“Shbsha . . .” I said, or something like that. Chomped my dry mouth and opened my eyes. Floyd’s face swam blurrily into view. I blinked and saw that he was smiling. He put the cold cloth back onto my forehead, which felt very nice.
“You got a bad one on the back of your head,” he said. “They didn’t hit me quite as hard.”
I started to say Where are we? but figured that was a pretty dim question with an obvious answer. I could see a barred door which was hint enough. It hurt when I sat up on the bunk. Floyd handed me a plastic cup of water which I gurgled down and passed back for a refill. I patted my pockets and the seams of my trousers hopefully-but all my concealed weaponry was gone.
“Seen any dogs around lately?”
“Nope.”
So that was that. Hit on the head. Imprisoned. Deserted by man’s best friend. Somewhere underground so my jaw radio probably wouldn’t work. Just in case I clacked hard and called for attention, but couldn’t even get any static.
“Well-it could be worse,” Floyd said in a repellently cheery fashion. I was about to curse him out when he got just the answer he deserved.
“And it will be. You will be dead,” the man said from the other side of the barred door. “Instantly. If you attempt to touch me or the Killerbot behind me. Is that clear?”
He was gray-haired, stern-faced, dressed in the same combat fatigues and spiked helmet as everyone else whom we had seen here. The only difference was that his spike was gold and had stylized wings on it. He moved aside and pointed at the very deadly-looking collection of mobile military hardware behind him. All guns, clubs, wheels, knives and metal teeth. Teeth for tearing out throats?
I had no intention of finding out. “Follow me,” our captor said, turning and walking away. The cell door clicked and swung open. Floyd and I shuffled out and followed him at a discreet distance. Clanking and rattling, the Killerbot rumbled along behind us.
The hallway, while being a depressing and drab tone of gray, was at least well lit. At regular intervals were framed photographs-apparently all of the same individual from what I could see as we walked past. Or of a number of scowling military types differing only in the braid and the medals on their camouflage suits.
Our host turned into a doorway that was flanked by studded steel columns. We followed-all too aware of the clanking apparatus just behind.
“Impressive,” I said, looking around the giant chamber. Black marble floor and walls. A large window looking out onto a military camp filled with flapping flags, marching troops, rows of armor-plated vehicles. Since we were deep underground it was obviously a projection-but a very good one. These militaristic themes were also carried through in the interior decorations; light fixtures made of aerial bombs, machine-gun flowerpots, draperies assembled from tattered, ancient banners. I found it horribly depressing.
Without looking back our captor marched around the gigantic conference table and sat down in the single, high-backed chair there. With a wave of his hand he indicated the two smaller chairs before us.
“Sit,” he commanded. Behind us was a clank and rattle, a hiss of escaping steam. We sat.
Something brushed my ankle and I looked down and saw that padded clamps had swung into position to secure my legs; motors whirred and they tightened.
I threw my arms into the air just as clamps from the chair arms swung out and clicked shut on empty air.
“Not wise,” our host said. There was a clank-clank close behind me and what could only have been a gun-muzzle ground into the back of my neck. The wrist clamps snapped open. I sighed and dropped my arms. I didn’t have to look to know that Floyd had been imprisoned the same way.
“Leave.”
When his master commanded the ambulatory war-machine clanked and rumbled out of the room and I heard the immense doors close.
“I am The Commander,” our captor said, leaning back in his chair and lighting a large, green cigar.
“Is that your title or your name?” I asked.