Outlanders 14 hell risin.., p.3
Outlanders 14 Hell Rising, page 3
Not too long before, the vast genetic engineering and medical facility beneath the Archuleta Mesa in Dulce, New Mexico, had been, if not destroyed, then rendered virtually useless to the baronial oligarchy.
Built in the mid-twentieth century to house several divisions of the Totality Concept, it was later turned over almost entirely to Overproject Excalibur, which comprised the bioresearch programs.
Over the past thirty-odd years, the subterranean installation had become a combination of gestation, birthing and medical treatment center. The hybrids, the self-proclaimed new humans, were born there, the half-human spawn created to inherit the nuke-scoured Earth.
But there was a price to pay for the hybrids' inheritance. As intellectually brilliant as they were, particularly the nine barons who ruled the American continent, their bodies were fragile. Their metabolisms fell easy prey to disease, which was one reason they tended to sequester themselves from the ville-bred humans they ruled. Once a year, all the barons traveled to the Dulce facility to have their blood filtered and their immune systems boosted. In severe cases, even damaged organs were replaced from the storage banks of organic material stockpiled there.
Nor did the hybrids reproduce in conventional fashion. The males possessed underdeveloped genitals. Kane knew that from an eyewitness encounter with Baron Cobalt, but he had no idea if the female hybrids were similarly unformed. It wasn't something to which he cared to devote much thought.
That the hybrids reproduced by a form of cloning and gene-splicing wasn't open to question. However, it didn't seem reasonable they would put all of their eggs—biologically speaking—in the subterranean basket at Dulce.
Kane stepped over to the door, putting both hands on the wheel. Even through his gloves and mittens, he could feel the frigid metal. He turned it slowly and carefully. The wheel didn't spin easily; it caught and squeaked during the rotation, and he guessed it hadn't been used recently.
The lock completed its final turn, and he heard the metallic snapping of solenoids and latches letting go. Putting his shoulder against it, he pushed the door open slowly, a few inches at a time. Hinges squealed in protest.
Peering around the edge, Kane saw only a dimly lit passageway—and the swastika.
During their journeys to the parallel casements, the so-called Lost Earths, the first alternate reality they visited was one where Germany had been the victor of World War II. Although their conscious memories of those places were now fragmented and vague, the sight of the swastika evoked a strong emotional reaction.
Dubiously, Grant asked, "You don't think this was a Nazi stronghold, do you?"
"At one time, probably," Brigid answered. "It's pretty much a historical given that a last battalion of high-ranking Nazi officers and scientists escaped to Antarctica in submarines during the last days of the war. It's apparent that once the Allies absorbed the Totality Concept researches and personnel, they absorbed this base, too."
"So this is a Concept-related redoubt after all," Kane declared.
Brigid shook her head. "If it was, it was an ancillary one, not the seat of any major division or subdivision. But somebody supplied them with the mat-trans unit."
They moved down the corridor. It was about ten feet wide and concealed strip lighting flickered, casting gray, strobing shadows ahead of them. The temperature climbed the farther they walked. The walls and floor were not composed of softly gleaming vanadium alloy, as in most redoubts. They were constructed of dark, riveted metal that showed streaks of oxidization.
"Obviously, this place predates the Continuity of Government installation-building program," Brigid commented. "If this was a Nazi bolt-hole or an installation set up for them, they're long dead."
Chapter 3
The large banner was stretched taut within a narrow metal framework, affixed to the fifteen-foot-high ceiling by wires and eyebolts. Blood-red, with a white disk in the center, the black symbol within it touched unpleasant chords of recognition within Kane, Grant and Brigid. All sharp corners and angles, the swastika seemed to float several inches above the encircling white disk. Rust red stains were barely discernible within the circle.
"The barons never used this place," Grant husked out.
"No," Brigid agreed in the same hushed tone. "Something a lot worse did."
Cotta's eyes flickered quizzically from the banner to the faces of his companions. "What's worse than the barons?"
Quietly, Brigid said, "National Sozialistiche Deutsche Arbeiterpartei."
Cotta grimaced at the conglomeration of consonants. "The what?"
"The Nazi Party," Kane muttered, not bothering to conceal the disgust in his tone. "Sieg heil."
Cotta's eyes widened, but he said nothing more. All four of them knew that the Totality Concept had originated with the Third Reich. But Grant, Brigid and Kane had a more personal familiarity with the Nazis.
The corridor opened up into a huge room, and what they saw caused them all to halt and stare in surprise. They found themselves in a huge office suite, furnished with fifty desks, stenography machines, metal file cabinets and typewriters. Tacked onto bulletin boards were dozens of memos, all of them in German and bearing either the swastika or a small symbol resembling two lightning bolts.
At the far end of the room was a glassed-in row of cubicles. In the cubicles they saw a number of computer terminals resting on desks, but none of them were even as recent as the old, remanufactured DDC models in use at Cobaltville. A box-shaped mainframe system spanned one wall. Behind the glass doors, big reels of tape were attached to spindles.
Clunky was the word that came to Kane's mind when he looked at it.
Brigid eyed the mainframe and said, "That looks like a version of the ENIAC model."
"What's that?" Cotta inquired.
"One of the first functional computers. It had about eighteen thousand vacuum tubes and when operating properly, it could make five thousand calculations per second. Trouble was, because of all its parts, it rarely functioned at all, much less properly."
"This place was cutting edge," Grant remarked dourly, "around 1960."
However, the place was as neat and tidy as if the people who worked there had simply gotten up to take a coffee break and would return in a few minutes. Items of a personal nature were scattered around the desks—framed black-and-white photographs of children wearing the neckerchief and shorts ensemble of the Hitler Youth, and "me, too" pictures, people wearing white lab coats shaking hands with men in uniform.
Brigid identified a few of the uniformed men. "Himmler, Goering...that one looks a lot like Mengele. A real gallery of human monsters."
Kane picked up and examined a small oil print that depicted Adolf Hitler on horseback wearing medieval knight's armor and waving a Nazi flag. He snorted disdainfully. The snort was followed instantly by what sounded like the snapping of a green stick of wood. A spark flared off a typewriter with a spray of metal finders and a keening whine.
While the wailing echoes of the ricochet still chased themselves around the big room, Grant, Kane and Brigid dropped flat to the floor. Cotta continued to stand, blinking around in bafflement.
"Get down, asshole!" Kane barked.
Fearful realization suddenly shone in Cotta's eyes, and he joined the three people on the floor, behind the cover of a desk.
"What's with you?" snarled Kane. "You figure since the first shot missed, it's only polite to give the blasterman a second chance to plug you?"
"S-sorry," Cotta stammered. "Never been under fire before."
"When you go out on these field trips with us," Brigid said dryly, "you get used to it."
The Sin Eaters sprang into Kane and Grant's waiting hands. From a zippered pocket of her thermal suit, Brigid drew an Iver Johnson autoblaster. Cotta pulled an H&K VP-70 from a pocket of his own suit.
"Who the hell is shooting at us?" Grant demanded in a whisper.
"A squatter maybe," replied Kane.
More than once, they had come across redoubts that played host to interlopers, but he doubted his own words. Even before the nukecaust, Antarctica was the most desolate, uninhabited region on the face of the planet. It seemed very unlikely wanderers or looters had stumbled across this installation.
They heard a faint rustle of cloth, the clack of boot heels and wheezing, slightly labored respiration. A hoarse male voice called out in a foreign tongue.
Brigid lifted her head, eyes widening. "He asked if we speak German."
"Do you?" asked Grant.
Her brow furrowed in momentary concentration. "I've read the German-to-English dictionary in the database. I've never had the opportunity to speak it, but I can understand it."
As the self-proclaimed possessor of an eidetic memory, she could say nothing else. Brigid Baptiste remembered everything she read or saw, which was how and why she ended up as an exile like Grant and Kane.
The man's voice demanded, "Eich dart?"
"He wants to know who we are," Brigid translated.
"Tell him," suggested Kane.
Brigid called out in German, and twice Kane caught the word Amerikaner. After a period of silence broken only by a muffled cough, the man responded. "Americans? You come from where? Dulce? The Anthill?"
His English was heavily accented, and he sounded as if his tongue was unaccustomed to employing it. "You have come for me?"
Rather than offering an answer, Brigid asked, "Who are you?"
Once again there was a protracted period of silence. When the man spoke again, he sounded distracted. "Skorzeny. Standartenfuhrer Skorzeny of the Luftwaffe. You come for me, nein?"
Brigid's eyes slitted and she repeated the name beneath her breath. "Skorzeny. Otto Skorzeny?"
"You take me back?" The man's voice held a plaintive, wheedling note.
"He sounds disoriented," Brigid whispered. "Fused-out more like it," muttered Grant.
She rose to her knees, saying loudly, "We're going to stand up. We mean you no harm. Do you understand?"
"Ja—I mean, yes. I understand."
Very slowly, fisting her Iver Johnson but keeping it out of sight, Brigid half inched her way up behind the desk. When she reached eye level with its surface she paused. "Show yourself. Bitte."
A figure stepped around a partition. A white beard spilled nearly to his stomach, covering the front of his black tunic like a fall of snow. His hair was equally white and very long, nearly the length of Brigid's. His face was deeply seamed and lined with a map of tiny furrows and blue veins. His white complexion was a deep, almost translucent pallor that came from not being exposed to the sun for a very long time. His eyes glittered a hot, furious cobalt blue. They were intensely penetrating eyes, intelligent eyes, all-seeing eyes, the eyes of a visionary. Or a madman.
He wore a uniform, the black tunic, jodhpurs and knee boots Brigid recognized as belonging to the Shutzstaffel, the SS, the dreaded order of Black Knights who pledged their loyalty to Hitler, not to Germany. It was covered in gaudy emblems, including the twin lightning strokes and silver skull and crossbones from another day and era. She noticed the cuffs of the tunic were frayed and the boot leather cracked. The Sam Browne belt crossing his chest and girding his lean waist showed greenish spots of mildew. Loose threads dangled from the shoulder seams. What captured her attention the most was the black Luger gripped in his right hand. It trembled ever so slightly, but she doubted it was due to fear or cold.
"Skorzeny," Brigid said, pitching her voice to a calm, reassuring timbre. "There are four of us. We're armed, too, but we have no intention of harming you. We'll all stand up. Understand?"
Skorzeny nodded, a quick, jerk-like motion of his head. "Ja."
"First lower your blaster—your weapon."
The man glanced at the Luger in his fist with mild surprise, as if he had forgotten it was there. His arm dropped to his side, the barrel pointing toward the floor. His hand trembled even more, as if he were suffering from a nervous disorder.
Brigid rose to her full height, putting a friendly, inoffensive smile on her face. Skorzeny didn't return it, although it was hard to tell because of the whiskers draping the lower portion of his face. He tensed when, one by one, Kane, Cotta and Grant climbed to their feet. His eyes narrowed when he caught sight of Grant and he murmured a word in his own tongue. Brigid didn't understand, but she understood the tone of contempt.
Skorzeny demanded imperiously, "Who sent you?"
Brigid stated matter-of-factly, "You don't seem particularly interested in who we are."
"That is unimportant. Depending upon who sent you, that will tell me all I need to know about you."
Cotta hung back as his three companions approached the black-clad man. They moved cautiously, instinctively spreading out across the room as if to offer more difficult targets in case Skorzeny didn't like the answer to his question and started shooting again.
The man's eyes flicked apprehensively from one to the other, but he didn't raise his Luger Impatiently, he asked, "Where are you from? To what unit are you attached?"
Kane decided Brigid had fielded enough of the old man's questions and he retorted, "Montana. Redoubt Bravo. Is that of any use to you?"
Skorzeny's bushy eyebrows knitted. "Nein. I've never heard of it."
"There's no reason why you should."
They halted in a loose semicircle around the man. Skorzeny was slightly under medium height and very lean.
"How long have you been here?" asked Brigid.
Skorzeny peered at her curiously. "You display many fine Aryan qualities, though you are not the ideal. Nevertheless, you are very attractive. You must take pride in your offspring."
His eyes darted toward Kane. "You must be the father. You are closer to a true Teutonic knight. Decision, authority, ruthlessness—I see those traits in your face. I trust you conceived your children in an SS cemetery."
"What?" Kane demanded in annoyed bewilderment. "A what cemetery?"
Skorzeny's gaze moved on to Grant, disdain glittering in his eyes. In a sneering tone, he said, "I had thought your kind would have been cleansed from the Earth by now. However, I suppose there is always a need for servants, even if they are die Schwarze."
"Die schwarzen?" Grant echoed, stumbling a little over the pronunciation.
Quietly, Brigid said. "A racial epithet. Forget it." The jaw muscles in Grant's face knotted. "What's it mean?"
Skorzeny's lips curled beneath his whiskers. "What is the English term, nigger?"
Grant lashed out with a big open hand at Skorzeny's face. The results were astonishing. There was a blur of motion, a chocking of metal against bone and Grant sat down heavily, eyelids fluttering. The bearded man had hammered him between the eyes with the butt of his Luger. The blow had come so swiftly Grant had not even glimpsed it.
"How dare you?" Skorzeny barked, eyes seething with utter hatred. "I'll have you castrated with piano wire!"
"Son of a bitch—" Kane lunged, clubbing at the man with the barrel of his Sin Eater.
Skorzeny ducked wildly aside and brought his Luger to bear. Brigid chopped at his hand with her Iver Johnson, crying out, "Stop this!"
She knocked the Luger aside, but not from Skorzeny's grasp. He pivoted on a heel and kicked out with a jackbooted foot. The toe took Kane in the groin. He folded in the middle, grunting in surprised pain. His grunt turned into a snarl of rage.
Grappling with Brigid, Skorzeny closed his left hand in the loose material at the front of her thermal suit and shoved her backward. She stumbled over Grant's legs and fell heavily against Kane, who was trying to straighten up.
The office suddenly quaked with sharp reports of blasterfire. A bullet passed so close to Kane it fanned cool air on his cheek. The glass wall of a cubicle shattered and showered down with a nerve-stinging jangle. A bulletin board split as two rounds clouted it.
Kane and Brigid joined Grant on the floor. Twisting around, Kane saw Cotta trying to draw a bead on Skorzeny, his H&K held in a two-fisted grip. The black-clad man backpedaled with astonishing speed and agility, the Luger in his hand spitting flame and noise. Cotta's blaster bucked as he returned the fire. Brigid, Grant and Kane hunkered down beneath the double fusillade, praying they wouldn't be caught in the cross fire.
Skorzeny danced and weaved among the desks. None of Cotta's rounds came near him, though they smashed through glass and flattened against the wall:
The thunder of blasterfire ceased. Flat planes of cordite smoke hung in the air like streamers of dingy chiffon. Cotta ran to the three people on the floor, gulping breathlessly. "I don't think I hit him, but I chased him off."
