The Warbirds E-Book

E. C. Tubb

• Herausgeber: Wildside Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Seitenzahl: 153

Beschreibung

WHO ARE The Warbirds?

Misfits mostly. Men who sought in the rush and tide of battle, an outlet for violent emotion. Society condemned them, yet admired their necessity. Cultures shunned them - yet gladly used their services. Wars there were, and wars there would be, but technology had forced war to become a thing apart.

Nations, planets, dared not to fight. Gone were the days of indiscriminate killing. The dross from atomic piles was too plentiful, too deadly potent, for any state, no matter how powerful, to blast his neighbour. A single man, or woman, driven frantic with grief over the loss of a loved one, could load a ship with atomic dust, slip through the tightest cordon, and spread utter destruction.

Once spread, nothing could stop a world turning into an arid desert. Such planets were to be seen. Grown wealthy and arrogant, they had waged war, and died as a result.

And so The Warbirds. The Eagles. Mercenaries. Free Companions. Stateless men. Devoid of passion, hate and fear, they fought for money, and that alone. Men who could be trusted. Men who fought to a strict code. Battles were fought, and not a civilian died. Wars were lost, and not a city harmed. Losers paid, and paid dearly, but that was the total of their lives.

And Gregg Harmond was one of them. From farmer to mercenary to Commander, he rose quickly to power and created one of the mightiest war machines in the universe. But could he hold onto it?

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

THE WARBIRDS

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

THE WARBIRDS

E.C. Tubb

First published as Saturn Patrol

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

Copyright © 1951, 1996 by E.C. Tubb; Copyright © 2021 by Lisa John.

Published by Wildside Press LLC.

Wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

CHAPTER 1

The Warbird

The ship stood like a dirty finger, poised on the landing field at the edge of town. Once sleek sides were marked and scarred, stained with tarnish and mottled with poorly applied patches. One fin was twisted, and the plastic of ports and turrets clouded with flight strain and neglect. Yet, despite the general air of decay, something of the original beauty still showed. The clean, utilitarian lines of a perfect machine in the long curves, the subtle swellings of the venturis could still be seen.

Gregg Harmond, who had once aspired to pilot a spaceship in the now defunct Space Patrol, could see it. He thought now: “It’s the loveliest thing ever made.”

He stood against the edge of the field, head tilted back, eyes half-closed against the whirling snow. Wind whipped at his tall, fur-clad form, biting savagely at exposed cheeks and throat, sending the warming numbness of frostbite. He sighed and turned away. A smaller figure, blurred in the snow, came stumbling towards him.

“Gregg!”

“Yes? Oh—it’s you, Owen.”

“I’ve been looking for you.” The small, fur-bundled shape fell into step with him. “Did you see it?”

“Yes. It’s a ship all right. First in two years. What do the elders say?”

“They don’t like it. It’s got to leave tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?”

“I heard my father talking to the others. They are afraid of it, but they had to let it land for water.”

“I see.” He laughed curtly. “No wonder they kept it so quiet. They say anything else?”

“I didn’t hear,” Owen confessed. “I came out to see the ship.”

They walked for a time in silence, picking their way over the rough, snow-covered road leaving into town. Night had fallen, and from the frozen pole a bitter wind thrust at their bodies.

Owen shivered. “Are you going with it, Gregg?”

“Maybe. Why?” He was deliberately curt.

“If you go, can I come with you?”

Harmond stopped, staring down at the indistinct shape. “That’s impossible.”

“But why, Gregg? I’m over eighteen. Jeff Trammond said he was going and he’s not much older than I am.”

“Jeff Trammond talks too much. What about your father? What about Jean?”

“Oh, Jean.” Owen shrugged with the careless indifference of a brother. “She won’t mind.”

“And your father?” Gregg asked dryly.

“He won’t know,” said Owen simply.

Harmond sighed and began walking towards the signal beacon ahead.

“Look, Owen,” he said gently, “You don’t know what you’re asking. For me, it’s different. Ever since my folks died, I’ve wanted to get away from here. With the last crop failure, I expect to lose the section through default, and I don’t want to work for hire. But your father is an Elder. You’ve got everything to lose by going. Why not be sensible?”

“I want to go with you, Gregg.”

“But I don’t want you, Owen,” he mimicked angrily.

“Why, Gregg?”

“Because it’s a Warbird,” he answered savagely. “That’s why.”

They walked on in silence.

* * * *

He sat in the tavern on the edge of town, a big man, jolly, filling the place with his roaring songs and shouts of mirth. Shimmering cellosilk, cunningly cut, disguised his gross bulk. A wide belt supported a heavy blaster resting against one thick thigh, and though the belt looked new, the weapon was not.

He was free with his money, calling for round after round of the fiery local brew, tossing gold coins down the low-cut dresses of the girls, grinning at their delighted squeals.

Around him, listening to his vain-glorious boasting, drinking his wine, cheering his songs, stood the youth of the town. Working men mostly. Hired hands, with a scattering of small section holders. Hard workers, their dirt-stained fingers twitched with faint avarice and half-hidden envy. Standing back from the crowd stood the Elders. Old men, the wealthy, the rulers of the town. They gathered into little groups, talking among themselves, frowning at the big stranger.

He drained his pot and set it down with a bang.

“Drink up, my hearties. Drink, and bless the day the Warbirds landed here. Look at me—a drink for my friends, silk on my back, not a stroke of labour in a twelvemonth, and this belly never came from starving.” He patted his bulk while the youths drew nearer.

“It’s a fine life, I tell you. A free life and a merry one. None of your grubbing in the soil, freezing in this cursed wind, starving when the crops fail. A spell on watch, a ship in your sights, a squeeze of a finger, and the loot of a world for the taking.”

One of the Elders stepped forward, his eyes glinting angrily. “Have a care, Captain. We permitted you to land on the understanding that you would keep to your ship and do no recruiting. You will remember that, if you please.”

“So?” The big man almost hissed the word. “It’s keep to your ship, is it?”

One hand dropped almost idly to the heavy blaster. “You scream for us quick enough when your pockets are in danger, but in the fat days it’s ‘keep to your ship’. What are you afraid of? Afraid that some of your tame cattle here will take wing? Afraid that we will poison your air?”

Anger darkened his features. “Commander Alendi lies in his bunk a sick man. Any other planet would have been pleased to entertain us, but you people on the Rim are all the same. Cowards, the lot of you!”

An ugly murmur sounded from the group around him. He ignored it.

“I know what’s in your mind,” he told the Elder. “I tell you now I’m not going. Just try and make me. Just try.”

The Elder stared at him for a moment; whatever his faults he was no coward, but he was old. Against an armed man, a ruthless man, he was helpless, but the glint in his eyes boded ill for the fat Captain. Gregg stood just within the door loosening his furs, taking in the scene. He had no love for the Elders, but they were his people. With one quick movement, he stood against the stranger; another, and he had the blaster resting easily in his hand.

“Apologise,” he said curtly.

“What?”

“Apologise. You’ll be dead if you don’t,” Gregg said dully. “He’s an old man, unarmed. Apologise.”

For a moment their eyes locked, then the gross bulk of the man shook with silent laughter. “By Space, but you’re a hard one! As you say then, my apologies to you, sir, and a drink all round.”

He held out his hand. “My weapon, please.”

Gregg shook his head. “I’ll give it to you later. It may go off—by accident.”

More laughter shook the fat frame. “Merry’s the name. Captain of the ship out yonder. Pleased to meet at last one man who can claim to that title.”

“Harmond. Gregg Harmond. I want to ship with you.”

“Eh?” Merry stared in amazement. “After what you’ve just done, the best place for you is the other side of the Galaxy!” He grew thoughtful. “Any others of your kidney around?”

Gregg shrugged, not answering.

“Ten credits a day. Free food and weapons. Sign on for the duration, and a bonus at the end of it. We’re a strong group. Plenty of pickings with Alendis Undefeateds. What say you?”

His words, with Harmond’s example, fired some of the waverers. Several surged forward to fix their thumb print onto the articles of attestation. The Elders looked on, glowering. One of them stepped forward.

“I know you, Harmond. A shiftless worker. Lagos is well rid of you. Owen,” he snapped sharply, “home.”

For a moment, indecision showed on the chubby features then Owen sighed and struggled into his furs.

“Good luck, Gregg,” he called. The door slammed behind him.

Merry grinned lopsidedly. “All right men. Assemble on the field at dawn. Fifty kilos of personal kit each, no more.”

He turned to Gregg. “Now, shipmate, where’s my blaster?”

He took the outstretched weapon, hefted it in one huge paw, then with sudden casual viciousness smashed it against the side of Harmond’s head. Again and again.

Merry stared down at the huddled figure at his feet. Deliberately he spat.

* * * *

Harmond groaned, lifted his head and retched in sudden nausea. He was lying on a narrow bunk, covered by a single blanket, and his naked skin crawled at the touch of the sleazy covering. Stained bulkheads, rivet-studded, walled him in, and by the quivering of the bunk he knew the ship was blasting.

Acceleration weighed him down, the blood pounding through his battered skull. He blacked out.

When next he opened his eyes, Merry stood over him. The fat man no longer wore the shimmering cellosilk with which he had dazzled the youth of Lagos. The blaster still rested against one thigh, though supported by a less ornate belt.

He spat at Harmond. “Get up!”

“My—head—I...”

“Get up, I said.” He laughed callously. “Your head hurts, does it? Well, well. Maybe I can cure that for you.” Deliberately he lifted his huge paw, closed it into a fist, and sent the fist arching forward. It never landed.

Gregg left the cot in one swift motion, all pain and nausea burned away by the fierce anger which filled him. He stepped forward, ducked, straightened and struck. Merry roared with pain and anger, a rivulet of blood trickling from one corner of his mouth. Spitting out a mouthful of blood, he met the next rush with cold brutality. Shaken, Gregg staggered back, pain bringing delayed caution.

He couldn’t hope to win. He was in poor condition, still dizzy and sick from his previous beating. Merry was a mass of hard flesh and muscle, in perfect condition, and in his element. As the fat man came towards him, Gregg looked round desperately. Nothing, the room as bare but for the single blanket on the cot. With a swift scooping motion, Gregg gathered it up, and flung it at Merry’s head.

For a moment the man was blinded beneath the greasy folds; it was enough. Gregg stepped back, the blaster heavy in his hand, a cold smile on his lips.

“Easy, Merry. Easy or I’ll burn your guts out.”

“What?” Merry grabbed at his empty holster. “Why, you scum! Give me that blaster.”

“Am I that crazy? Look what happened the last time.”

Merry made no answer. To Gregg’s surprise, he began advancing purposely forward, one hand outstretched. “That’s the second time you’ve disarmed me, bucko. You know what happened the first time. Now I’m going to kill you.”

“I think not,” said Gregg contemptuously. “This time I keep it, and use it if I have to.”

The fat man made no reply. He still came forward, a dogged look of defiance on his gross features. Alarmed, Gregg lifted the weapon, sighted on the bulging stomach, and tightened his finger.

He couldn’t do it!

Something of what he felt must have showed in his face, for with a shout of triumph, Merry leapt forward.

With the desperation of despair, Gregg swung the heavy gun, smashing at the florid face before him. His arm was swept aside, the next moment he crumpled in the thick arms.

Frantically he used his knees, elbows, chopped with his hands, stabbed with his stiffened fingers. He did damage, the grunts and curses told him that, but he was receiving as good as he gave.

Finally, his overtaxed strength exhausted, he gave up. Merry had his thick hands around his throat and slowly began to throttle him.

“You’re a fool,” he grunted, “and a fool must pay for his folly. You’ve got guts, and that I like. But you’re still a fool. Why didn’t you use the blaster?”

Gregg gurgled, and Merry eased the pressure. “Go to hell, you fat slob!”

“Not,” said Merry, tightening his grasp, “that it would have made any difference. I’m not a fool if you are. The blaster wasn’t loaded, but of course you couldn’t know that.”

Surprisingly he laughed, and stepped back.

Half-throttled, Gregg reeled against the bulkhead and stared at him in wonder. Merry pulled a flat bottle from his hip pocket and handed it over.

“Here. Drink heavy, shipmate, and no ill feelings.”

He watched while Gregg took a cautious sip, then a deep swallow. “Thanks.”

“You’ve a lot to learn yet, Harmond, but I’ll teach you. I’ve followed the Eagles for over thirty years, and I know it all, but nobody disarms me and insults me without paying for it. It was a lesson you had to learn.”

He reached for the bottle.

“I’m glad that you’re not yellow, but I wish that you had used the blaster.”

“Why?” Gregg asked curiously.

“Never give an enemy a chance. Remember that. It’s always him or you, and the quicker you learn that the longer you’ll live.” He sighed. “There’s no place for chivalry in the Warbirds.”

A noise from the still open door interrupted Gregg’s reply. He stared in shocked disbelief.

“Owen! What are you doing here?”

“Hello, Gregg.” Owen had the grace to look ashamed. “I couldn’t stay behind when I knew you were going, so I ran away. I’m gallery boy,” he announced with youthful pride, “serving the Commander himself.”

“You fool!” Gregg was bitter. “Now Jean will blame me, your father too.” He turned to Merry. “You can’t take him. His father is an Elder of Lagos. If you ever intend going back there, you’d better return his son.”

Merry shrugged. “He’s of age. The articles are signed. He’s a crewmember for the duration, and there’s no going back.”

He spoke to the boy, “What was it, son?”

“Commander Alendi’s compliments, sir, and you are requested to attend general assembly on the mess room.” Surprisingly he saluted; to Gregg the action looked utterly ridiculous.

Merry returned the gesture, a twinkle in his eye. “Thank you. We’ll be right along.” He chuckled at Gregg’s stare.

“Surprised? Wait ’til you see Alendi. Better get dressed now; your uniform is under the cot.”

It was rough, nothing like the cellosilk Merry had worn, but it fitted as well as could be expected, and once dressed Gregg felt a lot better. He followed the fat Captain as he led the way through the instrument-cluttered ship, and Gregg looked about him with interest.

It was not a new ship. It wasn’t even a clean one. Many of the bulkheads bore the signs of hard usage, scarred, patched and twisted with strain. Bright metal work was tarnished and dull. Plastic covers of instrument cases were chipped and broken, in some cases missing entirely. The whole interior of the vessel was coated with what seemed a thick layer of greasy dust. Merry noticed his surprised stare.

“We’ve always been short-handed,” he explained. “Too busy for cleaning. That grease is from the guns; the turrets aren’t as tight as they should be and some of the back-flash escapes into the ship.” He chuckled. “I’ve known the time when it was hard to see your own faceplate.”

Gregg frowned. “But isn’t it dangerous? To work a ship in this condition, I mean.”

“Dangerous! Of course it’s dangerous, but what can we do? We can’t get money without work, and can’t get work without a ship.” He sighed. “Maybe with a different Commander. But Alendi’s getting old and doesn’t care too much as long as the bridge is clean.”

He ducked through a low doorway, and Gregg saw that they had entered the mess room. About thirty men lounged in various attitudes. Some of them he recognized as those who had joined them. They looked disgruntled and angry, gathered together in a tight knot, glowering at those around them.

He was about to speak when a furtive-eyed, stooped little man yelled a command, and stood rigid.

“Attention!”

Gregg smiled, looked up, and saw Alendi.

CHAPTER 2

Alendi

He stood just within the room. A tall, thin man, slightly stooped with age, impeccably dressed in a uniform heavy with insignia. Thin white hair receded from a scholar’s forehead. Black eyes burned in a long, thin paper whiteness. Deep grooves ran from nostrils to the corners of a down-turned mouth.

He stood silently watching, and with him watched the thousand year ghost of olden Grandees. Pride! It radiated from the slight figure. Pride of command. Pride of birth. Pride of achievement. He was almost insane with sheer, blinding pride!

He made a gesture to the furtive-eyed man.

“At ease!” yelled that individual, and slumped to a more comfortable position. The others had moved not at all. Watching, Gregg felt a tinge of pity. The old Commander spoke.

“Men.” His voice was barely a whisper, yet penetrated to every ear. “As is my custom with all new recruits, I welcome you to the glorious ranks of the Eagles. Some of you know what we are, what we stand for. To those, what I have to say will not be new. To you others, to those of you who are making their first flight under the brave standard of that mighty Warbird of old, the Eagle, I give welcome.” The thin voice paused. A rustle ran throughout the listening men.

“You are here to fight! To battle against the enemies of peace! To wage unrelenting war against those alien forces of evil who threaten the welfare of our civilisation! I know that some of you may weaken. I know that some of you may be untrue to your glorious trust. To those I say, better death than dire shame. Be men, and live in glory. Be cowards, and fill a nameless grave.”

He fell silent, his burning eyes roving the silent men. Gregg glanced at Merry, and caught a covert grin followed by a broad wink.

“Soon,” the thin voice continued, “we shall enter hyperspace. There is a battle to be fought and won many light years from here. The enemy will be routed, but the struggle will not be easy. Time spent in training will not be wasted. That is all.”