Питер Филлипс - In Space No One Can Hear You Scream

“Try a blaster on it,” Parke said. Edsel picked up one of the explosive pistols and fired. The charge was absorbed by the haze. Quickly he tested three others. They couldn’t pierce the blue glow.

“I believe,” Parke said softly, “this will stop an atomic bomb. This is a force field.”

Edsel turned it off and they went back inside. It was growing dark in the cave as the sun neared the horizon.

“You know,” Edsel said, “you’re a pretty good guy, Parke. You’re OK.”

“Thanks,” Parke said, looking over the mass of weapons.

“You don’t mind my cutting down Faxon, do you? He was going straight to the Government.”

“On the contrary, I approve.”

“Swell. I figure you must be OK. You could have killed me when I was killing Faxon.” Edsel didn’t add that it was what he would have done.

Parke shrugged his shoulders.

“How would you like to work on this kingdom deal with me?” Edsel asked, grinning. “I think we could swing it. Get ourselves a nice place, plenty of girls, lots of laughs. What do you think?”

“Sure,” Parke said. “Count me in.” Edsel slapped him on the shoulder, and they went through the ranks of weapons.

“All those are pretty obvious,” Parke said as they reached the end of the room. “Variations on the others.”

At the end of the room was a door. There were letters in Martian script engraved on it.

“What’s that stuff say?” Edsel asked.

“Something about ‘final weapons’,” Parke told him, squinting at the delicate tracery. “A warning to stay out.” He opened the door. Both men started to step inside, then recoiled suddenly.

Inside was a chamber fully three times the size of the room they had just left. And filling the great room, as far as they could see, were soldiers. Gorgeously dressed, fully armed, the soldiers were motionless, statue-like.

They were not alive.

There was a table by the door, and on it were three things. First, there was a sphere about the size of a man’s fist, with a calibrated dial set in it. Beside that was a shining helmet. And next was a small, black box with Martian script on it.

“Is it a burial place?” Edsel whispered, looking with awe at the strong unearthly faces of the martian soldiery. Parke, behind him, didn’t answer.

Edsel walked to the table and picked up the sphere. Carefully he turned the dial a single notch.

“What do you think it’s supposed to do?” he asked Parke. “Do you think—” Both men gasped and moved back.

The lines of fighting men had moved. Men in ranks swayed, then came to attention. But they no longer held the rigid posture of death. The ancient fighting men were alive.

One of them, in an amazing uniform of purple and silver, came forward and bowed to Edsel.

“Sir, your troops are ready.” Edsel was too amazed to speak.

“How can you live after thousands of years?” Parke answered. “Are you Martians?”

“We are the servants of the Martians.” The soldier said. Parke noticed that the soldier’s lips hadn’t moved. The man was telepathic. “Sir, we are Synthetics.”

“Whom do you obey?” Parke asked.

“The Activator, sir.” The Synthetic was speaking directly to Edsel, looking at the sphere in his hand. “We require no food or sleep, sir. Our only desire is to serve you and to fight.” The soldiers in the ranks nodded approvingly.

“Lead us into battle, sir!”

“I sure will!” Edsel said, finally regaining his senses. “I’ll show you boys some fighting, you can bank on that!”

The soldiers cheered him, solemnly, three times. Edsel grinned, looking at Parke.

“What do the rest of these numbers do?” Edsel asked. But the soldier was silent. The question was evidently beyond his built-in knowledge.

“It might activate other Synthetics,” Parke said. “There are probably more chambers underground.”

“Brother!” Edsel shouted. “ Will I lead you into battle!” Again the soldiers cheered, three solemn cheers.

“Put them to sleep and let’s make some plans,” Parke said. Dazed, Edsel turned the switch back. The soldiers froze again into immobility.

“Come on outside.”

“Right.”

“And bring that stuff with you.” Edsel picked up the shining helmet and the black box and followed Parke outside. The sun had almost disappeared now, and there were black shadows over the red land. It was bitterly cold, but neither man noticed.

“Did you hear what they said, Parke? Did you hear it? They said I was their leader! With men like those—” He laughed at the sky. With those soldiers, those weapons, nothing could stop him. He’d really stock his land—prettiest girls in the world, and would he have a time!

“I’m a general!” Edsel shouted, and slipped the helmet over his head. “How do I look, Parke? Don’t I look like a—” He stopped. He was hearing a voice in his ears, whispering, muttering. What was it saying?

“ . . . damned idiot, with his little dream of a kingdom. Power like this is for a man of genius, a man who can remake history. Myself! ”

“Who’s talking? That’s you, isn’t it Parke?” Edsel realized suddenly that the helmet allowed him to listen in on thoughts. He didn’t have time to consider what a weapon this would be for a ruler.

Parke shot him neatly through the back with a gun he had been holding all the time.

“What an idiot,” Parke told himself, slipping the helmet on his head. “A kingdom! All the power in the world and he dreamed of a little kingdom!” He glanced back at the cave.

“With those troops—the force field—and the weapons—I can take over the world.” He said it coldly, knowing it was a fact. He turned to go back to the cave to activate the Synthetics, but stopped first to pick up the little black box Edsel had carried.

Engraved on it, in flowing Martian script, was, “The Last Weapon.”

I wonder what it could be, Parke asked himself. He had let Edsel live long enough to try out all the others; no use chancing a misfire himself. It was too bad he hadn’t lived long enough to try out this one, too.

Of course, I really don’t need it, he told himself. He had plenty. But this might make the job a lot easier, a lot safer. Whatever it was, it was bound to be good.

Well, he told himself, let’s see what the Martians considered their last weapon. He opened the box.

A vapor drifted out, and Parke threw the box from him, thinking about poison gas.

The vapor mounted, drifted haphazardly for a while, then began to coalesce. It spread, grew and took shape.

In a few seconds, it was complete, hovering over the box. It glimmered white in the dying light, and Parke saw that it was just a tremendous mouth, topped by a pair of unblinking eyes.

“Ho ho,” the mouth said. “Protoplasm!” It drifted to the body of Edsel. Parke lifted a blaster and took careful aim.

“Quiet protoplasm,” the thing said, nuzzling Edsel’s body. “I like quiet protoplasm.” It took down the body in a single gulp.

Parke fired, blasting a ten-foot hole in the ground. The giant mouth drifted out of it, chuckling.

“It’s been so long,” it said.

Parke was clenching his nerves in a forged grip. He refused to let himself become panicked. Calmly he activated the force field, forming a blue sphere around himself.

Still chuckling, the thing drifted through the blue haze.

Parke picked up the weapon Edsel had used on Faxon, feeling the well-balanced piece swing up in his hand. He backed to one side of the force field as the thing approached, and turned on the beam.

The thing kept coming.

“Die, die!” Parke screamed, his nerves breaking.

But the thing came on, grinning broadly.