Yar Pent’s face appeared on the Screen. “Shatz! We’re hit!” In the background, a blot of smoke rose and spread; there was a thin red line of fire that cut through the air. “Shatz—”
There was a single scream as the Screen went blank.
The pirate checked in with two other commanders; one was under fire and the second shouted frantically, “We’ve been boarded! They turned the lens on us and plasma soldiers—”
There came a brief view of three plasma soldiers flashing through the picture before it, too, went out.
“Everyone, get out now! Meet at our rendezvous point!”
Shatz Abel shut down the Screen and made his way back up front, using bulkhead straps and cargo racks as handholds as yet another blast rocked the ship.
“Damage to the port thrusters,” the pilot reported, studying his Screen.
“Keep going, damnit! Keep going!” Shatz Abel said.
Reaching over the machine, the pirate activated the rear scanner and was amazed to see the plasma generator that had been their target blinking out and then on again, literally hopping after them, its surface ablaze with weapon ports. All at once it swiveled, showing its lens—
“Take evasive action! They’re going to board us!”
“Evasive action will have little effect,” the pilot informed him. “As you know—”
“I know, damnit! I know about the caps! Just be ready!” As he hauled himself out of the cabin, he grabbed at the navigator and pointed to the Screen. “You keep an eye on that and tell me what happens!”
The robot nodded. “As you wish, sir.”
Shatz Abel dragged Captain Weens back with him and began to tear open cargo cabinets. “Help me find that plasma soldier degenerator!”
Weens made a faint show of looking; suddenly Shatz Abel stood up and glared at him. “You sold it, didn’t you?”
Weens’s face tried looking sheepish but settled for terrified. “Aye, Shatz! There was a fellow on another ship who fancied a second for himself. Insurance, he called it! I had no idea we’d be needing the thing—”
Shatz Abel loomed over him, raising his fist. “I should kill you!”
“Aye!” Weens croaked. “That you should!”
“There is activity in the plasma generator lens,” the navigator reported from the cabin. “It is glowing.”
Shatz-Abel lowered his fist, turned to the space suit locker nearby, and yanked its door open. “I’ll kill you later, Weens,” he said, pulling a suit out and throwing it at the captain, “but to do that I’ll have to save you now. Don’t talk, just put it on, and do what I say.”
And pulling out a second, larger suit, the pirate climbed quickly into it.
Clinging to the hull of the freighter like a fat beetle, Shatz Abel looked over at Weens, who, on the opposite side of the airlock hatch they had exited, was afixed likewise. Even in his clear-helmeted red suit the captain looked frightened, his black gloves grasping the curve of the hull as if they were glued.
Shatz Abel raised his head slightly and beheld the black box of the plasma generator behind the ship, its lens glowing brightly; there was a momentary brightening as a shaft of energy penciled toward the freighter. Already it had happened twice, which led the pirate to believe there were now three plasma soldiers within the ship.
The port of the airlock flared light. Shatz Abel put his head back down. The captain, he saw, was trembling.
The ship’s engines cut out; there was a loud screech like metal scraping metal, followed by silence.
Shatz Abel counted to fifty, then tentatively raised his head again.
The lens of the plasma generator had dulled; and the object now swiveled away, showing its black backside, before abruptly winking out.
It reappeared a moment later far away, and then blinked out again before becoming once more visible as a bright dot approaching Venus.
Shatz Abel took a deep breath and leaned away from the hull, letting the suit’s adhesive boots prevent him from floating away.
He lumbered to the airlock, swung open the hatch, and pulled himself in.
Turning back toward space, he met the startled face of captain Weens, seeking to reenter behind him.
“I should let you float out there, Weens,” the pirate said; but after glowering for a few seconds, he smiled. “But I’m happy enough just to be alive, so come back in.”
“Thankee, Shatz—thankee!”
Once the airlock had been closed and the ship pressurized, Shatz Abel removed his suit, while the captain went up to the cabin.
“Weens,” the pirate yelled, “tell those two robots of yours to pull us out of here—slowly. We don’t want to attract any atten—”
There came a sound from Weens like a strangled sob. Frowning, Shatz Abel joined the captain in the pilot’s cabin.
“I’ll be damned…”
“My mates, Shatz! My mates!” Weens sobbed, tears streaming from his one good eye.
The two robots, pilot and navigator, lay bisected neatly, their lower halves, sprouting cables and seared parts, still sitting primly in their couches. Their upper torsos lay sideways, the pilot’s hands clutching his Screen.
Weens brought the pilot’s head to his chest and hugged it. “They was junk, they was; they was no-good tin cans full o’ junk; they was useless machines—but they was my mates!”
His face set, Shatz Abel said, “If it makes you feel any better, Weens, they saved our hides. And now it’s best we get out of here, before one of Cornelian’s ships comes to claim this piece of salvage.”
Captain Weens, his grizzled ancient face filled with pain, looked up at the pirate and wept, “They was my mates!”
The rendezvous point was not a happy place. As Shatz Abel eased the freighter into position, he estimated that nearly half the fleet was gone, and half of what was left was damaged. His face was grim as he surveyed the ships with blast holes, burned thrusters, blackened fronts, and missing gear. With a sinking feeling he took role call from his squadron commanders, noting that seven of the twelve faces, Yar Pent’s among them, were missing from his Screen.
Another commander, the bulldog Killaney from Pluto, said in his brusque, deep voice, “I saw Yar’s ship take two in the side, Shatz, after she was boarded. They didn’t get their plasma soldier degenerator out in time. We barely escaped ourselves.”
Shatz Abel nodded, taking in the other bad news before giving some himself.
“As of now, were on hold. I’ve had no word from Dalin Shar since after the Martian counterattack began. The tally is this: we managed to knock out one plasma soldier generator and damage three others. In other words, we failed. We’ll move every three hours. Our cloak is gone, so we’re in the open and sooner or later the Martians’ll come after us. They can pick us off whenever they want. If we keep moving, we might be able to keep them away until we’re needed again.”
On the Screen, Killaney’s face turned from dour to angry. “So what do we do now, Shatz? How do we fight?”
“I don’t know.”
“Dammit, Shatz, that’s not good enough! My men want to take the Martians on again—now!”
“So do I, Kill, more than anything—but if we do now, we’ll be wiped away like so many bugs off a windshield.”
“Damn-it—”
Red anger flared on Shatz Abel’s face. “Yes, dammit, Kill! I want to fight as much as you do I want to squeeze the life out of Prime Cornelian more than any of you! But if we charge in there now, it’ll be suicide, and we’ll be doing no good for King Shar. For now, we wait for word from the ground!”
“If there ever is word from the ground—”
Angrily, he blanked the Screen and stood before it with his fists balled. He wanted to hit something. He turned to see Captain Weens lovingly laying the broken parts of his pilot and navigator into a storage locker, laid out like a casket on the ground.
A casket…
We’ll all be in caskets soon, he thought.
Anger draining, he went to the cargo port and
stared at yellow-blue Venus, hanging like a ball in space, surrounded by the tiny black beads of Prime Cornelian’s plasma soldier generators. The generators all seemed to be converging on one spot.
Unless they do something on the ground …
Chapter 27
A mixture of feelings: joy, triumph, anger … fear?
Swaddled thickly like an infant, Prime Cornelian sat before the open window of his transplanted sandstone residence and surveyed a planet that nearly belonged to him utterly. In the far distance, over the low mountain range to the right of Sacajawea Patera, at the limits of his tepid vision, was a bright rod of light, as if a thousand suns had drilled their beams from the sky to the surface of Venus at once. This, he knew, was the plasma soldier generators at work. Surely, it could only be a matter of days now, if not hours. Now that word had come that the Earthlings had played their hand and lost, the day that Prime Cornelian had waited for for so long, when all of the worlds bowed down before him in subjugation, was nearly at hand. He could feel his fingers closing around it, in what would be an iron grip.
And yet, he felt … angry.
Afraid.
For, now that it was here, the day he had so long schemed for, how long would he live to enjoy it?
Deep within the blankets, his shrinking, deformed body answered him, as the Puppet Death gave his limbs another vicious twist, like a blade turned as it was run into its victim. A gasp of breath escaped his contorted mouth, and his weak eyes clouded until the spasm passed.
How long would he live?
Weeks?
Days?
Hours?
The doctors, some of whom he had had executed, could give him no answer. But he knew in his cold heart that it would not be long. He had known that when Sam-Sei had transferred his essence into the metal carapace so many years ago.
And now! Now that he was on the verge of accomplishing everything he had set out to do, here he was, on the verge of … death!
Absurd!
Terrifying!
Unless, of course.
Once again the Puppet Death took his failing body in its grip, making it tremble and shiver within his blankets.
When the episode passed, he shouted hoarsely, barely a whisper, but his voice was amplified by the slim oval device that hovered close by to pick up his commands.
“Hon-Tet! Come here!”
Instantly, the fat adjutant appeared, trailed by his ever-present hookah on wheels. For some reason, whenever the High Leader saw the hookah, it brought back pleasant memories, which explained Hon-Tet’s continued presence, since he was otherwise useless.
How the High Leader almost missed Pynthas Rei.
“Has there … been any … news …” the High Leader breathed into the amplifier. The words came out loud yet still labored.
Hon-Tet removed the hookah’s stem from his mouth, letting out a puff of fragrant pink smoke. “Always, High Leader!” he smiled.
“… of… Sam-Sei …”
Instantly, Hon-Tet’s fat face clouded over. “No further word on the Machine Master, High Leader. We are all convinced that he is alive and well, though!” Again, the fat smile, and the adjutant replaced the stem in his mouth.
The High Leader’s flinty eyes turned from the window to regard the hookah.
“I … used one of those in … my other … incarnation …”
“And will use one again soon, no doubt!”
The High Leader waited for Hon-Tet to click his heels together, such was his demeanor.
“What …”
Hon-Tet waited, beaming, smoke curling from out of the corners of his mouth.
The oval amplifier followed as the High Leader’s head moved to look out the window again. “… report …” he said.
“Certainly, High Leader!” Hon-Tet beamed. “The Earth dogs are on the run, here and in orbit. Within forty-eight hours the Earthlings will be a subject fit only for the glorious Martian history books!”
Without turning, the High Leader whispered, “The girl, Visid Sneaden …”
The attaché’s florid face nearly glowed. “I was saving that as a surprise, High Leader!” Hon-Tet removed the hookah’s stem from his lips, blowing out a mass of odorous smoke along with his revelation: “She is captured! Her anti-plasma soldier weapons proved to be useful toys for the Earthlings. But in the end light soldiers have overwhelmed them! We will have King Shar before too long, also!”
“I want her … brought here … alive.”
Now Hon-Tet did click his heels together. “As you so order, High Leader!”
Prime Cornelian painfully turned his head; the amplifier followed, centimeters in front of his twisted oval mouth.
“I will … have you eviscerated … before me … if she is not brought here … alive. And I may … have you eviscerated anyway… for not … telling me … immediately of her … capture …”
Hon-Tet’s fat face collapsed, then rebuilt itself. “As you wish, High Leader! And I am sorry, High Leader!”
“She is the … only one besides Sam-Sei who can attend to me at this … time.” He looked briefly at the miniature metal carapace that had been unpacked and stood nearby, its newly enlarged brain pan hinged open and waiting. The cold eyes in its insect face looked empty but expectant.
Hon-Tet regarded the mechanism also. “It was fortunate that the brain cavity could be replaced with your own!”
“… yes … if those … idiots from the Martian Marine … Engineering Corp … had been able to … repair it properly. She will … know what to … do …”
“Visid Sneaden will be brought before you whole and complete!”
The High Leader continued to stare at the miniature of his former metal body. “And later … perhaps … a new body … larger than my original … before I kill her …”
“If you would like, High Leader, I will attend that evisceration myself!” Hon-Tet chuckled.
“… yes …”
“Will there by anything else, High Leader?”
“Yes …”
Hon-Tet clicked his heels together again. “Give me your wish, High Leader!”
“… get … out …”
Hon-Tet stood puzzled for a moment, smoke tendrils leaking from his open mouth. “High Leader?”
“I wish … for you to … get… out …” The words were harsh, amplified, hoarse.
“Yes, High Leader! I will let you know the second Visid Sneaden has arrived!”
“… get … out!”
“Immediately, High Leader!”
Trailing his hookah, Hon-Tet withdrew.
Prime Cornelian removed his gaze from the metal carapace and turned his attention once more to the window. In the far distance, over the low mountain range to the right of Sacajawea Patera, the bright bar of light continued to flare, as his plasma soldiers battled Dalin Shar to the nearing end.
The fear was gone.
It was nearly over.
Tomorrow, he would rule all of the worlds.
And he would live.
Deep in his swaddle of blankets, the Puppet Death thrust another hot knife of pain into Prime Cornelian, and twisted.
He cried out, his voice amplified by the oval device in front of his ruined mouth.
Tomorrow.
Chapter 28
After twenty hours, Dalin Shar knew they were beaten. Their mountain retreat, with Visid Sneaden still in it, had been surrounded and taken; most of their positions in and around Arabia Terra had been overrun. Only Dalin’s present position, overlooking a mountain pass into which squads of plasma soldiers kept marching like robots, to be neutralized by the weapons Benel Kran had mounted in the canyon walls, was still free. But it was only a matter of time before Dalin and his small army was surrounded by Martian Marines and overrun.
Benel Kran, studying his portable Screen, reported, “Martian Marines have taken the other ridge, Sire. Erik Peese has been killed.”
The king shook his head grimly. “He was a good man.”
&n
bsp; A Martian skim copter flew low over their position, making them instinctively duck even though they had the cover of a cave opening. The craft hovered, turned like a red hummingbird with its needle snout pointed at them.
“They know exactly where we are—” Dalin began.
A flurry of raser fire from the king’s men hidden in crevices above them fell on the copter; it darted back, out of range, and turned to fly off.
A raser cannon shot hit it broadside, sending it cascading in bright pieces to the canyon floor below.
“No doubt they called in our position,” Benel said, studying his Screen. “Yes, they did. And they’re sending some big guns our way.”
The physicist moved aside to let Dalin see the troop carriers steaming their way, flanking the two sides of the canyon, peppering the walls with hot raser fire as they proceeded.
“Where are they now?” the king inquired.
“We have five minutes. And nowhere to go; the other end of the canyon--”Benel switched views; the Screen showed Martian positions fortifying their rear”--is sealed off.” He tried a weak smile. “Can we go up?”
Dalin shook his head. “In fact, it’s time to tell Shatz to leave.”
Nodding, Benel called up the fleet on his Screen.
Before the angry-looking pirate could say anything, Dalin ordered, “I want you to make your way to the moon colony on Callisto, as we planned. If we can somehow get out, we’ll meet you there—”
“We’re coming in to get you, Sire!” Shatz Abel growled.
“You’re not. If you do, there’ll be nothing left of you by the time you land. And we’ll be in Prime Cornelian’s hands by then anyway. That’s a direct order, Shatz Abel.”
Painfully, he cut off the transmission, and the pirate’s oaths.
“I do believe—” Benel Kran said, turning away from his Screen in surprise.
Dalin turned also, to meet the contingent of Martian Marines entering the cave.
Shatz Abel was angry enough to tear his own hair out.
“I want to hit something!” he shouted, turning away from his Screen.
A doleful Captain Weens called from the pilot’s seat, “Ye may get your chance.”
Return - Book III of the Five Worlds Trilogy Page 17