Contraband From Otherspace

XXII

"They’re attacking the control room!"

The words echoed through Grimes' mind. They must be Sonya and the Major and his men. They must have breached the ports. So far there was no diminishing of air pressure—but even such a sorry rustbucket as Sundowner would have her airtight doors in reasonably good working order. All the same, he deemed it prudent to pause in his negotiation of the axial shaft to put his helmet back on. Luckily the rough treatment that it had received at the hands of the Mate did not seem to have damaged it.

Ahead of him, the two Sundowner officers were making rapid progress. It was obvious that they were not being slowed down by emergency doors and locks. The Commodore tried to catch up with them, but he was hampered by a spacesuit.

Then, faintly through his helmet diaphragm, he heard the sounds of a struggle, a fight. There were shots—by the sharpness of the cracks fired from small calibre pistols such as the Captain and his Mate had been carrying. There were shouts and screams. And there was a dreadful, high squeaking that was familiar, too familiar. He thought that he could make out words—or the repetition of one word only:

"Kill! Kill!"

He knew, then, who They were, and pulled himself along the guideline with the utmost speed of which he was capable. Glancing ahead, he saw that Sundowner’s Master and his second in command were scrambling through the open hatch at the end of the shaft, the hatch that must give access, in a ship of this type, to Control. He heard more shots, more shouts and screams. He reached the hatch himself, pulled himself through, floundered wildly for long seconds until his magnetized boot soles made contact with the deck.

They ignored him at first. Perhaps it was that they took him—in his tailed suit with its snouted helmet—for one of their own kind, although, by their standards, a giant. They were small, no larger than a terrier dog, but there were many of them. They were fighting with claws and teeth and pieces of sharpened metal that They were using as knives. A fine mist of blood fogged the face plate of Grimes' helmet, half blinding him. But he could see at least two human bodies, obviously dead, their throats torn out, and at least a dozen of the smaller corpses.

He did not give himself time to be shocked by the horror of the scene. (That would come later.) He tried to wipe the film of blood from his visor with a gloved hand, but only smeared it. But he could see that the fight was still going on, that in the center of the control room a knot of spacemen were still standing, still struggling. They must either have lost their pistols or exhausted their ammunition; there were no more shots.

Grimes joined the fight, his armored fists and arms flailing into the mass of furry bodies, his hands crushing them and pulling them away from the humans, throwing them from him with savage violence. At first his attack met with success—and then the mutants realized that he was another enemy. Their squeaking rose to an intolerable level, and more and more of them poured into the control room. They swarmed over the Commodore, clinging to his arms and legs, immobilizing him. Sundowner’s officers could not help him—they, too, were fighting a losing battle for survival.

There was a scratching at Grimes' throat. One of his assailants had a knife of sorts, was trying to saw through the fabric joint It was a tough fabric, designed for wear and tear—but not such wear and tear as this. Somehow the man contrived to get his right arm clear, managed, with an effort, to bring it up to bat away the knife wielder. He succeeded—somehow. And then there was more scratching and scraping at the joint in way of his armpit.

He was blinded, helpless, submerged in a sea of furry bodies, all too conscious of the frantic gnawings of their teeth and claws and knives. His armor, hampering his every movement even in ideal conditions, could well contribute to his death rather than saving his live. He struggled still—but it was an instinctive struggle rather than one consciously directed, no more than a slow, shrugging, a series of laborious contortions to protect his vulnerable joints from sharp teeth and blades.

Then there was a respite, and he could move once more.

He saw, dimly, that the control room was more crowded than ever, that other figures, dressed as he was, had burst in, were fighting with deadly efficiency, with long, slashing blades and bone-crushing cudgels. It was a hand-to-hand battle in a fog—and the fog was a dreadful cloud of finely divided particles of freshly shed blood.

But even these reinforcements were not enough to turn the tide. Sooner or later—and probably sooner—the mutants would swamp the humans, armored and unarmored, by sheer weight of numbers.

"Abandon ship!" somebody was shouting. It was a woman’s voice, Sonya’s. "Abandon ship! To the boats!" And then the cry—fainter this time, heard through the helmet diaphragm rather than over his suit radio—was repeated. It is no light matter to give up one’s vessel—but now, after this final fight, Sundowner’s people were willing to admit that they were beaten.

Somehow the armored Marines managed to surround the crew—what was left of them. The Captain was still alive, although only half conscious. The Mate, apart from a few scratches, was untouched. There were two engineers and an hysterical woman with Purser’s braid on her torn shirt. That was all. They were hustled by Corsair’s men to the hatch, thrust down the axial shaft. Grimes shouted his protest as somebody pushed him after them. He realized that it was Sonya, that she was still with him. Over their heads the hatch lid slammed into its closed position.

"The Major and his men…" he managed to get out. "They can’t stay there, in that hell!"

"They won’t," she told him. "They’ll manage. Our job is to get these people clear of the ship."

"And then?"

"Who’s in charge of this bloody operation?" she asked tartly. "Who was it who told the Admiral that he was going to play by ear?"

Then they were out of the axial shaft and into a boat bay. They watched the Mate help the woman into the small, torpedo-like craft, then stand back to allow the two engineers to enter. He tried to assist the Captain to board—but his superior pushed him away weakly, saying, "No, Mister. I’ll be the last man off my ship, if you please." He noticed Grimes and Sonya standing there. "And that applies to you, too, Mr. Commodore whoever you say you are. Into the boat with you—you and your mate."

"We’ll follow you, Captain. It’s hardly more than a step across to our own ship."

"Into the boat with you, damn you. I shall be… the… last…"

The man was obviously on the verge of collapse. His Mate grasped his elbow. "Sir, this is no time to insist on protocol. We have to hurry. Can’t you hear Them?"

Through his helmet Grimes, himself, hadn’t heard them until now. But the noise was there, the frenzied chittering, surely louder with every passing second. "Get into that bloody boat," he told the Mate. "We’ll handle the doors."

"I… insist…" whispered the Captain. "I shall… be… the last… to leave…"

"You know what to do," Grimes told the Mate.

"And many’s the time I’ve wanted to do it. But not in these circumstances." His fist came up to his superior’s jaw. It was little more than a tap, but enough. The Master did not fall, could not fall in these conditions of zero gravity. But he swayed there, anchored to the deck by his magnetic boot soles, out on his feet. The two engineers emerged from the lifecraft, lugged the unconscious man inside.

"Hurry!" ordered Sonya.

"Make for your ship, sir?" asked the Mate. "You’ll pick us up?"

"No. Sorry—but there’s no time to explain. Just get the hell out and make all speed for Lorn."

"But…"

"You heard what the Commodore said," snapped Sonya. "Do it. If you attempt to lay your boat alongside we open fire."

"But…"

Grimes had removed his helmet so that his voice would not be muffled by the diaphragm. "Get into that bloody boat!" he roared. And in a softer voice, as the Mate obeyed, "Good luck."

He replaced his helmet and, as he did so, Sonya operated the controls set into the bulkhead. A door slid shut, sealing off the boat bay from the rest of the ship. The outer door opened, revealing the black emptiness of the Rim sky. Smoothly and efficiently the catapult operated, throwing the boat out and clear. Intense violet flame blossomed at her blunt stern, and then she was away, diminishing into the distance, coming around in a great arc on to the trajectory that would take her to safety.

Grimes didn’t watch her for long. He said, "We’d better get back to Control, to help the Major and his men. They’re trapped in there."

"They aren’t trapped. They’re just waiting to see that the boat’s escaped."

"But how will they get out?"

"The same way that we got into this rustbucket. We sent back to the ship for a laser pistol, burned our way in. Luckily the airtight doors were all in good working order."

"You took a risk…"

"It was a risk we had to take. And we knew that you were wearing a spacesuit. But it’s time we weren’t here."

"After you."

"My God! Are you going to be as stuffy as that Captain?"

Grimes didn’t argue, but pushed her out of the boat lock. He jumped after her, somersaulting slowly in the emptiness. He used his suit reaction unit to steady himself, and found himself facing the ship that he had just left. He saw an explosion at her bows, a billowing cloud of debris that expanded slowly—broken glass, crystallizing atmosphere, a gradually separating mass of bodies, most of which ceased to struggle after a very few seconds.

But there were the larger bodies, seven of them, spacesuited—and each of them sprouted a tail of incandescence as the Marines jetted back to their own ship. The Major used his laser pistol to break out through the control room ports—but all the mutants would not be dead. There would be survivors, sealed off in their airtight compartments by the slamming of the emergency doors.

The survivors could be disposed of by Corsair’s main armament.