Spawn of Laban

by E.C. Tubb

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Space Opera

Synopsis

IN THE "DOC" SMITH TRADITION The planet was fine for big game hunters. And it was the tradition there that one must have a trophy before one could call oneself truly a man. If that were all, it would hardly interest Cap Kennedy because his trophies consisted of planets saved for Terra and missions accomplished. But there was something on Eriadne which was not just a hunt trophy - something which required the presence of Kennedy and his men to check on. One of these things was a fragment of Zheltyana construction which outdated all civilisation. But the hunt proved to be a double one - Kennedy against an unslayable monster and a lost world of monsters against Kennedy. And if he lost, it would be Terra itself that would be a trophy on some alien's hunting lodge wall. SPAWN OF LABAN is one of the best - a real edge-of-the-seat science fiction chiller in the tradition of Edward E. Smith and Edmond Hamilton

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 127

Sample

The valley was filled with shadows. Scudding clouds broke the starlight and the pale glow from the double moons accentuated
the patches of darkness which lay thick between the trees and clumps of brush—patches which shifted and moved as the wind
soughing through the air caught at boles and branches.


A bad night for the watching guards, it was a perfect one for the man who crouched, a shadow among shadows, on the upper rim
of the valley.


He was small and lithe, his face peaked like a ferret’s, with eyes that matched: small, shrewd, constantly in motion. His
hands were thin, the fingers long, the nails neatly filed. He wore dark clothing, thick pants, a rough shirt, a tough leather
jacket. His boots were seamless and reached to just below the knee. His cap was of soft leather with a broad visor which would
shadow his face in the sun.


It was a common outfit for a hunter, just as the rifle at his side was a common weapon: a simple, solid-missile projector,
self-loading, accurate to within a quarter-inch at a hundred yards. The binoculars too were apparently normal, wide-angled,
high-powered lenses which could search out game among the hills of Eriadne. But, like the man, the binoculars were not all
they seemed.


Through them Mal Remele examined the floor of the valley and the building it contained.

The structure was bleak and featureless, a hundred yards long, fifty wide, thirty high. The roof was flat and surrounded by a low parapet, below which ran a double line of windows. The area beneath was unbroken except for the edges
of wide doors now firmly closed. Surrounding the building at a space of fifty yards was a fence of closely meshed wire fifteen
feet high, the upper portion wreathed with savage spikes. Around this ran a clearing twenty yards wide on which grew nothing
but grass.


Thoughtfully Mal Remele lowered the binoculars. Through them the area below had seemed as bright as day, light being caught
and amplified by the circuits within the instrument. Now, with the unaided eye, the valley seemed a nest of brooding shadows,
the building a patch of more solid darkness, lifeless, dead.


But it was neither. The whole area would be thick with alarms and electronic devices, invisible beams and radiation detectors.
Again he lifted the binoculars and made a slight adjustment to a knurled wheel. The scene altered a little, taking on a ghostly
appearance where patches of color glowed like will-o’-the wisp fire, in rods of flickering brilliance, swaths of somber luster
or scattered points which winked like stars. They were irregular and fewer than he had expected, yet still enough to snare
any unwary visitor or anyone less well equipped.


For a long while he studied the lights, tracing a path from his crouching position to the surrounding fence. Then he set the
binoculars aside and delved into a bulky pouch, producing a folded garment.


It was thin, so black that it was almost invisible, all light being absorbed into the fabric until details became blurred,
the edges blending into the shadows. Quickly he slipped it on, laying aside the cap, the soft material closing over his face,
his hands and head, only tiny openings left at mouth and eyes. The cap and rifle he tucked beneath a bush, taking out other
items before thrusting the pouch after them.


Moving along the rim of the valley, the binoculars at his eyes, he began to climb down toward the enigmatic building.

He took care to avoid the rods of flickering brilliance, because they would sound an alarm if broken. He dodged the winking
points of pressure-traps, picking a path through the swaths of somber light, infrared detectors which would normally have
picked up the radiated heat of his body, nullified now by the insulating garment he wore. He wasted no time, already feeling
uncomfortable, the trapped heat of his own metabolism a rising danger. Worn too long, the garment would kill as surely as
a bullet or the searing blast of a Dione.


He dropped down as he reached the clearing around the fence, scanning the area beyond with painstaking care. Twin spots of
moving light revealed the presence of guards patrolling the roof, a token force, the real defenses of the building lying elsewhere.
Behind him in the valley, beyond the fence in the open space, were the detector-beams; the fence itself was alive with electricity
strong enough to kill, the mesh carrying a current which, if broken, would bathe the area with light and directed blasts of
searing energy.


Remele lowered the binoculars and began to assemble a device taken from the pouch: slender rods which joined and extended
into a twenty-five-foot shaft, flexible and incredibly strong. To one end he tied an insulated cord, fed the strand through
the mesh and cautiously backed to the edge of the clearing. He had memorized the layout of the interior detectors—it would
be close, but there was room. Aiming at a predetermined point, he ran forward, rammed the end of the pole into the dirt and
vaulted over the fence. The pole fell back as he hit the ground, freezing as he made a quick scan. The guards were now invisible
on the far side of the roof; the nearest detector-beam shone three inches from his leg and a foot above the ground.


Remele inched back toward the fence to draw the pole through the mesh, closing it into a two-foot shaft. Turning then, he
moved toward the building, stepping over or crawling under the beams, sweating now, the thin fabric clinging like a second
skin to face, neck and hands. At the foot of the wall he paused and fitted gekko pads to arms and legs, using the suction they provided to swarm upward like a spider, halting as he reached the lower
line of windows.


From above came the scrape of a boot, a hoarse sound as a guard hawked and spat.

“Clear, Lir?”

“Clear.” The guard who had spat sounded disgusted. “A week now I’ve had to stand night duty. Days are bad enough, but at least
a man can enjoy the sun. At night there’s nothing. Just shadows and moonlight. I’ve a mind to sleep.”


“Try that, Lir, and you know what will happen. Remember Hap?”

“He was a fool.”

“As you would be if you followed him. Best to keep walking and stay awake. Close your eyes now and they could be closed for
good. Here, have some keel.”


The muttering voices died away and Remele relaxed a little. He cautiously climbed higher and tested the window to his right.
It was locked. The one on his left was too. He took a slender tool from his belt, rested it against the glass and cut a circle.
Using a gekko pad to pull it free, he thrust his hand through the opening, unlocked the window and swung it wide.


Within seconds he was inside the building, the window closed, his body tense as he listened. The room was dark and smelled
of dust; the passage outside was silent. Stripping off the ebony garment, he wiped his face and neck, gasping his relief.
Folded, it made a small bulge beneath his shirt. Next he tucked the folded pole beneath his belt under the jacket, drew a
compact needler and crossed to the door. He opened it a crack and stared at a narrow corridor lighted by the cold glow of
Kell lights. Closed doors ran along it and now he hurried from one to the other, pausing only to listen before opening them
to look inside, grunting as one remained fast beneath his band.


A moment’s work with a metal needle and it swung wide to reveal an office brightly lighted with a lambent glow. A desk stood
littered with papers, other papers showing in the drawers of a half-opened cabinet. The room was deserted, but Remele paused, tense and wary, head turning as
he listened.


From the passage outside came the tread of boots.

He quickly glanced around. The desk was long and wide, the kneehole capacious. The cabinet stood in a corner, set at an angle
with enough space behind for a small man to stand and hide. He squeezed into it, freezing as the door opened.


“Odd.” The voice was thin, acid. “I would have sworn I had locked this door.”

“An oversight.” The second voice was deep, harshly grating. “Hurry and obtain what you need. Already we have lingered too
long.”


Zel Chen frowned, stiffening with anger. He was tall and thin, with a widow’s peak of hair rising from a high forehead. His
face was narrow, triangular, the nose like a beak above a pointed chin, the eyes slotted and betraying his avian ancestry.
A Chambodian, he could not tolerate the impatience of any member of a lesser race—and to any Chambodian all races were inferior
to their own.


He said coldly, “When I left this room the door was locked. Now it is open. Even you, Cier Dyhar, must be able to recognize
the significance of that.”


His companion shrugged, seeming to fill the office. A big man, his bulk was accentuated by the puffed tunic, the balloon-like
sleeves, the wide shoulder boards which carried the insignia of his rank and titles. His face was a dull yellow, with eyes
enormous beneath bristling brows; his mouth was thin and lipless, filled with sharp, stabbing teeth.


“You are careless,” he said impatiently. “When summoned you forgot.”

“Unlike those who claim to serve the Haddrach of Holme,” said Chen acidly, “I do not forget. It would, perhaps, be wise for
you to remember that.”


“Meaning?”

“My meaning is plain, I think.” Zel Chen stared at his companion. Big, tough, armed, he was a creature devoid of fear, one who had passed the initial test of survival, the struggle of puberty, the tooth-and-claw battle to rise
in the harsh culture to which he belonged. A dangerous adversary and an uneasy ally—yet even a fool could sometimes be of
use. “What we do here is secret. If certain others were to learn of our intention then all will be lost.”


“So?” Dyhar shrugged. “An open door in a guarded building and already you see ghosts and smell failure. Is that the courage
of Chambodia? You disappoint me, Zel Chen. I had thought you made of better metal. Perhaps our association is a mistake?”
Casually he moved toward the cabinet, broad nostrils snuffing the air. “It seems that you could learn much from us of the
Haddrach of Holme. To retain the keenness of your senses, perhaps, for it is certain that—”


Breaking off, he reached out and toppled the cabinet to one side.

Remele fired as it fell.

The needler was a close-range weapon loaded with anesthetic darts. One struck Cier Dyhar’s tunic-ornament, another caught
in a shoulder board, a third in a puffed sleeve as he turned, one hand grabbing at the Dione at his belt. Before he could
draw the weapon two. . .