Serpent's Gift

by A. C. Crispin

  "But it was you, wasn't it, that tampered with the guidance beam?" Heather blurted. "Lots of people died because of that. .."

  "No!" Lynch shouted, her voice cracking. A muscle in her cheek jumped.

  "That wasn't me. Not me." She shook her head, the grip on Heather's arm easing up, becoming almost a caress. "I didn't do that, didn't know he was going to do it, either. Not till after it was done. All those people, dead ... he's gone too far ..." She almost whispered the last, her face drawn into a terrible mask of grief, anger, and desperation.

  "Who?" Heather asked softly, making her voice as childlike as she could.

  "Jeff," Lynch murmured morosely. "He's gone too far, he's losing it... he's over the edge. If he finds you, he'll kill you!" This last was a fierce whisper and she shook Heather again, her resolve crystallizing. "I can't let him do that. I have to keep him safe, protect him, or he'll get caught. So you do exactly like I say. Into the cargo hold. C'mon, there's not much time."

  Heather grabbed her helmet, her mind racing, the countdown voice

  distracting her. "But.. . we just can't leave," she said plaintively. She had no choice, she'd have to trust this woman. "We can't leave Rob and Serge here to die!"

  Lynch's eyes widened. "You mean you're not alone? Those jerks brought you with them?"

  The child shook her head. "They don't know I'm here. But they're talking to Mr. Morrow right now, in Cavern One."

  "Oh, shit!" Lynch groaned and glanced at the console, listening to the countdown. "I'll never make it! If I take you to the ship, then go back for them ... I'll need time to convince Jeff..."

  "You can't leave them, please!" Heather babbled, panic- stricken. "Don't leave them to die! I can get myself to the

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  shuttle. Just tell me the access codes for the airlock, I'll let myself in! I'll find the cargo hold and go hide. But please don't let anything happen to Rob and Serge!"

  Lynch hesitated for just a second. "Okay," she said finally in a defeated voice. She looked ashen, gray, suddenly old. Heather knew all her hopes, her plans, were crumbling around her, that she was desperate to find a way to make everything work out. "Maybe I can convince Jeff to take them as hostages ..." She reached over for an H.U. computerpen and manipulated the controls, then handed it to Heather. "This'll get you into the airlock. Since you're gifted, I'm sure you won't have any trouble figuring it out. Now, get your helmet on and GET GOING! I MEAN it!"

  Heather nodded her head so hard she nearly gave herself a headache, reaching for her helmet as Lynch barreled into the airlock. With one part of her mind she heard it cycle, but most of her attention was arrested by the countdown.

  "Fourteen minutes remaining in countdown sequence. Thirteen minutes fifty-nine seconds . .."

  Heather walked over to the console, stared at it. You can stop it, an inner voice assured her smugly. The child nodded, and stared at her own computerpen, then at the one Lynch had just given her.

  Not that way, her survivor-self sneered. That's the hard way. You know what I'm talking about.

  Heather shook her head. No. She was not doing that. Not now. Not EVER.

  We're talking big boom here, kiddo, the voice whispered. Bye-bye Academy at StarBridge. Janet Rodriguez and a whole crew are still working there.

  They'll die. And what happens to you when there's no more StarBridge?

  Guess it's back to foster homes, huh? Normal school. Full of normal people, who just love having telepaths around them? That's okay. You can handle it.

  You've done it before. It'll only be ten more years until you're a legal adult. . .

  Dr. Blanket! Heather called desperately in her mind. There was no answer.

  DR. BLANKET!

  This is hell, kiddo. No guardian angels here. Just you. Serge. Rob. And the bad guys. You going to let them do this to Rob-- destroy his school? After what he did to save you?

  She stared at the console, shaking. "No," she said aloud, in a firm voice. "I'm not going back in. Not EVER. I can't. I'll find another way."

  Grimly, she grabbed the computerpens and started working out

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  codes that might break through Morrow's programming, and all the while the countdown rang hollowly in her ears ...

  Only when he was staring in horrified fascination at the gun Jeffrey Morrow was pointing at his face did Serge begin to realize how very much he still wanted to live.

  Ever since he'd awakened today, to find that the woman he loved more than anything in the world was dead, Serge had been playing in the back of his mind with the comforting thought that when he had fulfilled his obligations to Rob and Professor Greyshine, if he truly found that he could not go on without Hing, he could arrange to die.

  After all, it was easy, out here in space. The environment would be happy to kill you, and often did, whether you wanted it to or not. Just step into an airlock and "forget" to seal your helmet or your gloves properly. Or hop aboard one of the scooters and aim it at a cliff, or at one of the deep holes that pockmarked the ground. Millions of ways.

  But now, he realized, he didn't want to do any of those things, and it looked as though he was going to die anyway. Life was certainly odd, wasn't it?

  "Jeff," Rob was saying, "what the hell do you think you're doing? Whatever Lynch did, it isn't worth something like this. We can--"

  "Rob," Serge said quietly, "look at him. Lynch didn't do it. He did. Didn't you, Jeff?"

  Morrow nodded. His eyes in the glare of the overhead spotlights were a washed-out gray, and his face was greasy with sweat. "Finally figured it all out, didn't you, Serge?" He smiled with seemingly genuine regret. "I'm sorry about this, you know. I really liked you. But I'm afraid you'll have to stay here.

  I'm taking Rob with me, of course, but I can't watch two of you at one time, not effectively. And you're a pretty husky young man, not like old shorty over there." He gave the psychologist an affectionate glance.

  "Jeff." Rob's voice was calm now. Therapist mode, Serge realized. "Let's talk about this. You must put the gun down. You musn't do this, it would be very destructive. It's not too late to undo things, fix everything. The radonium can be recovered, the radonium-2 can still be stop--"

  Morrow smiled tolerantly, and gestured with the gun. "Rob-- Rob, you're being rather obtuse. Tell him, Serge."

  "There is no radonium-2, Rob," Serge said flatly, feeling as though he were a computer with a human voice, obeying a

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  programming command. "There never was. The radonium-2 crisis was as false as the idea that the Mizari Lost Colony came here. They needed to keep us away from the site, while they took the radonium, so what better way than to declare it off-limits, because it was contaminated? They planned this months ago, Rob."

  Glancing over at the psychologist out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gable nearly stagger as the truth sank in. How would it feel, Serge wondered, to have one of your best friends betray you so ruthlessly?

  "Jeff," Rob whispered, "why? You have more money than anyone can reasonably hope to spend in a lifetime, you told me so. Why?"

  "You can never have too much money, Rob," the engineer said, his eyes gleaming fanatically. "You'll find that out, when we take in all the worlds in first-class style. You won't have to worry about this place anymore. It was sucking you dry, draining you like a damn space vampire, but I've fixed that, too."

  Moving lightly, quickly, the gun still pointed directly at Serge, Morrow backed over to the terminal, then hit a button. The computer began to speak:

  "Sixteen minutes remaining in countdown sequence. Fifteen minutes fifty-nine seconds, fifteen minutes fifty- eight seconds ..."

  The engineer smiled proudly. "See? It's all taken care of. No more StarBridge to slowly kill my best buddy, Rob. I did it for you."

  Mon Dieu, Serge thought, feeling so sick that for a moment he was afraid he might faint, we are dealing with a madman. Jeff is crazy, completely crazy!

  "Jeff," Rob said soothingly, "this is not produc
tive. Put down the gun, and we'll discuss this. If you want, we could go somewhere together, sure. But there's no need for you to do this .. . blowing up the school will just make you feel terrible, later, don't you think?"

  Give it up, Rob, Serge thought, seeing Morrow's sweaty face and glittering eyes. You cannot reach him.. .

  "No, I won't feel terrible," Morrow said, sounding a bit petulant and impatient that Rob didn't appreciate the gift he had planned for him. "That place kills people." He jerked his head at Serge. "Like it's killing him. It sucks the students dry, then spits them out. I won't let it kill you, too."

  Rob took a step toward the engineer, and suddenly the gun moved, came to bear on the psychologist, who stopped short. "Besides," Morrow said, and now his voice was as hard as the vacuum outside, "the radonium was making those damned Mizari

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  rich, and now they'll have to buy from us-- from Earth--and we won't be threatened any more, held down, treated like second- class citizens."

  "Jeff," Rob said, "that's not you talking, that's Mike, your dad. Remember how--"

  Behind Serge, the airlock hissed open, and they saw Andrea Lynch

  silhouetted there. The gun in her hand was pointed directly at Morrow. There was no way that Jeff could turn and fire at her before she would be able to shoot him; the angle was all wrong, and Serge saw Morrow realize that.

  Slowly, he lowered the gun.

  Moving deliberately because she had to do it one-handed, the woman removed her helmet. "All right, Jeff," she said reprovingly, "this has gone far enough. Put the gun down. Move slow."

  Obediently, the man responded, laying the gun down and then straightening slowly back up. "Andrea--" he began.

  "Shut up, Jeff!" she snapped. "I'm calling the shots now, and you do what I say. We'll both be free and safe--and rich, just like we planned. Now you stop that damned countdown. You're not killing anyone else!"

  One part of Serge's mind registered what she'd said, but he was too preoccupied with the drama that was taking place before him to focus on it, and its implications.

  "All right, Andrea," Morrow said. "Maybe you're right."

  Slowly, keeping his hands away from his sides, he moved to the terminal and keyed in a password, then a command. The monotonous voice abruptly ceased.

  There was a palpable easing of the tension in the cavern. "That's better,"

  Lynch said, and managed a halfhearted smile. "God, Jeff, I thought you were coming apart on me. Don't scare me like that again, okay?"

  "Okay, I guess you're right, Andrea," Morrow said, returning her smile. "It'd be a damned shame to waste all this good radonium, wouldn't it, honey?"

  She smiled at him like a fond parent, then they both chuckled. "Now"--Lynch waved her gun at Serge and Rob--"what are we going to do with them?"

  "I don't know," Morrow said, still standing by the terminal. Slowly he began walking toward the woman, still moving cautiously. "We can't kill them."

  "Damn straight," agreed Lynch fervently. "There's been too much killing. "But we can't leave them free, either. They'll call the cops on us."

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  "What about if we put them in the bubbletent and then take their suits?" Jeff suggested, walking over to idly run his fingers along one of the radonium cylinders. 'They'd be fine there, plenty of air, a servo--but we smash the communications equipment. Sooner or later, they'll get around to looking for them, and find them there, safe and sound."

  "Sounds good to me," Lynch said. "Come on, the ship's fully loaded."

  "Don't we have time to get another load?" Morrow gestured at the radonium stacked around them. "After we lock these two up, we can--"

  "Lynch," Rob broke in suddenly, urgently, "don't trust him! He's a borderline personality, and he's breaking down--undergoing a psychotic episode. He's delusional, and paranoid. Don't trust him! He's conning you!"

  "Shut up, Gable," she said. "Don't give me that psychologist's mumbo jumbo.

  Jeff was just a little overeager, but he's fine now."

  She really cares about him, Serge realized sickly. I believe she is in love with him. She cannot bear to recognize that he is mad, because she loves him . . .

  "Rob is right, Ms. Lynch," he said. "When he was talking to us before you came in, he was nearly raving! Do not trust him! He will hurt you!"

  "Shut up!" Lynch snarled, turning the gun on the two prisoners. "Jeff and I are partners, and soon we're going to be so rich--"

  Serge saw Morrow bend over beside the cylinder, glimpsed a large chunk of slag in his hand as he came up, arm swinging, and yelled, "Lynch! Look out!"

  But instead Lynch whirled toward Serge, and that error was her undoing.

  Rob yelled hoarsely as Morrow struck the side of her head viciously with the rock. Serge heard it crack against her skull.

  Dazed, her skull probably fractured, Andrea Lynch dropped the gun and fell forward. In a second, Morrow had pounced on the gun, grabbed it, then stepped back to cover all three of them. "Too bad, Andrea," he said calmly, scarcely breathing hard, "you should have listened to them."

  Slowly he backed around in a circle until he was beside the terminal again, then he turned the countdown back on. "Six minutes forty-six seconds, six minutes forty-five seconds, six minutes forty-four seconds . .." it was saying.

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  Lynch could barely move her head, but she was watching Morrow, the look of wounded betrayal in her eyes as eloquent as any animal's. "I turned the sound off, Andrea," Morrow said, as if speaking to an idiot, "not the countdown itself. You lose."

  Then, to Serge's horror, his finger moved on the trigger, and a deadly spurt of energy lashed out, turning Lynch's head and half her torso into a charred, smoking horror.

  Gagging, Serge fought the urge to vomit, and all the while the computer was chanting: "Six minutes eighteen seconds, six minutes seventeen seconds, six minutes sixteen seconds ..."

  Serge realized he was going to die, knew it as surely as he knew now how much he wanted to live. He had so many things left to do--so much music he wanted to write! So many treasures he wanted to discover!

  "You caused that," Morrow said accusingly to his prisoners. "If you'd kept quiet, I probably couldn't have got the drop on her like that."

  Serge groaned softly, shaking his head, saw the gun swing toward him again. "Sorry, Serge," Morrow said, and his finger moved--

  With a rush that amazed Serge, Rob Gable left the ground in a flying tackle, then he and Morrow were struggling for possession of the gun. The weapon went off, and a lance of energy struck the back wall, leaving the smell of ozone almost overcoming the odor of over-cooked meat. Even as he rushed to help Rob, Serge held his breath, expecting them to lose pressure.

  Rock spurted, crumbled, then, with a slow, majestic kaTHUMP, a huge chunk dropped down into the pit H.U. had dug.

  But the pressure held, and Serge then remembered the small chamber beyond. The little cave was indeed airtight, Grace a Dieu!

  As Rob and Jeff struggled wildly, Serge reached the other gun that was lying on the floor, and picked it up rather gingerly, thumbing the setting down to stun. "Stop it!" he shouted, and his voice sent more rock dust cascading.

  "Stop or I will shoot!" Grimly, he thrust the end of the muzzle against the back of Morrow's neck. "Drop your weapon!"

  Slowly, Jeff's fingers loosened on his gun, and it clattered to the floor. Rob Gable was bent over, fighting for breath. "Tie his hands," Serge said, backing up to the terminal desk, then handing Rob a length dispensed from the roll of plas-steel cord that still sat in the corner, a mute reminder of the vanished archaeological site.

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  Quickly, efficiently, Rob lashed the engineer's hands behind him, then stepped back.

  Three minutes twenty-nine seconds, three minutes twenty- eight seconds, three minutes twenty-seven seconds. .." the countdown was saying.

  "The helmets!" Rob yelled. "We have to get out of here!"

  Jeffrey Morrow began to giggle. "You'll never make
it," he chortled. "Never, Rob! This wasn't the way I planned it, but at least we'll always be together, won't we?"

  "Shut up, you sonofabitch!" Rob screamed at him, slamming the helmet down over the engineer's head, then sealing it with a jerk.

  Moving with frantic haste, the doctor handed Serge his helmet, then donned his own. Grabbing the unresisting Morrow beneath his bound arms, they hauled him to his feet and started toward the airlock.

  Three minutes remaining in countdown sequence," said the computer. 'Two minutes fifty-nine seconds, two minutes fifty- eight seconds, two minutes fifty-seven seconds ..."

  One stride short of the airlock, Serge stopped, then shook his head, thinking of how far it was across the slagged plain to the landing area. "We will never make it, Rob," he said, knowing it was true.

  Rob stopped, then nodded.

  Slowly, Serge took off his helmet again, and Rob did the same. They let go of Morrow, and the engineer backed away, tripped, then sat down hard on the rocky floor. Serge could see the man's lips moving, and was glad he didn't have to listen to him anymore.

  "Two minutes remaining in countdown sequence," said the computer. "One minute fifty-nine seconds, one minute fifty-eight seconds, one minute fifty-seven seconds ..."

  Serge took a deep breath, then, catching a whiff of Lynch's still-smoldering corpse, he walked over to the terminal, grabbed a dropcloth they'd used for collecting rock samples, and threw it over the body, hiding it. He really didn't want that to be the last sight he ever saw.

  "One minute seventeen seconds, one minute sixteen seconds, one minute fifteen seconds . .."

  Serge smiled at Rob. "Au revoir, mon ami," he said, holding out his hand to the doctor. "It has been a pleasure--and an honor--to know you, Rob."

  The psychologist solemnly shook hands. "Same here, Serge,"

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  he said. "To quote one of my favorite films, 'Bye , .. see you on the other side.' "

  Serge shook his head ruefully. "But I do not believe in the other side," he said.

  "Fifty-five seconds, fifty-four seconds, fifty-three seconds, fifty- two seconds . . ."