Still, the fact that nobody elsehis personal staff, the Baronial Guard or members of the Trustwanted to acknowledge his condition irritated him, made him question himself. To settle the internal conflict once and for all, Baron Sharpe sought the counsel of a doom-seer, a mutant giftedor cursedwith the psychic ability to sniff out forthcoming death.
Under other circumstances, locating a doomie would have been exceedingly difficult, if not impossible. Most of the mutie strains spawned after the nukecaust were extinct, either dying because of their twisted biologies or hunted and exterminated during the early years of the unification program. Stickies, slowies, scabbies, swampies and almost every other breed exhibiting warped genetics had all but vanished.
Fortunately part of his legacy from his greatgrandfather was a small private zoo of creatures that had once crept and slithered and scuttled over the Deathlands. The monsters had been fruitful and multiplied over the decades, and one of them was a doomie called Crawler.
It was more of a title than a name, bestowed upon him after his leg tendons had been severed. The psi-mutie had displayed a great cunning and propensity for escape from his compound, no doubt employing his mental talents to find the most opportune time and means to do so. After he had been crippled, his psi-powers availed him nothing, inasmuch as he was re-stricted to dragging himself around his cell by fingers and elbows.
Baron Sharpe visited Crawler one still, sultry summer midnight. He gazed in revulsion at the human face staring back at him from a wild, matted tangle of gray beard and long, filthy hair. The baron had no idea of Crawler’s age, but he understood that he was one of his ancestor’s last acquisitions before his mysterious disappearance, some ninety-odd years before. He knew the doomie was very old, but some muties possessed remarkable longevity.
Ignoring the thick waft of mingled stenches the cell exuded. Baron Sharpe commanded Crawler to approach him. The creature scrabbled forward, to the iron bars, heavily muscled arms dragging him along. Dark calluses crusted his elbows, and his atrophied legs trailed behind him, like a pair of boneless, filthy tentacles.
Crawler’s dark eyes blazed from behind a screen of stringy hair. Baron Sharpe very nearly turned and ran from the fierce heat of the doomie’s eyes, especially when he sensed the wispy, cobwebby caress of a psi-touch.
“I have a question,” Baron Sharpe announced. “About my death.”
Wheezing whistles issued from Crawler’s hair-rimmed lips. For a moment, the baron thought the mu-tie was undergoing an asthma attack and would expire, but then he recognized the sound as laughter.
In a high, whispery voice, Crawler said, “That question has no meaning, my Lord Baron. You have died and crossed back. You no longer need fear death, for it is behind you, not ahead of you.”
Baron Sharpe was so delighted he came close to bursting into tears of gratitude. His hopes had been realized, his fear that he was mad proved groundless. That very night, he ordered the release of Crawler from his cage, saw that he was bathed, fed, shaved, cropped and pampered. He installed him as a high counselor, ignoring the outraged reactions of his personal staff.
A few weeks later while pawing through the archived clothing, he made a discovery that became his personal uniform and statement of belief. It was a violet jumpsuit, with huge belled legs, flame-colored satin facings and a bat-winged collar. Long fringes streamed from both sleeves. Worked in glittering rhinestones on the back were three letters TCB.
He remembered Crawler’s phrase and knew the letters meant To Cross Back, and thusly the baron decided that by wearing the outfit, he said to the world that he had died and crossed back to the land of the living.
Baron Sharpe was so attired when he greeted the members of the Sharpeville Trust. He met the eight men in his drawing room on Alpha Level of the Administrative Monolith. He had insisted on recreating a Victorian parlor, a cozy sitting room where gentlemen of good breeding received visitors. As a hybrid, his breeding was more than good; it was the pinnacle of genetic achievement.
Every ville had its own version of the Trust. The organization, if it could be called that, was the only face-to-face contact allowed with the barons, and the barons were the only contacts permitted by the Archon Directorate.