James Axler - Deathlands 021 - The Twilight Children

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The Twilight Children (Deathlands)

by James Axler

Chapter One

The cold fingers of fog were drifting away, out of Ryan Cawdor's brain.

The one constant thing that someone could safely say about making a matter-transfer jump was that

there was no constant thing about making a jump. Sometimes there were dreams during the period of

unconscious blackness, gibbering nightmares more often than sweet dreams. Sometimes there was no

sensation of time passing at all. The mind closed down and then opened up again like a parched

flower during a spring rain, with no awareness that anything at all had happened-except the one

certainty that the complex machine, dating back nearly a hundred years, to the last days before

the nuclear holocaust devastated the Earth, would definitely have taken you somewhere different.

It could be a hundred miles away, or it could be ten thousand miles to another of the so-called

gateways that had been built and buried in one of the chain of triple-secure military complexes

known as redoubts.

The trouble with jumping was that you had no control over the destination. All the instructions

had vanished during the nuking and the long winters that followed, and every living person who

might once have known was long, long dead.

Most mat-trans jumps left you feeling like someone had sliced the top of your skull off, scrambled

the soft tissues inside, then jammed the lid back on. It also churned up your guts like you'd been

strapped under a war wag going flat out across forty miles of bad road.

As Ryan lurched back toward waking, he was aware that this particular jump hadn't been too bad.

"Some you lose and some you draw," he muttered.

When he'd locked the sec door on the chamber in the redoubt in Kansas, triggering the mechanism,

everyone there had been holding hands, and the armaglass walls had been a virulent shade of cherry

red.

Now his hands were free.

Several jumps ago something had gone horrifically wrong, and Ryan and his six companions had all

ended in different destinations, only getting back together by a mix of judgment and luck.

Ryan opened his good eye.

The walls in this gateway were a dull, indeterminate shade of gray, closer to black than white.

The metallic disks dotted across the floor and the ceiling had resumed their usual color, and the

white mist that often flooded the chamber during a jump had vanished.

Everyone was there.

Krysty Wroth, next to him, lay sprawled against a wall, her brilliantly red, sentient hair packed

tight across her shoulders, crowding onto her nape as though it were trying to protect her.

His eleven-year-old son, Dean, was halfway across Krysry's lap, his eyes squeezed shut, moaning

softly, looking like he'd be next to recover consciousness.

Nineteen-year-old Michael Brother was doubled over, his knees drawn up in the fetal position, a

tiny thread of scarlet blood at the corner of his mouth, as though he might have nipped his tongue

during the jump.

J. B. Dix, Ryan's oldest friend and armorer to the group, was also beginning to stir, muttering in

his sleep. His normally sallow face was even more pale than usual. Without his glasses, his eyes

looked oddly naked and unprotected. His scattergun was at his side, his Uzi clutched to his chest.

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Mildred Wyeth was next. The black doctor was breathing very heavily, her mouth sagging open, her

left hand gripping J.B.'s right.

The last of the seven friends was Doctor Theophi-lus Algernon Tanner, who was stretched out next

to Ryan, flat on his back, his hands folded across his stomach, holding the gold-plated J. E. B.

Stuart Le Mat blaster.

Normally it was Doc who had the biggest problem in using the mat-trans system. Even at the best of

times his brain was a touch unreliable, and the pressures of jumping sometimes pushed him a few

inches closer to the edge.

On occasion it had even pushed him completely into the abyss of insanity.

Ryan looked at the wrinkled face, the silvery stubble showing through the leathery skin.

It wasn't that surprising that Doc often found h'fe in the last part of the twenty-first century

hard to bear.

He'd been born in South Strafford, Vermont, on February 14 in the year of Our Lord, 1868, and was

married to Emily Chandler twenty-three years later on June 17. Had two children-Rachel, born in

the second year of their marriage, and little Jolyon, born to the happy parents two years later.

In November of 1896 Doc had been in Omaha, Nebraska. In a nanosecond he was transported to a

laboratory in a discreet and heavily guarded building somewhere in Virginia, one hundred and two

years later.

It was a time of extreme fragility and suspicion in international relations, and the United States

of America had poured limitless squillions of dollars into the ultrasecret Totality Project, which

explored arcane and esoteric possibilities for future warfare.

One of its subdivisions was Overproject Whisper, which, in its turn, had spawned numerous other

research missions. One, Cerberus, involved the transfer of matter from one location to another,

which became known as "jumping."

Another research mission was called Operation Chronos and focused on time trawling.

Chronos had some spectacular and hideously disgusting failures. Not many of their targets ever

arrived in the year 2000 either physically or mentally whole. Some simply disappeared.

But Doc arrived-mentally scarred, but he arrived and lived.

However, they had picked a bad subject. Doc wouldn't sit quiet under their battery of tests and

interrogation, insisting on trying by every means necessary to try to rejoin his wife and family.

In the end, the faceless military scientists got rid of him. They sent him forward in time, to the

heart of Deathlands, where he came close to death before being rescued by Ryan Cawdor.

Michael Brother was also one of the tiny number of successfully trawled victims of Chronos, helped

into the dubious future by Ryan and the others.

In the late 1900s he'd been taken as a baby into a closed-monastic order near Visalia in the

Sierras. He'd spent all of his life as an oblate within the serene community of Nil-Vanity, then

was sucked away by Chronos into the late part of the next century.

Mildred was also from the past.

But time trawling wasn't responsible for her being stuck in Deathlands.

Born in 1964, Mildred had become one of the country's leading experts on cryogenics and cryosur-

gery, the science of medical freezing. Ironically, at the age of thirty-six she'd gone into

hospital for routine minor surgery.

Which had gone wrong.

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She'd been frozen, deeply unconscious, not long before the missiles darkened the skies of the

world and civilization came to a grinding halt.

Not with a whimper, but with a megabang. ' During the exploration of one of the concealed

redoubts, Ryan and his friends had come across Mildred, sealed away, her life-support system

of the living.

"Feel sick, Dad."

"Hang on, Dean. Just try to sit up and keep your head still. If 11 pass."

J.B. was also coming around.

His first movement was to fumble his fingers over the stock of the Uzi, then reach down for the

Smith & Wesson M-4000 shotgun on the floor.

"Not too bad, as jumps go," he said, his voice sounding hoarse. "You okay, Ryan?"

"Yeah. Wasn't a bad one."

Krysty sighed and opened her emerald eyes, turning to Ryan and giving him a lazy, jump-stoned

smile. "Hi, lover. Once again we made it with nothing worse than a nauseous headache."

He stood, reaching a hand down to help her to her feet. The heels of her dark blue Western boots

skidded a moment, but Ryan steadied her.

Dean and J.B. were also up, stretching, easing the kinks out of their spines.

Michael was coming around, his eyes blinking fast, his head shaking from side to side. "Hey," he

said, "I

don't feel too bad. We did jump, didn't we?" He looked at the sludge-colored walls. "Oh, yeah.

They were red last time, weren't they?"

Only Mildred and Doc were still unconscious.

"Can't feel much." Krysty closed her eyes and took a dozen slow, deep breaths. "No. Air tastes

like it generally does. Flat and... There's a kind of bitter, chemical smell to it, though. Least

it's not corpses Like the last place."

Mildred sneezed, making them all start. "Bless me." She shook her head, the tiny beads in her

plaited hair clicking softly against one another.

"All right?" the Armorer asked, never a man to use three words when two would do the job.

"Think so." She looked inward for a moment. "Yes. Not too bad. Must be one of the better jumps. I

suppose we really have... Walls were that screaming red last time, weren't they? Not sure this

gray's much improvement."

Now everyone was up but Doc, who slept on, oblivious to the six friends gathered around him.

Mildred put her index finger against his throat, checking his pulse. "Slow but not that slow," she

announced.

J.B. was examining the walls of the gateway chamber. "You notice this, Ryan?"

"What?"

"Sort of careless built."

Ryan looked more closely and saw what J.B. meant. The sheets of armaglass didn't quite match up,

and some kind of sealant had been pushed into the gaps.

One of the walls was cracked, and two of the ceiling disks were actually hanging loose.

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"Yeah. That's the first time I've ever noticed anything like that."

"Last year's loving, bitter, still remains," said a familiar deep, resonant voice.

Ryan turned. "Doc's on his way back out of the darkness," he said.

"There is no memory of her here." Doc's eyes bunked open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling,

gradually returning to focus on the walls and the six faces looking down at him. "Upon my soul, my

dear friends, I wondered when we seven would meet again. And here we are, but not upon a blasted

heath. A bastard wreath. Last teeth." He struggled to sit up, helped by Mildred and J.B. "Have we

successfully completed our jump? I see we have, from the change in hue. But I confess that I fed

less sickly than is usual at such moments. Perhaps I am finally building a tolerance to such

events."

"We all feel better than we normally do after a jump." Ryan looked around. "If we're all okay to

go, we can take a look at where we've finished up."

He didn't need to tell them all to draw their blasters.

Coming out of the gateway was one of the potentially triple-red scenarios in Deathlands. But this

time was oddly different.

Chapter Two

Normally there was a small anteroom immediately off the actual mat-trans chamber. The size varied

a little from redoubt to redoubt, but they were usually somewhere around ten feet square, plainly

decorated, mostly unfurnished.

This time it was simply a cave, roughly hewn from bare stones, a dull gray rock lined with narrow

seams of shimmering green quartz. The ceiling was less than eight feet high, and the walls were

only about six feet apart. Other than a patina of very fine dusty sand, it was empty.

Michael Brother ran his finger down the stone. "Still got the marks of the chisel," he said.

"Looks like it was done only yesterday."

"Must've been one of the last redoubts to be built before skydark," J.B. suggested.

Nobody had ever known how many of the massive military fortresses had been constructed during the

last years of international tension before nuke-day came and went. When Ryan had ridden with the

Trader they'd been lucky enough to come across several.

One in the Apps had contained several mothballed war wags on which the Trader had based his whole

operation. Another, one hundred and fifty miles north

of the ruins of Boston, had contained enough stored tanks of high-octane gas to keep them in jack

for years.

All that was known was that the chain of redoubts had been a part of the Totality Concept and

they'd been constructed under conditions of the utmost secrecy. Despite the whining of the pinko

conservation-ists, the government had compulsorily taken over huge sectors of the country,

including thousands of square miles of some of the most favored, most beautiful and most isolated

national parks.

The irony was that the eventual war was so sudden and apocalyptic that the redoubts proved to have

absolutely zero military significance and most showed signs of having been rapidly evacuated in

the last few weeks of what remained of civilization and order.

By traveling from gateway to gateway, Ryan and his companions had located many more hidden

redoubts, in varying stages of preservation or destruction.

But they'd certainly never come across one that looked like it was still being built.

Not until now.

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"Look here, Dad!" Dean had gone ahead, through the crudely carved doorway into what would normally

be the control room for the entire mat-trans operation. There would be rows of consoles and banks

of comp desks, with dancing gauges and flickering dials and lights. All were powered by a hidden

nuke gen, pulsing away in the deeps of the fortress.

"There's something seriously wrong here, lover." Krysty had followed the boy through, pausing and

looking around her in disbelief.

"It's just a hut, Dad."

The walls and ceiling of the building were bare rock, with the same thread of emerald quartz

running through it. But it was barely a quarter the size of the normal control room. There were

comp consoles, but only twenty or so, mounted on makeshift tables, some with broken legs propped

on red bricks.

"The air," Mildred said, sniffing. "Not like it usually is, either."

Ryan breathed in, half closing his eye. The woman was right. It didn't have that dusty flatness

that recirculated air normally had. This was bitter and sharp, like a vaporized acid-rain storm.

There were loops of multicolored cable draped all over the place, with junction boxes and ends of

sprayed bare metal. It was amazing that the gateway was still functioning after the best part of a

century- though it crossed Ryan's mind to wonder whether this mat-trans unit might actually have

been rebuilt within the past few years. If so, it was a staggering thought and opened all kinds of

unsuspected possibilities.

J.B. was walking slowly around, reaching up to touch the rock overhead, examining his fingers.

"It's dry. This couldn't have run if it had been damp."

"These portals to the outer world are unlike any that I've ever seen. They resemble nothing more

than an ordinary door on a frontier outhouse."

Doc was exaggerating a little. But only a little.

The familiar vanadium-steel sec doors, weighing hundreds of tons and operated by a complex system

of gears and counterweights, weren't there.

There was a single wide door, with an ordinary handle like you might put on a garden shed. It was

made from wooden planks, some of them warped and crooked, with a length of one-by-four nailed

across to hold the thing together. Once upon a time it had been white, but the paint had dried and

flaked, like build-Ings in a desert ghost town.

The strip lights overhead were harsh, and at least a quarter of them had malfunctioned.

"I don't get it." Ryan shook his head. "This isn't like a mat-trans unit. It's like some handyman

got a load of bits and pieces that fell off the back of a wag and he just put them all together

and found he'd built a gateway. But the damned thing worked. Got us here all right."

"Mebbe we should leave right now. Could be safer." J.B. tapped on the door with the butt of the

Uzi. "One-armed baby could knock this down."

"Why not open it?" Dean asked, "Least take a look outside, huh, Dad?"

"I guess..."

The door wasn't even locked.

The boy simply turned the handle and pushed, and it opened, revealing a dark, constricting

passage.

"Wait," Ryan snapped. "Don't go rushing into that like a double stupe, Dean. Could be anything out

there."

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"A most maleficent odor," Doc commented, applying his swallow's-eye kerchief to his protuberant

nose. "Like touching your tongue to tarnished brass."

Mildred laughed. "Nice one, Doc. Know what you mean. It isn't that deathly medical smell from the

other redoubt in Kansas, but it isn't normal."

Ryan went to the door, pushing past Dean. The place was so small and cramped that there hardly

seemed to be enough room for the seven of them.

Once again, the contrast with other complexes they'd visited was stark. Instead of the wide

corridors, with antiseptically clean concrete walls and high curved ceilings, this was more like

the mouth of a tunnel built by gnomes. There were no lights and not a sign of the usual ob-vid

cameras.

The passage was around ten feet at its widest, so low that Ryan felt he had to stoop, oddly aware

of the enormous weight of rock and earth hanging over him.

As his eye became accustomed to the gloom outside the control area, Ryan realized that there was a

very faint glow visible away to his right.

"I think this place is totally open," he said, holding the SIG-Sauer at the ready. "Doesn't look

like artificial light, and the smell of the air is stronger."

Doc's description hung in his mind. The taste was definitely metallic in origin.

One by one they followed him, all stooping, though the ceiling was just high enough for Doc,

tallest at six feet three, to stand straight without bumping his head.

"Hi, ho," Mildred sang quietly. "Looks like we're all going off to work."

They didn't have far to go.

The light ahead grew steadily brighter, showing that the whole place had been hacked out of living

rocks, also showing that the gateway seemed to be on its own, without the usual surrounding

redoubt.

Ryan held up his hand as the rough-floored passage curved sharply to the right, almost in dogleg.

"Hold it just a minute. Krysty?"

"Yeah."

"Feel anything?"

"No."

"Nothing? Must be some sort of life around."

Krysty pressed the tips of her fingers to her forehead. While she concentrated hard, Ryan became

aware that the fiery sentient hair was curled tight around her head and neck, often a sign of

potential danger.

"No." Krysty bit her lip. "Can't pick up anything at all. Not close by, anyway."

He nodded. "Best go see."

The tunnel simply ended in a roughly circular opening, with daylight beyond.

One of the oddities about jumping was that it screwed up time in a way that Ryan had never been

able to work out. Sometimes you might jump in the middle of the night and you'd find that you'd

arrived at the next redoubt in the middle of the afternoon.

Now his wristchron said that it was eleven minutes after nine in the morning.

"Think we might be near the sea," J.B. said. "Walls are wet and the air seems damp."

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Ryan was first out of the passage, finding himself on a ledge of sculpted rock, barely ten feet

wide. To his left there was a steep wall of granite, rising into a thick mist. To the right, the

ledge became a trail, winding out of sight.

There were no doors and no sign of anything else that might have been a part of a bigger complex.

"Don't get it," Mildred said. "Anyone could just have walked in and smashed up the gateway.

Nothing to stop them."

"Maybe it's so completely isolated that there isn't anyone here. Not even a passing mutie." Ryan

bolstered the SIG-Sauer. "Fireblast!"

"What?" Krysty jumped at his loud exclamation.

"Mebbe this a triple-bad hot spot." He checked the tiny rad counter stitched into the sleeve of

his coat.

But it showed only a placid, safe green.

J.B. also checked his, finding the same reading. "No hot spot."

"Where are we?" asked Dean. "Looks like the inside of a stickie's ass."

Everyone fell silent, looking around them.

There seemed to be a mist both above and below them, cutting off visibility. The air was cool and

moist, the cliffs jagged and irregular, rising all around them. The more Ryan stared, the stranger

it all looked. He couldn't find any trace of life anywhere, not even smears of moss or lichen on

the boulders.

He scuffed his boots in the dirt, noticing that even the most ubiquitous plant in Deathlands was

absent. The tiny multipetaled daisies, with their delicate yellow-and-white coloring, were found

from Alaska to the Gulf.

But not here.

"Yeah, J.B.," he said. "Where are we?"

The Armorer fumbled in his pockets and pulled out the microsextant, squinting around the sky. "No

sun," he said. "Still, find where light's brightest." After a couple of minutes he shook his head.

"Can't get a reading at all. Might be something wrong with this." He put the miniature instrument

back in his coat. "Try the compass and see if... Dark night!"

They all gathered around him, seeing that the needle on the magnetic compass was swinging wildly,

from north to south, then revolving in a blur of speed, not settling for a moment at any

particular point.

"Anomalies," Doc pronounced. "They are known to exist in certain places where the underlying

strata contain high proportions of lodestone. Some kind of considerable electromagnetic

disturbance."

Michael had walked to the edge and was peering cautiously over the brink. "Can't make out

anything. Though... No. I thought I saw something flying through the fog, way below, but it

vanished." He hesitated. "Something real big."

Mildred joined the teenager. "Looks to me like the valley of the shadow of death, doesn't it? The

land that time forgot. Ultima Thule. End of all things."

There was a puddle of water by Ryan's boots and he stooped and dipped a finger in it, noticing

that there was an oily, rainbow sheen on it. He touched his finger to his lips, immediately

spitting the substance out

and rubbing his mouth. "Bitter! Tastes like Badwater, down in the heart of Dry Valley."

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"Do you think there could have been some kind of chemical pollution here?" Mildred asked. "Not

radiation. There was a lot of talk before I got to be ill and got frozen, talk that the Russkies

had all sorts of nerve and chemical agents. Nobody knew if it was true. Been some used in the

Middle East, in the eighties and nineties. This just looks like some ghastly leakage or spillage

of some industrial poison."

"Ow!" Dean slapped at something. "Stung me on the cheek. Look, I got the fucker.' *

Nobody corrected his language, all of them looking at the bizarre insect that he held, trembling

in the palm of his hand.

It was an inch and a half long, its narrow body a dull gold color. There were four sets of filmy

gray wings, and its head had six separate eyes, like tiny orbs of polished copper. At the end of

its tapering tail there was a sting, grossly out of proportion to its overall length.

"Like a scorpion," J.B. stated, examining it carefully. "Hooked and barbed."

Krysty peered at the boy's face, where a nasty lump was already swelling. "Keep an eye on that,

Dean."

"Don't think it had much chance to squirt its poison in before I got it. Hurts like a bastard,

though."

He tipped it off his hand onto the shale at his feet and crushed it under his heel.

"The whole atmosphere is redolent of despair." Doc looked around at the misty wasteland. "For once

would like my voice heard on behalf of making a jump again immediately. I have not been an eager

apostle for this, but-"

Ryan held up a hand. "Sorry, Doc. But there's something triple-weird here. That gateway looked

like it had been thrown together. No redoubt. Open to anyone passing through. Now we can't find

any way of even knowing where we are. So, I figure we should explore a little."

The old man shook his head. "I do see the gist of your thinking, my dear fellow. No doubt the rest

of our little party agrees with you." He looked at the others. "Well, nobody disagrees with you.

Come, then, let us leave this peak in Darien and venture into this slough of despond."

Ryan felt more uneasy than he had for a very long time. The short hairs at his nape were

prickling.

But, apart from the undoubted dreariness of the region, there didn't seem any immediate danger.

"Let's go look," he said.

Chapter Three

"This air's so rotten it makes you feel tired." Krysty was second in their skirmish line, with

Dean following close behind her. "It seems like a part of the planet that Gaia must've

overlooked."

As usual, the rest of the group was strung out, with J.B. bringing up the rear, the 20-round, 9 mm

Uzi held loosely in his hands.

By the time they'd descended about one hundred and fifty feet, they found themselves in one of the

swirling banks of fog. It was puzzling the way the banks of cloud kept moving around them, as

there wasn't a breath of wind.

The stones were soft and crumbled beneath their feet, making progress unsteady and dangerous. At

no point was the man-made track wider than a dozen feet, and there was no way of guessing the

deeps that lay to their left. Dean had thrown a fist-size stone over and listened for its fall.

But all they heard was what sounded like a human cry of pain, which wasn't repeated.

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