The Dark Wheel

Alex stepped away, heart beating, blood rushing to his head. Compound eyes, jointed limbs, head antennae, double cutting jaws…

Thargoids!

Here, on a space station!

Thargoids were deadly. Thargoid spacers had their fear-glands removed, and were considered to be the most effective and potent of humankind's enemies.

The bounty for killing a Thargoid was huge, and for capturing and delivering the juvenile form, the Tharglet, to any Space Navy research centre, even greater.

What were they doing here?

The Thargoids chatted together and watched Alex coldly. Alex noticed that each had an appendage resting on its thoracic plate, where they holstered their hand-lasers.

'Back off,' a voice whispered, and Alex turned. McGreavy stood there blinking through his deformities. Alex had not grasped how short the man was; he only came up as far as Alex's chest.

'Thargoids…' he whispered.

'Bullshit,' McGreavy said, and dragged Alex away. 'They're Oresrians, and the one thing that can make an Oresrian deadly is being confused the way you've just confused them, with their deadly enemies the Thargoids. Check the thorax markings and the shape of the fourth joint on each hind leg before you jump to conclusions again…'

Alex followed McGreavy gratefully, away from the whispering insects.

McGreavy's warehouse was small, cramped and smelly. Alex followed him through into the dimly lit interior, and felt a pang of discomfort as the grotesque little man closed the doors behind them. In several large, transparent crates, peculiar creatures shuffled and murmured, excited at the sudden disturbance.

'Are these what you have to offer?' Alex asked in a low voice. McGreavy chuckled. He walked over to the nearest crate and brought up the light, to illuminate more clearly the odd creature within.

Alex stared. The creature was vaguely familiar, but the memory refused to come. It had a thick shell, patterned neatly, and limb holes at regular intervals around this bony house. For the moment the beast was securely hidden within its protective environment.

'What are they?'

'Mymurths,' McGreavy said. 'If they seem familiar it's because they're astonishingly like an animal of Old Earth: the tortus, as I believe it was called. These things have two heads, four legs, and two anterior organelles that seem to serve no purpose. They're named for the planet of their origin.

Mymurth. But you'll be shipping them to Cirag. The Ciragians have a special relationship with the Mymurth.'

'They eat them?' Alex guessed.

They worship them,' McGreavy corrected with a twitch of his flimsy lips.

'Worship?'

McGreavy nodded. 'To the Cirag race, the Mymurth are the reincarnations of gods. A particular sort of god, called an 'avatar'. The animal form of a god. The Mymurth look very like the legendary avatars of Ciragian religion and mythology. They're from another world, of course, and have no connection with Cirag at all. But any Ciragian family will give a small fortune to have a living Mymurth in its temple.'

Alex was fascinated and intrigued. The bulky creatures moved sluggishly about, their fleshy pink limbs emerging from the shells to propel them through the slush that filled their cages. 'How much is a small fortune?'

'Each of these will fetch a hundred credits. Maybe more. And I have twenty-eight. Twenty-eight hundred credits. That'll buy you all the shields and weaponry you need…'

'Why not trade them yourself?'

McGreavy laughed sourly. 'With my record? You must be joking. No thanks. It takes me half a standard year to get a pen full of these things, and Rafe Zetter usually has a customer for me, someone like yourself who needs credit fast, to perform a certain act… of violence…'

Alex found himself staring at the bright eyes of the hideous face before him. He was no longer overly conscious of the deformities, or of the pulsating life that existed just below the man's skin. He was aware only of the fact that he wanted — needed — to trust this acquaintance of Rafe, and yet didn't.

'Make me an offer I can't refuse,' McGreavy said, and hard reality hit Alex again.

He said, 'Three hundred.'

McGreavy chuckled and shook his head. 'The idea is that you make the profit. You won't do that offering me three times what you're likely to make for a Mymurth.'

'I meant… three hundred for the lot.'

For a second McGreavy stood in silence, staring at the younger man. 'Is this a joke?'

'No joke. I have three hundred credits in the world. You've got the wrong boy, McGreavy.'

'You just sold a cargo load of Shanaskilk fur!'

'And bought weapons and a fuel scoop. I bought the furs at a loss to beginwith. I'm no trader, McGreavy. I'm a combateer. I did tell you.' Alex looked down at the Mymurth. 'I'll buy eight off you. How's that?'

'I sell the lot, or not at all. I want fifteen hundred credits for them.

Rafe said you'd come through…'

'Rafe was wrong. Shift them through some other sucker…'

Alex turned to go. McGreavy's whimper of panic was almost funny to hear.

'I save these things up for Rafe. Who else is going to trade in Mymurth?'

'I'll take ten off your hands, for three hundred credits. The more you stall, the less I'll offer.'

Alex was enjoying this.

'I need to shift the lot. To Cirag.'

Where was Cirag, Alex wondered. It was not a name that rang any bells.

'Then you'll have to trust me,' he said. 'Like you trust Rafe. I'll give you a down payment of three hundred against one third of what I get at Cirag. I'll come back and pay you off.'

McGreavy stared at him in silence; the man's breathing was laboured. 'One third will hardly cover my outlay. Fifty percent.'

'Forty percent,' Alex said. 'And no further bargaining.'

The Mymurth shuffled anxiously. McGreavy shrugged with defeat. He summoned the vid-witness, and the two men signed the agreement. Twenty-eight Mymurth for sale to Cirag, forty percent of the proceeds to be returned to Pat McGreavy at South City, Coriolis 7, Xezaor.

If McGreavy was right, and the money was forthcoming from the religious nutcases on Cirag…

Where was Cirag?

… the Nemesis could be equipped with beam lasers, extra missiles, extra shield energy units, and an energy bomb, and the hunt could begin in earnest.

Alex returned to his ship to report on the day's trading.

Chapter seven

They had been set up, of course.

And in a way, they went into the set-up gamely. Alex checked up on the planet Cirag and discovered that it was not listed with the Official Planetary Register. That was the reason for its unfamiliar name. Not to be registered was not in itself unusual. Only inhabited worlds were listed.

There were millions of inhabited star systems of use to miners, traders and explorers, which could only be located by reference to the Galactic Gazatteer of Worlds.

But Cirag was inhabited by intelligent beings.

That meant just one thing: Cirag was an independent world, had refused Federation status, was dangerous, probably deadly, most likely the haven for freebooters and criminals, and almost certainly a system in which the general principle of 'laser first, talk second' was applied.

We've got to be crazy…' Elyssia said.

Alex agreed. 'Could Cirag be Raxxla? Could it be the world my father mentioned before he died?'

'No way. Cirag is Cirag, and Raxxla — if it exists — is in another Galaxy; you know the legends. Cirag is just a hell-hole of a world, by the sounds of it. Give the guy his turtles back. Let's trade life-bones.'

But Alex said no. Something about the whole deal, about the way he felt manipulated, guided, had whet his appetite for this venture. There was good money to be made, and the Nemesis could finally equip itself to perfection.