Eventually they came to a room that had been equipped with a grill instead of a window, was furnished with built-in shelving, and boasted a door. A sturdy affair made of interwoven rods. There was a loud clang as it closed behind them. The sensitive watched as the nomad she thought of as Scarface secured the door with a padlock normally used to protect the L-phants from thieves. Then, having placed the six-inch-long key on a ledge that ran along the far side of the walkway, the warrior turned to confront the teenager who had been assigned the role of jailer. “Keep a close eye on the prisoners,” the nomad admonished, “and don’t open the door without obtaining permission first. Do you understand me?”
The boy, who was nearly a man, drew himself up straight. “Yes, sir! You can count on me!”
“That remains to be seen,” Scarface answered cynically, “but do your best. Dinner will be brought to you. And one other thing . . . If the indibi slut offers to have sex with you, don’t accept. Not unless you would like to see me wearing your balls as a necklace.”
“No, sir! I mean yes, sir!” the youth exclaimed. “I won’t listen to anything she says.”
“That’s the spirit!” the warrior replied. “I’ll see you later.” And with that he left.
Norr, who hadn’t even considered offering herself to the boy, made a face and looked for a reasonably clean place to sit. They were going to be in the onetime storage room for a while, or that’s the way it looked, so she might as well get comfortable. Or as comfortable as she could be, knowing that two of her friends were dead and the future looked bleak. Suddenly the memory of the train trip between Gos and Tra came flooding back. The sensitive remembered holding Rebo’s hand in hers and tracing the curve of his life-line. Rather than wrapping itself clear around the base of his thumb as it should have the crease ended well above his wrist. Palmistry was anything but reliable, but now it seemed as if the prediction had been borne out, ending not just his life but what could have been hers as well. A tear ran down her cheek, Lee watched miserably solemnly from his place in a corner, and the light started to fade.
Being a thief himself, Valpoon had a healthy respect for the other criminals who roamed the surface of Ning and never failed to post sentinels during the night. The purpose of the outermost ring of warriors was to spot a potential threat early enough to call for help, thereby summoning the rest of the clan’s males. The problem with the strategy was that the family was too small to effectively guard the entire perimeter, which meant that if an enemy attacked two or even three points at once, they stood a good chance of success.
However, thanks to the fact that the tribe was extremely poor and were seldom entrusted with a cargo worth stealing, they weren’t targeted often. Perhaps that accounted for the fact that Rebo and Hoggles were able to crawl with a few yards of one of the sentries. The nomad was sitting on a boulder and humming to himself as he picked at his bare feet.
The waist-high grass provided excellent cover, and large though he was, Hoggles made very little noise as he advanced to within four feet of the unsuspecting nomad’s back. And, if it hadn’t been for the direction of the wind, and a whiff of body odor that was markedly different from his own, the warrior might never have noticed. The clansman wrinkled his nose, let go of his right foot, and made a desperate grab for his long-barreled rifle.
But death was already falling by that time as the variant brought the ten-pound hammer head down on the top of the clansman’s skull. There was a sickening thud, followed by a sudden exhalation of breath, and little more than a whisper as the grass parted to accept the dead body.
The off-worlders paused to see if some sort of alarm would be raised, but the nearest lookouts were a thousand yards away, and neither had witnessed the incident. Rebo intercepted the nomad’s rifle before it could hit the ground. What little light there was came from the stars, which made it difficult to examine the weapon in detail, but there was no need to. After running his fingers over the long gun, Rebo knew it was one of the Ning-made bolt-action rifles that many of Valpoon’s warriors carried. It had a wooden stock, an integral box-style magazine that had a capacity of five rounds, and open sights. Not his first choice in armament—but a whole lot better than nothing.
It took less than a minute to release the dead man’s cartridge belt, appropriate his dagger, and take a long pull from his water flask before handing it to Hoggles. It had been a long, tiring day, with nothing to eat and only two opportunities to scoop water out of streams. But neither man had faltered since both were driven by a powerful need for revenge. Now, within shouting distance of the domes, they burned with a common resolve. They would find Norr and Lee if they were alive—and woe be to anyone foolish enough to get in the way.
As Hoggles took one last swig of water, Rebo counted the cartridges on his newly acquired belt and opened the pouch attached to it. It was filled with wax-coated matches, the kind made for the caravan trade and carried by nomads everywhere. The runner was just about to close the pouch when an idea occurred to him. Hoggles listened intently as the smaller man whispered into his ear, nodded eagerly, and wrapped his sausagelike fingers around a handful of the phosphorus-tipped sticks.
Then the giant was gone, the grass flattened where he had passed, the stars twinkling above. Rebo placed the rifle across the inside surface of his arms and elbowed his way forward. Death stalked the night.
A lantern had been hung outside, but there was very little light, and it was nearly dark within the cell. Lee was sound asleep, and had been for the better part of an hour, when someone shook his shoulder. His eyes flew open, and rather than the scar-faced warrior that dominated his dreams, the youth saw Norr glaring down at him. Her voice was low, and rather husky, but the youngster had no difficulty recognizing it as belonging to Lysander rather than the sensitive herself. “Bestir yourself, boy! I will depart . . . But my daughter will continue to sleep. Wake her . . . Tell her that Rebo is alive! He will attack soon, but the two of you could be used against him, which is why you must hide.”
Lee had questions, lots of them, but never got to pose them, as the spirit entity exited Norr’s body. The sensitive’s face went blank, and she sat on a storage unit. The boy touched her arm. “Lanni! Wake up! Jak is alive!”
Norr blinked uncomprehendingly. “Alive? What are you talking about? Jak’s dead.”
“No!” Lee replied insistently. “He isn’t! Not according to Lysander. He told me to tell you that Jak’s coming, but we need to escape, or Valpoon will use us as hostages.”
Though still groggy from sleep, as well as the trance that Lysander had imposed on her, the sensitive began to come around. She also felt renewed hope. Even the chance that Rebo was alive was well worth acting on. She took hold of Lee’s hands. “That’s wonderful, hon . . . But how?” she whispered urgently. “Did Lysander tell you that?”
The boy shook his head. “Yeah, that’s what I figured,” the sensitive said cynically. “The old bastard loves to give orders but isn’t much good when it comes to actually getting the job done.”
“No,” Lee agreed solemnly, “but you can do it! I know you can.”
Perhaps it was the boy’s faith in her, or a moment of inspiration, but whatever the reason Norr had an idea. An unlikely idea, given the circumstances, but an idea nonetheless. “The key,” she whispered. “Is it still on the ledge? Quietly now.”
Lee tiptoed over to the door, peered through one of the four-inch squares, and returned. “Yes,” he said, “it is. But it’s behind the guard.”
“What’s he doing?”
“Cleaning his rifle.”
“Okay,” Norr said thoughtfully, “here’s what I’m going to do . . . I will reach out with my mind, lift the key off the ledge, and float it through one of the holes in the door. The moment it clears I want you to grab it.”
Lee’s eyes were huge. “Really? You can do that?”
“Sometimes I can,” the sensitive temporized. “But not always. It takes a clear mind, perfect concentration, and some luc
k.”
“Okay!” the boy responded eagerly. “I’ll be ready.”
“Good,” Norr whispered as she closed her eyes. “Don’t disturb me until you have the key in your hand.” It was going to be difficult to muster the concentration necessary to transport the key across the corridor and into the cell, but public demonstrations were stressful, too, and if the sensitive could handle one, then why not the other?
Thus reassured, Norr worked to gather energy in around her, shaped it into an invisible pseudopod, and sent the carefully fashioned tool out to do her bidding. The guard felt his scalp tingle, ran an unsuspecting hand through his hair, but continued to focus on the rifle. He was proud of the single-shot breechloader and never tired of manipulating its well-machined parts. Now, as the key rose straight into the air, the teenager pushed the trigger mechanism down into the slot where it belonged.
Lee, his eyes locked on the piece of floating metal, found himself holding his breath as the all-important object glided out over the floor and floated toward his waiting fingers. Then, with only a couple of feet left to go, a door slammed. Norr lost her concentration, and the key fell, just as a girl called out to the guard. “Teo! I brought your dinner!”
One part of the teenager’s hormone-soaked brain heard the tinkle of metal making contact with the floor, but the part that was hooked up to his raging libido heard the melodious sound of Sisa’s voice, and that had priority. Had she been sent by her mother? Or chosen to come on her own? He hoped for the latter, but there was no way to know. The teenager stood, placed the rifle against the wall, and was waiting when the nubile Sisa arrived.
Lee stood with his fingers wrapped around two of the uprights and stared through one of the four-inch holes. He could see the key! It was only two feet away—and gleamed with reflected light. Surely one of the nomads would see it . . . Surely they would . . . But that was when a miracle occurred. As Sisa walked toward the Teo the leading edge of her right sandal struck the key and sent it skittering across the floor under the cell door! Lee had just bent over to retrieve the object when he heard a muffled thud. Teo frowned. “That sounded like a gunshot.”
Then there was a second thud, followed by the sound of yelling, which caused the teenager to pick up his rifle. “Stay here!” he ordered. “Watch the prisoners! I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Sisa had doubts as to whether the clan’s elders would want Teo’s help, but never got to voice her concerns, as the would-be warrior took off. That was when the little boy stuck an empty cup out through the bars and waved it from side to side. “Could I have some water please? I’m very thirsty.”
It was not only a harmless request but one that didn’t require the girl to open the door. She picked up the water-skin that was resting on the floor, carried it over to the cell, and was in the process of pouring when Norr wrapped an arm around the teenager’s throat and Lee put the key in the lock.
Scarface was standing in front of the main dome, sipping hot tea, when the first flames appeared. He was more annoyed than alarmed at first, since it was his assumption that one of clan’s less intelligent warriors had struck a match for some reason and failed to extinguish it properly.
However, when the fire started to run from south to north, the warrior knew someone had fired a wad of grass and was towing it behind them in an attempt to set the whole area ablaze. He dropped the cup of tea, grabbed the semiautomatic carbine that had been looted from a country estate the year before, and ran toward the flames. “We’re under attack! Form on me! We’ll defend the main dome.”
It was a brave thing to do, but not the smartest move, since as Scarface ran forward he was soon silhouetted against the now-leaping flames. And not just him, but other warriors as well, as they raced to obey his orders. Though better with a handgun, Rebo was no stranger to rifles, and was a reasonably good shot so long as he had his glasses. Now, with his spectacles perched on the end of his nose, the runner peered through the open sight. He had positioned himself behind a small cluster of boulders on top of a low rise. They were located about halfway between the line of fire that Hoggles had ignited and the inner circle of sentinels, all of whom rushed past him as they followed Scarface out to engage the thus-far-invisible enemy. The rest was a matter of judgment, practice, and cunning.
Rebo placed his sights on the rearmost warrior first, applied pressure to the unfamiliar trigger, and eventually felt it give. The wooden butt kicked his shoulder, the .303 slug slammed into the nomad’s back, and the bolt made a snicking sound as the shell casing was ejected, a fresh cartridge was seated, and the sights drifted onto a second target. Five warriors went down before the runner was forced to reload, and Scarface realized that the enemy was behind rather than in front of him. That was when the surviving clansmen dropped into the grass and started to elbow their way back toward the domes.
But, with no one between him and the weather station, Rebo had pulled out by then. Conscious of the need for speed, and having forced the opposition to the ground, the runner took advantage of the opportunity to close with the domes. He had expected to see, or at least hear from Valpoon by then; but the chieftain had yet to make himself known. And, rather than the activity that one would have expected around the main entrance, it was dark and seemingly undefended. That suggested some sort of an ambush lay within, and the runner knew he would be badly outgunned.
The solution was more the result of an impulse than careful planning. Rebo ran straight at the main dome, jumped up onto the slanting surface, and kept right on going. It was difficult at first but soon became easier. His boots thundered on metal, Valpoon heard the sound, and shouted to his followers. “They’re on the roof! Come on!”
More than a dozen nomads charged out into the night, only to be fired on by Scarface and the incoming sentries, all of whom mistook the shadowy figures for enemy raiders. Bullets pinged off the dome or slammed into flesh as men went down. “No!” Valpoon screamed. “Stop firing! You’re shooting at us!”
Rebo was on top of the dome by then. Assuming Norr and Lee were still alive, the runner had no way to know where they were, which meant that one entry was just as good as the next. With that in mind, the runner took aim at the nearest skylight and fired. The plastic shattered and clattered to the floor below. Rebo kicked the remaining shards free, worked another cartridge into the chamber, and dropped feetfirst through the hole. Duracrete smacked the bottom of his feet, his knees flexed to absorb the shock, and a bullet buzzed past his head. The resulting boom echoed under the metal roof. “There he is!” Valpoon shouted from the other end of the hall. “Get him!”
But the runner didn’t want to be gotten. He fired the rifle one-handed. The bullet missed, but gave the nomads reason to pause and Rebo the chance to run.
More shots were fired as the off-worlder skidded around a corner, called Norr’s name, and heard a distant reply. Heart pounding, he raced down another passageway and took a left. It was a mistake. Teo was not only waiting there, but had the invader in his sights and quickly pulled the trigger. There was a loud click as the firing pin penetrated empty chamber and the teenager realized his mistake. In his hurry to join the fight, he had forgotten to reload! The knowledge filled him with shame.
Rebo shook his head sympathetically and pointed down the hall. “Run!”
Teo did as he was told, but the delay had been costly, and the runner had progressed no more than ten feet or so when he tripped over some debris and went down. The accident saved his life since the bullets that would have otherwise slammed into his back passed over Rebo’s head instead. But the fall gave Valpoon and one of his sons an opportunity to catch up.
The runner felt the air being forced out of his lungs as the nomad brought a boot down on his back and saw the rifle slide away. “So,” Valpoon said grimly. “Look who’s here! It was a mistake to let you live. One I won’t make twice.”
Rebo felt the gun barrel press against the back of his skull, and was waiting for the inevitable explosion, when he heard a s
olid thwack! instead. Warm liquid splattered his back, and the runner rolled over to see the chieftain’s head hit the floor, and roll away.
Norr, who had appeared out of the shadows just as Valpoon was about to pull the trigger, turned toward the surviving nomad. The sword, which she had found lying next to someone’s bedroll, was smeared with blood. She brought the weapon up, and was about to take another cut, when Hoggles dropped the hammer on the nomad from behind. The heavy uttered a grunt of satisfaction as the body hit the floor. “That’s all of them—not counting the women and children. We’d better get out of here though . . . There’s no telling when company will arrive.”
Rebo completed a push-up and came to his feet. “I’ll second that motion! But let’s grab some weapons and supplies first. We need L-phants, too—unless you’d like to walk all the way to Cresus.”
Then, turning to Norr, the runner said, “You look good with a sword.”
The sensitive gave the weapon to Lee, gently removed the runner’s spectacles, and placed them in his breast pocket. Then, cupping his face between her hands, she kissed him.
Lee, who had been watching with considerable interest, felt a hand fall on his shoulder. “Come on,” Hoggles said matter-of-factly. “There won’t be any kisses for us! We have work to do.”
ELEVEN
The Planet Ning
Although the caravan routes of Ning are marked by the graves of our forefathers, and have been watered by our tears, they care nothing for our people.
—Iznu Partha, nomad chieftain,
Letters in the Sand
The Cyclops beetle crouched within the two-inch-square scrap of shade cast by a small rock as it prepared to make the perilous journey to a similar refuge some two feet away. That was where a protein-rich grub lay hidden just below the surface of the dry soil. But, before the insect could begin its mad dash across the intervening wasteland, it felt the earth move. Not just once, as when the substrata that supported a ten-thousand-year-old rock finally surrendered to the weight and allowed the boulder to topple into a ravine but over and over again. Though not capable of conscious thought, the Cyclops beetle could rely on its instincts—and decided to remain right where it was as the huge L-phants passed within inches of its hiding place.
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