A low hum could be heard as swirling electronic mists filled the mat-trans chamber, building, increasing, sparkling with a million tiny star points of bright light. Then just as quickly as it appeared, the quantum fog sank into the solid floor, exposing Delphi.
Striding from the chamber, the man briskly entered the antechamber, the bottom of his white robe moving around his moccasins like foaming water. Delphi had checked the chamber and couldn’t find any trace of the jump sickness that hit unauthorized travelers, which meant that either Tanner and his people had solved the secret of a controlled jump or this was one of the many traps laid throughout the system for the escaped prisoner.
Checking his palm monitor, Delphi saw that this color redoubt was in Arizona. The Zone, as it was called in these barbaric days. He almost smiled. Excellent. The Rogans were very close. Soon, Tanner would be captured alive and then…
Delphi eagerly entered the control room and stopped. Kicked into a corner was the smashed remains of probe droid, a USB cable lying nearby.
Kneeling on the floor, he gently laid out the largest pieces, trying to reconstruct the device. A lot of the camouflage chassis was reduced to pieces too small to utilize, but a few chunks were relatively intact. A neat hole penetrated the chassis on one side, the other totally smashed. Then among the circuit boards and thinking wires, he saw an irregular lump of metal that was clearly a bullet. The cyborg boosted his vision and swept the room, but couldn’t find the ejected brass from a pistol. Didn’t Tanner use a black-powder weapon? No, wait, the albino and redhead carried revolvers. Okay, mystery solved. The machine had to have found Tanner, but his companions shot the probe before it could link with the main computers and relay a message to Operation Chronos.
Slowly, Delphi stood. Excellent. The less Chronos knew, the better it was for TITAN, and for Department Coldfire.
Going to a security outlet, Delphi jacked himself into the system and his left eye began flickering through the video cameras secreted in every room. Soon, it was obvious that Tanner and his people weren’t present. Then he found the broken Vulcan minigun, and checked inside the Deep Storage Locker. As expected, it had been looted. Double checking the inventory numbers of the munitions boxes, he scowled at the sight of the empty case that had once held implosion grenades. But if the test subject was armed with real weaponry…
Switching to an external view, Delphi cursed at the sight of the exploded U.S. Army Hummer inside the ruined tunnel, a Balisk-class guardian reduced to its smashed cybernetic framework. Oddly, the guardian hadn’t been killed by implosion grenades. Then he realized the truth. They had sent the Hummer through the blast door loaded with high explosives. Damn, these people were smart! Perhaps too smart?
Changing to the exit door of the tunnel, Delphi couldn’t find any indication that Tanner had departed the tunnel this way. Strange. Backtracking through the entire length of the access tunnel, Delphi paused at the sight of a ragged hole in the flooring. An explosion crater. He tried to get a view into the depths, hoping to find the rotting bodies of the people, but the angle was impossible. No choice then.
Disconnecting from the system, Delphi left the control room and headed for the elevators. Wherever Tanner went, he would follow. But first… Using his cybernetic implants, Delphi mentally sent a string of encoded commands to the main computer of the military redoubt.
A few moments later, a hidden wall panel slid aside on the bottom level, and another Balisk-class guardian rolled into view, the gelatinous biowep moving to rendezvous with its new master.
THE BRIGHT LIGHT of alcohol lanterns illuminated the interior of the Two-Son building. Ryan couldn’t see the baron anywhere. Baron O’Connor either needed to be alone right now or he had more pressing business at hand. Most likely, it was a mix of the two.
“Good evening, honored guests,” a wrinklie said, shuffling forward with a lantern in her hand. She smiled, displaying a mouth full of missing teeth. “I’m Suzette, the head maid for the Citadel.”
Her dress appeared to be made of window drapes and her moccasins were worn thin in spots, but she was clean, well-fed and carrying a large machete hanging at her side. Obviously, this was a highly valued member of staff. Few barons armed their maids.
“Good evening, dear lady,” Doc replied, bowing slightly.
Unaccustomed to such things, Suzette blushed at the courtesy. “Please come this way,” the old woman said, starting toward an open stairwell. The door had been removed and the concrete steps were covered with red carpeting that looked like it came from a movie theater.
“The baron has given you a room on the second floor, which is quite an honor. That’s where his family lives,” Suzette said with obvious questions in the words. Who were these ragged rists to receive such an honor?
Brushing back his thick black hair, Ryan snorted in reply. Honor, his ass. The truth was that the baron just wanted to keep the companions under observation. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer, as the ancient saying went.
At the first landing, Suzette pushed open a door adorned with a painting of a screaming eagle, then entered a hallway well lit with lanterns set into wall niches with pieces of mirrors behind. The reflected light filled the hall bright as any halogen or fluorescent tube inside a redoubt.
“Somebody must have read the biography of Thomas Edison,” Mildred said out of the corner of her mouth.
“I can only agree, madam,” Doc replied.
At the far end of the corridor were several armed men behind a sandbag bunker. A pair of drapes were pulled apart to reveal a door bearing the eagle design, only done in more colors and in much greater detail.
“Ah, the west wing.” Mildred chuckled, shifting her backpack.
“Oh, no, madam, that’s the southside,” Suzette corrected primly, going to a door bearing the hand-painted sign Royil Gest Rom.
Ill amused, Doc exhaled at the horrible spelling, but said nothing. That wouldn’t have been polite for a “guest” in any century.
Going inside, Suzette hurried about lighting more lamps, then removed several tiny predark bars of hotel soap that she laid reverently on the washstand next to a crystal punchbowl, along with a matching carafe filled with clean water. The walls were covered with paintings of Two-Son when it had been called Tucson, as well as a collection of portraits of unknown people. A sideboard had several liquor bottles without labels, and a dozen slightly cracked drinking glasses on a silver tray.
Immediately, Jak began a sweep of the wall, studying the pictures very closely.
“If you need anything, just ring the bell,” Suzette directed, gesturing at a brass fixture that had to have been liberated from a firehouse. “Dinner will be ready soon. Baron O’Connor requests your presence at your earliest convenience.”
“Thank you, that will be all,” Ryan told her, looking around the place. The woman gave a curtsy, something the man hadn’t seen in some time, and left the companions alone.
The internal walls had been removed from the office to make one large room. There was some brickwork along the former divisions, and Ryan could only hope the people who did the modifications knew what they were doing and the whole place wouldn’t come crashing down on their heads in the middle of the night. A long row of ten beds lined the opposite wall, piles of sheets, pillows and blankets already laid out and waiting. A plastic bucket with a snap-on lid was placed discreetly under a wooden stool with a hole in the middle. Its purpose was obvious.
“Not exactly trying to impress us with their wealth, are they?” Krysty said, gratefully dropping her backpack onto the floor.
“Actually,” J.B. answered slowly, chewing a lip, “I think they are.”
“No spy holes,” Jak reported, doffing his own backpack. The teenager straightened his shoulders, then gently rubbed the bandage on his head. “Starting itch,” he complained.
“I’ll fix that,” Mildred replied, searching in her med kit.
Sitting the teen down in an office chair, she got busy with the bandages and soon the bloody wrapping was replaced.
“Better,” Jak said in relief. “Thanks.”
Taking turns, the companions washed as best they could in the punch bowl. Ryan went last, carefully removing his gloves before gingerly washing his red hands clean, then applying more lotion before donning the leather gloves again. Mildred had been right. His fingers were feeling better every day, and once his arm healed, he would be in good shape.
Ringing the bell summoned a young serving girl. Doc asked for more water, and she returned with a full bucket. Thanking her profusely, Doc tried to shoo the servant away, but she kept smiling shyly at the scholar and pretended to misunderstand him until Krysty took the girl by the collar and marched her out of the room.
“I think you made a conquest there, you silver-tongued devil.” Mildred chuckled in amusement.
“What? Do not be absurd, madam,” Doc admonished, carrying the bucket to the washstand to exchange the used water for fresh. “I am old enough to be her father, grandfather!”
“Which only means you’re smart enough to stay alive, and rich enough to have two blasters,” Mildred teased, trying to hide a grin. “That makes you quite a catch these days.”
Turning his back on the physician, Doc merely grunted in reply, not trusting his tongue to discuss the matter. He was married back in his time, but had been with several women in the present.
Taking turns, the companions rinsed their clothing, then hung the garments over the frames of the portraits to dry, and to cover any possible spy holes they might have missed. After putting on fresh clothing, everybody checked their weps.
After adjusting his fedora, J.B. placed his backpack in the middle of a bed, then rigged a gren underneath.
“Antipers?” Ryan asked with a scowl, buckling his gunbelt.
“Nope, just a stun gren,” J.B. replied, minutely adjusting the spring trip taken from a mousetrap. “But we’ll be able to hear the bang outside, and the flash will blind anybody in the room.”
“Good enough. We don’t want to blow the rest of our stuff to hell and gone just to sound the alarm.”
“I got it covered.”
Leaving the guest room, the companions found Suzette impatiently waiting for them in the hallway.
“This way!” she announced, leading them up a flight of carpeted stairs to what seemed to once have been a suite of conference rooms but was now the baron’s dining hall.
This carpeting was a rich blue, clean and in good condition. More alcohol lanterns lined the walls, but this time full mirrors had been placed behind them to double the brightness. The wallpaper was slightly faded, but the elaborate design was still discernable, and there was an enormous skylight in the center of the ceiling. Luminescent clouds were flowing past the twinkling stars, and lightning flashed somewhere off to the side.
There were no armed guards in here, but plenty of longblasters rested in open gunracks for fast access. Bare swords decorated every wall, along with Medieval shields and a couple of full suits of armor.
“Those must have been scaved from some museum,” Ryan guessed softly. “Probably where they got that first catapult, too.”
“Well, it’s not the Beverly Wiltshire Hilton,” Mildred observed dryly.
Set in the middle of the room was a long conference table covered with a clean white cloth and intact china plates. Silver candelabra held clusters of sputtering tapers, the soft yellow light mixing with the alcohol lantern to give a pleasant combination of illumination.
Privately, Doc wondered if everybody in the ville lived in such sumptuous plenty, and wisely decided that it wasn’t likely. Rank did have its little privileges.
“Good evening,” Baron O’Connor said, gesturing from the head of the table. “Please, be seated.”
As the companions walked closer, they studied the other people watching their approach. Sec Chief Stirling was to the left of the baron, and alongside him was a dour-faced man of indeterminate age, and several woman. Across from them were two children barely into their teens.
“This is the Baroness Amelia,” Baron O’Connor said, gesturing with an open hand. “And that is her sister, Catherine. Down there is Steven’s wife Jan, their daughter Simone, and our Brewmaster, Cauldfield.”
“Brewmaster?” Jak asked, furrowing his brow. “Cook shine for ville?”
“Shine? Blind norad no.” Cauldfield snorted as if such a task was beneath the dignity of a mutie. “I—”
The baron loudly cleared his throat.
“Yes,” Cauldfield recanted quickly. “Yes, indeed, I make shine for the ville lanterns.”
Mutie shit. He cooked the fuel for the war wag and Molotovs, Ryan translated privately. He’d known it wasn’t alcohol, or gas, or condensed fuel, but other than that he hadn’t been able to identify the oily substance. Mebbe some sort of chem mix?
As greetings were exchanged, the companions took chairs and got comfortable. That was when they noticed a huge flag on the wall behind the baron’s ornate wooden chair. The flag was made of red and white stripes, with a screaming eagle replacing the usual array of white stars on the field of blue.
“The family crest,” the baron said proudly, observing their shift of attention. “It has never seen defeat.”
“Nor will it ever,” Catherine added haughtily, touching her riot of blond curls. The busty woman was wearing a predark dress that had been altered to show additional cleavage. The satin was cut almost down to the point of exposing herself like a gaudy slut. There were two handcannons in the gunbelt hanging from her chair, and when she bent forward a small blue tattoo could almost be seen hidden between her ample breasts.
Since neither statement seemed to need a reply, the companions didn’t make one, and set about hanging their gunbelts over the backs of their chairs the way everybody else had done. Armed, but polite. The baron ran a tight ville.
A few moments later, a servant wearing welding gloves brought out a simmering iron pot and carefully ladled stew into stone bowls. Pitchers of frothy beer and carafes of water were placed around the table, along with wooden plates stacked with loaves of fresh bread hot from the oven. Then came a platter of small roasted birds, dozens of them all stacked on top of one another: crows, hawks, wrens, and what seemed to be an owl, although it did have four sets of wings. The smell was delicious, and everybody dug in with gusto. After living off MRE packs for the past week, the heady aroma of fresh-cooked meat was intoxicating to the companions.
“This is a very impressive home,” J.B. said, removing his fedora and hanging it on the arm of his chair.
“Thank you,” Amelia said woodenly. The slim woman picked at the food on her plate and kept shooting hostile glances at her husband.
“By the way, my dear,” the baron said, pulling out a belt knife to hack a wren in two. “This is the healer who saved our son.” Then he stabbed the bird with the blade and started eating it right off the bare steel.
Obviously startled, Amelia looked at Mildred and forced a polite smile. “For that service, I thank you,” she said wearily. “Daniel is my only child.”
“So I heard,” Mildred answered, taking some bread. “And I can teach your other healers how to do the operation. It’s not that difficult.”
“Then you shouldn’t have been paid so much,” Catherine retorted, attacking a robin as if it were a charging stickie. “But then, a deal is a deal, as the sec men say. I’m sure you are very clever for a rist.”
Dropping her fork with a clatter, Mildred hunched her shoulders at the insult and looked as if she was about to spring on the busty woman when J.B. laid a hand on her thigh under the table and pushed the physician back down into her chair.
“I also have only one child,” Catherine continued, muttering under her breath.
Laying down his bare knife, the baron kept his face impassive as he used his good hand to pour a round of beer for everybody at the head of the table.
Gaia, so that was what was wrong with the sister! Krysty suddenly realized. They’re worried about Davies. Rad blasting hell, if the feeb got aced, things could get ugly around here. There was nothing worse than a civil war.
“Hell of a war wag, too,” Ryan said, using the panga to cut the heel off a loaf. A change of topic was clearly in order fast. When his own family members clashed, it often ended in a chilling. “It’s one of the biggest I have ever seen.”
“Bet your ass it is.” Stirling chuckled, spooning some soup.
“My grandie found it in the ruins, and my father got it running,” O’Connor added, spearing a hawk with the knife. He dipped it into the soup and started chewing on the wings.
“Took him years,” the baron said with a full mouth. “Years! But it’s the best wep we have against the stickies.”
“Now about that,” Ryan started when the door slammed open and a panting sec man rushed into the dining hall.
Laying down their knives and forks, Amelia and Catherine watched the man as if he were a messenger from the gods.
“My lord,” the man gasped, clearly out of breath. “Your…your nephew lives.”
There was an audible sigh from the people at the table, and even the companions relaxed slightly.
“Told you he was too stupe to buy the farm,” Simone said, facing her bowl of stew.
“Hush, child,” Jan ordered softly.
“Was it an old whip?” Mildred asked unexpectedly.
The baron raised an eyebrow at the strange remark.
“And what possible difference could that make?” Catherine snapped irritably.
“Yes, it was an old whip. Why?” Stirling asked, leaning forward. Was she asking it if was used and soft, and that he had disobeyed the baron by being gentle with the fool?
“A new one would have been better,” Mildred said thoughtfully, stirring the stew with a spoon to check for anything unhealthy in the depths. But she could only find meat and vegetables. “Somebody should wash his cuts with shine and water. Boil the water first, let it cool and then mix the two half and half.”
“They have already poured a bottle down his throat,” Baron O’Connor stated. “To help kill the pain.”
Going pale, Catherine stiffened at the word and muttered something too low for anybody to hear.
“That’s good,” Mildred replied. “Now put the rest on the outside, and he won’t get an infection.”
“Shine stops infections?” Amelia asked, her voice rising in shock.
“Nonsense,” Cauldfield stated. “Never heard of such a thing. Ridiculous!”
“You don’t know everything,” Mildred countered tolerantly. “And yes, shine helps a lot. Not with everything, but with most infectious diseases.”
“What about the Black Cough?” Jan asked urgently.
Sadly, Mildred shook her head. “Nothing stops that but death.”
With that pronouncement, all conversation stopped for a while as folks concentrated on their meal. Doc looked around hopefully for a salt shaker at one point, but didn’t see one. There were several in the MREs in his frock coat, but to display such wealth would invite a barrage of questions the companions didn’t want to answer.
When the soup was gone, the old servant took away the dirty dishes, and a young girl came in carrying a massive plank stacked with more tiny birds artfully arranged around a large poached lizard, the dead white eyes staring out above the lolling tongue.
“More meat, sir?” a serving girl asked in a husky voice, leaning close to Jak.
The teenager’s jacket was draped over the back of the chair, so he could feel the delicious weight of her breasts pressing warm against his shirt.
“Ask you the same,” Jak said with a smile, taking an eyeball.
Laying down the new platter, the servant moved against the teenager a little harder. Jak pressed back, and she bumped him with a hip and went on to serve the other guests in a less intimate fashion.
“Veni, vidi, vici,” Doc muttered, raising his mug in salute.
Popping the orb into his mouth, Jak scowled at that in puzzlement as he chewed the delicacy. It was good and salty.
“I came, I saw, I conquered,” Mildred said, translating the Latin. “That means the old coot thinks she likes you.”
“Just new flavor, is all,” Jak replied with a shrug. Lots of women were interested in the albino once they understood he wasn’t a mutie. Afterward, they always seemed a little disappointed that he wasn’t strangely built, or anything like that.
“So you’re not going to…” J.B. didn’t finish the sentence.
Across the table, the girl slapped the hand of Cauldfield from about her waist. Then she looked directly at Jak and beamed a smile. Frowning darkly, Cauldfield took the lizard’s other eye and chewed it with a suppressed fury.
“Sure. Dinner first,” Jak said wisely. “Need strength.”
“So what were you saying about the stickies?” Stirling asked, breaking some bread and mopping up the grease on his plate. “Aren’t they the same where you folks come from?”
“Stickies are stickies,” Cauldfield said as if it were a law of the universe.
“The same? Dark night, no,” J.B. replied with feeling. “Our stickies are dumber than a sack of rocks. We almost crapped at the sight of stickies armed with spears.”
“Really?” Amelia asked, her demeanor cracking slightly with the disclosure.
“These stickies are abominations!” Doc added passionately, dunking a slice of bread into his beer and waiting for it to soften. Two-Son ville had wheat, but their millstone had to have been a couple of house bricks rubbed against each other, because the bread could have been used to patch tank armor.
“No other stickies we know about are like these,” Mildred translated, shooting the Vermont scholar a stern glance.
“Lucky us,” the baron said in a mocking tone. “So only ours are smart?”
“Mebbe some other ville will wanna swap,” Stirling said with a hard grin. “Trade ’em two for three.”
Everybody laughed a little at that, but it faded away and everyone returned to the meal with dour faces.
Draining his mug, Ryan looked over the assembled people. The earlier mood was fading. These people paid a high price for their lifestyle. Mebbe too high a price.
Overhead, the storm clouds rumbled and boomed, but no rain was hitting the glass skylight yet.
“Anybody here a hunter?” Ryan asked, refilling his mug from the pitcher.
“What the hell has that got to do with stickies?” Catherine demanded, nearly showing her tattoo.
“No, we’re not,” the baron replied. “We fish in the river north of here, raise veggies and catch a few lizards and birds when we get lucky. There’s really not much else around here to track down and hunt.”
“Too many stickies!” Cauldfield snorted, ripping off a wing and chewing it savagely. “Anything large enough to be worth hunting has already been eaten by the muties!”
“Oh, I see,” Stirling said slowly, laying down his knife. “Yeah, of course. That’s triple smart. Hunters, eh?”
Sipping his beer, Ryan nodded. “That’s right. You’re handling the stickies like they were coldhearts, not as if they were animals. Mebbe they got weps now, but they’re still just dumb animals.”
“Why do you mean?” Jan asked, clearly puzzled.
“You don’t chase a rabbit,” Ryan explained. “That’s the stupe way. You lay a trap and make it come to you.”
Just then, the door swung open and a man strode into the room, every step releasing a small cloud of dust from his clothing.
“Sorry, I’m late, my lord,” he said, the spurs on his boots jingling. “But I ran into some stickies upriver and had to jump a ravine to escape.”
“Just glad you’re alive, Taylor,” the baron said, gesturing at an empty chair. “Stickies is what we’re talking about. Have a drink! Looks like you need one.”
“Thank you, my lord, I do,” Taylor said, dropping into a chair and making it creak dangerously. Grabbing the pitcher, he poured a beer and drained the mug in a single draft, then poured another, letting the foam slosh onto the white linen.
“Taylor, these are some friends who I hope are going to help us with the stickies,” the baron said, pointing with his knife. “And this is Asaro Taylor, our top scout. Rides the desert to watch for caravans, traders, slavers, and such, to warn them about the muties.”
“Takes messages to other villes, too,” Stirling added, pushing away his plate. “We’ve been trying to build an army to go after the muties, but nobody else is interested in our problems. Just their own.”
“Which is as it should be,” Cauldfield stated forcibly, pouring some water into his beer and taking a sip. Bah, still terrible. “Each ville should stand alone! That’s how it has always been, and always will be.”
“I disagree,” Taylor stated, then paused to stare at Ryan.
The one-eyed man returned the gaze. “Yeah?”
“Son of a bitch,” Taylor muttered softly.
“Problem?” Ryan asked, dropping a hand to the panga on his belt.
“You’re from the south,” Taylor said, as if the fact could not be disputed.
That brought all of the companions alert. As far as they could tell, Blaster Base One was to the south, but how could this scout possibly have known that?
“Actually, sir, we are from the east,” Doc lied, chewing a small piece of the tough bread, his face the picture of innocence. “A delightful meal, Baroness O’Connor.”
“Well, you can’t be from the north,” Taylor said, setting down his empty mug. “That’s for triple damn sure. No way.”
“And why is that?” Mildred asked in forced casualness.
Inhaling sharply, Krysty sat bolt upright in the chair, her animated hair starting to wildly move and flex as if a window had been thrown open.
Catching the motion, Ryan quickly set down his mug. The woman’s mental powers didn’t always work, but when she did something like that, all nuking hell was about to break loose.
“What unusual hair,” Catherine murmured, closing her eyes to mere slits. “Is there a breeze blowing only on her or…”
Any further questions were interrupted by a muffled clang coming from the roof directly above.
“What is?” Jak demanded, pushing away his plate.
“The alarm bell!” Stirling cursed, shoving back his chair and grabbing his gunbelt. “The ville is under attack!”