Free Dark Resurrection by James Axler Page A

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 terribleordeal 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