Destroyer of Worlds Part 14

TANJ! THE HUMANOID had almost reached the bas.e.m.e.nt.

"Er'o," Sigmund called, "we can't head it off."

Sigmund lobbed a flash-bang grenade into the upcoming hallway intersection. He dashed through, ignoring the dazed natives staggering in the cross-corridor. Shots came from far behind them, and he heard Eric's stunner.

"It is still in sensor view," Er'o reported. "I will drive it toward you."

Drive how? Sigmund wondered-and then a deafening roar answered his unarticulated question. Laser fire turning stone, wood, and metal to vapors and powder. Combustible dust and fumes exploding. Dust and gravel pinged off the stepping disc slung across his back.

Some of the building collapsed, the floor shaking beneath Sigmund's boots. "Try not to bring the whole building down on him." Or on Eric and me.

CRACKED BEAMS AND STONE SLABS RAINED down the stairwell. In an instant, the path to the tunnels was gone. The palace groaned.

A chunk of granite as big as Thssthfok's head ricocheted off the stairwell wall into his helmet. He stopped, stunned. When he shook off the paralysis, the two mobile radio sources were much stronger. Closer.

Too close.

A BATTLE-ARMORED BIPED DISAPPEARED around a corner.

"I see it," Sigmund shouted. "Er'o, drive it toward us."

A roar of exploding masonry served as answer. Ruby-red glare, dazzling, shone from the stone walls.

Sigmund's visor turned nearly opaque against the blazing light, and his eyes brimmed with tears. He couldn't see a thing!

Something hit him, the impact staggering. Without armor, that blow would have snapped him in two. He heard the frying-bacon crackle of Eric's stunner-stunners don't work through armor, tanj it!-and the pop of grenades. hit him, the impact staggering. Without armor, that blow would have snapped him in two. He heard the frying-bacon crackle of Eric's stunner-stunners don't work through armor, tanj it!-and the pop of grenades.

"Kill the laser!" Sigmund shrieked. The lurid light vanished and his visor cleared. Blinking away the tears he saw the alien bearing down on Eric. And behind Eric, tens of armed natives racing closer.

Sigmund took the force-field generator from his pocket, switched it on, and hurled it with all his strength. If he had thrown it fast enough, and that armor was hard enough...

THSSTHFOK'S VISOR TURNED BLACK against the sudden glare. He turned and ran back the way he had come, the path he had taken clear in his mind's eye.

The glare eased as he rounded the corner. His visor cleared a bit to reveal two armored bipeds taller than any Pak.

Thssthfok charged at top speed, flinging aside the first. He had almost reached the other when, with a clang, something smacked the back of his helmet. The air around him turned rigid.

He toppled forward, helpless, coming to a halt floating a handspan above the floor.

"KIRSTEN!" SIGMUND CALLED. "Is the stepping disc still in the main air lock?" Surveillance cameras would tell her-unless an unlucky shot had taken out the camera.

For once their luck was good. "It's still there, Sigmund."

He lased the ceiling ahead of the charging natives. Stone crashed down, and the natives turned and ran. "Make sure both inner and outer hatches are closed."

"Done."

The alien hovered above the floor, trapped like a bug in amber. The force field suspended its own generator just above the prisoner.

Force fields were power hogs. Maintaining the restraint would drain the generator's battery within thirty minutes. Sooner, if the prisoner struggled.

Some half memory from a life before New Terra raised the hairs on the back of Sigmund's neck. What was this creature? One of the enemy? Even in its armor, it looked like a goblin, some perversion of the human shape.

Tanj it, Sigmund wanted answers answers. This creature was going to provide them. "Eric, find some boards or poles. Clothes rods, broken furniture, I don't care what. Make sure they're st.u.r.dy and at least six feet long."

Eric nodded and went to search.

Sigmund took the stepping disc from its sling. He set it on the floor near the immobilized alien. His toes tingled through his armored boots as he slid the disc to the edge of the force field. "Kirsten, lift the s.h.i.+p to fifty miles, then maintain a velocity match with the ground."

Only a momentary pause betrayed the questions she resisted asking. "Lifting, lifting"-at max acceleration, it would take only about a minute-"decelerating now, still rising. Fifty miles, mark. Hovering on thrusters directly over the city."

"I'll be sending through a prisoner. In theory, it's immobilized. If it moves-blow it out the air lock. Do not not hesitate." hesitate."

"My finger's on the switch," she said.

Rasping sounds heralded Eric's return. He reappeared, his gloves around two solid planks. The other ends sc.r.a.ped along the stone floor.

Sigmund grabbed a board. "We're going to move our prisoner against a wall. Then, while you keep it there, I'll slide the stepping disc beneath."

"Got it." Eric lifted his plank into the force field. The field grabbed the end and held it.

Sigmund followed suit. Amid ominous groaning and the ever heavier rain of dust and debris, they shoved the alien into place.

To slide the stepping disc beneath involved lifting alien and armor. The disc was little thicker than the planks, which kept slipping off.

Eric dropped his plank. He needed both hands to roll a basketball-sized lump of rubble to the force field's edge. With the masonry chunk as his fulcrum and his board as a lever, huffing mightily, Eric raised the alien about an inch. "Now," he grunted.

With his board, Sigmund forced the stepping disc beneath-just as Eric's board snapped. The prisoner dropped, pinning the stepping disc, not quite quite centered beneath. centered beneath.

With a sickening moan, part of the corridor ceiling gave way.

"We're ready to send," Sigmund radioed. If their prisoner was unlucky, an arm or a leg might be left behind. "What about your end?"

"It goes out the air lock if it moves," Kirsten confirmed.

"Your decision whether that's necessary, no questions asked. Err on the side of safety." Sigmund paused for any objection. There wasn't one.

"On the count of three," Sigmund said. He had a transport controller in his gloved hands, a thumb poised above the transmit b.u.t.ton. "Kirsten, be alert."

"Copy that," she replied.

"One, two, three." The alien-all of him-disappeared.

"Got it!" Kirsten called out. "Frozen stiff. Now how about you two?"

Cargo holds had stepping discs inlaid in their decks for ease of loading and unloading. Sigmund used his transport controller to retarget the disc here to a disc in Don Quixote Don Quixote's auxiliary cargo hold. "After you, Eric."

Eric stepped away.

In twenty minutes, no more, the battery would be drained and the restraint field would vanish. They had that long to somehow get the prisoner into a more secure environment. Or to chuck it, and any hope for answers, out the air lock.

"Sigmund!" Eric yelled. "Get out of there."

Sigmund stepped onto the disc. His impression, in the instant that the stepping disc activated for him, was of the whole stone structure crumbling.

24.

Frozen in midair, helpless, Thssthfok considered.

Non-Pak s.p.a.cefaring aliens. Either Koshbara had been slow to awaken him, or the s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p had approached Mala unnoticed. If the latter, the aliens had a means of propulsion other than fusion drive.

There had been no time to ask for details; now Thssthfok could not. As mightily as he struggled, the force field did not permit him to speak, or even to tongue the radio controls. He could hardly breathe against the invisible restraint.

He remembered the dank stone bas.e.m.e.nt of the Drar palace, and confronting the aliens, and getting snared by a restraint field. That was only a moment ago, his senses insisted. How had he gotten here, wherever here was?

He listed the possibilities. He might have been stunned by an alien weapon. For that or some other reason, he might have lost consciousness. But no: His helmet clock insisted only a moment had pa.s.sed. Then somehow he had been moved instantaneously. The aliens had a means of teleportation! He must acquire the technology.

Those who had captured him were not without skill. They also had failings, to carelessly reveal so much about their technology. Or they were confident he would not survive to use what he learned... .

He floated facedown, a surface with a not-quite-metallic sheen a handspan beneath his visor. His peripheral vision hinted at barriers on every side. Featureless walls to his left and right. In the wall in front of him, hard to see, the lower rim of a hatch and a control panel. He guessed he was in an air lock.

A thin disc lay atop the decking, beneath his belly. What purpose did the disc serve? His neck refused to bend, but with effort he s.h.i.+fted his eyes and- Discontinuity!

He hung in midair above more quasi-metallic decking and a thin disc, but the confining walls had receded. A new room, then, perhaps a cargo hold-and certain proof that the aliens had instantaneous transportation.

The force field vanished.

The crash of his battle armor against the deck suggested a metal/plastic composite. Something banged off his oxy tank on its way to the floor. He recovered the fist-sized artifact and stowed it in a pocket of his armor for later study.

Thssthfok stood, the burden of his armor noticeably lightened here. Was this gravity weaker than that of Pakhome? He could not decide. His muscles had acclimated to Mala.

He began surveying his cell. The room held only empty cabinets and shelves, a st.u.r.dy but empty metal box, and the disc.

One side of his cell was curved, its area mostly taken up by a single large hatch. He was in a cargo hold. The clear rectangular expanse in that hatch revealed featureless black. In s.p.a.ce, perhaps, the ceiling's glow overwhelming the stars. Perhaps only night.

As he approached the hatch a sullen red sun came into view. Closer still to the window he saw the curved surface of a planet, its atmosphere dappled with cloud. Mala. At this alt.i.tude the works of the Drar were invisible to the unaided eye.

His tongue flicked out to the helmet radio controls, hoping that Koshbara might have observed something useful. He heard only static. Jamming.

A sudden tap-tap.

Thssthfok's head swiveled sharply, toward the small hatch that would give access into the s.h.i.+p. A metal plate had been welded to the hatch where a latch, k.n.o.b, or keypad belonged.

Through the small, inset window Thssthfok saw a pale oval. A face. The eyes were eerily breederlike, but everything else was wrong wrong. The forehead was vertical when it should be sloped. The nose was too p.r.o.nounced. The receding jaw was disturbingly short.

Drar varied enough from Pak to seem exotic. This alien was only Pak-like enough to be ... repulsive.

More rapping, impatient. Something rectangular replaced the face in the window.

Thssthfok moved closer. The object held against the window was a display device. Imagery moved: most performed by one of the not-quitebreeders, the rest in animation.

The demonstration was clear. Thssthfok was to remove his protective gear and clothing. (Beneath his armor, he had only a many-pocketed utility vest. His captors, like the Drar, evidently wore more.) He was to stow in the box all his things, the disc, and the fist-sized object he had recovered. Then he was to sit on his hands, heels drawn tight against his b.u.t.tocks, knees spread, head between his knees, with his back against the main hatch. Once he was vulnerable, armored and armed aliens would enter and remove the box.

Helmet sensors reported nitrogen, oxygen, and a bit of carbon dioxide, easily breathable. Enough like Mala that his captors would conclude-correctly-that he could breathe it.

The main hatch, if opened, would vent the hold's atmosphere. Without his armor's magnetic boots, he would be blown into s.p.a.ce.

And if he defied his captors and remained inside his suit? The animated instructions addressed that, too. The force field would return for a while and then he would get another chance to comply. Until, Thssthfok surmised, he cooperated-or his suit ran out of oxygen.

He needed a third option. He lifted the disc to study it. It must be important or the aliens would not want it packed for removal. A disc in the air lock and another disc-or was it the same one?-here. Either way, the disc seemed implicated in the alien teleportation technol- Thssthfok gasped. His weight had tripled in an instant. Artificial cabin gravity, as in a Pak ramscoop-but used to punish, not to offset acceleration.

Servomotors adjusted, but within the armor his muscles strained. The apparent gravity increased further. Further. Further ...

Thssthfok released the disc and it shot to the deck. His ears rang from the clang. After a moment the gravity eased, and he again weighed something close to normal.

Be crushed now, suffocate soon, or be seen to cooperate. It was not a hard decision. Thssthfok removed his helmet.

The stench! Horrible things, b.e.s.t.i.a.l things, inhabited this s.h.i.+p. With one sniff, Thssthfok divided the odors into two types. The first were wholly strange, as foreign as the Drar. He had learned to coexist with those.

But at the remaining stench, not entirely entirely alien, Thssthfok's hands ached to rend flesh asunder. At the faint limit of sensitivity, that dominant reek evoked defective Pak infants. For millions of years, such not-quite-right smells had triggered the reflex to destroy any mutant birth. alien, Thssthfok's hands ached to rend flesh asunder. At the faint limit of sensitivity, that dominant reek evoked defective Pak infants. For millions of years, such not-quite-right smells had triggered the reflex to destroy any mutant birth.

Somehow, these were Pak mutants.