Lord of Janissaries Page 2

  The lighted square was a doorway into a small chamber about three meters on a side. There was no one inside, and there were few features to see except for what appeared to be sliding doors, closed, on three of the walls. The opening was less than two meters high, a bit low for Rick’s six feet and a fraction. He stood outside looking in until he felt silly. Finally he shouted. “Anybody home?”

  “Come in, Captain Galloway,” a voice said. It was a perfectly ordinary male voice, nothing unearthly about it. “You have very little time, Captain. Come aboard.”

  “My God, maybe it is the Agency,” Rick muttered. Whatever he’d expected, it hadn’t been an ordinary human voice with an accent he couldn’t place.

  It spoke again. “You may leave your weapons outside. You will not need them, and they might tempt you to rash actions. If we wished you harm, Captain Galloway, you would be dead now.”

  That, Rick thought, was for sure. This thing—whatever it was—couldn’t be worse than the Cubans. He unslung his rifle and laid it on the ground. Mason did the same, but threw him a significant look. Rick nodded. They both had knives, and Rick had his .45 automatic pistol under his jacket. He was certain that Mason had another.

  The opening was inconveniently high off the ground, above waist level. “No gangplank for us,” Rick told Mason. He put his hand on the sill. It felt like metal, but was slightly warm to the touch. “Here goes,” he muttered, and vaulted in. Mason followed closely.

  He had half-expected the opening to close once he was inside, but it did nothing. The doorway to his left slid open silently, revealing a short corridor. Rick gestured to Mason to follow and went down that. Another door slid open at the far end. The room beyond was very brightly lit.

  He went in gingerly, feeling very much alone. Corporal Mason hadn’t hesitated to lead an infantry attack on a Cuban tank two days before, and had himself crept up to it and blown off a tread with a satchel charge; he looked far more nervous now than when he went off to attack the tank. Rick wondered if he were as shaky as the corporal, tried to straighten up and get control of his face. It wouldn’t do to let the troops see their officer shaken.

  His eyes adjusted to the bright light. There were—beings—in the compartment. Three of them, and they were not human.

  2

  They were shaped like humans. They had two arms and two legs and two eyes, but the proportions were wrong. The shoulders were too high, almost as if they didn’t have necks, and their heads rose from too-thick bodies. They wore clothing, coveralls of a shining metallic appearance, one dull grey, the other two in brighter colors that shimmered when they moved.

  Their hands had only three fingers, but there were two thumbs—one on each side of a thick palm. They had no hair that Rick could see. Their lips were thin—far too thin to be human—and their mouths were too high on their strangely flat faces. Mouth too high, eyes too low, nose—not really a nose at all, Rick decided. Instead there was a fleshy snout-slit like a vertical second mouth. It rose until it almost reached the line joining the eyes.

  It took an effort to look away from them and inspect the compartment. The room was nearly bare. All around the upper parts of the compartment there were screens, like TV sets but very thin. Some showed images: Rick’s troops standing outside, Lieutenant Parsons and Sergeant Elliot talking and pointing, the machine-gun emplacements. The aliens seemed to have most of his defenses spotted, and their TV gave bright images although outside it was nearly pitch-dark.

  The creatures sat at a long table placed crosswise to the door he had entered. It was too high—at least a foot higher than a table for humans would have been—and was transparent, but without the shimmer of glass, so that it was almost invisible. A small box with lights and colored squares rested on the table.

  Rick had the impression of controls below some of the screens; at least there were flat plates about an inch square, some lit in bright colors, and others colored but dark. They might have been pushbuttons or touch-sensitive plates, but they might have been anything else. The room was as alien as the creatures.

  Despite a strong desire to curl up in a corner and gibber, Rick studied the room carefully, trying to categorize and file the new information. He kept trying to convince himself this was a dream, but he knew better. Finally he was able to speak. “Hello.”

  When the aliens spoke, both the mouth and nose slits moved. “You have very little time, Captain Galloway,” the grey-clad alien said. The voice was very matter-of-fact. It sounded masculine, but Rick reminded himself that he didn’t know the creature’s sex. Or, he thought, if they even had sexes. “Perhaps too little. We may have waited too long. We are here to rescue you and your men.”

  “Who the hell—”

  “Later. There is no time.”

  Sure, Rick thought. Later. But the alien was right. The Cubans were approaching rapidly. He tried to organize his thoughts, but it was difficult to accept what he was doing, that he was talking with—things. The spokesman—man? No. Not a man. Not a spokesman, either, his mind gibbered. He had no concepts to use. Finally he found his voice. “What do you want with us?”

  “For you to get your men aboard. Quickly, before you have none left.” The alien spread its hands, palms down, in a gesture that meant nothing to Rick. The tone of its voice had not changed, but it was not difficult to guess that the alien was impatient. “As we have said before and doubtless must say many times again, if we wished you harm, you would be dead. What can we do to you that the Cubans will not accomplish within a few hours?”

  The alien was obviously right, but that didn’t make Rick feel much better. The “rescue” was not very appealing. “How do you know my name?” he demanded.

  “From your radio. You have no more time for questions.” This came from one of the creatures in bright coveralls. “You must act. Now.”

  “What about our weapons?”

  “Bring them. Bring all of your equipment,” Grey-coveralls said. “But quickly. When the Cubans are close enough to see us clearly, we must be gone. With or without you and your men.”

  “That’s no choice at all, Cap’n,” Corporal Mason said. “Better them than the Cubans.” The trooper’s voice was flat and without emotion.

  “I’d thought of that,” Rick said. He stood another moment in indecision, but he had made up his mind. “All right.”

  “Quickly,” the alien urged.

  “Sure. Come on, Mason—”

  “You will leave him here,” Grey-coveralls said. “As an earnest of your good intentions.”

  “Now, wait just a damned minute—”

  “It’s okay, Captain,” Mason said. “I’m as safe here as out there.”

  “All right.” Rick went back to the doorway. It opened for him. When he reached the entry chamber, another door opened on the side opposite the entrance to the chamber where the aliens sat. He saw a large empty compartment, more than fifty feet long and perhaps fifteen wide.

  “Have the men go in there with their weapons,” a voice said. It seemed to speak from the walls, but there was no sign of a speaker grille.

  Rick jumped out of the ship and ran to his command post. Half the troops—perhaps more—had gathered there to stare at the ship. They stood clutching rifles and grenades for what comfort weapons could give.

  “I did not entirely expect to see you again,” Lieutenant Parsons said. “Welcome back.”

  “Thanks. We’ve got no time at all. Get the men aboard. Men, weapons, food, equipment, everything. Fast.”

  “But—” Sergeant Elliot was stammering. Rick had never seen the big sergeant confused before.

  “That’s a CIA ship,” Rick said. He spoke loudly so that many of the troops could hear him. “Secret stuff. They’ve come to get us out, but they don’t want the Cubans to see the ship, so we’ve got to load up quickly. Now move it.”

  “Sir!” Elliot ran over to the mortar emplacement, and some of the other troops gathered their gear and headed for the ship. Rick didn’t know if he had
fooled them or not, but the “CIA ship” explanation seemed the easiest and fastest way to handle the situation.

  Parsons looked at him with raised eyebrows. His expression said clearly that he knew Rick was a liar. Then he shrugged and began urging the men onto the ship. Sergeant Elliot rounded up more.

  Good troops, Rick thought. And each one had probably made the same decision: They knew what the Cubans could do. This was at least a chance.

  The mortar team ran by with their tube, followed by others with the base and packs of mortar bombs. Men grabbed boxes and bandoliers of ammunition, stuffed their pockets with grenades. They were going aboard well armed.

  Not, Rick thought, that it will do a hell of a lot of good. Weapons won’t make us safer. But they do make us feel safer, and that’s important.

  “What is this nonsense?” Parsons demanded in a low voice. “You know that is not—”

  “Can it. Hold onto the questions.” Rick held up his hand and gestured toward the south. There was sporadic firing down there, some of it much closer than Hendrix could possibly be. The Cubans were mopping up the last pockets of resistance before coming up the hill. “Hendrix has had it,” Rick said. “His last orders were to get as many men out as we could. Got a better way?”

  “No. But—”

  “But nothing. That ship won’t wait, and we can’t do anything for Hendrix and his people.” Fear and a sense of guilt at abandoning their wounded made Rick speak more sharply than he had intended. “Shut up and get the men aboard. There’s no time for talk.”

  André Parsons shrugged. “As you say. But there are questions you will answer.”

  “Don’t I know it. Christ, André, don’t argue. Just do it. Please.”

  “Very well.” He went out to assist in dismounting the light machine-gun.

  More troopers ran past. They carried packs, sleeping bags, helmets, ammo boxes, mess gear; the usual impedimentia of a marching army. They were not making much noise, and there was surprisingly little confusion.

  Good troops, Rick thought. We did damned well, considering how little support we had. Not our fault we were beaten. For a collection of soldiers who had never served together before, we did damned well.

  “That’s the last,” Elliot shouted.

  Rick had been counting. “Only thirty-four went aboard.”

  Elliot looked ashamed. “I can’t find any more, Captain.”

  They’ve run, Rick thought. Well, I can understand that. I thought of it myself. “Get aboard, then,” he ordered. After Elliot climbed in, Rick followed. They were the last.

  As soon as Rick cleared the entryway, the outer door slid closed. When he went through into the compartment with the troops, that entryway closed also. They were blocked off from the outside and from the control room—or whatever that room was, Rick thought. Mason was still in there with the aliens.

  There was a loud musical tone, and a voice said, “Everyone will please sit on the floor. Quickly.”

  “Get down!” Rick shouted. “Hit the deck!” He sat heavily, just in time. There was a feeling of far too much weight, and some of the troops who hadn’t obeyed quickly enough fell heavily. Loose equipment fell and rolled around the compartment.

  There were sideways accelerations. The feeling of motion went on for a long time. Then it stopped and they had normal weight again.

  “Medic!” someone shouted. One of the troopers was holding his wrist, broken in a fall to the deck. Sergeant McCleve went to the downed man. McCleve was an older trooper, a career soldier rumored to have graduated from a Mexican medical school and unable to obtain a license to practice in the United States due to heavy drinking. Rick didn’t know, but McCleve had always seemed very competent.

  The troops were all talking at once. Some swore, and one or two prayed. Others got up and roamed around the compartment. There was nothing to see.

  They were in a large rectangular metal room, and very little more could be said about it. Rick couldn’t even tell where the light came from; it was just there, and although there were multiple shadows, they were very faint.

  “I think we got away,” Rick shouted. “Let the Cubans figure that one out!”

  There was a cheer that sounded artificial. Rick smiled grimly. He didn’t feel much like cheering himself.

  “Level with us, sir,” Corporal Gengrich said. “How’d the CIA get a thing like this? And why the hell did they need us if they’ve got—” he waved expressively—“these?”

  It was a good question, and Rick had no idea of how to answer.

  “All in good time,” Lieutenant Parsons said. “All in good time. Count your blessings.”

  “But—” Gengrich began.

  “Shut up.” Sergeant Elliot was nervous and fell back on military tradition as something familiar and understood. An officer had spoken, and that was that.

  It won’t last, Rick thought. Elliot had strong views about officers: he assumed they were competent, wanted them to be, demanded that they be. He knew that there were plenty of incompetents with bars and leaves, but he was proud enough of his Army that he’d kill himself trying to cover for them. But Rick suspected that Elliot would not hesitate to frag a bad officer for the honor of the corps.

  There were more accelerations, this time not so violent. The ship was turning. Rick felt trapped, but he tried to keep his expression calm and unworried. He didn’t know how successful he was at that, but he thought it was important that the troops think he was confident.

  We are, he thought, thirty-six armed men and some heavy weapons, in a ship controlled by aliens—aliens! I don’t have the faintest notion of where I am, where we’re going, or what those creatures want with us.

  He was certain they were in space. That decided one thing: they certainly didn’t need any shooting. Not that there was anything to shoot at, but there were a lot of weapons available, and some might punch holes in the ship. The metal walls didn’t seem too thick, and Rick had no idea of how strong they might be. Even supposing they could blow open a door and found air beyond it, and that they could go through the ship and kill or capture every alien in it—what then? They couldn’t fly it; they couldn’t land it; they couldn’t even operate the food and water and air system.

  And so far no one had threatened them.

  * * *

  Two hours later they were all certain they were in space. There was a brief warning tone, and a voice said, “There will be a period of no-weight. Please secure all equipment and secure yourselves.”

  The only thing they could secure themselves to was a low bar a bit above waist height that ran around two sides of the compartment like the rails ballet dancers use for exercise. Rick managed to get most of the troops over to those walls. They tied lines to as much of the gear as they could. They were just finishing when there was another musical tone.

  They had no weight at all. Loose objects drifted slowly. Several men looked sick, and one was. The vomit floated around in large pools. Other men turned green.

  “Jesus, we got to get out of here!” one soldier yelled.

  “Shut up!” Elliot didn’t look too good himself. “Captain—”

  He didn’t finish the question. The ship went through more gyrations, none very severe. Then, slowly, everything drifting in the air began to settle toward the deck. They felt increasing weight, building up to what seemed almost—but not quite—normal again.

  This time it was much harder to calm the troops. They hung onto their weapons and stared around the compartment looking for someone to fight, something they could do. Rick thought he could literally smell the fear in the compartment, and it was contagious. He felt like a caged animal.

  “For God’s sake, where are we going?” Gengrich demanded.

  “The journey will last two more hours,” the voice said. It spoke from nowhere at all.

  “So they can listen to us,” Parsons said. He lowered his voice to an undertone. “Are you certain there is nothing else you wish to tell me?”

  “Not
just now.”

  Parsons shrugged. “As you will. But I hope this does not last much more than a few hours. It will be difficult to control the men if it goes on much longer.” He made a wry face. “It will be difficult to control me.”

  “Yeah,” Rick said. He knew exactly how André Parsons felt.

  * * *

  The voice’s time estimate was accurate. Rick’s watch said they had been aboard for four hours and five minutes when the warning tones sounded again and they were told to secure themselves.

  This time they never had a period of no-weight, but the accelerations were short and sharp, in little spurts. There were periods of varying gravity between spurts. Finally they felt a slight impact, no more than they might have felt jumping from a chair to the floor. The accelerations ceased.

  They didn’t weigh enough. Nowhere near enough, and this was steady. Rick looked around in surprise, a wild suspicion coming to his mind. Some of the troops were muttering. Corporal Gengrich thoughtfully took a cartridge from his pocket and dropped it, watched it fall slowly.

  About one-sixth gravity, Rick thought. There was no hiding that, and no hiding what it meant.

  Gengrich shouted it first. “God Almighty, we’re on the friggin’ Moon!”

  3

  The troopers had little time to react to Gengrich. The compartment door opened, and Corporal Mason came in. His face looked like grey ashes, and he held his right arm against his chest. The compartment door remained open to the entry chamber, but all the other doors were closed.

  “Mason—”

  “Where the hell you been?”

  “What’s wrong, Art? What in hell did they do to you?”

  The men were all shouting at once. Sergeant McCleve went over with his medical kit.

  “At ease!” Rick shouted. Sergeant Elliot repeated the order more loudly. There were mutters, but the shouting stopped.

  Rick joined Mason and McCleve. “What happened?”