The 13th Science Fiction MEGAPACK®: 26 Great SF Stories!

by Lake, Jay

  Then they hauled me back to my feet. I couldn’t feel any bone ends grating, so there probably weren’t any broken ribs—if that was any consolation.

  * * * *

  There were lights glaring now across the lawn. Moving figures cast long shadows against the trees lining the drive—and on the side of the Bolo Combat Unit parked under its canopy by the sealed gate.

  A crude breastwork had been thrown up just over fifty yards from it. A wheel-mounted generator putted noisily in the background, laying a layer of bluish exhaust in the air.

  Mallon was waiting with a 9 mm power rifle in his hands as we came up, my two guards gripping me with both hands to demonstrate their zeal, and me staggering a little more than was necessary. I saw Renada standing by, wrapped in a gray fur. Her face looked white in the harsh light. She made a move toward me and a greenback caught her arm.

  “You know what to do, Jackson,” Mallon said speaking loudly against the clatter of the generator. He made a curt gesture and a man stepped up and buckled a stout chain to my left ankle. Mallon held out my electropass. “I want you to walk straight to the Bolo. Go in by the side port. You’ve got one minute to cancel the instructions punched into the command circuit and climb back outside. If you don’t show, I close a switch there—” he pointed to a wooden box mounting an open circuitbreaker, with a tangle of heavy cable leading toward the Bolo—”and you cook in your shoes. The same thing happens if I see the guns start to traverse or the anti-personnel ports open.” I followed the coils of armored wire from the chain on my ankle back to the wooden box—and on to the generator.

  “Crude, maybe, but it will work. And if you get any idea of letting fly a round or two at random—remember the girl will be right beside me.”

  I looked across at the giant machine. “Suppose it doesn’t recognize me? It’s been a while. Or what if Don didn’t plug my identity pattern in to the recognition circuit?”

  “In that case, you’re no good to me anyway,” Mallon said flatly.

  I caught Renada’s eye, gave her a wink and a smile I didn’t feel, and climbed up on top of the revetment.

  I looked back at Mallon. He was old and shrunken in the garish light, his smooth gray suit rumpled, his thin hair mussed, the gun held in a white-knuckled grip. He looked more like a harrassed shopkeeper than a would-be world-beater.

  “You must want the Bolo pretty bad to take the chance, Toby,” I said. “I’ll think about taking that wild shot. You sweat me out.”

  I flipped slack into the wire trailing my ankle, jumped down and started across the smooth-trimmed grass, a long black shadow stalking before me. The Bolo sat silent, as big as a bank in the circle of the spotlight. I could see the flecks of rust now around the port covers, the small vines that twined up her sides from the ragged stands of weeds that marked no-man’s land.

  There was something white in the brush ahead. Broken human bones.

  I felt my stomach go rigid again. The last man had gotten this far; I wasn’t in the clear yet....

  I passed two more scattered skeletons in the next twenty feet. They must have come in on the run, guinea pigs to test the alertness of the Bolo. Or maybe they’d tried creeping up, dead slow, an inch a day; it hadn’t worked....

  Tiny night creatures scuttled ahead. They would be safe here in the shadow of the troll where no predator bigger than a mouse could move. I stumbled, diverted my course around a ten-foot hollow, the eroded crater of a near miss.

  Now I could see the great moss-coated treads, sunk a foot into the earth, the nests of field mice tucked in the spokes of the yard-high bogies. The entry hatch was above, a hairline against the great curved flank. There were rungs set in the flaring tread shield. I reached up, got a grip and hauled myself up. My chain clanked against the metal. I found the door lever, held on and pulled.

  It resisted, then turned. There was the hum of a servo motor, a crackling of dead gaskets. The hairline widened and showed me a narrow companionway, green-anodized dural with black polymer treads, a bulkhead with a fire extinguisher, an embossed steel data plate that said BOLO DIVISION OF GENERAL MOTORS CORPORATION and below, in smaller type, UNIT, COMBAT, BOLO MARK III.

  I pulled myself inside and went up into the Christmas tree glow of instrument lights.

  * * * *

  The control cockpit was small, utilitarian, with two deep-padded seats set among screens, dials, levers. I sniffed the odors of oil, paint, the characteristic ether and ozone of a nuclear generator. There was a faint hum in the air from idling relay servos. The clock showed ten past four. Either it was later than I thought, or the chronometer had lost time in the last eighty years. But I had no time to lose....

  I slid into the seat, flipped back the cover of the command control console. The Cancel key was the big white one. I pulled it down and let it snap back, like a clerk ringing up a sale.

  A pattern of dots on the status display screen flicked out of existence. Mallon was safe from his pet troll now.

  It hadn’t taken me long to carry out my orders. I knew what to do next; I’d planned it all during my walk out. Now I had thirty seconds to stack the deck in my favor.

  I reached down, hauled the festoon of quarter-inch armored cable up in front of me. I hit a switch, and the inner conning cover—a disk of inch-thick armor—slid back. I shoved a loop of the flexible cable up through the aperture, reversed the switch. The cover slid back—sliced the armored cable like macaroni.

  I took a deep breath, and my hands went to the combat alert switch, hovered over it.

  It was the smart thing to do—the easy thing. All I had to do was punch a key, and the 9 mm’s would open up, scythe Mallon and his crew down like cornstalks.

  But the scything would mow Renada down, along with the rest. And if I went—even without firing a shot—Mallon would keep his promise to cut that white throat....

  My head was out of the noose now but I would have to put it back—for a while.

  I leaned sideways, reached back under the panel, groped for a small fuse box. My fingers were clumsy. I took a breath, tried again. The fuse dropped out in my hand. The Bolo’s IR circuit was dead now. With a few more seconds to work, I could have knocked out other circuits—but the time had run out.

  I grabbed the cut ends of my lead wire, knotted them around the chain and got out fast.

  VIII

  Mallon waited, crouched behind the revetment.

  “It’s safe now, is it?” he grated. I nodded. He stood, gripping his gun.

  “Now we’ll try it together.”

  I went over the parapet, Mallon following with his gun ready. The lights followed us to the Bolo. Mallon clambered up to the open port, looked around inside, then dropped back down beside me. He looked excited now.

  “That does it, Jackson! I’ve waited a long time for this. Now I’ve got all the Mana there is!”

  “Take a look at the cable on my ankle,” I said softly. He narrowed his eyes, stepped back, gun aimed, darted a glance at the cable looped to the chain.

  “I cut it, Toby. I was alone in the Bolo with the cable cut—and I didn’t fire. I could have taken your toy and set up in business for myself, but I didn’t.”

  “What’s that supposed to buy you?” Mallon rasped.

  “As you said—we need each other. That cut cable proves you can trust me.”

  Mallon smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Safe, were you? Come here.” I walked along with him to the back of the Bolo. A heavy copper wire hung across the rear of the machine, trailing off into the grass in both directions.

  “I’d have burned you at the first move. Even with the cable cut, the armored cover would have carried the full load right into the cockpit with you. But don’t be nervous. I’ve got other jobs for you.” He jabbed the gun muzzle hard into my chest, pushing me back. “Now get moving,�
�� he snarled. “And don’t ever threaten the Baron again.”

  “The years have done more than shrivel your face, Toby,” I said. “They’ve cracked your brain.”

  He laughed, a short bark. “You could be right. What’s sane and what isn’t? I’ve got a vision in my mind—and I’ll make it come true. If that’s insanity, it’s better than what the mob has.”

  Back at the parapet, Mallon turned to me. “I’ve had this campaign planned in detail for years, Jackson. Everything’s ready. We move out in half an hour—before any traitors have time to take word to my enemies. Pig Eye and Dunger will keep you from being lonely while I’m away. When I get back—Well, maybe you’re right about working together.” He gestured and my whiskery friend and his sidekick loomed up. “Watch him,” he said.

  “Genghis Khan is on the march, eh?” I said, “With nothing between you and the goodies but a five-hundred ton Bolo....”

  “The Lesser Troll....” He raised his hands and made crushing motions, like a man crumbling dry earth. “I’ll trample it under my treads.”

  “You’re confused, Toby. The Bolo has treads. You just have a couple of fallen arches.”

  “It’s the same. I am the Great Troll.” He showed me his teeth and walked away.

  * * * *

  I moved along between Dunger and Pig Eye, towards the lights of the garage.

  “The back entrance again,” I said. “Anyone would think you were ashamed of me.”

  “You need more training, hah?” Dunger rasped. “Hold him, Pig Eye.” He unhooked his club and swung it loosely in his hand, glancing around. We were near the trees by the drive. There was no one in sight except the crews near the Bolo and a group by the front of the palace. Pig Eye gave my arm a twist and shifted his grip to his old favorite strangle hold. I was hoping he would.

  Dunger whipped the club up, and I grabbed Pig Eye’s arm with both hands and leaned forward like a Japanese admiral reporting to the Emperor. Pig Eye went up and over just in time to catch Dunger’s club across the back. They went down together. I went for the club, but Whiskers was faster than he looked. He rolled clear, got to his knees, and laid it across my left arm, just below the shoulder.

  I heard the bone go....

  * * * *

  I was back on my feet, somehow. Pig Eye lay sprawled before me. I heard him whining as though from a great distance. Dunger stood six feet away, the ring of black beard spread in a grin like a hyena smelling dead meat.

  “His back’s broke,” he said. “Hell of a sound he’s making. I been waiting for you; I wanted you to hear it.”

  “I’ve heard it,” I managed. My voice seemed to be coming off a worn sound track. “Surprised ... you didn’t work me over ... while I was busy with the arm.”

  “Uh-uh. I like a man to know what’s going on when I work him over.” He stepped in, rapped the broken arm lightly with the club. Fiery agony choked a groan off in my throat. I backed a step, he stalked me.

  “Pig Eye wasn’t much, but he was my pal. When I’m through with you, I’ll have to kill him. A man with a broken back’s no use to nobody. His’ll be finished pretty soon now, but not with you. You’ll be around a long time yet; but I’ll get a lot of fun out of you before the Baron gets back.”

  I was under the trees now. I had some wild thoughts about grabbing up a club of my own, but they were just thoughts. Dunger set himself and his eyes dropped to my belly. I didn’t wait for it; I lunged at him. He laughed and stepped back, and the club cracked my head. Not hard; just enough to send me down. I got my legs under me and started to get up—

  There was a hint of motion from the shadows behind Dunger. I shook my head to cover any expression that might have showed, let myself drop back.

  “Get up,” Dunger said. The smile was gone now. He aimed a kick. “Get up—”

  He froze suddenly, then whirled. His hearing must have been as keen as a jungle cat’s; I hadn’t heard a sound.

  The old man stepped into view, his white hair plastered wet to his skull, his big hands spread. Dunger snarled, jumped in and whipped the club down; I heard it hit. There was flurry of struggle, then Dunger stumbled back, empty-handed.

  I was on my feet again now. I made a lunge for Dunger as he roared and charged. The club in the old man’s hand rose and fell. Dunger crashed past and into the brush. The old man sat down suddenly, still holding the club. Then he let it fall and lay back. I went toward him and Dunger rushed me from the side. I went down again.

  I was dazed, but not feeling any pain now. Dunger was standing over the old man. I could see the big lean figure lying limply, arms outspread—and a white bone handle, incongruously new and neat against the shabby mackinaw. The club lay on the ground a few feet away. I started crawling for it. It seemed a long way, and it was hard for me to move my legs, but I kept at it. The light rain was falling again now, hardly more than a mist. Far away there were shouts and the sound of engines starting up. Mallon’s convoy was moving out. He had won. Dunger had won, too. The old man had tried, but it hadn’t been enough. But if I could reach the club, and swing it just once....

  Dunger was looking down at the old man. He leaned, withdrew the knife, wiped it on his trouser leg, hitching up his pants to tuck it away in its sheath. The club was smooth and heavy under my hand. I got a good grip on it, got to my feet. I waited until Dunger turned, and then I hit him across the top of the skull with everything I had left....

  * * * *

  I thought the old man was dead until he blinked suddenly. His features looked relaxed now, peaceful, the skin like parchment stretched over bone. I took his gnarled old hand and rubbed it. It was as cold as a drowned sailor.

  “You waited for me, Old-Timer?” I said inanely. He moved his head minutely, and looked at me. Then his mouth moved. I leaned close to catch what he was saying. His voice was fainter than lost lope.

  “Mom ... told me ... wait for you.... She said ... you’d ... come back some day....”

  I felt my jaw muscles knotting.

  Inside me something broke and flowed away like molten metal. Suddenly my eyes were blurred—and not only with rain. I looked at the old face before me, and for a moment, I seemed to see a ghostly glimpse of another face, a small round face that looked up.

  He was speaking again. I put my head down:

  “Was I ... good ... boy ... Dad?” Then the eyes closed.

  I sat for a long time, looking at the still face. Then I folded the hands on the chest and stood.

  “You were more than a good boy, Timmy,” I said. “You were a good man.”

  IX

  My blue suit was soaking wet and splattered with mud, plus a few flecks of what Dunger had used for brains, but it still carried the gold eagles on the shoulders.

  The attendant in the garage didn’t look at my face. The eagles were enough for him. I stalked to a vast black Bentley—a ‘70 model, I guessed, from the conservative eighteen-inch tail fins—and jerked the door open. The gauge showed three-quarters full. I opened the glove compartment, rummaged, found nothing. But then it wouldn’t be up front with the chauffeur....

  I pulled open the back door. There was a crude black leather holster riveted against the smooth pale-gray leather, with the butt of a 4 mm showing. There was another one on the opposite door, and a power rifle slung from straps on the back of the driver’s seat.

  Whoever owned the Bentley was overcompensating his insecurity. I took a pistol, tossed it onto the front seat and slid in beside it. The attendant gaped at me as I eased my left arm into my lap and twisted to close the door. I started up. There was a bad knock, but she ran all right. I flipped a switch and cold lances of light speared out into the rain.

  At the last instant, the attendant started forward with his mouth open to say something, but I didn’t wait to hear it. I gunned out into the night,
slung into the graveled drive, and headed for the gate. Mallon had had it all his way so far, but maybe it still wasn’t too late....

  Two sentries, looking miserable in shiny black ponchos, stepped out of the guard hut as I pulled up. One peered in at me, then came to a sloppy position of attention and presented arms. I reached for the gas pedal and the second sentry called something. The first man looked startled, then swung the gun down to cover me. I eased a hand toward my pistol, brought it up fast and fired through the glass. Then the Bentley was roaring off into the dark along the potholed road that led into town. I thought I heard a shot behind me, but I wasn’t sure.

  I took the river road south of town, pounding at reckless speed over the ruined blacktop, gaining on the lights of Mallon’s horde paralleling me a mile to the north. A quarter mile from the perimeter fence, the Bentley broke a spring and skidded into a ditch.

  I sat for a moment taking deep breaths to drive back the compulsive drowsiness that was sliding down over my eyes like a visor. My arm throbbed like a cauterized stump. I needed a few minutes rest....

  A sound brought me awake like an old maid smelling cigar smoke in the bedroom: the rise and fall of heavy engines in convoy. Mallon was coming up at flank speed.

  I got out of the car and headed off along the road at a trot, holding my broken arm with my good one to ease the jarring pain. My chances had been as slim as a gambler’s wallet all along, but if Mallon beat me to the objective, they dropped to nothing.

  * * * *

  The eastern sky had taken on a faint gray tinge, against which I could make out the silhouetted gate posts and the dead floodlights a hundred yards ahead.

  The roar of engines was getting louder. There were other sounds, too: a few shouts, the chatter of a 9 mm, the boom! of something heavier, and once a long-drawn whoosh! of falling masonry. With his new toy, Mallon was dozing his way through the men and buildings that got in his way.