Fugitives of the Stars [The Two Thousand Centuries]

by Edmond Hamilton

  They. Impersonal word, meaning Federation officials possibly, Skereth police certainly, the local authorities of Rillah, and, if Ardric was alive yet, Ardric himself. The whole damned city would be watching for him, and he wouldn't have a chance if they saw him.

  CHAPTER VII

  WEARINESS AND black despair came over Horne. What's the use, he thought, I might as well have let them take me back there. I might as well go over the side and have done with it. Or else try and get away from Skereth, out to one of the fringe worlds. There are lots of places where a man can lose himself.

  Lose himself is right. No, the devil with that kind of a life.

  Ninety-seven crewmen and thirty-eight passengers, and a good ship, and they say I did it. They say I was a lousy drunken negligent murderous fool.

  Horne clenched his fists and beat them gently against the gunwale. Every time he thought he had it fought down and under control it came back on him and the agony was just as great as ever.

  He looked over the dark sea toward Rillah, where the last gleam of the cone's light was disappearing. It would pass on above the coast and the coastal range and the outer and inner valleys, heading out across the vast plain beyond them where the city stood at the junction of two rivers.

  "I'll be damned if I'll let him get away with it,” he said aloud and fiercely. The face of Ardric came clearly into his mind, the nice clean-cut intelligent face that was perhaps just a little too thin in the mouth and too flinty in the eyes—only you'd never think of that until the bastard had stuck the knife right up to here in your back.

  "If he is alive,” said Horne softly, “I'll make him sorry the day he didn't die in the wreck of the Vega Queen!"

  He got out his chart and set a new course, far south of the one he had followed before. The flying cone was now out of sight entirely. He set the speed lever wide open and the skiff leaped over the black water, streaking bright fire behind it.

  Night and day are long on Skereth, and the twilights in between are slow and lingering. It was still dark when Horne finally made his landfall on a deserted coast, hiding the skiff under a tumble of rock where the over-frowning cliffs had fallen on the narrow beach. Dawn saw him crossing the saddle of a mountain pass, walking with a dogged steadiness, his few supplies slung between his shoulders and his long lean body bent to the slope of the rise. When full morning came he had reached the foothills above the plain and stood looking out at a tawny emptiness apparently as vast as the sea he had left behind him.

  He drank deeply at a spring, ate a few mouthfuls of his remaining food, slept for a time in a crevice of the rocks, and went on again. And the long, long day dragged on.

  Noon. The invisible orange-yellow sun stained the clouds with streaks of gold and bloody crimsons and unexpected mauves. Heat filtered like a physical substance through the cloud-layers, filling the space between land and sky so that even the wind that blew, and blew and never stopped blowing across the flat plain could not cool it. The looped windings of a river seemed like molten brass running from some huge crucible, and the spiny trees beside it were the color of dun flame. Yellow grasses grew waist high, rippling under the furnace wind, and every so often the colors in the sky would darken to a sullen purple and everything that moved became still and waited.

  It was just before the breaking of one of these storms that Horne saw the watchtower. It was obviously very old, a broken relic leftover from an earlier and ruder day. It had probably had no watcher in it since men took to the sky and the use of artificial eyes and ears. But Horne did not like it, even so. It made him feel helpless and exposed. On the rare occasions when he had sighted a cone—he had purposely chosen a route away from the regular flight lanes—he had been able to lie hidden in the long grass until the danger was past. But this tower was stationary and he was going to have to pass it, and there was no possibility of concealment.

  The first gust of the storm, a blast that made the normal gale seem feeble, blew him to his hands and knees and then the slatey darkness clapped down and hid the tower and everything else under cloud and driving rain. The idea occurred to Horne to use the storm as cover. The wind was blowing his way. He let it take him.

  And take him it did. It drove him staggering this way and that and the rain came in solid torrents like a waterfall and the lightning was amazing. He had never tried walking in a Skereth storm before and he found out very quickly why it was not a good idea. You lost all idea of direction and the thunder made you deaf and the lightning, blind and the rain drowned you standing up. He caught glimpses of the tower two or three times, outlined in a shaking glare, and then he didn't see anything any more until a deep gully opened suddenly right under his feet, choked to its banks with rushing water. He whirled around, dropping to all fours and clawing away to avoid being blown into the gully, and with incredible abruptness men appeared around him—he was not sure how many, two, three, four, staggering at him, reaching out to grab him.

  There had been watchers in the tower, then. Even this far out from Rillah they were waiting for him. They had seen him from a distance and guessed that he might try to get past the tower in the storm. They were not going to let him.

  Horne snarled like an animal and sprang at the nearest man.

  They fell down on the sodden grass, under the pounding rain. Horne beat with his fists at the man's head. Hands caught him from behind and dragged him off. He turned, crouching, and fought them. They whirled clumsily in the wind and rain and then, all of a sudden, the lightning seemed inside Horne's head and he never heard any following thunder.

  When he came to again he was in a stone room with a broken ceiling through which some rain found its way. A modern portable lamp burned brightly in a corner. He was lying on his back on a very dirty floor and four wet and muddy men were looking down at him.

  Four men and a woman.

  The woman was young, more of a girl than a woman, and she was not wet and muddy. She was dressed like the men, in a loose shirt of some silken material, shorts and sandals, but the shirt and shorts fitted her quite differently. She had long yellow hair and rather greenish eyes and her expression was far too somber for anyone that young and that good-looking.

  "Are you awake now?” she asked him, in good Universal with a trace of the same accent Ardric had had. It made Horne bristle. He sat up, rubbing his head and glowering around. His stunner had been taken from him. One of the men was holding a gun-like weapon.

  "Yes,” he said, “I'm awake."

  He got to his feet, dizzy but too proud and angry to admit it.

  "Who are you with?” he demanded. “The police, or Ardric? Or is it both?"

  The girl said, “We are with Morivenn."

  "Morivenn?” Horne was still dazed and did not immediately get it. Then he said, “But Morivenn died in the Vega Queen."

  "I know,” the girl said. “I'm his daughter.

  Horne stood still while the lightning blazed beyond the window slits and the thunder shook the stones.

  Then he said quietly, “I'm sorry. And I suppose you'll have to kill me if you've made up your mind to it. But I was not responsible for that wreck."

  He thought a glance passed between the four men. The girl's face remained set and uncommunicative.

  She said, “There are men in Rillah who say you were."

  "There are men in Vega Center who say so too. That doesn't make it so.” He paused. “What does Ardric say?"

  "Ardric is dead."

  "Are you sure of that?"

  She did not answer that. “Tell me about the wreck."

  He told her while the water dripped noisily down the stones and the men watched him with closed, hard faces.

  "The course was altered after I set it. And a man doesn't lie in a drunken stupor on one glass of brandy. Somebody planned very carefully to destroy the ship and in order to do so I had to be gotten out of the way. This worked out just fine, because if there were any survivors I, or my memory, would take the blame and nobody would think to look for
any other cause."

  Horne added, his face taking on that dark iron look again, “He must have wanted awfully bad to kill your father."

  "Ardric?"

  "Who else? He was my co-pilot. Nobody else could have done it."

  "But Ardric died in the wreck. Would he have killed himself, too?"

  "Fanatics have been known to do just that. Only Ardric was no fanatic. He was a spaceman and a man of the world, the real hard world where two and two always make four. He didn't have to die in the wreck. All he had to do was get away in a lifeboat and keep out of sight. Go home, where he's among friends and can spit in the Federation's eye."

  "We're not all his friends,” said the girl. “Sit down."

  She motioned him to a block of stone that had fallen from somewhere above, and sat herself down on another one. The storm was slackening now, rolling away across the p am. [?missing text]of the men climbed up a winding stair that was part of the outer wall and still sound almost to the top. He disappeared overhead. The others remained where they were, between Horne and the door.

  Horne looked at the girl. “Then he is alive,” he said.

  "I think so. I'm not sure.” She leaned forward, searching his face with remarkably wise eyes, neither friend nor hostile, merely making an estimate of the sort of man he was, how far be might be trusted, how much he might be expected to understand.

  "You are named Horne?"

  "That's right."

  "I am called Yso. These four are my friends, as they were friends of my father. Now, I think I believe your story of the wreck, Horne. And I think we can help each other..."

  "Maybe,” said Horne, “and you look like a nice girl, though I can't say I'm wild about your friends. But I'm only interested in finding Ardric and choking the truth out of him. The politics of Skereth are your affair, not mine."

  He stood up and looked at the man who was holding the gun.

  The man shook his head. “Please don't try it,” he said. “We've gone to such great risk and trouble to intercept you that I would hate to be forced to burn your leg off."

  Horne frowned, his head held slightly forward, his knees bent and tense.

  "I mean just that,” said the man quietly.

  "I think you do,” said Horne, shrugged, and sat down again. He looked with bleak resentment at the girl. “Do you get many recruits this way?"

  "We have no time for politeness,” she said. “You don't understand how things are here. You think all you have to do is get into Rillah and find Ardric and choke the truth out of him. It's not that easy. If we hadn't found you and stopped you here, you'd have been dead long before sundown. You'd never have even reached the walls of Rillah."

  "I knew they'd be waiting for me,” Horne said dourly. “A flier nearly caught me on the sea, and I was pretty sure it was the police headed for Rillah."

  "The police,” said the man with the gun, “are the least of your worries. You say you're not interested in our politics, but you'd better get interested, because you're in them over your head."

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE GIRL said, “Never mind that now, Ewan. We..."

  "No. Yso,” said Ewan stubbornly, “he might as well get the whole picture now. It'll save us all trouble later.” He turned again to Horne. “Morivenn was on his way to Vega Center to bring Skereth into the Galactic Federation. Ardric saw to it that he never got there and, in killing Morivenn, he not only stopped the Federation movement here, he also pretty nearly wrecked the Federation party. Morivenn was a strong leader and there was no one to replace him. But Ardric didn't do all that on his own, just as a matter of political conviction."

  "I don't particularly care,” said Horne, “why be did it. All I want is to make him admit doing it. I want my name cleared. From there on, anybody can have the ball that wants it."

  "All right,” said Ewan. “You only want Ardric. Do you know who he is, how powerful his family is? Do you know what connection they have with the Vellae?"

  "The Vellae?"

  "The anti-Federation party. Do you know why the Vellae are so determined to keep Skereth out of the Galactic Federation that they'll murder a hundred-odd people to get the one man who endangers them? Do you know what they'll do to you, Horne, the second you show your fare in Rillah? Well, I'll tell you.

  "The Vellae own Rillah. It's the fountainhead and stronghold of the anti-Federation movement. A man named Ruric is one of the three top men, the triumvirate that runs the Vellae and right now, through their puppet governors, this whole world. Ruric is the father of Ardric. Do you begin to get the picture now, Horne? Do you still think you'll walk right up to Ardric on the street and make him confess?"

  Horne only said, “Go on. Let's have the rest of it."

  "The rest of it,” said Ewan, “is money and power and pride. The Vellae were the rulers of most of Skereth before the Galactic Federation was ever heard of. Since the advent of space flight and trade with other systems they've enlarged their field of operations. They own most of the merchant fleet and control most of the commerce. And since non-Federation ships are immune from search by Federation authorities, they don't have to stop at the legal stuff. We know that they use slave labor in some of their operations. We know that they bring in non-humans and semi-humans from the Fringe worlds, strictly against Federation law—"

  Horne started. “For God's sake! Then your Vellae are the slavers Denman was sent out to investigate!"

  "Denman?” said Ewan, frowning.

  Horne told them about the little Federation official whom they had left on Allamar Two, who had been sent out to get to the bottom of the secret slaving of humanoids. They listened intently, but they did not seem to get very excited about it.

  "It won't do us any good,” said Yso, “if your man Denman traces the slaving to the Vellae a year or two from now. What matters is now, and whether we can hit the Vellae now with what we have."

  Ewan nodded agreement, and said to Horne, “You see what the Vellae stand to lose if the truth about Morivenn's death should get out? The Vega Queen was a Federation packet, full of Federation personnel. Deliberate sabotage would constitute an act of war, and even the Vellae can't stand off the whole Federation navy. And if Skereth is ‘pacified’ and brought into the Galactic Federation, the Vellae are through. Their monopolies will be broken, their activities supervised, their ships searched. They won't be the lords of Skereth any longer. Now, how long do you think they'll let you stir up talk and suspicion against their man Ardric?"

  "There's another reason, too,” said Yso. Her tone was so somber and full of apprehension that Horne was startled. “The most important reason of all. My father was sure of it. The only way to save Skereth, he told me, and perhaps other worlds too, was to get Federation law and authority in here before the Vellae were ready for it. He was afraid. They're doing something, he told me, something that will change our history and the history of this whole part of the galaxy, but I don't know what it is."

  Ewan made an impatient sound. Apparently they had been over this ground before.

  "I still think Morivenn had an obsession on that point,” he said. “The Vellae's obvious motives are good enough, without hunting for secret ones."

  "All right,” said Yso angrily, “you explain what happens to all the slaves they bring in from the Fringe worlds. We know they come. But after they reach Skereth, they vanish completely. Where?"

  "I'll admit it's a problem,” said Ewan. “I just don't think it's as important as your father did, that's all.” He looked at Horne. “Are you convinced now?"

  "One thing kind of puzzles me,” Horne said. “What's your big interest in whether I get killed or not?"

  "I should think,” said Yso, “that would be obvious. You're the only actual witness against Ardric. Without you, even if we proved be was alive and in hiding, he could hardly be convicted.” She shook her head. “We both want the same thing, Horne. We have to work together to get it. It would be better if we did it as friends."

  Horne
took a deep breath and made an honest effort to swallow his anger. The girl was right and he knew it. So he said, “All right, how do we do it?"

  "We don't, not right now.” The man who spoke was the man who had climbed the tower stair and who had now come hurrying down in time to hear Horne's question. He added, “There are three fliers coming this way."

  Instantly Ewan and the other two sprang up. One of them switched off the portable light, burning forgotten in the corner even though the storm was past and the sky outside was bright again. Horne and the girl rose too. They stood still, listening, looking up. The air, cooled briefly by the rain, grew hot and the wet stones steamed.

  The man who had run down the stairway said, “They look as though they're going to investigate the tower. We'd better clear out."

  Ewan went to the wall under the steps and swung out a pivoted stone. There was a narrow shaft beyond it in the thickness of a buttress. One of the other men picked up the light and gave a hasty look around. Yso entered the shaft and began to climb down and Ewan indicated that Horne should follow her.

  "How big are they?” Ewan was asking, and the man who had been the lookout said.

  "Two single-seaters, and the other one's bigger. Carries three anyway, maybe four."

  The shaft was not deep. There was an ancient and shaky-looking tunnel beneath it, short enough so that light from its far end seeped back in. “It comes out in a bend of the stream you nearly fell into,” Yso said. “There's a fair-sized cave there, where the tower guards used to keep their mounts hidden in the old days. We have our fliers there."

  Horne heard the stone door shut with a hollow grating sound overhead. For a few minutes there was only the enclosed and magnified sound of people moving and breathing in a tunnel. Then the noise of running water became louder and louder, and there was another noise mixed with it-a shrill high whistling. The cone-shaped fliers were close at hand.