She had been born way back, on December 17, 1964. Mildred was black, and a doctor, and came from Lincoln, Nebraska. Her father, a Baptist minister, had been burned alive less than a year after her birth by firebombing racists who hid their cowardice beneath white hoods.
Her beaded plaits rattled and whispered as she shook her head to try to clear it. Two weeks after her thirty-sixth birthday, she had gone into the hospital for minor abdominal surgery that had gone badly wrong. Ironically, since cryonics was her medical specialty, she had been frozen to save her life. Very shortly after that the world blew apart. But she slept dreamlessly on, her body monitored by a small, timeless nuke reactor, until she was finally woken by Ryan and the others.
She pulled J.B. to his feet, adjusting her Czech ZKR 551, a 6-shot target revolver, in its holster. Before being frozen, Mildred had been a silver-medal winner in the free pistol shooting at the 1996 Olympics. And she was the best shot with a handgun that Ryan Cawdor had ever seen.
Mildred rubbed her forehead. “I know everyone says the same, but that was a mother of a bad one.” She looked down at the motionless figure of Doc Tanner, who lay at her feet. “Old-timer looks a lot less than well,” she said.
The old man lay flat on his back, gnarled hands down at his sides. His grizzled hair was matted with sweat, and his breathing was harsh and irregular. Ryan crawled across the chamber, seeing that Doc had been bleeding from both ears, as well as from nose and mouth. His pale blue eyes were tight shut. It looked like he might have had some sort of convulsion, as his massive Le Mat pistol had been jolted loose from the holster on his hip.
“Doc. Doc?”
There was no response. Mildred moved to join Ryan. She lifted an eyelid, peering down at Doc. “Seems to be in shock,” she said. “Know how delicate the old bastard’s mind is at the best of times? Well, this isn’t the best of times. Especially after what happened in Puerto Rico.”
” ‘It was the worst of times and it was the best of times.’ ” The voice was weak, the eyes still closed. Doc swallowed hard. “A Whale with Two Kitties, or some title. ‘A far better rest I come from than was ever known.’ Quoting and misquoting. Hither and thither. Not to mention yon.”
“Sounds in bad shape,” Krysty said quietly. The old man struggled to a sitting position, aided by Mildred. He wagged a forefinger at her. “Anoint thee, witch. Thou rump-fed runyon! There’s nothing wrong with my mind that a truly bad jump won’t cure.” He hesitated, looking puzzled. “That is not quite what I meant to say, I think. I mean that it was a poor jump and it has sadly addled my pate for a few moments. Sadly addled. Badly sadly addled.”
“Did you have any dreams while you were in the jump, Doc?” Ryan asked.
“I think that I did.”
There was a long pause. Jak had got to his feet and was leaning against the armaglass wall, eyes closed, sucking in deep breaths. He ran his fingers through his long hair, bringing a semblance of order to it, then leaned down to help Dean to his feet. “Well?” Mildred snapped. Doc put his head on one side and peered up at her, like an inquisitive buzzard. “Well what, madam?”
“You said you had a dream during the jump, Doc. What was the dream about?”
“Ah, yes. Indeed. The dream. By the Three Kennedys, but it was passing strange! I was visiting an elderly aunt in Boston. It seems that I was betrothed to Emily, but not yet married. Aunt Alberta lived in a huge, rambling mansion, on Beacon Hill, looking down toward the Common. A somewhat gloomy building, with stained glass at every door and window.”
“Is this going to take long, Doc?” Mildred asked. “I have a life to get on with.”
Doc ignored her. “She had a number of cats. Dozens. Those very furry ones. Persians, I think they are called. They moved silently through the corridors, like a great gray wave, rippling up and down the stairs. And their eyes were green gold in hue, and they always seemed to be watching me. No matter where I went or what I did.”