The Expendables: The Venom of Argus

Book 0: EXPENDABLES

by Edmund Cooper

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

Synopsis

The Expendables had struck it lucky at last. After grappling with the revolting Death Worms of Kratos, the deadly Rings of Tantalus and the weirdly anachronistic military society of Zelos, their fourth mission looked an easy one. Argus was an earth-type planet with one major continent, comfortably covered with vegetation. But that was before The Expendables encountered the deadly harpoon tree, or the low-lying plant which grasped greedily at anyone who dared to set foot on it, or the hornets that paralyzed their victims - so as to enjoy their food in peace. Worst of all the lurking horrors of Argus was the deadly hallucinogenic pollen which turned quiet Santa Maria crew members into vicious maniacs.

Release date: September 29, 2011

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 160

Sample

COMMANDER JAMES CONRAD had to pass a lot of security guards to get into the ExPEND building and up to the Director’s suite on the twenty-fifth floor. But he did not have to show his ID card. Everyone knew the man with the silver patch over his right eye.

It had been deemed necessary to give the Extra-Solar Planets Evaluating and Normalizing Department top security two or three years ago. Some misguided Third World fanatic had managed to get through the normal security net and dump about twenty litres of nitro-glycerine in the basement with the apparent aim of putting the Director and his staff in orbit. He was frustrated in his ambition only because of an electronics failure in the timed detonator. When the ExPEND building failed to go boom according to plan, he came back to investigate. By that time the nitro had been discovered and a reception committee was waiting for him. Since then security was tighter than for an atomics plant.

As Conrad had stepped out of his hovercar, the external duty officer—resplendent in his neatly pressed U.N. uniform—took one glance and snapped out the order: ‘Present arms!’

Ten men pointed their laser rifles at the sky and slapped the butts and simultaneously, eyes front, becoming motionless as statues.

Conrad was embarrassed. His rank did not qualify him for that kind of treatment. He approached the duty officer and fumbled in his pocket for the ID card.

‘Sir, identification is not necessary.’

‘Dammit, man, I could be a bloody fake!’ said Conrad testily.

The duty officer permitted himself a nervous smile. ‘With respect, no, sir. We have already dealt with two fake Conrads. We know the real article. We were expecting you. I believe your appointment with the Director is for fourteen thirty.’

‘It is.’

With remarkable speed, the duty officer produced a photograph of Conrad.

‘Sir, I have a small son who would be—’

‘I have no sons—or daughters,’ said Conrad. ‘How old is your boy?’

‘Seven, sir.’

‘What is his name?’

‘James Conrad Kennedy.’ The duty officer held out a stylo. ‘If you would sign the photograph, sir, he would treasure it to the end of his days.’

‘What does the boy want to do with his life?’

The duty Officer smiled. ‘He wants to become an Expendable, sir.’

‘Then tell him that Expendables are no damn good. They are misfits, criminals and bums. If you will agree to enter him for the U.N. Space Service, I will sign.’

‘Agreed, sir.’

Conrad wrote: Best wishes to James Conrad Kennedy from plain James Conrad. ‘Is he a bright boy?’ He gave the photo and stylo back to the officer.

The officer glanced at the message. ‘Sir, thank you. Young Conrad will be over the hill with pride about this … Yes, sir, he’s a bright boy. Grade One in maths. He is already into elementary astrophysics.’

From out of nowhere, a couple of vid men had appeared, cameras rolling. Somebody must have tipped off the gentlemen of the media. Conrad scratched his silver patch irritably and sighed. It was always like this, now, when he was back on Terra. He couldn’t even go into a bar and finish his first drink before the vids started rolling. He would be glad to get back into space once more.

‘Then tell the young one that the old one wishes to see another Conrad in the Space Service … And get your men to stop looking like statues.’ He gestured towards the vid men. ‘Also, if you can remove these gentlemen, I would be grateful.’

The officer saluted. ‘Sir! Yes, sir!’

Conrad hurried into the ExPEND building. He had to return half a dozen salutes before he reached the twenty-fifth floor.

The time was fourteen twenty-eight. Conrad still took some pride in being punctual.

The Director’s secretary was a bosomy blonde. Very sexy. Human secretaries were a sign of very high status these days.

Most people made do with robosecs.

‘Good afternoon, Commander. The Director is expecting you, of course, but at the moment he is heavily engaged. As soon as he is free, I wilt—’

Conrad interrupted her. ‘Which means he is not yet back from lunch, I suppose. Otherwise, you would have signalled my arrival.’

The secretary neither confirmed nor denied. She stuck out her breasts. Diversion number one. Then offered a drink. Diversion number two.

Conrad declined to consider either breasts or drink. Also he declined the offer of a very comfortable chair. He went to the window and gazed out over the city.

London had changed greatly since he had last seen it. Was that before Zelos or Tantalus or Kratos? He couldn’t really remember and he didn’t really want to know. Where Buckingham Palace had once stood, the United Europe Tower, with its one hundred storeys, rose like a glass and hiduminium phallus towards the sky. Where the National Gallery had been there was the Data Processing Centre of the U.N.S.S. But the church of St. Martin-in-the-Fields still survived, and that was something. Not that Conrad was religious. He hated superstition of every kind. But he loved old buildings.

‘The Director will see you now, Commander.’

Conrad went into the Director’s luxuriously appointed office and gazed round him disapprovingly.

‘I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long, Commander Conrad.’

‘Six minutes,’ said Conrad, leaving the other man to work out if that was too long.

‘Please sit down, Conrad. We have much to discuss.’

So now he was just plain Conrad. ‘Thank you—sir,’ he said managing to get a hint of irony into the final word.

The Director was a fat, balding man in his late fifties—a career politician; who always seized the main chance. Conrad knew his track record. Chairborne in the U.N.S.S. Administration for fifteen years, chairborne in U.N. for about ten years, and now chairborne in ExPEND. But he had once held the rank of commodore in U.N.S.S. so, presumably, some other chairborne wonder had thought he knew something about space.

‘I want to discuss with you the modifications you have suggested for the new F.T.L. vessel now in design stage. Apart from the engine-room modifications which seem sensible and which I, as Director, have approved, there are certain other suggested changes which appear to be somewhat unnecessary and which would, if accepted, cost a great deal of money. For example, you suggest a larger, reinforced landing torus. Why? The one on the Santa Maria has proved adequate for three missions.’

‘It is easily damaged,’ explained Conrad. ‘The safety of the vessel depends on the strength of the torus. We had some damage on Kratos. It wasn’t critical. But with a large diameter torus, suitably strengthened, we would not be so restricted in our choice of touch-down areas.’

The Director gazed coldly at Conrad. ‘The new design you have submitted would cost—I am told—an additional three point seven five million solars, apart from R and D costs. This is not acceptable.’

‘Why is it not acceptable—sir?’

‘Because of our restricted budget, man! You deep-space cowboys don’t seem to know what is going on back here on Earth. U.N. has fiscal problems, so ExPEND has fiscal problems. Terra’s natural resources are almost exhausted.’

‘I know. That is why we deep-space cowboys are busy proving new worlds where nobody will have fiscal problems for a very long time … And how many billion solars did you lose on the Janus mission, Director?’

‘That is not the point!’ thundered the Director. ‘The Janus mission failed because—’

‘Because,’ interrupted Conrad, ‘one of those bloody clever S.P.10 robots that are supposed to be capable of making value judgments and acting independently made the wrong value judgment.’

There was a brief silence. For a moment or two, the Director looked thunderstruck. Then he recovered himself. ‘Commander Conrad, the cause of the Janus disaster is at present classified Most Secret. Unless your statement is mere conjecture, I must ask you to reveal your source of information.’

Conrad regarded him with a wintry smile. ‘Don’t go stupid on me—sir. I Expendables are trained to find out what they need to know. It’s a necessary survival skill.’

The Director suddenly realized he was being made to look silly. ‘Conrad, I order you to withdraw the claim or reveal your source of information. I will not tolerate—’

‘What you will not tolerate doesn’t interest me’ snapped Conrad. ‘I have spent part, of my precious leave attending four funerals—one in Russia, one in France, one in Cuba and one in Israel. I didn’t see you at any of them. I wonder why.’

‘Conrad, this interview is terminated! I will assume—charitably—that you have been drinking. I shall require to receive a written apology for your extraordinary attitude, or your letter of resignation. Otherwise, I shall be compelled to dismiss you from the service.’

‘Director, this interview is not yet terminated. I didn’t know Yuri Litvinov too well. I only met him at the briefing sessions. But we liked each other, and he played a mean game of chess. But the others were my personal friends. Chantana Le Gros and Fidel Batista were with me on Kratos. Ruth Zonis, as you may recall, took some rough treatment on Tantalus … These were my people, Director. When they died. I wanted to know how and why they died. I found out.’

The Director pressed a button on his communications console. ‘Miss Angstrom, Commander Conrad is unwell and in a highly excited state. Have two security guards escort him from the building. Also arrange for a psychiatric examination.’

A shocked intake of breath was audible. ‘Willco, Director. Instantly.’

Conrad leaned back in his chair. ‘Director, you disappoint me. Just in case you didn’t know—which doesn’t seem likely—I’ll tell you what happened on Janus.’

At that moment, two security guards burst into the office. They carried laser rifles at the ready. Their eyes were popping with amazement;

‘Escort Commander Conrad out,’ said the Director. ‘He is in a distressed condition. Stay with him and be prepared to restrain him, if necessary, until the ambulance arrives.’

‘Gentlemen,’ said Conrad tranquilly, ‘do I look as if I’m in a distressed condition? I merely want to tell the Director some things he doesn’t really want to know. Then I will leave peaceably. That is a promise.’

‘Sir,’ said one of the guards hesitantly, ‘we have orders to remove you.’

Conrad stood up. ‘I appreciate your problem. But I’m not going just yet. I’ll go peaceably, in five minutes. You have my word.’

‘Remove him now!’ said the Director. ‘That is an order.’

The guards were very unhappy. One said to the Director: ‘Sir, with great respect, will you allow Commander Conrad five more minutes of your time? It would be easier all round.’

‘He leaves now. And when this incident is over, report to me for disciplinary action. I will not tolerate my orders being questioned.’

The guard shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, Commander. You’d better come with us. Maybe you can talk to the Director some other time.’

Conrad shook his head. The laser rifles were pointing at his chest. ‘Gentlemen, I hate to put you in this position; but it is important that I talk to the Director.’ He pointed to the rifles. ‘If you are go to burn me, you had better do it quickly. I don’t like being on the wrong end of those things.’

One of the guards threw his rifle down in disgust. ‘Hell, Commander, you know we can’t burn you. We are just going to have to take you by main force.’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Conrad. ‘No hard feelings, I hope?’

‘No hard feelings, sir.’

The other guard put his rifle down. Keeping their eyes on Conrad, both of them advanced cautiously.

He waited until they were about to rush him, then he stepped forward and struck with lightning speed. The prosthetic hand became a fist. It seemed to lightly brush the chin of one guard. As it did so, Conrad swung his body; and, almost without hesitation the fist connected with the other guard's chin. Both men dropped simultaneously. Conrad whirled and saw that the Director was about to call for reinforcements. The prosthetic hand continued its arc of movement and came down to smash the intercom.

Conrad relaxed.

‘Now, Director. We’ll talk.’

‘This is the end of the road for you, Conrad,’ said the Director furiously. ‘I’ll see that you never obtain another command.’

Conrad ignored him. ‘Yuri Litvinov asked my opinion about the S.P.10 robots. I told him what I thought—that a robot that will obey any lawful command without hesitation is more reliable than a fancy piece of hardware that is supposed to make up its own mind what to do in a crisis.’

He glanced at the Director, who now stared at him like a rabbit mesmerized by a snake. ‘My robots—Matthew and the rest of the S.P.9s—have a good track record. They functioned perfectly on Kratos, Tantalus and Zelos.’

The Director vainly tried to recover his wits. ‘You lost some, Conrad.’

‘I know. My fault, not theirs … Yuri told me he would settle for the S.P.9s. Then you brainwashed him or blackmailed him into taking S.P.10s to Janus … And what happened? He got himself stuck in a quicksand, having been bitten by some kind of land crab already identified, analysed and on the lethal list. He knew he was dying, Director. So he told S.P.10/1 to go back and warn Zonis, who was about a hundred metres behind him in the forest …’

Conrad brought his prosthetic hand down on the Director’s desk and smashed a hole through the thick oak top.

‘But that bloody robot decided to play God! It told itself that Yuri was more important than Ruth because he was the Bossman. So it saved a dying man and then went back for Ruth. Full marks! It found her and they took Yuri back to the Golden Hinde. What nobody discovered until it was too late was that fleas from the land crab had also settled on Yuri …’

Conrad smashed another hole in the desk. ‘By making its own value judgment, that bloody robot brought about the deaths of all seven Expendables. The crab fleas carried a bacillus similar to that which caused the Black Death on Terra in the fourteenth century. Only this one was more virulent. Once aboard the Golden Hinde, it managed to wipe the Expendables out in less than four days. So then those goddam robots put all the bodies in the cooler, terminated the mission and brought the Golden Hinde back.’

‘How do you know all this?’ asked the now terrified Director weakly.

Conrad gave him a thin smile. ‘One of the privileges of being famous, Director, is that you find you have close friends you have never even heard of. I talked to the robots, I read the Golden Hinde’s log, and I got copies of the autopsy reports … I also discovered that you have a financial interest in Self-Programming Robots Incorporated. And how do you like that?’

‘Conrad, if you are hinting that—’

‘I am not hinting, Director—sir. I’m telling you … When any of my people die, I want to know the reason. I’ve found it. I don’t like you, I don’t like the way you operate, and I didn’t like attending funerals in four different countries … I don’t care what you do to me, you bastard, but this message comes to you from Ruth Zonis, Chantana Le Gros, Fidel Batista and Yuri Litvinov With love.’

Conrad leaned over the desk, put out his prosthetic arm, grabbed the Director by his lapels and lifted him clean out of his chair.

‘You are going to need new teeth, Director, sir, because some of those you already have, you are about to swallow.’

He struck with his bio-arm. Oddly, he wanted to feel the pain as his knuckles smashed into the fat man’s mouth.

‘One for Ruth!’ The first blow squashed the Director’s lips. Blood oozed.

‘One for Chantana!’ The second blow smashed the lips back into the teeth. The Director struggled feebly, gurgling; but Conrad’s prosthetic hand held him firmly.

‘One for Fidel!’ The Director’s face was now a mess. He was only semi-conscious.

‘And one for Yuri!’ Conrad felt the pain and was glad of it as his bio-fist knocked teeth out of the Director’s top and bottom jaw.

The Director was now coughing, spitting blood, fragments of teeth, fragments of bone.

Conrad dragged him over the desk. ‘Think yourself lucky you are still living. Director, sir. If you wish to prefer charges when you come out of hospital, I will be available.’

Using only his prosthetic arm, he flung the Dir. . .