“I told you I could move rapidly, sir,” she said calmly. “Didn’t you believe me?”
“Please,” said Kwango, gazing intently through the windscreen, “let’s not waste time on recriminations. The show is about to begin.”
“It had better be good,” said Conrad. “The warm-up was, to say the least, interesting.”
The white death worms had stopped banging their heads on the ground. They had stopped the motion as the grey death worms came to lie supine alongside them. Now the spokes of the wheel had been doubled —one white, one grey, alternately, in dreadful symmetry.
There was a dull rumbling. Then, from the bottom of the hill, emerged the most monstrous creature so far seen on Kratos. It, too, was clearly a death worm—but it was more than four times the mass of any yet observed.
It cut, ate and thrust its way out of the base of the hill and displayed its vast brilliantly red hulk—two hundred metres long and four metres thick—to the assembled creatures.
There was something revoltingly sensual about its movement. The hideous creature opened its cavernous mouth, flicked out its numerous tongues and tentacles and uttered a high, grunting scream. Then it rolled indolently on its back and displayed an underbelly that exuded a thick milky fluid from an orifice in every single segment.
“Behold the queen!” Kwango’s voice was filled with awe.
The queen’s behaviour was evidently the signal for a carnage of such frenzy that it would haunt those who witnessed it for the rest of their lives.
Every death worm simultaneously raised its head and answered the cry with roars whose strength was such that the hovercar vibrated with the force. Indira held her hands over her ears; but she could not shut out the dreadful sound.
It lasted perhaps five or six seconds. Then there was a moment of silence, a moment of unreal stillness.
After which, the grey death worms and the white were locked in a battle to the death. They twined themselves round each other like mutually destructive boa-constrictors. They struck like rattle-snakes. They battered each other like-charging bulls. They reared and lunged and screamed and killed and died.
Bloody fragments of the creatures were tossed high into the air, to fall messily among the surviving contestants or to make craters of putrescence in the soft ground.
Surprisingly, the carnage was over in a matter of minutes. The white death worms had won the day. Thirty or more of them flung themselves on the seven or eight surviving grey ones and tore them to pieces.
The queen gave her grunting scream once more. It was a signal.
The surviving white death worms approached her. Each reared its frontal segments. From the belly of each, a rod-like section of tissue emerged, as if drawn by magnets.
“They are going to fertilise the queen!” exclaimed Kwango.
“She has more vaginas than they can cope with. I hope the dear lady is not frustrated!”
The queen was not frustrated. The white death worms penetrated her methodically from head to tail, flinging themselves uncaringly across her heaving underbelly so that the tumescent rods slammed down into the waiting orifices with the apparent force of pile drivers. Then they reared up again and repeated the process, their threshing forms at right-angles to the queen and systematically moving along the entire length of her body. At times, three or four of them flung themselves across her side by side, mindlessly and rhythmically going through the monstrous act of copulation.
Each time she was penetrated, the queen’s huge body rippled and arched and she gave out a hissing, screaming grunt. Steam rose from her straining body, gouts of milky fluid dripped from her immense length, bubbling from her orifices almost as if, as a result of the frenzy and stimulation, the very liquids in her body had reached boiling point.
Kwango was calmly recording the grotesque sequence with a vid camera. “This has got to be the biggest—and I mean biggest—blue movie in the galaxy,” he said drily.
Lieutenant Smith stared through the windscreen, silent, white-faced—like a rabbit confronted by a snake, thought Conrad, glancing at her. He held her hand. It was ice-cold. She didn’t even notice that he had touched her.
When the fertilisation process was finished, the surviving males rolled off the queen and lay as though exhausted. The queen’s great body continued to arch and pulsate for a while. Her mouth opened and closed spasmodically, the tentacle/tongues flicking out randomly. She seemed to be gasping for air. Presently, she shivered—a shiver that shook the ground—and turned over. Then she began to wriggle indolently among the carnage, gouging and greedily devouring tit-bits from the dead. She ate the flesh of the grey deathworms as well as that of the white. Always, she struck at the back of the head, her tentacle/tongues tearing out great gobbets of flesh and casting them aside so that she could probe deeply for what she wanted.
“She is eating their brains!” said Kwango excitedly. “She is eating their goddamn orange-size brains.”
‘“Now why should she want to do that?” Conrad’s voice carried a note of irritation. The whole sequence had sickened him; and, as far as he could judge, Indira Smith was in shock. She hadn’t moved. Her hands were still icy cold, and she stared unwaveringly through the windscreen.
“To preserve the bloody genetic programme,” said Kwango enigmatically. “Why else? The brain tissue contains the code of behaviour. After this day’s work that great cow is going to bring forth god knows how many babies. If they don’t operate according to the code, the whole reproduction cycle will fall apart.”
“Commander,” said Matthew, “the light is failing.”
“I know.”
“Also, I have to report that some of the surviving creatures seem to have detected our presence. Have you any instructions?”
Conrad peered through the windscreen. It was true. Three of the death worms had recovered from their exertions. Now that the spell of the fertilisation ritual was broken, they were beginning to take an interest in their environment once more. Sluggishly, they were heading for the hovercar.
“I have, Matthew. Take the controls and get us back to the Santa Maria. Execute.”
“What the devil is wrong with Lieutenant Smith?” asked Kwango, noting her condition for the first time.
“Kurt, your cleverness is only matched by your stupidity. There is a flash of brandy in the med kit. Get it.”
PHASE FOUR Night Games
Conrad was in his cabin, bringing the log up to date before he turned in. It had been a very satisfactory and constructive evening. After dinner—the king-size ail-American beef-burger programmed by Lou Andreas, but made strangely attractive with piquant sauces and ample garnishings of the edible fungus and vegetables of Kratos—there had been a mildly boozy discussion of the investigation and analysis of the death worms.
Liz James and Chantana Le Gros had each made useful contributions. James had discovered that the skin cells were peculiarly vulnerable because of their very versatility. They were used for breathing, excreting and—in a limited fashion—for ingestion. As a death worm moved, creating a rut in the ground over which it travelled, it was able—as she put it succinctly —to shit, breathe and extract, vital minerals all at the same time. Le Gros had a further and more interesting item of information to offer: the death worms could be destroyed by a liberal application of ordinary salt. Good old sodium chloride. The death worms could not cope with it They had no mechanism for limiting their ingestion of salt. Therefore, it they had to pass over ground where salt was liberally available, their metabolism would be destroyed.
“So we are in business!” Lou Andreas had exclaimed. “All we have to do now is lift off from this goddamn place, touch down by the nearest piece of sea and set up a salt-extraction plant. Then we come back and create a big perimeter consisting of a salt barrier, and wait while the bastards choke.”
“It is not a simple as that, Lou,” said Kwango gently. “Our mission is not defensive. It is aggressive. If Kratos is to be colonised, we must take out the death
worms by every available means… The salt technique is fine, but it does not eliminate it. D.D.T. kills flies, but it does not stop the breeding process. If this planet is going to be colonised by terrestrial man, we have to eliminate the death worms completely.”
“And how do you propose to do that?” Conrad had asked.
Kwango smiled. “Simple, Commander. We take out the queens.”
And then Kwango had explained his theory—without any humorous digressions, for once. If, as he believed, each hive or nest contained only one functioning queen, it should be possible to set up a migratory chain reaction. According to Kwango, the white death worms that had challenged the occupants of Mount Conrad had lost their own queen. Therefore they needed to find a new one.
So, if several queens could be destroyed—the queens in the million square kilometres already surveyed—an artificial in-balance would be created, resulting in a mass-migration of death worms seeking other queens.
And since the challenge-mating ritual resulted in so much carnage, the death worms would be reducing their own survival potential.
“If we can achieve this effect in the surveyed area,” Kwango had concluded, “I submit, Commander, that you would be justified in triggering the colonisation programme. The colonists themselves could use the technique we develop to extend their domain as required.” He permitted himself a final Kwangoism. “Thus mankind will have the opportunity to foul up yet another unspoiled planet.”
Kwango’s reasoning had seemed good. So had the possibilities suggested by the combined work of James and Le Gros. Conrad began to feel mildly optimistic.
The meeting broke up on a rather unusual note. Lou Andreas said: “Commander, I’d like permission to have sex with Miss James.” He grinned at her. “The lady is willing.”
“I see.” Right at the beginning, Conrad had established two basic rules. No Expendable was to take alcohol or any related drug without permission, and no one was to establish a sexual liaison without permission. For obvious reasons.
“Has anyone any objections to Lou’s request?” he asked.
Several glances were exchanged, but no one said anything. Kwango stared fixedly at his finger nails. Perhaps, thought Conrad, he was recollecting an unfortunate event in the Pacific Ocean.
“Permission granted,” he said. “I hope you have fun… You all know the reason why Mr, Andreas and Miss James had to consult me on this matter. We can’t afford friction, jealousy, tension—anything that endangers efficiency. I’m sorry our private lives have to be made public, but there it is.”
There was a brief silence. Conrad saw Fidel Batista and Chantana Le Gros look at each other in an oddly intimate way. After a moment or two, Chantana gave a barely perceptible nod.
Batista cleared his throat. “Commander, I make the same request for myself and Miss Le Gros.”
“O.K. Any objections?” Conrad looked at Kwango and Lieutenant Smith. Kwango was still studying his nails. Indira Smith stared fixedly at the deck.
“Permission granted.” He tried to ease the odd tension that had suddenly developed. “Those engaged in— er—joint explorations are entitled to share an extra bottle of wine. The rest of us, I feel, are entitled to a little extra brandy… I probably don’t have to mention it, but everyone will be available for normal duty tomorrow. In view of what we have recently discussed, I intend to begin to put Kurt’s theory to the test. We—or, rather, I—will destroy the first queen. Depending on how that operation goes, we will develop plans for clearing the surveyed area. Good night, ladies and gentlemen.”
Now, alone in his cabin, after completing the log and finishing the extra brandy he had allowed himself, Conrad felt curiously empty. He ought to feel sleepy, but he didn’t. He wondered why.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Indira Smith came into the cabin. She was wearing only her short night tunic. She carried a bottle in her hand. It was brandy. It was nearly half empty.
“Permission to report myself, Commander,” she said in a husky voice. “I have stolen .and consumed extra booze.”
He tried to pass it off lightly. “That’s all right, Lieutenant. It’s been a rough day. Write yourself a prescription for one half-litre of brandy. No charges will be preferred.”
Indira took a swig from the bottle. “I have white hair and tin legs. Am I a woman, or am I not a woman?”
“You are demonstrably a woman.”
“Good. Then make love to me.” She came towards him. “These breasts have only been handled by about fifty men. Do you fancy being the fifty-first?”
“No.”
She gave a shrill laugh. “I am not desirable? The white hair and tin legs bother you?” . “It isn’t that. Just that we haven’t followed the rules of the house. We haven’t asked if there are any objections.”
Indira took another swig. “The great Commander has to ask permission of a bunch of exiled psychopaths to lay his second-in-command?”
“Yes. In this matter only, I require permission from the team. Rank does not count in sexual competition. If you were sober, you would know that.”
She swayed. “So I’m pissed. You’ve screwed drunk women before, haven’t you?”
He ignored the question. “We keep to the rules. It’s important. There isn’t going to be one law for us and another law for them.”
“Four of your bloody Expendables are too busy to care,” she stormed. “So call Kwango and ask for his blessing. Tell him he can have the left-overs.”
Conrad sighed. “Why the hell don’t you go to bed?”
“I’m going to—with you. Call Mr. Kurt the Magnificent Kwango.”
Conrad sighed. “If that’s the way you want it.” He turned to the intercom panel and pressed the button connecting him with Kwango’s cabin.
“Kurt, are you there?”
“Yes, suh, Massa Boss. I’se burning de midnight oil over a very interesting computer print-out. Thought you’d be asleep by now. But since you ain’t, would you like to know the extrapolated situation if we take out twenty-five queens?”
“Kurt, save that for tomorrow. Just now I have a problem. Have you any objection if—”
Indira slumped. Her eyes rolled upwards and she fell soundlessly to the deck.
“What problem, Massa Boss?”
Conrad passed a hand over her forehead. “Cancel statement. I mean, I’m sorry I disturbed you. It is of no consequence. Sleep well.”
“O.K. Massa Boss. Night-night.”
“And cut the Uncle Tom crap for good,” snapped Conrad angrily. “Or I’ll fine you one month’s booze ration, and that’s a promise.”
“Yes, Commander.” There was a laugh. “Seems like the Lieutenant turned us both down.”
PHASE FIVE Target: The Queen
It was still raining. Kwango, having run a lot of seemingly unrelated data through the computer, had estimated that the monsoon—if you could call it that— would last for about a quarter of the Kratos year. But it was nothing like the wet monsoons of Earth. The wind was very light, and the rain was no more than a steady, even drizzle.
Now, as he sat in the hovercar less than a kilometre from Mount Conrad and near one of the vertical shafts that served as a ventilation tunnel to the hive, Conrad felt less than optimistic about his chances of success and survival. But he disciplined himself not to think of anything but the practical problems. He had left detailed instructions for the team’s future operations in the event of his death. If they were carried out, there was an excellent chance that Kratos could be proved colonisable.
He had with him Batista, James and Matthew. Batista was necessary to arm the cold nitro bombs, and James had asked to come because she wanted to inspect the carnage of the previous day. In particular, she wanted to dig out the brain of a white death worm—if any were left—and take it back for investigation. She wanted to find out if there was any difference—however small—between the brains of the white death worms and the grey.
&n
bsp; Matthew was present because Conrad needed his immense strength. The robot would lower him down the ventilation shaft and might have to haul him out in a great hurry.
Batista had constructed six nitro bombs—three for the queen and three for emergencies. He had given them all double trigger mechanisms. Each could be detonated by a timing device or by radio control.
The stench outside the hovercar was overpowering. The wind was fetid with the stink of decaying flesh. Anyone who ventured outside would have to wear a sealed suit and take bottled air.
As Conrad zipped himself up and tested his seals, he gave last minute instructions.
“Fidel, in my absence, you are in command. At your discretion, Liz can investigate the debris, but she must remain in sight at all times. O.K.?”
“O.K. Commander.” ‘
“Liz, don’t get adventuresome and don’t rely on radio contact. That is how we nearly lost Lieutenant Smith.”
She gave him a smile and somehow stuck out her breasts not in a provocative way but in a strangely intimate and friendly fashion. Conrad liked Liz. She was so uncomplicated. He hoped she had had a good time with Andreas. She looked as if she had.
“Don’t worry about me, James,” she said. “I’ll be a good girl. But we are going to be worried sick about you.”
It was the first time she had called him James. Was it a breach of discipline, he wondered. Ought he to slap her down? Suddenly Conrad smiled at his own idiocy. He was about to be lowered into a hole in the ground with three bloody nitro bombs to blow the guts out of several hundreds tons of devoluted dinosaur. He should worry about discipline?
“Fidel, if I am not back in three hours, assume I’m dead. Blow my three by radio. Even if I don’t get as far as the nest, they are bound to do some damage.”
“James,” said Batista, “you are a stupid man, but you are a good fellow and we have become accustomed to your existence. Please do not terminate it. I will wait five hours if possible before I blow. You may now fine me one booze ration for insubordination.”
The Deathworms of Kratos [The Expendables 1] Page 11