Technokill

by David Sherman

  It took a quarter of the day for him to find all of his scouts and warn them of the demons. The last scout he found was at the top of the ridge above where Cheerpt had seen the Clumsy Ones' roost. That scout was paralized with fear. The roost was no longer there and there was no sign of the Clumsy Ones. The place where the roost had been teemed with demons.

  Chapter 18

  "You did what?" Kat screamed in disbelief, breaking into violent peals of laughter. Her face turned beet red and she doubled over, laughing so hard she began to cough. "You hired him?" She wheezed as she tried to catch her breath. "You hired him? Aw, Sammy, you stupid bastard," she shouted, still laughing, and grabbed him by the crotch—hard.

  Patch grunted. Kat squeezed harder. Patch groaned. "Ah, the things you do for me, baby," he gasped. He bit down hard on her left nipple. She screeched and let him go. "Whew!" he sighed. "Thought you really had me there for a moment!"

  Kat pushed Patch down on the bed and straddled him. "You drew blood, you bastard," she muttered, and held her injured breast out to him. He licked the droplet of blood that hung there.

  "You deserved it, bitch. You almost ruined me."

  She pinned his arms with her legs and slapped him—hard.

  "Thanks," Patch said, "I needed that."

  "And this," Kat answered, swinging her arm way up behind the back of her head. This time the smack of her hand on the side of Patch's face sounded like a shot in the landcruiser's tiny passenger compartment. The jolt of the blow traveled up her arm and turned her hand numb. They were both silent for a moment, sharing the pain.

  Tears watered Patch's eyes. He licked at a tiny trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. "Lunchtime," Kat murmured, hitching her hips farther up onto Patch's chest.

  "What's so damned funny about Herbloc?" Patch asked suddenly, his nose almost in Kat's "lunch."

  Kat leaned back and studied Patch for a moment. "You'd hire a fool like that for an operation like this?"

  Patch shrugged. "He's the only one who can talk to the Avionians. He's essential to the whole deal. Yeah, I know he's a fool, worse, a drunk, but I still need him. How the hell do you know anything about this guy?"

  Kat hesitated before answering. "Okay. Older guy, round head, thin hair, always talking like a damn college professor?" Sam nodded. "I rolled the bastard the night before the Marquis de Rien left Luna Station. I picked him up in the Fifth Reich. Got nearly a thousand credits off him. I didn't know you'd hired him but I remembered that name. ‘Herbloc,’ who ever heard of anyone with a name like that? You need to tell me when you hire someone, Sammy."

  "And you need to stay out of the Fifth Reich and you've got to stop rolling drunks. Goddamnit, you don't need the money! And you're supposed to be reformed. Besides, what are the boys going to think, they find out my squeeze is hanging out in places like that?"

  "You own the damned place, Sam. And I was only having fun. What am I supposed to do, you takin' off on these capers all the time and leavin' me alone?" She pulled his right ear hard for emphasis.

  Kat's real name was Sarah Goldfarb, but her "professional" name, the one by which thousands of desperate men knew her, was Katrina Switch. Still in her prime, she was reputed to be the most accomplished dominatrix of all time. She'd made a fortune before meeting Sam Patch, but she quickly realized life with him was more exciting, profitable, and satisfying than charging exorbitant fees to beat flabby old men into orgasms. And Patch, who could not be humiliated, at first challenged her professionally and then, by dominating the dominatrix, gave her what she had by then realized she'd always wanted.

  He was different from any other man she'd ever experienced. For one thing, he was the strongest man she'd ever known. Kat prided herself on her own physical strength and conditioning. She could easily subdue clients much larger than she. But early in their relationship, to prove who was the real master, Patch just snapped the leather thongs with which she'd bound his arms behind his back and then used them to immobilize her.

  As for Patch, he found Kat an excellent businesswoman. Her other talent was not lost on him either. Occasionally, Kat liked to "keep my hand in," as she expressed it, picking up stray men and humiliating them in special ways. Sam tolerated her forays, so long as they didn't go too far. She knew very well that if she ever became involved with another man the way she was with him, he would kill her without a second's thought.

  Killing Patch, Kat knew, was the only way she would ever get away from him. It would be easy, she could just go a bit too far during one of their sessions. Been there. Done that. But she had no reason to leave him, and besides, she dared not cross him because he had a sixth sense for danger. She was convinced he could smell a threat. That was one reason he had survived and prospered so long. Kat wondered if he was fully human. Anyway, although she relished giving and receiving pain, she wanted very much to go on living. One good way to change that would be to cross Sam Patch.

  After Henderson and his crew departed Luna Station in the Marquis de Rien, Patch had proceeded to New Carrolton, the closest human world to Avionia, where he established his headquarters. The previously agreed-upon date for his departure to take the first shipment of gems was still months away, so the pair decided to enjoy themselves in the interim.

  New Carrolton was yet in the early stages of colonization, and the population was still small, not many of the "civilized" amenities were available yet. Nor were they likely to arrive anytime soon, because New Carrolton was a mining colony, and so long as the miners had reasonably comfortable places to live and properly rough places to spend their pay, they weren't concerned about museums and operas. Vast alien swamps and forests still covered much of the planet's surface. Animal and plant life there were still in a stage of evolution comparable to the late Permian period of Terra's geological history, so there were no species inimical to man on the planet.

  Patch and Kat frequently rented all-terrain landcars to conduct long forays into the alien wilderness. Patch especially enjoyed driving through the swamplands, leaving an oozing trail of devastated vegetation behind him. He was a man who had to dominate, and for him the swampy excursions were a new experience, imposing himself like a god on nature itself. Occasionally they startled small groups of amphibians at their feeding and had great fun chasing them down. They laid bets, taking turns driving, on how many each could crush under the vehicle's treads. The things shrieked and gabbled hysterically while the pair tore up whole forests of fernoids chasing them, screaming and laughing and drinking Wanderjahrian wine.

  Patch was into Kat for a thousand credits when, a hundred kilometers from Bowietown, New Carrolton's largest human settlement, they tired of the game. They'd headed for a nearby grove of coniferlike plants on a spot of high ground and parked there for the rest of the day. After lunch and a rest they'd taken up their favorite pastime in a bunk bed at the rear of the vehicle's passenger compartment.

  Kat groaned with pleasure, Patch held firmly between her legs.

  "Private communication for Mr. Patch," the communications console bleeped.

  "What the hell? Kat, reach my communicator over there." Kat leaned over to the driver's console and retrieved Patch's equipment belt. She unfastened the communicator and held it to his ear.

  "Speak," Patch commanded. A tinny voice said something. Patch's body went rigid beneath Kat. With one powerful movement he sat up, tossing Kat off his chest and onto the floor of the vehicle. She struck with a solid impact, momentarily stunned. Patch was up in a swift movement and fumbling into his clothes.

  Kat got her feet under her and snarled up at Patch, anticipating an exquisite beating such as only he could administer, but when she saw the expression on his face, she knew the games were over. Patch used his anger as a tool. He could turn it on and off as needed to intimidate people but he never really lost control of himself when he was "mad," although his victims seldom realized that. But she saw that he really was mad; his face suffused with blood, the veins in his forehead and neck standing
out like tree trunks.

  "What's up?" Kat was careful to keep her voice small and her tone concerned. Patch cursed foully as he hopped in place, trying to remain upright on one leg as he stabbed the other at his utility coveralls. He braced himself against the wall with one arm and pulled the zipper up the front of his rig.

  "Strap yourself in," he spit out, jumping to the driver's console and starting the power plant.

  Kat quickly slid into her coveralls and sat in the passenger's seat. She looked questioningly at Patch as he put the powerful landcar into forward and accelerated to top cruising speed. They roared along for some distance in silence before he had regained enough self-control to speak.

  "We're going back to Bowieville," he said.

  "Sure," Kat answered agreeably. Well, where else would they be going at that speed after receiving a mysterious radio message?

  Patch pressed the accelerator and the landcar surged forward at better than 100 kph. A tremendous rooster tail of muddy water sprayed out behind them as they roared along, leaving a wide swath of destroyed habitat in their wake. Patch's anger was mounting. "The Marquis is back," he said.

  "You did what?" Patch screamed at the top of his voice. He was alone with Sly Henderson on the bridge of the Marquis de Rien, but Patch's shouting could have been heard in the empty crew compartment a deck below.

  As soon as the Marquis de Rien had berthed, Henderson informed the port authority he would wait for the owner to arrive before requesting services. That was fine with the portmaster because the longer a vessel sat in his berths the more money he could charge in berthing fees—and on New Carrolton nobody asked questions about transiting spacecraft. Henderson dismissed the crew, telling them not to return for at least six hours. And then, after making the call to Patch's private number, he waited alone.

  No doubt about it, Sly Henderson was nervous. He knew Patch's reputation for having a violent temper. But he also knew he'd made the right decision to abort the poaching operation.

  Finally, Patch breathed heavily, getting control of himself. "Tell me again what happened," he rasped.

  "The Marines showed up, that's what happened, Sam."

  "Marines!" Patch roared. "Your ass, Marines! There aren't any Marines within fifty light-years of Avionia." Fists clenched, he moved in close enough for his breath to spray hot spittle on Henderson's face. "You got scared off by a bunch of dithering eggheads!"

  Henderson stood his ground, determined not to be intimidated. "No way, Sam." He shook his head. "I saw them come down. Scientists don't make planetfall like they did. The Marines do."

  "Sly, I never thought you a fool or a coward. I guess I was wrong. I'd know if Marines were sent to Avionia." He started to draw back a fist to pummel the other man.

  "I recorded it, Sam. Take a look for yourself if you don't believe me." He turned far enough to push a button on a control panel, but maintained his close proximity to Patch. A radar screen lit up. Numbers scrolled up one side of the screen while two streaks drew rapid lines approaching the horizon indicator.

  Patch's fist dropped, the blow he was about to deliver forgotten. "What—What's that?"

  "That's two Confederation Navy Essays landing Marines."

  "How do you know? Did they see you?" Patch's mind raced back to how the ship looked as he approached it. He hadn't noticed any damage.

  Still somberly looking at the replay, Henderson shook his head. "We didn't stick around. As soon as I saw that, I ordered the ship to launch."

  "Then how did you know it was Marines?"

  Henderson slowly turned his head to give his boss a level look. "Because I've seen the Marines make planetfall before. I was on Fiesta de Santiago a few years ago, supplying arms to some guerrillas. The Marines hit the group I was with, hit us hard. I was lucky to get away alive. Most of the people I was with didn't."

  "But—But I thought they always came in over water. You weren't anywhere near water. You're saying they came in on top of you?"

  Henderson shrugged. "I guess they faked it. They came down about a hundred klicks away. They could have been on us in minutes."

  "A hundred klicks, you say?" Patch's eyes lit up. "Maybe they didn't even go to your base. Maybe they don't really know you were there."

  "Sam, the Marines don't land on top of whoever they go after, not unless it's an accident."

  Sam Patch thought for a long moment. He didn't like surprises, especially surprises like that one. They could be fatal. But how did Marines get there without any of his sources letting him know? Most likely it was Essays off a resupply ship, making a practice landing for when they would actually have to land Marines.

  Patch was a cautious man. It was one reason he'd survived so long. But he was also a greedy man, and that operation promised more money than he'd ever made before. His judgment wasn't what it should have been.

  "How did the trading go?" he asked, changing the subject.

  "Fine." Henderson blinked at the abrupt change. "Art had all the rifles ready on time, and the Cheereek loved them," he said.

  "Herbloc?"

  "He did his job, Sam. Without him we would've had to forage for the stones. He never let his drinking get out of hand. But, well, Herbloc is..." Henderson shrugged. "We did collect ten kilos of the finest stones you'll ever see," he continued. "Sam, we got enough to pay off the boys and set ourselves up for life. Let's just pull the plug on this operation. We can't go back now anyway, not with the Marines there. Your backers will just have to cut their losses."

  Patch was silent for a moment. "Let's see them."

  Henderson nodded and moved to a safe on the far side of the bridge. He swung the massive door open and hauled out several trays of stones. Patch was so surprised by the beauty of the things he caught his breath.

  "My gemologists did a real good job, didn't they?" Henderson asked. They had cleaned, tumbled, and polished the stones beautifully. They glowed and sparkled on the velvet trays. Now Patch understood why people like Thigpen doted on the things.

  Patch reached out and took one of the smaller stones, a gem that would fit nicely on any woman's little finger. "This one's for Kat," he said, putting it into a pocket. "Sly, we need more than this and we're going to get 'em. Get the boys back here now. Clear port as soon as they're back on board. We're going back there."

  "But the Marines—"

  "I think this was a fluke, Sly. It wasn't Marines looking for us. They had no way of knowing we were there. Anyway, my sources would have told me if Marines were on their way. We can make it back to Avionia and get a lot more of this stuff before anybody has any idea. Jesus, Sly, I can't believe you were scared off by a practice landing," Patch said, convinced by his own greed.

  "Goddamnit, Sam, that was no practice landing! That was the Marines."

  "Sly, there are times when a man's got to make his own decisions, according to the situation. If you'd worked this right, you could've bought us months of collecting before we'd have had to give it up."

  "You mean if I'd let the Marines kill us? That's pretty heavy stuff, Sam."

  "There weren't any Marines. Even if there were, they know we're gone and they won't be expecting us to come back. We'll sneak in, grab more of this stuff, and get away before the cavalry arrives. And there'll be a difference this time, Sly."

  "What's that?"

  "I'm going along with you."

  Gunsel carefully nursed his glass of imported Reindeer Ale. "You're about in the bag," he remarked to Herbloc, sitting next to him.

  "Boy-o," Herbloc responded, "we are all ‘in the bag,’ as you so prosaically put it, are we not? We have returned from our mission before times, and our gallant captain is even now facing the unfaceable Samuel Patch." He raised his glass in a mock toast to Sly Henderson, and drank its contents in one gulp. "Ah! Barkeep! Another!" He held out the glass and an indifferent barman refilled it.

  "Doc, your liver isn't going to take much more of that," Gunsel remarked, sipping his ale.

  "Ah, me boy-o, who car
es one whit for a liver? ‘A liver, a liver! My kingdom for a liver!’ quoth the Bard." He drank half his glass and sighed. "I have had three liver transplants already, Guns," he said sadly, "and I'll have another." He finished his drink and held out the glass for a refill.

  In a strange way he did not understand, Gunsel came first to tolerate Herbloc's drinking and then to feel sympathy for the failed genius. With the possible exception of Jum Bolion, nobody else in the crew could stand Herbloc, but he and Herbloc had spent so much time together on Avionia that Gunsel had gotten used to him. Beneath Herbloc's drunken hyperbole dwelt a sad and broken little man who sometimes got out when the alcohol fumes dissipated a bit.

  The bar they were in was not far from where the Marquis de Rien was berthed. Herbloc had found the place as easily as if he'd been there before. "I have an unerring sense of direction when it comes to watering spots," he'd said dryly as they entered the front door. The establishment was crowded with off-duty miners; it was smoky, raucous, and full of noise. "Ahhhh, the ambience of machismo, boy-o!" Herbloc called. A man at a nearby table, a burly, nasty-looking miner by his clothes, looked up sharply at Herbloc's voice. "Let us, sir, without further ado, find a spot at the bar and download some C2H5OH, as it is known among the educated classes. Rotgut, to you, Guns!"

  They'd found a space at the crowded bar and Herbloc ordered whiskey. Time passed. Gunsel sat quietly for the most part, listening with half his attention to Herbloc, who rattled on and on about many things. Herbloc could actually be very entertaining when he was not too far into his cups. He was just about that far when someone pushed him violently into Gunsel's side. Herbloc's drink flew from his hand and splashed over Gunsel's face. The pair looked up, startled, as a burly figure forced his way beside Herbloc and loudly ordered beer.

  "Whaddya lookin' at, gutbag?" the man asked Herbloc, who sat on his stool, mouth hanging open in hurt surprise. "Wipe your face off, you little prick," he said to Gunsel, and turned back to the bar.