howled

insignia painted

insignia painted in garish color across its hull. I halted, waiting.
"IDENTIFY YOURSELF!" the familiar voice of my Brigade commander boomed in my mind.
"Unit Eighty-four of the line, combat ready . . ." As I reported, I extended a probing impulse across the insubstantial not-space, touched the shape of the mind behind the voice. With an instantaneous reflex, it struck at me. The slave circuits of my brain resonated with the power of the blow—but in that instant I had seen the strange workings of the alien mind, scanned the pattern of its assault—and now I traced the path of primary volition, then struck back, caught the alien ego in an unbreakable grip.
"Who are you?" I demanded.
It gibbered, writhed, fought to escape. I held it tighter—like gripping a lashing snake in bare hands.
"Answer, or I destroy you!"
"I am Zixz, Centurion of the line, of the Nest of the Thousand Agonies Suffered Gladly. What Over-mind are you?"
"Where do you come from?"
"I was spawned in the muck beds of Kzak, by order of the Bed-master—"
"You're not human; why were you installed in a machine?"
"I was condemned for the crime of inferiority; here I expiate that fault."
"What world is this?"
The reply was a meaningless identity-symbol.
"Why do you fight this war?"
The alien mind howled out its war slogan—as incomprehensible as an astrologer's jargon. I silenced it.
"How many Brigades are engaged?"
"Four thousand, but not all are at full strength."
"Who is the enemy?"
The symbol that the alien hurled at me was a compound of horrors.
"Where is your headquarters?" I demanded.
I caught an instant's glimpse of twisted towers, deep caverns, and a concept: the Place That Must Be Defended—
Then the alien lunged against my control, shrieked an alarm—
I tightened my grip—and sudden silence fell. Cautiously, I relaxed. A few threads of dying thought spiraled up from the broken mind; then it winked out like a quenched ember. I had killed the Centurion