James Axler – Gaia’s Demise

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!” The man almost fawned in his gratitude. “We’ll leave today and find them fast!”

“See to it,” the old man stated with a glare. “As for your prisoners, it’s no great loss. We can always use more workers. Put them in chains and send the whole group to the wall. There’s a constant need for fresh bodies in the stone quarry.”

“Yes, sir! At once!”

Silas dismissed the matter with a wave. “You may go.”

As the LAV drove away, dragging the prisoners behind, the rest of the guards returned to their duties, and Silas headed for the laboratory. Holding a palm to the wall plate, Sheffield opened the door for the man and entered after him, closing it tight behind them, making sure the lock was engaged.

“How utterly disappointing,” Silas remarked, leaning heavily on his cane as they walked.

“Fucking idiots, is more like it,” Sheffield growled. “Now that we’re alone, how do you wish the sergeant punished for the failure?”

“For being illiterate? No. We’re short on men as it is. More the fool I for not remembering when it is that I now live.”

When, not where, Sheffield noted privately. The whitecoat often said such things, and he was starting to believe the idea. It certainly explained where the military blasters came from. His palm print opened doors everywhere across the complex, except for the warehouse. Whatever was inside, the old man hoarded it like a virgin did her cunny. Which only made Sheffield want it that much more.

Pausing at a control board, Silas checked the voltage on some dials, then turned to the officer. “Major, do you know the alphabet or how many continents there are? How many planets? What a gerund is? The name of the moon, or any of the laws of thermodynamics?”

The sec man scowled. “The moon has a name?”

“Since the 1965 International Conference of Astronomers. Its official name is Luna, and the sun is Sol.”

“Interesting,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t put bullets in a blaster. Just a pretty song, nothing more. I’m a practical man, sir. Taught myself to read labels so I could steal food and not chems. I learned to chill a man with just a knife in nine different ways, or skin him alive to make him talk. I know how to cook dynamite, avoid rad pits, raid a ville and fix wags. Do these other things matter in the real world?”

“The real world,” Silas repeated with a sigh. “No, I suppose they don’t. As a scientist, I must concede the logic of your argument.”

Unexpectedly, Silas laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “However, if you are to be my successor, they soon will. We shall start your lessons with the most important one of all.”

“The warehouse?” the major asked eagerly, naked avarice shining on his face.

Smiling, Silas hobbled for the doorway. “That and much, much more. Come with me.”

APPROACHING THE SPORTS ARENA, Ryan called for a halt. The building stood five stories tall, the outer wall ringed with clusters of lights. Some small windows, or vents, were noticeable, but no doors.

“Jak, stay here as anchor,” Ryan said cautiously. He had a feeling they were being watched. “Krysty and I will sweep around the building on a recce.”

“No prob,” Jak said, putting his back to the concrete wall of the arena so he could see in every direction. Weeds and desolation filled his vision. Predark ruins were nothing but unburied cemeteries to him.

Patrolling along the side, the man and woman soon found the front entrance, metal rings in the concrete showing where a line of turnstiles had to have once been. An iron grate was pulled off to the side, and Krysty tugged on the barrier to see if it could move. Rust had welded it into a solid mass.

“Nobody’s used this for a while,” she commented.

Ryan merely nodded, unable to shake the feeling of being scrutinized.

The interior Plexiglas doors were wide open, debris keeping them from closing.

“Could be a trap,” Krysty said, easing back the hammer of her revolver.

“Could be anything,” Ryan countered, then added, “What’s that smell?”