by Allen Steele
“Then if you’re not on the Comet,” Ezra asked, “who’s flying the ship?”
“I am,” the Brain replied. “Even as we speak, I’m using Vigilance’s telemetry to interface directly with the Comet’s command and control network. This is one of the reasons why I asked you to launch this vessel and follow us. So long as the Vigilance remains within communications range of the Comet, I can operate the ship just as if it was on a fly-by-wire system … my presence aboard isn’t necessary.” He paused. “Or desirable, as the case may be.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Marshal Gurney, as you may have surmised by now, the Comet is unsuitable for a rescue effort. It has no armaments, nor can it lift off from the Martian surface and achieve escape velocity.”
“We can send in an assault force,” E.J. said. “After all, that’s what you requested.”
“Yes, but not for the camp Curt has located in the Ascraeus Mons caldera. I believe he wants you to send troops to the tolou instead, to shut down the Starry Messenger stronghold he, Otho, and Joan have discovered. An attack on the volcano, though, would be futile. Ul Quorn has them prisoner, and would probably execute them the instant he saw a Solar Guard or IPF craft.”
“Then the Comet? What’s it doing?”
“The one thing it can do—crash into the camp where they have been taken prisoner and destroy it entirely. I’ve just received another Morse code signal from Curt, confirming that those are his instructions.”
Ezra stared at the Brain. He knew what he wanted to say, but suddenly found that he was unable to speak; it was as if his throat had closed up. Yet E.J. seemed to know what he was thinking, for she voiced the thoughts he was unable to express. “You know, of course, what that means. Everyone down there will be killed.”
“I’m aware of that,” Simon Wright said, “and I’m certain Curt is, too. But I’m confident that he’ll figure a way out of their predicament.”
“Or so you hope,” Ezra quietly added.
VII
“So what were the Old Ones doing here, you ask?” Ul Quorn left Oog in Otho’s hands as he stepped out from beneath the tarp. “Well, I’ll show you. Come.”
He beckoned for the others to follow him over to where the excavations lay. When they got closer, Curt saw where it appeared that the sand and stones had been painstakingly shoveled aside, exposing what lay just beneath the surface. And it was here that he saw what countless archaeologists had dreamt of finding: evidence of a second Denebian presence in the solar system.
What appeared to be a half-dozen arches lay upon their sides, partially buried by the red silt beneath which they’d rested for countless millennia. Looking closer, Curt realized that they were actually rings that had broken apart, perhaps as they were toppling over from the vertical position they’d once occupied. Each was about ten feet in diameter, the outer surface smooth and rounded, the inner surface flat and grooved. Irregular markings upon the sides showed where something once had been etched, but had long since been rubbed clean by wind, sand, and time.
Ul Quorn said nothing, but only smiled and waited patiently while Curt knelt beside one of the broken rings and lightly ran his hand over it. Some compound of metal and stone, as improbable as it may seem; he wondered if it was the same metallic ore found in class-M asteroids. He looked about, noting the placement of the rings. Whatever they were, the rings had once stood in a row, much as if they were a tunnel or …
“A portal,” he said quietly.
“Very good, Captain. An excellent deduction.” Ul Quorn softly clapped his hands. “Yes, this was once a portal. A wormhole generator, or perhaps a matter transmitter. In any case, a conduit between worlds, maybe even the Denebian system itself.”
“How can you be so sure?” Standing up, Curt made a show of brushing the sand off his hands. In the second that his back was turned to Ul Quorn, he raised his hand to the front of his parka and unzipped it. “It could be anything. A sculpture. A religious artifact. A broken laundry machine.”
Joan laughed at this, but their captors weren’t amused. “Blasphemer,” one of the Sons of the Two Moons hissed angrily as he took a couple of steps toward Curt.
“Stop.” The Magician of Mars raised his hand. “Forgive our guest. He will be only but the first to learn the error of his beliefs, when he’s told the truth of the Old Ones.”
Once again, the Sons briefly bowed their heads at the mention of the Old Ones. This was the distraction for which Curt had been waiting. In the second that he’d turned his back to Ul Quorn, and the Sons were looking down, he slipped his hand inside his parka and under the sweater he wore beneath it. His fingers found the disconnected power cord for his plasmar. A quick snap, and it was connected to the object he wore under his sweater.
Now he was ready. Another glance up at the sky. No sign of the Comet yet. He slid his hand out of his parka before anyone noticed.
“Deneb is almost three thousand light-years away,” Curt said. “Even if they could build some sort of gateway to their homeworld, why would they want to do so? They didn’t travel all this distance just to provide themselves with the means of getting home.”
“They would if they were building an interstellar empire.” Ul Quorn looked at him again; apparently he didn’t notice that Curt’s parka was unzipped. “And if that was their intent, and they were accustomed to strategic planning in terms of hundreds of millennia, why not provide the means for other races to do this for them? Visit a system, place a portal in a stable place on an inhabited world, provide clues as to where it can be found by a race that they estimate will eventually develop spacefaring capabilities, and then move on. That way, you don’t have to build and maintain an empire—the empire builds itself and comes to you.”
“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever—” Otho began, and shut up when he caught a threatening shove from the Son behind him.
“It’s an intriguing idea,” Curt said. “There’s just one problem.” He pointed to the ruins. “This isn’t a functional portal. It hasn’t been in many, many years.”
“That’s correct,” Ul Quorn said, “but this isn’t the only thing we found here.” He pointed to another excavation, this one on the other side of the rings. “There’s nothing there now but a hole,” he continued, “but even before we discovered the portal, we discovered something even more important—another tablet of Denebian petroglyphs, this one more sophisticated than the ones left on the Moon. Once I finish translating it, I believe that it will provide me with all the information I need to build a second portal. And when this is accomplished—”
As he spoke, Ul Quorn turned away from Curt to address the Sons of the Two Moons gathered around them. “—We will meet our true masters, the Old Ones who came to these worlds when the human race was still in its infancy. We will request their aid in driving the men of Earth from the rest of the solar system, and in return we’ll allow them to replace the Solar Coalition with the Denebian empire. We will become part of a galactic union older than recorded history, and thus achieve the destiny ordained by the Old Ones.”
All around them, the Sons of the Two Moons touched fingers to foreheads and bowed in reverence. As they did, Curt happened to glance at Victor Corvo. The senator was staring at his son with horror and disbelief. At last, he’d come to realize what Curt already had: Ul Quorn, the Magician of Mars, was raving mad.
“You’re out of your mind,” Corvo said.
Hearing this, Ul Quorn turned to regard him silently for several long seconds before beckoning N’Rala to come closer. He whispered something in her ear, and she smiled, nodded, and walked away. Ul Quorn watched her go, then turned to Curt again.
“So, Curt … or Captain Future, as you may prefer—”
“My friends call me Curt. You can call me Captain Future.”
“Perhaps that will change.” Clasping his hands together behind his back, Ul Quorn walked closer until the two men were eye to eye. “I’ve told you everything you wished to know
and then some, but I didn’t do this out of braggadocio. I meant it earlier when I said that I’ve come to respect you. I’m also sympathetic to the fact that you desire revenge.” He cocked his head toward Corvo. “He took from you even more than he took from me. I can’t give that back to you, but I can give you something else—a place at my side, and a role in the empire that’s soon to come.”
“Curt—” Joan began.
“Be quiet,” Ul Quorn said without looking at her, and the Son guarding Joan grabbed her arm hard enough to make her yelp. “I’ll also spare the lives of your companions … or dispose of them, if that’s what you prefer. Your choice.”
“I see.” Curt slowly nodded. “And if I choose not to accept your offer?”
“Then you’ll find out how I make my foes disappear.”
A meaningful glance in the direction of the nearby volcano vent was unnecessary but chilling nonetheless. Curt didn’t reply but instead looked away, as if contemplating the choice that had been laid before him. He didn’t dare look upward again. Ul Quorn might be out of his mind, but nonetheless he was quite intelligent, and he might begin to seriously wonder why Curt kept checking the sky. So Curt had to hope that the Brain had received his signals and he and Grag had followed his orders, and assume that the Comet was closing in. For if not …
“Ah … thank you, N’Rala,” Ul Quorn said. “This will do nicely.”
Curt looked back at Ul Quorn again, and discovered that N’Rala had just handed him a familiar object: the plasmar.
“Such an interesting weapon.” Ul Quorn turned Curt’s gun over in his hands, speculatively examining it. “It was brought to me from the King and Queen, and obviously it’s not your usual firearm. On the other hand, my people have been unable to use it.” He looked at Curt questioningly. “Can you tell me why?”
“It’s a plasma toroid gun,” Curt said. “Simon Wright and I invented it. It can’t be fired because it needs to be plugged into an outside energy source, like the battery pack on my belt.”
“Oh, so that’s how it works.” Ul Quorn juggled the gun for another moment or two, and then extended it to Curt. “Why don’t you show me? Shoot my father.”
“No!” Corvo went pale. “Son, you don’t—!”
He tried to bolt, but the Sons stopped him before he could take more than a few steps. One of them threw his fist into the senator’s stomach hard enough to sink him to his knees, then both aresians stepped aside, leaving Corvo on his own.
“This is my gift to you,” Ul Quorn said, speaking as if Corvo’s escape attempt was nothing more than a minor distraction. “My father’s life, yours to take.” He continued to offer Curt’s gun to him. “Kill him. With my compliments.”
Curt gazed at the plasmar for a moment, and then took it from Ul Quorn. Folding his arms together, the Magician of Mars stepped back. He seemed confident that Curt wouldn’t turn his weapon on him, and he was right; Curt knew that if he so much as twitched in Ul Quorn’s direction, the Sons would shoot him dead.
“Curt … don’t do it,” Joan said, her voice all but entirely muffled by her airmask.
He ignored her, and reached to his belt and uncoiled the spare power cord attached to it. He plugged the cord in the gun’s butt; it made a soft whine, then a light on the stock flashed on, signaling that the plasmar was fully charged and ready to be fired.
Satisfied, Curt turned toward Corvo. He stared at the man who’d ordered the death of his father and mother for a long time, savoring the fear in his face. High above the craggy walls of the volcano’s summit, a thin white streak was beginning to form in the sky, but he didn’t notice this as he slid his left hand within his parka again while, at the same moment, he raised the gun in his right hand and leveled it at his target.
“Good-bye, Senator,” Curt said.
And then he disappeared.
VIII
When Otho and Joan had taken the shuttle down from Port Deimos to meet him in Xanthe Terra, Curt had Otho bring an important piece of equipment: the portable fantome generator. Joan didn’t know he had it with him, but Otho passed it to Curt in the duffel bag he’d carried through Martian customs. Curt had waited until they reached the Ascraeus tolou to strap the generator’s halter beneath his sweater and parka. He’d delayed using it since then, intuitively knowing that the moment would come when he’d need it the most.
When he saw that moment coming, he’d surreptitiously plugged the power cable into the battery pack on his belt. Curt wouldn’t be able to use both it and the plasmar at the same time—the power drain was too high—but he knew that he wouldn’t need to if he timed everything just right. So when he pressed the button beneath his parka and pitch-black darkness suddenly closed upon him, he was already in motion.
He couldn’t see anything, but he wasn’t deaf to the bewildered and angry shouts from the aresians surrounding them. By then, he’d already ducked low and taken two steps to the left, away from the spot where he’d been standing when he’d become invisible and toward the place where Otho and Joan were being held.
“Fire!” Ul Quorn shouted. Curt could hear him just off to his right. “Shoot him!”
“Shoot where?” This from an aresian to his left. “We can’t see—”
“Shoot the place where he was!”
Crouching low, Curt raised his gun and pointed it in the direction of the second voice, judging it to belong to one of the Sons who were guarding Joan and Otho. Sure enough, a moment later he heard the static fzzt! of a particle-beam rifle being fired, followed almost instantly by another shot from what he presumed was the second guard. The fact that he was still alive was enough evidence that they’d both missed.
Curt was ready. Still aiming the gun in that direction, he used his free hand to switch off the fantome generator. The darkness vanished the instant he squeezed the trigger. Neither of the Sons had time to react to his sudden reappearance several feet from where he’d last been seen before first one, then the other, were knocked off their feet by translucent rings of plasma energy.
“Grab their guns!” Curt yelled. “Get Corvo!”
Joan didn’t hesitate; she dove for one of the rifles dropped by the guards and, snatching it up, whipped around to open fire on the other aresians. Somehow, Otho had already managed to get his hands on another rifle. He didn’t fire it, though, but instead held Corvo at bay. Still on his hands and knees, the senator was bewildered by everything that had just happened, not making an effort to flee even when he had the chance.
For the moment, Corvo was the least of Curt’s concerns. The Sons had recovered from their surprise, and several were already rushing to put themselves between him and Ul Quorn. “Kill them all!” the Magician shouted, pointing at him, Otho, and Joan. “I want them dead!”
Curt dropped two aresians aiming at him, and Joan was protecting herself and Otho. For some reason, Otho still hadn’t fired his weapon; still keeping it pointed at Corvo, he was blindly groping for the rifle dropped by the Son who’d been guarding him. Curt didn’t have time to wonder why. More cultists were charging from the camp, and as fast as he and Joan could shoot them down, their brethren were taking their places.
Curt was about to go invisible again when something caught his eye: a white streak forming in the sky above the caldera. He didn’t need to wonder what was causing this; it could only be one thing. And it was only a matter of minutes, and precious few at that, before it would come down on top of them.
No time for any more tricks. They had to get out at once.
“Joan, head for the plane!” Still firing, Curt backpedaled toward the aircraft he’d spotted earlier, parked on the landing pad on the outskirts of the camp. “Otho, grab Corvo!”
Otho gave up trying to retrieve the abandoned weapon. He took hold of the back of Corvo’s parka and yanked him to his feet. “You’re coming with us, Senator!” he snarled as he shoved the barrel of the rifle in his hands against the back of Corvo’s neck. Frightened out of his wits, Corvo did as he was told.
Curt couldn’t see Ul Quorn or N’Rala either. Then he looked around and spotted them both. They were running from the camp … but strangely, in opposite directions. While N’Rala sprinted in the direction of the landing pad, UI Quorn was heading for the vent.
Had they seen the approaching vapor trail and, figuring out what was about to happen, lost faith in each other and run wherever their legs could carry them? N’Rala meant little to him, but as much as Curt wanted to capture Ul Quorn—after all, it wasn’t Victor Corvo who was the true nemesis here, but rather his son—there was no time to do so. For a few seconds, there was a lull in combat as the remaining cult members sought cover behind anything big enough to hide them. Curt took advantage of the break to make a dash for the aircraft, with Joan right behind him and still firing at the Sons.
Otho and Corvo reached the aircraft before either of them. Otho twisted open the canopy hatch and stood aside. “Okay, Senator, into the plane!” he snapped, prodding him with his gun to encourage him. “Move it!”
Corvo numbly obeyed and clambered into the rear seat. “We could’ve used your help,” Joan said to Otho when she and Curt caught up with them a few seconds later. “Why didn’t you fire?”
In response, Otho smiled and closed his eyes. A second passed, then Curt watched in astonishment as the rifle in Otho’s hands melted, reshaping itself into the small Denebian mimic Ul Quorn had given him.
“Better than nothing,” Otho said as Oog nestled within his arms. “And it fooled nimrod here, didn’t it?” Seeing this, Corvo groaned.
“That’s cute, but we need to get out of here.” Joan looked back toward the camp. The remaining Sons had regained their courage and were coming out from under cover; no doubt they’d make another attempt to swarm their former prisoners. “I’m flying,” she said as she handed her gun to Otho and scrambled for the pilot’s seat.