David Robbins - Houston Run

Somewhere, a door slammed.

Hickok waited expectantly.

There was an exchange of muted voices.

Hickok fingered the trigger on his right Python.

“…immediately. Primator will be pleased,” said a deep voice, the audibility increasing as the speaker neared the cockpit.

“I was impressed,” said a second person. “He is quite formidable.”

Hickok pressed his right ear to the door panel. Oddly enough, the two voices were almost, but not quite, identical.

“I’m proof of that,” commented yet a third party.

The unknown trio reached the cockpit, and there was a commotion as they went about their business.

“How much coolant have you lost?” asked one of them.

“Two quarts,” answered another.

“Go to the Wells Repair Module,” instructed the first voice. “I will perform emergency crimping on your tubes. It will suffice until we reach Androxia.”

“Thank you,” said the other one. “I will place my hand in the Boulle to prevent excessive dehydration.”

What the blazes were they talking about? Hickok wondered.

“If his knife had penetrated your Heinlein, you would require a major overhaul,” commented the third one. He paused. “Should Blade be placed in stasis?”

Blade! They had Blade! Hickok felt a slight vibration under his feet as he gripped the latch and shoved. He leaped from the closet, his thumb on the hammer of his right Python. “Don’t move!” he shouted, whipping his right Colt up and out, then stopping, stupefied.

There were three of them, each seven feet in height, each attired in a silver uniform. They all had blond hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. They looked enough alike to be triplets. One stood in front of the computer. The second one, with Blade’s unconscious form draped over his left shoulder, was standing five feet to the left of the gunman. The third giant was near the doorway, a ragged tear in his uniform in the center of his chest, a pale fluid seeping from the hole, holding his severed left hand in his right !

The one near the computer glanced at the one holding Blade. “You were correct. You did observe someone near the Hoverjet.”

“I’ll do the talkin’!” Hickok snapped. He wagged his Python at the one with Blade. “You! Set my pard on the floor! Nice and easy like!”

To the gunman’s astonishment, his command was ignored. The one with Blade looked at the one near the computer. “This must be another Warrior. Should we dispose of him?”

“I believe this is the organism called Hickok,” remarked the silver man near the door. “I’m familiar with primitive firearms, and those are Colt Pythons. He is an associate of Blade’s.”

“Then we will transport him to Androxia,” the one by the computer stated.

“You ain’t transportin’ me nowhere!” Hickok declared. “This contraption of yours is stayin’ right on the ground!”

“That’s impossible,” the one near the computer stated.

“Wanna bet?” Hickok rejoined, pointing his Python at the man’s head.

“We do not gamble,” the silver man said. “And we can not stay on the ground when we are already in the air.” He motioned toward the canopy.

Hickok risked a hasty glance upward. He could see the stars, and they were moving! With a start, he suddenly realized the stars weren’t really moving: the aircraft was ! They were airborne!

The silver man near the computer scrutinized the gunman’s expression.

“We departed your Home over a minute ago. Our onboard navigational computer automatically implemented our takeoff. The Klinecraft is soundproofed, and motion fluctuation is minimal. There was no way you could have known.”

“Turn this buggy around!” Hickok demanded. “You’re takin’ us back.”

“No, we are not,” said the one by the computer, and he nodded at the silver man near the doorway.

Hickok whirled.

The one with the cut-off hand was already charging, his right arm upraised to deliver a crushing blow.

Hickok’s right Python boomed, thundering in the confines of the cockpit. As he invariably did, Hickok went for the head. He was a staunch advocate of always going for the brain. If an opponent was hit anywhere else, they could keep coming. Even if a foe was shot in the heart, they could linger for several seconds or longer, enough time to squeeze a trigger or get in a final swipe. But snuff the brain, as Hickok liked to say, and nine times out of ten the enemy was instantly slain. Nine times out of ten.

This time was the tenth.

The silver man was struck in the left eye, the impact of the 158-grain hollow-point slug jerking his massive body to the left and stopping him in his tracks. He hesitated for just a fraction, then plunged forward, seemingly immune to pain and heedless of the gaping cavity where his left eye had just been.

Hickok’s Python blasted again. And once more. Each shot was on target. The first one caught the silver man in the forehead, snapping his head backward and blowing the rear of his cranium outward, spraying the cockpit wall and carpeted floor with grisly pieces of flesh and hair and spattering everything with a colorless liquid. The silver man halted, shook his head once, then resumed his attack. Hickok’s next shot hit his assailant in the right eye.

The silver man doubled over, clutching at his shattered face, a watery substance spewing onto the floor.

Hickok was astounded. Never had he seen anyone take such punishment and still keep coming.

But this one did.

The silver man straightened, his arms extended. He had dropped his left hand, and the fingers on his right clawed at the air. His eyes were gone, yet he advanced, shuffling in the direction of the Warrior, his right arm swinging from side to side.

How the hell did he do it? Hickok sent two more slugs into the silver man’s head.

The man in silver abruptly stiffened. His mouth curved downwards, his lips trembling. He took a single halting step, then collapsed in a heap.

Hickok couldn’t accept the testimony of his own eyes.

Smoke was wafting from the dead man’s ruined eye sockets!

The gunman’s superb instincts sensed danger, and his left hand streaked to his left Colt as he pivoted to face the other two silver men. He almost made it.

The silver man near the computer had already sprung into action, executing a flying leap, his heavy form hurtling through the intervening space and crashing into the Warrior, slamming the gunman against the closet door, ramming the gunfighter’s head into the door. The panel split from the force of the blow, and the gunman slumped to the green carpet, his right Python slipping from his limp fingers.

AS-1 rose to his full height and stared at the Warrior at his feet. “These Warriors are not to be taken lightly,” he commented. “I will inform Intelligence upon our return to Androxia.” He glanced at his crumpled companion. “OV-3’s Bradbury Chip was struck by one of Hickok’s shots,” he deduced.

IM-97 transferred Blade from his left shoulder to his arms, then walked to the doorway. “I will place this one in stasis and return for Hickok.”

AS-1 nodded. “I will transmit the status of our mission to Androxia.”

IM-97 gazed at the body of OV-3. “How do you think Primator will react to the loss of a Superior?”

AS-1 nudged OV-3 with the tip of his right toe. “The humans have an expression,” he remarked. “Apropos in this instance.”

“What is it?” IM-97 inquired.

“The shit will hit the fan.”

She stood on the balcony on the top floor of the Huxley Tower, her lavender eyes sweeping the skyline of Androxia.

Where were they?

She gazed at the city lights far below, then up at the heavens, idly noting the position of the Big Dipper.