The Book of the Ler

by M. A. Foster

  Another merchant, this one dour, short, fat and more to the point, said, “They all went around in threes. Some of these groups had all male members, some all female, some both. And each threesome acted as if they thought their fellow triples were clods of the worst sort. The local ler they took were also arranged into threes as they herded them off. After that, which they encouraged us all to come to, they climbed in several bulky personnel carriers and departed for their ship; I hear they ransacked other parts as well. After they were done, they threw around a few bombards for good measure, and left Chalcedon.”

  But no one had any idea as to the nature of the “bombards.” The one which had struck the Capital had arrived with no warning at all: a bright explosion, a loud noise, and the ground rang like a gong. Afterwards, some held that they had seen a vapor trail to the zenith, and they heard thunder in the air. But even these were unsure. Whatever it was, it did something to iron and steel. No compass had worked right in the area since the attack. And the effect was strongest near the crater. Magnetic bombs to disrupt computers? Such things were known; yet use of such an expensive weapon was unlikely in a place that didn’t have a single computer more elaborate than an abacus. Chalcedon was a frontier planet: they didn’t have an excess of data to worry about.

  Other than that, they learned no more during the night of haggling and trading. And finally, everybody began to run down, so Han and Liszendir closed the trading off, tallied up the deals which had already been made, and promised to deliver on the morrow, should trucks or wagons arrive at the ship to carry it off. The arrangements were made, and the locals left. And Han and Liszendir collapsed into the nearest thing resembling a bed and slept immediately.

  The morning came, clear and limpid as water from an ancient village well. The feather-tree was on the east side of the house, but the sudden light woke them up, and after a quick breakfast, they walked back to the field where they had landed the ship. There, a great disorderly crowd had already gathered. During the remainder of the long morning of Chalcedon, Han and the girl supervised unloading and loading of the goods they had taken in exchange.

  By noon the greater part of the work had been done, and they were left in the midst of a colossal mess. Piles of boxes, crates and trash. The field had been rutted and gouged by wheel, track and hoof. The Pallenber was coated with a fine patina of dust.

  Hath’ingar now approached from the last truckload to depart. He was as grimy as the rest of them had been, but he seemed indefatigable and curious.

  “Ah, now, all done, a profit made, and so you leave our stricken parts. What’s this? Weapons bays?” he added in surprise, pointing at some suspicious protuberances in the smooth line of the hull.

  “Yes, weapons,” Han answered. “We thought it best to come prepared for the worst—for all we knew, we very well could have met the Warriors coming out here. Or even more ordinary raiders. Such things are not unlikely even in this age. It had been said back there that this was why Efrem left in such a rush—he feared for his life.”

  “Well, so be it,” Hath’ingar replied evenly. “Still, it did him no good, did it? Everyone goes at his time and to music, some to gay lover’s tunes, some to heroic marches and flourishes, and others to dirges. But all go!”

  It sounded strange and alien in Han’s ears. Even stranger was Liszendir’s reply, which she made shyly in her own tongue: “Si-tasi maharalo al-tenzhidh.” Then she translated for Han’s benefit: “Thus endures the way of the world.” There was no response from Hath’ingar.

  There was a pause, as if no one knew quite what to say. Then Hath’ingar spoke, “Now where will you be off to?”

  Han answered, “We thought that we would fly over to the west coast of this continent. Our maps are probably very much out of date, but they show a large city there. It seemed to be large, so was probably hit; they will be needing some goods as well.”

  “Yes. That would be Libreville. So they are in need. In fact, I have heard that they were bombed out pretty badly and have left the city. But I know of other settled places all over which do have needs. I assure you I’ll be no trouble, but I could show you where the places are. You can conclude your affairs sooner and be on your way.”

  Liszendir had already entered the ship. Han looked long at the ler elder below, on the ground. After a time, he said, somewhat against his nagging better judgment, “Good enough. Come on up.”

  Han stayed on the ladder to see if Hath’ingar needed any help climbing up the high ladder to the entry port. He didn’t; in fact, Han was surprised to note that Hath’ingar climbed the ladder with a great deal more agility and style than he had himself. He credited it to good physical conditioning and forgot it. The two of them entered the ship.

  Once aboard the ship and in the control room, Hath’ingar wandered around, looking at everything, seemingly amazed and very appreciative. “An absolute paragon,” he enthused. “Indeed, superior workmanship, fine stuff! Is this ship a ler or a human work?”

  “Human,” Han answered, as he was settling down in the pilot’s chair. Liszendir sat down beside him, as he observed, with an odd motion that suggested uneasiness. Han felt it, too, but he couldn’t pinpoint the source.

  They lifted off and retracted the landing legs. Han thought that they would not be going very far, so he did not set a course for an orbit, but selected a lower altitude for a powered cruise. After he had done so, he turned around. “Now where to, Hath’ingar?” There was no answer. The overweight elder had disappeared. “Well,” he said in Liszendir’s general direction, “He’s probably gone looking for the convenience.”

  At that moment Hath’ingar reappeared, but this time, he was not dressed in the traditional ler overrobe; he was naked except for a loincloth with long, brightly decorated ends, and in place of the gray, long braided hair of an elder was a glossy, shaven pate. On his bare, hairless chest was an elaborate tattoo illustrating a titanic battle between two peculiar beasts, neither of which Han had ever heard of before. Nor was he as old as Han had previously thought. Han groaned aloud; Hath’ingar held a gun exactly like the one which Liszendir had disarmed in Efrem’s room back in Boomtown. Where was that one? Han groaned again. If it was not the one in Hath’ingar’s hand, it was secured in a locker, which was directly behind Hath’ingar. It might as well have been back in Efrem’s room, for all the good it could do them now. And the figure across the room: he was still overweight, but the fat was the dynamic fat of great strength. The erstwhile deputy mayor waited poised, standing expectantly on the balls of his feet.

  “Yes. Tricked,” he said. Liszendir moved to regain her feet. Hath’ingar continued, “Now without delay and no tricks, set a course for the two gas giants of this system. They are in conjunction, now, opposite the main fields of the galaxy. There we will rendezvous with my warriors.”

  “Your warriors?” Han wished to stall for time, although he did not honestly know what he would do with any gained. Below, Chalcedon was receding slowly, turning beneath them to the east as they flew north and west. If one looked well, one could already see a slight curve to the horizon, barely perceptible.

  “Yes. I am hetman of the outer horde. Now move slowly. This gun fires slivers of a most unpleasant substance. And though its effects are swift, it takes consciousness last. I am expert with it as well as with other arts. Do not, either of you, think you can outmove me.”

  Han glanced out of the corner of his eye at Liszendir. It was hardly visible, but it seemed as if every muscle in her body was working invisibly under the robe, warming up for use. Her jaw muscles clenched and flexed slightly, an eerie sight on the face which Han had seen once or twice in its full beauty of amorous interest, or perhaps recollection. Who could know? Ler had fully eidetic memories.

  As Hath’ingar took a preparatory step towards them, she shouted one word, “Move!” and performed an incredible maneuver. Han let himself fall to the deck, rolling, just as she had shown him. Effortlessly she leaped straight up, apparently without flexing her
knees, leaving the soft boots behind as she rose. At the overhead, she was upside down and leaving the robe behind; using her legs to carom herself, she left the robe behind and sailed across the control room to Hath’ingar, or whoever, or whatever he was. Han gaped in astonishment at the naked white form: she had done that in a full 1G field. He was still rolling when he heard the puff of the gun. He felt nothing.

  Hath’ingar could not bring the gun up to bear on her and avoid her at the same time. He elected to avoid, diving forward in a motion which looked clumsy, but which Han knew wasn’t. But he retained the gun.

  There commenced a scene Han could not follow. Afterwards, all he would be able to remember was the blurred speed of fast motion, move and countermove. The two of them moved with blinding speed. Occasionally the forms would meet, and there would be a quick flurry of activity, sharp grapples and attempted holds. Neither succeeded. And Hath’ingar still retained the gun. Liszendir moved back and forth across the control room in a dizzy white loom of motion. Han saw that she was deliberately preventing Hath’ingar from taking aim at her or even tracking her motion; and with an extra person in the room, it was for the time threat enough to keep things at a stalemate. Then they came together again. This time something happened, and then Hath’ingar bolted out of the control room. Han caught a glimpse of him as he left; he had been trying to fire off one more shot, which went wild. His right ear had been pulped.

  She locked the door and stood before him, naked, shiny with sweat and panting heavily. “Got him one good lick, but he’s tough! And the shave-topped ape got away from me! Damn it! Damn him!” It was the first time Han had seen her angry. She was angry with herself.

  She asked, peremptorily, “Do you have a way out of the ship?”

  “Yes. Life rafts. In the locker behind the pilot’s chair. Should be five or six.”

  “Then get into one and get off!”

  “Liszendir, I . . .”

  “No! Do as I tell you! Against him alone, I have an even chance, and I can fly the ship if I have to. I learned. I remember. He is too much for you with what you know now. You only have hostage value. If he gets you we are beaten. I am not degrading you—I am trying to save you. I must kill him. He used a projectile weapon against us. I can only succeed alone: he is extremely dangerous—you do not know how much.”

  “He’s got that gun, Liszendir . . .”

  “Never mind that. I can beat that as long as there is only one of him. So if I win, I will fly the ship back. If he wins there will be no back—for either of us. I am doing this for you for my own bad reasons. It is wrong, it is forbidden, it is not for us ever—but I care and you must not be caught by him. Now go! I must get him, soon. I am in bandastash—high anger flow. It gives me speed and strength, but I cannot keep it long: it costs terribly.” She pressed her cheek against his, briefly. It was burning hot.

  Han saw she was right, but to give up the ship? No. It was the only way, bad as it seemed. He remembered a thing she had said when she had been teaching him simple holds: If you cannot give up the ground upon which you fight, in order to win, then you have lost already. He opened the locker and climbed into one of the rafts, ready for launching. As he pulled the airshield over himself, she reached in and touched his face, very tenderly. She said, “If I am successful, I will come to you in the mountains north of the capital, near the ridge with two pinnacles we could see from there. If not, farewell and remember me. Your name means ‘last.’ ” She slammed the lid violently and ejected him.

  There was a moment of vertigo, as he felt the switch from the artificial gravity of the Pallenber to the real gravity of the planet Chalcedon. Then he could see the ship, falling upwards away from him. Suddenly, it jerked off westwards at tremendous speed. The sled functioned automatically, and began its descent. It seemed slow, but Han knew that was only an illusion of the distance he was above the planetary surface. He looked down to the surface below, blue-green and brown, mottled with puffs of clouds which did not tear into streaks. Chalcedon did not have rapidly moving major weather systems. It was the last he saw. The automatics took over, and he lost his consciousness to G-forces and a special gas, released just to keep the passenger quiet; it had been assumed by the builders of this kind of raft that for a person to witness his own fall from orbit or suborbital distance would itself be fatal in the absence of injury. They were, of course, right. Han knew nothing.

  4

  “Once upon a time, on Chalcedon where men and ler both lived in relative peace, a certain human rushed to the hut in the crags of Klislangir Tlanh, a very old and wise ler, who was considered by many to be a holy man. The human, a mere boy, bore a message that said Klislangir’s insibling Werverthin Srith had just died, wishing him well. The sage continued to study the sunset clouds. Finally, he said, ‘I am also grieved to see these lovely clouds that will be no more with the night and its clearing.’ The human, one Roderigo, ejaculated, ‘What? How can you be so callous as to talk about clouds at a time like this? The lady, alsrith, had lived with you from birth, almost, and for years after the next generation were home in the yos.’ The sage answered, ‘It is exactly for those realizations into the meaning of sorrow that I am called wise.’ He turned away and did not speak again that day. In that instant, Roderigo looked at the clouds also and was illuminated. He returned to his home, disposed of all his goods, and became a disciple of Klislangir Tlanh. In later years he was accounted wise as any ler holy man.”

  —The Chalcedon Apocrypha

  “One alone in the wilderness is never bored, nor does he feel the despair of a meaningless job—to the contrary, everything is invested with meaning, some of it dire, indeed; but in the heart of a great city that tramples the stars themselves underfoot, one needs ceaseless entertainment to distract him from the knowledge of his vileness, which lies about him, everywhere. The herb of our cure is a bitter one, but gnaw it we will.”

  —Roderigo

  STANDARD LIFE RAFTS were required on all spaceships, and few flouted this regulation. They were intended to be used near a planetary body, or as a refuge in deep space until such time as one could be rescued. Near a body of certain mass, they worked automatically. All during space flight, men of both kinds had compared space to the sea, and indeed the comparison was valid in all ways except in the scale: space dwarfed all the water seas that ever had been, were, would be, could be. And its shores were infinitely more perilous than the shores of the wildest seas. Therefore, the standard life raft. It was designed first to get its passenger through that surf and those perilous reefs of an unpowered landing from orbit. They were neither kind, nor comfortable; but they worked.

  Han awoke, knowing nothing, and aching at every point he could imagine as belonging to him; and some whose ownership could have been debated. He tried to move, but immediately felt his motion arrested. He felt a quick flash of panic, but then he remembered. He stopped, and rested for a moment, thinking. Through the transparent shield, he could see that he had landed in a wooded area, and it was deep dusk, almost dark. Vents in the raft were bleeding in fresh air. He slept. Sometime later he awoke, and it was completely dark; stars were shining through the branches. Now he remembered the opening sequence, and after a few fumbles, was able to stagger away from the coffinlike life raft. The air was cool with night, and the forest was silent.

  Traders, like everyone else, were schooled for a variety of reasons: tradition, someone having excess money and wishing to keep it, whatever came out of the hands of functionaries, or society wanting to have an excuse to civilize its children. But perhaps best of all was the reason that traders had to be both shrewd and prepared for anything. And Han had, on the whole, been a good student at the Traders’ Academy, although he had played their mercantile trading game with a vigor that earned disapproval. Also, he reflected, he had been evaluated as having “spent too much time with the girls.” But he remembered well.

  Paraleimon Kardikas in The Survivor’s Manual: If you ever crash, no matter if it’s in your ow
n yard, STOP. DO NOTHING. Remember first who you are. How you got there. Trust no impression, make no identifications. The survivor is Adam, but he is an Adam who does not know if he has fallen into Eden or Hell.

  Han sat to the side of the raft on a fallen tree in the dark, remembering. The flight, the ship, Liszendir. And so, here he was, somewhere on Chalcedon. That was excellent—at least he knew which planet he was on. And with no food, no money and no equipment. No, that wasn’t true. He had some basics in the raft, and some survival tools—wire, saw-blades, a knife. A water distillery, for drink and for the basic food concentrate. He got up, went to the raft, and removed the survival pack. Now what?

  Kardikas: Travel at night wherever possible, for lights are visible. But greet strangers by day. Get the lay of the land.