The loaded weapon weighed twenty-five kilograms. That was why there were two crews of two men each, to haul the hefty one-point-three-meter pipe expeditiously to an appropriate line of sight with the battery, and to haul it away again without delay. Whether there would be pursuit was uncertain; it was not known whether the Khalia had full complements here or merely minimal site crews. If the former, things could quickly become, as George put it, tight.
Their chances of survival and safe return were rated at seventy-five percent. Those were considered good odds for this type of work. The men acted as if there were no danger at all, calling it a milk run (with significant glances at Quiti’s bosom), but they knew the risk. They used only first names, not even knowing each other’s full names, to protect their identities in case anyone of them fell into enemy hands and was interrogated. They were, for all their insensitivity, good men.
Two crews of two. Why, then, was she along at all? To guard the ship. If enemy forces threatened to take it, it was her duty to push the destruct button. That would strand the men and, incidentally, blow her to bits—but the ship would not fall into enemy hands. Would she push that button? Yes. That was part of her training. However lightly the men might take her, they knew she would do that much of her job.
Still, they wouldn’t let her participate in the real action, despite her ability to do so. She was by their notion merely a woman, existing principally for the entertainment of a man. The men of the two ships on this mission had a pot on for the one who first managed to, as they put it, ground her. They didn’t even bother to conceal this game from her. Each day they each put another credit in the “honey pot.” The longer it took, the more the victor would have. There were of course certain rules: force could not be used, and no false promises were allowed. Nine men and one woman: they figured the end was certain, with only the timing and the identity of the victor in doubt. That was her value to them: the challenge. It was all perfectly good-natured on their part. They all admired her body, and said so rather too often. They took it for granted that she admired theirs. They were, after all, men.
This was why so few women volunteered for frontline service. Even when they got it, they didn’t get it. She had thought she could fight through, demonstrating her competence, and make a place for herself. So far, she had not been given the chance. Soft like a woman, indeed!
They made it to the planetary surface, and skimmed in toward the objective. The land below seemed to be solid mountain and forest, with no sign of civilization. The two Khalian batteries were a hundred and fifty kilometers apart; their companion ship would orient on the other, so that the twin strikes could be accomplished almost simultaneously. That was the ideal.
They glided to within fifteen kilometers. That was as close as they dared take the scout; they did not want to trigger any alarms. The indications were that Khalian force-field alerts were limited to ten kilometers. That might change, after this mission! From here they should be able to climb a hill and establish a direct line of sight to the battery. That was all that was required.
Jack opened the port, letting the planetary atmosphere in. They had all been given shots to adapt them to the local air, and the ship’s receptors had tested for verification of compatibility. This was an Earthlike planet, slightly smaller than Earth but with a denser core, so that gravity at the surface was almost the same. There was enough oxygen to sustain them; it was the trace elements that the shot protected them from, so that there would not be cumulative damage to the lungs and blood. The plants and animal life were similar too, not in detail but in fundamental metabolism.
George and Ivan were the first team. They girt themselves with water and rations, and each picked up an end of the pipe. “Be back soon, Cutie,” George said. “Catch yourself a little beauty nap.”
Ha ha, she thought. Catch yourself some other beauty, chauvinist!
Henry drew his laser pistol. He checked it, then pointed it at the fourth man, Jack. “Disarm yourself, slowly,” he said.
Jack looked at him, startled. “What?”
“I am a Khalian operative,” Henry said. “I am taking the three of you prisoner. Your mission is over.”
Jack smiled. “Some joke! The Khalia don’t take prisoners. Come on, we have to go so we can get the tube back fast when these weaklings wear out.”
“Second notice,” Henry said grimly. “I prefer not to have to kill you. I’m not a Khalian, I only work for them. Disarm yourself.”
“I don’t think he’s joking,” George said. He started to lower his end of the plasma pipe.
Henry’s laser swung around to cover him. “Hold your position!”
Jack’s hand dived for his own laser. Henry snapped his weapon back and fired. The beam seared across Jack’s throat, opening it as if a knife were slicing. Blood spewed out as the man fell, his eyes wide with amazement, rather than pain.
The other two men dropped the plasma pipe and reached for their weapons. Henry swept his beam across both of their throats. Both fell, unconscious and dying; the blood pressure at their brains was gone.
Now Henry turned to Quiti. She, like a complete idiot, had stood aghast, unmoving, stunned by the speed and horror of the event. “Disarm,” he said.
He had her covered. Slowly she removed her laser and dropped it.
“Out of the ship.”
She stepped carefully across the bodies and out the open port. Why hadn’t she drawn her weapon and fired while he was lasering the others?
The surface of the planet was lushly green. This was a jungle region, the kind the Khalia liked. They had landed in a long glade fronting the steep base of a mountain ridge; this provided both cover from observation by the battery personnel and a place to land comfortably.
She braced herself to run, but Henry was right behind her. “Make no sudden move, Cutie. I especially don’t want to have to kill you.”
After what had just occurred, she had no doubt of his ability to kill her. Training had been rigorous, but obviously he had had some that was not in the manual. She stood outside the ship, facing away from him, making no move.
She knew she had only a moment before he emerged. Anything she was going to do to protect herself she had to do now.
She put her face in her hands and sobbed. Her fingers pushed up through her pinned-back brown hair.
He emerged, his pistol keeping her covered. “Soft like a woman,” he muttered disdainfully, echoing Ivan’s remark.
He stepped away from the ship, coming to stand before her. “You know the routine, honey.”
Slowly she lifted her face, her fingers sliding down across her forehead and her tear-wet cheeks. She gazed at him, her fingers actually poking into her mouth.
“Don’t try your pitiful look on me, Cutie,” he snapped. “Just get your clothes off. Be thankful you’re to be a slave instead of a casualty. I won’t see you again after I turn you in, so it has to be now.”
It did make sense, she knew, in his terms. The Khalia did not take prisoners, they took slaves, and not many of them. They would interrogate her, not caring what damage they did to her body or mind in the process, and use her as a slave thereafter if she remained sufficiently functional. Her self-hypnotic ability could dull ordinary pain but would not help her against the savagery of this. She had known from the outset what to expect from the Khalia; not for nothing had humans named them after the ancient Hindu goddess Kali, dark creature of destruction and bloody sacrifice. Now she knew what to expect from their human agent, whose lust was of a slightly different nature. It was pointless to make open resistance; he would only laser her just enough to incapacitate her, perhaps severing the nerves of her arms and legs and blinding her, then have his will of her body as she suffered. Some men were like that, preferring the writhings of a woman’s agony to those of her joy.
She removed her uniform, carefully folding the sections of it and setting them on t
he ground beside her. She did not take undue time, knowing that stalling would gain her nothing. He watched, evidently enjoying the striptease show as her breasts and buttocks came into view. She had counted on that, and even moved a little more than she had to, to make those portions flex and quiver. She wanted him watching her body, not her face. Her teeth were clenched, her lips very slightly parted. Soon she stood naked except for her heavy military socks.
Henry nodded. “Cutie, I always thought your body was the best,” he said. “Now I’m sure of it. You sure don’t look like a monkey to me.”
She did not answer. She merely stood, teeth still clenched, waiting for his next directive.
“Very docile, aren’t we,” he remarked. “But I’m not fool enough to take chances. Go fetch the emergency cord.”
She walked in her socks to the ship. The odor of fresh blood was strong inside; the bodies of the men lay in pools of it. She used her self-hypnotism to keep her mind clear, treating the bodies as if they were merely meat, and stepped carefully to the storage compartment. Henry kept her covered from the port. She made no false move; she had seen how accurately he aimed his laser, and how quick his reflexes were.
She got out the rope and brought it back. Now there was some blood on her socks; she had been unable to avoid it. But this was no time to be squeamish about details; her own blood, and the success of the mission, were on the line. She said nothing.
Back outside, Henry made her go to a nearby copse of young trees. There he made her form nooses and put them over her own ankles and wrists; then he had her lie down while he looped the ends of the cords around trees and drew them tight. Only then did he put away the laser and strip off his own clothing.
Quiti was spread-eagled on the turf, her arms, and legs anchored by the cords so that she could not bring them in. Still she kept her teeth clenched and spoke no word. Her fit of grief as she first stepped out of the ship was the only expression of emotion she had allowed herself.
“It doesn’t make any difference, you know,” Henry said as he kneeled beside her and ran his hands along her body. “I never expected your desire, or even your approval; I just want your body, one time. You can sweet-talk me or curse me or just play zombie; my pleasure comes from having a lovely woman who would never submit voluntarily.” He squeezed her right breast, then her left. “Soft like a woman,” he said again, trying to provoke a reaction. She made none.
He built himself up to a pitch of erotic excitement, his strokes and pokes having the opposite effect on her, then straddled her. He let his weight come on her, moving his chest against her breasts, squeezing the last bit of sensation from the contact before getting into the primary act. He did not try to kiss her, evidently cautious about possible biting. The right side of his head was near her face, the outline of a vein showing as his excitement mounted.
Suddenly her head jerked up. The pin she had clenched between her teeth jabbed into the vein.
His head turned, stung—and her second thrust with the pin caught his right eye, puncturing it.
Now he screamed with pain and rolled off her, clutching at his face. The pain was in his eye, but the venom was in his vein, moving toward his heart. The pin was poisoned; she had held it dry between her lips the whole time, awaiting her chance to use it. Only a tiny weapon, a barb that projected beyond her lips only when those lips flattened against the target, but a deadly coating.
Within thirty seconds Henry’s heart stopped. His body convulsed as its other functions tried to continue; then he was dead.
Quiti turned her head to the side and carefully spat out the pin. It was deadly yet; she wanted none of its coating on her. The riskiest part of her operation had been the setting of it between her teeth; had it scratched her as she slid it down from her hair to her mouth, or had her forced tears wet it so that the venom dripped into her mouth . . .
She had survived, and even gotten through uninjured, though her body felt unclean where he had handled and kneaded and pressed on it. She would have accepted the rape if she had to, to get the proper opportunity to score on him with the pin; fortunately she hadn’t had to. She wasn’t prudish, but she preferred to indulge on a voluntary basis, not involuntary. Some year, when she found a man who truly respected her, she would show him what kind of pleasure a healthy woman could give.
But she still had a problem. She was securely bound, and could neither slip the nooses nor bring a hand in to untie them. She had tied them herself, but had done it right, because Henry would have known if she had not. She had done nothing to provoke him, because one slap across the mouth would have killed her, had he but known it. She had protected herself and her pin by making no other moves.
But there was one other thing Henry had not thought about. Quiti was of a variant humanoid species that had redeveloped prehensile feet. The terrain was extremely rugged on her home planet, with rugged vegetation to match; man had returned largely to the trees. Genetic manipulation had restored what other humanoids had lost: the ability to use the feet almost as cleverly as the hands. Hence the contemptuous nickname, “monkey.” Her kind tended to run lithe rather than fat, because excess weight was a liability when swinging in the trees. She really could climb like a monkey, and hang by one hand or one foot.
Quiti, already the butt of sexist attention because of her gender, had not cared to add to it by showing off her feet. Therefore she had worn special shoes, braced to accommodate her feet so that she could walk in comfort, that made them appear normal. She had left her socks on when she stripped for Henry, maintaining that concealment, also aware that that slight bit of coverage made the rest of her body seem more naked. So the man hadn’t challenged it; he already had access to the portions of her that interested him.
The feet, unlike the hands, were set at right angles to the supporting limbs. Thus they were able to do what the hands could not: twist back to set their fingerlike toes against their own ankles. First she flexed the toes to slide off the socks; then they set to work on the nooses, loosening them. What a mainstream human could not have done at all, she did readily: she untied her feet with her feet. She could have done it before, but again, had wanted no indication of her potential. The man had had to believe that she was entirely helpless. Indeed, she had been helpless enough, while he held that laser pistol!
Once the feet were free, she hiked her body up to give slack to the wrist ropes, then raised her feet to untie the remaining knots. This limberness was part of it; those who depended on trees for support had to be able to take and hold a grip with any extremity, and to exchange grips readily.
She dressed quickly, not bothering with the blood-tainted socks or the shoes; her feet were tough, and it was good to have them fully functional again.
Now she had a job to do. She returned to the ship and lifted the twenty-five-kilo plasma tube. She wiped off the blood that was caking on it, then had an idea. This thing was intended to be carried and operated by two men, but there was a harness so that one man could do both in an emergency. She made her way to the supply chest and brought out that harness. It would add to the total weight of the package, but she needed it.
She put it on the tube, then hefted the assembly to her back. It was an awkward process, but she was in fit condition and could handle it.
The plasma pipe had to be fired line of sight. She was close enough; all she needed was elevation. So she headed up the mountain before her, using hands and feet to draw herself up efficiently. The men had never given her a chance to, prove herself; she regretted that they could not see her now.
That reminded her in a moment of how her guard had dropped, of their brutal deaths. A choke formed in her throat. They had been, for all their unconscious snobbery, decent men; they had not deserved to be so casually slain. She had not been close to any of them, and not just because of the sexism; she simply preferred not to mix duty with pleasure. After she proved herself in combat and had credits of her o
wn, she could consider romance. She could have accepted a secretarial or maintenance position, as many women did, but had insisted on frontline duty, partly because of her need to prove herself and her planet. Now at last she had her chance to do that duty as it should be done. But how terrible that this chance had come only because of the brutal murder of the rest of the complement!
She was soon panting and sweating. The air was pleasant, but the loaded climb was more than enough to compensate. That tube weighed half as much as she did!
She persevered, and soon reached an outcropping of rock that overlooked the relatively level expanse beyond. And there was the battery! There was no mistaking the huge laser cannon that could score on anything that passed within a light hour and farther if the target was stationary in space. The fleet dared not pass within range of that monster!
She eased the tube to the ground. She removed it from its harness and set it up against a split rock, wedging it into place. She put her eye to the scope set along its top, and nudged the tube until the distant cannon came across the cross hairs. That was all that was necessary; there was no recoil as such, only a rush of light-swift plasma blasting through the air.
She fired and there was a crack of thunder, not from any detonation of the weapon, but from the heat of the bolt’s passage through the air.
The cannon disintegrated, and a fireball formed. Quiti smiled. She had taken it out!
She started to put the harness back on the tube, but then hesitated; it was still too hot. Maybe she didn’t need to carry it back to the ship anyway; it was for one purpose only, and that purpose had been fulfilled. She had better get herself back to the ship as fast as possible, for the hornets could soon be buzzing. It depended on how solid an establishment this battery was; if it was a full complement, there would be auxiliary forces patrolling the region, and these would be searching for the source of the attack. Let them find the plasma tube, much good would it do them now! Even if they figured out how to fire it, where was their target?
The Fleet Book 2: Counter Attack Page 18
