Halfway to the trapdoor pit the group halted again. MacDougal, who had taken the lead position, turned to them… “After this, each of you is on your own. So one last word. Don’t go down into the pit. Not even if you think we’ve won, not even if you believe the spider is dead. This species has been known to sham, and the floor of that trap is her home territory. Let her come to you, and don’t be afraid to run for it if things get too hot. The rest of us will try to draw her away from anyone who seems to be in trouble. And remember what I said: Don’t shoot at the carapace. You won’t penetrate it, and the ricochet could go anywhere. You’ll be a damned sight more dangerous to the rest of us than you will to her.”
His final words were interrupted by a shout from the black-clad simulacrum who had been detailed to keep watch on the trap. The thick lid was being pushed to one side. As they watched the great body of the spider heaved itself out and crouched on open ground.
“She’s going on the offensive,” shouted MacDougal. “Sooner than I expected. Scatter!”
His advice was unnecessary. The simulacra were already spilling away in all directions except toward the spider.
Luther Brachis took a quick look around him. He had worried that their approach to the trapdoor spider’s lair paid too little attention to good ground cover. Now the only place to hide was twenty paces off to his right, where a stand of grey-green moss sprouted hip-high. He ran that way, dived for cover, and rolled up to a kneeling position with his weapon at the ready.
The difference between the spider’s image in the briefing room and the arachnid herself was terrifying. The beast towered three times as high as his head, a gigantic armored tank that could move to the attack with unbelievable speed. Against that mass the weapon in his hands seemed useless. He could pump a hundred projectiles into that vast, glistening side, and have no effect at all.
The spider turned. Brachis had a perfect view of its broad abdomen and splayed legs as the cephalothorax swooped down on a magenta simulacrum and jerked it aloft. In the grip of the chelicerae, the pointed crushing appendages at the front of the spider’s maw, the simulacrum hung dwarfed and helpless. There was a cry of agony, and a projectile weapon dropped uselessly to the ground.
Two others had been foolish enough to run directly beneath the spider’s body. Brachis saw them firing upwards, pumping shots into the soft area of the genitals and the exposed ovipositor. The spider jerked and shuddered as the projectiles penetrated its body, and the two attackers cheered at each spasm and shouted encouragement to each other. They moved to the rear, to take more shots at point-blank range. Dougal MacDougal’s warning shout came too late. A spout of gossamer jetted suddenly from the spinnerets, enveloping both simulacra in an unbreakable net of fast-drying silk.
The spider took a rapid shuffle backward, ducked its cephalothorax close to the ground, and hoisted both the helpless attackers to grind them in its maw.
Brachis scanned the predator from chelicerae to ovipositor. From where he was kneeling he had a choice of three targets. He could aim at a leg, or at the pedicel that connected the abdomen to the cephalothorax, or he could shoot at one of the chelicerae. The legs were the easiest target. They were also the least effective one. The pedicel was a vital area, but it was heavily armored and it would need an exceptionally lucky shot to do any good.
That left the chelicerae. Brachis made up his mind and sighted his weapon. It bucked in his grip and the organ, severed near the base, dropped to the ground in front of the spider.
He moved to sight on the second chelicerae but there was no time for a shot. The spider swiveled to face its new attacker and came scuttling towards him across the pebbled ground. The maw gaped, wide enough to swallow him whole. Brachis recalled MacDougal’s dry comment, that no one would actually be eaten. Spiders did not ingest solid food. They pre-digested their victims by injecting enzymes, then sucked them dry. There was little comfort in MacDougal’s words. The maw looming up on Brachis was more than strong enough to crush him flat. He dropped behind the stand of moss and huddled motionless on the ground. There was a buzzing and a hissing overhead, and a monstrous shape blocked out the light. Brachis turned his head to look upwards. The vast abdomen was directly over him. He could see every detaiclass="underline" the dozen projectile wounds leaking blood and body fluids … the oozing nozzles of the spinnerets, still charged with silk … the colonies of mite and tick parasites, clinging to the coarse body bristles.
Then the spider had charged on. The air filled with a sweet scent of decay.
He rolled over, sat up, and looked around. How in the world were the Adestis manufacturers able to make simulacra that captured and transmitted smells?
But that question had to wait for another day. Brachis glanced to right and left. Two others must have dived for cover at the same moment as he had, and the spider had passed right over them, too. They were both lying motionless.
Still playing dead, even after the spider had gone. They were taking Dougal MacDougal’s advice a bit too seriously.
He hurried over and tapped one of them on the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get on with it or we’ll never be out of here.”
There was no reply. The simulacrum remained totally immobile. Brachis leaned closer, looking for the small green light between the shoulders that showed that the simulacrum was still occupied and in working order. The light was on. He went to the other motionless figure. That light was on, too.
Brachis squatted back on his heels, for the moment oblivious to the frantic battle that went on behind him. This whole thing was crazy. He was sure that the spider had missed all three of them. He had actually seen a blurred image of huge legs scrambling by, a good three paces from all of them. So why were the other two still lying here, just as though the spider had managed to put them out of action? And if they were out of action, why did the simulacra show they were not?
Brachis gave a startled growl of comprehension. He set his weapon to automatic, fired a blind volley at the spider’s belly, and at the same moment bit down hard on his rear molar control.
There was a dizzying moment of disorientation. Then he felt the Monitor headset covering his face. THAT IS THE END OF ADESTIS FOR YOU, said a metallic voice in his ear. REMAIN SEATED IF YOU WISH, BUT -
Brachis ripped the Monitor set off his head with one movement and stared around him.
He was still sitting in the same place in the Adestis battle chamber. Of the two dozen people who had embarked on the Adestis safari, half were already lolling in their seats with their headsets off. Their simulacra had been killed by the spider, and they were now experiencing the vicarious agony of their own deaths.
Another dozen still wore the Monitor sets — but three of them sat slumped forward in their restraining harnesses, their clothes drenched with blood. Brachis saw that their throats had been cut so deeply that the heads were almost severed.
He slapped at his release harness. Before he could rise to his feet a tall figure came looming over him. It was familiar. At the same time as his mind rejected recognition of that tall, cadaverous figure, a skinny arm brought something swinging in towards his unprotected neck. A bright ceremonial sword whistled through the air.
Brachis jerked his right arm upwards. There was a clean, meaty crunch. His hand, severed below the base of the thumb, flew out and fell on the floor on front of him. His uniform reacted even before he had time to feel pain. The shirt sensors recorded the sudden drop in blood pressure and activated a web of fibers in his right sleeve. The knit material on his right forearm tightened to form a tourniquet.