been ninety. His long white beard was stained amber, seemingly with nicotine,
and strands of orange and green ribbons were plaited through it. His hair was
streaked silver and gray, and straggled to his shoulders. His face was in
shadow, but it was possible to make out a narrow mouth, a hooked nose and deeply
set eyes beneath beetling brows.
On the right was a woman of a similar age and garb. Her jacket and leather
breeches were so dirty that their original color was indeterminable. She wore a
cap, pulled to one side and decorated with cheap glass brooches. She was
grinning, showing a picket fence of broken and chipped teeth.
Ryan finally rested his eyes on the other woman. Close to six feet tall, she had
natural poise and elegance. Her hair was a tumbling mane of bright gold over a
red satin blouse. Her belt had an ornate silver buckle. Her skirt was pale
maroon suede—it ended well above the knee—and her legs were encased in high
boots of polished crimson leather, the high heels ornamented with tiny silver
spurs that tinkled softly as she moved. A pearl-handled pistol hung at her right
hip.
Her eyes were a deep summer blue, gazing frankly at Ryan and each of the others
in turn. The touch of her eyes was like a caress across Ryan’s cheek, and he was
astonished at the girl’s power. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen.
All three of the strangers carried the same weapon and held them with the casual
ease of professionals. Yet there was something about them that gave Ryan pause.
Their ease was studied, almost as if they’d mastered it from a picture in a
book. Real killers had a constant tension to them; they never relaxed.
“Heckler & Koch silenced sub-MG,” whispered J.B., at Ryan’s elbow.
But Ryan had already recognized the guns. He’d seen odd examples in uncovered
stockpiles. The model was the MP-5 SD-2. Loaded, they weighed nearly seven
pounds. Not that accurate over any distance, but twenty paces away, as they were
now, the trio of guns would rip them apart.
“Greetings from the Keeper of this redoubt, strangers,” croaked the old man.
“Never have there been such outsiders here.”
Ryan was utterly confused. Where were the sentinels? The platoons of armed sec
men? Who was this dotard with the two ill-matched women?
“Thank you. Are we welcome here?”
“We think so. The Keeper thinks you are. What are your names?”
“I’m Ryan Cawdor. This is J. B. Dix.” The Armorer took off his crumpled fedora
and nodded. “Hennings and Finnegan. Lady with the green hair is called Hunaker,
and the lady with the red hair’s Krysty Wroth. Tall one’s Okie.”
“What of him?” The barrel of the machine gun swung toward Doc, who was lurking
at the rear of the group.
“Name’s Doc Tanner. Dr. Theophilus Tanner. I’m pleased to make your
acquaintance, sir,” he said, bowing deeply, swinging his tall hat behind him.
“And you, ladies.”
Ryan was thunderstruck. “Tanner? Theophilus Tanner! You said you didn’t know
your fuckin’ name, Doc! How in the… ?”
The old man shuffled his feet in embarrassment, like a boy caught with his hand
in the cookie jar. He grinned expansively and shrugged. “Guess a door sprang
open that I’d thought had closed forever. Just came, like that.”
“Theophilus,” said Krysty. “What kind of a name is that, Doc?”
“My name, madam. A poor thing, perchance, but mine own.” He backed away,
mumbling to himself. “How could I have forgotten it? How could I?”
“Day of surprises,” said J.B.
If Doc’s memory had really returned, then there were many questions that Ryan
wanted to ask him. But that would have to wait until later.
“You had best come. That is the invite of the Keeper. There is food.”
“Our blasters?” asked Okie.
“Later, my pretty little chick. All things later. First come and eat. There is
enough.”
For the first time, the old woman spoke, laughing in a bubbling snigger like air
rising through molasses. “Oh, but there’s plenty for us all for eternity.” She
seemed likely to choke on her own merriment. “Eternity, or even fuckin’ longer!”
The stunted old man made sure his “guests” went ahead of him. The two women