"Tanner. Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner," Doc replied, getting enough of a whiff to note the cigar wasn't made of tobacco, but could be traced instead to the cannabis plant.
The revelation made the baron's ears perk up. "Doctor? Medical doc?" Teague asked eagerly, looking past Doc to his right-hand man, Cort Strasser. Strasser made no overt movement to indicate yea or nay, allowing the kneeling man as much rope as required to hang himself.
"No, my friend. Philosophy. Philosophy and..." Tanner discovered the years of scientific training he'd taken had vanished from his mind, vanished to such a degree he was having trouble even recalling what his second major in university might have been.
"Sounds like a bullshitter to me. He come into Mocsin with tribute?"
"Nothing on him, Baron, except for these." The bearded sec man reached into a canvas shoulder bag and held out a pair of perfect metal spheres, each about the size of a baseball. Strasser took the offered globes and walked up the steps to the top of Teague's bizarre indoor pyramid. The overweight baron had ordered the pyramid built as his throne, having been advised that a pyramid was a power object, and by sitting atop one he could harness the latent energies and become a stronger leader.
At first Baron Teague had been hesitant, but after discussing the matter with his closest advisers, in- cluding Cort Strasser, he decided a pyramid was just what he needed.
With almost superhuman effort Strasser had managed to keep from erupting into gales of laughter at the sight of his boss perched atop the pretentious construct, and word quickly escaped into Mocsin that the good baron was becoming loonier and loonier each day. It was an assumption Strasser had done nothing to suppress.
Cort Strasser had his own plans for Mocsin and for the ville's leader.
"Balls," league said confidently, rolling one of the spheres between two fleshy hands.
"That's right," Strasser agreed, ever the vigilant yes-man. "Balls."
Teague didn't appear to be impressed. He gave a great sigh that seemed to start low in the pit of his doughy stomach and then come hurtling out of his open mouth. Strasser and the other sec men in the room knew the signs. Their boss was bored. "So, this old fart's no peddler or trader, since he offers nothing of value in the way of hard goods, correct?"
"Correct," Strasser replied.
"And he's too dried up to be worth fucking or selling his ass," Teague continued. "So a thriving career as a male gaudy seems to be out."
"Right."
Teague leaned forward ever so slightly and fixed Doc with a contemptuous stare. "My question is, what do you have to offer me, old man?''
"First, uh, my good fellow," Doc began, trying to summon the courage to ignore the men with high-powered weapons surrounding him and fixate instead on the unarmed baron.
"Baron," Teague corrected in a frosty tone.
"My good, um, Baron," Doc said nervously, but without pause, "I am not old. Haggard, yes, I will accept that description. But old, never."
"Seems like you're in a powerful world of denial, old man," Strasser said, and the other men in the room chuckled. Teague didn't acknowledge the crack, another sign of Strasser's continually growing power, since a year ago the baron would have slapped his second-in-command down either verbally or physically for daring to comment during one of his interrogations.
Doc pressed on, keeping his chin high as he looked up at the seated baron of Mocsin. "Second, I am a teacher, a man of learning who wishes to share his knowledge."
"Teacher?" A wash of confusion passed over Teague's ruddy face. "Teach what?"
"The sciences," Doc replied.
"Tech?" the baron asked with the first active look of interest he'd shown since Doc's arrival.
Now it was Doc's turn to be confused. "Beg pardon?"
"Tech. Hardware. Machines," Teague replied impatiently. "You a fixer? I can always use a fixer. Or a techie. Know anything about engines? Comps? What's your field?"
Doc shook his head sadly. "No, mechanical apparatuses are not my forte. 'Tech' is not my calling."
Teague shook his head, already bored again. The siren call of the addict was starting to whisper in his ear, and he grew weary of discussing job descriptions with Doc Tanner. The glowing pipe, the oversized joint of happyweed, both were waiting for him and Teague wanted to feel the burning sensation between his lips and teeth.
But not until business was done. Baron Jordan Teague hadn't backslid so much as to reveal his addiction openly to his underlings. At least, not yet.
"We have no use of theory here, Doctor," he finally said. "I need men who can produce results. You sound like a user, a taker, a man with nothing to offer."
"Begging your pardon, Baron Teague...?" Stras-ser said in a polite tone.
Teague matched it, answering as if they were seated together at a banquet table passing a basket of biscuits instead of deciding Doc's fate. "Yes, Cort?" he asked.
Strasser stepped up beside Doc and placed a friendly arm around the man's skinny shoulders. "I think you've got Doc all wrong. He does serve a purpose."
Teague wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his purple robe. He needed a fix, and soon. "Enlighten me, please, Cort, for I sure as hell don't see it."
Strasser pulled back the friendly arm and used it to slap Doc on the back...hard. "He's a fun guy, a clown. He can help keep us entertained. He tells great stories. Recites Shakespeare! Why, I bet he even sings and dances once you get a few beers in him."
Doc stayed on his feet, gritting his fine teeth against the pain now throbbing between his bony shoulder blades. "I am no man's monkey, Mr. Strasser."
"That's what you think." Strasser jerked a thumb in a downward motion. "Let me have him, Baron. I'll find a use for old Doc here. Train him up good and when you least expect it, I'll drag his sorry ass out for a show."
Teague nodded, the bored mask back on his fleshy face. The drugs were in his left robe pocket and it took all of his self-control to stop from pulling them out and lighting up. "He's yours, Cort. You found him, you're responsible for him. Now leave me, all of you. I need time alone to think and meditate upon my current affairs of state."
Strasser bowed. "Yes, my lord."
"UNHAND ME, SIR!" Doc yelled at the sec man.
The bearded man obliged, pushing Doc into the filthy basement room. The walls were a mix of earth and heavy stone; the floor damp and muddy. The room was barren, no furniture or windows, only the single wooden door with the tiny window cut in the upper section for viewing.
"You just don't get it, do you, old man? I think you need a lesson in manners."
Strasser slapped Doc across the face with the back of his hand, sending him stumbling sideways into the wall. While Doc was no coward, he wasn't a seasoned fighter either, and the events that had seen him taken from the end of the year 2000 and dropped nearly one hundred years into this future hellhole had robbed him of almost all his strength.
Doc raised an arm, managing to block a second punch. He felt his entire shoulder go numb from the force of the blow. Strasser gave a nasty snort of laughter and feinted with his right fist, taking advantage of his victim's hapless avoidance to easily kick out with a booted foot, catching his prisoner in the kneecap.
Doc screamed in pain and went down on the earthen floor.
"Strip him," Strasser ordered and the two sec men bent down to comply, pulling away the well-worn clothing, the grimy long underwear.
"You animal."
Strasser laughed, and his amusement was as false and cold as his smile. "No, you're the animal here, Doc, and I'm going to enjoy proving it. I hope you can get it up, because I've got a special job for you. One you're gonna like."
"Get it...up?" Doc asked, confused by the slang.
The second sec man laughed, pointing at Doc's genitals. "Even if he does pop a boner, I don't think it's going to amount to much!"
Strasser strode over with his hand on his hips and looked down. "Doc, you've just been appointed
Mocsin's ambassador of swine, a
nd as such, your number-one duty is to service all the female members of your entourage. You might as well save your strength-you're going to need it all for your harem."
The sec men gathered around and laughed heartily at Strasser's edict.
Doc looked horrified. "Bestiality?" he said, a shudder of revulsion running down from his nape to the back of his thighs.
Strasser laughed again, slapping Doc on the back. "See? Quips like that are what make you the top funny fellow in Deathlands. 'Bestiality,' he says. That's a mighty fancy word for fucking, old man, and that's what you are to me now, Mocsin's very own piggy-humper."
Doc wasn't smiling. The joke was taking a nasty turn. "I'll not lie with swine," he declared as firmly as he could, but to his own ears the declaration came out in a breathy quaver of a voice.
Strasser kept the pasted-on smile. He reached out and poked a heavy finger in the center of Doc's scrawny chest, catching him right at the top of the breastbone with each painful jab. "You'll do whatever the hell I tell you to do, and come back asking for more, you crazy old loon! Take pride in your new position, and thank me for not chilling you right now."
"Frankly, sir, I would rather be dead," Doc said.
"That can be arranged. Bring him."
Too exhausted to really care anymore, Doc offered little resistance as he was taken through the halls of Baron Teague's manse and out a back door to a waiting wag. The ride to the compound where the pigs were kept was short, and soon Doc found himself standing in front of a wide wooden gate looking at the dozens of muddy sows within.
"Toss him into the pit. I'll be standing on the observation platform above. And he stays until he's shown his love and affection to the pig of his choice."
Doc gave out a bellow of protest, which was clamped down to a whimpering sound, like a whipped dog, after Strasser smashed the butt of a shotgun into Doc's gut. Soon he found himself standing among the terrible-smelling pigs.
"And Doc, don't take too long, or I might see if you prefer porking piggies of the same sex. Being a pig-fucker is bad enough, but a homo pig-fucker is even worse," Strasser yelled down from above, much to the amusement of his lackeys.
The long hour spent in the pen seemed like the most painful nightmare Doc had been forced to endure since being taken away from his wife and children, and as it was, only by focusing on their faces and voices and memories was he able to detach himself from the current situation he was being forced to participate in and do the requested deed.
Never in his life had he felt so degraded and alone.
Chapter Sixteen
In Puerto Rico, within the confines of a modified mat-trans gateway designed not only for simultaneous matter transfer but also for quantum leaps into the past or future, the gaunt figure known to friends and family as Dr. Theophilus Algernon Tanner ceased to exist.
The man, Doc Tanner...wasn't.
Yet, he was, and there he stood, his knees unbowed, in the center of a mat-trans chamber. "Most curious," he murmured to himself. "I usually return to these unearthly carrels horizontal and sick of mind and body, not erect and invigorated." Other than the queer sensation of tingling flesh, as if he were covered in a layer of squirming insects, Doc felt wide-eyed and alert.
His eyes searched the colors of the tinted arma-glass walls and saw they were an unfamiliar brown. No sign of blue was to be seen anywhere around him. He touched a wall and received a slight electric shock. Looking at his hand and arm, Doc noted a faint halo of light that seemed to dance around his entire body, like a glistening silver cloak of silk.
"I wonder where this might be?" he said softly, debating whether to cross the small room and open the waiting door or remain standing until he had more opportunity to assess his situation. He regretted the absence of his trusty Le Mat now more than ever, and cursed himself for a fool for having left it behind in Puerto Rico. He could stand there as long as he liked, but eventually would need to cross the threshold and see what waited outside.
If events held to the norm, outside would be an anteroom leading to the control center for the mat-trans gateway he now resided in. Some blinking lights, a few soft noises of comps talking to themselves in binary clicks and Doc would be all alone. He hoped. Squatters in redoubts were rarely the friendly sort.
All of this was true, if events held to the norm.
Pausing cost Doc any element of surprise. While he stood woolgathering, the heavy armaglass chamber door swung open.
"He who hesitates is lost," flitted through his brain. If Ryan were here, he'd undoubtedly remark that such an expression sounded like something the Trader would say. Doc had met the Trader, and spent many a day traveling in his company. Despite the origins of the phrase, the Trader would have agreed with the words, or at the very least, the sentiment.
Doc held his ebony swordstick in both of his elegant hands, long fingers wrapped around his lone possession in a manner indicating there would be no taking of the cane unless he were unconscious or dead, the latter being most likely. One of his age-spotted hands was at the base of the silver lion's head atop the stick, and the other was lower, ready to unsheathe the hidden blade within-readying himself, for what, he did not know-but he wanted to be as prepared as a man facing the unknown could be.
He peered out through the open door and into the anteroom and spotted three figures, all dressed identically in formfitting white bodysuits.
The suits were the only thing the trio shared in common. The man standing slightly in the lead was Caucasian, with a high forehead and thin lips. A pair of steely blue-gray eyes were sunk above high, almost regal cheekbones. It was a cruel face, Doc decided. Next to him was an older man, with dark brown coloring similar to Mildred's, although Mildred had never sported shoulders as wide as the ones atop this man's torso. He had a long, heavy-jawed face adorned with a thick black mustache and a frowning, suspicious expression.
The third member of the white bodysuit club was one of the most striking examples of feminine beauty Doc could remember ever seeing, rivaling Krysty for pulchritude. Her honey-blond hair was a tousled mane of wavy thickness atop the most delicate of features, and like Krysty she had eyes of deepest emerald. A graceful swanlike neck led to a slender body of curves, accented even more by the hug of the white clothing she wore.
None of them appeared to be armed with the usual plethora of weapons he was used to seeing on denizens of Deathlands, a fact that allowed Doc to release the deep gulp of air he'd taken by reflex when the door to the chamber had opened. As Doc exhaled, he noted they didn't seem to be intent on inflicting or creating any immediate harm. For now, they merely gawked. Doc could handle gawkers. He decided to turn on the charm and allowed himself to grin nervously, revealing his perfect white teeth.
"By the Three Kennedys! Something tells me I'm not in Omaha," he said by way of greeting.
Hearing the booming basso profundo voice echoing from within the chamber, a fourth man joined the others, also dressed in the tight-fitting white bodysuit, which Doc couldn't help but note was nowhere near as flattering as it looked on the other three. The new arrival was in a wheelchair and didn't appear at all happy to be so confined, the arm movements he used to wheel himself over impatient and quick.
The man in the wheelchair was much older than the other three, with decades on Doc's own elderly appearance. A pair of thick-lensed glasses were perched on his long nose, and a small mechanical hearing aid was attached to the right earpiece. The man's appearance and manner vividly reminded Doc of a perpetually annoyed old chemistry professor he'd been forced to suffer under during a long fall semester of his stay at Harvard.
Armed with blasters or not, Doc realized he was rapidly becoming outnumbered. He took a cautious half step back, quickly turning the lion's head on the swordstick with a twist of a wrist, rewarded by the appearance of a half-foot of glittering, razored steel from the stick's sheath.
At the same instant, the halo of light scurrying around his lean body exuded curling, crackling strings of pure energy,
and the skin-crawling sensation was replaced with a much more uncomfortable jabbing feeling, as if ten thousand tiny needles were all being shoved into the upper epidermis of his skin at once.
"It's cycling again!" a voice cried out. "We've got to seal the chamber! We don't know the wavelengths of that radiation! It could be fatal, or could contaminate the redoubt if it's not contained!"
By this time, Doc had no idea who was speaking, since his vision was starting to break down into streaks of multicolored light, followed by a sodden darkness all too familiar to anyone who'd previously traveled on the mat-trans express.
SILVER ARMAGLASS.
Silver, the color of betrayal. He knew the mat-trans chamber from a previous visit, and now, here he was again. Doc had felt the sting of betrayal that dark day, the cold flush of having one's trust rejected because of suspicion or fear radiating out from his helpless body.
James Axler - Deathlands 43 - Dark Emblem Page 22
