Flandry of Terra

by Poul Anderson

  Now the rest of Flandry’s party lay dead by Tengri Nor. And he himself, with this one companion, was trapped by a pursuit moving faster on machine than he could afoot.

  He gauged his range afresh. Perhaps. He got his sights on a man in the lead and jerked his head at the Dweller, who slipped from him. Then he fired.

  The southerner jerked in the saddle, caught at his belly, and slid slowly to the ground. Even in this glum light, his blood was a red shout on the snow. Through the wind, Flandry heard the others yell. They swept into motion, dispersing. He followed them with his sights, aimed at another, squeezed trigger again. A miss. This wasn’t enough. He had to furnish a few seconds’ diversion, so the Dweller could reach those crystalline trees at his back.

  Flandry thumbed his rifle to automatic fire. He popped up, shooting, and called: “My grandmother can lick your grandmother!”

  Diving, he sensed more than heard the lead storm that went where he had been. Energy bolts crashed through the air overhead, came down again and sizzled in the snow. He breathed hot steam. Surely that damned Dweller had gotten to the woods now! He fired blind at the inward-rushing enemy. Come on, someone, pull me out of this mess!-What use is it, anyhow? The little guy babbled about calling through the roots, letting all the forest know-Through gun-thunder, Flandry heard the first high ringing noise. He raised his eyes in tune to see the medusae attack.

  They swarmed from above, hundreds upon hundreds, their tentacles full of minor lightning. Some were hit, burst into hydrogen flame, and sought men to burn even as they died. Others snatched warriors from the saddle, lifted them, and dropped them in the mortally cold waters of Tengri Nor. Most went efficiently about a task of electrocution. Flandry had not quite understood what happened before he saw the retreat begin. By the time he had climbed erect, it was a rout.

  “Holy hopping hexaflexagons,” he mumbled in awe. “Now why can’t I do that stunt?”

  The Dweller returned, small, furry, rubbery, an unimpressive goblin who said with shyness: “Not enough medusa for do this often. Your friends come. We wait.”

  “Huh? Oh… you mean a rescue party. Yeh, I suppose some of our units would have seen that flock arrive here and will come to investigate.” Flandry stamped his feet, trying to force circulation back. “Nice haul,” he said, looking over strewn weapons and vehicles. “I think we got revenge for our squad.”

  “Dead man just as dead on any side of fight,” reproached the Dweller.

  Flandry grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”

  He heard the whirr of tow motors. The ski patrol which came around the woods was bigger than he had expected. He recognized Arghun and Bourtai at its head. It came to him, with a shock, that he hadn’t spoken to either one, except to say hello-goodbye, since the campaign began. Too busy. That was the trouble with war. Leave out the toil, discipline, discomfort, scant sleep, lousy food, monotony, and combat, and war would be a fine institution.

  He strolled to meet the newcomers, as debonairly as possible for a man without cigarettes. “Hi,” he said.

  “Dominic… it was you-” Bourtai seized his hands. “You might have been killed!” she gasped.

  “Occupational hazard,” said Flandry. “I thought you were in charge of our western division, Arghun.”

  “No more fighting there,” said the noyon. “I am going about gathering our troops.”

  “What?”

  “Have you not heard?” The frank eyes widened. Arghun stood for a moment in the snow, gaping. Then a grin cracked his frozen mustache; he slapped Flandry’s back and shouted: “The Terrans have arrived!”

  “Huh?” Flandry felt stunned. The blow he had taken-Arghun owned a hefty set of muscles-wait, what had he said?

  “Yesterday,” chattered the Altaian. “I suppose your portable radio didn’t pick up the news, nor anyone in that company you were fighting. Reception is poor in this area. Or maybe they were fanatics. There are some, whom we’ll have to dispose of. But that should not be difficult.”

  He brought himself under control and went on more calmly: “A task force appeared and demanded the surrender of all Yesukai forces as being Merseian clients. The commander at Ulan Baligh yielded without a fight-what could he have done? Oleg Khan tried to rally his men at the front… oh, you should have been listening, the ether was lively last night!… but a couple of Terran spaceships flew up and dropped a demonstration bomb squarely on his headquarters. That was the end of that. The tribesmen of the Khanate are already disengaging and streaming south. Juchi Shaman has a call from the Terran admiral at Ulan Baligh, to come advise him what to do next-oh yes, and bring you along-“

  Flandry closed his eyes. He swayed on his feet, so that Bourtai caught him in her arms and cried, “What is it, my dear one?”

  “Brandy,” he whispered. “Tobacco. India tea. Shrimp mayonnaise, with a bottle of gray Riesling on the side. Air conditioning… ” He shook himself. “Sorry. My mind wandered.”

  He scarcely saw how her lip trembled. Arghun did, gave the Terran a defiant look, and caught the girl’s hand in his own. She clung to that like a lost child.

  This time Flandry did notice. His mouth twitched upward. “Bless you, my children,” he murmured.

  “What?” Arghun snapped it in an anger half bewilderment.

  “When you get as old and battered as I,” said Flandry, “you will realize that no one dies of a broken heart. In fact, it heals with disgusting speed. If you want to name your first-born Dominic, I will be happy to mail a silver spoon, suitably engraved.”

  “But-” stammered Bourtai. “But-” She gave up and held Arghun’s hand more tightly.

  The noyon’s face burned with blood. He said hastily, seeking impersonal things: “Now will you explain your actions, Terra man?”

  “Hm?” Flandry blinked. “Oh. Oh, yes. To be sure.”

  He started walking. The other two kept pace, along the thin blue Lake of Ghosts, under a lacework of icy leaves. The red halfday smoldered toward night. Flandry spoke, with laughter reborn in his voice:

  “Our problem was to send a secret message. The most secret possible would, of course, be one which nobody recognized as a message. For instance, Mayday painted on the Prophet’s Tower. It looked like gibberish, pure spiteful mischief… but all the city could see it. They’d talk. How they’d talk! Even if no Betelgeuseans happened to be at Ulan Baligh just then, there would soon be some who would certainly hear news so sensational, no matter how closely they were guarded. And the Betelgeuseans in turn would carry the yarn home with them-where the Terrans connected with the Embassy would hear it. And the Terrans would understand!

  “You see, Mayday is a very ancient code call on my planet. It means, simply, Help me.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Bourtai.

  “Oh-ho,” said Arghun. He slapped his thigh and his own laughter barked forth, “Yes, I see it now! Thanks, friend, for a joke to tell my grandchildren!”

  “A classic,” agreed Flandry with his normal modesty. “My corps was bound to send a ship to investigate. Knowing little or nothing, its men would be alert and wary. Oleg’s tale of my accidental death, or whatever he told them, would be obvious seafood in view of that first message; but I figured I could trust them to keep their mouths shut, pretend to be taken in by him, until they could learn more. The problem now was, how to inform them exactly what the situation was-without Oleg knowing.

  “Of course, you can guess how that was done: by maneuvering the whole Tebtengri Shamanate across the plain, to form Terran letters visible through a telescope. It could only be a short, simple note; but it served.”

  He filled his lungs with the keen air. Through all his weariness, the magnificence of being alive flowed up into him. He grinned and added, half to himself: “Those were probably the first secret messages ever sent in an alphabet ranging from one to five hundred kilometers tall.”

  The Plague of Masters

  First he was aware of rain. Its noise filled the opened airlock chamber, a great slow roar that
reverberated through the spaceship’s metal. Light struck outward, glinted off big raindrops crowded together in their falling. Each globule shone quicksilver. But just beyond that curtain was total night. Here and there in blackness a lamp could be seen, and a watery glimmer reflected off the concrete under its pole. The air that gusted into the lock chamber was as warm as wet, and full of strange smells; Flandry thought some were like jasmine and some like rotting ferns, but couldn’t be sure.

  He tossed his cigarette to the deck and ground it under his heel. The hooded raincape which he slipped on seemed useless in such weather. Diving suit might help, he grumbled to himself. All his careful elegance had gone for naught: from the peaked cap with the sunburst of Empire, down past flowing silkite blouse and embroidered blue doublet, red sash with the fringed ends hanging just so, to sleek white trousers tucked in soft but shiny leather halfboots. He pressed a control button and descended from the lock. As he reached ground, the ladder retreated, the valve closed, lights went out in the ports of the flitter. He felt very much alone.

  The rain seemed even louder here in the open. It must be striking on foliage crowding every side of the field. Flandry heard water gurgle in gutters and drains. He could make out several buildings now, across the width of concrete, and started toward them. He hadn’t gone far when half a dozen men approached from that direction. It must be the receiving committee, he thought, and halted so that they might be the ones coming to him. Imperial prestige and so forth, what?

  As they neared, he saw they were not an especially tall race. He, who was about three-fourths caucasoid, topped the biggest by half a head. But they were wide-shouldered and well-muscled, walking lithely. A nearby lamp showed them to be tawny brown of skin, with black hair banged across the forehead and falling past the ears, a tendency toward almond eyes and flattish noses. They wore a simple uniform: green pocketed kilt of waterproof synthetic, sandals on their feet, a medallion around each neck. They moved with a confident semi-military stride, and haughtiness marked the beardless faces. Yet they were armed only with truncheon and dagger.

  Odd. Flandry noted the comforting weight of the blaster at his own hip.

  The squad reached him and deployed. There had been another man with them. One of the squad continued to hold a gracefully shaped umbrella over this one’s head. It was a head shaven smooth, with a symbol tattooed on the brow in fluorescing gold. The man was short and slender, but seemed athletic. Hard to judge his age; the face was unlined, but sharper and with more profile than the others, a sensitive mouth and disconcertingly steady eyes. He wore a robe which flared outward from the shoulders (held by a yoke, Flandry judged, to permit free air circulation around the body) and fell in simple white folds to the ankles. On its breast was the image of a star.

  He regarded Flandry for several seconds before speaking, in archaic and thickly accented Anglic: “Welcome to Unan Besar. It is long since an… outsider… has been on this planet.”

  The newcomer sketched a bow and answered in Pulaoic, “On behalf of His Majesty and all the peoples of the Terran Empire, greetings to your world and yourself. I am Captain Sir Dominic Flandry of the Imperial Navy.” Intelligence Corps, field division, he did not add.

  “Ah. Yes.” The other man seemed glad to slip back into his own language. “The dispatcher did mention to me that you spoke our tongue. You honor us by taking the trouble to learn.”

  Flandry shrugged. “No trouble. Neural educator, don’t y’ know. Doesn’t take long. I got the implantation from a Betelgeusean trader on Orma, before I came here.”

  The language was musical, descended from Malayan but influenced by many others in the past. The ancestors of these people had left Terra to colonize New Djawa a long time ago. After the disastrous war with Gorrazan, three centuries back and a bit, some of those colonists had gone on to Unan Besar, and had been isolated from the rest of the human race ever since. Their speech had evolved along its own track.

  Flandry was more interested in the reaction of the robed man. His beautifully curved lips drew taut, for just an instant, and a hand curved its fingers to claws before withdrawing into the wide sleeve. The others stood impassive, rain running off their shoulders, but their eyes never left Flandry.

  The robed man exclaimed, “What were you doing on Orma? It’s no planet of the Empire. We’re beyond the borders of any empire!”

  “More or less.” Flandry made his tone careless. “Terra is a couple of hundred light-years away. But you must be aware how indefinite interstellar boundaries are-how entire hegemonies can interpenetrate. As for Orma, well, why shouldn’t I be there? It has a Betelgeusean trading base, and Betelgeuse is friendly to Terra.”

  “The real question,” said the other, hardly audible above the rainfall, “is why you should be here.”

  And then, relaxing, donning a smile: “But no matter. You are most welcome, Captain, Permit self-introduction. I am Nias Warouw, director of the Guard Corps of the Planetary Biocontrol.”

  Chief of detectives, translated Flandry. Or… chief of military intelligence? Why else should the Emperor’s representative-as they must figure I am-be met by a policeman rather than the head of government?

  Unless the police are the government.

  Warouw startled him by switching briefly to Anglic: You might call me a physician.”

  Flandry decided to take things as they came. As the tourist in the sultan’s harem said. A folk out of touch for three hundred years could be expected to develop some strange customs.

  “Do you always get these rains?” He drew his cloak tighter. Not that it could prevent his collar from wilting. He thought of Terra, music, perfumed air, cocktails at the Everest House with some bit of blonde fluff, and wondered dismally why he had ever come to this sinkhole planet. It wasn’t as if he had orders.

  “Yes-normally about nightfall in these latitudes,” said Warouw.

  Unan Besar has a mere ten-hour rotation period, thought Flandry. They could easily have waited another five of those hours, till their one and only spaceport came around into daylight again. I’d have been glad to stay in orbit. They kept stalling me long enough as it was; and then suddenly their damn dispatcher ordered me down on the instant. Five extra hours-why, I could have spent them cooking myself a really decent dinner, and eating it at a decent speed, instead of gobbling a sandwich. What kind of manners is this, anyhow?

  I think they wanted me to land in darkness and rain.

  Why?

  Warouw reached beneath his robe and took out a vial. It held some large blue pills. “Are you aware of the biochemical situation here?” he asked.

  “The Betelgeuseans mentioned something about it, but they weren’t too clear or thorough on the subject.”

  “They wouldn’t be. Having a nonhuman immunochemistry, they are not affected, and thus are not very interested. But to us, Captain, the very air of this planet is toxic. You have already absorbed enough to cause death in a few days.”

  Warouw smiled sleepily. “Of course, we have an antitoxin,” he went on. “You will need one of these pills every thirty or so of our days while remaining here, and a final dose before you leave.”

  Flandry gulped and reached for the vial. Warouw’s movement of withdrawal was snake smooth. “Please, Captain,” he murmured. “I shall be happy to give you one now. But only one at a time. It is the law, you understand. We have to keep a careful record. Can’t be careless, you know.”

  The Terran stood motionless for what seemed a long while. At last he grinned, without much jollity. “Yes,” he said, “I believe I do understand.”

  II

  The spaceport was built on a hill, a hundred jungled kilometers from the planet’s chief city, for the benefit of the Betelgeuseans. A few ancient Pulaoic ships were also kept at that place, but never used.

  “A hermit kingdom,” the bluefaced skipper had growled to Flandry in the tavern on Orma. “We don’t visit them very often. Once or twice a standard year a trading craft of ours stops by.” The Betelgeu
seans were ubiquitous throughout this sector of space. Flandry had engaged passage on one of their tramp ships, as the quickest way to get from his completed assignment on Altai to the big Imperial port at Spica VI. There he would catch the Empress Maia, which touched on the homeward leg of her regular cruise. He felt he deserved to ride back to Terra on a luxury liner, and he was an accomplished padder of expense accounts.

  “What do you trade for?” he asked. It was idle curiosity, filling in time until the merchant ship departed this planet. They were speaking Alfzarian, which scratched his throat, but the other being had no Anglic.

  “Hides, natural fibers, and fruits, mostly. You’ve never eaten modjo fruit? Humans in this sector think it’s quite a delicacy; me, I wouldn’t know. But I guess nobody ever thought to take some as far as Terra. Hm-m-m.” The Betelgeusean went into a commercial reverie.

  Flandry sipped raw local brandy and said, “There are still scattered independent colonies left over from the early days. I’ve just come from one, in fact. But I’ve never heard of this Unan Besar.”

  “Why should you? Doubtless the astronautical archives at sector HQ, even at Terra, contain mention of it. But it keeps to itself. And it’s of no real importance, even to us. We sell a little machinery and stuff there; we pick up the goods I mentioned; but it amounts to very little. It could amount to more, I think, but whoever controls the planet doesn’t want that.”