Tuf Voyaging Page 9

  Jefri Lion was silent and methodical. He holstered his dart pistol, unslung a laser rifle and raised it to his shoulder, took aim, fired.

  The beam glanced off Nevis’s shoulder, struck a wall, and burned a small black hole.

  “Reflective microcoating,” Jefri Lion said. He put away the laser rifle.

  Nevis had eaten up more than three-quarters of the distance between them with his long, powered strides.

  Finally Jefri Lion seemed to realize his danger. He threw down the laser rifle, turned, and darted around a corner, out of sight.

  Kaj Nevis lengthened his strides and followed.

  Haviland Tuf was nothing if not patient.

  He sat calmly, with his hands folded atop his bulging stomach and his head aching from the repeated blows the tyrannosaur had inflicted on the sheltering table. He did his best to ignore the hammering that dented the metal above and made him even more uncomfortable, the blood-curdling bestial roars, the excessive and melodramatic displays of carnivore appetite that occasionally prompted the tyrannosaur to bend over and snap its numerous large teeth futilely at Tuf in his shelter. Instead Tuf thought about sweet Rodelyian pop-berries in honey-butter, tried to recall which particular planet had the strongest and most pungent variety of ale, and devised an excellent new strategy with which to overwhelm Jefri Lion should they ever game again.

  Ultimately, his plan bore fruit.

  The raging reptile, bored and frustrated, went away.

  Haviland Tuf waited until it grew quite still and silent outside. He twisted himself around awkwardly, and lay for a moment on his stomach while the pins and needles in his legs flared and faded and vanished. Then he squirmed forward and cautiously stuck his head out.

  Dim green light. Low humming, and distant gurgling sounds. No motion anywhere.

  He emerged carefully.

  The dinosaur had struck what remained of Mushroom’s poor body numerous times with its massive tail. The sight filled Haviland Tuf with a vast and bitter sorrow. The equipment at this particular work station was in a shambles.

  Yet there were other work stations, and he needed but a single cell.

  Haviland Tuf gathered up a tissue sample and walked ponderously down to the next work station. This time he made it a point to listen for the sound of dinosaur footsteps behind him.

  Celise Waan was pleased. She had handled herself quite adroitly, no doubt of it. That nasty little cat-thing wouldn’t be bothering her again. Her faceplate was a bit smeared where the cat-spit had struck, but otherwise she had come off splendidly from the encounter. She bolstered her pistol deftly, and stalked back out into the corridor.

  The smear on her faceplate bothered her a little. It was up near her eyes, and it obscured her vision. She wiped at it with the back of her hand, but that only seemed to spread the smeariness around. Water, that was what she needed. Very well then. She had been looking for food anyway, and where you found food you always found water.

  She walked briskly down the corridor, turned a corner, and stopped dead.

  Not a meter away, another of those damned cat-things stood staring at her insolently.

  This time Celise Waan acted decisively. She went for her pistol. She had some trouble getting it out, however, and her first shot missed the disgusting creature entirely and blew the door off a nearby room. The explosion was loud and startling. The cat hissed, drew back, spit just like the first one had, and then ran.

  Celise Waan caught the spittle up near her left shoulder this time. She tried to get off a second shot, but the smeary condition of her helmet’s faceplate made it difficult to see where she was aiming.

  “Stuff and nonsense,” she said loudly in exasperation. It was getting harder and harder to see. The plastic in front of her eyes seemed to be getting cloudy. The edges of the faceplate were still clear, but when she looked straight ahead everything was vague and distorted. She really had to get the helmet cleaned off.

  She moved in the direction she thought the cat-thing had taken, going slowly so as not to trip. She tried to listen. She heard a soft scrabbling sound, as if the creature was nearby, but she couldn’t be sure.

  The faceplate was getting worse and worse. It was like looking through milk-glass. Everything was white and cloudy. This wouldn’t do, Celise Waan thought. This wouldn’t do at all. How could she hunt down that hideous cat-creature if she was half-blind? For that matter, how could she find where she was going? There was no help for it; she would have to take off this stupid helmet.

  But the thought gave her pause; she remembered Tuf and his dire warnings about sickness in the ship’s air. Well, yes, but Tuf was such a ridiculous man! Had she seen any proof of what he said? No, none at all. She’d put out that big gray cat of his, and it certainly hadn’t seemed to suffer any for the experience. Tuf had been carrying it around the last time she’d seen him. Of course, he had done that big song and dance about incubation periods, but he was probably just trying to frighten her. He seemed to enjoy outraging her sensibilities, the way he had with his revolting catfood trick. No doubt he would find it perversely amusing if he frightened her into remaining in this tight, uncomfortable, smelly suit for weeks.

  It occurred to her suddenly that Tuf was probably responsible for these cat-things that were harassing her. The very idea made Celise Waan furious. The man was a barbarous wretch!

  She could hardly see a thing now. The milky center of her faceplate had grown almost opaque.

  Resolute and angry, Celise Waan unsealed her helmet, took it off, and threw it down the corridor as far as she could.

  She took a deep breath. The ship’s air was slightly cold, with a faint astringency to it, but it was less musty than the recycled air from the suit’s airpac. Why, it tasted good! She smiled. Nothing wrong with this air. She looked forward to finding Tuf and giving him a tongue-lashing.

  Then she happened to glance down. She gasped.

  Her glove . . . the back of her left hand, the hand she’d used to wipe away the cat-spit, why, a big hole had appeared in the center of the gold fabric, and even the metal weave beneath looked, well, corroded.

  That cat! That damned cat! Why, if that spit had actually struck her bare skin, it would have . . . it could have . . . she remembered all of a sudden that she was no longer wearing a helmet.

  Down the corridor, the cat-thing suddenly popped out of an open room.

  Celise Waan shrieked at it, whipped up her pistol, and fired three times in rapid succession. But it was too fast. It ran away and vanished down around a corner.

  She wouldn’t feel safe until the pestilential thing was disposed of for good, she decided. If she let it get away, it might pounce on her at any unguarded moment, the way Tuf’s obnoxious black-and-white pet was so wont to do. Celise Waan opened her pistol, fed in a fresh clip of explosive darts, and moved off warily in pursuit.

  Jefri Lion’s heart was pounding as it had not pounded in years; his legs ached and his breath was coming in hard, short little gasps. Adrenalin surged through his system. He pushed himself harder and harder. Just a little farther now, down this corridor and around the corner, and then maybe twenty meters on to the next intersection.

  The deck underfoot shook every time Kaj Nevis landed on one of his heavy, armored saucer-feet, and once or twice Jefri Lion almost lost his footing, but the danger only seemed to add spice. He was running like he’d run as a youth, and even Nevis’s huge augmented strides were not enough to catch him, though he could feel the other closing on him.

  He had pulled out a light-grenade as he ran. When he heard one of Nevis’s damnable pincers snap within a meter of the back of his head, Jefri Lion armed it and flipped it over his shoulder and pushed himself even harder, darting around the last corner.

  He whirled as he made the turn, just in time to see a sudden soundless flash of blue-white brilliance blossom in the corridor he had evacuated. Even the reflected light that blazed off the walls left Jefri Lion momentarily dazzled. He backpedaled, watching the inters
ection. Seen directly, the light-grenade ought to have burned out Nevis’s retinas, and the radiation ought to be enough to kill him within seconds . . .

  The only sign of Nevis was a huge, utterly black shadow that loomed across the intersection.

  Jefri Lion retreated, running backwards now, panting.

  Kaj Nevis stepped out slowly into the intersection. His faceplate was so dark it looked almost black, but as Lion watched, the red glow returned, burning brighter and brighter. “DAMN YOU AND ALL YOUR STUPID TOYS,” Nevis boomed.

  Well, it didn’t matter, thought Jefri Lion. The plasma cannon would do the job, there was no doubt of that, and he was only ten meters or so from the fire zone. “Are you giving up, Nevis?” he taunted, trotting backwards easily. “Is the old soldier too fast for you?”

  But Kaj Nevis didn’t move.

  For a moment, Jefri Lion was baffled. Had the radiation gotten to him after all, even through the suit? No, that couldn’t be it. Surely Nevis wouldn’t give up the chase now, not after Lion had lured him so heartbreakingly close to the fire zone and his plasma-ball surprise.

  Nevis laughed.

  He was looking up over Lion’s head.

  Jefri Lion looked up, too, just in time to see something detach itself from the ceiling and come flapping down at him. It was all a sooty black, and it rode on wide dark batwings, and he had a brief vision of slitted yellow eyes with thin red pupils. Then the darkness folded over him like a cape, and leathery, wet flesh closed about him to muffle his sudden, startled scream.

  It was all very interesting, Rica Dawnstar thought.

  Once you mastered the system, once you got the commands down, you could find out all sorts of things. Like, for example, the approximate mass and body configuration of each of those little lights moving up on the screen. The computer would even work up a three-dimensional simulation for you, if you asked it nicely. Rica asked it nicely.

  Now everything was falling into place.

  Anittas was gone after all. The sixth intruder, back on the Cornucopia, was only one of Tuf’s cats.

  Kaj Nevis and his supersuit were chasing Jefri Lion around the ship. Except one of the black dots, the hooded dracula, had just gotten hold of Lion.

  The red dot that was Celise Waan had stopped moving, although it hadn’t winked out. The creeping black mass wag coming toward her.

  Haviland Tuf was alone in the central axis, putting something in a cloning vat and trying to ask the system to activate the chronowarp. Rica let the command go through.

  All of the other bio-weapons were out in the corridors.

  Rica decided to let things sort themselves out a little more down there before she took a hand.

  Meanwhile, she’d rummaged up the program to cleanse the interior of the ship of plague. First she’d have to close all the emergency locks, seal off each sector individually. Then the process could begin. Atmosphere evacuation, filtration, irradiation, with massive redundancy built in for safety, and when the replacement atmosphere flowed back, it was infused with all the proper antigens. Complex and time-consuming—but effective.

  And Rica was in no special hurry.

  Her legs had collapsed first.

  Celise Waan lay in the center of the corridor where she had fallen, her throat constricted with terror. It had all happened so suddenly. One moment she was rushing headlong down the hall in pursuit of the cat-thing. And then a wave of dizziness had swept over her, and suddenly she felt too weak to go on. She had decided to rest for a moment, had squatted down to catch her breath. But it didn’t help. She only felt worse and worse, and when she tried to get up, her legs had buckled under her and she’d pitched forward onto her face.

  After that her legs refused to move. Now she couldn’t even feel them. She couldn’t feel anything below her waist, in fact, and the paralysis was creeping up her body slowly. She could still move her arms, but it hurt when she did, and her motions were leaden and clumsy.

  Her cheek was pressed against the hardness of the deck. She tried to raise her head, and failed. Her whole upper body shook with a sudden stabbing pain.

  Two meters away, a cat-thing peered out from around a corner. It stood staring at her, its eyes huge and scary. Its mouth opened in a hiss.

  Celise Waan tried to stifle a scream.

  Her pistol was still in her hand. Slowly, jerkily, she dragged it forward to her face. Every motion was agony. She lined it up as best she could, squinting along the top of it, and fired.

  The dart actually hit.

  She was showered with pieces of cat-thing. One piece, raw and wet and disgusting, landed on her bare cheek.

  It made her feel a little better. At least she’d killed the creature that had tormented her. At least she was safe from that. She was still sick and helpless, though. Maybe she should rest. A little nap, yes, she’d feel better after a little nap.

  Another cat-thing bounded out into the corridor.

  Celise Waan groaned, tried to move, gave up the effort. Her arms were growing heavier and heavier.

  A second cat followed the first. Celise pushed her dart-gun to her cheek again, tried to aim. She was distracted when a third cat appeared. The dart went wide, exploded harmlessly way off down the corridor.

  One of the cats spit at her. It struck her between the eyes.

  The agony was unbelievable. If she could have moved, she would have torn her eyes from their sockets, rolled on the ground, pulled at her skin. But she couldn’t move. She screamed.

  Her vision distorted into a hideous blur of color and then was gone.

  She heard . . . feet. Small, light, padding footsteps. Cat steps.

  How many were there?

  Celise felt a weight on her back. And then another, and another. Something nudged against her useless right leg; she could dimly sense it shifting.

  There was a spitting sound, and agony flared on her cheek.

  They were all around her, on top of her, crawling over her. She could feel the stiffness of their fur brushing against her hand. Something bit into the flesh of her neck. She screamed. The biting continued. It took hold, pulling, worrying at her with small sharp teeth.

  Another one nipped at a finger. Somehow the pain gave her strength. She flailed at it, pulled back her hand. When she moved, there was a cacophony of hissing all around her as the cat-things protested. She felt them biting her face, her throat, her eyes. Something was trying to squirm down into her suit.

  Her hand moved slowly, awkwardly. She brushed aside cat-things, was bitten, persisted. She fumbled at her belt, and at last she felt it, round and hard within her grip. She pulled it loose, brought it up toward her face, held it oh so tight.

  Where was the stud that armed it? Her thumb searched. There. She twisted it a half-turn, pressed it in as Lion had told her to.

  Five, she recited silently, four three two one.

  In her last moment, Celise Waan saw the light.

  Kaj Nevis had himself a good loud laugh as he watched the show.

  He didn’t know what the hell the damned thing was, but it was more than enough for Jefri Lion. Its wings folded over him when it hit, and for a few minutes he screamed and struggled, rolling around on the floor with the thing enveloping his head and shoulders. He looked like a man fighting an umbrella. It was downright comic.

  After a while, Lion lay still, his legs kicking feebly. The screaming stopped. A sucking sound filled the corridor.

  Nevis was amused and pleased, but he figured it was best not to leave any loose ends. The thing was intent on its feeding. Nevis walked up as quietly as he could manage, which wasn’t very quietly, and grabbed it. It made a liquid popping sound when he pulled it off of what was left of Jefri Lion.

  Damn, Nevis thought, it did one hell of a job. The whole front of Lion’s helmet was staved in. The thing had a kind of bony sucker-beak, and it had punched right through Lion’s faceplate and sucked off most of his face. Ugly. The flesh looked almost liquefied, and there was bone showing through.

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nbsp; The monster was flapping madly in his grip, and making a high, hideous noise, half shriek and half whine. Kaj Nevis held it at arm’s length and let it flap while he studied it. It struck at his arm, again and again, to no effect. He liked those eyes; real mean, scary eyes. This thing could be handy, he thought. He pictured what it would be like to dump a couple hundred of these down into Shandicity some night. Oh, they’d meet his price. They’d give him any damn thing he asked for—money, women, power, the whole damn world if that was what he wanted. It was going to be fun owning this ship.

  In the meantime, though, this particular creature might be a nuisance.

  Kaj Nevis took hold of a wing with each hand, and ripped it in half. Then, smiling, he went back the way he had come.

  Haviland Tuf checked the instrumentation again, adjusted the fluid flow slightly. Satisfied, he folded his hands atop his stomach and took up his position by the vat. Within, opaque red-black liquid swirled and churned. Tuf felt a certain sense of vertigo watching it; that was a side-effect of the chronowarp, he knew. In that tiny tank, so small he could almost encompass it with his two large hands, vast primal energies were at play, and time itself was hurrying at his command. It filled him with a singular sense of awe and reverence.

  The nutrient bath was thinning gradually, becoming almost translucent. Within, Tuf fancied that he could almost see a dark shape taking form, growing, growing visibly, ontogeny taking place before his eyes. Four paws, yes, he could see them. And a tail. That was most definitely a tail, Tuf decided.

  He moved back to the instrumentation. It would not do for his creation to be vulnerable to the contagions that had killed Mushroom. He recalled the inoculation the tyrannosaur had received shortly before its unexpected and inconvenient release. No doubt there was a way to administer the appropriate antigens and prophylactics before completing the birth process. Haviland Tuf commenced to do just that.