Collected Short Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by Rosel G Brown

  A yellow light blinked suddenly in the center of the panel. Red letters appeared on the screen, spelling out words in archaic Universal: MAIN BATTERIES ARMED The words faded, changed:

  MAIN BATTERIES FIRE, TEN SECONDS ALERT.

  The auxiliary panels blinked from yellow to red to white.

  FIRE ALL, the panel spelled out. Through the seat, Roan felt a tremor run through the ship, briefly rattling a loose bolt in the panel. Before him, the banked controls sparkled row on row, telltale lights blinking insistently, gauges producing readings, relays closing, clicking, as the robot panel monitored the action. Roan’s eyes blinked back haze, searching for the white-painted switch.

  It was there, just to the right of the baleful crimson dial lettered MAIN RADAR—TRACKING. He reached out, forcing his heavy hand up, grasped the smooth lever, threw it from AUTO to MANUAL.

  The war lights blinked off. He searched the instruments before him, found a notched handle lettered EMERGENCY ACCELERATION, threw it to ZERO.

  A thousand noises growled down to silence. Roan seemed to float upward from the chair as the pressure dropped to the ship-normal half gee. In the stillness, metal popped and groaned, readjusting to the reduced stresses. Distantly someone screamed, again and again.

  Roan thought suddenly of Stellaraire, alone in her cabin.

  He ran, leaping down the companionways, along to her door. It stood ajar. He pushed it wide—

  With a sound like the clap of gigantic hands, the room exploded in his face.

  He was a dust mote, floating in a brassy sky where thunder rolled, remote and ominous. Somewhere, someone called to him, and he would have answered, but his voice was choked with smoke as thick as syrup. He fought to clear it, and then his eyes were open and he saw broken metal, the fragments of a flower dish and of a yellow blossom, and a white hand, limp, the fingers curled.

  He was on his feet, choking in an acrid reek of burnt metal, throwing aside a shattered chair, heaving at a fallen fragment of paneling, coughing as dust boiled up from the rubble of insulation, charred cloth, smashed glass and wood and plastic.

  She lay on her back, her eyes closed, he face unmarked. Her platinum hair swirled across her forehead.

  “Stellaraire!” He knelt, feeling scorching heat against his face, brushing away dust, splinters, paper.

  The duralloy beam lay across her pelvis, pinning her tight. Roan felt his throat close as he gripped the cold metal, strained at it, felt its massive inertia. On his knees, he wrapped his arms around the metal section, heaved back until the room swam red.

  The odor of smoke was stronger now. Roan stood, hearing the ringing in his head, seeing the pale yellow flames that licked at scattered paper and torn cloth. Twisted wires and broken conduits sagged from the broken wall. Water trickled from a ruptured pipe, and beside it a stream of sharp-odored liquid poured down.

  The little colored fish from the tank lay stiff on the floor.

  Too late, Roan whirled, threw a quilt over the burning paper. With a whoosh! the coolant fluid ignited.

  Now red fire boiled black smoke, and a wave of heat struck Roan’s face like a whip. He seized up a blanket, thrust it against the broken water line, then threw the wet cloth over Stellaraire’s body. It hissed when it touched the floor beside her. He threw himself down, not noticing the searing pain against his back, braced his feet, set his shoulders against the beam, and pushed. It was like pushing at a granite cliff. The air he breathed burned in his throat.

  There was a fallen length of duralloy channel under his hand.

  He thrust it under the beam, levering until the shirt split across his back. The channel buckled. When he tossed it aside, there were yellowish-white burns on his palms.

  Stellaraire’s hair was burning, the platinum-gold strands blackening and curling. Roan stumbled to the door, out into a smoke-blinded corridor. He would find Iron Robert, and together they would free Stellaraire . . .

  XV

  In the thick-rugged chamber of Gom Bulj, the entrepeneur lay where Roan had left him, in a puddle of blood, heavy lids halfclosed over dull eyes.

  “You succeeded, young Terry,” he said, his voice a thin echo of its old rumble. “Too late for me, I fear.”

  Roan swayed on his feet. “Where is Iron Robert, Gom Bulj?”

  “Alas, I don’t know.” The dull eyes turned to Roan’s hand.

  “You are burned, poor lad. Now you will die, there’s a clever boy. Too bad. I had great ambition for you, young Terry. One day . . . I would have billed you . . . as the galaxy’s greatest freak.”

  “It’s Stellaraire,” Roan said, talking now through a black mist that closed over tighter, ever tighter. “I need Iron Robert.”

  A wall annunciator crackled and a strange voice spoke: “Attention all hands! Assemble in the main dining hall at once! Bring no weapons! Disobedience is death!”

  “What voice is that?” Gom Bulj said faintly. “Are we boarded then?”

  Roan made his mind work. “I saw a ship,” he said, “on the screens. We fired—and they fired back. I think they won.”

  “Yes,” Gom Bulj blinked heavy lids. “I knew it. I felt the shocks. Alas, in her day Belshazzar was a mighty dreadnought of the Empire. But now she has fought her last action.” His voice faded to a whisper.

  “What should I do, Gom Bulj?” Roan cried.

  The heavy body stirred; a last hoarse breath sighed out.

  Roan looked down at die still body.

  “Gom Bulj is dead,” he said aloud. “Jumbo is dead . . . and . . . and . . .”

  He whirled, ran into the corridor and toward the dining hall.

  All around, sounds of destruction echoed along metal halls. A muffled blast shook the deck plates under foot. Harsh odors of hot metal and things that burned caught at Roan’s throat. He came to the arched entry over the two wide steps leading down to the broad room with its threadbare eternon carpets and blackened gilt fixtures, and stopped, seeing overturned tables, huddled bodies, and standing among them, legs braced wide, cradling weapons, five creatures in coats covered with tight-curled hair.

  “Help me!” Roan called.

  The nearest creature whirled, swung his weapon around in an easy gesture. There were horns on his head, and his eyes were black stones.

  A big creature in a radiation mask stepped to the horned creature’s side, knocked the weapon aside, then turned the power pistol gripped in his big fists on Roan, looked him over through the slits in the mask.

  “Don’t burn this one, Czack. Can’t you see he’s a Terry?”

  “To the pit with Terries,” the other snarled—but he lowered his gun.

  “Stellaraire,” Roan said. Help me.”

  The tall creature holstered a pistol and took off the mask. Roan looked into wide gray eyes, saw the thin nose, the edge of white teeth between the thin lips.

  Roan stared.

  “You look like pretty pure stock, kid,” the tall Man said. “Where you from?”

  “You’re a Terran,” Roan said. “Help me! The fire—”

  The horned creature stepped close, swung a wide hand against Roan’s head. He staggered; the room rang.

  “Hands off the kid,” the Man said. Roan shook his head, blinking back a blurring film.

  “But I asked you a question, kid. Henry Dread doesn’t ask twice.” The pistol was still centered on Roan’s chest.

  Roan turned, started back up the steps. A horned humanoid blocked his way, swinging a slow blow that Roan leaned aside from.

  “Get out of my way,” Roan said. “I have to find Iron Robert!”

  “Hold it.” Henry Dread had both guns in his hand now, and he turned to the arched door way. A tall, green-skinned Ythcan stood at the top of the two steps. Beside Roan, Czack brought his power rifle up. There was a deafening ba-wam; and a flicker of blue light. The Ythcan spun back, fell, kicked and lay still.

  “See if there’s any more,” Henry Dread snapped. A hair-coated creature with hunched shoulders and a bald skull mo
ved past Roan, sprang up the steps. Beyond him, Roan saw a wide silhouette looming against the corridor’s glare.

  “Iron Robert!” Roan shouted. “Run!”

  Facing Iron Robert, the bald creature fired at point-blank range. Roan saw the flicker of blue light that played for an instant against Iron Robert’s broad chest, heard a deep grunt; then Iron Robert took two steps, plucked the bald one from the floor, whirled him high and threw him against the wall. He rebounded, Jay utterly still, his face oddly flattened, Mood dribbling from his ear.

  “Stand clear,” Henry Dread barked. “My blasters will take him.”

  Roan struck with the edge of his hand at the burned one’s arm, caught the power rifle as it fell, swiveled on Henry Dread.

  “Don’t shoot him!” Roan said.

  Iron Robert stood, his eyes moving from one to another of the six weapons aimed at him. Beside Roan, the horned creature snarled. “What are you waiting for? Kill him!”

  Henry Dread looked at Roan. He turned slowly, bringing his guns around to aim at Roan’s chest. “Drop it, kid.”

  “No,” Roan said.

  The Man’s mouth twitched. There was sweat on his forehead. “Don’t try me, kid. I’m supposed to be fast—and you’re covered. Now let the gun down nice.”

  “Roan,” Iron Robert’s deep voice rumbled. “I kill this one?” He took a step forward toward Henry Dread. Six guns tracked him.

  “No, Iron Robert. Go to Stellaraire—quickly!”

  “I kill him easy,” Iron Robert said. “Have only two small guns.”

  “Help Stellaraire, Iron Robert!” Roan shouted. “Do as I tell you!” Standing straight, Roan forced himself not to think about Stellaraire or about the bums on his hands and body, or about the smell of charred flesh, but only about holding the gun aimed at the pirate’s chest. And Iron Robert understood and he turned and went.

  “Be smart, kid,” Henry Dread said between gritted teeth. “Drop it, before I have to burn you.” He was tall and solid, with a scarred face and thick fingers. He stood, two guns aimed at Roan, tense and ready, and the sweat trickled down his face.

  “Try it,” Roan said.

  Henry Dread’s mouth twisted in a sort of smile. “Yeah, you’re fast, kid. Nobody ever took a gun away from Czack like that before. I don’t think he likes you for it.”

  “Why don’t you kill the muck-grub!” The horned one stood in a half-crouch, eyes on Roan.

  “Go ahead, jump him, Czack. Even if I put two through the head, I’ll bet you a keg he’d nail you on the way down. Want to risk it?”

  The other answered in an incomprehensible language. Henry Dread barked an order. His creatures stirred; two filed carefully past Roan and out into the corridor.

  “Don’t let them try to hurt Iron Robert,” Roan said. “If he doesn’t come back, I’ll shoot you.”

  The pirate licked his lips, his eyes on Roan’s. “What’s that walking Bolo to you, kid? You’re human!”

  “He’s my friend.”

  “Friends with a Geek?” Henry Dread sneered.

  “Why are you killing everyone?”

  “This tub fired on me first—not that my screens can’t handle museum pieces like you tossed at us.” The Man’s eyes narrowed. “Nobody lobs one into Henry Dread and gets away with it.”

  “You killed Jumbo—and Gom

  Bulj—and maybe . . .” his voice broke.

  “Don’t take it so hard, kid. With me it’s business. I needed fuel and ammo . . .” The voice seemed to fade and swell. Roan held his eyes open, leaning against the wall just slightly, holding the gun steady.

  “. . . this tub happened along. That’s life.”

  There was a movement in the corridor behind Henry Dread. Iron Robert stepped into view. Behind him, a hair-coated creature stepped from a door, brought up a gun—

  Roan swiveled and fired, and was back covering Henry Dread’s belt buckle in a movement quicker than the eye could follow. The gunner fell and lay still.

  “Wait there, Iron Robert,” Roan called.

  The big Man lowered his pistols, tossed them aside. He looked shaken. “Holding these things is likely to be dangerous,” he said. “Kid, you move like a fire lizard on Sunside. But you’re burned pretty bad. You need to have my medic take a look at you. Now, just aim that blaster off-side, so no accidents happen, and we’ll talk this thing over.”

  Roan held the rifle steady, listening to the surging in his head. In the doorway, Iron Robert stood and waited.

  “Look, kid, you put the gun down, and I’ll guarantee you safe conduct. You and the one-man task force, too. You can’t hold the iron on me forever.”

  Roan looked at the Man’s eyes. They were steady on his.

  “Well you give me your word as a Man?” Roan asked.

  The Man stared at him. “Sure, kid.” He glanced at Czack and the others.

  “You all heard what he said, didn’t you?” he said flatly.

  Roan lowered the rifle. Czack moved in, snatched it away, brought it up and around—

  Henry Dread took a step, slammed a gnarled fist against the horned head. Czack dropped the rifle and spun against the wall. Henry Dread massaged his fist. “The slob didn’t think I meant it.” He looked at Roan. “I guess us Men got to stick together, eh, kid?” He bent and scooped up a gun. Iron Robert came toward him, a blackish stain on his shoulder.

  “Shall I kill this one now?” he rumbled.

  “No. Iron Robert . . . Stellaraire . . .” Roan leaned against the wall, feeling the dizziness rising. Iron Robert caught him.

  “No, Roan,” The great ugly head shook slowly. “The Fair One is gone away, now. Now she dances for the Gods in their high place, above all sorrow.” The deep voice seemed to come from far away.

  “Take Roan to your doctors, Man!”

  “Yeah—the kid’s in bad shape. You better come too, big boy. You’re a tough one. You took a blaster on half-charge at five paces, and you’re still walking and ready to eat ’em alive. Maybe I can use a Geek like you at that.”

  XVI

  They were alien hands, gentle but impersonally insistent. They poked and prodded with a feel of slick, scaly hide, and hard, too-thin fingers. There was no comfort in alien hands. They weren’t like Stellaraire’s hands, warm and soft and—human.

  Roan moved to thrust the hands away, and searing pain flashed through his body. He gasped, not at the bodily agony but at the sudden vivid remembrance of hands that would not touch him again, and white-gold hair, and smiling ochre eyes.

  “He wakes,” a reedy voice said. “A tenacious organism. Not like some of these beings, who seem almost to wish to flee to the long darkness. I feel their souls tremble and shrink under my hands, and they are gone like a snuffed candle. But not this one.”

  “Make Roan live, Man-doctor,” Iron Robert’s basso rumbled. “Make Roan live strong.”

  “Yes, yes. Stay back, you great ugly lout. Now, the wounds are clean. And I have here . . .” There was a sound of rummaging.

  “Aha! Now, we’ll see.”

  Roan stiffened at a sensation like molten lead poured across his chest He was aware of white lights glaring through his eyelids. He moaned.

  “Eh, he feels it now. Lie easily, Terran. It is only pain.”

  “You make pain go away, Man-doctor!”

  “I’ve yearned for a proper patient for these medicines, ugly giant! A fabulous pharmacopeia, all made for Terrans ages dead. Long have I saved them. Henry Dread likes to fancy his rogues have human blood, but my knives know all their secrets. Half-castes, mutants, humanoid trash! Now, this lad’s different. He’s almost a textbook example of your pure Terry stock. A rare creature.”

  The thin voice rambled on, and the hands probed and the fire touched, flamed and faded into a dull numbness. Roan let out a long breath and felt drugged drowsiness creeping over him like warm water rising in a tub.

  “This skin,” the voice went on, far away now. “The texture! How nicely the blade slides through it! An
d the color. See, look at this illustration in my book.”

  “Does he sleep, Man-doctor? Or—?”

  “He only sleeps, monster. Faugh, I’m pleased I have no need to take a scalpel to that horny hide of yours. Now get back. I’ve two hours of close work ahead, and no need of your rusty bulk to hinder me.”

  It was many hours later. Roan opened his eyes and by a faint light filtering through a barred transom saw the massive silhouette beside him.

  “Iron Robert.” Roan’s voice was a weak croak.

  “You wake now, Roan. You sleep, good. Man-doctor small foolish creature, but he fix you good, Roan.”

  “I should have shot him, Iron Robert.”

  “No, Roan. He fix you.”

  “I mean the Man. He killed Stellaraire. I should have killed him. You should have smashed them, smashed their ship.”

  “Then Roan and Iron Robert die, too, Roan. Too soon to die for you. Too many strange things to see yet, too many places still to go. Long life ahead for you still, Roan.”

  “Not for me. I’m only a Terry freak, and I’m almost dead already. Dad told me. Humans only have time to start living and they die. And living’s no fun. Not any more.”

  “Sure, lots of fun still to come, Roan. Many great jugs to drink, and far suns to see; many females to take, and enemies to kill, and whole universes to see and smell and taste. Plenty time to be dead after.”

  “All my friends are dead. And Stellaraire . . .”

  “I still alive, Roan.” Iron Robert moved and Roan heard a soft metallic clash. “Iron Robert your friend, sure.”

  Roan raised up on one elbow, ignoring a tearing sensation in his bandaged arm, peering in the dim light. Massive chains lay across Iron Robert’s knees, and his wrists were circled by shackles of finger-thick metal.

  “Iron Robert—you’re chained to the wall!”