Double, Double

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Cursing, he leaped up into the cargo compartment. With hardly any effort at all, it seemed, he picked up the captain and swung him into the wall.

  Kirk hit hard, and then again when he slid to the floor. But the chair took the brunt of the punishment, with a cracked leg to show for it.

  And then, with a sudden, clean-edged clarity, he knew exactly what he had to do.

  "You're a pain in the butt," said the big man. "And now I'm going to make you a dead pain in the butt."

  "Wait!" Kirk wheezed as Scarface bent to lift him up again. "I'll tell you where the dilithium came from!"

  The big man hesitated, sneered.

  "No, really—I'll tell," croaked the captain, as if his encounter with the wall had damaged his breathing apparatus. He swallowed. "Only please—let me live, all right?"

  Scarface's tiny eyes narrowed even more.

  "You want to tell?" he barked. "Then go ahead. Tell."

  "It's on Buzmuzbuduh," mumbled Kirk.

  The big man leaned closer. "What was that? Speak up, damn it."

  The captain nodded eagerly, coughed. Started to speak but coughed again.

  Perhaps without realizing it, Scarface loomed closer still. Kirk estimated that it was close enough.

  And without further ado, he spat square in the big man's face.

  "You're a fool," he shouted as Scarface recoiled. "Your boss knows it, I know it, and now you know—"

  He never finished. In a paroxysm of rage, the big man hurled him the length of the cargo compartment. For a moment, things spun around too fast to follow.

  Then the wall came up and smashed him. He felt a terrible, sharp pain in his knee, followed by the sweetest sense of release he could ever have imagined. When he got his bearings, he realized that the chair had smashed into half a dozen pieces, and his bonds were lying loose all about him.

  His only problem now was the behemoth slowly advancing on him, his scarred face twisted into a savage grin, his huge fists clenching and unclenching.

  Kirk scrambled to his feet as best he could, his legs cramped and stiff from disuse. But before he stood up all the way, he took hold of a long sliver of wood—once part of the chair, now a weapon he might use to some advantage.

  The big man didn't seem much impressed. He kept coming—even when Kirk raised the splinter as if to throw it. Another couple of seconds and Scarface would be right on top of him.

  Rather than wait, he decided to take the initiative. Pushing off the rear wall, he charged the man.

  Apparently, Scarface hadn't expected that. Nor did he expect the captain to leap suddenly and plant his heels in the big man's chest.

  As Kirk landed, he saw Scarface reel backward, stumble—and pitch headlong out the rear of the truck. There was a scream and a loud, flat plosh.

  Gathering his feet beneath him, the captain made his way down the length of the cargo compartment—his sliver of wood at the ready. But as he reached the gates, he saw a dark shape struggling against the greater darkness of the bog.

  "Damn you!" rasped Scarface. He was half on his side, half on his back, with only his head, an arm, and part of his torso free of the muck. And it seemed that he'd landed in a deeper part of the bog, because he was still sinking—though ever so slowly.

  "Watch your language," said Kirk. "You're talking to the only one who can save your worthless life now."

  The big man writhed and grunted in an effort to move toward the truck. The muscles in his neck stood out like cords, but he accomplished nothing. If anything, his efforts caused him to sink a little faster.

  "Get me out of here," he roared, his voice rising in pitch. "I can't move."

  "Sure," said Kirk. "After all you've done for me, I'd be an ingrate not to help you out."

  Fury and fear washed over the man's face in successive waves. "I wasn't going to kill you," he said. "I was only supposed to scare you—so you'd talk."

  "Right," said the captain. "Whatever you say." He looked around, noticed the coil of rope hanging on the wall of the cargo compartment—the same kind of rope he'd been bound with. He slipped his weapon into his belt, then got the coil and brought it out where Scarface could see it.

  "I suppose," he continued, "you want me to throw this out to you—or at least one end of it."

  The big man slipped down a couple of inches—all at once. Wide-eyed and whimpering, he started to struggle again. But the bog held him fast.

  "Throw it," he pleaded. "Please—"

  "First," said Kirk, "tell me what you did with my friends."

  "Nothing," croaked the big man. "We didn't even take them—I swear it."

  "I don't believe you," said Kirk.

  "It's the truth, damn it. The order was to bring you in, and you alone. Your friends weren't worth anything to us."

  "Then they were alive when you left the Shooting Star?"

  "I … I don't know," said Scarface. "Maybe. I told you—I wasn't interested in them."

  Kirk nodded, satisfied. Kneeling, he ran one end of the rope through a slot in the truck's bumper assembly, tied it off. Next, he freed up a length of it—enough to reach the big man with the coiled end.

  Then he paused.

  "Throw it," grated Scarface. "What are you waiting for?"

  The captain shrugged. "Something just occurred to me. I mean, here I am, saving your hide. But just as soon as I pull you out, you're going to come after me—just like before."

  "No!" rasped the big man. "I won't. I won't do that."

  Kirk regarded him. "Now, why is it I don't have much faith in your promises?" He sighed.

  "You've got to believe me," said Scarface. "From now on, I won't touch you. No matter what the Rythrian says."

  "You're sure about that?"

  "Yes, damn—yes, I'm sure. Just get me out of here."

  The muck had gradually crept up around Scarface. It very nearly reached his cheek now.

  If Kirk waited much longer, it would be almost impossible to pull him out. So, against his better judgment, he tossed out the rope.

  The coil fell just beyond the big man, the length just inches away from his free hand. He grabbed it, wound it a couple of times around his forearm.

  Kirk didn't envy him the task of hanging on while the truck hauled him out. But then, he hadn't a whole lot of sympathy for him either.

  Still painfully stiff, he jumped down from the cargo compartment with some difficulty. Then he found his way to the cab and swung the door open. With even more difficulty, he got in.

  He took a deep breath, surveyed the controls before him. They looked simple enough—that is, if one know which was which.

  "Let's see," he muttered to himself. One wrong move and he'd back the truck into the bog—or accelerate so quickly he'd tear the big man's arm off. "There's got to be some sort of ignition, right? That's how these old internal-combustion engines were supposed to work."

  His knee brushed against something loose and it jangled. He peered around the steering column and saw the dangling set of keys, one of them already inserted into the mechanism.

  The captain held his breath, turned it, and hoped for the best. A moment later, the engine rumbled to life.

  So far, so good.

  Now—for the proverbial gas pedal. He looked down, saw not one pedal but two. Depressing the one on the left didn't seem to have any effect, so he deduced that that one was the brake. Or weren't they using foot brakes anymore when this truck was manufactured?

  He frowned, pressed down on the other pedal. Gently. And the engine responded, whining with pent-up power.

  The steering was pretty easy to figure out, considering the wheel was right in front of him. But how to put it into gear?

  Kirk looked around at the various gauges. None of them seemed helpful. Then he saw the handgrip and the markings that ran below it.

  Planting his foot on what he assumed to be the brake, he moved the handgrip from marking to marking, feeling the shift in the engine's pull with each adjustment. Outside, he heard Sc
arface's bellowing—even more frantic than before.

  "What the hell," he said, and moved the handgrip back to the position where the truck seemed to be straining forward the hardest. Gradually, he lifted his foot off the brake.

  The truck rolled forward, but only a little. After it was obvious that it wasn't going to go any farther without some help, Kirk pushed down on the gas pedal.

  The engine rumbled. The truck lumbered forward.

  There was more bellowing from back in the bog, but this time it was a sound of pain. Intense pain.

  When Kirk poked his head out the open window, however, he saw that Scarface was still hanging on. So he kept the pressure on the gas pedal.

  In a matter of moments, the truck started to drag him out. Soon, his other arm came free, and he was able to clutch the rope in both hands, and as a result his cries diminished.

  The captain allowed the vehicle to tow Scarface a couple of yards to the edge of the bog. Then he took his foot off the gas and slipped back into a neutral gear.

  Descending gingerly from the cab, he came around to the rear bumper. And as the big man watched, he began to untie the rope from it.

  "What're you doing?" he rasped. "I'm not out yet."

  "No," said Kirk. "But I feel safer with you where you are—so this is as far as I'm going to take you. You'll have to do the rest of the work yourself."

  "What d'you mean? I'll never get myself out of here."

  As the captain finished freeing up the rope, he shrugged. "Maybe not. But you won't sink very far either. And the Rythrian will eventually send someone to look for you."

  "What about the nightwings? They'll suck me dry."

  Kirk chuckled, tossing his end of the rope into the swamp with the rest of it.

  "Good try," he said. "But we both know that nightwings don't frequent the lowlands."

  "That wasn't the deal," argued Scarface, changing tacks. "You said you'd get me out of here."

  Kirk managed a smile. "You know me—a born liar." And without another word, he headed for the cab again.

  "Damn it, you can't leave me here! Hey—I'm talking to you! What in …"

  The captain blocked out the rest of it as he raised himself back into the driver's seat. Pulling the door closed, he began the search for the headlight control.

  After a few trials—and errors—he located the right dial. Turning it up two clicks to maximum intensity, he saw the jungle stabbed by twin blue beams.

  He could tell now that there was a path ahead of him among the trees. It was just wide enough for the truck to make it through.

  Throwing the engine into gear, he trundled forward. Branches slapped against the windshield, slithered away on either side. Fog wafted in and out of the jungle, sometimes making it difficult to see.

  After a couple of minutes, however, the trees receded and the path widened, and the fog seemed to thin out. Soon after, he came across a black strip of highway.

  Leaning forward, he looked down the road in either direction. To the left, there was a glow in the distance. Or at least he thought there was.

  That would either be the town itself—or the spaceport, which wasn't far from it. Pushing down on the gas and hauling on the steering wheel, he turned left out onto the blacktop.

  For the first time in days, he felt he was in control again. The pain of his wounds was returning with his circulation, he was hungry and he was tired—but none of that mattered. In a little while, he would be reunited with his ship and his crew. And he'd find out what had happened to Bones and Scotty.

  Once again, he saw McCoy tossed over the heads of the crowd. He blinked away the vision, made an effort to concentrate on the ribbon of road.

  Of course they'd made it back. Scarface wouldn't have lied about taking them captive—not in the position he was in at the time.

  Kirk's eyes were drawn to the sideview mirror, where he saw himself scowling. He had a long, dark bruise on his jaw where Scarface had struck him—was it days ago now? And he looked haggard—hollow-cheeked and pale. But most of all, he looked worried.

  Relax, he told himself. They're all right, probably in better shape than you are.

  But if the big man had lied, there would be hell to pay. Kirk would make him wish he'd died a slow death in that bog.

  As he negotiated a lazy turn, the glow up ahead appeared to grow more distinct. When the turn finally resolved itself into a straightaway, he stepped down harder on the gas.

  The truck sped up, the jungle unraveling more quickly on either side of him. And the glow waxed brighter.

  Then the night was shattered by a distant boom and a dagger of light seemed to rip open the belly of the sky.

  It was the firetrail of an old cargo hauler, tracing the ship's struggle as it fought to free itself from gravity. A moment later, the acceleration system cut in and the hauler won the battle, ascending rapidly in a parti-colored blast of energy.

  Just before it rose out of sight, Kirk heard his own engine sputter furiously. Before he had any idea what was wrong, the thing shut itself off, turning the entire control console into a confusion of red-flashing lights. Finally, with a near-human sigh, the truck rolled to a halt.

  The lights continued to blink annoyingly.

  Kirk cursed and struck the console with the heel of his hand.

  "What in blazes…?" he muttered, peering at the gauges. It took a while before he found one that could tell him what had happened.

  He'd simply run out of fuel.

  The road was even lonelier on foot. Kirk hadn't been at all unhappy about the dearth of other vehicles when he'd been trying to get the hang of piloting his own. Now, however, he wished for the sight of a single truck headed in the right direction.

  Of course, in the back of his mind, he knew too that such a vehicle might have been driven by the Rythrian's men, fresh from picking up Scarface and hot on his trail. But it was unlikely that they'd have gone searching for him so soon.

  Time passed, marked only by the click of his heels on the edge of the highway. Fog curled in over the road, curled out again. There were sounds that originated in the jungle, small-bird and insect sounds. But for the most part, it was quiet.

  Gradually, it became apparent that the glow was indeed coming from the town rather than the spaceport—or at least, most of it was. The port seemed to have an illumination of its own—much dimmer than that of Tranktown, but an illumination nonetheless. And as Kirk approached both of them, and got near enough to see them as separate entities, he noted that the spaceport was closer.

  Just as well, he told himself. If I set foot in town, I'd be taking unnecesssary chances. And it'll be just as easy to contact the ship from the portmaster's office.

  He chuckled softly, alone in the jungle-infused night.

  It should be easier to convince him of my identity than it was to convince Scarface.

  At least, I hope so.

  Once more the night was torn apart, as a cruise liner lifted into the heavens. But as it was a more advanced model than the cargo hauler, it made for a significantly less spectacular light show. And it was gone a lot sooner.

  What's more, it had seemed to shoot straight up—which told the captain that he was a lot closer to the port than he'd believed. With all this fog in the air, it was difficult to judge distances.

  He kept on as the road wound this way and that, seeming to grow more indecisive as it approached its destination. Finally, a vehicle passed him—but it was headed back out the way he had come, and the driver didn't seem to see him anyway. Nor did he do anything to attract the man's attention.

  He didn't need any dubious help now. He was almost there. And he had fallen into a kind of rhythm, a mechanical step that seemed as autonomic as his breathing. As tired as he was, as much as he hurt and hungered, he knew he would make it.

  Sure enough, it wasn't long before he could see the hulking shapes of the spacecraft, the angry glare of red beacons on top of the communications towers, the softer play of light on the landing
fields.

  He couldn't have been more than a hundred yards from the main gate when he felt the squish of something soft and yielding beneath his foot.

  As he looked down to see what it was, fleshy tentacles coiled themselves around his calf. He could feel the sharp pain of the stingers even through the synthetic leather of his boot.

  Damn…

  He fell to one knee as the tentacles released him. Watched helplessly, nerve endings deadening, as the creature slunk off clumsily into the undergrowth.

  Nor was the irony lost on him. To have come so far …

  He fought to get up, to make it those last few yards. He tried to shout for help.

  But the poison was working too quickly. He pitched forward against the blacktop. And in another couple of moments, he lost consciousness altogether.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE ANDROID REPLACED THE GRATE on the exhuast vent, pleased that he hadn't had to clean it this time.

  Ever since he had completed the construction of the machine, small animals had found their way into the duct and become caught in the mechanism. Sometimes his daily inspection discovered them, and he managed to extract them before they could be damaged. At other times, however, they squirmed inside after he had checked the machinery—and when the duplication process began, they were hacked to bits by the rotary blades.

  Not for the first time, he wondered at this odd quirk in his nature. Why expend so much effort on these small, mindless creatures? It wasn't as if they could actually harm the mechanism, was it?

  No. Not even if a thousand of them were destroyed in there.

  Then why? Did it have something to do with the other peculiar trait he had developed—his growing inability to look at the androids he'd created without recalling the deaths of their human templates?

  "Brown."

  The android heard the cry, turned away from the retightened grate. He saw Channings diminutive figure beckoning to him from the vicinity of the communications shack.

  Was it time then? Already?

  He counted the days in rapid-fire succession, marking each by the task he had executed that day—the kidnapping he had performed, or the duplication he had completed. Or the …