The Alien Web (Masters of Space Book 2)

by Robert E. Vardeman

  “You didn’t kill him, did you?” asked Kinsolving. “He could have led us to the source for those damned things.”

  “The Box of Delights? Its source is of no concern to you. This miserable destroyer of our culture is all that matters.”

  “Cut off the supply and people like him won’t have anything to sell,” protested Kinsolving. He saw that this argument got nowhere with Quixx. The arachnoid’s values were too alien. Or were they? Realization slowly dawned on Kinsolving. He saw only an isolated incident in what would be a long investigation.

  “Yes, human thing, we know the source of the Box of Delights. We are not the uncaring animals you seem to think we are.”

  “I never — ” Kinsolving bit off the words. “I wanted to help. You didn’t seem to be investigating.”

  “Your exploits are remarkable, especially for one acquainted with trees and not webs.”

  Kinsolving did not bother telling him that he had barely seen a tree until he had left Earth for the off-world colonies. Humans might be fallen brachial tree dwellers, but that did not mean he practiced his heredity as the arachnoids did.

  “What are you going to do with them?”

  “That one,” Quixx said, pointing to the addict, “will be executed.”

  “What? Wait, why? He was a victim.”

  “He murdered friends with this device. Do human things not consider murder a crime against the web?”

  “He didn’t know it would kill them. He’s lucky it didn’t kill him.”

  “He’s unlucky that it didn’t kill him,” Quixx corrected. “Those remaining behind with irreparable brain damage have been removed from the web of society. Those deaths fall on him, also.”

  Kinsolving remembered stories of the ancient — and not so ancient — Chinese ways of dealing with opium addiction. Death. For using, for selling, for trafficking. This arachnoid savagery appalled him, but there were precedents in human history.

  That didn’t make it right.

  “You might be able to care for them, help them recover. This craving can’t be natural.”

  “Our finest neurosurgeons have seen numerous cases before this day’s counting. There is nothing to do for those who use the Box of Delights. The higher functions vital to acceptance in the web are gone. They have exchanged a place in society for a fantasy world of belonging to the Supreme Web.”

  “That’s the common delusion?”

  Quixx shook all over, then settled down until his face was level with Kinsolving’s. “The resonance activates the portion of our brains that matches oneness with the Supreme Web. Use of the Box of Delights can achieve no other delusion.”

  Kinsolving did not understand what Quixx meant. “When you reach the rank of Supreme Web, there’s some neural trigger in your brain that is toggled?”

  “Imprecise words for a being without the proper concept of true attainment and glory.” Quixx’s head rocked from side to side. “Accept those thoughts as truth. They are close; they are distant. They must do you.”

  “You knew that Interstellar Materials has been supplying the brain burners?”

  “There could be no other source.”

  Kinsolving swallowed hard. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “All humans on this world might be destroyed.”

  “You’d lose valuable trade with human worlds.”

  Quixx made a rude noise, then shifted position, getting his long, hairy legs settled around him like a living star. “We trade with human worlds out of pity. There is little you supply that we need. Certainly nothing in electronics.” Kinsolving stared at the arachnoid. He had never thought of trade with the alien planets as being a form of aid, the more advanced helping the lesser beings achieve status. Humans were newcomers to the reaches of space; most suitable planets had been appropriated by other races.

  “Those in control at IM, including the chairman, have formulated what they call the Stellar Death Plan. It’s designed to leave Web in confusion, to kill billions. This will enable the company to move in and assume your markets.”

  Quixx repeated his rude noise.

  “There’s more,” Kinsolving went on. “Fremont and the others feel that you and the other alien races are deliberately holding back mankind through trade barriers.”

  “Racist,” Quixx said, the word sounding strangely sibilant as he spoke it. “This one does not understand the concept any more than you appear to embrace the oneness of the Supreme Web. This one has encountered the word often among you human things.”

  “You don’t feel inferior to other races, or to more advanced ones?”

  “We are superior beings. It is our destiny to aid those who are inferior to us.”

  “Surely, another race does something better, easier, quicker. You must envy someone.”

  “No.”

  The alien concepts — Kinsolving was not sure whether he or Quixx was the alien — refused explanation. The arachnoids of Web seemed secure in their knowledge that no one could be better. Kinsolving wondered if they denied the achievements of others, or if they were truly disinterested.

  “Do you ever compete with others? For planets, for commodities you need?”

  “Yes, of course. That is the nature of interspecies contact. Social friction with those not of the web. If it becomes too great, we fight. Or we do whatever else is required to reduce friction.”

  “You wouldn’t try to subvert another race, if you thought that was the only way to reduce friction?”

  “If the other species is of any intelligence, they will discover such meddling.”

  “As you have done,” Kinsolving said bitterly.

  “Humans are peculiar beings. Never before have we found such unformed creatures among the stars.” Quixx cocked his head to one side, then added, “Perhaps once. This one’s memory is faint and distant on the subject.”

  “What happened?”

  “We ate them. A particularly succulent species a few years’ travel toward the galactic centre.”

  “Are you going to do that with Earth? With humans?” Quixx spat. “No.” Kinsolving relaxed. Then he almost cried out in horror when Quixx added, “You taste bitter. There is no food value in your race. We must deal in other ways.”

  “Look,” Kinsolving said earnestly. “This is all Interstellar Materials’ doing — the company and its leaders. Earth as a planet is innocent.”

  Even as the words slipped out, Kinsolving wondered if he had spoken the truth. He did not know if this were true — but he hoped that it was. Earth’s official policies had always been to win acceptance from the other starfaring species. How far did the conspiracy of the Stellar Death Plan go? Through the various Earth governments? What other star-spanning corporations believed as Fremont and Humbolt and the others at IM and had joined forces in the Plan?

  His professors in school had been adamant about mankind finding a niche among the stars and in harmony with the others already there. Kinsolving could not believe that this was all a farce, a misdirection, a travesty.

  “We can interdict all cargo brought to our world,” Quixx said. “We need not do this, however, if the Supreme Web achieves oneness on a solution.”

  “You’re not going to hold Earth responsible for the actions of a few of its citizens, are you?”

  “This one has worked many strands,” Quixx said. “Never is it possible to predict how the Supreme Web will react.”

  “What about Andrianov? I know who killed him.”

  “The consul is of no importance, other than how his death reflects on others of your species. This one remains neutral on punishment to be meted out.”

  “Others demand severe punishment?”

  “Is this not the way with your race?” asked Quixx. “You do not have unanimity of opinion. You work against this

  Fremont and others loyal to his faction. And you do this without support of a strand.” Quixx shook his head. “Alone. You work alone, is that not true, Kinsolving?”

  “It is.”


  “This one cherishes the moment.”

  “What?”

  “Of knowing you,” explained Quixx. “Although none of this one’s race would be so foolish, your actions show determination and a savagery to be savoured.”

  “I only wanted to help. It’s wrong to kill off an entire species.”

  “We have done it. There is nothing wrong with it. But the reasons for the action are important. Your Fremont and Interstellar Materials have failed to find good reasons. For that, then, they must be stopped. The Supreme Web will act.”

  A hairy leg reached out and pulled Kinsolving to his feet. Barely able to stand, Kinsolving wobbled toward the tunnel leading out of the small grey room.

  “What of the brain burner?”

  “Leave it. Others will come for this doomed fool.” As he passed the supplier, Quixx cuffed the arachnoid again.

  “Where are we going?”

  Quixx snorted and pushed Kinsolving ahead of him into the tunnel. The shrill words coming from behind froze Kinsolving’s insides.

  “We go to the Supreme Web. Judgment must be passed. On Interstellar Materials, on Fremont, on you.”

  Judgment must be passed. The words rang over and over in Barton Kinsolving’s head as Quixx shoved him along the larger corridor outside and to an elevator that dropped them to ground level.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Cameron stirred when he felt himself moving. He thrashed about weakly, the pain more than he could bear. His arms refused to move properly and his head had been filled with exploding stars and a huge black hole in the centre dragging in all his strength. Cameron stopped fighting for a moment and tried to remember what had happened, how this sorry state had come about.

  He tried and failed. His thoughts jumbled like a lasered building, tumbling down into ruin, dust obscuring vision, noise drowning out real thought.

  “Dammit,” he heard someone say from light-years away. “Fix him. He can’t die.”

  Humming and clicking noises came that Cameron — almost — recognized. Robots. He knew the sounds came from robots. Those were what he did best. His fingers worked miracles. He was a genius in programming and design. Yes, robots. His. His!

  He tried to hold that thought and failed. The pain overwhelmed him and a numbing tide seized him. He fell into the black hole, not even trying to fight its fatal attraction.

  Cameron’s awareness returned slowly, but his memory refused to give up the facts of what had occurred.

  “Is he all right?” demanded a querulous voice. Cameron forced open an eyelid and peered into bright lights. The pain at the back of his retina caused him to retreat once more to the safety of closed eyes.

  Memories rose within his mind, forcing away the black pit that continued to suck at his consciousness. He remembered his life on Earth, the orphanage, the abuse, his vows to never allow that to happen again, how he escaped.

  “No!” Cameron moaned out. “Get away. Let me be. I can do it myself. What do I need you for?”

  Strong hands gripped his shoulders and shook. Pain almost robbed him of his precarious grip on the world.

  “Do not,” came a metallic voice. “You are harming the patient.”

  “I don’t care if I kill the son of a bitch. I’ve got to find out what happened in there.”

  Cameron remembered bits. Humbolt. Director. Director Kenneth Humbolt. And the robotic voice? An automedic. Injury? Had he been injured? It must surely be that he had. Humbolt showed no sign of weakness. Cameron groaned as the pain escalated from Humbolt’s shaking.

  Transcending weakness, Cameron reached down inside and pulled up the indomitable willpower that had freed him from his masters at the orphanage, the power that had brought him to the pinnacle of power at Interstellar Materials. He grabbed Humbolt’s punishing hand and wrenched as hard as he could.

  A loud shriek of agony fed his strength. He twisted harder, feeling the bones giving in the wrist, the fingers folding back in unnatural directions.

  “Dammit, Cameron, stop that!”

  Cameron dared to open his eyes. A smile danced on his lips. He held Humbolt’s hand in a deceptively gentle grip, the director could not know that Cameron was expending all his precious, jealously garnered strength to keep from fainting.

  “Am I hurting you, Kenneth?” he asked. His voice sounded weak. He must never show weakness. Not to a worm like Kenneth Humbolt. Not to anyone.

  “What happened in the warehouse?” demanded Hum-bolt. Cameron released his grip and let the director back away. The man rubbed his wrist.

  To the automedic, Cameron said, “Director Humbolt’s wrist is damaged. Scan it and repair, if necessary.”

  “Cameron,” protested Humbolt, but he subsided and let the automedic do its work.

  “Only a minor sprain, sir,” reported the obedient robot. “However, you have sustained a dangerous injury.”

  “Detail,” he snapped. Cameron’s cold eyes fixed on

  Humbolt, daring the director to protest this shift in authority. Humbolt said nothing. He sat, rubbing his wrist.

  “You have sustained a hematoma of the dura mater.”

  “Further,” Cameron prompted. His head pulsed and throbbed until he wanted to scream. Only Humbolt’s presence prevented such an outburst on his part.

  “You have sustained a concussion that bruised the fibrous membrane covering your brain. Treatment has progressed well.”

  “I feel like debris,” complained Cameron.

  “There is little more that can be done without proper attention. It is recommended that you return immediately to Gamma Tertius 4 where proper medical facilities can be brought to bear on your medical emergency.”

  “It couldn’t be much of an emergency,” said Cameron. “I can still move.”

  “There is certain brain damage to correct. Facilities do not exist on this planet for such precision work. I am only a mobile automedic unit, not a hospital unit.”

  “We’ll get you back to Gamma Tertius,” said Humbolt. “After we’ve talked. What happened? Who hit you?” The sneer in Humbolt’s voice hurt Cameron worse than his head.

  “I…I don’t remember. Not exactly. It’s all twisted around like a swirl of dust.”

  “Amnesia, both partial and complete, is often the result of such a serious head injury. You may find memory returning slowly, or not at all,” said the automedic. “It is my diagnosis that, upon receiving proper treatment, you will regain fully your memory and suffer no ill effects of the blow.”

  “Damn!” raged Humbolt. “You don’t know if you got Kinsolving or not, do you? He might have slugged you, then left untouched.”

  Cameron could not remember. He began reconstructing most probable outcomes, just as he would program a patrol robot to check all contingencies.

  “It was Kinsolving,” he said. “He must have escaped with a brain burner.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I can only assume that something happened to destroy my killer robots. It wasn’t possible to escape the trap I set for him without total deactivation of the killers. How he did that, I don’t know.”

  “The burned-out remains of your precious robots have been packed away.”

  “I’ll examine them later. There must be something to show how he — ”

  “The unit. Why do you think he’s got a brain burner?”

  “I was knocked unconscious,” said Cameron, his mind working more efficiently now that it had a definite problem. “He could roam at will through the warehouse with me unconscious. There were only a few aerial robots patrolling above, and those were programmed to prevent anyone from leaving.”

  “We shipped the crates with the brain burners hours ago. You mean Kinsolving might have put something into them? A bomb? A tracer?”

  “Calm yourself, Kenneth.” Cameron had recovered enough to again feel distaste for the director’s emotional outburst. “He might have, but if any robots did not detect anything as the crates left the warehouse, I doubt that they contain sens
ors or bombs. No, he took one. For evidence.”

  “The Bizzies didn’t even inspect the crates when we shipped them out.”

  “Beginning distribution of the more potent units now is dangerous, Kenneth.”

  “I’ve already ordered it. We’ve got to get them in circulation as fast as we can. The Plan demands it!”

  “The Plan demands only success. You’re jeopardizing it.”

  “A fine one to talk. Look at you: injured. A concussion. And who did it? The very man you were sent here to kill.”

  “You’ve examined the premises? How did he leave?”

  “Through the emergency tunnel. He opened the locking mechanism and returned the way he came.”

  Cameron settled back, relaxing. “Then my robots took care of our mutual problem. Anyone leaving would draw their attention. He might have deactivated the killer robots, but no device could also disable the aerial guardians.” Cameron worried about that point. His killers should have been invincible, and had been deactivated. The flying robots might have suffered a similar fate. But how could he admit this to Humbolt?

  “We didn’t find his body.”

  “No matter.” Cameron’s head began to throb.

  “Director Humbolt,” interrupted the automedic. “Mr. Cameron’s vital signs are showing distressing irregularity. He must be placed in a life-coma until better-equipped units on Gamma Tertius 4 can operate.”

  “Life-coma?” said Cameron, eyes opening. “No, not yet. Not yet. Only when you lift me to orbit.”

  “We’ve got a pair of cargo ships waiting to shift out,” said Humbolt. “We’ll get you out right away on the Pluto. I’ll wait to verify distribution and follow on the Persephone.”

  “Go tend to it, Kenneth,” said Cameron, an edge to his voice. “I’m not sure how much longer I can hold on.”

  “Let the damned robot put you under. The next thing you’ll know will be at headquarters.”

  “See to it, Kenneth.” Cameron’s voice turned icy. The director muttered to himself and hurried from the room.

  Cameron lay back, the room spinning in crazy orbits that changed constantly. When the procession of the walls died down to a bearable movement, Cameron said, “Bring my workbox.”