“You tell me-you stole it from us.” I was beginning to get teed off at all this cloak-and-dagger stuff.

“Your attitude is unacceptable. Answer my question or be punished.”

I took a deep breath-and reined in my temper.

“I’d like that,” Floyd said cheerfully, as fed up as I was with all this nonsense.

Where the discussion would have gone from here would never be known because at that moment running footsteps sounded and a wild-eyed young man burst into the room.

“Alarm! Watchpatrol coming!”

The sound of a number of thudding feet added a note of urgency to his warning. But at least our captors were prepared for the emergency. A door opened in the wall behind them and there was a rush to get through it. The newcomer, who must have known what would happen, was the last one in the crowd to jump to safety.

The table was in the way. I launched myself across it just in time to have the concealed door slammed in my face. I kicked it but it didn’t budge. I looked at the now silent box.

“Speak up, Alphamega. How do we get out of this?”

The red box crackled-then burst into flame. Melted into a pool of plastic. “Thanks,” I said.

“Any other way out?” Floyd asked.

“Not that I can see.”

The rapid footsteps were just outside. Before I could dig out a gas bomb the scrum of armed men burst into the room.

Things got busy. Floyd dropped the first three who came through the door while I tackled the next two. Then the going got tough because more and more kept pushing in. Some had body armor, all of them had transparent riot masks attached to their spiked helmets. They didn’t try to shoot us, but rather enjoyed clubbing us with their guns.

Something hard got me on the back of the head and I staggered and fell. Before they jumped me the last thing I saw was Fido going up the wall like a spider and vanishing in the darkness there. Then I got thudded and had a nice darkness of my own.

“Feeling any better, Jim?” a distant voice said and I felt something wet and cool on my forehead.

“Shbsha… “ I said, or something like that. Chomped my dry mouth and opened my eyes. Floyd’s face swam blurrily into view. I blinked and saw that he was smiling. He put the cold cloth back onto my forehead, which felt very nice.

“You got a bad one on the back of your head,” he said. “They didn’t hit me quite as hard.”

I started to say Where are we? but figured that was a pretty dim question with an obvious answer. I could see a barred door which was hint enough. It hurt when I sat up on the bunk. Floyd handed me a plastic cup of water which I gurgled down and passed back for a refill. I patted my pockets and the seams of my trousers hopefullybut all my – concealed weaponry was gone.

“Seen any dogs around lately?”

“Nope.”

So that was that. Hit on the head. Imprisoned. Deserted by man’s best friend. Somewhere underground so my jaw radio probably wouldn’t work. Just in case I clacked hard and called for attention, but couldn’t even get any static.

“Well-it could be worse,” Floyd said in a repellently cheery fashion. I was about to curse him out when he got just the answer he deserved.

“And it will be. You will be dead,” the man said from the other side of the barred door. “Instantly. If you attempt to touch me or the Killerbot behind me. Is that clear?”

He was gray-haired, stern-faced, dressed in the same combat fatigues and spiked helmet as everyone else whom we had seen here. The only difference was that his spike was gold and had stylized wings on it. He moved aside and pointed at the very deadly-looking collection of mobile military hardware behind him. All guns, clubs, wheels, knives and metal teeth. Teeth for tearing out throats?

I had no intention of finding out. “Follow me,” our captor said, turning and walking away. The cell door clicked and swung open. Floyd and I shuffled out and followed him at a discreet distance. Clanking and rattling, the Killerbot rumbled along behind us.

The hallway, while being a depressing and drab tone of gray, was at least well lit. At regular intervals were framed photographs-apparently all of the same individual from what I could see as we walked past. Or of a number of scowling military types differing only in the braid and the medals on their camouflage suits.

Our host turned into a doorway that was flanked by studded steel columns. We followed-all too aware of the clanking apparatus just behind.

“Impressive,” I said, looking around the giant chamber. Black marble floor and walls. A large window looking out onto a military camp filled with flapping flags, marching troops, rows of armor-plated vehicles. Since we were deep underground it was obviously a projection-but a very good one. These militaristic themes were also carried through in the interior decorations; light fixtures made of aerial bombs, machine-gun flowerpots, draperies assembled from tattered, ancient banners. I found it horribly depressing.

Without looking back our captor marched around the gigantic conference table and sat down in the single, high-backed chair there. With a wave of his hand he indicated the two smaller chairs before us.

“Sit,” he commanded. Behind us was a clank and rattle, a hiss of escaping steam. We sat.

Something brushed my ankle and I looked down and saw that padded clamps had swung into position to secure my legs; motors whirred and they tightened.

I threw my arms into the air just as clamps from the chair arms swung out and clicked shut on empty air.

“Not wise,” our host said. There was a clank-clank close behind me and what could only have been a gun-muzzle ground into the back of my neck. The wrist clamps snapped open. I sighed and dropped my arms. I didn’t have to look to know that Floyd had been imprisoned the same way.

“Leave.”

When his master commanded the ambulatory war-machine clanked and rumbled out of the room and I heard the immense doors close.

“I am The Commander,” our captor said, leaning back in his chair and lighting a large, green cigar.

“Is that your title or your name?” I asked.

“Both,” he said, blowing a ring of blue smoke towards the ceiling. “I have imprisoned you since I do not wish to be attacked-nor do I wish to have anyone or anything present while we talk.” He touched a button on his desk and looked at pulsing purple light. “And now we are secure against eavesdropping.”

“Going to tell us who all you guys are, what you are doing here and that sort of thing?” I asked.

“Assuredly. We are The Survivalists.”

“I think I heard a reference to your mob before.”

“Undoubtedly. During the years of the Breakdown there were a number of groups with that name. We are the only ones who deserve it since we are the only ones who survive.”

“Survivalists,” Floyd said, and went on as though reading from a book. “Groups who believed in the inevitability of the coming war, as well as the inability of their own governments to protect them, who then withdrew from society into underground bunkers equipped with food, water, ammunition and supplies adequate to survive any catastrophe. None survive.”

“Very good-you are quoting from…?”

“Handbook of Historical Nuts, Cults and Saviors.”

“Very good-except for the title and the last line. We survived.”

“A little too well,” I said. “The Breakdown Wars are long gone and the galaxy is at peace now.”

“I’m glad to hear that. Just don’t tell anyone else here.”

“Why not? But let me guess. You want to keep them stupid and in line because you are onto a very good thing. For as long as there is war or the threat of war those in charge tend to stay in charge. Which, of course, is you.”

“An excellent summation, Jim. Though there are those who are unhappy with the state of things…”

“We’ve met them. Youngsters who perhaps aren’t too happy with the militaristic status quo and war forever. Who perhaps prefer a future in the bosom of their families. That is assuming you do have families?”