Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III (49 page)

Well, that was one pressing problem solved.

But there were others—many others.

He would cross these bridges when he came to them.

He drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

There was nothing else to do.

***

He woke up when the transport came in to a landing.

The door was flung open. Two burly, black uniformed guards dragged him out into the alleyway; one of them snapped handcuffs on to his wrists. He was pulled roughly to the open door beyond which was the ramp, then on to the gangway. He expected to see the familiar environs of Port Aphrodite but he was disappointed. This was an airport of sorts, not a spaceport, little more than a landing field in a valley ringed by high, barren crags. The time was late evening. The sky overhead was dark with a scattering of the brighter stars already visible. The lights at ground level were sparse and dim with an ominous ruddy quality.

Another small party was descending the gangway ahead of Grimes and his captors. Another prisoner with two guards . . . The back view of this person looked familiar.

“Fenella!” shouted Grimes.

She turned before the guards could restrain her. “Grimes!” Then, “How many bloody times must I tell you that the name, on this world, is Prunella Fenn?”

So she had retained her sense of humour.

“Shut up, you!” One of Grimes’ escorts cuffed the side of his head viciously. Then, to his companions further down the ramp, “Get the Pruin bitch away from here, Pete, before she can yap to her space chauffeur!”

“Grimes!” she yelled before she could be silenced, “have you got word to the High Commissioner?”

“No!” There was another blow, this time on the mouth. “No! Have you?”

She tried to reply but she was effectively silenced. Grimes had to stand there, in the grip of his guards, while she was dragged away, struggling, into the ominous dusk. He thought that she was taken to the lighted entrance of a tunnel. He assumed that he would be taken in the same direction but he was not, although it was also a tunnel into which he was pulled and prodded.

***

There was an underground railway with little, open cars running through dimly lit caverns. There was, at last, a platform beyond which were huge, steel doors that opened, but only enough to permit the ingress of one man, when one of the guards pressed a concealed button in the rock face. Grimes’ handcuffs were unlocked and removed and he was literally thrown through the gap. He landed heavily on the rough floor, grazing his hands, tearing his clothing and skinning his knees. He scrambled to his feet, turned. The doorway had already closed.

He looked around. He was in a big chamber, more artificial than natural, like a ship’s airlock on a gigantic scale. A door like the one through which he had been thrown was opening. So, he thought, he was supposed to pass through it. What was on the other side? Nothing pleasant, he was sure, but he would surely starve if he stayed here. Perhaps there would be food and water at the end of the rocky tunnel that was now revealed. Perhaps there would not be—but he had to find out.

He limped into the tunnel. The inner doors shut silently behind him. He was committed now. Under his thin-soled shoes the floor was smooth, possibly worn so by the passage of many feet, but the walls were rough. Light came from glowtubes set in the overhead.

Grimes sniffed. He could smell food. He listened. He could hear voices. He plodded on until he came to a right-angled bend. Beyond this the tunnel extended for only another thirty meters or so, then expanded into a huge cave. There were people there, many people, men and women, some clad in rags and some completely naked. Most of them were gathered around a long trough set against one of the walls. From this drifted savoury smelling steam. Grimes, followed his nose, joined the crowd. People, he saw, were dipping stone mugs into the stew. He wondered where he might obtain one of these utensils.

A big, shaggy-haired, heavily bearded man shouldered his way out of the mob. He was clad in the remains of some uniform; two gold bands gleamed on his surviving shoulder-board. Walking closely behind him were four women. Two of them, judging by the growths on head and body that were more like feline fur than human hair, were Morrowvians. The others, small-breasted and with heavy thighs and oddly jointed legs, could have been members of the same race as
Willy Willy’s
passengers.

The big man looked down at Grimes. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“I just got here,” Grimes told him.

“You’re a spacer, aren’t you? You’ve got the look.”

“Yes.”

“So’m I. Second mate—or ex-second mate—of the not-so-good ship
Suchan.
And may the Odd Gods of the Galaxy rot Captain Bejlik’s cotton socks. And his feet. And his knees. And his . . .”

“Where do I find a mug?” asked Grimes, eyeing and sniffing enviously the vessels held by the spaceman and his companions.

“Haven’t they been feeding you?”

“Only prison mush. And the last time was some hours ago.”

“We’ll soon fix that. Darleen!” One of the heavy-haunched women stepped forward. “Give your pannikin to our friend here. You can soon find another one for yourself.”

“I couldn’t . . .” began Grimes.

“You will. This mayn’t be Liberty Hall an’ if you speak unkindly to
my
cats I’ll knock your teeth in—but never let it be said that Jimmy O’Brien turned a deaf ear to the appeal of a fellow spaceman. The two of us are the only two spacers here now since Komatsu bought it. . . Are you any good with long range weapons, by the way? We need another expert for the team.”

Grimes accepted the thick mug from the girl’s hands. He could see chunks of meat and vegetables floating in the thick stew. It tasted as good as it looked and smelled.

After a satisfying gulp he said, “This is all very confusing, Mr. O’Brien . . .”

“Call me Jimmy.”

“All right. Jimmy. But there are some things that I must find out. First of all, has a woman called Prunella Fenn—or Fenella Pruin—been brought here?”

“No. You’re the only newcomer we’ve had for days. Is she your girlfriend?”

“I’m responsible for her. Secondly, what
is
this place?”

“A barracks, you might call it.”

“A slave barracks?”

“No. For gladiators.”

***

For gladiators . . .

Grimes was not at all happy as he accompanied Jimmy O’Brien, the four women tailing along behind, across the floor of the huge cave. There was a lavish scattering of huge mattresses, most of which were occupied by groups of people eating and talking in low voices. Many of them turned to eye Grimes appraisingly as he walked slowly past.

“They’re weighing you up,” said O’Brien cheerfully. “They might be coming against you in the arena. They’re wondering what you’re good at.” Then, “Here’s our pad.”

He motioned Grimes to sit down, then joined him. The four women waited until the men were comfortably settled before seating themselves.

O’Brien took a noisy gulp of stew then said, “Since it looks like you’re one of us we’d better get to know each other. These . . .” he motioned towards the two Morrowvians, “are my pussies, Miala and Leeuni.” (Miala’s hair was white, in vivid contrast to her brown skin, while Leeuni’s was tortoiseshell.) Keep your paws off them. And these, Darleen and Shirl, were Komatsu’s girls.” (They were horse-faced, but pleasantly so, and smiled at him diffidently.) “They’re yours now. While you last. Or while they last.

“As I’ve already told you I am—or was—a spacer. My crime—if you call it that—was helping Miala to stow away aboard my ship. Miala’s crime was stowing away. The Old Man—bad cess to him!—turned us in. Leeuni is a murderess—although the pimp she did in wasn’t much loss.

“Shirl and Darleen were performers in some clipjoint called Katy’s Kathouse. One of the so-called entertainments there is the kangaroo hunt. They were two of the kangaroos. The hunt finishes with the hunters raping the hunted. Well, the girls here didn’t like being raped. Darleen kneed some fat slob of a tourist in the balls and Shirl just about bit the ear off another one. Katy—as far as she’s concerned the customer is always right as long as he has a full wallet—took a very dim view.

“And now, what’s your heartrending story? For a start, what do they call you?”

“My name is Grimes. John Grimes. I’ve a ship of my own—
Little Sister.
I’m on charter to
The Bronson Star—
it’s a newspaper on a world called Bronsonia. I’m supposed to be looking after one of their star reporters—Fenella Pruin . . .”

“Fenella Pruin? I thought the name was familiar the first time you mentioned it. Doesn’t she write for Star Scandals? And Grimes? Weren’t you slung out of the Survey Service for mutiny?”

“I was mutinied against. And I resigned from the Service. Anyhow, Fenella Pruin hoped to uncover some interesting muck here. She and I were trespassing on the Vulcan Island spaceport to watch
Willy Willy
come in. The master, Aloysius Dreeble, recognised me and after we were arrested was also able to identify Fenella Pruin . . .”

“But do you come from New Alice, John Grimes?” asked one of the girls—Darleen, or Shirl? they could have been identical twins—in a puzzled voice with a peculiarly flat accent. “You talk like us.”

“I’m Australian,” said Grimes after a moment’s thought.

“Australian! But Australia is where our ancestors came from!”

“Never mind old home week,” said O’Brien. “Carry on,Grimes.”

“That’s all. They slung me in jail. I suppose that they did the same to Fenella Pruin. I saw her again, briefly, after the transport that brought us from Vulcan Island landed here. But she was taken somewhere before I could speak to her . . .”

“The Colosseum isn’t the only attraction in these parts,” said O’Brien slowly. “I’ve heard rumours—but only rumours—of something called the Snuff Palace . . .”

“But how do I get out of here? How do I find her?”

“You don’t. That answers both questions. All you can hope to do is survive. It’s not so bad being pitted against animals in the arena; you don’t mind killing them so much to save yourself from being killed. But haven’t you noticed how everybody here keeps themselves to themselves? There’s a reason, a very good reason. We don’t make friends outside our own teams. That was Komatsu’s trouble. After he joined up with us he met a girl in one of the other groups, a woman of his own race. He got to know her. And then—I still think that it was intentional—our team was matched against hers. He was a long range fighter. She was too. When it came to the crunch he just stood there looking at her with that killing disc, a thing like a circular saw that you throw, in his hand. He just stood there. She was similarly armed and didn’t hesitate. She threw her disc and just about took his head off. Then she snatched the short sword from her team leader and before he could stop her cut her own throat . . .”

“You mean this actually happened?” demanded Grimes.

“Of course it happened. Worse things happen here. But now—to business. You may be captain aboard your ship but I’m captain of this team. I’m one of the two short range fighters; my weapon’s an axe. Darleen’s the other one; she uses a club. Then Miala and Leeuni have long, sharp spears. Medium range, you might say. Shirl’s long range—with a boomerang. I hope that you’ll be able to make your contribution.”

“An arbalest,” said Grimes. “Is that allowed?”

“An arbalest? What’s that?”

“A crossbow.”

“I’ve seen bows and arrows used here. There are probably crossbows in the armoury.
They
keep a stock of just about every weapon known to civilised—or uncivilised—man. If you ask for a broken bottle they’ll give you one. But no firearms, of course. Even so—a crossbow . . . You really can use one?”

“Yes,” said Grimes, hoping that the tuition had not worn off.

Then O’Brien said that it was time that he got some shuteye. He removed his ragged uniform, sprawled out on the mattress between the naked Miala and Leeuni. It became obvious that the three of them had no intention of going to sleep at once.

Grimes asked, rather embarrassedly, “Where do I go?”

“You will stay here,” Darleen (or was it Shirl?) told him. “There is room on the pad for all of us.”

“No, I mean where do I go for . . . To wash and so on . . .”

“Come,” said both girls as one.

They led him across the floor of the huge cave to a smaller one. In this were the toilet facilities, adequate in all respects save privacy. And those blasted girls refused to leave him and while he was enthroned, seated over the long trough through which rushed a stream of water, he was treated to the spectacle of two ladies who were more than just good friends taking a hot shower together. He wanted a shower himself; in the Vulcan jail he had been unable to enjoy anything better than cold sponge baths. He stripped, walked to one of the open stalls. Shirl (or was it Darleen?) accompanied him. The other New Alice girl took his discarded coveralls and underclothing to another stall to give them a much needed laundering.

He realised that in an odd sort of way he was enjoying himself. It was a long time since he had taken a shower with an attractive woman and much longer still since he had done so with one who washed him with such solicitude, working the spray of liquid detergent up to a soft lather with her gentle hands. He knew, as his own hands strayed, that she was his for the taking—but not here, not here. It was too public, perhaps, if he survived, he would exhibit the same unconcern for an audience as those two lesbian ladies, as that heterosexual couple two shower stalls away.

And perhaps that trauma engendered by his horrid experiences aboard
Bronson Star
would be healed.

Just off the steam-filled ablutions cave there was a drying room in which a blast of hot air dried both their bodies and Grimes’ clothing. To the girls’ surprise and disappointment he resumed his garments. They took him back to the pad. O’Brien and his two women were sleeping soundly. It was not long before Grimes was following suit with Darleen on one side of him, Shirl on the other.

Chapter 17

REVEILLE WAS A VASTLY
over-amplified trumpet call.