Pirates of the Thunder

by Jack L. Chalker

  As Fernando Savaphoong controlled his minions by alone controlling the transmuters, so was he dependent on a supply of murylium, the one substance transmuters needed and could not make.

  It seemed that every time one tried to make murylium from a murylium-powered device, one got blown to bits, along with about thirty cubic kilometers of surrounding planet.

  Melchior had once had massive amounts of the stuff; Master System’s early robot probes had discovered as much and had mined the hell out of it. Those caverns were modern Melchior, and Melchior itself was powered by the leftover amounts.

  So, in a sense, Halinachi was like a gold-mining town of the ancient North American West or Australia or South Africa, but it also traded in other things. Lightning and the Thunder needed all the murylium they could get; they had very little. Nagy had considered the problem, and Clayben had supplied the solution—a simple set of equations that would increase the transmitter’s efficiency by more than ten percent; one of Melchior’s little discoveries needed because Melchior had been running on traces of its cannibalized self.

  “And we just give that to Savaphoong?” Raven asked. “And so he takes it and we’re still in the hole.”

  “No, he wouldn’t do that,” Nagy assured him. “You see, if he didn’t give fair return, or if he double-crossed those bringing him things, he would very quickly find himself a nonmarket. There is a lot of competition out here, and not only among the three more or less legally tolerated outposts. He’ll pay—and pay well—in Halinachi credit because he wants the next item exclusively. See?”

  “One good mindprobe on any of us and he has got it all,” Warlock noted suspiciously.

  “If he did, there’d also be a lot of repercussions,” Nagy assured her. “But, in any case, that’s why we are taking precautions, and that’s why the Thunder is monitoring us. Damn it, we’re all professional killers and these are our own kind. I don’t worry much about Savaphoong. I worry about that small black ship in Bay Three.”

  Warlock gasped. “A Val ship! We dare not go in now!”

  “We dare not not go in now,” Nagy replied casually. “We’d never outrun it, and I seriously doubt that we could outfight it right now, and that’s what we’d have to do.”

  “But what if it’s tuned to one of us? The four of us, I mean?”

  “Then we will have to destroy it. I doubt that it is, anyway, but if it is? Bet that it isn’t just after one of us, but all of us. I don’t think we really have to worry about it until we leave.”

  “I like the way you say that, all casuallike,” Raven noted sourly. “We’ll just destroy it, that’s all. That’s a damned killing machine! They ain’t that easy to dispose of!”

  “Sure, and if you believe that, then they’re invulnerable. Look, they are also programmed to avoid mass killings or slaughter, and apprehension rather than the kill is their first priority. They won’t spray fire in a room full of innocents, they won’t go through a hostage, and they have lots of other weak points. They’re no pushovers—you won’t get them with a good head shot—but they can be had. The transmuters made this a throwaway society. Nothing’s indestructible.”

  “Including us,” Raven grumped. “Better you watch yourself in there to keep from betraying that you’re new. Watch your tongue, and don’t stare at or react to anybody who isn’t Earth-human.”

  “Huh? You mean there’s some of the colonist types here?”

  “Sure. A person’s still a person, and we aren’t the only ones able to beat the system. There might even be some genuine aliens, although that’s rarer. None of ‘em could ever break free of their worlds on their own—Master System saw to that after it found them—but some were recruited by the freebooters because of certain talents and abilities they might have that are a real help out here. Tolerance to various kinds of radiation, extreme heat, that kind of thing. When you don’t have big transmuters and you don’t have much in the way of friendly robots, or you’re scared of robots, they fill a handy niche. All set? We’re going down!”

  The place had looked reasonable from the air, but once they emerged from the ship, they could detect a definite seediness about it. The air smelled somewhat foul and unpleasant, the heat and humidity were oddly off, and even the elevator down into the complex was jerky and noisy and looked the worse for wear.

  They were met at the main level by a four-person security party from what served as Halinachi’s government. It was an odd and unpleasant assortment, and Raven and Warlock both proved they were pros by keeping their inner feelings totally hidden.

  One, who seemed to be the leader, was Earth-human enough, but in place of his arms were two skeletal robot arms ending in five-fingered steel hands. No attempt had been made to disguise them as human replacements, and clearly he either preferred them to new arms and hands or didn’t have access to any top medical personnel.

  Behind him was a woman perhaps two meters tall whose leathery skin looked as if it were made of dark-olive plates, and whose eyes were round, unblinking, and yellow. She was hairless, and her fingers and toes resembled talons. Next to her was a short, squat little man whose dark-gray complexion and blocky build made him look as if he were made of stone. The last was an elderly-looking Oriental man with thick white hair and a long, drooping white mustache, his skin dark and mottled. All wore sidearms.

  “You are Captain Hoxa?” the man with the steel arms said in a low, gravelly voice that fit his appearance perfectly.

  “I am,” Nagy replied smoothly. “I remember you from the last time I was here. Beklar, isn’t it?”

  The squad leader nodded approvingly. Anyone who knew him had to be an old hand, though clearly he didn’t remember Nagy. “Yes. I understand you have information for credits?”

  “I do. Take me to the terminal and I’ll punch it in.”

  “Why not just give it to me?”

  Nagy grinned. “Are you robbing people at gunpoint now, or do you just take me for a fool?”

  The big man shrugged and they went over to an entry terminal. Nagy acted right at home, Raven noted. He wondered how many times the security chief had been there before, and why.

  Nagy punched in the formulas Clayben had furnished, which took a surprisingly short length of time, then waited. The information was not reflected on the screen, but suddenly a number appeared there. Nagy slammed his fist against the wall next to the terminal and turned to the security crew. “Forty thousand! I save this joint a fortune and it’s just forty thousand? Next time I’ll take my stuff to the competition!”

  A small speaker within the terminal came to life, and a man’s voice said, “Very well, Captain. Four days unlimited credit for you and your crew. If you don’t abuse it, I will deposit forty thousand credits for a return visit when you leave. Will that be satisfactory?”

  Nagy nodded. “That’s more like it.” He walked back to the group and looked at the security party. “Okay to enter now?”

  “Yeah, go ahead,” growled the man with the metal arms. “You sure got some clout here. Check your weapons and personal possessions in the next room, then go through entry.”

  “You make the Val check its weapons?”

  “A comedian, huh? Why? You got some problems with them?”

  “Depends on who it’s looking for and why, same as most people out here. You want to give me a clue?”

  “They been around, in and out, for a couple of weeks or more. Word is somebody broke out of Melchior and stole one of them big universe ships. We don’t like ‘em snoopin’ around—bad for business—but what can we do? They’re lookin’ for people with the Melchior brand, so you’re safe.”

  “From the Val, anyway. All right, lead on.”

  “We got to check everything?” Raven whispered to Nagy when he could.

  “Everything. Even clothes. Savaphoong didn’t get this far by letting anything slip by him. When you’re in his world, you’re under his absolute control.”

  Stripped completely, they were run through a decontamina
tion chamber, then issued utilitarian clothing that was cheaply made, didn’t fit well, and was clearly reused. All the time they were under the watchful eye of security cameras and personnel.

  A man and woman, both of whom looked Earth-human, met them on the other side. The man was tall, perhaps a hundred eighty-five centimeters, and very heavily muscled, with near-perfect features, long blond hair, a dark complexion, and even a hairy chest, and the way he was dressed left no doubt as to his most outstanding attribute. The woman had the same coloring, but she was short—no more than a hundred sixty centimeters—and extremely curvaceous, with a huge heaving bosom. Their eyes and expressions gave the impression that they both probably had the brains and imagination of a head of lettuce, but that was as deliberate as the rest of them. The only thing marring their perfection was the small triangular tattoo in the center of each of their foreheads; the marks looked like the same sort of job done on Melchior inmates, but less obtrusive. Raven now had a suspicion of just what business Savaphoong had had with Melchior through the years; these were perfect examples of Clayben’s transmuter and mind-printer handiwork.

  The old boy was really gonna miss Melchior, he thought. Suddenly the whole thing was clear to him: Clayben supplied the freebooters with nice, perfect, docile slaves and loyal security troops, and in exchange probably got quantities of murylium totally outside what he could scrape up from Melchior’s remains and whatever tiny amounts he might con out of Master System. This explained why freebooters had visited the old hell hole at intervals, and why Nagy had spent time going back and forth. Clayben and the freebooters were far more interrelated than he had let on.

  “I am Amal,” the beautiful man said, “and this is Gem. We are at your service while you are with us. Anything you wish, just ask.”

  “We’ve been out a long time and we just want to relax for a while,” Nagy told them. “We’ll go to the lounge now, but we may require you later.”

  “All you need do is ask any staff member to call Amal or Gem and we will be there,” the man assured them. “Allow us to escort you to the lounge.”

  “Am I correct in assuming they mean that all the way?” Warlock asked in a low tone as they walked.

  Nagy nodded. “Sure. Either or both will do anything you ask, and with a smile. If they aren’t enough, they can produce whatever you want—particularly if you’ve got four days* unlimited credit. It’s not limited to them, either. Anybody with the triangle who turns you on will be your instant willing slave. They come in all sizes, colors, races, you name it—about half Earth-human and half colonial. You get some murylium miners out there, maybe alone, for months or more at a time and they want everything when they get in. They’re all sterile and checked medically every day, so there’s no risks, either.”

  Raven had expected a seedy outworld bar, but the lounge was a cozy, intimate place of semiprivate booths with a small stage area. The seats seemed to be some kind of soft brown fur, a bit worn, and the tables were of a marblelike rock.

  There were others in the lounge, which surprised the first-timers a bit. The only ship other than the Vals’ and the Lightning in the dock hadn’t seemed very large.

  “There aren’t many here at any one time,” Nagy told them, “but there are more than can be accommodated in the spaceport. Some of the ships are in orbit, their people brought down by shuttle ferry or transmuter, and some have been dropped off here to be picked up later. The place is relatively quiet, though—I’d guess no more than thirty or forty guests are here right now, when there should be a hundred. My guess is the Val scared a lot of ‘em off.”

  An enormous black man appeared, all muscles, wearing little but dark bikini briefs and the telltale triangle on his forehead. Raven looked at Warlock and was amused to see some of that total cool crumble at the sight.

  “I am Batu,” the waiter said in a rich, deep baritone. “How may I serve you?”

  “I’ll have a liter of draft,” Nagy replied. “Sabatini?”

  “Double whiskey and soda, no ice. The good stuff, not the rotgut.”

  The waiter appeared to take no offense.

  “I’ll have a beer, as well,” Raven said. “And—you wouldn’t have cigars, would you?”

  “Yes, sir. Any kind of type you wish.”

  “The large Havana style.”

  “As you wish, sir. And the lady?”

  “Rum tonic,” Warlock responded.

  The waiter bowed and left. “You really oughtta knock off those things,” Nagy told him. “They’ll kill you sooner or later.”

  “If I live long enough for them to kill me I will be content.”

  Nagy just shrugged. “So, what do you think of the place so far?”

  “Interesting,” Raven replied. “After all that time in the wild under primitive conditions, I could get to like a place like this. I can sure see how somebody’d like to run one, too. I’m just a little surprised Master System knows of these places and permits them.”

  “As I said, mutual interest. I always feel like a target here, though; if Master System ever changed its mind, it’s all over. I think if I’m gonna be a freebooter it’s gonna be in a ship, out there, with better odds and the universe to get lost in.”

  The waiter brought their drinks and a small package of full-size cigars for Raven, who eyed them as if they were the food of the gods. He had almost forgotten that cigars came that big and that unspoiled.

  Warlock looked around. “This place is cozy and comfortable enough, but it is not good for socializing,” she noted. “One does not get information in a booth serviced by slaves.”

  “True enough,” Nagy agreed. “But there are ways, and there will be time for all that. Just relax and enjoy for now. In a little while I may try and go back and see the old man himself. He knows me well, and I’ll get a straight picture without worrying about a knife in my back.”

  “Savaphoong?”

  He nodded. “I—” He broke off as he saw the others tense; he looked around and saw the Val standing there. It was an imposing figure even in this incongruous environment, and its metallic solidity and blazing crimson eyes seemed to bore right through them.

  “Pardon,” the Val said. “I realize that my presence here causes problems, and I only wish to assure you that I have no instructions concerning this place or anyone who visits it.”

  Interestingly, it was Sabatini who answered. “You know you have no place here. Why are you around?”

  “I am not after freebooters. I am soliciting their help. You have heard of the prison colony of Melchior in the Earth system?”

  Sabatini nodded. “So?”

  “There was an escape. Ships were hijacked, including an interstellar transport. The escapees for the most part have the identifying Melchior facial tattoos. They possess certain knowledge that no one is permitted to possess. Mere contact with these people could prove fatal. They are using a ship that is the largest of its kind ever built, so you could hardly miss it. Have you seen these people?”

  “Not anywhere around here,” Sabatini responded coolly. “They’re not likely to show up at a place like this anyway, are they?”

  “Not they themselves perhaps, but they had inside help. We are not quite certain who, but we are working on it. If you see them, or if you run across anyone working for them, it will be more than worth your while to notify us immediately. This place is but a pale shade of the rewards possible to the one or ones who lead to their apprehension. Such ones would live like gods.”

  Sabatini whistled. “You must really want them. Believe me, if I see them, I’ll be the first to collect.”

  “Very well. I will be leaving this place this evening. Enjoy your stay.”

  And, with that, the great creature was gone, out of their sight and out of the lounge. They started to say something, but Nagy put his palm up and then reached under the table, prying off a tiny smooth plate only a hair’s thickness and about the size of a fingertip. The Val had left a bug.

  “I don’t like those b
astards one bit,” Nagy said casually. “Come on, this place has lost its luster now. Let’s hunt up Amal and Gem and try a few more private pleasures.”

  They all mumbled agreement and got up to leave, letting Nagy carefully replace the bug on the underside of the table. It took only a minute or two to summon their “procurers,” as they were called.

  “Show us our quarters,” Nagy commanded. The others followed, still silent.

  They were shown to a suite with a round central living area furnished with couches and a built-in bar and entertainment center, and four private sleeping rooms.

  “Amal, I would like to see the manager on a matter of urgent personal business,” Nagy told the big blond man.

  Amal was somewhat taken aback by that, which was not in the usual line of requests. “I will see if that is possible, sir.”

  “Tell him it concerns the Val and our treatment here. I think he’ll see me.”

  “Yes, sir. I will try.” The man left to do his duty.

  Nagy brought the others close to him. “Say nothing you don’t want overheard until I get back,” he whispered. “We don’t know how far this has gone.”

  They understood. They had heard the Val’s voice, which was almost always the voice of the person to whom it was targeted. The voice had been that of Hawks.

  Fernando Savaphoong was a small, thin, Asian-looking man of about fifty, with a thin black mustache and neatly cropped black hair graying on the sides. He had a pleasant voice and a salesman’s manner, and only his eyes and his nearly constant chain-smoking of cigarettes betrayed the constant pressure his life style and his responsibilities brought him.

  “So, Senor Nagy, I am surprised you would come here at this date.”

  The security man relaxed and sat in a chair opposite the ruler of Halinachi. “I’m not used to Vals showing up in the lounge,” he replied. “But I’m particularly not used to Vals planting bugs under my table. How many other bugs has he got around here, and how the hell will I know when I can speak freely again to my companions?”