Sandcats of Rhyl

by Vardeman, Robert E.

  The sandcat was no longer peacefully sleeping. With Slayton’s compulsion gone, the ‘cat had awakened and was pushing the bar off the doors into the throne room.

  Nightwind managed to catch a brief flash of the Guardian’s mental command: Come! … KILL!

  Before he could say a single word, the doors were flung open. Facing them were scores of sandcats, fangs revealed in soundless snarls.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “ROD,” SAID HEUSER, “This doesn’t look like a tea party to me.”

  Kill … all … desecration! … Rulers return … kill!

  The fragmented thought spoured over Nightwind’s mind like thick syrup. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to separate the sounds in his head from those of normal speech. But he didn’t have to receive the thoughts of killing to know the sandcats were intent on revenge for what Slayton had done to them.

  “I think we’re going to have to do some fast talking to get out of this,” agreed Nightwind. His eyes surveyed the ranks of the sandcats. The beasts crowded into the room forming a fan-shaped array in front of the throne. The sheer bulk of their muscular bodies would have prevented any of the humans from escaping even if it hadn’t been for the bared teeth. Nightwind found a grim amusement in the motions of the sandcats’ tiny hands. The tendrillike fingers clenched and unclenched in a very human gesture.

  The sea of beige fur and fury parted. Down the chamber and through the door came a sandcat, hints of silver woven through its sleek coat. There was a certain bearing about this animal differentiating it from the others. The Guardian possessed a measure of the same assured demeanor. It was almost a regalness, a familiarity with command.

  That one!

  The thought was crystal clear. Nightwind’s mind staggered under the force of it. This sandcat was direct and to the point. The command was instantly and even gleefully obeyed by a half-dozen sandcats.

  Slayton was dragged from the throne room and taken to the middle of the great outer chamber.

  “Stop them, Rod! Please, do something!” Steorra clutched at his arm.

  Wincing with the pain of her touch on his injured arm, he said, “You stop them. They want to get a little revenge for Slayton making slaves out of them again after all these centuries. They didn’t like it when the Rulers did it; it’s no better today.”

  “But … look! They’re … oh, it’s hideous!”

  “I have to agree with the lady,” said Heuser, his voice low. “It’s not every day you have a frontrow seat for a dismemberment. Next time, cancel my reservation.”

  Nightwind watched in sick horror as the sandcats slowly, carefully, methodically destroyed the remnants of what had once been a human being.

  Steorra suddenly broke and ran for the corner of the throne room. The sandcats standing guard made no move to stop her. She couldn’t escape. And, in their own way, they enjoyed watching the condemned struggle like a bug caught between two crushing plates of glass.

  She scooped up the scepter. Holding it, she waved it back and forth, then cried in disgust, “How do you work the damn thing? I can’t make them stop!”

  Nightwind knew it would do no good trying to stop the sandcats from carrying out their chosen sentence on Slayton. Not now. If the man wasn’t already dead, he was too close to the brink even for twenty-third-century medicine to piece back together. It would be days getting him to Rhylston. And the relatively primitive medical facilities there would require him to be put into a cryogenic cocoon and shipped to another planet. Nightwind wasn’t certain who would pay for it even if such treatment might save Slayton’s life.

  He, personally, wasn’t feeling too inclined to go to the bother of trying to save the man.

  “Here, Rod, please try! Stop them!” pleaded Steorra. “It won’t work for me. You use it!” She tossed the scepter across the room. He deftly caught it, feeling the heavy weight in his right hand.

  The sandcats sensed something wrong — very wrong. Steorra wasn’t able to properly use the scepter. Nightwind knew this — and more, much more. The wand was coming to life in his grip. It was no longer heavy. It seemed to float. Light, airy. No, it wasn’t growing lighter. He was becoming stronger. The pain flowed from his body, never to return. The broken collarbone healed. The injured left arm was whole.

  And the universe opened before him. He saw back down the corridors of history. He saw the future branching out in myriad ways. The present was no longer sufficient to occupy his eternity spanning brain.

  As the sandcats began to approach, he issued the simple command: Stop!

  They fell to the floor, paws crossed and their heads laying across the junction. Their amber eyes glared with ill-suppressed hatred for the man. He was in total domination of their very souls. His wish became their duty.

  The mental flood of information staggered Nightwind as he caught the subtleties of thought in the sandcats. He had thought he was getting a reasonable picture of their mental processes in his brief, sporadic telepathic rapport with the Guardian. He couldn’t have been more wrong. It was like touching the tip of an iceberg. With the scepter, he was able to plunge into the icy waters of the creatures’ minds and see what lay beneath.

  They were complex, intelligent creatures. Not in the way of man, but not inferior — merely different. Nightwind’s lightning-quick mind absorbed all this and more. He found their culture rooted in the past. The days of their domination by the Rulers were both worshiped and deplored. No human could fully appreciate the odd mixture of reverence and hatred in which they held the Rulers.

  The cities were relics of the lost race. The reptilian masters had tried to survive the gradual heating of the planet and failed. In a way, the Ancient Place was both a museum and a shrine. A museum depicting slavery and degradation. A shrine telling of the elevation by the Rulers to a position in the universe above simple animals.

  Nightwind took all this in, then ranged farther with his mind. He understood as no human ever had before. Slayton’s brain was unable to appreciate the capabilities of the scepter. He had used it for mere command. It was also a matter generator. Using the power of the mind, material could be formed. Nightwind had only to think, and the substance was created.

  He made a large ice cube and laughed as it slowly melted. Thousand credit notes flowed from his hands as he mentally manufactured the wafer-thin sheets of plastic. He knew they would pass through any verifier in the galaxy. They were perfect. His mind made them so.

  Do you choose to command?

  The thought startled Nightwind. It came with the precision of a razor slicing across his mind. He looked at the sandcats paying him homage. It was easy for him to locate the source of the thought. The sandcat with the silver highlights in its coat was staring directly at him, eyes blazing with … what?

  Even Nightwind couldn’t decipher that alien gaze.

  “Rod, Rod! Snap out of it. If you can get us out of here, do it! Those ‘cats are in one hell of a murderous mood after what Slayton did to them!” Heuser was frantic.

  Nightwind looked into the cyborg’s mind. He found it amusing. The little man was so devoted to him. Honest. Loyal to death. He would do anything without being commanded using the scepter’s amplifying power. Nightwind reached out and took control of Heuser’s mind to see what it would be like. It was so simple. He used the cyborg like a marionette. The feeling of physical power in the small body made him laugh. He was so much more powerful than the cyborg and without recourse to plasteel and monofilament fibers.

  And Steorra. Her mind was a placid pool of crystal-clear water, now disturbed and rippling. She held such idealistic notions. Simplistic, she belonged in the chemist’s laboratory she had trained so long for. The real world was too abstruse for her. She would never believe evil existed, even when confronted with it. Steorra would never — quite — admit Slayton was anything but misguided. She would have been satisfied with therapy and his possible rehabilitation.

  The sandcats were more brutal in their ideas of retribut
ion. No rehabilitation, no mental correction. Death. Death, slow and painful if the crime merited it. Slayton’s crime had.

  Friend who saved me … listen to the Old One … I will speak for you and the others … you must not fall into the trap of the Wand of Command … it eats your body and soul … please!

  The Guardian’s thought was no less precise than the Old One’s had been. Nightwind looked and easily picked out the Guardian from the ranks of the beige-furred sandcats. With the scepter, it was all so easy. He could … he could … what?

  He was super-human. He was a god. He could create. He could destroy. His mind could span light years in a split second. He could see all of time, past and future. What good was power if it wasn’t used?

  “You would all obey me?” Nightwind asked aloud.

  YES!

  The mental roar deafened him. The sick feeling in his gut twisted like a knife when he realized Heuser and Steorra joined in the chorus.

  The scepter. Power. Unlimited power. It wouldn’t corrupt him. He was a fair man, an honest man. He wasn’t Lane Slayton. He could resist the call of the Circe wand. Used only for good, this was the most potent force in all the universe. He could be the savior of mankind. Curing ills, righting injustice, he would be remembered as the greatest man who ever lived.

  Deep inside, he felt the crawling of a worm. It was beginning to eat away at his confidence, his restraint, his knowledge of right and wrong. The scepter itself was evil and must be destroyed.

  But the power. He was strong. He could fight it. He could win.

  With great reluctance, Nightwind lowered the scepter to the altar in front of the throne. The jewels continued to pulse with their own pseudo-life for long minutes after his hands left the warm handle of the rod. Tiredness smashed into his body. His left arm was hurting and the agony he felt from the collarbone almost caused him to pass out.

  Worst of all, the sandcats rose en masse. The look in their blazing amber eyes was not gratitude. Nightwind knew he had only to reach out, touch the scepter, and command. They would obey instantly. The danger would be eliminated. He didn’t do it.

  Halt!

  The Old One’s thought was still clear but lacking in the definition it once had. The scepter would put him in direct in-depth communication with the sandcat. Nightwind’s hand trembled above the jeweled rod. He pulled it back.

  “Rod, if …” Heuser began.

  “Quiet. There must be some other way out of here. I … I just can’t use the scepter. Don’t ask me why.” He looked into Heuser’s eyes and knew his friend understood, at least partially. The brief glimpse into the cyborg’s mind convinced him Heuser was able to perceive why the scepter was not the answer to their problem.

  He glanced at Steorra. She was pale, but her shoulders were pulled back and her posture erect. No matter what came, she would bravely face it. Frightened, even terrified, she would do what was necessary. He recognized courage — true courage — in her. Bravery was overcoming fear, not being totally lacking in fear. Only the fool or the insane person was never afraid; they could never be brave. In spite of her idealistic outlook, Nightwind found himself admiring the woman immensely.

  She had the courage of her convictions. Not everyone had both moral and physical courage. Rare commodities.

  And ones about to be ended by the sandcats.

  Why did you relinquish the Wand of Command?

  “It wasn’t right for me, Old One.”

  You could save your lives … you could be like the Rulers.

  “That’s why I put the scepter back in its proper place. I don’t want to become like the Rulers. Being human is enough of a burden for me. Having the welfare of an entire race as my duty was too much. That and … I think you know the rest.”

  No duty is implied … only command … only power.

  “I felt responsibility.”

  There was a long mental silence as the Old One studied them. Nightwind felt feathery touches at the periphery of his mind but couldn’t grasp the probe and decipher it. Whatever was happening, he knew their lives depended on it. It was a trial with only one judge and half-a-hundred executioners.

  Who will speak for these?

  I speak for my friends … my brothers saved me from the Other.

  The penalty is thus the same for you.

  “What’s going on, Rod?” asked Steorra. She was looking out at the assembled sandcats. The menace wasn’t gone; it was merely held in check.

  “We’re standing trial. And the Guardian seems to have spoken up for us. Whatever the decision is, the Guardian apparently will suffer the same fate.”

  Heuser smiled wanly. “I sort of liked him. Do you think he’ll get us out of this in one piece?”

  “Who can tell what a sandcat’s idea of justice is? I don’t think mercy is even in their vocabulary. I didn’t get any mental picture of the concept. But they live on Rhyl, and the planet’s not exactly a place where mercy would be easily developed.”

  The mental silence lingered until it was broken by the Old One’s piercing thought: They have been studied and their motives analyzed … they are one with our people … to renounce the evil of the Rulers and accept the decision of the Old Ones is xxxx…

  “I think we have just been adopted by them. There was a garbled thought I missed but apparently it’s pretty good with them. See?”

  The sandcats were turning and leaving. They silently padded from the throne room until only the three humans — now adopted — the Old One and the Guardian were left.

  Friends … brothers!… welcome.

  “Thanks, Guardian, for your support,” said Nightwind. “You obviously took a big gamble on our behalf.”

  No danger … Old Ones could see your goodness … your xxxx.

  “Your confidence is appreciated.” To Heuser and Steorra, he said, “I’m getting that undecipherable concept again. I don’t know what it even implies. My mind simply won’t accept it. I think we’d better get the hell out of here while we can.”

  Leave if you wish … you are brothers and always welcome.

  The Old One left, striding briskly from the throne room.

  The Guardian’s thought came: What will you do?… I must now train a new Guardian.

  “What? Why? Did you lose your job because of us?”

  Yes … I am no wan Old One … I have shown ability in judgment.

  “Can you read in our minds that we want to go to our, uh, Old Ones and protect you from humans like Slayton?”

  Yes.

  “We would go and petition our Old Ones. Among us are a few telepaths. One will come and contact you. Will that be a satisfactory way of establishing relations between your race and ours?”

  We are now one.

  “Yes, but we are still humans.”

  Return, brothers, when you can … I go.

  Watching the Old One depart, Heuser said, “Is it okay for us to blast off and lift out of here? They trust us?”

  “They trust us like one of the gang. But the sooner I’m off this dust ball, the better I’ll feel.”

  “I wish I could get pictures of all this,” said Steorra. “Do you think they would mind if we took a few artifacts? Just to support the claim before the Council?”

  “Leave everything where it is. Let’s not press our luck too far. Even in mind-to-mind contact, I missed quite a lot. Concepts that don’t translate into human terms are ones I’m not eager to meddle with.” Nightwind took two steps off the dais and collapsed.

  “Come on, Steorra. Help me get him to the aircar. There’s a first-aid kit in it.” Heuser limped over to Nightwind and pulled him erect.

  “Thanks for patching me up, Steorra. You should have been a doctor instead of a chemist.” Nightwind leaned back in the cushions of the aircar seat. He had forgotten the grit and dryness while in the Ancient Place. It hit him like a hammer blow now. His lips were chapped, his tongue felt swollen and his throat was being seared by dry fire.

  “Heuser did a good bit of it. He’s
very handy with that Quik-heal.”

  “Now that you two have a mutual respect for each other’s abilities, why not try and instill some respect in me?” the cyborg requested.

  “What do you mean, Heuser?”

  “The aircar’s computer interface is missing. Slayton or Dhal must have hidden it. The interface from their aircar is missing, too. If they hid them outside, they’re probably sandblasted hunks of junk by now. We were in the city long enough for the wind to wreck a piece of delicate electronics like that.”

  “Hmm, that’s right,” mused Nightwind. “And Dhal was a desert-worlder. He would have known it. Where would he hide it so the wind wouldn’t destroy it?”

  Steorra said, “Inside the aircar is the only place where it’s safe from the wind. But we can see virtually everything in this cramped compartment.”

  Heuser checked the wall panels and reported, “None have been removed recently. No bright scratches on the metal. Well?”

  “Well, Heuser, if I were diabolical and I wanted to put that interface controller in a nice, diabolical place, it would end up in the ignition chamber. No danger of radiation damage until the engines were keyed on, then it would be burned to a silicon-germanium crisp.”

  Nightwind painfully stood and left the compartment, returning in a few minutes holding the small computer interface. He reached under the control panel, snapped the electronic component into place, then said, “My insight is sometimes frightening. It’s almost as if I had ESP.”

  Steorra laughed and Heuser smiled.

  “And now that the aircar is whole once again, let’s clear sand and move it out!” Heuser began running down the brief checklist, bringing the engines to power and making certain the internal life-support systems were operational.

  Nightwind looked at Steorra and sighed. Even in the desert suit, she was lovely. He remembered her aboard the Ajax. The word gorgeous easily came to mind. Her eyes were widely spaced, giving her an innocent look that carried over to her actions. How an intelligent woman could have ever thought Slayton and Dhal were the ones to aid her was a mystery to Nightwind. Even his brief excursion into her mind didn’t allow him to properly appraise her system of values.