Fraser tore the pack off his shoulders, crouched where he was and ripped it open. The tordenite sticks spilled forth. He cursed out rage and grief in a stream while he twisted the three-minute detonator caps. But somehow through the clamor and the flashes he kept watch on the time, until the zero count was reached and he began lobbing them. One, two, three . . . they burst among the jacks, little glares of light and smoke. Maybe they injured a man or two. But hitting randomly, piecemeal, in vacuum, they did not, they could not harm the warcraft.
Something moved near Fraser. He looked dazedly around and made out a shadow which bled freezing vapor. A fresh curtain of fire shone past the Vega and touched Pat Mahoney’s face. With a torch in his arms, he crawled on his knees toward the ship.
The fire died down again. The ground no longer shook. Motion had ceased at the far side of the spacefield all over the spacefield. The dead lay thick and the living were in flight.
Fraser wormed to intercept Mahoney. “Pat!” he called through what radio noise remained. “Pat, come here, lemme get you safe.”
Mahoney kept on crawling. Fraser threw his arms around him. The man’s recycler tank dug painfully into his own bruised side. Mahoney struggled and damned him in a lunatic voice. “Pat, don’t throw yourself away, let’s get out of here, get some help for you . . .”
“ATTENTION, INSURRECTIONISTS!”
The stars trembled with that sound. Mahoney stiffened, then sagged back into Fraser’s embrace. Fraser lurched to his feet and began carrying the hurt man away. He was in easy shot of the Vega’s guardians, but he didn’t care any more.
“ATTENTION, YOU GANYMEDEANS! THIS IS ADMIRAL SWAYNE.”
Must be using the main transmitter, broadcasting at full amplitude. So what? I’ve got to get Pat to a medic.
“YOU HAVE BEEN THROWN BACK IN TOTAL DEFEAT. ANY FURTHER ATTEMPTS WILL BE MET BY THE SAME FIREPOWER. YOU MAY PERHAPS HAVE SOME IDEA OF FORCING YOUR WAY INTO AURORA. DO NOT TRY. YOU WOULD ONLY SUCCEED IN WRECKING THE CITY. AND YOU WOULD KILL ITS CIVILIAN POPULATION. ALL OUTDOOR EQUIPMENT HAS BEEN SEQUESTERED. IF THE CITY IS BREACHED, EVERY MAN, WOMAN AND CHILD IN THE DAMAGED SECTION WILL DIE.”
Silence clapped down. It reached past the field and the plain, Ganymede and Jupiter, out of the whirl-
pool in Andromeda and beyond. Nothing lived but Fraser’s rasping lungs and the blood that bubbled in Mahoney’s gullet.
Then the Jehovah voice came back. “ASSEMBLE BETWEEN THE CITY AND APACHE CRATER. IF YOU DO SO, YOU WILL NOT BE FIRED ON. WE ARE HOLDING OUR ARTILLERY FIRE UNTIL WE SEE WHETHER YOU OBEY THIS ORDER.”
There was no strength left in Fraser. He stumbled on somehow, past the moonships and around the junkyard where Hoshi’s men had encountered Swayne’s defense. The seepage from Mahoney’s suit was less, pressure had dropped, stop, slap a patch on, you idiot.
“I AM PREPARED TO HOLD DISCUSSIONS WITH YOUR LEADERS, PROVIDED YOU WAIT AT THE DESIGNATED PLACE. MEANWHILE YOU MUST ADMIT THAT YOU ARE BEATEN. THE VEGA CAN BE READY TO LIFT WIITH AN EMERGENCY CREW IN LESS THAN AN HOUR. YOU CANNOT GET ONTO THE SPACEFIELD IN A YEAR. ACCEPT YOUR DEFEAT, GANYMEDEANS!”
Fraser laid Mahoney down, and hunted in his repair kit.
Another pause came, a stillness so absolute that he heard the hiss of cosmic radio interference in his earplugs. He bent close, trying to see if Mahoney moved. Eyes stared back at him, full of reflected starlight. A froth of blood had formed on the mouth and around the nostrils. Nothing disturbed it.
Fraser held his breath and listened for the other man’s. All he heard was the seething between the galaxies.
VIII
West over sea, on the foggy edge of sight, lifted the shimmering cliffs of the Orgover Islands. Theor could just discern the surf that battered their feet, the waves and maelstroms that dashed between them. More clearly there came to him the sound, like an endless thunderstorm, brimming the red-tinged bowl of the sky.
The ship had not been built which could live in those tide-rips and crosscurrents. But the islands sheltered the stretch between themselves and the mainland, so that Nyarr’s fleet walked over placid gray ammonia and the black sands of Gillen Beach were lapped by mere ripples. Beyond, pastureland slanted eastward and southward until it lost itself in distance. The Steeps of Jonnary walled off the north.
Theor gazed at the looted ruin of a fisher town, the fifteen or more octads of lean dark ships lying at anchor, the army of giants ashore who swarmed into formation as his own folk approached. Signal drums were sounding on both sides, through the ocean tumult, rapid thutter from Nyarran ranks and a slower bass boom that called to the Ulunt-Khazul. Spearheads flashed high among banners, above the hordes.
Elkor scowled. “They aren’t manning their ships,” he said. “They’re keeping almost entirely on land.”
Norlak’s slim hands twisted together. “Can our levies face so many? We counted on dividing the opposition.”
“Once we attack their fleet—” Theor’s voice faded. Obviously the Ulunt-Khazul knew better than to go aboard then.
Elkor made a headshake shrug. “Having come to live in Medalon, they may as well sacrifice the ships,” he interpreted.
“No, that makes no sense,” Norlak said. “Even if they are resolved on victory or death, well, they have to bring the rest of their people sometime.”
“They must count on building more vessels after the conquest, or using ours,” Elkor decided. He paced restlessly, around and around the foredeck. “This is a blow to our plans,” he muttered. “We’ve committed so many folk to the fleet that the enemy land force—allowing for them being superior warriors individually—may very well defeat our troops. Perhaps we should land here and now . . . No. It would take too long. They’d be upon us before we straightened the confusion.”
He stood a while pondering. A breeze fluttered his cloak of authority. Decision came; he lifted his massive head and announced: “We’ll carry on as planned. Get in among their ships, cut down what few enemy people are aboard, and then make our landing. That way, they’ll be taken in the rear while still engaging our ground forces. Unfokaer, have a forgarman so inform Guard Chief Walfilo. Tell him to hold firm at every cost.
The officer saluted and called to the signaller. “We’d best get ready,” Norlak said.
“Aye.” They began to equip themselves. The ship, the whole fleet crawled with folk doing likewise.
Theor squirmed into the kannik-skin mailcoat that protected his body; the similar jacket for his torso; the solid plates that hung loosely above the vulnerable openings for gills and vents; the peaked helmet; the round shield for his left arm; the belt of knives. His right hand hefted an ax.
The gear was unexpectedly heavy, and it was annoying to feel his crest cramped. He tried to convince himself that combat against invaders was no worse than against an enraged snouthorn. But he couldn’t believe it. The wrongness of the day, the disorientation, bit into him. He looked at his male demi-father’s face and read only sternness. Norlak’s jitters were almost a comfort, making him feel less alone.
Drums crashed. The Ulunt-Khazul infantry formed up and started toward the Nyarrans. Their spears rippled like a forest in the wind.
Theor plucked his attention away, back seaward. The enemy fleet was still a couple of miles off, but he could observe details. They were lapstrake craft, shorter and with less beam than his galleys, entirely decked over. The absence of figureheads gave them a dauntingly businesslike look. But what was that framework jutting from each prow? And without sidewheels or masts or
even oar ports, how did they move?
A few figures bustled about on them, in helmets and horn-plate cuirasses that flung back the light as if metallic. Several boats were moving out into deeper water. Unlike Nyarran auxiliary craft, round coracles sculled by a single person, these were narrow, with outriggers and lateen sails. “Where are they going?” Theor wondered aloud. “What are they about?”
“Nothing good for us,” Norlak said.
“Their vessels a
re not equipped to ram, as we already knew,” Elkor said. He had counted originally on sinking them thus before their crews could grapple fast and board his own ships. “But they may well be faster than us. Could they intend simply to flee for safety?”
“If so,” Theor forced himself to remark, “we can make our landing still sooner.”
“I don’t like this,” Norlak mumbled. His antennae twitched. “The air stinks with ill-omen.”
The Nyarran ships plodded on. There was no more chanting from the wells: only shuffle and creak, the coxwain’s count, the thresh of the wheels overside. Males lined the deck above, shifting their weapons from hand to hand, staring ahead.
Theor glanced at the shore. The two armies had changed from a walk to a jog trot; their banners bobbed against low clouds in the east.
“Ulloala! What’s that?” exclaimed Elkor.
Theor whirled about and followed the pointing spear. The enemy sailboats had halted at the edge of a large sea pasture. Their pilots cupped hands about throat pouches and shouted. The call wailed to Theor through the Orgover thunders and the drum play ashore.
The weed surface broke open. Waves boiled outward. Shape after huge black shape rose until the whole strait seemed covered with them.
Norlak reared and gibbered. “What are they?”
The muscles bunched around Elkor’s jaws. “Ocean beasts. I’ve never seen or heard of their kind, but—domesticated. So that’s what pulls their ships!”
The archbacked forms vibrated tails and flippers and darted toward the Ulunt-Khazul vessels. Sailors poised on the framework at every bow, harnesses in hand. Someone yelled, aft of Theor; a groan rose from Nyarr’s fleet.
Elkor stood fast and estimated. “About half as long as a galley, those creatures,” he said. “And almost as massive, I’m sure. I don’t know what they can do to us, but plainly the enemy is counting on them. That’s why he could afford to concentrate his strength on land.” He brought the butt of his spear down on the planks. “We must assume he knows his own capabilities. I dare no longer meet him at sea—but we can beach before he’s ready to fight. That harnessing must be a slow operation.”
“Beach? Here?” Theor protested. “Demi-father, I’ve fished along Gillen. The dropoff isn’t steep enough at this point. We’ll smash our sidewheels in the shallows.”
“Wheels can be repaired,” Elkor snapped. “Death can’t.” He scanned the ground. “If we make for yonder spit, Walnlo’s band should have passed it by the time we arrive. We’ll group while he holds off the enemy, and join him from behind. It’s not as good as Striking the Ulunt-Khazul rear, but it will have to do, Send the message, Umfokaer.”
“Aye, aye.” The officer gestured to the signaller below, who unfurled the flag he carried. The nearest forgar came down. Umfokaer shouted to the rider, who rose and repeated the words to his hovering fellows. They scattered the command over the fleet.
Theor gripped the stempost and stared out at the enemy.
The sea beasts neared the Ulunt-Khazul ships. A nude sailor went over each side, struck with a splash and swam forward. An animal stopped for him. He climbed up onto the shoulders, behind the long neck, straddled with four legs, and waved. His mates flung the ends of harness at him. He caught them and went to work.
Nyarr’s ships had scarcely changed course when the Ulunt-Khazul fleet was in motion. They came in a blunt wedge, ammonia foaming white where tails churned and again where the sharp bows cut through. The riders were all but hidden in spray. But the heads of their mounts reared above, gaunt and gape-jawed.
Elkor joined Theor, laid a hand on his son’s shoulder and said most gently: “So I was wrong about that too. They’ll catch us a mile from safety. Well . . . if we don’t outlive this day . . . you were a welcome guest.”
Theor bent his head. They do not weep on Jupiter.
Norlak shook his dirk aloft. Once the irrevocable had happened, a demimale’s terrors usually left him. “Let them come and be eaten!” he yelled. Some of the crew shouted him an answer. Most were silent, clutching their weapons, waiting.
“Organize a defense at this end,” Elkor said. “I’d best be aft with the steersmale. Fight well—no, I know you will.” He turned and went quickly down the gangway.
The armies ashore laid spears in rest and broke into a gallop.
As Theor helped Norlak deploy three octads of pike wielders on the foredeck, his hunter’s hearts rallied within him.
Animals could be faced! Terrifying though they looked, those beasts weren’t going to ram—not unless they wanted to break their necks. They would probably lay alongside and try to snatch crewfolk off the deck. A wall of shields and a hedge of spears would meet them. He called his orders out. With a growl and a rattle, the Nyarrans locked ranks.
Closer, now . . . Theor raised his ax. If any fangs got near him, he thought he could chop the jawbone loose. He glared into the eyes of the closest oncoming beast and braced his feet on the deck. Behind him, spearbutts grounded with a solid thunk.
The monster veered to port. Spray whirled as its flippers backed ammonia. The rider tugged at the horns of the collar. The beast rolled around. Its tail smashed out.
The ship staggered. Wood cracked across, splinters hailed, the line at the rail was broken and two Nyarrans shrieked in agony. Another blow, and another—they weren’t carnivores! They weren’t going to bite, they crushed!
Forgars swooped low. The riders stabbed with futile lances. The sea beast shook its head and went underneath. Its controller stayed on its back.
The creature rose again by the paddlewheel and broke that to pieces with sheer mass. The crippled ship wallowed in the waves. Once more the beast sounded. It couldn’t go deep without dragging down the vessel it pulled. But it got under the Nyarran keel.
The well erupted treadmill walkers. A gush of ammonia followed them. The ship lurched and began to sink.
“Board the enemy!” Elkor shouted, above the rush and trample. There was no way to do so. The beast had withdrawn. Across yards, Theor saw how it grinned, how the invaders howled and brandished their weapons. He looked over his fleet and saw it breaking up, ships foundering, ships fleeing, the sea power of Nyarr become flotsam.
He scrambled frantically out of his armor. The deck tilted, crewfolk slid toward the incoming sea, their cries overrode the surf and the clangor on shore. Theor wrapped a leg around the stempost and clung fast. He had a glimpse of Norlak tumbling off, dragged under by his own heavy gear. Then he had stripped, save for the knife belt that he put on again. He dove.
The impact, under Jovian gravity, was savage. Whirl and turmoil followed, until he re-emerged and struck out for land.
Other heads bobbed about. He recognized Elkor in the swarm and moved that way. The ship turned as she settled, the stern lifted. With one liquid roar, she plunged to the bottom.
“Here!” Elkor called. “To me, Nyarr!”
As if in answer, a sea beast arrived. Flukes and flippers pounded about among the swimmers. The foam that flew up was blood color. The Nyarrans died with their Reeve, and the Ulunt-Khazul laughed aloud.
Theor raised his torso high, gills wide open to get as much air as he could. The monster searched around for more prey. He went below.
Dim tawny light enclosed him, and a bitter smell-taste of dissolved hydrocarbons. Currents fluttered around his skin. He swam until his head rocked from lack of air. Finally he had to surface.
The butchery was continuing. He seemed to be well away, himself. There was no time for horror. His legs pumped, driving him toward the beach.
“Hungn rogh mamlun!”
Theor looked behind. An Ulunt-Khazul warrior swam after him. The webbed feet and the long tail pushed the gray body at thrice his own speed. A knife glistened in one hand. The face was akindle with anticipation.
Theor drew a dagger of his own.
A So he wants a little personal amusement? Ill give him some. More coolly than a human could have done, he calculated his actions. He was no
match for his enemy as a swimmer, but—
The Ulunt-Khazuli dove. Going to rip me from beneath, I see. Theor put his head down while treading ammonia. The shadowy shape sped upward at him. He folded his legs under his stomach and sank. The knife flashed past. His free hand snatched, clamped onto the weapon wrist.
His opponent blocked his own stab and got a grip on that arm. They tumbled over and over, down through the sea together. Theor wrapped his front legs around the great body. The claws on his hind feet went against the abdomen. He roweled.
Down and down! Was the ocean filling with blood, or was that his own faintness? His hearts were about to burst. He felt his captured hand forced back, his own clasp loosening. He thought of Norlak and Elkor and raked with all his power. Something ripped.
Suddenly his dagger hand was free. With a head loaded with thunder, he continued to hang on and disembowel. Nothing but a loss of consciousness stopped him. He never knew afterward how he regained the surface.
Slowly his brain got function back. There was no sense of victory in
him, only a resolve to reach the shallows before his last strength went.
The distance was still considerable. He shook the wetness from his eyes and peered ahead.
The beach was a huge boiling of combat. He heard screams, axes hammering on shields, feet trampling the fallen and slipping in blood. But half the banners of Nyarr were down. Those of Ulunt-Khazul pressed ever deeper into the fray. “I’m coming!” he called, and damned his thews for their exhaustion.
He had not arrived when the striped flag of Walfilo pulled free. The Nyarrans streamed after it, still keeping a semblance of order, their rearguard smiting and stabbing. Forgars were thick in the riven air overhead. The riders hurled darts and stones, gray giants went to earth, the Ulunt-Khazul attack was blunted.
Drums boomed. A corps of invaders broke from the main battle and made for the Nyarran baggage train. Few were there to resist them. They swarmed through and possessed it.
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