Dark Resurrection

The other prisoner squatted with his back pressed into a corner, his head lowered, his long black hair hanging down over his face. He appeared to be naked except for his chains. The weak light from the single overhead bulb threw him in deep shadow. As Ryan took in the bleak cell, he noticed the stalagmites on the floor, white beestings of calcite that had dripped from the ceiling. When he stepped closer, his fellow prisoner stirred and slowly raised his face to the light.

For the second time in as many hours Ryan exclaimed, “What the fuck!”

His words echoed in the gloom.

Then a disembodied voice whispered in his ear, “Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

The words seemed to have come from behind him. Ryan whirled, but there was no one there, only the sweating limestone wall.

When he turned back, the deadpan expression of his mirror image had transformed into a wide grin.

Chapter Six

Doc Tanner wept as he was force-marched across the stone dock toward the waiting black schooner. He cried without making a sound, tears streaming freely down the seams in his weathered face. Even if he lived forever, he knew he would never see the likes of Ryan Cawdor again. He cried for his brave and noble friend, and for his own accursed helplessness under the circumstances. The unstoppable flow of tears also came from sheer exhaustion, from three weeks chained to an oar and from the all-out brawl they’d just lost in Veracruz.

“We’ve got to do something,” Krysty declared to the others as the iron-hulled ship’s gangway was swung out and lowered to the dock. “We can’t let these evil bastards chill him.”

“Not leave Ryan here,” Jak growled in assent.

“And what, pray tell, are our other options at present?” Doc asked, wiping his eyes with the backs of fight-bruised, manacled hands. “We cannot rescue him if we cannot rescue ourselves.”

“We need a window of opportunity to turn things in our favor,” Mildred said.

“A lowering of the rad-blasted odds would be an excellent start,” J.B. added.

“We still have time,” Mildred assured them earnestly. “We could—”

“¡Silencio!” one of the pirates growled.

High Pile mounted the gangway first and strode onto the aft deck of the black schooner.

There to greet him was a tall, thin man and two short, round women. All of them wore clean, starched white coats. All were as brown as coffee berries. They smiled hopefully as the Matachìn stepped up to them.

High Pile dismissed the trio with an impatient snort. He brushed past the whitecoats without a word, stepped down into the cockpit and disappeared belowdecks.

Doc realized at that moment that whatever the captain’s new mission was, he did not particularly relish it.

The whitecoat man waved the prisoners and their pirate escort aboard.

The black ship was much bigger than Tempest, easily twice as long, and half again as wide across the beam. The hull was riveted metal plate; the masts and superstructure were made of wood. It was a type of vessel Doc was very familiar with. During his first life in Victorian times, similar oceangoing, commercial sailing ships, barks and schooners, were still plying the world’s seas.

When the companions were assembled along the starboard rail, the male whitecoat spoke in soothing tones. He said, “Soy médico. Mi chiamo Montejo.” He had slicked-back black hair, and a profile dominated by a long, hawkish nose.

Doc translated for the others. “He says he’s a physician. Dr. Montejo.”

The hatchet-faced man prattled on in Spanish, actually wringing his hands in eagerness, this while the pair of chubby-cheeked whitecoat women beamed up at him with pride.

“The other two are his medical assistants,” Doc said, resuming the translation. “He says they understand the terrible ordeal we’ve all been through, and that their job is to restore us to full health and vigor.”

“Do you believe this nukeshit!” J.B. said. “For almost a month they do their damnedest to chill us, now they want to take care of us?”

“The question is why?” Krysty said.

“Whatever the reason for the change of attitude,” Mildred said, “we’ve got to play along with it, at least temporarily.”

“I concur wholeheartedly,” Doc said. “This presents a golden opportunity to take our own back.”

The whitecoats led them down the companionway’s steel steps. The Matachìn escort followed behind, their weapons ready. Overhead, generator-powered light bulbs in metal cages faded in and out, from intensely bright to dim. Aft of the stairs, across the width of the stern, was the captain’s cabin; in front of them, under a low, sheet-metal ceiling was the ship’s mess. A long, metal-topped table was bracketed by bench seats. The floor was worn linoleum. Immediately they were enveloped by cooking smells from the galley—meat, beans, onions, garlic and savory spices.

The aromas made Doc’s mouth water and his head swim.

“Good grub,” Jak murmured.

“Mebbe the whitecoat wasn’t lying about the food, after all,” J.B. said.

“See if we get of it any this time,” Krysty said.

Beyond the mess, a bulkhead door opened onto a narrow corridor lined with riveted steel doors. Each door had a peephole on the outside so anyone in the corridor could look into the rooms.

At Dr. Montejo’s command, the pirates began to separate Krysty and Mildred from the others.

“¿Que pasa?” Mildred asked him.

The whitecoat responded to her through a big smile. The expression in his hooded eyes was romantic. An alarming bedside manner, to be sure.

“What did he say?” J.B. asked, glowering at the oblivious man.

“He said,” Mildred replied, “you two lovely ladies have been assigned a separate cabin for your comfort and privacy. Each stateroom has its own toilet and sink.”

Doc bristled at the idea of their being split up. It grievously complicated what they had to do, which was take command of the ship by force, and quickly. As they were still in chains and controlled at blasterpoint by the pirates, whether he liked it or not there was nothing to be done about it.

While Doc, Jak and J.B. waited in the corridor, Mildred and Krysty were ushered into a room on the right by the female whitecoats and three of the pirate guard. As the doorway was blocked by the male bodies, Doc couldn’t see what was going on inside. After a few moments, the whitecoats and pirate guard came out. Dr. Montejo pulled the door shut behind him and shot the slide bolts, top and bottom.

As if there was ever any doubt, Doc thought, this, too, was a prison ship.

Then Dr. Montejo opened a door on the left and waved for them to enter.

Doc stared into a low-ceilinged, windowless steel box, roughly ten by eight, illuminated by a pair of caged light bulbs. There were three built-in bunks along the left-hand wall, and a sink and a low, lidless toilet on the opposite side.

“Beats the rowing bench all to hell,” J.B. said.

The pirates roughly pushed them into the small room.

Dr. Montejo ordered the connecting chain removed, but left their ankle and hand manacles in place.

Jak shook his wrist chains in the man’s face. “These?” he said. “Like to wipe own butt.”

The whitecoat addressed them with open palms, in solicitous, dulcet tones.