This is a fan translation of Return to Deathworld (Возвращение в Мир Смерти) by the Russian science fiction author Ant Skalandis. This is an authorized sequel to Harry Harrison's Deathworld series, although it has never been published in English.

I claim no rights to the contents herein.

Chapter 6

They woke up in total darkness. It smelled damp, was very cold, and there wasn't enough air to take a full breath. Jason felt himself and discovered that the torn suit still had virtually all the necessary accessories. Even his gun was present. The first thing Jason did was turn on a flashlight. He saw Meta twitch next to him, while Trow sat up and looked around in confusion. His suit had suffered more than the others, and the metallized fabric was simply hanging off his body in tatters.

The space they were in was tiny, the rough floor smoothly transitioned into a ceiling that was just as rough. All that looked less like a prison cell and more like the cave of a wild animal. But shortly after that he was able to find a perfectly even slit that formed a regular oval — obviously a door. And that door started opening, as if backing away under Jason's gaze. The way it worked remained a mystery, as the doorway wasn't just freeing itself from the valve that was like a cork in a bottle but was also strangely expanding. The way a shutter parted in a camera. The eerie marvels were continuing. When one had no idea what laws the enemy was using, fighting them was pointless. And Jason didn't even try. He was just hoping to finally figure out, at least in general terms, what was happening. Then they might get a chance to get out of there. He wasn't seeing any such chance yet, so he was doing his best to avoid any active movement. Maybe he shouldn't have turned on the flashlight either. But since the light was already on, it would be even stupider to turn it off.

Jason waited patiently, fighting the same repulsive fear. It seemed to be a constant background noise now and no longer gave him a headache. Meta was in a state of semi-shock. It was probably for the best, at least she also wasn't planning any decisive actions in the very near future. He couldn't say the same about Trow.

Jason didn't have time to stop the young Pyrran scientist before he fired a blinding plasma stream at the expanding door. The reply were gleaming steel arms that burst into the cramped room. The manipulators—there were five or six of them—really did look like bony and extended human limbs with five-fingered hands. The steel arms quickly disarmed Trow, pulled the rest of the suit off him, lay him out on the floor, and immobilized him by pushing on the pressure points. After that, another arm appeared. This one had a middle finger that was as sharp as a scalpel, and it started cutting open the Pyrran's abdomen.

Trow screamed, but neither Jason nor Meta was able to so much as move a hand. It was like a childhood nightmare, and later, when recalling it, Jason couldn't explain whether it had been the same fear that had immobilized him or something else.

Meanwhile, the gleaming steel manipulator was pulling out Trow's internal organs one by one and passing it on a conveyor of identical hands to the open door. Trow was now wheezing. When the eerie scalpel had sectioned off the left side of the chest and was about to cut out the heart, Jason and Meta simultaneously got ahold of themselves and shot Trow in the head. There was no point in shooting at the steel arms or their owner. They'd already tried pouring fire into it on the surface. As for Trow… Poor Trow! They couldn't bear to watch the suffering of their friend. Also, they might have unwittingly not wanted the strange hands to take Trow's head, his brain. That really could have been dangerous.

Then the room seemed to expand from their shots, the weak glow from the walls that appeared made the flashlight unnecessary, and the same black figure appeared in the door gap instead of the manipulators that had receded along with Trow's remains. This time it was significantly smaller and looked more like the shadow of an ape: stooped, broad-shouldered, with a head that was guiltily pressed into its shoulders. Yes, that was the word — "guiltily" — that flashed into Jason's mind because the black figure no longer emitted fear. All the hatred of that mysterious creature seemed to have been used up on the poor Trow, and now this monster was standing in front of them and asking for forgiveness like a mischievous child.

It was enough to go crazy, and Jason, indeed at the threshold of insanity, shouted out a long phrase that consisted of nothing but the dirtiest expletives he'd picked up as a boy from spaceport maintenance workers.

The pitch-black ape suddenly started hooting, growling, and howling, getting shrillier with every passing second. Jason didn't immediately realize that it was simply trying to match his tone of voice. Then, after mastering the general audio range, the monstrosity began imitating separate words and, finally, echoed the entire phrase in its entirety. In a different situation, it might have been funny, but just then… No, Jason wasn't frightened either, but he was dreading the return of the fear. It was a familiar feeling for anyone who'd experienced a serious illness or wound — the anticipation of pain could be worse than the pain itself.

Meanwhile, the black monster continued experimenting with Jason's phrase, now reciting it in reverse in a rich theatrical baritone, first by groups of words, then by words, and finally by separate sounds. It was utter nonsense. Jason couldn't hold back and shouted, "Who are you?! What are you?!"

He deliberately worded the question as briefly as possible, unwilling to keep hearing the alien's linguistic exercises.

A long silence fell.

It heard me, Jason thought eagerly. It's thinking about what to answer.

But he'd started celebrating too soon.

"Who what you are, are what who you, what you who are, who are you what…" the now almost mechanical voice mumbled.

Jason groaned in desperation.

Meta's tear-stained face was unrecognizable. He'd never seen his Amazon like that before. Defeated, broken, poor, she wasn't even gripping the gun that was lying on her palm. Had logic won out? Unlikely. It was the alien horror that had been pressing on her all this time. Then what was allowing Jason to more or less retain self-control? He had to understand that, so that he could use it to save himself and Meta.

His thoughts were tripping over themselves, and he recalled how he used to like putting them in order. Cigarettes! Fortunately, his pack remained where he'd put it — in his left breast pocket. He saw in Meta's eyes that she wanted to, as usual, reproach his nasty habit, but even that was too much for the proud Pyrran at the moment.

Jason lit up, and their cramped prison cell grew brighter.

An interesting illusion, he thought. The world gets brighter when desires are satisfied.

It was so pleasant to breathe in fine tobacco smoke after so many minutes of inhuman tension.

How many minutes was that? he asked himself. And was it minutes? Maybe hours? Or even days?

He had absolutely no memory of how they'd ended up there. And it was pointless to ask Meta. There'd been his cabin, a breach in the wall, and… that was it. Then there were darkness and silence. Afterwards, there was the nightmare with Trow.

But it's fine now, a dumb, utterly unfounded thought came to him. It's going to be all right.

He suddenly realized that, having closed his eyes in pleasure from the first drag, he was still sitting with his eyes shut. Something wasn't letting him open them, some protective reflex. Then again, he wasn't afraid of anything anymore. There was another reason why he couldn't open his eyes. Someone was preparing a surprise for him, like a child on Christmas, and peeking wasn't allowed. It wasn't nice to peek. So he didn't, but he could already smell the scents of pine, oranges, and chocolate candy. He could breathe easily now, and even through his eyelids he could see that the room was now very bright.

It's time, he told himself and opened his eyes wide.

A smiling and confused Meta was looking at him.

"How did you manage to talk to it?"

"Me?.. It?.." Jason asked in bewilderment. "Where is it?"

"It left as soon as the light grew too bright," Meta explained. "But it did everything to make us comfortable."

"Indeed," Jason looked around in surprise.

He was almost done with his cigarette and was now looking for a place to dispose of the butt. After all, their prison cell now looked incredibly clean. The walls and the ceiling had smoothed out, the floor had bulged, forming something akin to comfortable and soft chairs. The door had taken on a more familiar shape and size and now had a handle on it. Most importantly, it was warm now, and a soft, slightly green, non-irritating light was shining from all directions.

Jason got to his feet and examined all the corners suspiciously. He remembered to glance at his watch too. Approximately three subjective hours had passed for him. He could only guess how much time had passed aboard the Argo, considering neither he nor Meta had the slightest idea where they were. Fine, first contact with the alien had been established. But something was still bothering Jason. Well, yes, the general incomprehension of the situation. But no, something else as well…

He remembered: the scent of Christmas, of pine and oranges. Jason sniffed the air. Of course, it wasn't the scent of pine or citrus, it was the smell of knockout gas. It was pleasant, like a lullaby, bringing with it memories of childhood… A known effect.

"Meta!" he shouted, spinning around. "Medikit! Now! Maximum dosage of an antinarcotic…"

But even Meta failed to do it in time. The suddenly rising concentration of gas slammed into their nostrils and immediately enveloped their minds in pink fog.