A large anthology of sci.., p.632
A Large Anthology of Science Fiction, page 632
‘According to survey, there’s no dangerous life on this planet,’ said Needle.
‘Maybe they weren’t here when we arrived,’ said Bors. ‘I wish that biologist girl had survived.’
‘Yes?’
‘These look too much like bulls. Earth bulls. Or what a life plant could produce from bull germ if something went wrong.’
‘Hell!’ screeched Perry from the door. ‘Guinevere’s plant must have been messed up in the crash. That’s why the women didn’t get to us! These things must’ve wiped them out!’
‘Shut up, Perry! A few bulls don’t wipe out armed people, women or not.’ But his heart tightened in fear for Barbara, and his face stiffened at the agony in the faces around.
He found the right thing to say. ‘We don’t know what happened, but there’s no reason to think it’s bad. We’ll find out first thing in the morning. Obviously it’d be suicide to go to Guinevere in the dark. Needle, I think we’ll have half-a-dozen guards here. See they have grenades.’
In the morning, thirty or so fit men packed the common room listening to Bors. ‘Gentlemen, we’re going to Guinevere to see what’s up and get those watchbirds called in. Because of them, only one man can go at a time. Because we have no vehicles, he’ll have to go through the bush on foot.’
Faces paled, twisted, gasped. Glancing over them in sick scorn, Bors saw how many of these coneys from the warrens of overbuilt Earth had never seen open sky, let alone bush.
‘Who’s had outdoor experience?’
Nine.
‘You are all volunteers? Line up. Needle has some straws.’
Duncan, the nasty little cock sparrow who drew the short straw, smirked. ‘I’ll save some of the girls for you mugs.’
‘Y’re wasting y’time,’ said a man called Leather. ‘They’re all bloody Simonettes anyway.’
‘What are they?’ murmured a Martian voice.
‘Simonettes: ain’t y’got ’em on Mars? They’re all over Earth. Sheilas what won’t have men. They ’ave kids parthcn-o-genetically . . .’
A condescending voice explained: ‘They use Simon’s technique to conceive without insemination. It’s not so much that they object to men: they don’t like the ban on having children on Earth . . .’
‘That’s right. But most of them are anti-man too; they reckon the only good husband’s a henpecked one.’
‘Gee,’ murmured the Martian.
‘Y’d better watch out,’ grated Leather, ‘or one’ll marry yer.’
Salter exercises or no, Bors was suddenly back on Primavera, four years ago, at that party where Barbara had talked about Tim. And forgotten what she was saying . . . ‘I kissed her where she stood,’ he whispered to the cobber.
Chaff flew round Duncan’s smirk until Bors rescued him for briefing. Noble in the silver of a space suit worn for armour and hung with weapons, he listened.
‘Set your radio on send,’ Needle said at last. ‘Leave it on and talk to us all the way. The radar’s smashed, so this is the only way we can keep track of you. Give us a running account as you go. What you tell us will help the next man.’
‘Can’t I fly in this thing?’
‘They’re designed to fly in space,’ Needle told him. ‘That doesn’t need much power. They don’t push hard enough or long enough to fly in air. If you need to, you can make a few long jumps, and that’ll just about use up the fuel. Keep it for an emergency.’
‘We’ll be sending a man after you every half hour,’ Bors broke in. ‘That’ll space you far enough apart to keep the watchbirds quiet. Good luck.’
Outside the breach, Bors, Needle, and the eight others who dared to stand under the open sky, watched him go. The little knight in armour walked steadily towards the horizon.
‘Hurry up, squirt,’ someone called. ‘If they’re as hot as we are, they’ll be making their own men by now.’
‘Their plant won’t produce men,’ someone scoffed. ‘It’ll produce better than we’re sending.’
Bors went quickly into the ship. One hand muffled his cobber’s sickly moaning.
Duncan’s comments, piped through the intercom, went steadily on while Bors and Needle looked at the bodies of last night’s beasts.
‘All these colonists are supposed to be stuffed with every useful skill, aren’t they?’ Bors complained. ‘Surely someone knows enough histology or anatomy to tell us if these are Earth stock.’
‘Nobody seems to. They certainly look like adapted bulls.’
‘C’mon, we’ll open one up. We should be able to spot anything grossly different.’
Needle shrugged, went out, returned with two cook’s knives.
‘I think we’ll make one across the belly and one straight up,’ Bors said.
‘Yep.’
From the wall, Duncan’s voice said, ‘Smooth going. Nothing but birds and small animals.’
With fingers hooked over the slimy edge of a flap, Bors struggled to pull the skin back, while on the other side Needle balanced his efforts. The stubborn skin peeled back at last, and they began to hack through the revealed muscles.
‘Steady going,’ said Duncan.
With more hacking and sweating, layers of tissue reluctantly parted and opened.
‘Looks ordinary enough,’ Needle said across the slimy huddle of organs, grey, pink, purple.
‘Well, let’s see. One heart, two lungs, two kidneys. Stomach, intestines. That’s the end of my knowledge. I can’t see anything wrong with the general scheme.’
‘It could still be a native,’ said Needle. ‘We might have missed a dozen details that make it different from Earth stock.’
‘Yes. Just the same, I can’t imagine the original survey missing animals as big and plentiful as these. And they’re too much like hulls for it to be a coincidence.’
‘Except for the claws instead of hoofs, and being so damn big, they are bulls, detail for detail.’
‘Mm. Well, let’s get clean, Needle. It’s time for the hoys to draw straws again.’
The second man went out as dourly as now-distant Duncan.
Restless among excited men who listened to reports of steady going from both knights errant, Bors patrolled the broken ship with Needle.
Under the rosy light of day, or huddled inside, the colonists talked lust, girls, the future, girls . . .
‘No one thinks the women are dead,’ said Needle. Thinking in agony of Barbara, Bors did.
They were checking Perry, snoring full of trank in his bunk, when Duncan’s voice turned to a grunt in mid-word, and stopped for good. A moment later even the hum of his carrier wave died.
All smiles ceased. When Bors went among the men again, the flushed faces only muttered.
Things got better. The second man was moving faster than Duncan had, and the ship yelled when he shot down a bull beast which rushed him as he was wading a stream. By the time the seven men filed past Needle to draw straws for the third sortie, they were joking again.
‘Don’t bother about straws, send us in order of eagerness.’
‘Yeah, send Schulzie, he’s the randiest.’
The third man went out.
No message or aircraft came from Guinevere. The watchbirds hovered.
The second man called back when he found the wreckage of Duncan, and was killed soon after, perhaps by the same beast.
‘We aren’t going to make it this way,’ said Bors. ‘I’ll call back the third one.’
‘If we can. He’s gone silent too.’
When Bors called, whimpering answered him.
‘It’s too big, it’s too open, it’s too bright.’
‘Pull yourself together! You’ve had outside experience.’
‘Only repairing the roof. It used to be smooth to stand on, and we had suits, and safety lines, and kept in pairs. It’s all rough. I keep falling over. There aren’t any colour tracks to follow . . .’ They heard the sobbing of a lost child.
‘Citizens, listen!’ Deliberately loud, Bors called the words which introduced public announcements in the tunnels of Earth. The sobbing stopped. ‘Get up and come back. You’ll be safe here with us. Get up and come back. Turn round till your compass reads fifty. Got it? Now walk straight ahead.’
Needle was struggling into a suit. ‘I’ll go and lead him back.’
‘I can’t get up. I fall down every time . . .’ The child went on sobbing. A brave citizen had found adventure and romance in the stars.
The child screamed through sudden scrapings and animal snarls. The radio died.
Bors forced himself back to work. ‘How many sets of gear are left?’
‘Three, plus some the boys are repairing,’ Needle gulped. ‘We’ll have to see someone with real experience gets the next set.’
‘We’ll have to do more than that. What about increasing the flying power?’
‘Try.’
‘And see if we can knock down that watchbird.’ Needle shrugged. ‘In a few days maybe. There’s too little power and too little left of our control circuits to take it over. All our missiles are damaged.’
‘Get on to the suits.’
The glowing noon of Amor warmed the dull wreck of the Lancelot.
In his cabin, Bors tried to write up the log. ‘Barbara, Barbara, I don’t even think she’s alive,’ he told Tim. The golden cobber whimpered and shuffled as its empathy picked up his pain.
‘Have to sit here doing nothing, while these fellers get killed.’
Tim moaned.
‘I didn’t sign on to send out suicides every hour on the hour. I signed on to command a ship, command a colony. Not sit in the middle of this mess.’
He stabbed the desk with his pen, and began to pace the cabin. ‘If these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the king that led them to it . . . surely an armed man ought to get past those bulls.’
He soothed Tim with a hand . . . The other touched the intercom switch. ‘Ask Needle to come to my cabin.’
‘Barbara, Barbara, Barbara.’ He slapped the bulkhead while the cobber growled. ‘While these fools muck around . . . Self done is well done.’
‘We’ll stop picking straws,’ he told Needle. ‘I’m going next.’
‘Can’t do it Bors. You’re the commander. You’ve got to see us through this. It’s not your job to go out scrapping.’
‘It’s not my job to wave goodbye while these blokes go off to be killed, Needle.’
‘But we’re all taking our chance. You’ll get your turn.’
‘As you say, I’m the commander. It’s my turn now because I say so. I’m one of the few trained fighters on this ship, and I’m not sitting back while these damned clerks and farmers do the fighting.’
‘Bors, you’re not that good . . . and we need you. Let’s stop sending people for a while until we’re sure they’ll get there. I’ve got a crew rigging extra power units on the suits so we can fly right up to the eight kilometre mark and still have reserve power. They won’t have to start walking until they get in range of the watchbirds. Means they’ll only have to fight over the last eight.’
‘Good. See there’s one ready for me in ten minutes.’
‘Bors you can’t!’
‘I can’t sit!’ Bors shouted in a rage so unusual that Needle was merely surprised. ‘I’m away, Needle. I’m outward bound. I’m getting some action.’
Needle went out. Bors stroked the tense cobber vigorously. Tim squealed enthusiasm.
‘It’s all right Tim. We’re getting out of here and going to Barbara.’ He thought he had finished speaking, but heard his voice go on: ‘I’m running out.’
Ten metres up, he flew steadily north-east. If he flew higher he would see Guinevere, but climbing wasted power, and took time.
The sun was low, reluctantly rouging the face of the land. Twice it showed him beasts stirring, and he shot the second as it ran across a meadow.
‘Quiet, Tim,’ he told the jubilant cobber, squirming between his chest and the suit. He was not going to turn aside, but he would have liked to examine the last beast. It was strangely shaped, as much man as bull, a Minotaur.
‘The plant must have been programmed again,’ he told Needle.
‘Well, it means they’re alive! They’ve been fiddling with it, trying to turn it off.’
The shadows on the ground were long. He flew on towards Barbara.
Tim moaned. The two watchbirds were almost above now and his suit clock told him he was within eight kilometres of Guinevere. He nuzzled the send switch and told Needle, ‘I’m going down now. There’s a bald ridge running north from here that should be open going. I’ll trek along that till it runs out.’
‘Good luck, Bors.’
He dropped down while Tim moaned more loudly. Craning up he saw the watchbirds still flying on their beats.
The ridge had no cover for anything the size of the minotaurs, and he slogged ahead fast. He began to sweat and itch in his suit, even though it floated its own weight, and circulated cool air around him. Suits were uncomfortable necessities. As always the little cobber shared his discomfort, moaning and scrabbling.
‘All right Tim, this is easy,’ he soothed, ‘Wait until . . .’ Bull men came over the end of the ridge straight ahead, and others either side. His carbine shuddered and spat, bull figures toppled. He swung and shot another that came from behind, so close that it brushed him as it fell past.
He circled warily, shaking and sweating for a full minute before he spoke to Needle.
‘We’ll have to watch this ridge. Top is clear, but they hang around just below. I’ve finished five.’ Tim trumpeted as though he had slain these dragons himself. ‘You’re all right?’
‘Just frightened. Needle, I’ll stay on send from here on; there isn’t going to be time to switch this thing on and off. I’m going down the end of the ridge now.’
‘O.K. Bors, but listen. One: have you reloaded?’
Bors slid the used magazine back into his bandolier, slipped in a fresh one.
‘I have now. Thanks.’
‘Two: we’ve had a good look at watchbird specs. You can afford to fly for about five seconds at a time without much chance of their registering you. Keep your pack on Ready. If needs be you can hurdle one of the bulls.’ Bors switched his pack to Ready. ‘Done. Thanks again. Anything else?’
‘That’s all. I’ll be listening.’
No more minotaurs came. Below and beyond he saw rolling land covered in thin bush and trees.
He couldn’t see the nearer ground because the sharp fall of the end of the ridge hid it. On impulse he stopped, set a grenade, and flung it over the brow. He heard something like a howl just before it exploded, and went on down confidently.
‘The slope’s getting steeper, Needle, I’m going to fly.’
‘Roger.’
He counted five seconds and landed in the mud of talus water at the foot of the ridge.
‘Watchbirds are staying on their beats. You were right, Needle.’
‘Okay. Be careful.’
‘There’s scrub up ahead with plenty of cover. I’m going to bomb the big clumps before I get to them. You ought to issue more grenades to the next man.’
‘We won’t need to. You’ll get through.’
He walked cautiously down a slight slope. Matching his descent, the opposite horizon climbed up towards the low sun.
‘There’s a little stream at the bottom,’ he told Needle. ‘It looks easy enough to cross, if I’m not tackled.’
‘Use your belt.’
‘Yeah.’
As he touched down on the far bank, bushes ahead threw two bullmen at him. He blasted carbine fire, dropped them both, saw one rise and run screaming away.
‘Two of them jumped me Needle. One got off wounded. They time their attacks well.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Fine.’
He grenaded a stand of saplings as he trudged on up the slope from the stream, and reached the top without more attacks.
‘There’s a fairly open grass slope ahead, Needle. Down then up. Not much cover. I’m checking equipment. Suit’s working. Flight pack has another five kilometres. Six full magazines for the carbine, two part-used. Only four grenades. Ten pistol magazines. I’m pretty tired but in good shape. Tim’s asleep. Starting down now.’
‘You’re going fine, Bors. We think you’re within four kilos of Guinevere. You may be able to see it from the next high ground.’
‘I’ll have the sun in my eyes.’ He ploughed on. ‘The grass isn’t as good as it looks, Needle. It’s getting waist high, probably taller at the bottom.’ Unwilling to use more grenades he stopped and carefully emptied one of his magazines down the slope, searching ahead with short bursts close to the ground. Before he walked on he changed the empty magazine for a full one.
At the bottom he was looking over grass almost as high as his shoulders. ‘I’m going to fly, Needle.’ As he rose above the grass a horned and clawed monster rushed from three metres, hooked him down sideways. Its bulk pinned his legs, a claw struck at his shoulder. His carbine was gone, his pistol was under him. He dragged out his machete and chinned his belt to full lift. It dragged him through the grass while the bull man bellowed and clawed.
Awkwardly he drove the machete at its muzzle, saw blood and ripped flesh, stabbed again, tried to swing, stabbed again at a cow eye. The thing reared back and he jabbed at its throat.
He was suddenly free and high, rising fast above the thrashing minotaur. He remembered the watchbirds and dropped down towards the top of the slope whose short grass could hide no bull men.
‘Bors? Bors?’ dinned at his ears as he slumped on the ground. ‘Bors!! ’
‘Needle, uh, uh. All right. It’s all right.’
‘What’s up. We heard you yelling.’
‘Uh, uh, uh! Phew! One of them jumped me. My leg’s a, uh, uh, my leg’s a mess.’
‘Take it easy. Bors? Fly back! Fast and low. You’re no good with a bad leg.’
‘Needle, play it cool. Get this: the watchbirds haven’t moved.’
‘You’ve been flying?’
‘Trying, with that damn brute hooked into me. I must have been twenty seconds. They didn’t move.’
‘Wait a minute, Bors.’
