by Jack Vance
“Oh?” Nion pulled thoughtfully at his chin. “She told you when she was departing?”
“Yes.”
“And when will it be?”
Ghyl looked sharply at Nion Bohart whose voice had suddenly become far too casual. “Why do you ask?”
“I have my reasons…Peculiar that she should be so confiding. They’re usually the most secretive of folk. You must have plucked at her heart-strings.”
Ghyl gave a hollow laugh. “I doubt if she has a heart.”
Nion considered a moment, then looked at Floriel. “Would you be ready?”
Floriel grimaced. “As ready as I’ll ever be. But we don’t know when they debark, or from where.”
“Presumably at the Godero space-port.”
“Presumably. But we don’t know the boat.” Floriel looked at Ghyl. “Did she mention what kind of space-yacht she would travel in?”
“I know the space-yacht.”
Nion jumped to his feet. “Do you then? Wonderful! Our problems are solved. What about it? Would you care to join us in a venture?”
“You mean, to steal the space-yacht?”
“Yes. It is an unusual opportunity. We know, or rather you know, the departure date: when the yacht will be fueled and victualed and crewed and ready for space. All we need do is step aboard and take charge.”
Ghyl nodded. “What then?”
Nion hesitated a barely perceptible instant. “Well—we’ll try to ransom our captives; that’s only reasonable.”
“They won’t ransom themselves any more, they’ve compacted together.”
“So I’m told. Well, if they won’t pay, they won’t pay. We can drop them off on Morgan or some such spot, and then fly off in search of wealth and adventure.”
Ghyl sipped his tea, and looked out at the flowing river. What was left for him in Ambroy? A lifetime of wood-carving and Schute Cobol’s admonitions? Shanne? Had she, after all, thought him no more than a maudlin brute? If she thought of him at all.
Ghyl winced. He said slowly, “I’d like to take the space-yacht, if only to find the Historian who knows the entire history of the human race.”
Floriel gave an indulgent laugh. “He wants to scrutinize the life of Emphyrio.”
“Why not?” asked Nion easily. “This is his privilege. Once we’ve taken the space-yacht and earned a few vouchers, there’s nothing in the way.”
Floriel shrugged. “I suppose there’s no reason why not.”
Ghyl looked from one to the other. “Before I listen to another word, an absolutely fundamental matter: we must agree: no killing, no looting, no kidnaping, no piracy.”
Nion laughed in exasperation. “We’re pirates the minute we take the space-yacht! Why mince matters?”
“True.”
“The lords will be carrying a large sum of money for their expenses,” Floriel pointed out. “There is no reason why we should leave that to them.”
“I agree there also. Lords’ property is fair game. If we steal their space-yacht it is foolishness to boggle at dipping into their pouches. But thereafter we prey on no one, perform no harmful acts; agreed?”
“Yes, yes,” said Nion impatiently. “Now then, when does the space-yacht depart?”
“Floriel, what of you?”
“I agree, certainly. All we want is the yacht.”
“Very well; a solemn compact. No killing—”
“Unless in self-defense,” inserted Nion.
“—no kidnaping, or plunder, or harm.”
“Done,” said Floriel.
“Done,” said Nion.
“The space-yacht leaves in less than a week—a week from yesterday. Floriel knows the craft very well. It is a black and gold Deme, from which long ago we were ejected.”
“Well, well, well,” marveled Floriel.
“One other point,” Ghyl went on. “Assuming that we succeed in seizing the yacht, who can navigate? Who can operate the engines?”
“No problem there,” said Nion. “The lords don’t navigate either; they use a crew of Lusch technicians, who will serve us obediently, so long as their salaries are paid.”
“So there,” said Floriel, “all is decided. The space-yacht is as good as ours!”
“How can we fail?” demanded Nion. “We’ll need two or three others, of course: Mael and Shulk, and Waldo Hidle; Waldo will find us our weapons. Wonderful! To a new life for all of us!” He held up his mug; the conspirators toasted their desperate venture in tea.
Chapter XIV
Ghyl returned to Undle Square with the feeling of revisiting a place he had known long ago. A high overcast shrouded the sky, allowing an umber light to seep into the square. An unnatural silence hung in the air, the stillness before a thunderstorm. Few recipients were abroad, and these hurried to their destinations, cloaks drawn up around their heads, like insects fleeing the light. Ghyl let himself into the shop, closed the door. The familiar odor of shavings and polishing oil came to his nostrils; bots buzzed against the windowpane. As always Ghyl turned a glance toward Amiante’s bench, as if he half-expected someday to find there the dear familiar hulk. He went to his own bench, and for several minutes stood contemplating the screen which now he would never complete.
He had no regrets. Already his old life seemed remote. How dull and constricted seemed that old life!… What of the future? It was formless, vacant: a great windy space. He could not begin to imagine the direction of his existence—presuming, of course, that the forthcoming act of piracy turned out successfully. He looked around the shop. His tools and belongings, Amiante’s accumulation of oddments—all must be abandoned. Except Amiante’s old portfolio, which Ghyl could never give up. He took it from the cabinet, stood holding it irresolutely. It was too large to carry in its present condition. He made a parcel of the most valuable contents, those which Amiante had prized most dearly. As for the rest—he would simply walk away and never return. It was heart-wrenching. There were many memories to this room with the amber-paned windows, the shavings on the floor.
The next morning Nion, Floriel, Mael and Waldo Hidle came to the shop and the group formulated plans. Nion proposed a scheme which was simple and bold, with all the virtues of directness. He had noticed that Garrion were never halted at the wicket controlling access to the south area of the space-port, but passed back and forth unchallenged. The group would disguise themselves as Garrion and thereby gain access to the avenue along which the space-yachts were parked. They would conceal themselves near the black and gold Deme. When the Lusch crew came aboard, probably with a Garrion or two, the group, with due discretion and minimum violence—this at Ghyl’s insistence—would overpower the Garrion, intimidate the crew, and take control of the yacht. Nion and Floriel wanted to wait for the lords, to let them board the ship, to take them as hostages and hold them for ransom. Ghyl argued against this proposal. “In the first place, the longer we wait the greater our chances of failure and rehabilitation. Secondly, the lords won’t pay ransom; this is their compact, to protect themselves from kidnaping.”
“Bah,” said Nion. “They’ll pay, don’t worry about that. Do you think they’d be all that self-sacrificing? Not much.”
Waldo Hidle, a tall sharp-featured young man, with rust-orange hair and pale yellow eyes, took Ghyl’s side. “I’m for taking the ship and leaving fast. Once we make our move we’re vulnerable. Suppose a message arrives and we don’t make the correct response, or suppose we neglect some trifling formality? The patrol would be on us at once.”
“That’s all very well,” said Nion. “Let’s assume we escape with the ship. What are we going to use for money? We must be practical. Kidnaping is a means to earning the money.”
Floriel added, “If they refuse to pay ransom, as Ghyl suggests, then we’re in no worse ease. We’ll simply set them down somewhere.”
“Also,” said Nion, “they’ll undoubtedly have sums of money on their persons, which we can use very nicely.”
Ghyl could summon no convincing counter
-argument, and after a good deal of further discussion, Nion’s plan was adopted.
Every day the conspirators met in the shop, to practise the Garrion stance and mode of walking. Waldo Hidle and Nion secured Garrion masks and costumes; thereafter the rehearsals were done in costume, with each criticizing inaccuracies or falsities in the other’s deportment.
On three occasions they paid discreet visits to the spaceport and planned their precise mode of action.
The night before the critical day all gathered at the wood-carving shop and tried to sleep, with little success; all were tense.
Before dawn they were awake, to tone their skins the purple-brown of the Garrion, and strap themselves into the now-familiar Garrion harness. Then, muffling themselves in cloaks, they departed.
Ghyl was last to leave. For a moment he stood in the doorway looking back across the familiar old benches and tool-racks, tears making his eyes heavy. He shut the door, turned, followed his comrades.
Now they were committed. They were abroad in Garrion costume, which was irregulationary. If they were apprehended they would face a very searching inquiry at the very least.
Overtrend took them to the space-port, each touching his Garrion shoulder to the registry plate. At some time in the future each would be billed for the ride, but none would be on hand to pay: or so they hoped. Coming up into the depot they crossed the echoing old chamber, using their much-practised Garrion stride. No one glanced twice at them.
At the control wicket came the first test. The guard glanced across the counter with a blank expression, pressed the unlock button. The door slid ajar; the conspirators stalked out upon the south sector of the field.
They marched down the access avenue, past space-yacht after space-yacht, and took up stations behind the nose-block and rear structure of the ship next to the Deme, that same black and gold space-yacht from which Ghyl and Floriel so long ago had been ejected.
Time passed. The sun rose into the sky; a small red and black freighter sank down upon the north sector, to be met by landing authorities.
Nion spoke in a husky voice: “Here they come.” He indicated a group coming along the avenue: six Lusch crew-men, two Garrion.
The plan now devolved upon who entered the ship first: the crew or Garrion. The crew would not be armed, but if they witnessed a struggle they would surely raise an alarm. In the optimum situation the crew would board the ship while the Garrion paused outside an extra few seconds to release the nose chock or some other such small duty.
The optimum situation did not occur. The Garrion mounted the ramp, unlocked the port, turned and stood facing the avenue, as if alert for just such an assault as the conspirators had planned. The crew scrambled up the ramp and entered the ship. The Garrion followed. The port swung closed.
The marauders watched silently, taut with frustration. There had been no opportunity to act. The instant they had showed themselves, the Garrion would have brought weapons to bear.
“Well, then,” hissed Nion, “we wait for the lords. Then—we must act!”
An hour passed, two hours, the conspirators fidgeting with nervousness. Then along the avenue came a little dray, loaded with gay cases and parcels: personal baggage. The dray halted under the Deme; an after hatch opened, a cargo flat descended, the cases and parcels were transferred and hoisted into the belly of the Deme. The dray returned the way it had come.
The air became heavy with imminence. Ghyl’s stomach began to pull and jerk; it seemed that all his life had been spent crouched under a space-yacht’s nose-block.
“Here come the lords,” muttered Floriel at last. “Everybody back.”
Three lords and three ladies came along the avenue. Ghyl recognized Shanne. Behind marched two Garrion. Nion muttered to Floriel on one side of him, to Mael on the other.
The party turned off the avenue, ascended the Deme’s boarding ramp. The entry port opened.
“Now!” said Nion. He stepped forth, stalked up the ramp, the others behind him. The Garrion instantly seized their weapons, but Nion and Mael were ready. Energy struck from their guns; the Garrion toppled, rolled to the ground.
“Quick!” snapped Nion to the lords. “Into the ship! Cooperate as you value your lives!”
The lords and ladies retreated aghast into the ship; behind came Nion, Mael and Floriel, then Ghyl and Waldo.
They burst into the saloon. The two Garrion who had come aboard with the crew stood glowering and indecisive; then they rushed forward, clicking their mandibles. Nion, Mael and Floriel fired their weapons and the Garrion became steaming wads of dark flesh. The ladies began to wail in horror; the lords made hoarse sounds.
From the depot came the wail of a siren, hoarse and wild by turns; it appeared that someone in the tower had glimpsed the attack. Nion Bohart ran to the engine room, waved his weapon at the Luschein crew. “Take the ship aloft! We have taken control; if we are threatened you will die first!”
“Fool!” cried one of the lords. “You will kill us all! The tower has orders to shoot down any seized ships, no matter who is aboard; did you not know that?”
“Quick!” bellowed Nion. “Up with the ship! Or we’re all dead!”
“The coils are barely warm; the trans-gain system has not been checked!” wailed the Luschein engineer.
“Take us up—or I’ll burn off your legs!”
Up went the ship, weaving and tottering on its unbalanced propulsors, and so perhaps was saved from destruction when the energy guns directed from the tower were brought to bear. Before this, the ship gained velocity and vanished into space-drive.
Chapter XV
Nion Bohart had assumed command of the ship, a fact tacitly accepted by his fellows and enforced upon the lords. He wore his authority with a swashbuckling swagger; but there was no doubting his earnestness, his dedication, and his pure pleasure in the success of the exploit.
He held his weapons upon the lords while Floriel searched them. He found no weapons, nor the large sums of money which had been expected.
“Well then,” said Nion in a dire voice. “Where are your funds? Do you carry vouchers or valuta or whatever?”
The lord who owned the ship, a thin-faced saturnine individual in a suit of silver foil and pink velvet, with a gallant hat of silver mesh, turned a sneer of disgust upon Nion. “The money is in our luggage; where else?”
Nion, not at all disturbed by the lord’s contempt, shoved his weapons back in his belt. “Names please?”
“I am Fanton the Overtrend. This is my consort, the Lady Radance; this is my daughter, the Lady Shanne.”
“Very well. You, sir?”
“I am Ilseth the Spay; my consort, the Lady Jacinth.”
“You, sir?”
“I am Xane the Spay.”
“Good. You may all sit, if you are so inclined.”
The lords and ladies remained standing a moment; then Fanton muttered something, and the group went to settees along the bulkhead.
Nion looked around the saloon. He gestured to the Garrion corpses. “You, Ghyl, you, Waldo: eject this rubbish.”
Ghyl stood stiffly, burning with resentment. Certainly, in any group such as this, there was need for a leader; nonetheless, in Ghyl’s opinion, Nion had arrogated this privilege to himself somewhat high-handedly. If now he obeyed the order without complaint, he thereby conceded Nion’s authority. If he did not obey, he initiated contention. And he would gain Nion’s instant and abiding hatred. So—submit or fight.
He decided to fight.
“The emergency is over, Nion. We began this venture as a group of equals; let’s keep it that way.”
“What’s this?” barked Nion. “Do you object to unpleasant work?”
“No. I object to your giving orders in regard to the unpleasant work.”
For a tense moment the two faced each other, Nion smiling but obviously discomfited. He snarled, “We can’t bicker over every little detail; somebody has to give orders.”
“In that case, let’s rotate
the leadership. Floriel can start, I’ll take it next, or Mael, or you or Waldo—it makes no great difference. But let’s keep our group an association of equals, rather than a captain and his followers.” Ghyl, sensing that now was the appropriate time to seek support, looked around to the others. “Do you fellows agree?”
Waldo spoke first, hesitantly. “Yes, I agree. There is no need for anyone to give orders, so long as we are not faced with emergency.”
“I don’t like orders,” Mael agreed. “As Ghyl says, we’re a group. Let’s make the decisions together, then act.”
Nion looked at Floriel. “What of you?”
Floriel licked his lips. “Well—I’ll go along with whatever everyone else thinks.”
Nion gave in gracefully. “Good enough. We’re a group, we’ll act as a group. Still, we’ve got to have rules and direction, otherwise we fall to pieces.”
“No argument there,” said Ghyl. “I suggest then that we confine our guests, passengers, prisoners—whatever they are—in staterooms, and hold a conference.”
“Very good,” said Nion, and then with heavy sarcasm: “Perhaps, Mael, you and Floriel will so confine our guests. I and Waldo, and Ghyl, if he so decides, will eject the corpses.”
“A moment before you hold your conference,” spoke Lord Fanton. “What are your designs in regard to us?”
“Ransom,” said Nion. “As simple as that.”
“In that case, you must revise your plans. We will request none. If we did, none would be paid. This is our law. Your piracy is in vain.”
“Not altogether,” said Nion, “even if what you say is true, we have possession of the ship, which represents wealth. If you pay no ransom we will take you to the man-markets in Wale. The women will go to brothels, the men will work in the mines or gather silicon flowers on the desert. If of course you prefer this to ransom.”
“‘Preference’ is not involved,” said Ilseth the Spay, who seemed less absolute than Fanton. “This is the law, imposed upon us.”
Ghyl spoke, to forestall Nion. “We’ll discuss the situation at our conference. We intend no harm upon you, if you give us no trouble.”