James R. Berry - The Galactic Invaders

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2024-12-19 0 0 388.78KB 165 页 5.9玖币
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The Galactic Invaders by
James R. Berry
CHAPTER 1
Keith Cranston's muscles tightened as a chill shuddered up his
backbone. He forced himself to take deep, regular breaths—a precaution
against even a hint of panic—as he searched for a scheme that would avoid
their deaths. From behind the square pillar where he hid, he glanced at
the figure lying four meters or so ahead of him.
She appeared lifeless, blood now congealing on her arm, a lasegun only
centimeters from her outstretched hand. In the swiftly descending
darkness, Cranston's eyes picked out a slight, barely perceptible motion in
her chest. She was still fully conscious, he knew, but her life depended on
her charade of death. That she was alive at all was one of the few lucky
breaks they'd had in the last minutes.
He knew little about her: her name was Dione Clarke and she had come
to the Citiplex Spaceport to take him to the office of Commander Guy
Ulmstead. At the arrivals information desk he had seen a girl whose black
hair framed a face that was mostly eyes; the eyes themselves were mostly
violet, but with a hint of shimmering blue. She had a figure only another
woman might describe as too well filled and had walked toward him, hand
outstretched in greeting, her softly oval face tense with worry. That had
been twenty minutes before.
A lifetime ago.
Now, Cranston concentrated on escape. Whatever action was taken, he
thought grimly, he had to know their exact position. He crouched low and
risked a quick look from behind his pillar, spotting a flash of movement to
the right and about twenty meters away. He ducked back just before the
flat crack of a lasegun snapped. A pristine beam of light hit the pillar
where Cranston's head had been a second before. With a soft "whoosh" a
half moon section of the duralloy vaporized.
Cranston noted three of them, still too close together to be effective. But
they'd move now that his position was known. Whoever "they" were. Or
whatever their motives. He was completely mystified by the sudden,
surprising assault.
Cranston shelved speculation and concentrated on priorities. An old
trick came to mind, one tired and worn. But, he admitted, he had none
better.
He doffed his light coat quickly and again eyed the distance between
himself and the lasegun near the girl's hand. He flung the coat high and to
the right. In the same motion he moved out, swiftly and to the left.
Two lasecharges cracked almost as one as he scooped up the gun and
dove behind a twisted aircushion taxi, its nose embedded in another of the
dozens of pillars holding up the tangle of roadways above. The driver was
slumped over the wheel, dead.
The old trick had worked. In the dimness they had shot at the coat and,
momentarily blinded by the bright lasegun charges, had only half-noticed
his swift run to the taxi. And now he was armed. Suddenly the odds
weren't quite so disastrous.
"Find him. Circle around." The urgent whisper reached Cranston's ears.
The ruse had gained him more time than even he had expected. They
knew his general location, but probably no more.
As he paused to consider his next move, Cranston bristled at how
suddenly fate could reverse fortune. Summoned from Tau Ceti by
Commander Ulmstead, Chief of Naval Spacefleet Intelligence, he had
docked his starship, the Draco 11, at the spaceport less than an hour and a
half ago. He had been too diverted by Dione Clarke's earnest, concerned
manner to ask why he needed an escort, and had willingly accompanied
her.
Because of the apparent argument between his taxi driver and another,
involving an obstreperous bystander, Cranston and Dione had been
herded into one particular taxi. With an audible grunt he cursed his
carelessness in not noticing that another aircushion car had followed
them. He was slipping, Cranston thought.
Of one thing he was certain. The trouble and arrangements taken
proved that the men now stalking him had made no mistake. He and
Dione were unquestionably their targets. He shook his head, bewildered,
then shrugged. Thinking about it was energy uselessly spent.
Crouching low, Cranston darted to a pillar a dozen meters from the taxi
and flattened himself against one of its sides. He waited, motionless.
Logically, one of the attackers would head this way. Instead of waiting to
be flushed, he'd search them out; the active role suited Cranston's
temperament a great deal more than that of passive victim.
He heard a soft, shuffling sound. Cranston glanced toward the noise,
barely moving his head. A black shape, a figure just a shade darker than
the evening gloom, slid to a pillar not two meters from his own. The shape
squatted, surveying the area of the crushed taxi. If ever it was important
for Dione Clarke to feign death, now was the time.
In one decisive dash, Cranston moved forward, his lasegun held high.
He brought it down forcefully on the man's head; the soft thud and
sibilant sigh told him this assailant would never move under his own
power again.
The odds were down by one.
He moved forward again, scampering from one pillar to the next,
keeping low while circling wide around the taxi. Then, another faint
motion located one more attacker. He, too, was crouched, peering toward
the wreck, Dione Clarke clearly in his line of sight.
Even in the gloom Cranston noted the man's nervous, jerky movements.
At least this assailant was edgy and Cranston decided that he was
probably an amateur at this deadly game of hide-and-seek.
With the soft sighs of an intermittent breeze making the only sound,
Cranston crept forward to a pillar only meters away. He raised his lasegun
and moved out.
Some slight noise, or perhaps instinct, alerted the man. He whirled as
he rose, blocking Cranston's arm with his own gun hand. Cranston's
lasegun clattered to the ground as the man's own weapon swept upward.
Cranston countered with his left hand and punched with his right.
The attacker groaned and Cranston's right hand clasped the man's gun
hand. His left hand circled the man's arm and grabbed his own right
wrist. The jujitsu grip was one Cranston had learned on some forgotten
planet; done correctly, it was forceful enough to tear an arm from its
socket. He bore down and heard the crack of ligaments and a gasp of pain.
"Enough, or I kill you both." The hard, metallic voice of the third
assailant surprised Cranston. Number three now aimed his weapon at the
two struggling men.
"Release him," came another command, harsh and authoritative and
Cranston realized that at least this man wasn't a total amateur. Cranston
stiffened, then shoved his own prisoner forward. The man tumbled to the
ground, leaving Cranston a dim but certain target for the leveled lasegun.
The assailant's finger tightened on the trigger.
Suddenly, the gunman pitched forward with a yowl of pain. His lasegun
cracked and its charge hissed downward. In back of him, a barely visible
Dione Clarke stood upright. While this last assailant faced Cranston, she
had risen and flung a steel head bar, torn loose by the taxi's crash, into his
broad back.
Cranston needed no time for thought: instinct ruled. Knowing that only
an instant lay between him and another lasecharge, he dove for his fallen
weapon. His fingers gripped the cold metal and in one simultaneous move,
Cranston swept up the gun, flung himself backward, and fired at the
moving shape in front of him.
His own shot was followed by another a hundredth of a second later; it
sizzled through space Cranston had occupied a split second before. The
weaving shape doubled over before it tumbled to the ground.
Cranston heaved a huge sigh and glanced appreciatively at Dione
Clarke. Thanks to the woman's quick thinking and courage he was still
alive.
He checked the two men on the ground quickly, finding what he
expected. Both dead.
Ordinarily, Cranston would have alerted the Citpolice. But not now, he
decided quickly. Whatever Commander Ulmstead wanted, it certainly
didn't include his being linked to four dead bodies. Ulmstead could handle
things at his end. Right now, getting to the commander was their primary
objective.
They drove toward the Citiplex in the attacker's vehicle and Cranston
had a chance to reconstruct the last twenty minutes or so. The attack had
happened so quickly that he didn't yet have the details fixed in his mind:
maybe these would offer clues as to motive.
* * *
The events were simple enough.
From the spaceport, their taxi headed for the Citiplex, fifteen
kilometers away. Neither he nor Dione had talked of the pending visit to
Ulmstead. In an aircushion taxi, the passengers were seated beside the
driver on the only bank of seats in the small vehicle. About five kilometers
from the city, Dione—who knew the routes better than
Cranston—remarked that their taxi had taken a wrong turn.
"Ya want'a drive lady, git yer own cab," was the curt reply. Cranston
speculated that taxi drivers everywhere seemed to have been bred for
rudeness. Annoyed, he let it pass.
Then the driver took a turn leading under the tangled web of aerial
highways branching to different parts of the Citiplex. Dione, anger in her
voice, demanded to know their route.
"Short cut lady. Hold on ter yer hair." That had been too much for
Cranston.
"Back to the taxipost," he ordered in a flat, hard-edged voice and only a
fool would think he didn't mean it. The driver, sullen, ignored him. His
own anger rising, Cranston tried again. "You'll lose more than your license
in another minute," he said evenly. The driver, as though slightly dazed,
still ignored him and shifted his bulk.
Cranston looked down and saw a lasegun in the driver's right hand, the
weapon pointing his way. "Don't move and you'll live a little longer," the
driver had said ominously, guiding the taxi with one hand into the
network of duralloy pillars that supported the highways above.
It was then that Cranston took a look behind, saw another pair of
headlights cutting through the dusk, and realized that the driver had help.
He didn't waste energy on regrets or wondering about reasons. From
the driver's words, he knew they'd be dead within minutes. He
concentrated on escape, and getting out of this vehicle was the first step.
"Crash. Look out!" Cranston yelled, pointing out the driver's side
window. Instinctively, the man's eyes darted aside. In the split second the
ruse provided, Cranston's left arm shot downward, pinning the driver's
gunhand against the backrest. His right fist, a knurled mass of muscle and
bone, crashed into the driver's face. The lasegun cracked, its charge
blistering a hole through the bank of seats. The driver cried out in pain
and the taxi lurched sickeningly, then crashed into a duralloy pillar.
Both Cranston and Dione had had a fraction of a second to prepare for
the crash, but the driver, his head twisted to one side from Cranston's
blow, hit a windshield post. Above the sound of tearing steel and smashing
glass, Cranston heard a sickening snap. The driver would offer no more
insults.
They both leaped from the car, Dione ignoring an arm bloodied from a
sharp shard of glass. Cranston held the driver's lasegun. A screech of metal
told Cranston that the following aircushion vehicle had skidded to a quick
stop. Already the car's occupants would be moving outside, aiming their
weapons.
Cranston flung Dione to the ground and tumbled over her as a
lasecharge cracked over their heads. "Stay put," he barked and, not
pausing to hunt for the lasegun he'd dropped, dove behind a pillar, using
himself as bait to distract the assailants from the motionless figure of
Dione.
* * *
The entire scene, from spaceport to escape, had taken less than ten
minutes. Now, in the second car, they headed toward the New York
Citiplex, Dione's arm wrapped in a bloody handkerchief, Cranston with
torn clothes and a face coated with grime, and both unnerved from the
sudden, unexpected violence of the attack.
"Have any idea of who they were?" Cranston asked.
The girl shook her head, bewildered as he. "I don't know the driver, and
the others… I didn't see them well."
"Could it be anything to do with what Commander Ulmstead wants?"
Ulmstead's sudden summons was as much a mystery as the motives for
the recent assault.
"I doubt it, Captain Cranston. There've been some kidnappings in the
last few months. While you've been away. It's puzzling everybody," she
replied, her voice edged with worry. Whatever her concern, Cranston
thought, it went deeper than the activity of the last half hour or so.
And, it hadn't seemed like a kidnap-for-ransom attempt, Cranston said
to himself, remembering the lasecharges that had just seared past. Dione
Clarke was remarkably cool under stress, he noted. A woman worth
knowing— brains, beauty, and bravery.
They arrived at the Citiplex, its skyline now barely visible against a
dark evening sky. Cranston had a brief moment to contemplate its
majestic beauty before Dione pointed to a tunnel leading into the heart of
the Citiplex itself. Less than fifteen minutes later they were near the
headquarters of Commander Guy Ulmstead, Chief of Naval Spacefleet
Intelligence.
"We'll park a few squares from headquarters and walk," Cranston said,
not wanting the car found near Ulmstead's headquarters. The two arrived
at the building without incident, took a voiceprint ideticheck—a normal
security precaution—and a few minutes later were face to face with
Ulmstead's pert secretary. She pointed them to his office.
The door opened and a tall man with white hair, a small, pointed
mustache, and a tailored uniform that molded perfectly over his straight
shoulders and erect back stood in the doorway. He took in Dione's bloody
arm, Cranston's grimy figure, and their torn clothes in a single,
comprehensive glance.
"You're late," he said. "Come in and tell me about it."
CHAPTER 2
The arched eyebrows, pursed lips, and pale eyes of Commander Guy
Ulmstead barely moved as Cranston told of the assault. Only his pointed,
white mustache, trim and neat as the man himself, twitched from time to
time—the single hint of his anxiety.
A communicator terminal jutted from one corner of his desk. At the
end of Cranston's recital, Ulmstead jabbed one of its buttons and in quick,
precise sentences ordered a special squad to collect the bodies and trace
their identities.
"Now. That's taken care of," he said, dismissing the episode with a
wintry smile. "I know you're both shaken and tired, but rest and cleanup
time aren't far off. I promise I'll be brief."
Keith Cranston squinted in puzzlement. After what they'd been
through, a hasty night conference pointed to something a lot more
important than routine problems.
Ulmstead coughed politely, a signal for their full attention. "A year ago
I established an outpost in the Nether Quadrant," he began. Cranston
knew that region of the Galaxy to be largely unexplored. "This outpost's
cover mission was to gather navigational data. It had two covert purposes,
one of which…" At this point Ulmstead hesitated slightly, as though
carefully measuring the impact of his words, "was to report any signs or
traces of the Galactic Invaders."
Cranston felt a shock shoot through his body. Dione turned pale and
involuntarily sucked in a breath. Emotion even showed through
Commander Ulmstead's exterior as the tips of his white mustache
twitched spasmodically.
The Galactic Invaders: twenty years before they had suddenly swept
through the Galaxy, carrying wanton terror and destruction with them.
They gave neither reasons nor terms, and never even communicated with
their victims. Then, at the height of their vicious rampage, they
disappeared as abruptly as they had arrived. No one knew why. It was
thanks to Commander Ulmstead's efforts that the Earth Federation had
salvaged as much as it had, Cranston recalled.
By now—2375 A.D.—Earth Federation warships had prowled through
the far reaches of the Galaxy without finding a trace of the aliens.
Everyone was certain they had been destroyed or had fled back to the hell
from which they had come.
Everybody?
Ulmstead's eyes glinted with a steely light. "With the Earth Federation's
current colonization program, it's an unpopular view to suggest they
might still be around," he continued. "So let's say the outpost's job is to
scrutinize its sector for trouble from any source." Cranston had no doubt
the Intelligence Chief had similar outposts scattered throughout the
Galaxy.
Ulmstead suddenly leaned forward, brushing aside a meter long leaf
from a potted fern. His office was filled with luxuriant plants—the space
veteran's one quirk. Rumor had it that his best hunches came in the
morning when he ritually watered each one.
"This particular outpost has another covert project, one equally
important, perhaps more so," Ulmstead continued. "Only two people on
Earth know of it. Miss Clarke and myself. It must remain
confidential—from yourself as well. That's why I've called on you rather
than involve an official, and hence more public, Spacefleet operation."
Ulmstead's eyes never flinched, yet Cranston detected in them a plea for
help. "I can say it involves a project critically important to the settlement
of our Galaxy," he added, sitting back in his chair as though conceding an
important point.
Cranston stirred uneasily. He didn't like not knowing everything about
a mission. In fact, he still hadn't the faintest idea of what the mission was.
Ulmstead noted Cranston's implied question. "I've called you because
the outpost has ceased to function. No word for over a week. I want you to
find out why."
"My father is in charge of the outpost. He and I worked on the project
together," Dione said softly and Cranston realized that this must be the
reason for her preoccupation.
Ulmstead rose and went to his office window, brushing aside a huge
avocado plant. He spun around. "I doubt very seriously that there are
survivors at the outpost. Miss Clarke already knows of my opinion,"
Ulmstead said brusquely, his eyes blinking. His arms were behind him,
hands clasped, and his back was ramrod stiff.
Ulmstead's long pause was interrupted by the ring of the office
communicator. He put the receiver to his ear, his face again an impassive
mask. He hung up. His eyes narrowed, his mustache twitched.
"Report from the cleanup squad. No one there. Someone beat us to
those bodies. The taxi was stolen, no leads. They're fast and efficient,"
Ulmstead mused. He gave a shrug that barely creased his smooth-fitting,
dark-blue jacket. "Meanwhile," he added, "I'm waiting for an answer from
Captain Cranston."
Cranston had worked for Ulmstead before and each case had offered
challenge to brain and body. It had been over a year since his last mission
and Cranston's tame life as a civilian captain of the sleek courier
starship—the Draco II—was wearing thin.
He nodded.
Ulmstead beamed, which is to say the ends of his thin, straight mouth
budged a couple of millimeters upward. "Good. We'll take care of all the
little details—codes, cash chits, orbit periods and the like—tomorrow
morning at a formal briefing." His fingers formed an A-frame. "I'd like you
and Miss Clarke to leave within the next twenty-four hours."
It took a moment for Ulmstead's words to register. "Dione?" Cranston
exclaimed. Someone who wasn't trained in any of the starship's
specialties, essentially a passenger on an official, and possibly dangerous,
mission.
And, a woman—without provision for anything remotely feminine.
Cranston felt Dione's eyes boring into him as he grasped for some reply.
Ulmstead's eyebrows raised imperiously as he read Cranston's
thoughts. "Miss Clarke is in a position to discover facts at the outpost not
available to you or me," he said, as though regretting having to give this
sparse justification.
Ulmstead rose. "It's settled then." The words were more a statement of
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