Young Flandry

by Poul Anderson

  "Your first duty is to the Empire." Flandry considered taking over at blaster point. No; not unless he must; too chancy. "And all you need do is approach Starkad in the usual fashion, make your usual landing at Highport, and let us off. The Merseians will never know, I swear."

  "I—but I—"

  Flandry snatched an idea from the air. "As for your owners," he said, "you can do them a good turn as well. Our boat had better be jettisoned out here. The enemy has her description. But if we take careful note of the spot, and leave her powerplant going for neutrino tracing, you pick her up on your way home and sell her there. She's worth as much as this entire ship, I'll bet." He winked. "Of course, you'll inform your owners."

  Brummelmann's eyes gleamed. "Well. So. Of course." He tossed off the rest of his drink. "By God, yes! Shake!"

  He insisted on shaking hands with Persis also. "Ugh," she said to Flandry when they were alone, in an emptied locker where a mattress had been laid. She had refused the captain's offer of his quarters. "How long to Starkad?"

  "Couple days." Flandry busied himself checking the spacesuits he had removed from the boat before she was cast adrift.

  "I don't know if I can stand it."

  "Sorry, but we've burned our britches. Myself, I stick by my claims that we lucked out."

  "You have the strangest idea of luck," she sighed. "Oh, well, matters can't get any worse."

  They could.

  Fifteen hours later, Flandry and Persis were in the saloon. Coveralled against the chill but nonetheless shivering, mucous membranes aching from the dryness, they tried to pass time with a game of rummy. They weren't succeeding very well.

  Brummelmann's voice boomed hoarse from the intercom: "You! Ensign Flandry! To the bridge!"

  "Huh?" He sprang up. Persis followed his dash, down halls and through a companionway. Stars glared from the viewports. Because the optical compensator was out of adjustment, they had strange colors and were packed fore and aft, as if the ship moved through another reality.

  Brummelmann held a wrench. Beside him, his first mate aimed a laser torch, a crude substitute for a gun but lethal at short range. "Hands high!" the captain shrilled.

  Flandry's arms lifted. Sickness caught at his gullet. "What is this?"

  "Read." Brummelman thrust a printout at him. "You liar, you traitor, thought you could fool me? Look what came."

  It was a standard form, transcribed from a hypercast that must have originated in one of several automatic transmitters around Saxo. Office of Vice Admiral Juan Enriques, commanding Imperial Terrestrial Naval forces in a region—Flandry's glance flew to the text.

  General directive issued under martial law: By statement of his Excellency Lord Markus Hauksberg, Viscount of Ny Kalmar on Terra, special Imperial delegate to the Roidhunate of Merseia . . . Ensign Dominic Flandry, an officer of his Majesty's Navy attached to the delegation . . . mutinied and stole a spaceboat belonging to the realm of Ny Kalmar; description as follows . . . charged with high treason . . . . Pursuant to interstellar law and Imperial policy, Ensign Flandry is to be apprehended and returned to his superiors on Merseia . . . . All ships, including Terran, will be boarded by Merseian inspectors before proceeding to Starkad . . . . Terrans who may apprehend this criminal are to deliver him promptly, in their own persons, to the nearest Merseian authority . . . secrets of state—

  * * *

  Persis closed her eyes and strained fingers together. The blood had left her face.

  "Well?" Brummelmann growled. "Well, what have you to say for yourself?"

  Flandry leaned against the bulkhead. He didn't know if his legs would upbear him. "I . . . can say . . . that bastard Brechdan thinks of everything."

  "You expected you could fool me? You thought I would do your traitor's work? No, no!"

  Flandry looked from him, to the mate, to Persis. Weakness vanished in rage. But his brains stayed machine precise. He lowered the hand which held the flimsy paper. "I'd better tell you the whole truth," he husked.

  "No, I don't want to hear, I want no secrets."

  Flandry let his knees go. As he fell, he yanked out his blaster. The torch flame boomed blue where he had been. His own snap shot flared off that tool. The mate yowled and dropped the red-hot thing. Flandry regained his feet. "Get rid of your wrench," he said.

  It clattered on the deck. Brummelmann backed off, past his mate who crouched and keened in pain. "You cannot get away," he croaked. "We are detected by now. Surely we are. You make us turn around, a warship comes after."

  "I know," Flandry said. His mind leaped as if across ice floes. "Listen. This is a misunderstanding. Lord Hauksberg's been fooled. I do have information, and it does have to reach Admiral Enriques. I want nothing from you but transportation to Highport. I'll surrender to the Terrans. Not to the Merseians. The Terrans. What's wrong with that? They'll do what the Emperor really wants. If need be, they can turn me over to the enemy. But not before they've heard what I have to tell. Are you a man, Captain? Then behave like one!"

  "But we will be boarded," Brummelmann wailed.

  "You can hide me. A thousand possible places on a ship. If they have no reason to suspect you, the Merseians won't search everywhere. That could take days. Your crew won't blab. They're as alien to the Merseians as they are to us. No common language, gestures, interests, anything. Let the greenskins come aboard. I'll be down in the cargo or somewhere. You act natural. Doesn't matter if you show a bit of strain. I'm certain everybody they've checked has done so. Pass me on to the Terrans. A year from now you could have a knighthood."

  Brummelmann's eyes darted back and forth. The breath rasped sour from his mouth.

  "The alternative," Flandry said, "is that I lock you up and assume command."

  "I . . . no—" Tears started forth, down into the dirty beard. "Please. Too much risk—" Abruptly, slyly, after a breath: "Why, yes. I will. I can find a good hiding spot for you."

  And tell them when they arrive, Flandry thought. I've got the upper hand and it's worthless. What am I to do?

  Persis stirred. She approached Brummelmann and took his hands in hers. "Oh, thank you," she caroled.

  "Eh? Ho?" He gawped at her.

  "I knew you were a real man. Like the old heroes of the League, come back to life."

  "But you—lady—"

  "The message doesn't include a word about me," she purred. "I don't feel like sitting in some dark hole."

  "You . . . you aren't registered aboard. They will read the list. Won't they?"

  "What if they do? Would I be registered?"

  Hope rushed across Flandry. He felt giddy with it. "There are some immediate rewards, you see," he cackled.

  "I—why, I—" Brummelmann straightened. He caught Persis to him. "So there are. Oh, ho, ho! So there are! "

  She threw Flandry a look he wished he could forget.

  He crept from the packing case. The hold was gut-black. The helmet light of his spacesuit cast a single beam to guide him. Slowly, awkward in armor, he wormed among crates to the hatch.

  The ship was quiet. Nothing spoke but powerplant, throttled low, and ventilators. Shadows bobbed grotesque where his beam cut a path. Orbit around Starkad, awaiting clearance to descend—must be. He had survived. The Merseians had passed within meters of him, he heard them talk and curled his finger around the trigger; but they had gone again and the Rieskessel resumed acceleration. So Persis had kept Brummelmann under control; he didn't like to think how.

  The obvious course was to carry on as he had outlined, let himself be taken planetside and turn himself in. Thus he would certainly get his message through, the word which he alone bore. (He had wondered whether to give Persis those numbers, but decided against it. A list for her made another chance of getting caught; and her untrained mind might not retain the figures exactly, even in the subconscious for narcosynthesis to bring forth.) But he didn't know how Enriques would react. The admiral was no robot; he would pass the information on to Terra, one way or another. But he might yie
ld up Flandry. He would most likely not send an armed scout to check and confirm, without authorization from headquarters. Not in the face of Hauksberg's message, or the command laid on him that he must take no escalating action save in response to a Merseian initiative.

  So at best, the obvious course entailed delay, which the enemy might put to good use. It entailed a high probability of Brechdan Ironrede learning how matters stood. Max Abrams (Are you alive yet, my father?) had said, "What helps the other fellow most is knowing what you know." And, finally, Dominic Flandry wasn't about to become a God damned pawn again!

  He opened the hatch. The corridor stretched empty. Unhuman music squealed from the forecastle. Captain Brummelmann was in no hurry to make planetfall, and his crew was taking the chance to relax.

  Flandry sought the nearest lifeboat. If anyone noticed, well, all right, he'd go to Highport. But otherwise, borrowing a boat would be the smallest crime on his docket. He entered the turret, dogged the inner valve, closed his faceplate, and worked the manual controls. Pumps roared, exhausting air. He climbed into the boat and secured her own airlock. The turret's outer valve opened automatically.

  Space blazed at him. He nudged through on the last possible impetus. Starkad was a huge wheel of darkness, rimmed with red, day blue on one edge. A crescent moon glimmered among the stars. Weightlessness caught Flandry in an endless falling.

  It vanished as he turned on interior gravity and applied a thrust vector. He spiraled downward. The planetary map was clear in his recollection. He could reach Ujanka without trouble—Ujanka, the city he had saved.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Dragoika flowed to a couch, reclined on one elbow, and gestured at Flandry. "Don't pace in that caged way, Dommaneek," she urged. "Take ease by my side. We have scant time alone together, we two friends."

  Behind her throaty voice, up through the window, came the sounds of feet shuffling about, weapons rattling, a surflike growl. Flandry stared out. Shiv Alley was packed with armed Kursovikians. They spilled past sight, among gray walls, steep red roofs, carved beams: on into the Street Where They Fought, a cordon around this house. Spearheads and axes, helmets and byrnies flashed in the harsh light of Saxo; banners snapped to the wind, shields bore monsters and thunderbolts luridly colored. It was no mob. It was the fighting force of Ujanka, summoned by the Sisterhood. Warriors guarded the parapets on Seatraders' Castle and the ships lay ready in Golden Bay.

  Lucifer! Flandry thought, half dismayed. Did I start this?

  He looked back at Dragoika. Against the gloom of the chamber, the barbaric relics which crowded it, her ruby eyes and the striped orange-and-white fur seemed to glow, so that the curves of her body grew disturbingly rich. She tossed back her blonde mane, and the half-human face broke into a smile whose warmth was not lessened by the fangs. "We were too busy since you came," she said. "Now, while we wait, we can talk. Come."

  He crossed the floor, strewn with aromatic leaves in his honor, and took the couch by hers. A small table in the shape of a flower stood between, bearing a ship model and a flagon. Dragoika sipped. "Will you not share my cup, Dommaneek?"

  "Well . . . thanks." He couldn't refuse, though Starkadian wine tasted grim on his palate. Besides, he'd better get used to native viands; he might be living off them for a long while. He fitted a tube to his chowlock and sucked up a bit.

  It was good to wear a regular sea-level outfit again, air helmet, coverall, boots, after being penned in a spacesuit. The messenger Dragoika sent for him, to the Terran station in the High Housing, had insisted on taking back such a rig.

  "How have you been?" Flandry asked lamely.

  "As always. We missed you, I and Ferok and your other old comrades. How glad I am the Archer was in port."

  "Lucky for me!"

  "No, no, anyone would have helped you. The folk down there, plain sailors, artisans, merchants, ranchers, they are as furious as I am." Dragoika erected her tendrils. Her tail twitched, the winglike ears spread wide. "That those vaz-giradek would dare bite you!"

  "Hoy," Flandry said. "You have the wrong idea. I haven't disowned Terra. My people are simply the victims of a lie and our task is to set matters right."

  "They outlawed you, did they not?"

  "I don't know what the situation is. I dare not communicate by radio. The vaz-Merseian could overhear. So I had your messenger give our men a note which they were asked to fly to Admiral Enriques. The note begged him to send a trustworthy man here."

  "You told me that already. I told you I would make quite plain to the vaz-Terran, they will not capture my Dommaneek. Not unless they want war."

  "But—"

  "They don't. They need us worse than we need them, the more so when they failed to reach an accord with the vaz-Siravo of the Zletovar."

  "They did?" Flandry's spirit drooped.

  "Yes, as I always said would happen. Oh, there have been no new Merseian submarines. A Terran force blasted the Siravo base when we vaz-Kursovikian were unable to. The vaz-Merseian fought them in the air. Heaven burned that night. Since then, our ships often meet gunfire from swimmers, but most of them get through. They tell me combat between Terran and Merseian has become frequent—elsewhere in the world, however."

  Another step up the ladder, Flandry thought. More men killed, Tigeries, seafolk. By now, I suppose, daily. And in a doomed cause.

  "But you have given small word about your deeds," Dragoika continued. "Only that you bear a great secret. What?"

  "I'm sorry." On an impulse, Flandry reached out and stroked her mane. She rubbed her head against his palm. "I may not tell even you."

  She sighed. "As you wish." She picked up the model galley. Her fingers traced spars and rigging. "Let me fare with you a ways. Tell me of your journey."

  He tried. She struggled for comprehension. "Strange, that yonder," she said. "The little stars become suns, this world of ours shrunk to a dustmote; the weirdness of other races, the terrible huge machines—" She clutched the model tight. "I did not know a story could frighten me."

  "You will learn to live with a whole heart in the universe." You must.

  "Speak on, Dommaneek."

  He did, censoring a trifle. Not that Dragoika would mind his having traveled with Persis; but she might think he preferred the woman to her as a friend, and be hurt.

  "—trees on Merseia grow taller than here, bearing a different kind of leaf—"

  His wristcom buzzed. He stabbed the transmitter button. "Ensign Flandry." His voice sounded high in his ears. "Standing by."

  "Admiral Enriques," from the speaker. "I am approaching in a Boudreau X-7 with two men. Where shall I land?"

  Enriques in person? My God, have I gotten myself caught in the gears! "A-a-aye aye, sir."

  "I asked where to set down, Flandry."

  The ensign stammered out directions. A flitter, as his letter had suggested, could settle on the tower of Dragoika's house. "You see, sir, the people here, they're—well, sort of up in arms. Best avoid possible trouble, sir."

  "Your doing?"

  "No, sir. I mean, not really. But, well, you'll see everyone gathered. In combat order. They don't want to surrender me to . . . uh . . . to anyone they think is hostile to me. They threaten, uh, attack on our station if—Honest, sir, I haven't alienated an ally. I can explain."

  "You'd better," Enriques said. "Very well, you are under arrest but we won't take you into custody as yet. We'll be there in about three minutes. Out."

  "What did he say?" Dragoika hissed. Her fur stood on end.

  Flandry translated. She glided from her couch and took a sword off the wall. "I'll call a few warriors to make sure he keeps his promise."

  "He will. I'm certain he will. Uh . . . the sight of his vehicle might cause excitement. Can we tell the city not to start fighting?"

  "We can." Dragoika operated a communicator she had lately acquired and spoke with the Sisterhood centrum across the river. Bells pealed forth, the Song of Truce. An uneasy mutter ran through the Tigeries, but th
ey stayed where they were.

  Flandry headed for the door. "I'll meet them on the tower," he said.

  "You will not," Dragoika answered. "They are coming to see you by your gracious permission. Lirjoz is there, he'll escort them down."

  Flandry seated himself, shaking his head in a stunned fashion.

  He rocketed up to salute when Enriques entered. The admiral was alone, must have left his men in the flitter. At a signal from Dragoika, Lirjoz returned to watch them. Slowly, she laid her sword on the table.

  "At ease," Enriques clipped. He was gray, bladenosed, scarecrow gaunt. His uniform hung flat as armor. "Kindly present me to my hostess."

  "Uh . . . Dragoika, captain-director of the Janjevar va-Radovik . . . Vice Admiral Juan Enriques of the Imperial Terrestrial Navy."

  The newcomer clicked his heels, but his bow could have been made to the Empress. Dragoika studied him a moment, then touched brow and breasts, the salute of honor.

  "I feel more hope," she said to Flandry.

  "Translate," Enriques ordered. That narrow skull held too much to leave room for many languages.

  "She . . . uh . . . likes you, sir," Flandry said.

  Behind the helmet, a smile ghosted at one corner of Enriques' mouth. "I suspect she is merely prepared to trust me to a clearly defined extent."

  "Won't the Admiral be seated?"

  Enriques glanced at Dragoika. She eased to her couch. He took the other one, sitting straight. Flandry remained on his feet. Sweat prickled him.

  "Sir," he blurted, "please, is Donna d'Io all right?"

  "Yes, except for being in a bad nervous state. She landed soon after your message arrived. The Riekessel's captain had been making one excuse after another to stay in orbit. When we learned from you that Donna d'Io was aboard, we said we would loft a gig for her. He came down at once. What went on there?"

  "Well, sir—I mean, I can't say. I wasn't around, sir. She told you about our escape from Merseia?"

  "We had a private interview at her request. Her account was sketchy. But it does tend to bear out your claims."