Z-Day on Centauri

by Henry T. Simmons

VI

A tremendous feeling of power surged in Pell. He strode into the corridor and stood in the midst of the havoc he had created, letting the hungry, hellish blaster play across a few fleeing figures trying to make the elevators. He was unconscious of the overpowering stench in the hot, searing, almost unbreathable air. He didn't notice that the soles of his heavy insulated boots were burning as he stood in the corridor. He realized now only that he held in his hands the instrument that would enable him to carry out ruthless vengeance against Gutridge and his DIC mercenaries.

The dead-end corridor off which the armory was located opened onto the larger main corridor which led to the elevators. Pell padded silently to the junction and walked boldly toward the automatic elevators which would take him to the surface. He paused just once to let the blaster play over the mouth of the dead-end corridor which led to the blasters. The roof slowly collapsed in a shower of scorched cement, leaving the lacy interwork of the reinforcing girders bare and skeleton-like. The mass of hot rubble effectively sealed off the entrance to the armory—for the time being, at any rate.

With that action, Pell realized that he was a god. Although not an immortal god, certainly a god armed with a terrible destructive force which was not immediately available to the others who might aspire to be gods.

Pell looked at the devastation he had created and became uncertain as to what to do next. Little thought tendrils of unreason whispered at him, telling him to create a reign of terror throughout the multi-leveled warren which was the foundation of the mighty blaster tower. But he closed his mind to their pleasing prospects and his jaw hardened at the thought of the job before him. He must go to the surface and destroy the mercenaries' defense of the fortress. He must help Dallard crack their resistance as soon as possible so that the precious U-235 might be retrieved from its burying place and turned over to the Insurgents.

Pell's eyes narrowed as he turned again to the auto-droppers. There were so many things he would like to do with his weapon, but first things first. Bleak-eyed Gret Helmuth who could become all woman in an instant—she would have to wait. So would Gutridge. But not for long, he promised himself.

He pressed the button which should send one of the cages hurtling to his level, then take him back to the surface. The first time he pressed the button, there was no response. Nor was there the second time. A third time his hand moved impatiently toward the red stud, only to freeze in the act as a familiar, hated voice began to crackle from some hidden speaker in the walls. It was Gutridge!

"Pell! Pell! Can you hear me?" came the mocking voice. "You're trapped, Pell. The droppers don't seem to respond, do they?"

The deep, penetrating voice chuckled, then went on. "Pretty soon your head will become heavy and your eye-lids will want to drop. You will want to sleep, Pell, because the gas is very powerful. Do you feel it yet? Its nice stuff, Pell. You will want to sleep so much ... so much."

The heavy voice began to chuckle and its reverberations thundered evilly in the deserted corridors. Pell found the source of the laugh and blasted it furiously from its concealment high in the wall. But from somewhere far down the corridor the powerful laugh echoed ominously.