Death Quest

By David Addleman

A spaceship has crashed and doomed the world of Newhome as exploding fuel particles poison land and air. A small group has survived in the wind shadow of a mountain with just enough Quaradian Crystal to power their heat, light, and weapons. They barricade themselves inside a log stockade and hold off marauders with their laser weapons. Once their crystal power is exhausted, they will either die or be enslaved.

Trent volunteers to journey down the mountain in search of more crystal. He is the sixth questor to try – none of the previous five has returned. What will happen when he succeeds and rediscovers the world's most advanced technology?

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Addleman
• Release date: Feb 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458028075

David Addleman

David R. Addleman has sold over 120 short stories and 8 novels. He was a charter member of the Fairwood Writers Group in Kent, Washington, and taught fiction writing at Renton College. He competes in masters swimming and holds a black belt in Uechi Ryu karate. He writes from Menifee, CA., where he lives with his wife, Deborah. Their son, Paul, works at UCLA in Westwood, CA.

Book preview

DEATH QUEST

A Post-Cataclysmic Science-Fiction Novel

by

David R. Addleman

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

David R. Addleman on Smashwords

Cover Art by Laura Shinn

Death Quest

Copyright © 2011 by David R. Addleman

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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DEATH QUEST

PART I

CHAPTER ONE

Trent rolled out of bed on a crisp autumn morning. Smoke from morning cooking fires filled the air. He inhaled deeply. Those fires meant breakfast and he was starved. The frosty air nipped at his bare skin as he pulled on his clothes, a mix of animal skins and homespun cloth. He pushed into his hand-made boots with their wooden soles and animal-skin uppers. He'd be needing a new pair soon.

Lambskin and cowhide had been used for shoes and clothing before the disaster, although now those animals were far too valuable for their milk and wool to consider killing for their hides. When a cow, sheep, or pig died, of course, its hide was tanned and used, but there weren't enough of these for everyone. Trent's prize possession was a vest of sheepskin with the wool attached—he'd traded two deerskins and a cord of chopped wood for it. He wore the vest mornings and evenings even during the summer, wool side out, and under his deerskin coat in winter, wool side in. Wherever Trent went, he drew envious glances from people.

Donning his vest, Trent threw on his deerskin coat and emerged into the open. He drew in the fresh, thin air and breathed deeply, exhaling the humid air trapped in his lungs, reminding himself to add a few more vent-holes in the walls up near the ceiling of his nearly air-tight sleeping hut. He stretched and was suddenly even more aware of his hunger. Have to do something about that, he thought.

Hello, Trent.

Trent grinned at Ryan, the last living spaceman on Newhome. Ryan was the only man in camp who spoke in the spacers' vernacular, with its characteristic substitutions for you and is. He also controlled the catapult and Trent's future. Despite his limp, Ryan moved steadily across the clearing in the center of the few hundred Core huts. He was a man with a mission and nothing would slow him down.

How's the catapult coming? Trent asked.

She'll be ready for Gentry's launch. Never ye fear, Ryan said over his shoulder. And, Gentry? Be he ready?

Trent had never said so, but he enjoyed hearing the ye's and yer's and be's the old spacer used. He's ready, Trent shouted at the departing man. I hope it's true, he thought. God, I hope he's ready. He prayed for Gentry every night.

Allan Gentry, a year older than Trent, had trained the last five of his twenty-five years for the night launch, so he'd better be ready. If Gentry failed, then he, Trent, would be next.

He imagined himself sailing through the black sky, over the Ring, and into the trees beyond. That would be the start of his quest for Quaradian Crystals. Gentry would be the sixth Questor sent out; Trent would be the seventh.

None had returned.

* * *

Although he wasn't called that back then, Trent's father had been the first Questor. He had gone out hunting for his wife, Trent's mother. In those days the Core still had sufficient Quaradian Crystals to keep itself powered for another decade. As time passed and Trent senior didn't return, the fourteen-year-old Trent withdrew into himself, cursing the father-son camping trip that had left his mother behind for a painful Quaradian Crystal death.

Five years passed before the second Questor was sent out. By then the Core techs had measured the rate of crystal consumption and estimated they would be without power in another five years. The Core conserved their supply of crystals and sent out more Questors in hopes that one would eventually return with the desperately needed fuel. Without Quaradian Crystals the Core would die.

Gentry might be the last Questor to go. If he failed, the crystals might not last another year. Their generators would quit, their lights would go out, the electric-eye fence would shut down, and the Militant Ringers would close in. If they waited another year, it might be too late for Trent or anyone else to try again.

The Questors' training grew out of the pooling of memories dredged up to teach all that was known about becoming a mech-tech. Trent knew a little about electricity, weapons, batteries, the theory of flight, catapult technology, missile weapons, energy shields, and laser pistols, although he hadn't been taught enough to be very good at any of them. He lacked the expertise of ancient engineers. To them he probably would have barely been a technician—good with his hands and capable of figuring out how some things worked.

The trouble was, there were no engineers or scientists left—only a few old technicians. Sometimes practical logic and outright guesses replaced absolute knowledge.

So far, five Questors had gone missing; Gentry had to be successful.

* * *

Trent hoped that by the time he left, he would have someone special to think about during his Quest. He was old enough to be married and probably would already be, if he hadn't volunteered for Quest. Yet for him, finding the right woman wasn't easy. If only he were a dragon-slaying knight back on old Earth. His heroic return would bring women flocking to see which of them he would choose. Trent knew exactly what his right woman would be like.

She would be like Mikelle, two years younger than he, a head shorter, and a whole lot prettier—even with her laser scar. To Trent, her scar enhanced her beauty. The partial mask she wore around her left eye and over her left cheek lent an aura of mystery. Against her midnight hair, her brown, almost black pupils, and creamy skin, the white porcelain mask set off her beauty better than unblemished skin would have.

Mikelle hadn't, by word or glance, acknowledged his existence. Well, she would know who he was, in general, since he was a Questor. The fifteen hundred people in the Core all knew something about each other. But Mikelle and he had never held a prolonged conversation. They'd never danced together, or shared ideas. Trent very much wanted to talk with her before he left on Quest.

Shivering in the early morning air, he walked briskly to the men's latrine and relieved himself, then circled back by the ice-covered, spring-fed stream. He broke the skin of ice with the haft of his knife and washed his hands, then dabbed at his eyes and mouths. He ran back to the clearing and hunkered down by a cooking fire.

How about some porridge, young Trent? Granny Abbot held out a steaming bowl. Old and wrinkled, brown as a walnut, the small, stooped woman with the twinkling eyes seemed to have a smile in her voice.

No blood relation to Trent, Granny Abbot had always been ready with her help. She'd known Trent's dad before his Quest. When his dad hadn't returned, Trent was left to fend for himself. Granny Abbot kept him alive and in warm clothes. He'd grown up thinking of her as family, and loved her more than she knew.

You spoil me, Granny, Trent said.

Pah! Any woman here would be happy to do that. She handed him a cup of ale.

He drank deeply, set down the cup and began spooning in his porridge. Such a good cook, too, he said. I hope you're still single when I get back. I'll be needing a life-mate who can cook.

Granny Abbot cackled. You'd better find someone younger and less experienced. I'd be too much for you.

You already are, he said, grinning.

Get along with you. Look, there goes Mikelle. Chase her down and ask her to wait for you.

Her words landed like a slap. Has Granny guessed, he wondered.

He stared after Mikelle, daydreaming about running to catch up to her. Movement caught his eye. Two men disappeared into the forest at the exact place where Mikelle had entered.

There go Skerry and Tobin, Granny said. They'll be up to no good, I'll bet.

Trent's chest tightened, and for a moment he sat frozen. The paralysis passed and he jumped up. You're right. He set down the bowl and trotted in the direction the two had taken.

Be careful, Granny Abbot called after him.

The inseparable pair, little Skerry and hugely-muscled Tobin, had gotten into so much trouble over the years that twice they'd come close to being exiled from the Core.

The first time they'd had the excuse of youth. Their pleading mothers had shed tears over the boy who'd been beaten by the pair because they'd wanted his clothes. Give them a second chance, both mothers had wailed. The second time the pair had been caught breaking into the Core's food supply. That time their own tear-streaked promises to change their ways had saved them from being banished.

Now, they appeared to be stalking Mikelle. Trent saw no evidence of improved attitudes on their parts. But why Mikelle? She was as feisty as a catamount, with fangs and claws that didn't show. Even Tobin's size wouldn't help him much.

Trent continued along the well-worn path that ran crooked as a mountain stream between huge pines. Up ahead, he caught occasional glimpses of Skerry or Tobin, but no sign of Mikelle. He knew she could run easily for hours, as he'd seen her do often when running for exercise around the inside of the stockade perimeter. He wondered if the stalkers thought they could run her down, or whether they merely intended to spy on her.

There.

He caught a glimpse of Mikelle, although her homespun work coveralls made her nearly invisible against the trees.

Trent picked up his pace, sensing danger he couldn't define. He lifted his knees and ran steadily, already experiencing the lung-ache of altitude. He didn't expect to catch up with her, but he intended to close in on the two following her.

The path curved and all three disappeared from view. He put on a burst of speed. Coming around the curve he saw the backs of the two men and slowed to a stop. Mikelle faced the two men, and Trent, although she seemed oblivious to his presence. A mere ten yards separated him from her. This was closer than he usually got to her, and still she wasn't aware of him. So, what else was new? She never seemed to know when he was around. That the two men also didn't seem to sense his presence was due more to the pine needles under his feet than any attempt at stealth.

Sunlight filtered down through pine boughs and reflected star-like off Mikelle's mask. What do you cretins want? she asked coldly. The timbre of her voice sent shivers up Trent's spine.

He felt a possessive pride for her strength in standing up to her pursuers. Didn't the two men know she'd cut her ink-black hair combat-short for a reason? She might look frail and small, but Trent knew she was an expert in elido, the Newhome martial art developed by and for women, and that she taught it to the other women in the Core. She was an elido master. How could the two men live in the Core and not know that?

What'cha got under that mask, pretty girl? Skerry's high tenor sing-songed through the trees. His cockiness rocked Trent back on his heels. Something isn't right here, Trent thought.

Trent moved silently closer, keeping a three-foot-thick pine trunk between him and the men.

He knew exactly what Mikelle was seeing when she looked at Skerry. As a teenager, he had flaunted the law and tried to make a bomb. It had exploded prematurely and had caught him full in the face. The resulting heat blast had left him pock-marked, with his features oddly out of order. Above his twisted nose his eyes tracked independently of one another, and he spoke out of the non-paralyzed left side of his mouth. His hair and ears appeared normal.

Maybe we should flip her upside down and look, Tobin joined in. He looked almost normal, except for being the biggest muscle-head in the Core. His clean-shaved head glistened.

Do so at your peril, Mikelle said.

Trent tensed behind the tree, ready to jump out and help her if she needed him. She can probably stop them by herself, he thought. As much as the Core needed all able-bodied fighters, Trent swore he would kill them both before he would let them hurt her. He remembered she would also be carrying a blade in her boot. Trent relaxed a bit. That would probably suffice in case her elido wasn't enough. These jerks are crazy, he thought. Suicidal.

Skerry sneered at Mikelle, who seemed as full of disbelief as Trent. Tobin laughed at her, apparently confident he could beat her left-handed.

She waited, her arms folded across her chest, her left leg slightly ahead of her right. Trent recognized the elido ready-stance, but doubted Skerry and Tobin did. He noticed Skerry wore a knife and kept his hands close to the hilt. Tobin flexed and looked intimidating.

Skerry stepped forward, his hands outstretched for grabbing either Mikelle's shoulders or arms.

Something is wrong. Even Skerry's not that dumb. Trent snapped into rigidity with a sudden flash of premonition.

As Skerry closed on Mikelle, she leaned back and wrist-blocked his extended hands, preparatory to a cross-armed throw. But the instant her bent wrists made contact, a shimmering blue haze enveloped Skerry. Mikelle screamed horribly. Her features froze in a twisted rictus.

The bastard is wearing a force-shield! Only one force-shield existed in the Core, and its use was reserved for the Battle Champion—the man selected to spearhead the Core's defense against an invasion.

No wonder Skerry had been acting cocky. He knew the force-shield would protect him from any weapon short of a direct blast from a laser cannon. Skerry probably didn't know how it worked, but Trent did.

Trent had been told by a tech that the shield projected a Quaradian-powered magnetic field so powerful it extracted millions of tiny electrical currents from molecules in the air surrounding it. The tech had gone on about how those tiny currents were woven into an impenetrable plasma—the blue shimmer. The smell of ozone was overpowering. When Mikelle had touched the shield, millions of electrons ripped into her body seeking ground.

Strong men had died in battle with less contact than Mikelle had already endured. That she hadn't yet collapsed attested to her youth and strong heart. Trent watched helplessly as Mikelle jerked and convulsed under the stabbings of a million tiny daggers. Her body stiffened into a back-bend, while the muscles and veins in her neck stood out like writhing snakes.

Tobin stepped in, grinning, carefully avoiding the force-shield. He could neither touch nor harm her until after the force-shield had been turned off. And she was no good to Skerry as the wearer of the shield—not unless he wanted a body held rigid by rampaging electrical current.

Trent reached down and picked up a sturdy pine branch, clutching it in both hands. It was three feet long and thicker than his forearm. He waited, jaw clenched, teeth grinding. His chance would come when Skerry turned off the shield.

Skerry had better hurry; Mikelle couldn't live through much more of this.

CHAPTER TWO

Jim Younger lay abed longer than usual, staring up at the peak of his small tent. Considered a part of General Kotter's command clique, he was accepted by the other Militants as an officer, even though he held no official rank. Six feet tall and broad shouldered, his size and speed with a knife would have earned him respect without his connections.

Inside the tent he was at least protected from having to see the scummy camp. He'd been putting off going outside for over an hour because he was sick of the continuous squabbling, the bullying and misery of the Militant camp. He'd reached a point where he couldn't see any good reason to continue. At twenty-seven, he already felt exhausted by life, crushed by his own depression. He wanted more, something to look forward to, a woman of his own he could respect, a family—provided he could promise them a better life than what he had.

Younger got off the cot and rolled his blankets into a tight bundle. Time to air it out, he thought. Later today he would carry his blankets into the forest and drape them over pine branches. At least they would smell of pine resin rather than the miasma of camp. He might live with pigs, but he didn't have to be one.

He emerged into the morning, feeling a gentle mist against his face. The mist did nothing to mask the stench of unwashed bodies and careless sanitation. He surveyed the campsite. Tents were scattered over the area helter-skelter, some half-collapsed, some fixed properly. As late as he'd arisen, he was one of the first up. Here and there cooking fires smoked, some with open flames and cooking pots hung over them. Young kids scampered among the campfires. They were everywhere, uniformly dirty and noisy.

Preparations for breakfast in paradise, he said aloud.

What'd'ya say? a man asked. He came out of his tent scratching at his belly. Fleas, probably. He was bloated, bearded, and filthy—typical of the average Militant.

Younger ignored him, doubting the man would understand in his hung-over condition.

It's almost funny, he thought. The term Militant carried the ring of spit and polish, with pride in an organization. Here, it gave men an excuse to bully anyone weaker. Oops, almost forgot, Militants are dedicated to defeating the Core—if and when its Quaradian-powered weapons ever die.

The smoke and stench were too much. His eyes watering, Younger headed up-slope into the trees. He would breakfast on fresh apples from the overgrown orchards. That would do; even going hungry would be better than hanging around camp.

As he entered the trees, the noise behind him faded, and a sense of peace settled over him. This is why I don't give up entirely, he thought. Camp stench helped him to appreciate the fragrance of pine needles. He followed the sound of running water to a stream, then followed the it a long way upstream before cupping his hand and scooping out a drink. The Militants weren't choosy about where they relieved themselves; water near their camp was likely to be polluted. Sometimes he wondered why they weren't all dead from disease.

Jim Younger wished he'd been older when the world died, so he could remember more about what it was like before. He'd been seven years old, and he retained only fleeting glimpses of his mother and dad. He remembered her as someone soft, who held him close during the long night following the blast. His dad used to talk and sing with a deep voice, full of strength. They represented life before the end.

The Younger family had been on a camping vacation when the Farseeker killed the world. Camped on the mountain, Younger's family first learned that something was wrong when twilight came in mid-day and stayed for weeks. They didn't know that darkness was caused by millions of tons of pulverized mountain resulting from the starship's crash and explosion. They traveled to Apple Creek and were told of Farseeker's crash. Don't worry, his father had said, between us and the explosion is a very wide equatorial ocean. We should be all right.

They continued their camping trip. On their next trip to town they heard that the people of Newhome were sick and dying, and that the planet was doomed. Some people in Apple Creek panicked and rushed back to check on relatives in the cities; they never returned. Others hid out in mountain caves. The original people of Apple Creek adopted a whatever-will-be, will-be attitude and continued serving the tourists as genially as before.

Death is caused by Quaradian Crystal dust, a government communiqué said. By then it was too late for most people. The deadly microscopic dust had already poisoned their lungs.

Why aren't we dead? Jimmy asked his mom. They'd traveled into Apple Creek for supplies and heard the news.

I don't know, she said. Maybe your father is right and we're too far away to be hurt by it.

A week later communication with the outside world ceased.

Will we die, now? Jimmy asked his mother.

She looked sadly at him. Your father says that the winds are saving us. This valley is high in the wind shadow of Mt. Paramis, so we didn't get the dust and killing rains.

Jimmy heard his mom and dad talking of their luck. Later, his dad and other men went out looking for survivors. None came back.

Since Apple Creek was so crowded, Jimmy and his mom went back up the mountain and made camp, eating little, stretching their provisions. After three weeks, their food was gone.

Years later he realized that his mom must have been feeding him and not eating herself. He remembered how she'd grown tired and thin. By the end of that third week she no longer even looked like his mom. In the end, she couldn't leave her sleeping bag.

What should I do? he asked her.

Bring me water, she said, with a funny smile. When he came back with the water, she explained about death, and how she might die before he did. If that happens, zip me inside my sleeping bag and pull it far away from the tent, then come back and wait for your father.

Stunned by the idea that she might die, her mention of his father returning carried some hope. Will he find me? he asked. Soon?

During her last days, Jimmy brought cups of water from the stream, staying by her side during the rest of her time. His stomach hurt continually by then, but he didn't want to bother his mom with that. He drank water to fill himself.

One day his mom sighed and quit breathing. Remembering what she'd said, he zipped her inside the sleeping bag and pulled her to the edge of the trees. She wasn't heavy. When Dad comes, he thought, he'll fix her.

The boy returned to the tent and sat on his sleeping bag, then cried for hours. Finally, as if he'd used them all up, his tears stopped. After that he just sat and stared, waiting for his dad.

A group of men dressed alike in brown clothes found him. They said he was brave because he didn't cry. Perhaps because of that, they took him with them. Much later when he knew them better, he realized they would probably have left him if he'd cried.

Jimmy Younger's rescuers, fourteen in all, were surviving by robbing other survivors. He was with them when they discovered the village of Apple Creek.

* * *

Apple Creek had been named for the small creek running through apple orchards on its outskirts, and it was the fulfillment of a dream for George S. Finney, who wanted to fill the lush mountain valleys of Newhome with apple trees cloned from Earth stock. Once the trees were bearing fruit—granny smiths, red delicious, golden delicious, pippins, and a dozen other varieties—Finney established a village. He imported a baker, a miller, a blacksmith, a candle maker, a butcher, a cook, and established a resort.

Other small shops moved in, welcomed by Finney. Apple Creek grew under Finney's oversight to six hundred permanent inhabitants. Word got around Newhome, and those anxious for a taste of old Earth flocked to see it. When the Cataclysm hit, nearly fifteen hundred people were in Apple Creek.

Basically generous, the villagers of Apple Creek took in the stragglers who had been camping in the valley. But when Jimmy Younger's rescuers marched into the village and physically assaulted any who refused to knuckle under, the attitude of the Apple Creek inhabitants changed fast.

In desperation, a core of townspeople pooled their weapons and faced down the bullies, disarming and ordering them out of town.

We'll come back and bury you! a disgruntled khaki-clad man shouted.

An Apple Creek townsman fired a laser blaster just above the man, close enough to singe his bald head. The terrified bully screamed and fell backwards.

The townsman lowered the sights on his blaster to cover the screamer's face. That'll be your greeting any time you come into our town, he shouted.

That same day, the inhabitants of Apple Creek drew up plans for a stockade of logs around the village. An ambitious undertaking, it called for a mile-long perimeter of sturdy logs. Guardians armed with las-rifles and blasters watched over the workmen as they felled fifty-foot trees and stripped them of limbs, then set them twenty feet into the ground. The project took nearly seven months. When it was finished, the people of Apple Creek relaxed, knowing that no bullies could sneak up on them.

The bullies returned and built their camp outside the stockade perimeter. By then, Jimmy Younger had become