James Axler – Freedom Lost

“Feltsomething,” Ryan replied. “Got a triple-bad pain in my shoulder.”

A rustling sound came, followed by Krysty’s hand on his face. “You’re burning up, Ryan.”

“Not a fever,” he said. “Just a headache.”

“What time is it?”

Ryan reached out and felt around on the small end table next to the bed for his wrist chron. He thumbed the button, and the glowing dial revealed the time to be 417 a.m. “After four,” he said.

“Do you think anything is wrong?”

“Mebbe.” Ryan stood. “You stay put while I check the other rooms. I’ll start with Doc’s. Dean and Jak were supposed to be going out for some fun at a vid arcade tonight. Won’t hurt to make sure they’re snug in their beds.”

Ryan lit a small candle on the nightstand and hurriedly dressed in the flickering light. Krysty was sitting up, watching him.

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come?” she asked.

“No need. Not yet. Let me see if anything’s going on first,” Ryan replied as he strapped down his holster to his leg. “Keep the door locked.”

“Don’t worry,” Krysty replied, rolling out of bed and starting to rummage around for her own clothing. “Door’ll be locked and I’ll keep a blaster in my hand. No way I’m going back to sleep now.”

Ryan leaned over and gave her a quick kiss before stepping out into the dingy hotel hallway. He closed the door behind him and heard the lock slide home from the other side. Ryan then turned left, striding down to the end room that Doc was sharing with Dean and Jak. He softly rapped his knuckles against the door once. No answer came. Then he started to pound on the side of the frame and still got no response except from the room next door.

“You looking for somebody?” A plump woman in a revealing gown that rose partially above her naked hips stood there, looking Ryan up and down with a saucy eye.

“Not tonight, but thanks,” he replied, and headed for the hotel lobby and admitting desk. He knew where he was going to search next.

WHEN RYAN ENTERED THE PUB, he had no trouble spotting his quarry.

Doc appeared to be staggering, stupefied drunk. He had removed his frock coat and hung it over the back of the spindly wooden chair he was slumped in. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, showing his lean arms down to the elbow. Still, even in his vaporous good cheer, Ryan noticed that he hadn’t let his swordstick go far from within quick reach, and the snap on the holster of the unwieldy Le Mat was unsnapped for fast removal.

“Doc, you look crocked,” Ryan said.

“I am, my dear Ryan Cawdor, I am,” Doc crowed back happily, his breath a pungent mix of rye and gin and only the bartender and the empty bottles on his shelves knew what else. “Come, sit! Drink and be merryand you will sip for free! Everybody loves a winner! I have been the recipient of free bourbon all the night through thanks to our proud association! They have been playing a vid tape over and over on the pub’s television of you smiting the steel dragon. You might yet have found your calling as slayer of androids.”

A waitress came over, winding her way past the other tables and pub junkies. She was dressed in a short black skirt of faux leather, near sheer white hose, green shirt and matching green-and-white neckerchief. The subdued lighting in the pub helped shave years off her features and contribute to the illusion of a thirty-year-old temptress hoping for a tip.

“Nice eye patch,” she said dryly. “What are you drinking?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh-uh. Got to drink something, mister. This ain’t a” she began.

“Get me a beer, then. Bring the whole fucking pitcher!”

“Simmer down, Patch,” she retorted as she left to fill the angry request. “Usually people don’t turn into raging assholes until after they’ve tasted the brew.”

“She’ll be back. Here,” Doc said, handing Ryan a shot glass with a thin coating of amber fluid on the bottom. “Drink up!”

“Mebbe later,” Ryan replied tightly. “Look, Doc. Snap up for a sec. Did Dean or Jak tell you where that vid arcade was supposed to be?”