As long as the Brotherhood enclave existed, Fraden knew, he could not disband the bulk of the People’s Army and leave a small remnant as a police force. If only there were some way to take the Palace Compound… An all-out attack combined with a general uprising in Sade? Easy enough to ignite an explosion in the city, but how to focus its wrath on the Palace, keep it from being just a citywide orgy of looting, killing and mass cannibalism…?
It was so damned tantalizing. Victory was only one step away. Wipe out the Palace, he thought, and you can disband most of the People’s Army, reduce it to manageable size.
The volunteers would surrender their guns to the ’heads if ordered to at snipgun point, just as their fear of the Killer-like ’heads with their fearsome off-world weapons was just about all that was keeping them In line now. ’
Fraden grimaced. That was another piece of nastiness. He had been forced to let Vanderling addict another five hundred men. The couple of hundred snipguns were rotated among the ’heads to give the illusion that they all had ’em, and the yokums were scared silly of the herogyn-heads, and the Big Slice. The ’heads would be utterly loyal as long as the herogyn held out.
Loyal to Willem, that was the bitch!
Willem was all too transparent. Sure, the five hundred new ’heads were needed to keep the army in line, but Fraden was reasonably sure that Willem had other ideas of how they might be used if an opportunity presented itself.
But Willem couldn’t see past his own nose. In any showdown situation, Fraden knew it would be child’s play to turn the whole planet against Willem and his ’heads. Let him plot! He’s harmless, and it keeps him off the streets!
And speaking of the devil, here comes Willem now, looking about as happy as a basset hound with a toothache. What now? Fraden wondered gloomily.
“Don’t tell me,” Fraden sighed. “The snipgun energizers are all on the fritz. The army’s all come down with bubonic plague. You’ve got a dose of the clap.”
“Worse,” Vanderling said dourly, shaking his head. “Much, much worse.”
“Well?” said Fraden. “Let’s hear the happy news. Things just can’t get that much worse.”
“Oh no?” Vanderling said. “I just came back from the ship with the next six weeks’ supply of herogyn. How much herogyn you think we got on the ship now? Go ahead, take a guess.”
“How the hell should I know?” Fraden snapped. “You’ve been keeping track of that. I’m hardly in the mood for twenty questions!”
“Nada,” said Vanderling. “Zero. Cleaned out. With no action and an extra five hundred ’heads to keep stoned almost all of the time… You dig? We’ve got enough goddamned Omnidrene to turn on five million elephants and not a bag of herogyn left. When this six weeks’ supply runs out…”
He ran his finger across his throat.
Fraden shuddered. When the herogyn ran out, the seven hundred herogyn-heads would go plain ape! They’d make the Killers look like Rebecca of Sunny-brook Farm! They’d attack everything that moved, they’d kill till they dropped, and with the ’heads running wild the guerrillas would probably… brrr!
“Well, genius, when do you pull the rabbit out of your hat?” Vanderling said, half-sourly, half-imploringly. “It better be quick.”
“I’m working on it,” Fraden muttered. “Bet your ass, I’m working on it! Of course… we could play it safe and knock off the herogyn-heads right now. It’d be easy—just slip ’em a massive overdose…”
Vanderling’s eyes narrowed, and Fraden could read his thoughts: Willem was not about to give up what he fancied as his ace in the hole.
“And then what?” Vanderling said. “Without the ’heads, what happens to the army?”
Of course, there was no real answer to that one. There it was, the time limit he had been subliminally dreading. Wipe out the Brotherhood and the Killers in the next six weeks, or you’ve had it, boy! And even if you do wipe out the Killers, what then? The herogyn still runs out, the ’heads still go ape, the army still…
But… but why wipe out the Killers? Why, Brother Bart? The Killers were bred and conditioned to obey anyone in a Brother’s robe, in the absence of Moro. And if the Brotherhood was destroyed, “Brother Bart” would be the closest thing to a Brother left on the planet It just might work. He just might be able to arrange it so that he would inherit the only really disciplined force on the planet—the Killers… and they could have their uses. But first, the Brotherhood would have to be destroyed. How to break the circle…?
“Well, Bart?” Vanderling said, breaking into Fraden’s reverie, “Looks like something’s cooking in that head of yours.”
“Ah… nothing yet, Willem. Just… er… wool-gathering. But I’ll come up with something, don’t worry. Always have. I’m thinking, Willem, I’m always thinking.”
“I’m thinking too,” Vanderling said coldly. The way he said it made Fraden’s back itch; he could all but feel the knife.
“Don’t think too hard, Willem,” he muttered. “Brain-strain can be mighty unhealthy. In severe cases, it’s even been known to be fatal.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Six weeks to zero, Willem Vanderling thought as he walked toward his hut. Six weeks for Ma Vanderling’s kid to come out on top, or…
Yeah, Bart’s got it pegged pretty good, he thought. I’ve got the ’heads in my hip pocket—for another six weeks anyway—but every other Animal on this miserable mudball is loyal to Bart, that is if you can call these cruds loyal. Well whatever you called ’em—and you sure as hell could call ’em plenty—the Sangrans’d come down one hundred per cent on Bart’s side in a showdown, and all I’d have would be my seven hundred ’heads. I know it, Bart knows it, and he knows that I know, so he thinks he’s got me right where he wants me, doing his dirty work for him and playing second fiddle to Napoleon Fraden.
Yeah, Bart has it just about pegged. Just about… But just about’s not going to be good enough if Willem Vanderling has anything to say about it.
Vanderling entered his hut. Trussed up in one corner, with Gomez guarding him closely, was a Killer, a Major by his stars, pretty high brass as the Killer hierarchy went. Two weeks ago, anticipating the needs of this moment, Vanderling had quietly ordered his most trusted ’heads to get him one live Killer officer. He had expected a lieutenant a captain maybe, but the Killers were scraping the bottom of the barrel, and after months of fighting, the pyramidal Killer command structure was top-heavy with ranking officers. With the situation in Sade—Killer patrols, Fraden’s agents, People’s Army patrols all mingling in a chaotic no-man’s land—it had been no sweat for Gomez and a small squad to grab this Killer away from the patrol he had been leading, just a matter of being willing to sacrifice a few men to do it.
And now it was time for some real action! Vanderling studied the tightly bound and gagged Killer. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s a lucky man.
“Okay, Gomez,” Vanderling said. “I want to be alone with this crud. Prop him up in that chair by the table and then split. I’ll call you when I need you.”
Gomez did as he was told, but he did it in sullen silence. Trouble is, Vanderling thought, that when I’m trying to stretch the herogyn this thin, they’re too edgy to trust anyone, even me. Well, what the hell…
He reached into a footlocker, pulled out a bottle of herogyn, poured out two blue pills. Gomez stared at the pills greedily, almost menacingly.
“Okay, Colonel,” Vanderling said, dropping the pills into Gomez’s outstretched palm, “have yourself a ball. But before you take ’em, go get Jonson and have him waiting outside.”
“Yessir,” Gomez grunted, and he left, rolling the pills in his palm in anticipation, all traces of suspicion gone from his face. Vanderling laughed. Enjoy it while you can, man! he thought; You won’t be enjoying anything very long.
Vanderling sat down across the table from the Killer. Gingerly he reached over, undid the gag, pulled it away with a quick flick of his wrist—and the Killer’s sharp teeth snapped shu
t on the empty air where his hand had been a moment before, as he had expected.
“Naughty, naughty,” Vanderling said. “Better play it cool, pal. You and me are gonna be friends, I can do plenty for you, and you’re gonna do something for me.”
The Killer stared up at him laconically. “If you wish, I will do one thing for you, Animal,” he said evenly. “Release me, and I promise you a quick, honorable death in personal combat, a Killer’s death. Why take the risk of dying like an Animal? Pain Day is but two weeks away, and all Animals captured between now and then are to die in the Pain Day Pageant—a death with no honor at all. Release me now and die with honor, my word as an officer of the Prophet.”
Vanderling laughed good-naturedly. “Play your cards right,” he said, “and I’ll release you, all right, and I’ll get you a nice promotion from your boss in the bargain. But let’s not get gruesome about it.”
The Killer was quiet, puzzled. Vanderling grinned. This, you weren’t expecting, eh? he thought. Well don’t worry man, you’ll have lots of company before too long. A lot of people are in for some unpleasant surprises.
“I’ve got a job for you to do,” Vanderling said. “You’re gonna take a message to Moro. You tell him that Marshal Vanderling is interested in talking turkey; we can do some business together. You tell him that I’ll meet him at midnight five days from now in… let’s see… Yeah! The Public Larder in Sade. And no funny stuff—I’ll have five men with me all armed with snipguns and more watching the approaches. I want a parley and no tricks.”
“Fool!” the Killer snarled, eyes suddenly blaring. “To think that the Prophet is stupid enough to walk into such a trap! To think that I would be fool enough to carry such a message! I would be sent to the Stadium to die like an Animal on Pain Day for being a part of your stupid scheme. Animal! Idiot!” The Killer seemed on the verge of flying into a mindless rage; his eyes rolled, his jaws began to work convulsively.
Vanderling cooled him with a quick slap across the face. “You shut up and listen!” he barked. “It’s no trap; it’s all on the level. But you do have a point… Okay, here’s the deal, safe for all concerned. Moro sends one Brother to meet me. He’s allowed three Killers to keep him safe from those crazy Sadians, but no more. The Brother brings along a radio, see, and I deal direct with Moro that way. He’s safe in his Palace. He’s got nothing to lose by talking.”
The Killer Major seemed torn between contempt and curiosity. His eyes blazed hate, but they narrowed in thought.
“Why should Moro grant me an audience?” he snarled. “Why should I bear your message and risk dying like an Animal? Why should the Prophet deal with you, even if I did give him your ridiculous message? Why—”
“Because you’ll have this,” Vanderling said, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a small polybag of Omnidrene. “Believe me, this’ll get you an audience with the Big Cheese muy pronto. You tell him where you got it, and you tell him Marshal Vanderling can deliver a whole shipful of the stuff if he plays ball. I guarantee he’ll be interested. And when the deal goes through, you’ll be made a colonel… what the hell, I can afford to be generous—I’ll make that part of my price: a colonelcy for you. What do you say to that?”
“What is in the bag?” the Killer said sharply.
“You know the stuff Brother Bart was passing out? The stuff your Brotherhood pals are busting themselves trying to make by torturing Animals till they’re crazy and then bleeding ’em? The stuff they’re dying for? Well, this is it—Omnidrene, and I’m offering Moro a mountain of the stuff, in return for… certain considerations.”
The Killer’s eyes lit up, with hope this time, not rage. Yeah, he knew where Omnidrene was at, all right. Vanderling thought. And who didn’t want to live? And be a colonel? But the crud’s still hesitating! Well, screw him!
“The clincher is,” he said evenly, “that if you don’t do as I say, I don’t execute you, I drag you to the nearest village and turn you over to the Animals. You know what they’ve been doing to Killers, don’t you? They’re mighty hungry these days… How’s that for an honorable death?”
The Killer’s lips twitched, and he went pale. Even a Killer didn’t feel so goddamned indifferent to being roasted alive and eaten. “Very well,” the Killer Major said. “I have no honorable choice. I will take your message to the Prophet.”
Vanderling staffed the polybag into a pocket in the bound man’s tunic.
Yessir, he thought, Bart has it all figured: pretty well. But not well enough! The Sangrans’ll back Bart against me all the way—as long as Bart’s alive, that is.
But if Bart is killed, and killed by the Brotherhood at that… Well, the only candidate left for President of the Free Republic and Grand High Muckety-Muck will be yours truly, Willem Vanderling.
With Bart dead—and what a nice martyr he’ll make—and the People’s Army and the rest of the Animals behind me, I can knock off the ’heads before the herogyn runs out and still control the planet.
And the kicker is that the same hit that gets rid of Bart will also get rid of Moro and Company, leaving me as sole proprietor of this crummy mudball. Two tough birds killed with one stone—in fact, they’ll be knocking off each other!
Maybe the thing to do is crown myself the new Prophet of Pain, Vanderling mused. Why not? Moro had a sweet setup going for himself till we showed up—do what you want, kill who you want, eat what you want, and have the whole goddamned planet sit still for it all because you were the little tin god. Why screw around, conning the yokums like Bart? Why not just lay it on the line—I’m the boss and anyone that looks at me cross-eyed gets a one-way trip to the arena?
Besides, it had a nice ring to it—Brother Willem, Prophet of Pain, and Lord High Poobah of Sangre! Yeah, it had real class!
Vanderling stuck his head out the doorway and yelled for Jonson.
“Take this bird to the outskirts of Sade and let him go,” Vanderling ordered.
Jonson blinked his hollow, bloodshot eyes in disbelief.
“Yeah, yeah, I know it sounds pretty weird,” Vanderling said. “But don’t strain your brain thinking. I got a nice little plan going here—final victory by Pain Day. There’ll be a double dose of herogyn for you when you get back, so think of that and move your ass!”
Vanderling led his men through the nearly, empty streets of Sade in semi-darkness. There were no electric lights in the Animal sections of Sade; the narrow, filthy streets were illuminated only by the stars in the moonless sky and the occasional flickering orange light of fires glowing through the doorways of the brooding wooden hovels.
Vanderling and his five herogyn-heads all carried snipguns. He saw three near-naked Sangrans stalking them across the shadowy street, four more about twenty yards behind. He raised his snipgun, catching a glint of firelight from a nearby hovel on its barrel, and the Sadians, now aware of the weapons carried by the men they were stalking, slinked hurriedly off down side streets.
Yeah, he thought with a grin, they still got enough sense to leave armed men alone. Armed men were about the only things in Sade that weren’t considered fair game. That was why the streets were so empty at night Anyone out at night looking for a meal stood an even chance of ending up on some starved family’s dinner table—a family, that is, if the old man hadn’t gobbled up his wife and kiddies yet, as some of ’em already had.
Starving or not, a few lessons from snipguns had taught ’em to leave armed guerrillas alone. By now they knew that anyone who attacked a guerrilla would end up in the Public Larder himself.
Yeah, Vanderling thought as they walked through the silent, empty streets, their boots casting up harsh echoes, it’s dog eat dog all right—or Animal eat Animal. The only place they kept their stinking hands off each other was the Public Larder. Anyone who died—with or without help—was dumped in the larder, and it was all that kept the local yokums from complete starvation. They killed anyone who tried anything in the Larder out of self-preservation, so the place was the closest thing to
a Sanctuary, and hence the logical place for this little negotiation.
Vanderling and his men rounded a corner, and a big, dirty, windowless barn of a building loomed across the street before them. It had one big open doorway, and the flickering orange light from within revealed the vague shapes of a few dozen Sadians inside. Vanderling heard muffled sawing sounds, dull thunks, men haggling shrilly—the Public Larder.
Vanderling gathered his men around him—Jonsort, Gomez, three other herogyn-heads. “Okay, Gomez,” he said. “You go in and case the joint. Now remember, you guys, when we go in, you keep your mouths shut. This is a trick to kill the Brothers, and I’m gonna be telling some mighty fancy lies. Some of ’em you won’t like. Just remember, it’s all a double-cross on Moro. Okay, Gomez, get going!”
They waited across the street as Gomez entered the Larder. For a moment, the voices within seemed to quiet, then the haggling resumed. After a few tense minutes, Gomez emerged, trotted back across the empty, offal-strewn street.
“Well?” Vanderling grunted.
“Brother, three of y’Killers, couple dozen Animals,” Gomez said.
“Good enough,” said Vanderling. “We go in. Gomez, take two men and clear those Animals out of there. Then you and Jonson’ll guard me while I parley with the Brother. Keep your snipguns ready and your eyes on those Killers. Rest of you’ll guard the doorway—it’s the only way in or out. You see anything move outside, you give a yell. Now let’s go!”
Gomez and two other ’heads crossed the street, entered the Public Larder. Vanderling heard orders being barked inside, shouts of protest, ugly murmuring, more orders, even more harshly delivered. Then, in twos and threes, sullen, gaunt men began to troop out of the Larder, greedily clutching chunks of raw meat, bloody arms, legs. Eyes darting suspiciously at everything around them—Vanderling, their fellows, the flickering shadows that danced in the dark, brooding streets—they slunk off, disappeared one by one down side streets, alleys, choked with garbage, ordure, splintered white bones.
The Men in the Jungle Page 22
