Planet Patrol: The Interplanetary Age (Star Service Book 1)

by Charles Lee Jackson II

  Sandy shook her head. "But I know who might."

  A FEW HOURS later, Walks West sat in an ignominious position. Lacking any facility in which to imprison him, the Star Service people had locked up the renegade in an Andy Gump – a portable chemical toilet. Still bound, and with his gag replaced, the Indian sat on the wooden outhouse bench and plotted hideous reprisal against his captors.

  Outside, Wild Bill Webbe stood guard duty in silence. A noise from across the worksite brought him to full alert, and he squinted into the darkness.

  It was the captain of the security guards, who waved hello as he came. Webbe relaxed.

  "I thought you might need relief," the captain explained.

  "That's all right, my assistant's coming to spell me in an hour or so," Bill explained.

  "That's too bad. It would've been easier – for you."

  Wild Bill, alerted by the man's tone, had moved to defend himself even as the guard captain swung a black-jack at him. The cosh bounced off Webbe's shoulder, which went numb.

  Injured, Bill was unable to ward off the next blow, which glanced off the left rear quarter of his skull. The Sky Marshal went down hard.

  Walks West blinked as the privy door was forced open and the light from an electric torch shined in his face. Sure fingers pulled away the gag, and a sharp knife made short work of the bonds.

  As the renegade rubbed his ankles to restore circulation, the guard captain knelt humbly. "I beg your forgiveness, Great One. My only defense is that I did not know it was you who was our prisoner. Please... ."

  Walks West placed his hand on the man's head. "The evil Whites lied to you, to all of us. Ignorance is to be cured, not punished. Your help now will cleanse your soul."

  "What else can I do?"

  "Help me leave this place before my escape is discovered."

  "At once, Great One. Follow me."

  The guard captain started to turn. Walks West caught him by the sleeve, stopping him. "Wait. One other goes with us!"

  They headed to the headquarters lodge, stepping over the silent form of Sky Marshal Webbe as they left.

  Chapter Three

  Hand of Divinity

  THE MOUNT RUSHMORE Memorial was originally proposed as a monument to feature mammoth carvings of explorers Lewis and Clark, mountain man Jim Bridger, and Lakota chief Red Cloud. By the time it became a reality, Idahoan sculptor Gutzon Borglum's "Shrine of Democracy" had become a symbol not of the frontier but all (White) America.

  And when the work stopped – on a not-quite-completed monument – in nineteen forty-one, the site was already a source of controversy. A paean to Freedom, built on stolen land, making betters of four men of history, while – in the minds of some people – ignoring other greats such as Woodrow Wilson, Susan B. Anthony, and the "other" President Roosevelt.

  Allesandra Pendragon, using one of the offices in the project headquarters, amused herself reading through a booklet on the history of the monument, learning these and other details. She found particular interest in the list of later names proposed as additions to the lucky quartet: Jack Kennedy, Ronald Reagan, the Beatles, John Wayne, even Elvis Presley.

  Seated beside a good-sized stack of reference books and discs, through which she had delved earlier, she studied the booklet by the light of a video-telephone screen, on which the word "HOLD" was displayed in large friendly letters. A strip of information across the lower frame line gave a read-out informing her that she was calling Station-to-station Black Hills to Hollywood, that is, headquarters.

  Sandy had put through the call a few minutes earlier. It had, of course, been answered by Richmond, and, also of course, the video screen had displayed only a switchboard graphic.

  "I need to speak to the curator of the history section," Sandy explained.

  "Certainly, Your Grace," Richmond responded. A moment later the gentleman requested appeared. Frederick Allen, who ran the reference department over in Blinker Hall, sat at a desk in a well lighted room. At his side was a computer terminal hooked up to CL.A.R.I.S.E., the Imperial knowledge bank; in the background, several hundred of the thousands of good old-fashioned books in the library shared by the company and the Service.

  "Your Grace?" he greeted her. "How may I help you?"

  She explained the situation, finishing with, "I've been going through all the historical and reference material here and haven't gotten any ideas.

  "What I'm looking for is something to turn the Lakota back to our side. Something more important, more meaningful, to their lives. Do we have anything on Indian folklore that might help?"

  Allen grew thoughtful a moment, then said, "...I have one idea. We used to have a... Let me do some checking. It may take a few minutes: I'll have to cross-check some historical records against the folklore bank and the Imperial data base. Shall I call you back?"

  "I think I'd best wait for it."

  "Very well, Your Grace. I'll be as quick as I can."

  "Don't rush. Be as thorough as necessary."

  He reached forward, to just below the screen. That's when the graphic had come on. It had been about five minutes since then.

  Sandy didn't hear the door open behind her.

  When Allen came back on the line, the Princess was gone.

  CONSCIOUSNESS RETURNED SLOWLY. She knew she was trussed up, securely bound to an upright, her head left to hang down. There was a nasty lump behind her right ear, and she felt nauseous.

  She still wore her uniform and gauntlet, though her jacket had been removed. The fact that she still had her BLASER was of little solace: her hands were securely bound to the post, immobilized. She couldn't form the finger-pistol to discharge the weapon.

  Besides, she realized as she opened her eyes, she probably didn't want to start a fire. She was tied to a stake and her feet were surrounded by kindling!

  It was too absurd; a woman, about to be burned at the stake by Indians? Oh, she'd seen such things in pictures – one twentieth-century vid starring a cowboy hero named Johnny Mack Brown that she'd borrowed from Jack came to mind – but she'd never heard of such a thing in real life.

  The voice of Walks West came to her. That explained the bump on her head, and what had happened to her. "Use your magic now, White squaw, and you will but hasten your own death!"

  She looked up.

  The renegade was now dressed in some sort of ceremonial shirt, dark material emblazoned with stars and moons. Bright red paint adorned face and hands. Perhaps fifty others, similarly dressed and painted, stood in a rough circle behind him. On the far side of the ring was the great crucifix. The Son of God looked very sad, perhaps even sadder than his plight might explain.

  "Tonight we dance. At dawn we will stop the desecration of our land. No guns will stop us, no men will oppose us. Our great Lord will carry us to victory over the White devils!"

  Sandy sneered at him. "Your ‘Lord’ never taught you to do this," she looked down at herself, "to a woman!"

  "No, he did not. But the heritage of the Lakota is rich and long. Many stories have passed down to us, through our tellers of tales, even through the White Eyes' pictures that move! We are bound to punish the Whites, and we use whatever means suggest themselves!" He laughed at her.

  Walks West turned his back on her, and raised his arms before the crowd. He began to chant in his own language, and a quartet began playing, pipes and percussion. The other renegades began to dance, circling the central fire-pit.

  Walks West danced to the edge of the pit, where flint and tinder waited. He struck a flame, and then danced to the foot of the crucifix.

  In Sandy's ear, her computer translated the chanting. With considerable repetition, it asked for the help and guidance and protection of the great God who lived beyond the sun. That their lances and arrows and guns would fell their enemies before them, and that the weapons of their enemies fail against them.

  Great would be their triumph, to see the enemy dead at their feet, to hear their women wailing in the night. And tomorrow – tom
orrow they would sweep onward, cutting down the White Eyes like wheat before them.

  THIS WENT ON for some time, and only the deadly seriousness of it all kept Sandy Pendragon from being bored. With almost no variation the ceremony seemed to repeat itself. The chants, the endless circling, the hypnotic music.

  Sandy abruptly snapped to full attention. That was it! These Indians were working themselves into an hypnotic frenzy. By dawn, they would surely believe in their total invulnerability, and whatever men were at the memorial site would be doomed.

  And that meant initial victory for Walks West, and the beginning of war, bloody, costly, agonizing war of Red Man versus White Man. And it would be a war the Federals couldn't win, no matter what the actual outcome.

  And Sandy knew that the hopes of everyone rested on her shoulders. That the good Lakota and the Feds were depending on Star Service to short-circuit this tragedy – and the Service was depending on her. And here she was, tied to a stupid stake, for God's sake.

  For God's sake. That was the key to this whole problem. Walks West obviously believed what he said, and the fact that he'd made good his escape from captivity – just as he had promised – made his argument all the more persuasive.

  AT WHAT MUST have been midnight, based on the position of the moon, the tempo of the tom-toms changed. Walks West danced over to Sandy, and began to circle her.

  After several circuits, he stopped, confronting the girl. He must have been hoping the waiting, the wondering, the monotony, would all prey upon her.

  Indeed, she was exhausted, hungry, and cold, but she'd been hand-picked for the job as a Space Princess, and hanging there had discovered hidden resources of strength of which she'd been unaware. The main thing she was, was furious. While letting her head droop, she'd been fighting against the ropes binding her hands. But she was still tied securely despite her efforts.

  Walks West raised his hands high and spoke to her in Lakota. The computer link vocalized for him: "Foolish woman. To pit your puny self against the might of the Ghost Dance. We prepare for the morning's victory! Are you prepared for Death?"

  At Sandy's feet was a tinder-box, and Walks West bent to the task, igniting the kindling surrounding the girl. Within seconds the fire had spread around the circle.

  Straining to look, Sandy realized that the wood circle was just that: a circle, with a clear space in the middle. That meant she herself wouldn't catch fire, just slowly roast to death. This Walks West was determined to make her suffer.

  The heat wafted around her, unbearable right from the start. And it would only get worse. The flames obscured her view of the still dancing circle of Ghost Dancers, but it didn't matter. She was forced to close her eyes against the blaze.

  Sweat dripped from her forehead, evaporating while still on her cheek. Breathing became a nightmare. She began to feel faint.

  A SUDDEN EXPLOSION blew a blast of cold air across the Princess, reviving her. She opened her eyes to see a puff of smoke, already dissipating, on the far side of the dance circle.

  And standing within that smoke, posed on an outcropping of rock, was a strangely dressed figure.

  Tall, broad of shoulder, with an imposing manner. He brandished a brace of antique Colt Navy revolvers, mid-eighteenth century pistols, covering the crowd.

  But it was his costume that caught the eye: A buckskin shirt, emblazoned with the bright emblem of a bird, leather mask, and a war bonnet with many eagle and condor feathers. And on the headband of the bonnet, two small horns.

  Sandy Pendragon recognized the figure from her Swashbucklers' history course back in Hollywood, knew him as the thing that had been hovering just beyond realization in her memory. And it was obvious that the Lakota recognized him, too.

  "Thunder Bird!" many voices cried, almost in unison.

  To the Indians, this was a legendary figure from their past, an envoy from the Great Spirit. Though he had taken the form of a Hopi Kachina, Thunder Bird had been a protector to all the ancestors of the Nationals, a force for peace and Justice.

  To Her Grace, Thunder Bird was one of the earliest Swashbucklers, whose career had actually pre-dated that of The Emperor himself, though his exploits had been chronicled and preserved in the Imperial Archives.

  In reality a cowboy named Reed Gordon, he had developed the character of Thunder Bird to save his life but later became a well-known figure of the Old West.

  His costume had been on display in the Hall of Heroes back in Hollywood. This must be the idea Allen had had about something to sway the renegades. But who was in the costume? And how had he found them?

  THE DANCE HAD come to a dead halt. All eyes watched the mystic figure who now blocked their view of the crucifix. He snapped off a gesture with one of his pistols.

  "Put out that fire!" his hollow voice boomed.

  Only Walks West moved, and he advanced upon the spectre.

  Thunder Bird asked, "Do the children of the Lakota not know me?"

  Wide-eyed savages nodded dumbly.

  "The Great Spirit is not pleased with your actions this day. The Ghost Dance is a false religion. Walks West is no savior. He leads you on a trail of tears.

  "The White Man has finally agreed to leave you in peace. He wishes only to take his idol and go. What you do here will bring War not only from the Americans, but from the heavens as well!

  "This woman is a Princess of the Stars. Her magic has been stilled, but others like her will come, in their ships, and wipe the Lakota from the Earth!

  "Free her at once!"

  Several renegades moved toward the girl. During the masked man's speech, the blaze had whipped up again, and things were a little confusing to her. It was hard to see, and hard to think.

  Walks West stepped into the path of his men, keeping them from the woman.

  "Are you children to be gulled by this impostor? This is no messenger of God, this is just a man in a costume. Shoot him!"

  A few men, less susceptible to the apparition's entreaties, grabbed up their rifles.

  "A man who fires upon me dooms himself to eternal suffering!" Thunder Bird warned.

  The men hesitated.

  Walks West screamed. "Cowards! Fools! Shoot!"

  Startled by this outburst, two of the renegades fired. Thunder Bird stood his ground, swinging his pistols into his holsters and standing with arms akimbo. He took a deep breath, but seemed unaffected by the volley.

  Seeing their shots useless, the renegades dropped their rifles, howling in fear.

  "You were warned!" Thunder Bird called. "Now free the woman!"

  Men pushed past Walks West, running to the stake and scooping dirt up onto the flaming circle, extinguishing the blaze.

  Walks West watched this with fury, then turned on the intruder, breaking into a dead run straight for him.

  Sandy Pendragon, her eyes full of sweat and tears, couldn't quite see straight, but it looked to her as if the figure of Thunder Bird stepped through his attacker. Must be an optical illusion, she thought.

  Whatever, suddenly Thunder Bird was right behind Walks West, and delivered a smashing blow to the back of the renegade's neck. Walks West thudded to the ground and stopped moving.

  Thunder Bird put a booted foot on his adversary's back and raised a hand in triumph.

  "Walks West will be punished – first by Lakota Justice, and soon in the next world – for the evil he has brought among you!

  "The Ghost Dance is over! Return to your families, and speak no more of this night!

  "—Now go!!"

  The Lakota erstwhile renegades tore the ceremonial shirts from their backs, and fled into the darkness. The spectral figure of Thunder Bird left the fallen Walks West and approached Sandy.

  "Are you all right?" He whipped out a knife from a sheath on his belt, and began to cut her loose.

  "I-I-I I'm alive. A little crispy on the outside, but I guess I'm OK," she responded. "Who are you?"

  He freed her hands, then went for the sturdy bonds around her abdomen. "I should
think that was obvious."

  He helped her to her feet. "I mean who are you under the mask. Did Hollywood send you out?"

  "You might say that."

  Her next question was interrupted by the sound of approaching hoof-beats. They both looked up to see Eye-that-shine and the Star Service boys, leading a group of horsemen.

  Thunder Bird stepped back, and gave the Princess a short salute. "I must be going," he said, and disappeared in a puff of smoke.

  While Eyes-that-shine ran over to the prostrate figure of Walks West, Jack and Wild Bill came to Sandy.

  Bill asked, "What the Hell happened here?"

  Sandy stared at Bill, then at Jack, then at the drifting wisps of smoke, then back at the boys.

  "...I'm not sure."

  BY SUNDOWN THE next evening, things were wrapped up. Walks West was in custody, and this time no one was going to free him. The story of the events of the previous night was spreading through the Lakota community. The workers were prepared for business as usual. The Americans would be able to remove their precious monument, and the Lakota would get back the full control of their precious Black Hills.

  Allesandra, Bill, and Jack had accepted an invitation to dinner extended by Eyes-that-shine, and were talking on the terrace over cocktails.

  "I'm looking forward to this meal, let me tell you," Jack was saying. "Though after venison, Dogpatch ham is gonna seem pretty tame."

  Sandy didn't seem to notice.

  "I say, giant locust is better eaten before it eats you."

  "Hmm? Oh, right," Sandy agreed. Then she realized what he'd said. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Just getting your attention. You seem distracted. What is it?"

  "I'm still trying to figure out who that Thunder Bird was. You say you really didn't know where I was?"

  "I told you," Bill said. "We just went back to where we were captured earlier to look for clews as soon as we realized you were missing. Eyes-that-shine was able to follow the ground sign from there, or we'd never have gotten there."