by Julian May
The three of them stood at attention, facing east. There was a tiny speck in the cloudless afternoon sky, obviously approaching, and Jim and Vilkas tensed. But then they saw that it was only a bird, perhaps some kind of hawk, with yellow and black feathers. It glided low over the tower and the long piece of straw it clutched in its talons was clearly visible.
Look out, Yosh whispered telepathically to his minions.
The bird floated down. It was not a hawk but an aureate falcon, and when it touched the parapet it changed into King Aiken-Lugonn holding his great golden-glass Spear in one gloved hand.
"Hi," said the King, pushing up the face-shield of his storm suit. "You boys got the spotterscope ready?"
Yosh saluted and gestured wordlessly at the device. Jim mumbled, "We are the virgin mountaineers!"
Aiken raised one quizzical eyebrow. "Never would have guessed it." He turned his back on them and climbed into the seat of the scanning device. "Don't bother with instructions. I've used these things before." He looked south. "Yes ... here comes Ochal the Harper and his riders—and I presume the extra bodies are the coveted Basil's Bastards." Onefinger rapped the mode-select into ultimate range. "And zooming up behind them, clearing the hills, we have fifteen all-terrain vehicles driving flat-out."
Vilkas and Jim were staring at one another in mingled shock and apprehension. Yosh stood calmly at the King's shoulder and said, "How can we assist you?"
Aiken climbed out of the spotterscope and motioned for Yosh to take his place. Jim was quick to catch the kabuto that his master whipped from his head and flung away.
"I'm going to entrust the three of you with a state secret," Aiken said. His eyes were burning coals in a paper-white countenance. "I won't threaten you—but if you tell anyone what kind of chicane I pull here this afternoon, there's a good chance my throne will fall. And you along with it, of course."
"We are your slaves," said Yosh. Even in the embrace of the big spotterscope, he managed a solemn bow. Vilkas and Jim shuffled their feet and licked their lips.
Aiken said, "The North American vehicles are certain to catch up with Ochal's group before they get within range of Calamosk's defenses. I realized this as I farsensed them while flying in. So I'll have to do something."
"Hell—ever'body thought you'd bring the Flyin' Hunt!" Jim said. Vilkas kicked him in the ankle.
"I couldn't carry the Hunt," Aiken told him quietly. "I barely have strength enough to fly—and maintain the bird illusion. If I overfly that enemy ATV column and attack it with the Spear, I won't have enough watts left to generate a psychocreative shield against their weapons. I have a portable sigma-field generator, but using it makes flying even more difficult, and chances are that those North Americans have guns that will go through a small sigma like an axe through a muskmelon. So I'm going to try something different, and you'll help me with this scanner. I'll ascend to a high altitude with the Spear. Very high. You, Yosh, will zero in precisely fifty meters in front of the lead ATV and farspeak the coordinates to me." He blinked, anticipating the engineer's question. "No, I can't use my own farsense to aim. I'm incapable of a precise focus at sixty kilometers. Besides, I'll need what residual mind-wattage I have left to screw up their scanners. I'll probably have to use the Spear more than once, so you must be ready to refocus whenever I give the order. Is that clear?"
"Yes, High King. It would be best if you could wait until the target is within forty-five kilometers. The scanner may not be reliable at extreme range."
"Good thinking. I'll hold off as long as I can."
Jim cried, "But what happened? Kee-rist, Y'r Maj'sty! How we gone lick this bunch—how we gone lick the Firvulag —if you got no powers left?"
Aiken smiled and tapped the crested hood of his golden suit. "I still have my full quotient of low cunning, Jim boy. The ordinary little gray cells that got me banished to the Pliocene in the first place. Didn't you ever wonder why they threw me out of the Milieu? Because I was a menace, that's why! There are brains and there are brains. Mine may be a trifle shy of metapsychic firepower at the moment, but not to worry. I'll recover soon enough. Meanwhile, I'll find other ways to rise to the occasion."
***
Cloud gripped the edge of the command console with taut concentration. "We're going to catch them! Estimated convergence eleven-point-four minutes!"
"Shall we man the sonic disruptors?" Phil Overton asked Hagen.
"No, you idiot. When we get clear line of sight—no trees, no bloody antelopes or anything stampeding in the way—we put up the sigmas. Then deploy in echelon off-road and chase until we're within stun range. Knock down their chalikos, close in and deliver a low-power lullaby to the folks, then scoop 'em up."
"We could hit the animals at longer range with the disruptors or the zappers," Phil said.
"And maybe kill some pilot or technician our lives may depend upon when Papa comes after us!" Hagen snapped. "No disruptors, dammit, and no photon arms, either. Those are only for use against troops from Calamosk."
"We'll have to leave slots in the sigmas to navigate and shoot Huskies through," Nial Keogh said. "They could nail us if they're sharp. Use psychozap in a bouncing ball-lightning effect."
"We'll risk it," said Hagen. "You and the other heavy PK-heads will have to watch out for metafoolery. Now farspeak the others and advise them. We won't go echelon until the terrain's suitable. I'm going to call for max speed to close the gap. Hang onto your teeth."
The whining turbos rose to a howl. The fourplex vehicles charged along the crudely graded track, bouncing and veering and raising a monumental plume of dust. "Got 'em on the TSL monitor," said Veikko Saastamoinen. "Closeup farsight, too. They know we're here, but they don't look worried."
Hagen scowled. "Hear anything?"
"Screened six ways from Sunday. The torcers have a blanket on the whole outfit. What I wouldn't give for your old man's metaconcert program! Funnel a mind-blast through me, we could drill every one of that bottle-armored lot right between the ears."
"The King's got that program," Cloud said, "in case you've forgotten."
The fleeing chaliko riders were crossing a dry streambed and racing through a narrow line of poplar trees on the opposite bank. With the ATV safety governors on override, the vehicles were careering along at a speed that threatened to send them out of control.
"You've got to slow down!" Cloud exclaimed. "The others are—"
From the sky came a brief green flash. Dirt fountained up in an opaque brown blossom and an explosion smote their brains at the same time as a farspoken roar:
STOP YOUR VEHICLES. DO NOT ATTEMPT ERECT SIGMAS OR I ZAP LEADER.
Veikko screamed and clapped both hands to his skull. Hagen wrestled with the brakes and the vehicle slewed crazily off the track into the stony veldt, rocking and plowing furrows with its deflectors as it tilted far onto its left side and nearly turned turtle.
There was a second explosion born from an emerald fire-bar, and this time the beam hit less than fifteen meters in front of them. Hagen cursed as he brought the vehicle to a halt.
DO NOT MOVE. DO NOT ERECT SIGMAS OR I ZAP.
Nial Keogh was speaking calmly into the microphone of the RF com, checking on the others. Veikko, his sensitive mind overwhelmed by the volume of the vibrant mental shout, had fallen to the cockpit floor and was curled in a fetal ball, clawlike hands over his ears. The TSL display showed only multicolored snow.
Cloud and Hagen looked at each other with bleak comprehension. The first game of the match was over. But at least their father was not the winner.
Cloud spoke on Aiken's intimate mode: We've stopped. May I come out on the bridge and parley?
There was a third explosion behind the last vehicle of the train, and godlike laughter.
YOU FOOLS. I'VE BEEN WATCHING YOU FOR HOURS. I COULD HAVE FRIED YOUR BRAINS THE MOMENT YOU SET FOOT ON MY MANY-COLORED LAND. AND YOU THINK YOU CAN PARLEY?
Cloud said: We have a proposition that may interest you. We really inte
nd no harm to your kingdom.
I KNOW YOUR PROPOSAL. I KNOW YOU HOPE TO REOPEN THE TIME-GATE.
We will ... pay for your help.
HOW?
Hagen's face was puzzled. He and Phil Overton had been hurriedly conferring and now he covertly told his sister: Something funny that not psychocreativeblast but photoncannontype!
ANSWER ME! OR MY METAPSYCHIC POWER WILL ANNIHILATE YOU!
"The Wizard of Oz," Phil Overton said. "But with a giga-class zapper. Not quite a bluff—but we may have maneuvering room."
Hagen said: I am Marc Remillard's son. We'll pay for your cooperation by working with you to overcome our mutual enemy—whom we know a great deal better than you do. Without our help he will destroy you as he will probably destroy us.
HE TELLS ME YOU ARE THE ENEMY!
Hagen said: And has he told you that he's learned to d-jump?
There was a long silence. Finally the thunder-voice said:
WAIT WHERE YOU ARE FOR THREE HOURS. THEN COME UP TO CALAMOSK WITH YOUR VEHICLE TOPS OFF AND YOUR ARMAMENTS DEMOUNTED—AND WE'LL ALL HAVE TEA.
8
BASILWIMBORNE and his crew of Bastards came again to the citadel of Calamosk, which they had visited earlier that year under far different circumstances. Then, during the worst of the rainy season, Basil had served as one of the leaders of the refugee army retreating from the flood-ravaged Aven Peninsula. The little cadre that later became the Bastards had formed an impromptu staff under himself, Chief Burke, Sister Amerie, and Elizabeth. After the throng of displaced people had been driven away from Afaliah by the implacable Celadeyr, they had approached the smaller city anticipating an even ruder dismissal by its arriviste human master, Sullivan-Tonn. Instead, they found that Sullivan and his young Tanu fiancée had been freshly ousted by Aluteyn Craftsmaster and a rabble of renegade knights from the Great Retort. Calamosk was battered and provision-short after the siege, but Aluteyn had given the refugees whatever could be spared before advising them to press on farther north to more prosperous regions.
Riding into Calamosk behind Ochal the Harper, Basil and his Bastards noted certain changes. The colorwashed half-timbered cottages that had once sheltered bareneck human townsfolk were now nearly all empty. Weeds grew among the street cobbles and there was abundant dust lying about, and neglected heaps of animal droppings. The stone planters and public gardens were untended and suffering from the summer drought.
Because he had once worn a golden tore, Basil alone among the contingent rescued from the dungeon was experienced enough in the use of the mind-enhancer to speak telepathically on the Tanu mode. He now asked Ochal:
What has happened? The city looks so shabby so unlike the other Tanu cities I have seen since the Flood.
Ochal said: The ramas. Those who have not died have fled into the wilderness. It is a result of the fighting the mental strife the turmoil attending the Craftsmaster's takeover. Ramas are peaceloving creatures with sensitive and fragile minds. Wearing tores they react to manifestations of extreme emotionality in adverse ways fleeing the malign aetheric vibrations if possible and suffering acute psychosomatic disorders if restrained. Not only Calamosk but my own lamented Bardelask and even Goriah itself have experienced this flight of the ramas. The High King has naturally ordered that replacement apes be sent to the capital. But Calamosk has had to initiate a complete new breeding program.
Basil said: Hard luck for the local nobs needing domestics.
Ochal said: Many gray-torc humans are still faithful nay eager to serve ... and even numbers of barenecks.
Basil: Those who were too timid or too prudent to go the Lowlife route—or too wise to rush up to Goriah hoping the King would give them golden tores!
Ochal: [Laughter.] That has been a problem in more cities than Calamosk. King Aiken-Lugonn has had to depart considerably from his original hope of offering instant citizenship to any human who requested it.
Basil: Mm. His instincts were generous—
Ochal: But fortunately for the good order of the High Kingdom they were overruled by his innate pragmatism. Ah!...We arrive at last.
The caravan came into the forecourt of the central citadel, where there were numerous torced humans of every station as well as civilian and fully armed Tanu. None of the neglect evident in the city's outer purlieus affected the castle environs. Human servitors ran up to assist the dismounting of the new arrivals, and Basil and his Bastards were attended every bit as solicitously as their escort. The Elite Guard of human golds stood by, however, their Milieu-style weapons at the ready.
Ochal said to Basil, "Here's a great honor for you—the City-Lord himself come down to bid you welcome."
Basil inclined his head respectfully as a Tanu creator wearing a short tunic and aquamarine half-armor came sweeping up. "Parthol Swiftfoot," said he, by way of introduction. He briefly tapped the pleasure-circuitry of the Bastards' gray tores, precipitating a startled reaction among those who were metapsychically unsophisticated. "My personal felicitations! King's most anxious to meet you."
"And we, him," said Basil. Calm, he told his friends. Keep calm!
"Suppose we clean you up a bit first, eh?" Parthol winked. "Old Celo's dungeon—not exactly a health resort."
Basil managed a dry laugh. "You're very considerate, Lord Parthol."
"Follow me! Nice surprise waiting!" And the Tanu was off, with Basil and the others tumbling along in his wake (for a Tanu stalwart can easily cover two meters at a stride). He pointed out noteworthy improvements in the citadel defenses instituted by his predecessor, the late Aluteyn, as he led them through the barbican, across the inner ward, and up an ornate white-marble ramp into the palatial keep.
"You were ... one of the Craftsmaster's companions in adversity?" Basil said breathlessly.
Parthol chortled. "Fellow jailbird, you mean! Quite right. Old Thagdal slung me into the Retort for murder. Decapitated my mother-in-law, Coventone Petrifactrix, on a Royal Hunt up in the Dark Mountains. No one would believe I mistook her for a Firvulag. Can't think why."
They passed down a series of marble staircases into the bowels of the castle, where torches in silver holders illuminated corridors paved in pink and black tiles. A certain anxiety radiated from Basil and the Bastards at this descent. "Not the dungeon this time!" Parthol reassured them. They came to a huge black door with silver fittings, guarded by statuesque human females in silver-lustre armor. Grinning expectantly, the City-Lord of Calamosk gestured, causing the portal to open, and motioned for the visitors to follow him inside.
The Bastards began whispering and elbowing one another. Somebody unloosed an incredulous whistle. They had come into a complex of vaulted and pillared connecting chambers thatseemed to combine features of a sumptuous Turkish bath with the decor of a fin-de-siecle Hungarian whorehouse. There were dripping crystal chandeliers, baroque divans in veil-curtained alcoves, and a fantastic gilt-and-jasper steam room, the walls of which were adorned with Paphian mosaics.
"Amusing, isn't it?" Parthol remarked to Basil. "Your lamented compatriot Sullivan-Tonn had it installed during his brief tenure and we decided to keep it. Ingenious race, youhumans—if those depictions are a fair sampling of your Old World sexual mores."
Basil cleared his throat diffidently. "Some of the mosaics have—uh—a folkloric derivation. The centaurs and the mermaids, for example, and the—uh—more heroically proportioned individuals."
"Oh? What a pity. Still, I'd wondered why we didn't get any of those coming through the time-gate." He broadcast a brief order on the command mode and a jolly-looking Polynesian couple in flowered lava-lavas trotted in bearing trays of carnations. They wore silver tores, and as they passed the flowers to the bemused Bastards, they seemed to radiate comfortable reassurance.
"Salote and Malietoa will see to your comfort," Parthol said. "We're a bit short-handed, so you'll have to scrub one another's backs, but I think you'll enjoy your ablutions. Try the bubble bath! That Sullivan thought of the damnedest things. And when that's
done, you can have fresh clothes. I'm proud to say that Calamosk boasts a really first-rate tailoring moduplex—a Halston 2100. Make any type of apparel you like."
Mr. Betsy, who had been savoring his carnation, let out a great sigh of rapture.
Parthol beamed at the Elizabethan in the sadly dilapidated finery. "We're a bit short of Milieu fabrics since the time-gate closed—not much of a selection in nebulin or dacolite or repelvel—but you'll find some very nice linen and fine cotton; and I'm quite certain there's at least twenty ells of tourmaline silk brocade left, and you might fancy silver lace for that collar thingy of yours."
Phronsie Gillis smothered a wicked simper. "And I'll just have me some silk knickers from the scraps!" Betsy ignored her.
Parthol Swiftfoot said to Basil, "I'll come to fetch you in a couple of hours. You won't try to escape or hide or anything tedious like that, will you? Not to put too fine a point on it—you are all wearing gray tores. We could track you down easily. At least wait until you've heard what the High King has to say before you begin plotting and scheming."
"Very well," said Basil. "We'll wait."
***
As the Bastards finished King Aiken-Lugonn's high tea, the noncommittal chit-chat slowly faded to silence and all eyes turned to the small figure of the monarch. He was sitting in front of the unlit hearth of the presence room on a throne of gilded oak; his guests had had to make do with tufted floor cushions and most now lounged on these, leaving only a few of the recalcitrantly suspicious and Mr. Betsy standing. The King was wearing his golden storm-suit without the hood; a simple circlet of black glass rested on his dark red hair. He drank minted iced tea from a Waterford tumbler and then chewed the cubes as the stillness grew and the Bastards stared.
"How many of you," the King said at last, "would like to go back through the time-gate to the Galactic Milieu?"
Pandemonium.
Aiken smiled and raised a hand. An appalling blast of coercion struck every mind dumb. "Sorry about that, but we don't have much time to spare. More guests will be arriving very shortly to join our little party. Among them will be the lady who clapped you all into the Afaliah slammer after helping to steal your aircraft—Cloud Remillard."