James Axler - Outlander 04 - Omega Path

Omega Path

# 4 in the Outlanders series

James Axler

Kane's blue-gray eyes chilled her

As did his next words. "Maybe he's been captured, or maybe it's what he wants us to think. Either way,

Lakesh ison his own ."

Brigid stared at him unblinkingly. "You don't mean that, Kane."

"Every damn syllable."

She kept staring at him. "You can pack up and run, but I'm going after him."

He shook his head gravely. "That's where you're mistaken, Baptiste. You're not going after him."

"Who'll stop me?"

She heard a click, the faint, brief drone of a tiny electric motor, and the solid slap of the butt of the Sin

Eater sliding into his palm.

Kane raised the big-bored handblaster. "Lakesh has put you in harm's way for the last time, Baptiste."

This one is for Terry Collins and our shared fondness for Old Man Schwump and Mrs. Mendelbright's

bureau which was shipped all the way fromFort Lauderdale .

A wanderer is man from his birth. He was born in a shipOn the breast of theriverofTime .

—Matthew Arnold

First edition March 1998

ISBN 0-373-63817-5

OMEGA PATH

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

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Books.

in part in any 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 inU.S.A.

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 inWashington,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 unknown masters and abandoned his friends.

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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 futurethreatened, 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

Lakesh awoke, strapped to a bench, sweating and nauseous from the drug. From beyond the

steel-riveted door came the sound of footsteps, faint voices,the odd scream.

He lay there for some time, staring at the damp ceiling, at its single lightbulb, wondering how bad things

would get and how soon they would begin. He didn't have to wait long before the door scraped open.

Two men stepped in. Without surprise, he saw one of them was Salvo. The other was a stocky,

blunt-featured Mag with a moon face. Because of the poor lighting and the residual of the drug creeping

through his system, he had to grope for the man's name. Finally he recognized him as Pollard. Both of

them were dressed in the pearl gray duty uniforms of Magistrates.

Salvo's teeth gleamed in the gloom. "How are we feeling?"

Lakesh said, as clearly as he could, "I'll only tell that to the baron."

Salvo chuckled. "If only it were as simple as that. However, if you could bring yourself to cooperate, I

might open certain avenues that would offer you a way out."

"A way out of what?"Lakesh demanded.

"A death sentence for sedition."

"You've assaulted me, imprisoned me and you dare to speak of sedition?"

"My powers are broad," Salvo replied softly, "with plenty of room for interpretation."

He paused, pursing his lips. "I am going to ask youquestions , some personal, others dealing with

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ideology."

"I will not answer any questions unless they are put to me by the baron."

Salvo made a spitting sound of impatience. "You're a difficult man to sympathize with. However, you are

worth more than even the baron imagines."

Lakesh turned his face away, staring again at the ceiling, at the feebly glowing lightbulb.

Pollard said, "Why don't we make it easier for him to think it over?"

Salvo nodded. "Lakesh, you know as well as I there's an easy way and hard way of getting things done.

Just for you, we'll dispense with the hard way."

Pollard leaned over him, inserting a key into the lock of the restraining straps. He opened them, flung

them away and hauled Lakesh to his feet by the front of his coverall. He stood there, temples throbbing,

belly lurching, heart thudding.

"Turn around," Pollard said. "Face the wall."

Slowly, unsteadily, Lakesh did as he was told."And now?"

"This."

Pollard kicked him effortlessly in the base of the spine. There wasn't enough room in the cell for him to

fall, and he slammed face-first into the wall. Blood ran in a rivulet from his nostrils, over his lips.

"Again," said Salvo pleasantly. "And again and again until he understands just how valuable he is."

Pushing himself away from the wall with one hand and mopping at the blood streaming from his nose

with a sleeve, Lakesh demanded, "Even if I learn to understand my value, how can I answer your

questions if I'm beaten senseless…or to death?"

Pollard, readyinghimself to launch another kick, hesitated, glancing over at Salvo. For a long, tense

moment, no one moved or spoke in the cell, or even appeared to breathe. Finally Salvo chuckled.

"Perhaps you're right. I can always resort to less personal methods, certainly ones that are less messy

and cause a great deal more pain than simply kicking you around. I'd hoped intimidation and the sight of

your own blood would serve, since I'm on a tight schedule. Please get back on the bench and we'll

proceed."

Lakesh didn't move, refusing to allow the fierce pain in his back to show on his face or the terror

mounting within him to be reflected in his eyes. A jumble of images circled in his mind: the fresh spring

morning in Kashmir when he had received his acceptance letter from MIT; the plea of his widowed

mother to stay in India; his broken promise that he would return when he received his doctorate; his

terrible bewilderment, his suffocating sense of betrayal when he glimpsed an Archon and learned the true

magnitude of the Totality Concept experiments; his one and only trip to New York City, attending the

musicalGuys and Dolls knowing full well that within a month the metropolis with its teeming millions, its

culture, its venues of entertainment and smut would be consumed by a nuclear holocaust. Luck would

never be a lady again.

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"Something amuses you?" Salvo's voice held an iron edge.

Only then did Lakesh realize he had smiled slightly. He didn't bother with a reply. The figure of Baron

Cobalt materialized in his mind—the baron, with his long limbs, graceful movements, golden eyes, high,

hairless head and hybrid bloodline.The man whom he loathed, the man whom he had deceived for years,

who represented the extinction of the human race, yet the only man who could save him from traveling an

agonizing road to death.

Lakesh found he was sweating with fear, heart trip-hammering within his narrow chest, adrenaline

coursing through his system like raging floodwaters. He could only speculate on the kind of readings his

bio-transponder was transmitting to the satellite uplink, then to the Cerberus redoubt.

He heard Pollard snicker. A jarring blow exploded a fireball of agony in his kidneys. Bile leaped up his

throat. Through the wave of nausea, he was only dimly aware of half-falling over the bench, fingers

scrabbling over the coarse wood, cheek scraping against a canvas strap.

Hands grabbed him under his armpits, heaved him up,turned him over. Lakesh resisted, but he was

unable to prevent Pollard from forcing him back down on the bench and binding him securely with the

restraining straps. As he struggled with Pollard, he half heard Salvo carefully instructing his subordinate to

make sure his head had no support. Pollard obligingly arranged him so that his head hung over the edge

of the bench.Pain spasmed in his neck.

"Now do you acknowledge your value?" Salvo's tone of voice was gentle, a mockery of sympathy.

Lakesh looked up into the man's dark eyes. They were deep pools of hatred, swirling with bright glints

of madness.

"I'm afraid you'll have to do more to convince me," he replied hoarsely.

Salvo nodded. "That has always been my intention."

Both Pollard and Salvo left the tiny cell, shutting and locking the door securely behind them. Lakesh

breathed deeply, not considering for a moment a cry for help. All he heard through the metal walls and

door were pleas for mercy and aid and even a repeated request to be allowed to die.

In the years he had served in Cobaltville's Administrative Monolith, he had never visited C Level, the

Magistrate Division, though it was just below B Level, the Historical Division, where he held the senior

archivist post.

He knew C Level possessed classrooms, a weapons range, a vast armory, dormitories, office suites and

a detention cell block, but he doubted that was where he was. At the bottom of E Level, the

manufacturing facility, he had heard there was a sealed-off section where convicted felons were held

pending execution.

Although ville laws were complex and often deliberately arbitrary, violators were never sentenced to a

term of imprisonment in the cell blocks. Locking away a criminal either for rehabilitation or punishment

was not part of the program.

Perpetrators of small crimes, those involved in petty thefts or low-level black marketeering in the

Tartarus Pits were sentenced to permanent exile in the Outlands.

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People convicted of crimes against the ville itself were served termination warrants and executed. If they

were suspected of participating in activities that fit the baron's exceptionally loose definition of sedition,

they were detained indefinitely, questioned incessantly, tortured inhumanely.

Lakesh had heard rumors of prisoners in the E Level section being flayed alive, their entrails unwrapped,

their bones carefully broken into many, many pieces. The practices reserved for women were particularly

vile. He had no idea if the rumors had any foundation, or if they were intentionally spread by the

Magistrates themselves to further their already fearsome reputations.

He had never summoned up the courage to ask either Grant or Kane about what went on in the E Level

cell blocks. The mere possibility that they would confirm the hushed whispers made him ill.

Thinking of them brought to mind Brigid Baptiste and Domi and their mission toIreland . He had

dispatched them there to test a theory, and he was less concerned about the results of the test than about

their safe return.

He had no doubt the subcutaneous biochip transponder at the base of his wrinkled throat would

continue to transmit his vital-signs data to the Cerberus monitoring station. The personnel there would be

driven half-mad with fright by the readings, but they could do nothing to help him. They were all exiles

from the network of villes. Although he had tried to break their farm-animal conditioning, they were still

academics, rabbits shrinking in fear from the shadows cast by the baronial hierarchy.

As former Magistrates, only Kane and Grant possessed the natural aptitude for violence that could

conceivably extricate him from the hands of Salvo. And they were gone, sent to a far corner of the

nuke-scarred globe, on a mission he had believed to be of utmost priority.

Rage and loathing filled him. He knew what Salvo wanted to know, and it was so simple really,

compared to what he could tell him. Salvo had bought into a piece of mole-data that Lakesh himself had

sent burrowing through the ville network some twenty years before.

Salvo was utterly convinced of the existence of an underground resistance movement called the

Preservationists. This was a group who allegedly followed a set of idealistic precepts to free humanity

from the bondage of the barons by revealing the hidden history of Earth.

Lakesh's lips twitched at the irony. The Preservationists were a fiction, a straw adversary he had crafted

for the barons to fear and chase after, while the real insurrectionist work proceeded elsewhere. He had

learned the techniques of mis- and disinformation many, many years ago while working as a project

overseer for the Totality Concept.

Salvo believed him to be a Preservationist, and that he had recruited Kane into their traitorous ranks.

Baron Cobalt had charged Salvo with the responsibility of apprehending Kane by any means he deemed

necessary, and Salvo was using the wide latitude he'd been given, a blanket endorsement that left him to

act without consultation.

Obviously Baron Cobalt knew nothing of it, and Lakesh accepted some of the blame for putting his head

in Salvo's noose. Posing as a slightly dotty pedant, he had assumed that his membership in the Trust, the

baron's inner circle, would continue to ensure his untouchable status. But when Kane had thrown his

entire ville-bred life away to save Brigid, an accused Preservationist, Lakesh should have known that

Salvo's suspicions would eventually focus on him.

Not only had he been Brigid's direct supervisor, but he also had a tendency to disappear from the ville

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for days on end. No one dared to ask him to account for his time. He believed himself to be utterly safe,

above direct reproach if not covert suspicion.

A few weeks before, when a seed of Intel had floated to him about an Archon operation inIdaho , the

possibility that it might be planted had never occurred to him. Salvo, as director of the Grudge Task

Force, had plantedit, Lakesh had dug it up and foolishly passed it on without scrutiny. The crop that

sprouted from the seed had very nearly resulted in Kane's apprehension and Brigid's postponed

execution.

Though they managed to escape Salvo's trap, the man's suspicions were confirmed—an intelligence

pipeline ran from Cobaltville and was fed, through a circuitous route, to Kane.

Lakesh tried to snort out a laugh, but only succeeded in blowing droplets of blood into the air. He

doubted Salvo had access to sophisticated instruments of torture. He could and would cause extreme

physical pain, but he would be unable to penetrate to the seat of his soul, where his true pain lived. He

had borne the pain for a very long time, and nothing Salvo did could possibly approach it in duration and

intensity.

The metal door rattled and scraped open. Pollard stepped in, carrying a heavy cast-iron electric

generator with a handle attached to the armature spindle. Salvo followed, shutting the door behind him.

"Sorry about the delay," he said. "Had a bit of difficulty convincing one of my officers to give up this

instrument. It was already in use."

Pollard placed the generator on the foot of the bench, removed two coils of wire from a pocket and

affixed them to the terminals. The ends of the wires were connected to a pair of small alligator clips.

Pollard thumbed them open and shut experimentally.

"Not very sophisticated," Lakesh murmured.

Salvo leaned over Lakesh, putting a hand on either side of his shoulders. He lowered his head to within a

few inches of his face. Very softly he said, "Let there be no mistake, old man. I have the means and the

inclination to hurt you very badly. It doesn't require sophisticated equipment. I shall hurt you and go on

hurting you until I receive satisfactory answers to my questions."

"You haven't asked me any yet."

"Then I'll begin," said Salvo dryly. "Who are the Preservationists? Where are they headquartered? How

many are there? Where can I find Kane?"

Lakesh had already worked out his answers. "I don't know."

Salvo pushed himself erect. "Not satisfactory.Not at all."

"I can't make anything more satisfactory than the truth."

Salvo smiled thinly and gave a go-ahead sign. "We'll see."

Pollard stepped forward, clips and wires in his right hand. With his left, he roughly unzipped the front of

Lakesh's pale green bodysuit,then attached the clips to his nipples. The steel teeth bit cruelly into the

tender flesh, but not a muscle quivered or an eyelid flicked in reaction to the pain.

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"Give him a taste," Salvo ordered, staring down.

Lakesh watched as Pollard turned the handle, slowly and methodically at first. He felt a tingling in the

area around the clips, but the sensation was not unpleasant. A smile creased Pollard's bulldog face, and

he gave the handle a fierce, fast crank.

Without warning, the pins-and-needles prickling became a dazzling concussion of agony, fire flaming

through his chest, searing its way through to his back. He felt clammy sweat spring out all over his body.

Faintly he heard himself gasp.

Salvo nodded sharply to Pollard, who immediately stopped turning the handle. He leaned down over

Lakesh. "There is much more, old man.Much worse. How much do you think you can take?"

Lakesh dragged in a shuddery breath but didn't answer.

"How long have you been a Preservationist?" demanded Salvo, his muddy brown eyesglinting. "Where

are they? Where is Kane?"

"I don't know."

Lips compressed in a tight white line of fury, Salvo gripped Lakesh's bodysuit and ripped it open, the

seams splitting to the crotch. He snatched the alligator clip from his right nipple, ripping the flesh in the

process. He clamped it with a vicious flourish to his penis. Lakesh twitched, clenching his teeth against

the biting pain.

"At your age," Salvo said in a gloating croon, "you should be happy to feel something down there."

Pollard spun the handle, the spindle noise rising to a high, screeching whine. Agony burst in sheets

through Lakesh's loins, boring deep into his testicles. As if driven by thunderbolts, his pinioned body

arched up off the bench, straining against the straps, then slammed down again. He writhed and

convulsed, drenched in pain. Sweat ran from every pore. The pain suddenly ceased. He kept his eyes

tightly closed and he heard nothing but the sobbing rasp of his own breathing.

Very close to his right ear, Salvo said thoughtfully, "I'm sure a man as educated as you doesn't view

torture as an effective means of coercion. What you may not understand is how very difficult it is for a

proud man—like you, for instance—to maintain his dignity when his entire universe becomes one of

never ending pain.

"You come to realize that your self-image is all bravado, a persona, a sham, particularly when every

function of your body is controlled by others. The humiliation is sometimes worse than the pain itself. Did

you know that after a few more exposures to the voltage you'll lose control of your bladder and your

bowels? You'll be wallowing in your own piss and shit, worse than any slagjacker in the lowest squat of

the Pits. Even if you want to answer my questions, you'll find it easier to scream. In fact, that will be the

only reason you'll find to keep breathing…just so you can scream."

By degrees, Lakesh turned his head in the direction of Salvo's voice. He cracked open his eyelids. The

man's smirking face filled his field of vision. His lips worked, he coughed up from deep in his lungs and

spit a mixture of phlegm and saliva into where he thought Salvo's eyes would be. He had no idea if he hit

his target.

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Filling his chest with air, Lakesh began to sing, as loudly and as earnestly as he could. Even in his own

ears, he knew he was hopelessly off-key."'Luck be a lady, luck be a lady, lucky be a lady tooo-night!'"

The handle of the generator spun, and an endless wave of scorching pain swept his song into screaming

fragments.

Chapter 2

Berlin, the Reich's Chancellery

April 30, 1945

Domi felt nothing, saw nothing, floating alone ina nothingness so vast and deep that it far exceeded her

grasp of the concept of eternity.

She knew she wasn't dead, but she felt like a spirit or a ghost, wafting naked among the colorless gulfs

of nonexistence. She experienced several emotions more or less simultaneously—fear, anger,then grief.

Primarily she felt confusion.

Domi remembered stepping into the shimmering veil of light produced by the interphaser, but she

couldn't recollect if that action had been a moment ago or a year.Or a century or even an aeon. If she

were dead, surely she should remember her death and how it came about.

She screamed, but she couldn't hear it, not even an echoing murmur in the sea of silence. Then she

sensed the currents, pulsing and running through the void, like filaments of a spiderweb, lacing the whole

of infinity together.

One of the currents caught her, and she rode it. She slid with it, a mad plummet with no sense of

direction, motion or destination. Then she floated down from the ceiling.

She took a slow look around the cube like room, with its walls of mortared stone blocks feebly lit by a

single naked lightbulb. The furnishings were few—worn chairs, a scarred wooden table scattered with

papers and maps. Books were stacked against one wall. For all its clutter, the room had the look of

temporary occupancy. No pictures hung on the walls, there were no windows and there was a total lack

of personal items.

It did have a sofa, with a dead woman lying on it, though. Domi knew she was dead without looking at

the small glass bottle lying on the floor next to her outstretched hand. Her face, peaceful in repose, was

youthful and fairly attractive, despite her unflattering hairstyle.

Somehow Domi managed to move to the heavy closed door. Through it, she dimly heard the crumping

detonations of heavy artillery and the steadyboom-boom of exploding bombs. Gunfire crackled

sporadically, distantly, but with a nerve-racking rhythm.

Domi reached out for the doorknob and realized with a numb shock that she couldn't see her hand. She

knew she was standing there in front of it, but apparently hovering a couple feet above the floor.

The door suddenly opened, pulled from the outside.Framed within the doorway stood the small figure of

a man in a starched, brownish tan uniform. He paused and stared directly at her. She shrank from his

intense, penetrating eyes. They were all-seeing eyes, but they didn't see her,A lank lock of black hair

curved down over his forehead, and a small square mustache smudged the area between his nose and

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upper lip.

Domi knew his name, although she had no idea how she knew it.

Adolf Hitler spoke over his shoulder in a language alien to her, but one she understood nevertheless.

"I am ready, Colonel."

He stepped into the room, steadfastly not looking at the corpse of the woman on the sofa. He was

followed a heartbeat later by a tall, cadaverously thin shape in a black, overly decorated uniform. A Sam

Browne belt crossed from his left shoulder to his right hip, buckled to a holster holding a square-butted

handblaster.

Domi stared at him, not quite sure if she was looking at a man or something posing as one. His

high-boned face was very pale, with sharp cheekbones and a jutting chin. A high-peaked cap sat at a

jaunty angle on his hairless head. A silver skull-and-crossbones emblem glinted on the front of the cap.

Shining against the lapels of the black collar were two silver pins, resembling twin lightning strokes.

His ears were very small and delicately shaped, nestled close to the skull. A pair of dark, curve-lensed

sunglasses masked his eyes. His sensually shaped, chalk-colored lips barely moved as he said, "As you

wish."

The man deftly unholstered the pistol, snapping back the slide with his left hand to chamber a round. At

theclick-clack of sound, Hitler spun around, mouth falling open in astonishment and fear. He stared at the

hollow bore of the Walther P-38, and the momentary fear in his eyes was swamped by a wave of

awesome arrogance, fueled by an equally awesome ego.

"How dare you?" he demanded, his voice rising to a shrill, strident cry. "I have kept our covenant,

observed our pact! You are to see to my escape!"

The black-uniformed cadaver inclined his head in a short, taunting bow."Too true, and so I shall. Thereis

no more certain an escape than death."

Hitler's mouth worked, spittle flecking his lips. "I have served our cause faithfully—world power or ruin!"

"You certainly managed the latter,"came the cold reply. "Unfortunately the agreement was to gain the

former. The Thousand Year Reich is dust."

Hitler stabbed out with a shaking forefinger. "I always obeyed yourbidding, I always followed the terms

of the Directive!"

"That is a transparent untruth, Führer. If you had followed the terms, the Russians and the Americans

would not be within shooting distance of this bunker."

Hitler tried to square his shoulders beneath his uniform jacket. "Your own failures to understand

humanity and their concepts of personal freedom led to this. You have made the penalty for your failure

my death."

The man in black tilted his head at a quizzical angle. "I am not meting out a penalty or a punishment.

Your death will serve our cause. If a corpse is provided for identification, even if that identification is

disputed, then the Allied search for you will not impede the progress of the program."

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James Axler - Outlander 04 - Omega Path

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