The Hunter Victorious (16 page)

The Madrelli crept toward the great silver vessel, slipping from one bit of cover to the next. For all his great size, he
was very agile and could move like a shadow if it was necessary.

The snow still swept down with great force, scouring everything that dared exposure with flakes that burned and stung upon
contact. He was close enough that he could hear, the slithery whispers as the snow struck the sleek hull of the spacecraft
and caressed the metallic skin.

Huge arc vapor lights shed pools of bright bluish white light on the craft and all around the perimeter. Barat Krol halted
at the very edge, studying the scene, taking in the huddled forms of the guards crouched over a small fire at the far edge
of the area, trying to stay warm rather than walk the perimeter as they had been charged to do.

He could sympathize with them, for it was wicked weather, a deeper, more bitter cold than he had ever experienced. It had
been necessary for him to don one of the survival suits that the guards wore to protect them from the cold.

It had been difficult finding a suit large enough to fit him and even harder still persuading the man inside to part with
it. At this moment, that man lay staring up at the dark sky, his neck tilted at a strange angle, a puzzled look still clouding
his unseeing eyes.

The king had finally acknowledged that they were under attack and had thrown a cordon of protection around the remaining technicians.
Barat Krol would have preferred to eliminate them all, but one did what one could. He was surprised that there were so few
guards stationed around the vessel. Were they really so confident of their own power that they could ignore the fact that
there were those who opposed them? If so, all the better for his purposes.

He studied the snow-swept landscape and moved to a point opposite the guards’ shelter, where the spacecraft itself blocked
their line of view. Here would be his best approach. He had watched the guards’ careful promenade on nights when the snow
had not beat down with such relentless force and saw that they were most careful to walk only the outer
most perimeter. From this he deduced that there were traps or pressure points to be avoided.

There were also a number of laser beams lacing the open space, but the dead guard had thoughtfully provided him with a pair
of night vision goggles that enabled him to see the deadly beams of light that could now be carefully avoided. The goggles
were far too small and squeezed his head like a vise, but he endured the discomfort, knowing that it was necessary.

Barat Krol was not accustomed to dealing with such advanced weaponry, but sabotage was another matter. He had been part of
the original party and one of the three survivors of those who had sabotaged and brought a halt to the Scandis’ mining of
his world. That had been his first lesson in the fine art of sabotage, and since then he had grown even more adept.

He had gathered an armload of ice chunks. One at a time he fashioned large, heavy snowballs, each with a lump of ice buried
in its center. These he carefully lobbed, tossing them over the dangerous beams on a zigzag course which he had chosen. If
even one of the beams were broken or a single pressure point activated, the game would be over. It seemed as though the gods
were watching over his actions, for not once did his missiles touch down on a pressure point.

The tension was beginning to take its toll as his snowballs fell closer and closer to the ship. Then, just as he had feared,
one of his projectiles fell short and clipped the edge of a laser beam. Instantly there was a sizzling crackle and a whole
field came alive with high-intensity beams glowing blue and red, and the guards began racing this way and that.

Barat Krol fell back into the shadows and buried himself in a mound of snow, with only his goggles remaining uncovered, and
watched as the guards suddenly assumed the state of alertness that they should have exhibited all along.

The driving snow had obliterated most of his footprints and
he had dragged a cape behind him, sweeping away whatever evidence remained. They did not find his trail, but they did locate
the blob of snow and ice that had triggered the alarm. To enter the area, it was necessary for them to shut down the laser
beams and Barat Krol watched them carefully as they picked their way through the field, noting and memorizing where they placed
their feet.

The snowball had fallen quite close to the base of the ship’s gantry and they lifted what remained and studied it with great
interest. He was not close enough to hear all of what they said, but the wind carried bits and pieces of their conversation
to him, enough for him to learn that it was not the first time that chunks of storm-driven snow had been blown onto the area,
setting off the alarms. They tossed the snowball aside with disgust and carefully made their way back to the outer perimeter.

They stamped around for a bit, taking a final look around the area, and then, confident that security had not been breached,
they hurried back to their hut.

Barat Krol lost no time either, throwing aside the snow that had shielded him and hurrying toward the ship, placing his feet
in the guards’ exact footprints, thus eliminating any guesswork as to where the pressure points might be. He was a good deal
heavier than his snowballs and, where they might not weigh enough to set the pressure points off, his greater bulk certainly
would. He reached the gantry just as the guards entered the hut. Seconds later, a millisecond after he gained the first level
of crossbars, the laser beams switched on.

The Scandis had placed all their faith in their guards and their sensory devices and had not taken more than the most simple
precautions with the gantry itself. It was an easy matter for Barat Krol to avoid tripping those few alarms, quickly scaling
the heights until he reached the entrance to the ship itself.

He had not hoped to gain entry to the vessel, thinking that it would be heavily guarded, or locked at the very least. But
once he reached the catwalk that spanned the distance between the gantry and the ship, he slipped under a heavy fold of some
transparent material and found himself making his way through a series of airlocks and then entering the hold of the ship
itself.

Barat Krol was not a complete novice, having traveled from Rototara to Valhalla on a spacecraft, but it was not an experience
one grew accustomed to easily. The interior of the great ship was bathed in a soft blue light that made everything appear
strange and otherworldly. He could not even begin to guess at the purpose of most things, but he knew what it was that he
was looking for.

He had worked for the Scandis on his own world and lived on Valhalla long enough to know that the most complex mechanisms
often needed only the smallest of spaces, for their information was contained in almost infinitesimal chips. He intended no
obvious acts of sabotage, no wide swath of destruction that would alert the enemy that their ranks had been breached. Instead
he would search out places where he might snap a wire, loosen a bolt, scratch a computer chip, and otherwise harm the vast
and mighty ship.

He worked long and hard throughout the night, weaseling his way into the heart of the vessel, wreaking havoc in minuscule
ways that would not easily be detected and, if then, making it appear that the damage was accidental rather than intentional.
He was careful to cover his tracks, to leave no evidence that he had been there, for he did not want them to grow alarmed
enough to institute a widespread search that might uncover his malfeasance.

He finished the last bit of mischief, fraying several relay wires that were part of an immense trunk of colorful threads more
than two feet in diameter that snaked beneath one of
the floor panels. He was delighted with this fortuitous find, even though he had not the slightest idea what its purpose was,
and after a moment’s thought he severed and pulled free a goodly number of the wires, burying the damage deep within the multitude.
With any luck at all, it would prove to be something important, and with so many wires, it would be difficult to find the
exact location of the breaks. Even if the breaks were found, they would mean hours and hours of tedious splicing and testing.
The thought was enough to make him smile.

Wan glimmers of pale daylight were stretching tentative fingers over the jagged horizon when Barat Krol finished the last
of his work. He could feel the exhaustion in his muscles and he stretched wide before he began the long, cautious crawl down
the gantry. But it was a good tired, with the sense of satisfaction one got after a hard night’s work.

Carn struggled to hold on to his fading strength. He gasped with exhaustion as well as fear. Never had he felt less in charge
of his own existence than when he was with the volva. She was unlike any other woman he had ever known. Always before, he
had been in control of his relationships, deciding when and how often he would see a woman, and always it was he who initiated
sexual encounters.

But with this woman, the volva—if she had a name, he did not know it—it was not like any relationship he had ever known. He
was no neophyte, no rank beginner, he had made love before, but this was not love, nor anything that resembled it. It was
lust and pure physical passion, and love was only noticed because of its absence.

This woman had him completely in her thrall. At silent moments, alone in his chambers, he asked himself time and again why
he would allow anyone, much less a woman, to subject him to such degradation. But every time he attempted
to break away, she bent him to her will again, and each time it was harder and harder to oppose her. He wondered if, as she
had said, the blood of witches ran in her veins.

He gasped again and groaned, his entire body sheathed in sweat, his senses reeling on a tightrope of sensation that was neither
pain nor ecstasy but a combination of both. The volva leaned over him and peered into his eyes, a question in her own, waiting
for him to speak, to beg her to stop. He closed his eyes and turned aside, wanting the torment to stop, but unwilling to relinquish
the rapture that accompanied it. He groaned again and knew without looking that she was smiling.

There was a sudden jolt of pain and his eyes fluttered open in shock, his heart hammering hard against his ribs. The volva
was laying across his body, her flesh plastered to his with a layer of perspiration, her sharpened teeth fastened in the flesh
at the side of his neck. The pain grew more intense as her teeth sliced through the thick, shiny scar tissue; he could feel
the rivulets of blood coursing down his flesh, hear the drops as they fell onto the cushions. He cried out despite his resolve
not to let her know that she had hurt him, and he heard her low chuckle of amusement.

Rage fought with pain and humiliation, the knowledge that he was little more than this woman’s plaything, a toy that might
be easily discarded if it ceased to amuse… or if it were broken.

As the various emotions warred inside him, he felt a sensation almost akin to a tingle of electricity shoot through his body,
lifting him higher and higher till he crested on a wave of sheer exultation so intense that he thought his heart would burst
apart under the strain. His body arched time and again as the volva drew the strength from him, squeezing him between her
powerful loins, touching, caressing him, her every touch leaving shivery, burning trails on his body.

He had reached a point that was almost unbearable. He
hovered on the verge of unconsciousness and wondered if he might die, although if it had been his decision whether or not
to stop, even he could not have said what he would do. He recognized at some distant point in his fevered brain that he had
pushed his poor, damaged body to its very limits. A man was not like a machine, but somehow he knew that if he continued,
some part of him would burn out and he would never be the same again.

The volva pulled back, leaned away from him, and the cessation of sensation was as great a shock as the infliction. He was
like an addict in the final throes of addiction, where reality, a return to normalcy, was unable to be borne. He reached for
her and pulled her to him. She laughed aloud, a cry of victory, and thrust her body full upon his, driving him, forcing him,
driving him up, up, up and over the edge… into the waiting darkness.

Fortran was confused. He had flung himself into action,
unfurling his blue form from the tight roll he had assumed for the past 127 days and nights. Although he was not capable
of feeling true physical sensations, just the mere act of unfolding was exhilarating! Fortran had, in a true manner of speaking,
burst forth, opening himself up to life and all that it had to offer.

Impressive as that was, it was not the best part. No sooner had he unfurled himself than all around him there were mutterings
and stirrings and emanations of energy. His brothers were coming to life as well. Fortran could scarcely believe that such
a thing was happening, unless… A chilling thought came to him: Perhaps they were not joining him; as he had first thought,
but, realizing that he was about to do something, sought to stop him! Perhaps they viewed him and his impetuous actions as
a threat to their own progress. After all, one could not help but be contaminated, tainted, by the mere association with the
rebel Fortran! One would always be remembered that way. “Oh, yes, the class of 7983. That means you were one of those rebels…”
The shame would follow one for the rest of one’s life.