Synthetic Men Page 22

  “Ian!” he shouted. “My God—what’s happened?”

  “Vickers!” That one word was all Patrick had time for, but it was enough. Sparks’ jaw sagged and he had to grab at the railing as he came up beside him.

  Patrick hurried down the stairs to meet the crew.

  “Get back!” he shouted. “Nothing we can do up here. They’ve wrecked the controls. Pass out the rifles and we’ll try to stand ’em off at the airlocks. It—it’s the Vengeance!”

  * * *

  Baldwin’s red face went gray. “The Vengeance!” He stood there stunned.

  Don Haverill, second mate, moved toward Patrick, fury in his flat, beefy features.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he snarled. “Fine kind of a warning to give us—after it’s too late!”

  His words shook the skipper out of his stupor.

  “Cut that!” he barked. “You talk like an old woman. They won’t get inside while there’s a crew member alive! Get to the forelock and hold them, Haverill. Morris”—he indicated another officer—“take five men to the stern-lock. The rest of you come with Patrick and me.”

  They scrambled down the companionway. Halfway to the bottom, they knew they were too late. The stern-lock burst open with a crash and a dozen stubby Plutonians poured through. Their terrible guns began to flash as they scattered through the crowd. Screams of dying men were added to the other unnerving sounds. Officers and passengers writhed down like ants under an acetylene flame.

  Seconds later, the forelock fell inside. More Plutonians crowded into the main deck. Their rifles were never still as they cut a bloody path through the mob. Karl Vickers was among these killers. He towered two feet above his ruthless henchmen, his steel-gray hair bristly under the glass helmet he wore.

  When the officers were discovered, Vickers gave an order that caused all the Plutonians to charge them. In the fight that ensued, Ian Patrick and the others played small part. With one rifle among them, they stood frozen there on the steps, their eyes filled with the sight of such butchery as befitted an abattoir, their nostrils cringing from the stench of burning flesh, their ears full of the horrible sounds of mass murder.

  Karl Vickers, coming last, had to climb over the bodies of the dead. The floor was slippery with blood. Vickers’ gray-blue uniform was splashed with scarlet.

  At the last moment, Patrick remembered the gun he held. With a choked oath, he snapped it to his shoulder. One of the attackers flamed a shot at him before he could trigger. The end of the gun melted like thick syrup; Patrick dropped the red-hot weapon with a cry.

  There was something unworldly about the scene. One minute before, the ship had been peacefully cruising the heavens. Now there were upwards of a hundred bodies spilling their blood on the floor, and Karl Vickers was standing there opening his face plate to speak to them. Ian Patrick was remembering Nathan’s words:

  “You’re dooming this ship to death.”

  He heard Vickers’ harsh tones. “Where are the guns!” the hard-eyed warlord demanded.

  Captain Baldwin showed amazing calmness.

  “There are no guns, you madman!” he spat. “This is a passenger ship—not a munitions carrier!”

  Vickers’ brutal lips curled. Patrick, fighting for control, stared into the man’s black eyes. It was like looking down into dark pools that plumbed the depths of hell. Whatever the ex-dictator had once been, he was no better than a mad butcher now.

  “Captain, you lie.” Vickers said that quietly, a cold smile flicking briefly across his lips. “Where are your holds?” Baldwin was stiffly silent. Then, pointing aft, he growled:

  “Down that companionway. But you won’t find any guns.”

  Vickers turned to follow his pointing finger. In the next moment the skipper sprang.

  * * *

  A warning leaped to Ian Patrick’s lips, but the swiftness of the elderly captain’s jump cut it off. This was suicide, Patrick knew. Nevertheless, he did the best he could: launched himself in a dive at the Plutonians!

  Captain and mate were alone in their attack. Don Haverill and the others crouched on the steps, paralyzed. Sparks was swearing under his breath and fighting to get by Haverill.

  Vickers moved like a cat, twisting his big body to the side and bringing his gun into action. The full impact of the charge detonated on the top of the skipper’s head. Patrick felt the sizzling, crushing heat of it. His eyes streamed scalding tears. He saw Baldwin crumple and strike the floor among the attackers, a limp, scorched bundle of blue rags and gold braid.

  The renegade was still moving in that same blur of speed. There was not time to bring the gun to bear on Patrick before Vickers’ flying body crashed into him. The best he could do was to smash the weapon down on the back of Patrick’s head, and he did that with gusto.

  The young space pilot knew one blinding instant of pain. Nebulas whirled before his eyes, shooting stars exploded; then darkness came, and the world folded softly about him.…

  From unconsciousness he climbed to a nauseous semi-coma. And out of coma he came, sputtering and coughing, into stark consciousness again. Someone took a brandy bottle from his lips as he sat up. It was old Jared Nathan. Nathan corked the bottle, face sober, eyes hard. They were huddled in a corner of the room, the twenty-five who were left. A few Plutonians stood guard over them while the rest carried guns from the hold. Sparks sat on the floor, head held in his hands.

  “I’m not one to kick a man when he’s down,” Nathan muttered, “but—I think I mentioned something like this might happen!”

  Unreasoning anger shot through Patrick’s brain. He shoved the old man away.

  “Damn you!” he choked. “We’ve got you to thank for this! Somebody tipped Vickers off that we were carrying guns. Who would do it—but you!”

  Don Haverill faced the space pilot hotly.

  “And who gave him the chance to do it—but you, Patrick! I’ve seen you sneak newspapers into his room time and again. Maybe you gave him a radio, too—that he could convert into a transmitter to get in touch with Vickers!”

  Patrick lurched to his feet and his fist drew back. A big, beefy man stopped him by thrusting a fat paw in his chest. He was Charles Lionel, wealthy head of Mikron Laboratories, America’s greatest radio plant.

  “Take it easy, Patrick,” he snapped. “Don’t start trouble when we’ve got enough of our own. Haverill’s words make sense. We’ll look into your part in this when we get home—if ever.” His bulldog jowls set stubbornly.

  Most of the survivors were sitting, standing or lying with blank faces and shocked eyes, taking no interest in what happened. A few were wounded, the rest past caring what went on. One of the few who had witnessed the by-play spoke now. His voice had a low, tense note.

  “Let’s forget our grudges and try to think!” he advised. His gray eyes flashed about the group. When he spoke, his thin lips barely moved.

  “Whether we all die or not, the primary fact is that Karl Vickers’ possession of the Kuhlons means doom for Earth and Mars. Gentlemen—we’ve got to stop him from leaving with them!”

  Patrick’s gaze snapped to him, “Now somebody’s talking sense! But how are a handful of terriers like us going to whip that pack of wolves?”

  The quiet, gray-eyed man squinted. Patrick knew him for Page Theron, another big industrialist who had been bound for the conference on Mars. Theron shook his head slowly.

  “I don’t know,” he said frankly. “But if we could just get Vickers himself, it would stop the Plutonian attack for good. They aren’t leaders; just savages. If we only had a gun—”

  Sparks glanced up quickly. “Wait a minute! The radio was still working when I left. We’ll flash word to the fleets the minute Vickers leaves. They’ll intercept him before he can get into his hideout, wherever it is.”

  * * *

  Lionel nodded eagerly. “You’ve said something, Mister! No use trying to stop him ourselves. But a few dozen cruisers will be more than a match for him.”

 
“And if he slips through them as he slipped through the blockade?” Page Theron spread his fingers eloquently. “No; I say we rush him when he gets close enough!”

  “Sounds like a prescription for suicide to me,” observed Sparks.

  Theron snapped his shrewd gray eyes upon the radio man.

  “Suicide for us—but salvation for Earth, Mars and Venus!”

  Lionel pursed his lips, and Patrick frowned at thought of such a risk.

  Suddenly Sparks came to his feet, pointing upward.

  “Caesar’s ghost!” he cried. “Look!”

  Karl Vickers had strode out on the balcony with an armful of vacuum tubes. He dropped them over the railing and they shivered into fragments on the floor. A couple of Plutonians followed him with armfuls of other vital radio equipment.

  Page Theron smiled ironically. “Apparently we must follow my plan after all. I suggest you be ready to leap when I give the word!”

  Chapter III

  Master of the Damned

  The gutting of the Oracle was over in another fifteen minutes. For the little group on the main deck, it was like watching the approach of the executioner when Karl Vickers strode toward them again.

  The unloading of the Kuhlon guns had been completed, and as a final move the warlord had caused the boxes of food which the ship carried to be piled in the middle of the floor.

  “You may think me hard,” Vickers smiled, “but I can’t afford to take the chances a softer man would. I’m not particular whether you die or not. All I care is that the fate of the Kuhlons doesn’t leak out too soon. To that end, I have destroyed your radio equipment and my men are now wrecking your rocket tubes. As a matter of principle, I shall also destroy the food. Purely principle,” he sneered.

  He turned swiftly, his gun playing a steady stream of projectiles upon the pile of food. In something under ten seconds, there was nothing left of the boxes of provisions but ashes and smoke.

  “A typical move, brother!” It was Jared Nathan who had spoken, and the voice brought Karl Vickers around with sagging jaw. He stared at the traitor who had set him loose on the world fifteen years before. And suddenly his hearty laughter boomed, as recognition came to him.

  “Jared! You—on this ship!” He stuffed his gun in its holster, but the short, thick-bodied Plutonian guard moved in closer. Ian Patrick heard Theron catch a quick breath beside him.

  Vickers stuck out a hand to Nathan. “Fifteen years! You’ve changed, Jared. For the worse, I’m afraid. All these years I’ve been hoping to run across you and square that old debt. Thank your stars my men didn’t kill you when we came in! You’d have been cheated out of the privilege of working with me. You’re coming with us, brother!”

  Patrick stared from Vickers to Nathan. “Brother,” they had called each other! Did that explain Nathan’s treachery?

  Jared Nathan met Vickers’ glance, ignoring the proffered hand.

  “You don’t owe me anything, Karl. I’m the debtor now. If I had a gun in my hand, I could write that debt off the books with a great deal of pleasure.”

  Fury stormed into the other’s face.

  “Is that supposed to be a joke?” he snarled.

  “Not to me,” Nathan snapped. “You promised to leave the solar system and never come back, if I gave you your freedom. As your brother, I was foolish enough to listen. I sacrificed my own freedom, and the respect of every soul in the world, to save you from death. To thank me, you let me down like this!”

  Vickers’ heavy jaw worked. Abruptly, his big fist came up from his side. The sharp knuckles smashed into Jared Nathan’s mouth, sending him back against the wall. Blood trickled from his split lips.

  “You always were a fool, Nathan!” the renegade barked. “Well, stay here and starve like the damned fool you are!”

  Turning to his men, he cracked out an order. In the next instant he had fallen back and the guards were between the handful of Earthlings and himself.

  Theron groaned. “Too late!” he muttered. “If we’d jumped him then—”

  “We’d have been killed anyway,” was Sparks’ dry response.

  Ian Patrick felt as a man in quicksand must feel—utterly helpless. Karl Vickers and his crew were moving toward the airlocks, and with every step they took, the helpless peoples of Earth and Mars were brought that much nearer to slavery. At the last moment, when the rest of his men had gone, Vickers turned back. Something like regret brought a scowl between his eyes.

  “Have I been hasty, Jared?” he called back. “After all, I owe you my life. It’s not too late to change your mind. Luxury and endless pleasures with us—or starvation here. Which is it going to be?”

  “Starvation, and to hell with you!” Nathan gave back. “All these years I’ve been thinking I was as rotten as they come, but now I see there’s someone a few stages lower. I wouldn’t be polluting myself by going with you!”

  Vickers’ harsh laugh was cut off by his shutting the faceplate to his helmet. He stepped back into the airlock and the door slammed. The next moment, the sigh of escaping air told of his departure.

  * * *

  For a few minutes after the Vengeance’s departure, carrying the renegades on their way, the little crew in the murder ship wandered dumbly about the floor. Lionel, Theron and the other business men went in search of friends who might still be alive. But a check-up showed that there were no wounded—only dead. The disintegrator guns possessed a progressive action; the slightest wound developed swiftly into a burning, spreading sore that soon covered the whole body and brought death.

  Ian Patrick felt responsibility bearing down on him like a crushing weight. Baldwin’s death automatically elevated him to the position of captain. But what cheer could he offer these twenty-five men who would soon be looking to him for a way out? Sparks, standing beside him, sensed what was going on in his mind, and was glumly silent.

  It was possible that the rockets could be repaired, Patrick supposed. But without food, the men would soon be sick, ready to fight at the slightest cause, as the first pangs of starvation griped their shrinking bellies. Rockets or radio: these were their two slim chances.

  More to keep the men occupied than for any other reason, Patrick decided to put them to work. At his call, they came listlessly to the stairs, where he stood on the third step. Haverill stared at him hostilely; Lionel had a sour glance for him as well. Patrick sensed that his friendship with Jared Nathan, whom they pointedly shunned, had caused ill feeling already.

  “There’s a job for every man of us,” Patrick told them, “and we might as well be doing it. Sparks, how about the radio? Think you can do anything with it?”

  Sparks frowned thoughtfully, cocking his head on the side.

  “I won’t say ‘yes,’ and I won’t say ‘no,’ ” he pondered. “I’ve got a few spare parts stuck away, and it’s just possible—”

  Patrick acted as though he hadn’t seen Sparks’ furtive wink. The pudgy radio man caught on quickly.

  “Good!” he nodded. “Get to work on it. Horace—” He turned to the big Negro cook, who stood mournfully at the foot of the stairs. “If this were a sailing vessel, your job might be easier. We could have boiled rigging, at least. Think you can find anything at all—flour, rice?”

  Horace nodded. “I got a little bit o’ stuff stashed away, Mistuh Patrick. ’Most a month’s ’mergency rations below deck that they don’ find!”

  “Thank God for that!” Ian Patrick murmured gratefully. “See what you can concoct. Haverill, take a dozen men and look over the remains of the rockets. You, Lionel, organize a cleanup crew to get rid of the bodies. The disposal chute is the quickest and safest way of getting them out of the ship. Keep working, all of you, until you hear the dinner bell.”

  A few of the men moved off. But Haverill and Lionel did not stir. Patrick snapped:

  “Did you hear me? I told you to get to work!”

  Don Haverill stuck his thumbs under his belt.

  “Some of us don’t like to take
orders from a friend of Jared Nathan,” he drawled. “Nathan’s as much to blame for this as Karl Vickers.”

  Patrick shifted his glance to the portly tycoon.

  “How about you, Lionel?”

  Charles Lionel met his glare. “That goes for me too;”

  Patrick came down the steps slowly, but when he snapped into action, he was chain lightning. Haverill ducked and threw up his hands. The new captain’s fist went through his guard like a bullet. Haverill’s jaw resounded to the flat smash of the blow. He tried to turn aside to escape further punishment, but Patrick had him by the shirt front. He chopped two vicious punches into his face, followed with a short jab to the belly.

  When the mate doubled over, Patrick pulled him up with a wicked uppercut to the point of the chin. Haverill went over backward and landed on his shoulder blades. Patrick pivoted.

  Charles Lionel made feeble, pawing efforts to ward off the lighter, more muscular man. Patrick jabbed at his fleshy features until they were red and swollen. A final blow to the stomach caused Lionel to sit down with a windy grunt.

  “Anybody else want to be captain?” Patrick shot at the group.

  * * *

  Heads shook. Someone grunted: “At your service, Captain. I’ve got a glass jaw myself!”

  “We’ll get along fine then,” Patrick grinned. “Just remember there’ll be more for the next mutineer. It may help you keep on the job!”

  Patrick went above to get the final verdict on the transmitter. He met Sparks at the radio room door. Gloom shrouded the radio man’s face. By way of explanation, he jerked a thumb at the interior.

  Patrick looked in. His jaw hardened; then he slapped Sparks on the back.

  “As scrap metal, it might bring a few dollars,” he chuckled. “But as a transmitter—well, we’ll find another job for you, Sparks. Apparently you haven’t got a radio any more.”