Earthblood (14 page)

"Henry Dread," he called, hearing the words emerge as a croak.

"Wait, Roan. Somebody come . . ."

There were metallic sounds in the corridor; a splash of light glared suddenly; long shadows crouched away from the door that swung wide, and a tall, broad figure stood squinting into the room.

"You yelling for me, were you, boy? Hey—on your feet already—?"

"You chained Iron Robert. You didn't keep your word."

"Henry Dread always keeps his word, you . . . !" The Man's wide shape seemed to blur; Roan blinked hard, wavered, caught himself.

"Unchain him. He's my friend . . . !"

"You better crawl back in that bunk, boy; you're raving! I'm captain aboard this vessel; you're a slave of war. I let the sawbones patch you up, but don't let it go to your head . . ."

Roan advanced toward Henry Dread on uncertain feet.

"Unchain him, liar! Keep your word, murderer!"

Henry Dread's eyes narrowed. "Why, you lousy little—" Roan lunged, and Henry Dread leaped back, jerked his pistol from his hip holster and aimed it. Iron Robert came to his feet in a clash of chain.

"I'm aiming this right between your eyes, Terry boy," Henry said between his teeth. "One more step, and so help me I burn you down."

"I don't care about that," Roan said, taking a step. "That isn't anything."

"No, Roan!" Iron Robert boomed. "You do like Henry Dread say now, Roan!" Roan tried to take another step, but the floor tilted and he gritted his teeth, and willed himself not to fall, willed the blackness to retreat . . .

"I wear chains for you, Roan. You do this for me."

"Kid, you're crazy . . . !" Henry Dread's voice barked. "You'll kill yourself!"

"You wait, Roan," Iron Robert said. "Later, when you get well, then you have chance to kill this one."

Henry Dread laughed, a harsh snarl. "Yeah, listen to your sidekick, kid. You kill me when you feel better."

Then the shadows moved and the light narrowed down and was gone in a clang of metal, and Roan sank down, groped, found the bed, fell across it.

"He's a Man, Iron Robert. A Terry—almost like me. But he's not like Dad said the Terries were."

"Henry Dread might scared Man, Roan," Iron Robert rumbled softly. "And maybe he not such mean Man like he make out. He come plenty quick, first time you call. Maybe Henry Dread wait outside, hope you call his name. Maybe Henry Dread plenty lonely Man, Roan . . ."

The bars welded across the doorframe of the warhead storage room were as thick as Roan's wrist and close together. He leaned on the mop and looked through the bars at Iron Robert, who sat on a duralloy slab that sagged under his weight, almost invisible in the shadows of the lightless cell.

"The Minid they call Snaggle-head is the worst," Roan said. "He's about seven feet tall and he smells like a Charon's mud-hive. Yesterday he tripped me and I almost fell down the aft companionway." Iron Robert's chains clanked. Roan could see his small eyes gleam. "You be careful, Roan. You don't let riffraff get you mad. You do like I say; wait."

"I don't want to wait. Why should I wait? I—"

"You wait cause you got plenty bad burns, not healed up yet. You want to get crippled for life? You wait, don't pay mind to anybody teases you."

"I do mind, though. I know which ones I'm going to kill first, just as soon as—"

"Roan, you stop that fool talk, you remember how you promise to do like I say."

"I'll keep my promise. Just because Henry Dread's word is no good doesn't mean I'm a promise-breaker, too."

"You wait a minute, Roan, you too much angry against Henry Dread. He keep promise, all right. He say you and me, he won't kill us. Well—both of us alive, all right."

"I'm going to tell him if he doesn't free you, I'll steal a gun the first chance I get and kill him."

"You do that, you big fool, Roan. I don't mind sit here in dark, rest. Not much rest for me, long time. I sit and think about old days, back home, time Iron Robert young being, have plenty fun. I got pretty good eidetic recall, remember all smells, tastes, sounds, faces. Sure, I got plenty good memories, Roan. First time I got time really look at them good."

"You're stronger than any of them—" Roan took a breath and made his voice angry to cover up the break. "You let them chain you, you big dumb hunk of scrap-iron—"

Iron Robert rumbled a laugh. "Plenty easy sit here with chains on. Tough for you, Roan, have to stay outside and let Snaggle-head push you round. But you show you got brains, Roan. You stay quiet, you wait. One day you heal up good, then maybe we see."

Roan looked along the corridor. A hatch clanged as three Minid crewmen emerged from a cargo hold.

"Well, you'll get a chance to see how they operate now, Iron Robert." Roan felt his throat turn dry. "You'll see how much good ignoring them does."

"OK, Roan, you go now, quick, don't have to wait for herd of mud-pigs—"

"I'll take it without hitting back," Roan said between his teeth. "But I won't run from them, I don't care what you say." He began working the mop, eyes on the floor.

The leading crewman hooked his thumbs in his sagging pistol belt and started toward Roan, laying a trail of oily sandal prints across the shiny expanse of freshly scrubbed floor. He had thick bowed legs and a hairless skull and there were wide gaps in the row of spade-shaped bluish teeth he was showing in what might have been a grin. Three loops of rough-cut yellow jewels hung against a grimy gold-braided tunic. He stopped two yards from Roan, plucked a dope stick from a breast pocket, bit off the cap and spat it on the floor, sniffed it appreciatively with wide nostrils, and said:

"Hey, boys, looky what's here . . ." He pointed with the dope stick, his wide mouth forming a loose-lipped O of mock amazement. "What is it, a itty bitty baby boy playin' like a growed-up Geek?"

"Naw, it's a cute little pansy-pants, talking to its sweety through the bars," a second crewman offered. "It thinks that rusted-out Freak is mighty sexy—"

"Hey, don't talk dirty in front of it," another said. "It might learn a dirty word and use it in front of its mama and get 'panked."

"Always thought old Henry wasn't as tough as some thought," Snaggle-head stated. "Now he's got hisself a play-dolly." He chuckled, a sound like gas escaping from a sewer. "Next thing, Old Cap'n'll get hisself a little Terry bitch and start in breedin' 'em." He haw-hawed, hawked, spat on the floor at Roan's feet. Roan stopped mopping, stood looking at the wide mural on the lounge wall, with its audio-vision of a rolling seascape. In the silence the crash and hiss of breakers was loud. Snaggle-head chuckled again, took a final puff, and dropped the dope stick on the floor.

". . . but I notice he still don't trust him far; not since he held that gun on his belt buckle. I think his little pet plumb scared him that time—" Casually, Roan slapped the wet mop across Snaggle-head's sandal; the big crewman jumped back with a yell, stamping his wet foot against the deck. The grin had vanished from the loose mouth; the other crewmen watched with bright, interested eyes. Snaggle-head drew his massive head down close to his burly shoulders. His mouth was open, his brow creased in a black frown.

Ignoring him, Roan thrust the wet end of the mop into the filter unit, watched the rollers close and open, went on with his mopping. Snaggle-head stepped in front of him; his grimy finger prodded Roan's chest. Roan looked into the oversized face, spotted here and there with coarse hairs sprouting from inflamed warty blemishes.

"What you think you're lookin' at, punk?"

"It looks like the hind end of a crundle-beast," Roan said clearly, "only hairier."

The coarse face tightened; the finger jabbed again, hard. "You take a lot of chances, softie—"

"Whatever it is, I'll remember it," Roan continued. "Some day I'll put my foot in it."

Snaggle-head's eyes narrowed. "It's a mean-talking one," he said softly.

"Too bad it ain't got the guts to back up the talk." The heavy hand swung in a short arc, slammed Roan's head against the metal bulkhead. He staggered, caught himself with the unbandaged arm, shook his head to clear it.

"Is that . . . the best you can do?" he asked blurrily. "I guess you're scared to get too rough; there's only three of you . . ."

The crewman shook clawed hands, palms up, under Roan's nose.

"One of these days, pansy, I'll put the thumbs in, where it counts. I'll put

'em in till the blood squirts—"

Roan looked into the pale eyes. "You will, eh? You think Henry Dread will let you?"

The wide mouth dropped open. The pasty face turned a dull pink. "Whatta I care about Henry Dread? As soon as I get ready to croak you, rube, you'll know it—and to the Nine Hells with Henry Dread."

"Careful," Roan said, nodding toward the others, "they're listening."

"Huh?" The heavy head swiveled quickly to look at the two crewmen. They looked at the ceiling.

"All right, you slobs. Let's get moving. We ain't got all day to gab with sissy-britches here." The two filed past in silence.

"I'll get to you later, cull," the lead crewman grated.

"Roan," Iron Robert's voice rumbled from the cell. "You got to learn keep mouth shut sometimes. That space rat hurt you much?"

"He didn't hurt me." Roan's face was white in the gloom.

"You not be so dumb, you not talk back, you don't get hit."

"It's worth it."

"Maybe some day he get really mad, hit too hard."

"He hasn't got much of a punch."

"Maybe he got better punch than you think. Maybe what you said not so far off true."

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe Henry Dread better friend than you think, Roan. I think he tell all Gooks and Geeks, hands off human boy. I think he have plans in mind for you, Roan."

The surgeon clicked his lipless mandibles, peeling off the protective film under which the burns on Roan's shoulder and arm had been healing for many weeks.

"Eh, pretty, very pretty! Pink and new as a fresh-hatched suckling! There'll be no scars to mar that smooth hide!"

"Ouch!" Roan said. "That hurts."

"Ignore it, youngling," the surgeon said absently, working Roan's elbow joint. He nodded to himself, tried the wrist, then the fingers.

"All limber enough; now rise your limb here." He indicated shoulder level. Roan lifted his arm, wincing. The surgeon's horny fingers went to the shoulder joint, prodding and kneading.

"No loss of tone there," the surgeon muttered. "Bend over, stretch your back . . ."

Roan bent, twisted, working the shoulder, stretching the newly healed burns. Sweat popped out on his forehead.

"At first it may feel as though the skin is tearing open," the surgeon said.

"But it's nothing."

Roan straightened. "I'll try to remember that."

The surgeon was nodding, closing his instrument case. "You'll soon regain full use of the limb. Meanwhile, the hide is tender, and there'll be a certain stiffness in the joints—"

"Can I—ah—do heavy work now?"

"In moderation. But take care: I've no wish to see my prize exhibit damaged." The surgeon rubbed his hard hands together with a chirruping sound. "Wait until Henry Dread sees this," he cackled. "Calls me a Geek, does he? Threatens to put me out the air lock, eh? But where would he ever find another surgeon of my skill?" He darted a final, sharp glance of approval at Roan and was gone. Roan pulled his tunic over his head, buckled his belt in place, and stretched his arms gingerly. There was a wide header over the doorway. He went to it, grasped it, and pulled himself up carefully. The sensation reminded him of a Charon he had seen stripping hide from a dead gracyl . . . but the injured arm held his weight. He dropped back and went out into the corridor. There was a broken packing case in a reclamation bin in the corner. Roan wrenched a three-foot length of tough, blackish inch-thick wood from it. He looked toward the bright-lit intersection of the main concourse. A steward in soiled whites waddled past on bowed legs, holding a tray up on a stumpy arm. Henry Dread and his officers would be drinking in the wardroom now. It was as good a time as any . . .

Roan turned and followed the dull red indicator lights toward the lower decks.

He was in a narrow corridor ill lit by grimed-over glare panels. Voices yammered nearby: shouts, snarls, a drunken song, a bellow of anger; the third watch break hour was underway in the crew quarters. Roan hefted the skrilwood club. It was satisfactorily heavy.

Feet clumped in the cross-corridor ten feet away. Roan ducked into a side passage, flattened himself, watched two round-backed barrel-chested humanoids high-step past on unshod three-toed feet, bells tied to their leg lacings jingling at each step. When they had passed, he emerged, following the tiny green numbers that glowed over doors, found one larger than the others. Roan listened at the door; there was a dull mumble of voices. He slid the panel aside, stepped in; it was a barracks, and he wrinkled his nose at the thick fudgy odor of unwashed bedding, alien bodies, spilled wine, decay. A narrow, littered passage led between high bunks. A dull-eyed Chronid looked up at him from an unkempt bed. Roan went past, stepped over scattered boots, empty bottles, a pair of six-toed feet in tattered socks sprawling from a rump-sprung canvas chair. Halfway along the room, four large Minids crouched on facing benches, bald heads together. They looked up. One of them was Snaggle-head.

He gaped; then his wide lips stretched in a cold grin. He thrust aside a leather wine mug, wiped his mouth with the back of a thick, square hand, got to his feet. He reached behind his back, brought out a knife with an eighteen-inch blade, whetted it across his bare forearm.

"Well, looky what's got loose from its string—" he started.

"Don't talk," Roan said. "Fight." He stepped in and feinted with the club and Snaggle-head stepped heavily back, snorting laughter.

"Hey, looks like baby face got hold of some strong sugar-mush." He looked around at the watchers. "What'll we do with him, fellers—" But Roan's club was whistling and Snaggle-head jerked back with a yell as the wood smacked solidly against his ribs. He brandished the knife, leaped across a fallen bench; Roan whirled aside, slammed the club hard against the Minid's head. The crewman stumbled, roaring, rounded on Roan, a line of thick blackish blood inching down his leathery neck. He lunged again and Roan stepped back and brought the club down square across the top of the bald skull. Snaggle-head wheeled, kicked the bench aside, took up a stance with his feet wide, back bent, arms spread, the blade held across his body. He dashed blood away from his eyes.