Colt pushed himself up, alarmed. The mud clung to his skin. Footprints on the ground. He scrambled up the slope from the river, hands and feet clawing for purchase. He came over the rise when a hand grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and forced him down. “Hush, you fool!”
Colt lay bellydown in the mud, next to Sharol.
And saw!
It rose out of the bank, more immense than anything Colt could have imagined. What vanished race had once possessed such advanced technology as to erect this temple complex? Vast stone pillars rose high into the sky, each the size and height of many men; giant statues were erected amidst them, of fantastical, vanished beings, the Shambleau and the Thag and the Nameless. And towering above all, a chain of vast pyramids, starkly illuminated against the violet sky, amidst which dark shapes flittered and fled, rising and soaring through the air.
“What is this place?” Colt whispered, awed. But Sharol’s reply never came. In its stead there came the unmistakable sound of multiple energy guns, all charging in unison. Colt glanced wildly sideways. Dark shapes rose all around them, enclosing them in a trap from which there was no escape.
“What is this place?” It was a voice with the twang of Earth in it, a rich and melodious voice, in which amusement and contempt intermingled. A small, round shape stepped forward, revealing itself as a small, rotund man with round glasses and a soft, not unpleasant face. “It is mine.”
Beside Colt, Sharol was reaching desperately for a gun. Colt grabbed his hand, stopped him. They were outnumbered and outgunned.
The small man laughed. There was something familiar about him, about his face and voice, his mannerisms … Colt’s eyes opened wide as realization dawned, old memory returned. “Van Huisen …,” he said.
He knew that name—that face! The mining magnate, the rich playboy son of an Earth dynasty who had become the worst despot and warlord the solar system had ever seen. The Warlord of Jupiter, they had called him, and the Butcher of Europa. No wonder those ReplicAnt soldiers had seemed familiar—it was Van Huisen who had employed them, in his insane war to become the emperor of the Jovean moons!
But surely the man was dead? He had been indicted for countless crimes postmortem, including for xenocide (against the peaceful ocean-dwellers of Europa), his army scattered, his ReplicAnt soldiers destroyed. Of his Five Year Reign, nothing remained, no statue, no memorial. The most evil man in the solar system, they had called him. Surely, surely he was dead?
“Van Huisen? Yes, yes … I remember that name,” the man in the round glasses said, thoughtfully. “And who might you be?”
“Kill him, Colt! Kill him!” Sharol was shaking, sweat poured down his face: Colt had never seen him this way. He restrained his friend as best he could, afraid for his life. “Ah,” Van Huisen said, smiling pleasantly. “You have heard of me?” He turned back to Colt, shaking his head. “Venusians,” he said. “Such an emotional race, don’t you think? They are like children, they need the firm hand of an adult to guide them. I could use you, yes. One does not waste labor. Bring them,” he ordered his ReplicAnt, sharply. Colt and Sharol were pulled up to their feet. They were led away, deep into the temple complex, into the shadows of the pyramids.
5.
IN THAT WAR, COLT WAS BUT A YOUNG SOLDIER. HE STILL REMEMBERED landing on Europa, after the massacre. Remembered the corpses of the gentle, whalelike creatures, stranded on the ice, their enormous eyes unseeing. Once Europa had sang with the mind-song of its peaceful, telepathic inhabitants.
But the war had turned that icy moon into a wasteland.
6.
A HATRED HE HAD THOUGHT FORGOTTEN, BURIED DEEP, FROZEN, had erupted in him. Captive, helpless, he and Sharol were led into the complex. From within, all signs of grandeur were gone, and he could see the place for what it truly was: a ruin.
Make no mistake: man has conquered space before. And out of what strange, vanished race did this place come? Atlantis? Mu, of which only hints and myths remain?
Now the jungle encroached freely into the complex; the trees sent roots to break the stones, upend the statues. Once it must have sat on a raised plateau, but the ground had eroded and the river had come in, swamping the once-grand courtyard, turning the earth into fetid pools of stagnant water. They trudged through and around the main pyramid.
Beyond, an enormous part-lake, part-swamp spread out as far as the eye could see. The water reached up to the lowest level of the pyramids, leaving a black line along the ancient stone. All around the shore, amidst the pyramids, stood Venusian swampmen and -women. Colt heard Sharol’s indrawn breath, the hiss of his anger and disgust.
Slaves.
They were slaves.
Chains linked the Venusians’ legs, binding them together. Scattered among them were armed ReplicAnts, keeping order. The linked chains of slaves were sent into the water, wading, deeper and deeper. Lights hovered over the surface, and Colt saw a massive, floating platform, on which a giant crane stood, extending far over the water. Divers came and went from the platform.
It was a salvage operation.
“What is under there?” Colt said. Van Huisen smiled in evident satisfaction. “Treasure, boy!” he said. “Treasure the likes of which the solar system has not seen in aeons! And you, boys, will help me recover it.”
Roog …
“What was that?”
For a moment, Van Huisen looked uncomfortable, confused. Then the glint returned to his eyes, and Colt realized, with a cold, sickening feeling, that the man was quite, quite insane.
“Now get to work!” Van Huisen roared. The ReplicAnts dragged Colt and Sharol toward the nearest chain gang. Chains were fastened to their feet. A ReplicAnt overseer flicked an energy whip over them with casual contempt, and Sharol screamed as a strip of skin was burned clean off his back. Colt shuffled along with the Venusians. Into the shallows of the water, then deeper. What they were searching for, he didn’t know. He knew, only, that they must find it—or die trying.
7.
ROOG …
8.
HOW LONG THEY HAD BEEN THERE, COLT DIDN’T KNOW. HE had lost track of the passage of time. The voices were the worst, after a while. The incessant murmuring of the mad voice in the lake, calling, always calling to them to bring it out. Roog. Roog!
It was need and demand, hunger and hate, loathing and desire. It was a command, and they could do nothing but obey. They slept fitfully, and, rarely, were fed a thin gruel. Van Huisen and his ReplicAnt soldiers had enslaved the swampmen of the nearby villages and now ranged farther and farther, returning each day with new captives. Roog! It was a weapon, it was a prayer: in time, it almost became Colt’s sole reason to live.
Almost. But not quite. For he was not alone. Sharol was with him, Sharol of the warm skin and the easy laugh, Sharol of the quick draw: they were partners. And the treasure would be theirs, and revenge with it. They just had to bide their time.
Colt was not the only Earthman in the salvage site. There were others there, and Martians, and the men of half a dozen other moons and planets. How they had come to be there he did not know. They were the dregs of the solar system, easily missed, easily lost. And every day he watched them give their lives to the swamp, and with each agonized death, each beating or drowning, he could feel the thing in the swamp grow stronger, hungrier, and heard its call echoing louder in his mind: Roog!
“It is near,” he heard Sharol say, as though from far away. They were standing on the floating platform, illuminated by the harsh glare of floodlights. “It is rising.”
“Yes,” Colt said, and, “Yes.”