“Son of a bitch! You don’t think” J.B. started, when the machinery came alive once more.
As the noise faded away, a furious Ryan opened the chamber door and there was a dripping wet Doc, sitting in an expanding puddle. He was drenched to the skin, and his chest heaved for breath, but the missing Kalashnikov was held loosely in his grip.
Rushing forward, a frowning Mildred slid a shoulder under his arm and helped Doc shuffle from the chamber. “Damn fool stunt,” she derided angrily. “Could have chilled yourself doing a double jump that fast!”
“Needed the blaster,” he mumbled weakly, struggling to smile. “Besides, I only” The words faded away as terror clouded his eyes, and Doc flinched as if struck a savage blow. “No! Not into the pit with those animals! I swear I’ll kill you, Strasser! Gun you down like Oswald did JFK, like Ruby did Jack you’ll die bloody like the Kennedy brothers” His strength gone, Doc slumped and could only whisper more wild threats.
“Hush,” Mildred whispered, as the man slid into unconsciousness. She knew that name. Ryan had rescued Doc from the evil clutches of Cort Strasser, sec chief to the baron of Mocsin. The madman had been torturing Doc every day for an indeterminate period of time, horrible things that made her feel unclean just to hear, yet Doc had survived through sheer raw determination. He’d stayed alive and mostly sane only by his iron-bound belief that someday he would return to the Vermont of his past, and be reunited with his beloved wife, Emily. Other men would have died or gone completely mad. Doc chose a different route and lived. She admired him a lot more than she had ever told him.
“Tougher than nails,” Jak stated, helping to carry the old man into the control room and placing him in a chair. “Who those names he say?”
“Predark barons who got aced,” Ryan said gruffly. “Good thing you’re out, Doc, or else I’d kick your skinny ass for a triple-stupe move like this.”
“He did save the blaster, and it’s undamaged,” J.B. reported, wiping it dry with a cloth. The Armorer dropped the clip, poured out some water and slapped in a fresh magazine. “This’ll work just fine. Mikhail Kalashnikov made a good blaster.”
“Better be right,” Jak said, taking the longblaster and the spare clip. “Our turn now.”
“Keep them warm and get some hot tea down Krysty and Dean,” Mildred directed Ryan, taking the other longblaster. “And just let the old coot sleep it off.”
“Shot of shine what need,” Jak said knowingly. “I find, bring along.”
“Blasters first,” Ryan said, taking the Colt .45 and gun belt from the teenager.
“Good luck,” J.B. added, belting on Doc’s huge LeMat. Nodding, Mildred dropped her med kit beside the door to the mat-trans chamber as Jak walked inside. Following the teenager, she closed the door and soon the complex machines sang their song and faded into silence.
Slow minutes ticked by in endless procession. Always a fast healer, Krysty got to her feet first and fixed some hot coffee for the others. After a few sips, Dean was feeling better and started to dig into an MRE pack, using the attached plastic spoon to devour an envelope of corned-beef hash. Blasters cocked, Ryan and J.B. waited patiently for the others to return, sipping the strong military brew.
Crossing the control room, Krysty placed a cup of sweet coffee near the sleeping Doc, then turned abruptly, her hair moving in short lashing movements. “Something has happened,” she said, walking toward the chamber door. “They’re in trouble. I can feel it.”
“Malfunk with the machines?” Ryan asked gruffly. He knew Krysty could sometimes sense things unseen, a talent that had saved their lives more than once. But the ability was random, totally unreliable. Just when you needed it most, it went away, which was why Ryan kept his faith in a good blaster. Steel was always reliable.
“Mildred and Jak are fighting,” she whispered, reaching for the closed door with fingertips. “Large no facethey’re coming back!”
With those words, the comp monitors scrolled with commands and the hidden machines revved with power.