Chapter 4

Monday, January 27th, 1986

Hill Valley

3:32 P.M.

WHAM!

The pain exploding along his rib cage shocked Doc out of unconsciousness. His head jerked up from the hard wooden table to see Amina, glaring at him. "Work, you filth," she snarled, smacking him again with the cudgel. "Work!"

Doc moaned. He hadn't even remembered drifting off. Time had no meaning here -- he didn't even know what day it was. "I need sleep," he replied, slowly sitting up. "I cannot produce constantly."

"You are here to work, American dog. So you will work!"

Doc honestly felt like crying. It had been nearly a week -- he guessed, he wasn't sure -- since his and Marty's capture by the Libyans. Doc had been worked almost constantly, with only the shortest breaks for food and sleep. Most of the time he worked on Dr. Al-Baquar's chemical formulas, making sure that everything added up. It was tedious work, made even more so by the intolerable conditions under which he lived. Often his brain would just shut down and refuse to work anymore. Then they would beat him, and threaten Marty's life if he didn't push on. So he forced himself, through sheer will, to keep going. To make the formulas he was given viable. To finish building the arms he so loved. To simply work. But lately, even his will was beginning to fail him.

I'm going to work myself to death, he thought miserably. Either that or have to watch Marty die for my failure. Damn it, why did I ever turn to these people? Why did I have to be so desperate to get my stupid time machine off the ground?

He stared down at the scattered figures on the page before him. He'd been working on this damned formula for hours. His brain just couldn't make sense of it anymore. "May -- may I please change over to my project?" he asked timidly. Amina was easily the most sadistic of all his captors, and she rarely missed an opportunity to cause him pain.

He got lucky this time. "Fine. Just don't fall asleep on the job again." She smacked her cudgel against her hand threateningly. "American slime. If I was in charge, you would be dead for your crimes. Your friend too."

Doc tuned her out as he turned to the tentacles. She was always going on and on about how much she wanted to kill him and Marty. It was quickly becoming mere background noise, as she never really made any attempts at murder. Doc almost wished that she'd stop talking and do something definitive. Instead, he focused on the beautiful machine before him. The tentacles were almost complete now -- he merely had to finish attaching the final claw to the lower left. It wouldn't have an attachment, but Doc didn't care about that anymore. It merely needed to work. He picked up his tools and began working, feeling better already. It felt very good to work with his hands instead of his head for a while. He cleared his mind of all extraneous thoughts and focused completely on the unfinished arm.

He was almost done when Dr. Al-Baquar walked in. "They tell me you think you'll be ready to test tomorrow," he said in greeting. "Is that true?"

Doc nodded, not looking up from his work. "The formulas are all completely viable. I even made some improvements to the last ones, to better achieve the effect you want." He somehow stopped himself from smiling at that. Dr. Al-Baquar was a fairly brilliant chemist, but Doc knew he wouldn't bother to check over the equations personally. He was too much of a snob for that. "And as you can see, I'm almost finished with the arms."

Dr. Al-Baquar smiled. "Excellent. I thought this would have taken much longer. I think you deserve a bit of a reward, Doktour." He turned to the scowling Amina. "Let him see his precious Martin."

"Fine," Amina muttered. "Get up, you."

Doc practically jumped to his feet. He had only seen Marty twice during their imprisonment here. They hadn't been able to talk much either time as well. Maybe now. . .maybe now that they were pleased with him, he could explain things to Marty.

He followed Amina as she led him to that awful closet. Marty was of course inside, still tied to that chair, although no longer gagged. Doc doubted they'd let him up since the beginning of this whole mess. Amina shoved Doc inside and closed the door. Doc glared back at the door, then turned to the teen. "Hi Marty," he said softly.

"Hi Doc," Marty replied, his voice flat and emotionless.

There was an uncomfortable silence. "I'm almost done. With everything," Doc finally said.

"You are?"

"Yes. The formula work was pretty much just testing for viability. And of course I was almost finished with the arms anyway."

"Yeah." Marty looked up, eyes filled with guilt and pain. "Doc, why did you do this? I'm not worth it."

Doc felt a lump form in his throat. "You are to me. You saved my life from these people before." He laid a hand on Marty's arm. "I couldn't let them kill you."

"But they're gonna kill us anyway. Now that they've got what they wanted, we're doomed. Do you really think they'd just let us walk out of here?"

"No, I don't." Doc glanced toward the door, then leaned in close and dropped his voice. "I sabotaged it."

Marty blinked. "Huh?"

"I sabotaged the project. I altered one of the formulas to act as a neutralizer. Once the demonstration fails, I'll use the arms to get us out of here." He squeezed Marty's arm. "We'll be safe. I promise."

Marty looked at him for a long moment. Then the faintest hint of a smile appeared on his face. "You're the doc, Doc."

The door was abruptly flung open. "That's long enough," Amina snapped.

Doc winced as the bruises on Marty's face came into sharp relief. He could handle the Libyans smacking him around, but he hated when they hit Marty. "We've barely had a minute!" Marty protested angrily.

Amina smacked him across the mouth. "Shut up! I wish I was in charge of this group! You would have been dead long before this!"

Marty winced and spat blood. Doc felt his anger rise. How dare she hit Marty? How dare she? He felt one of his fists clench. Part of him just wanted to hit her, and damn the consequences.

As if reading his mind, Amina cracked him on his collarbone. "That goes for you too, scum. We don't really need you to test the formulas for us." With that, she grabbed his shirt and yanked him out of the closet. Doc watched painfully as Marty was shut back up. "Back to your work, dog."

Doc obediently followed her back to his room, but inside he was steaming. These bastards. I want to make them pay, I really do. Tomorrow can't come soon enough. Then they'll see. And then they'll be sorry.

As they reached his room, William appeared. "Hey, Amina, we need your help. Amr stepped on a rotten floorboard, and now his leg is stuck in the floor."

Amina frowned, glancing over at Doc. "I have to watch the Doktour. Dr. Al-Baquar would not be pleased if he was left alone."

William glanced over at Doc. "Him?" he snorted. "What's he gonna do? As long as we've got his friend Marty under lock and key, he doesn't dare do anything. Come on, your brother needs your help."

Amina hesitated a moment more, then shoved Doc inside his room. "I'll be back in a little while," she purred, closing the door. Doc heard the lock click into place. Then they were gone, laughing together.

Doc just stood there for a moment. Then a scream of rage tore itself from his throat. Blinded by fury, he attacked the thing closest to him -- his cot. He threw the mattress at his table, scattering papers everywhere. Then he upended the frame -- and cried out as a splinter tore into his hand.

The pain brought him back to his senses. Great Scott, he thought, coming back to his senses. I never knew I could get that angry. A shiver went through him. Good thing no one was here with me. I might have seriously hurt someone. I may want revenge on these bastards, but I don't really want to kill them. Doc carefully extracted the wood from his palm, then set about setting things right again.

Suddenly, he paused. He looked at the bloody tear in his hand. Then his gaze shifted over to his arms. A small, weak smile appeared on his face. "Well, at least I know what my final attachment for my arms will be," he murmured. He finished straightening up and set to work.

Tuesday, January 28th, 1986

Hill Valley

5:12 A.M.

"Hey, wake up, you little asshole."

Marty opened his eyes to see William standing over him, a pleased smirk on his face. "We're ready. Dr. Al-Baquar requested you be there. He wants to show you the true might of the Libyan United Front."

Kidnaping me and my best friend, keeping me in a closet for a week, and forcing Doc to design a bomb for you isn't enough? Marty thought. He wisely kept the comment to himself, though. He already had an excellent collection of bruises. He didn't need any more.

William untied him from the chair and yanked him to his feet. Marty swayed for a moment, then stumbled and fell, his joints stiff and weak from a full week of forced sitting. William grabbed him by the back of his sweatshirt and hauled him back up. "Come on, we're not going to wait for you," he said gruffly, dragging Marty out of the closet.

They made their way into a large room at the back of the cabin. One side had been set up for the demonstration, with a large table covered in various beakers full of chemicals. A thick glass shield with four holes separated them from the table. Standing beside the shield were Doc's completed arms, set into the sockets the Libyans had made for them. Marty felt a sick lurch in his stomach as the looked at them. If only I hadn't convinced Doc to leave them alone. Then maybe we wouldn't be in this damn mess.

Dr. Al-Baquar came in, leading Doc. The rest of the terrorist cell broke into a smattering of mocking applause. Doc ignored them, focusing his gaze on Marty. The teen gave him a weak grin. He looks like shit, he thought painfully. And absolutely exhausted. I hope this plan of his works, whatever it is.

Dr. Al-Baquar bowed to Doc. "Good luck, Doktour," he said in that slick voice of his. Marty wished he could punch him right in the nose.

Doc just nodded. "Everyone," he said, "I'd like you to meet my assistants."

With that, Doc turned to the tentacles. He looked at them for a moment, maybe admiring them. Marty couldn't blame him if he was. Even under the conditions, the arms still looked incredibly cool. Marty wondered what would happen to them after the demonstration, if Doc's plan didn't work. Probably ripped up and sold for scrap. It made Marty shudder to think about it.

Doc went up to them and positioned himself in the harness. He yanked off his shirt and undershirt, revealing his bare chest and midriff. Marty started in surprise. He had always known Doc to be a fairly lean guy, with perhaps a little pudge from too much Burger King. But the weightlifting regime Doc had taken up to help support the arms had changed all that. He was still lean -- heck, he looked skinner than usual from lack of food -- but there was some clear muscle definition now. He was no Arnold Schwarzenegger, but he had some nice pecs and a decent set of abs. If -- when we get out of here, I should ask if I can use his weight set. He looks good. Their eyes met again, and Marty gave Doc a quick thumbs up.

Doc returned it, trying to keep from sweating too much. He had never felt this nervous before in his entire life. He was banking a lot on this plan of his to rescue himself and Marty. If things didn't work out just right, he and Marty could end up dead. He swallowed and shoved those thoughts out of his mind. He had to concentrate on one thing at a time. Otherwise he really would screw everything up.

He pressed the first button on the harness. It obediently snapped shut around him. He pressed the second button, and the metal spine unfurled along his back. Doc gave a small start at the coldness of the metal against his skin. There was also a faint tingling at the base of his skull, which he knew to be the inhibitor chip. For a moment, he paused and looked around the room. Everyone's eyes were riveted on him, wondering what would happen next. Doc was wondering the same thing himself, honestly. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the third button.

The needles retracted into his spine. Doc hissed as white-hot pain raced down his backbone. The Libyans and Marty winced in sympathy. Happily, the sharp agony lasted only for a moment, then was replaced by an easier-to-bear dull ache. As the pain faded, Doc distinctly felt four new minds coexisting with his own -- each capable of independent thought, but still utterly submissive to his own will. He could feel them waiting quietly, ready to be instructed. Doc obliged them, closing his eyes in intense concentration as he focused on a single thought. Move.

The minds processed the order and accepted it. Doc felt the arms slowly stir, then lift from their sockets, coming up to hover behind him. Once he was sure he had control, he opened his eyes. Everyone was gaping at him, eyes wide as dinner plates. Doc couldn't help but smile.

The smile quickly vanished as the claws snapped open. Doc's own eyes snapped shut again as four new views of the room assaulted his brain. Too much! All of you close except one. I need time to acclimate!

The tentacles obeyed, leaving Doc with a single view. Taking deep breaths, he opened his eyes again, allowing himself to orient to three eyes. Once he was used to the view, he directed each claw to open up one by one, until he was able to watch with all four cameras. The tentacles remained blessedly still during this process, giving him time to recover.

Dr. Al-Baquar slowly walked around him, studying him from every angle. Doc had the upper left tentacle shadow him, in case he tried anything funny. "I -- I must say, Doktour, I'm extremely impressed," he finally admitted. "This is a truly revolutionary invention you have."

"Thank you," Doc said cautiously. Dr. Al-Baquar was not a man to give out compliments lightly.

"Of course, so is our chemical potion, so if you would proceed?"

Doc nodded. Part of him was all for striking with the arms now, but he resisted. He'd lost his window of opportunity. The Libyans were on their guard again -- and they had Marty with them. He couldn't risk Marty's life in his attack. He had to unbalance them, shift the power back in his direction. And the best way to do that was with the demonstration. He turned toward the shielded area. A pair of goggles were hanging on a hook nearby -- Doc used a tentacle to retrieve them. "The mixture of these two chemical compounds will cause a good-sized explosion, and most likely a bright flash of light. I want everyone wearing some form of eye protection." He turned, the tentacles raising up menacingly behind him. "And I mean everyone."

There was a tense moment of silence. Then Dr. Al-Baquar smirked. "Here, American," he said, tossing his goggles to Marty. "I will be gracious and let you have mine." He tapped his mirrored sunglasses. "I only need these."

Doc didn't bother to say that those would probably be inadequate. Instead, he turned back again and neatly threaded his tentacles through the holes in the glass. With exaggerated caution, he picked up the two beakers of solution. He carefully poured them into a third beaker. The Libyans pulled back, awaiting an explosive result. The beaker trembled, began to fizz violently. . . .

And simply continued to fizz. Puzzled, Dr. Al-Baquar stepped forward. "Brown, what is the meaning--"

A claw abruptly fastened itself around his throat and yanked him forward, toward a glaring Doc. "You overgrown piece of cytoplasm," he hissed. "You should have checked your equations more carefully." Doc saw the others beginning to draw their guns and easily knocked the weapons out of their hands.

Dr. Al-Baquar stared. "You -- you -- saboteur," he choked out.

"Exactly," Doc said, using his free tentacles to batter the other terrorists into unconsciousness. "I would never willingly work for you. You are scum. I should have never come to you for the plutonium." Dr. Al-Baquar tried to loosen the claw's grip. Doc brought up the fourth tentacle -- the lower left -- and opened the claws wide. The camera eye disappeared as a long thin blade popped out. "Give me one good reason, Dr. Darwish Al-Baquar. One -- good -- reason."

Dr. Al-Baquar stayed stock still, sweating hard, eyes fixed on the blade. Doc snorted and threw him into the wall. He landed with a dull thud and slumped to the floor, completely out of it. Doc pulled off his goggles. "Are you all right, Marty?"

Marty nodded, looking both scared and impressed. "That was great, Doc."

"Thanks. Come on, we'd better get out of here before they wake up."

Marty frowned at the fizzing beaker as Doc came toward him. "Shouldn't you do something with that?" he asked, pointing. "It looks like it's about to spill over."

Doc looked over to see that the beaker was indeed threatening to spill over. "I wouldn't worry about it. I tweaked the chemicals until they were harmless. Nothing's going to--"

At that moment, the beaker fizzed over onto the table. And unfortunately for Doc, he had never gotten the chance to see how this new potion would react with wood varnish.

BOOM! The new mixture exploded, shattering the glass shield. Doc's tentacles promptly moved to protect him as per their programming. "Marty too!" Doc yelled frantically as his world abruptly went brilliant white.

The upper right reacted, slamming Marty to the floor. The other three wrapped themselves firmly around Doc, creating an unbreakable metal shield. The glass flew harmlessly around the pair. The Libyans weren't so lucky. The explosion had woken most of them, but they simply couldn't move fast enough. Marty winced as he heard a number of wet "spluches" and short, pain-filled screams.

Within seconds, the deadly spray had subsided. The upper right tentacle released Marty as the danger passed. "Shit," Marty breathed. "Hey, Doc, you okay?"

Doc couldn't respond for a moment. "My eyes," he finally whispered, still trapped in his world of white. "I can't see. I can't see!" The tentacles began flailing around as panic gripped him. "Great Scott, I'm BLIND!"

"Doc! Doc, I -- whoa!" Marty shouted, trying to get his best friend's attention. The tentacles' random movements forced him to stay pinned to the floor. "I bet it's just flash blindness! I'm sure your eyes will be fine! Doc, listen to me!"

But Doc was beyond listening, too horrified by the prospect of losing his eyesight. He clawed at his face as his tentacles swung around. One, the upper left, flew toward the ceiling --

And straight toward the exposed electrical wire.

Marty shrieked, "NO!" but it was too late. The arm made contact. And if Doc had made his tentacles resistant to heat and magnetism, he certainly hadn't made them resistant to electricity. Marty was forced to watch as the current raced down the arm, into the harness -- and into Doc's spine.

Doc's muscles seized up as the current hit him, his head snapping backward. He couldn't think -- it hurt too much -- he screamed, thought he heard the tentacles scream too -- there was a sharp pain at the base of his skull, almost like something exploding -- and intense heat shooting along his spine -- he couldn't take much more --

By some lucky accident, the electrocution itself shook the tentacle free of the wire. Somehow, Doc remained standing for a moment. And in that moment, he thought he heard something. A voice -- faraway, small, and weak. Saying -- something. Just a single word.

Father?

And then, blackness.