The twisted, mummied hybrids were bad enough; the semimechs were worse; but worst of all were those who were partly liquescent, who but for their magmass parts must simply collapse into stinking ruin.
Byzarnov had almost stopped breathing; he started again with a gasp, said, ‘But . . . how? And what are they doing?’ He turned to one of his terrified technicians. ‘Why haven’t we fried them, or melted them with acid?’
The first one up made it to the defence mechanism,’ the man told him. ‘He ripped out the wiring. No one lifted a hand to stop him, not then. No one believed . . .’
Byzarnov could understand that. ‘But what do they want?’
‘Are you blind?’ Luchov started down the steps. ‘Can’t you see for yourself?’
And indeed Byzarnov could see for himself. The nine once-men had isolated the exorcet module; they were closing in on it, invading it. Three of the Major’s technicians, together with a handful of Perchorsk’s soldiers, were trying to hold them off. An impossible task. Dead men don’t feel pain. Shoot at these magmass monsters all they would, the launcher’s defenders couldn’t kill them a second time.
‘But . . . why?’ Byzarnov came stumbling down the steps after Luchov. Behind them on the platform, the other technicians and Luchov’s guards were reluctant to follow. ‘What’s their intention?’
To press the bloody button!’ Luchov barked. They may be dead, warped, weird, but they’re not stupid. We’re the stupid ones.’
At the foot of the steps, the Major caught up and grasped Luchov’s shoulder. Tress the button? Fire the missiles? But they mustn’t!’
Luchov turned on him. ‘But they must! Don’t you see? Whatever brought them up knew more than we do. The dead don’t walk for just anyone or anything. No, they need a damn good reason to put themselves to torture such as this!’
‘Madman!’ Byzarnov hissed. He was close to breaking. ‘Oh, quite obviously this is some long-term, alien effect of this totally unnatural place, but these reanimated – things – can’t have any real purpose. They’re blind, insensate, dead!’
They want to launch those missiles,’ Luchov shouted in the other’s face, over the clamour of discharged weapons, ‘and we have to help them!’
At which the Major knew that the Projekt Direktor really was mad. ‘Help them?’ He drew his pistol and pointed it at Luchov’s chest. ‘You poor, crazy bastard! Get the hell back away from there!’
Luchov turned from him, hurried along the rubber-floored safety perimeter towards the creature with the page-shedding manual for a hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he was gasping. ‘Let me pass. I’ll do it for you.’ And to Byzarnov’s amazement, the thing shuffled aside for him.
‘Like hell you will!’ the Major shouted, and squeezed the trigger of his automatic. The bullet hit Luchov in the right shoulder and passed right through, punching out in a scarlet spray from a hole in his chest. He was thrown forward, face-down on the walkway, where he lay still for a moment. And Byzarnov came on, aiming at him a second time.
But the magmass things knew an ally when they saw one. The thing with the book hand got in Byzarnov’s way, blocking his aim, while another whose limbs were cased in stony magmass welded to a trunk which was a jumble of fused bone, rubber and glass, came lurching to the Direktor’s assistance. The Major fired at this one point-blank, time and again, to no avail. But as the thing loomed in front of him, finally a shot cracked the magmass casing of its left arm. The brittle sheath fragmented at once, and a black, vile soup – a decomposed mush of flesh – began leaking from inside.
Almost overwhelmed by the stench, the Major fell against the curving wall. Still the rotting hybrid came on. Byzarnov lifted his pistol and pulled the trigger, and the firing mechanism made a click! He had a spare magazine in his pocket. He reached for it …
. . . And the magmass thing closed a bony hand on his windpipe. Byzarnov choked. He could see Luchov getting to his feet, staggering, moving towards the launching module, where most of the defenders had either fainted or stampeded in terror. Only one technician and one soldier remained there now: their weapons were empty and they danced, gibbered and clung together like children as decomposing nightmares closed in on them.