Smith, E E 'Doc' - d'Alembert 09 - The Omicron Invasion

VIP免费
2024-12-20 0 0 512.3KB 101 页 5.9玖币
侵权投诉
[front blurb] [version history]
The Omicron Invasion
Volume 9 in The Family d'Alembert Series
by E. E. "DOC" SMITH
WITH STEPHEN GOLDIN
Panther Books
Copyright © Verna Smith Trestrail 1984
Dedicated to the Los Angeles Science Fantasy Society, Inc.
and, in particular, to Alexis Walser and Alan Trimpi—
for sharing their space for a while
-S.G.
CHAPTER 1
Omicron
With nearly fourteen hundred planets in the Empire of Earth, each world either had to strive to
attain its own distinct character or end up as an anonymous statistic in galactic society. Some worlds, by
their physical nature, had it easier than others; they could claim to be hotter or colder, wetter or drier,
bigger or smaller than other planets. They could have unusual configurations of moons, heavier or lighter
gravity, variable or multiple suns, or even be surrounded by ring systems of moonlets. They could become
noted for some strange native plant or animal, or for some natural resource or bizarre topographical
feature. Such worlds had their reputations already established; you merely had to mention their names and
even schoolchildren could tell you something about them. Names like DesPlaines, Gastonia, or Floreata
conjured instant images in people's minds.
Other worlds were noted more for their cultures than for their physical attributes. During the great
exodus from Earth in the twenty-first century, many separate cultures were established so their inhabitants
could be free to pursue the lifestyles they preferred. Some planets were settled by religious fanatics; Purity
became a haven for hardline Judaeo-Christian fundamentalists, Anares was settled by Oriental mystics,
and Delf—well, no one from outside the planet ever had a clear idea what the Delfians believed in, but
they were quiet about their faith and seldom bothered others, so they were tolerated in the cosmopolitan
imperial society.
Still other worlds established their character only after settlement. The inhabited moon Vesa
became an empire-wide tourist attraction because of its exotic gambling parlors; Glasseye became the
symbol of transience and impermanence because of its inhabitants' fascination with newness. Becoming
different or unique was a way of establishing a reputation.
The planet Omicron was undistinguished as far as physical appearance and climate were
concerned. It came close to being a twin of Earth, circling a yellow star and having but one large moon.
The polar caps were suitably cold, the equatorial zone was suitably hot; there were deserts and rainforests,
mountains and plains, oceans and continents. The native lifeforms were distinctive—as were the lifeforms
on every planet—but none were so unusual they'd instantly bring the name Omicron to mind. The people
who had settled Omicron in the late 2300s were decent, hardworking folk from a variety of social and
religious backgrounds—hardly the fanatical types needed to create a public relations image. By the reign
of Empress Stanley Eleven the planetary population was approaching a hundred million—a drop in the
bucket compared to Earth and other population centers, but still bigger than many other worlds.
Omicron's sole claim to fame was distance. At nine hundred and sixty-nine parsecs from Earth, it
was easily the most distant planet ever settled. Located at the outer rim of Sector Twelve, it represented
humanity's deepest penetration into the heart of the Milky Way Galaxy. Omicron stood at the Empire's
edge, far removed from the bustle and furor of imperial civilization. The name Omicron conjured visions
of incalculable distance, as the phrase "the ends of the Earth" had done in earlier times.
Because it was so far away from the center of activity, Omicron was often a little behind the
times. Imperial fashions tended to reach it later, and gossip was usually wildly distorted by the time it
reached the outpost of civilization. The people of Omicron didn't mind; they were largely self-sufficient,
and viewed their separation from the mainstream of interstellar society as a form of independence. One
local wag had called Omicron "the wart on the end of the Empire's nose," and the citizens had adopted that
epithet with a perverse enjoyment.
In 2451, Empress Stanley Eleven was well past the second anniversary of her coronation, and
peace had returned to the Empire once more. The horror of the Coronation Day Incursion, that ruthless
attack upon Earth, was but an unpleasant memory in the minds of most people. The common man still
could not understand the precise circumstances that brought the raid about, nor did he know who the
Empress's enemies were. The palace had issued reassuring pronouncements, though, and the subsequent
years of tranquility had calmed the populace.
Only the upper echelons of imperial government remained concerned, because they alone knew
that the threat was far from over. The vast hidden conspiracy had made one direct assault against the
Service of the Empire six months after the coronation; when that failed, it was followed by an ominous
silence that made everyone more than a little nervous. A silent enemy is the worst of all.
None of these matters really bothered the citizens of Omicron. They were so far away from the
center of any action that it was hard for them to care. The wise and just reigns of Stanley Ten and Eleven
had numbed them to political reality. What did it matter who was on the Throne, they thought; Earth was
so far away that the administration had little impact on their daily lives.
Then one horrifying day, death rained out of the skies. Nonnuclear bombs began failing on the
major cities and settlements of Omicron simultaneously all over the planet. There was never any accurate
count of the people killed and wounded in those first few minutes, but the number easily ran into the
millions. People died as buildings collapsed around them; others died from flying debris or the
concussions of explosions. The SOTE office in Omicron City, the planet's capital, was smashed to rubble.
Between one moment and the next, devastation and disaster settled upon peaceful Omicron.
Because Omicron was the planet farthest from the imperial center, the Navy had a base located
there. Several battleships and cruisers were stationed at the Omicron base, and it had always been
considered a quiet assignment; aside from occasional maneuvers and war games, nothing ever happened.
Even pirates and smugglers left Omicron alone; perhaps they felt it would not be worth their while to
travel so far for the small potential rewards.
The Navy must have been as surprised as everyone else by the suddenness of the attack. There
must have been someone manning the sensor screens when the invading ships appeared out of subspace.
An alarm of some sort must have been given. The Navy crews must have scrambled frantically into their
ships even as a challenge was broadcast to the unknown force overhead, either to identify themselves or to
leave the vicinity of the planet immediately.
As well trained as the Imperial Navy was, it would be difficult to believe they would not have
responded instantly to the threat. But standard procedures in this case were not sufficient. No one knows
precisely how the base reacted, because within minutes after the invading fleet appeared in Omicron's
skies the base was pounded into oblivion with beams and bombs. After the invaders landed and took
control of the planet, they finished off the job they'd begun at long distance. There was not a fragment of
evidence left to give posterity a clue about the actions of those valiant men and women. In addition to the
loss of personnel, twenty-six ships of various sizes were destroyed on the ground, without even a chance
to fight back against the unknown enemy.
As luck would have it, there were eight naval ships in orbit around Omicron, undergoing training
maneuvers. They must have witnessed the destruction because, under the command of their senior officer,
Captain Osho, they rallied together in a brave attempt to strike back at the invading force.
They were terribly outnumbered; the enemy strength was well over a hundred ships. But numbers
meant little when weighed against the courage and loyalty of the Imperial Navy. The eight ships and their
crews put up a valiant fight to protect the planet from tragedy.
Unable to make a frontal assault, the eight naval ships had to settle for harassment tactics. As the
enemy fleet surrounded Omicron and pounded it with bombs and radiation, the remaining defenders
swooped in from behind and made pesky little raids at their rear. It's impossible to tell whether their
actions saved any lives on the ground, but they did divert some of the enemy's attention to protecting its
flanks instead of putting all its energy into offense against the helpless planet below.
Once the initial bombardment had finished, the attacking fleet began to descend into the
atmosphere, seeking to consolidate its gains. Again the Navy ships made daring maneuvers, almost
suicidal in their willingness to weave in and out among the enemy vessels, firing shots broadside
whenever a target presented itself. The invaders suffered two ships destroyed and four others disabled
before they decided to put a stop to this harassment once and for all.
A detachment broke loose from the invading formation to chase down the annoying imperial craft.
The Navy ships, even knowing they were outgunned, did not flee the battle. Instead, they made their
pursuers chase them through the descending ranks of enemy craft. Two enemy ships crashed spectacularly
as one of them chased an imperial ship a little too closely. The fiery explosion brought cheers to the
defenders' lips.
But their joy was shortlived. As brave and determined as they were, they were still grossly
outnumbered. They could not match the enemy ships in speed or firepower. One by one, the gallant
defenders of Omicron were blown out of the sky until only two ships remained.
At this point, knowing there was nothing further they could do here, Captain Osho made the
decision to retreat. The ships had been trying, ever since the appearance of the invaders, to contact some
other naval bases via subetheric communicator, but the enemy was jamming the subcom channels.
Presumably no other communications had gone out from the surface of the planet, either. The Empire had
to be warned that this attack was taking place so it could mount a counteroffensive of its own.
The two remaining naval vessels broke off their contact with the enemy and, heading in two
separate directions, made a dash for freedom. They were hoping that at least one of them could escape to
spread the alarm.
Such were the overwhelming numbers of the invading force, however, that it was able to dispatch
eight of its own ships to deal with each of the escaping vessels. They tracked relentlessly after their
quarries, encircling them before they could get far enough from Omicron's gravitational field to slip into
subspace safely.
The enemy ships englobed the two naval vessels, pouring beams of incalculable energy at the
trapped craft. In both cases, the result was tragically the same: The Navy ships' shields held out against the
bombardment for a few moments before finally overloading and popping out. Without that protection, the
naval vessels easily succumbed, flaring in brilliant, silent explosions that scattered debris through the cold
darkness of space. There was no one to take the official message back to the Empire that Omicron had
been lost to a mysterious invading force.
With the last organized resistance finally defeated, the invaders must have thought they'd have a
free hand—but they reckoned without knowing the spirit of the Omicronians. People living on the frontier
of civilization develop a tough, stubborn nature—and the citizens of Omicron, confused and frightened as
they were, were not about to surrender their world without a struggle. The Navy and its big guns were
gone, but the Omicronians still clung to their little pockets of resistance.
The big cities were a shambles, but the smaller towns and villages were almost untouched by the
firestorm the attackers had unleashed. Police departments around the world dragged out their heaviest
weaponry and riot-control equipment in an attempt to shore up a last line of resistance. Radio
communication seemed a little more reliable than subcom, and the forces scattered over the face of the
planet managed to patch together some preliminary coordination of their efforts.
The invading forces seemed reluctant to land, at first. Out of the holds of the bigger battleships
came scores of small fliers to flit through Omicron's skies, looking for opposition. These fliers were not
heavily armed, but they didn't have to be—they faced only small, ill prepared and hastily assembled
militia.
Occasionally one of the pockets of defenders would manage to down an attacking flier, but that
only doubled the enemy's will to wipe out resistance. More often, a few quick return shots from the flier
would destroy any weapons the ground unit had, killing a few of the citizens and sending the rest fleeing
for cover.
Within twelve hours of its start, the battle for Omicron was over. The major cities were largely
piles of rubble; the few survivors in any condition to move walked about in a daze from the harsh
bombardment. With the cities had gone the major spaceports and any merchant or civilian vessels that had
been moored there. The smaller towns, except where a group of resistors had been blasted out, were
mostly intact. The citizenry was panicked; some people fled into open countryside, while others cowered
fearfully in their homes, not knowing where to go or what to do. There was no organized resistance force
on Omicron worthy of the title.
Assured, finally, that they would meet no formal opposition, the invading force finally landed.
The fleet of ships -of a design no one on the planet had ever seen before -touched down on a flat plain in
the Long River valley. Curious locals overcame their fear to get a look at the mysterious invaders who had
conquered their planet and defied the Empire of Earth.
The hatch doors on the giant ships slid slowly open -and at that moment, life on the planet
Omicron was radically changed.
CHAPTER 2
Proposals
Earth was tranquil in the viewscreen, a gibbous blue globe filling almost the entire field of view.
The atmosphere seemed like the thinnest of haloes ringing that precious sphere, and little bits of black
space, sprinkled with stars, showed in the corners of the screen. Down below, the Pacific Ocean gleamed
in afternoon sunlight, enhanced by a few white cloud systems. Along the zone of twilight was the western
portion of the North American continent; in the darkness, just barely visible on the horizon, were the
bright lights of some of the bigger cities in the Rockies and the midwest.
The image was only a two-dimensional one, but that was quite enough for the two people flying
casually above the atmosphere in the Mark Forty Service Special. They were not interested in studying the
globe in detail; it merely served as a pleasant visual distraction to complement their more personal
activities.
The cabin of the craft was small and intimate: Two acceleration couches with but a few centimeter
gap between them, surrounded by a dashboard control panel that more resembled a spaceship's than a
groundcar's. The Mark Forty could serve as both, adding to its sophisticated complexity. When it was in
flight mode its windows were sealed tight and became, instead, the viewscreen that currently showed the
image of Earth as the craft orbited serenely above it.
Helena von Wilmenhorst knew it was against Service regulations to "borrow" a Mark Forty for
purely personal reasons. As a ranking officer in the Service of the Empire, though, she was in a position to
bend a few rules. She had just spent a hard sixty-hour week working for SOTE's benefit, and she felt
entitled to some minor liberties.
On her left, Captain Paul Fortier of Naval Intelligence was uncharacteristically nervous. He was
normally an articulate man, but tonight the handsome dark-haired officer was strangely silent; when he did
speak, he frequently cleared his throat and made hesitant false starts. His conversation seemed rambling
and pointless at times. He refused to look directly into Helena's face, and when she put her arms around
his well-muscled shoulders she could tell he was tense, braced as though for combat.
This was not at all like the man she'd grown to know and love. They'd been working together for
the past seventeen months, establishing a firm liaison between SOTE and Naval Intelligence. The two
organizations had never meshed so smoothly, due in no little part to the extraordinary efforts of these two
people. In fact, Helena and Fortier were discovering they meshed well personally as well as
professionally.
That was why, after a long, grueling day of administrative work together, Helena had suggested
they get away alone—just the two of them soaring peacefully above the atmosphere. Fortier had agreed
enthusiastically enough, but as soon as they were alone in the Mark Forty he'd changed from his normally
suave, confident self into the bashful, gawky man now beside her.
Helena tried gamely to carry the conversation, but after several disasters she was becoming more
and more exasperated with her companion. Finally, able to contain herself no longer, she asked, "Is
something the matter, Paul?"
She could see his muscles tense still further. "No. Uh, what makes you think that?"
"I've never seen you so wound up and jumpy. Even when we knew we were going into danger on
Dr Loxner's asteroid you were calmer than this."
"Must be more tired than I thought," Fortier muttered. "It has been a long week."
"It's been just as long for me, and I've worked as hard as you have," Helena pointed out. "That
doesn't stop me from uttering two complete coherent sentences in a row."
"Sorry." Fortier looked away. "I guess I'm just distracted tonight."
"Maybe you just didn't want my company tonight." Helena leaned forward toward the controls.
"We can go back down if you prefer."
Fortier reacted quickly. He reached out and grabbed her left hand, holding it tightly and not letting
it complete its intended action. "No. I want very much to be with you. It's just . . . I'm very nervous, that's
all. I've never done this before."
"Never done what? You've flown with me before, dozens of times. All those trips between Earth
and Luna Base together . . ."
"I've never proposed marriage before." Fortier's voice was scratchy as the words tumbled from his
mouth.
Helena stopped, dumbstruck for a full thirty seconds. When she finally could speak again, all she
could say was "Paul?" in a voice that did not sound at all like her own.
After spending the early evening in awkward silence, Fortier suddenly could not stop the words
from gushing forth. "There were a couple of times when I thought I might, but I never quite reached that
point. There was Natasha, just as I got out of the Academy, but she suddenly got starstruck on a shuttle
pilot from Patagonia and left before I even had a chance to make the offer. Then there was Kalinda, just
after I made lieutenant commander—but I was offered the undercover assignment just then, and I knew it
wouldn't be fair to her to have me off for a couple of years, possibly killed while investigating those
pirates. She'd have had all the disadvantages of a service wife and none of the advantages. I left her
without even saying goodbye, without telling her why I went. I must have hurt her terribly, but there was
nothing I could . . ."
"Paul." Helena swiveled her seat more to face him and cupped her right hand over his mouth,
silencing his outburst. "Do you mean to say you're proposing to me now?"
Fortier took a deep breath, and Helena took her hand away from his mouth again. "That's what I
thought I was doing," the captain said.
Helena laughed and reached across to ruffle his hair. "Idiot! You haven't asked me a thing yet."
Her movement in freefall caused her to spin slightly in the cabin, and she quickly had to stop ruffling his
hair and grab at the dashboard to steady herself again.
Looking flustered, Fortier said, "Oh. In that case, Duchess Helena Kirsten von Wilmenhorst,
would you do me the great honor of becoming my wife?"
Helena's laughter stopped. Prying her left hand out of Fortier's rigid grip, she lifted both hands to
cup his handsome face and looked straight into his brown eyes. "After all the time we've spent together,
after all we've come to mean to each other, did you honestly expect me to say anything but yes?"
Fortier gulped and averted his eyes. "Well, but you're a duchess and heir to all of Sector Four.
You may even end up running SOTE when your father retires. I'm just a commoner and an ordinary
officer. I have no fortune, nothing in particular I can offer you . . ."
"Hold it right there, tovarishch," Helena said, a spark of mock anger in her eyes. "First of all, the
Stanley Doctrine gives commoners as much right to marry duchesses as anyone else, in case you've
forgotten your grade school history. Second, I don't need a fortune; I've already got one. Third, there is
nothing ordinary about you. You are one of the most charming, intelligent, handsome, dedicated, talented,
and wonderful men I know. You are a prize catch, and tonight I think I'm the luckiest lady in the Galaxy.
The answer to your question, Captain, is a resounding yes, yes, yes!"
She pulled his face closer to her own and the two spent a long time in a passionate kiss, Helena's
waist-length black hair slowly drifting in the air currents as her new fiancé's hands slid around her back.
For the rest of their several Earth orbits there was nothing nervous or awkward about Paul Fortier's
behavior at all.
***
Even hours later, when the Mark Forty had been brought back to its hangar near the Hall of State
for Sector Four in Miami and the two lovers had reluctantly gone their separate ways for the night, Helena
still felt as though she were in orbit. She'd been in love before, several times, but it had never worked out
the way she'd always expected. In the case of Jules d'Alembert, the problem of coming from worlds with
seriously different gravities had made the prospect of marriage impossible. In another case, the man had
not been as serious about her as she'd been about him. Another man turned out to be merely a golddigger -
a fact she'd learned just in time to prevent her making a costly mistake. Lately, the couple of times she'd
gotten deeply involved she found herself having to make career decisions—and in both cases, the men
came out second best to her position with SOTE. She'd almost begun to despair of ever finding the right
person for her, and had poured most of her energies into her work for the last few years. In Paul Fortier,
though, she felt she'd found the perfect match. He was a few years older than she was, mature, athletic,
and very intelligent. His career also matched well with hers; they were both only too aware of the
exigencies of intelligence work. Both were fiercely dedicated to the welfare of the Empire, giving them
another point of shared concern.
It was true, as he himself had pointed out, that they came from different social backgrounds.
Helena was from the upper levels of the aristocracy; she'd spent all her life in the glitter and glamour of
the top classes, and had been raised almost as a sister to Edna Stanley, the current Empress. Fortier was
from a family with a naval tradition—sturdy middle-class stock without titles or pretensions. There was
bound to be some conflict in their chosen lifestyles—but given the similarity of their interests and careers,
that could probably be reduced to a minimum. She was sure an intelligent person could adjust to a step
upwards in society much more easily than a step downwards.
She smiled warmly. It would be fun teaching her Paul the intricate ins and outs of protocol, the
complex patterns of formal etiquette in aristocratic society. She imagined the first few dinner parties they
would attend, and hoped he'd be up to making inane conversations with empty-headed countesses and
half-drunk earls. She thought of the splendid reception she'd have to throw to announce their
engagement—and that thought reminded her she'd have to tell her father.
She checked her ringwatch and discovered it was three in the morning, Miami time. Even with the
long hours her father kept as Head of the Service of the Empire, he would probably be asleep by now.
There would be plenty of time to tell him the wonderful news in the morning. She didn't think he'd raise
any objections; after all, it was he who'd encouraged her to get more closely acquainted with Paul Fortier
in the first place by assigning her to work with him as liaison between SOTE and NI.
She could not later remember her drive home from Headquarters to her apartment. Her head was
so in the clouds from this surprising development that her surroundings were just a blur. She'd had enough
presence of mind to hook her car's controls into the traffic computer network, rather than trying to drive on
her own; in her present euphoric state, she didn't want to risk an accident. She merely sat back in her seat
and spent the time in pleasant reverie.
As befit a lady of her rank, Helena lived in a penthouse suite at one of Miami's most exclusive
hotels. She had four, large, well-appointed rooms, maid service at her call any hour of the day, closets
filled with the latest fashions, a large and timely library of bookreels, and the latest in automated
conveniences. Her kitchen could handle banquets for twenty; the other three rooms had their own
characteristic periods, yet each contained touches of the others so that twentieth century "modern",
Aesthetic Movement Japonica, and Deco each were clearly followed and still tastefully blended—the
perfect setting for gracious entertaining.
It was everything a lady of leisure could wish. The trouble was, as she lamented to her father
repeatedly, she was anything but a lady of leisure. Between the grueling demands of the Service and the
obligatory social demands of the Imperial Court, she was almost never able to enjoy her suite. All she
usually ever did here was sleep—and she frequently skipped that; her busy workload often demanded she
grab mere catnaps on the couch in her office.
Helena left her groundcar nestled in its underground parking slot, still walking lightly on air from
the delight of this evening. The day's fatigue was washed away. She resolved to get out of her work
clothes; as attractive as the champagne tuxedo-pleated jumpsuit was, it had been a long exciting day.
Helena looked forward to a hot whirlpool bath and a chance to lie down on her eyelet-covered flotation-
bed. She wasn't sure she'd be able to sleep at all, but she owed herself the opportunity to try. At least lying
down might stop the giddy spinning of her head.
She took her private elevator tube to the penthouse and pressed her hand to the keyplate. The
computer scanned her handprint and recognized it as acceptable, so the door opened and she stepped from
the brightly lit hallway into her darkened reception room.
Because of the headiness of that evening, perhaps she could be forgiven the few instants of
bewilderment before knowing definitely that something was wrong. She stood frozen in the doorway for a
moment, her instincts giving her a message that her mind was still not prepared to accept. There was a
strange feeling of disorientation, as though she'd suddenly entered a world where everything was forty-
five degrees from perpendicular.
Then realization came to her. The light had not come on when she entered the room. The
computer had been programmed to turn lights on immediately upon her passing through the doorway. Yet
if the computer were simply malfunctioning it wouldn't have opened the door for her at all. Someone must
have tampered with it.
Even though Helena was not really a field agent, she'd trained at the Service Academy and the
instructions they'd given her served her in good stead. She sized up the situation instantly. She was
standing in the doorway to a darkened room with a bright light behind her. That made her a silhouette, an
easy target for anyone inside the room. If she tried to back quickly out of the room, she would remain a
target for several seconds before she could be out of the line of sight. Her best bet would be to go forward,
into the darkness.
Helena dove to her right where she knew there would be a smooth patch of carpet. Once she left
the doorway, the door slid silently shut behind her, enveloping the room in almost total blackness. She
landed on her right shoulder and rolled until her back was against the wall. She scrambled to a crouching
position, subconsciously comparing her own clumsy efforts to the smooth, fluid motion the d'Alemberts
would use for the same maneuver. Her right hand reached to her belt for the ministunner she always
carried there.
From the darkness at the center of the room, where Helena knew the large couch was, a woman's
voice said, "A rather melodramatic entrance, don't you think?"
"Who are you!" It took every gram of control for Helena to keep her voice steady.
"Must we play twenty questions? You know who I am."
Indeed she did. Helena had heard that voice from only one previous source, a videotape recovered
from the planet Sanctuary, but she had replayed that tape many times. The brittle coldness, the crystalline
enunciation, could belong to only one person—Lady A, leader of the mightiest conspiracy ever to threaten
the Empire of Earth.
With that realization came the knowledge that the ministunner she held would do her no good.
Aimée Amorat had long ago transferred her mind into this perfect robot body. A stun weapon would be
useless against it because she had no biological nervous system to be affected. Still, Helena kept her
stunner at the ready in case Lady A had any friends with her.
Trying to remain calm, Helena said, "Khorosho, Aimée, I know who you are. What do you want?"
"To begin with, some common civility. If you won't yet recognize me as Empress, a simple 'Your
Grace' would suffice. I was Duchess of Durward, child, and, as such, your peer."
"I'm not your child," Helena said, "and you're not my peer. And you still haven't answered my
question."
"You can put away your toy; it doesn't frighten me. If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. I could
have killed you on Sanctuary, had it suited my purposes. Killing you would serve no point; you're far too
replaceable."
Helena fumed inwardly at the insult, but remained outwardly level. Moving closer to the couch,
she said, Then why are you here?"
"I've come to make an offer."
"The only thing I'd accept from you is your unconditional surrender."
"Your naivete is beginning to wear thin, as is your presumption. The offer is for your father, not
you. I trust you enough to relay it to him without getting it garbled in transmission. You should consider
that a compliment."
"I don't want compliments from you."
"Don't worry, you won't get too many. Sit down, make yourself at home."
Helena's eyes were gradually becoming adjusted to the darkened room, enough to make out the
dim outline of Lady A's shape at one end of the brass and leather couch. There didn't seem to be anyone
else in the room. Helena thought about the blaster she had stashed in her bedroom, and wondered what the
chances were of reaching it before her enemy could stop her.
"In case you're wondering about doing anything stupid," Lady A continued casually, "I've already
disposed of the weapon you so carelessly left lying around. Now, it makes no difference to me whether
you stand or sit. Your personal comfort is your own business."
Helena twitched slightly, wondering how the woman could have read her mind, then realized that
she must have glanced briefly in the direction of the bedroom. With her robot body, Lady A was much
better equipped to see in the dark than Helena was; to her, the room was probably as bright as day.
"Khorosho," Helena said, sitting at the other end of the couch as far from Lady A as she could.
"What's the offer?"
"Quite simply, I'm offering my help in saving the Empire."
Helena blinked, startled. "Are you going to betray your organization?"
摘要：

[frontblurb][versionhistory]TheOmicronInvasionVolume9inTheFamilyd'AlembertSeriesbyE.E."DOC"SMITHWITHSTEPHENGOLDINPantherBooksCopyright©VernaSmithTrestrail1984DedicatedtotheLosAngelesScienceFantasySociety,Inc.and,inparticular,toAlexisWalserandAlanTrimpi—forsharingtheirspaceforawhile-S.G.CHAPTER1Omicr...

展开>> 收起<<
Smith, E E 'Doc' - d'Alembert 09 - The Omicron Invasion.pdf

共101页,预览21页

还剩页未读， 继续阅读

声明：本站为文档C2C交易模式，即用户上传的文档直接被用户下载，本站只是中间服务平台，本站所有文档下载所得的收益归上传人(含作者)所有。玖贝云文库仅提供信息存储空间，仅对用户上传内容的表现方式做保护处理，对上载内容本身不做任何修改或编辑。若文档所含内容侵犯了您的版权或隐私，请立即通知玖贝云文库，我们立即给予删除！

相关推荐

更多
立即下载
分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：101 页 大小：512.3KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-20

开通VIP享超值会员特权

  • 多端同步记录
  • 高速下载文档
  • 免费文档工具
  • 分享文档赚钱
  • 每日登录抽奖
  • 优质衍生服务

作者详情

相关内容

更多

热门标签

人际关系 配电装置 动力学连接体 力的合成 高考理综 全宋诗作者索引 公务员考试
/ 101
评分 收藏
分享
立即下载 VIP免费下载
客服
关注