“No time,” Lynx replied. He knelt and stuck his head and arms under the cot.
“What in the world are you doing?”
“You’ll see,” Lynx said.
Melody nervously glanced at the door.
There was a muted rustling from under the cot, followed by a peculiar sucking noise.
“Got it!” Lynx said, elated, and emerged. He stood, holding Tom’s Orwell Disk in his bloody right hand. “There ain’t no wires on this gizmo. How do they implant it, anyway?”
Melody couldn’t take her eyes off the disk. “They shave off your fur, if you have any, and use a scapel to cut a circle in your forehead the same size as the disk. Then they attach it.”
“What do they use to keep it in place?”
“I’m not sure,” Melody hefted the glue. “We’re not permitted to view the implantation procedure.”
Lynx gazed at the O.D. on Melody’s forehead. “I hate to say it, but that thing is comin’ off as soon as we’re out of Androxia.”
“I know.”
“It’ll hurt when I take it off,” Lynx predicted.
“I know,” Melody said. “But it can’t be helped.”
“See? You’re one tough momma,” Lynx stated. He moved to the sink and washed off the disk. “Let me have the glue.”
Melody gave it to him.
Lynx coated the reverse side of the disk with the glue and handed the O.D. to her. “You’ll have to do the honors. Just press it against my fur. Try and get it as flush as you can.”
Melody quickly applied the Orwell Disk to his forehead. She pressed on the disk as hard as she could, then blew on it to hasten the hardening of the glue.
“I wish you were doing that to my ear,” Lynx commented.
“Behave,” Melody rejoined. She tentatively withdrew her hand. “There. I don’t know if it will hold. But if no one looks at it real closely, they won’t know it’s a fake.”
“Then we’re out of here.” Lynx took her hand and crossed to the door.
“What’s the best way up to forty-five?”
“We could take the stairwell,” Melody advised. “Hardly anybody ever uses the stairwell.”
“Which way is it?”
“Take a right,” Melody instructed him.
Lynx nodded, opened the door, released her hand, and nonchalantly strolled from the room, bearing to the right.
Melody stayed on his heels, closing the door after them.
Lynx took four strides, then froze as a deep voice stopped him in his tracks.
“Tom! Hold up!”
Lynx mustered a feeble smile and slowly turned, keeping his injured right cheek on his off side.
“I’ve been looking all over for you,” stated the newcomer.
Lynx, his nerves tingling, stared up into the piercing blue eyes of a giant Superior.
Chapter Seventeen
Hickok’s hands were flashing blurs as he brought up the Gaskell Lasers in his hands and squeezed the triggers.
The lead android was hit in the head, twin beams of light boring through his eyes and out the rear of his cranium. He tumbled to the floor.
The gunfighter pivoted, going for the charging storm troopers, mowing them down, littering the hallway with mutant and human bodies contorted in the throes of death. Armed with only their steel batons, the troopers were no match for the gunman. And when Blade added his Gaskells to the fray, the onrushing black tide was decimated. Twenty-one troopers were on the floor, dead or dying, when the rest broke, retreating through the same door they had used to enter the corridor.
Hickok shot one last trooper in the back of the head, then straightened, listening to the moaning and groaning coming from several of the prone troopers. “I don’t get it,” he commented quizzically. “Why’d they try to take us? All they had were those stupid batons.”
“Primator demands total obedience,” Blade noted. “Even if it costs them their lives.”
“Pitiful. Just pitiful,” Hickok remarked. “Dyin’ for a bucket of bolts is about as dumb as you can get!”
“Let’s get out of here,” Blade urged.
“I’m with you.”
The two Warriors dashed to the stairwell door. While Hickok covered the corridor, Blade checked the stairwell, confirming it was empty. They took the stairs two at a stride, descending to the landing below the lobby without encountering more troopers or Superiors. As they reached the landing, the Intelligence Building filled with the grating howl of klaxons.
“Took ’em long enough,” Hickok stated.
Blade cautiously opened the stairwell door. No Superiors. No troopers.
He moved forward. “Where do we find our weapons?”
“There should be a Weapons Room about halfway down,” Hickok disclosed.
There was, with the door bearing a large sign printed in green letters.
Blade tried the knob. “It’s locked,” he informed the gunman.
Hickok was keeping his eyes on both ends of the hallway. “Where are all the blasted Superiors? How come we haven’t seen anybody?”
Blade bent over, examining the lock. “This detour of ours could be working in our favor. They probably expect us to make a break for it, to exit the building as quickly as we can. So they’re undoubtedly covering all the exits and converging on the lobby like they did before. They don’t know we know about this room, so there’s no reason for them to have guards posted here.”
“Will the lock pose a problem?” Hickok queried.
“Not at all,” Blade replied, stepping back and drawing his right knee up to his waist. He twisted and kicked, his foot striking the door next to the knob. There was a rending crash and the door flew inward.
“Piece of cake,” Hickok said.
The Warriors entered the Weapons Room, Blade flicking on the light.
“Will you look at this!” Hickok exclaimed, marveling.
Blade scanned the room, surveying rack after rack of varied weaponry.
There were hundreds of weapons in alclass="underline" rifles, shotguns, revolvers, pistols, bows, knives, swords and more. The metal racks were arranged in neat aisles.
Hickok started down the nearest aisle, eagerly searching the racks.
Blade took the next aisle. He was a third of the way along it when Hickok gave a shout.
“Bingo!”
“Did you find your Pythons?” Blade inquired.
“Nope. I found your pig-stickers, pard,” Hickok replied.
Blade quickly retraced his path and hurried down the first aisle, Hickok was standing in front of a large rack of knives and swords.
“These are yours, aren’t they?” he asked.
Blade stopped, a smile creasing his rugged features. “They sure are.”
The Bowies were in their sheaths, and the sheaths were affixed to hooks on the square rack.
“Now where the blazes is my hardware?” Hickok muttered, moving off, resuming his hunt.
Blade placed the three Gaskell Lasers he carried on the floor, then removed his belt. He proceeded to rethread the belt through the loops on his green fatigue pants, aligning the first Bowie on his left hip and the second on his right. As he was securing the belt buckle, Hickok began cackling like crazy. Blade grinned. He could guess why. Stooping, he retrieved the Lasers, slanting one under his belt and keeping the other two in his hands. He headed for the door, idly scrutinizing the weapons on the racks. At the end of the aisle he paused, noticing a big, gray metal box in the corner to his right. He walked to the box and lifted the lid, curious as to its contents.
Hand grenades.
Dozens and dozens of hand grenades.
“Whoa!” Blade exclaimed, then raised his voice. “Hickok!”
“Right behind you,” responded the gunfighter.
Blade glanced over his right shoulder.
Hickok’s cherished Pythons were strapped around his waist, and he held a Gaskell Laser in each hand. “I found my Colts,” he said.