Axler, James - Outlander 05 - Parallax Red

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James Axler - Parallax Red

Parallax Red

James Axler

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 June 1998 ISBN 0-373-63818-3

PARALLAX RED

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.

<S> 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.

We dance on the angle, From the edges we dangle and circle the parallax square— When the fires of night consume us,

we've gone only so far as we dare.

—"Millennium Fever," by Gavin Nebraska published by Explorer Press, Mt. Airy, NC, Dec. 2000

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 locational

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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 consoli-dated their power and reclaimed

technology for the villes. Their power, supported by some invisible author-ity,

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 expedi-tion. A displaced piece of technology...a question to a keeper of

the archives...a vague clue about alien mas-ters—and their world shifted radically.

Suddenly, Brigid

Baptiste, the archivist, faced summary execution, and Grant a quick termination. For

Kane there was forgive-ness 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 mysteri-ous 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 threat-ened, 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.

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Chapter 1

Washington, D.C., had been dead for a very long time. How long and what had killed it

was still a matter of conjecture.

In predark days, some opinionated and learned peo-ple put forth persuasive arguments

that Washington, the capital city of the most powerful nation on earth, had expired

spiritually and morally sometime after World War II. The means of death was

attributed to a confusing variety of blunt political instruments, wielded either by

liberals or conservatives, foreign in-terests or government bureaucrats themselves.

The arguments and accusations ceased abruptly on January 20, 2001, at 12:00 p.m.

EST. The one-megaton blast in Washington, D.C., on a presidential-inaugu-ration

Saturday, pretty much decided the question of the city's living or dead status. The

detonation of two other nuclear warheads in and around the District of Columbia left no

leeway for further debate. The citi-zens of Washington, D.C., liberal, conservative,

inde-pendent or apathetic, perished so thoroughly it was a question for statisticians

whether they had ever lived at all. Of course, the question was never addressed

be-cause no statisticians remained to conduct the neces-sary surveys.

The complete and utter destruction of the city began a chain reaction, and by 12:03 p.m.

World War III was in motion. Within the next six hours, the face of the world

disappeared beneath soaring fireballs and vast mushroom clouds. By the end of that

Saturday after-noon, the nuclear winter began. Massive quantities of pulverized rubble

had been propelled into the atmo-sphere, clogging the sky for a generation, blanketing

all of earth in a thick cloud of radioactive dust, ash, debris, smoke and fallout.

The exchange of atomic missiles did more than slaughter most of Earth's inhabitants. It

distorted the ecosystems that were not completely obliterated and sculpted the face of

the planet into a perverted parody of what it had been.

After eight generations, the lingering effects of the holocaust and the nuclear winter

were more subtle, an underlying texture to a world struggling to heal itself— except in

Washington, D.C., where the injuries had never healed, but simply scabbed over.

Only a vast sea of fused black glass occupied the tract of land that once held the seat of

American gov-ernment. Seen from a distance, the crater lent the re-gion the name by

which it had been known for nearly two centuries. Washington Hole was a hellzone,

still jolted by ground tremors and soaked by the intermittent flooding of Potomac Lake.

A volcano, barely an infant in geological terms, had burst up from the rad-blasted

ground. The peak dribbled a constant stream of foul-smelling smoke, mixing with the

chem-tainted rain clouds to form a wispy umbrella stinking of sulfur and chlorine.

The smell was so cloying and so fetid that new ar-rivals found it necessary to wear

respiration masks until they grew accustomed to it. Of course, there weren't many new

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arrivals. The shanty towns that once ringed the outskirts of Washington Hole had been

razed long ago, during the first year of the Program of Unification. Most of their

inhabitants had succumbed to rad sick-ness years before. The former District of

Columbia fell under the jurisdiction of Sharpeville, and the baron was not inclined to

abandon any piece of his territory to squatters, even those that he would have had

difficulty giving away.

Although the center of Washington and all of its sub-urbs had dissolved in the first

three minutes of the nukecaust, the outer rim still contained a few crumbling ruins.

Beyond the shells of buildings lay an expanse of rolling tableland, broken by ranges of

hills. To the north rose a rampart of tumbled stones.

The landscape lay dead, lifeless, except for an ad-vancing mechanical movement.

Stenz slid back the Sandcat's canopy and poked his helmeted head out, inhaling a whiff

of the astringent air. Coughing, he fought back his gag reflex and re-sisted the impulse

to rub his irritated mucus mem-branes. Sweat flowed like water down his cheeks. He

endured the discomfort silently. A Magistrate who had twice been cited for meritorious

service had to en-dure—at least that was the constant claim of Ericson, his division

commander.

The Sandcat churned its way across the flatlands, twin plumes of grit curving up from

the clattering metal tracks. The controlled roar of the 750-horsepower en-gine sounded

uncomfortably loud, even through the polystyrene lining of his helmet.

Built to serve as a FAV, or Fast Attack Vehicle, rather than a means of long-distance

ground transpor-tation, the Sandcat had a low-slung, blunt-lined chassis supported by a

pair of flat, retractable tracks. An ar-mored topside gun turret concealed a pair of

USMG-73 heavy machine guns. The wag's armor was composed of a ceramic-

armaglass bond which offered a shield against both intense and ambient radiation.

The interior comfortably held four people. At the front of the compartment, right

beneath the canopy, were the pilot's and co-pilot's chairs. In the rear, a double row of

three jump seats faced each other. Four Magistrates in full armor stared at each other,

anxious for the nine-hour journey to end and their mission to commence.

Stenz was anxious for it, too, but only because the air-recycling system in the Cat

wasn't working at max-imum efficiency. When1 he opened the canopy, he hoped for a

fresh breeze, but he wasn't particularly surprised when he was disappointed.

Below, from the pilot's chair, Presky called up, "Sir, we've got a midrange-orange rad

count. You shouldn't be exposing yourself any longer than necessary."

Stenz did not respond, either to the young man's words or to his tone of agitation.

Presky had only been awarded his duty badge last year and had never been outside the

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walls of Sharpeville. As a Magistrate, he was still a cherry, not used to the rigors of

duty or wearing the black polycarbonate battle armor for a longer period than weapons

drills. He obviously wasn't accustomed to traveling through a hellzone, sharing

cramped, poorly ventilated quarters with five other men.

Stenz forced a bitter smile. It was a new experience for him, too. He had served in

Sharpeville's Magistrate Division for the past eighteen years, and though his hair had

gone gray and his face become scarred in its service, he had never been assigned to

penetrate the dark territories of Washington Hole. The D.C.-New Jersey-New York

Corridor comprised the largest and most dangerous hellzone. All of the Eastern

Seaboard had been hard-nuked, but Washington Hole was still the most active hot spot

in the country.

Ericson had briefed him on the whats and wherefores of the op, but the whys were still

incomplete. Stenz wasn't sure if he didn't prefer it that way.

According to Ericson, all of the nine baronies in the ville network were engaged in a

cooperative mission— to recce the redoubts in their individual territories for any recent

signs of use or entrance.

Stenz had been stunned into dumbfounded silence when Ericson blandly mentioned the

redoubts. Anyone who served in one of the ville divisions had heard whispers about the

redoubts, the Continuity of Govern-ment stockpiles, perhaps even caught a murmured

word here and there about the scientific marvels they con-tained.

Over the course of postnukecaust generations, strange stories, rumors, campfire tales

circulated about these bizarre places buried deep in what were known as the Deathlands

The legends claimed these subter-ranean enclaves were stuffed with breathtaking

tech-nological treasure troves. It was even hinted that these redoubts provided escape

routes to some happy land, lying beyond the scoured hellscape of the continental

United States.

When Ericson, his pale gray eyes as cold as his voice, confirmed matter-of-factly that

the folk tales had a basis in reality, Stenz's stomach slipped sideways. He went on to

state that a major component of the Program of Unification had been the seeking out

and securing of all redoubts within the territories of the villes. Anyone who spoke of

having knowledge of them, even based on hearsay, was ruthlessly hunted down and

exterminated. Inside of a generation, tales of the redoubts were suppressed to such an

extent that they became baseless legends, much as stories about Atlantis and Avalon

had been dismissed in earlier cen-turies.

Stenz felt no pride that he was being allowed to share a dark secret of humanity's past.

Fear filled him as Ericson told him more things he would have rather not known. He

mentioned the Totality Concept, an um-brella designation for supersecret American

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military re-searches into many different arcane and eldritch sci-ences, working to

ensure the safety of the United States against all aggressors. Stenz didn't voice his

opinion if that was the stated aim, then the program had failed miserably.

One of these esoteric researches involved matter transmission, relying on a device

known as a gateway. Ericson provided him with a thumbnail description of its function,

though Stenz didn't comprehend it to any meaningful degree.

Project Cerberus, a subdivision of the Totality Con-cept, dealt with the mat-trans

gateways. Ericson claimed the project's purpose was to explore the pos-sibilities of

mass teleportation of surplus population.

Stenz couldn't help but ask, "Teleport them to where?"

Ericson shrugged and spoke of colonizing planets in the solar system without requiring

the time and money of the predark space program.

When Stenz asked him if such an undertaking had been accomplished before the

nukecaust, Ericson re-plied bleakly, "I don't know."

Despite his growing fear, Stenz had felt a bit sorry for him—sorry for a man who

seemed to know so much, yet still didn't know enough.

Regardless of whether the goals of Project Cerberus had been achieved, a gateway unit

had been installed in every Totality Concept redoubt. The installation near Washington

Hole had been code-named Redoubt Papa.

Stenz's assignment was to go there. Ericson had pro-vided him with the information of

how to gain entrance to the redoubt and check the mat-trans gateway control systems.

He left it up to Stenz to handpick the Mags to accompany him on the journey to ground

zero.

Because of the unpredictable geothermals in the re-gion, Ericson deemed the trip too

risky to make by air. After all, men were easier to replace than Deathbirds. To blunt

any objection that Stenz might lodge, Ericson had employed his own personal cliche:

"A Magistrate must endure."

Although Ericson didn't mention the reasons behind the op beyond the fact it sprang

from a recent council of the nine barons, Stenz had heard rumors. In fact, the

Magistrate Divisions were wellsprings of rumor. Intel officers would pass on scraps of

information to a friend, and that friend would pass it on to someone else, like a covert

relay race.

When the scraps reached Stenz, he found them too fantastic to believe but too

disturbing to ignore. Some months back, a couple of Mags in Cobaltville had fused out,

gone renegade and disappeared. Less than two weeks ago, they had returned and

kidnapped a high-ranking archivist, allegedly right under the nose of Baron Cobalt.

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Combining that rumor with his assign-merit, Stenz came to the conclusion that the

turncoat Mags knew about the gateways and used them to elude apprehension.

Magistrates had deserted and bolted for the fragile freedom offered by the Outlands

before. It rarely hap-pened, but it wasn't unprecedented. In this instance, Stenz had

heard murmurs of the involvement of the Preservationists, a shadowy conspiracy whose

alleged objective was to overthrow the baronies.

That could be the only reason for the mission to Redoubt Papa, but Stenz made no

mention of this to Ericson. His commander hadn't said that the informa-tion he had

imparted was classified, under threat of termination if he ever spoke of it. He didn't

have to say it—Stenz picked up the implication from the man's eyes, voice and bearing.

As it was, he couldn't help but wonder how long he would live after completing the op

and returning to Sharpeville.

Now Stenz tried to ignore his fear, just like he tried to ignore the stink of the hellzone.

He focused his gaze on the great heap of tumbled stone lying at the foot of a slope

several hundred yards away. Impatiently he brushed sand particles away from his

helmet's visor.

Presky slowed the Sandcat, steadily applying the brakes. Stenz's eyes traveled up the

huge chunks of rock and concrete, seeking the vanadium sec door Eric-son had briefed

him about. It was situated inside a rock-ribbed hollow about halfway up the slope.

Clumps of scraggly brush grew around it, masking the depres-sion so effectively it was

only by chance he glimpsed the dull reflection of light against the smooth alloy.

Stenz dropped back down into his seat as Presky brought the wag to a complete halt.

He glanced at the rad counter on the instrument panel. The glowing scar-let arrow

wavered erratically across the scale, ticking uncomfortably close to the red band.

Presky keyed off the engine, and Stenz announced sharply, "Disembark." His command

was transmitted through the helmet transceivers.

The four Magistrates in the jump seats obeyed his order without comment, climbing out

through the rear storage hatch. Presky flung open the gull-wing door on the driver's side

and stepped out. All five of them formed a line in front of the Sandcat, standing stiffly

at attention.

Stenz surveyed them swiftly, silently. All of them— Miller, Hughes, Lewis, DeCampo

and Presky—wore the black polycarbonate body armor. The lightweight exoskeletons

fit snugly over undersheathings made of Kevlar weave. Small disk-shaped badges of

office were emblazoned on the arching left pectoral, depicting the stylized, balanced

scales of justice superimposed over nine-spoked wheels. The badges symbolized the

Mag-istrate's oath to keep the wheels of justice turning in the nine villes.

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Like the armor, their helmets were made of black polycarbonate, and fitted over the

upper half and back of the head, leaving only a portion of the mouth and chin exposed.

The red-tinted visors were composed of electrochemical polymers and connected to a

passive night sight that intensified ambient light to permit one-color night vision.

Stenz snapped, "Lock and lock."

In unison, the Magistrates raised their right arms, bending them at the elbow. They

extended their index fingers. Five tiny electric motors whined as they tensed their wrist

tendons. Sensitive actuators activated flex-ible cables in the forearm holsters and

snapped the Sin

Eaters smoothly into gloved hands. Since the big-bored automatic handblasters had no

trigger guards or safe-ties, the pistols fired immediately upon the touch of crooked

index fingers.

They stood quietly, barrels pointed toward the lead-colored sky. Though they were too

disciplined to show it, Stenz knew they were all worried about the high rad count. He

nodded, not in approval of their silent ac-ceptance of the risks, but in acknowledgment.

"I'll take the point. Let's move out."

He clambered up the pile of lichen-patched stone. Though Ericson hadn't said so, he

figured the massive slabs and chunks of rock had once been the upper floors of a

multilevel complex. Sheared-away reinforc-ing rods jutted out of the edges of some

pieces like rusty, skeletal fingers.

A tiny six-legged lizard, its skin bleached a dingy brown, flopped sluggishly out of his

path. Its eyes were covered by a gelatinous film. Stenz inhaled sharply at the sight of

the mutated reptile. The acrid air seared his throat, and it took a great effort not to

succumb to a coughing fit.

The climb was not particularly rugged because the heaps of fallen rock and concrete

formed a crude stair-way. Beneath a shelf of granite stood the wide sec door. As

Ericson had described, a square keypad was positioned within the recessed double

frame. Taking and holding a deep breath, he punched in the three-digit entrance code, 3-

5-2.

Stenz released his breath when a grinding, squeaking sound of buried hydraulics and

gears began to build. He stepped back, eyeing the shuddering portal ner-vously. The

vibration triggered miniavalanches in the surrounding stone, small pebbles pattering

down amid sifting showers of grit.

Though he couldn't be positive, the laborious groan-ing of the mechanisms indicated

that the door hadn't opened in a long time, perhaps not since before the oukecaust.

Like a curtain of steel, the massive door slowly inched upward. With a squealing grate

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of rust breaking free and a prolonged pneumatic hiss, it slid into slots between the

double frame channels. Solenoids snapped loudly as they caught and held. The

rumbling, grinding ■oise ceased abruptly. The Magistrates behind him drew back

uncertainly.

A wide, square corridor yawned on the other side of the threshold. Inadequately lit by a

single light strip stretching along the center of the ceiling, the glow was a dim, misty

white. Stenz saw an undisturbed layer of dust covering the floor.

He activated the tiny image enhancer on the forepart of his helmet. The corridor leaped

into clear, sharp, one-color focus. A musty odor tickled his nostrils. Feeling the

pressure of the eyes of the squad on his back, Stenz squared his shoulders and took the

first step beneath the sec door and into Redoubt Papa. The Mag-istrates followed him,

fanning out across the passage-way in the standard wedge deployment of personnel and

firepower.

Stenz wasn't surprised that the overhead light still functioned. He'd been told that the

redoubts were pow-ered by nuclear generators, which were buried in the deepest part of

the installations, just like the mat-trans gateways. As he walked along, heel to toe, he

kept alert for any sign of a stairwell or an elevator shaft.

The corridor turned sharply to the left. Splits and bulges showed in the walls and

ceiling where the vana-dium alloy had buckled. Redoubt Papa may not have received a

direct strike, but even a thermonuclear near miss had come very close to collapsing it.

Stenz suddenly froze, gesturing behind him for the squad to halt. The patina of dust

filming the floor showed markings, but they were so unlike footprints he couldn't

quickly identify them.

Easing down to one knee, he silently cursed the fee-ble light. As he gazed at the marks,

he felt his heart suddenly trip-hammer inside his polycarbonate-encased chest. A cold

hand seemed to stroke the buttons of his spine.

The prints were small, like a child's, but they didn't look like feet. They resembled the

impressions made by distorted, malformed hands, with all the fingers the same length

and a stubby thumb crooked at a forty-five-degree angle. He experienced a momentary

irra-tional suspicion that a gang of mutie children had bro-ken into the complex and

walked around on their hands simply to bewilder any Mags that might stop by one day.

Stenz knew that the prints were recent and, judging by the other markings, whoever

made them had alter-nately pulled and pushed a heavy object. Double rows of straight

lines cutting through the dust suggested wheels.

He rose to his feet, whispering, "Triple red."

Moving forward again, he cautiously peered down unlit side passages before passing

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them. After a dozen yards, the corridor dead-ended at a closed sec door, the green

control lever on the frame in the down position.

Turning to Presky, he said quietly, "I'll throw the switch. You stand ready."

Stenz stepped into the corner between the frame and the wall and gripped the lever in

his left hand. He waited until the rest of the squad shifted around the corridor so they

could fire without hitting Presky.

The lever was stiff, but Stenz wrenched it up. Presky Icnsed as the squeaking hiss of

hydraulics filled the passageway, holding his Sin Eater in a two-fisted grip.

The slab of vanadium alloy slid upward far more smoothly than the main entrance door.

Stenz was dis-mayed by that, knowing it meant the sec door had been operated in the

recent past.

The door's upward progress stopped, clicking into yhce. The squeal of the lifting

mechanism faded and seemed to blend with a new sound—a faint, high-pitched whine

so distant that Stenz couldn't really be certain he heard it.

Presky thrust his head forward. "Nothing. No lights. All dark. Can't see a thing."

Stenz began to step away from the lever when he felt a tingling, pins-and-needles

sensation all over his body, as if he were skirting a low-level electrical field. The

tingling became a prickle. The fine hairs all over his body seemed to vibrate, to bristle.

The air pulsed Kke the beating of a gigantic, invisible heart.

Presky opened his mouth and half shouted, "I see a light—"

With a ripping whiplash sound, the door seemed to gush a torrent of blood. A wavering

funnel of intoler-ably bright crimson light washed from the darkness and spiashed over

Presky. For an instant, his body swayed as if he stood in the path of a stiff wind. He

rocked back on his heels. In the space of a heartbeat, his armor bubbled like boiling tar,

then flapped away in black streamers, splattering the walls and floor with thick,

semiliquid tendrils.

The twenty 9 mm rounds in the magazine of his Sin Eater exploded simultaneously in a

flare of flame and an eardrum-jarring concussion. Presky didn't fall. His body flowed,

smearing itself across the floor like a vis-cous ebony pudding bearing only the vaguest

sugges-tion of a human outline.

Stenz stood wedged between the door frame and the wall, paralyzed by terror and

shock. His eyes watched Presky ooze over the corridor, and his ears heard moist,

slithery sounds as the man's jellied remains stretched slowly along the passageway.

Then all the Magistrates began to scream, to curse, to retreat in panic. Stenz slammed

down the lever in a spasmodic movement, but the sec door didn't drop. Hughes and

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JamesAxler-ParallaxRedParallaxRedJamesAxlerIfyoupurchasedthisbookwithoutacoveryoushouldbeawarethatthisookisstolenproperty.Itwasreportedas"unsoldanddestroyed"tothepublisher,andneithertheauthornorthepublisherhasreceivedanypaymentforthis"strippedbook."FirsteditionJune1998ISBN0-373-63818-3PARALLAXRED...

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