Kill the snake and you'll do a service to us all.' Alex couldn't help the wry smile that touched his lips, even though he had rarely felt less like smiling. He felt as if he was being manoeuvred, manipulated, like a robot ship, an autoremote, programmed to fly in endless, mindless circles. What the hell was going on? He was Jason Ryder's son, and until three months ago his best combat experience had been in a SimCombat trainer. His pilot's licence had hardly dried. And somehow, despite all of this, he had been chosen as nemesis to exact a savage vengeance from a ship that was certainly far more than a simple — and simply deadly — pirate.
There were people watching him, and waiting on him, their fingers crossed, their breath held.
Why him? Why him? (And Elyssia…)
'Okay,' he said quietly. 'I get the message. You said "two things".'
'Right. Rafe told you to trade in Shanaskilk fur, as soon as you could afford it. Am I right?'
He was right. It was one of Rafe's last pieces of advice to Alex, and Alex had not forgotten it.
McGreavy went on, 'When Rafe told you to do that he was sending you to me.
You've got to get an iron ass. You've got to trade in something really worthwhile. Unship and fly across to South City, to the private traders' centre in the Magellan Building.'
'I've already got an "iron ass",' Alex said.
'You think so, do you? Do it anyway. Take a chance. Make your way to the Magellan building, South City…'
After a moment's hesitation, and with a glance at Elyssia, who just shrugged and nodded, Alex agreed.
A Coriolis station is nothing less than a vast city built on six planes and spread, around the wide empty sky of its interior, facing inwards. From
South City, the roof on the world is North City. At night, the lights that glow above your head are the lights of streets and buildings.
Alex checked out of the ship's berth and took a sky taxi across the void.
The tiny automatic ship slid delicately and smoothly between the incoming and outgoing ships. Alex watched in fascination as the towering buildings of South City dropped away below and the grey sky edged closer. To his left, he could see the pattern of streets and parklands on the inhabited plane known as Commander City. Facing the entrance to the station, on that particular level lived the high ranking officials and various planetary envoys and ambassadors. They enjoyed a landscape which included lakes, rivers and ski-slopes with real snow.
Below him, the Nemesis became a tiny dart-shape on the broad landing pad.
Above him, the towering offices and living blocks reached down towards him like geometrical stalactites.
There was an abrupt moment's disorientation and suddenly the roof was the ground and now the Nemesis was a single, winking light in the heavens. The taxi dropped swiftly to street level, between the grey and black monolithic structures. Lights of different colours blinked and shone, and when the atmosphere began, a strange dusty shimmer seemed to envelop the city.
The streets were crowded here and it took Alex only moments to realise that the South City of this particular Coriolis station was the 'down town' area. Illegal trade abounded, in narcotics, robots, slaves, sensuastims, prostitution and frozen organs. Spacers walked slowly, cautiously, most of them still wearing near-full suit, a certain sign that this was the rough quarter. Hookers, of all sexes (the Galaxy counted seventeen at this time) and races, but mostly humanoid, solicited from hovering platforms, ready to escape fast from any over-welcoming, unwelcome client. Advertising hoardings here were almost completely devoted to proclaiming the illicit pleasures which were available in South City. Police cars and remotes roaredoverhead, as did med-ships. The streets were alive with noise and bustle and filth.
The Magellan building, a dark, squat cube, sat amongst this confusion like a great, brooding monster. It had no visible windows. Lifts rose and fell on its outer walls, slow-moving green lights that gave it an uncanny sense of being alive.
Alex had come without a hand weapon, and now began to regret it.
Practically everyone and everything he saw carried a gun, in contradiction of orbit-space law. He walked cautiously through the crowds of reptilioids, cloaked amphibioids, armoured insectoids, squat, bristling felines, and the grotesque robo-tanks in which things that looked like giant molluscs, or worms, or branches of heather, moved within the safety of their own environment.
He entered the Magellan building and noticed the stench for the first time, the combined body odours of a thousand alien life-forms; surprisingly some of those who drank raw methane gas — managed to excrete sweat that smelled as sweet as apple blossom.
But most did not.
The private trading centre was a vast hall, surrounded by the entrances to offices and warehouses. What was sold in this crowded, noisy place, was anything that was considered too risky, or bizarre, or commonplace to sell on the open market. The trader who loaded up his cargo bay from a private purchase had better check with the planet's export monitoring system before leaving, or his reception, at the other end, might be a little more violent than he'd expected.
Alex scanned the high walls for a hint of McGreavy's warehouse. As he did so he found himself standing behind two tall, violent-looking insect-forms, their bodies armoured in light grey, their facetted eyes swivelling to stare at him as they talked together, chelicerae clashing and clacking in their peculiar mode of communication.
Alex stepped away, heart beating, blood rushing to his head. Compound eyes, jointed limbs, head antennae, double cutting jaws…
Thargoids!
Here, on a space station!
Thargoids were deadly. Thargoid spacers had their fear-glands removed, and were considered to be the most effective and potent of humankind's enemies.
The bounty for killing a Thargoid was huge, and for capturing and delivering the juvenile form, the Tharglet, to any Space Navy research centre, even greater.
What were they doing here?
The Thargoids chatted together and watched Alex coldly. Alex noticed that each had an appendage resting on its thoracic plate, where they holstered their hand-lasers.
'Back off,' a voice whispered, and Alex turned. McGreavy stood there blinking through his deformities. Alex had not grasped how short the man was; he only came up as far as Alex's chest.
'Thargoids…' he whispered.
'Bullshit,' McGreavy said, and dragged Alex away. 'They're Oresrians, and the one thing that can make an Oresrian deadly is being confused the way you've just confused them, with their deadly enemies the Thargoids. Check the thorax markings and the shape of the fourth joint on each hind leg before you jump to conclusions again…'
Alex followed McGreavy gratefully, away from the whispering insects.
McGreavy's warehouse was small, cramped and smelly. Alex followed him through into the dimly lit interior, and felt a pang of discomfort as the grotesque little man closed the doors behind them. In several large, transparent crates, peculiar creatures shuffled and murmured, excited at the sudden disturbance.
'Are these what you have to offer?' Alex asked in a low voice. McGreavy chuckled. He walked over to the nearest crate and brought up the light, to illuminate more clearly the odd creature within.
Alex stared. The creature was vaguely familiar, but the memory refused to come. It had a thick shell, patterned neatly, and limb holes at regular intervals around this bony house. For the moment the beast was securely hidden within its protective environment.
'What are they?'
'Mymurths,' McGreavy said. 'If they seem familiar it's because they're astonishingly like an animal of Old Earth: the tortus, as I believe it was called. These things have two heads, four legs, and two anterior organelles that seem to serve no purpose. They're named for the planet of their origin.
Mymurth. But you'll be shipping them to Cirag. The Ciragians have a special relationship with the Mymurth.'
'They eat them?' Alex guessed.
They worship them,' McGreavy corrected with a twitch of
his flimsy lips.
'Worship?'
McGreavy nodded. 'To the Cirag race, the Mymurth are the reincarnations of gods. A particular sort of god, called an 'avatar'. The animal form of a god. The Mymurth look very like the legendary avatars of Ciragian religion and mythology. They're from another world, of course, and have no connection with Cirag at all. But any Ciragian family will give a small fortune to have a living Mymurth in its temple.'
Alex was fascinated and intrigued. The bulky creatures moved sluggishly about, their fleshy pink limbs emerging from the shells to propel them through the slush that filled their cages. 'How much is a small fortune?'
'Each of these will fetch a hundred credits. Maybe more. And I have twenty-eight. Twenty-eight hundred credits. That'll buy you all the shields and weaponry you need…'
'Why not trade them yourself?'
McGreavy laughed sourly. 'With my record? You must be joking. No thanks. It takes me half a standard year to get a pen full of these things, and Rafe Zetter usually has a customer for me, someone like yourself who needs credit fast, to perform a certain act… of violence…'
Alex found himself staring at the bright eyes of the hideous face before him. He was no longer overly conscious of the deformities, or of the pulsating life that existed just below the man's skin. He was aware only of the fact that he wanted — needed — to trust this acquaintance of Rafe, and yet didn't.
'Make me an offer I can't refuse,' McGreavy said, and hard reality hit Alex again.
He said, 'Three hundred.'
McGreavy chuckled and shook his head. 'The idea is that you make the profit. You won't do that offering me three times what you're likely to make for a Mymurth.'
'I meant… three hundred for the lot.'
For a second McGreavy stood in silence, staring at the younger man. 'Is this a joke?'
'No joke. I have three hundred credits in the world. You've got the wrong boy, McGreavy.'
'You just sold a cargo load of Shanaskilk fur!'
'And bought weapons and a fuel scoop. I bought the furs at a loss to beginwith. I'm no trader, McGreavy. I'm a combateer. I did tell you.' Alex looked down at the Mymurth. 'I'll buy eight off you. How's that?'
'I sell the lot, or not at all. I want fifteen hundred credits for them.
Rafe said you'd come through…'
'Rafe was wrong. Shift them through some other sucker…'
Alex turned to go. McGreavy's whimper of panic was almost funny to hear.
'I save these things up for Rafe. Who else is going to trade in Mymurth?'
'I'll take ten off your hands, for three hundred credits. The more you stall, the less I'll offer.'
Alex was enjoying this.
'I need to shift the lot. To Cirag.'
Where was Cirag, Alex wondered. It was not a name that rang any bells.
'Then you'll have to trust me,' he said. 'Like you trust Rafe. I'll give you a down payment of three hundred against one third of what I get at Cirag. I'll come back and pay you off.'
McGreavy stared at him in silence; the man's breathing was laboured. 'One third will hardly cover my outlay. Fifty percent.'
'Forty percent,' Alex said. 'And no further bargaining.'
The Mymurth shuffled anxiously. McGreavy shrugged with defeat. He summoned the vid-witness, and the two men signed the agreement. Twenty-eight Mymurth for sale to Cirag, forty percent of the proceeds to be returned to Pat McGreavy at South City, Coriolis 7, Xezaor.
If McGreavy was right, and the money was forthcoming from the religious nutcases on Cirag…
Where was Cirag?
… the Nemesis could be equipped with beam lasers, extra missiles, extra shield energy units, and an energy bomb, and the hunt could begin in earnest.
Alex returned to his ship to report on the day's trading.
Chapter seven
They had been set up, of course.
And in a way, they went into the set-up gamely. Alex checked up on the planet Cirag and discovered that it was not listed with the Official Planetary Register. That was the reason for its unfamiliar name. Not to be registered was not in itself unusual. Only inhabited worlds were listed.
There were millions of inhabited star systems of use to miners, traders and explorers, which could only be located by reference to the Galactic Gazatteer of Worlds.
But Cirag was inhabited by intelligent beings.
That meant just one thing: Cirag was an independent world, had refused Federation status, was dangerous, probably deadly, most likely the haven for freebooters and criminals, and almost certainly a system in which the general principle of 'laser first, talk second' was applied.
We've got to be crazy…' Elyssia said.
Alex agreed. 'Could Cirag be Raxxla? Could it be the world my father mentioned before he died?'
'No way. Cirag is Cirag, and Raxxla — if it exists — is in another Galaxy; you know the legends. Cirag is just a hell-hole of a world, by the sounds of it. Give the guy his turtles back. Let's trade life-bones.'
But Alex said no. Something about the whole deal, about the way he felt manipulated, guided, had whet his appetite for this venture. There was good money to be made, and the Nemesis could finally equip itself to perfection.
And the hunt could begin. Vengeance could begin.
'It's hit or miss, right? And in Rafe's eloquent language, we'll not know a goddam about any failure.'
'We've got to be crazy…' Elyssia repeated.
'Let's not talk to any strangers, at least…'
Out of Witch-Space.
The planet Cirag floated before them, a pastel yellow world, the dark markings upon its surface — mountains, probably, or deserts — forming a pattern that reminded Alex of bones. At nineteen light years from Xezaor, the Nemesis had made two refuelling stops, and as they came into System Space they had energy enough for a two-light-year jump only. The nearest world, Alex knew, was more than twice that distance away.
No matter With their new fuel scoop they would simply transit the sun's corona, and recharge the fuel cells.
Cirag's sun was a large, yellow star, old, but with much life left in it yet. It was active, too. As Elyssia — at the astrogation console — turned towards it, so two immense streamers of fire were erupting from its surface, whirlpools of plasma that were spectacular when seen through the Nemesis's polarising filters.
'Let's catch some of that heat,' Elyssia said, and punched for top speed.
The Nemesis surged forward.
But they flew for no more than a minute.
'Holy Mother of the Stars!'
Alex stared at the scanner screens and felt his stomach turn over. The bright marks there were so large that they could only be Boa or Anaconda class cruisers. They had formed an attack pattern, four large ships, surrounded by the darting points of light that was its fighter escort.
On the viewscreen, against the glowing sun, the assault group were dark smears, rapidly closing.
'Boas,' Elyssia said. 'They're set up as fighter cruisers, by the look of it. At least they're slow. Hang on…'
Alex gripped his seat, then grimaced as he fell for the same trap that his father had always set for him. But this time it was as well that he secured himself. The universe shifted; his body organs did somersaults. Elyssia feigned an escape loop, and the fighters — Mambas by the looks of them — broke formation and went into the scatter mode that meant pursuit. But Elyssia completed the loop to come full back against the looming pirate craft.
She sailed under the belly of the leader with as much calm and cheek as you please. It belly-shot at them, and she rolled the Cobra so that she could side-strafe back. All along the Boa's under-belly, shards and sparks flew brightly where the shields were lowered around the laser housings.
'Markings are unfamiliar…' Alex said. There had been black and green flags with bright sunbursts on them, and non-terrestrial ideographs on the sides.
'Intentions very familiar…' Elyssia breathed. Behind them, two of the Mambas
were closing fast. Pulses of laser fire made eerie streaks in the dark circle of space around the glowing sun ahead of them.
The huge ships had turned too, and were accelerating towards them. Elyssia made it clear, without speaking, that they'd never reach the star and have time to refuel. Alex, never taking his eyes from the scanners, knew as much.
Elyssia rolled the Cobra and turned to fight. She targeted a missile and dispatched it on the turn, and the nearest fighter became a glittering dust cloud. The other streaked fire across the forward shields, and the Nemesis shuddered and whined. Two stabs of her finger on the sidefire button, and the second Mamba tumbled, its shields still up, its pilot disorientated by the unexpected hit. Elyssia closed in for the kill…
Killed.
One of the Boas loamed large from the darkness. It was rolling slowly, and beams of light played from its spike nose. Elyssia targeted a missile.
Sweat ran freely from her face, and her hands were white with tension.
Alex, feeling helpless, gripped the sides of his chair, leaning forward, jumping and starting in sympathy with every sudden movement, every avoiding action.
The Boa ECM'd the missile before it had gone a tenth of the distance between the two ships. The Nemesis slid smoothly along its belly and again turned side on, strafing the sensitive underparts as it matched the giant's slow roll.
And then it happened. From somewhere, out of nowwhere, pulsing laser fire made a direct aft hit on them. The Nemesis shuddered and stuttered and was forced into a rapid, dizzying roll. Alex swore, feeling his body wrenched by the seat harness. The shock had nearly taken his head off. He straightened up, assessing the situation: there were two Mambas behind, and they were closing rapidly on the maw of an Anaconda; it hovered there in the void, like a giant net waiting to swallow them.
'Let's see you get out of this…' Alex said loudly, and glanced at Elyssia to see why she was running so straight.
The Dark Wheel Page 5