Spaceways - The Planet Murderer Part 13

"Oh, of course not. A man like you, what do you care about stash? You probably wouldn't know what to do with it if you got it."

Gelor's face went hot. "You seem to want to be hit. Or are you so concerned about my welfare?"

"Your welfare!" Shemsi's laugh was caustic. "Don't flatter yourself, handsome villain. It's not your welfare I care about-it's mine."

He looked questioning until her slim shoulders lifted in a shrug-and with a mocking, triumphant look she watched his gaze drop to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"What else? Her Majesty and I are stuck here for the duration of your project, right? It's going to be hard on us, at the very best. If on top of that you're panting for Her Majesty all the time and she flats you, the word for it becomes 'impossible.' You'll take out your hots on both of us, in meanness. And you are a mean man, a genuine double-dyed villain. If you were halfway normal, I could enjoy cooling you off in bed myself. You're not. You proved that when you rammed that awful spring-thing up me, back in Newhope. So, we've got to take a different route." She leaned close and traced patterns on his chest with a fingernail dyed to match her lips and eyelids. Her voice dropped to a confidential level: "I'm an andrist. What I had in mind is an android-a dupladroid. Of Her Majesty DeyMeox, you see. I can build in a s.e.xulator that'll give you a ride three times better than she could. It'll even say the right things to you. Nice purple lines that would make even a Bleaker hust blush."

Gelor's mouth had gone dry. Furiously he seized her shoulder. Shoving her bodily into the cell, he slammed the door behind her. He was shaking as he blindly moved up the corridor and stumbled up the stair to his own quarters.

What bothered him most was the gnawing fear that the mocking b.i.t.c.h might be right. Maybe he was caught up in a l.u.s.t for DeyMeox, a yen he dared not admit. He could 127.

not afford such involvement, he thought, reaching his own luxurious quarters and at once pouring a drink. What he was attempting was perilous enough and required much concentration. Complicate matters further with a woman and he might as well write out an invitation to disaster.

Yet what could he do about it? What man could stand against his hunger for a special woman-who was also available to him?

Unless . . . Unless I can exhaust my pa.s.sion, really sate any l.u.s.t I may have for her-in her! At least, it would do no harm for him to go to her bed. To find out for certain . . . Gelor pushed the concept around in his mind for the next thirty minutes, with another drink.

Then, shivering at the thought in spite of having decided, he arose and went back down the stair to Prince Palkivala's dungeon.

He was partway down when he heard the sound of voices. DeyMeox's and Shemsi's. He frowned. Catfooting a step at a time, he went on down. Peered around the corner, down the dungeon pa.s.sageway. He swallowed: the door to DeyMeox's cell stood open! So did Shemsi's. Tension leaped in him and he ran to check the cells. Both were empty.

Gelor cursed. What a fool he had been to a.s.sume that mere locks would hold these two-one a genius and the other at least super-bright!

Not too far off, female voices tinkled in laughter. The sound came from the far end of the pa.s.sage, where a second stair rose. With a care for quiet, he hurried to it. The stair led into the palace grounds and the door at the top was open. Gelor peered out to see his prisoners-ex-prisoners, he corrected bitterly. They were strolling casually through the gardens!

His natural impulse was to charge out and accost them. He stifled it. Better by far they not discover he knew they could get out of the cells. A change of locks? No. That would only set the precious pair to working on new plans. All right then, how do I control them?-rather, best control them!

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Obviously leg-chains or drugs would do the job. The trouble was that either would also reduce efficiency, at a time when he needed top performance.

It was a problem that made for a sleepless night.

By morning, however, he thought he had the answer. As a matter of fact he held it in his hand: the property of a deceased policer. A stopper. When he brought them out of their cells, he greeted them with a bow and a warm smile.

"You slept well, I trust, despite the . . . primitive accommodations?''

DeyMeox shrugged and looked away. Shemsi gave him a glance that came through as pure venom. Gelor kept right on smiling.

"As all three of us know, you are both highly intelligent and resourceful. That's why you're here. I needed top talent, not mere bodies."

The women made no comment.

"I recognize that there will be a temptation for you to try to escape," he went on in the same cheery tone. "What you need to understand is that any such effort will prove, I a.s.sure you, futile. Futile. Not, I hope, fatal." He smiled. "Shemsi, you lovely s.e.xy creature, how much experience have you had with stoppers?"

Shemsi remained silent.

"None, perhaps? Then it's time we broadened your education." He took out his weapon and displayed it. "I'm setting this at its middle level. It is called simply Two-or Dance. Let's use it to explore your terpsich.o.r.ean talent."

He squeezed the grip of the simple-looking cylinder.

Shemsi's eyes went wide, her face stiff and agonized. Her eyes distended and her whole body began to shiver, to twitch and jerk. Gelor let her hang so for perhaps fifteen sees before he eased up. The andrist's limbs were instantly limp. She crumpled, tears streaming.

"You see? You didn't realize you had such dancing ability, did you?" He moved his gaze to DeyMeox, thumbing the stopper down to One. "Mere dancing is beneath a crober's dignity, I think. You deserve a demonstration more in keeping with your status. A degree of statuesque 129.

poise, as it were." And he squeezed the stopper's rubbron grip. Hit with Freeze, DeyMeox stood as if carved in ice. A unique ice formation, however: it seemed to ripple in its tension. Again, fifteen secs. And again he deactuated the simple and fantastically effective little weapon. DeyMeox spilled to the floor as limply as had Shemsi. Fear gleamed in her eyes.

"That was setting One: Freeze," Gelor advised, in a conversational tone. "Stoppers have a third setting. It's called Fry, but regrettably I cannot demonstrate ... because you would be vaporized and I'd be without the help I need! You will just have to take my word that it is not as unpleasant as what you have experienced, but absolutely permanent-final.''

They stared at him. They believed. They knew.

Gelor sighed. "Naturally I regret that I have had to subject you to this ordeal. I knew of no other way to show you the problem that will arise should you decide to abandon our mutual project. Consider: all around our compound's walls I have had a series of stopper units mounted. Each is set in Three-Fry, that is. The pattern in which I arranged them is erratic. Please don't seek to approach the security barrier they provide. They will stop you, permanently. You will have delayed me, but not defeated me. I hope you'll agree that such a step isn't worth the sacrifice." Again he let them see his warm and friendly smile. "Now, ladies, shall we get to work?"

The look the two women exchanged gladdened Gelor's heart. Wordless, they settled to their tasks.

For DeyMeox, that meant preparing a sealed spore chamber in which to culture her deadly T6 fungus. She also set up a rank of temperature/humidity/pressure-stabilized two-step canisters. These were for the transportation of the lethal product to Eilong, for the murder of a planet.

Gelor found Shemsi's fabrication of the three dupladroids of more immediate interest. She began with the modeling of the ghastly Bleaker, Dravan.

A menacing figure, Dravan, with his blinded eye replaced by an ugly optic covered with a "blind" film, 130.

opaque to the viewer; the heat-scar he had chosen not to have removed, and his weighted glove and familiar grooved chest-dagger. Pirate, murderer, and s.a.d.i.s.t-not to mention raving mad, according to TGW's psychists. That in no way prevented the devil from being every bit as diabolically clever and as ruthless as any disciple of the legendary (?) cult of Kali, those devotees of death-dealing called thugs.

Gel Gelor held Dravan in high esteem for four good reasons.

First, he had vanished from the s.p.a.ceways a good seven years ago. The odds favored his being dead, naturally, though no one had proven it. Second, the very mention of his name was enough to strike terror into whole planetary populations. Deadly and unpredictable as he had proved himself in many a b.l.o.o.d.y fray, even the boldest rovers tended to feel a chill at thought of his possible reappearance. Third, because of Dravan's reputation and record, CongCorp would be disinclined to question any depredation-no matter how madly improbable or dangerous-so long as his imprimatur was on it.

Finally, Gelor had the full specifications from which to duplicate mad Dravan. TGW had shared them with CongCorp several years ago, when he had been held prisoner-briefly. ("Briefly" because Dravan the Marked had sliced three throats with a broken eyecorder case one dark night, and made his escape in a handsome and state-of-the-art-equipped TGW pinnace.) Today, watching the simulacrum taking shape under Shemsi's skilled touch, Gelor knew he had chosen well. Even fully conscious that he was looking at a simulacrum, a droid, he found the figure terrifying. CongCorp's reps would likely benasty their collective underwear when they faced it.

Gel Gelor went away smiling. Shemsi stared after him. She wasn't smiling.

Next day when he returned to find her at work she was entirely naked. Absolutely refused to wear that "filthy rag" any more, she snapped, without looking at him. Gelor didn't remind her that he popped their garments into 131.

the autocleaner every night, and provided them with smocks and nightgowns so that they could sleep clothed.

Instead, he used the stopper. After he'd executed the Setting-Two step for twenty secs, she was willing to put on the smock and return to work. Sullenly. Gelor went away looking triumphant.

Yet as the days pa.s.sed, he grew to feel a prisoner in his own palace. More and more his nerves were rasping raw. Tension kept rising in him and he was afraid to use any drug. Not with those two on the premises! Of course they were the source of the tension. The d.a.m.ned women. Now that their first fright had faded, they saw through his mask of menace. Sensed his weakness and tested him constantly. They knew he dared not kill them, at least not until their work was finished. So-they played with him.

Shemsi was worse. Teasing was her ploy. Her attire developed fascinatingly-located tears. Her smock dangled open; oh my, she had "forgotten" to sash it. First she would lead him on, then balk. When frustration sent him into a rage and he sought to force her, she gave in instantly, all warm flesh and simulated pa.s.sion . . . until the moment when he lurched into his panting climactic rush. Then somehow there was a twist or sag or sideward lurch that brought ecstasy crashing down to the ache of a spoiled, foiled spasm.

Twice he had thought a beating might cure that predilection in her. No; she trans.m.u.ted blows and stopper-Dance into vomiting, twitch-tics, and blind stagger-gropings. And she would shriek.

In consequence, the progress with the dupladroids was slow. Worse than slow. Endless new synthetics must be obtained; special tools became necessary. Plastiflesh became "unsatisfactory." Servoslaves were "clumsy" and Jasbiri supplies inadequate. Three body-torsion drives broke down. Or were they sabotaged by the lovely, brilliant . . . viper?

With DeyMeox the problem lay on a different level.

So far as Gelor could distinguish, she worked efficiently. On the other hand, her superior intellect kept creeping in.

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It was she who pointed out what should have been obvious to him from the beginning: it was not enough that he ravage Eilong with her mycotoxin. To sell the planet he must make it habitable again, afterward. He must clear it of Teratogenesis Six. Otherwise, no pregnant female could be safe on the planet, ever.

Developing such an ant.i.toxin would naturally involve research-time. Yet it had to be done. C-Corp's experts would demand a demonstrably effective countermeasure to the awful T6 fungus before they'd approve any deal.

Her forthrightness drew Gelor to her-while her ac.u.men made him edgy and worse. Though she lacked Shemsi's flowerlike beauty and sensuality, DeyMeox was not unattractive. He liked her clear-eyed frankness (which helped her look better). Stocky or no, the firmness of her spoke of robust good health. (And Gelor saw that they were all fed well. Better than well.) Even her short-cropped hair, in disarray any time she left her lab and stepped out into Jasbir's (created) breeze, tempted him to run his fingers through it.

He commenced to attend her more closely. To no avail- even a hand rested on her shoulder while she worked was enough to draw her eyes to him. Not in outrage, which would have been bearable, but in bemus.e.m.e.nt. That was worse than screams or curses. Once he tried to embrace her, to cup her breast. DeyMeox didn't say a word. She merely whipped a knee up into his groin.

He lurched away, groaning. DeyMeox returned to work.

"Each of us has private property, right?" she said over her shoulder, without even raising her voice. "These appurtenances are mine. I hope your appurtenances have learned that. Fondle your own."

He went away, and did. Fuming even while feeling sorry for himself. Shemsi and DeyMeox. Andrist and crober. Gelor came to hate them both.

Yet he could not dispense with either of them. Between them and his great dream of pelf and power, they had him hung on the horns of a dilemma so gut-piercing that he sometimes despaired, wondering if he could survive.

I will, he grimly a.s.sured himself, and mockingly bought 133.

a pair of thoroughly baggy, singularly unattractive khaki coveralls for each of his laboring geniuses. After that they wore nothing else. Mockingly?

Well, he would survive. Meanwhile he had business to conduct; business with giant, multiplanetary CongCorp. Dangerous business.

12.

Don't oppose forces; use them.

-Buckminster Fuller Jasbir. A pleasant green planet orbited by two moons, one settled, while the planet orbited its single sun, Huygens. The home world of Badakeacorp and perhaps the best calculators in the Galaxy; a world where government was no friend to the people. A world where slavery was entirely legal and integral to the planetary economy.

Question: How could a pirate s.p.a.cecraft dock at Jasbir-station when the Word was out on it?

It was a problem to ponder and Jesti pondered it. It was made harder because the CongCorp reader/coder had provided no further word on the mysterious Hajji Kalajji and his incredible offer to sell Eilong. What did come through were bloodcurdling indications that C-Corp had no intention of taking lightly the looting of its repair ship.

Despite the extreme unease their situation brought, Jestikhan Churt remained hardcore certain that all issues could be resolved once they reached Jasbir. It was simply a matter of staying loose and not getting fobbied. That state of mind plus the right combination of daring and skill-and luck-would accomplish all. He felt certain of it. A word had been applied to such a situation once long ago: Serendipity. That was the kind of break he needed now.

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The first step toward achieving it was to work out some means of transportation onto the station, onto the planet.

It was almost enough to make a man wish he were a s.p.a.cefarer stead of a miner-Durga forgive me for harboring such a thought!

He said words to that effect to the a.s.sembled complement of Slicer. Musla glowered and grunted. Tw.i.l.l.y tootle-wheeted, finger-flipped, and looked pointedly at Jesti's crotch. Yahna-in the interesting short tunic/dress she had made of a seafoam-green bedsheet-shot the purple man a glance that might have been a warning. The exception was Captain Hieronymus Jee.

The mantle of barely controlled rage he had wrapped around him when he had first learned of his brother's death seemed to have been doffed. Back were his black humor, the raised eyebrow, the sardonic twist of lip that characterized the Outie. He wore a Jesti-hued tunic over baggy yellow pants.

"Don't fret about Jasbir, Eilan. You'll like it. It's one of my truly favorite planets."

"Even with CongCorp and prob'ly TGW scanning for us all along the s.p.a.ceways?"

"That's their problem, not ours." Never had Hieri's smile been more urbane. Leaning forward, he noted telits and studied the screens above the control console. "Well, well . . . look at this!"

Leaning over his shoulder, Jesti studied the image that Hieri brought into better focus. It was without doubt the clumsiest-looking, scrungiest craft he had ever seen. An ancient ramscoop wallowing along through s.p.a.ce and time (a lot of time, that duck-billed platypus of the s.p.a.ceways!) for all the universe as if there were no hurry and no tomorrow anyhow.

Hieri was checking the craft's ID. "Effluvium III," he announced.

"Effluvium?" Jesti frowned. "Doesn't that mean something like garbage?"

"It means stinking mess," Hieri said cheerfully. "It's a conwaste carrier. Make it 'garbage scow' if you'd rather- 'conwaste' means contaminatory waste products. See, most 136.

trash can be converted, but with some you run into stuff that's too dangerous-poisons, toxins, super-pollutants. Those have to be shunted. Some suns don't care what gets dumped into their hearts."

"Uh," Jesti said, staring at the ramscoop s.p.a.cer. "So this rig carries that kind of, ah, cargo."

"Right. Headed for some nice stable star with no planets-a perfect dump. The ship's ideal for our purpose."

Jesti grinned. Serendipity! "Tell me about it, Captain!"

Hieri laughed aloud. "As you said, docking at Jasbir-station is hardly practical, in view of our popularity. So-we need alternative transport. There it is. Ole Fluve the third is our transportation!"

Jesti's smile was wry. "Sounds good so far. And-?"

Hieri spread his hands. "We're pirates, remember? So this time we pull a really low-profit s.n.a.t.c.h-we pirate a garbage scow!"

While Musla snorted a laugh, Jesti said, "And dock it at Jasbirstation?"

"Negatory. Conwaste carriers can't dock there. Jasbir's moon Ruby is settled, and they have special loading ports for ... garbage scows. If Effluvium's empty, we go in to Ruby asking for a load of sludge. If it's full-we pretend it isn't!" Hieri adjusted his screen. "Shuttles run down to Jasbir from Ruby, see. Once we've taken over Fluve, we've got easy pa.s.sage."

"Uh . . . Cap'm," Musla said, obviously thinking. "We could get in trouble if we take a loaded ship onto Ruby or if we're off schedule or somethin'. Why not report a problem on, uh, Effluvy, an' limp into Ruby for repairs?"

"Give that man a diamond from the heart of a dead star!" Hieri called, still working oncon. "Great idea. Fluve's crew will play it our way too, because we'll pay 'em off. If TGW ever asks any questions, they can claim we held 'em hostage. Who'd try to resist a mean-looking bunch like us?"

Jesti asked, "What about Slicer?''

"No prob. We'll make the pickup in open s.p.a.ce, then move Slicer to The Sponge till we need it again."

"The Sponge?"

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