by Robert Adams
"Gumpner," said Corbett quietly, "you heard?"
"Yes, sir," the noncom answered just as quietly.
"Whether he lives to get back or dies before he does, you are not to breathe a single word of what he just said—not to any of the men, not to anyone back at Broomtown base, not to anyone from the Center, and especially not to him. Hear me?"
"Yes, sir. But, sir, if he killed Dr. Arenstein… ?"
Corbett laid a hand on his shoulder, looked him dead in the eyes and said slowly, "Yes, Gumpner, I am as certain as I am that I'm sitting here that Dr. Braun did do just what he said he did. Cowards can be highly dangerous, and he is a very intelligent coward. Moreover, he is cunning, and were he confronted with the words that just came from his own lips, he'd most likely swear that he was babbling in his delirium. He very well could have been doing just that, too… but I don't believe it. "If he lives to get back, remember, he is a member of the Council of Directors, the men and women who run and have run the Center for centuries. Now, Dave Sternheimer doesn't like Braun any better than Braun likes him, but that wouldn't save your neck if it got about that you were slandering a member of the Council. Whether or not what you were saying was true doesn't matter. They'd see you dead, Sergeant.
"Please heed my orders, on this matter Gumpner. Your father and I were very close friends, and your granddad, too.
For Gumpner, there could be but the one reply—"Yes, this sorry secret to your grave, let your report parallel mine—Dr. Erica Arenstein died of unavoidable enemy action, period.
"Will you do this for me, Gumpner?"
For Gumpner, there could be but the one reply,—"Yes, sir."
With the rising of the sun, Corbett had one of the cookpots filled with water from the spring-fed pool and put over a fire to boil. Into it he dropped such of the surgical instruments as he knew how to use. When the water was boiling, he ladled off some of it into another pot, adding just enough of the icy water from the pool to enable him to immerse his hands in it. Then, with strong soap and a small, stiff-bristled brush, he scrubbed his hands and forearms thoroughly for nearly ten minutes, ending by waving them back and forth to air-dry, rather than using a possibly dirty cloth for the purpose.
When the pot had been boiling for a full half hour—this including extra time for the fact that more water had had to be added on two occasions—the officer used a long pair of forceps to remove the sterilized instruments onto a towel soaked with alcohol.
At his direction, Gumpner and Sergeant Cabell cut away the filthy encrusted bandages and removed the splints from Dr. Braun's leg, then swabbed it from crotch to toes with more of the alcohol from the medical packs.
Not entirely trusting the drugs he had early injected, Corbett had had long stakes hammered deeply into the soil in three places, then had lashed the ankle of Braun's good leg and his two wrists to them. In addition—for Corbett was experienced at performing vital field-surgery with little or no anesthetics available and knew what to expect from his patients—two brawny troopers had been assigned to keep the doctor's body still, and another to hold the ankle of the injured leg.
Major Corbett's first really good look at the shiny-skinned, terribly discolored and hideously swollen leg truly frightened him with the cold dash of realization of just how little he really knew of medicine or surgery. But he set his teeth and his resolve, rationalizing that Braun would assuredly die unless something was done. Even one chance out of a hundred that Corbett would fumble his way to the proper procedure must be better than no chance at all.
He began his incision as high up on the leg as the swelling and discoloration extended, glad that he had the foresight to strip to the waist and cover the front of his trousers with a linen apron when the incision commenced to gush foul, greenish pus. He also was glad that he had taken the security precautions, for despite the injected drugs and the stakes and lashings, it was all that the three brawny troopers could do to keep the shrieking patient still enough for Corbett to do what he must.
Seated against a rock, under the guard of a trooper, old Johnny Skinhead watched the procedure fascinatedly. He had fancied himself an expert at the refinements of torture until he witnessed this session. He could not shake off the grim presentiment that he would be the next man to be lashed out between those stakes and subjected to protracted torment at the bloody hands of the tall, beardless Ahrmehnee. He shuddered and unconsciously wet his tattered breeches.
When even hard pressure brought forth only blood and clear, odorless serum, Corbett sponged out the entire length and depth of the opening with hydrogen peroxide—it was either that or alcohol, for they were the only antiseptics remaining in the medical-supply packs—then began the long job of suturing closed the lips of the gaping wound.
But no sooner was he done than he made the discovery that in order to do a thorough job, in order to completely drain the leg, it was going to be necessary to open the inner surface of the limb as well. He debated resting for a while before undertaking the second part of the messy business, but decided it was best to get on with it.
Eventually, it all had been done. Both of the incisions had been swabbed out, sutured, fitted with drains and freshly bandaged. With the replacement of the splint, Corbett gave Braun another injection, had him untied, bathed—in the excesses of his agony, the scientist had befouled himself with both feces and urine—then bedded down warmly and left under the watchful eyes of a couple of troopers.
"He's in the hands of God, now," the weary officer told Gumpner and Cabell. "We've done all that we can for him." Silently, to himself, he added, "I just hope the bastard appreciates it, but he probably won't, knowing him."
Pointedly leaving Erica all of Long Willy's knives and the deceased leader's longsword, Lee-Roy and Abner dragged out the two bodies and dumped them near to that of Strong Tom. At her command, they found and toted over a battered armed chair, plunked it in front of the cabin which had been Long Willy's, then gently steadied the young woman until she was seated in it, cradling the rifle in her lap and clad only in her breeches, since they had not as yet located her boots and Other clothing.
Then, one at a time, they ran down and dragged before her the other bullies, those who had accepted Long Willy's invitation to rape her. Erica shot each of the Ganiks, most of them either low in the belly or, like Strong Tom, in the groin. Two, who managed to tear free from Lee-Roy and Abner and try to run, she shot through the kidney.
The two brothers seemed to take immense and continuing pleasure from the executions, and, oddly to Erica's mind, so too did the crowd of assembled Ganiks, some of that crowd actively assisting the brothers to clap hands on their chosen prey, tripping up and holding fleeing men until the brothers ' got to them.
Erica had brought along the pouches of loaded magazines and stripper clips, expecting to have to kill many more of the Ganiks when they rushed her en masse. But they never did; rather they willingly accepted the fact that this sometime captive was their new leader.
At any other time, Erica would have been repelled by the conduct of the gathering. They dragged the suffering, dying victims of her bullets to spots where small groups of them could increase their agonies, torment them, further maim their bodies and mimic their cries and pleas.
The very last of the bullies, one Wall-eyed Duane, sidled away, out of the crowd as he became aware of just how this new wind was blowing, leaped bareback upon a wandering pony and set out across the clearing, his heels beating a frantic tattoo against the prominent ribs of the shaggy little beast.
Erica, who had always been a good shot, brought the rifle up to her shoulder and blasted the man off the pony's back. A knot of Ganiks ran over to where he lay in the dust, showing obvious disappointment when he died soon after they reached him, and then turned back to those victims still alive, still susceptible to added pain.
Throughout the next few days, Erica came to understand that she was in no danger from the remaining Ganiks. They all seemed to respect her, even to like her. With s
ome dozen corpses to go around, all of them were better fed than was often the case, and it was amazing to her just how much human flesh these savages could consume at a single sitting.
When she had been offered Strong Tom's liver, heart and several juicy cuts from one of his thighs, she had wisely masked her revulsion and indicated her preference for a steady diet of fish. There had been no question, either spoken or implied, and her two bullies had since kept her well supplied with fresh-caught fish, probably taken from other Ganiks, since she had never seen either of the two fishing in the stream or pond.
Her demands for pots of hot water were always met, and when she closed and barred her door to strip and bathe, no one ever tried to enter. After the executions, all of her clothing and her boots turned up amongst the effects of Strong Tom and Long Willy, so she now went about both clean and clad, though still a bit bemused at how easily she had won over these revolting, primitive, savage but in many ways childlike Ganiks.
Her self-appointed bullies, Lee-Roy and Abner, were a boon. Not only did they wait on her, cater to her and respectfully coach her in the necessary functions and duties of Ganik chieftaincy, but they willingly explained certain usages and customs when she seemed not to understand.
When, of a day, she announced that she wanted every man and the few women in the camp to troop down to the stream and there strip, wash thoroughly their bodies, hair and beards, then their verminous clothing, there was pure pandemonium in the camp, nor did the noise and agitation cease, despite the most sadistic efforts of the two bullies, until she had fired a shot from the rifle.
After a few moments of subdued muttering, one of the former coterie of Strong Tom shuffled out of the mob to face her. "Whutall you wawnts us to do, it ain' jes' ginst bunch-law, it's plumb sinful. 01' Plooshuhn, he kills Ganiks fer thet!"
Erica shrugged and stated flatly, "You'd better take that risk, then. Because if you don't wash your stinking selves and soon, then I'm going to kill you for certain."
Old Kevin set his jaw stubbornly. "Wai, I ain' gonna!"
Erica leveled her rifle and, without another word, shot the Ganik spokesman down, the force of the charge hurling him back into the mob behind him. She ended by having to shoot two more, then her bullies beat another to death. But after that, the remaining Ganiks got the message and filed meekly down to the stream to indulge the singular whim of this strong and proven-merciless new leader. Like a pair of vicious dogs, the brothers rode herd on the throng, beating those who lagged, ripping the garments from those who did not strip fast enough for their liking, throwing in bodily those who hesitated at water's edge.
As the brothers stood panting and giggling on the stream bank, Erica gestured with her rifle, saying, "You, too, Lee-Roy, Abner." When the two just looked at her uncomprehendingly, she elucidated, "Strip and wash, you boneheaded apes!"
Still giggling, the brothers complied. For the next few days, they and the other Ganiks were far easier on Erica's nose. She was, in fact, considering forcing the bunch to burn down all of the vermin-crawling huts, along with most of the contents, when more Ganiks came riding in from the north.
Although most of the newcomers forked real, full-size horses, one who was mounted on a big pony separated himself from the knot soon after they had debouched from the wooded track and kneed his mount over to a ring of Ganiks, squatting about a fire and consuming their first meal of the day.
"Heyo, Stinky." One of the feasters raised an arm in greeting. "One-ball 'lowed as how you'd done gone up nawth fer to jine up with ol' Buhbuh."
The small, wiry, big-nosed man thus addressed just nodded. "Heyo, Fartuh, where be Lowng Willy an' the resta his bullies?"
The thick-lipped Fartuh Cartuh rolled onto a single buttock and broke wind loudly, then said, grinning, "We-awls been a-shittin' out the bes' parts of them ol' boys awl week lowng! Thishere bunch is got us a new leaduh, naow, Stinky."
The big-nosed man nodded, not looking at all surprised. "I knowed ol' Strowng Tom'd do fer ol' Lowng Willy soonuh 'r latuh. Sumbody cawl him outchere, heanh?"
With an even broader grin, Fartuh Cartuh let loose another blast of foul methane. "Thet 'un was Strowng Tom, Stinky, he's sayin' 'heyo.'"
At this, Stinky's dark eyes did widen perceptibly. "Yawl mean yawl done et Strowng Tom, too? Then who in Plooshuhn is a-leadin' the bunch?"
"I am, you smelly bastard," grated Erica, stepping into sight, the rifle held in the crook of her arm. "What are you and the rest of those pigs doing in my camp?"
Stinky stared at the Ahrmehnee woman in dull shock for a few moments, then reined about and rode back to the group of Ganik horsemen with whom he had ridden in. He spoke in such a low tone that none of Erica's people could overhear, and when he rode back, two of the horsemen accompanied him.
Dismissing the obviously inferior Stinky, Erica studied his two companions warily. Both were very big men—as tall as Long Willy had been, yet as broad and as muscular as the late Strong Tom—and well armed with swords, targets, axes and pieces of plate armor of fine quality and new enough that it had not yet started to rust of the customary Ganik neglect. The one on Erica's right was as dusky of skin tone as was her own, current body, with hair and beard that were jet-black and curly under the matted filth, and a nose even bigger than Stinky's own beak; Erica thought that the man was at least half Ahrmehnee, Ganik or no, probably gotten upon some hapless kidnapped Ahrmehnee girl.
The other man, the one on her left, was possessed of a wild mop of brick-red hair but a singularly skimpy beard and a mere reddish fuzz rather than a mustache on his upper lip. "Hormonal imbalance," thought the physician Erica. "Likely, very sparse body hair, too."
On one side of the haired man's stubby, freckle-splashed nose, from the inside corner of the eye, diagonally down the face and across the square jawline, was a still-healing gash. It had been a deep, severe wound, for Erica could see the glint of teeth through the opening in the cheek.
Both of the men sat their big lowlander horses tensely, both pairs of eyes—the one black as sloeberries, the other a washed-out blue—looked as cold and hard as agates. The dark man bore an axe across his saddlebow, while the red man had a longsword gripped in one freckled paw, held with blade pointing forward at the level of his thick thigh. As she surreptitiously slipped off the safety of the rifle, Erica thought that if they had intended to give a menacing aspect, they had succeeded admirably.
The mounted trio reined up and halted only thirty feet from the woman, and the dark man cleared his throat, spat, then announced loudly enough for all to hear, "Ol' Buhbuh, he be daid!" Then, to the shouting, wildly gesticulating throng of Ganiks, he roared, "Plooshuhn take you awl, jes' shet your moufs till I be done a-tawkin'!"
As the hubub subsided somewhat, he went on, "Naow, I be Black Jed Fando, and I done took ovuh Buhbuh's bunch and I'll be raht tickled fer to kill enybody don' lahk me bein' leaduh." He turned his head then and stared hard at Erica. "Mens or wimmens, eithuh, don' mek no nevuhmin'."
Erica contemplated shooting all three of the strangers then and there, but decided to hear the rest of what this arrogant, posturing jackass had to say.
Fando paused, waiting for a challenge, and when none seemed forthcoming, he continued. Taking one hand off the axehaft, he hooked a thumb over in the direction of the red-haired man. "Thishere be Baldfaced Kirby, mah bully. I done d'cided he's gonna tek ovuh thishere bunch fer me." Turning to once more stare hard, provocatively, at Erica, he demanded, "Enybody don' lek thet?"
"Unless you two are determined to be entrees tonight," remarked Erica conversationally, "you'd be wise to take this dog-and-monkey show back where it came from."
She had unconsciously lapsed into archaic English of the twentieth century, so naturally no one understood a word she had said. But as her tone had not been threatening, Fando made an erroneous assumption and a fatal error.
Kneeing his big horse toward her, he extended a hand, "Gimme that there club, woman. I wawnts it."
From the hip, Er
ica shot Black Jed Fando just under the raised visor of his helmet, then did the same for the redhead and, for good measure, Stinky Parsons, too. Then, as calmly as she could, she turned her back upon her own and the new Ganiks and strolled back to her cabin, entered and slammed the door behind her.
The whoopings and shoutings went on throughout the camp for at least an hour, for normal conversation among the Ganiks, Erica had discovered, consisted of each one trying to make himself heard among and above all of the rest. At length, there was a tentative knock at her door. She removed the bar and stood a few feet inside, rifle again fully loaded and leveled.
But the first and second men to stoop and enter were the grinning, giggling brothers, Lee-Roy and Abner, bearing huge loads of weapons 'and segments of armor, which they dumped, clanking, on the dirt floor.
"What's all this junk?" snapped Erica.
At the end of a fit of giggles, Abner said, "Awl them their bullies down fum the main camp, they 'lows as how they lahks your stahl, Ehrkuh, and sincet you kilt thet Black Jed and his head bully, both, they awl wawnts you fer the new leaduh of Buhbuh's bunch. But you will keep me'n Lee-Roy fer bullies, too, won'tcha?"
Although she had no desire to ride northwest, deeper into this primitive, savage land, farther away from the Center, she could see no option, at the moment, short of killing every living soul in the camp—not that she would have stuck at that to achieve her ends, but she did not have enough cartridges. So as soon as her three latest victims had been reduced to piles of inedible offal and well-picked bones, she slung her rifle, donned a helmet, belted on a sword and mounted Black Jed's fine roan gelding.
Flanked by the faithful, devoted Lee-Roy and Abner— both now decked out in boots, armor, clothing and weapons stripped from various of Erica's victims, with Abner on the dead redhead's horse and Lee-Roy on Stinky Parson's big pony—Erica set out to the northwest, leading a lengthy column of Ganiks on their shaggy ponies.
