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  Before anyone could reply, the ground under Dean seemed to erupt, and Ryan got a real good look at the maw full of fangs that lunged at his son's throat. "Dean! Get back!" Ryan brought his blaster around, knowing in his heart he was already too late.

  Chapter Eleven

  "Hot pipe!" Dean exclaimed, dodging back from the furred fury that boiled out of the tunnel he'd uncovered in the floor. Knowing he couldn't get clear to let his father use the 9 mm blaster, he rocked forward again and seized one of the animal's ears in his fist, narrowly avoiding the flashing teeth that snapped at his throat.

  Throwing his weight against the dog, setting his shoulder beneath its jaw so it couldn't bite him, Dean landed on top of the animal. Then he brought the turquoise-hilted knife around in a short arc, driving it home between the ribs. Hot blood squirted over his hand, and he made sure he didn't loosen his grip so any of the liquid could make the knife hilt slippery. He pulled the blade free, then stabbed repeat­edly until he was sure the dog was dead.

  He was barely aware that his father had buried the long blade of the panga in the skull of the next dog trying to get into the room. But he heard the animal's final yelps. He'd hit his own attacker so hard that it hadn't had the breath left to growl or yelp or whine before it died.

  "You okay?" Ryan asked, freeing his blade.

  "Yeah." Dean pulled back from the dead dog and took a deep, shuddering breath. He cleaned his blade on the an­imal's fur. "Bastard dogs. Never thought they were down there for sure. Sounded small. Thought mebbe they were rats."

  Ryan reached into the hole and dragged out the corpse of the animal he'd killed. "You should have had somebody backing your play when you popped that bastard door. Think about what you're doing before you get us all killed."

  "I thought I was," Dean protested. His emotions twisted inside him, not knowing how he was supposed to feel. The adrenaline still raced through his system because he'd found something his father and J.B. had missed, and be­cause the dog had nearly taken his face off. Now he felt bad on top of it, because his father was right.

  "If that had been a man in there with an automatic weapon," Ryan said, "we'd have all been chilled."

  Dean kept the angry words from his tongue, and it made the burn behind his eyes even harder to take. "Wouldn't have let that happen to you. I'd have chilled him. Bastard dog surprised me, jumping like that. A man, he wouldn't have done that." He forced himself to meet his dad's un­flinching gaze.

  "Reckon you're right at that, Dean," Ryan said quietly. "You stood up and took that dog out before it could get loose in here."

  "Slick," Jak agreed, waving a hand out steadily before him. "Like water over smooth pebble. Dog never had chance."

  Dean took a long, rasping breath, smelling the stench of dog and dog turds coming from the open tunnel now. "Bastard dogs got in here somehow."

  Ryan glanced back at the hole. "We need to find out where it goes. If it's something we can use. Looks like a dog run the coldhearts used at one time to mebbe send dogs out after anybody who holed them up in here. You feel up to finding that out?"

  "Yeah," Dean answered, though he didn't feel so cer­tain.

  "Go with," Jak said, moving toward Dean. His leaf-bladed throwing knives gleamed in his hands.

  Ryan nodded. "Not far. I don't have any plans on mov­ing from here any too soon, but when we do, I don't want to have to come looking."

  Dean glared down into the hole, but it was hard to see in the darkness. One thing was for certain—it wasn't very deep, maybe two and a half feet tall at best. He took an oil lamp from the shelves at the back of the room and lit it with a self-light from the gear he carried in his pockets. When he had the wick going well, he lowered the hand-blown hurricane glass around it once more.

  He stepped into the hole and thrust the lantern out before him, chasing the shadowy darkness inside back little more than arm's length. It didn't leave much margin for error.

  "Dog's eyes glow," Jak said softly in his ear, "you get close enough. See them coming."

  "Yeah." Dean pulled the Hi-Power from its holster and got down on his stomach, promptly landing in piles of dog turds. Some of it was fresh. He swore at the stench and the greasy feel, but he made himself go forward into the tunnel he'd found. Taking on the Baron's men, followed by the coldhearts, was something none of the companions wanted to do.

  Dog shit or not, the tunnel offered a way out. Dean kept crawling.

  "CAWDOR!" NAYLOR BARKED from outside.

  "Dammit," Ryan called back, "I'm checking arms. Give me a minute." He waved the SIG-Sauer meaningfully at the three men.

  One of the men rolled his sleeves up without hesitation, revealing bare inner elbows.

  "Sit down," Ryan instructed, moving on to Elmore and the other man.

  "Was that a dog I heard in there?" Naylor demanded.

  "Had one left over that recovered," Ryan replied. "Thought the bastard was dead. It is now."

  "Hope he believes you," J.B. said quietly. "Otherwise we might have company."

  "It'll be easier for Dean and Jak to find the other end of that tunnel than for Naylor or his people to find it."

  "Mayhap," Doc said, wrinkling his nose against the sour stink that pervaded the room from the open trapdoor, "they would not want to traverse it even should they chance upon its location. The very pits of Hell should not be any worse, I would wager."

  "Wouldn't have to go through it unless they just wanted to," J.B. said. "Put a man on the other end of it and have him shoot anybody trying to come out of it armed. Then it's a matter of who runs out of rations first."

  "And there's always the coldhearts waiting in the wings," Mildred reminded them.

  "Doesn't matter," Ryan said. "One way or another, we're not going to be here much longer." He pointed the pistol at Elmore. "Let me see your arm."

  Elmore rolled up one sleeve and showed the scarred in­terior of his elbow.

  "Now the other one," Ryan instructed.

  "We need to talk," Elmore said.

  Ryan rolled the hammer back on the SIG-Sauer, drop­ping the trigger tension down to near nothing. "I'll chill you and have a look myself if I have to."

  "I thought you said if we threw in with you you'd stand by us," Elmore said. His eyes narrowed in anger and fear, and his throat tightened, giving a chopping rhythm to his words.

  "I'll save who I can. Can't do any more than that." Ryan stared at him over the blaster's barrel, holding it to the center of the man's chest.

  "They get their hands on me, they'll chill me."

  "That's not my problem," Ryan said harshly. "Got my­self in a whole world of trouble coming around here as it was. I'm ready to be rid of it."

  Elmore rolled up his sleeve, revealing the tattoo.

  "You're with the Heimdall Foundation," Mildred said.

  Surprise filled Elmore's eyes, bringing glints of hope with it. "You've heard of the Heimdall Foundation?"

  "Once," she answered.

  "Then you know what they're trying to do there."

  "No."

  "Whitecoat stuff," J.B. stated. "And usually that's not a good thing."

  Ryan knew that was true. In the companions travels, most research facilities left over after the nukecaust had degenerated in their purpose or their personnel. And usually the whitecoats running the research labs were as cold­blooded and vicious as any baron.

  "What we're trying to do is find out the truth about alien visitations to this planet," Elmore said. "It might help us understand more about what's happened here. You can't possibly understand how important that could be to our futures. All of our futures."

  "My dear Ryan," Doc said calmly, "maybe we should barter with the sec chief. At least buy a little more time to find out if Jak and young Dean are, indeed, able to find a way from this structure that will not put us beneath the crosshairs of enemy weapons. I, for one, would endeavor to discourse with this man at length about the conspiracy theories he might have. When I visited the first future I
was subject to, conspiracy theories were all the rage. No little of them were dedicated to aliens and abductions and nu­merous other phenomena."

  A red mist clouded Ryan's vision as he grew more angry. "You're pissing in the wind, Doc," he told the old man, making sure Elmore understood him, too. "I got a sec chief out there who says he'll go away if I give this man to him. This man isn't nothing to me."

  "And should this man Naylor not be as honest and forth­right as he presents himself to be?" Doc asked.

  "Then I lose one man that's not one of us to be certain of that." Ryan hardened his resolve. "Cheap enough buy-in on a shaky play."

  "Heartless bastard, aren't you?" Elmore asked.

  "It keeps me breathing." Ryan motioned the man to the door with the blaster. "If you want, I can chill you quick. All he wants is a body. I'll make sure you don't suffer."

  "Rather take my chances with him," Elmore said.

  "Fair enough. Move along."

  Elmore started for the door. He paused before going through, looking at the woman, Mary. "What about you, lady? Ain't you going to say something about this not being right?"

  She turned her head into her husband.

  "Surprising how self-survival puts things into perspec­tive for most folks." Elmore gripped the door and opened it. Before he could move outside, Krysty screamed, and the pained shriek filled the small building.

  KRYSTY TRIED TO STOP the second scream, but she couldn't. As with the first scream that ripped past her lips, the effort was beyond her control, like a muscle spasm. She doubled over, wrapping an arm around her stomach as pain shot through her. Mildred leaned in close, offering support and whispered words. Krysty wasn't able to make any of them out at all.

  Her last glimpse was of Elmore frozen in the middle of the door, muted sunlight pooling across his boots. Then Krysty went blind.

  "Krysty!"

  She heard Mildred that time and tried to answer. But the words stayed locked up tight inside her, not going any fur­ther than her mind.

  I'm still here! Phlorin shouted, and it sounded as if she came from a far distance. Even in death, the Chosen are not truly helpless!

  Though she knew she was still blind in the physical world, could feel her eyes open and hear herself telling Mildred she was blind, a vision formed in Krysty's mind. She stood on a desolate mountaintop, wind battering her and howling like a mournful wolf. It wasn't cold and it wasn't hot; there was only the sensation of the wind.

  Fog blew in from what she believed to be the east, cov­ering over the sun just now borning from the bloody rim of the world. It was thick and grayish purple, the color of old bruises. Movement stirred within the depths of the fog. Incredibly Phlorin stepped into view less than ten feet from Krysty.

  Where Krysty stood on the uneven terrain of the moun­taintop, her boots rocking as the wind tore at her, the woman wasn't affected at all by the wind. And she stood on a wisp of fog, her sandaled feet never touching the ground. She wore a long green gown with intricate embroidery on it.

  Get away from me! Krysty responded, looking down only to see the sheer face of the mountain spill away just below her boots. She felt the woman inside her head, like the inside of a beehive. It was a sticky, gooey feeling, the way the honeycomb had felt when she sometimes helped Uncle Tyas McCann rob beehives around Harmony to make honey.

  There is no escaping me, Phlorin promised. You have become my vessel, and you will do what I wish.

  No!

  You have no choice, just as your man gave me none. Succeed or die! And that is the choice I put before you, Krysty Wroth. You will do as I need you to, or I will chill you.

  I don't believe you.

  Then I'll make a believer of you!

  Before Krysty could take another breath, her heart stopped. She struggled to fill her lungs again, but they didn't react. She listened to the loud silence where the sound of rushing blood had once been, always taken for granted.

  WHEN KRYSTY'S SCREAM reverberated through the tunnel, Dean instinctively went to ground. He dropped flat against the accumulated dog turds. He felt warmth along his chin and left cheek and knew that he was at ground zero for one of the areas the dead animals above had relieved itself be­fore going toward the building. Thankfully his sense of smell seemed to have deserted him.

  He ignored the caked feces on his face and body, and squirmed around to try to go back the way he'd come. Jak stopped him, his pale albino's face corpse-white in the dim light provided by the lantern. "What the hell are you do­ing?"

  "Not back," Jak replied.

  "That was Krysty screaming." Dean felt the anger boil in him, and he came close for a moment to hitting his friend.

  "She's chilled," Jak said, "what good you back there?"

  "She's not chilled." Dean's mind wouldn't let him ac­cept that declaration despite the fear that had been in Krysty's voice. "She may need help."

  "Best help we find other end of tunnel," Jak told him. "We start back and they coming." He shook his white-maned head. "No good anybody. All chilled mebbe."

  Reluctantly Dean saw the wisdom in the albino's words. He made himself relax and turn, knees mashing through the offal beneath him. His back and shoulder ached from hold­ing up the lantern, but he forced himself to keep it up. He kept the Browning in his other hand and hated the way the blaster was caked. He kept crawling, following the twist of the tunnel around.

  Then, in the distance, he thought he spotted a rectangle of daylight.

  Chapter Twelve

  "She's not breathing!"

  Ryan registered Mildred's words, watching as the woman slipped her hand under the back of the redhead's neck, tilting Krysty's head back. Then a bullet slammed into the door beside Elmore's head, the thunder of the shot following closely on its heels.

  Elmore stood frozen, seemingly stunned by the events taking place in the building or the fact that he'd been shot at.

  Knowing he was about to lose his only bargaining chip with the sec chief lying in wait outside, Ryan stepped for­ward and grabbed the back of Elmore's shirt and jacket. He yanked, pulling hard enough to throw himself and the man onto the floor.

  More rounds cut the air above them as they fell and knocked the shelves from the back wall.

  Reacting automatically, J.B. kicked the door shut, then fired across the street, drawing more blasterfire. He moved smoothly away from the window long enough to reach out and bolt the door again. "Dark night, that was close."

  Ryan left Elmore where he lay, knowing the Armorer and Doc would keep the man covered. Crossing the floor in two long strides, Ryan dropped to his knees beside Krysty. "What's wrong?"

  "I don't know." Mildred worked frantically, hooking a finger and running it down Krysty's throat. "She acted like she had a seizure of some kind, then keeled over." She brought her finger back out of Krysty's mouth. Specks of saliva and blood showed on Mildred's finger. "There's no obstruction. As far as I can tell, the airway's open."

  "Then why isn't she breathing?"

  "There's no reason for her not to be that I can see." Mildred brushed the prehensile red hair from Krysty's mouth. "You hear me, girl? There's no excuse I'm taking from you for you not breathing. You're going to breathe." She kept Krysty's head tilted back, then looked at Ryan. "Need you to do CPR on her while I breathe for her."

  "Fireblast!" Ryan stared into his lover's eyes. They were both open, pools of green gazing emptily up at the ceiling.

  "We haven't lost her yet, Ryan," Mildred told him in a strong voice. "You hear me?"

  "I hear you. Get on with it." Ryan straddled Krysty and placed his hands together over her heart, measuring with his fingers the proper distance along her breastbone. CPR wasn't anything new to him. He'd been taught by Trader while on War Wag One. A crewman got shot up or hit by electrical defenses on some of the redoubts they'd exca­vated and emptied didn't mean the Trader was going to accept losing that man.

  "Count it down for me," Mildred ordered.

  Ryan pushed against Krysty
's diaphragm, willing his lover to start breathing again. When finished his reps, he pulled back and let Mildred breathe for her.

  "It's that fucking witch," Elmore said hoarsely. He re­mained on the ground and spread-eagled, evidently not wanting to chance any movement on his part as going for a weapon.

  "She's dead," Ryan growled.

  "Two kinds of dead where they're concerned from what I've been told."

  "And who told you?"

  "Man named Donovan," Elmore said.

  "Do it," Mildred ordered, pulling back and breathing hard.

  Ryan returned his attention to the CPR, taking care to use enough force to make Krysty's lungs work without breaking any of her ribs. Puncturing a lung with a broken rib would have made matters even worse. Unless she was already dead. Even as he thought that, Ryan forced it from his mind. He wasn't about to accept that.

  Mildred took over again.

  "Who's Donovan?" Ryan asked.

  "Project leader I worked for at the Heimdall Founda­tion." Elmore watched their efforts.

  "He knows about the Chosen?"

  "Studied them a lot. His mother was a breeder, one of the children they stole away. She managed to escape before she died, had Donovan in a ville and managed to live out her life. He doesn't have no love for them, that's for sure, but he knows they know things that most folks don't know."

  "What's happening here?"

  Elmore shrugged. "The Chosen got this way about those powers of theirs. They can swap memories with each other."

  "My dear chap," Doc interrupted, "would you have us believe that these women are able to do that through some clairvoyance talent?"

  "Don't know about that. I'm not even sure what clair­voyance means. But I know what I've been told. And Don­ovan told me he'd seen it done. That he came upon a dying Chosen who was performing some kind of ritual with a younger Chosen."

  "Incredible."

  "Ain't the half of it," Elmore assured him. "Got lots of stories about the Chosen, and Donovan told me the truth was even more unbelievable. And I'm a guy been over the mountain to see the elephant in my day."