When the world exploded in 2001, every single industrial center vanished in a
nuclear cloud. Since then, the manufacture of guns had virtually ceased. But all
over the country were hidden stockpiles that had been packed with the requisite
tools of war nearly a century ago. And J.B. Dix knew about all of them.
For a couple of minutes the chamber echoed with the clicking of bolts and the
testing of springs. Ejected cartridges rattled brassily on the metal floor as
the group tested the action of their handguns and rifles.
Ryan drew his panga from its scabbard, felt the honed edge with his thumb,
nodded his approval and slid the eighteen-inch blade back out of sight.
Krysty removed her three slim, leaf-bladed throwing knives from the bandolier
across her chest, flicking them casually from hand to hand, finding the points
of balance.
Only Doc had no weapon. He dusted off his tall hat and attempted to brush his
frock coat clean.
“Ready?” said Ryan, getting nods of approval all around. “Then let’s go.”
The door opened smoothly with the hiss of an air lock. As he led his group into
the adjoining room, Ryan heard the faint sound of a distant siren and stopped to
listen, but it faded out.
Rectangular and roughly five paces long by three wide, the room was similar to
those that he’d seen in other gateways in other redoubts. There was a plastic
table on one side and four shelves on the other and nothing else in the room
except a polished copper bowl on the table. Hunaker picked the bowl up and
peered inside.
“Nothin’. Mebbe somethin’ dried at the bottom. Brown crust like blood.”
She banged it back down, and it rang like a temple bell, the noise surprisingly
loud. Ryan glared at her, and she tried an apologetic half smile. With Hun that
was better than nothing.
The far door was shut. If this was like the other redoubts they’d briefly
explored, the room beyond would be the main control site for the
matter-transmitter complex. Ryan drew his handgun, the weight of the
fifteen-shot SIG-Sauer comforting. Around him, the others readied themselves.
That was one of the good things about the Trader’s training: nobody needed to be
told what to do in this sort of situation. You got your finger on the trigger,
nerves stretched tight, eyes moving. It was a time when mistakes got made and
men died.
One of the things that Ryan liked about the P-226 was its safety. The pistol
fired when you pulled the trigger. Not before. Not when you dropped it. He
remembered Brecht, the bearded tail gunner from War Wag Two, dropping his old
Beretta 92. That was enough to set it off and the bullet hit Karen Mutter, the
oldest woman aboard any of the war wags, in her left buttock. Her scream could
have shattered crystal at a half mile.
She had been among the dead at Mocsin.
The door opened on a greased track, and Ryan Cawdor stepped through the doorway.
It was just like the others. Consoles of whirring instruments, lights flashing
red and blue and green. Banks of comps with tape loops that jittered on as they
had for a hundred years. It was a great tribute to the technical skill of the
engineers before the Chill that these things still functioned after a century of
neglect.
He sniffed the air, trying to catch some clue that might prepare him for what
lay behind the massive door to the gateway. His limited experience told him it
should open on a corridor that was part of a fortress built like some of the
stockpiles that they’d found in the last few years.
He flicked on the rad counter in his lapel. It cheeped and muttered quietly, but
there was nothing of the fearful crackling that would indicate a hot spot.
“Clean,” said J.B., rubbing a finger along the top of one of the consoles,
showing it to Ryan.
“Don’t spill any dirty blood, Hennings,” warned Finnegan, chuckling at his own
joke. The tall black limping along at the rear of the party didn’t bother to
reply.
To the right of the polished metal door was a green lever set at the single word