“These are your choices,” said the leader of the guards to the four condemned men. “Only one item per prisoner.”

Clyde Smallow took a long look over the three tables and two racks set up in the center of the domed room. His clothes were soaked with sweat, and his hands kept fidgeting. He chewed his lower lip, he breathed heavily, and his eyes raced.

On the racks: spears, lances, halberds, poleaxes, tridents, and pikes. On the tables: long swords, short swords, rapiers, claymores, sabres, scimitars, katanas, falchions, cutlasses, knives, daggers, dirks, kris, kindjals, machetes, scythes, spiked maces, morning stars, scepters, a crowbar, a long chain, a metallic glove sporting venomous spikes, axes, pickaxes, hammers, and sledges.  There were steel nunchaku, a set of throwing stars, garrote wire, barbed whips, torch whips, poison whips, freeze whips, bolas, and a metal crossbow with a quiver of darts. Revolvers, pistols, shotguns, rifles, submachine guns, all with extra ammunition. A flame thrower. A harpoon gun. A ray gun. Laser pistols. Freeze pistols. A bandolier with six or seven grenades. A set of three land mines. And a dark box labeled “Electromagnetic Field Generator.” Each weapon bore a tag naming it and, if necessary, explaining its operation.

“You are not in competition for weapons,” the guard said after the four men had looked over the arsenal. “If the same weapon is requested by two or more of you, spare ones are available. Choosing will be in twenty minutes; you are to stay here, and may confer among yourselves, until then.”

“And don’t forget what you’ve been told: There is only one weapon effective when facing the Nemesis.”

* * *

Clyde Smallow, private eye, was in a dark mood. A former badge from the Capital on planet Rhodos, he knew a few things about law and order, crime and punishment. But it didn’t take him his badge to recognize a damned ridiculous justice system when he saw one. The Nemesis? Were they kidding him? What the hell was that?

He’d been in a few tight spots before… but this one was real trouble. It was just his luck. Of all the backward, backwater planets to get arrested on, this one had to be the most idiotic of all. What’s its number again? he wondered. Merope… V? The one ruled by that inbred Patriarch who spends half of his income on surveillance and security, and the other half on his harem? Smallow was supposed to be on a rocket by now, on his way to Sadira IV to look into the strangulation murder of an heiress to a cybernetics fortune.

So much for this planet as a good place to get drunk for the night on the way to a job. It had only been a bar fight: some asshole had run into him, and he’d shoved the guy back, a few words had been exchanged, one thing had led to another… It’s not like he’d killed the guy. He was pretty sure, anyway. Truth be told, Smallow might have gotten the worse of it, since right now his left cheek was swollen and ached like all get out.

He had managed to stagger back to his hotel without further incident. But his altercation and his walk home must have been caught by the ubiquitous cameras and eye-drones on this world, because the next thing Smallow had known after falling asleep, he was on his stomach on the floor of his room being handcuffed.

And on top of it all – even after the trip to the courthouse, the speedy kangaroo charade they had put him through, the confiscation of his effects, the changing into the green tunic and trousers and sandals, and then spending the wee hours of the morning in a stuffy holding cell with these three other guys – Smallow still had an awful hangover.

But there was no winding back the clock. There was only one punishment for those convicted of a violent transgression on Merope V – and he was facing it.

* * *

“It’s just a goddamn crapshoot,” Olon was saying. He was a lanky man with long hair and an artfully curled mustache. Olon’s offense, as Smallow had learned during the four prisoners’ conversation in their cell, had been striking his girlfriend in the hallway of their apartment building. “That’s all, a roll of the dice. That ‘Nemesis’ could be anything. How are we supposed to choose?” Olon looked up at the ceiling of the Dome – as the large room was called – toward the lighting fixtures, then stood up from his folding chair. He wrapped his arms around himself and paced to and fro.

“I’ll tell you what’s really going on,” said Gorvin, a stout man with a nervous demeanor who spoke rapidly. Gorvin had been arrested for attempted armed robbery of a bank. He’d worn a mask – but he hadn’t counted on a brave customer pulling it off his head from behind, then running out the door. Gorvin’s two accomplices, their identities still safe but sensing that the crowd of customers was growing bold, quickly abandoned him.

“This is all just a sick game they like to play,” Gorvin said. “The Patriarch and his cronies are probably watching us on their screens right now, yukking it up. ‘The poor fools actually think they have a chance.’ This is entertainment for them. I’m telling you, there is no Nemesis – and I don’t believe for a minute any of those guns on the table actually work, either. They’ll just bring us in one by one and blast our heads off. It’s worse than a crapshoot. It’s hopeless.”

“You don’t know that,” said Mortimer, the balding, middle-aged man who sat in the chair to Smallow’s right. “Why are you so sure it’s hopeless?”

Gorvin bristled. He leaned towards Mortimer and raised a hand, almost making a fist. “Listen, you. What do you know about it? You’re just an off-worlder. Me, I’ve been hearing about the Dome and this supposed Nemesis my whole life. I’ve been going over this stuff in my head my whole life. And I’m telling you, it’s all a charade. Why send some monster at us when they could just shoot us?”

“Well, why make up the monster in the first place, if it doesn’t exist?” said Mortimer. Smallow puzzled over the man – his face and voice seemed somehow familiar.

“To help keep us scared!” said Gorvin. 

“Men with guns aren’t scary enough?” said Mortimer.

Gorvin scowled, trembling visibly. “Not to me. Not to most of us. The Patriarch knows he and his henchmen are hated – and outnumbered. He knows the people have weapons, lots of ‘em. So he has to make up these stories about these monsters he could unleash if he ever – ”

“Hey, Olon, Gorvin, tell me,” said Smallow, waving a hand, “has anyone been known to survive this ordeal?”

Gorvin shrugged. “We don’t know. The rumors say that people are always arrested in bed, at night. The ordeal – if that’s what it is – always happens in the early morning. But as far as anyone surviving, I’ve never heard a word.”

Smallow rubbed his chin. “Well, that’s not good. I mean, people would talk if they got out alive, wouldn’t they?”

“No, they wouldn’t,” said Gorvin, shaking his head. “A single word that you escaped the Dome – if a bug picked it up, that would mean death by the next day. Your family, too. No trial, nothing. Just abduction in the night, then God knows what way of killing you.”

Smallow rubbed his aching cheek. He looked behind him, over to the eight guards dressed in teal uniforms who surrounded the tables and racks of weapons. He would have liked nothing more than to grab one of the maces and brain each one of the guards in turn, but he knew eight laser blasts would strike his chest the moment he touched a weapon.

“Let’s go over what we know,” said Smallow.

“Not very much,” said Olon, returning to his seat.

Mortimer was staring at the wall. “Why do you think the whole building’s made of plastic?” he said.

Smallow looked around. He hadn’t spent time thinking about it, but he had noticed the same thing: the cell in which he had been locked with the others, the halls through which they’d been conducted, the large domed room they were in now – all the walls and ceilings and floors and fixtures were made of plastic.

Olon shrugged. “To save on building costs? Can’t see how it matters.”

Smallow, remembering something, turned around and squinted at the guards. He turned back to the others.

“Those guards have metal chains wrapped around their waists,” he said.

“So what?” said Gorvin.

Smallow sighed. “I don’t know. Seems strange… Like I said, let’s go over what we know.”

“We know we’re dead,” said Gorvin. “What else is there to say?”

Smallow suppressed a surge of anger at the stout man. “We know only one of the weapons is going to work against the Nemesis,” he said. Gorvin rolled his eyes. Olon was staring at the floor. 

“We also know that the Nemesis, whatever it is, will probably be large enough to block that passageway.” Smallow turned and pointed behind him, past the tables and the guards, to a tunnel in the side of the Dome opposite the door through which the condemned had been conducted a few minutes earlier. The head guard had explained to the prisoners that the tunnel led to a small exit, and freedom. A prisoner did not have to kill the Nemesis – only escape from it. But that would be difficult, since the monster, or whatever it was, would be entering the Dome through the same passageway that offered freedom – released from a holding area, through a side-door.

“Stands to reason,” Olon replied to Smallow. “Either that, or it’s something that could outrun any of us.”

“It could be anything, really,” said Mortimer. “Maybe it’s not even really a monster or an animal. Maybe it’s a robot. Maybe it’s a giant wearing a suit of laser armor.” 

“It’s a guy with a gun,” said Gorvin. He pointed to the guards. “It’s them.”

“If it is,” said Smallow, “then you’re right, we’re dead, and nothing we say to one another will make any difference. But if you’re wrong, then I sure as hell don’t want to have wasted time putting up with you when we could have been figuring out what the right weapon is.”

“So let’s hear it!” snapped Gorvin. “What do you think this weapon is that’s going to save you? Do you think you’re actually being given a chance here? Do you know what goes on on this planet? No! You don’t know what kind of a sadist is in charge here.” The man’s eyes were bulging and his teeth were bared.

Smallow simply hissed a curse at the man and turned to Olon. “Look, let’s get to the point. I think it’s the field generator.”

“The box?” said Olon.

“Right. Think about it: it’s unique among all the weapons. Nothing else can disable electronic machinery. And they said only one weapon will be effective. If it’s anything else, then another weapon would be effective, too. I mean, the grenades are explosive, but so are the land mines. The spiked glove is poisonous, but so are some of the whips.”

“What about the flame-thrower?” said the lanky man.

“There are also torch whips,” said Smallow. “Same kind of effect on the victim.”

“But it’s not a given that any weapon necessarily works,” said Mortimer.

The private eye gestured towards the tables. “You really think all of those swords and axes and what-not don’t work?”

“It’s possible they all have flaws and weak points,” said Mortimer. “You know, hidden fractures, dull blades, loose handles. And maybe some of them only look like they’re made of metal.”

Smallow shook his head. “I know about weapons. I used to be a cop, and before that, I was in the 54^th Rhodian Rifles. I studied at the Capital Military Spire. I didn’t see any flaws with the weapons.”

“How good a look did they really give us?” said Mortimer, indicating the guards.

“Look,” said Smallow, “your logic depends on all of the weapons save one – each and every dagger and hammer and all the rest, except for one of them – being faulty somehow. I can’t see that.”

“But your position depends on the Nemesis being some kind of a machine or robot,” said Mortimer.

“And that’s what I think it is,” said Smallow. “Why not?”

There was a pause. Interjected Olon: “Do you know how rare robots are here?” 

For a moment, Smallow was unsure what to say. “Maybe there aren’t many,” he finally managed, “but why couldn’t the Patriarch keep some? He’s rich, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he’s rich,” said Olon. He smoothed his curled mustache between his fingers. “I mean, he’s got his mansion and women and all that stuff. But he doesn’t like robots. Doesn’t trust them at all. He’s even put restrictions on what kinds can be on the planet. And do you know how much it would cost him to keep a killer robot up and running, day in, day out? To pay the people that could keep it working? This is a poor planet, Mr. Smallow. Poorest one you’re ever likely to visit. The Patriarch’s security officers work for two meals a day and a bare room to sleep in. Where’s the money coming from?” Olon shrugged. “And this ain’t the only Dome, either.”

Smallow leaned back and folded his arms. He huffed and looked off between Olon and Gorvin, thinking.

“Let’s just ask ourselves what the most likely answer is,” said Mortimer. He had a gentle, patient way of speaking that to Smallow seemed eerily composed, given the situation. “It’s probably one of the larger, fiercer animals that inhabit this planet – this continent, particularly. The Patriarch wouldn’t pay to have off-world creatures shipped in when he could just trap some at home. Especially when Merope V has so many dangerous species.”

“Hey… now we’re getting somewhere,” said Smallow. “Go on.”

“Ten minutes!” called the head guard. Gorvin flinched. He stared straight ahead, his face ghostly pale.

Mortimer leaned forward. “Most of the large species on Xandulia are heavily armored. They live out in the swamps and forests, in the wilderness. Most of them look like Earth’s arthropods – only larger, I mean. They resemble millipedes, beetles, scorpions, pseudo-scorpions, those sorts of creatures. Some look a bit more like crabs or lobsters or crayfish. But they all have very thick armor.” Mortimer turned back to look at the arsenal. “I don’t think any of those firearms or ranged weapons could penetrate them. The explosives probably wouldn’t do much good, either.”

“How do you know so much about this stuff?” said Smallow. “You’re an off-worlder like I am.”

“Zoology’s a hobby of mine,” said Mortimer. “Invertebrates especially.”

“We’ve got some invertebrates running this planet, I’ll tell you that much,” said Olon.

Mortimer smiled. “I’m not saying I’m an expert. But the reason I came here for a few weeks was to gather some specimens for my collection back home on Mars. Small species, of course. Mostly the descendants of moths, dragonflies, butterflies – “

“But if guns won’t work against those things you were talking about, what the hell should we use?” said Olon.

“The swords, maybe,” said Mortimer. “Or a polearm with a very flat, thin spearhead. Something you could slip through a chink between plates of armor.”

“But there are lots of swords and spears over there,” said Olon. “And only one weapon’s gonna work.”

“Like I said before,” said Mortimer, “most of those weapons are probably faulty.”

“God dammit!” Gorvin yelled. He began mumbling and sobbing, hiding his face.

“Calm down,” snapped Smallow. “Focus. It’s your only chance of surviving.”

“Let’s not waste anymore breath on him,” said Mortimer.

“Forget all this,” said Olon angrily. “Screw your zoology and crabs and pseudo-whatevers. Swords are for suckers – I’m using the ray gun. I’ve used that model before and I trust it.”

“The rays from that model were calibrated specifically to damage the human cellular structure,” said Smallow. “You don’t know if the gun’s going to have any effect on… whatever it is we’re facing.”

Olon grumbled. He stood up and approached the array of weapons. Smallow and Mortimer followed. The guards kept a careful eye on all three men.

Olon stared at the ray gun intently. “I’ll take my chances,” he said.

Smallow looked back at Gorvin. “What about you?”

Gorvin was still trembling. He opened his mouth but couldn’t speak.

Smallow walked back to him. He touched the man’s shoulder. “Hey, c’mon. Stay with us.”

Gorvin finally managed, in a throaty voice: “Flame thrower.” He wiped his wet lips with the back of a shaking hand, and hid his face.

“Okay,” said Smallow. He walked back to Mortimer. “You?”

“Five minutes,” announced the head guard.

The balding man took a deep breath. “The long sword. Pretty flat.”

Smallow nodded. “Looks strong, as far as I can tell.” He touched his cheek again. It didn’t hurt quite so badly anymore. Silence dawdled in the chamber. 

“Me too.”

* * *

They were forced to draw straws while the weapons, tables, and racks were cleared from the Dome. Olon would face the Nemesis first, then Gorvin, then Smallow, then Mortimer. They had been allowed to pick up their weapons, but not test them out.

The Nemesis better not be some robot after all, thought Smallow.

They clutched their weapons in a sound-proof holding area. No guards were present. When the door opened, Olon was to enter the Dome.

The only sounds were the men’s breathing and the squeak of their plastic sandals as their bodies shifted. Gorvin’s eyes raced again and again over the small tag explaining how to use his flame thrower.

Smallow closed his eyes. He breathed deeply, feeling the tension and terror and rage flowing through him. He did his best to wash those feelings out of him, to keep calm, to keep mastery over his mind and emotions.

Your body and your weapon: those are all that matter, he kept telling himself. At least his hangover and the ache in his cheek had vanished.

Smallow opened his eyes. The silence and the heat in the stuffy room were unbearable.

“Anyone here religious?” he asked. Smallow looked at his companions in turn.

“Not for a long time,” said Mortimer. Olon bowed his head and mumbled something in a language Smallow couldn’t recognize.

Abruptly the door slid open. All the men gave a jump. Olon took a deep breath, and proceeded into the Dome.

Some twenty or thirty minutes later, it was Gorvin’s turn. Smallow peered into the large chamber while the door was open, but could see nothing except the plastic floor, walls, and rounded ceiling. The stout, shaking man stepped in, the tank of his flame thrower strapped to his back. He was gripping the nozzle of the hose so tightly his hands were white.

Soon, it was Smallow’s turn. 

“Good luck,” said Mortimer.

“You too.” Smallow walked in, and the door slid shut behind him.

Four of the eight guards occupied a balcony jutting out from the domed roof, directly opposite Smallow. He hadn’t noticed the balcony before. A glass shield protected the guards in all directions. Below them loomed the dark passageway that led to freedom – at least, supposedly. Smallow wished he could make a break for it, but he knew the guards would click open their shield and put him down before he got halfway across the Dome. Besides, for all he knew, the Nemesis had already been released into the passageway from its holding area.

Smallow saw the Nemesis before he heard a single sound. Several pale, wriggling, worm-like things emerged in mid-air from the threshold of the dark passageway. Smallow’s first association was with maggots wiggling in soil. But then the main body of the creature emerged.

The Nemesis was a large, translucent, mollusk-like creature covered on top and on its upper sides with white, feathery tentacles. It was blob-like and round, resembling a sea anemone, but it crept forward like a slug. Smallow had never seen such a thing, nor even heard of one. It was enormous, barely squeezing through the threshold. Once it passed into the chamber, it spread itself into an oval shape and stretched the tentacles on its sides as far out as it could, blocking all access to the passageway.

Smallow felt a shiver. He realized he had been transfixed, struck motionless by the sight of the creature for the past minute, and snapped himself out of it. He raised his sword and took a few practice swings. He hadn’t done any fencing since his time at the Spire.

So what might the creature do? Smallow asked himself. How strong are those tentacles? Are they poisonous, paralyzing? The man felt more and more revolted by the creature the longer he looked at it.

As it came nearer, Smallow could see a number of pulsing organs deep inside the animal. Beneath them, he caught sight of something else – a face. Olon’s face. Smallow’s mouth drifted open.

He ducked down to get a clearer look – from a low viewpoint, the tentacles would not obstruct his view. In what must have been the creature’s stomach lay the bodies of Olon and Gorvin. They were both motionless, and most likely dead. At least, Smallow hoped they were dead.

Only about seven or eight meters remained between him and the tips of the creature’s tentacles. Smallow drifted to right and left, looking for any possible way around the monster, but its body on both sides was not far from the walls, and its tentacles prevented any escape. Smallow fell back, so that he was nearly leaning against the door through which he’d come. He held his sword pointed before him.

There must be a mouth at the creature’s center, up on top. If Smallow were pulled towards the mouth by the tentacles, perhaps he could wound that orifice enough to make swallowing him impossible. Assuming the tentacles aren’t paralyzing.

Smallow could feel panic beginning to overtake him. He flourished his sword, shouting at the creature. 

But he still had a few minutes before the tentacles made contact. He knew he had to keep thinking, to figure out if there was an answer, some secret to defeating this abomination. Obviously the ray gun and the flame thrower had had no effect on it – had not even visibly wounded it. That thought filled Smallow with dread. What good would a sword be, a piece of steel swung by human muscles? Unsure what to do, Smallow ducked down again to have another look at the two men in the creature’s stomach.

Through the transparent flesh, Smallow could see Olon splayed out, and Gorvin resting partially on top of him. He noticed the leather straps of the flame thrower bound around Gorvin’s back and shoulders – but he could not see the flame thrower itself, either the tank or the hose. Nor was Olon’s ray gun anywhere to be seen. Smallow straightened up, puzzling over these things. He did not have much time.

Out of nowhere, seemingly, an idea – or perhaps more of a bracing shock that was as much physical as mental – struck him. He looked at his sword, at the mirror-clean surface and the flawless edges.

Almost as though an outside force were controlling his arms, Smallow flung the sword off to his right. It clanged against the plastic wall and clattered beneath the Nemesis’s outstretched tentacles.

The creature started bearing towards the sword. It began curling its appendages around it. Smallow’s heart leapt. He edged along the wall leftwards – the tentacles were moving away from that side of the Dome.

Smallow didn’t look back. He moved quickly but carefully, making sure none of the waving white arms could touch him. He kept edging around the room as the creature moved away.

The passage! With a surge of exultation and relief, Smallow ducked inside. It was completely dark, and he held his hands before him as he ran so he wouldn’t hit a wall. Soon, the floor seemed to curve upwards. Smallow could hear only the frantic pounding of blood in his head, his frantic footsteps, and his equally frantic breathing.

The thought occurred to him that there might after all be no exit from the Dome: that this tunnel was only a dead end, and there was no hope of escape from the Nemesis. But even as he felt a jolt of panic from this thought, he also saw that the darkness ahead of him was brightening. Indeed, after a second he could see some gray shadows cast on the floor and walls ahead of him.

The passage was narrowing as it curved upwards. Smallow could see an arch-shaped section of early-morning sky. The next moment, he was outside, racing down a slope covered with dry grass and clods of earth. The sun of Merope was not yet up, but the horizon to Smallow’s left was beginning to glow a faint orange. He could see the lights of a city – Merope City, where he had gotten into the bar fight and later been arrested – perhaps two or three kilometers ahead of him.

Smallow kept running without even thinking about it, overcome by the release of nervous tension. He was babbling and crying, unable to believe his luck, never so happy in his life not to be dead.

Smallow dashed by a tree. His foot caught on a root and he stumbled, but he arrested his fall with the other foot and just barely caught his balance. He stopped and knelt down, then rested his palms on pebbles and dust. He was in a gully, a dry stream-bed. He laid down on his side and breathed deeply.

Within a moment, he had passed out.

* * *

Only a few minutes later, something jostled him awake. Smallow shouted and swiped his fist at the air in front of him, panicked for a second that the Nemesis might have followed him.

“Easy! It’s just me!” said a voice. Smallow looked at the figure hunched over him – it was Mortimer.

“You made it!” said Smallow. Mortimer helped him up. 

The men leant against each other. “It eats metal!” exclaimed Mortimer. “It doesn’t eat flesh at all. You must have figured it out.”

Smallow looked bewildered and held one hand to his forehead. “I did… somehow.”

“You lured it away with your sword, right?” said Mortimer. Smallow nodded.

“It took me a minute or two to figure out what the creature was,” said Mortimer. “It’s a Tunnel Crawler from Xidula – that’s the continent south of this one. I remembered that it feeds on the metallic mineral deposits in caves. The tentacles toss the rocks into the mouth on top, and stomach acids dissolve the metals pretty quickly.”

“Hey… that’s why the whole building’s plastic,” said Smallow. “So the creature can sniff out the metal weapons – no distractions.”

“You’re right,” said Mortimer. “And maybe the guards use those chains to lure the creature around – you know, back to its holding area.”

Smallow thought of Olon and Gorvin. “It just wanted the metal, not us. If only those two had let go of their weapons…”

The men heard someone approaching. They started and faced the newcomer. It was the head guard, carrying two sacks. He halted and dumped them before the men.

“Your clothes and effects,” the guard said. “You must return to your dwellings by sunrise. And listen carefully: not a word of this to anyone. On pain of death, and the deaths of any relations you may have on this planet.” He turned to go, but then faced the men again. “And by the way: congratulations, on behalf of the Patriarch.”

Smallow and Mortimer took their bags and hurried towards a road that led to the city.

“I think I’ll be catching the first rocket or saucer out of here,” said Smallow.

“Same here,” said Mortimer. “I don’t care where it’s headed.”

After a moment, Smallow said: “You know, they lied to us. They said only one weapon would be effective. But all of the weapons were made of metal, at least partly. Any of them could have been used as a lure.”

Mortimer shook his head. “No. They didn’t lie.” He raised a finger and tapped his temple.

The men walked on in silence. 

“I never heard why they arrested you,” said Smallow.

“Nor I you,” said Mortimer.

“You go first.”

Mortimer grimaced. “It’s… embarrassing.”

Smallow looked at his companion. “All right, I’ll go first. I got into a bar fight last night.”

Mortimer stopped in his tracks. Smallow stopped too, and the men looked at each other.

Abruptly, they started laughing, and embraced.