The Rings of Tantalus [Expendables 2]

by Richard Avery

  “Who says so?”

  “Zonis says so. She is still doing her nut trying to figure out how it could work.”

  “Have you got any more bad news?”

  “Yes, if you don’t already have enough. The Khelad-Zonis thing is blowing up again. Zonis loses no opportunity to taunt Khelad whenever she can. She seems determined to make him lose his cool.”

  “It could still be an elaborate act,” said Conrad, “designed to put us off the scent.”

  Kwango shrugged. “I don’t think so. I think Ruth is playing it for real because she really believes Ahmed is the bad boy.”

  Conrad was silent for a moment or two. Then he said: “You like her a lot, don’t you, Kurt?”

  Kwango looked pained. “Boss, and with great respect for your prosthetic arm—which, as we both know, is temporarily useless because you can’t even sit up—it’s none of your damn business.” Slowly, a grin spread across the black man’s face, “And how the hell do you know?”

  “I have noted the way you look at her, stupid. I mention this only because I am thinking of making an experiment which may possibly help to reduce our number of suspects. I am thinking of pairing her with Khelad as an exploratory team working without supervision. If, as I suspect, Zonis is—”

  “Don’t suspect, don’t even think, and especially don’t try to make decisions,” said Lieutenant Smith, who had just returned to the sick bay, followed by Matthew, bearing the prescribed food and drink. “Your immediate mission is simply to recover from injuries sustained. Meanwhile, I do all the thinking and deciding. Incidentally, your five minutes is now up… Kurt, please carry out a check. Uhlmann and Zonis are in the lab, Khelad and Pushkin are dirtside within range of the screens.”

  “Will do, Commander.”

  As Kwango left, Conrad called: “How is Pushkin behaving? What do you think of him?”

  Kwango half turned. “Very efficiently. Stout fellow. He plays a mean game of chess.”

  “Who won?”

  Kwango smiled. “Oh, ye of little faith… He resigned on the thirty-first move.”

  Lieutenant Smith pressed a button, and Conrad was raised automatically to a sitting position.

  “Now, eat,” said Indira. “And eat it all if you don’t want trouble.”

  Conrad said: “I don’t want trouble.”

  He thought of Applecross and swore silently to himself that there would be a return match.

  Phase Two KWANGO’S TANGO

  Lieutenant Smith allowed Conrad to resume full command only after six full days. On the morning of the third day he had developed a temperature nearly 2°C above normal. He rapidly lapsed into delirium and high fever. Lieutenant Smith shot him full of anti-biotics and then linked his circulatory system veinously to an oxygenator temperature control rig. She gave a mild oxygen boost and experimentally brought the temperature down V2 °C. He coughed a little but seemed easier. That was the trouble with the O/T rig. You could oxygenate the blood and control temperature easily; but if you were not careful you wound up with respiratory problems and a cure that could be worse than the disease.

  Matthew was thoroughly familiar with O/T procedure and could have handled the operation efficiently, but Lieutenant Smith preferred to do it herself. Despite having already done a heavy stint of duty, she stayed up all night with Conrad, constantly making small adjustments to the rig as his responses varied. Shortly before daybreak, she checked his heart and respiration for the nth time. Apart from a small and acceptable amount of fluid slopping around in the bronchia, all was well. She disconnected the O/T rig with a sigh of relief. Conrad could now go it alone.

  Kwango came to relieve her. Red-eyed, she waved him away.

  “You ought to get some sleep, Indira. Matthew can operate de white man’s magic, and I can mind de store.”

  She smiled faintly and gestured towards the now peacefully sleeping Conrad. “Better not let that male chauvinist monster hear you calling me Indira. He doesn’t know it—and he wouldn’t admit it if he did—but he is a very possessive bastard.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, Commander, Sir,” retorted Kwango solemnly. “My trouble is that I love you but I also love him—even though he is a one-armed shit.”

  Conrad opened his eyes, tried to focus, failed, and closed them again. “I heard that,” he said weakly. “Kwango, for insolence and insubordination you are fined—”

  ‘“One booze ration!” said Kwango and Lieutenant Smith simultaneously. Commander James Conrad gave a faint laugh and went back to sleep.

  “Kurt, when did you last get some sleep?” asked Lieutenant Smith, noting that the black man was swaying slightly.

  “I just came from my bed,” he lied.

  “Get back to it, then. That is an order. I know what you have been doing. You have been seeing to the safety of the vessel, the perimeter defence system, and the surveillance of our suspect colleagues. Sign off, Kurt. The robots can handle it.”

  “I am better than the robots.”

  “In most ways, yes. But the robots don’t need to sleep: you do.”

  Kwango yawned. “Message received.”

  “Over and out.”

  Conrad discovered that a great deal had been accomplished during his time in the sick bay. The defence perimeter had been strengthened and behind that a solid stockade of outward-pointing sharpened tree trunks had been built. In that, Conrad detected the hidden hand of Kwango. He had helped build a similar stockade on Kratos as a protection against the death worms. Using an exo-skeleton, and looking like an armoured giant eight metres high, he had plucked up trees as if they were daisies, stripped and sharpened them and had tossed them neatly into pre-dug holes like darts.

  Using an exo-skeleton was simply one of Kwango’s many natural skills. Once in harness, he could make the anthropomorphic metal monster do the work of fifty men or ten robots. All of which gave Conrad an idea.

  The chopper was wrecked, twenty-five kilometres away. But it was a useful, if not vital, piece of equipment. Maybe Kwango and Pushkin could mount a salvage operation…

  As Conrad strolled about the compound, observing much industrious activity, he mulled over the data that had already been obtained. Biologically, Tantalus was an almost perfect planet for colonisation. But for the rings and but for the monkey-like robots. The first question was: where the hell were the intelligent indigenes, if any? The second question was: who, if anyone, was going to try to blow the project? Answers would have to be found pretty quickly. Otherwise, the proving project was doomed.

  Alexei Pushkin came towards him. He had been making small adjustments to the control system in one of the exo-skeletons that lay on its back, reminding Conrad of metallic Martian creatures he had once read about as a boy. He tried to remember the title of the book, an early twentieth century novel which had great period charm. He could only remember the name of the author; John Wyndham.

  “Glad to see you up and around Comrade Commander.” The sturdy Russian seemed genuinely pleased that Conrad was fit for duty once more.

  “Good morning, Alexei. You and I have not seen much of each other yet, I am afraid. No hard feelings for keeping you on ice longer than the others?”

  Pushkin shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I know I’m not your saboteur; but I damn well bet I know who is, Comrade Commander.”

  “Who?”

  The Russian smiled. “I prefer not to say.”

  “Do you have any evidence?”

  “No. I have only the intuition. That is why I do not wish to give the name. But I am watching this person very closely, I can tell you.”

  “I could order you to give me the name.”

  “You could—and I could lie to you. You would have no means of knowing I spoke the truth. So is not very good deal, n’est ce pas, tovarish?”

  Conrad changed the subject. “You know how I wrecked the chopper, Alexei?”

  “Yes. Kwango told me.”

  “We need that chopper. It is somewhat bent and busted. But I was wondering
if—”

  Pushkin beamed. “Say no more, Comrade Commander. I am, as you know, an engineer of some talent. There was no fire, I understand?”

  “No, there was no fire. But there was a great deal of impact damage.”

  “It can be fixed. May I suggest that Comrade Kwango and I use exo-skeletons to bring back the chopper for repair?”

  Conrad nodded. He took his transceiver out of his pocket. “Kurt, where are you and what are you doing?”

  After a moment or two, Kwango’s voice came back. “With the computer, Boss. I’ve been going over the evaluation print-out. Also I have been doing some private thinking.”

  “What about?”

  “The ring system. Boss, I think it could be some kind of fortress, or maybe a cosmic way-station.”

  “An interesting thought. Can you leave your speculation to return to matters practical?”

  “What do you have in mind, Commander?”

  “I want my chopper back and operational. Alexei says he can fix it. He says if you and he took a couple of exos—”

  “What if the rings knock out the power systems, like they did to the chopper?”

  “I was about to advise,” snapped Conrad testily, “that one exo proceeds a kilometer ahead of the other. If it falls flat we will, of course, have lost another expensive item of equipment. But we will have learned something. I am prepared to gamble with an exo if there is a chance of getting the chopper back.”

  “I’ll be right down,” said Kwango. “If all goes well, am I empowered to take a close look at the rings while I am in the vicinity?”

  “No, you are not. This is a salvage operation. I do not want to risk complications.”

  Lieutenant Smith came to watch the two men harnessing themselves into the exo-skeletons. The anthropomorphic machines were formidable things, atomically powered. They were eight metres long from feet to control crown. With a skilled operator in the control harness, the exo would amplify his strength by a factor of fifty. It would allow him to leap ten metres into the air or run across the countryside at seventy k.p.h.

  Kwango was the first to harness up. He made his own exo stand, then he stretched out his massive steel arms, picked Pushkin’s up and set it on its feet while the startled Russian was still checking his control web.

  Conrad heard their interchange on his transceiver.

  “Comrade! Easy, by damn! You will break my arm before we start.”

  Kwango laughed. “Broken arms are fashionable around here. That’s the way to get tender, lovin’ care from the good Lieutenant.” He waved gaily down to the now pygmy-like forms of Conrad and Lieutenant Smith about twenty metres away, knowing that they had probably heard what he had said. “Ready now, Alexei?”

  “Yes, I am ready.”

  “Good. I’ll lead until we are about five kilometres from the rings. Then you take over. If any clockwork monkeys start tossing grenades, don’t stay to play with them. The Commander gets cross if his toys are broken.”

  Suddenly, Kwango broke into a run, causing the ground to shake. He gave a tremendous leap, rose six metres into the air and cleared the entire defence perimeter. Pushkin marched sedately out through the double gateway.

  “Kurt is full of joie de vivre,” said Indira.

  Conrad kept his fingers on the transmit stud of his transceiver. “He will also be full of grievous bodily harm, if he damages that exo.”

  “I heard that, Commander,” came Kwango’s voice.

  “I know you did, you black bastard. Don’t play clever or you’ll wake up and find yourself in the intensive care unit. Over and out.”

  While Conrad was in the sick bay, a large workshop, the walls and room of which were made of local timber, had been erected as far from the Santa Maria as possible, close to the stockade gateway.

  It was here that Conrad found Ahmed Khelad, Lisa Uhlmann and two robots. They had set up an assembly line for the production of the land mines that Conrad had ordered.

  “Well, Ahmed, how goes the good work?”

  Khelad gestured towards rows of metal objects, each shaped like a discus, that a robot was packing carefully into wooden boxes. “Your requirements have been met, Commander. The mines can only be triggered by a pressure of more than twenty-five kilos. The explosive agent is tri-nitro-cellulose, the ingredients of which have been obtained locally. The casing is of sheet duralumin, which fragments easily and will not do a great deal of damage.”

  “You have been working hard. How many do you have now?”

  “About a hundred and eighty.”

  “I think we ought to have five hundred. Can you manage that?”

  Khelad shrugged. “The tri-nitro-cellulose is no problem; but it will greatly reduce our supply of duralumin sheeting.”

  “Let us hope we can eventually make that good from local resources also. I believe Kwango has already established the presence of reasonably rich bauxite deposits.”

  He turned to Lisa Uhlmann. “Has Ahmed been a good boy, Lisa?”

  She tossed back her hair and laughed. Lisa Uhlmann had a very good figure, Conrad noted. He was surprised he had not noticed it before. Maybe it was because she had not wanted him to.

  “Ahmed has been a model of Arab propriety, Commander.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant.”

  “I know it wasn’t. Don’t worry. I can account for every gramme of explosive that has been produced.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  Khelad said: “Lisa is scrupulously honest and very efficient, Commander. It is a pleasure to work with her… Eventually, you are going to realise that I am not your saboteur.”

  Conrad smiled. “Let us hope there is no saboteur. It looks as if Tantalus itself will provide all the sabotage we can handle.”

  Ruth Zonis was in the lab, peering down a microscope. She was examining tissue taken from a Tantalus “rabbit.”

  “What is the verdict?” asked Conrad.

  Zonis stood up and stretched her arms back to ease the ache of concentration. Her breasts jutted out. Jesus, thought Conrad, I am too busy watching women today. I must do something about it.

  “Commander, this is a viviparous creature rich in protein and trace elements. It has no fat and—as far as I can determine—no genetic abnormalities. It has a gestation of forty-seven days and produces a litter of between four and nine. Maturation takes about sixty days. The meat, when cooked, is white, soft and succulent. In food terms, as far as colonists are concerned, it is a goldmine. And how do you like that?”

  “I like it very much,” said Conrad.

  “How is your arm?”

  He glanced down at the sling. “Still stiff and fairly useless. I’m getting therapy. Lieutenant Smith takes sadistic pleasure in giving the muscles electric shocks.”

  Zonis laughed. “Lieutenant Smith is one hell of a woman. She didn’t get much sleep while you were hors de combat.”

  “Yes… That would have been as good a time as any for a saboteur to strike.”

  “My thought also, Commander. I kept Ahmed in view as much as possible.”

  “Also, so I understand, you spent much time provoking him.”

  Ruth Zonis met Conrad’s gaze. “I don’t think I have committed any chargeable offence, Commander.”

  “No. But it is our duty to do our best to work harmoniously, otherwise this mission may fall flat without any sabotage. That is why I have special plans for you and Khelad.”

  Kwango and Pushkin returned shortly before dusk with the chopper. They carried it between them, each gripping one of the skids with an exo-arm, as if the machine were a toy. The vanes had been straightened and the machine looked to be in perfect condition.

  They put the chopper down carefully, close to the Santa Maria’s landing torus. Then they lay down in their exo-skeletons and unharnessed. They had a story to tell. Pushkin began to tell it—succinctly.

  “Comrade Commander, we followed the route you described. We found the helicopter without any difficulty. The marks of
your crash had been eliminated, and the machine had been fully repaired.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me Comrade Commander,” snapped Conrad irritably, scratching his silver patch. “I’m not a bloody Communist, Pushkin.” He suddenly realised he was scratching the patch, cursed silently and stopped it. Every bloody thing was getting out of hand.

  “No, Comrade Commander. But I am.” Pushkin grinned. “Also it is logical. You are my comrade as well as my commander… There is more. Do you wish to hear it?”

  “Of course I bloody wish to hear it!”

  “I think—that is, Kwango and I think—the helicopter was meant to be a trap. There were no signs of the monkey robots when we arrived. They must have been aware of our coming, because one cannot conceal one’s existence in an exo-skeleton. But the moment Kwango and I lifted the machine, they came at us from all directions. They had weapons, but they were not permitted to use them.” He laughed. “Kwango reacts very quickly in a time of crisis. He is a good man to have with you, that one.”

  “What happened then?” demanded Conrad testily.

  Kwango took up the tale. “Sorry, Boss,” he said apologetically, “I goofed. Instant reaction, and all that crap. As soon as I saw the critters, I told Alexei to put the chopper down.” He grinned. “The clockwork monkeys weren’t expecting exos. They were expecting people, such as they had already registered in their circuitry. They got a bad surprise. One of them tossed a grenade. I stooped, caught it and tossed it back. That took care of three of them. Then the rest joined in the fun. With grenades coming from all quarters, it seemed advisable for Alexei and me to start jumping—which we did… Those robots weren’t programmed to deal with agile, metallic giants. It was just like firecrackers going off round our feet… Anyway, I got mad and started stamping on them. I flattened about seven before the three or four survivors got the message. Sorry about that.”

  “So you should be,” said Conrad coldly. “I was hoping not to start a bloody war.”

  “You said you wanted the chopper back.”

  “I did. But not at any cost.”

  “Boss, a state of war existed the moment they took out the vids. Also, knocking you out of the sky was hardly a big hello. If I hadn’t flattened those robots, the chopper might have been damaged again or one or both of the exos might have been taken out. Then we would have been in real trouble.”