That dimwit Nup had apparently landed on top of the drone to keep from going down into the ice below-and it was ice; one could feel the Arctic in this awful chill. Ice felt a certain way in the atmosphere. Terrible planet.
One couldn't blame Nup for that. Common enough tactic for one plane to land on another when shot up or out of fuel, and get carried to safety. So it wasn't any real credit to Nup to think of it. But the crazy fool had landed off-center, and it was making the drone crab but mainly roll. And that roll was making Zzt sick at his stomach.
When he realized that somebody was evidently interested in the door, he had searched in his bag for a molecular metal cutter and found to his dismay he didn't have one. Not that it would have worked on this laminated molecular plating. But he would have tried.
Then whoever it was had let loose shots into the place.
Somebody was trying to kill him! He'd been right in believing he had no friends.
The interior had huge frames on the inside of the skin and Zzt had hastily drawn himself flat against the hull to take advantage of the projection of the wide frame.
He peered out cautiously. Then he relaxed a bit. The target was the hinges. Somebody was trying to get the door off. Zzt knew the hinges wouldn't part, but at the same time it was interesting indeed that somebody would try to part them. Why? How come somebody wanted to remove the door? That didn't make any sense at all.
Every mining plane, whatever else it was used for, followed a mining tradition. Every employee was basically a miner. Mining techniques, procedures, and equipment were into the mining company like kerbango was into the bloodstream and far more permanently. Hoists, lifts, cable ladders, safety lines, hooks, nets...they even shoveled paper around with scoops that looked like mine shovels. It was totally inconceivable that that plane out there didn't have a cable ladder and safety wires.
So why didn't it just lower a cable ladder and safety wire to him and let him time those door swings and dart up the ladder to the plane? They could lower him a jet backpack and even pick him out of the air.
All this was so routine to Zzt that the idea of anybody having to remove a door to make it wide open was a strange precaution.
Was somebody trying to steal a canister? That was impossible. They were all locked in. Everything in this damned derelict was armored, inside and out. Such ships were hell to repair, and he had resented the time Terl had taken. You couldn't get at anything in it. It was just a one-time-use rig, built to be expended. So nobody could steal anything here.
Were they trying to send it elsewhere? Well, you couldn't do that without keys, and he had no keys.
So what was going on?
The battering barrage that got the door all the way open and warped it in that position made it easier to lower a cable ladder. All right! Where was the ladder and safety wire? Nothing came dangling down into the huge open maw.
Zzt had just moved forward to peek when blinding lights flashed on, throwing the interior into a blaze of dirt motes and floating rust dust shaken loose in the firing.
He heard a plane's motor suddenly race.
He didn't even have time to get behind the protective frame.
Before his half-blinded eyes a plane shot in the door!
The floor plates shook! Metal shrieked.
The plane had crashed on the loading stage platform directly inside the door.
Zzt stumbled backward, expecting it to blow up. But its motor suddenly died and the peculiar fang-setting-on-edge sound of molecular cohesion pierced the dying whine of components. The thing had set its skid grips with a timing and precision Zzt had never seen before.
Staggered by the concussion and already sick with the rolling, Zzt lurched to his feet. It still had its lights on. He peered through this glare to see the pilot. He couldn't make it out. He staggered forward, hand on his belt gun. He still couldn't see the pilot. The armored glass door...the pilot was sitting up slowly.
A small being! A mask! A strange fur coat collar!
Zzt let out a near hysterical shriek. “A
Tolnep!"
In blind confusion, Zzt drew and fired his belt gun. He fired again and again and again.
His shots were hitting an armored window. He was trying to shoot an armored window! He was also trying to back up and get away.
The drone rolled; Zzt collided with a gas canister, tripped on its cable, started to fall, and threw out his paws to save himself. His gun went flying, hit the floor plates, slithered, and dropped out the open door into the waiting void below.
Skidding and catching his breath in sobs, Zzt got behind a distant frame to protect himself. He believed he was one dead Psychlo!
Chapter 8
Jonnie came out of it. The shock of the crash had knocked him out for a moment. He guessed he was getting tired with the strain and the cold. A jolt like that shouldn't have knocked him out.
Then he found his left knee was bruised from hitting the console, the fingernails of his left hand were bleeding from stubbing on keys, and his forehead ached. He decided it must have been a harder crash than he thought.
The magnetic grip brake was on, but peering, he was having a hard time seeing it. He took off his air mask and found that his forehead had been cut on the mask faceplate rim and the blood was getting in his eyes. He reached back and got the tail end of a mining tarpaulin and staunched the blood and wiped out the faceplate.
Now he could see.
The landing had been successful. An ancient gag he had found on a cartoon card over at their base occurred to him: “A successful landing is one you can walk away from.” Well, he could walk, he hoped.
The ship was slewed. The wind pressure had come off the nose as it went in, but it was still on the tail. The tail was sticking way out of the door but was pushed over against the side of the doorframe. Was the ship hurt?
He looked around inside. The main motor housing and the two right and left balance housings seemed all right. He reached for the door latch to get out and then something tugged at his memory. Something about the crash. What was it? Ah, something must have exploded in the drone. He dimly recalled hearing a series of explosions. He reached over to the pilot window and touched it, intending to wipe some steam from it. It was hot! Yes, something had exploded in this drone.
Well, that was a good sign, maybe. It meant something could break in this place.
He looked at the gas canisters vivid in the plane lights. They looked sound. He saw that they were also armored and that all the cables to them were as well. He looked around through the ship's windows in dismay.
This place was as armored inside as outside!
What an unpleasant view. Structural rib frames, very deep. Floor plates for loading only, having gaps on both sides of the walkway. Cross-braces. Toward the tail there were a series of holes like a beehive– ah, additional gas canister spaces; the thing was only about a third full. But enough, enough to wipe out any place it was going.
How much time did he have? He looked at his watch and it was shattered. There were no clocks in these battle planes; the clocks were all down in the console cabinets and had no faces anyway. Only lapsed time dials on the dash. He realized he wouldn't know when radio silence ended. He tried to compute by sunrise but he didn't know where he was beyond a few hours short of Scotland. Abruptly he realized he was maundering. Still a bit dazed?
He put the air mask on and made sure it was snug in case a gas canister had cracked in the crash, which he doubted. He checked to see whether Terl's blast gun was still there. Yes, fallen on the floor. He might need it to try to cut cables. He put it in his belt and got out of the plane.
The thunder of these motors was deafening. Arctic wind curled in at the door. The night lay like a black pit below them.
He examined the gas canisters. No, the plane hadn't even touched them. Nothing could touch them, from the looks of it. They were covered with the crud of extreme age. He found a half-obliterated date, a Psychlo date. These things dated from the o
riginal attack! Spares? Not used in that attack? No, another date. They had been refilled about twenty-five years later. The hope that they were expended died. They were live, all right.
Where were the controls of this thing? Ah, way up forward. Best look at those. There just might be a chance that he could change setting and, in extremis, simply pull the wires loose.
He walked up along the plates. His plane's lights were bright even up front.
There was the setting box. A “preset,” and there was the console one set the preset plates in. Fat lot of good the console was. Like a stamping machine. He looked at the preset box. One usually fed preset plates into the side and latched the box. Here, too. But this one?
It was armored.
It had a keyhole. He looked around but there was no key left behind.
Cables? All armored. And they even went into the preset box with an armored connection.
Crud was all around. Lord, this thing was old! It was only clean around the preset box. He supposed they had cleaned it up to set it.
A vague feeling of unease troubled him. Completely aside from his intentness on stopping this drone, there was something odd in this place. He looked down toward the plane. The deep recesses between the frames were in complete darkness.
Zzt, unseen in a recess not six feet away, crouched back in desperation. His wits were racing. What did he know about Tolneps? Shortly after he had graduated from Mechanics College on Psychlo he had done a duty tour on
Archiniabes where the company had mines. It was in this universe. The system star was the double star he sometimes saw in winter on this planet; the smaller star of the “dumbbell” had a weight so dense that a half cubic inch of it here would weigh one ton. A minesite had been wiped out utterly by a Tolnep raid. They came from somewhere near the star cluster he often saw here. They had mastered time control and could hold it frozen and their ships made long piratical voyages. The company had analyzed several of their dead bodies. What did he remember about them? What weakness? He could think only of strengths. Their bite was deadly poison. They had a body density comparable to iron. They were immune to Psychlo gas. They couldn't be killed with an ordinary blast gun. Weaknesses, weaknesses, weaknesses? If he didn't recall them he would never get out of this alive. Never.
This one was walking back down past him now. He shrank against the ship skin. It didn't see him here in the darkness.
Then he remembered. Their eyesight! That was why they always wore face masks. They saw in infrared only and had to have a filter plate. They went totally blind when subjected to shorter wavelength light and they could be killed only with ultraviolet weapons. They were intensely allergic to cold and had a body heat of around two hundred degrees, or was it three hundred? No matter, he was on to it. It was eyesight. Without its faceplate that creature would be blind.
Zzt planned carefully. The instant he got a chance, he would knock off the faceplate, leap forward, and claw the thing's eyes out, somehow avoiding the poison teeth. Zzt's paw slid down to the side of his boot and he got out his trusty big wrench. He could throw it like a projectile. Don't hit the body, hit the side of the mask!
Zzt then drew from his breast pocket the small round mirror with its long handle that he used to look in the back of connections or the underside of bearings. He carefully extended the mirror around the edge of the frame, praying to the crap nebula the thing wouldn't notice it. He began to watch the creature.
Jonnie found it very hard to walk in the rolling drone. The floor plates were not meant for walking and had gaps on both sides.
He went clear to the back end of the drone, quite a walk in itself. He looked at the strange honeycomb. It was bottle racks for additional load. He crawled in the entry port. Maybe some cables or something overlooked would be in there. He could barely get through the port and wondered how a
Psychlo could, until he realized it was just for canister loading of the racks. Clumsy. Just racks. Bad design. The ports were toward the center and it was only blank bulkhead on either side. Nothing else here.
He went back toward the forward end. He stopped just beyond the ship. He thought very hard. He could see nothing that could be pulled apart, nothing that could be blasted apart. He could even blow up his ship in here and nothing would happen.
No controls. The drone was not made to be flown but just set and launched. Not even the remote Terl had shown him would do anything now.
Rolling like a huge ungainly drunk, the thing continued on its way with death in its jaws, insensate, invulnerable.
He wasn't seeing so well again. Blood had started flowing when he crawled into the hole back there and he'd knocked his mask. He lifted his hands to the mask, turning sideways to lessen the blast from the door. He was reaching for the edge of his jacket to wipe it off.
With the impact of a bullet the mask was hit!
It flew from his hand.
Something had almost broken his left thumb.
There was motion about thirty feet away.
Mountain training and a hunter's life had left nothing wanting in Jonnie's reactions.
The action of dropping to one knee, drawing, and firing the blast gun did not take more than a third of a second.
He fired at the mass that had begun to come at him. The shots drove it back with sheer force.
Again and again he fired.
The thing, whatever it was, moved back into the cover of the rib frames near the preset.
There was something or someone in here with him. He had walked right past it twice when he went to the preset box.
Chapter 9
Jonnie protested a little at not heeding his instincts earlier. He had felt some presence. That was the worst part of wearing air masks. It denied one's sense of smell. And he could smell it now. Despite the cold air and the rust motes Jonnie could smell a Psychlo.
He rose cautiously, holding the gun, and backed toward his plane to get a bit more distant. A Psychlo was pretty strong stuff not only to smell but to deal with in any wrestling match. He recalled having to wait for Thor before he could approach within arm's length of Terl. Psychlos could crush one with ease. Which Psychlo was this? Did he know him?
Zzt, pressed up against the skin, was trying to keep from vomiting with contempt and disgust. Only what it would do to his breathe-mask prevented him.
It wasn't the blast gun shots. Yes, those that hit had bruised him and thrown him back, and a few feet closer they might have disabled him.
It was his own reaction to change. Here he had been in abject funk and all the while it was only the animal. Terl's animal!
A surge of hatred and fury followed his nausea. He almost emerged from the recess and plowed straight in. But a blast gun stung. And the dumb twit didn't even have it on penetration, only on blast. Typical.
That this animal had subjected him to such terror he could not forgive. Why, he had nearly killed it once on the tractor with a remote. He really should have killed it. He should have taken a blast rifle out that day. Who would have noticed in all that fire?
Nothing but the animal! A puny, soft, undersized, slug-white, stupid animal had scared him like that! He quivered with rage. His nausea faded.
Desire for information overrode his kill lust at this moment. Maybe this was some new plot of Terl’s. Damn
Terl!
Zzt got himself under control enough to speak. “Did Terl send you?”
Jonnie tried to place the voice. Hard to do the way they talked through a face mask. The masks had sound amplification patches on their sides but voices got muffled, low as they were. He could ask; Psychlos were very arrogant.
“Who are you?” said Jonnie.
“You went through all that at the tractor and you don't even remember who I am! Stupid dimwit. Answer me!
Did Terl send you?”
Zzt! The times Terl had muttered and rumbled on about Zzt! Jonnie had his own score to settle with him.
He couldn't resist it. “I came to bust up the machinery,�
� said Jonnie.
Another Psychlo might have laughed. Not Zzt. “That goes without doubt, animal! Answer me or I’ll-'
“You'll what?” said Jonnie. “Step out and get killed? This blaster is set on penetration now.” Jonnie was slowly pacing backward to the battle plane. He edged around it. He got up on its step and opened the door and got out the assault rifle with radiation bullets. He cocked it and, when he had it ready to fire, put the blast gun back in his belt and began to walk up the corridor again.
Zzt had gone silent.
Jonnie tried to step sideways far enough to angle a shot into a recess as soon as Zzt spoke again. Then he paused. Zzt was the master mechanic of the compound, the transport chief in fact. He would know far more about this drone than anyone else.
"How'd you get yourself trapped aboard here?” said Jonnie.
"Terl!" It was practically a scream. “The ," and there followed a string of Psychlo profanity that went on for minutes.
Jonnie waited it out. When it finally subsided into mere rumblings, Jonnie said, “So you want to get off. Just tell me how to land this and you can get off.”
There followed a new string of Psychlo obscenities, so violent that Jonnie began to be convinced. Finally, “There isn't any way to change it or land it-”
A pause, almost hopefully then, “Did Terl give you the keys to the preset?”
“No. Can't it be blasted open?”
Apathy. “No.”
“Can't you tear out the cables?”
“That would just crash this thing, and you can't do that either. They're armored with molecular lamination metal. He didn't give you the keys.” It was a groan. Then savage: “You dimwit! Why didn't you get the keys from him before you came out here?”
“He was a bit tied up,” said Jonnie. Then, “You better tell me what do so I just don't stop its motors.”
“There aren't any nots either,” said Zzt. He was feeling sick again from the rolling of the drone.
Battlefield Earth Page 45