James Axler – Parallax Red Parallax Red

The baron sighed. “And which do you feel is the most likely?”

“I cannot say, my Lord. Due to the extremely high rad count in the vicinity of Redoubt Papa, it is impossible to establish radio contact with them.”

Baron Sharpe steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “And you are hesitant to send out another party of Mags to ascertain their fates.”

“Just so, my Lord.”

Baron Sharpe turned his head toward the hearth. “Crawler!”

The doomie slowly raised his head from the cushion. “My Lord Baron?”

“Can you sniff the dooms of the team of Magistrates dispatched to Washington Hole? Will they return?”

Crawler’s eyes widened, his lips peeling back from discolored teeth. He shivered, moaned softly, clutched at his brow. Ericson had witnessed the mutie’s performance before, as if invisible antennae sprouted from his psyche and quested for answers to the baron’s questions. He thought it was a sham, but a very good piece of improvised theater on the part of the doom-sniffer.

Blinking his eyes rapidly, Crawler stared around as if he expected to see some place other than the parlor. In a strained, aspirated voice, he whispered, “Colors. Red and black, black and red. Red for joy, black for death. Those you seek have crossed over. They are happy, they are at peace. Black. Red. Black.”

Crawler lowered his hand from his brow, closed his eyes drowsily, then placed his head back down on the pillow.

The mutie’s pronouncement stunted conversation in the room for a long tick of time. Baron Sharpe broke it with a laugh and an expansive gesture. “There you have it, Ericson. I hope your curiosity has been satisfied. Now, if there is no more pressing business”

“With all due respect,” Ericson interjected, “if my Magistrates are dead, there are far more questions than answers. Washington Hole is not inhabited. My men were well armed and outfitted. Whoor whatcould have killed them?”

Baron Sharpe’s lips pursed in petulant disapproval. “You doubt the words of my high counselor?”

Ericson shook his head vehemently. “By no means, my Lord Baron. But you must consider the full implications of his own wordssix of your Magistrates, your servitors, your soldiers, have met their deaths in your own territory. Such an incident cannot be allowed to lie without a thorough investigation.”

The baron’s eyes glinted hard with suspicion. Eric-son continued hastily, “If they were murdered, then it is an affront to your authority. Think of the terrible precedent if we do not apprehend the malefactors. We must undertake swift action. Simply command me, and I shall dispatch another team forthwith.”

Baron Sharpe sat silently, then a wintry smile drifted over his face. He bounded to his feet, long fringes swishing. “That you shall, Ericson. I command you to dispatch another team, this time by air. And I shall go with you.”

“You, my Lord?” Ericson’s voice was a faint, shocked whisper.

“Me and my Crawler. Neither one of us gets out very much, you know.”

The members of the Trust knew that, and they stared disconcertedly at their lord. Barons, by tradition, almost never left their aeries atop the Administrative Monoliths. Once a year, they visited a subterranean installation in New Mexico for infusions of fresh genetic material, harvested from healthy humans. They traveled by mat-trans, not by Deathbird or Sandcat. They couldn’t have reacted with more incredulity to his pronouncement had the baron declared his intent of naming an outlander child as his heir.

Kowper, the senior archivist, said uncertainly, “My Lord, you must take into account the dangers.”

“That’s why Crawler will be with us.” A boyish grin of enthusiasm and anticipation stretched the baron’s lips. “An adventure. I’ve heard about them, but never dreamed I’d go on one.”

“My Lord,” intoned Tobak, “Washington Hole is a hellzone.”

Baron Sharpe flung his arms wide, the fringes dangling from the sleeves dancing. “I cannot die anymore. I’ve crossed back.” He turned to Crawler. “Isn’t that right, Crawler old boy?”

The mutie raised his head from the pillow. “As right as anything in this world, my Lord Baron.”

Gazing at Ericson, he asked, “What other baron can make that claim? Prepare three of your Deathbirds. Pick your men, arm them heavily. We leave immediately.”