Poul Anderson's Planet Stories

by Poul Anderson

  Kreega was snapping orders, a metallic rattle of sound which sent the other Martians bounding off. Then he whirled on the two humans.

  "The fort will be held," he said. "Our men will make a fight to the death, delay the enemy, make them think we're trying to defend you. Meanwhile, you'll be on your way ... Come on!"

  Fredison held the girl close, felt her lips trembling under his and tasted the salt of tears on them. Then, with a sudden bitter violence, he pulled himself free and slammed down his helmet.

  They went out the airlock and up the stairway and down the ruinous hallway. When they emerged in the courtyard it was night and they groped across the pitted, rubble-covered expanse toward the mesa edge.

  A deeper drone resounded, rocket flames trailing across the sky, and then there were smaller spurts of fire high up among the stars. Airborne infantry, the Mars Patrol coming down on one-man impellor units.

  Fredison's eyes, adjusting to the dimness, saw the natives slipping into shelter. Rubble heaps, doorways, the cold thin starlight glittered off their guns. It would be a cruel fight, and he had to run, he had to run.

  Two other loping figures were beside them. Even in the night, Fredison recognized the brothers Iggidan and Hraestoh. These owlies were becoming real to him, individuals with faces and minds, dreams and wills and longings of their own. Kreega led the way, scrambling over the broken shards of the fortress, and Phyllia stayed close by the man.

  They jumped the low wall at the cliff edge and started down. Kreega pointed north. "The troop carriers came that way," he said, "so their mother ship must lie in that direction. Now—careful!'

  But he reached out a thin hand and held Phyllia back. "Here," he said, handing her the trumpet, "take this, I feel I will not have the chance of using it again."

  The mesa slope was a nightmarish jumble of bluffs, crags, gullies, and scree, glooming against the dark. Fredison slung the energy globe into the pouch on his back. Both hands were needed for this descent. He wondered if his frequent falls would break anything in that apparatus.

  Down and down, crawling over rocks, springing off bluffs to land in a scream and rattle of detritus, grabbing needles of age-rotted stone that crumbled under their weight, gasping the thick foul air within the suits, helping each other along the way. Down, down to the hills that were a pit of night, down through shadows and vague stippling of luminance. Down.

  Behind them, star shells exploded, limning the mesa in a savage blue-white incandescence. The bark of grenades and the cough of mortars and the flat hard chatter of machine-guns echoed between shivering rocks. The Patrol had landed and was fighting up there. Down!

  A sudden burst of fire, explosion of smoke and dust, a stray shell had landed nearby. Rocks began to slide underfoot, Fredison lost his feet and went tumbling to the bottom of the slope. He picked himself up, shaking the dizziness out of his head, and checked the energy disruptor with frantic care. Still intact, as far as he could see, but how long could it last? How much more could it take?

  VI

  They paused at the bottom of the mesa, their breathing loud and harsh, and looked up.

  Its black mass loomed huge above them, climbing toward the sky, a vastness of shadow and stillness and wind-graven outline. From its heights came the blink of fire. The rattle of war floated vaguely down to them, but it seemed far away now, far and faint and unreal. Only the Martian night was real.

  The sky was enormous overhead, a vault of infinite black studded with the wintry constellations of Mars. Not the velvet dark of Earth—in this thin air the night was cold and clear as frosty glass, the stars hung enormous, needle-sharp, bitterly brilliant.

  Phobos was a tiny hurrying speck near the curdled silver of the Milky Way, a glitter of starlight picking the ragged hills out of shadow. Low in the north, the Great Bear wheeled, flashing and flashing out of the steely dark. It was so cold that Fredison could hear the frost ringing in the hills, an underground shudder toning beneath the icy stars. A wind was blowing, a thin searching ghost of wind that carried night and cold and the restless shadows on its way. Dust-devils whirled gray-white in the unreal luminance. Far and far away a wild rock-hound yelped and the lonesome echoes answered him.

  The chill unearthly splendor of it caught at Fredison. The big silence and the ancient landscape, a world hard and open, bitterly beautiful, a world that challenged with iron scorn and still gave of itself to those who would respond. He saw Phyllia, her lips half parted, the starlight glimmering in her eyes, and it was a sudden understanding which turned them to each other and clasped hand in gauntleted hand.

  "This way," said Kreega.

  They went over the hills, through stiff brush which parted with mysterious rustlings as of its own will, over sand-dunes ghostly under the sky, down ravines which were tunnels of darkness. The mesa fell behind than, a threatening shade lost in the reaching enormousness of night.

  The battle and the desperation faded. They trotted on their way with a feeling of being in some mystic fashion part of the hugeness and ancientness around—as if, thought Fredison, as if all Mars went with them, as if the shadows and the wind were living presences marching to their fight.

  Yes, he thought, yes, Mars needed its freedom. It was not Earth, and the Martian destiny was not man's, and to force one into the mold of the other was to bring ruin to both. But together, each seeing that which the other was blind to, each doing that which the other could not, man and Martian could still reach those high cold stars. He was fighting for more than Mars tonight, he was fighting for the future of all sentience everywhere in the universe.

  The wind blew over the iron hills with a mocking word of life's littleness and, weakness against the enormous threatening powers of blind nature, but its scorn tempered something in that very life, raised a will and an undaunted strength to reply. In that crystal darkness overhead the stars seemed almost near enough to touch.

  Only they were five tiny things of flesh and blood and fluttering heart against all the might of an empire which had conquered the planets—five little living creatures and the force which molded suns.

  Kreega paused and the dim chill starlight glistened along the barrel of Hraestoh's rifle. In a few moments Fredison heard it too. He crouched down with the others atop a high steep-walled hill and looked down into the silver-washed valley beyond.

  The armor of the Mars Patrol was on its way to the fight, a long snakelike column of tanks and Mars-jeeps grinding over the hills, shaking the cliffs with the stolid iron mass of its coming. Fredison saw the great guns and rocket-projectors, the wheeled artillery trundling after, the airsuited men riding the vehicles with machine-guns in hand.

  Beside him, Phyllia chuckled. "Rather like using an atomic bomb to kill a fly, isn't it?" she murmured.

  "They always travel that way," said Iggidan contemptuously. "We hide in the hills, behind the dunes, down in the gullies, and let them go on their way until we are ready to open up with our own guns. When we've got the column well chopped up, we fade out and they never find us. They can hunt all Mars and they never find us."

  Fredison shook his head. "You're killing the wrong people," he said. "Those fellows down there, most of them, don't wish you any special ill. They just do what they're told. One of our worst traits as a race, but it's one we've got and can't really help. But the true enemy is the little gang of men on top who give those orders."

  "We've never had a chance at them," said Hraestoh, "before tonight."

  "We will," said Fredison. "If we can pull this off tonight, then we will from now on."

  "You'll help us?" whispered Phyllia. "Oh, Lars, my darling, you'll help us?"

  "Yes," he said.

  His mind went on, adding, amplifying. Here was his answer. This was the group which could protect the energy spheres and still be in some measure trusted not to misuse them. If Kreega's shadowy dominions had a few Raihala generators, such as he, Fredison, could easily build for them, they would soon have the weapon which could stand off all foes
. But more than that, they would have the power which would make warfare unnecessary.

  For the group which controlled the energy globes could sell them to the worlds. Men would abandon the increasingly scarce and expensive fuels for Martian packaged energy—cheap, simple, safe, and incredibly powerful. The industrial interests which now backed the imperialists would find it to their enormous advantage to do business with Mars instead—and inevitably their support would swing that way too. The Unionist influence would rapidly wane. If in desperation they attempted a coup—well, Mars would have the final weapon and would know which side on Earth to back.

  At the same time, Mars would not be likely to attempt imperialism of its own. For one thing, Kreega and the rest of that small and trustworthy group would still control the actual manufacture of the globes, with a goodly share for their own defense.

  It would be they who would have the final voice in Martian affairs, and they were not conquest-minded. Moreover, while Mars would be strong enough to maintain its own integrity against outsiders, it would for generations still be too weak to fight unnecessary wars even if such were part of its own strange philosophy and even if the Martians had any particular benefits to gain from conquering the hot, wet, heavy planet of Earth. No, no, it would be a balance-of-power setup, not likely to explode before—

  —Before Mars and Earth were so well reconciled that the World Federation could become the Solar Federation!

  It was, at least, a goal to strive for. It would be hard, dangerous, heartbreaking at times, but there was no greater dream in all the universe. It might work, or it might not, but it was worth trying, supremely worth trying—and before God, they'd make it work!

  Also, thought Fredison, as a nominal rebel I'll be exiled from Earth for years to come. I'll have to become a citizen of the new Martian state and it will be a long time before I can again see green hills and rain and the sea—but this isn't such a bad planet, and Phyllia will be here—

  "They are gone now." Kreega's voice was a hoarse whisper on the whining wind. "Come."

  They started down the rough hillside into the valley, hugging the shadows, gazing ahead with a thrumming tightness along their nerves. The Ares must be close.

  First, thought Fredison, before any of his bright dreams could even be thought about, first there was this enemy to fight. As long as Clinton and his desperate clique were in charge, the hunt would go on, there would never be a moment to rest and to build, and the Martian race would be hounded toward extinction. They had to settle the present combat before they could go on to the next.

  The Ares was the key. The giant mother ship of the Mars Patrol, mobile headquarters, carrier of troops and arms and armor, flying bomber base, was somewhere close at hand. If it could be put out of action, the whole Earth army on Mars would be crippled, would have to retire to the settlements and let Kreega's forces do as they wished outside. Help would, of course, come from Earth, but it would take a long time to gather enough there to be effective—they only had the Security forces, barely sufficient to keep the home planet and Venus in order. Before much could be done from Earth to reconquer Mars, Kreega would have enough energy globes to oppose the new arrivals. Rather than fight a bloody and losing war, with all the problems of interplanetary logistics against them, the humans would be ready to make concessions. It would fit in nicely with the Liberal platform anyway, and the reversals on Mars would have discredited their political rivals.

  But if the Ares could break the revolt now, before Earth really knew what was going on—well, there was an end of many things and a return of the long night from which man had so lately come.

  "There—ahead—against that cliff—"

  Fredison strained into the night, trying to adapt his human eyes. The Martian orbs shone like eerie moons beside him, seeing things which were veiled from his gaze. He followed Kreega's gaunt pointing arm and slowly picked the monstrous form of the rocket out of darkness like a metallic whale floundered on a vast and jagged beach.

  "Can you destroy them from here?" rasped Iggidan.

  "I don't think so," said the human doubtfully. "The energy would spread slowly enough so they'd have time to take off. We have to get closer."

  "But then we may be consumed too," said Hraestoh.

  "Quite likely," said Kreega. "And what of it? If we can get away, though, things will be well for us. Our forces up on the mesa will see the flash and know we have succeeded and withdraw where the enemy cannot find them. We ourselves can make our way to a shelter I know of, a friendly human trader's dome—your powerpacks will last that long at least. But if we do not escape, then in any event the Ares will be destroyed and the energy secret too."

  "If they don't see us coming across that valley and shoot us down, said Fredison.

  "It is a chance we must take. Come!"

  Fredison turned to Phyllia. The vague starlight shimmered glassily off her helmet, her face was a shadow behind the highlights. It was bitter not to be able to kiss her farewell, not even to see her.

  "Wait here," he said huskily. "Wait here and—and goodbye, my dearest."

  "No," she said. "I'm coming with you."

  "You are not!"

  "Come, on!" Kreega started over the valley. Fredison cursed, took the energy detonator from his pack, and followed. Phyllia loped beside him, a lithe tall shadow against the cold white glitter of sand.

  They spurted over the valley floor. Half a mile, estimated Fredison, half a mile running in plain sight, slow-crawling target for any heavy machine-gun—half a mile, half a mile, sand scrunching underfoot, the wind moaning and blowing, the stars flashing high overhead, heart thumping and spleen shooting vicious jags of pain through the belly and lungs crying for air—half a mile!

  The cliffs ahead swam crazily in his blurring vision. The night roared in his ears. He stumbled and felt a Martian's arm bear him up. Five flitting shadows, run, run, run. The hard rhythm of his boots slammed back into his skull, jarring, pounding. He gulped air through parched mouth and straining nostrils, the starlight flickered off the thing in his hands.

  Closer, closer, the ship was a looming immensity now, cold metal against the old rusty cliffs—

  Red fire blazed from the night ahead. A madman's laughter and the sand pocked with flying slugs. Iggidan leaped, high up against the star-flaring sky, and tumbled over and over with his blood running black against the sand.

  "Iggidan. Iggidan!" Hraestoh's gun barked where he crouched behind a low dune, firing into the throat of the machine-gun. He raved as he fired and someone up ahead screamed.

  "Blow them up!" screeched Kreega.

  Fredison knelt in the sand. His clumsy gloved fingers touched a switch and the batteries poured a small glowing fire into the tubes. For a moment he stared numbly, seeing only the energy sphere and its cold blank reflection of the stars above. The machine-gun opened up again. Hraestoh crumpled over his rifle. Phyllia lay prone, shooting at the night-hidden enemy, and the fiery tracers reached out after her.

  Fredison saw a blur run over the energy sphere, the reflected sky dissolved in a sudden abysm of night.

  "Run!" he shouted. "Run!"

  They got up and whirled about and fled —Fredison and Kreega and the wild flying loveliness of the girl—sprinting over the valley sands back toward shelter. The machine-gun blazed after them, getting a sight on their weaving bodies, yammering between the silent cliffs.

  Fredison cast a backward glance. He saw the sudden gush of pearly white light which stood forth from the ground, a geyser of flame and sparks and vaporized iron. Lord! he thought with a terrible fierce gladness. Lord, we've got them now!

  The fire leaped higher and higher, white, pitiless, throwing their shadows black ahead of them upon the blinding glare of sand, limning the cliffs and crags against a paling heaven, sheening incandescent off the polished walls of the Ares. Below its ardor a pool began to spread, a boiling lake like a new sun in its heart, the red flames of hell dancing on its rim.

  Thunders roll
ed between the valley walls. The wakened giants, who had brawled when the planets were molten blobs of slag, stirred and lifted their heads and bellowed to the stars. The cliffs roared with echoes, riven stone opened up and precipices crashed. The racket filled the world.

  Higher and higher poured the flames of destruction, searing up to lick at the gates of heaven. The Ares sank as the ground beneath it grew soft. The pool of liquescence flowed around it and it began to crack with majestic slowness and melt. When it collapsed into the lava lake a spume of boiling iron rained from the angry sky.

  There went the backbone of the Patrol and Earth's dominion over Mars. There went Clinton and his murderous dreams. There went the great enemies of freedom— here came the lava!

  The ground shook and rumbled underfoot. The sand was blistering hot through heavy-soled boots. They ran, with the flaming ruin of the valley swirling at their heels, ran for shelter on higher ground, ran while the glowing moltenness seethed and spouted and thundered behind them. They felt its incandescence like a fire-wind on their backs. The spurting white geyser lit the world for them and they ran!

  All the long valley was a roiling lake of destruction as they scrambled up the slope of the farther hills. Rock slid downward, ripped loose by the heavings of the tormented strata. A million unchained demons howled in the smoke and vapor and dancing flame.

  Phyllia stumbled, fell to hands and knees, and slid toward the fury below. Fredison stopped, threw himself on his belly, caught her in wildly clutching hands. He dragged her back and half carried her to a high bluff.

  Kreega had already reached it, his gaunt strange form stood brooding over the seething hell. When he spoke, Fredison could barely hear him above the clamor of outraged energies.

  "It is subsiding," said Kreega. "We are safe now."

  Phyllia clung to Fredison, sobbing, pressing herself to him against the stiffness of their suits. "Don't ever let me go, Lars, darling, darling," she whispered brokenly. "Don't ever let me go."