1899- Journey to Mars

“You will come. Master Dizang commands it.”

“Well now,” Bixie said. “Tell your master you had to have some of Miss Bixie’s special brew first.”

Bixie glanced at Billy and he nodded.

She slid the belt off of the pot, stepped forward and she removed the lid. A thick, greenish fog poured from the kettle and spread out and away into the space station beyond in a layer head height.

The five Conklins in front of them began to sway on their feet. The lead Conklin vomited at his feet violently.

“Good God,” Pat exclaimed. “This isn’t going to be pretty.”

Each Conklin began throwing up. Behind them the crowd began holding their stomachs and doubling over.

“Gas!” a Conklin at the back shouted. “Let’s get ‘em!”

Those at the back surged forward onto the ramp, stepping on and over their collapsing brethren. As they ran up onto the cargo ramp, Billy fired his first shot. Pat fired and began fanning the hammer back as quickly as he could.

Ekka and Ian fired their JPM pistols and dozens of Jonathan Conklins perished in a grisly carnage.

“Mowing wheat!” Carter shouted, but his voice was drowned out by the cacaphanous barrage.

Many of the Conklins died while retching, or perished under the press of the bodies on top of them.

The Argent crew did not cease until, one by one, their weapons ran out of bullets. The few Conklins still alive of the hundred moaned and writhed in a tangle of bodies.

There was silence for a moment outside the Argent. Then someone turned a fan on somewhere and the green fog ran off in a long stream.

Footsteps came from outside their view from the cargo bay.

A Conklin stood there, looking down on all the dead and dying Conklins.

“I’m not cleaning up this mess,” he said.

There were more footsteps. One by one a few hundred more Jonathan Conklin clones filled the space around the Argent.

“Surrender,” one said. “Put down your weapons. You will not be harmed.”

Billy looked at Ekka, who nodded. He looked at Bixie.

“Dis be not our dyin’ place,” she said.

“All right,” Billy said. He unbuckled his gunbelt and let it fall to the deck. “Let’s go see what this is about.”

[ 41 ]

“The prisoners are aboard, Master Dizang,” the mort stopped behind the Chinaman and stated.

“Good,” the man said, and swiveled to face the mort. “Bring them. Signal to Zhong Kui on Mars that there will be no disruption of our plans. Tell him that we have arrested Billy The Kid and his outlaw gang, and will be returning them to the British for interrogation.”

“The British?” the mort asked. “But Master, I thought they were to be given to the Russians. That was the plan—”

Dizang raised the pistol and fired. The mort crumpled to the metal deck.

After a moment he pulled a speaking tube toward him and spoke. “Send me another mort—one that will obey, as opposed to question. Instruct him to bring a mop. I do not want our guests slipping on mort blood.”

“Yes, Master,” the reply came. “At once.”

“Bring the prisoners to me.”