Sea-Wolves of Venus

1

Blake Rogers knew something was wrong when he saw that the electric door stood ajar. Outside the dilapidated rooming house, the acid rain of Venus still hissed down; Blake's protective coveralls, and his celebratory bottle of sujith, the native liquor, were steaming in the comparative warmth of the passageway. Behind him, the main doors closed slowly, their motors run down. The door to the room he shared with his fellow thief, the Venusian half-breed Yootha, should have shut behind him when he went on his brief excursion to the liquor store. And yet it stood half open—almost as if it had been forced.

Reaching inside his synthiplastic tunic, Blake gripped the reassuring butt of the proton gun which he wore in a shoulder holster. He flattened himself against the peeling wall, drew the gun, and edged up to the entrance. The key coder glinted on the wall, but Blake did not bother inputting the code. Reaching out with his left hand, he shoved the door fully open with a clatter, leapt round and covered the small room.

Down the rooming house's hall, a door hissed open, and a rotund figure wearing worn spaceman's leather stood framed in it, scratching himself. Bloodshot eyes dull with sujith, in a face with the greenish pallor of a long-term colonist, met Blake's.

"Hey, fella, keep the noise down!" the old man bawled. Blake didn't know him, had passed him a few times since he'd rented the room, but understood him to be a broken-down old spacer who would never fly again, who drank away all the credits he made doing odd jobs in town.

"Something's up," Blake said in a whisper, not looking at him. His lean, hard face was drawn, his steely eyes narrow. "Keep back!"

The old spacer waddled towards him, still scratching. "Youse tellin' me sumpin's up," he said emphatically. "There was enough of a racket earlier. Now youse back, is yer? Smashing doors open, waving guns around. I gotta good mind to call the cops …"

He broke off, staring over Blake's brawny shoulder. "What a goddamn mess," he muttered.

Blake couldn't fault him. The small room was in disarray, clothes and utensils and a few other meagre belongings lying scattered across the floor, the plastic table overturned. Sprawled on the bed was the motionless figure of a girl, her viridian skin indicating Venusian antecedents. Otherwise the room was empty.

Blake crossed it in a single stride, placed the bottle of sujith on the floor, and knelt beside Yootha's sprawling figure. Despite the ray burn in her chest, he felt for a pulse. He shook his head. "What did I tell you, doll?" he muttered harshly. The old man waddled away, honking in dismay.

Blake rose, and went to the drawers on the far side. They had been forced open, and the jewel that Yootha had placed in there only half an hour ago was missing. Nothing else had been taken. Only the jewel.

"What did I say?" He addressed the cooling corpse on the bed. "The Consortium would never stand for it."

They'd been sitting in the downtown bar when she first told him of her plan. Of the jewel the natives called the Olethros, once worshipped as a deity by the piratical tribes of the northern islands; it had been on display back on Earth until the authorities returned it to be displayed in the local museum.

"My people should own that gem," she had told him, her oval face grave, her slanted, almond eyes overflowing with passion. "My father's people,' she clarified, her voice a music of its own. "It should not be on display in any museum, on Venus or on Earth. You and me, we have survived for two years living by our wits. We have the skills to take that jewel and return it to its rightful owners."

"You crazy, doll?" he had asked her after a swig of liquor. "There'd be security systems. Besides, your father's people hate you."

She shrugged her slender shoulders, but could not conceal the bitterness in her eyes. "Have we not lived by stealing from those richer than ourselves? I, since my upbringing in the Cytheran gutter; you, since you stepped off the rocket ship and found that there was no work to be had here …"

"I knew plenty about stealin' before that," he had told her roughly. "Earth was too hot for me, so I figured I'd buy me a one-way ticket to Venus."

She reached across the table, her slim, clever fingers wrapping around his big, scarred hand. "We have had to steal to survive," she reiterated in her soft, musical tones. "All that and what has it achieved? We flit from place to place to avoid the law, risking our lives for the cash we need … But with one theft we could do some good. The Olethros should be returned to the Venusians."

Grimly, Blake Rogers had shaken his head. "One reason we've lived so long is because we've not drawn attention to ourselves."

"The law cannot catch up with us," she had assured him.

"It's not the law that worries me," he drawled. "It's the Consortium."

The Consortium had operations throughout the solar system; under a different identity he had double-crossed its operatives in Greater New York. So far they had not caught up with him on Venus.

"My people have been under the heel of the Earth oppressors for over a generation," Yootha went on, heedless of his anxieties. "The revolt will be long in coming, because of tribal rivalries. But if they had something to unite them …"

Blake shook his head again. He avoided politics as sedulously as he evaded the police. Nevertheless, only a half hour later he had found himself descending a rope into the echoing darkness of Cythera Museum, after they gained entry through the glassite dome on the roof. While he worked to neutralize the security systems, Yootha had removed the jewel from the cabinet where it sat, and they had exited the same way.

Now Yootha was dead, and the jewel was gone.

"Drop the gun and freeze!"

So deep in thought was he, Blake had not heard the tramp of booted feet. He wheeled with a curse to see two tall men in the blue uniforms of the Patrol in the narrow doorway, training blasters on him. Behind them loomed three more. Blake saw the fat old spacer standing with them, pointing a blubbery finger.

"That's him!" he was hooting. "That's him what killed the girl!"

"Drop the gun!" one of the cops repeated. Blake let it fall with a dejected clatter, and raised his hands.

The cops swarmed into the room, two of them seizing Blake and forcing him to his knees, pinioning his arms savagely behind his back. Another man, a barrel-chested senior officer with iron-grey hair and piercing, icy eyes, limped in and surveyed the scene. In quick succession his gaze took in the ray burn in Yootha's chest and Blake's fallen gun.

"Get forensics in here," he barked. "And take this scum back to the precinct. He's got some questions to answer."

#

The cell was just a cell: four grey walls with a narrow door in one that contained a judas eye. A hard, uncomfortable bunk stood beside one wall. There was no window, and no means of telling the time. They had taken his chronometer along with all his other possessions, even his clothes, which had been replaced by an ill-fitting and draughty paper suit.

Blake had known many cells in his youth, before learning to avoid them; they had all been much the same. He had been here for hours, if the rumbling in his belly was any indication.

He pressed the small communicator switch beside the door. A querulous voice crackled, "What now, bub?"

"Fix me some food," Blake growled. "D'ya want me to starve before you can give me the third degree?"

"Quit whinin', killer," came the crackle. "You'll keep."

But a short while later a small grille opened up in the foot of the door and a plastic tray was slid in derisively. Blake picked it up and went back to sit on the bunk. He was surveying the mush of food concentrate, a dejected expression on his face and a plastic spoon drooping in his hand, when the door slid open.

Blake recognized his visitor by the grey hair and piercing eyes. "Do you know me, scum?" the senior officer asked in a soft voice.

Blake looked away. "Guess you're the chief," he said. "Maslow, that right?"

"You'll learn to call me sir," Maslow rapped out. He limped into the cell, a huge nightstick in one black gloved hand; an Earth antique made of genuine wood. Two tall, lean cops stood grinning in the doorway behind him. Maslow glowered down at Blake as he lounged on the bunk. "Stand up when you're talking to me, scum!" he shouted, and brought the nightstick smashing down on Blake's plastic tray. Food concentrate sprayed across the floor as the tray shattered. Blake did not move.

Maslow gestured to the two cops, who loped in and seized Blake by the shoulders. "Take him to the interrogation room," he barked.

Blake made no attempt to resist as they marched him down the featureless passages of the police department building. It must have been the sleep period; few people were about. They came to a halt at another featureless door. Blake wondered how any Patrol employee ever learnt their way round this place. One cop tapped a seven-digit number into the key coder and the door hissed open, revealing a medium sized room, also featureless apart from a single metal chair in the middle, and a desk on the far side. It was to the chair that the two cops led Blake, forcing him to sit. Maslow entered behind them and closed the door.

He stood over Blake, caressing his nightstick. "You were found beside the body of a girl who our records identify as a half-breed called Yootha Tantalian. Known to the Patrol as a petty thief. Witnesses testify that you and her had been sharing that room for some time. Why did you murder her?"

Blake shook his head. "I didn't croak her,' he muttered. "I came back in and found her lying there dead. Some bastard bumped her off while I was out."

Maslow opened a drawer in the desk and produced a proton gun wrapped in transparent synthiplastic. "The cause of death was lethal trauma inflicted by an energy bolt that struck her in the chest," he said, limping forward to show Blake the weapon. "The energy bolt was produced by a proton gun. You were found with such a weapon in your hand." He shrugged. "You've got to admit, scum, the evidence against you is pretty conclusive."

"My name is Blake Rogers," Blake said. "And I didn't croak her."

Stars and nebulae exploded in his mind as one of the cops struck him in the side of the face. He bit his lip and kept quiet.

Maslow loomed over him. "You killed her, Rogers," he breathed. "You shot her with your proton gun."

"Why would I zotz her?" Blake demanded. "She was my girl."

"A crime passionnel," said Maslow with a shrug. "Jealousy."

Blake looked up wearily. "I had nothing to be jealous of," he said. "Some creep broke into the room while I was out, and drilled her. They also …" He broke off.

"Also did what?" Maslow sneered. "Why were you out?"

Blake had almost told the cops about the missing jewel. "I hopped out to get us something to drink," he said at last.

"A bottle of liquor was found at the crime scene, sir," one of the cops confirmed.

Maslow folded his arms. "Then there's your explanation," he said complacently. "Hard liquor and lovers don't mix. You got drunk and angry and you shot her. Justice is swift on Venus. You'll go before the firing squad for this."

Blake spat. "She was zotzed when I got back," he said. "I wasn't drunk. The giggle juice was unopened. I tell you, someone croaked her while I was down at the store."

"Your neighbor, Mr. Quesnel, says he heard raised voices and a ray blast," Maslow said, producing a witness statement. "After hearing further commotion, he went out to see what was happening, and found you standing in the doorway to your room, a gun in your hand. Inside the room he saw the dead body of your lover lying on the bed."

Blake felt the walls closing in. "I tell you, I hopped to the liquor store."

"Did anyone see you go?"

Blake shook his head resentfully. "There was no one out on the streets, because the rains had started," he said softly. "I saw no one between my rooming house and the store. Maybe the robo-clerk on duty will confirm that I was there."

"Did you pay by electro-cash?" asked one of the cops. "If you did, there would be a confirmation of your ident number."

No bank would give Blake electro-cash. "I paid by credits, same as any regular guy," he snapped.

"Forensics have fixed the time of death as 23.15," said Maslow. "The rains began at 23.02 and went on until 24.43. If you had paid by electro-cash we could have established the transaction time from the bank computers, and that might confirm your claim. But as it is, things are looking pretty bad for you."

"Seems to me, chief," said the other cop ponderingly, "this guy's only chance is if he agrees to the mind probe."

Maslow looked down at Blake. "What do you say, Rogers? Legally, we can't probe your mind unless you sign an affidavit. But if we can establish your movements, and all is as you claim, you're in the clear."

Blake shook his head tightly. "Just you keep outa my mind, copper," he muttered.

"Listen, wise guy," said the first of the cops wearily, "we won't go prying. The law states that we can only search for 'pertinent information'. And we're paid to uphold the law. Got that?"

Blake's eyes darted. "Only the time of death," he said insistently. "That's all you'll do, right? Establish my location at the time she was croaked."

"Of course," said Maslow, grinning. "We're the good guys here, you understand? All we want to see is justice. Now sit back, and Patrolman Gordon will make the probe."

A machine was wheeled in, a cabinet on castors that incorporated a televisor screen, and a helmet, which was placed on Blake's head, attached to it by wires. Maslow flicked a switch and sudden agonizing pain lanced through Blake's mind.

2

"You're free to go, bub."

Blake could hear someone moaning, a long way off. He couldn't see, his vision was obscured by a dark haze.

"Did you hear me, feller? Said you're free to go. Get up."

Slowly his vision cleared. He realized that it was his own voice he could hear, but the noise stopped abruptly when he clamped his mouth shut. He was still sitting on the chair but there was no sign of the machine. Also absent was Maslow. A single cop stood over Blake, giving him a friendly grin, the one called Gordon. As Blake gazed muzzily at him, the patrolman reached out, seized him by the front of his paper suit, and hauled him up. He shoved a big synthiplastic bag into Blake's hands.

"Your personal effects," the cop said. "Get dressed, get outa the station."

"I can dust out?" Blake was astounded. There were enough incriminating memories in his mind to have him sent to the Moon for life. His eyes narrowed. "Is this some kinda trick?"

Patrolman Gordon shook his head. "No trick, bub. Get dressed, get moving. You're in the clear. You were right, you were at the liquor store when the girl was shot. So scram. The chief doesn't want to see you round here again."

Blake hastily replaced the paper suit with the synthiplastic tunic and trousers plus the gauntlets and hooded cloak that would protect him from the acid rain, if it was still falling. He had lost all sense of time inside the big building.

"What about Yootha?" he said.

"The native girl'll be cremated by the city authorities," said the cop. "Her ashes will be sent to her next of kin, if they can be established; or else disposed of according to statute."

"My heater?" Blake asked.

Patrolman Gordon gave him a savage look. "Don't push your luck, bub," he advised, and opened the door. "Straight down, turn left, cross the lobby and get out. Got it?"

Blake followed the cop's directions and soon he was outside, lifting his plasti-hood to protect himself from the acid rain.

Had the cops kept true to their word? Had they only probed his mind in relation to the killing? Was Maslow the one honest cop in the Solar System?

The killing …

He stood in silence on the steps of the police building as the rain lashed the street with fury. Anyone out in that without protective clothing would receive acid burns. Anyone other than a Venusian, or someone with Venusian blood. That green in their skin was some kind of symbiotic mold that lived on the Venusian's flesh but neutralized the effects of the acid rain. Even Earthmen like Quesnel, who'd spent decades on Venus, often contracted the same mold, and some could go outside during the rains without protective gear.

Yootha had laughed as the acidic liquid trickled down her skin, laughed at Blake trudging along in his protective suit. By rights, it should have been Yootha who went down to the liquor store in the rain, but Blake had insisted. It was her heist they had been celebrating, after all. He had done his part, neutralizing the museum's antiquated security systems, but it had been Yootha's idea. So he had gone out, and that was the last time he saw her alive.

Irresolutely he stood on the steps, the rain dripping from his protective gear. Where should he go? Back to the rooming house? All he had there were memories, and a change of clothes. They had owed rent, too. Better he moved on. But where?

An aircar was gliding up the street, the rain dancing off its hood and sizzling in the antigrav field that kept it three feet off the ground. To his surprise it came to a halt directly opposite him. A hatch sprang open and he saw the snub-nosed muzzle of a blaster aimed at him from the shadows.

"Get in," said a soft voice that invited no argument. "Get in now."

Grim faced, Blake took hold of either side of the hatch and hauled himself inside. As he turned to sit down in the back seat, he aimed a karate chop at the wrist of the hand that held the gun. A lithe figure dodged back, covered him again.

"Sit down," said the owner of the gun softly.

It was a woman, her elegantly sculpted face framed by a platinum blonde bob. She wore a figure-hugging nurse's uniform of what looked like organic plastic fibers and was covering him with the blaster.

"Can't blame a guy for trying," Blake said, and sat.

The woman pressed a button on the control panel beneath the forward visiscreen and the hatch sprang jerkily shut with a hiss. The woman turned, facing Blake, whose synthiplastic clothes were dripping sizzling water on the leather upholstery.

"I don't blame you," she said. "You know nothing about me. To be honest, Mr. Blake Rogers, I'm pleased. Your own reputation precedes you."

"Reputation?" Blake had worked hard to avoid getting any kind of reputation. "I'm just a regular guy."

"Your reflexes are faster than any regular guy's," said the woman. "If I hadn't been prepared for resistance, you might well have had me. That said, I would not have pulled a gun on you had I not anticipated resistance. I need a man like you, Mr. Blake Rogers. And I think you need someone like me. Someone willing to take you on, give you a job of work."

Blake's eyes narrowed. "You with the Consortium, doll?"

She laughed and shook her head. "I'm a medical missionary." He didn't know if she was joking or not. She placed her blaster in her handbag. "You wouldn't believe the lengths I sometimes have to go to in pursuit of my vocation."

She turned back to the control panel and fed in a series of coordinates. The aircar rose on a web of force and shot away down the street.

"Got any food, doll?" Blake asked. Unspeaking, she tapped another button and a pneumatic hole spat out a nutri-wafer. Hungrily he tore off the wrapping and devoured it.

Blake sat brooding in the back, watching the forward visiscreen while covertly studying his kidnapper. She was slim but full-figured, somewhere in her late thirties by his estimate. Something about her aroused him and aggravated him in equal measure. Unmarried—no wedding ring. His lip curled. A career woman. The scent she wore was delicate yet powerful. Yootha had worn no scent; Venusian women never did, they gave off a natural flowery odor, and she favored her Venusian side in that at least. Had favored it.

If the doll was a medical missionary, what was she doing holding him up? Hi-jacking him? But she had heard of him, she said, she needed a man like him. He needed work, it was true. Not that he was in a fit state of mind to discuss terms right now. Whenever he thought of Yootha, he felt nothing but a numbness. It horrified him. She had meant more than that to him. She had meant a whole lot more. So why did he feel so empty at her death?

By the time they reached their destination the rains had ended. It was a large warehouse whose doors slid open automatically to permit the aircar to enter. Inside was a vast, cold, echoing space, lined with huge metal containers. A few white-clad operatives were dotted about the warehouse, but otherwise it was deserted. The aircar landed on the far side, beside a flight of steps that led up to an office that overlooked the main floor. Nearby sat a stratosled, its cargo bays open, two men loading it with crates.

The woman led Blake from the aircar and up the steps. In the office, which was cramped and cluttered, she moved a pile of box files from a swivel chair, invited him to sit down, then took a seat by the main desk.

Blake looked around. "No one else here," he commented. "Do you run this operation singlehanded, apart from those guys out there?"

She shook her head. "The Mission is administered by a dedicated corps of volunteers. The Director would be here, but he is unable to attend due to the pressures of work …"

"So what's the deal, doll?" Blake said. "I don't figure to work for no church."

"My name is Lorna," she said with a charming laugh. "I work for the Universal Mission in a medical capacity. We're not asking you to make any converts …"

"That's good, 'cause I don't believe in no god," Blake said truculently. "What do you want with me? I'm no missionary. No medic neither."

"How would you describe yourself, Blake Rogers?" Lorna asked. Gazing at her, he noticed lines at the side of her eyes that foundation failed to conceal. Despite her allure and her perfume and her expensive clothes, this was a woman who had seen life.

He shrugged. "I'm a professional," was all he would say.

"I hoped as much," Lorna said. "The Mission wants no amateurs in its service."

"But what in hell do you want from me, dammit?"

Lorna looked out through the glassite windows, down at the warehouse floor. "You know the northern islands are a no-go zone," she began, "due to the rebels. But it's been said that you and your late companion passed through that region on your way to Cythera City …"

"Who told you that?" Blake was angry: it was more an irrational fury at this elegant woman's casual reference to Yootha than at the idea that his movements were common knowledge. He studied her contemptuously, eyeing her figure as it was frankly displayed by the lines of her uniform. He thought he knew her type, born to a rich background on Earth, filled with guilt and idealism and an urge to do good. He'd like to see her with her back to the wall, learn how philanthropic she would feel then.

"People talk," Lorna said, still staring out of the window. "Rumors spread. It's said that you have been known to carry cargo that the authorities would not countenance. That you know of secret ways through the swamps. Ones that the Patrol is unaware of."

Blake scratched at his unshaven chin. Who was this woman working for? The Mission, or someone else? What did his smuggling have to do with a missionary?

She turned to look poignantly at him, her large eyes made bigger by kohl. "Since the rebellion began, the tribes of the northern islands have been cut off by the blockade. Although they can support themselves by traditional fishing and farming, they have no access to modern medicine. You have ventured into those parts in search of profit. Were you so blinded by your greed that you did not notice the suffering of the people? The women, the children … Their men folk may be inveterate pirates, they may raid Earthmen's settlements. But their children are innocent. And they are dying, Blake Rogers. You must have seen this yourself."

Blake and Yootha had been smuggling water-lizard hides. They were used by the richer space liners as seat covers, and even worn by warriors on some of the more exotic moons of the outer planets. Due to the ongoing rebellion there was a huge demand for them, bigger than there was in peacetime. They had made a handful of credits getting them past the Patrol, but it had become too dangerous. The natives grew unwilling to trade with Earthmen, and they hated half-breeds. Blake and Yootha had escaped from their last venture with little more than their lives.

"You want me to help you run medical supplies into a war zone?" he asked. "Your Mission is so eager to do good it's willing to risk a smuggling rap? So what's it willing to pay?"

"Three thousand credits," said Lorna blandly. "That's what I'm authorized to offer. Half now, the rest when we get back."

He spat in his palm and extended his arm. "You got yourself a deal, doll," he said. Concealing a look of revulsion, she copied him, and they shook. "When do we start?" he added, once she had handed over a slim plastic wallet containing a number of credit bars.

As he counted them, Lorna regarded the warehouse floor, where the white-suited men had finished loading the stratosled. "We're ready to begin at any time. But it's your expertise we're buying. When would you suggest we start?"

Blake slipped the wallet inside his tunic and crossed to the top of the steps.

"Now," he said. "I need the rest of that three thousand."

Half an hour later they were both sitting in the cockpit of the fully laden stratosled. Blake was at the pilot's controls, steering them through the air lanes above Cythera City.

Over the roar of the engine, he shouted, "It's been more than half a Venus day since I last went out north. What are the reports like?"

"Grim!" said Lorna. "Earthman settlements have been burnt and plundered, farm workers crucified. It's a war zone, all right."

"I didn't ask you to come," said Blake darkly. "I could handle this lay on my own."

She reached out and laid her hand on his wrist as if about to confide in him. He jerked away, glaring at her. She sat back, distressed. Then realization dawned in her eyes.

"She was killed," she murmured. "That's why you're so angry."

"What?" he barked.

"Your girl," she said. "She was murdered."

"The Consortium killed her," he said. "They don't like freelancers. I just don't know why they didn't kill me … Why did you come on this jaunt, doll? It will be dangerous."

"I wanted to ensure …" She bit off what she had been about to say as with a deafening supersonic roar, a rocket ship took off from the spaceport on the other side of the city. It rose on a plume of white smoke at exponential speed into the air, vanishing into the yellow clouds.

In silence they shot through the gap between two high-rises, and then they had passed the city limits, flying across emerald swampland that looked solid, although Blake knew it from experience to be a quaking bog. Channels ran through the verdant plain like the veins of a leaf. Although the rains had ended, sulfurous yellow mist hung in thick patches across the green landscape.

In places, reclaimed land surrounded agri-domes, with dykes holding the waters at bay. They flew over one farm from which trailed a plume of black, oily smoke. Soon they were past the agricultural zone and flying out over uncharted swamp. In the far distance, metallic towers glinted in the dim glow of sunlight that filtered through Venus' eternal cloud layer.

Blake grinned wolfishly. "You figured you'd better keep your peepers on me, doll?" he asked with a wild laugh. "Thought I couldn't be trusted not to fly off with your cargo and flog it to some easier customers?"

All Lorna said was, "We're nearing the blockade. What are you going to do now? You know the Patrol won't let us past."

The metallic towers were drawing closer. Blake grinned again. "Watch this, doll."

He turned the joystick rapidly to the right. The stratosled veered to starboard and began to plummet towards the green morass far below.

3

As the stratosled swooped to a halt just above the surface, it transformed the bubbling turquoise waters into a seething maelstrom. As the waters grew calmer and the sound of their bubbling grew quieter Lorna examined the scene.

Stunted jivnik trees lined either bank of a narrow channel, their trunks festooned with creepers. Sulfur-yellow mist drifted between twisted boughs. The waters oozed, stagnant and stinking, either side of the hovering stratosled. Overhead arched the eternally overcast skies of Venus. In the distance, through the branches, one of the metallic towers was visible, turning slowly, wreathed in slowly coiling mist. She flung a glance at Blake.

"Maybe you're not such a fool," she murmured.

"Thanks, doll," said Blake ironically. "What did ya think? Thought I was going to ditch this boat?" He thumped the instrument panel and laughed. "We're under the radar down here. This is how the rebels get through. They know all the channels, and the Patrol can't catch them. They can scan the skies and the farmland, but when the rains begin their detector beams can't reach this low."

"We wait for the rains?" she asked. He nodded. She glanced at her wrist chronometer. "Several hours," she noted. "Quite a wait. We're exposed here! Any Patrol atmosphere craft might spot us."

"Thought of that, doll," said Blake. He made a few adjustments and guided them into a small bay overhung by dripping tree branches. "We moor here," he said, fitting action to words, "then when the rains come, we head north up the channel 'til we come to the acid sea."

They hove to beside the bank. Lorna watched the waters, which were a vivid, garish blue due to their high acid content. From time to time, dark shapes could be seen swimming past, and she shuddered at the thought of fish or other marine creatures capable of surviving such a hostile environment. A roar echoed from deep in the jivnik trees, and she heard a crashing sound of something huge forcing its way through the vegetation. Tree branches in the distance shook vigorously as something passed by. But Lorna saw nothing.

She consulted her chronometer again. It was going to be a long wait. She glanced at Blake, who was sitting back, booted feet propped up negligently on the instrument console, whistling tunelessly under his breath, his eyes half closed as he pared his fingernails with a flick-knife he had produced from his belt.

Watching the perfect mirror of the turquoise waters was oddly tiring. The swirling yellow clouds of mist were equally hypnotic. She placed her slender arms on the instrument console, cradled her head in them, and drifted off to sleep.

She was woken abruptly by a shifting of the deck followed by a thud. Looking up, she could see that the hatch to the hold was open and Blake stood beside it, looking down at her, his face unreadable. Quietly, he closed the hatch behind him and went to sit in the pilot's chair.

"What were you doing back there?" she asked.

Blake's attention was on the clouds that sagged stormily overhead. He glanced at the chrono readout on the console. "Now," he said enigmatically.

There was a rumble of thunder, and rain began to lash the waters, transforming them in seconds from a motionless blue mirror into a madly dancing chaos. The rain drummed down on the glassite dome that protected the cockpit from the outside, and the glassite itself was soon awash. Peering through the driving rain, Lorna saw no sign of the metallic towers that marked the blockade.

"If we can't eyeball them, they can't eyeball us," said Blake. "The acid in the air scrambles their detector beams." He started up the engine.

"Visibility is severely limited," Lorna said. "How can you hope to pilot the stratosled under these conditions?"

"By the seat o' my pants, doll," Blake boasted, and they began to cut northwards through the hissing water.

As they went, Lorna craned her neck in nervous hope of catching sight of the closest of the towers. Blake, his eyes on the way ahead, shouted over the drumming of the rain as he told her about the reptilian beasts that inhabited these parts, and the run-ins he had known while smuggling contraband through the blockade.

He spoke of the fabulous water-lizard, whose coveted hide was proof against acidic water and proton blasts alike, of the ground-hawks and the frog-toads, the strangler vines and tree-snails; warned her ghoulishly of the ruby gnats who painlessly inserted ovipositors exuding a natural anesthetic, so the victim never noticed the infestation until larvae began to eat their way out of their skin. Lorna's own skin crawled, and she wanted to tell him to stop, but was afraid he would laugh at her.

They were coasting down the mid-channel, as far as she could tell from the brief glimpses received of either bank. And either she was mistaken, or …

"The rain is easing off," Blake said. "We've left the towers far behind, and that's salt marsh out there. The ocean's not far off. Pretty soon I should think your customers will make their rendezvous." He glanced at Lorna. "Maybe while we're waiting for them you can tell me what a nice dame like you, churchgoer, career woman, nurse, is doing running guns to the Venusian rebels."

Lorna shot him an incredulous look.

"Running guns?" she said. "We're taking essential medical supplies to the rebel villages. The Patrol won't permit it, so in all conscience the only way we can ensure they receive the aid they require is by resorting to smuggling. That's why we need you. What is this about guns?"

Thin lipped, he glanced at the aft hatch. "While you were sleeping the sleep of the just," he said, "I carried out an impromptu cargo inspection. The contents of those crates don't bear out their description in the manifest. Back there," and he thumped the hatch meaningly, "you have several hundred Snielsen carbon-bore 0.22 mm plasma-driven proton rifles."

Her mouth hung open. Closing it with a snap, she half rose in her seat. "There must be some mistake. You're … mistaken. I accepted those medical supplies—drugs, anesthetics, surgical instruments—in good faith …"

"Keep it for the cops. Did you not think to check the merchandise? Or did you just receive it sight unseen?"

"It wasn't my job to check it," she said, crossing to the hatch and opening it. "The Director attended to it personally …"

"No wonder you wanted to run the blockade." Blake raised his voice as she climbed down into the hold. "Good men are rotting in the Lunar Penitentiary who tried pulling stunts like this on Mars, in the Belt, out amongst the outer planets even. It's a competitive market, but the biggest risk is getting caught …"

"Alright, Mr. Blake Rogers," she shouted angrily, reappearing from the hold. "If you know so much, how on Earth are we going to get back to Cythera City now? We can't deliver …"

"Look!" Blake said. His voice rang out in a sudden silence.

The rain had ceased as if someone had flicked a switch. Surrounding the slowly drifting stratosled were several outrigger canoes. As they watched, more shot out from the reeds and clustered around the bigger vessel. In each one were two paddlers, green-skinned Venusian pirates in battle harness and warpaint.

They clambered up onto the fuselage of the stratosled. Most clutched assegais or tomahawks, but their leader, a handsome old chieftain with an ingenuous look in his emerald eyes, carried an old-fashioned one-shot heat gun. He used its butt to bang peremptorily on the glassite dome.

"What do we do?" Lorna cried, drawing her blaster.

"Give me that gat for a start," Blake said, "before you risk getting yourself killed. And press the release button."

"Alright," she said, handing the blaster over after a pause. "It's not mine. I was given it by the Director."

Her hand shaking, she pressed the button, and with a hiss the glassite dome retracted, letting in the humid air. A dozen painted faces grinned down at her. Green-skinned men, naked but for battle harness, all in superb physical condition, their eyes insolently hot upon Lorna. Several bore scars, several had fresh wounds that looked inflamed. More than one lacked a hand or an eye.

"Morvyn dalam ni mardrus oleck," intoned the old chieftain, stern-faced.

"Monok dalect n'rouken," said Blake, hands extended in a gesture of peace.

The old chieftain nodded. "Ni angenent alzo n'grunbar," he commented, and laughed suddenly.

"What is he saying?" Lorna hissed.

"Paramount Chieftain Thongrod says we come most opportunely," said Blake. "They thought we wouldn't show, despite the solemn word of their good friends in the city. We will return to their island and there make a trade. His warriors will escort us and we shall feast with them." His face was somber. "This is the Boroko tribe," he added in an undertone. "I've had no dealings with them, but they have close blood ties with my old marks, the Mako."

He spoke further with the chieftain, and the Venusian pirates leapt back down into their canoes. Lorna closed the glassite dome and Blake began to pilot them down the channel, escorted by the canoes. An honor guard—or were they captives?

The salt marshes gave way at last to the rolling waters of the Venusian ocean. After half an hour's voyage a dark smudge appeared on the horizon; the island of Boroko, home to this tribe.

Lorna watched the pirates in the canoes as they paddled powerfully onward, muscles rippling beneath green skins. They were fierce, savage, wild men, more animal than human. She had known Venusians in Cythera City, but they were a different matter: pathetic; servants, for the most part, or beggars, cadgers, drunks, dependent on civilization; parasites. There was something earthy, frightening, dirty, dangerous about these wild Venusians, yet they were strangely exciting in a way she could barely admit to herself. Even the hard-bitten, feral Blake seemed tame by comparison.

The island was rocky. It seemed to be almost barren until their ferocious escorts led them through a gap between two beetling cliffs and they came out into a saltwater caldera whose sloping sides were green with vegetation. Huts and lodges were visible amongst the trees. The pirates dragged their canoes up onto the bank below a high-roofed longhouse whose beams were ornamented with yellowing human skulls. Reptile-skins hung drying on racks outside it. In places among the trees, vegetable plots were visible, but they did not seem particularly fruitful. Green-skinned women and children began to appear. A few men were with them, nonchalantly gripping assegais. The pirates leapt ashore and went to greet them with wild shouts and whoops.

Blake moored the stratosled and slid back the glassite dome. He turned to Lorna, whose face was very pale. "We better go down and make jaw-jaw," he said.

She shook her head emphatically. "This is all a mistake," she insisted. "We are here to deliver medical supplies. Look at those children. You can see clear signs of malnutrition. The last thing they want is guns."

A tall, imperious woman strode up to Chieftain Thongrod and addressed him, gesturing to the clustered children, who were disturbingly gaunt. After enduring her harangue for a few seconds, Thongrod knocked her aside and she fell. He stepped over her and led his warriors to the longhouse, not looking back to see if Blake and Lorna were following.

Lorna leapt down from the stratosled, spattering her sheer stockings with mud, and pushed her way through the crowd to the woman's side. She held out a hand, and the Venusian looked at her in amazement, then allowed Lorna to help her to her feet and attend to her bruised face with an unguent. Chattering women clustered round them, shooting glances at the swaggering pirates as they entered the longhouse.

"Leave the broad," Blake said irascibly, grabbing Lorna. "We're here to trade, not deal with domestic disputes."

In the entrance to the longhouse appeared Thongrod, men on either side of him lugging bundles of reptile leather. Blake inspected it with a professional eye, nodding approvingly and speaking in muted tones to the chieftain, holding up fingers to indicate how many skins his own cargo was worth. After some negotiation, Thongrod gave orders and some of his men went down to the stratosled and began unloading the crates while others carried the bundles of reptile leather aboard.

Lorna watched numbly, as if in a dream. She couldn't understand what was happening. The Director had asked her in confidence to retain this man's services so that medical supplies would reach the places where they were most needed. How had they been confused with weapons of war? These guns would stoke the fires of war, ensure this futile rebellion continued for years.

She watched Blake going about the business of gun-running at perfect ease, laughing and exchanging jokes with the Venusian chieftain. "Did you arrange this?" she asked during a lull in the proceedings.

He looked at her levelly. "I don't know any more than you do how your precious cargo turned out to be heaters. You ought to grill your Director when you get back. In the meantime, we've got no real option." He leaned closer. "Don't let your bleeding heart get us into a jam," he urged, with a jerk of his head in the direction of the cluster of women and children. "Thongrod's said zilch, but if we want to get back to Cythera City, you'd better keep your sentiments to yourself. This isn't Earth. Different standards apply. And you'll respect them, doll."

Before Lorna could retort, Thongrod appeared, gripping Blake's arm and ushering them into the crowded, smoky longhouse. Fires had been lit over which carcasses were roasting, and the smoke and the odor of cooking meat was pungent in their nostrils as Blake and Lorna preceded Thongrod into the shadowy, torch-lit interior.

Other men were there already, drinking sujith from terracotta jars, men who wore a different harness from the pirates Lorna had already seen, whose faces were painted with strange, swirling designs, a complete departure from the abstract lines and squares that ornamented the faces of the Boroko. Smiling, Thongrod clasped the hand of their young chief, and introduced him to the Earth people.

The leader of the new warriors took an angry step forward, his painted face like thunder. He brandished his tomahawk. Blake turned to run.

4

The pirates clustered threateningly around them. Lorna shrank back against Blake, peering round nervously at fierce green faces.

"What is it?" she quavered. "What have you done?"

Blake was grim. With his thumb he indicated the young leader of the other pirates. "That's Urach, chief of the Mako. Our paths have crossed before."

He wheeled as Urach lunged with his tomahawk, Lorna's blaster appearing in his hand as if by magic. The gloom of the longhouse was lit up bright as day by the actinic flash of a photon discharge, and the blackened body of the chief dropped to the packed-earth floor.

The Venusian pirates staggered back, hands to their eyes as if blinded by the sudden flash. Blake thrust the blaster into his tunic, grasped hold of Lorna's hand and dragged her after him. He sprinted from the hut, pushing his way through the crowd of confused pirates.

Out in the open air the light from the clouds was growing. The settlement was almost deserted, most of the menfolk still in the longhouse; the women and children had apparently melted back into the undergrowth. The pirates detailed to unload the cargo from the stratosled were still at work by the bank. As Blake and Lorna appeared, some of them looked up. One strode forwards uncertainly, gripping a proton rifle.

Blake cursed, changed direction. There was a shout from the longhouse entrance and Lorna looked back to see the old chief, Thongrod, standing there, calling out in Venusian.

"Where are we going?" Lorna cried as Blake hustled her towards the surrounding vegetation. "We should get back to the stratosled."

The air sizzled around their heads as two of the Venusians by the bank fired their proton rifles. A tree went up in flames.

"Want to discuss it with them, doll?" said Blake grimly.

Lorna shrieked, stumbled on a snag. Blake half led, half dragged the woman into the gloom beneath the trees. As they scrambled over serpentine roots and forced their way through thick undergrowth, she heard the sounds of hot pursuit.

"What did you shoot that man for?" she panted as she ran.

"Self-preservation," said Blake tersely. "I got a well-developed instinct for it, people tell me."

"So in the interests of self-preservation," Lorna cried, "you've stirred them all up against us?"

"He would have croaked me, doll," he shouted back. "He's not forgiven me for what Yootha and I did … Look, doll, this way we have a chance of escape. Quit yappin'."

The Venusians fanned out as they hounded the two Earth people through the dense vegetation. Blake led Lorna by a winding, helter-skelter route that seemed utterly random until she realized that he was trying to confuse their pursuers.

They burst from the vegetation to find themselves at the top of a cliff. Lorna caught a confused impression of the caldera below, the longhouse visible in the distance, the opening to the ocean opposite. The stratosled was still moored by the bank. Nearby was a small plot of land where crops grew, and beside it a tumbledown hut.

Two Venusian pirates burst from the trees, spears gripped in their hands. Shouting in triumph they sprinted towards the two fugitives. Blake produced his stolen blaster and felled the first of the pirates with a sizzling ray blast. The other lunged at him with his spear, knocking the blaster from his hand. Blake seized the shaft of the spear and shoved it aside, then gripped the pirate in a clinch.

They wrestled on the edge of the cliff. The Venusian tried to shove Blake over the side but Blake dodged him and his opponent fell thirty feet into the spreading turquoise waters of the caldera. The pirate screamed and threshed as something beneath the surface caught hold of him in its teeth and dragged him below.

Lorna scooped up the fallen blaster as she heard more pirates forcing their way through the trees. "Where do we go now?"

Blake snatched back the gun. "Keep running," he began, then broke off. Lorna followed his steely gaze.

A Venusian woman stood in the doorway to the hut. She was beckoning. "What does she want?" Blake muttered. "We gotta keep moving."

But Lorna recognized her. "Come on," she said. "She's offering to shelter us."

"Are you goofy?" Blake called after her as she ran to the hut. The tall Venusian woman ushered her inside.

Blake stared after them in horror. He wheeled at the sound of shouting pirates deeper in the trees. They were getting closer. It was only a matter of time. He was running out of places to run.

Gritting his teeth, he followed Lorna into the hut.

As he entered, she looked up from where she sat by a small, smoky hearth. Standing over her was the tall woman. Two scrawny younger girls watched dully from the shadows on the far side. A flowery scent hung in the air, mingling oddly with the acrid smoke. The tall woman turned her almond eyes on Blake. They reminded him of Yootha's eyes.

"You must hide here," the tall woman said imperiously in Venusian. "They are hunting you." She gestured at a heap of reptile-skins.

"What is she saying?" Lorna asked.

"She's telling us to hide under these skins," said Blake. "I …"

Shouting voices rang out from beyond the doorway, which was hung with a leather curtain. Gesturing urgently at the pile of skins, the tall woman crossed to the door, and went outside.

Blake held up one of the skins, and Lorna crawled under it. He lay down beside her and they covered themselves while the two young girls look dumbly on.

Shaking, Lorna lay beside Blake as they listened to the distant sound of voices. He tried to hear what they were saying. To his surprise he felt her hand gripping his own. After a moment he squeezed it in return and she drew closer, pressing against him. She was soft and warm against his hard chest.

"…where are they, woman?" a gruff male Venusian voice was demanding.

Blake heard the tall woman replying in mellifluous tones, reasoning, placating, confessing to ignorance. "… passed by …" he caught, "heading for the sea cliffs …"

Another male voice, arguing, bullying. Lorna started beside him at a thudding of heavy feet, the sound of the hide curtain pushed aside. The two girls cried out as a several newcomers forced their way in. Behind them the tall woman was protesting.

Blake froze as the sharp metal length of a spearhead was thrust into the hides directly between the two fugitives. It was withdrawn, then thrust in again a short way from Lorna's thighs. He heard her muted gasp, and slipped his rough hand over her mouth.

Voices were raised in argument. The tall woman was to be heard, as was another feminine voice. Lorna jerked beneath Blake at the sound of a slap. Then heavy feet receded as the warriors sulkily departed the hut.

Lorna began struggling to push aside the hides that covered her, but Blake thrust her back down. Placing his lips to her ear, he hissed, "Stay still, dammit. They could come back."

They lay unmoving, the stink of the hides rank in their nostrils. All was quiet apart from muted sounds of movement from within the hut. Very distantly, from time to time, came faint cries and calls. After a while, even they faded away.

Blake released his grip on Lorna, but she did not move, remaining nestled against him. With a curse, he flung back the hides and scrambled to his feet. The tall woman was crouched by the fire, stirring a cauldron of broth with a ladle. She looked levelly at them as Lorna rose to her knees. The two young girls watched apathetically. The cheek of one girl was red.

Blake gripped the woman's shoulder. "Thanks," he said in Venusian. "We owe you plenty."

The tall woman looked past him, and her eyes met Lorna's. The two women gazed long at each other. Then Blake seized Lorna's hand and led her from the hut.

Half an hour later, they were peering from the trees near the bank. Few pirates were visible, but from the longhouse came the sound of deep-voiced singing as men drank the funeral ale of the slain pirates.

One man stood on guard beside the moored stratosled, proton rifle slung over his back, gazing longingly in the direction of the longhouse.

Leaving Lorna crouching in the shadows, Blake crept up behind the pirate. At the last moment, his foot came down with a crack on a fallen twig and the Venusian swung round, scrabbling for the rifle on his back. Blake's fist struck him on the chin and he dropped with a splash to the mud.

Urgently Blake turned and beckoned to Lorna, who came haring out of the trees. Together they scrambled up onto the fuselage of the stratosled and Blake thrust open the glassite dome.

There was a shout from the direction of the longhouse. Turning, Blake saw savage pirates pouring out, proton rifles in their hands. As they began firing, Lorna half jumped, half fell into the cockpit and Blake followed her.

Sobbing, Lorna pressed a button and the glassite dome slid shut, then she fell back clutching at her side. As the fuselage shuddered to a blistering rain of proton beams, Blake gunned the engine and they began to rise upwards, anti-gravity rays transforming the waters into a turmoil. Soon they were above the island. Blake turned them hard about and they shot away across the ocean.

Before they reached the towers he descended to the waters of the main channel of the swamp, and as they awaited the rains he examined the ray blast that had seared Lorna's side. Spraying it with antiseptic synthiskin, he gave her a hard smile. "You'll live," he said, "but you might want a surgeon to check that over."

"I'll ask one of my colleagues," she murmured.

"Speaking of which," said Blake, "Guess you were meant to take this cargo back to the warehouse."

She shrugged painfully. "No mention was made of a trade," she told him. "It was supposed to be a mercy mission. Medical supplies, not weapons. Yes, I am supposed to report to the Director when I return. I will have questions for him."

"You're in no fit state," said Blake. "You should leave this hell planet, go back to Earth. Venus is no world for the likes of you." He scratched his unshaven chin. "I wonder if he really expected either of us to return. I think I'll make the rendezvous myself."

5

A light was burning in the office when Blake guided the stratosled into the otherwise deserted warehouse. He gazed up at it in silence as he switched off the engine. Abruptly it winked out. A figure was hurrying down the steps carrying a flashlight. Blake flipped open the glassite dome and sat waiting as the flashlight bobbed haltingly towards him. Someone scrambled onto the fuselage and climbed up to the cockpit.

"I've got you covered," Blake said warningly as his visitor's grey hair appeared over the side. He flicked a switch with his left hand, holding his blaster in his right, and the cockpit light flared into life, dazzling the newcomer. "So you're the Director," he said. "I thought as much."

Maslow held up an arm to shade his eyes. "Rogers? I wasn't really expecting you."

"No," said Blake. "You were expecting your patsy of a medical missionary, wanting to know why you'd had her run heaters to the rebels—assuming she had ever inspected the cargo; puzzled as to why the Venusians had insisted on trading water-lizard hides with her. I wasn't supposed to return. You knew Urach would want to kill me, you probed my mind. Just tell me one thing. Why didn't your hired gun kill me when he shot Yootha?"

Maslow stared piercingly at the man in the pilot seat. "You were both meant to die," he told him. "The Consortium doesn't care for your kind. An example had to be made. But you weren't in your room. And then it became a police matter."

"You're the Consortium kingpin on Venus? The police chief himself?"

Maslow laughed humorlessly. "I head the Cythera operation, that's all. Most of the Patrol is under the Consortium's influence; they're … persuasive." He shrugged. "When I learnt from the mind probe who you were, that you were already wanted … I realized there was a way in which an example could still be made, and a business transaction honored at the same time."

"The Consortium is only prolonging the rebellion," Blake said. "Running heaters to those pirates."

Maslow nodded. "Good money is to be made from Venusian water-lizard hide," he said. "You know that as well as I do. The war has increased the price, that's all. A lot of money is invested in this enterprise. The Consortium can't afford to see prices fall."

"And so when we stole the Olethros from the museum, that threatened you," said Blake. "If the tribes united, they would force Earthmen from Venus, the war would be over, and the Consortium would take a loss."

"That trinket will never get back to the Venusians," Maslow assured him.

"And you entrusted your smuggling to a medical missionary?" Blake scoffed. "Are you crazy? Lorna's a broad with principles. She'll blow your whole operation right open."

"She'll be liquidated," Maslow said. "That was always the plan. If she had been caught, whether on the way there with guns or returning with water-lizard hides, she would have ended her career in front of the firing squad. What happened to her? From what you say, the Venusians didn't kill her."

"She lives," said Blake. "If she has any sense, she'll leave this world today." He covered Maslow with his stolen, Patrol-issue blaster. "But your days are done."

Maslow staggered back, almost sliding off the fuselage. Jumping down onto the plasticrete floor, he shouted, "Don't be a fool, Rogers. You surely don't think I came here alone?"

Blake vaulted from the cockpit, blaster in hand. Limping away, Maslow tapped his wrist communicator and an alarm sounded through the warehouse. "You can't get away with this," he shouted.

Doors slid open in the walls and black-clad cops appeared, guns in their hands. "Who says I want to?" said Blake, and opened fire. "You croaked my chick," he added bleakly as the smoking corpse clattered to the plasticrete. "I don't care about nothing else."

A cop shot the blaster from his grasp. As he grimaced with pain, Blake saw that it was Patrolman Gordon.

#

Two months later, crouching in a tiny, one-man cell aboard a prison ship bound for the Lunar Penitentiary, Blake Rogers made a vow. No one escaped from Luna, but he would. And he would dedicate the rest of his life, if need be, to tracking down and killing the mysterious, shadowy leaders of the Consortium.

THE END

Bio: Over the last twenty years Gavin Chappell has been published by Leidstjarna Magazine, Penguin Books, Countyvise, Horrified Press, Nightmare Illustrated, Death Throes Webzine, Spook Show, and the podcast Dark Dreams , among others. He has worked variously as a business analyst, a lecturer, a private tutor, a local historian, a tour guide, an independent film maker, and editor of Schlock! Webzine, Rogue Planet Press, and Lovecraftiana: the Magazine of Eldritch Horror . His influences include Tolkien, Robert E Howard, Michael Moorcock, HP Lovecraft, Lin Carter, and Terrance Dicks. He lives in northern England.

E-mail: Gavin Chappell

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