The Lani People by Jesse F. Bone (types of ebook readers txt) 📕

“You look pretty bushed, Doc. Maybe you’d better rest awhile.”

“And maybe it’s an emergency,” Kennon interrupted. “And probably it is because the staff can handle routine matters—so maybe you’d better show me where you keep the phone.”

* * *

“One moment please,” the Message Center operator said. There were a few clicks in the background. “Here’s your party,” she continued. “Go ahead, Doctor.”

“Kennon?” a nervous voice crackled from the receiver.

“Yes?”

“You’re needed out on Otpen One.”

“Who is calling—and what’s the rush?”

“Douglas—Douglas Alexander. The Lani are dying! It’s an emergency! Cousin Alex’ll skin us alive if we let these Lani die!”

Douglas! Kennon hadn’t thought of him since the one time they had met in Alexandria. That was a year ago. It seemed much longer. Since the Boss-man had exiled his cousin to that bleak rock to the east of Flora there had been no word of him. And now—he laughed a sharp bark of humorless annoyance—Douglas couldn’t have timed it better if he had tried!

“All right,” Kennon said. “I’ll come. What seems to be the trouble?”

“They’re sick.”

“That’s obvious,” Kennon snapped. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be calling. Can’t you tell me any more than that?”

“They’re vomiting. They have diarrhea. Several have had fits.”

“Thanks,” Kennon said. “I’ll be right out. Expect me in an hour.”

“So you’re leaving?” Al asked as he cradled the phone.

“That’s a practitioner’s life,” Kennon said. “Full of interruptions. Can I borrow your jeep?”

“I’ll drive you. Where do you want to go?”

“To the hospital,” Kennon said. “I’ll have to pick up my gear. It’s an emergency all right.”

“You’re a tough one,” Al said admiringly. “I’d hate to walk five kilos in this heat without a hat—and then go out on a call.”

Kennon shrugged. “It’s not necessarily toughness. I believe in doing one job at a time—and my contract reads veterinary service, not personal problems. The job comes first and there’s work to do.”

Copper wasn’t in sight when Kennon came back to the hospital—a fact for which he was grateful. He packed quickly, threw his bags into the jeep, and took off with almost guilty haste. He’d contact the Hospital from the Otpens. Right now all he wanted was to put distance between himself and Copper. Absence might make the heart grow fonder, but at the moment propinquity was by far the more dangerous thing. He pointed the blunt nose of the jeep toward Mount Olympus, set the autopilot, opened the throttle, and relaxed as best he could as the little vehicle sped at top speed for the outer islands. A vague curiosity filled him. He’d never been on the Otpens. He wondered what they were like.

* * *

Otpen One was a rocky tree-clad islet crowned with the stellate mass of a Class II Fortalice. But this one wasn’t like Alexandria. It was fully manned and in service condition.

“Airboat!” a voice crackled from the dashboard speaker of the jeep, “Identify yourself! You are being tracked.”

Kennon quickly flipped the IFF switch. “Dr. Kennon, from Flora,” he said.

“Thank you, sir. You are expected and are clear to land. Bring your vehicle down in the marked area.” A section of the roof turned a garish yellow as Kennon circled the building. He brought the jeep in lightly, setting it carefully in the center of the area.

“Leave your vehicle,” the speaker chattered. “If you are armed leave your weapon behind.”

“It’s not my habit to carry a gun,” Kennon snapped.

“Sorry, sir—regulations,” the speaker said. ‘“This is S.O.P.”

Kennon left the jeep and instantly felt the probing tingle of a search beam. He looked around curiously at the flat roof of the fortress with its domed turrets and ugly snouts of the main battery projectors pointing skyward. Beside him, the long metal doors of a missile launcher made a rectangular trace on the smooth surface of the roof. Behind him the central tower poked its gaunt ferromorph and durilium outline into the darkening sky bearing its crown of spiderweb radar antennae turning steadily on their gimbals covering a vast hemisphere from horizon to zenith with endless inspection.

From the base of the tower a man emerged. He was tall, taller even than Kennon, and the muscles of his body showed through the tightness of his battle dress. His face was harsh, and in his hands he carried a Burkholtz magnum—the most powerful portable weapon mankind had yet devised.

“You are Dr. Kennon?” the trooper asked.

“I am.”

“Your I.D., please.”

Kennon handed it over and the big man scanned the card with practiced eyes. “Check,” he said. “Follow me, sir.”

“My bags,” Kennon said.

“They’ll be taken care of.”

Kennon shrugged and followed the man into the tower. A modern grav-shaft lowered them to the ground floor. They passed through a gloomy caricature of the Great Hall in Alexandria, through an iris, and down a long corridor lined with doors.

A bell rang.

“Back!” the trooper said. “Against the wall! Quick! Into the doorway!”

“What’s up?”

“Another practice alert.” The trooper’s voice was bored. “It gets so that you’d almost wish for a fight to relieve the monotony.”

A trooper and several Lani came down the corridor, running in disciplined formation. Steel clanged on steel as they turned the corner and moments later the whine of servos came faintly to their ears. From somewhere deep in the pile a rising crescendo of generators under full battle load sent out vibrations that could be sensed rather than heard. A klaxon squawked briefly. There was another clash of metal, and a harsh voice boomed through the corridors. “Fourteen seconds. Well done. Secure stations!”

The trooper grinned. “That ties the record,” he said. “We can go now.”

The corridor ended abruptly at an iris flanked by two sentries. They conferred briefly with Kennon’s guide, dilated the iris, and motioned for Kennon to enter. The pastel interior of the modern office was a shocking contrast to the gray ferromorph corridors outside.

Douglas Alexander was standing behind the desk. He was much the same. His pudgy face was haggard with uncertainty and his eyes darted back and forth as his fingers caressed the knobby grip of a small Burkholtz jutting from a holster at his waist. There were new, unpleasant furrows between his eyes. He looked older and the