Avengers of the Moon

by Allen Steele

  The lamps revealed an open, vertical shaft, so wide that their rays barely reached the far walls, so deep that it appeared to be bottomless. Curt peered upward; it was difficult to tell for certain how high the shaft was, but it seemed to rise thousands of feet. So far as he could tell, there was no ceiling; the shaft was a red chimney, rising to an opening far above.

  “Do you know where we are?” N’Rala had come up beside him.

  There was only one possible explanation. “We’re inside Mons Ascraeus,” Curt replied, awestruck by what lay before him.

  “Very good.” She nodded in approval. “Yes, we’re deep within the volcano. Many millions of years ago, while Ascraeus was still active, lava tubes were formed during its eruptions, and they in turn were connected to the central vent. The volcano is extinct, of course, but its tubes and vents remain as sort of an underground tunnel network.” She pointed to the shaft yawning before them. “This leads through the planet’s crust to the mantle … perhaps even to the core.”

  “It could be interesting to find out.” The fledgling scientist in Curt was intrigued. “Perhaps a probe or a drone—”

  “Some have already discovered what’s down there,” N’Rala said quietly. “But they’ll never report back.”

  One of the aresians laughed when she said this. Joan gaped at him, the fear evident on her face. Otho glared at N’Rala. “Is that why you’ve brought us here? To see how your boss makes his enemies disappear?” He made a flatulent sound with his lips. “Some magician. Kind of a charlatan, if you ask me.”

  Another aresian grabbed his wrists and yanked them upward, twisting Otho’s arms just enough to make him wince. “Careful how you speak of Ul Quorn!” he hissed, pushing his face next to Otho’s. “The Sons of the Two Moons have little tolerance for those who disrespect our leader.”

  “Yeah, okay, okay,” Otho muttered. “Ul Quorn … nicest guy on Mars. Real peach of a fella.”

  “Your fate is something only you can decide,” N’Rala said. “Your actions in the next few minutes will decide whether you’ll see this place again. Choose them wisely.”

  Curt chose not to respond. A couple of minutes passed, then a new sound entered the volcano shaft: the roar of jet engines, as if something was coming down from above. Peering upward through the gate, Curt spotted a dark object outlined by small running lights arrayed about its circular rim. As it came closer, the object resolved itself into an air raft, the kind often used to clean the windows of high-rise buildings on Earth, piloted by a single individual at its control pedestal and kept aloft by rotary jets.

  The pilot brought the raft to hover beside the entrance to the lava tube. One of the aresians unlatched the gate and pushed both sides open, then the pilot nudged the raft close enough to the ledge for those waiting for it to come aboard. The aresian who’d opened the gate stepped onto the raft, then helped N’Rala, her driver, and their three prisoners aboard. He then stepped back off the raft into the tunnel, and was already closing the gate as the raft began its ascent back the way it had come.

  The trip up the shaft was gradual and easy, with barely any vibration. Curt was mildly surprised to find that he was able to stay on his feet. He thought briefly about attempting to overcome N’Rala and the two Sons of the Two Moons but decided against it. His hands were tied, as were Otho’s and Joan’s. Even if they overcame N’Rala and her driver, all the raft pilot would have to do was roll the craft just a few degrees port or starboard to cause everyone aboard to lose their balance. And falling off the raft would be a hideous way to die. It would take a very long time for someone to reach whatever lay at the bottom of the vent, and they’d be conscious all the way down.

  Glancing up, Curt saw something new: a dark purple sky, tinged pink and gleaming with starlight. They’d nearly reached the top of the volcano; above them lay the Martian surface, touched by the first light of day.

  He’d just realized this when the raft cleared the vent. As the vehicle veered to the right, Curt saw that they were on a broad plain encompassed on all sides by a circle of ragged peaks and hills. This was the caldera of Mons Ascraeus: an immense, irregularly formed rock bowl at the volcano’s summit. Where there had once been a lake of molten lava was now a bare, flat expanse so large that the northern wall disappeared over the horizon while the southern cliffs loomed above them like an immense wall.

  Next to the pit from which they’d emerged was a settlement.

  Tents and open-sided tarps had been set up in a wide semicircle, an inflated airdome at one end. A radio mast stood nearby, and tripod-mounted floodlights were positioned within the row of tents, their beams focused upon a large space where it seemed as if work was being done to excavate something from the rocky ground. As strange as it may seem, it appeared as if an archaeological dig was taking place here, in a place where no ancient civilization had ever flourished, where no man had even set foot until modern times.

  The raft set down on a landing pad behind the tents where a small, broad-winged aircraft was already parked. While the driver stood guard, the pilot helped N’Rala assist Curt, Joan, and Otho down from the platform. Then, without a word, the two aresians marched Joan and Otho away, while N’Rala and an aresian who’d been waiting for them took custody of Curt.

  “Where are they taking them?” Curt asked, although he’d already noticed that Otho and Joan were being led toward the airdome.

  “Somewhere they’ll be comfortable,” N’Rala said. “They must be hungry. After all, you haven’t eaten since last night, and we’ve been traveling ever since then. So they’ll get a meal, too, if they’ll accept it.”

  Curt eyed the aresian who was covering him with a rifle. “Is that where we’re going? Breakfast?”

  “Not quite yet. Someone would like to meet you first.” She started to gently take hold of one of his bound arms, then shook her head in dismay. “He’s not going to need to be restrained anymore,” she said to the guard. “Release him.”

  The guard didn’t argue, but instead withdrew a large knife from a scabbard beneath his robe. Handing his rifle to N’Rala, he used the serrated blade to saw through the cords binding Curt’s wrists. Curt could see why N’Rala was so confident that he would cause them no trouble if he were cut loose. The sound of the returning raft had awakened the camp; as they walked past the tents, dozens of aresians were stepping out to see them. Most were armed.

  As they walked through the camp, Curt thrust his hands inside the pockets of his parka. A casual gesture, perfectly normal considering that he wasn’t wearing gloves and the early-morning air within the volcano summit was as frigid as it was thin, but it also hid what he was doing with his left hand: twisting the ring about until its crown was inside his palm, then tapping against it with his thumb.

  Curt had taken note of the radio mast as soon as the raft had touched down. That meant there was a transmitter somewhere in the camp. If there was, then his ring’s Anni node should be able to access it. It was still possible that normal Anni transmissions might be jammed, though, so now he was using an old, seldom-used code to send a brief, silent message … and hope that it got through.

  He, N’Rala, and the guard reached the largest tent, the one at the opposite end of the semicircle from the airdome where Otho and Joan had been taken. The guard unzipped its fabric door and walked in. A couple of moments passed, then he reappeared and motioned for N’Rala to bring Curt in.

  The tent was spacious and warm, with embroidered rugs laid across its floor and tapestries suspended from the walls. Shaded lanterns hung from the ceiling beams; they revealed a tall, robed figure seated in an armchair at the other end of the room. As N’Rala led Curt into the tent, the figure rose from his seat.

  “Good morning, Señor Newton … or should I say, Captain Future?” Smiling, the man before him spoke without a trace of condescension. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Ul Quorn.”

  PART SIX

  Fire on the Mountain

  I

  The being who stood b
efore Curt was nearly his own height, making him a little shorter than the average aresian. His skin was darker, too, lacking the distinct reddish hue of a Mars native. His hair was very long and as ivory white as that of an aphrodite, swept straight back from a high forehead and braided down his neck and past his shoulders. Dark eyes blazed within the deep sockets of a face lean and fine-boned, resembling a bas-relief sculpted from dark brown porcelain by a skilled artist.

  It was apparent that Ul Quorn was multiracial, a synthesis of terran, aresian, and aphrodite bloodlines. Yet it was his face that caught Curt’s attention. Somehow, he felt as if he’d seen it before, even though he knew this couldn’t be. The man was a stranger, and yet he was oddly familiar. And while it was also clear that Ul Quorn was perhaps as young as Curt himself, there was something about him that seemed aged, as if his body was a vessel for an old and corrupt soul.

  “The Magician of Mars, I presume.” It was the best Curt could manage at the moment. “I’ve heard much about you.”

  “Really?” Ul Quorn arched a whisker-thin eyebrow. “I’m flattered my reputation extends all the way to the Moon. Time was when no one beyond the Tharsis Ridge knew that name.” He gazed past Curt at N’Rala. “Appears I’ve become famous. Or infamous, at least.”

  “Is that all you have to say to me?” she asked.

  “Oh, no, of course not.” Ul Quorn extended an arm, and N’Rala crossed the room to let him drape it around her shoulders. “Thank you, m’lady,” he said as he pulled her close for a kiss on the cheek. “You’ve done well to bring him here, and unharmed as well.”

  “I’ve also brought his companions. The IPF officer and the albino.” She had to lean over a little for the buss; she was taller than her … master? Lover? Both? “I know you said they are expendable, but—”

  “Only if it was unavoidable, and I’m glad you didn’t. Having an IPF officer in custody may be useful, and as for the other fellow…” He smiled as he let her go, and gave Curt what was obviously intended to be a meaningful look. “Well, he’s more than merely an albino, isn’t he? I know someone who’s going to be interested in meeting him.”

  “Why be coy?” Curt tried to appear more relaxed than he actually was. “It’s Senator Corvo you’re talking about—Victor Corvo, who murdered my parents. Your silent partner in … well, whatever it is you’re trying to do.”

  Still smiling, Ul Quorn slowly nodded. “Very good. You’ve made that association. Yes, the senator and I are partners, although our relationship is a bit more”—he shared a glance with N’Rala—“complicated than that.”

  N’Rala laughed softly as she stepped away from Ul Quorn and headed for an antique Earth-made sideboard upon which a crystal decanter of dark wine rested. Ul Quorn gestured to the glass she was pouring and cocked an eye, asking Curt a silent question. Curt shook his head and he went on. “Actually, you and I have something in common so far as the honorable senator is concerned. He killed your father and mother … and he’s also the man who helped my mother conceive me.”

  Curt stared at him. “Corvo is your father?”

  Ul Quorn gravely nodded. “He is, indeed.”

  Curt did his best to hide his emotions, but nothing Ul Quorn could have said would have surprised him more. Now he realized why Ul Quorn seemed familiar. In his face, he saw Victor Corvo. There weren’t many offspring of Earth and Mars inhabitants, let alone those who’d intermarried with Venus natives as well. The three races were genetically compatible, of course, but social and cultural differences made such pairings uncommon. At once, he knew why Corvo had never claimed to have either wife or child. For a politician, this might have been too politically risky to reveal to voters, many of whom might harbor secret prejudices about mixed marriages.

  “I take it he never wanted anyone to know that he’d fathered a child with someone from Mars,” Curt said.

  “If it had only been that simple. If he’d just slept with an aresian, that might have been tolerable. But that he’d had an affair with a half-Martian, half-Venusian woman and knocked her up?” Ul Quorn shook his head, an angry scowl on his face. “Oh no … very bad for business. Especially since, even then, he was harboring certain political ambitions. So I was born not very long after you were, and while he was here making sure that my mother and I would be … taken care of, your parents and Simon Wright went into hiding on the Moon. You know the rest.”

  “Only so much as I’m concerned. But I think I can make a good guess.”

  “Oh, by all means, do so.” Ul Quorn accepted a glass of wine from N’Rala and strolled back to his chair, the hem of his robe brushing softly against the carpeted floor. “In fact, let’s make a little game of it. You make your guesses, and if you’re right, I’ll tell you everything you don’t know. And believe me, there’s quite a lot.”

  N’Rala cast him a sharp look. “Are you sure you want to do that?”

  “Indulge me.” Ul Quorn silenced her with a casual wave of his hand. “I’m bored.”

  “And if I guess wrong?” Curt asked.

  “Well, I’ll probably tell you anyway … but then you won’t get the special prize that’s waiting for you if you succeed.” The Magician of Mars languorously stretched out his legs and crossed his feet as he nestled the wineglass in his hands. “So, please. Let’s find out just how smart Captain Future really is.”

  He was trying to needle him by using that name. Somehow, he’d figured out that it was something he wasn’t quite comfortable wearing. Curt swallowed his irritation and folded his arms together. From the corner of his eye, he could see the aresian who’d escorted him and N’Rala from the landing pad shift. He was still holding a gun on him, but perhaps if he became just a little careless …

  “So there’s the two of you, secretly working with each other,” Curt began. “Victor Corvo, former venture capital entrepreneur who killed my parents because they wouldn’t go along with his plans for creating an android slave race.” He paused to look over at N’Rala. “That’s my friend Otho, if you didn’t know that before.” Her eyes widened, telling him that she didn’t, and he returned his attention to Ul Quorn. “And when that didn’t pan out the way he’d hoped, he went into politics and eventually became the senator for the Lunar Republic.”

  “Not bad.” Ul Quorn’s expression was unreadable. “Go on.”

  “He never became completely legit, though, and he still had big plans, so once you reached a certain age, he came to you and brought you in as his quiet partner—Ul Quorn, the Magician of Mars, leader of the Sons of the Two Moons.” Curt paused. “But the Sons have never been more than a front for what remained of Starry Messenger, have they? They’re not actually worshipping the Denebians. They’re just cover for what you’re really doing.”

  An angry hiss from the aresian guard. He took a step toward Curt, but stopped himself when Ul Quorn held up a hand. “There, my dear captain, you’re not entirely correct. Quite a few members of the Sons do indeed believe in the Old Ones.” He nodded toward his guard. “I’d be careful what you say about the Denebians. It’s a rather touchy subject for them.”

  “So that’s why the senator sponsored the Straight Wall monument?” Curt forgot for the moment the game he was supposed to be playing. “He wanted to preserve the Dancing Denebians because they’re worshipped by the Sons?”

  “There’s quite a bit more to it than that, but since you can’t possibly know what it is, I’ll let it pass, at least for now.” Ul Quorn took a sip of wine. “Please, continue … oh, and N’Rala? Would you please invite our other guest to join us?”

  She nodded and left, making sure that she didn’t walk between Curt and the guard on her way out. Curt briefly considered taking advantage of her departure to attack Ul Quorn, but decided against it; the guard was much too alert for that. “I know you’re behind the attempt on Carthew’s life,” he went on. “What I don’t understand is why you want to do that. How would the president’s death benefit you in any way?”

  Ul Quorn didn’t answer.
He seemed to be awaiting N’Rala’s return. When it appeared to be taking longer than he expected, he let out his breath as an annoyed sigh. “You’ve done very well, Captain Future—”

  “Don’t call me that.” Curt was becoming irritated by the way Ul Quorn kept saying his name. His other name.

  “—so I’m willing to cede the game even though you haven’t completely guessed my motives. You’ve demonstrated what I’d hoped to find in you—an intelligent and resourceful man who might be an asset to my operations.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “I’m not. However, you may change your mind once I show you what you’ve won.”

  Before Curt could answer, he heard the tent flap open behind him. As he began to turn, Ul Quorn rose from his chair. “Thank you for fetching our other guest, N’Rala,” he said, a smile stretching across his face. “Captain, I believe you two have met before.”

  N’Rala and another Son of the Two Moons had entered the tent. Braced between them, wrists lashed together behind his back, was Victor Corvo.

  Curt couldn’t make out the senator’s expression behind his airmask, but his eyes were infuriated. Ul Quorn glided toward them, arms outstretched in a grand gesture. “Curt Newton, I give you my father, Victor Corvo—the man who killed your parents.”

  II

  The ensign posted outside Vigilance’s control room snapped to attention the moment he saw Ezra Gurney come up the companionway. Gurney paid no attention to the salute he was given, though, but instead marched straight into the cruiser’s bridge.

  “Where’s the CO?” he demanded. The control room was a long, dark compartment built on two levels. The blue-white glow of comp screens and instrument panels provided most of the illumination, and his eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the gloom.

  “Here, Marshal.” A feminine voice spoke from the far end of the room. “Come this way, please.”