Crown of the Serpent

by Allen Wold

  He made himself relax. All he could do was think about the gem, remember how it felt to look into its glowing depths, the feeling of warmth, of joy, of health. It wasn't as much help as he wanted, but it kept him awake.

  His concentration on the dragongem did not prevent him from becoming aware that the Tathas-thing, the sentient fungus, was in charge. It rode in the harness between its zombies, going here and there, flanked by two of the strange humanoids with turtle beaks and crab-stalk eyes. It wasn't really coming toward him, it was just going to the center of the arcade floor where it could oversee all that happened. There was no way to tell where its attention was directed except by the way its carriers were facing, but it seemed to scan the place and occasionally one of the turtle-beak humanoids by its side gave an order.

  And then it came over to him after all. After all, Rikard and Gray shard were ringers here, without armor, different from the rest. Richard looked up at the creamy orange thing with bright red tendril-tips. One of the turtle-beaks said something, the other made a gesture, he felt a crush of black greasy sky, and passed out.

  It seemed but a moment before he woke up. Had he been dreaming? He was lying on his back on the hard deck, and beside him were others. He did not turn to look. Through slitted eyes he saw raiders moving nearby, heard others more distant. Some of the raiders were carrying pieces of police armor. His own clothing, he realized after a moment's introspection, was intact. There were clanks and chunks. The entire police force was being disarmored.

  He thought about the dragongem still pressing against his chest. He thought about Tathas, and thought that there was something subtly different about this psychic influence. He lay perfectly still, listening as the raiders picked up the police goons, one by one, and carried them off. His turn came and he was lifted up by two Humans, a man and a woman, and dragged across the arcade floor. He could see, from the corners of his eyes, other police, now dressed only in their undercloth­ing, being similarly dragged, some by Human raiders, others by pairs of zombies.

  Other zombies were picking up armfuls of armor, and weapons, and other police equipment. All together, they were being carried away. His personal carriers came to the iris and went out into a corridor. The raiders beside him were carrying one of their own, or at least the upper half of him.

  They were carried along a series of corridors. Rikard couldn't keep track of the turns and branches, but at last all of them, even the dead raiders, were dropped on the floor of a large empty room. Their captors left them.

  When he was sure that all the raiders had gone Rikard strug­gled to sit up. When his vision cleared he looked around the small room. It was filled with bodies, live and dead together. The surviving goons were twitching, groaning. He hoped that their minds hadn't bden permanently scrambled.

  Several of the goons started crying. The psychic violation of the Tathas-creature's psychic attack was hard to bear. Rikard crawled to each of these, regaining his strength as he did so, to comfort them as best he could. It wasn't easy, but they did respond, at least enough to let him know they had not permanently lost their minds.

  Sukiro was sitting up now, on the other side of the room. Her face was white and strained. Rikard, having done what he could, got unsteadily to his feet and went to the single iris door, stepping over living and dead to get there. He touched the latch-plate, but nothing happened. He pushed on it, and the iris itself, but it remained closed. They were locked in.

  Denny was sitting up now. "What's going to happen to us?" she asked. Her voice was a croak.

  "My guess," Rikard said, "is that we'll wind up like those brains downstairs."

  Part Four

  1

  They separated the wounded from the dead, and the police from the enemy. Some of the goons wanted to kill the still-living raiders, but the noncoms wouldn't permit it. The implications of the wounded and dead raiders being piled in with the police was bad enough, they didn't have to descend to the level of their enemies.

  Sladen was in very bad shape. Automatic seals had closed off and cauterized the stump of his arm, near the shoulder, but he was in shock, had lost a lot of blood, and without proper atten­tion would soon die. All they could do was try to make him comfortable. Choi, who's leg-armor had been blown off, was in a lot of pain and had burns and lacerations, but was able to walk with assistance. Gospodin, who had lost her helmet, was un­conscious but breathing regularly. Maturska was dead, of course. The six wounded raiders watched the police administer to their own, and did not ask for help, though two of them sorely needed it, one missing a leg below the knee, another with a severe burn along her left side that exposed her ribs.

  When the police casualties were attended to as well as could be under the circumstances, the noncoms turned their attention to the raiders. "You seem to have been abandoned," Nelross said to the woman with the side wound. "Why don't you tell us what you know, and maybe we can get you out of here alive."

  But the woman just turned her face away, and none of the other raiders who could talk would say anything.

  It wasn't very long before the iris opened and their captors returned. Three of them were Human, but two were of that other species, their crab-stalk eyes waving above turtle-beak mouths. They all were carrying blasters. They took up positions on either side of the iris, weapons aimed, eyes wary.

  A moment later a pair of zombies came in, carrying in the elaborate harness slung between them one of the Tathas-like beings, a huge mass of wiry tendrils, nearly pure white except for the ends of its tendrils, which shaded to pale blue. In spite of the size of the creature, bulking more than a Human if one could judge by the effort of the zombies to stand upright, Ri-kard could feel only the faintest trace of the Tathas effect ema­nating from it.

  One of the turtle-beaks spoke, in its own language. The three Human raiders holstered their weapons and went over to where the dead were lying and started to drag them out, one by one, into the corridor where two or three other Humans and a number of zombies were waiting to take them away.

  "What are you going to do with her?" Sukiro asked as the raiders started to drag Maturska's remains out too.

  "Nothing," one of the turtle-beaks said, and the raiders dropped the body. "It is too badly damaged to serve as a replacement for the manuals whose bodies you destroyed, and has been dead too long for its brain to be of any use."

  The last of the dead was Grayshard, but when two of the raiders went to pick him up his body was as limp as empty rags, and after a glance at one of the turtle-beaks, they let it drop too.

  Then the turtle-beak spoke again in his own language, and the three Human raiders started carrying out their wounded. When that was done, they picked up Sladen.

  "Now wait a minute!" Sukiro said. "What are you going to do with him?" She started to step forward, but the turtle-beaks warned her back with little gestures of their weapons.

  "Your turn will come soon enough," one of them said.

  The Human captors left with their last burden. The zombies carrying the Tathas-thing turned and went out. The turtle-beaks, still brandishing their blasters, backed through the iris, which closed behind them. Sukiro strode to the door, but it was locked again.

  "I can still feel Tathas," Rikard said. The sensation was not coming from the now closed iris, but from where the bodies had lain. The only ones left were Maturska, a bloody mess, and Grayshard, folded up on himself in a way impossible for any­one with bones. There was a bit of pale, pearly ooze on the deck beside him. Sukiro stared at Grayshard's body too. Rikard felt his skin crawl. The goons nearest the corpse backed off.

  The body moved. Slowly, fluidly, Grayshard straightened himself out so that he was no longer bent double at the chest, so that his remaining arm and legs no longer seemed to have three or four knees and elbows. One foot untwisted out from under him as he slowly sat up. His whole body, inside his clothes, rippled as if he were a bundle of worms. The slick pearly ooze was thick on the shoulder of his jacket where his arm had been blown of
f.

  "It's one of them," Majorbank said in a choked voice.

  Grayshard lifted his "head."

  "You are right," he said. His mechanical voice sounded even flatter than usual. "I, too, am a Vaashka." With his remaining arm he undid his mask and the upper part of his jacket. What made it horrible was that it looked as though this one hand were being assisted by other arms inside his clothes. The seams opened, the fabric came away as he lifted the mask over his face, leaving only his vocal-izer.

  Inside the clothes was a mass of creamy tendrils, tipped in red. More tendrils appeared at the shoulder, some of them charred off short.

  "Vaashka," Rikard said. "And a warrior."

  The disguise fell partially away, revealing a complicated sys­tem of supports inside, of braces, straps, baskets, in which Grayshard rested.

  "Of sorts," Grayshard said as he struggled to his "feet."

  "Kill it," Petorska said.

  "We've been betrayed," Nelross rasped.

  Several goons started toward the thing they'd known as Grayshard, but as they did so he began to project the numbing psycho-chemical effect. "Don't make me defend myself," he said.

  "Back off," Sukiro snapped. "If you jump him, he'll just blast us all, and then where will we be?"

  "I am not your enemy," Grayshard said.

  "The hell you're not," Falyn said, "you're one of them."

  "I am a Vaashka. Are you a pirate, because you are Human? Most of your enemies are Human, so you must be just as bad as they."

  It was the right thing to say, it gave them pause. There were still murmurs of "Don't trust him."

  "He's a spy," and "All Tathas are evil," but the goons did not attack, and the psychic assault faded to an almost unnoticeable background.

  "How dare you judge my race by the actions of these criminals?" Grayshard said. "Shall I judge all Humans by the likes of Rikard Braeth? I am not a Tathas, I am a Vaashka. We may have had a common ancester, millennia ago. Are you monkeys?"

  "In some ways we are," Sukiro said. Her tone was apologetic, her voice was tired. "But let us not behave like our fore­bears or collaterals." She addressed the goons. "Grayshard has been wounded too, and he could have shown himself to our captors had he really been on their side."

  "But I am not," Grayshard said. "It was all I could do to keep the Human pirates from revealing my true nature to the administrator, I was afraid's'he would detect me, even so, from the fluid that was leaking from me."

  "I take it," Rikard said, "that they wouldn't have welcomed you with open arms—as it were."

  "Not these predators. Slow torture would have been my fate, instead of a quick and painless death, as your wounded com­panion will receive—and you, too, if we do not escape before they come back."

  "You've got the right idea," Sukiro said, "but we need some explanations. What are you doing here anyway?"

  "The same as you," Grayshard replied, "trying to put a stop to this evil business. What happens to the people these preda­tors take is worse than slavery, and those who buy neuromass are as addicted to its use as the most debased of your drug users. There is slavery in the Federation, and drug addiction, and your government does not condone it, does everything it can to stamp it out. Neuro-slavery and the use of high-order natural bodies are equally despised by my government, my peo­ple—except for those who are addicted to it, and those debased people who supply the addicts' needs."

  "So you're a cop, then," Denny said. She seemed—provi­sionally at least—to accept this explanation.

  "In your terms, yes, very much like you. By breeding, rather than by preference. I was grown as a member of the fighting class, to be a warrior, as our recent visitor was grown to be an administrator, and those who inhabit the bodies you call zom­bies were made to be simple laborers—though they had to have been kept 'pruned back' to keep them so small and docile. That is another evil practice. There are others of us who have been given other specialties though most Vaashka are more general­ized. Most do not have the ability to affect the neuro-psyche of so-called higher order life forms. And I was not fit to be a part of our regular security forces. I'm not as powerful as those warriors who attacked us. This is not uncommon."

  "If you're substandard," Charney said sarcastically, "then how come you were sent on this mission instead of someone better qualified?"

  Grayshard was silent for a moment. "You have a saying," he said at last. " 'Set a thief to catch a thief.' In the 'Wrinkly' stars, I am considered to be somewhat as Rikard Braeth is considered here in the Federation. We Vaashka, too, have our equivalent of your Gestae. I am not fond of my home government, but for reasons you may not be able to comprehend, until now I have preferred to stay there.

  "Perhaps I was wrong. My government is not popular else­where, it is more oppressive than it should be, though it is in the 'Wrinkly' stars that neuro-slavery and body-riding are most prevalent. When it was found that much of this illegal trade was being transacted within our star nation, administrators from my government decided to put an end to it, primarily for political reasons, and to that end found means to persuade me to participate.

  "We do not have 'families' as you do. We do not reproduce the same way, but by buds and spores. It is a complex form of genesis. Still, we have strong affection for those individuals who grew from pieces of ourselves, and those others who grow from our freely released genetic material. I have six bud-sib­lings and thirteen spore-children, and their welfare is important to me. These are my 'family,' in your terms, and they are being held hostage against the successful completion of my mission.

  "Perhaps I should have abandoned them long ago, when first I felt the urging to disregard the petty regulations that bind so much of our lives. Had I done so, my 'family' would not now be in danger. There are other star nations, after all, where my chosen style of life would not have been so frowned upon. But I misjudged the vengefulness of certain of my fellows, and espe­cially of those equivalent to your police and courts. So I am here, seeking to find the source of illegal traffic in neuromass and riding-bodies. I will rather die than go back as a failure. But if I should succeed, I will not return eyen then, but find some other place to go."

  The tension in the room eased, and Grayshard no longer felt he had to keep up his guard, though some goons were still dubious. Grayshard adjusted his supporting disguise, and took a tentative step toward Rikard, but as he neared, Rikard felt an increase in his awareness of the subtle "Tathas" effect and turned away, and was surprised when his legs gave way and he had to sit down.

  "Forgive me," Gray shard said. He wrapped his jacket around himself, closed the seams, brought the goggled mask down over his "face."

  "You have been hurt," he said, "by the projection of the warriors. The armor your police wear offers them some protection, else they would not have recovered so quickly, but you have received the full force of the attack, and how you are able to function is a mystery to me. You must let me help you if you are to recover fully."

  "Stay away from me," Rikard said over his shoulder.

  "I can help you," Grayshard insisted. "I must."

  "Just leave him alone," Denny said, "he'll recover in time."

  "Perhaps," Grayshard said, "in days or weeks."

  "I think you'd better do what you can," Sukiro told him.

  "No!" Rikard insisted. The thought of Grayshard coming anywhere near him made him want to scream. He knew his reaction was largely irrational, but he couldn't help but shudder when he saw Grayshard extend a bundle of fibers from the torn shoulder of his jacket.

  He felt a subtle increase in the "Tathas" effect—but it was different this time, calming and soothing, not filled with anxiety and terror. Still he started to turn away, his revulsion almost overpowering.

  Sukiro caught him before he had gone more than a few steps and held him. He struggled for a moment, then got hold of himself, though the idea revolted him. "All right," he said. "Do your worst."

  Grayshard came toward him, moving wi
th that odd kind of grace he had always shown and which now was fully explained. Rikard flinched when the fibers came out of Grayshard's sleeve toward his face and head, but he held himself steady, felt the delicate touch, like a feather, as the Vaashka's filaments laced through his hair. He felt the telepathic intrusion as the tendrils conformed to the shape of his skull, the back of his neck—but it was not what he expected. The sensation was bright and clear and euphoric. It was more like the Taarshome communication than the nightmarish feeling of the Tathas effect. He seemed to be floating in a prismatic pastel soap bubble.

  Then the bubble popped and he opened his eyes. The sense of oppression was gone. There was still a trace of the "Tathas" effect, but now it felt good, not evil.

  "It's not as easy to reverse the effect," Grayshard said, "as to cause it."

  Rikard's eyes focused on the lenses of Grayshard's goggles. Then Grayshard reached out with his good false hand and care­fully folded the tatters of his left jacket sleeve over the torn-off place, and as he did so, the last traces of the psychic effect faded.

  "You were very careful to conceal yourself," Rikard said. In spite of the good feeling he now experienced, he was still suspi­cious.

  "It had to be done," Grayshard said. "My garments are a shield designed to keep any psychic or chemical trace of myself from leaking. This damaged shoulder will be a problem. We know the effect our effluvia has on chordate animals and peo­ple, especially the so-called mammals. We—that is, the agents of my government—were also unsure about the effect our ap­pearance would have on you. Those humanoid soldiers with the administrator, they are Srenim, a species we have had long contact with. They are used to us now, but we find ourselves a minority among the stars, and most intelligent species do not like our appearance. So it was decided to provide me with a disguise, as you see, which would serve not only to conceal my nature from you, but from the other pirates, who have become sensitized to our mode of communication by long association, and from those of my own species, the predators, who could detect me by means most normal to ourselves.