The chamber was big, and haunting. Far above the shallow waters, the roof had been eaten through by erosion, and light poured in from three great gashes in the rock. It gave the cavern a dim greenish glow, as it bounced off the pale green walls and the wide shallow pool.
The launches spilled from a thin crack in the cave wall, carried by rushes of cold black water. The water turned green when it hit the light, and tumbled and warmed and slowed. The boats slowed, too, and moved leisurely across the huge chamber toward the white sand beaches that lined the sides.
Kabaraijian pulled up by one such beach, and hopped out into the shallow water, dragging his launch up onto the sand. Cochran followed his example, and they stood side by side when both boats were safely beached.
“Yeah,” said Cochran, looking around. “It’s nice. And it figures. Leave it to you to find a pretty place to work, while the rest of us are up to our ankles in water, clutching lights.”
Kabaraijian smiled. “I found it yesterday,” he said. “Completely unworked. Look.” He pointed at the wall. “I barely started.” There was a pile of loose stones in a rough semicircle around the area he’d been working, and a large bite missing from the rock. But most of the wall was untouched, stretching away from them in sheets of shimmering green.
“You sure no one else knows about this place?” Cochran asked.
“Reasonably. Why?”
Cochran shrugged. “When we were coming through the caves, I could have sworn I heard another launch behind us somewhere.”
“Probably echoes,” Kabaraijian said. He looked toward his launch. “Anyway, we better get going.” He hit his corpse controller, and the three still figures in the boat began to move.
He stood stock-still on the sand, watching them. And as he watched, somewhere in the back of his head, he was also watching himself with their eyes. They rose stiffly, and two of them climbed out onto the sand. The third walked to the chest in the front of the launch, and began unloading the equipment; vibrodrills and picks and shovels. Then, his arms full, he climbed down and joined the others.
None of them were really moving, of course. It was all Kabaraijian. It was Kabaraijian who moved their legs, and made their hands clasp and their arms reach. It was Kabaraijian, his commands picked up by controller and magnified by synthabrain, who put life into the bodies of the dead men. The synthabrains kept the automatic functions going, but it was the corpse handler who gave the corpse its will.
It wasn’t easy, and it was far from perfect. The sense impressions thrown back to the handler were seldom useful; mostly he had to watch his corpses to know what they were doing. The manipulation was seldom graceful; corpses moved slowly and clumsily, and fine work was beyond them. A corpse could swing a mallet, but even the best handler couldn’t make a deadman thread a needle, or speak.
With a bad handler, a corpse could hardly move at all. It took coordination to run even one deadman, if the handler was doing anything himself. He had to keep the commands to the corpse separate from the commands to his own muscles. That was easy enough for most, but the task grew increasingly complex as the crew grew larger. The record for one handler was twenty-six corpses; but all he’d done was march them, in step. When the dead men weren’t all doing the same thing, the corpse handler’s work became much more challenging.
Kabaraijian had a three-crew; all top meat, corpses in good condition. They’d been big men, and they still were; Kabaraijian paid premiums for food to keep his property in good condition. One had dark hair and a scar along a cheek, another was blond and young and freckled, the third had mousy brown locks. Other than that, they were interchangeable; all about the same height and weight and build. Corpses don’t have personality. They lose that with their minds.
Cochran’s crew, climbing out onto the sand in compliance with his work orders, was less impressive. There were only two of them, and neither was a grade-one specimen. The first corpse was brawny enough, with wide shoulders and rippling muscles. But his legs were twisted matchsticks, and he stumbled often and walked more slowly than even the average corpse. The second deadman was reedy and middle-aged, bald and under-muscled. Both were grimy. Cochran didn’t believe in taking care of his crew the way Kabaraijian did. It was a bad habit. Cochran had started as a paid handler working somebody else’s corpses; upkeep hadn’t been his concern.
Each of Kabaraijian’s crew bent and picked up a vibrodrill from the stack of equipment on the sand. Then, parallel to each other, they advanced on the cave wall. The drills sank humming holes into the porous rock, and from each drill bite a network of thin cracks branched and grew.
The corpses drilled in unison until each drill was sunk nearly to its hilt and the cracks had grown finger wide. Then, almost as one, they withdrew the drills and discarded them in favor of picks. Work slowed. Crack by crack, the corpses attacked the wall, laboriously peeling off a whole layer of greenish stone. They swung the picks carefully, but with bone-jarring force, untiring, relentless. Incapable of pain, their bones could scarely feel jars.
The deadmen did all the work. Kabaraijian stood behind, a slight, dark statue in the sand, with hands on hips and eyes hooded. He did nothing but watch. Yet he did all. Kabaraijian was the corpses; the corpses were Kabaraijian. He was one man in four bodies, and it was his hand that guided each blow, though he did not touch a tool.
Forty feet down the cave, Cochran and his crew had unpacked and set to work. But Kabaraijian was barely conscious of them, though he could hear the hum of their vibrodrills and the hammering of their picks. His mind was with his corpses, chipping at his wall, alert for the telltale grayish glitter of a swirlstone node. It was draining work; demanding work; tense and nervous. It was a labor only corpse crews could do with real efficiency.
They’d tried other methods a few short years before, when men had first found Grotto and its caves. The early settlers went after swirlstones with automoles, tractorlike rockeaters that could chew up mountains. Problem was, they also chewed up the fragile, deep-buried swirlstones, which often went unrecognized until too late. The company discovered that careful hand labor was the only way to keep from chipping or shattering an excessive number of stones. And corpse hands were the cheapest hands you could buy.
Those hands were busy now, tense and sweating as the crew peeled whole sections of rock off the broken wall. The natural cleavage of the stone was vertical, which sped the work. Find a crack—force in a pick—lean back and pull—and, with a snap, a flat chunk of rock came with you. Then find a new crack, and begin again.
Kabaraijian watched unmoving as the wall came down, and the pile of green stone accumulated around the feet of his deadmen. Only his eyes moved, flicking back and forth over the rock restlessly, alert for swirlstones but finding nothing. Finally he pulled the corpses back, and approached the wall himself. He touched it, stroked the stone, and frowned. The crew had ripped down an entire layer of rock, and had come up empty.
But that was hardly unusual, even in the best of caves. Kabaraijian walked back to the sand’s edge, and sent his crew back to work. They picked up vibrodrills and attacked the wall again.
Abruptly he was conscious of Cochran standing beside him, saying something. He could hardly make it out. It isn’t easy to pay close attention when you’re running three dead men. Part of his mind detached itself and began to listen.
Cochran was repeating himself. He knew that a handler at work wasn’t likely to hear what he said the first time. “Matt,” he was saying, “listen. I think I heard something. Faintly, but I heard it. It sounded like another launch.”
That was serious. Kabaraijian wrenched his mind loose from the deadmen, and turned to give Cochran his full attention. The three vibrodrills died, one by one, and suddenly the soft slap of water against sand echoed loudly around them.
“A launch?”
Cochran nodded.
“You sure?” Kabaraijian said.
“Uh—no,” said Cochran. “But I think I heard something. Same thing as bef
ore, when we were moving through the caves.”
“I don’t know,” Kabaraijian said, shaking his head. “Don’t think it’s likely, Ed. Why would anyone follow us? The swirlstones are everywhere, if you bother to look.”
“Yeah,” Cochran said. “But I heard something, and I thought I should tell you.”
Kabaraijian nodded. “All right,” he said. “Consider me told. If anyone shows up, I’ll point out a section of wall and let him work it.”
“Yeah,” Cochran said again. But somehow he didn’t look satisfied. His eyes kept jumping back and forth, agitated. He wheeled and walked back down the sand, to the section of wall where his own corpses stood frozen.
Kabaraijian turned back toward the rock, and his crew came alive again. The drills started humming, and once more the cracks spread out. Then, when the cracks were big enough, picks replaced drills, and another layer of stone started coming down.
But this time, something was behind it.
The corpses were ankle deep in splinters of stone when Kabaraijian saw it; a fist-sized chunk of gray nestled in the green. He stiffened at the sight of it, and the corpses froze in mid-swing. Kabaraijian walked around them, and studied the swirlstone node.
It was a beauty; twice the size of the largest stone he’d ever brought in. Even damaged, it would be worth a fortune. But if he could pry it loose intact, his estimate would set a record. He was certain of that. They’d cut it as one stone. He could almost see it. An egg of crystalline fog, smoky and mysterious, where drifting veils of mist shrouded half-seen colors.
Kabaraijian thought about it, and smiled. He touched the node lightly, and turned to call to Cochran.
That saved his life.
The pick sliced through the air where his head had been and smashed against the wall with awful impact, barely missing the swirlstone node. Sparks and rock chips flew together. Kabaraijian stood frozen. The corpse drew the pick back over its head for another swing.
Within, Kabaraijian reeled, staggered. The pick swung down. Not at the wall; at him.
Then he moved, barely in time, throwing himself to one side. The blow missed by inches, and Kabaraijian landed in the sand and scrambled quickly to his feet. Crouched and wary, he began to back away.
The corpse advanced on him, the pick held over his head.
Kabaraijian could hardly think. He didn’t understand. The corpse that moved on him was dark-haired and scarred; his corpse.
The corpse moved slowly. Kabaraijian kept a safe distance. Then he looked behind him. His other two dead men were advancing from other directions. One held a pick. The other had a vibrodrill.
Kabaraijian swallowed nervously, and stopped dead. The ring of corpses tightened around him. He screamed.
Down the beach, Cochran was looking at the tableau. He took one step toward Kabaraijian. From behind him, there was a blur of something being swung, and a dull thud. Cochran spun with the blow, and landed face down in the sand. He did not get up. His barrel-chested, gimpy corpse stood over him, pick in hand, swinging again and again. His other corpse was moving down the cave, toward Kabaraijian.
The scream was still echoing in the cave, but now Kabaraijian was silent. He watched Cochran go down, and suddenly he moved, throwing himself at the dark-haired dead man. The pick descended, vicious but clumsy. Kabaraijian dodged it. He bowled into the corpse, and both of them went down. The corpse was much slower getting up. By the time he did rise, Kabaraijian was behind him.
The corpse handler moved back, step by slow step. His own crew was in front of him now, stumbling toward him with weapons raised. It was a chilling sight. Their arms moved, and they walked. But their eyes were blank and their faces were dead—DEAD! For the first time, Kabaraijian understood the horror some people felt near deadmen.
He looked over his shoulder. Both of Cochran’s corpses were heading his way, armed. Cochran still had not risen. He lay with his face in the sand and the waters lapping at his boots.
His mind began to work again, in the short breather he was granted. His hand went to his belt. The controller was still on, still warm and humming. He tested it. He reached out, to his corpses, into them. He told them to stand still, to drop their tools, to freeze.
They continued to advance.
Kabaraijian shivered. The controller was still working; he could still feel the echoes in his head. But somehow, the corpses weren’t responding. He felt very cold.
And colder when it finally hit him, like ice water. Cochran’s corpses hadn’t responded either. Both crews had turned on their handlers.
Override!
He’d heard of such things. But he’d never seen one, or dreamt of seeing one. Override boxes were very expensive and even more, illegal, contraband on any planet where corpse handling was allowed.
But now he was seeing one in action. Someone wanted to kill him. Someone was trying to do just that. Someone was using his own corpses against him, by means of an override box.
He threw himself at his corpses mentally, fighting for control, grappling for whatever had taken them over. But there was no struggle, nothing to come to grips with. The deadmen simply failed to respond.
Kabaraijian bent and picked up a vibrodrill.
He straightened quickly, spinning around to face Cochran’s two corpses. The big one with the matchstick legs moved in, swinging its pick. Kabaraijian checked the blow with the vibrodrill, holding it above him as a shield. The dead man brought the pick back again.
Kabaraijian activated the drill and drove it into the corpse’s gut. There was an awful second of spurting blood and tearing flesh. There should have been a scream too, and agony. But there wasn’t.
And the pick came down anyway.
Kabaraijian’s thrust had thrown the corpse’s aim off, and the blow was a glancing one, but it still ripped his tunic half off his chest and clawed a bloody path from shoulder to stomach. Reeling, he staggered back against the wall, empty-handed.
The corpse came on, pick swinging up again, eyes blank. The vibrodrill transfixed it, still humming, and the blood came in wet red spurts. But the corpse came on.
No pain, Kabaraijian thought, with the small part of his mind not frozen with terror. The blow wasn’t immediately fatal, and the corpse can’t feel it. It’s bleeding to death, but it doesn’t know it, doesn’t care. It won’t stop till it’s dead. There’s no pain!
The corpse was nearly on top of him. He dropped to the sand, grabbed a hunk of rock, and rolled.
Dead men are slow, woefully slow; their reflexes are long-distance ones. The blow was late and off-target. Kabaraijian rolled into the corpse and knocked it down. Then he was on top of it, the rock clutched in his fist, hammering at the thing’s skull, smashing it again and again, breaking through to the synthabrain.
Finally, the corpse stopped moving. But the others had reached him. Two picks swung almost simultaneously. One missed entirely. The other took a chunk out of his shoulder.
He grabbed the second pick, and twisted, fighting to stop it, losing. The corpses were stronger than he was, much stronger. The deadman wrenched the pick free and brought it back for another try.
Kabaraijian got to his feet, smashing into the corpse and sending it flailing. The others swung at him, grabbed at him. He didn’t stay to fight. He ran. They pursued, slow and clumsy but somehow terrifying.
He reached the launch, seized it with both hands, and shoved. It slid reluctantly across the sand. He shoved again, and this time it moved more easily. He was drenched in blood and sweat, and his breath came in short gasps, but he kept shoving. His shoulder shrieked agony. He let it shriek, putting it to the side of the launch and finally getting the boat clear of the sand.
Then the corpses were on him again, swinging at him even as he climbed into the launch. He started the motor and flipped it to top speed. The boat responded. It took off in a sudden explosion of foam, slicing across the green waters toward the dark slit of safety in the far cavern wall. Kabaraijian sighed … and the corpse grabbed h
im.
It was in the boat. Its pick was buried uselessly in the wood, but it still had its hands, and those were enough. It wrapped those hands around his neck, and squeezed. He swung at it madly, smashing at its calm, empty face. It made no effort to ward off the blows. It ignored them. Kabaraijian hit it again and again, poked at the vacant eyes, hammered at its mouth until its teeth shattered.
But the fingers on his neck grew tighter and tighter, and not all his struggling could pry one loose. Choking, he stopped kicking the corpse, and kicked the rudder control.
The launch veered wildly, leaning from side to side. The cave rushed past in a blur, and the walls moved in on them. Then came sudden impact, the shriek of tearing wood, and the short tumble from launch to water. Kabaraijian landed on top, but they both went under. The corpse held its grip through everything, dragging Kabaraijian down with it, still choking the life from his throat.
But Kabaraijian took a deep breath before the green closed over him. The corpse tried to breathe underwater. Kabaraijian helped it. He stuck both hands into its mouth and kept it open, making sure it got a good lungful of water.
The deadman died first. And its fingers weakened.
Finally, his lungs near bursting, Kabaraijian forced his way free, and kicked to the surface. The water was only chest high. He stood on the unmoving corpse, keeping it under while he sucked in great draughts of air.
The launch had impaled itself on a crest of jagged rocks that rose from the water off to one side of the exit. The passage from the cave was still at hand, outlined in shadow a few short feet away. But now, was it safe? Without a launch? Kabaraijian considered making his way out on foot, and gave up the idea instantly. There were too many miles to go before he reached simple daylight, let alone the safety of the river station. It would mean being hunted in the darkness by whatever remained of his corpse crew. The prospect sent a chill down his back. No, better to stay and face his attacker.
Nightflyers & Other Stories Page 13
