BtH71

==Chapter 71 - By the Horns==
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Ivan Patrice Computer Sciences Center, University of Taurus
Samantha City, Taurus
Taurian Concordat
November 27th, 3025
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“Elevator is on its way down, Phil—hurry up,” Max said as he finished assembling a compact assault rifle and chambered a live round, before beginning work on a second.
“Disarming a bomb isn’t that easy,” Phil snarled as beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. “I cut the wrong wire here and we are toast.” he finished softly as the digital counter continued to slowly click down towards zero. “Got it.” he said in a relieved voice as the display blinked twice and then froze at :17.
“Get the Core in its travel case—without the bomb, Phil. Company is coming.”
“Yeah, yeah,” muttered the Davion agent as he removed the explosive from the side of the ancient Taurian memory storage unit and set it on the floor. He opened the case and lifted the Core before setting it gently in the padded interior—and then he froze.
“Tell me those aren’t what I think they are.” he asked with a sigh, jerking his chin towards a pair of pressurized cylinders resting on a shelf against the far wall, and bearing hazardous material warnings—along with three black, blocky letter: VXM.
Max looked over and he cursed. “If you are thinking Taurian VXM nerve gas dating back to the Reunification War, then I could tell you they aren’t—but I’d be lying.”
Setting the Core inside, Phil closed and secured the case, sliding it across the floor to Max, who slid it into the anteroom to rest beside the hole cut in the floor. He then stood and walked over the deadly gas cylinders and gingerly touched one.
“I’d leave those alone—four hundred years has a tendency to fatigue metal, after all,” the SAFE agent warned. “But the gas inside should still be lethal . . . unless,” he mused, “they drained the cylinders.”
“That’s a negative.” Phil answered as he checked the gauges. “Full pressure on both—god, I really hate Taurian paranoia.”
“All the more reason to leave them the hell alone,” Max said. “Ten seconds,” he cautioned as the elevator display showed the car was still descending.
“Except . . .,” Phil muttered in a sour voice, “in a few moments there are going to be bullets flying—what happens to that four-hundred year old metal if one of them gets grazed?”
Max stopped and he turned his head to stare at Phil and then he nodded. “You see anything solid to put the gas cylinders behind?” he asked.
“Nothing I’d trust to stop a bullet cold,” the agent from MI-4 muttered as he lifted two of the cylinders gently and quickly looked around the room . . . and he began to grin as he saw the paralyzed researcher sprawled on the floor. “But bodies are pretty good at absorbing bullets,” he continued as he knelt down and pulled Karl Mosley up and onto his side before sliding the cylinders down the front of the Taurian scienists pants. “There we go,” Phil muttered as sweat began to pour off of the good doctor’s face and the Davion agent turned his body so that his back was facing the elevator.
And with that, Phil rushed over to lift the second assault rifle, taking shelter behind the edge of the door to the lab—just as the elevator DINGED and the doors began to slide open.
"For what we are about to receive," Phil spoke sarcastically.
"Amen," whispered Max.
And the two squeezed their triggers in unison.
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