Revenge of the Damned

by Chris Bunch

  Behind him, his two companions chatted on, presumably critiquing Alex's efforts. He did not know that for sure, because the entire conversation was taking place in silence.

  "Patience, lads,” Alex said, although he had not heard anyone complaining. “Ah'm a wee tickle away."

  "Not to worry,” the big blond man said aloud. “Kraulshavn and I aren't the hurrying kind."

  Kraulshavn looked up at his largish friend, Sorensen, waiting for a translation. Sorensen's fingers signed swiftly, and Kraulshavn nodded his head in vigorous agreement. Alex shifted his attention momentarily from the lock to Kraulshavn. There was more finger wagging.

  "Whae's he sayin'?"

  "That if you are even close to being correct about the contents of the room, the wait will be well worth it."

  Alex grunted his answer and tickled on with his eyehook key.

  Kraulshavn and Sorensen were hands down the strangest pair that Alex and Sten had thus far roped into their growing organization.

  Sorensen was the epitome of a corn-fed farm boy, with slabs of muscle, pale skin that flushed at the least effort, and a grammar-book way of speaking. He also did not appear to be blessed with a great deal of native brightness. But Alex knew from his days in Mantis how strange a breed Sorensen was. Beings like him had made up a valuable part of several Mantis teams Alex and Sten had been on. They were living battle computers. Their innocent looks and surface slowness concerning immediate things about them hid a massive calculating brain. In fact, Alex strongly suspected that Sorensen was a surviving member of a blown Mantis Team or maybe still active on a deep-cover run. There was no sense in asking, because Sorensen would not answer. Even more nagging than that was the fact that if Sorensen was Mantis and Alex knew the being's private code word, they would have themselves the damnedest walking, talking battle computer. Which might help on the odds a bit. He shot Sorensen another sizing-up look.

  Like his brothers and sisters, Sorensen knew zip about his fellow beings. His people were perfect marks for any con man or traveling carny. In fact, the Imperial governor-general of their homeworld had been forced to pass strict laws forbidding carnivals, circuses, or anything even vaguely connected with hustle artists. On the other hand, if Sorensen was shown a distance point, he could instantly calculate the range, trajectory, wind speed, and relative gravitational tug that any projectile might encounter on its way to its target.

  Those talents made Sorensen a valuable find. Doubling his value was the man's friendship with Kraulshavn.

  Alex felt the eyehook catch. Gently he twisted and felt the gear wheel sliding smoothly until it clicked into place with its gearmates. Inside, the gears should have been lined up, exposing the pie-shaped wedge cut into them. Quickly, Alex pulled out the eyehook and inserted a heavy bar key. A few minor fumbles and the gears fell back with a heavy thunk. On the other side of the door Alex could hear a counterweight shift, and he stepped back to let the door creak open on its heavy hinges.

  Kraulshavn signed what Alex took to be a “congratulations” at him. A little dip at the end by the being's nimble fingers, however, looked suspiciously like “dummy.” Alex shot Sorensen a glance. The big man was looking blandly innocent.

  "Ah'm sussin’ a wee joker frae y'r mate,” Alex said.

  "There was not one single joke in anything he said, Mr. Kilgour,” Sorensen protested.

  He turned to Kraulshavn, spelling out Alex's comments. Kraulshavn's mouth opened in a round merry O. He covered it with a delicate furry hand, hiding his silent giggle. Alex had to grin.

  "Na. He's nae a joker. Noo our Kraulshavn. ‘Kay. Waggle thae a’ th’ lad. In yon room thae may be't a wee haunt."

  "Ghosts?” Even Sorensen was incredulous at that. Kraulshavn signed back what was a blatant suggestion where Alex could put his “wee haunt."

  Alex just shrugged. “Aye. Ye be't doubters. But th’ Tahn hae tales thae'll kink y'r curlies."

  With that, he walked inside. Despite their strongly expressed doubts, Sorensen and Kraulshavn hesitated a long moment before they followed.

  Kraulshavn had particular reason to hesitate.

  * * * *

  Like any reasonable and sophisticated adult Struth, Kraulshavn viewed stories of the spirit world with imperious amusement, as something to look down one's beak at. Even so, ghost stories were an important and ancient signing tradition in his society. Nestlings barely able to put a few symbols together were told simple tales of ghastly elegance. In the deep past, fear of the unknown had been a valuable tool for a hen to keep her featherless, spindly hatchlings safe.

  The Struth had originated on a barren and hostile world that to a nervous observer might have seemed to be entirely populated by creatures with fangs and claws and talons and sharp beaks. That was just true enough to require some fairly tricky skills to avoid being on someone else's menu.

  In Struth prehistory, they had once been a species facing extinction. Originally beings of the air, they were a little bit too large to hide and too small to defend themselves. The Struth were also handicapped by poor hearing—limited to the ultrafrequency sounds the leaders and guards of the rookeries used to guide their brothers and sisters. The advantage of that was they could not be heard by any potential enemies. Unfortunately, that meant the Struth also could not hear said enemies approaching.

  The Struth were down to a few great rookeries when they finally fled to a small subcontinent. It was a place of small animals with sweet flesh, luscious fruits, and no natural enemies at all—a Struth paradise. And as contented Struth generations passed, they became much larger and heavier and lost the ability to fly. Their small wing claws developed into graceful feathered “hands,” good for mutual grooming, plucking fruit, wielding a large stick or rock to fell game, and, more importantly, speaking.

  Paradise, however, could not last forever. Maintaining a large rookery in their new homeland became quickly impossible as the sheer size of the Struth suggested a brighter future in small cooperative groups that would put far less stress on the food supply. That also meant that a sophisticated communication system was essential.

  Signing was born. At first it was limited to a few basics: Tasty creature under rock. You lift. I take. We share. Soon, however, it became a swift and complex language. A superior signer had greater status than a Struth with a beautiful tail-feather display. Eventually, a Struth philosopher could collapse the most intricate idea into a few symbols of great simplicity. The gentle Struth were on the verge of evolving their signing language into written form when disaster struck.

  A land bridge had formed between their paradise and a much greater landmass. At first only a few weaker animals fled across it. They were soon followed by a trickle and then a flood of grazing creatures. The carnivores were right behind. The Strum were easy prey. After thousands of years of relative safety, they were a top-of-the-menu item again. Once again they faced extinction.

  But that time they had greater resources to fall back on. The two key talents they had developed post migration were cooperation and language. The Struth split into even smaller groups. They learned to build their nests in the most difficult terrain. They formed two-Struth teams to gather food. That proved to be an ideal number with which to deal with any enemy. One Struth would always be at watch while the other worked. If escape was impossible, the two of them together could kill the attacker.

  Smaller rookeries, however, meant that the hatchlings had to be left unguarded for long periods. The question was how to keep the young in their safe nests. The answer was simple: Scare the clot out of them. The ghost story was invented. Struth tales of the spirit world always involved a young hatchling who ignored the warnings of his parents and more cautious siblings and ventured out of the nest. He was always eaten. A favorite villain was the Talon Thing that swooped out of the sky and carried away the little Struth to its own nest, where smaller Talon Things waited to eat the little Struth alive. Another was Big Fang. That beast, it was said, hid in the brush all day, waiting for
groups of disobedient Struth young. Big Fang would catch them at play, quickly eating his fill and then hamstringing the others so they could not run away. Big Fang could then seek out his pack mates and return for a feast.

  The ghost stories worked. The hatchlings stayed in their nests until they were old enough to bond with other Struth. Eventually the Struth grew tired of hiding in rocky hills from creatures they had realized were not nearly as bright as themselves. The Struth came out of the hills and began killing the carnivores. They killed them until there were no more left. Then they crossed the land bridge and began killing all over again. In two centuries, the Struth were kings of their small planet. Unlike many other races on countless other worlds, when the Struth had run out of common enemies, they did not begin seeing a replacement among their own numbers. Instead, they returned to being the peaceful Struth again, whose greatest joy was in the elegant symbols—both written and signed—that they used to communicate with.

  When they were finally discovered by the Empire, the Struth language had reached the giddy heights of the purest of pure maths. Their computer hardware, for instance, was primitive compared with Imperial standards. But the programs they wrote were so simple that they barely taxed the capacity of the most dim-witted Struth machine.

  As software artists, they were instant hits, commanding premium salaries and the most luxurious perks. There was one requirement, however, written into every Struth contract with the outside. They must always be hired in twos. Otherwise, they would have no one else to sign with. Struth had been known to die of loneliness.

  Kraulshavn was not near death when Sorensen found him at their previous prison camp. But day by day he was wasting away. Kraulshavn had been working as a civilian on an Imperial military contract when the Tahn had invaded. His companion was killed in the first fighting. Somehow Kraulshavn had survived.

  Sorensen thought the little Struth was the most mournful being he had ever met. Sorensen's great calculating brain and Kraulshavn's elegant way of thinking made them natural friends. It was easy for a being like Sorensen to learn the signing language, and soon he was wagging away with Kraulshavn like a native Struth. Kraulshavn began eating again and taking an interest in life.

  They soon teamed up permanently and made one nearly successful attempt to escape. They were just getting ready for another when they were transported to Koldyeze.

  When Kilgour found them, he knew instantly that they were the solution to a seemingly impossible problem. What the organization needed more than anything else was a computer capable of reducing endless years of calculating drudgery to a few hours. With such a computer, the chances of escape would soar geometrically.

  Sorensen and Kraulshavn had assured him that the solution was simple. All they had to accomplish was two things. Step one: Reinvent the chip. With that, they could build a tiny-brained computer. Step two: Invent a language that said little brain could deal with without blowing its circuits.

  When Alex stumbled upon the large room with the tricky sliding gear lock, he was pretty sure that among its contents was the answer to step one.

  * * * *

  When the creators of Koldyeze had considered the early plans for the cathedral, they had paid particular attention to the stained-glass windows that would grace the structure. They quickly discovered that it was an art form that had been lost thousands of years before. Yes, they could create adequate stained glass with modern scientific techniques. But no matter how much they experimented, what they produced paled when compared with the great works of the past.

  So it was to the ancient past that the monks of Koldyeze went to find their answer, and find it they did in the writings of a goldsmith named Rugerus. They carefully copied every detail of the methodology. They disdained modern glass-cutting lasers for a tool of heated iron. To smooth the edges of the glass designs, they used a notched tool called a grazing iron. For color, they included in their palette gold and silver salts and precious gems ground to dust.

  The room to which Alex had led Sorensen and Kraulshavn was one of the workshops the monks of Koldyeze had labored in for many generations. It was cloaked in dust and cluttered with hundreds of bewildering objects and substances. But little by little they began to pick them out.

  Kraulshavn wagged his fingers excitedly when he pulled aside a tarp and revealed neatly stacked sheets of thick glass. He pulled one sheet from a stack and kept pushing it in Kilgour's face. Alex gently brushed him aside.

  "Thae be glass. Ah've peeped glass afore. Why's th’ feathery one all flutter, young Sorensen?"

  "He says glass is what the Struth used in some of their early computers."

  Alex considered that for a moment. “Aye. Thae'll be a decent breadboard. ‘Tis a start."

  As the other two beings continued their search, he wondered how they could etch the glass to hold the circuitry. He would have to get the scroungers busy coming up with a decent glass-eating caustic.

  There was sudden excited motion from Kraulshavn. Kilgour found him trying to tug a small barrel from beneath a teetering mess of other barrels. Alex added a little heavy-world weight, and they soon had it out. They popped the lid, and Alex's mouth gaped. Inside was what had to be flakes of pure gold.

  "Clottin’ figures. Shake down a wee monk, and ye'll find gold about.” Kilgour had always been an instinctive anticleric. He was even more so after his and Sten's dealings with the three pontiffs of the Lupus Cluster.

  Kraulshavn signed at the flakes and then pointed to the glass. Alex had to chortle. They had found their circuitry.

  When they were done, they might have a dull wit for a computer, but it surely was going to be a clotting valuable dullwit.

  But before they could scrabble through the mounds of dust and debris to see what other treasures they could find, what seemed like every alarm on Heath went off.

  * * * *

  By the time Alex joined Sten on a battlement overlooking the prisoners’ yard, he had managed to retrieve his stomach and somewhat untangle his nerves. Sten motioned him over, and he saw what all the shooting and shouting had been about.

  The two of them watched as the bloody and limp figure of St. Clair was dragged through the three gates and toward the area that the Tahn had already designated as a “punishment chamber."

  "Who is it?” Sten asked.

  "Dunno. Ah'll find out. She looks t’ be still alive."

  Neither of them paid much attention to the prisoner. They were waiting for the next whiplash.

  * * * *

  It was not long in coming.

  The prison speakers crackled. “All prisoners! Your immediate attention. This is Colonel Derzhin. One of your number has attempted to escape. She was completely unsuccessful. As I guaranteed when I spoke before, this attempt shall not go unpunished."

  * * * *

  Sten held his breath.

  "The prisoner shall be kept in isolation for thirty days. Diet shall be minimal.

  "But this is not sufficient."

  "Now's th’ clanger,” Alex said.

  "All prisoners are ordered lockdown in their cells for twenty-four hours. Since no work can be performed in that time, no rations shall be issued. You have ten minutes to return to your cells. At the end of that time, any prisoners outside their cells shall be fired upon."

  The speaker went dead.

  Sten and Alex looked at each other.

  "Clottin’ hell,” Alex marveled. “A bleedin’ philanthropist."

  "Yeah,” Sten agreed as the two men doubled toward their chamber. “All the same. I want the word out. next hero that tries a cowboy run like that won't have legs to run on."

  "Ah'll see thae's nae mistranslation, Skipper."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BUT THERE HAD to be more to Sten's plans than just ordering, “Back off, Buckwheat.” Because if he did not get the camp's escape efforts organized very soon, the provable crazies in the cathedral would ignore his orders.

&nb
sp; Escaping as an art form—and given the nature of Koldyeze, any escape would have to be pretty arty—required a great deal more than punching a hole in the ground or lashing a ladder together. It required a formidable conspiracy.

  Drawn out, an escape organization would resemble two equilateral triangles set point to point. At the top of the first were the watchers and security people. Then a lesser number of carpenters, tinbashers, and so forth. After them, a still smaller number of artists and specialists.

  Probably none of them would be among the escapers.

  All their work would go to Big X—the escape organization's head. He would filter material down through the ranks of the actual escapers to the tunnelers or the people working on the physical escape.

  And security had to be perfect. Not only did each level have to be protected from exposure, the manner of escape itself had to be a total secret to almost everyone.

  As Alex put it: “F y’ ken me strollin’ aboot th’ compound wearin’ a purple chemise wi’ a light standard stick't oot m’ arse, Ah dinnae wan’ to hear anybody say aught but how bonny the weather is."

  The biggest problem was not with the Tahn guards—Sten had already allowed for their presence. The danger lay in those prisoners who were unknown. Having a measure of respect for Tahn Intelligence, Sten was absolutely sure there would be at least one double among the prisoners. Probably more. But he—or they—must be found quickly and disappeared. The Imperial prisoners would define that death as execution for treason—the Tahn would call it murder and make reprisals. Sten was forced to use Alex and his hooligans as a cutout, even though there was a good possibility that he might be putting his friend very decidedly into harm's way. But he had to start recruiting.

  Another problem: There would be prisoners who for their own reasons would want nothing to do with whatever Sten planned as the main escape attempt: claustrophobes, solitaries, or simply prisoners who had figured out a single-person way to get out. All those attempts had to be registered to make sure escapers did not cross each other's routes and destroy two or more plans at once. Sten thought he would be lucky if he heard about half the plans—he was just as unknown and suspect to the other prisoners as they were to him.