Jinx On a Terran Inheritance Page 5

  "Quit goggling and help me," Floyt panted, snapping Alacrity out of what was becoming a trance. Floyt was on one knee by the fallen woman. A few minutes earlier she had laughed at his wallflower joke.

  Alacrity leapt to help. Both could hear the sounds of the fighting below. Levels of catwalk had been set up surrounding the harp and beneath it. The vault itself didn't have a level floor; it was as concave as an egg cup. At several levels, gantries had been installed.

  All around the Precusor artifact were detectors or sensors of a kind Alacrity had never seen before, something Weir's people must have developed. Some were spherical, resembling tufted dandelions three meters across, others were like metal barnacles.

  Alacrity's jaw had dropped. My god! Did Weir actually figure out a way to interface with that thing?

  Beams and projectile shots ranged up at the catwalk where Floyt and Alacrity knelt, flaring and spanging off it. The combatants were keeping to cover; the engagement had settled into sniping and jockeying for position.

  The musician-Celestial had been caught below the waist by a burst of flechette fire. There wasn't much left of her pelvic area at all.

  "Ho, she's dead."

  "Give me a hand here." Floyt was trying to compose the body so that he could move it without losing part of it.

  She's about the same age as his daughter, Alacrity realized. Energy bolts were exchanged below; beams in various hues and intensities lanced up at them, making molten metal run and spit from the railings and grating.

  "Ho, she's dead."

  Floyt got his arm under the blond head, trying to gather her up. A brief burst of flechettes from below spattered against the adit ceiling behind them. "At least let's get her out of the line of—"

  A mixed barrage of solids and energy hit the catwalk, and Alacrity, amazed in its aftermath that they were untouched, saw when arguing was no good any more. He wrestled Floyt loose and propelled them both back up the steps.

  "I'm all right. I'm all right." Floyt clapped Alacrity's shoulder tiredly. "We have to help Redlock and Dorraine."

  "Ho, we owe Redlock for his help, and I guess we both have kind of a crush on Dorraine, but King's Ransom ought to be here any second. We're only gonna get in the Celestials' way."

  "Then why didn't Redlock wait?"

  "Huh? I guess he—I—damned if I know."

  "They're going to blow the place up. Maybe if you'd looked around a little more instead of gaping at the harp, you'd have noticed."

  Alacrity let loose his hold on his friend as the enormity of it hit him. "No! They can't!"

  Charges were plastered all over the vault. "Probably the only reason they haven't been detonated's because the governor's got the intruders bottled up in here. The only way Redlock can win is keep them pinned down till help comes. I wonder how he knew?"

  Alacrity glanced over the woman's body. "And his rearguard's dead."

  Floyt hiked himself up. "I think two of the Severeemish are dead or wounded down there; I couldn't get a good look, with all the firing and the obstacles."

  They studied their options. Floyt thought he caught a glimpse of Dorraine; Alacrity saw a dark figure in a chinstrapped battle helmet—not one of the Pearl's landing party—who snapped off a round with an energy rifle of some kind, then ducked back under cover, all too fast for Alacrity to get off a shot.

  There were coruscations of crossfire and ricochet; panels blew out in showers of sparks and liquefied metal and glass. Bullets sent fragments whining. The noise was appalling.

  A number of triangular passageways ran from the vault off the lowest level of catwalk. It looked like the surviving intruders were withdrawing into two of these.

  As Floyt watched, Dorraine fired down a tunnel with one of her lovely little imitation derringers. It gave a high report and a more powerful beam than he'd expected. Redlock was by her side, and they advanced into the tunnel, from which came sounds of more shooting. A quiet descended on the vault itself.

  "We can at least give the wounded a hand," Floyt said, starting to get up. Alacrity, who'd been making frantic adjustments to his pistol, caught Floyt's sleeve and pointed to a lift. In seconds they were dropping to the bottom level, crouched behind the lift's gates.

  A hasty scatterbeam shot splashed off the vault wall near the lower catwalk. They couldn't see where it had come from, and could only hope it had been stray fire from an intruder in one of the tunnels.

  When they reached the bottom, they found that one of the wounded Severeemish was Seven Wars. A short distance away lay the body of one of the Corporeals—the Severeemish bodyguards. A flechette burst had ripped his tough skin; his blood looked altogether human.

  Floyt and Alacrity, weapons ready, squatted next to Seven Wars. He was barely conscious, clutching a deep wound in his side.

  "See what you can do," Alacrity said. Extremely jittery, he went to make sure the immediate area, at least, was safe. Even so, he spared a few intrigued glances for the piles of research equipment.

  Seven Wars came around a bit, his craggy head resting on Floyt's knee. He pawed feebly at a big, bulky pouch on his harness. Before he could get it open, he drifted off again.

  Floyt worked the piece of equipment free of its pouch. It was bell-nozzled, with small fittings and manipulators retracted up inside the bell. It had a reservoir of some kind and a handgrip. Floyt hadn't the first idea how the thing worked, though the controls looked very simple.

  He turned to the corpse of the Corporeal, laying the muzzle of the medical instrument over one of its wounds.

  The device buzzed his palm silently, which, Floyt concluded, was meant to let him know this patient was dead, without giving off light or sound that might attract enemy fire.

  Floyt pressed his thumb against a button. The device vibrated a little, growing warmer. When he removed it, the machine had irrigated and sterilized the wound and covered it with layers of sticky webbing, some sort of battlefield dressing.

  Floyt pried Seven War's powerful fingers away from his wound and used the envoy's combat knife to cut away the fabric of his uniform. Blood ran freely, and Floyt's hands began trembling. He laid the muzzle of the medical kit over the wound and triggered it. The unit became warm under his hand until a measured pulsing of its grip gave him what he supposed to be a treatment-completed signal. When he removed the unit, Seven Wars' wound was thick with spun dressing and no longer losing blood. Floyt began checking him out for other wounds.

  Alacrity reappeared. "How is he?"

  Floyt looked at the medical instrument doubtfully. "I found a switch to take readings, but I don't know what any of them—look out!"

  Alacrity spun, holding the Captain's Sidearm at waist level with both hands. He was facing a man in a mottled battle suit and chinstrapped helmet holding a flechette burpgun slung from one shoulder.

  Got me cold … Alacrity knew it would be his last thought. He tried to fire anyway; he didn't realize that he was shouting at the top of his lungs.

  The burst never came. The intruder's expression was stunned disbelief as he squeezed the trigger without effect.

  Showdown syndrome, Alacrity registered with a stopped heart. He must've emptied his magazine without realizing it. The crash of Alacrity's shot took the man squarely in the chest, driving him back off balance, riddling and igniting him. The intruder shrieked once, then collapsed, clothing aflame, tissue smoldering, marrow gone to ash.

  Alacrity fired again to make sure he wasn't suffering, but it produced only a weak, pale ray. As charnel smoke mushroomed into the vault of the Precursors, he tried again with no result.

  Coughing and choking, he pulled the blue bandanna up over his nose and mouth, stepping over the corpse, fumbling for a new charge even though the gun still read full. Another intruder rushed him from one side, raising a thing that looked like a combination war axe and carbine.

  That one didn't fire either, but knew he was out of ammunition. He'd attacked because he saw no other alternative to being burned down. Alacrity
tried to throw himself out of the way, slamming into a wall of Weir machinery, setting off agony in his elbow and ribs. He brought his father's weapon around and up with all his might, left hand reinforcing the grip of his right.

  The blade of the gun-axe met the long, thick rib beneath the pistol's barrel, adding a new dent and nearly knocking it from Alacrity's hands. The man closed with him, sending them both toppling sideways against a console.

  Alacrity freed up the pistol long enough to slam it against his opponents helmet, but that didn't do much good. He just warded off another blow of the axe with the pistol's deflector and basket handguard. Then he and the intruder grappled awkwardly for their lives.

  A third enemy had arrived, holding a bayoneted rifle at low port, his ammunition, like his buddies, used up in the firefight and skirmishing. He was headed for the whirling tangle of his fellow and Alacrity.

  The bayonet looked odd and cruel to Floyt, rather like an upside-down Bowie knife. Floyt had let Seven Wars' head slide from his lap. Having struggled to his feet, he dragged at the Webley while straddling the body of the Severeemish.

  The intruder came to high port, whirling on him, ready to attack. The man appeared to make a quick calculation, from Floyt's expression and the fact that he hadn't fired to save Alacrity, that the revolver, too, was empty. He advanced.

  Floyt raised the revolver in both hands, as he'd seen Alacrity do. The muzzle shook and quavered. An awful, abrupt doubt crossed the intruder's face. Floyt tightened his right index finger in a spasm, tightening his other fingers as well, thrusting the Webley at the other.

  The revolver leaped and roared, shooting smoke and a tongue of flame, making Floyt shut his eyes involuntarily. Both Alacrity and his enemy, locked in their struggle, ignored it.

  As for Floyt, he saw in shock that he'd missed clean. At perhaps five paces. It was no less of a surprise to his target.

  Misfire? It seemed impossible. With the pistol leaping in his convulsing grip, he yanked off another round, and two more after it, flinching, wincing his eyes shut each time. The recoil wasn't overwhelming, but it was something he had never dealt with before; the reports were unnervingly loud. The burnt propellant had a sharp smell.

  The intruder stood unscathed. Worse, he dropped into guard and advanced. Floyt tried to back up, but his heels came up against Seven Wars. For some reason that reminded him of the Severeemish looking at the Webley earlier, and Floyt recalled that the pistol was a double-action design.

  Tongue in the corner of his mouth, sweat running down his face, Floyt carefully kept his finger off the trigger while he put both thumbs on the hammer spur and cocked it. Only the one round was left.

  His enemy came with a stamping assault, to open Floyt longitudinally. With great and delicate care, Floyt steadied the gun and squeezed the trigger. Smoke and flame and metal spat from the barrel.

  The intruder howled and dropped his rifle, staggering backward trying to stop the blood from spurring from the entry wound at the base of his neck.

  The man regained his balance for a second, then pitched forward on his face, blood spurting from entry and exit wounds to drip through the perforations in the catwalk decking. Floyt had no time to gape; Alacrity, forearm bleeding where the axe blade had caught it, was still locked in a frantic struggle with the remaining intruder. They were rolling back and forth on the console, the intruder was getting the upper hand, levering the shaft of his weapon across Alacrity's throat; Alacrity's face had gone dark. He was carrying the fight with his left hand now, while his right shifted its grip on the Captain's Sidearm.

  Floyt took an uncertain step toward them; reloading would take too long, and they were far too close together. The intruder's head and neck were well protected by his battle helmet; Floyt tried to decide where best to strike the man with the Webley.

  But Alacrity did something to his pistol; a long, gleaming blade snapped from concealment in the deflector rib on the Captain's Sidearm.

  Alacrity jammed the pistol bayonet into his enemy's side. The man made a sound halfway between a grunt and a squeal, eyes huge and round with horror, as the air rushed from his lung. Alacrity stabbed twice more, blood splashing across the gun's handguard. Pressure on the axe shaft fell away. As he pushed the man's body off him, Alacrity smelled death in the intruder's exhalation.

  He massaged his throat, sucking in great lungfuls of air, as Floyt helped him up, demanding to know if he was all right although Alacrity was gasping too hard to answer.

  At last Alacrity got out one word. "Reload!"

  As Alacrity began digging a fresh—he hoped—charge from a belt pouch, Floyt shakily opened the Webley. The extractor sent empty shells flying. He fumbled in his pocket for more cartridges.

  His hands were shaking so badly that he could barely fish out a handful of bullets, dropping two of them, which promptly rolled and fell through deck perforations. Floyt took another deep breath, focused himself by an act of will, and, bringing all his concentration to bear, began fitting bullets into the cylinder with exacting patience. Every few seconds he would glance around nervously. No noise or sound indicated any more intruders.

  Ashen-faced, hands jittering, Alacrity had returned the spring-loaded bayonet to its place in the deflector after replacing the pistol's spent charge. The charge indicator was indeed malfunctioning, reading full even when the gun was empty.

  Floyt left no empty chambers this time, and kept the Webley in hand. He checked Seven Wars again, finding that, while the envoy was still unconscious, his pulse rapid and rather weak, the field dressing was still containing the bleeding.

  He heard footfalls on the catwalk and very nearly fired as he turned. Alacrity was prowling, gun ready, through the maze of equipment, up a short flight of steps, in the direction of the harp. Floyt turned back to the medical device, to see if it could tell him any more about Seven Wars' condition.

  Most of the research apparatus seemed to be on and functioning; Alacrity figured the intruders had activated everything to cover their movements. He came to a central bank of displays, picking out bits and pieces.

  SYNCHRONISTIC PATTERNED SET ANALYSIS FEYNMANISTIC EVALUATION KOESTLERIAN EVENT CONFLUENCIALITIES STRANGE ATTRACTOR INFERENCES

  Weir's researchers had apparently been using the gantries for some sort of direct observation or testing, going out to the edge of the harp itself. He found a screen with a red indicator over it. It read:

  ENTER NEXT TEST RUN SUBJECT.

  Floyt was still looking after Seven Wars. Alacrity studied the touchpad and entered an inquiry that meant everything to him. The screen changed to read WORKING and its indicator changed from red to green. The indicator on the next screen along lit up red, as it displayed ENTER NEXT TEST RUN SUBJECT.

  ComputerLand inference engines came to full life; the dandelion and-barnacle interfacers glowed and glittered.

  The gantries had smaller interfacers on them; he extended the nearest until it nearly entered the eerie maelstrom. He walked the gantry with a feeling of unreality; reaching the end, he moved between the interfacers. The causality harp roiled.

  Well? What's the answer? He pulled down the bandanna. "Out with it!"

  A sudden, almost unbearable increase in the humming and toning of the harp drove him back a step. Hissing discharges rippled through it; the harp was all flame and turbulence, making the vault vibrate with its peturbations and pitch patterns.

  Alacrity threw up one hand to ward off the fierce light, laughing shrilly. He slowly extended his other hand into the star-brume.

  He was lost in a storm of thought-fillips and surges from his overloaded nervous system. He lowered his hand again, watching the dance of the phase-portraits and the grand processions of the adumbrations through slitted eyes. Lost to the normal passage of time, he wavered, wrist entering the harp's turmoil. Dimly, he heard alarms and bells.

  "Alacrity! Get back here!" Floyt stood at the other end of the narrow gantry, unable to force himself out to the alien starfoam. Alacrity, silhoue
tted against the majesty of it, was roaring, glorying. Some of the damaged equipment had begun sputtering, smoke wreathing from it.

  Alacrity couldn't resist wondering what would happen if he leaned over just a little further; if his head entered the causality harp. If it swept through his skull and into his naked mind.

  He bent forward, but the harp seemed to be withdrawing from him. Alacrity took a deep breath, preparing to swing himself out further. Then he realized perplexedly that the harp wasn't withdrawing; the gantry was moving backward. Arms grabbed him from behind and dragged him down to the gantry surface. All in a moment, the harp subsided, becoming an almost invisible, almost silent ghost.

  Floyt was on top of him, holding him. Alacrity's outstretched hand pulled further and further back from the harp.

  He didn't struggle. Craning his head, he saw Redlock arrive, Dorraine and the rest following. Alacrity looked at the darkened harp sadly, but told himself it didn't matter. He had his affirmation.

  When the gantry was fully withdrawn, Redlock helped them both to their feet. "Snap out of it, Fitzhugh. There's no time for this!"

  Floyt noticed woozily that, down below, Sortie-Wolf was kneeling by his father's side. The surviving Celestials and the Corporeal were checking the bodies of the intruders. Several members of Redlock's party were missing.

  "What—what's wrong?" Alacrity slurred.

  "We can't disarm all the explosives in time. This entire place will go in minutes."

  Others were already crowding into the lift, bearing Seven Wars. The slain Corporeal was left behind, for lack of room and time. Alacrity came around enough to support himself on Floyt's shoulder.

  As they hurried past it, Floyt caught a look at the screen where Alacrity had entered his question. The red indicator light still shone.

  Alacrity watched the seething nebulae of the causality harp as the lift rose past it, gazed back at it over his shoulder as Floyt pulled him back from the edge.