"Hadrian's Wall, it was namit.
"But e'en then, bus'ness was bus'ness. So a' course, tha' were gates in th' wall, for folks to go backit an'
forth.
"A' course there were guard on th' gate.
"On th' evenin' in question, there wa' two guards on th' wall, Marcus and Flavius…"
Step Two was Sten.
The first thing they needed was to find Dynsman. The third thing Sten and Alex needed was a way to mickey the lottery.
Either task depended on having a terminal and accessing Dru's central computer.
Guards were not encouraged to have personal terminals, and the terminals that existed were carefully controlled and voice-sealed to the appropriate authorities.
However, Sten had discovered that the game machines in the recreation room were very sophisticated. If a guard won on them, he could be paid immediately in narcobeers (delivery through the slot) or by credits added to his or her banked salary. Losses, of course, meant immediate deductions. Sten had grinned in glee—the machines were exactly like those he'd grown up with on Vulcan—and exactly like those the Mantis team had boogered in their destruction of that factory world.
So while Alex was occupying the guards, Sten seemed to be pinballing his heart out on one of the machines. Actually he was taking over the machine and using its lines to access the central computer itself. His tools were a microbluebox that they'd smuggled onto Dru in the guise of a music machine, a secondary high-power source that also had been smuggled, and Sten's occasional bashing left foot against the game machine itself.
Sten reacted as the game screen flashed; he tapped keys and cut himself out of the circuit. Antiaccess device, but toad simple. He considered for a minute, then tried an alternate code. Another step forward.
"… Now here's Marcus, who's been on this wee isle for years an' years. But puir Flavius, he's only been there for a month or so. An' the puir lad's scarit solid. He dinna like th' food, he dinna like th' weather, an'
most a' all, he's messin' his tunic aboot th' Scots.
" 'Dinna Fash,' Marcus tells him. 'Aboot nine a' th' evenin't, y'll be hearin't a braw whoopin't an' hollerin't an' carryin't on.
" 'Tha'll just be the Scots comin't oot a' th' grogshops. But y'll noo have to worry.'
"But Flavius is worrin't…"
Sten was also worrying. He looked around—every eye in the rec room seemed intent on Alex's story.
Sten slithered a microdrill from his pocket and touched it to the rear of the game machine. The drill whined in. Sten plugged the connection on the drill handle into an outlet on the microbluebox and keyed the analysis button. The blue-box hummed concernedly.
"… So noo it's nigh nine, and sure enow, there's whoopin't an hollerin't an' carryin't on. And aye, doon the street toward our wee Romans comit this braw great cluster a' Scots. An' they're hairy an' dirty an'
wearin't bearskins and carryin't great axes a' claymores.
"And Flavius knows he's gone to die, here on this barren isle light-years from his own't beautiful Rome.
So he's shakin't an' shiverin't.
"But Marcus, he's got this braw smile on his face a' this horrible horde comit staggerin't up.
" 'Evenin', he says.
" 'Clottin' Romans,' comit th' growl, an' somebody unlimbers a sword.
" 'You're lookin't good a' this night,' Marcus goes on.
" 'Clottin' Romans' is th' solo thing he gets back, an' th' Scots are e'en closer, an' Flavius can smell their stinki't breath, an' he's a dead mon.
" 'Nice night tonight,' Marcus keeps goin't.
" 'Clottin' Romans,' comes again.
"Flavius hae his wee eyes shut, not wantin"t' see the blade tha' rips his guts out an' all. But nae happen't.
All th' braw hairy killer monskers pass through the gate.
"An Flavius is still alive.
"He relaxes then. Takit twa deep breaths, grins a' Marcus, an' says, 'Y're right. Tha Scots na be so bad.'
" 'Aye, lad. You're learnin,' Marcus comes back. 'But in another hour, when their
men
get done drinkin't, p'raps there'll be a wee spot a' trouble." '
As usual when Alex finished one of his stories, there was uncomprehending silence. Broken by two things:
The game machine flashed the correct code. Sten now was inside the main computer; and: His microdrill had evidently gone too far, since the payoff sign started flashing, and narcobeers began dropping down the slot. As Sten quickly palmed the bluebox and microdrill, the guards whirled at the
whirclunkthud
of beermugs dropping into the serving pickup. A throng gathered instantly around the machine.
"Clottin' luck," one guard said. "I've been ringing this game for a year, and the most I got was two beers.
Look at that." The payoff sign read 387 narcobeers.
"And what the hell am I gonna do with all that," Sten wondered.
"Mr. Keet," one guard said, "you been takin' dumb lessons? We're gonna drink 'em, that's what we're gonna do."
Sten and Alex exchanged glances, then braced themselves for what would prove a very, very long evening…
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The big man lolled on the beach, lazily watching the mollsk hunters plod across the bed. He was surrounded by half-a-dozen lovelies who were sunning themselves, but keeping one eye out in case Chetwynd should want something. Chetwynd barely stirred when he heard the flitter dust up behind him.
And he pretended not to notice the whine of the engines cutting off, then bootheels grounding through the sand.
"Chetwynd?"
"Yar."
"Get up when I talk to you!"
Chetwynd slowly turned his huge head, then pretended surprise when he saw the two guards. Just as slowly, he creaked to his feet and struck a mock pose of respect.
"Sorry, mister—I didn't know…" He let his voice trail off in pretended nervousness. "We wasn't expecting a visit."
"Yeah, well too bleeding bad. Hate to inconvenience an important villain like you." Sten measured the bulk that was Chetwynd with his mind. Only the insolence in his eyes gave Chetwynd away. Everything else was as humble and respectful as any guard could wish from a villain of Dru. A very dangerous man, Sten thought.
"We're lookin' for a villain," Sten snapped.
"Came to the right place, mister," Chetwynd drawled.
Sten ignored the subtle rudeness. "Name's Dynsman."
"Dynsman… Dynsman…" Chetwynd puzzled, then he let his eyes brighten. "Yar. He's still alive. We got a Dynsman."
"Where?"
Chetwynd pointed, and Sten turned to see their target at the shoreline cleaning out a flat-bottomed skiff.
"Useless bugger, if you don't mind me saying so, mister. Can't do a clotting day's decent work. I'd put him washin' pots if I didn't figure he'd poison us all with his carelessness."
Sten and Alex ignored Chetwynd and began stalking across the beach, their bootheels grating heavily.
Dynsman barely had a chance to see them coming. Just as he raised his head, Alex grabbed him by the base of the neck and lifted him off the ground.
"Villain Dynsman?"
"Yeeeesss, mister."
"Wanna talk wi' y't lad."
Alex tossed the little man into the boat, gave Sten a glance, caught the nod, and climbed in after him. He picked up the oars as Sten tossed off the tie, and clambered in after him. Alex began rowing out into the sea.
"Honest, mister," Dynsman wailed. "I didn't do nothin'…" Then in a flash of inspiration, he pointed an accusing finger at the receding mountain that was Chetwynd. "He
made
me build that bomb!"
"Is that right?" Sten said. "You're a bomb builder, are you?"
Dynsman was in instant terror. Maybe they didn't know… oh, clot, what was he into?
"Tell us aboot it, lad," Alex soothed.
"Well, see, he asked me…and…and I said I had some experience at explosives… and…"
"Shaddup," Sten hissed. "We don't give a clot about Chetwynd."
Dynsman just stared at Sten as it occurred to him that something terrible was about to happen.
"Tell us about the Covenanter," Sten snapped.
"Oh, my god," Dynsman breathed.
Alex gave him a cuff. "Ah canna abide blasphemy."
"Forget it," Sten said. "Let's just kill him now. Get it over with."
Sten curled his fingers and let the slim needle that was his knife spring into his palm. Dynsman saw it and began to sweat in real horror. "I didn't know it was political. I never do political work. Ask anybody.
Ask 'em, and they'll tell you. I'm just a…just a…" He looked Sten full in the face, then burst into tears. "I don't do political," he sobbed.
Sten felt like a bugsnipe.
"For clot's sake's, Alex! We got the right guy. Do him, would you?"
Alex nodded and reached into the pocket of his uniform.
Dynsman screamed, coming halfway to his feet. It was the most chilling sound Sten had ever heard—despite enormous experience in listening to soon-to-be dead men scream. Then he realized that Dynsman wasn't screaming because of them.
Sten turned his head.
A
thing
was running toward the skiff through the water at about fifteen knots, closing so quickly on its spindly legs that it almost appeared to be walking on the surface of the water.
Dynsman screamed again. "It's a gurion!"
Alex desperately tried to spin the clumsy skiff around, but it had no centerboard and just spun freely on its axis. Sten grabbed for a punting pole, and just as the creature rose to its full height, vomiting out the awful stomach-mouth with its bleeding veins, he heard the sound of rushing water behind him.
Whatever
that
was, he had to leave it for Alex, and he rammed the pole straight into the gurion's maw.
The tip of the pole splintered and gave as it speared past the scores of rows of teeth into soft flesh. The gurion howled but continued its rush forward, lifting the skiff upward and slamming it over.
Alex had even less time than Sten to react. A second after Dynsman's scream, he saw another gurion charging his side. He flailed out at it with an oar, and then felt a huge wave pressing under him, the sky rushing down at him, and then he was gobbling water. A thick arm clasped his body and squeezed hard as a tentacle tore at his uniform. He tried to get his feet under him—the water wasn't very deep at this point—and desperately fought for a grip on the animal.
Sten was afraid he was being dragged toward the gurion's maw, and he lashed out at the thing in front of him with his knife and slit straight across the delicate membranes of the gurion's stomach. Suddenly he was hurled away. He twisted his body in midair, and then was plunging into the water. He landed with a jolt and found himself standing thigh-deep in water. A geyser of blood was fountaining from the first gurion. Sten immediately put the creature out of his mind and whirled in the water, looking for Alex.
The heavyworlder's lungs were bursting, but he had managed to get a hand on a frontal ray, and another on a ridge graining upward from the gurion's back. Other rays were closing around him, suckers grasping his thick body. Under the water, Alex saw the blood-red maw, centimeters from his face. He strained mightily, a huge bubble of what little remained of the air in his lungs bursting out. Slowly, very slowly, he began forcing the ray toward the gurion's own stomach-mouth. Reflexively, the needle teeth began swarming as they sensed flesh approaching. Finally, with a last mighty shove, the tip of the ray entered the maw.
A high whine almost pierced Sten's eardrums. Then the gurion that had Alex rose to its full height out of the water, and Alex kicked off from the creature's body. The gurion had one of its own rays crammed into its mouth and was gobbling it down, shrieking in pain as its own digestive juices and teeth ripped into its own flesh. The animal was devouring itself; and its weird physiology—especially the peristaltic motion of its rows of inward-pointing teeth—would not let it stop.
Sten felt something thump at his side, and he grabbed into the water for Dynsman. The man was struggling hysterically; Sten felt for his carotid, pinched, and after a few moments Dynsman went limp.
Sten began hauling the man to shore.
"There's more!" Alex shouted.
About a quarter of a klick away, three more shapes had risen out of the water and were charging toward them. Alex was at his side now, and the two of them grabbed Dynsman by the collar and began wading for their lives.
On the shore, Chetwynd and the others had been watching the battle with great interest. Chetwynd saw the two Dru guards rescue the little creep they called Dynsman. He glanced lazily over at one of the skiffs. If he gave the word, he and his cronies could rescue the three.
From many meters away, Sten could read Chetwynd's mind: the other skiffs, just lying there, plenty of hunters, and many makeshift weapons to boot. Even before it happened, Sten knew what Chetwynd was about to do.
The laugh came from his toes and burst up along his tremendous bulk. Chetwynd had never seen anything so funny. He collapsed to the ground, howling with mirth. Around him, the other prisoners caught the humor of the whole thing. If they didn't help, the guards would die.
And there was no way Chetwynd and his mates could be blamed. The entire shore rippled with laughter.
Sten and Alex dug in for one last effort as the water prowed behind them and a gurion closed in. With a final yank, they dragged out of the last few meters of muck and collapsed on the beach.
Sten lay there for a very long time. He could hear the laughter all around him. He waited there, gathering his breath, his eyes closed. Finally there was silence. He turned over on his back and looked upward.
Chetwynd was grinning down at him.
"Anything I can do to help, mister," Chetwynd said.
Sten stared up into the mocking eyes. He felt the thin haft of his knife in his hand, and thought about how it would feel to…
"What the clot!" Sten gasped.
And the feeling was gone, and Sten found himself convulsed with laughter. All one had to do was to look at events from Chetwynd's point of view.