James Axler – Rat King

albeit short, that for minutes he had been aware of nothing. Not even blackness.

The old man realized that his mouth tasted of the sour salt that was dried

blood. His eyes felt heavy, and his head ached in a strangely throbbing manner.

He opened one eye cautiously, and the reason for the throbbing became obvious.

Doc was hanging upside down over Murphy’s shoulder. At least he assumed it to be

Murphy, as it was the sec chief who had rendered him unconscious.

Next he was aware of both an artificial quality to the light and the absence of

both wind and grit scouring his skin.

They were back in the redoubt…

“I’ll say one thing for you, old fart—you’ve got damn good powers of recovery

for someone your age,” Murphy said, failing to keep the admiration out of his

voice as he felt Doc’s weight shift on his shoulder. “Though from what I hear,

you aren’t as old as you look…or maybe older, if you want to be strictly

accurate.”

Murphy chuckled and stopped, lowering Doc until the old man was back on his

feet. Doc took an uncertain step to try to regain equilibrium. Murphy, sensing

that, unlike earlier shams, Tanner was really at a loss to fight back, helped

the old man to steady himself.

“I would thank you for your kind assistance, if not for the fact that it is you

who is responsible for my current condition,” Doc muttered as he gingerly felt

the side of his face that ached. It was already swollen.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t hit you hard enough to break anything. The Gen would have

me recycled if I’d harmed you permanently in any way,” Murphy said grimly.

“You’re a very important person to him, so I had my orders. And we always go by

the regs down here.”

There was something in the way he said it that made Doc start. Was that irony in

his tone? A suspicion that may be worth filing away for later.

Doc bowed mockingly—and regretted it instantly. “I always believe on

congratulating a craftsman who knows his art,” he murmured.

“Better believe it, bub. I could’ve harmed you without blinking,” Murphy said,

this time without a trace of irony, as he examined his rings, rubbing the skull

ring with a kind of pride. “I know just the right amount of pressure or force

for any blow.”

“That I can only too well believe,” Doc replied ruefully. Then, looking around

him, added, “I would assume that you were instructed to bring me back at the

expense of my companions because of whatever madness Wallace has in mind?”

Murphy adopted a rueful expression rather than protesting Doc’s words.

“I take your point,” Doc said simply. “You need have no fears about any form of

resistance from me at this point. In the words of old vids, it would be futile.”

Doc’s eyes strayed to Murphy’s waistband, which held both the LeMat and the

swordstick.

“Then let’s get going,” Murphy said, gesturing in front of them.

“Yes, let us,” Doc added with a theatrical lack of enthusiasm before starting to

walk down the corridor, Murphy’s footsteps echoing a fraction of a second behind

his own.

WALLACE WAS SITTING behind his desk, agitated and fussing over piles of

paperwork when Doc entered his office, preceded by a brisk knock from Murphy.

The sec chief brought up the rear, closing the door behind them.

“Sir, prisoner Tanner,” he barked.

Wallace looked up from the paperwork, his hands freezing over sheets the

relevance of which had ceased to be of importance many decades before. Like

everything else in the redoubt, it was something Wallace did as a ritualistic

task.

“Prisoner?” he replied softly. “Dr. Tanner is our guest, our honored guest.

Without him there can be no hope for the mechanism. He was sent as a sign that

there is still a point, a purpose to our existence. He is a sign that our work

can still continue.”

Doc raised an eyebrow. “And what, pray tell, is this work that I can help you to

continue? Why me?”

Wallace smiled. It had that cold, leering quality often ascribed to the shark,