A Grazen dreadnought had just arrived.
*
Doctrinaire Shrad crouched behind the perfectly manicured rose bed and watched his men close in on either side of the window, then, raising his thumb telescope to his eye, he observed those inside—clicking up the light amplification since the greenish yellow sun was now setting and stars were beginning to blink into view on the far horizon.
What were they doing in there, having a party? He had already seen Slome Terl standing near the window picking at a plate of food while talking to the traitor Kelly Haden. It had to be some kind of trap. They must have seen his shuttle coming in to land and known that justice was snapping at their heels. He lowered his telescope. And what about this place?
Shrad could not quite equate the massive technology of those constructs they had passed while heading into "Owner Space" with this house. He'd thought long and hard about what he had read in secret Collective records and come to some conclusions. Though it was doctrine that those structures were the product of a previous collective from ancient Earth, he was of a sufficiently high rank to know the truth. There had been an Owner who once had contact with the Markovians—though details were sketchy since many records had been destroyed during the "transition of power"—and during the recent "victorious conflict" with Grazen, those "posts" had damaged and repelled human vessels and destroyed Grazen wormships. However, nothing had been heard about the Owner for longer than living memory. It struck him as likely that though the being had once existed, he or it did not exist now. The action of the posts? Automated systems that were obviously breaking down. He surmised that during the "transition of power," some high-ranking Markovians had fled out this way and managed to get to this world during some periodic malfunction of the posts. This residence looked distinctly Markovian—like one of those country retreats where Shrad had obtained the base material of his Guard.
Shrad smiled to himself. If he could capture some high-ranking Markovians that could be put on trial, the Committee would be much more inclined to send a rescue ship and their "resources are presently unavailable" and their "tactical requirements do not permit" would probably change. Also, his discovery about the malfunctioning of the posts opened up massive new territories to the Collective.
"We are in position," Citizen One of the Guard informed him through his earpiece.
"Commence action—I repeat: subdue and restrain them. Do not, I repeat, do not kill any of them, even in the likelihood of losing Guard strength."
Raising his thumb telescope again, he now observed one of the Guard beside the window slap something against the glass, then lower his breather mask over his face. The blast disintegrated the window, and the men to either side now tossed in flash and gas grenades. After the subsequent detonations, and while numb-smoke belched from the house, the fifteen Guard piled inside. Shrad waited for a moment, but though he heard shouting from inside, there was no shooting. He stood, and, pulling his own breather mask up into place, drew his sidearm and headed over.
Broken glass crunched underfoot. The table had been tipped to one side and food and dishes spilled across a carpet patterned with geometric shapes. Kelly Haden was still fighting, but three of the Guard had her pinned and were cuffing her hands behind her back. Slome Terl just lay there, fighting for breath. All six of the figures on the floor wore disheveled graywear modified in ways that would be a stroudable political offense in themselves. All six, then, were escapees—there had to be others here.
Abruptly, Shrad realized that the smoke was clearing. He glanced up to see it being drawn away into holes in the ceiling-interspersed between the inset lights that were now slowly growing brighter as it grew darker outside-then returned his attention to the captives as the Guard hauled them up onto their knees. He holstered his sidearm.
"Seven of you, search the rest of this place and bring here anyone you find—stay in contact," he instructed.
Seven departed, but the eight remaining were certainly enough to keep under control the patently subdued captives. The smoke had now all but cleared—it had a short active life anyway—so Shrad removed his mask. He sniffed at the burnt hair smell, realizing it came from where the flash grenades had seared the carpet. Then he strode forward to stand before the six kneeling figures.
"Did you think the Collective would allow its Societal Assets to escape?" he enquired.
None said anything.
"You, Kelly Haden, you betrayed the Collective, stole its property, and, as I understand it, you killed two of the Guard."
Haden shrugged and looked away. Shrad gave a muted nod to the guard standing beside her, who stooped and drove the butt of his carbine into her stomach. She groaned and went down with her forehead on the carpet.
"It strikes me as evident that your obvious external ugliness reflects the ugliness inside you," said Shrad.
"Fuck… you… and your little robots," she managed.
Shrad nodded to himself. "Under Collective authority, I have a choice about what I should do with you. For the murder you committed, the sentence should be death, but I have the leeway to make my own decisions in this matter." He nodded to the Guard. "Stroud her."
One of the Guard hauled her up by the hair while another righted the table and placed a case on the surface, which he opened to reveal twenty strouds lying in the foam packing like a collection of steel prosthetic feet for birds. He took out one of these and placed it in a programming slate—these strouds needing to be prepared as had been the one Shrad had instructed to be placed on the Lenin's engineer.
"Going to help us!" spat Elizabeth Terl somewhat hysterically, gazing beyond Shrad.
Slome Terl bowed his head, a look of pain on his face. Shrad turned and saw four of his Guard returning, leading a man into the room—his hands cuffed behind his back.
"Put him with the rest," he instructed. "Is there anyone else?"
"We have found no one else yet, but there is still much to search," replied Citizen Five of the Guard.
"Very well. You four remain here." Shrad now watched as the man was brought over and forced to his knees beside Haden. "Who are you?" he finally asked.
"My name is Mark," the man replied calmly.
Shrad felt a sense of victory upon hearing the name. In the back of his mind, he had held the suspicion that his reasoning about this house might have been at fault. Now he felt sure he was right.
"Mark as in Markovian, I've no doubt," he said. "How did you come to be here?"
"Well, my mother met my father—"
Shrad gave that muted nod and a carbine butt smacked across the man's mouth. He went over, spitting blood, and remained there until hauled back up onto his knees again.
"Was there any need for that?"
"There was." Shrad turned to the guard who had now prepared the first stroud. "Go ahead."
The guard walked over as two others restrained Haden. Abruptly the man, Mark, burst out laughing.
"I fail to see the reason for your amusement," said Shrad.
"Oh, I'm just amused at the rather crude technology. Do you honestly think your Collective will survive after lobotomizing most of it citizens? Do you honestly think its economy and whole social structure could survive your coming attack on the Grazen? Though of course, that's not something you'll find out about, since the Grazen will stop playing their waiting game… just like the one that's coming here."
"Explain yourself."
"Gladly. Your social system is bankrupt and bound to fail. The Grazen withdrew to their heartlands to await that failure, since it would have been less costly to them than continuing to fight you. Now that they have seen that the Collective is about to attack again, they'll come out fighting, and this time they won't be sending those insentient and easily mass-manufactured wormships."
"How do you know all this?"
"I'm the Owner-haven't you figured that out."
The others were now looking at the man with something approaching hope. Shrad felt another sudden doubt of his
earlier reasoning. Maybe this man did have some power and, if so, Shrad must clamp down on it fast. The man looked human enough, so a bullet in the brain would soon solve any problem he might cause. And there was also that "crude technology." Perhaps that was the better option-even strouded, the man could still stand trial for his crimes against the collective will. The Committee much preferred to put those before the cameras who said what they were told to say.
"You are Markovian scum and a liar. Now tell me about the Grazen coming here."
The man shrugged. "They normally keep away. We had a bit of a misunderstanding about a thousand years ago… or rather they misunderstood what I meant when I said no, keep out, these star systems are mine. I thought I put it to them quite clearly, but apparently not."
"It's a good act, Markovian, but you're on your knees with broken teeth."
"Yeah, bastard that."
"You were saying?"
"Oh yeah… well, they normally keep out, but the one whose nest you passed on the way in here lost all her children on the nursery world in the bombardment you instigated. She's not happy-especially now that the Collective is preparing to attack again. I rather think she would like to have you all screaming in her shig-ware."
"You babble."
Even so, Shrad removed his communicator from his belt and opened a channel to the shuttle uplink. "Citizen Astanger-report."
After a short delay: "Tell your fucking Guard to let us get out of here! And tell them to let Citizen Chadrick back to his weapons console!"
"Give me your situation."
"Sitting here with our thumbs up our arses watching a Grazen dreadnought approach. It's already fired a ranging shot."
"Where would you go, given the opportunity to run?"
"Down to where you are. If we stay out here, we're dead!"
The communicator was slippery in his palm and he felt someone trying to wind his insides around a stick. This should not, could not, be happening.
"Put me on… general address," he managed.
"You're on."
"Guard-" Could this be some sort of ploy by Astanger? No, Astanger would have called him first. "Guard, allow Citizen Chadrick back to the weapons console and allow Citizen Astanger to move the Lenin out of danger. Astanger, I will keep this channel open-keep me informed of events."
"Oh yes, like I'm going to have time for that!"
Shrad lowered the communicator and clipped it back on his belt. This Mark had known, and the Markovians had never been above using additional cerebral wiring—it was from the remaining files on that technology that Collective Social Assets had managed to work out how to make strouds. What else could the man control, influence? He turned and pointed.
"Use the stroud on him! Now!"
From his knees, Mark launched himself to his feet, but the Guard brought him down.
"Keep that fucking thing away from me!" he bellowed.
Shrad smiled. He had correctly understood what was happening here; this man was not the Owner, but just some Markovian refugee. He fought, but soon the stroud was in place and he was kicking on the floor, his face clenched up in agony as blood ran from underneath the device. Shrad stepped past him.
"So, you see your all-powerful Owner." He gestured dismissively to the prostrate form. "Now, I can find them of course, but I want you to tell me where the rest of the escapees are. Obviously I don't want to waste societal assets, but I will have each of you strouded in turn if you do not tell me."
"Did your father fuck your mother up the arse to produce you?" asked Haden.
Shrad sighed, then gave the nod to the guard beside her.
Nothing happened.
He gave the nod again, but the guard seemed to not be paying attention.
"Strike her," he instructed.
The guard lifted his carbine and gazed down at it, then looked up at Shrad. Tears were pouring from the man's eyes.
Abruptly he went down on his knees and slowly bowed his head.
What?
A clattering, then the sound of bodies hitting the floor. Two of the Guard had collapsed. Another two went over even as he watched. Others were sinking to their knees like the first, or just suddenly finding somewhere to sit down. Some were crying, others grinning idiotically.
"It is, actually, not a crude technology at all. The Markovians obtained it from the Grazen, who, though they would not admit to it, obtained it from an excavation of some ruins left by those I called the jelly people-they were okay, but tended to be a bit impetuous. Anyway, I needed to see one of your strouds from the inside to be sure of the structure. I've U-transmitted the signal now, so that every single strouded human being in the Collective just woke up to what has been done to them or, if the damage is too severe, died."
It felt to Shrad as if ice was forming down his spine. He reached down, drew his sidearm, turned. The man, Mark, was on his feet facing him. Shrad fired once, the bullet snapping the man's skull back and blowing its contents out behind him. The head slowly swung forward again. One eye was missing.
"And that completes the deal," said Mark.
Shrad shot him four more times, the shots smashing into the man's chest and knocking him staggering back. Mark grinned. Then his legs gave way and he slumped to the floor.
*
Astanger secured his strap as the Lenin turned hard. The sound of the ship's guns impinged-an accelerating drone-and the power drain momentarily dimmed the lighting.
What happened to the Guard?
Some of them had just collapsed where they stood. One of those nearest him, a woman, was crouching beside a console, clinging with both hands, her weapon abandoned on the floor and sliding away from her. Her expression was one of horrified amazement, yet someone strouded usually didn't show emotion. Another, over near where Chadrick had taken position at the weapons console, was kneeling, his carbine propped upright before him. He seemed to be crying.
No matter. It might be that the Lenin would not even survive the next few minutes, so the condition of those aboard would cease to be of relevance. Again came the detonation of something that got too close before the guns took it out. The ship shuddered and smoke began crawling through the air from the bridge exit.
"It's going to be a hard reentry!" shouted Grade over the racket.
"Go to earpieces and mikes," said Astanger.
"Okay-I'm on," replied Grade.
"We've still got to drop velocity."
"Yup."
As they slowed into atmosphere, they would become a much easier target for the pursuing alien vessel, but Astanger knew that out in space the Lenin would end up smeared across the vacuum. Collective ships had encountered these dreadnoughts on a few occasions and been destroyed almost out of hand.
The Lenin began shaking, and Astanger recognized the muted but growing roar of atmosphere. Inertial forces tried to drag him out of his chair as the ship flipped nose-to-tail. He saw a member of the Guard slam into the ceiling above, then lost sight of him in smoke. Someone was shrieking, short jerky shrieks like those you might hear in an asylum, not from anyone in pain. A body slammed down with a wet crunch nearby, then smeared blood across the floor as deceleration dragged it away. Grade had gone for a full emergency landing: not dumping the drive section, but decelerating down toward the planet on the drive flame.
"Will you bring us down close to the Breznev?" Astanger inquired.
"Within a few miles of it-if we don't get hit on the way down," Grade replied.
"Chadrick-status?"
"It seems to be holding off, I don't know why."
I do, thought Astanger. If it destroys the Lenin, then we all die. The Grazen wants us alive to play with. I wonder how long-
"Captain!" Chadrick shouted.
What now, some weapon he can't stop? Astanger knew that Chadrick must be in considerable emotional distress to use the old politically incorrect title, even if the Guard were down.
"What is it, Chadrick," he said calmly.
"The moon… look at th
e moon."
What?
Astanger cleared the pursuing alien vessel from the viewing cylinder and trained the ship's scanners on the moon, and then just stared in shock, even though he had known there was something odd about that satellite. There was a line drawing across the surface, longitudinally. It flickered-an arrow-straight firestorm. On one side of the line was the surface he had earlier viewed, on the other side… on the other side was something else. He saw massive pylons, steel plains, and valleys cutting through either buildings or clustered monolithic machines, transmission or reception dishes the size of calderas, giant throats glimmering with lights and webworks of scaffold, ships bigger than anything he had ever seen gathered in frameworks like bullets in an ammunition clip. It was impossible to take in the vast complexity of it all. The moon was obviously some vast vessel or station.
Owner space?
Yeah, now he knew for certain why it remained so. Whoever had constructed this thing possessed more resources, more plain unadulterated power, than entire galactic civilizations.
But how did it affect them, right now, aboard the Lenin? It didn't. If they didn't get down to the surface of that planet soon, they would be dead. Moon or otherwise.
"Keep your scanners focused on the Grazen, Chadrick," said Astanger. Then switching to general address, he said, "When we're down, I want someone to break open the weapons locker. We grab what we can and we get out—that ship will be on us in minutes."
"What about… the Guard?" inquired Chadrick.
"What about them?"
"I… I don't know."
"We ignore them." Astanger took a steady breath. The G-forces were high now and it was becoming difficult to talk. "Something's got to them… through their strouds… maybe some Grazen… viral weapon."
The muted roar had now become a full-throated one. And the ship was shuddering around them. The Guard were probably irrelevant, since anyone not strapped in an acceleration chair when they began their descent was probably either dead now or suffering from multiple fractures. Maybe he and his crew should be merciful and kill them on the way out. No, they wouldn't have the time.
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