They came at last to the sanctuary of a foursquare building within a walled compound, situated on the edge of the city. The sledge passed through great iron gates, which were hauled shut behind them, effectively barring the curious crowd. Hendry’s relief was tempered by the thought of what might lie ahead.
The entourage of mountain-dwellers remained guarding the sledge. One of their number dismounted and hurried across a cobbled courtyard to the door of the building. He passed inside, watched by everyone including Hendry and the others, and emerged a minute later trailing perhaps a dozen beings in black uniforms.
Kaluchek looked at him, and he wondered if she was thinking the same thought. It was the black uniforms, and not so much the fact that the creatures were armed with primitive rifles, that struck fear into his heart. He wondered if dark uniforms symbolised the brutality of authority on this world, too.
The armed aliens, evidently some form of police or militia, surrounded the sledge, and one of their number yipped a high command. Seconds later another dozen militia hurried from the building and took up positions next to their comrades, rifles levelled.
It was impossible to tell from their facial expressions how they were reacting to the presence of aliens in their midst, but their body language suggested unease, even fear. They appeared skittish, fidgety. At a movement from Carrelli, easing herself into a more comfortable position, they backed off and raised their weapons nervously.
Carrelli said, under her breath, “No heroics, Friday, okay? They have us surrounded, and those weapons might look like antiques, but I don’t want a head full of buckshot.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Olembe muttered.
One of the mountain-dwellers was in conversation—a frantic exchange of high yelps and barks—with one of the militia. While the militiaman spoke, he never allowed his eyes to stray from the sledge and its human cargo. He flung his head back once or twice, made side-wise chopping gestures with his paws. It was impossible, Hendry thought, to guess what might be passing between the creatures.
The exchange ended and the militiaman made a slow, cautious circumnavigation of the sledge, staring at the humans one by one. It returned to its original position beside the mountain-dweller, then yipped an order to one of the armed militia who hurried across the cobbles to what turned out to be a garage.
A minute later an enclosed cart was hauled out and dragged across the courtyard to stand beside the sledge. It appeared too small to contain all the humans, but Hendry guessed that this was its purpose. Yet another transfer, another destination, their fate deferred for a while yet.
Olembe whispered, “They’ve got to untie us, yes? If we’re gonna make a move, that would be the time to do it.”
“And risk getting our heads blown off?” Kaluchek said. “Forget it.”
Carrelli said, “There’s no need to take risks yet, Friday. Let’s see what happens, okay?”
Olembe swore. Kaluchek reached out and took Hendry’s hand.
He watched as one of the militia swung open the doors of the enclosed truck.
Olembe was right in that the transfer necessitated their being unfastened from the sledge, but how the aliens went about it was ingenious. The militia leader yelped at an underling, who shouldered its weapon and approached the sledge with caution. Instead of climbing into the cart, as expected, it ducked beneath it and scrabbled across the cobbles. The iron rings in the middle of the boards began to turn as screws securing the rings to the sledge’s timber floor were unfastened. A minute later the rings came loose. The humans were free of the sledge, but their ankles were still shackled by the leather thongs. It would be impossible to move at much more than a constricted shuffle.
The leader approached the sledge, yelled at them. Behind him the militiamen gestured with their rifles, and one of them pulled down the sledge’s tailgate.
Olembe first, followed by Carrelli, Kaluchek and Hendry, climbed from the back of the sledge and approached the prison wagon. Hendry winced at the pain in his back and legs, his muscles unused for so many hours. He glanced left, then right. Their progress was watched by the militia, weapons levelled vigilantly.
He watched Olembe, fearing that the African might ignore Carrelli’s warning and attack the militia. He could see that Olembe took the indignity of capture with bad grace, but to his credit he kept his head and climbed dutifully into the wagon.
Hendry was the last aboard, Kaluchek turning to help him, and as he stepped into the confines he winced, expecting a blow to the back of his head.
He seated himself next to Kaluchek, taking her hand, as the doors were slammed shut and barred. In the darkness they could hear preparations being made to transport them onwards. A team of draft animals was attached to the wagon, and minutes later they lurched into motion across the cobbles and out into the ice canal.
“Where now?” Kaluchek asked.
Hendry said, “Maybe this was a militia outpost. We’re being taken to the headquarters. We’ll soon be meeting with the people in control.”
“Yeah,” Olembe said, “the bastards who say whether we live or die. We should have tried to escape when we had the chance.”
“For fuck’s sake shut it, Olembe, okay?” Kaluchek yelled. She was, Hendry sensed, close to tears. He gripped her fingers.
“Temper, temper,” the African replied in the darkness.
The wagon slid across the ice, its motion rapid, throwing the humans from side to side. Hendry felt Kaluchek’s face against his upper arm, felt the silent sobs that shook her body.
“At least we know one thing,” Carrelli said.
“Which is?” Olembe asked.
Into the silence, Carrelli said, “The water is safe on this world.”
“If that’s supposed to be funny, Carrelli...” Olembe said.
Ten minutes after setting off, the wagon slowed. The transition from ice to cobbles was made again, the wagon jolting for a minute before it came to a halt.
“This is it,” Olembe said.
A minute elapsed, then two. Hendry wondered if this was some sophisticated form of torture in itself.
Then the doors opened, and the grey light— dazzling after the absolute darkness of the wagon—flooded in, blinding them for a moment.
Only then did they see their reception committee.
Hendry was dragged from the wagon by means of a pikestaff that snared the thongs at his ankles. He yelled, fell painfully to the cobbles, and was aware of the others tumbling out after him.
Then, before they had time to get up, twenty uniformed militia armed with clubs and rifle butts set about rendering them incapable of opposition.
Olembe cried out—something about how wrong you bastards were—before a crunching blow silenced him.
Kaluchek screamed Hendry’s name, as if pleading for his help, and the last thing he saw was a rifle butt falling towards his head.
* * * *
EIGHT /// THE TRUTH
1
In the earlyhours of the morning following their return to Agstarn, Ehrin left his room in the attic of the Telsa foundry and hurried down to the shop floor. There, in the shadows of the great silent crucibles and furnaces—usually alive with noise and fire—Kahran hailed him, and they left the foundry and moved quickly through to the hangar.
In the illumination of the gas-lamp that Ehrin held before him, the rearing shapes of a dozen dirigibles filled the hangar, ranging from the small one-man skyships to the mammoth freighters. The hangar was silent, like a museum, and for a second Ehrin imagined far future generations looking back and smiling at these exhibits of a backward technological age. He had never thought that before—had always assumed that the dirigibles were the leading edge of scientific innovation—but Havor’s interworld machine had changed all that. How primitive all this must seem to the strange alien pilot!
They had made the return journey to Agstarn without incident. Ehrin’s fear that a curious geologist or engineer might question their story about the alien ship, or worse actually
try to board it, had proved unfounded. He had refrained from entering into any further theological argument with Elder Cannak, but something the Elder had said on parting had sent an icy shiver up the fur of Ehrin’s spine. “I have noted our conversations, Mr Telsa, Mr Shollay, and, notwithstanding the success of the mission, I will be forced to make a report upon your conduct, and philosophical views, to the relevant bureau.”
“Mere words,” Kahran had said once the Elder had departed, but Ehrin had seen the shadow of doubt in the old man’s experienced eyes.
They hurried across the oil-stained hangar floor to the looming shape of the freighter. Ehrin had earlier taken the precaution of locking the cargo hold, and now he turned the key with fumbling fingers and hauled open the double doors.
They crossed the hold to the streamlined shape of the golden ship, and Ehrin rapped on the triangular viewscreen.
Seconds later the hatch hissed open.
They passed down the corridor and entered the control room. Havor was lying upon the couch, staring at a screen above him. He glanced at Ehrin and Kahran and grimaced in greeting. “I’ve been assessing the damage, which isn’t as extensive as I first feared. I’ve managed to repair a relay system, but the main drive suffered physical damage on reentry.” He looked from Ehrin to Kahran. “I’ll need to replace a component if I want to get the ship running again. And then...”
“The deathship,” Ehrin said.
Havor inclined his great head. “The deathship indeed,” he said, grimacing.
“How can we help?” Kahran asked.
“I will need a precisely tooled part, which should not be beyond your capability to produce.”
“We will do what we can,” Ehrin said.
“And if Kahran might describe in detail the whereabouts of the Church’s mountain hangar, I will leave here and do what I must do.”
“Better than that,” Kahran said, “I’ll come with you, guide you to exactly to the where the Church keeps the deathship.”
“And if Kahran comes,” Ehrin said, “then I will come too. The ship will hold three?”
Havor grimaced. “Capacity is not the problem, my friend.” He looked at them with his inscrutable black eyes. “I must warn you, there will be danger involved in the mission. If the Church has studied the weapons systems aboard the deathship, even the secondary systems, then they might have their stronghold well defended against even aerial attack.”
Ehrin asked, “You call it a deathship, and speak of terrible weapons...”
By way of a reply, Havor said, “My friends, what is the most fearful weapons your race possesses?”
Ehrin looked at Kahran, who shrugged and said, “Perhaps the projectile cannon. It can hurl a shell which detonates on impact, killing dozens.”
“The deathship,” said Havor, “is well named. One strike from its primary weapons system could destroy a city the size of Agstarn, and all in it. The secondary system is defensive, something similar to your cannons, though it can fire a dozen projectiles a second.”
“And your weapons?” Kahran asked.
“A similar projectile capability,” Havor said. “I trust that half a dozen strikes on target will destroy the Church’s hangar and the deathship.”
Ehrin glanced across at Kahran. “I would still like to accompany you,” he murmured, and Kahran nodded his agreement.
Havor pulled an even uglier grimace, and held out his big, hairless hand for Ehrin and Kahran to touch.
“And then?” Ehrin said. “What are your plans once the deathship is destroyed?”
The alien turned its head from side to side. “I do not plan beyond the attack. That has my sole attention.”
“You spoke of other worlds,” Ehrin said, tentatively, “otherlevels...”
Havor made a rumbling guttural sound, which Ehrin took for a laugh. How ignorant he must seem to this otherworldly being! How young and ignorant!
Havor said, “Later, my friend. First, I will show you the damaged component, which perhaps you might replace...”
Havor led the way from the ship. In the light from Ehrin’s lamp, they moved along the golden flank, Havor pausing from time to time to lay an affectionate palm on various hieroglyphs and decals.
Ehrin noticed that the alien was walking without even the slightest limp, and marvelled again at the miracle of Zorl technology.
Havor indicated a panel in the flank of the ship, blackened as if scorched by a blowtorch.
“A burn-out on re-entry,” Havor explained. He reached up and touched the panel, which ejected itself slowly from the body of the ship. Ehrin made out a mass of burnt-out wiring and charred metal.
Havor inspected the damage, then reached in and extracted the remains of a silver cylinder, perhaps nine inches long. He held it out for Ehrin and Kahran to inspect. “I can replace the circuitry and some of the other damaged components, but not the compression duct.”
Ehrin took the cylinder, turned it over and passed it to Kahran, who inspected it and said, “I don’t foresee a problem. It’s finely turned, and the threading at this end is finer than we usually need,” he shook his head, “but we can do it.”
“How long will it take?”
Ehrin said, “What? Half a day... a little less. If we start right away, then I’ll deliver it before midday. And then...”
The alien grimaced. “You are eager to learn more of the strange universe out there.”
“Eager would be an understatement, Havor.”
The alien looked at him. “To live on a world where the sky is forever grey, hiding the stars and the levels beyond...”
“Stars? Ehrin echoed. “Levels?”
Havor grumbled his distinctive laugh again, and slapped Ehrin on the back, a blow that almost sent him flying. “I will return to my ship, and await your return.”
Reluctantly, Ehrin left the freighter’s hold with Kahran, carefully locking the doors behind them.
For the rest of the day they worked on a lathe to reproduce the failed part, discarding their first effort as clumsy and concentrating even harder on the second. As he worked, Ehrin thought of the alien in the freighter—and the people of Agstarn going about their normal, routine business as if nothing had changed, as if there were no strange being in their midst who had promised to reveal the secrets of the universe.
The work of the foundry went on around him, work which usually would have absorbed his attention. Now it seemed almost futile, the fussing of so many ants working to build that which, to more advanced life forms, would seem banal and backward. He wondered if anything in his life would ever be the same again.
They had almost completed the second cylinder when the factory foreman approached and, above the noise of the foundry, announced that Ehrin had a caller: Sereth. He felt a momentary pang of resentment, and then guilt. He told the foreman to show her up to his rooms, then reluctantly left the last of the work to Kahran.
Wondering what Sereth might want, Ehrin left the factory floor and climbed the stairs to his attic rooms.
* * * *
2
Sereth was pacing back and forth before the semicircular window when Ehrin pushed open the door. She looked up quickly and with a shriek ran across to him, embracing him fiercely. “Ehrin, my love. Strange, terrible things have been happening today!”
“Ser, calm down. What strange things?”
“I don’t know where to begin—”
“Begin,” he said, “by sitting down and taking a drink. Tisane?”
“Something stronger. Do you have spirit?”
He guided her to the sofa beside the window, poured two stiff measures and sat down beside her. “Take this. Slowly. Now, calm down and tell me what’s wrong.”
It could only be something to do with Elder Cannak, Ehrin thought. The Elder had reported them to Prelate Hykell...
Sereth held the glass in both hands and took a restorative swallow. She coughed a little and composed herself. “Very well. First of all, you are in danger. That’s why
I had to come over straight away and warn you.”
“Cannak?” he said.
She nodded. “When I came back from college today, father was in a flap. He’d attended an extraordinary council meeting. Velkor Cannak had called it, to discuss certain matters arising from the expedition to the western plain. He claimed that it was a matter of urgency, and wouldn’t be put off.”
Brown, Eric Page 23