Chlorda paused on the side of corridor, setting the back of one hand against one golden cheek. “How disorienting! Fun, though.”
“But nex’ time we does it, us dainty types goes first,” said Bassada, folding her arms across her chest as she stood on the ceiling. “Watchin’ ‘em two slabsa chunk roast wobble round makes me hungry.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” yawned the gold.
“Wasn’t tryin’ ta sur[prise ya,” replied the blue. “If I was, I’da wore me colander.”
Bott, standing on the wall that had seemed to be the dead end of this corkscrew corridor, ignored his crew and twisted the thick gold knob on the ceiling. Lucky he’d been in the lead: the actual gravity always seemed to be on the left or right of the yellow path that wandered around the blue corridor. They had all been able to walk it in spite of this, but not without a lot of wobbling.
There! Slide the bottom and top panels to the left and the middle one to the right. He glanced back at the cold orange blob that popped and crackled as it burbled along the yellow road. Then he pushed on the door.
Clinging to the doorway, he tested the gravity in the next chamber. Once he knew where down was, he set his feet there and pulled himself upright.
“Well, finally,” said the gold, pulling herself after him. “I suppose a four-poster bed would be too much to….” She stared, and then was tossed on top of Bott by Louba.
Louba’s eyes also widened. “Well, my mother should see butterflies!”
“Better’n seein’ yer feet,” Bassada pulled up next to her. “Whoogosh!”
Bott shivered. Vastnesses of floor space were interrupted, at long intervals, by light grey cubes, cones, cylinders, semicircles, and other building blocks apparently tossed down at random by some giant emperor. They were even bigger than they looked; Bott knew it was only the size of the room that dwarfed them.
“The door could be in any one of those,” whispered Chlorda. At least, the room made it sound like a whisper. “Or at the far end.”
“If it’s got a far end anywheres,” murmured Bassada.
Louba stretched back, hands high above her head, and then straightened. “Hope we’s getting’ refreshments, anyhuse.”
Chlorda’s eyes were troubled as she looked to Bott, but she also came to her feet.
The party of four eased out along the pale floor, radiating caution. Bassada was sliding her thumbs across her fingers; Louba pretended to have an itchy chin. Bott didn’t pretend anything, his head swinging back and forth to check all the landmarks for possible trouble. Everything was so far apart that anything coming out would have to be very fast or very potent. He thought he would not mention this to his crew.
He thought he ought to say something, at least, but no one heard him clear his throat, jumping as they all were from the sound of the trumpet. Somewhere, a door slammed open.
“Well, to steal a sausage!” Louba arched one green hand to the left.
A big orange head rose from a trap door next to a low semicircle far off in that direction. It looked neither right nor left as it came up. A green head appeared just beneath it. Bott frowned. A second green rider and orange mount followed the first, and then a third. They seemed to be Imperial Dragoons, the spiked planet emblem standing out clearly in shining threads on their banners. Bott did not recognize these particular Dragoons; the orange heads and faces were nondescript, but he felt sure he’d recognize those fat, ugly battle axes.
Five more followed the first three. By this time, the troop was marching up onto the low semicircle, as a second door appeared at the other end. The first rider rode straight down into this. None of the Dragoons seemed to notice their company was not alone in the room. Well-disciplined Dragoons, Bott thought: they might be useful.
“Know anything about these?” he murmured. The first riders were nearly all gone, but a second troop was rising from the first door.
“It’s a kit of cock aldorves,” Chlorda murmured back. “Loooks like a full kit, too.”
“Two kits, mebbe,” Bassada put in. “Reckon we gots ta knock ‘em all over?”
“That string!” Louba waved an arm at the banner held by this company. “Seen it…blister me buns an’ call me a pickle! Atsa same flag!”
“a dozen or so moving in a circle to make us think….” Bott reached out too late. “No! Don’t!?
The largest Klamathan had charged, calling, “Yamfrees!”
“Klamathans!” screamed the aldorves, their mounts rearing.
“Stand your ground!” bellowed their leader. “We can make a stand if….”
Looking left and right, he found himself alone. He urged his steed toward the exit at the end of the arch, rather too late.
The impact of Louba threw him completely off his mount. Before he could rise, Louba boxed his ears, and then boxed them again, apparently with the intention of keeping this up until her fists met. The green mount leaned in to nip at her, but jumped for the exit as her exertions shook Louba completely out of the top of her overalls.
Nott was startled to see she was wearing winged black nipple caps under the overalls. The wings flapped and fluttered, not in time to the ear boxing. Knowing what made them flutter, Bott shuddered again.
Wiping her hands on the officer’s tunic, she bounded back to her allies. “Make it look easy, don’ I? Anybody wanna touch me, just ger luck?”
Chlorda said nothing, but a gold underlip stuck out. “Gwan,” sneered Bassada, “Probly gots orders not ta hurt prisoners.”
The green waved a card on high. “But I got his rations chit!”
“Good job!” Bott called.
The rest of the crew was less appreciative. “Put yourself away, barrel o’ slugs. Them things makes me break out in homicides.”
Louba pulled her overalls up. “Bugs, huh?”
The blue sniffed. “Bags.”
Bott reached for his communications card. “I’ll ask the computer where the next rations computer is. We’ll….”
“Aggif!”
The sound came from the other side of the arch. It was not a word Bott had heard before, but the voice sounded familiar. He jerked his head toward the obstacle, and led his crew forward.
He’d been expecting the librarian, but had to put a hand up to brace himself nonetheless as he came around the arch. Nubry strained against a thick black harness which had ground angry red blotches into her skin. Her uniform hung from her in tatters. She looked…larger without all her clothes, lighter where the fabric had covered her. Tiny red stripes showed here and there bout this exposed lightness.
Above and behind her, in a high silver chariot, was the driver with the whip. Loose, convoluted grey skin hung over his eyes as he jerked his head up and raised the whip.
Nubry’s shoulders hunched forward; her head jerked up. Spotting the other prisoners, she cried, “Bott! Help me!” The whip landed again. “I’m the real one! You can see that!”
Bott could feel the Klamathans tensing behind him, but didn’t take his eyes off the librarian. “Ye-es,” he said, reaching into his satchel. “I’ll use one of the gas grenades.”
“Of course! He hasn’t got a gas mask! Has he?” She glanced back. “He…owww!”
The first grenade Bott touched went flying; he put a hand back to push his crew away in the same motion. Both Nubry and her driver watched the rise and fall of the projectile. The Pumferian dropped his whip and started a dive from the chariot.
With a dull burp, the grenade dissolved into a silvery shower. The driver was halted in mid-dive; Nubry was similarly frozen. A silvery tint spread across their features. Then they, too, fell into tiny metallic particles, leaving behind whip, harness, and other accoutrements.
The Klamathans followed him forward. “Y’know,” Bassada told him, “I got no complaint about how many copies ya wants ta kill, but the guy wit’ the whip was probly a pris’ner too. His Imperial Whiplash tol’ him ta do it. We coulda give him a better deal.”
Bott slapped down the flap of his satchel. “I don’t think I’d’ve liked him.”
“Got us some transport, anyhuse,” said Louba, kicking some of the powder away as she looked over the chariot. “We c’d take turns ridin’ an’ pullin’.”
“Cep’n our Cap’n here,” Bassada put in. “He rests wit’ one o’ us while everybody else pulls.”
“We’ll allow him to ride quite a lot.” The gold arched her hands at shoulder height and shook those shoulders.
Bott glared at her, not amused by this attempt to pit personal conditioning against racial size differences. Alarm on Chlorda’s face showed she was not wiggling to attract admiration.
Her fellow Klamathans noticed. “Don’t hear it, do you?” Bassada asked Louba.
“What’s happening?” Bott demanded. The gold’s eyes were rolling up, and she was wiggling with more vigor.
“Whip guy.” Louba crouched to take up a belt, shaking off lingering silver dust. “Dead man’s switch.”
Chlorda raised one leg and began to spin, moving generally in the direction of the triangle and the cylinder. Louba’s suggestion was reasonable; the Emperor had included a failsafe in case the driver was killed. Straining, he could hear a few notes of music, and spotted a tiny black dot high on the distant cylinder. “It’s a speaker,” he said. “What’s the problem?”
“Yes plays music at one frequency, an’ it makes little brasshocks here dance.” Bassada explained. “She’ll go for ‘at speaker. Gotta be a trap.”
“Hold her,” Bott ordered Louba. He thought he spied a flicker of disappointment in the gold’s eyes. “You go see what’s below that speaker.”
“Yer cap’n, Cap’n,” Bassada told him.
“I’m coming with you. I’ll have a grenade ready if something comes at us. You want to hurry.”
“Not much I don’t.” The blue nose wrinkled at him. “An’ iffen it’s a reap door?”
“I’ll grab you.”
The blue thought it over as Chlorda spun past her. “Awright, I’ll do it. But if any of yez wants ta kiss me fer good luck, I’ll tell yez where.”
Louba took hold of the gold and fell back, twisting, as Chlorda spun more violently. Bassada, better than her word, raced over to the big triangle, setting one foot carefully on the side. Bott followed, running where she ran, tiptoeing where she tiptoed, and setting a foot in the face of the pyramid, though he saw no reason for it. Testing her footing, Bassada started up the incline.
“We make a good target here,” said Bott, as their ascent of the triangle brought them closer to the cylinder and its speaker. Louba, carrying Chlorda with some difficulty, struggled up after them.
“So’s anybody down below,” Bassada grunted. “See a door? Or any more…flallop!”
Small black spots were flying their way from the speaker on the cylinder. Flattening himself against the wall of the pyramid opened a large door just under his head and shoulders. He was too low to fall in, but ducked his head as the pellets flew past. Bassada leapt off to one side, Louba and her captive rolling off the other direction.
The hard black pellets whizzed past for mere seconds. With a glance below, Bott slid down from the trap door, which slid shut before his eyes. “Close,” he said.
No one answered. As he watched the floor below, two black rectangles disappeared as their own doors slid shut.
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