Larry Niven - The Barsoom Project

The leg flashed red, but the creature had an edge-three of its legs carried clubs. One of them flagged up and down, flashed out at him. It crept forward a little further on the ledge.

Johnny and Max struggled. There was just enough room for one of them to edge around the ledge, and Johnny had the gun. There wasn’t enough room for them to change places, but they were determined to try.

They squeezed together, Max momentarily embarrassed by a quick attack of homophobia, quashing it as Johnny’s breath warmed his chest.

“We gotta stop meeting like this,” Johnny said. “People will say we’re in love.”

“Har, har.”

Trianna screamed, “Watch out!” Johnny turned around in time to yipe and raise his rifle. A club hammered down, striking sparks from the barrel. Johnny moaned, whether acting or serious, Max couldn’t tell.

It did look a lonnnng way down.

Johnny was past him now, and Max backpedaled as quickly as he could to give Johnny the range and space that he needed. Johnny leveled the rifle and fired.

The creature’s right eye flashed red like something in a pinball game, then winked out. Unfortunately it didn’t slow down. One of the clubs lashed out in a semicircle, and Johnny’s leg went red.

Johnny hobbled backward and fired again, and again. The club lashed out. Johnny hopped back, dodging as best he could on one good leg.

The entire spider-beast was mostly red before it finally collapsed. It pulsed on the ledge and then tumbled over.

The three returned to where the ledge was widest. There they paused to check Johnny’s leg. The red flashing was beginning to fade, but hadn’t died out.

“Better than a bite.” Trianna breathed a sigh of relief. “The flashing probably would have gotten worse as the poison spread.”

“What should we do?”

She thought for a minute. “Well, I guess we could bandage it, and then you just be careful, and maybe we’ll get through all right.”

Johnny slipped his belt out of its hoops, and bandaged his leg with it. “Think this’ll do?”

“It better,” Max said. “Let’s get going.”

The Amartoqs were gathering in the forest of jagged slabcrystals. Eviane watched… until she felt the huge slab beneath her feet begin to shift.

Hippogryph lowered the point of his spear, confused. The creatures across the divide hissed and gibbered at him, shaking their fists.

“What in the hell is going on?”

“Earthquake?” But Eviane knew different. It felt wrong. It wasn’t the random movement of tectonic plates, nor the movement of a melting labyrinth of ice. The motion was deliberate and… dare she say it? Controlled.

Behind them a gap had opened that was at least five yards across. Below it was darkness and slow, sluggish coils of sound. Something was moving down there, and she didn’t like it even a little.

Ollie hung back, looked down. “Jesus Christ!” he screamed. His face curdled with shock, and he staggered back.

The headless Amartoqs attacked.

There were six. They moved with grim sureness. Their arms hung so low that their blackened claws raked the ground. The faces, sunken into those swollen bellies, leered at them.

They were slow, and that was all that saved the Adventurers in the first moments of the attack.

Eviane howled and darted in, her enchanted spear drawing first blood.

Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion-except that the Amartoqs couldn’t seem to keep up with the dervish Adventurers. Ice and stone grew neon-red with blood. The monsters fell one after another, and she found herself fighting side by side with Hippogryph, who wielded his spear well.

Her spear was magic indeed! She sliced effortlessly through monster flesh, and with every stroke she slew another.

As the last of them went down, she realized that something was wrong.

Hippogryph was staring at the forest of slabs. The six Amartoqs they had fought were only the beginning. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, were emerging now. Their long heavy nails scratched along the slabs of ice and masonry like nails on a blackboard.

“We’re dead,” she said, almost matter-of-factly.

The creatures emerged another foot, and then the hideous sunken faces in the bellies looked out questioningly. Something that could only have been fear shone in their misshapen faces. They froze where they stood.

In spite of herself, Eviane turned and looked back over her shoulder… and the old recurring nightmare began again.

The slab had opened. The misshapen, octopus-headed thing, the thing from the gulfs, had begun to worm through. It was hideous beyond imagining, and Ollie had time only to scream “Chthul-” before one of the fanged cilia had him, had lifted him into the air, and was carrying him down toward the awful, gaping mouth.

“Ollie!” Eviane had time to scream, and Ollie’s eyes met hers. She thought she saw a message there: I won’t die like this!

The instant before that ghastly mouth would have swallowed him, Ollie’s hands ripped from his bandoleer, the makeshift belt which held flare grenades and sticks of dynamite. With an audible snick he pulled a brace of rings free from the incendiary flares.

There was a painfully brief scream of defiance, and Ollie disappeared in a flash of light and thunder that dimmed the auroras. In that light she caught a glimpse of the thing hiding down in the darkness, and wished she hadn’t.

It hissed and spit in pain and indignation. The damaged tentacle zipped back into the ground. The slab slammed shut with a thunderous roar.

Sour smoke hung in the air. The ice was littered with corpses. On the far side of the plateau lay something shattered and smoking. She didn’t want to go and look.

“Come on,” Hippogryph said. “The others need us.”

She stared at him. She had foreseen death, but not Ollie’s. Now she saw death in Hippogryph’s face. Was it real? Was it for him?

He turned, uncomfortable with the intensity of her gaze.

Snow Goose saw it, but didn’t really believe it. Orson, protecting Charlene, was a totally different person.

Backlit by the discharging satellite, his bulky figure moved not with grace but with great energy. She heard him mutter, “Here’s where Orson the barbarian battles the bloody beast that blocks their path-”

One swipe of the Amartoq’s claws, and his left shoulder went red. He gamely transferred his sword to his right hand, stumbling out of the way as its subsequent, slower swipe missed him by inches.

Orson lunged in with the sword in a move that looked like something out of The Prisoner of Zenda. It should have stayed there. He lost his balance and stumbled.

The face in the middle of the beast’s torso laughed an ugly laugh. It swung its claws. They came slowly, but they came.

Yarnall, in a movement so swift and sure that it startled her, spun Orson back and attacked in that narrow space, squeezing up from the rear and firing into the Amartoq’s rather oddly placed face. Its fighting snarl evaporated in a red mist.

Orson was gasping for air, holding his shoulder and ankle. “Ow! I think I twisted my anide that time.”

Charlene put a sympathetic arm around his shoulder. “I’ve got some more joint braces,” she whispered in his ear. Flickering, nearly invisible, she tried to prop him up. It must have been like leaning on a ghost. “I’ll let you borrow one if we can get out of this.” She paused, and Snow Goose heard the smack of an invisible kiss on Orson’s whiskered chin. “My hero.”

Orson glowed, and straightened. “Ready,” he growled.

Yarnall led the way.

Something was happening, and Max could feel it. The ground shook, here and everywhere. Fissures divided the giant slabs that defined the walls and canyons. In the distance the bizarre geometry of the alien city was changing shape.