Collected Short Fiction (Jerry eBooks)

by Rosel G Brown

  “Iron Robert,” Roan called past him. “Go aboard.”

  “There’s no room for the hulk!” Henry shouted. “That was an order, Mister!”

  Three frantic crewmen struggled at the port of Number two boat.

  “No more room!” a hoarse voice bellowed from inside the lock. A broad foot swung out, kicked at one of the men. He fell from the gangway, and the two behind leaped forward. A fight developed in the lock. Henry Dread took a step, aimed, fired once, twice, a third time. Two dead crewmen fell, rolled off onto the hot deckplates. A third was lifted, tossed from inside.

  “Fight your way in there, Roan,” Henry yelled. “Shoot as many as you have to!”

  “Iron Robert—”

  “I said he’s not going aboard!”

  Roan and Henry Dread faced each other, ten feet apart across the blood-spattered deck. The pirate captain’s gun was aimed unwaveringly at Roan’s chest.

  “He goes or I stay,” Roan yelled above the clamor.

  “For the last time—follow your orders!” Henry bellowed.

  “Iron Robert, go aboard!” Roan started.

  “Roan—” Iron Robert took a step, and Henry Dread wheeled. Blue fire lanced, splashed harmlessly from Iron Robert’s chest.

  “You board boat, like Henry Dread say, Roan,” the giant rumbled.

  Henry took a step backward, his gun covering Roan again.

  “Listen to Iron Man,” Henry grated. “He’s telling you.”

  “Let him board, Henry!” Roan said.

  “Over my dead body,” Henry grated. “Not even you can—”

  “Roan, no!” Iron Robert cried—

  In a motion too quick to follow, Roan’s hand had flashed to his gun, brought it up, fired, and the the pirate leader was staggering back, his knees folding, the gun dropping from his hand.

  He seemed to fall slowly, like an ancient tree. He struck, rolled over, lay on his back with his eyes and mouth open, smoke rising from a charred wound on his chest.

  “Roan! You big fool! No room on boat for Iron Robert! Now you kill Henry Dread, true Man who love you like son!”

  Roan tossed the gun aside, went to the fallen pirate, knelt beside him. “Henry . . .” His voice caught in his throat. “I thought—”

  “You wrong, Roan,” Iron Robert’s voice rumbled. “Henry Dread not shoot you in million years. Try save your life, foolish Roan. You go now, quick, before ship explode.”

  Henry Dread’s open eyes flickered. They moved to Roan’s face.

  “You . . . in command . . . now,” he gasped. “Maybe . . . right . . . Iron Man . . . okay . . .” He drew a ragged breath and coughed, tried to speak, coughed again. “Roan,” he managed. “Terra . . .” The light died from his eyes like a mirror steaming over.

  “Henry!” Roan shouted. Two hands like ship’s grapples clamped on his arms, lifted him, thrust him toward the port.

  “You go now, Roan, live, have long life, do, see many things. Think sometime of Iron Robert, and not be sad. Be happy. Remember many good times together.”

  “No, Iron Robert! You’re coming!”

  “No room. Iron Robert too big, not squeeze through port.” Roan felt himself propelled through the narrow opening into the noise and animal stink of the crowded lifeboat. He fought to regain his feet, turned to see the wide figure of Iron Robert silhouetted against the blazing corridor. He lunged for the port, and a dozen pairs of horny hands caught at him, held him as he kicked and fought.

  “You got to navigate this tub, Terry,” someone yelled.

  “Dog down that port,” another shouted. Roan had a last glimpse of Iron Robert as hands hauled him back. The heavy port swung shut. Then he was thrust forward, passed from one to another, and then he was stumbling into the command compartment. Rough hands shoved him into the navigator’s chair. The cold muzzle of a gun rammed against his cheek.

  “Blast us out of here, fast,” a heavy voice growled. Roan shook himself, forced his eyes to focus on the panel. As in a dream, his hands went out, threw levers, punched keys. The screens glowed into life.

  Against the black of space, the long shape of the immense Niss war vessel glowed no more than a thousand miles distant, its unlighted bulk blotting out the stars.

  Roan gathered himself, sat upright. His teeth were set in a grim caricature of a smile. He twirled dials, centered the image in the screen, read numerals from an instrument, punched a code into the master navigator panel, then with a decisive gesture thrust home the main drive control.

  XXIV

  Roan slumped in the padded seat, let his hands fall from the controls.

  “We’re clear,” he said dully. “I don’t think the other boat got away. I don’t see it on our screens.”

  A clay-faced creature with the over-long arms and the tufted bristles of a Zorgian pushed through the crew packed like salted fish in the bare functional shell.

  “Listen to me, you muck-worms,” he hooted in the queer, resonant voice that rose from his barrel-chest. “If we wanta make planet-fall, we got to organize this scow.”

  “Who asked you?” a gap-toothed, olive-skinned crewman demanded. “I been thinking, and—”

  “I’m senior Gook here,” a bald, wrinkled Minid barked. “Now we’re clear, we got to find the nearest world.”

  “If we don’t wanta all die,” a hoarse voice yelled, “we got to pick a new Cap’n!”

  “I won’t have no lousy Minid telling me—”

  “Button yer gill-slits, you throwback to a mud-fish—”

  Roan stood, turned on the men. “All right,” he roared—an astonishing shout that cut through the hubbub like a whiplash through cotton cloth.

  “You can belay all this gab about who’s in charge! I am! If you bone-heads can stop squabbling long enough to let a few facts into your skulls, you’ll realize we’re in trouble. Bad trouble!”

  The Zorgian bellied up to Roan. “Listen, you Terry milk-sop—” Roan hit the humanoid with a gut-punch, straightened him out with an upward slain of a hard fist, pushed him back among the crewmen.

  “We’ve got no discharge look,” he grated, “so if anybody gets himself killed, the rest of us will have to live with the remains; think that over before you start any trouble.”

  Roan planted his fists on his hips. He was as tall as the tallest of the cut-throat crew, a head taller than the average. His black-red hair was vivid in the harsh light of the glare strip that lit the crowded compartment. Coarse faces, slack with fright, stared at him.

  “How many of you have guns?” he demanded. There was muttering and shuffling. Roan counted hands.

  “Sixteen. How many knives?” There was another show of hands, gripping blades that ranged from a broad, edge-nicked machete to a cruel, razor-edged hook.

  “Where are we going?” someone called.

  “We’ll die aboard this can,” a shrill cry came.

  “We can’t make planetfall.” Roan’s voice blanketed the others. “We’re a long way from home, without fuel reserves or supplies.” The crew were silent now, waiting. “But we’ve got our firepower intact. There are two thousand-megaton torps slung below decks and we mount a ten mm infinite repeater for’ard. And there’s food, water, fuel and air just a few miles away.” He stepped aside, pointed to the forward screen, where the Niss ship swelled now to giant size.

  “We’re inside her defenses now,” he said. “They won’t be expecting any visitors in a hundred ton dinghy.”

  “What do you mean?” a one-eyed man growled. “You’re asking—”

  “I’m asking nothing,” Roan said harshly. “I’m telling you we’re going in to attack the Niss ship.”

  TO BE CONTINUED

  EARTHBLOOD

  PART THREE

  Roan scoured the alien-inhabited galaxy seeking Men like himself—and found a universe of enemies!

  What Has Gone Before—

  Roan Cornay, a human born in mysterious circumstances in a ghetto on Tambool, grows up among outcasts and is kidnappe
d by a traveling Extravaganzoo, where he is valuable as a freak. Roan falls in love with the exotic dancer, Stellaraire, and gains the friendship of Iron Robert, the Strongest Being in the Universe. Roan and Stellaraire plan to desert the circus. Roan wants to seek fabled Terra, which he is convinced really exists, and to learn who his real parents were. But Iron Robert is badly wounded in a contest with the terrible Chinazell and Roan and Stellaraire remain to nurse him back to health.

  The circus ship (originally a Terran war vessel) is attacked by pirates and havoc is wrought when the ship suddenly automatically accelerates to three G, which only Roan and Iron Robert survive. Stellaraire is pinned under a fallen beam and burns to death. Roan is badly burned trying to save her. The pirates, headed by Henry Dread, board the ship. Henry Dread is fascinated with the human Roan and takes him aboard the pirate vessel and has a doctor treat Roan’s burns. At Roan’s insistence Iron Robert is saved from the ruined circus ship and kept on the pirate ship, but in chains. Roan is resented by the crew of Gooks and Geeks (humanoids and non-humanoids), but fights his way into their respect, and finally gains the trust and friendship of Henry Dread.

  On the ancient Terran outpost of Aldo Cerise Roan wanders through a Terran park. The beauty of it reinforces his resolve to find Terra some day. He emerges from the idyllic garden to find the crew in mutiny against Henry Dread, and moves in to save the pirate. Back on the ship, Henry reveals to Roan that he is not a mere pirate, but a commander in the Imperial Terran Navy, which is trying to build itself up again from Rim Headquarters.

  They find a Niss warship, and against Roan’s advice Henry approaches it. It fires, Henry’s ship is fatally hit, Henry fires back, Roan gives the order to abandon ship and shoots Henry Dread in an argument over Iron Robert, who after all will not fit into the lifeboat. Iron Robert forces Roan into a lifeboat and Roan immediately takes over leadership. As the lifeboat is too small for the number of men in it, Roan decides to try to board the Niss ship.

  XXII

  At five miles, the Niss dreadnaught filled the screens like a dark moon.

  “They don’t know we’re here,” Roan said. “Their screens aren’t designed to notice anything this small. We’ll close with her, locate an entry lock and burn our way in. With luck, we’ll be in control of their COC before they know they’ve been boarded.”

  “And what if we don’t have luck?”

  “Then we won’t be any worse off than we would be eating each other and dying of foul air aboard this tub.”

  “Four miles, rate of closure twenty meters per second,” called a crewman assigned to the navigation panel.

  “Slack her off there,” Roan ordered. “I want you to touch down on her as soft and easy as if you were lifting a purse back on Croanie.”

  The crewman showed a quick, nervous smile. “Sure. I don’t want to wake nobody up.”

  “What’s these Niss like, Terry?”

  Roan turned and slashed his forearm across the mouth of the speaker.

  “That’s ‘Captain’ to you, sailor!

  I don’t know what the Niss are like, and I don’t give a damn. They’ve got what we need and we’re taking it.”

  “The size of that scow! There must be a million of ’em aboard.”

  “Don’t worry. Just kill them one at a time.”

  They watched the screens in silence.

  “Two miles,” the navigator hissed. “No alarm yet.”

  The lifeboat drifted closer to the swelling curve of the miles-long warship. The scrawl of great alien characters was blazoned across the dull black of the hull. Complex housings set at random caught the faint glint of starlight. Roan selected a small disk scribed on the metal plain below.

  “Match up to that, Noag,” he ordered. “The rest of you suit up.”

  He hauled a stiff vacuum suit from the wall locker, settled the helmet in place, flipped switches. Stale air wafted across his face from the suit blower.

  The lifeboat’s engines nudged her, positioning the lock directly over the hatch of the Niss ship. Roan stood by, watching the maneuvering on a small repeater screen.

  “Quiet now, all of you,” he said. “Any noise we make will be transmitted through the hull.”

  The two vessels touched with a barely perceptible rasp of metal on metal.

  “Nice work, Noag. You’re learning,” Roan said. “Hold her tight there and magnetic-lock.” He listened. Through his deck-boots he could feel the vibration of the engine; nothing more.

  “Cycle her open,” he ordered.

  “Hey, what kinda air these Niss use?” someone called. “My tanks are low.”

  “What’s the matter, you gonna stay here if it ain’t to your liking?” another came back.

  Air hissed as the lock cycled. Roan’s suit plucked at him as the pressure dropped. Through the opening the iodine-black curve of the alien hull blocked their way.

  “Cut into her, Askor,” Roan commanded. The crewman pushed into the opening, set a blaster on narrow beam, pressed the firing stud. The dark metal reddened, turned a glaring white, went bluish, then puddled, blowing away, driven by the pressure of released gasses. The soft spot bulged, blew out under the pressure of the Niss ship’s internal atmosphere. Askor worked on, widened the opening, cut out a ragged hole a foot in diameter.

  “Shut down.” Roan stepped past him, reached through, found a release, tripped it. The Niss lock rotated up and away, exposing the lightless interior of the enemy ship. Icy air gusted into the lifeboat, bringing a faint, foul taint. Frost formed on the metal where it touched.

  “Let’s go!” Blaster in hand, Roan stepped through the opening. The beam of his hand light lanced ahead, picked out curving walls, complex shapes fitted to what should be the floor. Festoons of odd-sized tubing looped across the room. There was a scattering of heavy dust over everything.

  Silently, the boarders came through the broached hull and gathered in a huddle around Roan. Their breath made frosty puffs before their faces.

  “Where do we go from here?” Noag muttered.

  Roan threw his light on a narrow vertical slit in the wall. “That might be a door,” he said. “We’ll try it.”

  The corridors of the Niss ship were high, narrow, lit by dim strips that had glowed to reluctant life in the minutes after the invaders had boarded. The walls seemed to press in on Roan. It was hard to breathe, and there was sweat on his forehead, in spite of the chill that cut at his exposed hands and face like skinning knives.

  “She’s pulling a half G,” Askor said. “There’s power on somewheres.”

  “I don’t like this,” Noag muttered behind Roan. “If they jump is now, we’re stuck like mud-pigs in a deadfall.”

  “Shut up,” Roan said. His heart pounding high up under his ribs, and what Noag was saying made it worse. He strode on, careless of sound now, emerged from the constricting passage into a wide chamber walled with honeycombed storage racks. The crewmen gathered, staring around. One went to the nearest niche, drew out a heavy bundle wrapped in stiff, waxy cloth. He plucked at the bindings, tore the covering away, blinked at a grotesquely-shaped metal casting, peppered over with tiny fittings. The others craned, took the object as the finder passed it around.

  “What the nine hells is that?”

  “Hey, how about the next rack?”

  “Can’t you slobs even wait until after the fight to start looting?” Roan snapped. “Put that back where you got it—and cut out the chatter.” The men fell silent, listening for the enemy they had, incredibly, forgotten for the moment.

  “Come on.” Roan led the way out of the storeroom along another narrow way that stretched into darkness. . . .

  “These passages,” a crewman whispered hoarsely. “There’s miles of ’em. What if we get lost in here?”

  “That’s easy,” another offered. “We just pound on the walls until the Niss come to see what’s the matter.”

  “Where they hiding, anyways?” Noag shifted his power gun from his right fist to his left. “We b
een prowling this tub for an hour.”

  The corridor ended at a blank wall ahead. Roan raised a hand.

  “Hold it up,” he said. He indicated the passage along which they had just come. “I’ve been counting paces. We’ve come about half a mile along here. That puts us on the opposite side of the ship from the hatch we came in by. All we’ve seen is cargo, supply and utilities space. We’re going back to the big corridor we crossed and move forward. I’m guessing we’ll find the personnel areas in that direction. We’re going to string out now, and keep our eyes open. The first man that talks without something important to say will get a mouth full of pistol butt. Understand? All right; let’s go.”

  Roan led the way back a hundred yards and turned left into a wider passage. Like the others it was gray, featureless, faintly lit by a feeble glare-strip set in the ceiling, stretching on and on into the remote distance, too far to be seen.

  “I’m freezin’,” a crewman whined. “I ain’t gonna be able to fire my gun, my fingers is so stiff.”

  “Holster your guns and get your hands warm,” Roan said quietly. He went to a narrow door set in the wall, pushed at its edges. It yielded at the center, swung inward in two panels. He looked into a square room with papers scattered across the floor, a slanted table attached to one wall. There was a saddle-like seat mounted on a four-foot stand before the table. Roan picked up one of the paper scraps; it crumbled in his fingers. There were strange characters printed on the fragment be held. Roan stopped for a second, tried to gain some sense from the figures, but gave up.

  He stepped back out of the room, continued along the wide passage.

  XXIII

  In an immense, dim-lit hall, Roan looked at ranked hundreds of saddle-like perches arranged in endless rows on either side of foot-wide counters that ran the length of the vast room. A hint of a vile odor hung in the still air. Dust stirred underfoot as the nervous-eyed men stared around, fingering guns.