Complete Short Fiction, page 488
Then the whole room fell into a stomach-lurching plunge. Cables hummed and the walls vibrated as the elevator shot downward. In her arms the baby cooed and gurgled happily, sensing no danger.
Because the machinery still worked, because of the well-maintained sewing machine museum overhead, she was sure they’d find another population of slans inside the underground base. She would ask them for help. She could be at home among the other refugees, who would protect her.
When the elevator finally stopped, one wall whisked aside to reveal a huge, warm, and well-lit cavern. Anthea formed her most welcoming smile and stepped out, carrying the infant and expecting to be greeted by a group of slans, people who would help her, protect her baby, and explain everything to her.
Instead, she found only skeletons.
CHAPTER 27
As the angry mob grabbed for him in the wreckage of the palace, Jommy was precariously caught in the vault door gap. He had dropped the disintegrator, and now hands clutched at him, seizing his arms, his hair. He tried to let himself drop back down into the chamber, but somebody grabbed his collar, dragging him back up.
If he struggled too much, Jommy feared he might jar loose the tracking device wired up to the door mechanism, and then the thick pistons would release the heavy door. Or, the whole armored chamber might collapse into the unstable rubble. As a trick, he went limp, forcing the scavengers to drag him out; they would underestimate him, believe he was weak. As soon as he was free, though, he flew into a frenzy.
Jommy punched the nearest man with strength that surprised his attackers, knocking him back head over heels. Then he flung two more far away as they threw themselves on him. Like a pair of rag dolls, they tumbled into the rubble, smashing into the jagged stones. One slipped and fell into a wide gap, dropping deep into the unseen lower levels; a rumble of a cave-in accompanied his fall, cutting off his screams.
The murderous scavengers circled, wary now. “Dirty slan!”
“Careful, he might fry your brain.”
“You didn’t have a brain to start with, Jerome.”
One scrawny man who wore several layers of mismatched clothing was much more interested in the vault Jommy had been investigating. Ducking away from the fight, the scrawny man shouted, “Looks like a treasure room! I bet he was hiding something in there. Slan treasure.” He started to crawl headfirst into the vault.
Jommy fought each attacker that came at him, but more and more people swarmed over the rubble, at least a hundred, all of them carrying makeshift clubs and pipes; a few had firearms, but they did not shoot. Jommy could tell they wanted to tear him apart with their bare hands.
When a man jumped on his shoulders, Jommy clawed to get the attacker away. A red-haired man sprang at him as well, but Jommy spun, knocking him with the other attacker’s thrashing feet. Pinwheeling his arms, the redhead stumbled against the door controls and knocked loose the device that powered the unlocking mechanism.
The scrawny treasure hunter had crawled halfway through the gap, peering into the darkness of the chamber. When several tons of vault door dropped shut on him like a mammoth guillotine blade, he made a sound more like a cough than a scream. On the outside, separated from the rest of his body, his legs kept twitching.
Several of the scavengers stepped back with expressions of queasy disgust. Two men began to laugh like hyenas at their comrade’s misfortune.
Jommy slugged an oncoming attacker in the chin with enough force that he heard both the man’s jaw and his neck snap. Then he snatched up chunks of rock at his feet and began to throw them like cannonballs, smashing several more scavengers in the face. But still they kept coming, swinging their clubs, closing in.
Jommy couldn’t possibly fight them all. A heavy pipe smashed down on his left arm, numbing it from the elbow down, and another caught him a glancing blow on the temple. He reeled, but kept fighting.
A square-shouldered man with a scabbed cut on his left cheek drew a long knife and came at the stunned slan. Jommy threw another sharp-edged chunk of rubble at the knife-wielder, but his aim was off and the burly man ducked to one side. Jommy held up both fists, ready to fight, barely keeping his feet on the shifting ground.
The knife-wielder was apparently the leader of the mob, judging from the way he barked orders and how the others deferred to him. The rest of the mob backed away to let the leader have his chance. He slashed designs in the air with his dagger, taunting Jommy. The scavengers hooted and chuckled roughly, enjoying the show, while more vermin streamed over the ruins of the palace, coming from side streets. While Jommy defended himself from the dancing blade, more attackers seized his arms—far too many for him to throw off. The leader with the knife just smiled, letting the others do the work for him.
One of the scavengers swung a wooden club that struck Jommy squarely in the forehead. The blow would have killed a normal human, but even Jommy’s slan strength was not enough. His legs went limp, and he fought to remain conscious. The men surrounding him laughed, grabbing his arms and holding him.
“What shall we do with him, Deacon?”
“Hey! I’ve got an idea! Let’s break him into little pieces, just like he chopped Thompkins in half.” The scavengers glared at the partial body severed by the falling vault door. The detached legs continued to jitter, as if impatient to be on their way. The redheaded man squatted beside the lower half of the bloody torso, clearly wondering what might be inside the vault, but unable to open the door.
Deacon, the knife-wielder, was unimpressed. “If he’d been busy fighting alongside us, he wouldn’t be in two pieces now. Thompkins got what he deserved.” He tapped the dagger tip against his cheek as he considered possibilities. Jommy then noticed the leader wore a gruesome necklace from which hung several discolored and shriveled strips of flesh. They were unmistakable. Slan tendrils—as trophies!
Still struggling weakly, Jommy cursed his stupidity. He should have been watching more closely, aware of other dangers. He’d been so excited to find the disintegrator at last, and the thick vault walls had shielded him from outside thoughts and senses. He’d forgotten about the human mob mentality.
“Shall we take turns killing him?” said one heavy browed young man. His voice was eager and high-pitched.
“We can only kill him once, Jerome. Don’t be stupid.”
“Oh. I meant kill him partway, lots of times.”
Deacon fingered the blade. “As long as I get to keep the tendrils.” He stroked the disgusting strands at his neck. “I hate slans as much as the next man, but I do like my collection.” Jommy could barely focus on the man who paced around him, toying with his knife, drawing out the moment. “As much as I’d enjoy torturing this snake for the next week or so, there’s too much loot to be had. So let’s get on with it.”
Jommy found a surge of energy, fought furiously, and threw off two of his captors. Then someone pummeled him again with the thick, wooden pole. He staggered, barely able to think straight. The pain rang in his ears.
“Knock him down and turn him over, then hold him real still.” He stroked the discolored tendrils on his necklace. “I don’t want to get ragged ends.”
The men did as they were instructed. Jommy barely remained conscious. “I’m not your enemy,” he croaked. “You don’t need to hurt me.”
The scavengers snickered and guffawed. “Oh sure, slans aren’t our enemies. The whole city’s blown up around us, but that was a slan gesture of friendship, wasn’t it?”
Deacon bent over with his long knife, whispering in his ear. “You slans think you’re superior to us because of your tendrils. They give you some kind of super mind powers. Doesn’t seem fair to me. I think you should feel like one of us mere mortals for a few minutes before you die.” Deacon yanked Jommy’s thin golden tendrils, pulling them straight.
A sudden icy fear plunged down Jommy’s back. “No, don’t!” With heroic strength he nearly knocked aside the four men holding his shoulders.
Deacon made a quick slash. The knife blade cut swiftly, severing the tendrils in a single sweep.
Jommy felt an indescribable blaze as if a lightning strike had gone off in his mind. The pain was incredible. He felt suddenly blind. Deafness roared in his ears and in his thoughts, but he could still hear laughter echoing in the background. He heard a low moaning sound that warbled higher, then lower, and he realized that it was his own voice expressing his agony. He couldn’t move, couldn’t fight any longer. He felt utterly helpless.
Deacon stood up with an evil grin, holding his hand high. In a clenched fist, he held twitching fleshy tendrils. Tiny droplets of blood oozed out of the amputated ends. He waggled them in front of Jommy’s glazed eyes.
Jommy groaned, seeing only red confusion. Deacon and his gang could easily kill him now. He couldn’t find the will inside of himself to resist.
“Pathetic.” The square-shouldered man stepped away, satisfied with what he had done. The rest of the mob came forward to finish up. Awash in agony, Jommy tried to face them, to fight one last time.
Then they looked up into the sky, shouted, and scattered in all directions. A shadow like a giant hawk swept over the debris of the palace, then explosions rocked the rubble nearby. Jommy squinted, saw one of the tendrilless ships cruising very low. The pilot took potshots at Deacon and his mob, like shooting fish in a barrel.
As the unexpected attack continued, Jommy crawled into the uncertain shelter of a fallen wall. The tendrilless pilot could easily have targeted him, but instead seemed interested in blasting away at the frantic scavengers as they clattered through the shifting rubble of the collapsed palace. Some of Deacon’s men shot their firearms at the ship, but its hull was far too tough.
Groaning, feeling little more than his pain and his absolute loss, Jommy crawled and staggered, trying to get away from all the various enemies who wanted him dead. He ducked into a black crevice, out of sight, as the tendrilless ship came back around, searching for him.
CHAPTER 28
Back at Granny’s ranch, Kathleen waited anxiously for the summit meeting, now that Altus Lorry and the Tendrilless Authority had agreed to the terms. She had done everything possible to be of assistance to her father, but until the emissary ship arrived from Mars, she and Gray had little to do but wait. If the President could talk sense into the tendrilless leadership, convince them of what had really happened in their history, her father just might cement a peace between humans, slans, and tendrilless. It was their best chance.
Despite all the turmoil and uncertainty, Kathleen knew she could count on Jommy to get through, to find his disintegrator if it was at all possible—and to investigate the slan hideout from the maps in Peter Cross’s logbooks.
She had felt a pure love for Jommy as soon as they’d been reunited; their thoughts, their hearts, were linked through their tendrils. Slans could know each other’s minds, could look inside each individual soul. She knew Jommy was a good person, and she knew she loved him. From the moment they had encountered each other in that first slan redoubt, years ago, it seemed as if she and Jommy had lived a lifetime together.
But then the slan hunter’s bullet to her head had crashed everything into silence. Some long time later, after a slan medical miracle had helped her recover, Kathleen was amazed to find herself alive but dismayed to be without Jommy. Completely separated, cut off. She knew he had to believe she was dead. For a long time she had been so miserable, but when they were reunited in the grand palace, all her agony had passed away like smoke in a rain shower.
Missing him, she busied herself in Granny’s kitchen, helping the old woman bake apple pies to welcome the representatives for the important meeting. “You mark my words, girl, once they taste Granny’s apple pie, they won’t have any further thoughts of war and killing in their minds. I might even sell them the recipe—if the price is right.”
Kathleen was better versed in politics and scientific studies than she was in cooking, but she enjoyed working beside Granny, rolling out the dough, peeling and slicing apples, sneaking a few bites whenever the old woman wasn’t looking. When Granny thought Kathleen was paying no attention, she snitched a few bites as well.
When the pies were in the oven, filling the house with a delicious cinnamon-sugar aroma, Kathleen went out to the hangar shed and studied the rocket-plane Jommy had built. She instinctively understood the controls, the design. Jommy’s genius never ceased to amaze her.
Also waiting for the tendrilless emissary to come, her father wandered around the ranch house and found her in the hangar. “A splendid machine, isn’t it? If only we could find the lost slans, we could have a whole race of people building advanced vessels and weapons like that. With such geniuses at our disposal, no tendrilless would dare threaten Earth. They might just as well hide in their Martian city and never show their faces again.”
“Given the chance, Jommy could probably do all those things by himself,” Kathleen said, forcing a smile.
Gray detected something in her voice. “You’re concerned about him, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am. I know how dangerous the city is and . . . and Father, I love him.”
“I didn’t need slan tendrils to figure that out, Kathleen.”
She blushed. “I suppose it’s obvious.” She turned from the silver rocket-plane, noting the red fins and the personal symbol Jommy had painted on its side. “I’m going back to study his father’s notebooks. Maybe I’ll learn something there.”
While the President went off to plan his negotiations and prepare for the meeting as much as possible, Kathleen entered the brightly lit underground rooms. She looked at the encrypted diagram again, studying the tremendous headquarters that the slans had used in the original wars.
She stared at the designs and notes, amazed at all the work one man had done while trying to protect his wife and young son. Peter Cross had sacrificed everything for them, and then Jommy’s mother had also been killed. How many more sacrifices would be required? They had already paid such a high price.
Thinking of Jommy, she tried to sense him with her tendrils. Their connection was strong enough that she detected him even far away, though she couldn’t capture specific thoughts. An uneasiness tingled through her, and with a gasp she understood that this was more than just a flickering contact. This was strong emotion, a powerful urgency—Jommy sent his panic out like a beacon. Or a scream!
Was he trying to contact her, or was he just afraid—or in pain? Kathleen closed her eyes to concentrate, and her tendrils quested like antennae to pick up any thought he might be sending. She caught a flash inside of her mind.
Yes, Jommy was in danger, struggling. Many men, punching him. He fought back, but more attackers came—and they had weapons. She sensed a flicker of a knife, a gleaming blade that burned a perfectly clear image in her thoughts.
Someone touched Jommy’s tendrils, lifted them away . . . and then as clearly as if a siren had blasted in her ears, she felt a slash of pain as hot as a molten wire.
Unable to stop herself, Kathleen screamed. Suddenly all of Jommy’s thoughts, all awareness of his presence, went black and silent. The afterimage of pain inside her head still throbbed.
“Jommy!” she cried aloud. “Jommy!”
She quested out, but received no answer. No thoughts whatsoever. Just silence.
She was completely cut off. Sobbing, she ran out of the laboratory room and up the stairs, shouting for her father, for Granny, for anyone who would come to her. As tears poured down her face and the memory of the pain continued to pound in her head, she ran into Kier Gray.
He grabbed her. “What is it? Kathleen, tell me, what happened?”
“It’s Jommy. Jommy’s dead!”
[TO BE CONTINUED]
SLAN HUNTER
Part 3
CHAPTER 29
On the sheer edge of the red-stone balcony overlooking the glassed-over canyons of Mars, Jem Lorry stood with his old father. The head of the Tendrilless Authority had a calm smile on his face, as if content just to be next to his ambitious son before Jem’s departure to meet with President Kier Gray. He was glad of his son’s apparent change of heart. To an outside observer, it might have looked like a tender father-son moment.
Jem wanted to kill him.
Even with the urgent need to cement their victory on Earth, the old man did not seem inclined to hurry. Altus was calm and confident that everything would work out exactly as it should. Jem, however, understood that things worked out only when someone with drive and vision took charge of the reins of history.
“A beautiful view, is it not, my son?” Altus said. “Look at the white rocks, the rusty cliffs, the red dust. We tendrilless have been here in Cimmerium so long, I think the need to see red has supplanted my desire for lush greenery.”
Jem had always wanted to see red. Blood red.
Even though the wide Martian canyon was covered over with a transparent roof, the enclosed space was vast enough that breezes wafted up from side canyons, air currents moving about from the exchangers, filters, and processing machinery. Far below lay a bone-dry riverbed from ancient days, a ribbon of broken rocks. It seemed a very long way to fall.
“I would be happy to let the humans have this place instead of us. Let Mars be their new Botany Bay. Since you don’t want me to kill them all, that seems a perfect alternative. Exile the few surviving humans here and have them scrabble tooth-and-nail for an existence.”
Mildly, the old man looked at his son. “Come now, Jem, when have you ever had to fight ‘tooth-and-nail’ to survive? You had a comfortable life. You don’t fool me with your imagined hardships.”
“Imagined? I know what those people are really like. Primitive, prejudiced, easily led by propaganda. They’re a danger to themselves, and they deserve the punishment that we’ll impose on them. I don’t know what else Kier Gray expects.”
Altus seemed troubled. “You are supposed to arrange a peace, negotiate acceptable terms.”
