Land and Overland - Omnibus

by Bob Shaw

  “I can stand.” Toller caught her arm. “Help me, Gesalla—I prefer to be on my feet at this time.” With her assistance he achieved a standing position and faced the major. He was dully surprised to find that, when he should have been oppressed by failure and prospects of death, he was discomfited by the trivial fact that he was naked.

  “Well, major,” he said, “what is it you want of me?”

  The major’s face was professionally impassive. “The King will speak to you now.”

  He moved aside and Toller saw the paunchy figure of Chakkell approaching. His dress was subdued and plain, suitable for cross-country riding, but suspended from his neck was a huge blue jewel which Toller had seen only once before, when it had been worn by Prad. Chakkell had retrieved Leddravohr’s sword from the first soldier and was carrying it with the blade leaning on his right shoulder, a neutral position which could quickly become one of attack. His swarthy well-padded face and brown scalp were gleaming in the equatorial heat.

  He came within two paces of Toller and surveyed him from head to toe. “Well, Maraquine, I promised I would remember you.”

  “Majesty, I daresay I have given you and your loved ones good cause to remember me.” Toller was aware of Gesalla drawing closer to him, and for her sake he went on to rid his words of any possible ambiguity. “A fall of a thousand miles would have…”

  “Don’t start rhyming at me again,” Chakkell cut in. “And lie down, man, before you fall down!”

  He nodded to Gesalla, ordering her to ease Toller down on to the quilts, and signalled for the major and the rest of his escort to withdraw. When they had retreated out of earshot he squatted in the dirt and, unexpectedly, lobbed the black sword over Toller and into the dimness of the cave.

  “We are going to have a brief conversation,” he said, “and not a word of it is to be repeated. Is that clear?”

  Toller nodded uncertainly, wondering if he dared introduce hope to the confusion of his thoughts and emotions.

  “There is a certain amount of ill-feeling towards you among the nobility and among the military who completed the crossing,” Chakkell said comfortably. “After all, not many men have committed regicide twice in the space of three days. It can be dealt with, however. There is a great air of practicality in our new statelet—and the settlers appreciate that loyalty to one living king is more beneficial to the health than a similar regard for two dead kings. Are you wondering about Pouche?”

  “Does he live?”

  “He lives, but he was quick to see that the subtleties of his kind of statesmanship would be inappropriate to the situation we have here. He is more than happy to relinquish his claims to the throne—if a chair made from old gondola parts can be dignified with that name.”

  It came to Toller that he was seeing Chakkell as he had never seen him before—cheerful, loquacious, at ease with his environment. Was it simply that he preferred supremacy for himself and his offspring in a seedling society to preordained secondary role in the long-established and static Kolcorron? Or was it that he possessed an adventurous spirit which had been liberated by the unique circumstances of the great migration? Looking closely at Chakkell, encouraged by his instincts, Toller experienced a sudden upwelling of relief and the purest kind of joy.

  Gesalla and I are going to have children, he thought. And it doesn’t matter that she and I will have to die some day, because our children will have children, and the future stretches out before us … on and on … on and on, except that…

  One reality dissolved around Toller and he found himself standing on a rocky outcrop to the west of Ro-Atabri. He was gazing through his telescope at the sprawled body of his brother, reading that last communication which had nothing to do with revenge or personal regrets, but which—as befitted Lain’s compassionate intellect—addressed itself to the welfare of millions as yet unborn.

  “Prince … Majesty…” Toller raised himself on one elbow the better to confront Chakkell with the truth which had been placed in his keeping, but the incautious torsion of his body lanced him with an agony which stilled his voice and dropped him back into his bedding.

  “Leddravohr came very near to killing you, didn’t he?” Chakkell’s voice had lost all of its lightness.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Toller said, smoothing Gesalla’s hair as she bent over the renewed fire of the wounds in his side. “You knew my brother and what he was?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. Forget all about me—my brother lives in my body, and he is speaking to you through my mouth…” Toller went on, battling through riptides of nausea and weakness to paint a word-picture of the tortured triangular relationship involving humankind, the brakka tree and the ptertha. He described the symbiotic partnership between brakka and ptertha, using inspiration and informed imagination where real knowledge failed.

  As in all cases of true symbiosis, both parties derived benefit from the association. The ptertha bred in high levels of the atmosphere, nourished—in all probability—by minute traces of pikon and halvell, or miglign gas, or brakka pollen, or by some derivation from the four. In return, the ptertha sought out all organisms who threatened the welfare of the brakka. Employing the blind forces of random mutation, they varied their internal composition until they chanced on an effective toxin, at which point—the path having been signposted—they concentrated and refined and aimed it to create a weapon capable of scourging the scourge, of removing from existence all traces of that which did not deserve to exist.

  The way ahead for mankind on Overland lay in treating the brakka with the respect it deserved. Only dead trees should be used for their yield of super-hard materials and power crystals, and if the supply seemed insufficient it was incumbent on the immigrants to develop substitutes or to modify their way of life accordingly.

  If they failed to do so, the history of humanity on Land would, inevitably, be repeated on Overland…

  “I admit to being impressed,” Chakkell said when Toller had finally finished speaking. “There is no real proof that what you say is true, but it is worthy of serious consideration. Luckily for our generation, which has seen its full share of hardships, there is no need to make any hasty decisions. We have enough to worry about in the meantime.”

  “You must not think that way,” Toller urged. “You are the ruler … and you have the unique opportunity … the unique responsibility…” He sighed and stopped speaking, yielding to a tiredness which seemed to dim the very heavens.

  “Save your strength for another time,” Chakkell said gently. “I should let you rest now, but before I leave I’d like to know one more thing. Between you and Leddravohr—was it a fair contest?”

  “It was almost fair … until he destroyed my sword with brakka slime.”

  “But you overcame him just the same.”

  “It was required of me.” Toller was experiencing the mysticism which can come with illness and utter weariness. “I was born to overcome Leddravohr.”

  “Perhaps he knew that.”

  Toller forced his gaze to steady on Chakkell’s face. “I don’t know what you…”

  “I wonder if Leddravohr had any heart for all of this, for our brave new beginning,” Chakkell said. “I wonder if he pursued you—alone—because he divined that you were his Bright Road?”

  “That idea,” Toller whispered, “has little appeal for me.”

  “You need to rest.” Chakkell stood up and addressed himself to Gesalla. “Look after this man for my sake as well as your own—I have work for him. I think it would be better not to move him for some days yet, but you seem quite comfortable here. Do you need any supplies?”

  “We could use more fresh water, Majesty,” Gesalla said. “Apart from that our wants are already satisfied.”

  “Yes.” Chakkell studied her face for a moment. “I’m going to take your bluehorn because we have only seven all told, and the breeding must begin as soon as possible, but I will post guards nearby. Call them when you deem you are ready t
o leave here. Does that suit you?”

  “Yes, Majesty—we are indebted.”

  “I trust your patient will remember that when his health is recovered.” Chakkell turned and strode away towards the waiting soldiers, moving with the energetic assurance peculiar to those who feel themselves to be responding to the calls of destiny.

  Later, when silence had again returned to the hillside, Toller awoke to see that Gesalla was passing the time by sorting and arranging her collection of leaves and flowers. She had spread them on the ground before her, and her lips were moving silently as she thoughtfully placed each specimen in an order of her own devising. Beyond her the vivid purity of Overland sparkled and advanced on the eye.

  Toller cautiously raised himself in the bed. He glanced at the mound of rocky fragments in the rear of the cave, then turned his head away quickly, unwilling to risk seeing the tiny lantern gleaming at him. Only when it had ceased to shine altogether would he know for certain that the fever had entirely left his system, and until then he had no wish to be reminded of how close he had come to death and to losing all that Gesalla meant to him.

  She looked up from her emergent patterns. “Did you see something back there?”

  “There’s nothing,” he said, mustering a smile. “Nothing at all.”

  “But I’ve noticed you staring at those rocks before. What is your secret?” Intrigued, and playing a game for his benefit, Gesalla came to him and knelt to share his line of sight. The movement brought her face very close to his, and he saw her eyes widen in surprise.

  “Toller!” Her voice was that of a child, hushed with wonder. “There’s something shining in there!”

  She rose to her feet with all the speed of which her weightless body was capable, stepped over him and ran into the cave.

  Prey to a strange fear, Toller tried to call out a warning, but his throat was dry and the power of speech seemed to have deserted him. And Gesalla was already throwing the outermost stones aside. He watched numbly as she put her hands into the mound, lifted something heavy and bore it out to the brighter light at the entrance to the cave.

  She knelt beside him, cradling the find on her thighs. It was a large flake of dark grey rock—but it was unlike any rock Toller had ever seen before. Running across and through it, integral to and yet differing from the stone, was a broad band of material which was white, but more than white, reflecting the sun like the waters of a distant lake at dawn.

  “It’s beautiful,” Gesalla breathed, “but what is it?”

  “I don’t…” Grimacing with pain, Toller reached for his clothing, found a pocket and brought out the strange memento given to him by his father. He placed it against the gleaming stratum in the stone, confirming what he already knew—that they were identical in composition.

  Gesalla took the nugget from him and ran a fingertip across its polished surface. “Where did you get this?”

  “My father … my real father … gave it to me in Chamteth just before he died. He told me he found it long ago. Before I was born. In the Redant province.”

  “I feel strange.” Gesalla shivered as she looked up at the misty, enigmatic, watchful disk of the Old World. “Was ours not the first migration, Toller? Has it all happened before?”

  “I think so—perhaps many times—but the important thing for us is to ensure that it never…” His weariness forced Toller to leave the sentence unfinished.

  He laid the back of his hand on the lustrous strip within the rock, captivated by its coolness and its strangeness—and by silent intimations that, somehow, he could make the future differ from the past.

  THE WOODEN SPACESHIPS

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1988 by Bob Shaw

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

  A Baen Books Original

  Baen Publishing Enterprises

  260 Fifth Avenue

  New York, N.Y. 10001

  First printing, July 1988

  First paperback printing, July, 1989

  ISBN: 0-671-69830-3

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Shaw, Bob.

  The wooden spaceships.

  I. Title.

  PR6069.H364W66 1988 823'.914 88-3512

  ISBN 0-671-65419-5 (hardcover edition)

  Cover Art by Alan Gutierrez

  Printed in the United States of America

  Distributed by

  SIMON & SCHUSTER

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, N.Y. 10020

  To M.E., with thanks

  Contents

  Part I: Gathering Shadows

  Part II: The Cold Arena

  Part III: Silent Invasions

  PART I

  Gathering Shadows

  Chapter 1

  Lord Toller Maraquine took the bright sword out of the presentation case and held it in such a way that the foreday sun flamed along the blade. As before, he was captivated by its lucent beauty. In contrast to the black weapons traditionally used by his people it seemed to have an ethereal quality, akin to sunlight striking through fine mist, but Toller knew there was nothing unearthly about its powers. Even in its simplest, unmodified form the sword would have been the best killing instrument in history—and he had taken its development a step further.

  He pressed a catch which was concealed by the ornamentation of the haft and a curved section sprang open to reveal a tubular cavity. The space was filled by a thin-walled glass vial containing a yellowish fluid. He made sure the vial was intact, then clicked its cover back into place. Reluctant to put the sword away, he tested its feel and balance for a few seconds and impulsively swept it into the first readiness position. At that moment his black-haired solewife, using her uncanny ability to materialise at precisely the wrong time, opened the door and entered the room.

  "I beg your pardon—I had presumed you were alone." Gesalla gave him a smile of sweet insincerity and glanced all about her. "Where is your opponent, by the way? Have you cut him into pieces so small that they can't be seen, or was he invisible to begin with?"

  Toller sighed and lowered the sword. "Sarcasm doesn't become you."

  "And playing warriors doesn't become you." Gesalla crossed the floor to him, moving lightly and silently, and put her arms around his neck. "What age are you now, Toller? Fifty-three! When are you going to put notions of fighting and killing behind you?"

  "As soon as all men become saints—and that may not be for a year or two yet."

  "Who's being sarcastic now?"

  "It must be infectious," Toller said, smiling down at Gesalla, deriving a pleasure from merely looking at her which had scarcely diminished in the long course of their marriage. Their twenty-three years on Overland, many of them hard years, had not materially altered her looks or thickened her gracile form. One of the few discernible changes in Gesalla's appearance was the single strip of silver which might have been applied to her hair by a skilled beautician. She still adopted a long and flowing style of dress in subdued colours, although Overland's burgeoning textiles industry was as yet unable to produce the gauzy materials she had favoured on the old world.

  "At what time is your appointment with the King?" Gesalla said, stepping back and examining his clothing with a critical eye. It was sometimes a source of contention between them that, in spite of his elevation to the peerage, he insisted on dressing like a commoner, usually in an open-necked shirt and plain breeches.

  "At the ninth hour," he replied. "I should leave soon."

  "And you're going in that garb?"

  "Why not?"

  "It is hardly appropriate for an audience with the King," Gesalla said. "Chakkell may take it as a discourtesy."

  "Let him take it any way he pleases." Toller scowled as he laid the sword in its leather case and fast
ened the lid. "Sometimes I think I've had my fill of royals and all their ways."

  He saw the fleeting expression of concern on Gesalla's face and was immediately sorry he had made the remark. Tucking the presentation case under his arm, he smiled again to indicate that he was actually in a cheerful and reasonable mood. He took Gesalla's slim hand in his own and walked with her to the front entrance of the house. It was a single-storey structure, as were most dwellings on Overland, and had few architectural adornments, but the fact that it was stone-built and boasted ten spacious rooms marked it as the home of a nobleman. Masons and carpenters were still at a premium twenty-three years after the Great Migration, and the majority of the population had to make do with comparatively flimsy shelter.

  Toller's personal sword was hanging in its belted scabbard in the entrance hall. He reached for the weapon and then, out of consideration for Gesalla, turned away from it with a dismissive gesture and opened the door. The precinct beyond glowed so fiercely in the sun that its walls and pavement seemed to be light sources in their own right.

  "I haven't seen Cassyll today," Toller said as heat billowed in past him. "Where is he?"

  "He rose early and went straight to the mine."

  Toller nodded his approval. "He works hard."

  "A trait inherited from me," Gesalla said. "You'll return before littlenight?"

  "Yes—I have no wish to prolong my business with Chakkell." Toller went to his bluehorn, which was waiting patiently by a spear-shaped ornamental shrub. He strapped the leather case across the beast's broad haunches, got into the saddle and waved goodbye to Gesalla. She responded with a single slow nod, her face unexpectedly grave.

  "Look, I'm merely going on an errand to the palace," Toller said. "Why must you look so troubled?"

  "I don't know—perhaps I have a premonition." Gesalla almost smiled. "Perhaps you have been too quiet for too long."

  "But that makes me sound like an overgrown child," Toller protested.