biocomputer. Thus was constructed the Moebius MkI—the Rat King.”
A feeling of revulsion swept through Doc, churning at his guts and making acid
bile rise to his throat. The word biocomputer was pregnant with meaning. As for
the term rat king, Doc suddenly remembered an incident from his past.
It was the middle of March, 1881. It had to have been then, at the cusp of
winter and spring, as the young Theophilus Tanner had just turned thirteen. The
woods outside South Stafford were still sparse and bare, the foliage not having
budded in the crisp air, air that frosted on his breath as he walked through the
woods, trying to memorize the periodic table, reciting to himself.
It was before noon, and the sounds of wildlife were small. Few birds sang, and
the scufflings in the undergrowth were negated by the sound of his own boots
crunching on the dry earth.
“Phosphorous… What is phosphorous?” Tanner muttered to himself, trying to recall
the correct symbol and match it to the element. He shook his head at the
stubbornness of the answer, and so was easily distracted by the strange
squealing sound that seemed to emanate from a hollowed-out tree trunk about
thirty yards to his left.
He paused, furrowed his brow and strode to the tree trunk to investigate.
The squealing seemed to separate out into more than one voice the nearer he got,
it sounding for all the world like several animal voices in chorus.
Curious, apprehensive and perhaps just a little scared at what he might find,
Tanner leaned over the hollow trunk so that he could see inside.
What he saw gripped him with both awe and fascination. Half a dozen rats were at
the base of the tree, struggling and squealing in high-pitched squeals that
blended into an awful harmony. Their bodies thrashed together, unable to
separate and escape from each other because their tails were knotted, entwined
in a spiraling tangle that ascended into the empty space above them.
The knot was so tight—each movement making it tighter—that Tanner knew that
nothing short of amputation would separate them. It would also probably kill
them.
Yet, bound together in that manner, death was already an inevitability.
Doc came back to reality with a shudder and a cold wave of nausea as he became
aware of Wallace tapping in the access code and the door opening.
Back in the woods outside South Stafford, the young Tanner had run away and left
the rat king to die.
This time he knew that he wouldn’t be able to run.
“THOUGHT SAID storm less?” Jak asked truculently as they emerged from the pass
and into the main body of the valley.
“It is less. I didn’t say by much, did I, cully?” With which the man laughed so
hard that the belly overhanging his ripped and patched camou pants shook and
wobbled. The pants looked like those belonging to the sec men, and Jak figured
that they were a trophy of a previous encounter.
“Tell the little shit how you came by them, Mac,” the now conscious bundle of
rags said, noticing how Jak was eying his captor’s attire.
“Mebbe I will,” Mac said, with the air of someone about to launch into a
well-rehearsed and much told story. “Y’see, the insiders have always reckoned on
how they were so good, and how all the old tech they still have makes them
better fighters—”
“But they don’t know the conditions, right?” Ryan interrupted, in no mood for
self-congratulatory stories.
Mac glared at him. “You’re damn right, One-eye. You know that, too. I was
watching you. They was fancy moves when you came from the inside, but you didn’t
know how to deal with the storm.”
“Not surprising,” J.B. commented. “Never seen anything quite like that.”
“Shut up and keep carrying,” the bundle of rags grumbled. She was still
suspended between the Armorer and Mildred, who glared at her, but managed to
refrain from comment…for the present.
Krysty surveyed the land around them. It appeared that they were still in a
valley, but a much larger one. The enclave formed around the entrance to the
redoubt was a small indent into one side of the valley. Sheer rock walls