More and more rock continued to fall, and McCade knew if he didn't move soon, he'd be trapped. Fortunately this section of the tunnel was larger than most, so the initial cave-in had failed to completely block it. He eyed the narrowing gap between the top of the rockfall and the ceiling. If he was fast enough, he just might make it. Forcing himself to ignore the loop of slimy gray flesh which now protruded out into the tunnel, he backed off a few feet, and then ran full tilt toward the pile of rocks. A series of quick leaps carried him to the top, and a shallow dive took him through the small opening. He fell head over heels down the other side, hitting and bouncing off a variety of rocks, before finally coming to rest at the bottom. With a roar of falling rock, the rest of the ceiling caved in, and the small opening disappeared.
His right knee hurt like hell, and he didn't feel like getting up, but the large rocks which continued to roll down and crash around him suggested that he should. Besides, at any moment the worm might decide to join him. Forcing himself to his feet, he limped up the tunnel, trying to put as much distance between himself and the worm as possible. After about fifty feet or so, he was suddenly short of breath, and noticed that his oxygen hose had pulled loose from his nostril plug. As he stopped to fix it, he glanced back over his shoulder, half expecting to see the worm in hot pursuit. It wasn't. Maybe the rockfall had slowed it down, if so, good. Apparently the blasted thing had been busy creating another tunnel parallel to his own, when the thin rock wall separating the two tunnels had collapsed, causing the roof to cave-in as well.
By the time he emerged from tunnel thirty-four, McCade's right knee felt better, and his limp was almost gone. Making his way between the large rocks which littered the floor of the cavern, McCade caught occasional glimpses of the guards gathered around the makeshift console. When he got there, they would probably chew him out, and send him into another tunnel. After all, there were more than two hours left in the shift. But what the hell, maybe he could talk Whitey into giving him a break. It was worth a try. Either way, he'd soon be off Worm, and having a good meal aboard his own ship. Assuming of course that Phil and Rico had left anything edible in the galley. In the meantime he would do his best to take it easy, and avoid worms.
McCade put on his best hangdog expression as he approached the guards, and prepared to tell them a somewhat exaggerated version of his encounter with the worm. But much to McCade's surprise, all three ignored him in favor of Whitey's VDT. They glanced his way, but continued to talk excitedly among themselves, even allowing him to walk up and peek over their shoulders. Apparently his position as unofficial enforcer granted him a certain amount of privilege.
"Looks like the little creep's luck finally ran out," the black man said cheerfully. "I'll bet you ten Imperials he doesn't last another ten minutes."
The neanderthal grunted his agreement.
McCade saw that the object of their discussion was a flashing green dot in tunnel seventeen. Whitey was tracing its progress with an electronic arrow. Strangely enough the dot seemed to be moving down the tunnel away from the safety of the cavern.
"You're on, sucker," Whitey sneered, without taking his eyes off the screen. "Ten Imperials it is. Spigot's got a lot of tunnel savvy so I say he's good for twenty minutes easy. See . . . I figure the worm's right here"—Whitey pointed the red arrow at a spot just behind the green dot—"and Spigot's trying for this side passage down here." He pointed to a small tunnel which branched off from the larger one. "In fact, he might even loop in behind the worm and get clean away. How 'bout a side bet?"
But the black man didn't reply, because McCade chose that particular moment to crush his skull with a large rock. As the riot gun fell from the guard's lifeless fingers, McCade caught it and brought it to bear on the neanderthal. It pays to take out the worst of the opposition first. The big man wasn't too bright, but his reactions were just fine, and as his partner fell the neanderthal was already spinning in McCade's direction. But he was too late. His huge torso jerked three times, and fell over backward as McCade squeezed the trigger, and felt the heavy weapon buck in his hands. The sound was still echoing off the cavern walls as Whitey clawed for his sidearm with one hand, and tried to stop the slugs with the other. It didn't work. The automatic shotgun roared twice, taking his hand off at the wrist, and erasing his face. His body toppled sideways out of his chair and crashed to the ground.
"If it's any comfort, Whitey, you look better this way," McCade said as he rolled the corpse over and undid the gunbelt which circled its waist. McCade was strapping Whitey's gun on, when three other prisoners ran up.
"Shit, boss, you don't mess around," a short blocky man called Fesker said. "God, look at that, he took all three of 'em."
"I'm glad you men showed up," McCade said. "I could use a little help. Are you with me?"
"You bet we are, boss," Fesker said, picking up a riot gun. "Right, Mendez? Right, Hawkins?"
"Count me in," Mendez agreed calmly, kneeling to strip off the neanderthal's gunbelt.
Hawkins just nodded solemnly, and ran his hand lovingly along the length of the second riot gun. He had even features, bright blue eyes and long brown hair, which hung down his back in two braids.
"All right," McCade said. "Now listen carefully . . . and do this exactly the way I tell you to. As the men come out of the tunnels, hold them right here. Whatever you do, don't let them leave the cavern. Otherwise the guards on the crawlers will know something's fishy, and mow you down before you even get close. The time to take them is at the end of the shift, when they expect us to come out."
"Right, boss," Fesker agreed enthusiastically. "It'll be just the way you said."
"Good," McCade replied. "How about radio? Do you know if Whitey had some way to communicate with the crawlers?"
Fesker shook his head. "Naw, the rock's too thick."
"Excellent," McCade replied. "At least there's one problem we don't have to worry about. Now, Hawkins, give me a hand with one of these bodies. Spigot's in a tight spot, but there's a chance we can pull him out." McCade bent over, struggled to get a hold on Whitey's body, and only barely managed to pick it up. It was damned heavy. Doing his best to ignore the nature of his burden, McCade headed for tunnel seventeen.
Hawkins slung the riot gun across his back, eyeing first the black man, and then the massive form of the neanderthal. He quickly chose the black man. With one smooth motion, he lifted the corpse, and threw it over his right shoulder. Then, carefully picking his way through the rocks, Hawkins hurried to catch up.
As he entered the tunnel, McCade had only the vaguest of plans. But if Spigot was as elusive as Whitey gave him credit for, it might even work. Even so, speed was of the essence. It wasn't easy to jog with a dead body in his arms, so McCade was forced to stop, and sling it over one shoulder as Hawkins had. Having done so, he made much better time.
Finally he saw it, a narrow slitlike crevice in the rock, cut by running water rather than worms. The opening was a tight fit, but he forced his way through it, with Hawkins right behind him. They couldn't run in the narrow passageway, but they still made fairly good time, splashing through the shallow water until suddenly a rock wall barred their way. At the base of it there was a small hole through which the water gushed into the open space beyond. They could make it, but they'd have to lay down in the water to do so, and there was no guarantee as to what they'd find on the other side.
McCade dumped Whitey's body into the water. "You first," he said, pushing the guard's body down, and into the hole. It was quickly sucked out of sight. McCade motioned to Hawkins. "Your friend's next."
Hawkins grinned, and followed McCade's example.
As soon as the other body had disappeared, McCade gave Hawkins what he hoped was a confident smile as he lay down in the water, and shot through the hole feet first. First he felt bitter cold as the water hit his skin, and then pure terror, as the current grabbed him and pulled him through the opening. Suddenly he was falling, wondering if this was how he would die, and then he hit, plunging deep under the surface of the water. Kicking upward, he wondered why everything was black, and then realized his eyes were closed. He opened them to crystal-clear water, his headlamp shining up toward the surface, bubbles dancing in and out of the light. Then he was through the surface, splashing water against a rock wall, and gulping down air. He cursed himself for never wondering if the light was waterproof, and gave thanks that it was.
He heard a tremendous splash behind him, jerked around, almost laughing when he realized it was just Hawkins, shooting through the opening and into the pool. Turning his head McCade's light fell across a steeply shelving beach. He gave a kick and stroked toward it, almost screaming when he hit something soft, and Whitey's faceless corpse popped up in front of him. Forcing himself to push it in front of him, he heard Hawkins surface, coughing up water.
"Over here!" McCade shouted, and splashed the water to attract the other man's attention.
Hawkins coughed in reply, and began swimming toward the beach.
McCade felt his feet touch bottom, scooped up Whitey's body, and stumbled up and out of the water. Suddenly he froze. What the hell was that? Some sort of a noise. Then he heard it again and saw a flash of light over to his right.
"Take that, you big turd. I hope you choke on me and die." It was Spigot!
"He's somewhere to the right!" McCade yelled, lunging toward the flashing light. After a few steps, he came to a place where the wall opened to the main tunnel, and there was Spigot, one leg twisted awkwardly under his body, his headlamp swinging wildly this way and that, as he threw both rocks and insults at the worm.
The worm was by far the ugliest thing McCade had ever seen and, considering its size, moved with surprising speed. It made a sort of sloshing sound as it surged forward, its circular pink maw opening to reveal thousands of black teeth. As it moved, it belched out waves of rotten acidic breath. McCade felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. A primitive part of him started to gibber and scream deep in the back of his mind. He pushed it down and pretended not to hear it. Twenty-five more feet and the worm would have Spigot.
Hawkins appeared at his side, riot gun at the ready, reminding McCade of the task at hand. Apparently the other guard's body was still somewhere in the pool. "Well, I guess it's up to you, Whitey," he said to the corpse. Turning to Hawkins he said, "Grab Spigot, and get him out of there!"
Seconds later, Hawkins was dragging a surprised Spigot back away from the oncoming worm. Meanwhile, McCade forced himself to move toward the undulating monster. When he was about ten feet away, he dumped Whitey's corpse unceremoniously on the ground, and quickly backed up. As he did so, McCade drew Whitey's handgun, and Hawkins pumped a round into the chamber of his riot gun. For the first time since they'd met Hawkins spoke, "Bon Appétit, you sonovabitch." Spigot cackled gleefully from his position on the ground.
Then all three watched in horrified fascination as the Worm reached Whitey's body, delicately sucked the corpse into its mouth, and began to chew. The sound of Whitey's bones being ground into a fine paste sent chills up McCade's spine, but at least they'd bought some time, now all he had to do was find a way to use it.
"So far so good," McCade observed, turning to the others. "Now if there's only some way to get past the damned thing."
"This is no time to kid around, Sam," Spigot said. "The minute that thing's done with Whitey, it'll come for us. Let's leave the same way you came in."
"I'd like to, Spigot, but I'm afraid that's out." McCade quickly described the passageway, the fall into the pool, and their subsequent arrival.
Much to McCade's surprise, Spigot laughed. "That's a new one on me, Sam. No wonder you're wet. I assumed you came through the side passage, that hits the main tunnel about twenty yards behind us. That's where I was headed when I slipped in the slime and broke my leg."
McCade looked at Hawkins, and they both laughed. "All right, Spigot," McCade said. "Let's get out of here." Carrying Spigot between them, McCade and Hawkins made their way down the tunnel. They went about twenty yards, and sure enough, there was the passageway, right where Spigot said it would be. It took a good twenty minutes of hard work to carry the little man through the passageway and out of the tunnel. As they emerged, McCade wasn't ready for the crowd of men, or their applause. The shift was about to end, and true to his word, Fesker had held all the men inside the cavern. He and Mendez were standing at the front of the crowd, having appointed themselves as McCade's assistants.
Turning to the crowd Fesker yelled, "There he is, men, he just snatched Spigot from a worm, and now he's gonna kick Torb's ass, are you with him?"
As the crowd roared their approval, Spigot grinned, and waved, as though they were cheering him. Suddenly McCade realized that things had gotten out of hand. What started as an effort to help a friend had somehow turned into a full-scale revolt. The men expected him to lead them against Torb, and having killed three guards, McCade realized he didn't have much choice.
As the crowd calmed down, two men took Spigot aside, and applied some rough and ready first aid. There wasn't much time, so McCade jumped up on a rock and motioned for silence. "Thank you, men. Now listen carefully, because if we don't do this right, the guards are going to cut us up into very small pieces." For the next few minutes McCade outlined his plan, assigned responsibilities, and answered questions. Then it was time to move.
McCade nodded. "All right then . . . let's do it." There was a sense of subdued excitement, as the men walked out of the cavern, and into the early dawn light. They were different somehow, backs straight, heads erect, they no longer moved like slaves. McCade worried that the distant guards would notice the difference. If they did, the whole thing could turn into a terrible slaughter. They had to get close enough to take over the crawlers. Once they accomplished that, they'd have powerful weapons, plus a way to crack the dome itself. The chances were good that Torb would receive some sort of warning, and unless they had the means to break in, he could lock them outside the dome until they simply ran out of oxygen.
But his fears were groundless, because as they approached the crawlers, the guards regarded them with the same bored disdain they always did. McCade, Fesker, Hawkins, and Mendez were each leading a contingent of men toward one of the four crawlers. They had the only weapons, so it would be up to them to neutralize the guards, and McCade knew that even with surprise on their side, it wouldn't be easy. The guards were tough, and many were professional killers.
As the men lined up to throw their tools in an open box, McCade was watching both of his guards. The driver was sitting on the bow of the crawler, completely oblivious to his surroundings, reading a skin mag. The other guard was the same woman they'd had on the way out, and one glance told McCade she was suspicious. Her features were locked into a rigid frown, and her glittering eyes scanned the crowd, searching for something to confirm the feeling in her gut. She knew something was wrong . . . she just couldn't figure out what it was. Then McCade saw her eyes widen as she realized that Whitey and the other two guards were nowhere in sight. Her lips moved, and her hand dived for her sidearm, but the only sound was the roar of McCade's gun. The heavy slug hit her in the left thigh, and she went down hard, the gun spinning from her hand to land in the dirt. The driver was fast. He was up and scrambling toward the weapon turret so quickly that McCade fired three times before a slug finally caught him and threw him off the far side of the crawler.
McCade pointed at three of the nearest men. "You . . . you . . . and you. Get the men aboard and secure this rig. Find somebody who knows how to run it. And not some bozo either . . . our lives are going to depend on him in a few minutes. And get that guard some first aid. Watch her though, she's down, but she isn't out. Got it?" They nodded and scrambled off to obey his orders.
Suddenly Fesker appeared at his side. "Trouble, boss. We got two of em, but the guards on the fourth killed Mendez, and managed to button it up."
As if to punctuate Fesker's words, there was the whine of a starter, followed by a stuttering roar as the last machine in line started up, and then jerked into motion. "Hit the dirt!" McCade shouted, and promptly followed his own advice.
Incandescent pulses of blue light flashed and rippled toward them, slagging everything they touched, as the crawler gradually built up speed and rumbled away. Men ran screaming in every direction as the turret-mounted energy cannon cut them down in swathes. But suddenly two of the captured machines began to return fire, scoring at least one clean hit, before the escaping crawler disappeared around a spire of rock. "Damn," Fesker said as he got to his feet. "Sorry, boss."
McCade did likewise and shrugged. "Couldn't be helped. We were lucky it wasn't worse. Well, let's see to the wounded, and get organized. There's no reason to give Torb any more time than we have to."
An hour later they'd done what they could for the wounded, passed out what weapons there were, and assigned the most experienced drivers and gunners to the three remaining crawlers. As they neared the dome, McCade was worried. They had an hour, two at the most, before they ran out of oxygen. Torb knew that, and therefore knew exactly how long he had to hold out to win the battle. An advantage to say the least.
McCade ran a critical eye over the outside of the dome and didn't like what he saw. First, the base of the dome was made out of durasteel reinforced permacrete; second, the bubble was constructed of forty ply armaplast; and third, the damned thing had four weapons emplacements, one for each point of the compass. Bad—but not hopeless. By the look of them, the multibarreled energy weapons were intended for anti-aircraft use, and not for defense against a ground attack. Since he had Worm to himself, Torb had assumed that an attack would come from space. McCade grinned as he remembered what they'd taught him at the Academy. The first role of warfare is, don't assume anything. Spread out the way they were, McCade figured he could neutralize two of the gun emplacements by attacking just one side of the dome. While that would leave only two emplacements to deal with, they would be able to support each other, and place his forces in a cross fire.
The only other thing going for him was Torb's sloppy housekeeping. The junkyard of rusting metal surrounding the dome would provide his crawlers with some cover. Lacking heavy weapons, or specialized explosives, he figured the main door was his best bet. It should be the weakest point in the dome's structure. For a moment he considered calling for Torb's surrender, but quickly rejected the idea as a waste of time. Torb had both time and oxygen to burn. He'd never surrender in a situation like that.
McCade picked up the mic and keyed it open. He smiled as he imagined Torb listening inside the dome. "All right, men, let's do it by the numbers. Remember the signals we agreed on, remember your individual missions, and remember what an asshole Torb is. All right, let's go!"
As his crawlers jerked into sudden motion, McCade grabbed the twin grips of his energy cannon, and waited for the range to close. His job was to engage the left weapons emplacement. Meanwhile the second crawler would attack the door, and the third would tackle the right weapons emplacement. His head hit the side of the turret, as his driver made a hard right, and then a left, starting the evasive maneuvers they'd agreed upon. Ignoring the pain McCade concentrated on his target. Meanwhile the range was closing . . . closing . . . closing. At the precise moment when McCade squeezed his triggers, pulses of blue light also stuttered out from the weapons emplacements, trying to lock onto the swerving crawlers and destroy them.
As far as McCade could tell, both emplacements were firing independently of each other. Good. Tied together under computer control, Torb's weapons would be even more lethal.
Meanwhile, the third crawler, with Hawkins in command, had taken refuge behind a pile of rusty plating, and was doing battle with the right emplacement, while Fesker led crawler two against the doors. The metal was already glowing cherry-red under the determined assault of his energy weapon, but his machine was terribly exposed, and would soon draw fire from both emplacements. McCade doubled his efforts to hit the left emplacement, swearing when it suddenly ignored him, and went for Fesker. Seconds later the other emplacement did likewise. Torb was finally exercising some fire control.
As he glanced from one emplacement to the other, something kept bothering McCade, but he couldn't figure out what. Then he had it. Torb's forces couldn't depress their weapons any farther than they already were! Because they were intended for anti-aircraft use, their mounts limited how far down the barrels could be depressed. So, if Fesker moved in even closer, they wouldn't be able to hit him.
McCade keyed his mic on, and brought it up to his lips, just as Fesker's crawler took a combined hit. Flames poured out of the engine compartment as the driver spun the big machine around and ran for the shelter of a junked fuel tank. McCade and Hawkins provided covering fire as men poured out of the damaged machine and ran for cover. Most had escaped by the time the crawler blew up a few seconds later.
Then, much to McCade's surprise, both weapons emplacements fell suddenly silent, and Torb's voice crackled over his radio. "Sam Lane, you out there?"
McCade keyed his mic open. "I'm here, Torb, what's for lunch? We thought we'd join you."
"You can't win, Lane," Torb said reasonably, "you're running out of oxygen . . . and there's no way you're gonna break into the dome to get more. Give it up. I promise you won't be punished. We'll just chalk it up to experience . . . and then go back to the way things were."
McCade squinted against the glare, and smiled grimly. "Screw you, Torb."
There was a moment of silence, and there was fury in Torb's voice when he answered. "Then you're dead, Lane. Good-bye."
Suddenly both emplacements opened up with renewed fury, and McCade wondered if Torb was right . . . maybe they were dead.
Inside the dome's com center, Walker conscientiously powered the equipment down, and returned all major systems to standby. Things were going fairly well. He had managed to reach McCade's friends aboard Pegasus, and they were on the way, ETA, about six hours. He had also programmed and activated one of the three message torps his organization kept in parking orbit around Worm. Within minutes it would break out of orbit, accelerate away from Worm, and go hyper. Eventually it would emerge near the Wind World, and play back its coded message. Then his superiors would know the Emperor was dead, and that McCade was on the way. He sighed. He'd also done his best to send the message in another way, but had apparently failed, since there'd been no acknowledgment. It seemed as though he'd never get the hang of that stuff. But at least the torp, would get through. Now there was only one problem left to solve.
Walker stood, and turned out the lights as he left the room. He knew that outside the dome the battle still raged, and unless McCade won, the prince wouldn't take the throne, and a terrible war could result. And it didn't take a genius to see that McCade was going to lose. He wondered if the flux readers had known it would end up like this, although it didn't matter much. He knew what to do, but it scared him. What if his brothers and sisters were wrong? What if there was no life after death? He shrugged. Then that's just the way it goes, he decided.
Torb's guards ignored Walker as he strolled across the center of the dome. Most of their attention was directed outside, and besides, everyone knows a Walker doesn't take sides. As Walker approached the dome's huge doors, he was praying in a tongue no longer heard on Terra, and hoping that his action would be in concert with the flux. He was only feet from the control box when a guard shouted, "Hey, you! Walker! Get away from those doors!"
The guard was fast, but Walker was just a little faster, diving for the box, touching the controls just as the bullets hit him. Even as the slugs tore him apart, Walker held the button down, smiling because he'd fooled the silly bastards, and was far, far away.