Hudson's unanswered question had struck a nerve. She thought of Commander Quinn's original reluctance to leave the plateau in favor of the valley prior to the first killing winter. Would they really have been better off in the valley? Or would they have just lasted a little longer, without the cliff dwellers close enough tosave them? Was this another verse of the same song? Should she order everyone south? Or should they persevere, continuing what they had started? Perhaps the coldness of the north was their best protection. Going south would only increase contact with the konish governments, and increased contact would inevitably cause problems. Of that, somehow, she was positive.
Decisions! Decisions! The frustration of leadership—the price of leadership. But Buccari had made up her mind. They would face winter in the valley, and they would be ready for the cold and deprivation. Maybe they would move to the warm and sunny south the next summer—maybe. Yet somehow the thought had no appeal; somehow it was important to stay near the cliff dwellers; somehow it was important to have them as an ally. Perhaps suffering through another winter would change her mind.
She walked over to the kones. Kateos brightened at her approach.
"The war on Kon continues, Sharl," she reported. "We cannotah tell anything new, but we are worried—worried about ourselves. No one knows what-ah to happen. We have not heard-ah what became of Et Avian, not-ah even if he live or died. Et Silmarn is, uh…concerned. He is like brother to Et Avian." Kateos's loquaciousness was unfettered with her increasing command of the human language.
Buccari pushed; perhaps there was something to be gained. "What is the war about, Kateos? What do they fight over?"
"Power. They fight-ah for power. As always." Kateos removed her helmet and leaned onto her forelimbs, putting her eyes at the same level as the eyes of the sitting human.
"Are many kones dying?" Buccari asked.
Kateos snuffled and nodded her head. "The reports are, uh…not clear, but it-ah appear that-ah many kones have died— millions."
"Millions! Is there no concern for loss of life?"
"Yess. Yess, but-ah only as…as one values fuel in rocket, or grain in silo. Our rulers not-ah concern for the masses. Unskilled kones—we call them trods—arenumbers, statistics—po… tential soldiers or laborers or workers," Kateos answered, a metallic note in her deep voice. "Huhsawn, ah… Hudd-sawn, has told-ah me much about your families and about freedom. Our evil system does not-ah permit these ideas."
"My world also has many problems," Buccari said.
"But look at-ah you!" Kateos said. "You—a tiny female—are officer and leader! Leader of warriors. And Huh. Hudd-sawn says that-ah you are space pilot. That can never, never happen among konish female."
"Perhaps I am not a good example."
"Good example or not-ah, you have reached status of which konish females cannot even dream," Kateos said with a forlorn tone. "And your race has traveled across space—a, uh.. miraculous, yes?. a miraculous thing to travel the stars."
Buccari's head jerked upward at the unintended confession. "You mean your race does not travel outside of your own—er, to other stars?"
Kateos looked confused. "Ah, no.. I should-ah not talk about it-ah. It-ah is great mystery with my people. Kon has been attack-ah from space. My government-ah feels threat-ah by attacks from space. We want-ah to know how you fly between stars. We be asking you about—"
"We did not attack you," Buccari said, her mind racing—the kones were not the Killers of Shaula. "You attacked us. We came in peace."
"We not-ah know that-ah. Kon has been attacked before," Kateos rumbled, looking about nervously. "Many kones killed. We assume you come to attack us again and you tricking us."
"We have never been here," Buccari said. "My race did not attack yours. Who attacked you? When?"
"It was m-many years ago," Kateos stuttered. "P-perhaps your generals keep it-ah hidden, for their own benefit."
"How many years, Kateos?"
"Over four hundred-ah years. Kone years."
Five hundred Earth years! Five hundred years ago earthlings had not even reached Mars, the hyperlight anomaly still a century from being discovered.
"Kateos, how long have kones been traveling to Genellan?"
"Many years, perhaps nine hundred," Kateos replied.
Buccari gulped. Kones had been flying in space for over twice the time humans had, but they had failed to break the hyperlight barrier. She was beginning to understand the game. She changed the subject.
"Why do you call yourselves evil? Your race has accomplished much," Buccari said. "Your system works well. You are intelligent. I perceive you to be gentle and good. An evil system would be incapable of producing such beings."
Kateos thought for several seconds. "In many ways our culture, our system, works well. Very well," she remarked. "You have met-ah only scientists and technicians. Most science is the artah and, uh…uh, application of gentle logic. Our social system controls personality. It controls our, uh…dispositions and our intellects. We are b-bred-ah to the task. If we gentle and good, it is b-because it makes us better at our jobs. We are b-bred-ah for job, with traits that-ah you describe."
"Bred to be scientists! How?"
Kateos sat back on her haunches and pondered an answer.
"It is old-ah system," she began. "Many generations have been…trained—yes? Of course, it begins with childs. All childs of common parent taken—sometime by force—at birth. Mothers and fathers never see childs. Only nobility allow the raising of childs."
"How can that be? Where do your childs, er—children go?"
"Ah, yes, it is children. First-ah go to government nurseries and then to schools. The schools—'training centers' is better translation—where they are sorted and trained and—if they, uh…genetically correct—molded into skill units. Skill units become scientists, technicians, officer, administrators, artisans, or farmers. The rest—most kones—are assigned to unskilled labor—trods. Trods sorted by size and emotion and assigned—when very young—to become soldier, worker, field hand, or common laborer. Trods not gentle—they not raised to be gentle—although most trods be good-ah and well meaning."
"Everywhere? On your whole planet?" Buccari asked.
"Oh, yes! It-ah be for whole planet. The system work-ah too well. No one think of changing it-ah. Our farmers good farmers, our workers good workers, our universities…filled with hard working students. Our soldiers be brave and aggressive—if not smart-ah. Unfortunately. uh, ambition and power be usual traits of our leaders, and strength be first important than smartness."
"It sounds orderly," Buccari said, amazed.
Kateos shook her head slowly. "Orderly? Yes." She dropped her eyes. "Sad! It-ah is a sad life. I had not thought of rreason before, but seeing your babies makes it-ah clear to me. We sad because there are no childs—children…no families."
"Why? Why no families?" Buccari asked.
"Konish solution to population problem. Long ago there many, many kones on planet. Too many. Not enough food." "Your governments restricted breeding?"
"Only by requiring marrying. Only able to marry one time. Itah crime to have children, if not-ah married. Only married couples permit-ah to have children and must-ah be qualified by government-ah. That-ah how they control population. I lucky be married to Scientist Dowornobb. He intelligent and kind, and he make happy to me. We sure to have license to make children, especially since so many kones die in this war."
"I am glad for you, Kateos," Buccari said, noting the konish female's sudden radiance. The radiance turned subtly to determination.
"I hold my baby someday," Kateos rumbled. "That-ah would make happy to me."
Buccari looked up to see Et Silmarn and two of the konish scientists crawling their way. Kateos straightened, standing tall while remaining on all fours.
"Sharl, I introduce Scientist H'Aare and Scientist Mirrtis to you," Kateos said. "They experts in space drives."
Buccari's internal alarms went off; the kones did n
ot have the secrets of hyperlight. She guessed what was coming.
"We would-ah like to know how your ships travel between stars," Kateos continued. "We would also be able to fly between stars. We hope you help us."
The scientists began asking questions for Kateos to translate. "Scientist H'Aare wants to know if your propulsion—" Kateos started.
"Kateos, Et Silmarn! These are difficult questions," Buccari begged.
"Yes, Sharl, but scientists will work-ah with you for as long as it-ah takes. Perhaps you come with us to Ocean Station where—"
"Please, Mistress Kateos," Buccari said slowly, carefully. "Your interest is understandable, and when it is appropriate to do so, we will discuss these matters. Please understand that none of us is expert in the fields you are inquiring about." She realized that if it came down to negotiating permission to remain on this planet, anyinformation provided freely would be unavailable as a future bargaining chip. Perhaps, just perhaps, the hyperlight theories would be their passport. Buccari was not proud of her disingenuous replies; both she and Hudson were extremely knowledgeable of hyperlight theories and applied algorithms, but information represented power, and they needed to marshal what little power was available to them.
Kateos spoke softly to Et Silmarn. The noblekone nodded.
"Sharl," he roared. "We thang you for what you have done. If you can help-ah us more, we thang you more.. er, we help-ah you more."
"I understand," Buccari said.
* * *
Three days later Et Silmarn banked the aircraft on course and returned his view forward. Hudson was in the back with Scientists H'Aare and Mirrtis. Dowornobb and Kateos crowded into the cockpit, the connecting hatch secured.
"The female Gol'berg-ah gave you this information?" the noblekone asked.
"Yes. It was technical. I understood little," Kateos remarked sadly. "The female claims to know about interstellar drives. She is a technician of propulsion."
"They allow females to do technical functions?" the copilot asked.
"Yes!" Kateos answered too loudly. The males on the crowded flight deck turned to stare at her. Involuntarily, she dropped her eyes.
"Sharl is lying?" Dowornobb asked. "I thought we could trust her."
"Sharl is smart," Et Silmarn answered. "She is protecting what she has. After what she has done for us, I do not hold it against her. I still trust her."
"What about Gol'berg-ah?" Kateos asked. "Her information is valuable, though I do not respect her. She tells us these things because she is spiteful and full of hate for Sharl. I do not understand why she is disloyal."
Et Silmarn sighed heavily. "It is not for us to understand the aliens. On our next visit we will discreetly record what the female Gol'berg-ah has to say, and we will suggest that she and maybe some others accompany us to Ocean Station, although I doubt Sharl will permit that to happen. I do not like to work behind Sharl's back, but Et Avian's primary mission was to uncover those very secrets."
"The humans are uncomfortable in our presence," the copilot said.
"As it would be for us if our roles were reversed," Kateos replied. "They are frightened of the power we hold over them." "They have seen nothing, yet," Et Silmarn said.
* * *
The alien airplane flying along the river valley rumbled into the distance. MacArthur, sucking on thickweed, waved at Tonto and Bottlenose, signaling them to come no closer. The fluttering of their wings would spook the trapped animals. Satisfied his brain was clear, MacArthur extracted the masticated weed from his mouth and placed the lump of chewed greens in a pouch hanging from his neck. He looked to each side. Chastain and Petit skirted the left edge of the ravine while Shannon and O'Toole took position on the right, each Marine carrying a lariat made of parachute shroud. Shaking out the coils of his rope and slinging aside his leather poncho, MacArthur stalked the terrified horses. Three golden beasts had been funneled into the narrow wash, their escape prevented by boulders and branches laboriously transported to the gully. Effort had borne fruit; the trap had worked.
MacArthur swung the lariat easily, allowing the noose to expand. He nodded to O'Toole who also began swinging his noose overhead, just as MacArthur had trained him. Only two would throw their ropes; any more would just get in the way.
"Go for the small mare," MacArthur cautioned, his voice calm. "Throw for the neck. I'll go for the legs. Make it count!"
O'Toole crept along the edge of the wash, approaching the skittish animals. MacArthur, in the wash, stayed close to the bank, giving the animals room. The largest animal, a stallion, took chopping steps directly at MacArthur and snorted, its bulging brown eyes surrounded with frightened white. The animal's streaming, golden mane rippled and waved with abrupt motion, its long tail held high and flowing. Barrel-chested, mule-eared, blunt-nosed, heavy-legged with large feet and knobby knees, the animals did not match MacArthur's boyhood memory of his grandfather's Calgary ranch horses, but they were definitely horses. The soundsand smells were pure horse, and they were beautiful, powerful animals.
MacArthur flattened against the ravine's rock wall. The stallion bolted past, trumpeting a loud, rasping whinny. The mares, confused and frightened, reared and twisted, leaping to follow the stallion's lead.
"Now!" MacArthur shouted. He stepped in toward the last animal and made a well-timed throw, looping one foreleg and tangling the other. He dug his feet into the ground and wrapped the lariat around his back and shoulders. Excited, O'Toole threw too hard, missing high. One mare thundered by and was free. The second frightened female took her first step and fouled in the snaking rope, jolting MacArthur from his feet. The Marine sprawled in the dust and was dragged along for a stride and a half before the mare stumbled to the ground, the lasso intertwining her forelegs. MacArthur and horse regained their footing simultaneously. The golden horse leapt sideways and kicked, jerking hard to free its encumbered foot. MacArthur resumed his wide stance, grabbing the line and bracing himself for the inevitable muscle-wrenching tug, but he was too slow and too weak. His hands were burned viciously as the line spun through his grasping fingers. Feeling diminished resistance, the horse leapt to a gallop, and MacArthur—on his knees in pain—watched, powerless, thinking all was lost.
Not to be denied, Chastain made a dive for the trailing end of the lariat. And missed. But the horse's rapidly moving legs whipped the rope into a tangle ensnaring her own rear legs. Again, the horse crashed to the ground. As the determined mare struggled to her feet, the quick-footed O'Toole dashed to the horse's head and slipped his noose over her neck. Chastain made another gallant effort to reach the bitter end of MacArthur' s tangled line and was successful. The combined resistance from the two ropes threw the animal off balance, and the unfortunate mare tripped for a third time. MacArthur grabbed Chastain' s dropped lariat and dashed forward, making a quick looping throw that settled over the golden neck.
"Sarge! Hold this line. Give me yours!" he shouted as Shannon joined the fray. The sergeant did as he was told, and the horse was held at three points. Struggling fiercely, the indomitable beast searched for any leverage. MacArthur darted forward and, risking injury from flying hooves, looped a fourth lariat around the animal's rear leg. The powerful animal, tangled and restrained from multiple directions, gave a last valiant struggle and fell solidly onto her side. Except for labored breathing and an occasional flailing leg, the mare lay still.
MacArthur, on his knees and gasping for air, handed the taut rope to Petit. As he released his grasp, the ache from his fingers and hands shot straight to his brain; he squatted on his haunches, head back, his throbbing hands held tightly in his lap. Petit pulled on the lariat.
"Damn, Mac! This rope's all bloody!" he shouted. "You okay?"
MacArthur looked at his lacerated palms and winced.
"Mac wouldn't have fun if he didn't bleed," O'Toole grunted, heaving on his rope.
"Slack up, Terry," MacArthur gasped. "You're cutting her wind." Moving quickly, before his fingers locked up, MacArthur sh
ook out a pair of hobbles and slipped them over the animal's trembling legs. He dropped another noose over the horse's head and slipped off his hide poncho, wrapping it around the mare's head. Then, breathing mightily, he lay exhausted on the ground, his weight against the magnificent animal's back.
"Let her up," he exhaled. "Be ready!"
Chapter 35. Ferry
The soft, full light of a late summer morning revealed a straggling group of humans—a foraging party—carrying empty sacks and crude buckets along the receded waters of the great river. Beppo Schmidt' s thick thatch of flaxen hair gleamed like a white pearl. Red-headed Sandy Tatum and powerful Jocko Chastain, both of towering height, stood out as well. Fenstermacher, Goldberg with her baby, and Wilson rounded out the complement. They all wore ragged jumpsuits, or at least remnants of jumpsuits; several had cut off the lower portion of the jumpsuit arms and legs. A couple of them augmented their attire with hide ponchos, but all wore leather sandals laced up their calves.
The foraging party worked its way along the gravel-strewn bank, leaving the roaring cataracts and sparkling mists behind. Once past MacArthur's Valley the great river settled to a more placid pace. The main channel widened and the current diminished; narrow river islets dotted the watercourse; and river otters and long-legged waterbirds abounded. In many respects it became a long, narrow lake, easily crossed with dugout canoe, especially during the late summer and autumn. Human traffic over its span was necessary, primarily to gather furs and buffalo meat. The demands of this traffic precipitated another Fenstermacher innovation—a ferry.
The ungainly log raft floated between boulders in the eddying river waters. It was secured by four spring lines, its two big oars shipped and secured alongside; a smaller sweep oar—the tiller— hung down in the water at the stern. Fenstermacher and Chastain, wading in the gentle current, grabbed the lines and hauled the tall raft shoreward until it grounded. The group waded in to board, with Tatum taking the baby from Goldberg until the mother was safely pulled up.
Genellan: Planetfall Page 38