LAVIE TIDHAR
1.
COLT WAS PLAYING CARDS WHEN TROUBLE CRAWLED IN through the door in the shape of a dead man who didn’t yet know he was dead.
This was on old Venus, ancient and most decadent of planets. Make no mistake, as the blind poet said: man has conquered space before. Woman, too, though in fairness, Colt thought, what women had come to this planet in aeons past had not seemed to make it as far as Port Smith. It was a dismal Earth outpost, stranded somewhere on a solid strip of land amidst Venusian swamps. Violet clouds capped it like a forest of mushrooms, and the thick, green-leafed jungle sprouted at the edges of the swamps on all sides, enclosing the port in its relentless grip.
The Earthmen called the place Port Smith; what the Venusians called it, Colt didn’t know.
Colt was playing a mixed Martian Wild Card Stud. He was in for all he was worth, which, admittedly, at that precise moment, wasn’t a hell of a lot. Colt was out of cash and out of luck, and he needed a boost of both if he were ever to get off this wretched planet. Neither seemed likely to materialize.
In the corner, Old Ishmael, the blind musician, brought his instrument to his lips and began to haltingly play. It was a dream-flute, and, as he blew, gently, into its mouthpiece, ghosts rose into existence around the bar. Colt’s breath was caught in his throat, for they were Venusian dancers, from some long-vanished Atlantean temple, perhaps: bold and free, with their long, flowing black hair, their eyes in which ships sailed in the infinity of space. Slowly, they grew solidity and shape, gliding in a dance through the bar, amidst the tables and unoccupied chairs: and the eyes of all men in that place turned to them, in fascinated enchantment, even Colt’s. All but the musician’s blind eyes.
It was hot. The humidity wore you down, after a while. The other men sweated, though Colt kept his cool. Outside the windows of the Medusa’s Head, the cloud cover stretched from horizon to horizon, covering the sky in an impenetrable dome: it was the same weather that, on Earth, heralds the coming of a hurricane. From time to time, a distant explosion could be heard, as one of the ships took off into the sky. Glancing out of the window, Colt was startled anew, each time, by a flash of silver as a rocket rose, disappearing beyond the clouds. He downed his glass of local arkia, squinted at his cards, and waited for his luck to change, for better or for worse.
There was a rumble in the distance, and the other players looked up. Colt kept his eyes on the table and his free hand on the butt of his gun. He was playing a four-hander: the others were two short, scaly Venusians, and an Earthman who called himself Carter. The sound, as of a distant explosion, sounded again, followed a moment later by a rumble that, this time, shook the ground. “That ain’t the sound of no rocket ship,” the other Earthman, Carter, said. The two Venusians exchanged uneasy glances, but kept their own counsel. “All-in,” Colt said, and pushed what remained of his money, a bag full of gold Martian ingots, into the pot. For a moment, there was a silence.
“I’m out,” one of the Venusians said, and the Earthman immediately followed suit. Colt found himself staring into the other Venusian’s eyes. The Venusian’s mouth curled in a smile Colt did not like. “Well?” he demanded.
Slowly, the Venusian laid down his cards.
Colt stared at the Venusian’s cards and felt his heart sink.
He had lost.
The Venusian had the Queen of Despair, the Jack of Despair, and a ten of the same. On the table, the community cards were the Seven of Love, the Two of Surrendered Bliss, the Nine of Love, and the Shambleau: the wild card.
The Venusian had a Royal Straight. Colt had nothing—nothing but a gun.
“Don’t,” the Venusian said. There was the unmistakable sound of a weapon being charged.
At that moment, a third explosion erupted outside. This time it was almost directly overhead. The aftershock rocked the foundations of the bar and toppled the unoccupied chairs; it smashed glasses to the floor and made the cards fly into the air. Colt’s hand closed on his bag of ingots and made it disappear. Already, he was rising, the gun in front of him, aimed at the door. The blind musician put his dream-flute down. The dancing girls flickered, then faded away, and Colt felt a momentary sense of loss.
“What—” the Earthman, Carter, began to say. The door to the bar blew open inward and a man came crawling into the room. He lunged forward, in one desperate, terrifying last desire to live, and fell by Colt’s feet. He was badly hurt. “Get down!”
A ray-gun blast followed the man through the open door and the Earthman, Carter, fell down, screaming, as his face melted beyond recognition. Not taking his eyes off the door, Colt reached across the table and swept the man’s remaining money into a pouch by his side. The Earthman would not, now, need it—but Colt did. Mercifully, the other man’s screams shortly died, and with them, the man himself. They were now three against the unknown menace—the two Venusians, and Colt. The blind musician had disappeared, taking his dreams with him.
“Roog!” one of the two Venusians—the one who had folded early—said. Looking wildly in all directions, he ran to the door and outside. Colt could hear him shouting, but whether he was pleading, or threatening, or both, he could not tell. There was a fourth rumble of an explosion, shaking the walls and the floor, and Colt could hear the man scream, outside, then fall silent.
Colt and the one remaining Venusian were left alone in the bar: them, and the unknown men at their feet. “What’s your name, Earthman?” the Venusian said.
“Colt. You?”
“Sharol. And that money belongs to me.”
“We can fight over it later,” Colt said. “When we get out of this mess.”
Amusement crinkled Sharol’s face. “If we get out, surely,” he said. Colt shrugged. “Any idea what’s out there?” he said.
“Roog, evidently.”
“What is Roog?”
“I don’t know.” Sharol looked uneasy. “My money is on something bad.”
“It …” It was the dying man at their feet. Colt took a close look at him, and was surprised to see it was an Earthman. He was badly scarred, and suffering from malnutrition. Burns, oozing puss, covered his hands. “It is … treasure.”
“Treasure?” Sharol said. He had a purplish, mottled skin and small, near-translucent ears close to his skull. They are a more delicate-looking breed, on Venus, smaller than Earthmen and seemingly fragile, but never underestimate them, for it will be the last thing you ever do. “You have my interest, stranger.”
“The temple lies …” The dying man’s eyes fluttered closed. In a heartbeat, Colt was kneeling, though he kept his eyes and his gun trained on the door. “Where?” he said, shaking the dying man roughly. “Where?”
“The Roog …” the stranger said. “The Roog!” with horror and revulsion clear in his voice; and then his breath stilled. “Damn you!” Colt said. Sharol’s cold chuckle made him glance up: the Venusian was looking at him in amusement. “Death is not the end, Colt of Earth,” he said. “But let us hope this man’s pursuers do not know that.”
“Let them come!” Colt said, and felt the cold, savage fury burn through him, as clean and as pure as a knife. The Venusian merely gestured, silently. He and Colt separated, one to each side of the door. “Ready?”
“Is this a gun?”
“It certainly appears to be one, yes.”
“Then I’m ready.”
They turned, together, and burst through the doors, outside.
The sun was low over the horizon, behind the clouds; it painted them fantastical shades of violet and red and oozing green. Directly ahead, Colt saw the enemy—just as the enemy saw them.
Colt rolled, firing. He preferred a projectile weapon. Beam weapons were fine for dry worlds, for the sterility of space. But on a swamp world such as Venus, Colt felt better with an honest, Earth-made gun, the sort that fired bullets. You knew where you were, with bullets. It was almost like being back home.