Outland

by Alan Dean Foster

  He had just enough time to panic.

  He raised his gun and started to reset the velocity and charge. There was a faint hissing sound. With an inarticulate cry he turned and raced for the nearest hatch just as O'Niel unlatched the last bolt.

  The two accessway sections separated a couple of inches. O'Niel fell backward as a thin stream of red and white gushed out into space. The white was frozen oxygen. The red was what remained of the man who'd been trying to kill him. He gripped the thin reinforcement ridge running the length of the corridor to keep from being blown off by the blast of escaping atmosphere. Killer and cloud dissipated toward Jupiter.

  Lazarus was leaning against the sealed hatch. A red light was blinking on the door and a readout was flashing angrily:

  DANGER! CORRIDOR LEAK—NEGATIVE ATMOSPHERE AND PRESSURE. EMERGENCY LOCKSEAL IS NOW IN PLACE. NOTIFY MAINTENANCE IMMEDIATELY. NOTIFY MAINTENANCE IMMEDIATELY.

  Maintenance would have to wait until she caught her breath, she thought exhaustedly. And perhaps longer than that.

  Breakfast was proceding smoothly in the Administration Ward Room. Conversation had picked up from the previous day and appetites, the cooks noted, appeared to have improved. In the Club, business was brisk, liquor and propositions flowing freely.

  O'Niel had left the unbolted corridor and made his way back to the top of Building C. He'd allowed himself five minutes to gain strength, had ingested as much of the liquid nutrients the suit carried as his stomach could stand. Nothing remained of the first gunman.

  Lazarus reached the squad room, burst in and hurriedly checked the automatic surveillance monitors. They continued to function.

  She hesitated over the unfamiliar bank of controls. The designations were different, but the system was similar enough to the medical monitors she used daily for her to give the instrumentation a try. She touched controls a buttons, trying to locate the second gunman.

  O'Niel had gained the inspection catwalk that ran atop the building and was making his way back toward the Hydroponics station. If his guesses proved correct, the remaining gunman should be somewhere in the general area of the Greenhouse.

  The second hunter was closer than that, having just entered the far end of the glass dome. It was still dimly lit and he was using his scope to sweep the grounds.

  Lazarus hadn't found him yet, continued fooling with the monitor instrumentation. A shadow suddenly fell on the screens. She whirled, eyes wide.

  "Can I help?"

  Not yet, heart, she told herself. It was deputy . . . now sergeant, she note . . . Ballard. She relaxed, then found herself snapping at him.

  "Terrific timing. Here comes the cavalry. You're a bit late, you know."

  "Better late than never, right?" He was trying to see around her, peering anxiously toward the screens. "Is the Marshal all right?"

  "So far. Shoulder wound, but it's not bad."

  Ballard moved toward the monitors and she stepped aside. "Where is he now?"

  Lazarus' frustration was clear in her voice. "Damned if I know. I've been hunting for him myself. He's Outside someplace."

  Ballard frowned. "Outside? Where Outside?"

  "How the hell should I know? I told you, I've been looking for him." She gestured at the console. "This is your toy, not mine. Maybe the Greenhouse. That's close by where he went out and there's another entry port near there."

  O'Niel had spotted the second gunman, outlined against the gridwork lighting in the Greenhouse. Now he was making his cautious way up the glass side of the dome, crawling slowly so as not to attract the attention of the man with the gun.

  His position was much more vulnerable than it had been atop the accessway. The roofing material here was transparent, not translucent. He'd make an easy target. Only the branches and leaves of the larger plants helped to conceal his presence.

  His situation was the same in that the gunman could only fire a single shot or two at him. But this time he was the one without the margin of retreat. The gunman could move to the hatchway and stand next to it when he fired, instead of having to rush the length of a long corridor.

  He continued making his way along the surface of the dome, heading toward the catwalk that crossed it lengthwise. There was a small platform at the apex full of repair material, and O'Niel had an idea.

  Ballard studied the monitors, wished he had O'Niel's facility for operating the remote cameras. "So you think the Greenhouse?"

  Lazarus turned to him uncertainly, a question poised on her lips. But he was already running from the squad room.

  O'Niel paused to glance over the sheer side of the Greenhouse. The lower mine platforms were a field of tiny lights far below. They looked like small night-blooming flowers. Nearby were the enormous solar collectors, a rippling field of dark surfaces pointed toward the distant Sun. They dwarfed the power plant they served.

  Below him, the second gunman was slowly making his way through the dome.

  Ballard reached the small elevator bay and found an atmosphere suit. It wasn't his but it fitted reasonably well. He started to struggle into it.

  O'Niel reached the catwalk platform, climbed onto it. The catwalk was a length of spider silk strung across the crest of the dome. Among the neatly stacked material be found several repair panels, self-adhering and flexible. They were used to make quick, temporary patches of small air leaks.

  Each panel was roughly four feet square. He selected one, handling it easily in the light gravity, and checked the adhesive strips along the edges to make certain they weren't activated. The last thing he wanted was for the panel to stick.

  Moving carefully along the catwalk he leaned over the side until he had a clear view of the gunman prowling beneath. Then he raised the panel and heaved it toward the Greenhouse. It struck the roof and began to slide down the side of the transparent dome.

  Inside the Greenhouse the gunman heard the scraping noise overhead, whirled and adjusted his weapon in the same motion. He was extremely fast. A single shot was fired at the dark silhouette sliding across his sights and then he was racing for the hatch as escaping air began to whistle through the tiny hole.

  O'Niel put all his strength behind his next throw. The heavy tank of liquid sealant struck the bullet hole sharply. The impact on the already weakened glass panel was devastating.

  The gunman's hand reached for the hatchway handle a second too late. Above, the tank of sealant shattered the entire weakened panel. The whistle of escaping atmosphere became thunder.

  Plants, troughs, lights, and writhing water pipes exploded out through the gap in the dome roof as O'Niel crouched down against the protective metal of the catwalk. Seconds later the rest of the interdependent panels followed, sending a shower of glass skyward. Jupiter light turned the glistening fragments orange and yellow.

  Mixed in with the ruined plants and machinery was the body of the second gunman, the bones of his hand still outstretched toward the forever unattainable hatchcover.

  O'Niel allowed himself to collapse on the catwalk, exhausted, sore, and relieved.

  Ballard had finished filling his tanks and entered the waiting elevator.

  Lazarus was still fooling with the surveillance monitors, searching for O'Niel, when one of the monitors unexpectedly showed her Ballard entering his elevator. She stared at the screen, her hands trembling.

  More than anything she was angry at herself. A doctor's hands shouldn't shake, no matter how desperate the circumstances. And a doctor's perception of the human condition should be better.

  She had no way of identifying O'Niel's suit frequency. It had been selected by the suit's original owner. There were hundreds of possible combinations. Her chances of hitting it as she ran through the spectrum of audio possibilities were next to impossible.

  Still shaking she made a hasty examination of the complex security console. There was a panel marked EMERGENCY WARNING SYSTEM. Two columns, one for internal, one for Outside.

  Her eyes ran down the long list of buttons. There was a warn
ing light for every section of the mine. She found the line for Elevators, pushed the one alongside the legend NUMBER SEVEN.

  A red and blue strobe light began flashing above the elevator shaft near the power station feeds. O'Niel was sitting up now, but his back was to the lift shaft and he didn't see the light. Nor was it likely to attract his attention. The sky around the mine was always full of flashing lights.

  Ballard's elevator was on its way up. He had the riot gun out and ready. He hadn't bothered to check it because O'Niel had done that earlier.

  Lazarus hit the console several times with a tiny fist, her lips tightly clenched. Then she ran from the room.

  The elevator slowed, stopped. The doors opened and Ballard stepped out, looked around. He was as high as it was possible to get within the mine complex without flying. Far below and to the right was the shuttle dock, vapor rising from around it.

  O'Niel still sat slumped on the catwalk, his back to the elevator and the urgently flashing strobe. Time to move, he thought. There was one more thing he had to do. He started to rise and turn toward the elevator shaft.

  Tracers whizzed silently around him. Some struck the solar collectors and their transfer cables and boxes. Blue sparks fled into nothingness and electric arcs jumped nervously in all directions.

  Only the tracers gave O'Niel reason to react. If whoever was firing them had stopped long enough to have thought to remove them he could have sat patiently wherever he was and fired away until O'Niel was hit. In the absence of sound he glow of the tracers gave the gunman's presence and approximate location away.

  Now flattened out on the catwalk O'Niel could see the flashing security light above the elevator shaft and knew that someone had used it to come after him. He wondered momentarily who had activated the warning light, then silently blessed Lazarus, wherever she was. He started crawling.

  Ballard squinted into the darkness and harsh reflections from the buildings beyond, unable to tell whether O'Niel was down because he'd been hit or because he'd dodged in time. He started toward the nearest solar collector. They offered the only escape route and cover, and O'Niel was sure to head in that direction if he could still move.

  O'Niel couldn't see his pursuer yet, but he knew from the angle of the tracers that he was somewhere below. He also knew that whoever it was he wouldn't stay in one place for long. Keeping low he headed for one of the enormous panels, wishing desperately for a weapon.

  Ballard reached a point below the catwalk and hesitated. There was a ladder nearby but if O'Niel planned any kind of ambush he'd be expecting his pursuers to ascend that way. Each solar collector had a maintenance ridge running along its upper surface. Ballard chose one and started climbing upward. The sight of the ruined Greenhouse made him doubly cautious. Unlike the two presumably dead hired guns, he knew O'Niel well enough to know he was capable of anything.

  The Marshal stayed on the catwalk, crawling past the point where the ladder intersected it from below and continued on. He could sense the nearness of the transformers below. His hair tingled inside the helmet. Blue arcs rippled across the surface of the collectors as energy was transferred from the sun to special cells to the collector conduits.

  Ballard continued to climb the maintenance ridge on the panel below the catwalk, assuming the Marshal was still somewhere on the catwalk behind him. He was half right.

  Over a short distance a frightened man can crawl almost as fast as he can walk. O'Niel was just above Ballard. The catwalk, barely four feet wide, provided little room to hide, but O'Neil had to risk a look over the side. Ballard's helmet indicated he was still searching the section of catwalk at which he'd first fired.

  O'Niel waited until the other man was directly below. Then he swung himself over the catwalk railing and fell straight down, kicking violently in the low gravity. Ballard was just starting to turn when O'Niel's foot caught the side of his helmet.

  The deputy reeled forward, propelled by the force of the kick. The riot gun flew out of his hands and the impact stunned him. It also sent O'Niel drifting backward. He cursed himself for kicking too hard as he flailed for a grip. There was nothing within reach and he tumbled lazily over the side of the collector.

  The gun preceded both bodies downward, striking the side of the tilted panel. It intersected the highly charged field and sparks flared violently in the emptiness, but faded quickly. So did the gun as it spun off the panel and down into the darkness.

  Desperately O'Niel clawed for the ridge running along the edge of the panel, twisting to keep his legs from contacting the charged side. Ballard had fallen down the ridge, now climbed to his feet.

  Turning, he saw O'Niel struggling for a foot hold on the ridge. Recognition passed between them.

  Then Ballard lunged forward, trying to kink O'Niel's faceplate in. O'Niel grabbed the man's suit leg. The kicks were slowed by the light gravity. The two men fought silently. Below them lay the power station terminals and the rest of the mine.

  Ballard kept lashing out with hands and feet while O'Niel clung to him and the edge of the ridge with equal determination. Finally he gave a desperate yank on the ankle he held and let go with his other hand, using his weight to pull at the deputy.

  Ballard overbalanced and went over the side. Both men drifted just past the dangerously crackling panel. They clawed at the vacuum, trying to find something to latch onto besides the charged upper surface of the collector.

  O'Niel's swinging hands contacted something solid. His fingers locked around it. He knew it couldn't be part of the charged panel because he'd already be dead. As he stopped falling he saw that it was one of the struts supporting the upper row of collectors.

  Ballard had grabbed onto the same strut. They fought each other as they climbed onto the narrow support.

  O'Niel's damaged shoulder was finally beginning to claim its due. He couldn't hold on with both arms anymore. Ballard leaned at him, started to pry the one remaining hand from the strut. O'Niel didn't have the strength both to continue fighting and to hold on.

  He felt his fingers being inexorably pried loose. Using his free hand he reached around toward Ballard's back.

  The deputy was concentrating on keeping his legs locked around the strut while using both hands to pull O'Niel's fingers away from the metal. He'd almost succeeded when O'Niel's free hand contacted what it had been groping for, which was not another saving grip on Ballard's body but the manual shut-off valve on the man's air regulator. O'Niel gave it a violent twist.

  Ballard drew a breath, only it wasn't there. He started to choke. Letting go of O'Niel he fumbled at his back for the closed valve.

  As O'Niel regained his grasp on the strut with both hands he kicked up and out. Both of Ballard's hands were working at his back and the kick was unopposed. The blow wasn't as forceful as O'Niel would have liked, but it was sufficient to send the disconcerted, gasping deputy back and sideways. He fell.

  His right foot struck the surface of the lower collector panel. There was a geyser of blue-white sparks, silent fireworks in the dark sky. Ballard's body contorted as the charge passed through him. Then his back contacted the panel and there was a storm of energy that made the first look insignificant.

  Within the power station terminal far below a readout suddenly dropped a number of ergs. The drop was so brief the technician on duty never noticed it.

  Ballard slid slowly down the sloping panel, shimmering with the power that was surging through him, already dead from that first slight contact.

  Then he tumbled over the edge and started the long fall. There was a pause until he reached the transformers. A brief flash of flame showed where his stiff body struck, where channeled energy was detoured long enough to reduce it to ashes.

  O'Niel stared downward, his arms draped tightly around the strut. The fire below faded quickly as the last of the combustible material that had been Ballard was reduced to cinders. The Marshal didn't care if yet another unexpected assassin might be prowling somewhere overhead. He was dead tired.
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  Which was, he reflected as he closed his eyes, much better than being dead, period . . .

  Lazarus moped around the Club. It was a place she rarely visited, more alien to her than the surface of lo. On the occasions when she chose to get drunk she did so in the privacy of the hospital. She drew curious stares and muffled comments from those who recognized her. Otherwise no one paid her the least attention. The usual hectic, noisy crowd jostled her as it swirled around the bar. The booths near the back were filled and the suspended dancers stomped sweatily to the blare of the music pouring from the concealed speakers.

  A figure appeared in the front entrance. Its shoulder was heavily bandaged and the cloth was stained black. The man's face was bruised and dirty. He just stood there in the doorway, watching, searching.

  It was several seconds before the patrons milling around the entrance noticed O'Niel. They stopped talking, drinks halted halfway to mouths. The silence spread like a wave across the room, rolling over tables and dancers to finally crest against the bar. The professional dancers stopped moving in their cylinders, breathing hard, sweat pouring down their nearly nude bodies as they stared at the entrance.

  Lazarus had turned with the others. When she saw who had struck the silence, she smiled.

  Sheppard was sitting in his usual chair, at his usual table. He frowned at the sudden absence of sound. It was never, never completely quiet in the Club.

  He stood and followed the other looks. When he recognized the Marshal his mouth opened as wide as his eyes.

  O'Niel started across the room toward the General Manager, moving with obvious pain, his progress slow. He passed the silent workers at the bar and seated at their tables without looking anywhere but straight ahead.

  It took a long time but eventually he was standing in front of Sheppard. The Manager said nothing, for once, speechless.

  "Sheppard . . ." O'Niel hesitated. He shook his head at nothing in particular. "Oh . . . fuck it."

  The punch knocked the General Manager across the table and back into the curtains shielding a booth. They came down under his weight, burying him.