Chapter Nineteen

 

Ryan sent Doc into the Freedom Center complex to tell Krysty, J.B. and Mildred about Dean and Jak, then walked with the two sec men to a boarded-over mall front. An old sign overhead identified the site as a former Spencer's Gifts. A single door with a sec keypad and a card slot was recessed into the solid front. Rollins slid an ID card into the slot, then punched in a quick seven-digit code.

 

"Go straight down the hallway until it ends, then go right. You'll pass a few doors on the trip. Don't bother trying them, they're locked. They're just back doors into some of the other mall stores anyway. Keep going until you come into a glassed-in waiting area. A guard will be waiting for you. He's got your description. Tell him you're Cawdor, and he'll send you through."

 

"You're not coming?" Ryan asked. "Surprised you'll let me in to see Morgan alone."

 

"Frankly, Cawdor, I've got better things to do. This mall doesn't police itself. Besides, Morgan can take care of himself."

 

"When do I get to see Dean?" Ryan asked.

 

 

Rollins sighed heavily. "Haven't you been paying attention? You can talk with the boy after you've spoken with the boss."

 

As Rollins turned to walk away, Ryan grabbed him by the upper bicep. The big man whirled and knocked off Ryan's grip with a snarl.

 

"I'm getting damn tired of you laying hands on me. Do it again and they'll be hosing you up off the floor, pit champion or no pit champion."

 

Ryan's face was a grim mask. "I just wanted you to know that if anything happens to Dean or to Jak, I'll cut your heart out."

 

"See the boy comes by chilling honestly. Both of them are fine. Hell, after what they've been up to tonight, I'm glad they're locked away to protect innocent mall citizens from their reign of terror."

 

"Good. Then I won't be taking you on," Ryan gritted. "At least not yet. I just want to know what kind of man this Morgan is."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"Most places I've been in like this, the man behind the curtain is usually crazy. Power goes to their minds and rots their brain from within, like some kind of rad sickness. They start thinking they're a god or some other higher power, barking out orders to yes men like you, reveling in their twisted fantasies as long as they're backed up by a blaster and their own private army."

 

"Then you're in luck, Cawdor. Morgan is probably the most rational man I ever met. His private army is busy watching over his domain, not over his own ass. Why he wants to talk with a loser outlander like yourself is beyond me."

 

"You shooting straight?"

 

"Why wouldn't I be? After you wrap up with Morgan, get the boss to send you down to the Wings and you can talk to your boy."

 

Ryan watched Rollins stride away, talking into one of the portable radios he'd seen hanging from many of the sec men's waists. He wasn't thrilled with having to walk into a discussion with the mall's baron alone, but the way the cards had been dealt so far, he didn't have much of a choice.

 

The one-eyed man crept down the long hallway, following the directions Rollins had given to him. Just for the hell of it, he tried a few of the doorknobs belonging to the numerous doors he was passing at regular intervals, but all of them were frozen in place. Locked, as Rollins had said they would be. A few bullets from the SIG-Sauer would solve that problem, but the muffled sound would carry and what would be the point anyway?

 

The glassed-in area outside Morgan's office had a few padded metal chairs, a freestanding ashtray and a low coffee table cluttered with tattered predark magazines. Ryan entered through the swinging glass door and chose a seat where he could get the best view of anyone entering or exiting.

 

He picked up one of the magazines and flipped through the glossy pages. The mag was called Premiere . Ryan glanced at the face on the cover staring back at him. A Candid Talk With Kurt Russell the mag promised. Ryan tossed it back on the table. He had no interest in what someone called Kurt Russell might have to say, candid or not.

 

A massive wooden desk was near the door, and Ryan imagined Morgan did business behind that door.

 

Sitting at the desk and frowning at Ryan was another sec guard, with a furrowed brow and a three-day growth of beard. Ryan estimated the guard topped the scales at over three hundred pounds of muscle. The huge sec man also seemed to serve as part-time secretary.

 

"Cawdor. I'm here to see Morgan," Ryan said.

 

"I know," the sec man replied.

 

An obnoxious buzzing sound came out of a yellow box on the edge of the desk. The frowning sec man reached out and punched a button before picking up an attached phone receiver.

 

"Yeah, he's here," the massive sec guard said, eying Ryan suspiciously.

 

"Good," a voice over the intercom replied. "Send him right in."

 

"He's packing a blaster," the guard said in a lower tone. "A big one."

 

This time the voice over the intercom had a hint of irritation. "So am I, Genge. Everyone in Freedom is armed. Part of the 'Welcome to our neighborhood please shop with us again thank you you're welcome bye-bye' kind of charm. Now, do what I said and send the man right in."

 

Genge stood and gestured toward a door near Ryan's seat. "Mr. Morgan is expecting you, sir."

 

"So I heard," Ryan said simply.

 

Ryan passed Genge and stepped into the open doorway, his eye taking in the layout of the colossal yet Spartan office. He heard the door close and click behind him. A single desk of immense size similar to the one in the waiting area was in the middle of the room, flanked by two plush black leather chairs and a matching sofa. A single comp and monitor stood on a smaller table beside the desk, along with a phone-intercom, both within easy reach if seated. The walls were all drab, painted in neutral tones of soft amber.

 

The rear wall behind the desk was the only exception. It was home to a massive bank of vid screens and security viewing-recording devices. Half of the screens were lit, showing various parts of the interior of Freedom Mall flickering dimly in grainy black and white. There was also a shot or two of the mall exterior, but these images were even harder to make out.

 

The man seated on the edge of the desk was in his midforties, with dark brown hair graying at the temples and a matching brown beard that was starting to gray in sympathy. The beard tapered down to a point. His hair was too long for the collared shirt he wore and as a result gave him the air of a man in bad need of a haircut.

 

He was average height, average weight, and the color brown had been visited upon him a third time with his eyes, which would have completely added to the lack of any distinguishing characteristics if not for the vibrancy shining through as he looked Ryan over. The man oozed vitality and intelligence, but not in the usual arrogant way of many smart men who strove to assure their domination over their own pocket kingdoms in Deathlands.

 

In addition to the white long-sleeved shirt, which was immaculate, appearing to be either new or pressed, the man wore long black trousers and high black boots. A small golden cross could be spotted hanging on a chain from around his neck, flickering now and then as he moved, the metal catching the soft lighting within the office.

 

He also wore an expensive wrist chron, an old-style one without a digital readout or liquid crystal. A simple wristwatch with an hour and minute hand, and tiny inset window for the date.

 

"You Freedom's baron, Morgan?" Ryan asked. The man turned to the left, to the right and then glanced behind himself. "I must be, or else I'm loitering in his office again," he muttered before turning back to face Ryan. "No. Not hardly. Freedom has no baron or boss or lord. I'm merely the administrator."

 

"Ah, is that what barons are calling themselves now?" Ryan said, keeping his hands out in the open, friendly, nonthreatening. "I've met all kinds, admirals, princes, bosses and commandersall the same. Barons. Still, you might be telling the truth. You're not overweight enough to be the genuine article, and you don't have any toadies or sluts kissing your ass and falling over your feet."

 

"I like my privacy. And I've never claimed the title of baron in my life. The name is Beck Morgan. I never got into calling people by their last names," Morgan said easily, sticking out a hand to shake.

 

Ryan looked at the offered hand as if it was covered in pus.

 

"No manners where you come from, outlander?" Morgan asked as he slid the offered hand back.

 

Ryan felt his face flush. The scar running down his left cheek from the injury that had taken his eye darkened. "I've got manners, Morgan. But if I took your hand right now I'm afraid I might try to keep it by ripping your damn arm clean off and beating you to death with it."

 

The mall administrator chuckled. "Like you did to the sec droid in the pit? I watched the battle from here. Very impressive, and clever. You fought with courage and wit."

 

"And fearnobody bothered telling me when going in I was supposed to be fighting hand-to-hand with an android," Ryan snapped.

 

"You dealt with the unexpected quite well, Ryan. I hear you're good at that," Morgan said. "A talent for survival is a most useful ability."

 

"Look, Morgan, you can save yourself some time and cut the diplomatic smile, the first-name calling, the compliments on my fighting abilities and the firm, dry handshake." Ryan rubbed his forehead with his right hand. "Do us both a favor and spare me the lecture. I don't plan on being here long enough to get on a first-name basis with you. I'm here for one reason. I want my son."

 

The bearded man shook his head wearily. "It's not that simple. Certain parties have been injured. Certain parties demand justice."

 

"Don't they always? My guess is, way things work in Deathlands we're looking at Dean's word and Jak's against the man they chilled. Dead men can't talk."

 

"Not a man, a boy. And there are living, breathing witnesses. Well, a witness, anyway. No question your son and friend were minding their own business, and once they were provoked, they brought out the scythe and started mowing down the opposition," Morgan said. "Are all your people as deadly as you those two and yourself, Ryan?"

 

"I hope for your future here as boss man of Freedom you never have to find out," Ryan replied. "And don't call me Ryan."

 

"What should I call you?"

 

"I don't give a damn," Ryan said dismissively. "I'll say it again. I want my son."

 

"Fair enough. We're not unfair here in Freedom. You'll have himsoon as you make restitution to the arcade owners and pay his fines. Along with the albino's."

 

"How much?"

 

"The fines? Hell, not much. I'll go ahead and waive them to show my good intentions. Consider them paid," Morgan said, tearing up a sheet of paper with a flourish.

 

Ryan wasn't buying the show. "What about the damages?"

 

"Nothing I can do to help you there, I'm afraid," Morgan said as he pulled a stack of whisper-thin sheets out of a wire-mesh basket on his desk and flipped through them. Finding the one he wanted, he put down the rest and handed over the single damning piece of paper to Ryan.

 

"Fireblast!" Ryan spit as he saw the list of figures and the combined total at the bottom of the list. "That's a lot of jack."

 

"Some of those vid machines are damn near irreplaceable, Cawdor. Any good comp equipment is usually salvaged for something of more value than mere entertainment, and to find full units in working order takes time and lots of money. Lucky for your boy, the arcade owner is a forgiving sort once he feels that proper justice had been meted out."

 

Ryan gave Morgan a thin smile. "All about greasing the palms, isn't it?"

 

The bearded man nodded. "Perhaps. To be honest, I like to quote a phrase from an old predark song called 'Hotel California.' "

 

"Been there. Hot as Hades. Unless you're wanting to build sand castles out of radioactive dirt, I can't advise the trip. Besides, I thought this was the Carolinas."

 

"The theme still applies. Besides, if you've been there, I'm sure you know most of California fell into the ocean when the bombs hit. Now, the song sort of goes, a person can check in, but he can never check out. During my tenure here as operations manager for the Freedom Mall"

 

"Thought you said you were the administrator," Ryan snorted.

 

"Like you told me earlier. Titles. Words. Barons. Kings. Means the same thing. But during my stay here, I've seen what I've just said come into play hundreds of times. I look at it as providing employment. Running a compound this size takes people, Cawdor."

 

" 'Mr. Cawdor,' to you, Morgan. I want my boy and my friend."

 

"And I want to be hung with a cock the size of my forearm, but it isn't going to happen," Morgan retorted, his elegant face flashing with anger. "This isn't some little ville on the edge of nowhere, my one-eyed friend. Nor is it a place where you can come swaggering in and do whatever the hell you please."

 

"Is that a fact?"

 

"The fact is thislike it or not, Freedom is a civilized patch that has been carved out of the southeastern hellzone. We've got all the tenants we can handle and a waiting list of thousands who'd like to live here on a regular basis instead of just passing through from one pesthole to the next. Those with the jack give up on permanent residence and just visit here for extended stretches. Any way you want to debate it, people want to stay in here and visit the mall because they can't find what we have to offer anywhere else on the remains of the North American continent."

 

"What, high prices? Overcrowding? Sec men with fancy green jackets and a bunker mentality?" Ryan asked. "Or that snazzy pit with the broken-down droid used in staging your own gladiator bouts for the unwashed masses? Pretty sad."

 

"No, no, no," Morgan corrected. "What we offer to them, besides access to food, clothing and shelter, is safety."

 

"That's debatable. What about those stickies on the outside trying to get in that I keep hearing about?"

 

"Yes, well, no location is perfect. Which is where you come in."

 

"I was told the muties want to come in and spend some jack and have a hot meal along with the rest of us," Ryan said laconically. "Seems to me you're missing out on the almighty stickie dollar. Piss-poor thinking for a businessman like yourself."

 

Morgan burst out laughing, his amusement coming in a series of mirthful snorts.

 

"Believe me, Cawdor, if those dumb bastards had the brains to understand the concept of legal tender, they'd be more than welcome to come in and spend, spend, spend. Unfortunately stickies are about as bright as a bag of dirt. Only thing on their mind is burning and killing, not necessarily in that order."

 

Ryan turned to leave. "Well, thanks for the chat. I guess I've got some selling to do, see if I can come up with the jack to bust Dean and Jak out of your jail."

 

"There is another way."

 

"How so?"

 

"Work for me. Your entire group. Work off the debt. The mall will make good with the vid-game owner, and in exchange you join my sec squad for thirty days. You've got a rep. Let's see how you earned it."

 

"No."

 

"Best offer you're going to get tonight, Cawdor. And if you have any ideas about trying to take your son and friend out of the Wings by force, you're sadly mistaken. Even if you could get to the cells, there are booby traps designed to kill if you try opening doors without proper authorization."

 

"If you're so damn strong and all-powerful, why do you need me?" Ryan finally said, growing fed up with all of the blunt goodwill. He was beginning to wish for the more traditional baron who smirked, pranced and bragged a blue streak. At least those types were men that Ryan could take their measure and figure out where he stood.

 

Morgan shook his head. "Ease up. I'm getting to that. Let me give you some background first. See, your timing is most fortuitous. There's death in the air of Freedom. Bad enough keeping the peace from within, but now the stickies are becoming stirred up. A group like yours enters, and we take notice. I quizzed that Adrian scavie that came in with you, and he told me a few things. If your son hadn't fucked up in the vid arcade, I would have been coming to you with an offer anyway. Now I can make the offer, and it's one you can't refuse."

 

"I don't like being pushed," Ryan warned.

 

 

"Who does?"

 

"Why me?"

 

"I know you're not exactly a teenager. A man lives to be your age, he's got something on the ball. That's why I'm willing to make this deal. Frankly I need your help. Good sec men are impossible to find, much less keep. They tend to have this annoying habit of following the money. I pay a decent wage, but once some dumb-ass baron gets his panties in a wad, off they go to fight yet another private little war."

 

"I'm not a sec man."

 

"Now you are. Better still, you're an intelligent sec man. Freedom exchanges information with other villes, other barons. Your face and name aren't unknown in this region. Amusingly enough, since you've never left any of your past adversaries alive, there has been no bounty placed on your head."

 

"I'm not laughing."

 

"Well, I found it amusing."

 

"You seem to know a lot about me."

 

"I know a lot about anyone who comes into Freedom, or at least I try to."

 

"You can't know everything. Can't know what I'm thinking about right now."

 

"I could hazard a guess." Morgan eyeballed Ryan carefully. "What's with you, Cawdor?"

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"I mean you look and act the role of a gunslinger, but your vocabulary and carriage belie the brains of an educated man."

 

Ryan snorted. "Doc Tanner's the one for book learning. Not me."

 

"That preening fool? Far as I've been told, he wears knowledge like a suit of armor, verbosity aimed at keeping the rest of us poor, slack-jawed yokels out of the loop. No, you're smarter than you let on, Cawdor, otherwise you wouldn't have survived Deathlands as long as you have."

 

"What do you know about survival? You hide in this back office, away from the mall floors, away from the outside. When's the last time you felt real sunlight, Morgan?"

 

"Been a few months, but haven't you heard? It's dangerous outside. Skin cancer. Rad sickness. Who needs it? Not me," Morgan replied in a salesman tone. "That's why people come to Freedom to shop, to live, to deal. We're a stronghold, Cawdor, with a movie palace, places to eat, things to buy, places to stay. Safe, wholesome entertainment, minus a few gambling dens, bars and the after-hours gaudies."

 

"Yeah, men gotta have their drinks, cards and sluts."

 

"Damn straight!" Morgan said. "All any man could want is in here."

 

Ryan licked his lips. "Even as big as this place is, you can only stay back here for so long. Outside world will come in soon enough and stomp you flat."

 

"A year ago I would have told you that was nonsense, Cawdor. Now I'm not so sure. I don't have a problem with outside. I just don't want to deal with it. Why do you think malls were built in the first place, back in the predark days of consumerism?"

 

"I don't know. Greed, I guess." Morgan shook his head. "Wrong. Protection. Downtown areas were getting too dangerous. Muggings, rapes, theft. People were afraid to go out on city streets to buy their needed goods. Mail order was fine for some items, sure, but man needs to go out on his own, do his own hunting and gathering, and malls such as Freedom were built in response to his needs. Or her needs. Malls were traditionally a female haven. Sexist, I admit, but I'm just repeating what I've read."

 

Ryan gestured toward the bank of vid screens. "Looks like you have eyes everywhere."

 

"Once upon a time, we did," Morgan corrected, standing up and walking over to the wall. He hit a few control keys, switching the screen images, as well as the angles they were showing, as he continued to talk. "I'm being honest with you here, Cawdor. Very few people know the extent of how Freedom has backslid in recent months. Only the key people in my sec squad are aware of this, but all of these screens used to be fully functional."

 

"What happened?"

 

"Most of the exterior cameras are down, and some of the interiors ones are shoddy and in need of replacing or repair. We were using thermal cameras for the outside perimeterhell, we even had a miniature long-range TV op system on the roof with all the trimmings, laser range finder, tilt pedestal and night vision."

 

"Had?"

 

"Yes, had. All of them gave us good visibility in all ambient light conditions, day, night, smoke or haze. Now we're lucky to even have the two regular cameras up and functioning. Freedom's starting to fall apart at the seams. We have investors, money men from up north, looking to do something to alleviate their boredom. This seemed like a solid plan. Renewal of the past, protection for the future."

 

"Sorry, but it still sounds to me like you need techies to fix your problems," Ryan said. "And you'll get your sec men if you're willing to ante up the jack."

 

"No. What I need are competent men and women capable of fortifying Freedom. Word is out. I'm hiring qualified mercies. But word travels slow, and now I'm making do with a few good men and a lot of cannon fodder with itchy trigger fingers blowing the heads off visitors who try and steal from merchants instead of arresting them so we can confiscate their possessions and jack. A dead man is of no use to anyone."

 

"Have to disagree with you there, Morgan. In fact, the thought has crossed my mind that there's nothing in here to keep me from gutting you like a fish or putting a bullet in your head. By the time your sec man outside could squeeze out from behind the desk, you'd be a dead man. That could solve a lot of problems."

 

"Oh, really? Chilling me would just result in the deaths of your son and your friend. Understand, I'm trying to be polite here, but if you fuck with me, Freedom is the last place you'll ever see againalive, at least."

 

"Didn't say I was going to do it. Just said what was keeping me from doing it? Could take you hostage."

 

"Enough with the theories, Cawdor! There is a stickie situation to be dealt with, yes! But I'm being honest with you. I need your help in handling them. Your people"

 

"They aren't my people, Morgan," Ryan countered, cutting the mall administrator off in midsentence. He rose to his feet and began to pace in front of the overblown wooden desk as he continued to speak. "What they are to me are my friends, and my friends do as they please."

 

"Surely they have loyalty to you?"

 

"Uh-uh. Stop right there. Big difference between loyalty and ownership. You speak of them like they were my slaves or something. Not even close. We travel together because we care about one another and don't have to worry about waking up with a blade in our backs. I know trust is a double-hard thing to find anymore, but I guess that's what holds us together. We trust one another."

 

"Then I 'trust' they'll stand by your request for a favorfor your son's sake, and for the albino's."