The Invaders Plan Page 3

  I remember when it all began.

  PART ONE

  Chapter 2

  It was one half-hour after sunset upon that fatal day when an Apparatus guard yanked me into this affair. It was the eve of the Empire holiday: all offices were closed for two whole days. I remember it all too well. A relaxing trip had been planned with friends into the Western Desert; I was dressed in old hunting clothes; I had just climbed into my aircar and was opening my mouth to order the driver to take off when the door crashed open and a guard urgently directed me to get out.

  “Chief Executive Lombar Hisst has ordered me to bring you at once!” The guard’s gestures were frantic.

  There was always a certain terror connected with a summons from Lombar Hisst. Unchallenged tyrant of the Coordinated Information Apparatus, answerable only to the Lord of the Exterior and the Grand Council itself—and answering to them hardly at all—Lombar Hisst ruled an empire of his own. A flick of a finger, an almost imperceptible nod of his head and people vanished or died. The guard, of course, knew nothing and we careened at top speed through the fading green twilight. I racked my skull trying to think of something I had done or had not done that a Secondary Executive of the Apparatus could be held accountable for. There was nothing, but I had within me a sick feeling, a premonition that I had suddenly arrived at a turning point in my life. And events were to prove how right I was.

  My decade in the Apparatus had been much like that of any other junior executive of that group. After completing my studies at the Royal Military College—where, as Your Lordship has undoubtedly already discovered, I finished at the bottom of my class and was pronounced unfit for Fleet appointment—I was seconded to Spy School and, doing not too well there, was appointed to the lowest officer grade in the lowest service of the Empire: the Apparatus.

  In that degraded service, as you know, there are only a handful of actual officers: each officer has under him some numerous array of Apparatus private regiments, informers and spy groups.

  It is well known that the Apparatus receives duplicate records of all domestic police and military police identifications, arrests, trials, banishments and imprisonments—in other words, the billions of separate files existing in every other section of the Empire are also filed with the Apparatus. You and everyone else may be aware of that. But it may not be known why. And this is valuable data that I forward to you.

  The Apparatus uses those files to recruit its own ranks. The murderers, the most vicious criminals that can be found in those records, are approached and enlisted into the Apparatus. That the files are also used for blackmail purposes is, of course, obvious and explains why the Apparatus is so seldom censured or brought to book as an organization, why it is always furnished such extensive funds and why no questions are asked. And I can suggest here, as an aside, that if legal action is being contemplated against the Apparatus as a whole, to prevent retaliation and undue influence, one should first demand and impound their identification and criminal record files—but I am sure Your Lordship has already thought of this.

  In any case, my own career in the Apparatus had been no different from that of other bona fide officers. If I had any gift at all that recommended me to such work it was that of languages: I pick them up rather easily. It was my ability to speak “English,” “Italian” and “Turkish” (these are three Earth languages) that had prompted, more than anything else, my appointment as Section Chief of Unit 451.

  It will give you some idea of the complete unimportance of my post when I describe its scope. Unit 451 covers that area of space which holds just one yellow dwarf star designated as Blito on the Voltarian Fleet Astrographic Division charts, but locally called “Sol.” This star is the center of a planetary system which, while it holds nine or ten planets, only has one that is inhabitable. This world has the chart designation of Blito-P3, being in the third orbit out from that star, but known there as Earth. From an Empire standpoint, it is regarded as a future way-stop on the route of invasion toward the center of this galaxy: but the Timetable bequeathed us by our wise ancestors does not call for this step immediately, reserving it for the future—there are many other areas that have to be conquered, civilized and consolidated first. These things take time: one can’t leave one’s flanks wide open or overstrain resources.

  I cannot hide from you—and do not intend to—that the Apparatus had private interests connected with Earth. But at the moment of this peremptory summons, I had no idea there could be anything that had gone awry with these. Nothing unusual had crossed through my information center, everything indicated mere routine. So I could not account for the state in which I found Lombar Hisst.

  It was not that Lombar Hisst was ever in a pleasant mood. He was huge, half a head taller than myself. He usually carried a short “stinger” in his left hand, a flexible whip about eighteen inches long with an electric jolt in its tip-lash. He had a nasty habit of lunging at one, seizing him by the tunic lapels, yanking him close and shouting as though one were a hundred feet away. He would do this even to say “Good morning,” and when he was really agitated he would also flick one in the leg with the stinger to emphasize each point he was trying to get across. It was quite painful. The most casual contact with Lombar Hisst was, at best, very intimidating.

  His office looked like a wild animal’s den at all times but just now it was worse. Two interview benches were overturned, a calculator had been stamped to bits on the rug. He hadn’t turned on his lights and the twilight, coming in through the barred windows, had turned red: it made him look like he was sitting in black blood.

  The instant I entered he came out of his chair like a launched missile. He hurled a wadded ball of paper in my face, seized my tunic lapels, snapped me within an inch of his nose.

  “Now you’ve done it!” he roared. The windows rattled.

  He hit me in the leg with the stinger. “Why didn’t you stop this?” he screamed.

  He evidently thought he still had the paper ball in his hand for he opened his fingers. Then he spotted it on the floor where it had bounced and snatched it up.

  He didn’t let me read it. He smashed it into my face.

  Of course, I didn’t dare ask what it was all about. I did try to get hold of the paper. I had just gathered that it must be an official report form, from its mangled edge, when he cracked it out of my grasp with the stinger.

  “Come with me!” he bellowed.

  At the door he roared for the local commandant of the Apparatus Guard Regiment. He howled for his private tank.

  Drives roared, equipment clanged and within minutes we were headed out, a convoy bristling with weapons and black with the uniforms of the Second Death Battalion.

  PART ONE

  Chapter 3

  The Patrol Base was dark. Row upon row of craft stood along the miles of flat terrain, poised for instant flight but unmanned.

  The crews were in their barracks along the southern edge of the field. The lighted windows spattered the distant gloom.

  A black-uniformed squad crept silently at our backs and, as we prowled along the ships, avoiding sentries and any pools of light, I could not help but think how much Apparatus work was always done like this: skulking, silent, dangerous, like beasts of prey.

  Lombar Hisst was looking at each ship for a set of numbers and letters. He was muttering them over and over as he prowled along. It seemed to me he must have eyes like a lepertige, for I could not make out the numbers on the sterns of the innumerable craft and, Devils forbid, we would show no light.

  Suddenly, he stopped, moved closer to a towering stern to verify and then whispered, “That’s it! B-44-A-539-G. This is the ship that made the Earth run!” He held a whispered conference with the squad leader. Seconds later they had picked the lock of the patrol craft air lock. Like shadows, fifteen men of the Second Death Battalion had melted aboard. It scared me. What were they going to do? Pirate a ship of the Royal Fleet?

  A last flurry of whispers with the squad leader, ending with
, “. . . and hide yourselves well until they’re in flight.” Then Lombar turned to me and said in a voice he forgot to guard, “Why can’t you attend to these things, you (bleep)?”

  He didn’t want any answer. As long as I knew Lombar Hisst, he never waited for any answer from anyone about anything. He did all the talking. Suddenly we were running, crouched over, back along the field edge toward the waiting trucks.

  We moved under their unlighted bulk and Lombar spat out a name. The starlight and some reflection from the nearby barracks showed me a small figure crawling down from a cab. I did not recognize the face. He was dressed in the duty uniform of a Fleet orderly—red spats, red belt, red cap, white blouse, white pants unmistakable. But I knew it was no Fleet spaceman: it would be a member of what we called the Knife Section, dressed in a stolen uniform.

  Lombar pushed an envelope into his hand. Two Apparatus mechanics pulled a speedwheeler out of the back of a lorry. Lombar checked and then smeared some mud over its side numbers.

  “Don’t give that envelope over,” snarled Lombar. “Just show it!” He snapped his stinger at the bogus orderly and the speedwheeler went whispering off toward the barracks.

  We waited, crouching in the dark beside the black lorries. Five minutes went by. Then six. Then ten. Lombar was getting restless. He had just risen to his feet to take some other action when the furthest barrack’s doors flashed open. A set of floodlights went on. Three personnel carriers shot out of a garage and drew up before the doors. About twenty Fleet spacemen threw themselves into the transport and even at that considerable distance one could hear their excitement. They roared off down the field to the ship we had just left.

  Lombar stood there, watching through a pair of light magnifiers, grunting from time to time as he checked off expected actions.

  The lights of B-44-A-539-G flared up. Its chargers began to whine. The personnel carriers drew back. The patrol craft leaped like a lightning flash and was gone into the sky.

  The speedwheeler whispered back and the member of the Knife Section got off. He pushed the vehicle at the waiting mechanics to reload and then sauntered over to Lombar.

  “Took it like babies,” said the bogus messenger with an evil grin. He handed over the envelope. I took it because Lombar was busy scanning the sky. It said,

  FLEET ORDERS. VERY SECRET. VERY URGENT.

  Lombar had the light magnifiers on the heavens. “They spoke to no one.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “No one,” said Knife Section.

  “They were all there,” said Lombar. Another statement.

  “All there,” said Knife Section. “The craftleader called the roll.”

  “Ah,” said Lombar, seeing something in the sky, “they’ve turned. In less than an hour they’ll all be safe in Spiteos and B-44-A-539-G will be found in a day or two burned to a crisp in the Great Desert.”

  It seemed to give him a lot of satisfaction. My blood was running cold. Conditioned as I was to operations of the Apparatus, the kidnapping of a Royal Fleet crew and wanton destruction of an expensive long-range star patrol craft was a bit wide even for that lawless organization. And forging some admiral’s signature could bring a death sentence. I was still holding the envelope the Knife Section had handed me and I hastily put it in my blouse, just in case.

  Lombar took another look at the sky. “Good! So far, good! Now we’re going over to the officers’ club and pick up that (bleep), (bleep), (bleep) Jettero Heller! Load up!”

  PART ONE

  Chapter 4

  It is one thing to dispose of an Apparatus ranker: you just shoot him; it is quite another to illegally do away with a Royal officer. But Lombar Hisst was going about it like it was something one did every day, without a second thought.

  The officers’ club was a brilliant blare of light and sound. It was a high-roofed series of buildings—dining rooms, bars, accommodations for single officers and an enclosed sports arena. It was built to house around forty thousand. It stood in an inset valley, backed by towering mountain peaks.

  A second moon had risen now and it was far too light for comfort. Lombar found shelter for the trucks under the shoulder of a hill—he had a talent for locating darkness—and we proceeded on foot, keeping to shadows and out of sight, with two squads of the Second Death Battalion.

  The bulk of the sound was coming from the sports arena. All around, outside its exits, there were many flowering shrubs and the air was heavy with their night perfume. They furnished shadow and concealment and Lombar, with silent flicks of his stinger, inserted a cordon of guards into strategic places so that they made a hidden half-moon with the arena’s main exit at the center. With their black uniforms, one would never know that thirty deadly Apparatus troops formed a trap.

  Lombar shoved me forward and we went to a barred window near the exit and peered in.

  A game of bullet ball was in progress. The spectator seats were a mass of color and, just as we looked, a roar of applause was enough to make the door tremble. Somebody had scored.

  You know bullet ball, of course. The wide floor of the arena is divided up into precise white circles, each about ten feet in diameter and fifty feet, one from another. Each contestant has a bag of forty-two balls. In the civilian and professional version of the game, these are quite soft, about three inches in diameter and covered with black chalk. The players, in the civilian version, are dressed in white and number four. But this is not the Fleet version.

  Young officers being young officers, in the Fleet version the balls are very hard, like true missiles. They are chalked bright red. And the players strip to white pants, leaving their chests bare. The Fleet version increases the individual players to six and that can be very dangerous indeed.

  The object, of course, is for each single player to try to take out all the other players. A hit must be on the torso, above the belt and below the chin. If one steps out of his circle in his efforts to dodge, he is, of course, out of the game.

  It is a great test of skill and agility not only to throw accurately but also to dodge the “bullets” of the other players.

  One of those balls can travel anything from seventy to a hundred and twenty-five miles an hour. They can crush ribs, break arms or smash skulls. And one can’t anticipate their real paths. A really good player can throw them so they curve suddenly in flight when only five feet away and instead of dodging out of the way, one can accidentally move straight into them. An expert can also make a ball “break” down or up in flight at the last split second or even make them screw through the air, utterly unpredictable.

  Dodging is an art in itself—trying to look like you’ll be in one place while being in quite another when the bullet actually arrives requires foot and body work that would make a leap-dancer look like a cow. A player can have several bullets coming at him all at once from five different directions! Every one of them totally lethal.

  In the Fleet version, adding two more players, six instead of four, it can get pretty fast! And the Fleet players don’t just try to get their opponents to step out of the ring: they send them flying! I never cared for bullet ball myself, even if they ever would have let me play.

  The sight we saw before us must have been the last of a series of sets. Several vanquished players were on the sidelines, below the massed and cheering crowd. One player was being put on a stretcher.

  On the floor was a nearly finished final game. There were only three players left unmarked and on their feet. The two furthest from us were evidently combining against the one nearest us who had just expertly reached out and caught both bullets in his hands, left and right. If you can do that, you, of course, have more ammunition but lords help your stinging hands! That was what had made the crowd cheer.

  The player nearest to us still held the two balls. He was sort of dancing on his toes, weaving to left and right.

  Another player threw and as far away as we were and despite the crowd sounds, the sizzle-whip of the ball was loud. Real velocity!


  I was still a bit light-blinded and I didn’t quite see how it happened. But the crowd sure did! The nearest player, in that split second, had thrown his right-hand ball and almost in the same motion had caught the incoming sizzler.

  Then the crowd really went wild! The bullet of the nearest player had hit an opponent in the chest and knocked him backwards eight feet and clean out of his ring!

  I gasped. I had now and then seen a player throw and catch in the same play but I had never seen one throw, catch and hit!

  I was distracted by the rumbling whisper of Lombar beside me. He had the bogus orderly by the neck and was showing him the nearest player. “That’s Jettero Heller. Do exactly as I told you. No slips!” He gave him an envelope and the man from Knife Section slid inside.

  So that was Jettero Heller. I felt not just nervous but a little sick. Listening to that crowd of females and junior ranks, this fellow was not just a little popular. And popular people get missed when you kidnap them. I glanced at Lombar.