James Axler - Polestar Omega

Roughly two hundred people were already eating. There were men and women, a mixed bag of racial types, but none that Mildred could see were fat or old. There were no children, either. The diners were, if anything, uniformly scrawny. A few wore whitecoats, while the others were dressed in overalls of different colors—navy, green, black, red, orange, khaki. She and Doc were the only yellows in the room, and that drew stares from all sides. Over the piped-in Muzak there was hubbub and clatter, loud conversation and laughter. The setting made her think back to the year 2000, when she had been a guest for lunch at the Microsoft campus outside Seattle. Except the residents here were hunched over their plates, all business, shoveling in grub as fast as they could. She wondered what they all did to earn their keep.

“Get in line over here,” Oscar told them. “Grab a tray.”

Mildred and Doc did as they were told, sliding empty trays along belt-high rails toward the serving stations. Behind glass sneeze guards, workers in white were ladling food from a hot table setup—rows of stainless-steel trays—onto plates. As Mildred got closer, she could see what was on offer. There was a purple-black porridge dish. When served it was decorated with a spiky crown of what looked like black potato chips. Next to it in a serving tray was a gellike material—it looked like a mass of clear silicon caulk. Accompanying this were round slices of a compact bread smeared with gray paste.

As the server, a stick-figure female in a hairnet, spooned a big gob of the black porridge for her, Mildred said, “Uh, what is that?”

The cafeteria worker looked up from the plate she held and took notice of the yellow overalls. “Sure thing, newbie,” she said, slapping the porridge down dead center. “This is quinoa steamed with pengie blood.” She grabbed a handful of the blackened chips from an adjoining tray and deftly made a little crown of them. “With pengie skin crispies for garnish and a side of anchovy-herring pâté on quinoa bread.” Using a different serving spoon, she scooped up some of the clear stuff and let it ooze onto the plate. “And this is pengie egg soufflé.”

“Looks like uncooked egg white to me,” Mildred said.

“It’s pengie egg,” the server said, as if that information explained everything.

“So?”

The woman shot Mildred an exasperated look. “Pengie egg,” she repeated slowly as if to a small child. “The white never sets. It always looks like that, no matter how long you cook it or at how high a temperature. It’s protected by some kind of natural antifreeze. Don’t worry it’s fresh...”

Her words were lost in a sudden, grinding roar. Then everything began to shake. A Klaxon blasted a series of hair-raising pulses, obliterating the symphonic version of a Barry Manilow classic.

“Hang on!” the server shouted at them.

Mildred and Doc grabbed for the serving rails to keep from being thrown to the floor, which undulated in waves, as if it had turned to liquid. Gray dust rained down from the ceiling. The glass counter windows rattled violently in their steel frames. No one screamed, no one abandoned their food. As quickly as it had begun, it was over.

“Just a little icequake,” Oscar said. “Nothing to worry about. You’ll get used to them.”

Then he turned to the server and said, “Give them each a full portion. They’ve got a lot of work to do today.”

Mildred protested the show of generosity, but to no avail. A full portion is what she was handed.

When Doc received his plate, he stared in horror at the pâté of glistening, smashed, predigested fish.

The man in line behind them had to have read Doc’s expression because he leaned in and said, “Hey, if you’re not going to eat that...”

Chapter Three

Doubled over from the sucker kick to the groin and gasping for air, Ryan didn’t hear the door shut behind Lima and his entourage. The pain would have dropped him to his knees but for the fact that his wrists were tethered behind his back to the wall.

“You okay, lover?”

“Yeah, yeah, just give me a minute.”

“Bastards,” Jak gritted, his red eyes flashing with hate.

“Only thing you can trust them to do,” J.B. said, “is stab you in the back. And they’ll do it every time.”

Backstabbing was only one in a long list of their crimes. With their soft, uncallused hands, whitecoats had engineered and facilitated the destruction of civilization. They were the cause of suffering on an unimaginable scale, despised by all Deathlanders, norm and mutie. These spineless puppet masters hid behind their high principles—objectivity, accuracy and the search for pure knowledge—like their shit didn’t stink, but in reality they were no different from any other lying, thieving coldheart scum. They had promised humanity a glorious, ever-expanding future, but it was a sham, a carny hoax to suck up power, resources and wealth. It turned out what the population prior to 2001 had bought and paid for was murder and devastation on a global scale. Ryan slowly straightened up, grimacing.

“Do you believe we’ve been changed by something triple bad like Lima said?” Krysty asked him. “Something we could pass on?”

“Who knows?” Ryan replied. “If you think about it, the head whitecoat didn’t tell us much. He never explained why we’re here. Or how they got us here. He changed the subject right away to what’s wrong with us.”

“Did you notice he gave us his name but didn’t ask for ours?” Krysty asked. “Like we weren’t going to be around long enough for it to matter.”

“Yeah,” Ryan said, “not a good sign.”

“What are they going to do to us now?” Ricky asked.

“We don’t know what the ‘treatment’ Lima has in mind is all about,” Krysty said. “Or how long it will take. And if we’re lucky enough to survive it, we don’t know what they’ll do to us afterward.”

“Or even if there is a nukin’ treatment,” J.B. said. “Could be a way to keep us cowed until they get what they want out of us.”

Ryan nodded his agreement. It was just more of the same as far as he was concerned, telling people what they wanted to hear. Work less. Cheaper food. Cheaper housing. Longer life. If you get sick, no worries, we’ll fix you. Why change the line of bullshit when it always worked?

“I think there’s a good chance we’ll be separated,” he told the others. “That would make us a lot easier to control. If it happens, remember that Mildred and Doc are already in the redoubt, and if they haven’t freed themselves by now they soon will. You can bet on that. If we just hang tight, even if we’re separated they’ll find us. And no matter what these bastards put you through, remember you’re not alone. Everyone else is looking for a way to regroup and escape. We survived Oracle and sailing around the Horn. If we bide our time and stay sharp, we’ll survive this.”

“Where’s the food they promise?” Ricky asked.

Like most teenaged boys, Ricky Morales’s stomach was a bottomless pit.

“They’re holding out the carrot,” Ryan said, “which keeps us off-balance. Like there’s a chance they’re still going to play nice.”

“And mebbe not chill us,” J.B. added.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve eaten,” Ricky said. “Carrots sound good to me.”

By Ryan’s reckoning they shared a meal a little over twelve hours ago. They had stopped for a quick bite before checking out a redoubt near White Sands, New Mex. There was only one item on the menu: jackrabbit. The critters had screamed like scalded babies when struck by Jak’s throwing knives, jumping six feet in the air, turning mad somersaults and pinwheeling sprays of blood. Ryan and J.B. had cut off the heads so no one had to look at their faces, which were pink and hairless save for long whiskers and bushy eyebrows. Their two-foot-long ears were likewise off-putting, so riddled with needle wormholes they looked like brown lace.