Prophet (29 page)

"It's armed, sir,” he reported.

"How much time do you think we have before it blows?"

"I don't know, sir. Maybe ten minutes, maybe ten hours. We've never carried this type of weapon before."

"It's new to me, too,” complained Lomax. “Hell, the whole ship is new to me. I'm just a gunman that the Anointed One took a liking to."

"You saved his life, sir,” protested the man with the passion of a fanatic. “We are prepared to carry out any orders that you give."

"The problem is that I don't know what orders are required in this situation,” said Lomax grimly. “I suppose we should jettison the bomb, but according to my computer, it's in a position where we'd have to jettison the entire payload.” He paused. “I hate to do that. We're attacking with a smaller force that I would have recommended had time not been a vital consideration. The Prophet is the most formidable antagonist in the galaxy; we may need every weapon we possess."

"There is an alternative, sir."

I was wondering when it would occur to you.

"What is that?” asked Lomax aloud.

"We can load the crew onto our landing craft and leave them to make their way to the planet behind the bulk of the fleet, while you and I stay aboard and try to deactivate the bomb."

"Excellent suggestion!” replied Lomax. “Pass the word. I want them all off the ship within fifteen minutes.” He paused. “Yourself included."

"I request permission to remain on board, sir."

"Permission denied."

"I insist, sir. One of us is going to have to go down into the weapons bay and try to deactivate the bomb, and one of us is going to have to navigate the ship."

"I'll put it on automatic."

"That might work in deep space, sir, but we're in a war zone. You may come under attack."

"I doubt it,” said Lomax.

"You yourself have stated that she is the most formidable foe we will ever face, sir."

Lomax realized that further argument could arouse the man's suspicions. Furthermore, it was essential that he get the crew off the ship as quickly as possible, before someone discovered what was really happening.

"All right,” he said. “You can stay. Now see to the evacuation, and report to me when it's complete. I'll continue trying to deactivate the bomb from here."

The man saluted and left, and Lomax lit a small cigar and pretended to work the control panel until the bridge was totally deserted. He watched the viewscreen as the shuttlecraft left the mother ship one by one, until the last of the crew had gone and only Lomax and his second-in-command remained.

The man approached him and saluted. “The evacuation is completed, sir."

"Good,” said Lomax.

"Now I'll go down and see if I can deactivate the bomb, sir."

"Be careful,” said Lomax.

"Yes, sir."

The man departed, and Lomax lit another cigar and hoped the Prophet could see far enough into the future to know that his ship was no threat to her.

The man returned some ten minutes later, a puzzled frown on his face.

"Sir?” he said.

"Yes?"

"As nearly as I can tell, the bomb is not malfunctioning."

"You mean it's not armed?"

"It's armed, all right—but it seems to have been armed purposely, from
here
."

"You don't say."

"Yes, sir. From
your
panel."

Lomax pulled his pistol out. “You should have abandoned ship with the others."

"I don't understand, sir."

"You're a good man,” said Lomax. “And I am truly sorry for what I must do."

He fired his gun. The man uttered a single surprised grunt and fell to the deck, dead.

Then, having done everything within his power to convince the Prophet that his ship wanted no part of the doomed battle, Lomax sat back to await the outcome.

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In the first thirty seconds of the would-be battle, the life support systems of 74 of the Anointed One's ships lost all power; 18 more were destroyed when their ordinance, unlike Lomax's, actually did activate and explode.

A meteor wiped out 27 more ships. A comet, crazily careening off its eternal course, accounted for another 19. One ship's weapons computer malfunctioned and destroyed 37 of its allies before it in turn was demolished.

"What is happening here!” demanded the Anointed One, his face contorted with rage and terror. “No one has fired upon us, and yet we are being decimated.” He glowered at the planet Mozart, spinning, blue and green and serene, in his viewscreen. “She is just one woman! What is happening?"

And a million miles beneath him, Penelope Bailey, staring blindly at the sky, smiled and whispered, “Not yet, my foolish one. Not yet. First you must see the folly of attacking me. When all of your men have been killed, when all your ships float dead in the void,
then
I shall tend to you."

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After receiving permission to land from a bored spaceport employee who had no idea that a war had erupted a million miles above his head, the Iceman's ship broke out of orbit and plunged down toward Mozart's surface. He wasn't worried about being fired upon, because he knew that whatever defenses Penelope possessed, they weren't military in nature. As for the local authorities, they caused him no concern whatsoever; he was willing to bet that no one else even knew that the Anointed One's fleet was out there, or that it was being torn to pieces.

When he got to within five miles of the surface he pressed a button and released a trio of parachutes, designed to save him just in case Penelope was able to stop concentrating on the heavily-armed ships in orbit and devote a few seconds to him. But the landing was accomplished without mishap, and the Iceman climbed into the hold of his ship to prepare the cargo he had brought along.

It took him almost twenty minutes to assemble the components. Then he attached it to the loose vest he had brought, slipped the vest on, covered it with a bulky coat, and finally emerged from his ship.

A spaceport official was waiting for him.

"Welcome to Mozart,” he said.

"Thank you,” said the Iceman.

"You certainly took your time getting out of your ship,” continued the official. “Is everything all right? Do you need any mechanical assistance?"

"No,” answered the Iceman. “I was just rearranging some cargo."

"Will you require either fuel or a hangar?"

"Neither,” said the Iceman. “My business here should be done before nightfall."

"If it isn't, there will be a two hundred credit fee for leaving your ship where it is."

The Iceman reached into a pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, then peeled off a pair of hundred-credit notes. “Here,” he said, handing them to the official. “You can return them to me when I leave this evening."

"I'll make out a receipt while you're clearing customs,” said the man, putting the bills between the pages of a small notebook.

"Where
is
customs?"

"At the base of the tower,” replied the man, leading the Iceman into the lobby of the observation tower and over to the customs desk, where a handsome, uniformed woman looked up at him.

"Name, please?"

The Iceman pulled out his titanium passport card and laid it on her desk. “Carlos Mendoza."

She ran the card through a computer, waited a few seconds for it to scan his retina and verify his identity, and returned it to him.

"May I ask the purpose of your visit, Mr. Mendoza?"

"I'm here to conclude some very old business,” he replied.

"And the name of the party you have come to see?"

"Penelope Bailey."

She looked up from her computer and stared at him for a moment. “Does Miss Bailey know you are coming to see her?"

"I'd be very surprised if she didn't,” answered the Iceman.

"All right, Mr. Mendoza, you are cleared to stay on Mozart for fourteen days. Should you decide to extend your visit beyond that limit, please inform this office."

"Thank you."

"The Democracy credit is the official currency of Mozart, but we also accept New Stalin rubles, Maria Theresa dollars, New Zimbabwe dollars, and Far London pounds. If you possess any other form of currency, please declare it on this form"—she handed him an official-looking document—"and record all your currency conversion transactions."

The Iceman took the form, folded it neatly, and place it in a pocket of his overcoat.

"Welcome to Mozart, Mr. Mendoza,” she said. “Today's temperature is 28 degrees Celsius, which translates into 542 degrees Rankine, 22 degrees Reaumur, and 83 degrees Fahrenheit.” She paused. “You may find your overcoat rather warm."

"I won't be wearing it that long,” he replied. “How do I get to town from here?"

"There is free public transportation every two hours.” She checked her timepiece. “I'm afraid you just missed it. If you don't wish to wait, there are usually a few groundcars for hire in front of the spaceport."

"Thank you,” said the Iceman. He turned, walked through the small lobby at the base of the observation tower, and out the main entrance. A single groundcar was parked there, and he quickly climbed into it.

"Where to?” asked the driver.

"I'm looking for a private residence,” answered the Iceman. “Have you got a directory here?"

The driver pressed a button, activating a holo screen that hovered in the air about two feet from the Iceman.

"Just state the name of your party,” said the driver. “His address will appear at the top of the screen, and the one-way and round-trip fares will be computed and appear in the lower right-hand corner."

"Penelope Bailey."

Instantly an address appeared. This was followed by a map that instantly traced seven or eight routes, selected the quickest one, left it on display, and posted a rate of 48 credits one-way or 88 credits for a round-trip.

"She's out in the sticks, isn't she?” remarked the driver as an identical screen appeared above his dash panel.

"I suppose so,” answered the Iceman. “I haven't been there before. How long will it take?"

The driver stared at the map. “Maybe twenty minutes, twenty-five if we run into some traffic."

"Traffic? On this planet?"

"Harvesters or combines on the road, moving from one farm to another,” explained the driver. “They can slow you down plenty.” He paused. “Well, are we going?"

"Yes."

The groundcar pulled away from the spaceport.

"One-way or round trip?"

"One-way will do,” answered the Iceman. “If I need a ride back, I'll call for one."

"Remember my tag number and ask for it,” said the driver. “I can use the business."

"I'll do that,” replied the Iceman.

They drove in silence for almost twenty minutes, passing through town and going out along the backroads, and finally the Iceman leaned forward. “How much longer?” he asked.

"Maybe another two miles."

"Stop when you're a mile away."

"You're sure?"

"Just trying to save you some engine trouble."

"I don't have any engine trouble."

"You never can tell,” said the Iceman, handing a hundred-credit note to the driver.

"You're the boss,” said the driver with a shrug.

A moment later the groundcar slowed down and pulled over to the side of the road, and the Iceman got out.

"If the map's right, it should be just around the next curve,” said the driver. “You sure you don't want me to wait?"

"I'm sure."

"All right.” He paused. “From what I hear around town, this is a very strange lady you're going to visit. I don't know what kind of business you've got with her, but good luck."

"Thanks,” said the Iceman. “I'll probably need it."

The groundcar turned and headed back toward the spaceport, and the Iceman began walking along the edge of a mutated cornfield toward Penelope Bailey's house. When he finally was able to see the top of the geodesic dome he removed his overcoat and left it lying in a ditch at roadside.

He stopped, lit a cigar, paused to enjoy the taste of the first puff, and then reached down to his vest and activated two tiny switches. Then he continued walking, and five minutes later he reached his destination.

He approached the front door and found that it was locked, and since he was no longer in any condition to pound it or pull at it, he gingerly walked around to the back, where he saw a young blonde woman, her back to him, standing beside a small pond, her eyes trained on the heavens, striking a new position every few seconds.

"Welcome, Iceman,” she said without turning to face him. “I have been waiting for this moment for a long time."

"I don't doubt it,” replied the Iceman, coming to a stop.

"I have only 40 more ships to destroy,” she announced, “and then I shall be able to give you my full attention.” She paused. “Now 23, now 17. You are very clever to have gotten this far, Iceman."

"I was fortunate."

"You would have been more fortunate had you elected to remain on your own world,” she replied, still motionless. “Eleven, now seven, now four.” She paused again. “And now there is only the Anointed One.” Finally she turned to the Iceman. “Shall we let him live a little longer, so that he may grasp the full extent of his defeat?"

"It makes no difference to me,” replied the Iceman.

"No, of course it does not,” she said. “You care no more about Moses Mohammed Christ than I do.” She paused and stared into the Iceman's eyes. “So it comes down to you and me, as I always knew it would."

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The Iceman stared at the young woman confronting him.

"You were an appealing little girl, Penelope,” he said, thinking back to the first time he had ever seen her. “Small, frightened, vulnerable.” He paused. “I should have killed you then."

She smiled. “You would have failed."

"Probably,” he admitted. “You were more than capable of protecting yourself even then."

"I still am,” she replied. “I have grown stronger over the years."

"We've both grown, Penelope,” said the Iceman, meeting her gaze. “You've grown stronger, and I've grown wiser."