The
Sandcats
Of Rhyl
Robert E. Vardeman
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
DEDICATION
For the Elder Ghoddess, nagger extraordinaire
FOREWORD
Mixed emotions jokingly have been called watching your mother-in-law drive over a cliff in your new BMW Alpina B7. Not having a BMW, the closest I can come to appreciating this is seeing The Sandcats of Rhyl back in print after thirty-five years.
This was my first published book. The advance was small (though, discouragingly, not that much less than a first novel might get in 2012) and there is a strange tendency toward having minor publishers use grandiose names. Sandcats was published by Major Books, not Dell or Signet. It might well have gone with Major Supreme Ultimate Cosmic Books to carry through the theme, but I didn’t care. It was my first published book. The first one I saw on the rack at the bookstore. The first.
As my first book, I have a warmth in my heart for it. And as my first book, I have nothing but trepidation about its reprinting as an e-book. I hope, after more than two hundred published titles since, I have learned a little. Or a lot. Things done stylistically and thematically in my first book are difficult to defend now. That’s what experience, time and Malcolm Gladwell’s dictum about requiring ten thousand hours of practice to learn your trade have done for me.
That said, my firstborn has a spot of honor on my “Brag shelf” all the way to the left side. It seems any book has a story behind it. I loved Dune and over the years Dune remains my favorite SF book. Having lived in the desert most of my life has something to do with it, of course, but the book is a wonderful allegory that still haunts our lives (spice = oil, Arrakis = the Middle East). Then and now I couldn’t write such a major book, but the themes spoke to me. Deserts (and desert worlds) are hardly devoid of life and there is so much to explore in science fiction. But I grew up loving pulp fiction, especially space opera. Going along with the “Write what you know” dictum I launched into a novel I wanted to read. Action driven plots draw me more than literary SF, then and now. (I think I have integrated real characters into my fiction over the years in my evolution as a writer. Tastes change and even space opera has to have more complete characters in the 21st Century.)
But back to the story about The Sandcats of Rhyl, after it was sold. Very little rewriting was required and the book was quickly put in the pipeline for publishing, but the distributor refused to carry the book. Not because of the content but because of the cover. The cover was so terrible the distributor decided the book would never sell. And whoever made that decision was a hundred percent right. The original cover had olive drab multi-legged lions with gauze over their nostrils lounging about. No menace, no hint as to the story between the covers, just goofy looking critters. Faced with the inability to ever sell the book without a distributor, Major Books put a different cover on the book.
It received a new, vaguely Frazetta-esque cover. A six-pack ab, muscled barbarian in a red loin cloth and cape with a spear. On a leash he barely held back six sabertooth tigers from attacking. I don’t think that’s in the book, either, but it was a lot better illustration. Of what, who cared? The distributor took the book and sales were decent. (Today those sales would count as excellent — the markets now have fragmented and there are a lot more titles competing for your reading dollar.)
Would I write The Sandcats of Rhyl now? No. Would I read it? Yes! I hope you enjoy this glimpse into the time machine e-publishing affords us all.
Robert E. Vardeman
May 2012
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Foreword
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Also Available
Copyright
Prologue
“ALERT! ALERT! All hands to emergency stations!”
Roderick Nightwind shifted his weight on the narrow bunk. His hands were locked behind his head, jet black hair falling over his slender, almost effeminate fingers. But one look into his coal black eyes quickly disspelled any thought of this being a soft, gentle man. He moved only a fraction of a centimeter, but he was a coiled cobra waiting to see where to strike.
The emergency sirens aboard the Starry Heavens continued to blare. Nightwind might have appeared calm and composed, but Heuser didn’t. “Come on, Rod! Let’s go see what the fuss is.” The man’s voice was oddly resonant for someone so small. Heuser barely topped a hundred sixty centimeters and was slender to the point of emaciation. Sandy hair and regular features made him look innocent, childlike. But his blue eyes — unnaturally blue — countered the naive, helpless appearance. Like Nightwind, Heuser’s eyes were windows into a hard, competent man’s brain. Even the seeming physical weakness was deceptive. His entire frame had been reconstructed after being caught under the blades of a giant earthmover. Rebuilt, composed of plasteel bones and monofilament wire tendons, he was stronger than any two normal humans. The too-blue eyes were artificial, being able to see a full thousand Angstroms farther into the infra-red than organic ones.
“I suppose we should. This job was getting to be dull, anyway.”
“Maybe, Rod, maybe. But the money’s good. Where else could we get a half million credits just for babysitting?”
Nightwind shrugged into the shoulder holster holding his needlegun. Both he and Heuser went armed aboard ship. Entrusted by Terra Pharmaceuticals with making sure not a single microgram of the valuable cargo was stolen, they had to remain alert. The drugs on board the Starry Heavens were literally worth billions — and untold lives which could be saved by the use of those drugs.
The dark-haired man moved lightly into the corridor, avoiding two rushing crew members. With the short cyborg beside him, they made their way to the “ulcer factory.” The ulcer factory, more commonly called the control room by ground grippers, was earning its nickname. The astrogator was punching endless streams of numbers into his navigational computer. The computer tech seemed to age before their eyes as he struggled to keep up with the torrent of data gushing from his machine. The first officer peered anxiously over the shoulder of the radioman who was spinning dials and flipping switches like a lost soul possessed by an evil demon.
Only the captain remained calm. He sat in the middle of the maelstrom with a placid expression on his face. Nightwind quickly sized up the situation. The Starry Heavens wasn’t in any danger, but something had occurred which had rattled the crew. If the ship had been in the slightest trouble, the captain would have been a blur as he sped from one section of the control room to the other, barking orders as he went.
“Gentlemen,” the gold-braided officer addressed them, “we seem to have come across a ship in distress. We picked up their automatic beacon a few minutes ago.”
Heuser propped himself against a convenient desk. “So what? Why push the panic button over a distress call? That should be routine work.”
“The ship in question is violently radioactive and emitting across a fantastic spectrum. I — ”
“Cap’n,” interrupted the computer officer, “got it analyzed. Their engine’s blown. The entire ship is going to be glowing white hot by now. That baby’s had it.”
“Any life signs?”
“None, sir,” snapped the first officer, a little too brusquely for
Nightwind’s liking. The man seemed to take their presence on board as a personal affront and hadn’t gone out of his way to be friendly. It didn’t matter. As long as he did his job and let the two guards do theirs, everything was fine.
The captain leaned back in his command chair and sighed. He fumbled in the arm compartment and produced a pipe. He began stuffing it with tobacco. “Beastly habit, but it helps me think,” he mumbled. In a few seconds tendrils of smoke lazily drifted into the air currents created by the air-circulating system.
“Seems that we picked up their beacon soon enough that someone might still be alive. Mr. Proctor, ask for two volunteers to board and search for survivors.”
The officer blanched. He licked suddenly dried lips and said, his voice husky, “Sir! The radiation! That ship’s a hellhole. A big risk — ”
“Yes, yes, I know,” the captain said. He puffed vigorously a couple times, then continued, irritated, “It’s got to be done. Ask for the volunteers.”
Nightwind spoke up. “If it’s okay with you, sir, why not let Heuser and me check out the ship? We’re the closest thing to expendibles you have on board.”
The captain puffed out a blue cloud of smoke that momentarily hid his features. “And?”
“And we get half the salvage this way. Risking our necks going aboard that starship ought to be worth a goodly sum.”
“Yeah. A lot of credits, Mr. Nightwind. Any objections, Mr. Proctor?”
The first officer said rapidly in his usual clipped tones, “That would be fine with me, sir.”
Nightwind didn’t have to be a mind reader to complete the unspoken words: “And I hope they fry to a black crisp!”
Suited up in the bulky radiation suits, Nightwind and Heuser looked like parodies of human beings. They crouched in the open airlock, staring out into the infinity of space. The Starry Heavens silently stalked up on the disabled vessel. Even at a distance of ten light seconds, Nightwind could see the other ship glowing eerily. It was totally contaminated by radiation. A real death trap in space.
The computer officer earned four more gray hairs matching velocities with the derelict spaceship. But the work was expert. After a few blasts from the steering jets, the two vessels seemed joined by invisible threads holding them side by side.
Nightwind jumped first — and fell into the eternity of weightlessness. He executed an adroit head-over-heels somersault and landed feet first on the hull of the spaceship. Anchoring his line, he began pulling Heuser across the gulf between the starships.
When the automatic distress beacon went off aboard the ship, the exterior airlock doors were automatically unlocked as part of the emergency escape procedure. The bulky-suited pair had no trouble getting inside the ship. Once inside, they tried to use their suit radios to communicate. All that blasted out from the speakers was loud, radiation-induced static.
Heuser expertly connected a long coaxial cable between them for auxiliary communication. “How’s this? Any static on your end, Rod?”
“A little, but I can still hear you five by five. My geiger counter’s out of action. Needle’s bent around the high side of the scale. That’s a lot of quanta zipping around in here. Let’s make it snappy and get out of here before we start glowing blue.”
The two quickly searched the ship. Everyone aboard had long since died. When the engine exploded, the sudden burst of wide band radiations destroyed all life aboard like candle flames blown out by a hurricane.
“Let’s blast home, Rod. Gives me the creeps being surrounded by all these corpses.”
“Just a second, Heuser. Look at this.”
The small bulk of the cyborg turned to peer through his polarized face plate at the ceramic diary his companion had picked up from a small desk. A quick scan of the projector face and he let out a whistle from between his teeth. “We really have something, Rod! Imagine! An archeological expedition. And look at that line in the professor’s notes. ‘Find utterly beyond belief!’ That sounds too good to be true.”
Nightwind pressed the button on top of the diary, watching the crabbed handwriting speed by, line by line. Occasional crude maps would appear with appropriate explanations written across them. Finally, he said, “The old codger’s Dr. Alfen. The one who dug up those cities made from the silky stuff stronger than steel on Sigma Draconis IV. Sold the deciphered process for making the gunk to Galactic Steel for a tidy sum, if I remember right. A big-time operator, Dr. Alfen.”
“Big-time treasure, huh, Rod?”
A long pause followed, then Heuser added, “Have you seen any sign of Dr. Alfen’s notes?”
“Nope. Sure haven’t.” Nightwind tucked the four-by-eight-centimeter ferro-electric ceramic diary away in a small satchel he carried.
“Good. I was getting tired of working for a living!”
CHAPTER ONE
THE AJAX HAD BEEN SKIMMING through space with its load of passengers for over forty solar standard days. Nightwind and Heuser used the idle time to the fullest. They worked hard at relaxing and spending some of the money they’d earned. Their quarter of a million credits apiece for the work as guards hadn’t gone very far. It was exhausted in less than a week of wild spending, so great were Earthside prices.
Luckily, the pair’s salvage claim had been honored and the insurance company promptly paid them a fantastic sum. Which diminished before their eyes as the high Earth taxes eroded their budding fortune. Still, they had enough left to outfit themselves for the long trip to the planet Rhyl.
And enjoy the trip in royal style.
Nightwind strode into the virtually empty lounge located midships on the Ajax. In spite of living for over a full month on board, he had met very few of the other passengers. People made him edgy, especially in large groups. Left alone, Roderick Nightwind could be completely happy. It might have been an inherited trait from his maternal grandmother, a humanoid of feline ancestry from Schnurra. Or it might have been a general distrust of people he didn’t know well. Sometimes he found himself restlessly pacing, other times he was more than content to curl up and sleep the sleep of a cat. Instantly asleep, instantly awake and ready to fight.
He surveyed the few people gathered about. All but one were human. He avoided them and went to the bar. “Lemonade,” he ordered.
The robot bartender buzzed and a red light blinked balefully. From a speaker hidden where Nightwind couldn’t see it came, “Sire, the liquor sells for the same price. If you do not prefer alcoholic beverages, other substances are available for altering your state of consciousness.”
“That’s nice. My original order stands.” Nightwind’s eyes were as cold as the space between worlds. He had ordered what he wanted. He expected to get it. Whoever programmed the bartender should be forced to listen to it, then program a little efficiency into it.
The bartender buzzed again. “No Terran lemonade is available. We have synthetic. Also, lemonade from Hazmal VI is available.”
“The latter is satisfactory.” Nightwind watched as the crystalline goblet rose, filled, from the bowels of the machine.
He had just taken a small sip when a voice interrupted his enjoyment of the lemonade. “Most pardon, sire. Might ask we?”
Nightwind peered over the rim of the goblet as he began mentally classifying the alien. Four legs, immobile head apparently driven with cruel strength into the center of the body, four hands, two with coarse fingers, two with tendrils for fine work. Stilted speech pattern. Finally, all the data clicked into place. A Maezen, a creature capable of independent action but in constant telepathic contact with every other member of its race.
“Yes, ask.”
“Understand not we stimulant refusal.”
Nightwind wondered at the curiosity. The Maezen were not noted for their inquisitiveness. “Personal unit or group question?”
“Personal unit. I-we pick up odd emanations from your brain. Know I certain units poisonous find substances vended, but not your type because indulge much in stimulants. Check I if you new species
.” The words were laboriously formed by lips not meant to speak any human language. Nightwind noticed the switching between “I” and “we,” indicating contact with others of its race.
“I don’t really understand your statement about the ‘odd emanations,’ but to answer the question, liquor and happy dust and most of the other substances vended dull my senses and slow my reflexes.”
“You feel threat?” The creature’s mouth barely moved as it spoke. Nightwind couldn’t discern any expression at all on its face.
“Constantly.” Nightwind was momentarily startled when the Maezen went into a trance. Its arms curled over its head indicating the creature was telepathically communicating with others of its race in preparation for death.
Nightwind hastily amended, “No danger to your body!” The creature’s reaction was so sudden it made Nightwind smile ruefully. Tenseness flowed from its supple limbs, and the Maezen sidled away, its question answered and assured no immediate danger existed to its person. With the inexplicability of an alien mentality, it seemed to be totally unconcerned now about what danger Nightwind might have sensed.
Another passenger had joined Nightwind in a soft chuckle. He turned to see a woman seated at a nearby table. She was lounging back in a reclining chair, long legs thrusting out from under the edge of an expensive, short green silk dress. She raised her glass to Nightwind in obvious invitation.
“Come, join me,” she called out in a lilting voice. “The lounge might fill up soon, and you won’t be able to find another seat.”
Nightwind knew the lounge would remain empty until after the midday meal. Even the Maezen had left. But he liked the come-on. And he liked the woman’s appearance. Young, perhaps twenty solar standard years, though with the cosmetics, plastic surgery and anti-geriatric drugs available, she could have been ten times that age and not looked much different. Shoulder-length brunette hair, soft brown eyes that danced with merriment, pursed ruby lips, a full figure and — the invitation.
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