The 35th Golden Age of Science Fiction: Keith Laumer

by Keith Laumer

  * * * *

  Behind me, at the far end of the corridor, men appeared again. I flattened myself in a doorway, sprayed needles toward them, and hoped for the best. I heard the singing of a swarm past me, but felt no hits. The mutineers offered a bigger target, and I thought I saw someone fall. As they all moved back out of sight, I made another break for the lift.

  I was grateful they hadn’t had time to organize. I kept an eye to the rear, and sent a hail of needles back every time a man showed himself. They ducked out to fire every few seconds, but not very effectively. I had an advantage over them; I was fighting for the success of the mission and for my life, with no one to look to for help; they were each one of a mob, none eager to be a target, each willing to let the other man take the risk.

  I was getting pretty tired. I was grateful for the extra stamina and wind that daily calisthenics in a high-gee field had given me; without that I would have collapsed before now; but I was almost ready to drop. I had my eyes fixed on the lift door; each step, inch by inch, was an almost unbearable effort. With only a few feet to go, my knees gave; I went down on all fours. Another batch of needles sang around me, and vivid pain seared my left arm. It helped. The pain cleared my head, spurred me. I rose and stumbled against the door.

  Now the combination. I fought a numbing desire to faint as I pressed the lock control; three, five, two, five…

  I twisted around as I heard a sound. The shuttle was coming toward me, men lying flat on it, protected by the bumper plate. I leaned against the lift door, and loosed a stream of needles against the side of the corridor, banking them toward the shuttle. Two men rolled off the shuttle in a spatter of blood. Another screamed, and a hand waved above the bumper. I needled it.

  * * * *

  I wondered how many were on the shuttle. It kept coming. The closer it came, the more effective my bank shots were. I wondered why it failed to return my fire. Then a hand rose in an arc and a choke bomb dropped in a short curve to the floor. It rolled to my feet, just starting to spew. I kicked it back. The shuttle stopped, backed away from the bomb. A jet of brown gas was playing from it now. I aimed my needler, and sent it spinning back farther. Then I turned to my lock.

  Now a clank of metal against metal sounded behind me; from the side passage a figure in radiation armor moved out. The suit was self-powered and needle proof. I sent a concentrated blast at the head, as the figure awkwardly tottered toward me, ungainly in the multi-gee field. The needles hit, snapped the head back. The suited figure hesitated, arms spread, stepped back and fell with a thunderous crash. I had managed to knock him off balance, maybe stun him.

  I struggled to remember where I was in the code sequence; I went on, keyed the rest. I pushed; nothing. I must have lost count. I started again.

  I heard the armored man coming on again. The needler trick wouldn’t work twice. I kept working. I had almost completed the sequence when I felt the powered grip of the suited man on my arm. I twisted, jammed the needler against his hand, and fired. The arm flew back, and even through the suit I heard his wrist snap. My own hand was numb from the recoil. The other arm of the suit swept down and struck my wounded arm. I staggered away from the door, dazed with the pain.

  I side-stepped in time to miss another ponderous blow. Under two and a half gees, the man in the suit was having a hard time, even with power assisted controls. I felt that I was fighting a machine instead of a man.

  As he stepped toward me again, I aimed at his foot. A concentrated stream of needles hit, like a metallic fire hose, knocked the foot aside, toppled the man again. I staggered back to my door.

  But now I realized I couldn’t risk opening it; even if I got in, I couldn’t keep my suited assailant from crowding in with me. Already he was up, lurching toward me. I had to draw him away from the door.

  The shuttle sat unmoving. The mob kept its distance. I wondered why no one was shooting; I guessed they had realized that if I were killed there would be no way to enter the vital control areas of the ship; they had to take me alive.

  * * * *

  I made it past the clumsy armored man and started down the corridor toward the shuttle. I moved as slowly as I could while still eluding him. He lumbered after me. I reached the shuttle; a glance showed no one alive there. Two men lay across it. I pulled myself onto it and threw in the forward lever. The shuttle rolled smoothly past the armored man, striking him a glancing blow that sent him down again. Those falls, in the multi-gee field, were bone crushing. He didn’t get up.

  I reached the door again, rolled off the shuttle, and reached for the combination. I wished now I’d used a shorter one. I started again; heard a noise behind me. As I turned, a heavy weight crushed me against the door.

  I was held rigid, my chest against the combination key. The pressure was cracking my ribs and still it increased. I twisted my head, gasping. The shuttle held me pinned to the door. The man I had assumed out of action was alive enough to hold the lever down with savage strength. I tried to shout, to remind him that without me to open the doors, they were powerless to save the ship. I couldn’t speak. I tasted blood in my mouth, and tried to breathe. I couldn’t. I passed out.

  CHAPTER 2

  I emerged into consciousness to find the pressure gone, but a red haze of pain remained. I lay on my back and saw men sitting on the floor around me.

  A blow from somewhere made my head ring. I tried to sit up. I couldn’t make it. Then Kramer was beside me, slipping a needle into my arm. He looked pretty bad himself. His face was bandaged heavily, and one eye was purple. He spoke in a muffled voice through stiff jaws. His tone was deliberate.

  “This will keep you conscious enough to answer a few questions,” he said. “Now you’re going to give me the combinations to the locks so we can call off this suicide run; then maybe I’ll doctor you up.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “The time for clamming up is over, you stupid braggard,” Kramer said. He raised his fist and drove a hard punch into my chest. I guess it was his shot that kept me conscious. I couldn’t breathe for a while, until Kramer gave me a few whiffs of oxygen. I wondered if he was fool enough to think I might give up my ship.

  After a while my head cleared a little. I tried to say something. I got out a couple of croaks, and then found my voice.

  “Kramer,” I said.

  He leaned over me. “I’m listening,” he said.

  “Take me to the lift. Leave me there alone. That’s your only chance.” It seemed to me like a long speech, but nothing happened. Kramer went away, came back. He showed me a large scalpel from his medical kit. “I’m going to start operating on your face. I’ll make you into a museum freak. Maybe if you start talking soon enough I’ll change my mind.”

  I could see the watch on his wrist. My mind worked very slowly. I had trouble getting any air into my lungs. We would intercept in one hour and ten minutes.

  It seemed simple to me. I had to get back to the Bridge before we hit. I tried again. “We only have an hour,” I said.

  Kramer lost control. He jabbed the knife at my face, screeching through gritted teeth. I jerked my head aside far enough that the scalpel grated along my cheekbone instead of slashing my mouth. I hardly felt it.

  “We’re not dying because you were a fool,” Kramer yelled. “I’ve taken over; I’ve relieved you as unfit for command. Now open up this ship or I’ll slice you to ribbons.” He held the scalpel under my nose in a fist trembling with fury. The chrome plated blade had a thin film of pink on it.

  I got my voice going again. “I’m going to destroy the Mancji ship,” I said. “Take me to the lift and leave me there.” I tried to add a few words, but had to stop and work on breathing again for a while. Kramer disappeared.

  I realized I was not fully in command of my senses. I was clamped in a padded claw. I wanted to roll over. I tried hard, and made it. I could hear Kramer talking, others answering
, but it seemed too great an effort to listen to the words.

  I was lying on my face now, head almost against the wall. There was a black line in front of me, a door. My head cleared a bit. It must have been Kramer’s shot working on me. I turned my head and saw Kramer standing now with half a dozen others, all talking at once. Apparently Kramer’s display of uncontrolled temper had the others worried. They wanted me alive. Kramer didn’t like anyone criticizing him. The argument was pretty violent. There was scuffling—and shouts.

  I saw that I lay about twenty feet from the lift; too far. The door before me, if I remembered the ship’s layout, was a utility room, small and containing nothing but a waste disposal hopper. But it did have a bolt on the inside, like every other room on the ship.

  I didn’t stop to think about it; I started trying to get up. If I’d thought I would have known that at the first move from me all seven of them would land on me at once. I concentrated on getting my hands under me, to push up. I heard a shout, and turning my head, saw Kramer swinging at someone. I went on with my project.

  Hands under my chest, I raised myself a little, and got a knee up. I felt broken rib ends grating, but felt no pain, just the padded claw. Then I was weaving on all fours. I looked up, spotted the latch on the door, and put everything I had into lunging at it. My finger hit it, the door swung in, and I fell on my face; but I was half in. Another lunge and I was past the door, kicking it shut as I lay on the floor, reaching for the lock control. Just as I flipped it with an extended finger, someone hit the door from outside, a second too late.

  It was dark, and I lay on my back on the floor, and felt strange short-circuited stabs of what would have been agonizing pain running through my chest and arm. I had a few minutes to rest now, before they blasted the door open.

  I hated to lose like this, not because we were beaten, but because we were giving up. My poor world, no longer fair and green, had found the strength to send us out as her last hope. But somewhere out here in the loneliness and distance we had lost our courage. Success was at our fingertips, if we could have found it; instead, in panic and madness, we were destroying ourselves.

  * * * *

  My mind wandered; I imagined myself on the Bridge, half-believed I was there. I was resting on the OD bunk, and Clay was standing beside me. A long time seemed to pass.… Then I remembered I was on the floor, bleeding internally, in a tiny room that would soon lose its door. But there was someone standing beside me.

  I didn’t feel too disappointed at being beaten; I hadn’t hoped for much more than a breather, anyway. I wondered why this fellow had abandoned his action station to hide there. The door was still shut. He must have been there all along, but I hadn’t seen him when I came in. He stood over me, wearing greasy overalls, and grinned down at me. He raised his hand. I was getting pretty indifferent to blows; I couldn’t feel them.

  The hand went up, the man straightened and held a fairly snappy salute. “Sir,” he said. “Space’n first class Thomas.”

  I didn’t feel like laughing or cheering or anything else; I just took it as it came.

  “At ease, Thomas,” I managed to say. “Why aren’t you at your duty station?” I went spinning off somewhere after that oration.

  Thomas was squatting beside me now. “Cap’n, you’re hurt, ain’t you? I was wonderin’ why you was down here layin down in my ’Sposal station.”

  “A scratch,” I said. I thought about it for a while. Thomas was doing something about my chest. This was Thomas’ disposal station. Thomas owned it. I wondered if a fellow could make a living with such a small place way out here, with just an occasional tourist coming by. I wondered why I didn’t send one of them for help; I needed help for some reason.…

  “Cap’n, I been overhaulin’ my converter units, I jist come in. How long you been in here, Cap’n?” Thomas was worried about something.

  I tried hard to think. I hadn’t been here very long; just a few minutes. I had come here to rest.… Then suddenly I was thinking clearly again.

  * * * *

  Whatever Thomas was, he was apparently on my side, or at least neutral. He didn’t seem to be aware of the mutiny. I realized that he had bound my chest tightly with strips of shirt; it felt better.

  “What are you doing in here, Thomas?” I asked. “Don’t you know we’re in action against a hostile ship?”

  Thomas looked surprised. “This here’s my action station, Cap’n,” he said. “I’m a Waste Recovery Technician, First Class, I keep the recovery system operatin’.”

  “You just stay in here?” I asked.

  “No, sir,” Thomas said. “I check through the whole system. We got three main disposal points and lots a little ones, an’ I have to keep everything operatin’. Otherwise this ship would be in a bad way, Cap’n.”

  “How did you get in here?” I asked. I looked around the small room. There was only one door, and the gray bulk of the converter unit which broke down wastes into their component elements for re-use nearly filled the tiny space.

  “I come in through the duct, Cap’n,” Thomas said. “I check the ducts every day. You know, Cap’n,” he said shaking his head, “they’s some bad laid-out ductin’ in this here system. If I didn’t keep after it, you’d be gettin’ clogged ducts all the time. So I jist go through the system and keep her clear.”

  From somewhere, hope began again. “Where do these ducts lead?” I asked. I wondered how the man could ignore the mutiny going on around him.

  “Well, sir, one leads to the mess; that’s the big one. One leads to the wardroom, and the other one leads up to the Bridge.”

  My God, I thought, the Bridge.

  “How big are they?” I asked. “Could I get through them?”

  “Oh, sure, Cap’n,” Thomas said. “You can get through ’em easy. But are you sure you feel like inspectin’ with them busted ribs?”

  I was beginning to realize that Thomas was not precisely a genius. “I can make it,” I said.

  “Cap’n,” Thomas said diffidently, “it ain’t none a my business, but don’t you think maybe I better get the doctor for ya?”

  “Thomas,” I said, “maybe you don’t know; there’s a mutiny under way aboard this ship. The doctor is leading it. I want to get to the Bridge in the worst way. Let’s get started.”

  Thomas looked very shocked. “Cap’n, you mean you was hurt by somebody? I mean you didn’t have a fall or nothin’, you was beat up?” He stared at me with an expression of incredulous horror.

  “That’s about the size of it,” I said. I managed to sit up. Thomas jumped forward and helped me to my feet. Then I saw that he was crying.

  “You can count on me, Cap’n,” he said. “Jist lemme know who done it, an’ I’ll feed ’em into my converter.”

  I stood leaning against the wall, waiting for my head to stop spinning. Breathing was difficult, but if I kept it shallow, I could manage. Thomas was opening a panel on the side of the converter unit.

  “It’s O.K. to go in Cap’n,” he said. “She ain’t operatin’.”

  The pull of the two and a half gees seemed to bother him very little. I could barely stand under it, holding on. Thomas saw my wavering step and jumped to help me. He boosted me into the chamber of the converter and pointed out an opening near the top, about twelve by twenty-four inches.

  “That there one is to the Bridge, Cap’n,” he said. “If you’ll start in there, sir, I’ll follow up.”

  * * * *

  I thrust head and shoulders into the opening. Inside it was smooth metal, with no handholds. I clawed at it trying to get farther in. The pain stabbed at my chest.

  “Cap’n, they’re workin’ on the door,” Thomas said. “They already been at it for a little while. We better get goin’.”

  “You’d better give me a push, Thomas,” I said. My voice echoed hollowly down the duct.

  Thomas
crowded into the chamber behind me then, lifting my legs and pushing. I eased into the duct. The pain was not so bad now.

  “Cap’n, you gotta use a special kinda crawl to get through these here ducts,” Thomas said. “You grip your hands together out in front of ya, and then bend your elbows. When your elbows jam against the side of the duct, you pull forward.”

  I tried it; it was slow, but it worked.

  “Cap’n,” Thomas said behind me. “We got about seven minutes now to get up there. I set the control on the converter to start up in ten minutes. I think we can make it O.K., and ain’t nobody else comin’ this way with the converter goin’. I locked the control panel so they can’t shut her down.”

  That news spurred me on. With the converter in operation, the first step in the cycle was the evacuation of the ducts to a near-perfect vacuum. When that happened, we would die instantly with ruptured lungs; then our dead bodies would be sucked into the chamber and broken down into useful raw materials. I hurried.

  I tried to orient myself. The duct paralleled the corridor. It would continue in that direction for about fifteen feet, and would then turn upward, since the Bridge was some fifteen feet above this level. I hitched along, and felt the duct begin to trend upward.

  “You’ll have to get on your back here, Cap’n,” Thomas said. “She widens out on the turn.”

  I managed to twist over. Thomas was helping me by pushing at my feet. As I reached a near-vertical position, I felt a metal rod under my hand. That was a relief; I had been expecting to have to go up the last stretch the way a mountain climber does a rock chimney, back against one wall and feet against the other.

  I hauled at the rod, and found another with my other hand. Below, Thomas boosted me. I groped up and got another, then another. The remaining slight slant of the duct helped. Finally my feet were on the rods. I clung, panting. The heat in the duct was terrific. Then I went on up. That was some shot Kramer had given me.

  * * * *