Free Dark Planet by Charles W. Sasser Page B

survives it.”
    “DRT-418 and DRT-420 did not return,” Maid pointed out, turning toward me. “But Blade went and returned several years ago.”
    I shrugged.
    “Do you believe there are evil spirits, Kadar San?”
    “Are there not stranger things on Earth and in Heaven, to coin an old, old Earth expression?”
    “I believe that in everything there are opposites,” she said. “For your right hand, there is a left. For the darkness, there is light. For every evil there is goodness.”
    I nodded. “The universe is kept in balance through opposites.”
    “How do you explain the Blobs? Are they somehow immune to the planet? Are they stronger than evil? They can’t be the counterbalance to it.”
    “More evil than evil?” I mused.
    Before we could explore the topic further, a disturbance broke out on the bridge. Atlas’ voice rose angrily.
    “You damned ape!”
    He sprang to his feet and rushed Gorilla, knocking the black man’s book from his hands. Gorilla charged back with a primordial roar. The two big men grappled like giants, locked together in combat. They crashed to the deck, grunting and yelling, kneeing, elbowing and gouging. Fortunately, they were unable to do much damage to each other in the confined space and in the ship’s reduced gravity field.
    Captain Amalfi and little Ferret rushed to break them apart, succeeding only after Ferret had been flung into a bank of monitors and Sergeant Shiva replaced him with his greater bulk and authority.
    “What the hell is the matter with the two of you?” the Captain demanded.
    Atlas looked befuddled, like he was emerging from sleepwalking. His face was flushed and bleeding from minor scratches. Gorilla shook his bald head to clear it.
    “I-I don’t know, Captain,” he murmured.
    “Gorilla, he … he …” Atlas stammered. “Gorilla, he …
looked
at me.”

C·H·A·P·T·E·R
 
TWELVE
DAY TWO
    H -Hour for insertion.
    “Suck it in, DRT-bags, it’s show time,” Sergeant Shiva announced.
    The crew donned pressurized space suits and helmets over our chameleon cammies and crawled on hands and knees, one at a time, through the airtight lock into the tiny shuttle pod and strapped ourselves into individual G-seats. Some of the seats were situated in front of the miniaturized control panel, where the Captain, as pilot, began switching toggles to start the undocking sequence. I heard a hydraulic whine. Panel lights began blinking.
    Sergeant Shiva entered last and secured the hatch before taking his place. The chamber went dark until the interior lights came on. The area was so cramped that the taller men slumped in their seats to prevent banging their helmets against the overhead, and if we moved otherwise we barked our elbows and knees against the surrounding bulkheads. We went into OPSEC silent running. Secure commo sets plugged into our helmets provided intercom.
    The craft was point-computerized for the fastest and most effective landing approach. It was designed to negotiate a low detection entry, morph into a glider configuration, dive in slow flight to the water, level out, and “control crash” into the sea where it became a submarine. All of which was computer initiated and controlled. After undocking, and until we landed in the water, passengers were mostly along for the ride, dependent upon a “pilot” constructed of microchips and electric micro energy.
    Because of our unfortunate historical roots in Indowy technology, Zentadon were less comfortable with machines and artificial intelligence than Humans. I was particularly uncomfortable with it and felt my muscles tensing and taa dripping into my system as Captain Amalfi activated the cycle that would fire the pod away from the Stealth and plunge us downward toward the Dark Planet. Keepers at the orphanage, bless their Zentadon souls, always said I had the heart of a poet. Poets were cautious of things you constructed to think for you.
    “This is going to get a bit hairy,” Captain Amalfi