James Axler – Parallax Red Parallax Red

Sindri half strode, half drifted to a control panel. He pressed a series of buttons, snapped a toggle switch and the white blister slowly became translucent, then transparent. The outlanders recognized the same microcir-cuitry system as in the Sandcat’s gun turret, where an electric impulse was fed to the treated armaglass bubble. Outside the dome, space spread like a vast, black velvet curtain, dusted with tiny diamonds.

“The GRASER was a major component of the so-called Strategic Defense Initiative,” said Sindri, a slight wheeze in his voice. “I refer to it as Thor’s Hammer, throwing thunderbolts from the heavens to destroy the cowering sinners below.”

“Is it still functional?” Brigid inquired.

“No. The dynamos drew their power from an array of electromagnets. Over the years, they became degaussed.”

Sindri put a hand over his mouth, swallowing a cough and waving them back to the cart. He hit the control switches, and the blister turned opaque again.

Back inside the vehicle, they sat for a few moments, breathing deeply, replenishing their lungs. At length,

Brigid asked, “Did the Russians suspect how their spacecraft were destroyed?”

Sindri nodded. “I’m sure they did. They waited until January 20, 2001, to retaliate. Physical evidence here points to explosive decompression of the most strategic points of the station. It’s my personal opinion that a swarm of Russian killer satellites attacked Parallax Red , severely decreasing its rotation cycle.”

“And the people here?” asked Kane. “What happened to them?”

“The ones who didn’t die simply fled. Earth certainly didn’t offer much in the way of a sanctuary.”

“So they went to Mars?” Grant ventured.

“Exactly. I know that much.”

“How many survivors?” inquired Brigid.

“Enough,” replied Sindri, a cold note of bitterness sounding in his voice.

“Enough for what?”

Sindri didn’t respond for a long moment. When he did, it was in the form of a sneering chuckle. “Like the rats left behind here, enough to be fruitful and multiply.”

Chapter 18

Sindri turned in his seat to face Kane. “Your casual mention of the molecular destabilizer surprised and intrigued me. How do you know of it?”

“We found its handiwork in Redoubt Papa,” he answered. “Three Mags and one of their vehicles unraveled.”

“Mags.” A line of puzzlement appeared between Sindri’s eyes. “What are Mags?”

“Magistrates,” Brigid told him.

Sindri shook his head, indicating he didn’t understand.

Grant said, “Sec men.”

Sindri frowned slightly, then comprehension dawned in his eyes. “You mean security men, like police officers?”

Kane nodded. “Yes.”

Sindri turned back around, starting the cart’s motor. “Mags and sec men. Have all Terrans been trained to think in shorthand, or are you three special cases?”

As he steered the cart back toward the ramp, he said, “Tell me about Magistrates.”

The three of them took turns, choosing their words carefully. Brigid limited herself to a historical background, describing how the Magistrates were the organizational descendants of a proposed global police force of the late twentieth century, one that had judicial, as well as law-enforcement powers.

Grant and Kane supplied a few specifics about the Magistrate Divisions, soft-pedaling the patrilineal traditions and the oaths sworn to wring order out of postnukecaust chaos. They refrained from mentioning their own long associations with the Magistrates.

“Nasty customers,” Sindri commented. “But I suppose fascism is always an attractive alternative to the madness of freedom. Had these Mags of yours come to Redoubt Papa because my people accidentally set off an alarm of some sort?”

“No,” said Kane slowly. “We aren’t really sure why they were there.”

“You’re not sure.” Sindri’s voice was gently chiding.

“No.”

“I’m sure of one thing, Mr. Kane. You’re withholding information in violation of our bargain.”

Sindri suddenly wrenched the steering wheel, turning the cart down a side-branching corridor. It dead-ended inside a room that was not much larger than a niche. Within it, resting on a four-wheeled platform, was a totally unfamiliar machine.

“There,” said Sindri genially, “is your molecular destabilizer. Not quite as impressive as the GRASER, is it?”

All of them had no choice but to agree. Whereas the GRASER followed the general configurations of a cannon, the MD was a dark metal ovoid with a convex dorsal surface, about three feet long and half that in diameter. On the end facing them, they saw a round, recessed lens. Flexible metal conduits curled, twisted and bent double on all sides of it. Tubes forming concentric circles occupied the rear of the platform.

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112 113 114 115 116 117 118 119

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *