Almost as if they were women, Ryan noted mentally, suppressing an expression of disgust.
Stepping close so nobody else could see, Pawter gave the guards some kind of a complicated hand signal. They responded, then drew their blasters and pushed back the heavy doors, admitting the prisoners into the next room. The barrels of their blasters never wavered from the passing outlanders.
A short antechamber led past what resembled a ticket booth and then opened into an auditorium filled with rows of chairs. At the far end was a stage with a single huge chair on a raised dais. An older man was sitting in the simple throne while a group of frowning men studied the wreckage of the Pegasus . A long table nearby held their backpacks and weapons laid out on display.
Shuffling his boots along the ratty carpet, Ryan almost smiled at the sight, but again withheld comment.
“Yes, I can have my girls patch these bags,” a young man said, fingering the cloth of the weather balloons. “But what do we fill them with?”
“We’ll ask them,” Baron Withers said, rising from his throne.
The man stood big and broad, at first looking fat to the newcomers, but under closer inspection there was only hard muscle showing. Long curly hair was braided into a ponytail and tucked inside his pants, and every inch of exposed skin was a dark brown, but whether naturally or from decades under the tropical sun, there was no way of knowing. The baron wore military fatigues, clean but rumpled as if put on in a hurry. Matching revolvers were tucked into his wide leather belt, the hands turned inward for a cross draw, and an Uzi submachine gun hung over one shoulder. J.B. didn’t recognize it as his blaster. Same make and model, but then Millie had told him that the Uzi was one of the most popular rapidfires before skydark. Only made sense he’d encounter another someday.
As the guards moved away from the prisoners, Pawter kept them covered with the rapidfire.
“This them?” the baron demanded, walking to the edge of the stage.
“Bruised, but alive,” the lieutenant replied.
“Thought we’d lose at least one,” Withers said, almost sounding disappointed. “Okay, who are you and what are you doing on my island?”
“You the baron here?” Ryan asked.
Frowning, Baron Withers pointed at Dean. “Him,” he ordered.
With a roundhouse swing, a guard punched Dean in the side of the head and the boy dropped. He held his face in both hands, blood dribbling onto the floor.
Barely controlling his rage, Ryan wasn’t surprised at the results, although Dean was strong for his age, he was still a boy, not a man yet.
“You were talking to me,” Ryan said gruffly, taking a step forward.
“Then answer my bastard questions,” Withers replied, glowering at him. “And the next time you answer a question with a question, Andrew will remove an ear.”
A guard drew a wicked knife, the curved blade deeply serrated, made for sawing through bone. “Aye, sir.” He grinned, displaying broken teeth.
“I know the formula for black powder,” J.B. stated loud and clear.
The guards chuckled at the announcement, and Withers broke into a laugh. Their reactions startled the companions, the formula had been an ace in the hole. Black powder was the backbone of the lord baron’s wealth and power. Nobody alive knew what it was made of.
“Do you now?” the baron stated. “How nice. Well, so do I. Forced it from one of the lord baron’s barrel boys four seasons ago. That won’t buy you anything here, outlander.”
“Name’s Ryan,” he stated. “That’s Doc, J.B. and Dean.”
“Better,” Withers muttered. “Now tell me about your flying machine.”
“I think it’s broken!” Dean drawled through bleeding lips as he climbed back to his feet.
A snarling guard rushed forward, but Ryan blocked the man’s way with his body.
“Harm another one of us and you’re dead in the water,” he stated. “This isn’t something simple like black powder. You’ll never get the air wag to fly again without our help.”
Ryan turned to face the baron. “Our willing help,” he added gruffly. “Or else the blast will level this bastard island.”