“Those coffins are full of sawdust! They were changed in your bedroom this morning!” shouted Jonnie.
Terl whirled to look at them.
“And the gold never went to Psychlo! We changed those too!” yelled Jonnie.
Terl opened his mouth to shout.
The platform cargo shimmered. The coffins full of sawdust shimmered. The Brigante corpses on the platform shimmered. Terl shimmered. And it was all gone. The platform was empty, clean even of slush.
The humming stopped. Jonnie took his hatchet and slammed the blade down across the cables. It wasn’t a full severance. He struck twice more. All the cables parted.
Things were going blacker. No, it was the dome.
The reworked plane skids on the bottom of it hit the metal. Jonnie reached out to the dome interior and pulled closed the locking lever which annealed them to the metal the console sat on.
It was very dark.
He felt his time sense must have gone out and then a fleeting thought that maybe Terl had extended the time for his own firing.
Jonnie had had a small mine lamp in his pouch. He made an effort to reach it. His whole body was beginning to shake as if everything was drawn too taut.
A voice was talking to him. It was Sir Robert. “Hurry. Cut my hands loose.”
Jonnie had the hatchet. He made himself feel about for Sir Robert’s hands. The blade was dull, the cord was resistant.
Then he remembered with a surge of panic there must be a time bomb under that console. It would blow Sir Robert to bits. He dropped the hatchet and put his hand to the console side. It was terribly heavy. He only had one working arm but he put his agonizing shoulder against the metal. He got the bottom of the console lifted.
He fished along the lower edges. Then a little higher. He felt it. It was taped on. Working with one hand he got it loose and pulled it out. He let the console tip back in place. In the dark he extracted the fuse from it.
Jonnie felt he was going unconscious. His heart was revving up. Faster and faster.
He had one more thing to do. The switch. The position of the switch.
Jonnie felt like he was being torn to pieces by his nerves pulling tight.
“Sir Robert! Tell them the switch . . . the switch has to be in a down position . . . a down position for the next . . .”
The outside of the dome was struck a blow so hard the whole platform rocked!
It was as though a dozen earthquakes had hit at once. As though the planet had been torn apart.
Jonnie stiffened out into blackness. He no longer heard the chaos going on outside.
5
About an hour before the firing, the orbiting group of ships had just come over the horizon that put them into position to view the American compound.
A small Hawvin spycraft in the orbit ahead of them had already reported some activity there earlier in the day. The report had only said that in the middle of the night a group had been seen on infrascreens entering the compound area and that the group had vanished, leaving only the usual sprawled about and apparently asleep night guards.
The scanners of the orbiting combined force were now picking up something unusual down there on the approaching horizon. There seemed to be a more than normal number of people at the site.
There was a local snowstorm in progress down there and infrabeams were a bit blurred.
The attention of the combined force was not yet fixed on the compound as it shortly would be. The command network of viewscreens was occupied by an interview that was going on.
When Half-Captain Rogodeter Snowl had gone back to Tolnep for reinforcements he had contacted his uncle, Quarter-Admiral Snowleter. Rogodeter believed in keeping profit in the family. The quarter-admiral had come along gladly with a flotilla of five ships, the largest of which was the Terrify-class, battle-plane-launching capital ship Capture. Snowleter had not become a quarter-admiral without some skill and he had brought part of that skill with him: a reporter.
Roof Arsebogger considered himself the ace reporter of the Tolnep Midnight Fang. Even among news media of other systems, the Fang was envied as the very epitome of inaccuracy, corruption and biased news. It always printed exactly what the government wanted even while pretending to be antigovernment. And Roof Arsebogger enjoyed the reputation of being the most poisonous reporter on a staff that specialized in them.
The interview was being conducted by Arsebogger on the Capture and was addressed to Half-Captain Rogodeter Snowl. It was just a background interview and things were dull so others were listening in. They had various opinions. The quarter-admiral was not well liked. Other commanders contested Snowleter’s contention that he was the senior commander and therefore the head of the combined force. And that he was the uncle of the even less popular Rogodeter Snowl made him even less acceptable. They detested Snowl.
“Now getting back to the man on this counterfeit one-credit bank note,” Arsebogger was saying, “would you say that he was dishonest?”
“Oh, worse,” replied Snowl.
“Would the description, ‘He is a known pervert,’ fit him?”
“Oh, worse,” replied Snowl.
“Good, good,” said Arsebogger. “We must keep this to a totally factual interview, you understand. How would ‘He steals babies and drinks their blood,’ do?”
“Fine, fine,” said Snowl, “exactly.”
“I think you mentioned,” said Arsebogger, “when you filed dispatches, that you had several times met this . . . what is his name . . . this defiler of established governments . . . er . . . Tyler? Yes. That you met him in personal combat.”
Other commanders were hearing this and Rogodeter had not thought it would become public property. He had reckoned without the publicity hunger of his uncle. “Not exactly,” said Rogodeter quickly. “I meant to say that I tried but he always ran away.”
Quarter-Admiral Snowleter’s voice came from the background behind Arsebogger, “But he won’t get away again!”
“Now in your opinion, Rogodeter, do you truly think this is the one?”
The small gray man had been watching all this on his viewscreens. He detested reporters and this Roof Arsebogger had earned his particular dislike: the reporter’s fangs were stained nearly black, there were blotches of some disease on his face, and one could almost smell his unwashed condition over the viewscreen.
Unfortunately or fortunately, whichever way you looked at it, his courier ship had come in just yesterday. It had brought lots of odds and ends but among them was the clear-cut statement that the one had not been found.
Along with that, there was a prize addition. The one hundred million credits originally offered by the Hawvin Interrelated Confederation of Systems had been doubled by the Bolbod Equality Empire. The small gray man did not know what was going on in other sectors, much less other universes, but he could suppose that the same mad scramble was in progress.
The courier dispatch box contents, when viewed as a whole, said that these were indeed very strange and troublesome times, that a problem like this had not existed in any past history they were aware of. And there had been some hints about the vital necessity of his presence “where he could do some good” instead of out here sailing around “a twelfth-rate rim star’s only planet.” There was no direct criticism, of course. There were just hints, an undertone.
But actually, it would not matter whether he were home or not. Unless some solution presented itself, the chaos that was going to ensue would be so vast that neither he nor others could hope to control it.
He was going on listening absently to this asinine reporter interview an asinine military mind when his bridge buzzer sounded and his watch officer’s face appeared on the screen.
“Your Excellency,” said the watch officer, “there is something going on down in that capital city area. The infrabeams are scrambling. We cannot tell what is happening. There are no clear pictures.”
The “interview” cut off suddenly. Other commanders seemed to have no
ticed it.
The Hockner commander appeared on the small gray man’s screen. “Your Excellency, I believe you said that was the central seat of government. We are getting pictures of massed troops and recordings of excessive heat. In your opinion, is this political?”
The small gray man looked at his own screens of the area.
Bad as they had been before, due to a local storm, they were incredibly bad now. One couldn’t make out a thing. Some sort of interference was blasting them off the air.
Wait! That jagged traveling line on the screen.
A teleportation trace.
Hastily the small gray man thought of an answer. “I believe,” he said conservatively to the Hockner, “that it is probably political in some connected way. All the information that—”
His screens almost caved in!
There was a tremendous flare, then nothing.
A squawk horn was going. “Screen overload! Screen overload!”
Good heavens, you never got that except in a major battle area.
The small gray man rushed to his port as he knew the commanders must be doing.
He stared down. There was a babble of incredulity on the remaining voice channels from the other ships.
The storm there had almost been exploded away.
A fireball was climbing heavenward. Spreading, rolling masses of coiling smoke and flame were rising to incredible heights.
Daylight was dimmed by the flash.
It looked like the world had been torn apart!
6
Sir Robert hardly waited for the earth to cease rumbling. He did not even ask himself what it could be. He had only one idea in mind: to get his hands loose and help Jonnie.
He had seen the arrow strike Jonnie. He had seen the lad pull it out. Sir Robert knew it was a poisoned arrow and he had some idea of the consequences. After such venom entered, physical exertion would spread it all through the body much more quickly. And Jonnie had been moving violently.
When the hatchet had cut the cord, it had not gone all the way through. Sir Robert strained every sinew to part the remaining strands. It was dark as pitch in this dome. He could not even see where Jonnie had fallen or which way he lay. But these confines were very close. He could and must get to him! Even though it was probably already too late.
He almost tore the skin off his wrists. The cord parted!
In feverish haste he reached out, felt around, and found Jonnie’s arm, the wounded arm. Sir Robert closed his huge hand around it just below the armpit and held it tight, shutting off the blood flow.
The hatchet had fallen here somewhere. The rocking must have sent it skidding. Moaning with urgency, Sir Robert felt around the metal floor, under the console, under Jonnie. Suddenly his fingers contacted its handle in a corner.
He got hold of the head just back of the blade. He tried to cut through Jonnie’s radiation suit sleeve. It was so hard to work with just one hand.
And in the dark.
He was also trying desperately not to cut into Jonnie’s flesh.
He got a fold of the suit and sawed through it. The hatchet had been dulled and chipped while cutting the cables. The leaded sleeve material was very resistant. He was not making it. Not with one hand.
Suddenly he remembered that Jonnie always had thongs in his pouch. It lay under his body but he got it loose. He reached in and found broken glass that sliced his fingers. He paid it no attention.
He found the end of a long thong and drew it out.
He put a piece of twisted mine lamp metal under the arm and against the artery and wrapped it around and in place with the thong. He drew the thong as tightly as he could and tied it.
Now he could work.
He cut the radiation suit sleeve away just below the tourniquet. He stripped it off the arm. The cloth was matted with blood. The arm was slippery with it.
It was hard to find the wound because of the blood.
He found it.
He took the edge of the hatchet blade and cut an X across the wound hole.
He got out of his air mask and put his mouth to the wound. Anything to get all the poison out that he could.
Time and time again he sucked the wound dry and spat. The taste of the blood was stinging and bitter. There was venom in it all right.
Finally he thought the blood was cleaner. He did not know how deep the arrow had gone but there was no way to probe.
He worked the flesh of the arm in a way he thought would force more poison up to the surface of the wound. He again applied his mouth to it. Yes, there was more bitterness. Then it seemed cleaner.
Sir Robert felt around Jonnie’s belt for a wound compress pack. He didn’t find one. Well, the bleeding was slightly less now. Maybe no vein had been hit. It was probably better without a compress.
He felt the pulse of Jonnie’s other wrist.
Devils in hell! It was racing! The pulse was way above anything he could count.
Jonnie’s body was stretched taut. There was a tremble in the limbs.
Sir Robert, in the dark, tried to find the ampule in Jonnie’s pouch. Planning dictated there should be one. That broken glass might have come from the mine lamp. He found the bottom half of the ampule.
Although he couldn’t see what he was doing and it was just a gesture more than anything else, he opened the wound and upended the broken bottle over it, close to it, pouring in anything that might be in it. He held and massaged the flesh in such a way as to let any liquid drop lower in the wound. It was probably just his imagination, he thought, but the arm area felt slippery.
He felt the pulse. It was racing faster if anything, and the limbs were trembling more.
Had he done all he could? He couldn’t think of anything more.
The air was getting used up in this close space and he put his air mask back on. Jonnie’s radiation mask was in the way and he took it off and checked the air mask under it. The flutter valve was moving slightly but very rapidly. In briefing, they were supposed to put in a new bottle just before the first alert. If Jonnie had done that, he had two hours of air.
Sir Robert sank back. He worked the bonds off his ankles and then straightened Jonnie’s body out and raised Jonnie’s head to his own knee to keep the head higher. Double devils in hell but the limbs trembled!
He thought the situation over. He had not been in on the last briefings; he did not know whether there had been anything he should know now.
Bitterly, Sir Robert cursed his own stupidity. Since things had been going so smoothly with the Academy move, one night he had walked by himself—like a daft sheep—to a knoll to look at the compound. Not really any purpose in it. Just a review of a field where a battle would soon be fought. And Brigantes had grabbed him. They must have been watching him for days.
They had trussed him up and kept him in a cavern. They had tried to interrogate him and had beaten him. His nose was broken and full of dried blood even now. But he was too old a campaigner to talk. He did not know what they wanted with him until they brought him into the compound area and dumped him.
He had not really thought they would take him to Psychlo until they put the air mask on him. The thought had made even him sweat. He had an excellent example of how the Psychlos interrogated—Allison.
Sir Robert had been braced to stand up to it. He had known of this attack but he could not see how he could be fished out. A flamethrower was supposed to sweep that platform clean.
And then this lad had thrown his flamethrower down and attacked! It looked like such a hopeless effort.
Because of Sir Robert, this lad had thrown away his own chances. His own life?
Sir Robert felt the pulse again. Good God, how long could a pulse race like that without a person dying?
He began to get uneasy about the silence outside. There was supposed to be a standby rescue crew deep in the old compound, waiting with flatbeds and planes with both Dr. Allen and Dr. MacKendrick. All in radiation suits and air masks.
It was so s
ilent in here. Was that a slight crackling sound?
Jonnie would have had a mine radio. Sir Robert felt around Jonnie’s belt and then scrabbled around the floor.
He had it! A crackling sound was coming out of it. It was live, but no voices.
Were they all dead out there?
He pressed the transmit button. “Hello. Hello.” Not clever to say more. Who knew who might be out there?
Silence.
“Hello, hello.” Then he thought he better give them a location. Not clever but he had to do it. “Console talking.”
Was that the click of a transmit switch?
Then a voice in a whisper as though from far away, “Is that you, Sir Robert?”
It was Thor’s voice! Sir Robert almost wept with relief.
“Thor?”
“Yes, Sir Robert.”
“Thor, Jonnie is in here. He has had a poisoned arrow in him. You’ve got to get him out quick!”
Then Dr. Allen. “Sir, do you have a radiation suit on?”
“No, blast ye! I’ve no suit! To heil wi’ thet! Get the lad out!”
“Sir, is his suit whole?”
Sir Robert realized he had torn the sleeve off. “No.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” whispered Dr. Allen over the mine radio, “to open that dome would kill you both. Have a little patience. We’re trying to find out what we can do.”
“Patience be domned!” stormed Sir Robert. His extreme urgency was throwing his speech into dialect. “Git th’ lad oot!”
There was no answer. Sir Robert was about to start banging on the inside of the dome. Didn’t they realize Jonnie was probably dying in here?
Then a tiny, piping, whispering voice took over. “Sir Robert?” It was one of the young Buddhist communicators. Probably the youngest they had. They had turned him over to a child!
The war chief was about to thunder a damnation at them when the child whispered, speaking Psychlo, “Sir Robert, they’re doing all they can, honored sir. It is pretty bad out here.”
“Where are you?” demanded Sir Robert, reverting to Psychlo.
“I am just outside the dome, honored sir. My mine radio is inside my air mask under my radiation face shield. Excuse me that I whisper. We want nothing picked up by the visitors above. They can’t hear this and the mine radio won’t reach them.”
Battlefield Earth: A Saga of the Year 3000 Page 88
