Polestar Omega. James Axler

      At the bottom of the staircase was another straightaway. They traveled a short distance along it before he was steered to the right. Strong hands slammed Ryan’s shoulder into a wall and behind his back, chained the manacles to what felt like a metal ring set at waist height. Footsteps moved away and then a door banged shut.

      “Is everyone here?” he asked from under the hood. “Check in.”

      “I’m here,” Mildred said. “Might have a case of frostbite, though, I can’t tell without looking.”

      “Not hurt,” Jak said. “Bastards took blades. No weps left.”

      “A bit rumpled, but unharmed,” Doc said.

      “I’m here and okay,” Ricky reported.

      As Ryan waited and waited for Krysty to answer, his pulse began to pound. “Krysty, are you still with us, are you okay?”

      After a pause, a familiar voice spoke up. “Sure thing, lover, I was just messing with you. Wanted to know if you missed me.”

      Though Ryan was irked, he had to admit it was kind of funny and the joke broke the tension of their predicament. “Don’t say anything more for the time being,” he told them. “For all we know the orange bastards could still be in the room. Or they could be listening. Just try to warm up and relax.”

      But Ryan wasn’t relaxing. His mind raced, trying to put together what little he had seen and heard. Who were their captors? He didn’t have a clue, except that they seemed to speak accentless English. From the temperature and all the ice, the redoubt where they found themselves was either somewhere at high altitude, far north, or mebbe close to one of the poles. Ryan didn’t think they had made a big jump in elevation, say to a mountaintop glacier; he was experiencing no light-headedness, none of the usual, all-over prickling of the skin.

      The orange suits looked like specialized protective gear, which told him that these people had used whitecoat technology to adapt to life in the cold. He’d only had the briefest glimpse, but the suits looked repaired, rips and tears patched with less faded fabric—they could have been originally manufactured predark, like the M-16 longblasters they carried.

      Ryan turned his head at the sound of the door opening and the shuffle and scrape of shoe soles on concrete. Without preamble, the hood was ripped off his head and he stared into the face of man about his height, but ten years older, with short-cropped silver hair and hard brown eyes. He wore no orange suit, nor did any of the others. Male and female, they were all dressed like scientists, and they all had black respirators strapped over their noses and mouths.

      “Bastard whitecoats,” J.B. said in disgust.

      The silver-haired man turned from Ryan and appeared to stare down the line of captives in canary-yellow coveralls—from the tall, shapely redhead to the male albino, from the black woman with beaded plaits to the short man in glasses and squashed down hat, from the scarecrow senior citizen to the strapping young Latino. “My, my,” he said, “haven’t we netted ourselves a motley crew.”

      Eyes beaming, he addressed the companions. “Welcome to the redoubt Polestar Omega,” he said. “I am Dr. Victor Lima. My team and I are tasked with biosecurity—the identification and quarantine of potential hazards to human life. Before we can let you enter the central compound, we must test your blood and tissue for contaminants. The tests are painless and quick. We should have the results back in a matter of minutes. Are you all amenable?”

      “Don’t see that we have a choice,” Ryan replied. The small room they were in had no windows. Floor, walls, low ceiling were poured concrete, and there was a distinctive, sharp pong in the air—it smelled like ammonia.

      “We need to take blood and tissue samples before we can admit you to the redoubt’s general population,” Dr. Lima said. “If you don’t cooperate, we will sedate you and take the samples anyway.” He nodded at his assistants who flourished loaded syringes from behind their backs. “The choice of course is yours.”

      “What kind of contaminants are you screening for?” Mildred asked. “You don’t need blood to test radiation levels.”

      “It appears we have an expert on the subject,” Dr. Lima said. “Where did you receive your training?”

      “University of Deathlands.”

      “Well, Doctor,” Lima said, “you will certainly appreciate the fact that ours is an isolated population, without acquired immunities. We are therefore theoretically vulnerable to hostile microorganisms and toxic chemical compounds from the wider world. We must take all necessary precautions.”

      “What happens if we come back ‘contaminated’?” Mildred said.

      “You will have to be quarantined until you are treated and cleared.”

      “A nice, restful sleep might be welcome,” Doc said, displaying a set of remarkably fine teeth for a man apparently in his sixties. In reality, the old man was more than two hundred years old, having been time-trawled from his own Victorian era to the final years of the twentieth century, then cruelly discarded by the scientists who had kidnapped him, flung forward beyond an impending nuclear apocalypse to its terrible aftermath—Deathlands. The serene smile and a shifting of weight onto the balls of his feet said if called on, Doc was more than ready for a fight, even a hopeless one.

      “Give them what they want,” Ryan said.

      Ricky looked at him in disbelief.

      “You heard me. We know when we’re beaten. Take your samples.”

      “Pequeños cabrónes,” Ricky muttered. But he, too, stood still for the personal violation, letting them draw a vial of blood from his arm and swab the inside of his mouth with a stick tipped in cotton.

      “We will bring you some food shortly,” Lima said. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

      The whitecoats exited with the samples, leaving them alone.

      “Why didn’t we fight them?” Ricky asked. “Why did we just give up?”

      “Bad odds, hands tied, no blasters,” Jak told him.

      “We find ourselves in somewhat of a pickle, young Ricky,” Doc said. “And as pleasurable as a round of fisticuffs would no doubt be, getting out of this with a whole skin is not that simple.”

      The youth turned to their one-eyed leader for an explanation.

      “We don’t know where we are, Ricky,” Ryan said. “If this redoubt happens to be under one of the polar ice caps, the only way out may be that mat-trans. We don’t know who these people are. We don’t know how or why we ended up here.”

      “That head whitecoat mentioned something about ‘netting’ us,” Mildred said, “which could mean they have the power to control the mat-trans system in a way we have never seen—the power to divert transfers in-progress to their own location. If that’s the case, jumping isn’t going to get us anywhere but back here.”

      “And even if it does get us away this time,” Krysty added, “we could never safely use it again. Do you understand? We could never jump again.”

      “Santa Maria, now I see the problem,” Ricky replied.

      “There is a time to fight, and to the death,” Ryan said, “but we aren’t there, yet. Not by a long shot. We’ve been stuck in tough places before, mebbe even places worse. At this point we don’t know what we’ve stumbled into. Finding the limits of the situation is our first priority. If we keep our heads and our eyes open, there’ll be a crack in this trap, and when we find it we’ll attack it.”

      “And if it turns out this trap has no weak point?” Doc said. “There is always a first time for everything, my dear boy.”

      “I guarantee you one thing—we won’t die in these chains, Doc.”

      Ryan’s voice sounded confident and in control, but that wasn’t how