The Lilliput Legion (TimeWars 9)

“Maybe in his boots.”

“Check his belt.”

He felt their hands fumbling at his clothes and he tried to resist, hut the knife blade pressed up against the underside of his chin again. He struggled against the pain and dizziness, trying to focus in on his attacker;. They were little more than just a blur, but he could tell that there were three of them. Slowly, they resolved into distinct figures. One was white, two were black, dressed in tatterdemalion, street-punk style studded and fringed leather, motorcycle jackets with chain mm, patched jeans, engineer boots or brightly colored, hightop sneakers and T-shirts or bright tank tops with printed designs. They had pierced ears, spiked bracelets, chains, studded choker collars. One wore his hair in a short Mohawk, another had a crew cut and the third had shaved his head completely. Lucas felt his boots being pulled off, then his trousers. One of them started opening his shirt.

“Sheeit, man, he ain’t got no money!”

“Ain’t got no damn watch, no rings, nuthin, man! Someone musta already rolled ‘im!”

“I’m gonna do him,” said the one with the knife.

“Shoot, forget it, man. C’mon, least we got the clothes.”

“I wanna cut him.”

Lucas felt hot, stinking breath on his face.

“So cut him and c’mon, man, I ain’t got no time for this shit!”

The one with the knife knelt over him, his eyes glittering wildly.

Lucas suddenly reached out and his fingers closed tightly around the hand holding the knife. He struck out hard with his other hand and smashed the punk’s windpipe. The punk’s eyes went wide with pain and sudden terror as he made gagging, choking noises and sagged down to the sidewalk, gargling on his own blood.

“Hey, what the—”

Lucas came up with the punk’s knife in his hand.

“Son of a bitch!”

The punk with the shaved head reached up and unsnapped the leather epaulet on his motorcycle jacket, pulling down the steel chain he wore around his shoulder. The other one dropped the clothes they took off Lucas and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a butterfly knife and opened it with a quick flick of the wrist.

They moved apart and came at him from two sides. Lucas hefted the switchblade, found its balance point, shifted his grip and flung it with a quick, underhanded motion. It struck the punk with the butterfly knife, sinking into his torso, right under the rib cage. He grunted with surprise, clutched his chest and collapsed onto the street. The remaining punk snarled and brought the chain down hard. Lucas took the blow on his upraised forearm, wincing as the shock travelled up his arm. He twisted his wrist, grabbed the chain, yanked sharply and smashed the punk in the face before he could regain his balance. The punk lost his grip on the chain and staggered backwards, bleeding from his broken nose. He gave Lucas a terrified look as he scrambled back, then stooped, snatched up the black fatigues and took off down the street at a dead run.

“You bastard! My clothes!” shouted Lucas, throwing the chain after him furiously. Only his boots remained lying on the street. “Great! Just fucking great!”

There he was, alone in one of the worst areas of 20th century New York. Andre and Gulliver were being held prisoner by Nikolai Drakov, and he was standing in the middle of Washington Street in his underwear with two dead bodies at his feet. All be needed now was for a police car to come by. Although that wasn’t very likely. The police knew better than to cruise a neighborhood like this.

Lucas glanced down at the two dead punks. They looked none to clean, but the one with the Mohawk was just about his size. With a grimace of distaste, Lucas stripped off the punk’s clothes. He slipped on the tight-fitting black jeans and the motorcycle jacket, after wiping some of the blood off. He hoped he wouldn’t get lice, but if he did, it wouldn’t be the first time. He walked over to the other corpse, pulled the switchblade free and picked up the butterfly knife the punk had dropped. As serious weapons, they left a lot to be desired, but they were better than nothing.

He glanced back toward the building Drakov had gone into just in time to see him coming out again. The man with him had to be the Network man Darkness had described. He was pushing Andre ahead of him into the limousine. There was no sign of Gulliver.

“Darkness, damn it, where the hell are you?” Lucas said, watching as they got into the car. “Delaney …”

But there was no sign of them. He had to do something. The limo was pulling away from the curb and making a U-turn in the middle of street. His gaze fell on the trunk.

All right, he thought, here goes nothing. Desperately hoping that his telempathic chronocircuitry could compute the time-space co-ordinates and the trajectory from the input of his senses, Lucas stared hard at the trunk of the departing limousine, willing himself into it.

He tached.

Gulliver shook his head, backing away as the two gunmen came toward him. “No, please,” he said. “Don’t. “

The men grinned, aiming their guns. Suddenly, both guns flew out of their hands and disappeared.

The gunmen stared, dumbfounded, and then a voice spoke from behind them.

“Are you gentlemen looking for these?”

Dr. Darkness stood behind them, flickering like a stroboscopic ghost. He held out his hands. A gun rested in each palm.