“Officer Gris,” said the driver when he had the airbus scooting above the floor of the Great Desert, “if you had just told me they would know we was from the Apparatus, I could have brung a blasthoser and wiped the (bleepards) out.”
Oh, fine, I thought. That was all this mission would need: two or three hundred dead Royal officers and an Apparatus Secondary Executive standing there amongst the charred remains. Maybe I belonged in another Division!
But you don’t transfer out of the Apparatus—you leave it feet first, stone dead.
I had no slightest choice except to carry out this mission to its violent, brutal end! And succeed.
PART TWO
Chapter 8
Lombar, seated in a king’s chair looted from some Royal tomb, looked agitated.
We were seated in his tower office at Spiteos, watching the weekly “freak parade.” The whole wall of glass at the office end had refraction index switches: it could be a mirror, it could be a black wall and it could be so set that we could see out but nobody could see in. It was set the last way now. Beyond it, completing the width of the rampart, was a vast, stone-walled room.
Dr. Crobe was showing off the week’s production of himself and his assistants and horrible enough it was. They made freaks and the Apparatus got a good price for the products.
Just now was a being that had feet for hands and walked on all fours with a skipping gait. It was comical, really. Especially the way it stamped after each skip. Until recently it had been a normal man. But Dr. Crobe had changed that.
Factually, the doctor was a very skilled cellologist. He had been a member of a government department—Section for Special Adaptions—that specialized in retailoring people for unique duties or habitations: harmless enough, making them see better on dark planets, walk better on heavy-gravity planets, breathe underwater on planets dominated by sea. But Dr. Crobe had a twist in his own skull and he perverted the technology of cellular alteration to making freaks—real abominations. The government got some protests and a senior, who might very well have been a party to it, blamed it all on Crobe. The doctor vanished from his Domestic Police cell, thanks to Lombar, and was put to work, with a staff, at making freaks for the Apparatus.
The organization, well-connected with the criminal underworld, sold them to circuses, theaters and nightclubs for fantastic prices. They were billed as denizens of newly conquered planets, which, of course, was nonsense, but the publics of the one hundred and ten worlds of the Voltarian Confederacy ate it up.
Some, of course, actually were prisoners of war, which made it quasi-legal as such prisoners have no rights and are often slaughtered off. But there never were such beings anywhere except out of the vials and tubes and vats of Dr. Crobe. As some wit in the Apparatus had said, “The evil Gods invented Dr. Crobe to give the Devils some competition.”
There must have been some truth in it. These freak parades always made me ill. Here was a woman with her breasts where her buttocks should have been; there was a being whose legs had been interchanged with his arms; then came a female with two heads; following was a thing covered wholly with hair but in half a dozen colors; and then came a monster with eyes in the place of his privates.
While Apparatus guards drove them along with whips, old Dr. Crobe, himself, stood beyond them, looking on, beaming at his handiwork. He was a funny-looking creature himself: too long a nose, too long in the arms and legs, like some weird bird. In my opinion, every cellologist I have met is not only misshapen himself but crazy.
Lombar seemed to be quite agitated. He was fiddling with his stinger, probably to hide the shaking of his hands. He didn’t seem to be paying much attention to the freak parade and so I ventured to give him some good news, thinking it would divert him.
“It’s all handled now,” I said, “but they had the whole Domestic Police out looking for Jettero Heller. I got a line on it and iced it and now they couldn’t care less.”
He didn’t answer but then he never does. But after a little he tapped a silver box beside him and pincers sprang out holding something. He took it.
“I knew you felt bad about losing your post,” he said idly. “So I arranged this.” He threw it sideways at me.
It was the gold chain and emerald insignia of a Grade Eleven officer! It bumped me up three grades! It made me the equivalent of an Army commander of five thousand troops!
“It’s now in the data banks and legal. You’ll be drawing the pay as of yesterday.”
I started to thank him but he wasn’t listening. “That ought to bring some money,” he said.
The guards had rolled a cart into the parade. Six children had been cellularly joined together so they made a ring, twisted up into pornographic positions.
The Apparatus got tons of appropriations in secret government channels but its income must be five times that in its criminal sidelines. And true, they would get a lot of money for the six-children freak, probably bill it from Blito-P3 or Helvinin-P6, maybe get a hundred thousand credits.
It reminded me I had other news. “We really ought to train this Jettero Heller up in espionage,” I said. Lombar sort of twitched at the name but he didn’t look at me nor stop me. The “trained act” parade was about to begin but there was a lull while Crobe’s staff cleared off and the next lot came on. I took advantage of the time.
“They put a lot of correspondence in his bag,” I said. “A letter from his mother, notes from friends, fan mail. He spent the whole evening answering them—it was quite a stack.
“Of course, when he gave them to me to mail for him, I read his answers very carefully. And, Chief, he has no faintest idea of security. He simply spilled his brains all over the paper. Really stupid!
“I had to get two forgers and we spent until 2:00 AM rewriting his letters.
“He’ll never make a spy, never! He’ll put the whole mission at risk!”
Lombar didn’t say anything. The one we called Countess Krak was on now behind the glass. She was standing there in thigh-high black boots, a shabby coat and little else, twitching a long electric whip. In a dull and listless way she was bringing on the first performer of her trained act parade. She was actually a very beautiful female, statuesque, young, but she never smiled. She was an enigma even for the Apparatus. Approach her sexually and you could get killed! But she could train anything to do anything and fast. She was a genius at training. She was rumored to use electric shock and pictures but how she got her results nobody really knew.
Countess Krak had been a perfectly unsuspected government teacher, specializing in adult classes and advanced subjects. But she had a twist. There are some who say it was actually being done by the government and she just got the blame, and maybe that is true, but I think personally she just needed more money.
When the Domestic Police ran her down, she was the center of a ring of children she had recruited from the slums. These children had been taught to crack any safe and get by any alarm system. It was estimated that their total “take” was in the millions. And they might have been going yet except that she also apparently had schooled them in the techniques of silent murder with no weapons and this hallmarked their every job.
The children involved were executed but Countess Krak was simply handed over quietly to the Apparatus for their own uses. And here she had been at Spiteos for almost three years.
Her first act was a juggler who, with his feet, kept twelve objects in the air at once while spitting fire at them. The second act was two females in lepertige costumes who jetted loops of a liquid, that looked like blood, into fancy patterns in the air and appeared to catch them in their mouths. Colorful.
The third act was a fellow who could triple-somersault from a standing position and explode bangoes at each loop. He had other tricks.
There was no danger that any of these people would ever betray Spiteos. Their tongues had been cut out and they were illiterate. They brought fancy money.
But Lombar was not paying much attention. He turned to me. “Soltan,” he
said, “I really don’t think you actually envision the real scope of this.”
He shoved the stinger at some switches and a big screen on the floor in front of us began to roll off views of the hundred and ten planets of Voltar. Near views, far views. Mobs in streets. Industries. Plains geometric with farms. Plains teeming with animals.
Lombar, ignoring the remaining acts, hit another switch. Views of the manors of Lords. Views of Governors’ palaces. Views of the Summer Imperial Residence. And then a long string of views of Emperors.
“Power,” said Lombar. “Authority! The right of life and death over trillions of peoples.” He shut the machine off. He turned to me. “In not too long a time, Soltan, all that will be ours. Ours completely and utterly! These are big stakes!
“The present rulers are decadent. Our planning and timetable cannot fail.”
He gestured at me with the stinger. “But there is one weak point in all this. And that weak point is Earth.”
He put his hand on my knee. “That is the key, the important key to everything. Soltan, when an instant invasion of Blito-P3 seemed imminent, I almost died. It would have been the end of everything.
“Soltan, you weren’t raised in the slums. You don’t know what a dream of power can be. You don’t understand the true necessity of wiping out the riffraff from the ghettos, purifying the blood of planets, sweeping away the weak.
“These Emperors do not know what to do with their power. It takes ambition! Yes! And merciless execution of plans. They diddle with their wars, they do nothing about their own homes! Even when they conquer a planet they do not know what to do with the riffraff in the population!
“We use evil to fight and sweep away evil! And we can and will prevail!” For a moment his eyes flared. There was madness in Lombar and sometimes it showed through.
He patted my knee. “But I am counting on you, Soltan. There must be no Imperial interference on Blito-P3. We care nothing for the salvage of that planet! But we need it desperately. You must keep every Voltarian interest in it nullified! Do you understand?”
He waited for no answer. The trained acts were through. He stabbed the stinger at a console. Flashing call lights went on in the other room. The glass wall turned black.
Dr. Crobe and Countess Krak came hurrying in through the anteroom and stood inside the door. They didn’t expect any applause. They never got any.
“Crobe,” said Lombar. “I’ve got a job for you. We have a special agent going to Blito-P3 and I want you to fix him up.” Crobe rubbed his hands and rubbed his nose. He liked this.
“Krak,” said Lombar, “we have this special agent to train for Blito-P3. Language.”
There was something in their attitude, some eagerness or enthusiasm that hit Lombar Hisst in the wrong place. He was suddenly on his feet and across that room like a reptile.
He grabbed Crobe by the coat and snapped his face within an inch of his own. “And (bleep) you, no tricks! No fancy eyes that see through walls! No fingers that become pistols! No telepathic brain receivers!” He had hit Crobe in the leg with each separate order. “Just an average job!” And again he hit Crobe in the leg. He heaved him away.
Lombar turned to Countess Krak. “And as for you, you perverted (bleep),” he snapped her within an inch of him, “off the high tower you go if you teach this agent one single word, one single trick of espionage!”
He slammed her against the wall so hard she bounced.
Then in a perfectly mild voice, Lombar said, “Officer Gris will tell you what to do. I don’t want to hear any more about it. Get out!”
Lombar went back to his chair and took a chank-pop. “Gods, they stink!” he said as he sprayed his face and nose. Then, relieved, he waved a hand to the door.
“Get on with it, Soltan. I don’t want to hear another word concerning it or Jettero Heller. He’s yours now.”
As I left, he was moving toward the chest where he kept the Royal robe.
PART THREE
Chapter 1
At the end of a long, black corridor of Spiteos, going toward my quarters, I thought I heard voices.
I looked quickly about: there should be guardsmen stationed around here. I couldn’t see any! The possibility of Heller having escaped shot me full of panic! I could visualize my own body being tossed off the highest tower!
Voices! I paced quickly forward, silently. They got louder. My Gods, they were coming through the closed door of my room!
I halted. I could not make them out. I took a long breath and with a textbook police entrance, I yanked the door open and leaped inside, off to the left, too fast to be shot.
Jettero Heller and the platoon commander were sitting at the table!
They were eating sweetbuns and drinking sparklewater. Heller was reading the morning newssheet and laughing about some item. There was a new Homeview on a wall shelf that had never been there before and a diddleband was playing some goofy tune.
The secret guards that were supposed to be there weren’t outside and here sat their commander taking refreshment with his prisoner! What a homey scene!
I knew right then what Lombar was up against trying to work with the Apparatus. Here was a prisoner, supposedly tightly guarded and incommunicado, completely unguarded and provided with the latest news!
The platoon commander must have read it on my face. He sprang back so suddenly his chair went flying! He came to a terrified attention and crossed his arms in an X on his breast, eyes straight ahead but glazed with fear.
“Oh, let him finish his sweetbun,” said Heller with an easy laugh. “He and I have just had a peace conference and we’re celebrating. I let him and his men know where I am at all times and they bring me the necessities of life from the Camp Endurance canteen. Amity prevails.”
But the officer knew what he might be facing from me even though he must also understand I would say nothing in front of Heller. He bolted out of the room like a hunted game animal.
Heller tapped the newssheet. “I see that the mysteriously missing Jettero Heller has been found and is now vanished again on a secret mission for the Grand Council.” It amused him. And I could see it on the paper, front page, photos of Heller and all. I could read,
FAMED COMBAT ENGINEER . . .
(Bleep) those reporters! Well, we didn’t control all the press—not yet!
Heller had tossed the newssheet down and was looking at me brightly. “Hello, hello, hello,” he said. “What’s this?” He got out of his chair to come over to me. “Been promoted, I see. Grade Eleven no less!”
Suddenly I realized why Lombar had promoted me. It made me one rank higher than Heller, easier to control him.
But if Heller had recognized that I was now his senior, he certainly didn’t show it. Grades Ten and Eleven are still relatively low and there is even a saying in the services, “Seniority amongst junior officers is like virtue amongst whores.”
He came over and pumped my hands. “Hearty congratulations. I am sure it was well deserved.” Sarcasm? I looked closely. No, just the expected cliché of the officer corps.
“This means,” said Heller, with mock solemnity, “that you owe me a dinner in the first nightclub we encounter!” Ah, yes. Traditions of the Royal Services. When one gets promoted, every other officer he meets on the first day is owed a dinner in the nearest nightclub at his expense. It’s costly and a lot of fellows just go hide that first day.
He took the gold chain off me. He went over to the brightest glowplate and held the emeralds close to his eye, turning them this way and that. “Uhuh!” he said interestedly. “You’ll be glad to know they are real emeralds.” He kept turning them and looking. “These three at the top of the number are just faintly off-color. But,” and he tapped it, “this bottom one is a truly valuable stone. It’s from the South Vose diggings. The flaw helps refraction. Lovely green. Remarkable!”
Heller came back over to me and hung the chain around my neck and pumped my hands again, smiling, really glad to see me promoted. Then he wen
t back to the table. “Have some sparklewater? There’s plenty more in your cupboard now.”
I finally grasped what had happened. Those (bleeped) junior officers at the club had put a roll of money in that bag they had packed for him. I’d glanced through it but it must have been hidden in an athletic suit or something. I felt a chill. What more had I missed?
Casually I strolled around the far side of the table. He was sitting down now. He was wearing a shiny white, thin flying suit and a pair of ankle-high hull boots. I let my eyes drift over him without appearing to search. Then I saw it: a short blastick, the 800-kilovolt type that would tear a wall apart. They are about six inches long and he had it shoved just inside the top of his right boot.
I went over to a mirror, pretending to inspect some of my face patches that obscured the damage suffered at the club. I could watch him in the mirror. From the litter of papers and canisters he picked up a short red rod. Another weapon! I planned exactly which way I would dodge, how I would dive at him.
Invaders Plan, The: Mission Earth Volume 1 Page 10