The Icerigger Trilogy: Icerigger, Mission to Moulokin, and The Deluge Drivers

by Alan Dean Foster

  “I see.” September regarded the downy-maned messenger easily. “What do Mirmib and the Lady K’ferr say to this?”

  The other grinned in that peculiar Trannish way. “Many things that it would not be right to say in the presence of young cubs. They believe you. All we of Moulokin believe you. Those who could join with the treacherous Poyos could be naught but liars, no matter their powers or origin. A faster raft or stronger sword does not make a stranger’s words right.”

  “I think,” September said approvingly, “you folks are gonna make good additions to the Commonwealth. Did you happen to see these new skypeople yourself?”

  “I did.”

  “Was one of ’em just a little shorter than myself, with a self-important manner about him?”

  “I know naught of the mannerisms of you offworlders,” the messenger replied honestly. “I was sent only to inform you. But there were three skypeople and the one you may describe gives orders to the other two. They have come in a craft most marvelous and magical. It has no runners at all,” he murmured in astonishment, “but floats above the ice the height of my chest.”

  “A skimmer,” explained Ethan, adding, “they can come right over the wall with that if they want to. But three?”

  “Trell wouldn’t leave Arsudun without a bodyguard of some sort,” September said reasonably. “Probably peaceforcers. They’ll take orders from the Resident Commissioner without question, unless we can talk, sense to ’em. And if Trell’s told them we’re dangerous criminals or some such, we won’t have a chance to get near them. But a skimmer doesn’t frighten me. Trell would guess that much. Let’s go see what else they’ve brought.”

  Trell had indeed brought much more than a skimmer. Ethan and Skua stood on the wall sealing off the canyon. In the distance they could see the furled sails and masts of the Poyo fleet. Considerably closer, floating two meters above the ice, was a rectangular metal shape with a curved prow. The back third of the object was irregular and composed of the same dull-antimony-hued metal as the body, the bumps and rises giving it the look of a diseased animal. The front two-thirds were normally encased in a metal and glassalloy canopy, which was presently retracted. A steady, mellow hum came from within the skimmer.

  One survival-suited man sat at the controls. Trell stood behind him. Slightly to the left and still further back a third figure sat in a flexible seat. The seat was attached to a device consisting of a narrow, tapering tube two and half meters long that nested in a webbing of opaque ceramics, glassalloy, and spun metal. Ethan experienced a sinking feeling. The abstract sculpture was a beam cannon. One of modest size, but of sufficient capability to turn any fortification of Tran-ky-ky to a mound of molten rock.

  Its operator was sitting easily in the seat, running a hand through her long red hair and waiting for instructions from the Commissioner.

  The proximity of the skimmer rendered the use of voice amplifiers unnecessary. “Ethan Frome Fortune, Skua September, Milliken Williams!”

  Ethan recognized Trell’s voice immediately. “Where’s Milliken?”

  “Off with the wizard someplace. Never mind, feller-me-lad.” September roared over the wall. “We’re here, Trell!”

  “You are engaged,” the Commissioner began officiously, “in unauthorized, unpermitted, and illegal diplomatic endeavors among the natives of this Class V unstatused world.”

  “We’re trying to help them form something resembling a planetary government,” Ethan yelled back, “so they can make the jump to Class II. That’s a good thing. You said so yourself, Trell.”

  “You do not have official permission,” Trell replied sweetly. “As Resident Commissioner I share your concern. But I cannot countenance unauthorized activities of such delicacy.”

  “We’re willin’ to cooperate,” countered September. “Give us permission.”

  “I’m not empowered to do so, Mr. September. I’m only an administrator, not a policy-maker. If you will return with me to Arsudun, I will help you fill out the proper forms and put the request through correct channels.”

  “That would take years.” Ethan didn’t try to hide the sarcasm. “You know how the bureaucracy works. We’re not recognized diplomats, missionaries, anything but private citizens. We’d never get permission.”

  “That is not for me to say. But you must go through official channels! As Resident Commissioner I am empowered to enforce the law. No law permits amateur meddling in native affairs.”

  “You call it meddling. We call it somethin’ else.”

  “Evidently, Mr. September. However,” and he nodded toward the waiting cannon, “whatever lies you’ve managed to foist on your native allies will not resist modern weaponry. For the last time, I implore you to return peacefully to Arsudun—”

  “Where we might get our bellies slit … accidentally,” September cut in.

  “—to pursue your endeavors through proper authorities.”

  “If we don’t?” Ethan asked.

  Trell managed to look pained. “If I am compelled to employ modern weapons against primitive peoples it will go very harshly with you.”

  “What he’s sayin’,” September muttered, “is that if we and the Moulokinese resist, he can blow the whole city to fragments and blame it on us. If we go back with him, you know what’ll happen. If he doesn’t kill us outright, he’ll just have us put on the next ship outsystem. That’d be the end of any attempt to organize the Tran and lead ’em out of their self-destructive feudalism. You know how far any official request will get.”

  “What say you, friends?” They looked back, saw Hunnar standing expectantly behind them. Ethan switched from the symbospeech he and September had been speaking back to Trannish and repeated most of their conversation for the knight and for Mirmib, who had chivaned over to join them.

  Hunnar hefted the crossbow he’d taken from the Slanderscree’s armory. “What happens if I put a bolt through the chief human’s chest? Will he not die quickly as any Tran?”

  “Just as quickly,” September admitted. “But we’d have to kill all three of them simultaneously.” He glanced over the wall. “Near impossible. If one of ’em survives, they’ll move back out of range and reduce the whole city, or worse, return to Brass Monkey and report what happened here. Then Moulokin would be listed as an outlaw city full of belligerents, and Ro-Vijar and Rakossa would go down as the finest leaders on all Tran-ky-ky. Too risky except as a last resort. Like jumpin’ a crevasse, it’s an all or nothing proposition.

  “Besides, Trell’s no dummy. He knows we’ve got a couple of beamers. Probably the skimmer’s beam-shielded right now. Anything we fired at ’em would just get bent into the ice.”

  “We’ve got one other thing to fight with, Skua.” Ethan looked from man to Tran. “The new history of an entire race.”

  September let go a derisive sniff. “I’m not sure Trell’s the sort of man to whom that would make much difference, feller-me-lad.”

  “Don’t judge him too fast, Skua. You said yourself once you’re used to dealing in extremes. Let me try and sell him, first. Before we try any all or nothings.” September looked undecided.

  “Maybe I’m wrong, but I think he might be the sort of educated functionary who likes to steal so long as it can be done quasilegally. There’s a difference between a professional killer and an immoral opportunist.”

  “You spin words mighty fine, lad.”

  “It’s my business. Let me at least try talking to him. If he ignores me, well,” he shrugged and eyed Hunnar’s ready crossbow, “we can always try blunter methods.”

  “Why not slay him,” Hunnar suggested blithely, “when he comes to parley?”

  “In the first place, Hunnar, we’re not that kind of folks,” September replied sternly. “In the second, Trell will come by himself. May sound paradoxical, but he’s safer with his bodyguard behind him, runnin’ the skimmer and the gun. Kill him and we lose.”

  “We agree then. Friend Ethan, try your words.” Hunnar’s tone left no do
ubt what he thought Ethan’s chances were.

  He showed himself at the wall’s edge. “Will you meet us at the gate? We have a lot to tell you that you don’t know, Trell.”

  “I will,” came the response, “provided I can bring a couple of bodyguards!”

  September’s jaw sagged. If Trell were fool enough to leave the skimmer and cannon unattended …

  He was not. When the towering wooden gates were lugged slightly askew, the opening admitted Trell, two huge Tran, and Calonnin Ro-Vijar, looking like a great gray Cheshire cat.

  Trell had come thoroughly prepared. He wore skates similar to those manufactured for Ethan and his friends.

  “So you and Trell were together in this all along,” said Ethan.

  “In what?” Trell looked as innocent as the man who claimed his garrote was a handkerchief. “As Landgrave of Arsudun, naturally Ro-Vijar would be interested in anything affecting the peoples of his world.”

  “Such as personal profit?”

  “We are all businessmen and traders here.” Ro-Vijar did not sound offended by Ethan’s intended insult. “As a trader, I would be most gratified if this could all be resolved quietly, with no dyings. You should do as your leader requests and return with him to your outpost.”

  “That might settle things between outworlders.” Hunnar leaned against the wall nearby and inspected the edge of his sword. “After the humans depart, there would remain many things to be settled among people.”

  “As you wish, so may it be.” Ro-Vijar gestured imperceptibly in the knight’s direction, and Hunnar stiffened angrily.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Trell said hastily. He pointed to Ethan’s waist. “In case you’re wondering, the skimmer’s not beam shielded. No need for it to be so on this world. But we’re just out of range of your hand beamers. They can’t reach a tenth the distance of that cannon.

  “While I’d dislike having to kill you, if you refuse to return peaceably with me and persist in these illegal actions, I will regretfully do just that. Now what is it you wish to tell me?” He sounded impatient. It was cold in the shadow of the wall and his survival suit did not fit properly.

  Ethan gestured to Sir Hunnar. The knight went to the door of a chamber built into the base of the wall. Several sailors from the Slanderscree trooped out. They carried pika-pina fiber sacks. Carefully the contents of the sacks were removed, laid out on the ice in front of Trell. Knives, plates, bas-reliefs, all manner of relics removed from the buried metropolis they’d discovered inland.

  Wishing Williams were present to offer a more scientific and comprehensive explanation, Ethan launched into an analysis of what they had discovered. His narrative produced a more pronounced reaction from the Tran bodyguard and Ro-Vijar than it did from Trell.

  That didn’t mean the Commissioner was unaware of the significance of the artifacts spread out before him. He knelt, examined a strange tool made of native steel finer than any he’d ever seen. “I admit I’ve seen nothing like this before. All this means is that these Mulkins of yours are superb craftsmen.”

  “You don’t believe that, Trell. You don’t have to be an expert to tell how old this stuff is. With Commonwealth help, the Tran would be able to preserve their accomplishments and heritage from one warm cycle to the next.”

  “These Golden Saia you spoke of …”

  Ethan continued enthusiastically. “Warm weather versions of the Tran we see around us, survivors in their thermal region of the previous warm period. Plants and animals from that era have survived there also. Living proof, Trell, of what I’ve told you. The Tran live together on the continents in large social organizations during the warm cycles. Give them communications technology and you’d have a real planetary government. Only the periods of terrible cold force them into city-states competing for habitable territory.

  “Don’t you see, Trell? There’s much more than just Associate Commonwealth status at stake for the Tran here. They’ll have full status in a few millennia, and they’ll keep it, once they’re assured of a cultural foundation that’s not going to be shattered by a new ice age every time it gets started.” He paused, continued with more solemnity than he thought he possessed.

  “If you take us back to Arsudun, shunt us off on the next ship through and forget all this, you’re condemning an entire race, hundreds of millions of sapient beings, to an existence of periodic crisis, starvation, and death that can all be avoided. You’d be personally responsible for denying them their rightful heritage.”

  “Leastwise you got a simple choice, Trell,” September said pointedly. “A few credits in your own account against the future of an entire world. ’Course, if you decide for the former, you wouldn’t be the first to do so.”

  Ethan could see the Commissioner was sweating inside. It was one thing to skim a little illegal profit off the trade of a quarrelsome, primitive people, quite another to do so at the expense of an entire civilization’s future. Trell was just moral enough, just civilized enough, in fact just enough of a Resident Commissioner to be thrown into a real quandary by the problem.

  Sensing uncertainty, Ethan searched desperately for some additional semantic weapon to throw at Trell. “You’d still be in charge, still be Commissioner. You could still take a legal percentage, however much smaller, of the local trade. Think of the boom in that trade when the Tran organize themselves on a planet-wide basis. We’ve already started them on that path here in Moulokin.

  “And if that’s not inducement enough, consider the fame a few stolen credits can never buy. You’d go down in the Church histories as the Commissioner who recognized the cyclic nature of this world’s civilization and its importance and took the first steps to aid a climactically impoverished people. How much is a footnote in immortality worth, Trell?” He went quiet. Having appealed to Trell’s morality and now to his ego, Ethan had nothing left to fight with.

  “I don’t—I’m not sure …” Trell’s unctuous manner had vanished along with his confidence. He’d come in expecting to hear pleas or defiance. Instead he’d been confronted with artifacts and a new world history. He was badly shaken, needed time to recover his balance.

  “I’ve got to think on this, consider it carefully. We—” He halted, turned abruptly to Ro-Vijar. “Let us go and talk, friend Landgrave.” Ro-Vijar simply gave acknowledgement, accompanied Trell to the opening in the gate.

  The Commissioner looked back at Ethan. “I’ll give you an answer in less than an hour.”

  “All we ask is that you consider the obvious,” said Ethan. “We’ll give you our answer at the same time.” Trell didn’t appear to have heard the last, sunk in thoughts deeper than outside communication could penetrate.

  “What do you believe he will do, friend Ethan?” asked Hunnar as the wooden walls ground shut behind the departing four.

  “I don’t know. I really don’t know. Usually I can tell when I’ve got a customer bubbled—when I’ve convinced someone of something—but Trell’s too numbed to read. Skua?”

  “I don’t know either, young feller-me-lad. Trell’s tryin’ to decide whether immortality’s worth the pleasures of the present. It’s the old human dilemma: do you live for today or work for a place in heaven? Problem is, we can’t counter with the threat o’ Hell. We’ll know in an hour.”

  “Assuming he refuses, Skua … what do we do?” September said nothing. His expression was answer enough.

  XVIII

  THE SKIMMER HOVERED ALONGSIDE the royal raft of the Poyolavomaar fleet. Within the central cabin Trell, Ro-Vijar, and Rakossa conversed. The two peaceforcers stood nearby, chatting idly to each other and ignoring the curious stares of the Tran around them.

  “Friend Calonnin,” Trell said wearily, “I keep telling you but you refuse to understand. I no longer have a choice in this. Events have taken it beyond my control.”

  “You are right,” replied Ro-Vijar tightly. “I do not understand why you say you have no choice. Why do you not use your light weapon to make hearth-ashes of th
ose three outworlders and scatter their ashes upon the ocean?”

  “It’s not a question of three people any more.” Trell sat in the too-large Tran chair and worked his fingers. They rubbed, scratched, entwined and folded upon one another.

  “Everything they said about the future of your people is quite correct, given the accuracy of their interpretation of the discoveries they made. I’m inclined to accept both. Besides, I like the idea of having my name in the history tapes. You will, too.”

  “Your history is not mine.”

  “It will be.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “Neither of us will sink into poverty because of these developments, Calonnin. You’ll still be Landgrave of Arsudun. As the port of Brass Monkey expands to handle increased trade from the rest of Tran-ky-ky, Arsudun and you will benefit.”

  “In how many of your years?”

  “Soon, soon,” Trell insisted.

  “What of other, new ports?”

  “There might be one or two,” Trell conceded. “But Arsudun will still be foremost.”

  “I am little interested in what will occur after I am dead, friend Trell. I am interested only in what will happen tomorrow, perhaps also the day following.”

  Trell glanced across the room at a figure standing in shadow. “What about you, Rakossa of Poyolavomaar? What do you want?”

  Rakossa stepped out into the light. “We have wealth enough to satisfy us for all our future days. We have position and power. As to what happens to our name after we die we care not a k’nith. We do not even care what happens tomorrow, but only today. What do we want? We want justice! These merchants who dare to defy us and!—”

  “Yes, I know, I know.” Trell sighed, exasperated by the childish obsessions of these ignorant primitives. “Calonnin explained to me about the concubine. Your desires are as limited as your vision, Rakossa.”

  “You think us beneath you, offworlder. Our vision,” he said in a way which started a funny prickling at the back of Trell’s neck, “may not be so limited as you think.”