The Chaos Weapon (17 page)

“Marshal, now it’s your turn. You and the chicken. To buy a few extra hours of life, I’ve volunteered to translate for you.”

“And the other three?”

“They suffered, but they’ll recover. Apparently we are not important now. The Great Anger has turned into the Great Curiosity—about you and the chicken and about the threat which Chaos says you hold for them. They cannot credit the existence of so powerful a catalytic effect, yet neither can they doubt the probability of their own predictions.”

“Tell them,” said Wildheit, “that I insist the yokes be taken from our shoulders.”

Kasdeya was concerned. “They will punish you for even making such a suggestion.”

“Tell them nonetheless. Also tell them the message must be conveyed to their commander.”

“What do you
hope to gain by such tactics?”

“From what their Chaos readings must have told them and from the account I think they extracted from you, Roamer and I should be something of a legend by now. A good legend needs to be kept alive.”

“I hope they keep me alive as well to retell it.” Kasdeya was still dubious. “But I’ll give it a try.” He turned toward the guards and spoke rapidly at some length. Finally the incredulity and anger gained a note of hesitation, then one of the guards was despatched presumably to consult with a superior. After ten long minutes, the messenger returned. He was followed by one who, from the deference he received, promised to turn out to be a very senior person indeed.

“You have them worried,” said Kasdeya quietly. “The yokes are to be removed.”

“Fine! Take your cues from me, Kasdeya. Translate not only what I say but also the spirit of the delivery. And don’t be surprised at anything.”

“I wish I know what you were up to, Marshal.”

“I’m going to capitalize on our assets, such as they are. That is what space-marshals are trained to do best. Did you never think it strange that the Federation needs send only one man to settle a war?”

The senior officer who had accompanied the guard watched narrowly as Roamer and Wildheit were freed from their yokes. Their arms were stiff from having been pinioned so long, and Wildheit made a deliberate point of exercising in bold defiance of the weapons held by the escort. The movement gave him the opportunity to study the officer and prepare his approach. The man’s face was set with deep lines. The massive, craggy skull, surmounted by iron-gray hair, warned of a formidable intellect and completed the picture of the officer as a man of considerable stature in all respects.

At weapon-point Roamer and Wildheit were marched into a large chamber with walls of the smoothest white. They were made
to stand on a low circular stage in the center. The officer took his place at a transparent-topped table and clenched his hands beneath his chin thoughtfully. Armed guards, three against each wall, covered the captives with their weapons. Kasdeya anxiously took his place out of the direct line of fire should the time come when the marshal’s Ra-baiting received its logical reward.

“To whom am I speaking?” Wildheit began the questioning.

The lines on the officer’s face creased with deep amusement.

“You are standing before Fleet Commander Zecol of the Scientific Wing of the Ra War Force. I am a specialist in Chaos, Marshal Wildheit.”

Kasdeya was translating verbatim, attempting to reproduce the tone as well as the content of the exchange.

Wildheit rubbed his chin speculatively. “Then we meet on common ground. We also are specialists: Roamer in Chaos, and I in the protection of the Federation. It is fortunate for you, Commander, that I am a tolerant man, otherwise I would resent you treating us like this. I understand your pathetic need for caution, but you lack a basic understanding of what you are doing.”

“Oh?” Zecol’s amusement increased. “I take it you object to being gilded?” Kasdeya managed to reproduce the edge of sarcasm with great fidelity.

“Not at all!” Wildheit smiled blandly. “That was your mistake which played to our advantage. Golden beasts were in our ancestry too. But we contrive not to outgrow our legends. Of all creatures, the beasts will ultimately survive. Thus you help us to represent not only your progenitors but also your successors. So it behooves you to show proper humility.”

A frown of anger crossed Zecol’s face, and he looked at Kasdeya to verify the translation. Then he ran his fingers through a pile of platelet records on the table.

“This wasn’t what I expected. Nothing here would indicate megalomania nor an over-developed death
wish. I conclude, Marshal, that you’re playing a game with me. It’s a stupid thing to try. You’ll certainly regret it.”

He waved his hand to the guards. “Take the marshal away and give him some treatment to cure his attack of insubordination. When he returns I want to see him on his knees, pleading. Take the girl also, to witness his education. I’ll continue the questioning later.”

“You bloody fool!” Kasdeya was worried. “You touched him on a raw spot when you spoke of the golden beasts. Did you really think he’d stand for that idiocy?”

“Not yet, but he will,” said Wildheit. “He just needs a little softening-up first.”

The guards put the yoke back on Wildheit’s shoulders and took him to an adjoining chamber. Here the yoke was suspended on a fixture, and his feet were also secured to eyebolts. With the thoughtful look of a specialist, one of the Ra began to heat long metal pins in a furnace until they were bright red. Then he turned back to his helpless victim and began to examine Wildheit’s thigh and arm muscles.

“Marshal, I advise you to start begging for mercy now,” said Kasdeya. “Then perhaps you may escape with the minimum of pain.”

“Keep translating,” said Wildheit. “You won’t understand, but everything is going my way.”

“Angels of space! Don’t you know what he intends doing to you?”

“Yes. But he doesn’t know what I have in store for him.”

The Ra torturer began clipping handles on to his heated pins, then picked one up and held it close to the marshal’s eyes.

“We shall see, golden beast, how many of these you can take before you yield. With most, it’s only three or four. It’s an art, you see—knowing where to place them for the best effect.”

“I wouldn’t advise you
to try it,” said Wildheit coolly.

“Marshal, in the name of all space-demons!” Kasdeya was growing frantic. He looked desperately at Roamer for support, but her face registered only its accustomed calm.

The Ra took the cooling needle for reheating. Then, picking one of the right degree of heat, he selected a spot on Wildheit’s thigh and made a precise and deliberate thrust. There was an immediate stench of scorched flesh and a howl of anguish, but it was the Ra who staggered back as the pin completely penetrated his own forearm. For half a second he stared at it stupidly, his brain refusing to accept what his senses screamed was the truth—that it was his own arm that he had so painfully pierced. The final realization brought forth a whimper of fright. Possibly in that moment he had actually caught a glimpse of the ugly, transient god who lived on Wildheit’s shoulder. Whether or not he comprehended what he saw was beyond guessing, but he cried a phrase in a tongue even Kasdeya could not translate, and fled out of sight.

“Thanks, Coul,” breathed Wildheit. “You did a good job there.”

“I promised you special dispensation since I soon expect to leave. But I think your need is not yet over.”

Soon, three of the Ra guards appeared—one, his original tormentor, now with a sprayed surgical dressing on his arm. The three were engaged in a heated argument. Finally two came toward the shackled marshal, while the third held back nervously.

“They’re discussing the possibility of the incarnate … sitting over you.” Kasdeya himself still had not grasped the nature of the apparent accident.

The pair inspected Wildheit’s neck and shoulders carefully, but it was apparent they detected nothing even though Coul’s transient presence remained unaltered. The first guard was encouraged to proceed with the programmed persuasion, but he declined to do so, saying his injury rendered him unfit. So one
of the others took a pin from the furnace and advanced upon Wildheit with menace. Instantly the injured man drew back, convinced that he could see the crouched incarnate being. He cried a warning to his companion with the pin, who ignored him. Wildheit felt the ache in his shoulder suddenly increase, whereupon he braced himself to expect the unexpected.

There came a sound like distant thunder. The man with the heated pin stopped and shook his head, as if he believed the sound was inside his own skull rather than out. The next pulse of thunder was deeper and nearer and could be felt in a strong vibration of the metal walls of the chamber. Assuming the effect to be elsewhere in the ship, one of the guards ran off to locate the cause of the disturbance. The man with the pin continued his advance.

Then the thunderbolt struck.

A black something burst in the middle of the chamber and smote about with soft, concussive blows. The furnace cooled instantly, and the pin in the fellow’s hand drove itself lengthwise into the startled man’s forearm. The black whirlwind—or whatever it was—ripped at the chamber with twisting, invisible fingers, and all things not secured were lifted by its curious spinning force and sent rattling and clattering around the metal walls. Then the curling wind tightened its coils and heaped all the debris into a pile in the center of the room. To this pile was added the bodies of the two guards, their faces already gray—the cause of death, unexplained.

The guard who had left the chamber to investigate the thunder returned to the door and stopped in amazement. He took one look at the death and confusion and raised his weapon with the intention of killing the marshal, whom he believed to be responsible. A command from outside the door in Zecol’s voice cried an urgent prohibition. Nevertheless, the man with the weapon turned his head in protest and fired. The weapon exploded spitefully in his face, and he dropped out of sight leaving the entrance spattered
with gore. Then Zecol appeared and stood still, fearful of crossing the threshold. His eyes were very grave as he attempted to comprehend what had taken place.

“For a bound man, Marshal, you have the most remarkable powers of destruction.” Kasdeya had to conquer his own amazement in order to translate Zecol’s words.

“Ah,” said Wildheit. “You should see the damage I can do with my hands free!”

As if to emphasize the point, the yoke across his back abruptly shattered, leaving the fastenings around his arms looking like bangles. The eyebolts to which his feet were secured were torn from the deck so abruptly that pieces flew to the far corners of the chamber, yet the links of the chain which had held his ankles tumbled separately to the floor each still individually intact. During all this activity, the marshal did not appear to move a muscle.

“Was that demonstration sufficient?” he asked Zecol. “Or do you want some more?”

Zecol’s scowl was a mask of thunder, yet his voice was subdued. “I think you’ve made your point, Marshal. What manner of creature are you?”

“As I said, Commander, I represent both your progenitors and your successors. I am one of the golden beasts that torment your history—past, present, and future.”

Shaking his head, Zecol led the way back to the large, white chamber and stood with his back against the table instead of sitting behind it. The guards around the chamber’s edge fidgeted with their weapons, but this time did not take aim. News of the fate of their colleague who had tried to fire at the marshal had apparently already reached their ears. Wildheit studied the officer sagely for a few seconds.

“I take it that you are still not sufficiently convinced, Commander. Unwisely, you suspect some form of trickery, though you can’t detect how such magic could have been performed. How would you like to
see another example—to demonstrate how far you are outclassed?”

“This is madness!”

“You have men skilled in unarmed combat?”

“Many of the best.”

“Then I suggest you summon three of them, to be opposed in a fight to the death—and call up fifty of your ship’s company to bear witness. Here’s your only chance to kill a growing legend.”

Zecol lifted his great head speculatively. “Three men to be opposed by you and your magic, Marshal? Is that the trap you set for me?”

“Not at all! I was proposing three of your men against one girl.”

Zecol’s eyes were deeply questioning. “I at least know she doesn’t have a space-marshal’s legendary defenses.” He glanced at the guards, who were listening with interest to the conversation while appearing not to do so. “And if I decline I shall apparently further the legend even more. I’ll call your bluff, Marshal. The fight shall be as you say—though I don’t see what you expect to gain from it.”

“Let’s say it’s a question of what
you’ve
got to lose, if three of your men can’t withstand one girl.” He turned to Roamer. “Are you happy with the arrangement?”

She met his gaze levelly and tried to maintain a passive face, but finished with the breakthrough of a smile.

“You’re a perceptive old devil, Marshal Jym.”

“I need to be, with the sort of company I keep.”

“Perceptive or not,” said Zecol, “this time you’ve overreached yourselves.”

He called a guard and gave a string of orders. Soon an assembly of Ra shipmen began to file in, their natural glee at this unexpected entertainment being partially inhibited by Zecol’s frowning presence. When the walls of the chamber were lined two-deep with men—Wildheit estimated that something like a hundred had contrived to attend—Zecol called in his champions. All were rippled
and muscular yet with a lightness of foot that suggested practiced speed and precision. Each one was grinning and joking with the others about how they intended to ill-use the female golden beast before they killed her.

Roamer stood centrally on the low circular stage and watched them come, only her eyes showing the degree of her concentration, while her face remained serene. Something about her composure gave the men momentary pause. But Zecol barked an order, and they again continued their approach.