Axler, James - Deathlands 61 - Skydark Spawn Read online

"Girl, you're one of the healthiest females I've ever known. But if the baron wants you checked out, then we should do that in the examination room." Mildred smiled and led Krysty away from the sec man and into a small room at the back of the nursery.

  When the door was closed behind them, Mildred turned to Krysty. "Looks like they've been treating you well."

  Krysty nodded. "The best of everything."

  "Ryan's signed up for the contest," Mildred said. "And you saw that woman out in the nursery. Her man will be fighting alongside Ryan."

  "It's good to know he's not alone."

  "His work crew's behind him, as well."

  Krysty lowered her voice some. "I found out that our blasters are being stored in the armory near here. They'll be having another contest, a shooting contest between sec men to see who gets them."

  "Hopefully we won't be here that long."

  Krysty nodded. "The door's locked, but I've been told it can be easily broken into."

  "Maybe I'll do that when the time comes."

  "My guess is tomorrow."

  "Mine, too."

  Just then the door to the examination room opened, revealing a sec man standing in the doorway.

  "Can I help you?" Mildred asked, her hands on her hips.

  "Keep the door open," he said. "So I can hear what you're saying."

  "I was just telling her that her female parts are in fine working order and that's she's going to make the champion one happy man."

  The sec man smiled and turned away from the open door.

  JAK AND CLARISSA COOKED the fish steaks over an open fire near the entrance to the underground garage.

  As usual, there were muties hanging around on the other side of the garage door, but they'd all gorged themselves on the sturgeon carcass in the river and were now just waiting for instruction from their goddess, Clarissa.

  J.B. had managed to free the 37 mm cannon from the P-39 and was now in the process of stripping it to check for dampness and rust.

  "Will it fire?" Doc asked, peering over J.B.'s shoulder.

  "I think so."

  "Any thoughts on how you might mount such an infernal weapon?"

  "Thinking about bolting it onto the side of the wag, but there's not much solid steel to mount it on," he explained. "If we had any more than sixteen shells to fire, the cannon's recoil would eventually tear the whole side off the wag. Should hold together till we're done with it, though."

  "What about aiming it?"

  "I'll have to point the wag where I want the round to go. Probably have to use a round or two to calibrate the cannon, mebbe put an X onto the windshield marking the target at a hundred yards or so."

  "Ah, a precision weapon, I see," Doc teased the Armorer.

  J.B. smiled. "In some ways it's like your LeMat, Doc. With this thing, all I have to be is close. The half pound of hot lead will do the rest."

  Doc smiled, knowing J.B. was in his element. "When do you think it will be ready?"

  "Not tonight," the Armorer said with a disappointed sigh. "I still have to mount the .50 calibers and then test the guns, and that should be done during the day. So I'm afraid Ryan will have to wait one more night."

  "I could do with another night's sleep myself," Doc said. "That and a bite to eat." He turned in the direction of Jak and Clarissa, who had now been joined by Dean. "I say, Master Jak, is dinner close to being served?"

  "Not yet," the albino said. "Take time if want taste like chicken."

  Doc was forced to go hungry another fifteen minutes, but forgot all about the wait when he discovered that sturgeon steaks did indeed taste like chicken.

  And very tasty chicken at that.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  There was a carnival atmosphere in the air.

  The slaves had gotten off work early and many of them had broken out their private stocks of booze, most of which the baron had given them as reward for good breeding.

  An eight-point ring had been mapped out in the courtyard about fifty feet across, with tall wooden stakes being pounded into the ground and connected to each other by a length of medium-gauge chain. Each stake was topped with a red flag, and the chain was painted bright red to clearly denote the perimeter of the circle.

  Slaves and sec men gathered around the outside of the circle. Those eager to be spattered with sweat and blood sat on the dry, hard ground just a few paces back from the chain, while less bloodthirsty spectators kept farther back of the makeshift arena, sitting on an assortment of crates, boxes and chairs.

  Baron Fox appeared on the wooden stage that had been constructed years earlier for such outdoor spectacles and addressed the crowd.

  "This is a happy time at Fox Farm," he began. "We have birthed more offspring in the past month than in the previous three months combined, and it's all because of you!

  "So, as a small token of my appreciation for so many jobs well done, I have arranged a special entertainment for this evening. Like gladiators from a long ago time, these men will be testing their strength, courage, desire and spirit in a fight to the finish. Ten men will enter the circle…"

  Over in the main building, Ryan stood behind the closed doors, waiting for his time to enter the circle. "Only ten?"

  "A few must have dropped out," Brody explained, "signing up just for show and an early quitting time. Or the sec chief might have tossed out a few men he thought would only get in the way."

  "…and in the end, only one will remain. The victor!"

  "To the victor go the spoils!" the crowd shouted in unison. "To the victor go the spoils!"

  The baron looked pleased. He nodded and Krysty was led out onto the stage by a pair of sec men. She had changed yet again, this time into a short skirt and skintight tank top that highlighted all of her curves. She was still wearing her cowboy boots, but a studded collar had been added to her neck.

  The baron put out his hand to calm the crowd. "The spoils, yes! Here she is, a shining example of feminine perfection, hot, fiery and a worthy prize for the strongest, most virile male on the farm. Their union will produce a beautiful offspring."

  The baron placed his hand on Krysty's breast. She tried to move away, but the sec men behind her held her in place.

  The sight caused Ryan's blood to boil with anger.

  "Easy, my friend," Brody said. "You've got to chill a few other men before you can get close to him."

  The baron continued. "But before any of that can happen, we must first decide which of these brave males will be allowed to be drowned in this woman's ample feminine charms. And so, I give you sec chief Grundwold, who will remind you all of the rules."

  The crowd let out a long, loud cheer.

  The baron, waving to the crowd, sat on the purple throne set atop the stage. Krysty was brought by his side and was made to sit on pillow at his feet. A chain was attached to her dog collar, with the other end locked to one of the throne's purple legs.

  Grundwold stepped forward. "The last man left standing in the circle is the victor. Rest periods will be called for the removal of bodies from the circle. Wounded combatants can leave the ring of their own free will, or they can be forced out at any time by another combatant, or they can be chilled!

  "And so, let the game begin. And as always, to the victor go the spoils!"

  The doors to the main building were opened by a sec man standing in the courtyard. "Get out there, you two!"

  Ryan and Brody stepped out into the hot afternoon sun and walked along a path kept clear by sec men that led into the circle. There were a few cheers for the two men coming from their own crew, but everyone else kept quiet, saving their loudest cheers for the others.

  When Ryan and Brody reached the far end of the circle, they turned to see a white miniwag pull up and two sec men step off the back, heading for the circle. The noise level among the slaves remained constant, but the sec men who were scattered around the courtyard and up in the towers all whistled their approval.

  "Richmond and Salazar," Brody said. "They'r
e the two meanest sec men on the farm. I doubt they'll go up against Mog and his animals, but if they've entered the game it means they're looking to chill someone."

  Ryan understood, and he hated the two men instantly. He'd seen plenty of sec men go mad from the power they had over people. These men enjoyed beating slaves and had probably chilled dozens over the years. Their first few had been a mistake, the result of a combination of overeagerness and not knowing when to quit. After the first few, however, chilling got easier, until they needed to chill someone like an addict needed jolt They were here for some fun, to chill and inflict pain and then back out of the fight like cowards. Ryan would see to it that they didn't leave the circle in the same shape they entered it.

  The doors to the big barn opened next, and two pale creatures scrambled across the courtyard and into the circle. Their skin was white, covered by a layer of grime. The rest of their bodies were covered in tattered clothing, and their exposed arms were as thin as blaster barrels. Tufts of black hair stood up on their heads, patches of it coming low on the forehead and shading eyes that were sunk back deep in their sockets. Tongues lolled uselessly out the sides of their mouths as both of them sniffed at the air.

  "That's Laslo and Hambly."

  "Muties?"

  "Mostly," Brody answered. "They're more norm than mutie, but they aren't allowed to rut with the rest of us. The baron keeps them in the barn to shovel shit and clean toilets. Every once in a while he gives them a nonbreeder he's all done with since once they go into the barn, they don't usually come back out alive. They've probably got their sights set on your woman."

  "That's all they'll get of her, too."

  The crowd began chanting as one. "Mog! Mog! Mog!"

  "Here he comes," Brody said.

  Ryan turned toward the orchard closest to the courtyard. Walking between two rows of plum trees, almost as tall as a tree himself, was what had to be the man called Mog.

  He stood over six and a half feet tall, and his naked upper body bulged with well-defined muscles and flesh that was covered with a road map of scars. His head was shaved above the ears, and his remaining hair was cut short, bristling straight up from his head in a sort of cocomb that split the sides of his skull in two, like a wedge. Half of his left ear was missing, and his nose looked as if it had been broken several times.

  "Mog! Mog! Mog!"

  Mog was obviously the crowd favorite, getting slapped on the back by men and women alike all the way into the circle.

  "And he's as mean as he is big," Brody said. "The sec men wanted to recruit him into the ranks, but he refused. Said he'd rather be a slave than a rad-blasted sec man."

  Ryan appreciated the sentiment. "Looks dangerous enough."

  "When he first arrived, the sec men had trouble keeping him in line. He broke the necks of two men the first week."

  "Why didn't they chill him?"

  "Baron wouldn't let them. Mog's offspring bring in top jack for the farm. Baron even gave him his own personal group of breeders."

  "Sounds like he's got a good deal going. What's he doing here?"

  "I think he wants Krysty for himself."

  Ryan remembered something the Trader used to say and muttered it now under his breath. "A chilled man has no desires, no wants."

  "What was that?"

  "Nothing," Ryan answered, craning his neck to see the three men walking in Mog's shadow. "Who are they?"

  "Dorfman, Billingsley and Foghat. They're Mog's cronies and will be watching his back, like I'll be doing for you. Stab you in the back if they can. Makes no difference to them."

  "Thanks for the warning."

  "Well, all of them will stab you in the back if they get the chance."

  Ryan nodded. "That's what I figured."

  "Chill or be chilled."

  Grundwold entered the circle carrying a canvas duffel bag filled with weapons. When he reached the center, he upended the bag and let the contents fall to the ground. Piled in a heap were several lengths of heavy chain, an assortment of knives, a few long wooden pikes and a few rusty swords. However, included in the jumble were several newer pieces, including Ryan's own panga.

  Seeing the knife's eighteen-inch blade, Ryan moved closer to the center of the circle.

  "Back off, One-eye!" Grundwold bellowed. "You start anything while I'm in the circle, and my snipers will blow a hole through your skull big enough to drive a wag through."

  Ryan looked at the armed men in the towers and took a cautious step backward.

  Mog moved closer to the circle's center, as well, but instead of calling the man on it, Grundwold simply hurried out of the circle.

  "Makes no difference to me, outlander," Mog said, gesturing to the weapons. "I'll chill you with whatever you leave behind."

  Ryan watched the giant man stop a few paces from the pile of weapons and wondered if he meant what he'd said, or was merely trying to put Ryan off.

  "Take what you want," Brody said. "Hurry!"

  Ryan reached for his panga, slid his fingers around the handle and pulled it roughly out of the bottom of the pile.

  Brody grabbed a six-foot-long pike, selecting the best weapon to keep the others at bay.

  The sec men and muties also reached for the weapons, the sec men picking out knives and the muties selecting the aged swords. True to his word, Mog and his men took what was left behind. The giant took a length of chain for himself, while Dorfman, Billingsley and Foghat ended up with a knife, pike and sword respectively.

  "I can chill you with a chain as easily as a blaster, One-eye," Mog said, his voice a low, deep rumble that boomed out of his cavernous chest like a cannon shot.

  Outside the circle, Grundwold raised his hands. "Ready?"

  The question was answered by a rumble of shouts and whistles from the crowd. They were more than ready, for blood and chilling.

  "Fight!"

  The circle came alive with movement.

  Ryan stepped back from the center, expecting Mog to swing the chain in his direction, but instead he quickly turned to the left, whipping his arm out and catching the mutie named Laslo in the neck. The chain tore into the mutie's neck, embedding itself three inches into the flesh, causing a gout of blood to spurt up from the open wound.

  Hambly looked at his partner with stunned fascination as Laslo desperately tried to pull the chain from his neck. Blood was pouring over the dying mutie's shoulder as he fell to his knees, still vainly trying to work the chain free.

  Mog took a step toward Laslo, wrapped the remaining length of chain around the part of the neck that remained, and then pulled with both hands. The blunt chain ripped through the mutie's flesh like a dull blade, tearing his head from his shoulders and sending it spinning into the air.

  The flying severed head, blood still draining from inside, caught the attention of the crowd and most of the combatants.

  But not Ryan.

  He used the opportunity to move right and slash at the leg of one of the sec men. He caught Salazar on the right leg just below the knee. The man let out a yelp of pain as his pant leg was slashed open and blood began to pool around his right foot.

  "You should have chilled me with that blow, One-eye," Salazar said, clutching at his bleeding leg. '"Cause I'm gonna make you pay for it."

  The sec man lunged forward, but stopped himself in midstride when he found the sharpened tip of Brody's pike between himself and Ryan.

  "Let him come," Ryan said, moving the pike aside with his left hand. "You just watch that the other poor excuse for a sec man doesn't interfere."

  Richmond heard the comment and sneered at Ryan. "Don't chill him, Sally," he told Salazar. "Leave a bit of his worthless life for me."

  "You got it." Salazar grimaced, still bleeding.

  Ryan stepped back to keep his distance from the approaching sec man. On Ryan's right, the second mutie, Hambly, had his hands full trying to stay away from Mog. The giant appeared to be toying with the man, putting on a show with his chain that the crowd seemed to
be enjoying since they were still shouting, "Mog! Mog! Mog!" louder than ever.

  Salazar's knife was about the same length as Ryan's panga, but that's where the similarities ended. Ryan's blade was sharp, and the balance of the weapon was excellent. Salazar, on the other hand, seemed to be fighting his knife, not sure whether to lunge or slash with it.

  And there was another advantage Ryan held over the sec man. Salazar's wounded leg continued to spill blood. If the cut hadn't slowed him, the loss of blood was sure to. All Ryan had to do was wait, but in this arena, waiting was a luxury he might not have time for.

  "What's the matter, One-eye, don't want to stand and fight?"

  Ryan thought of the Trader's saying about those who run away being able to run away another day, but that didn't apply here. If he ran, his fight was over and one of these creatures would end up with Krysty.

  His best friend.

  His lover.

  The thought of her made Ryan stand his ground.

  He planted his boots on the dry, dusty ground and threw the panga back and forth from his left hand to his right. The move had been intended to confuse Salazar and let him know that Ryan was equally good with the knife with either hand, but it had also captured the attention of the crowd, who appreciated a fighter with some showmanship and flare. Even Mog and the others were watching Ryan now. But he refused to put on a show for their entertainment. Chilling was a matter of survival, not people's amusement. He stopped tossing the panga back and forth and held it before himself to guard against an attack.

  Salazar had no problems about putting on a show, however. He tried to emulate Ryan's prowess with his knife, but was handling the weapon awkwardly. Ryan followed the flight of the knife from one hand to the other, waiting for his chance.

  It came on the third time the knife was in Salazar's left hand. He fumbled with it, having to adjust his hand slightly to firm up his grip on the knife. Ryan wasted no time.

  In a flash, his right boot shot up from the ground, kicking Salazar's hand, breaking several finger bones and sending the knife spinning through the air.

  Salazar looked stupidly at his empty right hand, as if the knife had suddenly betrayed him.