Edward Llewellyn - Prelude to Chaos

“Drive them back if you can. Give me covering fire if you can’t. Those bastards will have used up their grenades by now. So it’s rifle against rifle.”

Martha nodded, taking automatic command, and began to despatch each of her squad to take cover behind a different container. Before she disappeared herself she said, “Shout when you want us to start shooting.”

I went to hide behind the container projecting the farthest onto the wharf, trying to think of some way to save myself from having to run twenty meters while being shot at from a range of one hundred. Smoke? The wind would blow it away across the neck. Just as well or they’d have used it against us by now. Shove this container out to the edge of the wharf as a shield? The damned thing was off the rollers and immovable. Some other place for Midge to off-load her captive? There wasn’t one.

I was convincing myself that the risk to me wasn’t worth grabbing some unknown politico as reward, when Midge came on the com and her voice was loud and clear. “I’m tucked in under the end of the wharf.… A few dents and the wheelhouse glass…. Tell Mister Gavin to come and collect this honcho.”

She had brought her boat in among the rocks, reached the cover of the pier, and cancelled my options. I shouted to Martha, “Give me all you’ve got!” swallowed twice, and launched myself before my resolution evaporated.

The Troopers weren’t expecting a target to pop out from between containers like a clay pigeon from a trap. They were slow in shifting their attention to me and the first burst whined over my head as I vaulted down into the well of Sea Eagle. The tide was not yet full and the dockside gave the boat cover. I picked myself up and swung round. Midge was crouching amid shattered glass in the wheelhouse, one hand on the wheel.

“Where is he?”

“On the bunk in the cabin. Wrists tied behind him. I think he can walk.” She paused. “Pilot’s down there too. Dead. I had to shoot him.”

I plunged into the cabin, stepped across a body, rolled over the damp form on the bank. And found myself facing Gerald Futrell. Gaunt and gray-haired, etched by pain and fatigue, it was still the face of the man I hated.

I drew my Luger, aimed at his right eye. He recognized me, flinched, but did not speak. With an effort I reholstered my gun. I pulled him to his feet, pushed him up to the wheel-house. “I’m going to get you into the Pen—alive or dead!”

“Be careful with him, Mister Gavin,” called Midge. “Remember—he’s my prisoner. Not yours!”

“I’ll keep him alive as long as I can—if his pals let me!” I lifted him bodily and shoved him over the edge of the wharf. Then I followed, calling back to Midge, “Now get to hell out of here! Lie offshore until you’re called in.”

Beside me Futrell murmured, “Knox—Gavin Knox! Fucking things up again!”

For the moment the shooting had stopped. I pulled my handkerchief out of my pocket, tied it to the muzzle of my Luger, and waved it in the air above us. “That’s the best I can do for you,” I growled. “Now—stand up! Let your boys see you!”

“Stand up?” He got to his knees, mouth set in a feral snarl. “I can’t. Not unless you help me.”

I hesitated, seized him around the waist and pulled him to his feet, supporting him, waiting for a burst to kill us both.

No burst came. For the Troopers out in the scrub a white flag was a signal that we wanted to talk. And by now they were probably ready to talk. Time was passing and their ammunition would be running low. Then their officer must have recognized Futrell, for I heard him shout, “Hold your fire!”

Still waving my hankerchief like a pennant I urged Futrell across the wharf to the cover of the nearest container. Enoch was waiting and caught him as he fell.

“Is this the one?”

“That’s him. The devil himself! Get him up to the Surveillance Center.”

They dragged Futrell away. I waited until I was sure there would be no rescue attempt. Then I followed.

Futrell was slumped in a chair with Judith standing over him. She turned when I came in. “He’s got his com with him. He’s going to call the troops. Arrange for a cease-fire. So we can get the girls into the Pen.”

“He’d better!” I went over, caught his hair, jerked his head back to face me. “Listen well! There’s a gallows in this place. The designers put one in—just in case the Government decided to start hanging murderers again. It’s never been used. You’ll be its first customer—if you’re lucky and do as you’re told. If you don’t—you’ll die slowly over the next two days. I know all the tricks of the trade. I’ve never had to use ’em. But I’d be delighted to start on you!”

He stared back at me, fear mixed with defiance.

Judith tried to pull me away. “He’s Midge’s prisoner. Like she told you. She just called on the com. You’re not to hurt him, do you hear?”

I swung around. “If he does as I tell him, I won’t hurt him. I’ll hang him painlessly like I promised. But if he doesn’t— then I’ll hurt him all right!”

Futrell’s eyes were on Judith. Without meaning to we had moved into the “bad cop” versus “good cop” routine. His eyes went wide. I turned and saw Judith was raising the Jeta. “Not that—you silly bitch! We want him conscious.”

Then I realized she was pointing it at my chest. I jumped toward her, the dart hit, and I found myself collapsing at her feet.

Consciousness came back slowly. I rose through a phase of disorientation as I realized that I had been knocked out by a Jeta and tried to remember where and by whom. I still hadn’t solved that problem when I discovered I couldn’t move. I opened my eyes, stared at the lights above me, and decided I was in an operating room. Then that I was strapped to an operating table.

It was going to be forced mind-wipe! I’d been caught and brought back to the Pen. Or I’d never escaped! Or—

“He’s awake.” That was Judith’s voice. Her face swam over me. Then Barbara’s. And memory flooded back.

“What the hell are you doing? Where’s Futrell?”

“Safe in a cell.” Judith bent to pull up my left eyelid and stare at my pupil. “Relax, Gavin. Everything’s under control.”

“Futrell!” I tried to sit up. “He’ll be the first murderer to swing from the Pen’s gallows!”

“No he won’t!’ said Judith, filling a syringe. “I gave him my word that if he persuaded the soldiers to let those women come into the Pen we’d turn him loose unharmed.”

“You had no right to do that!”

“I did. You went crazy and I had to take over.” She came toward me, syringe in hand. “If we’d had to fight it out, a lot more people would have been killed.” She put a tourniquet around my arm and began to swab the skin. “He accepted my word.”

“Well—he hasn’t got mine.” I wrenched at the straps holding me. “Let me up, will you!”

“Not till after you’ve been debugged.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“Gavin, I told you after you went berserk in Sherando that someone’s planted a directive in you. You thought you’d licked it. You haven’t. The sight of Futrell still triggers it. You’ll still try to kill him when you see him. You can only control yourself long enough to delay—as you did when you fetched him from the boat. I’ve got to help you find out who planted that directive, and why.”

“Balls! Keep that needle away from me! Post-hypnotic suggestion doesn’t work.”

“It does on rigid-minded duty-bound individuals—if it’s something they really want to do. And you want to kill Futrell all right! The compulsion’s forcing you to try to kill him, regardless of everything else. Futrell’s face can still switch you to automatic.”