"Not necessarily, John Barrymore," Doc whispered back. "These people seem to be friendly."
The Armorer gave Tanner a grim look of pity. "Doc, you of all people should know by now that nothing is ever what it seems in Deathlands."
The whitecoat outside the armaglass door contin- ued to try to convince Ryan. "I assure you, I'm civilized. Won't you come out so we can compare notes?"
"Thanks, but no. Reckon I'm closing this door so we'll be on our way."
The man's voice became more excited. "Look, obviously you are aware of the existence of the matter-transfer units and their subsequent linked network. That ranks you and your people as being a cut above the average bloodthirsty grunts roaming the world today. We need to talk. We have to talk. Exchange information."
"Not interested. Later, pal, and don't forget to write," he said, repeating an expression he'd heard his own father use while Ryan was still a mere slip of a lad. As he spoke, he pulled the door closed on the chamber's counterbalanced hinges and it clicked true with a solid latching sound.
"What's the deal?" Krysty asked as Ryan strode into the chamber.
' 'Company. Some guy in a lab coat and a matching set of sec men. Get ready for another jump." he replied tersely, sitting on one of the hexagonal tiles in the floor.
"Oh, mercy," Doc whimpered, leaning back against the armaglass wall and sliding slowly into a seated position. "My head has already endured one bout of nausea. I do not think I can withstand another one of these soul-scrambling jaunts."
"Don't ready yourself for transport just yet, Doc," Mildred said, peering at the lack of activity from the array of silver disks mounted in the ceiling above. "We don't seem to be going anywhere."
The woman was right. None of the usual telltale prep signs were occurring-no mist, no whine, no glowing lights as the disks powered up.
"Sure you shut the door?" Mildred asked.
"Yeah, I'm sure. Fireblast," Ryan spit. "There must be an override outside the chamber."
"A logical assumption," Doc agreed. "Since the man outside seems to be aware of how these mystical conveyances operate."
There was a noise from outside the armaglass. Someone was knocking on the chamber door. Rap, rap, rap. Three times, then stop. Then three raps again.
"Look like we stay," Jak said morosely, one of his throwing knives already selected and waiting in his hand.
"Looks like," Ryan agreed, taking out the SIG-Sauer from his side holster once more and hefting the solid weight of the blaster in his right hand. While getting to his feet, his injured shoulder from previous adventures gave him a quick twinge of discomfort, as if to remind him that he still wasn't up to full fighting strength. "Everybody on their toes. You too, Doc."
"Gladly, sir. I would rather walk a country mile barefoot over broken glass than endure another mat-trans jump at the moment." Despite his bravado, Ryan noted the older man looked shaky as he stood erect, bracing himself ever so slightly on his walking stick.
Ryan opened the chamber door.
"Back so soon?" the man outside asked by way of greeting.
"Like we never left," Ryan replied.
The whitecoat gestured to the twin sec men. "As you can see, my friends here have lowered their weapons."
"Good for them. I'm keeping mine level until I know the playing field," Ryan said. "Tell them to keep the blasters down until we've all come out."
"They have ears. Your request is going to be met."
One by one Ryan's band of followers exited the gateway. Once the seventh member of the group, Doc Tanner, stepped gingerly off the bottom access step, the man who'd been patiently watching their progress held up his arms.
"Greetings," he said in a clipped tenor voice. "I am Dr. Silas Jamaisvous."
Staring at the whitecoat, Doc felt his mind slip away.
Dulce, New Mexico Redoubt, 1998
THE INTER VIEW ROOM was a lounge, used for breaks by various members of the duty staff within the massive Dulce redoubt when they didn't want to go to the full-service commissary, and as such the furnish- ings were simple. Vending machines and a small coffee machine lined one of the windowless walls.
Dr. Theophilus Tanner had been kept sedated during the move. He was unable to determine if he had been told the truth, or was being subjected to yet another mind game.
Such as the one now under way.
"I'm going to ask a battery of questions. Respond and-"
"I do not think so."
"What did you say?"
"I said, no."
"No?" Dr. Herman Welles looked across the table at the frowning man who'd uttered the single syllable.
"No," Tanner replied flatly, his blue eyes flat in their sockets like shards of gravel peeking out from beneath his brows. "I shall ask the questions for a change. I have endured enough of your inquiries. I have suffered through your physical tests. I have been kept in the dark long enough. I am not an idiot, nor am I easily confused or baffled by these futuristic trappings."
"I know. This is one of the reasons why you were chosen."
"So I have heard. If I am capable of comprehension, ergo, it is time I received some answers of my own."
Welles pondered this, tapping his ballpoint pen against the front of his teeth absentmindedly, then, much to Tanner's surprise, he nodded in agreement. "You're right, Dr. Tanner. Proceed."
Tanner folded his hands in front of him on the scuffed tabletop, covering a faded ring left in the plastic covering ages ago by a coffee cup. "So, ask," Welles prodded. Tanner held up a hand for silence. Then he spoke. "First, let us establish a few essential facts. I am Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner." Welles agreed. "Yes."
"And you," Tanner added, pointing a bony finger at the corpulent figure seated across from him in a white lab coat, white shut, black slacks and garish green tie, "you are Herman Welles."
"Correct. At least, that's what it says on my birth certificate."
"Such forms of identification can easily be faked," Tanner noted.
Welles shrugged. "The price we pay. You will have to take my word."
Tanner stood and crossed the room to the community coffeepot, pouring himself a foam cup of the steaming brew. "Coffee?" he asked. "No, thanks."
Tanner returned to his chair and took a long pull from the cup before setting it down on the table, purposely placing it within the existing scorch mark. Welles watched silently, observing. While Tanner's back had been turned, the overweight man had taken out his pipe and now was busy tapping it against a glass ashtray on the tabletop, knocking out the previous bowl of tightly packed ashes.
Waiting until Welles had finished and relit the pipe, filling the small lounge with the smell of burning cherry, Tanner asked his next question. "Married?"
"No. Divorced. Six years now."
"Children?"
"None."
"How tragic for you. I have a wife, Emily-"
Welles cut in. "No, you don't."
Tanner pressed on. ' 'And two children, a boy and a girl."
"Both deceased," Welles added.
Tanner continued to speak, his words overlapping Welles's voice. "I chose-we chose, Emily and I- chose their names, their most unusual names. Special names. Rachel after my wife's mother. Jolyon for one of my own family members who died in battle during the War Between The States."
Welles puffed on his pipe and sighed, consulting his notebook. "The names you give are correct, Doctor. However, they are names of the dead."
Tanner's placid facade collapsed. Welles suddenly found himself sitting across from a lion. His patient bared his fine white teeth and howled in wordless frustration and rage, slamming his hands on the table and sending the half-full coffee cup and ashtray crashing to the floor. "I am Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner! I have a wife! I have two children! I am a teacher, a scholar, a lecturer! By God, I am halfway through writing a book! Nonfiction! The finest minds of my generation consult with me on a daily basis!"
"Not any longer." Welles now stood, his own
temper rising. His round face was reddening, and a sheen of sweat appeared on his brow. "You, sir, are a curiosity. A living science experiment. A man without a frame of reference or a shred of comprehension."
"You are incorrect, sir! I comprehend all!"
"Tanner, you are fucking Rip Van Winkle. Get used to it." And on that final pronouncement, Welles slammed closed the black notebook. Always with the damnable black notebook.
Tanner lunged forward, both arms outstretched to their full length, his wrists extended well past the cuffs of his hospital dressing gown. His rail-thin body skated lightly across the slick tabletop and right at the dumbfounded Welles.
"I have it!" he crowed triumphantly as both of his long-fingered hands clamped down on Welles's notebook. Tanner snatched it boldly away, rolling, moving to one side on the table as Welles screeched in shock.
"Damn you, Tanner, give that back!" Welles sputtered. "Give it back or I'll-"
"Hush, Welles, before you cause me to fall in gales of laughter at your schoolboy predicament," Tanner soothed, his rich baritone taking the tone of a leisurely played bassoon. "Like all bullies, you cannot handle having the tables turned. You shall have your precious book, full of the damnable lies of my life and times as filtered through your own corruptive sieve of an intellect! Shall we begin with the first page of our meeting?"
Keeping the table between them, Doc opened the book and began to read.
'"Patient appears confused, baffled, uncertain of his surroundings. Perhaps the decision in choosing subject was hasty, since he shows no signs of open-mindedness or creative thinking. He seems fixated on one subject, and one subject only-that being his family. His wife and children. This obsession must be circumvented before subject will be pliable enough for establishment of mission parameters.'"
"Tanner, you shouldn't be reading that," Welles warned.
"Subject. That's all I was to you then, and all I remain now," came back the response. "A subject. A test case. You could not even be bothered to write my name on these pages, nor the names of Emily or Rachel or dear little Jolyon. You could not even be bothered to remember the names of the lives you ruined, you despicable miscreant!"
"Now see here, Tanner, you settle down or I'll have to call in security."
"Call them, you elephantine pile of excrement! Show them all what an ineffectual dung heap you really are!" Tanner taunted as he happily tore one of the blue-lined pages from the book and crumpled it into a ball. He tossed the wadded paper and giggled darkly as it bounced off Welles's fat damp forehead with a plop, landing on the tabletop.
"That is one," he said, his voice starting to rise in timbre as he pulled out a second sheet of the notebook and began to crush it between long, elegant fingers. "I do hope you utilized one of those photocopying devices I have heard about to make a second, backup reproduction of your spurious observations and notes about me."
Pushed into a raging silence, Welles turned and ran to the lounge door, thumbing a wall communicator and screaming for a security team.
The goon squad wasn't long in coming, and the faceless men in their hooded white parkas and mirrored sunglasses made quick work subduing Tanner, who hadn't bothered to offer any resistance beyond gales of booming resonant laughter. One of them easily retrieved Welles's notebook from the smirking prisoner and handed it back stone-faced to the Chronos director.
"Your property, sir."
Welles snatched it from the guard and gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Keep two on hand to subdue Tanner. The rest of you may go."
Now that Tanner was helpless and held by the summoned security men, Welles got closer and screamed in his face.
"Your wife is dead! Your children are dead! All you knew is dead! These are the facts! This is the future!"
"No, sir, it is not," Tanner replied. "Your future, perhaps. Not mine."
"Take him out of here," Welles ordered. "Take him out before I do something I'll regret."
EMILY TANNER WAS long dead, long buried. Her mortal remains had decayed into dust within the confines of the family vault, a great marble edifice, located high atop a steep hill among a smattering of trees-ancient trees with skeletal branches reaching for heaven, and settling instead for their positions of anguish, arms held high in sympathetic agony surrounding the burial chambers.
Her husband knew this to be true, once the future year he'd been trawled into was revealed and his mind had wrapped itself around the inescapable truth that he had indeed traveled one-hundred-plus years in the span of a single heart-bursting moment.
He looked down at the photograph and wished more than ever to be at her side, alive or dead.
"I wish to go to Deadwood," Tanner said.
"Uh-uh. No way. You know the rules. If the powers that be find I snuck you photos of the family tomb, they'd have both our asses."
"How did you happen to come upon said photographs, dear Allan?"
Allan Harvey grinned mischievously, his wide black face crinkling inward in a maze of smile lines. He liked Tanner. The burly security man had spoken with the refugee from time to time on many a long night, finding him to be one of the most gifted conversationalists Allan had ever encountered.
"Your file. Hard data. Most of what they have on you has been encrypted and scanned into the Chronos master database. I don't have proper clearance to take a peek, and even if I did, they'd soon find out about it. But even records stored on computers have to start somewhere, and when I had a chance to glance through your paper file, I snatched those babies up."
"Will they not be missed?"
"Doubt it. Like I said, most of the idiots in here can't deal with anything unless it comes over a computer screen."
"One day, Allan, one day I shall be joined with them. Dear sweet Emily and my son and daughter."
The large black man nodded. "You mean when you die, old guy?"
Doc snorted. ' 'No, noble Allan. I mean when I find my way back home."
Chapter Seven
"You have me at an advantage," the man who'd introduced himself as Dr. Silas Jamaisvous said in a mild tone of petulance.
"How so?" Ryan asked, the SIG-Sauer P-226 aimed squarely at the heart of the well-dressed speaker. Behind the one-eyed man, the rest of his people had struck similar positions of defense with their own weaponry as they exited the mat-trans chamber. The two sec men Ryan had spied earlier had now lost their nonthreatening stances and held their own autorifles aimed at him, responding in kind to the positions Ryan's group had assumed. "No advantage here. You got blasters. We got blasters."
"All God's children got blasters, my friend. Having a firearm is of no real advantage to either one of us here, since there would be more casualties than survivors," Jamaisvous replied silkily. "What I was referring to was that you have my name, but I do not have yours."
Sometimes the giving of names had been a thorny subject between Ryan and J. B. Dix. The Armorer, being of a more subtle nature would just as soon give out an alias when shoved into an unknown situation with guns aimed at their vitals. Their true names weren't unknown in the Deathlands and both men had left behind plenty of enemies in their travels, at least, the few enemies who had survived the run-in.
Ryan was of a different opinion. As a part of his own personal code a man was only as good as his name, and as such he chose to offer his freely if asked unless doing so would assure him of being chilled on the spot. A long time ago, when he first joined Trader's caravan of war wags, he'd stopped using the last name of Cawdor and rejected the family heritage. Now, he took some quiet pride in being a Cawdor, while remaining true to how his father would have wanted him to live.
Still, Ryan Cawdor might be stubborn, but he wasn't stupid. In this case, his real name wouldn't be a factor in ending or prolonging their current situation.
"Name's Ryan Cawdor," he said to Jamaisvous, gesturing with his head to the rest of the group. "That's my boy, Dean. Lady with the red hair is Krysty Wroth, and next to her in the specs is J. B. Dix. Dr. Mildred Wyeth is on
the far left in the denim jacket and beside her is Jak Lauren." Ryan immediately regretted the slip. Usually the knowledge that Mildred was a physician was a closely guarded secret. He hurried. ' "The skinny gent with the walking stick is known as Doc Tanner."
Taking Krysty's hand and raising it to kiss, Jamaisvous paused after his lips brushed the redhead's warm skin, and recited, "'All that is in you is voluptuous and light-sweet, gentle, caressing and tender. And your moral world owes its enchantment to the sweet influence of your external world.'"
"Is that verse?" Doc asked, his eyes lighting up.
James Axler - Deathlands 43 - Dark Emblem Page 8