The Alien Web (Masters of Space Book 2)

by Robert E. Vardeman

  “No, no, I just want to be able to recognize them, to avoid them.” Kinsolving lied.

  He recoiled when a hairy leg brushed over his face.

  “You lie,” said the arachnoid. “But you are not with Those of the Web Will. They would never accept a human in their ranks.”

  “Let’s just say I have my own reasons for finding the Boxes of Delights.”

  “There are many?” The unrestrained eagerness in the arachnoid’s voice told Kinsolving of the unavoidable, addictive lure contained in the resonating single crystal of cerium.

  “I think so.”

  “They charge so much for them, but there are quiverings in the web that the price will fall like a spastic youngling.”

  “Lead the way,” said Kinsolving. “Together we might be able to find the Boxes.”

  He heard the click-click of hard talons on the concrete floor. Other than the sound the man had no way of telling anyone else travelled the tunnel with him.

  “Are there sensors?” he called out.

  Almost in his ear came the reply. “This one has removed the devices from their circuit. Such primitive equipment.”

  “You know of security cameras?”

  “This one is of Web. Of course. This one is a level-three worker.”

  Kinsolving fell silent. It seemed that even the lowliest of arachnoids possessed knowledge of IM’s most sophisticated equipment. He stumbled and would have fallen if the spider being had not slipped a talon through the collar of his jacket and held him erect.

  “The steps lead up,” the arachnoid said, again in the tone of a parent lecturing a wayward child.

  “Is the door at the top locked?”

  “That has thwarted this one’s efforts. An alarm will sound every time the door opens, with or without proper access codes.”

  Kinsolving could only depend on the captured card-keys. A director would not want his presence known always. Perhaps the card-key would disable the alarm.

  Kinsolving knew that was not likely, but he had little choice but to try.

  Fumbling in the dark, he let the arachnoid guide his hand to the tiny slot that would hold the electronically encrypted card. He boldly thrust it into the lock; he had nothing to lose. Entry into the warehouse from the surface looked impossible.

  The sudden ray of light lancing through the opening door blinded him. The spider creature shot past him, mandibles clacking. By the time Kinsolving’s eyes had adjusted to the bright lights, the arachnoid had dismantled the entire electronics system controlling the door.

  “No alarm,” the spider said.

  Kinsolving nodded numbly. He had not clearly seen the creature before. Although he had spoken to several and had taken the shuttle to the surface with an arachnoid pilot, the nearness of the alien sent an uncontrollable shudder through his body.

  “You are cold? The impossible lights above sear everything. This one does not understand the internal heat for this building.”

  For Kinsolving, the warehouse was pleasant. It had been the sight of a mottled grey-and-brown spider able to stare him in the eye that had produced the reaction.

  “I’m fine. Where do we look?”

  “They are your species, perverted and sick though they are. You choose a likely starting venue.”

  “The most recent arrivals. Where?”

  The arachnoid took off, the lumbering gait making Kinsolving slightly motion-sick following. He found himself unconsciously duplicating the side-to-side, up-and-down movement. The man shook himself free and concentrated on the crates. Most labels told of Interstellar Materials shipments of single-crystal and strain-free crystals for scientific studies. The crates were hardly large enough to hold many brain burners.

  “There,” Kinsolving said. “The crates marked mining equipment.”

  “There is no mining allowed on Web,” the spider said. “These are being shipped though to other planets, human-settled worlds called Acheron and Cocytus.” The arachnoid stumbled over the names.

  “The rivers of woe and lamentation,” muttered Kinsolving. Louder, he told the spider being, “There aren’t any such worlds. Those were written on the crates to give the appearance of transshipping.”

  The spider tensed his legs and shot to the top of the crates. Quick talons jerked open one of the plastic crates. Kinsolving would have had to use a cutting laser to equal the creature’s speed in spilling out the crate’s contents.

  “Whatever’s in there, it’s not mining equipment,” he said.

  “Boxes of Delights!” cried the spider.

  Kinsolving whipped around, fearful that the arachnoid had alerted guards with his shrill outcry. The noise of heavy equipment moving freight in other parts of the warehouse drowned out the alien’s shout of joy. The creature pulled out a small red plastic cube with indentations on either of two opposing sides. Talons thrust into the depressions.

  A quiver shook the spider. It settled down on the crate, oblivious to everything else in the world.

  Kinsolving reached up and grabbed one hairy leg. He shook it hard. The creature did not respond.

  “I should record this,” he said, still astounded at the quickness with which the Box of Delights worked on the arachnoid. Kinsolving fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the data recorder Lark had given him. The information on Web had proven useless. He recorded over it, aiming the tiny lens at the arachnoid lost in a private universe of rapture.

  Kinsolving shot the spider from all angles, making certain to change the focus to include the IM imprint on the crates, the dozens of other red boxes inside, everything he could.

  From a vantage point beside the arachnoid, Kinsolving slowly panned the entire IM warehouse. Through the tiny aiming display, he caught sight of two burly men rounding a stack of crates. He ducked down before they spotted him.

  “Damnation,” cried one man. “Another of those Bizzies got in and found the brain burners. The boss isn’t going to like this.”

  “Hell, let’s just get rid of it. Nobody’d be the wiser. And in a few weeks, who’ll be on-planet to care?”

  “Not the Bizzies, that’s for sure.”

  Kinsolving recorded it all, the two men pulling the arachnoid off his perch, their attempts to tear the brain burner from his talons, their failure.

  “Let it die happy,” said the larger of the men.

  “Seems a shame that they got to die that way. I wish they’d suffer.”

  “Won’t be long before we’re in charge,” the first said. “The Bizzies that’re left, well, hell, we can do as we please with them.”

  They began exchanging increasingly improbable ways of murdering the arachnoids who had not succumbed to the brain burners. Kinsolving felt his stomach churn.

  The men’s savagery did not make him very proud to be a human. Kinsolving quietly slipped back to the tunnel entrance. No one had noticed the, door standing ajar or the electronics panel that the spider being had dismantled. Kinsolving hurried inside, struggled to pull the door shut and was instantly plunged into Stygian darkness.

  As he made his way back to the shed set on the side of the landing field, he thought about what he might do with the evidence he had collected.

  “Those of the Web Will,” he mused. Alien police, even though the spider had trouble with the concept. Find Those of the Web Will, show them his evidence and…then what?

  Barton Kinsolving went cold inside. What would the arachnoids do? He had already sampled alien justice on another world. The Lorr had given him a life’s exile on their hidden prison world.

  What might the spiders do to him? To Interstellar Materials personnel who knew nothing of the brain burners? To other humans on-planet? To him?

  CHAPTER VIII

  “Chairman Fremont thinks I should go with you,” said Kenneth Humbolt.

  “Oh?” Cameron smirked at the idea.

  “To make sure nothing goes wrong, that you are able to guarantee a flow-through on the brain burners.”

  Cameron watched Humbolt
begin to fidget nervously. The director knew as well as the robotics expert why Fremont wanted him along on this trip. It was not to guide Cameron’s deft hand. It was punishment. Cameron might be lower in title and status, but everyone knew who would be in charge of the mission.

  “Really, Kenneth, I can deal with the distribution problems on my own. I’ve done similar jobs, though at the time I hadn’t realized how important they were. I didn’t know that there even was a plan. Not that Fremont and the rest of IM’s board has taken me into their confidence. I’ll do all I can to…achieve maximum results.”

  “I’m sure,” muttered Humbolt. “That does not change my orders. I’m to go to ZOo and oversee the project.”

  “You’ll have to hurry,” said Cameron.

  “What? Why?”

  “I’m shifting for Web in exactly one hour.” Cameron lifted a small box and tucked it under his arm. The precision tools inside would be put to excellent use on Web. He had designed several unique tracking robots. Testing them required prey, victims. Cameron had no doubt that any number of worthy targets might be found on that distant world.

  He eyed Humbolt. Perhaps even a director of Interstellar Materials might find himself on the receiving end of a hunter-killer. Orders had not come in from Fremont — or Maria Villalobos — but they might at any instant. Cameron had the instincts of both a killer and a vulture. He felt the nearness of death in others.

  Kenneth Humbolt was not long for either IM or life.

  “An interesting array of weaponry,” commented Cameron. “The Bizzies must find it necessary to maintain such an awesome battery on their moons. Do they engage in numerous wars? I saw no evidence of destruction or use of the lasers.”

  “I don’t know why they armed so heavily,” said Hum-bolt. The entire trip had been spent worrying over his options, how he could regain lost power and position in IM, how he could turn this disgrace to his own advantage. Damn Kinsolving!

  “I’ve studied company files on Web. It seems that they have refused repeatedly to grant mining rights. A major disruption of their society would allow Interstellar Materials to make a strong bid for those privileges.”

  “The Plan must be served. The Bizarres are everywhere and they keep us down. They have united against humanity. We must stand firm against them. The mining question is a minor one.”

  “You recite the litany well,” said Cameron, his mocking words stinging Humbolt out of his self-pity.

  “It’s not litany. I believe it.”

  “Of course you do,” Cameron said soothingly, but the sneer on his lips turned the words like a knife thrust into the belly. “And the billions IM stands to profit from disruption on Web is incidental.”

  “Trillions,” Humbolt said sullenly.

  Humbolt winced as Cameron’s hot eyes burned him. “You lack the instincts of a true killer, Kenneth,” said Cameron.

  “I’m a businessman, not an assassin like you.”

  “What’s the difference? Both require a certain ruthlessness and tenacity. You shy away from doing what is needed. Kill off a few billion bizarrely shaped aliens? Why not if it gives profit? They compete unfairly by blocking human trading on their worlds. Cut off the parent world and their colonies must seek supplies and equipment and revenues from other sources. Why not human sources, no matter how distasteful they might find this?”

  Cameron chuckled at Humbolt’s growing uneasiness. The roboticist added, “Why not human sources, when we know that disaster is about to befall Web and have prepared for it?”

  “There’s more than monetary gain at stake,” snapped Humbolt.

  “Oh, yes, there is, there is,” said Cameron. Humbolt rubbed his lips, more worried than ever. Cameron had been a few minutes late reaching the starship. From what Hum-bolt had seen of the assassin and had read in his company psych-profile, punctuality ranked high with him.

  Cameron had been detained on Gamma Tertius by someone important, someone powerful. Fremont? Villalobos? Another director? What had been said? And why wasn’t he, Kenneth Humbolt, a director of IM, also given those last-minute instructions?

  Humbolt worried until he thought the veins in his temples would explode.

  “A good, serviceable security system, Mr. Rogoff,” Humbolt complimented. “The warehouse is impenetrable from either the air or the ground.”

  “Infrared scanners at work all night, one hundred percent overlap on the visual cameras, motion sensors and roving robot guard designed by Mr. Cameron.” Rogoff turned and nodded in Cameron’s direction. Cameron’s expression did not change. He cared little what this fool of a supervisor said, good or bad, about security. The brief examinations he had given the warehouse showed a hundred ways to enter unobserved. There might be more, but he tired of figuring them out.

  “You realize, Mr. Rogoff, that we are not dealing with stupid creatures,” said Cameron. “The Bizzies on Web are extremely adroit at microelectronics.”

  “They’re nothing but goddamned spiders. Who can take a king-sized bug seriously?”

  “You might be onto something there,” Cameron said dryly. Such an attitude explained the lax security around the warehouse that Humbolt foolishly praised so highly.

  “Glad you think so, sir. I really admire the work you do with those guard robots. Bring any new models to test?”

  “A few,” said Cameron, his mind elsewhere. “Just experimental models. Nothing for routine use.” He wandered through the stacks of plastic crates, alert to every nick and scratch. Cameron drew a pair of goggles from inside a pocket in his flowing purple velvet cape. He pushed back the cape and settled it on his shoulders, fox-fur collar snuggling gently around his neck. Cameron adjusted it; the core of the soft fur carried a thick, flexible inertial plastic that turned instantly hard if anything should impact it — like a bullet or garrotte wire.

  A similar vest rested beneath the mauve silk shirt. Cameron accepted the risks of fieldwork and considered his possible adversaries. Humbolt and Rogoff might denigrate the Bizzies on this planet. Cameron had only admiration for their electronics skills. Until he learned otherwise, he had to assume their skills at assassination were similarly well developed.

  The cape settled, he adjusted the goggles, moving the lenses around to give a polarized visual light view. The scratches became instantly apparent. A different set of filters and new setting on the variable spectrum generator set in the goggle rims gave IR readings. Still another set showed unexpected drops that fluoresced on the floor. Cameron walked in what appeared a random fashion.

  The drama that had occurred atop the crate laden with brain burners unfolded and revealed itself to him.

  “Anything wrong, Mr. Cameron?” asked the supervisor.

  “When did this shipment of, uh, equipment arrive?”

  “You mean the brain burners? Got them in a week ago. We’re about done forging the transshipment papers to show them being sent on to other planets.”

  “Non-existent planets?”

  “Why not? Somebody back on GT thought up the names.”

  “Archeron. Cocytus.” Cameron’s nose twitched.

  “What’s wrong, Cameron? You find something?” demanded Humbolt.

  To the supervisor, Cameron said, “There’s been one intruder, possible two, who has opened this crate within the past few days. What happened to him?”

  “Intruder?” Rogoff’s expression shifted from confusion to fright to an emotionless mask in the flickering of an eye. But Cameron saw. So did Humbolt.

  “Who got through your security, Mr. Rogoff?” demanded Humbolt. “A Bizzie looking for a brain burner?”

  “That would certainly indicate, that the Bizzies are aware of the source of the devices,” mused Cameron. “A definite breach of security. Unless one of your own men has been rummaging about in the crate.” Cameron tugged at the lace ruffles on his cuffs. An index finger lightly brushed a toggle that recalled and armed an aerial robot he had sent forth to reconnoitre the warehouse.

  “That’s it,” s
aid Rogoff, his face still impassive. “A worker mistook this for one of the real shipping cases and accidentally opened it. But it was all right. He was cleared.”

  “How badly was he hurt?” asked Cameron. His fingers touched another toggle hidden in the lining of his cape.

  “Hurt? What are you saying? He wasn’t hurt.”

  “No, I suspect not. Not unless you employ natives to work inside the warehouse. You were inept in removing the droplets of blood on the floor. The natives’ blood fluoresces under UV. A distinct trail leads off in that direction, no doubt where you disposed of the body.”

  Rogoff snarled. His hands slid under his light jacket toward the small of his back. A tiny hum sounded. Rogoff’s face went slack even as he toppled forward.

  “What happened?” asked Humbolt, stepping away from the fallen supervisor.

  “Mr. Rogoff chose an infelicitous course of action. He attempted to draw whatever weapon he carried in a holster in the middle of his back.” Cameron touched his hidden toggle again. The buzzing came again, louder. A five-centimetre-long robot shot down and hovered just above Rogoff’s unmoving shoulders.

  “What is that thing?”

  “A friend, Kenneth, a friend. I sent the robot on patrol. When Rogoff so injudiciously attacked, the robot obeyed a command to protect me. It launched a small needle laden with a poison developed by a friend of mine who works for Galaxy Pharmaceuticals.”

  “Galaxy? GPMT?” Humbolt’s eyes widened. Cameron made a mental note of the reaction. Galaxy Pharmaceuticals and Medical Techtronics must be involved in some way with the Plan to cause such a violent start in Humbolt.

  “A friend in research. But the basic design of the electromagnetically driven steel needle is mine. The robot contains a small magazine of the magnetized needles. The needle is launched much as you would expect a particle in a mass driver to be.”

  “That small thing contains a miniature mass driver?”

  “And a score of needles, should one be insufficient. My next model will be more elaborate, with a magazine of needles ranging from relatively harmless to instantly fatal.” Cameron poked a brilliantly polished boot toe into Rogoff and turned the supervisor over. An expression of stark pain had been permanently frozen on his face. “I use only the instant-acting poisons for this model. Seems to be painful, doesn’t it?”