Leader Morak sat in the dark just under the lip of the first echo ring. Forty men were ranged in the corridors and alcoves of stone around him waiting for the Weasels to come. From his vantage point, he listened to faint progress reports from far inside Dylan. To the intruders, the voices picked up by the message rings would have declined to faint, unintelligible murmurs at any distance greater than five feet from the wall. Morak intended that they wouldn’t get beyond the first arc.
The hallways through the primary ring wound back and forth, avoiding stalagmites and other natural outcroppings that acted as girders, holding up the walls and partitions. Only offices and recreation rooms were in this section; not much for the Khalians to mess up. No control units were in plain view. All sensitive equipment had been removed. Morak had given the order for auxiliary control of ventilation and lights to override first-level switches. The pirates weren’t going to get any more light than they were carrying with them. And pretty soon, the air would begin to get stale. Morak imagined he could already taste the monoxides building up in the stagnating atmosphere.
Passages leading off the main hall were also under surveillance. Morak’s defense team hoped to lure the Khalia down toward them, where the greatest concentration of traps, deadfalls, and men were secreted. If necessary, the other teams would attempt to herd the pirates toward them. Morak fingered the relay box which controlled the explosive charges set in his hidden traps. An edge of icy hostility crept through his blood, chilling him down to the emotionless state of command. Here was a chance to kill a whole host of the verminous pirates at once. No settler under his protection was going to fall into the claws of the slavers. He wanted to time it until the raiding party had crossed the nearest narrow fissure in the floor. Those silly lanterns of theirs were giving the colonists more than enough light to shoot them by—if there were any left alive after the trap sprung. They’d be just in range of the deadfall—
Wait. Morak stopped, his sweating hand nearly closing the connection. He had heard a human voice amidst the growling of the slavers. Was it Otlind? No, the voice was wrong. It must be Dr. Dalle. There was a chink of metal. Dammit, he’s in chains. With an inward groan, Morak disarmed the deadfall trigger. His conscience wouldn’t let him kill a citizen of the Alliance, especially not a healer.
“What’s the hold-up, Leader?” one of his men whispered, hidden in the darkness.
“The Fleet doctor. They have him. Wait.”
So?” asked a woman hoarsely. “He knows the risks. We have to protect ourselves.”
Morak made an impatient gesture, chopping downward with the edge of his hand. “We have other options. We’ll get them without having to kill another citizen of the Alliance.”
“Okay,” the woman assented ungraciously. She sighed, sending a lonely sound sursurring up the stone walls. Morak winced, wondering if the Khalia could have heard it, and decided they couldn’t. “You’re right. My brother’s a Fleet officer. I’d want the same for him.”
Morak smiled in the dark, and listened for the approach of the pirate band. He knew exactly where they were, even in the dark, just by the resonances of their footsteps on the stone floor. He knew every inch of the labyrinth, as did all the colonists. It would be their best advantage, having to weigh against the Weasels’ superior speed and experience, fighter for fighter. He’d have to lead an ambush, give the doctor a chance to get away. As the raiders got closer, he could distinguish what Dalle was saying.
“And they’ll roast your behinds, all twenty of you. I figure your pelts will make a great rug for the rec room on the Elizabeth Blackwell, four across and five down. Maybe I won’t even wait until you’re dead before I sew it together. Red-skin here’ll be where I usually do jumping-jacks, so I can stomp on your face every day. But you other nineteen musn’t feel left out ...”
Morak smiled again. Twenty. The medic’s deliberate babbling gave him two important facts: the number of raiders in the party; and that none of the Weasels understood English, or they’d have shut Dalle up a long time ago with a bullet. He wondered if that had already happened to Pat Otlind. The kid had a fast mouth. The pirates had a reputation for being short-tempered. The information made up for not being able to take the Khalia out easily, the way he’d counted on. The air was growing heavier. Before long they would be feeling the effects of anoxia. He only hoped the Weasels would find it harder to bear than they did. Another message began to come through, opening with the code for ‘Urgent.’ All other traffic stilled. Morak listened.
Patrick Otlind threshed across a shallow stream covered by thick undergrowth, pushing his feet forward carefully so as not to be heard. It had been a feat of legerdemain to roll out of the wrecked nose of the scoutship and into the bushes without the pirates seeing, hearing or smelling him. His shields had held just long enough to dissipate the last blast from their guns, but the controls were completely dead. The scout was practically beyond repair. Control wasn’t going to be happy with him.
He wasn’t too happy with himself, either. If he hadn’t been goofing around in the cockpit, he might have picked up the trace of the Khalian ship earlier, and been able to complete evasive maneuvers. He hoped Dalle was all right. His precious serum box was still tucked under the co-pilot’s chair. The doctor had been rendered unconscious by the crash. Otlind knew that the raiders wouldn’t have just left him for dead even if they couldn’t rouse him. They should have plenty of cargo space on that football of theirs. Maybe it was true that they kept humans around to eat as well as to perform menial labor.
The typical Weasel crew on a slaver was twenty plus a captain. Otlind counted twenty marching out of the ship in the direction of the bluffs, with Dalle as their prisoner. Unluckily for the ugly rodents, then, that would mean that only one of the crew was staying behind to guard the ship. Otlind had some plans for dealing with him.
The Khalian ship stood in a broad, gently curved clearing, much like the palm of a hand. Otlind had to admire the pirates’ strategy. The advantage was all theirs on this field. No one could sneak up on them without being noticed. Cover in the valley was sparse; only short plants and knee-high grass grew there. During Basilisk’s short dry season, it usually became a dustbowl. Otlind lay on his stomach just within cover of some thick brush at the vale’s perimeter and watched the guard make its rounds with a heavy projectile gun over its skinny shoulder. This was the first Weasel he had ever seen that wasn’t dead or on the other side of a viewscreen. It certainly would never win a beauty prize. Of all the races the Galaxy had produced, this was one of the most vicious looking species Otlind had ever seen. This one was man-height, and it looked like its strongest muscles were all in its back and lower limbs. It wore heavy crossed leather straps almost hidden by the fur on its body, which supported a long holster and several knife sheaths. These last were mostly for show, since the Khalia relied on their teeth for combat more than on blades. Otlind touched his throat and reminded himself not to let the thing get its mouth anywhere near his neck. He moved to a spot downwind, and started toward the spaceship.
The Khalian marched stolidly on its rounds, scanning the edges of the clearing. It took just under two minutes to complete the circuit, and during only forty-five seconds of that was Otlind completely out of its sight. In his estimation, it would take four runs for him to close the distance, and he was dead if he failed. Without being able to get back to his own ship for bigger firepower, his personal armament consisted of a small needle gun, fully loaded; a long-bladed knife; and a packet of salt crystals, personal stock.
The Khalia didn’t have needle guns. They were advanced technological weapons as far as Weasels were concerned. Otlind was pretty impressed with the little guns himself. Accurate at any range up to fifty feet, they propelled a ‘smart bullet,’ a miniature explosive charge that went off only when it had passed through a soft layer, such as a body wall. Charges which missed and hit hard structures fell harmlessly enough to the ground, thou
gh they could take your hand off if you didn’t disarm one before you tried to pick it up. Otlind had seen that happen before. It was like watching a plasma gun take out the forward half of a ground vehicle. He had to admit they weren’t perfect, but they lengthened the odds considerably of getting out of a fight alive planetside. Owing to the usual thick impact padding on a spaceship, a soft layer, needle guns were only employed by boarding parties, never on one’s own vessel. A shell was too efficient an explosive.
He was counting on getting within kill range of the Weasel guard without letting himself be seen. Needle guns fired almost silently. Out here it would sound like a gust of breeze. Otlind figured he had time to loose off a second shell in case he missed with the first one. There was so little cover that he prayed the pirate was too bored to be paying close attention to the bushes. Burrowing low into the sharp sagittate grass, he loosened the knife in its sheath and watched for his first opportunity to run.
His fourth dash brought him close enough. As the pirate rounded the standing fin, Otlind drew bead on him, and fired.
The shell missed. It rebounded from the fin with a CLANG.
In a blink, the guard spun around and fanned bullets precisely in the direction from which the shell had come. Otlind was impressed. That thing could move. And in a moment, it would be on top of him. He raised his gun again to squeeze off the second round.
The Weasel wasn’t going to give him a second chance. It saw the movement in the grass, hit the ground, and rolled. Otlind barely had time to pull the knife the rest of the way out before the Khalian jumped him.
Otlind brought his knee up, bracing it between them. The pirate tried to drag him closer, its jaws apart. The huge front teeth were shiny with saliva. The Khalia tried to go for the throat, just like the savage animals they resembled. With one arm and his free leg, Otlind flipped them both over. The pirate was surprisingly light. The pilot sat down hard on its chest, and slashed down with the knife. Four sets of claws raked him front and back. Most of the talons slid down his flight suit, but two fingers gashed the skin over Otlind’s collar bone. He bounced, hard enough to knock the air out of it, and sliced with his knife.
He connected with its chest. The knife caught on a strap, and he jerked it free. The Khalian hissed angrily at him, and rolled its spine so that the back feet were on the ground. With a twist, Otlind was dumped to his hands and knees. The Khalian was instantly on his back, arms around his neck, teeth seeking his jugular. The pilot clasped the arms and pulled them low on his chest with one hand. He tucked his head over, falling in a classic martial arts roll that threw his opponent flat on its back. The needle gun dropped out of his holster into the grass. As he came up, his other hand drew the knife across the Weasel’s face. Blood welled up through the slick brown fur. It screamed at him, doubling up to kick and claw. Otlind swept his foot around and smashed it in the side. It rolled over and over, and sprang up. Now it was bleeding messily from three wounds.
Otlind was bleeding, too. The torn places on his chest stung badly. They weren’t deep, but there was already dirt and sand ground into them. He flipped the knife to his other hand, and dried his palm on his pants leg. He tossed the knife back with his eyes fixed on the Weasel’s.
They circled each other. The Khalian had more weapons, but Otlind was discovering he was much stronger than it was. The pirate knew that, too. It was staying well out of his reach.
They both made little lunges, angling for an opening that would throw the other off guard. Otlind sought for his lost needle gun out of the corner of his eye. It was a good ten yards from where he was standing. If he wanted it, he would have to expose his back to get it. It was too far to merit the risk. He would have to rely on what weapons he still held. The Weasel took advantage of the break in his concentration, and sprang.
Otlind jumped back, belly drawn in. The claws just missed him. Then they were back to circling again.
“I don’t have time for this,” he sneered at the pointed, furry face.
“Arragha!” the Khalian hissed back. Otlind’s slash across its face had damaged one eye. The swollen lid drooped, the flesh a throbbing red. The pirate wanted to kill him, that was obvious. The fur covering the face didn’t hide the hate. He needed an advantage to finish the fight, and fast. He wanted to get into the caves and find Dalle. And his family.
“Yeah, and your mother, too.” Otlind grinned. The pirate sensed the sarcasm, and showed all its teeth. “Pretty. I bet you brush after every meal.”
He realized then that the Khalian was maneuvering him, steering him toward its ship. If it trapped him in a corner between the body and a fin, he’d be dead meat. He was only paces away from the ship. He let his gaze meet that of the pirate, and kept staring calmly into the animallike eyes. It’d give the Khalian too much confidence if he showed any agitation. Casually, never looking away, he dropped his free hand back to his pocket, and withdrew the canister of salt.
It fit neatly in his palm, and the lid came off with a POP! with only a light pressure from his thumb. He’d only used this kind of dirty trick once before, in a bar fight. Then, as now, he’d used it to gain time to save his life. The pirate glanced toward his hand when it heard the little sound. That was all Otlind was waiting for. He shot the contents into its face.
“Aaaaaaeeeeroooya!” it howled, clapping both paws to its wounded eye. Thin red fluid dripped down its face. Otlind could smell its blood, sharp on the wind, over the milder scents of crushed meadow grass. It sprang away from him, scampering blindly for safety. Otlind charged forward, and bowled it to the ground. It fought him weakly, but the fight was over. The pilot brought down his knife once, twice, three times. The pirate sagged, its jaws open in a soundless snarl of pain, and died. Otlind slid bonelessly off it onto the ground, and sat there panting.
With a few deep breaths, he was up and moving again. No time to waste. The gouges on his chest had stopped bleeding. He patted them dry with the corner of his sleeve. With speedy application of antibiotics and antiseptics, he wouldn’t even feel the cuts after a few days. He headed back toward his ship to root through the med-chest. A short trip to the armaments locker on board FS-2814 for a couple of plasma cartridges and some tools, and an equally brief visit underneath the casing of the Khalian raiders’ engines ensured that the slavers wouldn’t get far off the planet’s surface—providing that they ever made it back to their ship at all.
“This’ll help your takeoff. Pop goes the Weasel!” Otlind said grimly, tightening a final connection with an abrupt jerk. The tool slipped out of his whitened and ridged fingers. Surprised, he retrieved it from the ground, and stopped to massage life back into his hands. He was amazed how angry he was. He had been clutching the tool so tightly it left grooves in his flesh. His arms were trembling, twitching in sympathy to his nerves. He’d had a lot of practice on demo devices, but he took especial pleasure in fixing up this one, his first real booby trap. The guard’s body he dragged into the undergrowth and left for Basilisk’s scavengers.
He felt violated. It was unbearable to him to see these detested creatures, mutated rodents, among things he’d loved all his life, kidnapping citizens—his friends and relatives—for food or slaves. When FS- 2814’s sensors had pointed out Khalia, he felt as if he was living out a long-suppressed nightmare. Like a nightmare, there had been no time to act before they had attacked him. The explosion would make a nasty hole in the scenery when the booby trap blew, but it would avenge his planet. Even if they found Otlind’s device, there’d be no way for them, or anyone else, to disarm it. Some of them would buy it, no matter what.
His bomb was in place. Now Otlind would have to see if he could rescue the Fleet doctor. Uncharitably, he wished that he had come alone, so he would be able to get down to killing Khalia without worrying about someone else. No, he was bothered by more than that: Dalle and he were good friends. Otlind hoped that the doctor was still alive.
No guard was on dut
y at the entrance to Dylan Settlement. The colony was now relying on hidden electronic surveillance devices. After a year and a half off planet, Otlind had to think hard to remember dictated standard procedure for dealing with intruders.
It was perhaps a minor miracle that Basilisk had never before suffered an invasion from the Khalia. There had already been Khalian raids for ten years when the planet had been settled, deep into the designated frontier on the edge of the Alliance. The next planet out from their sun, 7C-E, called Cockatrice, had been invaded. Basilisk no doubt had its unusually stormy climate to thank for having been ignored for so long. Not that the Basiliskan colonists remained unprepared. Otlind was certain that the ground defenses would be sufficient to take care of twenty raiders, when they were well prepared to fend off hundreds of Alliance-bred pirates who came occasionally to hijack mineral shipments. It had become a watchword that the smaller the cargo ship from Basilisk, the more valuable it was. Leader Morak and the others had had to develop advanced safeguards to keep their exports intact.
Not surprisingly, there were no lights on the ground level. He crept in, taking care that no shuffled footstep would set off a tricksy echo in the stone roof. Otlind regretted the necessity of darkness; he wanted his first sight of his old home in full light: the shimmering honey- and lime-colored pillars of the central cavern meeting halfway between stalagmite and stalactite; the rugged, comfortable furnishings of the great stone rooms that looked more as though they had been quarried than constructed; shining underground streams that wound ribbonlike beneath the translucent grey and bronze stone floors. The scents were still there, though, the heavy mineral odors with which he had lived all but the last five years of his life. He breathed it in, trying to be satisfied with one sense’s worth of home. Crouched over, he ran on tiptoe to the message wall and tapped out a spate of Fleet code, hoping that the intruders would take the faint staccato to be dripping water. He identified himself, noted his position, and inquired as to the whereabouts of the raiders and Dr. Dalle.
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