The Deathworms of Kratos [The Expendables 1]

by Richard Avery

  Table of Contents

  The Deathworms of Kratos

  Stage One Rendezvous with Kratos

  EVENT ONE Command Alert

  FLASH ONE Court-Martial

  EVENT TWO Sleeping Beauty

  FLASH TWO The Man with the, Silver Patch

  EVENT THREE Death in Orbit

  FLASH THREE The Team

  EVENT FOUR The Resurrection and the Life

  FLASH FOUR Proving Ground

  EVENT FIVE Touch Down

  FLASH FIVE Briefing

  FLASH SIX Departure

  EVENT SEVEN Things That Go Bump in the Night

  Stage Two The Secrets of Kratos

  PHASE ONE Investigation: Death's Head

  PHASE TWO Battle Royal

  PHASE THREE The Rape of the Queen

  PHASE FOUR Night Games

  PHASE FIVE Target: The Queen

  PHASE SIX Consolidation

  Stage Three Influx

  SEQUENCE ONE Panorama

  SEQUENCE TWO Mission Ends

  The Deathworms of Kratos

  [Expendables #1]

  Richard Avery

  (Edmund Cooper)

  1975

  Fawcett Gold Medal #P3306

  Stage One Rendezvous with Kratos

  EVENT ONE Command Alert

  The robot was man-sized, but there was nothing human in its appearance. It was just a highly efficient, highly complex machine with a synthetic identity encoded in its electronic brain. It had the word Matthew painted on its chest plate and on its back plate.

  It bent over the unconscious body on the intensive care bench in the resuscitation chamber and gently massaged, working on key areas according to a procedure that had been carefully programmed into its memory circuits. The robot wore thermal gloves so that its steel fingers would not damage the pale, cold flesh and so that the radiant heat would go where it was most needed. Simultaneously, the robot monitored the minute changes of body temperature, the weak but increasing heart-beat, the slow climb in blood pressure.

  Gentle, rhythmic pressure on the chest had triggered the breathing cycle. The unconscious man gave a faint, involuntary groan. The robot noted with approval. A toe twitched, then a finger. What had been almost dead was fighting its way back to life.

  Most of the resuscitation procedure had been automatic. On computer instruction, the body had been ejected from its low-temperature casket and subjected to measured doses of infra-red radiation at decreasing intervals before being transferred to the intensive care unit where, in controlled sequence, normal life-functions would be restored. The rest now was up to the I.C. monitoring equipment and the decisions of the robot.

  The naked man groaned once more. His heart-beat strengthened. His eye-lids fluttered. The robot altered its pattern of massage. Presently, it removed the thermal gloves and placed a mask over the man’s nose arid mouth. Oxygen-enriched air was pumped into the lungs in pulses synchronous with the weak breathing cycle.

  In less than a minute, the man was conscious. He opened his eyes and cried out in anguish. The robot knew why he cried out. The vision analysis centres of the brain were receiving conflicting signals. Deftly, the robot placed a silver patch over one eye. The man gave a sigh and relaxed. He focused his uncovered eye on the robot, staring at it fixedly. The robot took away the mask” Breathing was almost normal.

  “Sir,” said the robot, “do you hear me clearly?”

  “I hear you clearly.”

  “Do you experience any pain?”

  “No, but I feel very tired.”

  “Are you in a condition to receive data?”

  The man smiled faintly. “I am in a condition to receive data.”

  “Sir, you have been in suspended animation for approximately five hundred and forty hours, Standard Earth Time. About eighty-five per cent of suspended animation subjects suffer temporary amnesia upon resuscitation. I am therefore empowered to remind you of key data. You are James Conrad, commander of the faster-than-light vessel Santa Maria. The vessel is now in stable orbit round the planet Altair Four, designated as Kratos by the Extra-Solar Planets Evaluating and Normalising Department of the United Nations. Your mission is to prove Kratos fit for human colonisation. Your personnel consist of six human beings, designated as Expendables, and six self programming robots, type S.P.9. I am S.P.9/1, designated as Matthew for your convenience. I have command circuits that can override the independent circuitry of the other five robots. I am programmed to obey any lawful command you give. Do you understand me?”

  The naked man sighed. “I understand you but, as yet, I do not fully remember. How long will it be before I get normal recall?”

  “Normally, sir, it would not be longer than 1.5 hours S.E.T. Your responses have been good, therefore I would anticipate that normal recall would occur well within that time limit.”

  Conrad shivered. “I feel bloody cold.”

  “I am sorry, sir. I am not empowered to vary the temperature programme. But presently you should feel comfortable.”

  “What the hell is this business about lawful commands?” demanded Conrad irritably. “Can I command you or can I not?”

  “You can command me, sir, in any way that does, not involve the Asimov Inhibition.”

  “What the hell is that?”

  “You command me in any way that does not involve harming, putting at risk, or causing the death of another human being.”

  “That seems reasonable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have we any brandy aboard the Santa Maria?”

  “Yes, sir. There are twenty-eight litres of brandy, designated as Hennessy XO in Number One hold. There are also supplies of several alcoholic beverages, including seventy-seven litres of—”

  “Get me a large brandy, Matthew, and shut up.”

  “It is not advisable at this stage, sir.”

  James Conrad sat up. It hurt him considerably, but he made it. “Get the bloody brandy, damn you. And do it quick. I am now in command.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Conrad let out a great cry.

  “You experience pain, sir?”

  “No, Matthew. I’m beginning to remember. Now hurry with that brandy, damn you!”

  FLASH ONE Court-Martial

  The man with the bandage round his head, covering one eye, stood stiffly at attention, his uniform cap under his arm. According to drill regulations it was the wrong arm. But then he only had one arm. So drill procedure had to be modified. The empty right sleeve was tucked neatly into the pocket of his dress uniform. The four gold bars visible near the end of the other sleeve showed that he was a captain in the United Nations Space Service.

  With his one good eye, he stared ahead impassively in best regulation fashion, focusing on no one, on nothing. It was his function not to observe, only to hear. Only to hear the words that would inevitably destroy his future, everything he had ever wanted. Like every other man, he had often wondered what it was’ like to die. Now he was beginning to understand. Because this was a kind of dying.

  He was standing facing a dais and a long table behind which five men sat. They were all members of the U.N.S.S. One was a commander, two were captains, one was a commodore; and the president of the court martial was a full admiral.

  The chamber was one of the most dramatic structures on Luna. It was a huge transparent dome of double-panelled plastiglass. The panels were set in an intricate tracery of steel frames, spreading out from the apex of the dome like a spider’s web. The plastiglass was almost as tough as steel and lighter than titanium. It was also phototropic. During the long lunar day (fourteen Earth days) it turned milky, opaque, reflecting t
he harsh radiation of the sun, unfiltered by any atmosphere. During the equally long lunar night, it became transparent once again, revealing the magnificent wilderness of stars. That was why it was called the Star Chamber.

  Captain James Conrad, D.S.S.C. and bar (only seventeen serving captains had been awarded the Distinguished Space Service Cross, and only nine had received the additional distinction of the silver bar) was mildly surprised at his own lack of emotion. He already knew what the verdict of the court-martial would be— what it must be if service discipline were to be maintained. And yet he felt no shame, not even fear. Only regret. He had gambled, and the gamble had not succeeded. One must pay one’s debts.

  The president of the court-martial rose.

  “Captain Conrad, by the authority vested in me by the United Nations Space Command, Department of Solar Patrol, Moscow, Earth, I have convened this court-martial to examine the evidence supporting the three charges brought against you by Commodore Erwin G. Streffens, officer commanding Lunar Squadron. Under the articles of space service, it is my duty to ask you for the final time if you still recognise the validity of this court. I have to advise you that if your answer is negative, you will retain the right of appeal. However,, if your answer is affirmative, the findings of this tribunal will be irreversible. Captain Conrad, do you still recognise the validity of this court?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  What was the point in asking for a playback? The evidence would still be the same, the verdict would still be the same. If you are going to get the chop, Conrad thought, there is no point in getting it twice.

  “Your answer, Captain Conrad, has now been entered in the record. Before delivering the verdicts arrived at by a majority vote taken by my brother officers and myself, I must again ask you if you challenge any of the evidence brought either by the prosecuting officer or the defending officer. If you so do, such evidence may yet be re-examined and may affect the judgment delivered by this court-martial. Do you so challenge?”

  “Negative, sir.” ‘

  The facts had been presented fairly—and the facts could not be denied. And hell, you couldn’t challenge on the grounds that fate had been a trifle unkind. But Conrad’s curiosity was suddenly aroused. The president had said a majority vote not a unanimous one. Who had been the officer—or even officers—who had tried to exercise charity? Probably one or both of the captains. They, at least, would understand how he had felt. But he would never know who had tried to be kind.

  The president was speaking once more. “Finally, Captain Conrad, I have to ask if you have any reason to believe that any officer appointed to serve in any capacity at this court-martial may have harboured any personal animosity towards you either before or during these proceedings.”

  “Negative, sir.”

  Streffens had never liked him, but then he had never liked Streffens. The commodore was a desk man, a career officer who seemed to think that bits of paper, regulations and drill manuals were more important than men. Conrad himself was a spaceman—first, last and always. Streffens may have been waiting for just such an opportunity. Not that it mattered. Conrad had wilfully disobeyed the lawful and reasonable orders of his superior officer. That was what counted. The rest was catastrophe.

  President Admiral Kotuzov cleared his throat noisily and lifted a couple of papers from the table. He adjusted his old-fashioned spectacles and read the findings with a clear, unhesitating voice.

  “Captain Conrad, the three charges brought against you are as follows. One, that you wilfully and repeatedly disobeyed the orders of your commanding officer. Two, that in doing so you put at risk the safety of the vessel S.S. Gagarin then under your command. Three, that the result of your subsequent actions brought about the unnecessary deaths of three of your crew members and one engineer officer.

  “The established facts are as follows. At 0352 G.M.T. on the thirteenth day of August in the year 2071 the vessel S.S. Einstein lifted from Mercury with a cargo of ingot platinum and other rare metals, bound for Mars. Unfortunately the reaction system failed before the second power manoeuvre could be completed leaving the vessel in a rapidly decaying solar orbit. The late Captain Brandt reported his position, estimating that in less than ninety hours the Einstein would fall into the solar danger zone. The information was relayed on distress channel to O.C. Lunar Squadron. The nearest vessel to the Einstein was your own, then returning from low-orbit survey of Venus. Computer extrapolations revealed that with maximum use of power manoeuvres, you were at least one hundred and five hours from a theoretical rendezvous point with the doomed vessel.”

  Admiral Kotuzov cleared his throat once more. “At 0519 G.M.T. you signalled O.C. Lunar Squadron requesting permission to attempt rendezvous. Permission was denied. You then signalled your intention to attempt rendezvous. Again, permission was denied and you were commanded to return to Luna. You then cut off communication with O.C. Lunar Squadron and proceeded with your intention.

  “As a result, the Gagarin made rendezvous with the Einstein three hours after it had already passed into the danger zone. It is unfortunate and, perhaps, unlucky for you that this occurred during a period of intense solar activity. The radiation hazards were already unacceptable. It is to your credit that you succeeded in transferring two of the personnel of the stricken vessel. It is to your discredit that four of your own crew perished as a result and that you yourself were gravely injured. That the two you rescued also subsequently died as a result of irradiation emphasises the folly of your disobedience. I would remind you that the successful operation of the United Nations Space Service cannot be founded on Quixotic gestures, however commendable the motivation might be. Discipline is necessary at all times if man is to extend his dominion in space.

  “It is the finding of this court-martial that, on the first count, you are guilty as charged. On the second count, you are found to be not guilty, since the safety of the S.S. Gagarin could only have been at risk if, as a result of your actions, insufficient engineering staff survived to carry out the necessary power manoeuvres to escape from the danger zone. On the third count, you are found to be guilty.”

  Again Kotuzov cleared his throat noisily.

  “Therefore, the sentence of this court is that you shall be reduced to the rank of commander and that you shall forfeit ten years’ seniority. Further, that before you are again offered an independent command, you will undergo psychiatric examination to determine your ability to respond to orders.”

  It was better than Conrad had hoped. But it was still the death knell. Who, in his right mind, would ever entrust a ship to a man who would not obey orders? Conrad could see long years ahead being somebody’s Number One—If he were lucky. But how many captains would want to take on someone who was once their equal and for whom they could only feel pity? Further, how many would want an Exec who had been court-martialled for disobeying orders? Conrad revised his appreciation. All he could see in the immediate future was an indeterminate period of leave on Terra at half-pay. Maybe someone would be kind enough to let him lecture on astronautics at some obscure space academy in the American Mid-West. Suddenly, he was aware that Admiral Kotuzov had sat down, and that everyone seemed to be staring at him.

  He fumbled awkwardly with his cap, managed somehow to get it back on his head, and saluted as smartly as he could with the wrong arm.

  “Sir! Thank you, sir,” he said in a clear even voice. Then like an automaton, with all eyes upon him, he marched stiffly from the Star Chamber.

  In the antechamber, the gentlemen of the media waited like a pack of hungry wolves. They surrounded him, almost engulfed him.

  “Captain Conrad, did you get a fair trial?”

  “Affirmative. Incidentally, I am now improperly dressed, having been reduced to the rank of commander.”

  “Will you appeal, sir?”

  “Negative.”

  “Millions of people on Terra are with you, captain —er—commander. Do you know that a petition with approximately five milli
on signatures from people of all nations will be presented on your behalf to the Secretary-General?”

  “I did not know, and I do not want to know. Allow me to pass, please. As far as I am concerned, the incident is now closed. You will do me a big favour by leaving it that way.”

  “Captain, would you consent to being nominated for political—”

  Conrad lost his patience. “Gentlemen, I am tired. I wish to relax. Will you kindly let me pass?”

  “Commander, is it true that you have a feud with Commodore Streffens, and that—”

  “Excuse me, I wish to pass.”

  But they would not let him pass, because he was today’s news. And the babel of questions came thick and heavy. The vid men formed an apparently impenetrable barrier.

  James Conrad raised his arm. “I intend to leave this place, and I do not wish any of you to follow me. Is that clear?”

  “Sir, one final question. It has been rumoured that a woman was the cause of your hostility to Commodore Streffens. Will you confirm that—”

  Conrad chopped expertly. The man went down gurgling. Some of the media men went to help him. A couple of brave ones still confronted Conrad.

  “There is a report that you are psychiatrically unstable. Would you care to comment?”

  Conrad struck again.

  The last man to bar his path said insolently: “This interview is going out live, Commander. I hope you are aware of that.”

  A black rage gripped Conrad. “I am aware, my friend, that you are a vulture and, as such, somewhat obscene. Stand aside.”

  The man did not budge. “Do you really wish to alienate—”

  Expertly, Conrad kicked at his stomach then, as the man fell, smashed the edge of his hand on the back of the neck.

  There were gasps and cries. Everyone drew back.

  “I am glad you have finally got the message, gentlemen,” said Conrad calmly. Bleakly, he realized that this little performance had destroyed his space career for good. He had publicly proved himself to be psychiatrically unstable. No one in his right mind would ever let James Conrad anywhere near a space ship again.