Nightflyers & Other Stories

by George R. R. Martin

  He kicked free of the corpse, and moved to the debris of his launch, still hung up on the rocks that had caught it. Shielded by the wreck, he’d be difficult to find, or at least to see. And if his enemy couldn’t see him, it would be hard to send the corpses against him.

  Meanwhile, maybe he could find his enemy.

  His enemy. Who? Bartling, of course. It had to be Bartling, or one of his hirelings. Who else?

  But where? They had to be close, within sight of the beach. You can’t run a corpse by remote control; the sense feedback isn’t good enough. The only senses you get are vision and hearing, and then dimly. You have to see the corpse, see what it’s doing, and what you want it to do. So Bartling’s man was around here somewhere. In the cave. But where?

  And how? Kabaraijian considered that. It must be the other launch that Cochran had heard. Someone must have been following them, someone with an override box. Maybe Bartling had a tracer put on his launch during the night.

  Only how’d he know which launch to trace?

  Kabaraijian bent slightly so only his head showed above the water, and looked out around the end of the ruined launch. The beach was a white sand smear across the dim green length of the huge cavern. There was no noise but the water slapping the side of the boat. But there was motion. The second launch had been pulled free of the sand, and one of the corpses was climbing on board. The others, moving slowly, were wading out into the underground pool. Their picks rested on their shoulders.

  They were coming for him. The enemy suspected he was still here. The enemy was hunting for him. Again, he was tempted to dive toward the exit, to run and swim back toward daylight, out of this awful dimness where his own corpses stalked him with cold faces and colder hands.

  He squelched the impulse. He might get a head start while they searched the cavern. But, with the launch, they’d make it up in no time. He could try to lose them in the intricacies of the caves. But if they got ahead of him, they could just wait at caves’ ends. No, no. He had to stay there and find his enemy.

  But where? He scanned the cave, and saw nothing. It was a great expanse of murky green, stone and water and beaches. The pool was dotted by a few large rocks rising from the water. A man might be hiding behind them. But not a launch. There was nothing big enough to hide a launch. Maybe the enemy wore aquagear? But Cochran had heard a launch …

  The corpse boat was halfway across the cavern, heading for the exit. It was his dead man seated at the controls, the brown-haired one. The other two corpses trailed, as they walked slowly across the shallow pool in the wake of the launch.

  Three dead men, stalking. But somewhere their handler was hiding. The man with the override box. Their mind and their will. But where?

  The launch was coming closer. Was it leaving? Maybe they thought he’d run for it? Or … no, probably the enemy was going to blockade the exit, and then search the cave.

  Did they see him? Did they know where he was?

  Suddenly he remembered his corpse controller, and his hand fumbled under water to make sure it was still intact. It was. And working; controllers were watertight. It no longer controlled. But it still might be useful …

  Kabaraijian closed his eyes, and tried to shut off his ears. He deliberately blotted his senses, and concentrated on the distant sensory echoes that still murmured in his mind. They were there. Even vaguer than usual, but less confused; there were only two sets of images now. His third corpse floated a few feet from him, and it wasn’t sending anything.

  He twisted his mind tight, and listened, and tried to see. The blurs began to define themselves. Two pictures, both wavering, took form, superimposed over each other. A sense tangle, but Kabaraijian pulled at the threads. The pictures resolved.

  One corpse was waist deep in green water, moving slowly, holding a pick. It could see the shaft of the tool, and the hand wrapped around it, and the gradually deepening water. But it wasn’t even looking in Kabaraijian’s direction.

  The second dead man was in the launch, one hand resting on the controls. It wasn’t looking either. It was staring down, at the instruments. It took a lot of concentration for a corpse to run any sort of machine. So the handler was having it keep a firm eye on the engine.

  Only it could see more than just the engine. It had a very good view of the entire launch.

  And suddenly everything fell into place. Certain now that the wrecked launch hid him from view, Kabaraijian moved farther back into its shadow, then threw a hand over the side and pulled himself on board, crouching so he wouldn’t be found. The rocks had torn a hole in the bottom of the boat. But the tool chest was intact. He crawled to it, and flipped it open. The corpses had unpacked most of the mining equipment, but there was still a repair kit. Kabaraijian took out a heavy wrench and a screwdriver. He shoved the screwdriver into his belt, and gripped the wrench tightly. And waited.

  The other launch was nearly on top of him, and he could hear the purr of its motor and the water moving around it. He waited until it was next to his boat. Then he stood up suddenly, and jumped.

  He landed smack in the middle of the other boat, and the launch rocked under the impact. Kabaraijian didn’t give the enemy time to react—at least not the time it takes a corpse. He took a single short step, and brought the wrench around in a vicious backhanded blow to the deadman’s head. The corpse slumped back. Kabaraijian bent, grabbed its legs, and lifted. And suddenly the deadman was no longer in the launch.

  And Kabaraijian, wheeling, was looking down at the stunned face of Ed Cochran. He hefted the wrench with one hand even as his other reached for the controls, and upped the speed. The boat accelerated, and dove toward the exit. Cave and corpses vanished behind, and darkness closed in with the rocky walls. Kabaraijian switched on the lights.

  “Hello, Ed,” he said, hefting the wrench again. His voice was very steady and very cold.

  Cochran breathed a noisy sigh of relief. “Matt,” he said. “Thank God, I just came to. My corpses—they—”

  Kabaraijian shook his head. “No, Ed, it won’t wash. Don’t bother me with that, please. Just give me the override box.”

  Cochran looked scared. Then, fighting, he flashed his grin. “Heh. You gotta be kiddin’, right? I don’t have no override box. I told you I heard another launch.”

  “There was no other launch. That was a set-up, in case you failed. So was that blow you took on the beach. I’ll bet that was tricky—having your corpse swing the pick so you got hit with the side instead of the point. But it was very well done. My compliments, Ed. That was good corpse handling. As was the rest. It isn’t easy to coordinate a five-crew doing different things simultaneously. Very nice, Ed. I underestimated you. Never thought you were that good a handler.”

  Cochran stared at him from the floor of the launch, his grin gone. Then his gaze broke, and his eyes went back and forth between the walls that pressed around them.

  Kabaraijian waved the wrench again, his palm sweaty where he gripped it. His other hand touched his shoulder briefly. The bleeding had stopped. He sat slowly, and rested his hand on the motor.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me how I knew, Ed?” Kabaraijian said. Cochran, sullen, said nothing. “I’ll tell you anyway,” Kabaraijian continued. “I saw you. I looked through the eyes of my corpse, and I saw you huddled here in the boat, lying on the floor and peeking over the side to try and spot me. You didn’t look dead at all, but you looked very guilty. And suddenly I got it. You were the only one with a clear view of that stuff on the beach. You were the only one in the cave.”

  He paused, awkward. His voice broke a little, and softened. “Only—why? Why, Ed?”

  Cochran looked up at him again. He shrugged. “Money,” he said. “Only money, Matt. What else?” He smiled; not his usual grin, but a strained, tight smile. “I like you, Matt.”

  “You’ve got a peculiar way of showing it,” Kabaraijian told him. He couldn’t help smiling as he said it. “Whose money?”

  “Bartling’s,” said Coch
ran. “I needed money real bad. My estimates were low, I didn’t have anything saved. If I had to leave Grotto, that would’ve meant selling my crew just for passage money. Then I’d be a hired handler again. I didn’t want that. I needed money fast.”

  He shrugged. “I was going to try smuggling some swirlstones, but you didn’t make that sound good. And last night I got another idea. I didn’t think that crap about organizing us and outbidding Bartling would work, but I figured he’d be interested. So I went to see him after I left the tavern. Thought he might pay a little for the information, and maybe even make an exception, let me stay.”

  He shook his head dourly. Kabaraijian stayed silent. Finally Cochran resumed. “I got to see him, him with three bodyguards. When I told him, he got hysterical. You’d humilated him already, and now he thought you were on to something. He—he made me an offer. A lot of money, Matt. A lot of money.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t come cheap.”

  Cochran smiled. “Nah, he said. “Bartling really wanted you, and I made him pay. He gave me the override box. Wouldn’t touch it himself. He said he’d had it made in case the ‘meatminds’ and their ‘zombies’ ever attacked him.” Cochran reached into the pocket of his tunic, and look out a small, flat cartridge. It looked like a twin for the controller on his belt. He flipped it lightly through the air at Kabaraijian.

  But Kabaraijian made no effort to catch it. The box sailed past his shoulder, and hit the water with a splash.

  “Hey,” said Cochran. “You shoulda got that. Your corpses won’t respond till you turn it off.”

  “My shoulder’s stiff,” Kabaraijian started. He stopped abruptly.

  Cochran stood up. He looked at Kabaraijian as if he were seeing him for the first time. “Yeah,” he said. His fists clenched. “Yeah.” He was a full head taller than Kabaraijian, and much heavier. And suddenly he seemed to notice the extent of the other’s injuries.

  The wrench seemed to grow heavier in Kabaraijian’s hand. “Don’t,” he warned.

  “I’m sorry,” Cochran said. And he dove forward.

  Kabaraijian brought the wrench around at his head, but Cochran caught the blow before it connected. His other hand reached up and wrapped itself around Kabaraijian’s wrist, and twisted. He felt his fingers going numb.

  There was no thought of fair play, or mercy. He was fighting for his life. His free hand went to his waist and grabbed the screwdriver. He pulled it out, and stabbed. Cochran gasped, and his grip suddenly loosened. Kabaraijian stabbed again, and twisted up and out, ripping a gash in tunic and flesh.

  Cochran reeled back, clutching at his stomach. Kabaraijian followed him and stabbed a third time, savagely. Cochran fell.

  He tried to rise once, and gave it up, falling heavily back to the floor of the launch. Then he lay there, bleeding.

  Kabaraijian went back to the motor, and kept the boat clear of the walls. He guided them down the passages smoothly, through the caves and the tunnels and the deep green pools. And in the harsh boat light, he watched Cochran.

  Cochran never moved again, and he spoke only once. Just after they had left the caves and come out into the early afternoon sun of Grotto, he looked up briefly. His hands were wet with blood. And his eyes were wet too. “I’m sorry, Matt,” he said. “I’m damn sorry.”

  “Oh, God!” Kabaraijian said, his voice thick. And suddenly he stopped the boat dead in the water, and bent to the supply cache. Then he went to Cochran and dressed and bandaged his injuries.

  When he reached the controls again, he flipped the speed up to maximum. The launch streaked across the glittering green lakes.

  But Cochran died before they reached the river.

  Kabaraijian stopped the boat then, and let it float dead in the water. He listened to the sounds of Grotto around him; the rush of river water pouring into the great lake, the songbirds and the daywings, the ever-active lakeleapers arcing through the air. He sat there until dusk fell, staring upriver, and thinking.

  He thought of tomorrow and the day after. Tomorrow he must return to the swirlstone caves. His corpses should have frozen when he moved out of range; they should be salvageable. And one of Cochran’s crew was still there, too. Maybe he could still piece together a three-crew, if the corpse he’d pushed overboard hadn’t drowned.

  And there were swirlstones there, big ones. He’d get that egg of dancing fog, and turn it in, and get a good estimate. Money. He had to have money, all he could scrape together. Then he could start talking to the others. And then … and then Bartling would have a fight on his hands. Cochran was one casualty, the first. But not the last. He’d tell the others that Bartling had sent a man out with an override box, and that Cochran had been killed because of it. It was true. It was all true.

  That night Kabaraijian returned with only one corpse in his launch, a corpse that was strangely still and unmoving. Always his corpses had walked behind him into the office. That night the corpse rode on his shoulder.

  Chicago

  December, 1972

  Weekend in a War Zone

  Saturday dawn, with the sun just a dim light behind the clouds. They’re passing out the guns. We’re outside, in the ready base on the edge of the war zone, standing in line and shuffling through an inch of slush. I don’t understand why they make us stand in line. They could have given us the guns inside, with the uniforms. It’s cold out here.

  The armorer is the same guy that ran the credit check. Reed-thin, sallow complexion, squinty little eyes. Bored before and bored now, taking his own sweet time about everything. While we stand here and go shuffle-shuffle through the slush. He writes down the serial number of every rifle he hands over. I guess there is an extra charge if you lose the damn thing. They charge for everything. This weekend will cost a fortune. I wonder, again, what the hell I’m doing here. Tennis is a hell of a lot cheapter. And you come back alive. Always. Every time.

  My turn. The armorer squints at me, checks the serial number on the gun he’s holding, writes it down, hands it over. Name, he asks for. “Birch,” I say. “Andrew Birch.” He writes that down, too. I take the gun and move off. The next guy shuffles up to the table.

  The gun is smooth black plastic, long as my arm, contours all flowing graceful towards the snout at the business end. It feels slick and cold in my hand, and there’s a smell of oil about it. It’s unloaded. I take a cartridge chamber from my belt and slip it in, and it clicks as it locks in place. Now I’m ready. Like the guys in the ads. My first patrol. An armed soldier. A man. Right.

  What bullshit.

  I don’t think I’m much of a soldier. I hold the gun awkwardly, despite the company hypnotraining. I don’t know quite what to do with it. If I knew, I wouldn’t want to do it. I play tennis on weekends. I don’t belong here. I was an idiot to come. What if they shoot me? The Concoms have guns, too.

  I turn the gun over, examine it. There’s a rough spot on the underside of the barrel. Lettering. A serial number and a legend: PROPERTY OF MANEUVER, INC.

  Stancato drifts over, his gun under his arm, flipping up the nightvisor on his helmet. He’s got the helmet tilted to one side. Rakishly, I suppose. That’s Stancato. What’s worse, it looks good on him. In combat boots and helmet and this mess of green and brown that Maneuver tries to pass off as a uniform, he manages to look good. Rugged, masculine. He’s at home out here, his stance says. He shouldn’t be. It’s his first time, too. I know that.

  Stancato always looks natural. He’s taller than I am, and he’s all lean muscle and dark good looks. I’m short and moon-faced, with wishy-washy brown hair. Stancato eats like a horse and it doesn’t disturb his chic body at all. I turn to flab the second I’m not paying attention. Stancato wears all the latest at the office. Now it’s flare-necks and half-capes, last month it was something else. He looks cool and fashionable. I wear the same stuff and I look like an overdressed moron.

  I suspect I look like a moron now, in this uniform. It doesn’t fit. It bunches in all the wrong places, and it’s tig
ht where it shouldn’t be. It’s not even warm. The wind cuts right through it. You think we’d get better, with the fee they make us pay. I’ve got half a mind to report them to Consumer Protection. If I come back alive.

  Stancato fondles his gun, and smiles at me. “A nice piece of hardware,” he says. “It’ll do good by us.” How the hell does he know? His first trip, he talks like a vet already. But he’s probably right. It’ll do good by him.

  The drop-chopper is revving up across the ready-base, but it’s not time to go yet. The others are still shuffling through the muck. I feel called upon to say something. I often feel that way, especially around Stancato. He’s got a way of coming up to me and saying something that almost forces me to stick my foot in my mouth.

  This time I think. I don’t want him to know how nervous I am. “You think old man Dolecek will notice us?” I say, finally. Dolecek is our boss. The reason I’m here. The fucker maneuvers every weekend, been doing it for twenty years. Says a man isn’t really a man until he’s been blooded. Sounds just like a war zone commercial. But the fucker has a promotion to give, and I haven’t had a promotion in two years. This had better impress him.

  Stancato is here for the same reason, only he won’t admit it. He says he got bored with tennis and golf and hiking, wants more excitement. Stancato is a greedy bastard. He’s two years younger than me, but we’re the same grade already. Now he wants to pass me by.

  “Dolecek signed up to be a major this time out,” Stancato says, grinning. “He’s not going to see us, Andy boy. He won’t even know you’re here. So just relax and enjoy it.”

  Everybody has their guns now. The sarge lets out a bark, and we all trot towards the drop-chopper. It’s a big noisy thing, all green metal and roaring rotors whapping the air, with the Maneuver trademark on its side. There are long benches along either wall, and the platoon fills them quickly. I wind up between Stancato and an older man with a smashed-in nose and an immense gut. Just a grunt, like the rest of us poor slobs, but I notice he’s got vet marks on his sleeve. He’s done this before, and he’s got lots of killpoints in his time. I study his face, try to figure out what makes him a killer, instead of a killee. Nothing shows, though.