The Complete LaNague

by F. Paul Wilson

  "You don’t think she’ll hit Fed Central, do you?"

  ("With a second chance at interstellar unity almost within reach, can you think of a better target?")

  "No, I can’t," Dalt replied pensively. The thought of alien berserkers charging through the streets was not a pleasant one. "There must be a way to strike back."

  ("I’m sure there is. We just haven’t thought of it yet. Sleep on it.")

  Good idea. See you in the morning.

  MORNING BROUGHT LENDA with news that some of the flitter-probes were outfitted and ready. He invited Dalt to take a look at them. Lacking both the heart to tell Lenda that the probes were a futile gesture and anything better to do, he agreed to go along.

  Arriving at a hanger atop one of the lesser buildings in the complex, he saw five drones completed and a sixth in the final stages. They looked like standard models except for the data-gathering instruments affixed to the hulls.

  "They look like they’ve been sealed for pressurization," Dalt noted.

  Lenda nodded. "Some of the sensors require it."

  ("I know what you’re thinking!") Pard said.

  Tell me.

  ("You want to equip these flitters with blaster cannon and attack Kali’s island, don’t you? Forget it. There are so many energy dampers in that temple that a blaster wouldn’t even warm her skin if you could get near her. And you wouldn’t. Her guards would cut you to ribbons.")

  Maybe there’s a way around that.

  He turned to Lenda. "Have Petrical meet me here. I have an errand to run but I’ll be back shortly."

  Lenda gave him a puzzled look as he walked away.

  Dalt headed for the street. Throw the Mordirak image around me. I don’t want to be mobbed out there.

  ("Done. Now tell me where we’re going.")

  Not far. He stepped outside and onto the local belt of the moving stroll-lane. The streets were crowded. The new incoming representatives had brought their staffs and families and there were tourists constantly arriving to see the first General Council of the new Federation. He let the stroll-lane carry him for a few minutes, then debarked before a blank-fronted store with only a simple hand-printed sign over the door: Weapons.

  Stepping through the filter field that screened the entrance, he was faced with an impressive array of death-dealing instruments. They gleamed from the racks and cases; they were sleek and sinister and beautiful and deadly.

  "May I help you, sir?" asked a little man with squinty eyes.

  "Where are your combustion weapons?"

  "Ah!" he said, rubbing his palms together. "A sportsman or a collector?"

  "Both."

  "This way, please." He led them to the rear of the shop and placed himself behind a counter. "Now, then. Where does your interest lie? Handguns? Rifles? Shotguns? Automatics?"

  "The last two."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I want an autoshotgun," Dalt said tersely. "Double-barreled with continuous feed."

  "I’m afraid we only have one model along that line."

  "I know. Ibizan makes it."

  The man nodded and searched under the counter. He pulled out a shiny black case, placed it before him, and opened it.

  Dalt inspected it briefly. "That’s it. You have waist canisters for the feed?"

  "Of course. The Ibizan is nonejecting, so you’ll have to use disintegrating cases, you know."

  "I know. Now. I want you to take this down to the workshop and cut the barrel off" – he drew a line with his finger – "right about here."

  "Sir, you must be joking!" the little man said with visible shock, his eyes widening and losing their perpetual squint. But he could see by Dalt’s expression that no joke was intended. He spoke petulantly. "I’m afraid I must see proof of credit before I deface such a fine weapon."

  Dalt fished out a thin alloy disk and handed it over. The gunsmith pressed the disk into a notch in the counter and the image of Mordirak appeared in the hologram box beside it, accompanied by the number 1. Mordirak had first-class credit anywhere in Occupied Space.

  With a sigh, the man handed back the disk, hefted the weapon, and took it into the enclosed workshop section.

  ("Your knowledge of weaponry is impressive.")

  A holdover from my game-hunting days. Remember them?

  ("I remember disapproving of them.")

  Well, combustion weapons are still in demand by "sportsmen" who find their sense of masculinity cheated by the lack of recoil in energy weapons.

  ("And just what is this Ibizan supposed to do for you?")

  You’ll see.

  The gunsmith reappeared with the foreshortened weapon.

  "You have a target range, I presume," Dalt said.

  "Yes. On the lower level."

  "Good. Fill the feeder with number-eight end-over-end cylindrical shot and we’ll try her out."

  The man winced but complied.

  The target range was elaborate and currently set up with moving, bounding models of Kamedon deer. Sensors within the models rated the marksman’s performance on a flashing screen at the firing line that could read "Miss," "Kill," "Wounded," and variations. The firing line was cleared as Dalt hooked the feed canister to his waist and fed the string of shells into the chambers. Flicking the safety off, he held the weapon against his chest with the barrels pointing downrange and began walking.

  "Left barrel," he said, and pulled the trigger. The Ibizan jerked in his hands; the cannonlike roar was swallowed by the sound dampers but the muzzle flash was a good twenty centimeters in length, and one of the leaping targets was torn in half. "Right barrel," was faintly heard, with similar results. Then a flip of a switch and, "Automatic." The prolonged roar that issued from the rapidly alternating barrels taxed the sound dampers to their limit and when the noise stopped, every target hung in tatters. The indicator screen flashed solid red on and off in confusion.

  "What could you possibly want to hunt with a weapon like that?" the little gunsmith asked, glancing from Dalt to the Ibizan to the ruined range.

  A smug but irresistible reply came to mind.

  "God."

  "YOU WANTED TO SEE ME about something?" Petrical asked.

  "Yes. I have good reason to believe – please don’t ask me why – that the next assault will be a big one and will be directed against Fed Central itself. I want you to outfit these flitters with heavy-duty blasters and pick some of your best marksmen to man five of them. I’ll take the sixth."

  An amused expression crept over Petrical’s face. "And just what do you plan to do with them?"

  "We’re going through the passage when it opens up," Dalt replied. "Maybe we can end these attacks once and for all."

  Amusement was abruptly replaced by consternation. "Oh no, you’re not! You’re too valuable to risk on a suicide mission!"

  "Unfortunately, I’m the only one who can do what must be done," Dalt said with a glare. "And since when do you dictate what I may and may not do?"

  But Petrical had been involved in too many verbal brawls on the floor of the General Council to be easily intimidated, even by The Healer.

  "I’ll tell you what I will do, and that’s have no part in helping you get yourself killed!"

  "Mr. Petrical," Dalt said in a low voice, "do I have to outfit my own flitter and go through alone?"

  Petrical opened his mouth for a quick reply and then closed it. He knew when he was outflanked. With the new General Council arriving for the emergency session, all that was needed to bring the walls tumbling down upon his head was news that he had let The Healer take the war to the enemy alone – with no backup from the Federation Defense Force.

  "But the probes were your idea… ."

  "The probes have been rendered obsolete by new information. The only solution is to go through."

  "Well then, let me send a bigger force."

  "No." Dalt shook his head. "If these six flitters can’t do the job, then six hundred wouldn’t make any difference."

  "Al
l right." Petrical grunted with exasperation. "I’ll get the armorers down here and start asking for volunteers."

  Dalt’s smile was genuine. "Thanks. And don’t delay – we may not have much time. Oh, and have an alarm system set up here in the hangar to notify us the minute a vortex is sighted. We’ll live in and around the flitters until the attack comes. I’ll brief your men on what to expect and what to do."

  Petrical nodded with obvious reluctance.

  ("WHY HAVEN’T I BEEN CONSULTED on any of this?") Pard asked indignantly as Dalt returned to his quarters.

  Because I already know your answer.

  ("I’m sure you do. It’s all insanity and I want no part of it!")

  You don’t have much choice.

  ("Be reasonable!")

  Pard, this is something we must do.

  ("Why?") The voice in his head was angry. ("To live up to your legend?")

  In a way, yes. You and I are the only ones who can beat her.

  ("You’re sure of that?")

  Aren’t you? Pard did not reply and Dalt felt a sudden chill. Answer me: Are you afraid of this Kali creature?

  ("Yes.")

  Why should you be? You defeated her at every turn when we were battling the horrors.

  ("That was different. There was no direct contact there. We were merely fighting the residue of her influence, a sort of resonating circuit of afterimages. We’ve only come into direct contact with her once… on the beach on Clutch. And you know what happened there.")

  Yeah, Dalt replied slowly. We were blasted apart.

  ("Exactly. This creature’s psi powers are immense. She’s keyed her whole existence toward developing them because her dominion over her race springs from them. I estimate she had a four-thousand-year head start on us. All the defense precautions around her island temple – the energy dampers, the guards with their ridiculous costumes and ancient weapons – would not stand up against a single mercenary soldier in regulation battle gear. They’re trappings required by her paranoia. The real defense system of that temple is in her mind. She can psionically fry any brain in her star system that threatens her. Short of an automated Federation dreadnought turning her entire planet to ash – and we have no way of getting one within half a galaxy of her – she’s virtually impregnable.")

  Pard paused for effect, then: ("You still want to go after her?")

  Dalt hesitated, but only briefly. Yes.

  ("Insanity!") Pard exploded. ("Sheer, undiluted, raving insanity! Usually I can follow your reasoning, but this is one big blur. Is there some sort of racial urge involved? Do you feel you owe it to humanity to go down fighting? Is this a noble gesture or what?")

  I don’t know, exactly.

  ("You’re right, you don’t know! You owe your race nothing! You’ve given it far more than it’s given you. Your primary responsibility is to yourself. Sacrificing your – our – life is a meaningless gesture!")

  It’s not meaningless. And if we succeed, it won’t be a sacrifice.

  ("We have about as much chance of defeating her as we have of growing flowers on a neutron star. I forbid it!")

  You can’t. You owe it.

  ("To whom?")

  To me. This is my life and my body. You’ve augmented it, improved it, and extended it, true, but you’ve shared equally in the benefits. It remains my life and you’ve shared it. I’m asking for an accounting.

  Pard waited a long time before giving his reply. ("Very well, then. We’ll go.") There was a definite edge on the thought. ("But neither of us should make any long-range plans.")

  WITH THE FLITTERS ARMED, the volunteers briefed, and the practice runs made, Dalt and his crew settled down for an uneasy vigil.

  Think we’ll have a long wait? Dalt asked.

  ("I doubt it. The Kalians looked almost set to go when I saw them.")

  Well, at least we’ll get enough sleep. If there’s been any consistency at all in the attacks, it’s been their occurrence in daylight hours.

  ("That may not be the case this time. If my guess is right and they are aiming for Fed Central, their tactics might be different. For all we know, they may just want to set up a device to destroy the Federation Complex.")

  Dalt groaned softly. That would be a crippling coup.

  ("Nonsense! The Federation is more than a few buildings. It’s a concept… an idea."

  It’s also an organization; and if there’s one thing we need now, it’s organization. There’s a nucleus of a new Federation growing over at the General Council at this moment. Destroy that and organized resistance will be completely unraveled.

  ("Perhaps not.")

  The Kalians are united wholeheartedly behind their goddess. Who’ve we got?

  ("The Healer, of course.")

  At this point, if the Federation Complex is destroyed, so is The Healer. Dalt glanced up at the alarm terminal with its howlers and flashers ready to go. I just hope that thing goes off in time for us to get through the passage.

  ("If it goes off, it will probably do so because you set it off.")

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  ("The passage is psionically activated and directed by Kali, remember? If a psi force of that magnitude appears anywhere on Fed Central, I’ll know about it – immediately.")

  "Oh," Dalt muttered aloud. "Well, let’s hope it’s soon, then. This waiting is nerve-wracking."

  ("I’ll be quite happy if they never show up.")

  "We’ve already been through that!"

  "Pardon me, sir," said a trooper passing within earshot.

  "What is it?" Dalt asked.

  The trooper looked flustered. "I thought you spoke to me."

  "Huh? Oh, no." Dalt smiled weakly. "Just thinking out loud."

  "Yessir." He nodded and walked on by with a quick backward glance.

  ("He thinks you may be crazy,") Pard needled. ("So do I, but for entirely different reasons.")

  Quiet and let me sleep.

  THEIR VIGIL WAS NOT a long one. Before dawn on the second day, Dalt found himself suddenly wide awake, his sympathetic nervous system vibrating with alarm.

  ("Hit the button,") Pard said reluctantly. ("They’re here.")

  Where?

  ("About two kilometers away. I’ll lead everyone there.")

  Fastening the Ibizan feeder belt to his waist as he ran, Dalt activated the alarm and the twenty marksmen were blared and strobed to wakefulness.

  The sergeant in charge of the detail trotted up to Dalt. "Where we going?"

  Dalt withheld a shrug and said, "Just follow me."

  With the activation of the alarm, the hangar roof irised open and the six armed and pressurized flitters were airborne in less than a minute. Pard guided Dalt high above the Federation Complex.

  ("Now drop and bank off to the left of that building that looks like an inverted pyramid.")

  "That’s where they are?"

  ("Yes. Right in the heart of the complex.")

  "From tens of thousands of light-years away… how can they be so accurate?"

  ("Not ‘they’ – she. Kali directs the passage.")

  With their running lights out, the flitters sank between two smooth-walled buildings until they hovered only a few meters above the pavement.

  ("It’s at the far end of the alley.")

  Dalt shook his head in grudging respect. "Pinpoint accuracy."

  ("And strategically brilliant. There’s almost no room to maneuver against them here. I warned you she was a formidable opponent – still want to go through with this?")

  Dalt wished he could frame a recklessly courageous reply but none was forthcoming. Instead, he activated the search beams on the front of the flitter and illuminated a chilling sight: The invaders were pouring from their hole in space like angry insects from a hive.

  As the flitters came under immediate fire, Dalt gunned his craft to full throttle and it leaped ahead on a collision course with the oncoming horde. Invaders were knocked over or butted aside as he rammed into them. He noted th
at the flitters behind him were returning fire as they ran –

  – and then all was gray, toneless, flat and silent as they passed through the vortex and into subspace. Dalt felt a brief rush of vertigo as he lost his horizon in the featureless void but managed to hold a steady course past surprised and wildly gesticulating invaders on their way to Fed Central.

  ("Keep her steady for just a little longer and we’ll be there.")

  Pard had no sooner given this encouragement than the craft burst into sunlight, bowling over more invaders in the process. Without a backward glance, Dalt kept the throttle at full and pulled for altitude toward the sea.

  ("See the island?")

  "Straight ahead."

  ("Right. Keep going.")

  "I just hope the sergeant remembered to tell Petrical where the breakthrough was before he went through."

  ("Don’t worry about that. The sergeant’s a seasoned trooper. We’ve got bigger problems ahead.")

  The following flitters were through now and were busily engaged in strafing the Kalian encampments on the shore. Their mission was to cripple the attack on Fed Central and prevent any countermove against Dalt as he headed for the island.

  ("Veer toward the south side,") Pard told him.

  "Which way is south?"

  ("Left.")

  They were near enough now to make out gross details of the temple. "Where do I land?" ("You don’t. At least not yet. See that large opening there? Fly right into it.") "Doesn’t look very big." ("If you could thread that vortex, you can thread that corridor.") The guardians of the fortress-temple were waiting for them at the entrance with arrows nocked, bows drawn, and spears at the ready. ("Slow up and hit them with the blasters,") Pard directed. That seemed too brutal to Dalt. "I’ll just ride right through them. They’re only armed with sharpened sticks."

  ("I’ll remind you of that when they swarm over us from behind and spit your body like a piece of meat. Compassion dulls your memory. Have you forgotten the bathers on Clutch? Or that little boy?")

  Enough! Dalt filled his lungs and pressed the newly installed weapons button on the console. The blasters hummed but the guards remained undaunted and uninjured.