Land and Overland - Omnibus

by Bob Shaw

  "Listen to me carefully, Keero," he called out. "I will be dead before littlenight is over, and you must…" The fire in his lungs, aggravated by the effect of shouting, forced him to abandon the plan to transmit his precious new knowledge verbally.

  "I am going to write a message for the King, and I charge you with the responsibility of ensuring that he receives it. Now, take out your dispatch book, make sure the pencil is not broken, and leave the book on the ground for me. When you have done that, rejoin your men and wait with them for the King to arrive. Tell him all that has happened here—and remind him that nobody is to approach my body for at least five days."

  Drained of strength by the painfully prolonged speech, Gartasian forced himself to remain upright and militarily correct while Keero dismounted and placed his dispatch book on the ground.

  The lieutenant got back into the saddle and hesitated for a moment. "Sir, I'm sorry…"

  "It's all right," Gartasian told him, grateful for the fleeting human contact. "Do not concern yourself about me. Just go, and take my bluehorn with you—I have no more need of him."

  Keero gave an awkward salute, collected the redundant animal and rode away into the twilight. Gartasian walked to where the book lay, his legs buckling further with each step, and allowed himself to sag to the ground beside it. He had barely finished removing the pencil from its leather sleeve when the last coin-clip of the sun slid behind the curvature of Land. In spite of the reduced level of illumination he was still able to see well enough to write, thanks to Land's halo and the extravagant spangling of the rest of the heavens with fierce stars, some of them in tightly packed circular clusters.

  He attempted to lean on his left arm, but jerked upright again as pain flared in the wounded shoulder. Exploring the injury with his fingers, he found that the brakka slug from the musket had spent much of its energy in gouging through the rolled leather at the edge of his cuirass. It had lodged in his flesh, but had not broken the bone. Reminding himself to include a note on how the weapon had fired without the normal delay, he sat with the book in his lap and began to write a detailed report for the benefit of those who would soon have to repel a deadly invader.

  The mental discipline involved in the work helped him avoid dwelling on his fate, but his body interposed frequent reminders of the losing battle it was fighting against the ptertha poison. His stomach and lungs seemed to be filling with hot coals, agonising cramps encircled his chest and occasional bouts of shivering made his writing almost illegible in places. So rapid was the progress of the symptoms that on reaching the end of his report he was dully surprised to find himself still conscious, still with some dregs of strength.

  If I move away from here, he thought, the book can be picked up without delay, and with no risk to any man's life.

  He set the book down and marked its position by weighting it with his red-crested helmet. The effort of raising himself to his feet was much greater than he had anticipated. He was unable to prevent himself from swaying in vertiginous circles as he scanned his surroundings, which seemed to be a scene painted on slowly undulating cloth. Keero had brought all his men together and a fire had been lit to guide King Chakkell to the spot. The soldiers and their mounts formed a stationary, amorphous mass in the dimness, and there was little movement anywhere but for the near-continuous flickering of meteors against the dense fields of stars.

  Gartasian guessed the men's eyes were fixed on him. He turned and walked away from them, staggering grotesquely, blood beading into the grass from the fingers of his left hand. After some twenty paces his feet were snared by bracken and he pitched forward, to lie with his face buried in rough-haired fronds.

  There was no point in trying to get up again.

  No point in trying to cling on to consciousness any longer.

  I'm coming back to you, Ronoda and little Hallie, he thought, closing his eyes on the universe. I'll soon be with…

  Chapter 4

  When Toller Maraquine heard the bolt of his cell door being drawn his principal emotion was one of relief. He had been allowed writing materials, and all through the hours of littlenight he had sat with the pad on his knees, trying to compose a letter to Gesalla and Cassyll. His intention had been to explain and apologise, but explanation had proved impossible—how was he to find any shred of reason in what he had done?—and all he had written was one bald sentence.

  I am sorry.

  The three words struck him as being an apt but dismal epitaph for a life that had been thrown away, and now he had a profound desire to get the last minutes of futility over and done with.

  He stood up and faced the opening door, fully expecting to see an executioner accompanied by a squad of jailers. Instead, the widening rectangle revealed the paunchy form of King Chakkell, flanked by stone-faced members of his personal guard.

  "Should I feel honoured?" Toller said. "Am I to be seen off by the King in person?"

  Chakkell raised a leather-bound dispatch book of the type used by the Kolcorronian army. "Your astonishing good luck continues, Maraquine. Our game is on again. Come with me—I have need of you." He grasped Toller's arm with as much force as the executioner would have used and marched him into the passageway, where recently extinguished wicks still smoked and fumed in their sconces.

  "You have need of me? Does this mean…?" Paradoxically, in the moment he began to entertain hope Toller was unmanned by a pang of death-fear which cooled his brow and stilled his voice.

  "It means I'm prepared to forget about your stupidity of the foreday."

  "Majesty, I'm grateful … truly grateful," Toller managed to say. Inwardly he promised: I'll never fail you again, Gesalla.

  "And so you should be!" Chakkell led the way out of the cell block, through a gateway whose guards sprang to attention, and into the parade ground in which, seemingly an aeon ago, Toller had faced Karkarand.

  "This must concern the skyship we saw," Toller said. "Was it really from Land?"

  "We will talk in private."

  Toller and Chakkell, still accompanied by guards, entered the rear of the palace and went through corridors to an undistinguished doorway. Walking behind the King, Toller had detected the soupy smell of bluehorn sweat from his clothing, and the indication of hard riding intensified his interest. Chakkell dismissed his men with a wave and brought Toller into a modestly proportioned apartment in which the only furnishings were a round table and six plain chairs.

  "Read that." Chakkell handed Toller the dispatch book, took a seat at the table and stared down at his clenched fists. His deeply tanned scalp was glistening with perspiration and it was obvious that he was highly agitated. Deciding it would be unwise to ask any preliminary questions, Toller sat down at the opposite side of the table and opened the book. The reading difficulties he had known as a young man had faded over the years, and it took him only a few minutes to go through the pages of pencilled script, even though the characters were wildly distorted in places. When he had finished he closed the book and set it down, suddenly aware of blood stains on the cover.

  Head still lowered, Chakkell looked up from under his brows, eyes showing white crescents. "Well?"

  "Is Colonel Gartasian dead?"

  "Of course he's dead—and from what is written there he could be the first of many," Chakkell said. "The question is, what can be done? What can we do about these diseased upstarts?"

  "Do you think this Rassamarden really intends to invade? It seems an unreasonable course for one who has an empty world at his disposal."

  Chakkell pointed at the book. "You saw what Gartasian said. We are not dealing with reasonable people, Maraquine. It was Gartasian's opinion that they are all unhinged to some extent, and their ruler could be the worst of the lot."

  Toller nodded. "It is often the way."

  "Don't take too many liberties," Chakkell warned. "You have more skyship experience than any other man in Kolcorron, and I want your views about how we can defend ourselves."

  "Well…" For a few s
econds Toller was distracted by an upsurge of something like joy, immediately followed by feelings of shame and remorse. What kind of a man was he? He had barely finished vowing never again to set anything above the blessed peace of a contented domestic existence, and now his heart was quickening at the thought of participating in an entirely new kind of warfare. Could it be some kind of reaction to the discovery that he was not about to be executed, that life would continue—or was he a fatally flawed human being in the pattern of the long-dead Prince Leddravohr? The latter possibility was almost too much to contemplate.

  "I am waiting," Chakkell said impatiently. "Don't tell me that the crisis is of so great a magnitude as to still your tongue."

  Toller took a deep breath and exhaled it in a sigh. "Majesty, assuming that a contest does take place, fate has dictated the terms. We cannot carry the battle to the enemy, and for obvious reasons these so-called New Men must never be permitted to set foot on our world. That leaves us but one course of action."

  "Which is?"

  "Exclusion! A barrier! We must wait for the ships in the weightless zone—midway between the two worlds—and destroy them as they labour up from Land. It is the only way."

  Chakkell studied Toller's face, appraising his sincerity. "From what I remember of the mid-passage the air was too cold and thin to support life for any length of time."

  "We need ships of a different design. The gondolas need to be larger, and totally enclosed. And sealed to retain air and heat. Perhaps we will even use firesalt to thicken the air. All that and more will be necessary if we are to remain in the weightless zone for long periods."

  "Can it be done?" Chakkell said. "You seem to be talking about veritable fortresses suspended in the sky. The weight…"

  "On the old skyships we were able to lift twenty passengers, plus essential supplies. That is a considerable weight, and we may be able to attach two balloons to one lengthened gondola so as to double the carrying capacity."

  "It's worth thinking about." Chakkell stood up and paced around the table, frowning at Toller all the while. "I believe I'm going to create a new post, especially for you," he finally said, it shall be … Sky Marshal … with complete responsibility for the aerial defence of Overland. You will be answerable to none but me, and will have the power to draw on any resource you need—human or material—for the successful prosecution of your task."

  Toller was uplifted by the prospect of having purpose and direction restored to his life, but to his own surprise he felt reluctant to let himself be borne away on the tide of Chakkell's ideas. If he could be marked down for execution in one minute and raised to an exalted office in the next, then he was nothing more than a creature of the King, a puppet without dignity or a true identity of his own.

  "If I decide to accept your commission," he said, "there are certain…"

  "If you decide to accept! If! " Chakkell kicked his vacated chair aside, slammed his hands down on the table and leaned across it. "What's the matter with you, Maraquine? Would you be disloyal to your own King?"

  "Only this foreday my own King sentenced me to death."

  "You know I wouldn't have permitted things to go that far."

  "Do I?" Toller did not hide his scepticism. "And you refused me the single favour for which I begged."

  Chakkell looked genuinely baffled. "What are you talking about?"

  "The life of the farmer, Spennel."

  "Oh, that!" Chakkell briefly turned his gaze towards the ceiling, showing his exasperation. "Here's what I will do, Maraquine. The execution may well have been delayed because of all the commotion in the city. I'll send a messenger with all speed, and if your esteemed friend is still alive his life will be spared. Does that satisfy you? I hope it satisfies you, because there is nothing more I can do."

  Toller nodded uncertainly, wondering if the voice of his conscience could be silenced so easily. "The messenger must leave at once."

  "Done!" Chakkell turned and nodded towards a panelled wall in which Toller could discern no apertures, then dropped into a chair beside the one he had overturned. "Now we must draw up our plans. Are you able to sketch a design for the sky fortresses?"

  "I think so, but I want Zavotle with me," Toller said, naming the man who had flown with him in the days of the old Skyship Experimental Squadron, and who had later been one of the four royal pilots in the Migration. "I believe he flies one of your courier ships, Majesty, so locating him should be a simple matter."

  "Zavotle? Isn't that the one with the peculiar ears? Why do you choose him?"

  "He is very clever, and we work well together," Toller said. "I need him."

  Still in his mid-forties, liven Zavotle looked too young to have been in command of a royal skyship at the time of the mass flight from Land. His body had thickened only a little with the passage of the years, his hair remained dark and was still cropped, emphasising the protrusion of his tiny, in-folding ears. He had joined Toller and Chakkell within ten minutes of being summoned from the adjacent airfield, and his yellow aircaptain's uniform showed signs of having been hastily removed from a closet.

  He listened intently while the threat posed by the New Men was explained to him, now and then—as had always been his habit—making notes in neat, crowded script. His manner was just as Toller had remembered it—precise and meticulous, a reassurance that there was no difficulty which could not be overcome by the orderly application of reason.

  "There you have it," Chakkell said to Zavotle. "What do you think of this notion of establishing permanently manned fortresses in the weightless zone?" He had disliked the idea of having to consult a lowly captain, but had acquiesced to Toller's request and had even—an indication of how seriously he regarded the situation—invited Zavotle to be seated at the table with him. Now he was eyeing the newcomer critically, with something of the air of a schoolmaster eager to fault a pupil's performance.

  Zavotle sat very straight, aware that he was on trial, and spoke firmly. "It can be done, Majesty. In fact, it must be done—we have no other recourse."

  "I see. And what about attaching two balloons to one long gondola?"

  "With respect to Lord Toller, I don't like it, Majesty," Zavotle said, glancing at Toller. "The gondola would have to be very long to accommodate two balloons, and I think there would be serious control problems."

  "So you would advocate using one monstrous balloon?"

  "No, Majesty—that would introduce an entirely new set of difficulties. No doubt they could be overcome in time, but we have no time to spare."

  Chakkell looked impatient. "What then? Have you something in mind, captain, or do you content yourself with deciding what cannot be done?"

  "I believe we should continue to use the size of balloon with which we are experienced," Zavotle said, not losing his composure. "The sky fortresses should be built in sections, taken aloft in sections—and assembled in the weightless zone."

  Chakkell stared hard at Zavotle, his expression slowly changing to one of mingled astonishment and respect. "Of course! Of course! There is no other way to proceed."

  Toller felt a pang of vicarious pride as the new concept flooded his mind, bringing with it a series of giddy images. "Good man, liven," he breathed. "I knew we had need of you—though my gut freezes when I think about the kind of labour involved. Even with the knowledge that he was well tethered a man would be powerfully distracted by the sight of thousands of miles of thin air below him."

  "Many would be quite unable to concentrate their minds," Zavotle said, nodding, "but the work would be kept to the absolute minimum. I envisage circular sections held together by simple clamps and sealed with mastic. A fortress might be constructed of three such sections."

  "Before we concern ourselves with details, I must know how many of these sky fortresses will be needed," Chakkell said. "The more I think about it the more doubts plague me about the feasibility of the entire scheme. If one neglects volume and treats the weightless zone as a flat disk midway between the worlds, ther
e are millions of square miles to defend—and I fail to see how it can be done. Even if I had the resources of old Kolcorron at my disposal I would be unable to construct the number of fortresses required. A thousand, would you say? Five thousand?"

  Zavotle looked at Toller, giving him the opportunity to reply, and Toller responded with a slight shake of his head. The objection expressed by the King seemed to him a valid one, and although he could tell by Zavotle's unperturbed expression that an answer existed he was for the moment unable to deduce it by himself.

  "Majesty, we are not required to defend the entire area of the zone," Zavotle said. "The two worlds have a common atmosphere, but it is shaped like an hourglass, with a slender waist. Skyships have to remain close to the centre of that waist—in a narrow bridge of air, so to speak—and that is where we will wait for the Landers. I do not know how determined they will be to press ahead with their invasion, but when we destroy the first of their ships the others may try to pass us by at a safe distance. To do that they would need to venture so far outside the air bridge that their crews would lose consciousness and then they would asphyxiate."

  "I begin to form an affection for you, Zavotle," Chakkell said, half-smiling. "So, how many fortresses would you say?"

  "Not many, Majesty. Perhaps as few as ten or twelve in the initial phase, while we have the advantage of surprise; perhaps a hundred later on, if the Landers begin to introduce effective counter-measures." Zavotle again glanced at Toller, obviously trying to draw him back into the discussion. "I cannot be more precise at this stage. Much depends on the distance at which we can spot an ascending ship, but—as Lord Toller will testify—the eye becomes abnormally keen in the high air. Much will also depend on the effective range of our weaponry, but my expertise in that field is minuscule compared to Lord Toller's. Perhaps he should say…"