Jak Lauren: A true child of the wastelands, reared on adversity, loss and danger, the albino teenager is a fierce fighter and loyal friend.
Dean Cawdor: Ryanâs young son by Sharona accepts the only world he knows, and yet he is the seedling bearing the promise of tomorrow.
In a world where all was lost, they are humanityâs last hope.â¦
Contents
Chapter One
Ryan Cawdor curled up into a fetal ball, trying to gain some respite from the sand that lashed at his skin, scouring into every crevice, biting through the material of his clothes, the exposed parts of his body raw with the sharp winds that blew the grit against him. The more he tried to cover the exposed flesh, the harder the sands ripped into the few inches of skin that he couldnât cover. What the sand didnât scour, the rain did. The howling winds of the storm carried with them a chem-loaded rain that hit hard with each drop, the soft acids within the water making exposed skin soapy and easy to peel back. Like a rubbery solution that eased away from flesh under pressure, the chem rain began to break down any exposed area. Ryan struggled to cover as much of his skin as possible.
The storm had come upon the companions quickly, and in the flat landscape there was nowhere to hide. As the dusk bled slowly into night, the wind from nowhere had whipped up across the expanse of sand, lifting clouds of the vicious, stinging particles and the bludgeoning raindrops that had eaten into the companions with little warning.
In the confusion and the darkness, they had been separated, despite their desire to stick close together. With no landmarks and no outcrops to provide even the barest minimum of shelter, they had stumbled blind into the storm, losing sight of one another. With nothing to identify their position, they were now completely alone.
Ryan tried to protect his body as much as possible from the buffeting of the storm, burrowing into the loose surface of the desert floor, taking the itching, shifting sands as a lesser problem than the stinging clouds of the storm and the eviscerating rain. Hoping it would soon pass. These storms had never, in his experience, lasted that long. But there was always a first time. Mebbe this would be it, mebbe this would take forever to blow itself out, scourging the skin from his flesh as it proceeded, leaving him nothing but a mess of bleeding flesh, the nerve endings rubbed raw by the insistent grains of sand.
Every fiber and muscle ached as he tried to hunker down lower into the sand, forming a barrier between himself and the storm.
It hadnât started like this. A few hours earlier, it had been differentâ¦
WAKING from a jump, the hammering in Ryan Cawdorâs head felt as if every single atom in his body had been ripped apart and then put back together again with sledgehammer forceâwhich it had, but why did it have to feel that way every time? Why the fireblasted hell couldnât he get used to the jumps in the mat-trans? The companions had made enough of these jumps for their bodies to acclimatize by now, surely?
Getting to his feet, checking almost unconsciously that everything was there, and somehow he hadnât lost a leg or and arm in the jump, Ryan took a look around the chamber. The armaglass was a smoky gray tinged with electric blue. It was semiopaque and he could see the faint outline of the anteroom beyond, thanks to a dim light. It was empty, which was a good thing; and it seemed to be in one piece, which was another. The random nature of the comp-controlled jumps every time the chamber door shut meant that it was always a gamble: one day they could end up in a chamber where the redoubt had been flooded, or the redoubt had collapsed, so that the chamber trapped them in a mass of compacted rock with no way out. The only consoling thought was that this hadnât happened so far, and that the old tech would probably screw up under such conditions, meaning that the chamber wasnât in working order and could not materialize themâ¦hopefully.
There were still a few tendrils of white mist around the circular disks that were geometrically arranged on the chamber floor. So he had come âround quickly after the jump. He wondered how the others had fared.
J. B. Dix was breathing heavily, slumped on the floor, his hand still unconsciously gripping the stock of his mini-Uzi. His fedora had fallen over his face, masking his features, and his body had the awkward, splayed posture of a man yet to come âround. Next to him, Mildred Wyeth was sitting against the chamber wall, her head back, her plaits hanging down her back. She was moaning softly, her eyes flickering behind the still-closed lids. Slowly, she was beginning to surface from the rigors of the journey. She coughed as something caught in her throat, bringing her up faster as she fought the choking, her eyes suddenly wide but still not focusing.
Ryanâs attention was taken by the sounds behind him. Whirling, and instantly regretting it as his head spun, he saw that Krysty Wroth was coming to her feet. Her long fur coat was draped across her shoulders, and she hugged it tight to herself as she shivered, her lips twisting into a wry grin as his eye met hers.
âNever get used to that, eh, lover?â she said in a cracked, dry voice.
Ryan shook his head gently, not trusting his own parched throat. He marveled at the way in which Krysty was able to shake off the rigors of the jump. She looked a whole lot better than he felt as she turned her attention to Doc Tanner, who had been lying at her side. He was mumbling to himself, twitching convulsively, his brow beaded with sweat. Doc had suffered more than any of them could ever know from the rigors of the mat-trans. He had been trawled through time as well as space, and the resultant physical strains had made him
