance. With eyes that should not

have been able to see, ears that should not have heard, he saw the light take form and

speak with a voice that vibrated to the core of his soul.

The light was a woman, sculpted from wheeling constellations, her eyes a pair of blazing

stars. He could see her clearly and she was too beautiful to bear, but he couldn't tear his

eyes away.

The language she spoke was new, yet not new...sounds from out of his desperate dreams.

"You have not changed overmuch, Cuchulainn, my darling Ka'in."

She reached out a hand for him and whispered sadly, "Time is a river that twists on itself.

Past, present and future are its waters. The fluid of time is life. When life, the spirit, ceases

to exist, time becomes meaningless. I am overjoyed your spirit lives...."

Then she was gone, lost among the black gulfs of infinity.

Other tides in this series:

Exile to Hell Destiny Run

JAMES AXLER

SAVAGE SUN

A COLO 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 Mark and Marian Wood, Publican Mike Smith and

everyone in Rathcoole who makes Eire one of the few

places where strangers are still welcome.

Some would call this spirit a devil, Watching all their life's work undone. All the creatures it bore reeked

of evil Spawned 'neath a savage sun.

—The Voyage ofMaelduin, fourth-century Irish ballad

First edition December 1997 ISBN 0-373-63816-7

SAVAGE SUN

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 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.

The Road to Outlands— From Secret Government Files to the Future

Almost two hundred years after the slobal holocaust, Kane, a former Magistrate of Cobaltville, often thousht

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 locational 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 unkown 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.

Prologue

The day before doomsday.

Great Skellig, the southwest coast of Ireland.

From scrolling leaden clouds snow flurries drifted over the snarling surf. The eighteen-foot motor launch

pitched and rocked on the relentless combers, white spray flying from the cresting waves.

Inside the pilot housing, Brother Morn wrestled with the wheel and mumbled softly to himself, '

'Manannan' Mac Lir doras riaroh har oseails' ceann eile." It was both a curse and a prayer.

A squat man with the stocky build of a pipe fitter, his mass of silver hair was swept back above a high

forehead and a ruddy, weather-beaten face. There were only two specks of color about the man—a

pair of cold, vivid blue eyes and the spotless white rectangle of a cleric's collar at his throat. His strangely

small, delicate hands gripped the wheel tightly.

Peering through the droplets of water sliding across the windshield, Morn saw only the sea. The wipers

droned steadily, but they were unable to keep the glass clear for more than an instant at a time. Waves

continually crashed over the prow of the launch.

The hatch covering on the deck slid aside, and Kara-batos struggled up from below. He was tall and

gaunt, his leanness was accentuated by his black, impeccably

10

JAMES AXLER

Savage Sun

11

tailored Armani suit, white silk shirt and black necktie. Though the lighting inside the cabin was dim, he

wore mirrored sunglasses. His short, close-cropped hair was a dark blond, his pallid face furrowed and

deeply seamed.

"And how is our passenger holding up?" Morn asked casually over his shoulder.

Karabatos stumbled as the craft yawed to port. "Still sleeping. God knows how in this shit."

Morn smiled sadly. "Ah, God Almighty has little to do with this journey, does He?"

Karabatos didn't answer. From inside his coat, he took a package of cigarettes and shook one out.

Without looking at him, Morn announced, "This is a no-smoking voyage. We're damned enough as it.

We'll be smoking aplenty by this time tomorrow."

Placing the filter tip between his lips, Karabatos mumbled around it, "Speak for yourself, Paddy."

As Karabatos patted his pockets impatiently, Morn produced a Ronson lighter and thumbed a flame into

life. Extending it toward Karabatos, he said, "Allow me, old son."

Inscribed on the burnished-steel surface of the lighter were glyphs resembling two scalene triangles

flanking an isosceles. The points of the three triangles were topped by small circles. Karabatos leaned

forward, setting his cigarette alight. Morn snapped shut the lighter and slipped it back into a pocket.

Exhaling a wreath of smoke, Karabatos inquired, "A little obvious, isn't it, to advertise the Priory that

way?"

Morn chuckled. "And what do yer people do to recognize one another—secret handshakes? A certain

floral print on your undershorts?"

Karabatos didn't respond.

Conversationally Mom said, "I love ye bloody American spooks, I really do. Ye and yer secret-society

barbecues and projects and lodge meetings and stock options in the future. What part of the coming

wasteland have ye reserved for yerself, may lr«sk?"

Karabatos let smoke dribble out of his mouth. "You've got your orders. Shut up and drive."

Brother Morn gave the wheel a half spin and laughed. It was a harsh, bitter sound. "I've got me orders,

true enough. To observe the Pact and betray an innocent. Who are ye betrayin'? The CIA? The NSA?

Yer President? Yer children? Yer god?"

Karabatos stiffened. He transferred the cigarette to his left hand as his right slid inside his coat. It came

out fisting a dull gray, compact Colt Delta 10 mm automatic. Training it on Morn's back, he said grimly,

"One more word and I'll blow your goddamn brains out and complete the transaction myself."

"An' keep me from missin' humanity's final curtain? That would be a bloody shame, wouldn't it?"

Morn laughed uproariously, with genuine, scornful humor, though a note of barely contained hysteria

undercut it. "I'm Armageddon outta here!"

Karabatos stared at him blankly, eyes masked by the lenses of his glasses. "You're crazy."

Morn shrieked, "Aye, I'm crazy! That Archon Directive's crazy...yer crazy! The whole bloody,

godforsaken world is crazy! Until tomorrow at noon—then it won't be crazy anymore, will it? It'll simply

be goner''

His eyes glimmered with tears, doubling the difficulty of gazing out of the water-splotched windscreen.

His hands tightened on the varnished wood of the wheel, the knuckles standing out like ivory knobs.

12

JAMES AXLER

Savage Sun

13

Quietly, grimly he said, "Go ahead an' blow me head off, you gruagach spook."

Karabatos said nothing. He returned the Colt to its shoulder holster. Morn swiped a hand over his face,

clearing his vision of tears. Dead ahead the black triangle of Great Skellig reared out of the sea. A

massive spire of rock and castellated walls, it loomed seven hundred feet above the North Atlantic, a

dark silhouette thrusting up and piercing the sky. Misty clouds wrapped its sharp summit. Thundering

waves crashed and broke on the bare rock, foaming spray flying in all directions.

Morn steered the launch on a parallel course with a vertical stone slab, following it into a small,

straight-walled inlet protected on three sides from the open ocean. He guided the craft toward a

concrete dock extending from one corner. A paved footpath cut into bare rock led away and up from it.

Karabatos remained silent, not wanting to distract Brother Morn from piloting the boat close to the

quay. Even inside the tiny harbor, the sea was turbulent and a swell could easily pile the vessel up on the

rocks.

Morn expertly aligned the boat with the outer edge of the dock and cut the motor. Tersely he said, '

'Make us fast."

Karabatos swiftly left the cabin, staggering a bit on the pitching, slippery deck. He knotted a hawser

around a rusty cleat embedded in the concrete quay. Despite his lack of a-topcoat, he didn't seem to

feel the icy lash of the January wind.

Morn watched the American, grudgingly admiring the man's deft, efficient movements. Even though

snow sprinkled on his head, he didn't brush it away. Probably too cold-blooded to notice the chill.

Brother Morn stepped into the open hatchway, down

a short ladder to the cabins below. Sliding open one of the wood-jalousied doors, he wasn't too

surprised to see Sister Fand standing beside the bunk. Her almost inhumanly large dark blue eyes were

ringed with the shadows of fatigue and glassy with the long effort of fighting the barbiturates in her system.

Masses of flaxen yellow hair tumbled about her high-planed face. The black habit she wore contrasted

sharply with her milky white complexion. Tall she was, two inches taller than Morn. The shapeless

garment she wore did little to conceal the ripe figure swelling beneath.

Fand tugged at the steel cuff encircling her unnaturally long and slender wrist. A chain stretched from it to

a bracket bolted in the cabin wall. She glared dazedly at him and demanded, "Cad ta' ar siull agat?"

Her voice was a rich contralto.

"Tell her to speak English," said Karabatos from the passageway.

Morn glanced over his shoulder. "Ye object to the tongue of yer masters, d'ye?"

"What?"

"Gaelic is derived from Sanskrit, and Sanskrit is derived from the language of the Archons." He stared at

the American keenly, mockery dancing in his eyes. "That's common knowledge among the Priory."

Karabatos grunted his disinterest and stepped into the cabin. "She should still be asleep."

In a sharp, sneering tone, the woman said, "Ye can pump me so full of yer damn juice it comes out me

nose, I'll still not give ye what ye want."

Karabatos took a swift forward step, whipped out his open right hand and slapped her full force across

the face. She sprawled over the bunk, nearly sliding to the

14

JAMES AXLER

Savage Sun

15

deck. Her fall was brought up short by the chain on her wrist.

Morn hissed in anger as Karabatos stood over the woman, snatching her left wrist and pushing her face

down against the mattress. Skillfully he unlocked the steel circlet from the wall bracket, captured her

flailing right hand and pinned both wrists behind the small of her back. He cuffed her hands and stepped

back, not even breathing hard.

Sister Fand shouldered herself to a sitting position, the red imprint of the American's hand spreading

over her face. In Gaelic she snarled, "D'anam don diabhal amadan'!"

"What did she say?" Karabatos asked.

"You don't want to know," muttered Morn, moving to the woman's side and helping her to her feet. She

tried to wrench herself away from his touch, but he held her firmly.

He whispered to her soothingly in Gaelic, "There is no point in resisting, Sister. This is your fate. When

you took your vows to the Priory, you swore unquestioning obedience."

"My vows included chastity," she snapped.

"And a virgin you will remain—for all intents and purposes."

Karabatos led the way from the cabin, down the short gangway and up to the pilot housing. He allowed

Mom to guide Sister Fand to the deck. She didn't resist, but didn't give her full cooperation, either. From

a cabinet, Karabatos took a leather satchel, slinging the strap over his shoulder. Peeling back a shirt cuff,

he glanced at his wristwatch.

"We're off schedule." He fixed his gaze on Sister Fand. "If you try to delay us, I'll knock you uncon-

scious and drag you to the top. My orders were to escort you here. The choice of whether you arrive

intact or not is up to you."

Fand said nothing, but her blue eyes were sapphire hard.

The three of them went out on the rocking deck. Morn handed the woman to Karabatos on the quay.

They walked to the paved footpath as it ascended and curled around Great Skellig's almost

perpendicular south side. The black peaks reared above them like vast, permanent shadows.

The path terminated in a weather-eroded stairway, chipped out of the rock face by monks a thousand

years before. Six hundred steps of differing widths led up the sheer black cliff. The three people scaled

the crude, time-pitted notches, picking their way carefully. In some places the steps were slippery with

lichens and sea campions.

Fand, still dizzy from the drugs, breathed heavily and had to stop from time to time. Karabatos waited

impatiently, drumming his fingers on the leather pouch.

'"Forward, forward let us range,'" Morn quoted wryly. "'Let the great world spin forever down the

ringing grooves of change.'"

"What are you gibbering about now?" Karabatos demanded.

"Tennyson," answered Morn. "Are you utterly without learning?"

"I'm a soldier and a scientist," Karabatos replied. "Not one of your country's fairy poets."

"Neither was Tennyson, as I recall," said Mora. He tugged on Sister Fand's arm.

She whispered breathlessly, "'The fairy tales of science and the long result of Time.'"

16

JAMES AXLER

Savage Sun

17

The stairway led into a tunnel under a retaining wall. They made their way up the steep slant, shoes

slipping and sliding on the wet stones. They climbed through the passage and onto a rock-strewed

plateau. It leveled off in a series of narrow terraces. A flagstone path wound among a cluster of little

beehive-shaped stone huts, constructed of flat, interlocking rocks.

The path widened into a miniature walled plaza, lined by leaning tombstones topped by Celtic crosses.

Their inscriptions had long ago been effaced into illegibility by the harsh wind and the merciless hand of

centuries.

They passed through the plaza and stopped in a clearing among the stones. No lichen, grass or moss

grew on the earth. In the center of the bare patch rose a stele, a stone column with a crosspiece of two

blunted knobs. The weathered carvings formed swirling geometric abstractions.

Karabatos, Brother Morn and Sister Fand stood and stared. The silence atop Great Skellig was

unbroken except for the wail of the chill wind and distant crash of the surf.

Softly the American asked, "Now what? They know we're here...don't they?"

The carved column of rock suddenly quivered, and a circular crack split the naked ground around it in a

disquieting symmetrical pattern. Slowly, smoothly the stele began to rise, like a single finger at the end of

a fist. Dirt and grit sifted down as the sepulchre pushed its way from below.

The air seemed to pulse about the cube of brooding black metal. Dimly came the sound of buried

machinery, gears, chains and the prolonged hissing squeak of hydraulics.

Morn and Sister Fand, who had seen the process be-

fore, still gazed at the rising structure in something like awe. Karabatos rested his hand on the butt of his

Colt, waiting for the sepulchre's slow ascent to stop.

When it did, a perfectly rectangular seam appeared in the featureless cube. By degrees, it widened and

enlarged and opened. A figure wearing a black hooded cassock stepped out onto the windswept

plateau. A sliver chain girded his waist, and from it dangled a small charm, a talisman fashioned in the

shape of three circle-topped triangles.

Brother Morn ducked his head reverentially. "Father Bran. I ask admittance into the Priory."

The priest tugged back his hood, revealed a bearded, blunt-jawed face and bright, questioning green

eyes. The wind plucked at his red hair. In a quiet voice, he asked, "Cad e' seo?"

"Speak English," growled Karabatos.

Father Bran's eyes flicked toward him. "An Ameri-ceanach thu?"

"Aye, he's an American," Morn said. "He is here as representative of the Archon Directorate, to enforce

the pact."

Bran's eyes widened, then narrowed. "The pact?"

"Between the Directorate and the Priory of Awen." Karabatos's cold voice ghosted over the plateau.

"The time is not yet nigh."

"Truly, that is the terrible thing, Father," said Morn. "It is nigh. Judgment Day is upon us. And now the

pact struck by Saint Patrick and the Na Fferyllt must be consummated."

Bran's face went the color of the sky. He stumbled back a pace as if he had been a dealt a blow. He

fixed his unblinking gaze on Sister Fand. "It cannot be," he said haltingly. "The blood of the Danaan flows

in her

18

JAMES AXLER

Savage Sun

19

veins. To mingle it with the blood of the Na Fferyllt is an unspeakable sin."

"Fuck this," Karabatos grated, and drew his Colt. "It's the pact, you sanctimonious asshole. You knew

one day you'd be called to account, or you wouldn't have sent him—" he jerked his head toward Morn

"—to act as your liaison. He's abiding by it and so will you."

"Please, Father," Morn said in a voice thick with emotion. "The Directive made their choice. Sister Fand

has the purest blood, the cleanest line of descent."

Bran shook his head in horror, in disbelief. "No. I will not allow this...blasphemy. Saint Patrick did not

envision the pact this way."

"Ireland was to be free of the Na Fferyllt until Judgment Day," Morn responded bitterly. "It is now at

hand. The Priory of Awen was formed to protect humanity from the knowledge of the pact. If it is

broken now, then our brotherhood's work over the past thousand years is as smoke. A lie."

Bran inhaled an unsteady breath. "A pact with liars is no pact at all. Saint Patrick would have never

agreed had he known."

Karabatos laughed. "Take it up with Patrick when you see him."

He squeezed the trigger of the Colt. The crack smothered the wail of the wind, replacing it with a rolling

cannonade that echoed over the high plateau.

The steel-jacketed round struck the priest just above his right eye, drilling a dark, neat hole. The back of

the cowl billowed out as a chunk of skull exploded in jagged fragments. A halo of red mist surrounded

his head.

Father Bran sprang back, his expression holding more surprise than fear or pain. He hit the side of the

black

cube spread-eagled, blood and gray matter splattering the smooth surface. He fell forward on his face,

the silver triangle ornament ringing a tinkling, feeble chime when it struck the flagstones.

Sister Fand and Brother Mom screamed in wordless fury. Morn lunged toward Karabatos, his fingers

clawing for the man's face. He managed to snatch away the sunglasses right before the American raked

the barrel of the automatic across the bridge of his nose. The blade sight tore flesh, crushed cartilage and

blood sprang out in rivulets.

Clapping his hands to his face, Morn stumbled and fell to one knee. Sister Fand made a move toward

Karabatos but backed away when he pointed the gun in her direction. Prodding Morn with a foot, he

said calmly, "Get up."

Slowly, biting back groans of pain, Morn stumbled erect, hand to his face, crimson streaming from

between his fingers. His white cleric's collar slowly turned red as it absorbed the blood like blotting

paper. He stepped unsteadily into the cube. Karabatos gathered a handful of Sister Fand's habit and

pushed her forward.

The interior of the sepulchre was as blank and featureless as the exterior, except for two buttons

protruding from one wall. With the barrel of the Colt, Karabatos depressed one. With a hiss, the cube

sealed and began to drop, slowly and without a lurch.

Morn tried to catch Sister Fand's gaze. "I'm sorry," he said in Gaelic, his voice muffled beneath his hand.

She refused to meet his eyes.

The cube sighed to a stop. Karabatos placed his left hand inside the pouch. The automatic doors hissed

back, and he stepped out quickly into a large, low-ceilinged room. It was filled with computer terminals

and elec-

20

JAMES AXLER

Savage Sun

21

tronic communications equipment. Console and panel lights flashed and blinked purposefully. A bank of

closed-circuit monitor screens ran the length of the far wall. Most of them showed images of the rough

Atlantic seas.

Six people were seated before the consoles, three men and three women. All wore black cassocks with

the silver-triangle ornament dangling from their waists. They whirled when the doors rolled open, their

faces masks of fear, shock and rage.

From Karabatos's hands leaped a pair of small metal cylinders. They bounced in a jerky, zigzag fashion

on the smooth floor before white smoke exploded from them in a thick pall.

The priests and nuns cried out in terror as the CS powder penetrated their nostrils and eyes. They reeled

about the room, slamming into one another, stumbling and falling.

The Colt Delta in Karabatos's fist cracked and cracked, and at each shot, a black-robed figure dropped

to the floor, kicking and jerking. After the sixth shot, a shroud of utter silence draped the room.

Karabatos, Sister Fand and Morn waited in the lift cube until the air-recycling system cleared the room

of the chemical fog.

The American spared the fresh corpses a single, impassive glance, then stepped out into the room. He

gestured with the automatic. "Move."

Sister Fand said with great conviction, "You will burn in the deepest pit of Hell for what you have done."

Karabatos grinned. "By noon tomorrow, I'll have plenty of company. Take me to the crypt. Now."

James Axler - Outlanders 03 - Savage Sun

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