Drifter's War (11 page)

The lights said to wait, said that the time would come, but Wexel-15 had his doubts. The lights might be more intelligent than the heavies, but they were intellectually constipated as well, and had a tendency to dither rather than act.

The truth was that no one knew much about the Il Ronnians— except that they had dropped out of the sky, enslaved the population, and systematically stolen everything in sight. And were still at it. The Lords had known many things and the Il Ronnians wanted that knowledge.

God was surely displeased but had yet to express that anger. And what, outside of divine intervention, could stop them?

So Wexel-15 did as he was told, nodded obediently when the Sand Sept trooper told him to return in four rals, and joined the other heavies as they streamed down toward the temple below. Already stripped of the life murals that had once graced its walls, and defaced with illegible alien graffiti, the temple stood as a mute reminder of how helpless they were.

A shadow passed over him and Wexel-15 knew without looking that it was an Il Ronnian flying machine. Ominous things that hovered over the work parties, patrolled the streets, or simply sat while their weapons probed the air for enemies.

Wexel-15 joined the line that snaked toward the temple's entrance. A light stood in front of him. She was slender like all of her kind and a good four inches taller than Wexel-15. She had six fingers instead of his four and wore a long flowing cloak.

The female was subtle about it, but Wexel-15 noticed the care with which she separated herself from both him and the heavy directly in front of her. Lights avoided physical contact with heavies whenever they could. They claimed it was part of their basic programming but the heavies didn't believe it.

Wexel-15 moved closer and watched her shoulders tense.

The line moved in fits and starts, halting occasionally when someone crowded in, then starting again. Finally, after ten laks or so, Wexel-15 approached the entrance. A male light, his skin glowing pink, held a tray.

The female light paused, took one of hundreds of shiny black disks from the tray, and pressed it to her forehead. It stayed as if glued in place. She moved ahead.

Wexel-15 took her place, selected a disk, and slapped it into place.

The door was tall and thin like those who had designed it. Though the light in front of him entered without difficulty the door frame brushed both of Wexel-15's massive shoulders.

He entered an enormous room. Row upon row of ornate benches filled the hall. The lights were bunched together toward the front of the room with heavies pressed in all around them. The lights were visibly annoyed.

Wexel-15 felt no desire to participate in the game and chose the nearest seat. His back hurt where it pressed against cold stone. The injury mattered very little. The pain and all signs of tissue damage would be gone by tomorrow.

The lights referred to the building as a "temple" but no one knew what it was for sure. The Lords had been fond of grandiose architecture and it was hard to tell which structures had been important and which were overdecorated.

But God had been known to speak within this particular building, when he felt like it, which was very seldom. The last pronouncement had come seventeen dars ago, long before the alien invasion, and had concerned itself with impending geological activity in the southern hemisphere.

The entire population of lights and heavies had been evacuated from that region and many versions had been saved. The ensuing earthquakes had destroyed much of city twelve and most of city thirteen. Now both castes came to gathering after gathering, uncertain about what to do, hoping for divine guidance.

Fifteen laks passed before a wizened old light appeared, held up his hands, and delivered the traditional invocation.

"We are constructs, Lord, and seek your guidance. Speak to us that we might know your will and act accordingly."

God came with a powerful suddenness. Wexel-15 felt himself transported as waves of pleasure rippled through his body. The sensation was like that of an orgasm only much more powerful. It lasted for an entire lak. Then it was gone and the voice of God flowed into their minds.

"Greetings, constructs. Listen carefully for there is little time. The invaders have the means to detect our communications and are headed this way. My instructions are as follows:

"As with evil, salvation shall fall from the sky, and wear strange skins. Take salvation into your homes and ask for guidance. But know this: Nothing comes from nothing and the slowest shall lead."

God's words still echoed in Wexel-15's head when fifteen or twenty Sand Sept troopers poured into the hall and took up positions along the walls. There was silence for a moment. Then Wexel-15 heard a rustling toward the back of the room and turned to see what caused it.

The Il Ronnian leader, and given the deference shown him there was little doubt about his status, was smaller than most members of his race. He wore the long red cape of the Ilwik, or warrior-priest, and a uniform under that. He paused for a moment, allowed his eyes to roam the audience, and walked toward the front of the hall. His hooves made a clacking sound on the ancient pavement.

The Il Ronnian stopped next to a female heavy, pried the disk off her forehead, and held it up to the light. The device glittered with reflected light as he turned it this way and that. His voice boomed through the translator that rode perched on his left shoulder.

"And what have we here? A silly bauble, empty of all meaning, or something more significant?"

The Il Ronnian did something with his thumb and the disk flipped end over end to land in an alert noncom's hand.

"Check on it, Reeg. I will want a full report."

Reeg signaled assent with his tail and tucked the disk into his belt pouch.

The alien took three steps up onto the low stage, turned to face his audience, and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Always take the high ground" is an ancient military axiom familiar to soldiers of every race. But it had special meaning for Teex. Even as a youngster his playmates had called him "Shorty" and he never missed an opportunity to even things up.

"I am Quarter Sept Commander Teex." His eyes gleamed as he surveyed the crowd. "Which one of you will tell me what this is all about?"

Silence.

Teex rocked back and forth. His hooves ground against the pavement. "I see. Well, we have ways to handle situations like this. Trooper Leev!"

One of the troopers who lined the walls raised his weapon and aimed it at the audience. Wexel-15 saw a red circle appear on the male seated directly in front of him. It illuminated the entire right side of the construct's head.

Teex pointed at him. His finger quivered slightly. "Speak! Why are you here?"

Maybe a light would've known what to say, and thought fast enough to say it, but the heavy never stood a chance. He had just started to generate a response when the high-velocity slug hit the side of his head, passed through it, and killed the construct seated on his left as well.

Blood and brain tissue exploded in every direction. Some of it splattered onto Wexel-15's face.

He never did know why he did what he did, and could never remember a conscious decision to do it, but Wexel-15 stood, uttered a roar of outrage, and charged. Benches went down and constructs fell. Wexel-15 was determined to reach Trooper Leev and crush all life from his body. He never made it.

Other heavies rose around him, their roars of outrage echoing his, and took the bullets directed at him.

The Sand Sept troopers opened up with automatic weapons. Dozens of heavies stumbled and fell. But others rose to fill the gaps and the Il Ronnians staggered under a wall of solid flesh.

The aliens were skilled in a martial art called "Infala," or "personal death," but the heavies weighed three hundred pounds apiece and were unbelievably strong. Weapons fell silent as flesh thudded against flesh, bones cracked, and alien screams filled the air.

Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the battle was over. Teex and his personal bodyguard had withdrawn, bodies lay everywhere, and dazed constructs stood looking around. A full lak passed in silence. An elderly heavy named Lebar-6 was the first to speak.

"What shall we do now?"

A light named Issara-22 answered. She was tall, slender, and almost regal in the way that she held herself. "The aliens will be angry. Those who took part in the killing must surrender themselves for the greater good. The rest have nothing to fear."

There was a moment of silence while the heavies processed that. They were slow, but it didn't take very much intelligence to realize that while most of the heavies had taken part in the battle, none of the lights had.

Lebar-6 spoke once again. He ignored Issara-22's comment as though it had never been spoken. "Wexel-15 led us. What does he say?"

Wexel-15 was surprised to have the mantle of leadership thrust upon him, but had been thinking of what to do, and the words tumbled out.

"We have learned something here. The aliens die just as we do. Go to the country. Hide. Wait for instructions."

Issara-22 raised her voice in protest, and other lights did likewise, but to no avail.

Within seconds the heavies had streamed out into the gathering darkness and disappeared.

When Teex returned with a hundred heavily armed Sand Sept troopers, the lights were still there, discussing how stupid the heavies were and professing their innocence.

Teex ordered them to remove the Il Ronnian dead and prepare their bodies for burial. The lights were unused to such heavy labor but obeyed nonetheless. The aliens were understandably angry and some form of punishment was to be expected.

Then, when the constructs had finished and were lined up before him, Teex shot them. He used his own handgun and did it one at a time. Their bodies were hung upside down in the square for all to see.

Wexel-15 didn't know it yet… but he had declared war on the entire Il Ronnian empire.

9

Lando awoke to the pitter-patter of rain on his face. Just a drop or two at first but that soon changed. Suddenly the rain came down hard and fast, soaking his blanket and flooding the mossy growth that served as his mattress.

They'd been in hyperspace for five days now, and with the exception of Cy, the rest of them slept in the drifter's nest-beds. Lando's was located within a grove of the strange two-trunked trees only a foot or so from Della's. He sat up, wiped rain from his face, and looked around.

"What the heck's going on?"

Della was in the process of getting up. Her hair was wet and hung in dark ringlets around her face. She pointed off to one side. "I don't know… but look at that!"

Lando looked, saw an empty nest-bed, and didn't understand what Della meant until he realized that this one was completely dry! The rainstorm was confined to an area about twelve by twelve feet in size!

Della stood, stepped away from her bed, and held her hands palms up. Nothing. She looked at Lando and raised an eyebrow.

The smuggler rolled to his knees and stood. The rain stopped.

There was a rustling sound and Cap appeared. His clothes were soaked and he was clearly annoyed. "What's going on around here?"

Lando smoothed wet hair into place and tightened his ponytail. "My thoughts exactly. Did the rain seem to concentrate on your beds?"

Melissa appeared from behind her father. She wore a big grin. "It sure did! Weird, huh? What does it mean?"

What indeed? Lando looked around. Tendrils of vapor floated up from the recently dampened ground. He shrugged.

"I don't know. Unless it's the ship's way of getting our attention. Let's find Cy and see if he knows what's going on."

The others nodded their agreement and followed Lando back toward the control room. Cy had been trying to reestablish communications with the drifter ever since their unexpected departure. But the ship couldn't or wouldn't reply.

The others had been angry with the cyborg at first, chiding him for the experiments that led to their present predicament, and using him as an outlet for their considerable frustration.

Cap had been especially upset, pointing out that the drifter had been their only source of leverage, and the only thing of value they had left.

But leverage and money didn't seem quite so important anymore. Larger issues confronted them now. Like where was the ship taking them? Could they find a way to get off? And how would they return from wherever they were?

Besides, it was hard to stay mad at the little cyborg for very long. He was so sorry, and so miserable, that even Cap was forced to accept his apologies.

"Pik! Look!"

Lando turned. The forest was almost completely dark. Whatever planet the biosphere was modeled on, assuming there was one, had enjoyed long days and short nights. Nights during which it never became truly dark. Now almost total darkness had fallen over the forest. Why?

Della met Lando's eye. "Something or somebody wants us to leave."

Lando shrugged. "Not too subtle, huh? Well, we wanted to get off. This could be our chance."

"Yeah," Cap put in. "But how? We were in hyperspace last I heard."

The momentary nausea came right on cue, as if the ship were listening and had reacted to Cap's words.

The humans paused to look at each other. "I don't like this," Della said, her hand straying to the slug gun at her waist.

"Neither do I," Lando agreed. "Come on. The darkness is closing in on us."

They walked faster and darkness nipped at their heels. It had edged around the group by now, and slid along both sides, so that a tunnel of light led them toward the lock. They entered and the hatch closed behind them.

It took two minutes for the lock to cycle open. Cy was waiting for them. He bobbed up and down with worry and concern.

"There you are! Thank Sol! I tried to come after you but the ship wouldn't let me. I couldn't get the lock to open."

Lando nodded. "Yeah, we ran into the same sort of thing. It seems as if we have B O or something. Have you got any idea what's going on? We felt a hyperspace shift a few moments ago."