The Overlord started. His grip slackened, and Otho twitched free. He ran back to N’Rala, in time to snatch her away from the table with the pushbuttons.
She struck at him, tried to draw her dagger, then a little proton pistol. Otho was too quick for her, and took both weapons away.
“Watch,” he bade her, turning her forcibly around. “This will be a battle well worth seeing.”
Captain Future had torn the Overlord’s weapon belt away. Now he threw it across the floor.
A moment later the Overlord exerted all his strength, broke the grip on his shoulder, and turned to fight it out.
The Overlord was the bigger of the two, mightily strong, and filled with a rage that cried for the blood of a universe, but Captain Future did not offer to draw the pistol he wore.
He wanted the ruler of Dimension X as a prisoner.
His red head ducked smoothly under a flying white fist, and Captain Future’s own hands played for the midriff. But his knuckles bounced back from the body armor, and next instant the Overlord landed his own right to the chin.
Future blinked and stepped back. The Overlord whirled toward the lever once again.
“Don’t let him!” yelled Otho, and Captain Future sprang after his enemy. His sinewy left forearm whipped under the Overlord’s big, handsome chin from behind, tightened across the throat. Captain Future’s right hand grasped his left wrist, doubling the pressure. The Overlord, in the very instant of grasping the lever, yielded to instinct. His hands flew up to claw at the great bar of bone and muscle that strangled him.
Otho, holding N’Rala by the collar of her robe, watched fascinated. He had not the slightest doubt or worry about the result of the battle, but his chief’s fighting methods were ever a wonder.
In vain the Overlord struggled. Captain Future began to tramp backward, dragging with him the strangling, heaving bulk, away from the lever and toward Otho. Already the Overlord’s arms and legs thrashed less frantically. He would soon subside into unconsciousness.
“Bravo!” cried Otho, and moved a step nearer, and N’Rala with him.
Captain Future had heaved his victim several strides toward the center of the room. He was no more than two yards from Otho. N’Rala threw herself at him.
She did not free herself from Otho’s grasp, but for a moment she was within touch of Captain Future. Her hand gained and grasped the proton pistol at the holster just rearward of his hip. She paused only an instant, to touch with her thumb the little stud on the hilt that would modify power of the charge, enough to destroy only Captain Future without burning through and into the Overlord beyond. That instant was enough for Otho — not enough for him to disarm her, but enough for him to scream a warning.
“What’s the trouble?” demanded Captain Future, and turned. As he did so, he heaved the Overlord bodily around, between him and N’Rala.
As he did so, she was leveling the gun, pressing the trigger.
The proton charge meant for Captain Future’s back slammed into the center of the Overlord’s chest, glowed a moment there like some garish ornament or medal. And the mighty pale body went utterly slack, and Captain Future let go of his strangle hold, because the Overlord was breathing no longer.
Otho moved to disarm N’Rala, but she handed him the weapon and burst into tears of unutterable rage.
She was beaten.
Chapter 17: Cleanup
HASTILY Otho, with Oog to guide him, hurried back for the other Futuremen. He led them to the central headquarters where the Overlord had reigned, Ul Quorn stumbling along among them in close-drawn bonds. Three officers of the Pale People crossed their path en route, and all three died under the sure protonfire of the Futuremen.
Captain Future himself had been busy in Otho’s absence. He greeted the arrival of his friends by showing them a full half dozen captives at one side of the chamber, clamped to the neck in yellow metal like so many snowbound sheep.
“They were the Overlord’s chief staff officers, and they came one after another to ask for orders, because naturally they weren’t receiving any,” explained Curt. “They were timid about coming, not having been told to come; so they were easy to capture. I got the drop on one, tripped up another, knocked another down with my fist and so on. I’ve learned the trick of the Overlord’s pushbuttons, to materialize solid matter around them.”
“N’Rala,” said Otho. “Where is she?”
Captain Future pointed. The Martian girl crouched behind the throne, where had been laid the body of the dead Overlord. N’Rala’s face was calm again, still lovely in its agony of woe. She looked down upon what had been her hope to queen it over two universes. Ul Quorn snorted and cursed by certain disreputable Martian gods.
“Keep her and Ul Quorn apart,” bade Captain Future. “They might still turn out to be the worst possible chemical compound if they got together against us. What news of the battle outside?”
“We can hear it,” said Simon Wright. “It sounds hot, bitter and undecided.”
The Futuremen eyed each other calculatingly.
“I know what’s in your minds,” said their chief. “Why don’t we attack the enemy from the rear, eh? Well, it shall be done. Arm yourselves from the weapons I took from these officers.”
They did so. Then, at Captain Future’s directions, they marshaled Ul Quorn and N’Rala to opposite quarters of the chamber, and after some experimentation with the push-buttons, Captain Future solidified metal around these two fresh prisoners, shoulder high. Straws were drawn and Joan, much to her disappointment, was selected to guard the place. The other humans emerged into the corridors, and Joan, with the atom-lock, solidified the entry shut behind them.
It was easy to reach the battle. Simon Wright, whose radio ears were best, picked up its sounds and floated ahead.
Things were going bad for Dimension X. The Overlord’s flying world had been designed to do battle as a great moving artillery placement.
Like all artillery placements, however, intricate and powerful, it was at a disadvantage when the enemy got too close. The garrison at the weapon-ports was brave enough, but the officers and men were none too sure of the proton guns and rays that Ul Quorn had designed. Too, their central command was gone, killed or shut up in the central chamber.
The breach made by the Comet let in more raiders, and more. Ezra Gurney’s seasoned police slid along the corridors to one weapon station after another, destroying, killing, capturing. Thai Thar took a chance on broadcasting an appeal over a captured microphone for those who did not trust the Overlord, to change sides; and some did so, enough to disrupt the defenses even further.
By the time the Futuremen came to the battle, it had been localized, several corridors inward from the surface. A junior staff officer of the Overlord, whose name survives on captured records as Zarn Zel, was desperate but game and intelligent.
He managed to gather a great part of the surviving loyal men into a single fighting force. They held a large chamber designed for conferences and audiences, well armored against possible attacks because the Overlord had so often been present there. Warning devices showed that the attack approached along three corridors, and these the defenders quickly but efficiently mined.
The foremost scouts of Gurney and Thai Thar were blasted into nothing, and the blasts wrecked the corridors and partially blocked the immediate approach of the stronger units who followed. It was the first real check that the Pale People had effected, and Zarn Zel, their commander, permitted himself to grin.
“We may yet win,” he said to his subordinates.
“But the Overlord,” quavered a nervous youth. “We get no word from him. Perhaps he is destroyed.
“Perhaps,” agreed Zarn Zel, without being too appalled by the possibility.
IF HE could crush this danger, and the Overlord did not survive — who could say? Another Overlord would be needed. Zarn Zel wondered if anyone would be more deserving, or more capable, of assuming the title than himself...
From a
rear corridor, to which the enemy was not able to penetrate, tramped a figure he recognized. It was a staff officer, wearing the cloak and insignia that showed him to be two or three places senior to Zarn Zel.
“Attack,” growled the newcomer. His voice sounded strange and thick, perhaps because his mouth was puffed and bleeding from a blow or cut.
“Attack?” repeated Zarn Zel. “But we are in an excellent position to meet their assault and throw it back. Let them waste their strength by coming on, while we —”
“Attack,” repeated his superior, staring at him in arrogant challenge.
Zarn Zel’s dreams of blood-won glory and even supremacy began to fade. Plainly this newcomer wanted to take command — yea, and credit and profit. Why should Zarn Zel permit it?
“You’re ill-advised,” said Zarn Zel. “I won’t obey. I’ve estimated the situation, and I’ll meet it as I see fit. If you interfere, I’ll kill you.”
He put his hand to a weapon at his belt. But, before he could draw, the other officer’s hand flashed, swifter than thought, to his own holster. While Zarn Zel’s fingers still fumbled, the other’s proton-gun was out and blazing. Zarn Zel died in the midst of his own protest and amazement.
One or two men stared. The officer who had killed now waved his drawn weapon in the direction of the half-wrecked corridors beyond.
“Attack!” he bellowed commandingly, for the third time.
There was no gainsaying his authority. The junior officers quickly passed the order on. Into each of the corridors pressed a force of Pale People, and they met doom. As Zarn Zel had pointed out before he died, advantage at this point and moment lay all with the defender.
Thai Thar and Gurney, who had paused and quickly reorganized, had the best of it. The front ranks of the Pale People withered before their point-blanked volleys, and those behind might have faltered, except for the insistent cry of their new commander:
“Attack! Attack!”
Obedience was too deeply grained into them, and they pressed forward to their own destruction.
As the reserve units headed into the battle an officer turned to ask a question of the bruised-mouth chieftain:
“Would it not be well if some of us moved through a side corridor, around their flank and behind?”
“Now!” called Captain Future, moving into view from the undefended rear doorway.
His weapon, and Grag’s, and Simon Wright’s, hurled charges into the rear of the enemy. The Pale People spun around to fight. They saw the Futuremen firing into them. They saw, too, the officer who had commanded them to move against Gurney and Thai Thar, now leveling his gun at them. It was too much to understand, and far too much to resist. Some of the men, and the officer who had spoken, threw down then — own weapons.
“Spare those who surrender,” Captain Future directed quickly. “Clear over to the side, you prisoners! Keep your hands up! Now, forward after the others!”
That was really the end of it. Caught as in a sandwich of destroying fire, the survivors were overwhelmed, or surrendered gratefully, there in the passageways and among the wreckage.
Thai Thar and Gurney pushed through to greet the Futuremen with wild cries of triumphant joy.
The staff officer with the bloody mouth was divesting himself of his Dimension X accoutrements and insignia.
“I’m glad that’s over,” he said. With a corner of his cloak he carefully wiped white pigment from his face and neck, and then the smeared crimson color that had simulated blood upon an artificially puffed mouth. His nimble fingers modeled his features quickly back into the familiar face of Otho.
“Your greatest performance of this campaign, Otho,” applauded Simon Wright, settling down beside him. “Even better than that impromptu Ul Quorn at the prison chamber.”
OTHO showed unexpected modesty. “It wasn’t much,” he said. “You should have seen me at the start of things, when I did a Jovian twice my size. I used padding and lifts in my shoes. And I fooled even N’Rala, who knew the fellow personally.”
“You were superb,” Captain Future told him. “And you had only one word of the Dimension X language — all I had time to teach you. Attack!”
“He was pretty monotonous with that word toward the end,” boomed Grag. “I’ll admit he was useful, but so was I. And I don’t need to hide behind makeup.” He stretched out his great arms, and some prisoners ducked fearfully away from him.
There was a final roundup of enemy, and an end to the last resistance. In the midst of this, one of Thai Thar’s lieutenants came forward to where the commanders were gathered.
“Message from the sub-directors of the worlds,” he said. “They’re gathered yonder, on the nearest planet. They know the fight’s over, and that we’ve won. They’re asking what terms we demand.”
Captain Future faced Thai Thar. “That sounds as if they’re ready and willing to quit. Are they in earnest?”
“I think they are,” replied Thai Thar. “Reflect a moment. It’s been like all dictatorships — a supreme power in one individual, a bunch of petted lieutenants close to him, and not even real men in the lower brackets of government doing the routine work. Only machines for carrying out orders. I don’t expect any trouble, now we’ve taken this headquarters and destroyed the cream of the Overlord’s personal retinue.”
“Proceed carefully,” warned Captain Future. “We hold the whip hand, and we’ll keep it until we’re sure. Direct them to give up or dismantle all weapons. Every individual in authority, down to the little bureau-officials, will gather in convenient groups for us to deal with.”
“You’ll take charge?” offered Thai Thar, but Captain Future shook his red head.
“You, and your best people, know what must be done for yourselves. I’ll help, but I’ll not be a ruler — that would make me an invading conqueror and despot.”
“Some of them will be disappointed that we don’t get into a lighted universe,” said Thai Thar, “but better light in the heart than in the sky.”
“Oh, we’ll do something about that, too,” Captain Future assured him. “Get on with forming your new government, and then I’ll explain the last move in the campaign.”
Chapter 18: Bombing a Star
GLOOMY, dark days of Dimension X had passed. Captain Future stood with Thai Thar and Ezra Gurney and the Futuremen at an airlock of the big flying world, outlining once again his theory and his plan.
“This planetary system has two items that I am going to blend,” he explained. “A dim sun and an immense artificial world which can be propelled and guided and, at the proper time, exploded in every atom. I intend to dive her into the sun’s depths and, by an explosion, finish matters.”
“The sun is half-dead,” protested Thai Thar for the hundredth time.
“The sun is half-alive,” said Captain Future. “It has spent its free supplies of heat and light to a great degree. But much remains, waiting only for release. A big atomic explosion might start things.”
“And what happens to you in the meantime?” Ezra Gurney demanded savagely. “You have to steer this big hulk in, and pull that explosion lever.”
“The central chamber, in material and construction, is designed to withstand anything imaginable,” said Captain Future. “Even heat and shock beyond anything man can produce. I hope to come out of it inside that central chamber.”
“Which brings us back to what I’ve said and said and said,” growled the old marshal. “You’re talking the slimmest chance on record.”
“Somebody has to take it,” said Captain Future. “And not only will I not ask somebody else to take it; I won’t allow it. Thai Thar tries to insist that it’s his chore, as a Dimension X native, but he’s needed to reorganize the government of his system. My explosion will give that government light to flourish by. It will breach the dimmed, cooling outer surface of the sun. The inner core, which my tests indicate is still full of incandescent life, will burst through. The initial atom-explosion of the ship will start other atoms to blas
ting. Days will pass before the difference is appreciably felt on your worlds, Thai Thar. Years will pass before the sun is truly bright and blazing as in its youth. That, too, is an advantage. Your people, small and great, can spend the time adapting themselves.”
Captain Future turned to his Futuremen, drawn together in a melancholy knot.
“Simon,” he said to the Brain. “In case I’ve stupidly-overlooked something that will blot me out, you take command of the expedition and the Comet.” He offered his right hand to Otho, his left to Grag. “Don’t say goodbye, friends, because I don’t mean this as a goodbye. Chances aren’t as slim as Ezra here keeps insisting.” He looked long at Joan. “I’m not going to crowd my luck any more by discussing it. Get going.”
He turned on his heel and strode away through the empty corridors that had resounded with battle.
The time it took him to reach the central chamber would be enough, and more than enough, for his friends to get into their ships and clear. Now he felt alone, alone in the very heart of this mile-sized egg. He sat down in the throne of the Overlord.
Within reach of him were banks of controls, all of which he had carefully studied, tested, and in some cases altered so that he could fly the great structure solo. A telaudio screen, with dials to show speeds and distances, gave him a view of the dim disk of the sun he meant to attack.
His hands, touched the controls appraisingly. Yes, it was lonely, here on the threshold of what was in many respects his mightiest and most perilous attempt —
Not all alone! Up on his knee scrambled a little figure of Thai Thar, which shook itself down to the doughy proportions of Oog.
“You little stowaway!” scolded Captain Future. “If something happens, what will Otho say?”
“Otho won’t say anything,” said the android, appearing in the entry. “Because Otho will be there, saying the same thing happen to him.”
“Grag, too,” boomed the robot, clanking behind. “Do you think I’d stay away from anything Otho dares face?”
Captain Future 20 - The Solar Invasion (Fall 1946) Page 12