The floor of the chamber came alive as previously inert warriors began to move, trying to massage life back into frozen limbs, both their own and those of their fellows. Ryan and J.B., the strongest of the companions, assisted Doc and Jak. The latter two were the worst hit by the cold, as Doc’s frame was already under immense stress from both the disease and the legacy of his time-trawl experiences, and Jak was suffering from the ravages of the disease, as well as a low body-mass-to-surface-area ratio, which made it difficult for him to prevent the loss of valuable body heat. Dean, who was soon functioning normally, assisted Tammy and Gloria in aiding other Gate warriors, while Krysty directed her attention to Mildred.
Gradually, the lights in the chamber began to rise, casting out the shadows that had filled the corners of the vast hangarlike room, showing that the floor space had been stripped of anything that may have been of use to the trapped army in trying to escape. The filtering of the lights meant that the increase in illumination was so gradual that it didn’t at first register with the army that there had been any change. It was only when the vast emptiness of the chamber became apparent that it was realized.
“Now why would they want to light it up in here?” Dean asked.
“Perhaps so they can see just exactly what we’re doing,” Krysty mused. “And if that’s the case, then it means that they’re planning some action of their own.”
“Best to get ready, then,” J.B. said, speculatively fingering his Uzi.
The viewing platform also became less opaque. An internal light had been ignited, filling the gallery with a dull glow that showed three people within. Two men—both in middle age, but still trim and fit by the looks of them—and a woman, who was slightly younger, with long, curling dark hair. The three Illuminated Ones wore uniforms like their compatriots, but had an air about them that suggested they were more than mere humble workers.
“The enemy,” Doc said, his voice harsh and racked with the cold and the pox. But there was no mistaking the fire in his eyes.
So now they could be clearly seen from the gallery, and in turn could clearly see all that was happening behind the armaglass.
Ryan took a quick recce of the chamber, noticing that J.B. was doing likewise. There were three exits: one through which they had come, one that was set in the wall beneath the viewing gallery, and one that was set into the far wall, behind the two vast, freestanding mat-trans chamber units. The door through which the attackers had entered was a large sec door. The other two were smaller utility doors used by no more than one or two individuals at a time. Chances were that any large scale action would involve the use of the main door, but anything that would entail a filtering of the attackers in some way would utilize the smaller doors.
The question was simply this: what would that course of action be? Ryan and J.B. exchanged glances.
Neither could see anything around those doors that could be used as shelter or cover, and there was nothing in the chamber as a whole that would help them.
A low hiss filled the room. Looking up and around, none of the companions could see any speakers, although they knew from other experiences that the hiss was nothing more than the sound of a public address system coming to life. However, some of the other people didn’t know that, and there was a murmur of panic that rippled through the crowd as they sought the source of this possible attack. The panic turned to dismay as the voice boomed into the chamber.
“You have already seen what we can do to make you uncomfortable. Many of you will have been weakened. Repetition of such treatment will lead to your being chilled. Therefore, it is in your best interest—in truth, your only interest—to obey our commands.”
The voice was low, soft and sibilant. Despite the echo of the chamber, there was a certain dryness to the tones that made Mildred feel uneasy. It was a voice that rang a distant resonance, back to the days before the nukecaust and her years of cryogenic suspension. She could remember her days in medical school, and the voice of the lecturer during anatomical dissection classes. The same measured, dry tone, the same detachment of all emotion from the voice, as though the speaker had lost touch with their basic humanity and operated out of pure intellectual reason, no matter how skewed it may seem to anyone else.