Captain Flandry: Defender of the Terran Empire

by Poul Anderson

  "Not yet. We may salvage a piece of wreckage that'll identify them for sure, though I won't spend time searching for any. They're split into such a flinkin' lot of factions—" Walton rubbed his chin. "Judging from what data we have, their radiant of origin and similar clues, on the basis of Flandry's report I'd say it's the command of—what is that outlandish name?—Duke Markagrav. He's a royalist. However, it might be Kelry. He's in revolt against the king, though not about to join meekly with us."

  Chang whistled. "Son of a bitch! The whole hegemony has just disintegrated, hasn't it? Everybody at the throat of everybody else, and hell take the hindmost. What's happened?"

  Walton chuckled. "Dominic Flandry is what happened. We'll find out the details later, but his signature is on everything in sight." He leaned back and bridged his fingers. "We've a moment to chat till the next decision has to be made. I'm not free to tell you all I know about Flandry's career to date. However, since the Llynathawr business has been terminated, I can describe his modus operandi there. It's typical of him, insofar as anything ever is.

  "I've mentioned to you that he was handling it when those barbarians kidnapped him. Needless to say, he'd done his homework, and he set up an excellent undercover operation which did eventually track down the conspirators. They'd have been caught long before, though, if he'd stayed on hand. Know what he was doing? He showed up with, practically, a brass band; he put on a perfect act as a political appointee using the case as an excuse to go roistering, which made the plotters ease off on their precautions; meanwhile he worked his way toward them through the shadier characters he met.

  "I've no words for how relieved I was when his report came in and I knew his disappearance hadn't meant he was dead. At the same time, I couldn't help feeling sorry for the Scothanians. They'd grabbed hold of Captain Flandry!"

  Mobs howled and roiled in the streets of Iuthagaar. Here and there, houses burned. No government remained to control horror and anger.

  The remnants of Penda's troops had abandoned the city and were in flight northward from the advancing Ilrian Liberation Army. They would be harried by Torric's irregulars, who in turn were the fragments of a force smashed by Earl Morgaar after Penda was slain by Asdagaar's assassins. Asdagaar himself had died when Nartheof's fleet broke his. The clansfolk had not fought well; it had lately become known to them what kind of male their chief was.

  But Nartheof had met death too, at the hands of Nornagast's vengeful kin. His seizure of the throne and attempt at restoring order had mainly worsened the chaos. Now the royalists were scattered through space, driven off rebellious subject planets, hunted by their erstwhile allies, annihilated piecemeal by the oncoming Terran armada.

  Desperately, the Scothanian lords fought among themselves and scrabbled to retrieve something from the ruin, each without thought for the rest. Some went down; some made hasty surrender to the Empire. Battle still flamed between the stars, but it was fast guttering out; the means of waging it had crumbled.

  A few guards kept watch around the nearly deserted castle, waiting for the Terrans to proclaim, "Peace, ye underlings." They knew nothing else they could do but wait.

  Flandry stood at a window in a high room and looked across the city. He felt no elation. Down there in the smoke, sentient beings lay dead. More would perish before the end of upheaval. The whole number would be merely in the hundreds, he guessed; the dead of the entire war were probably less than a million. Yet each of those heads had borne a cosmos within it.

  To him came Gunli. Her fairness had gone bone-white, and she walked and spoke unsteadily. She had not expected Penda's murder.

  She halted before him. Tapestries on the walls behind her depicted former triumphs. "Proud Scotha lies fallen, in wreck and misery," she said.

  "Be happy for that," Flandry replied tonelessly.

  A slim hand touched a horn. "What?"

  He thought a lecture might calm her, for sure it was that she was overwrought to the edge of endurance. "Barbarian conquests never last," he said. "Barbarians have to become civilized first, before they are fit to rule a civilization.

  "And Scothania had not gone through that stage. I knew almost from the beginning that it had gone straight from barbarism to decadence. Its much-vaunted honesty was its undoing. By self-righteously denying the possibility of dishonor in its own society, it left that society ignorant, uninoculated, helpless against the infection. I never believed the germ was not present. Scothans are much too humanlike. But they made the mistake of taking their hypocrisy at face value.

  "Most of my work amounted just to pointing out to their key males the rewards of treachery. If they'd been truly honest, I'd have died at the first suggestion. Instead, they wanted to hear more. They found they didn't object to bribery, blackmail, betrayal, anything that seemed to be to their private advantages. Most Terrans would have seen deeper, would have wondered if the despised slave was talking to others along the same lines, would have recollected the old saying that two can play at the same game . . . and so can three, four, any number, till the game becomes unstable and somebody at last kicks the board over.

  "Don't mourn for lost honor, Gunli. It never was there."

  "It was in me, once." A strange light kindled in her eyes. "I have lost it, and though my people may become free, I am not fit to reign over them. Dominic, dishonor can only be wiped out with blood."

  Unease tingled through him. "What do you mean?"

  She snatched his blaster from the holster and skipped back out of reach before he could move. "Hold!" she shrilled. "Hold or I shoot!" Calmer: "You are cunning. But are you brave?"

  He froze. "I think—" He paused to grope for words. Had she gone berserk? No, he believed not. But she wasn't entirely human, and she had in her the barbarian's iron code as well as the milder philosophy of her civilization. "I think I took a few risks, Gunli."

  "Aye. But you never fought, fairly and openly, as a warrior should." The thinned countenance twisted in pain. Breath rasped in and out. "I act for you as well as him, Dominic. He must have his chance to avenge his father—my husband—and fallen Scotha—and you must have the chance to redeem your honor. The gods will know where justice lies."

  Trial by combat, Flandry knew, three hundred light-years and more from old Terra.

  Cerdic came through the door. He carried a sword in either hand, and laughed as he entered.

  "I let him in, Dominic," Gunli cried through tears. "I had to—for Penda—but kill him, kill him!"

  She ran to a window. In a convulsive movement, she threw the blaster out. The prince's ravaged visage showed surprise. She clung to the sill and sobbed, "I was afraid I might shoot you, Cerdic."

  "Thanks!" he said savagely. "I may remember that when I deal with you, traitress. First—" again he cackled laughter—"I'll cut your paramour into many small pieces. For who, among the so-civilized Terrans, can wield a sword?"

  Gunli staggered. "Oh, almighty gods, I never thought of that!"

  She flung herself at Cerdic, nails and teeth and horns. "Get him, Dominic!" she screamed.

  The prince swung a brawny arm around. She fell to the stone floor and lay half stunned.

  "Now," Cerdic grinned, "choose your weapon."

  Flandry came forward and took a slender shape at random. His thoughts were mostly of the queen. Poor darling, she'd suffered more than flesh was meant to bear. May time henceforward be kinder to her.

  Cerdic crossed blades with him. The Scothan's expression had gone dreamy. "I mean to take a while about this," he murmured. "Before you die, Terran, you will no longer be a male."

  Steel rang. Flandry parried a slash. He point raked the prince's brow. Cerdic bellowed and stormed forward. Flandry retreated. Scothan physical strength exceeded his. The sword could be knocked out of his grasp if he wasn't careful.

  His foe hewed. He was wide open for the simplest stop thrust, but Flandry preferred not to slay him. Instead, he parried again, then followed with a riposte that tore across the breast. Cerdic spra
ng back. Flandry made a lunge, a feint, and a glide. He took his opponent in the right forearm. Blood welled. The injury wasn't disabling, but Cerdic was shaken. Flandry executed a beat that deflected the opposing blade. With the flat of his own, he smote across knuckles. The Scothan gasped in pain, and Flandry's next blow sent his weapon spinning in midair. He stood with his enemy's point at his throat.

  Flandry laughed into his stupefaction and told him: "My friend, you didn't study our decadence as thoroughly as you should have. Archaism accompanies it. Scientific fencing is quite popular among us."

  The prince braced himself. "Then kill me and be done," he said.

  "There's been too much killing. Besides, I have uses for you." The Terran cast his sword from him and cocked his fists. "However, here's one thing I've been waiting with exemplary patience for an opportunity to do."

  Despite Cerdic's powerful but clumsy defense, Flandry proceeded to beat the living hell out of him.

  Wind boomed around the highest tower of the castle, chill and thrusting; but save for tatters of cloud, the sky was blue with late afternoon. Golden-plumed, a few winged creatures wheeled over the deck where Flandry and Gunli stood. They had drawn cloaks about them against the blast, but she rested a hand on the parapet, and his lay across it. Below them, roofs and walls fell away toward a city where Ilrian patrols now kept the peace. Beyond, hills, fields, and woods reached green to a horizon of snowpeaks.

  "What you did, girl," he said, "was nothing more or less than help save Scotha. All Scotha. Think. What would have happened if you'd gone into the Empire? Supposing you won your victory—which was always doubtful, because Terra is still mighty—but supposing you did, what would have come next? Why, the humans or the Merseians would soon have had you at civil war over the spoils. You'd have made yourselves prey for a conqueror who'd have shown small mercy. As is, the conflict did less harm, by orders of magnitude, than even your success would have; and the victors aren't vindictive."

  She bowed her head. "We deserve to be subjected," she whispered.

  "Oh, but you won't be," he assured her. "What gain in that for Terra, as far away as you are? Some drastic changes will be necessary, of course, to make sure no fresh danger will breed hereabouts. But the Imperial commission that decides on them will depend heavily on my advice. I feel pretty sure Scotha will end as a confederation of nations under Ilrian dominance, with you the queen, and a Terran resident who keeps an eye on things but generally lets you alone." His lips brushed her cheek. "Begin thinking what you would like to see happen."

  Her smile was still wan, but he saw that something of her spirit was on its way home. "I don't believe the Empire is in such a bad state," she said. "Not when it has people like you."

  No, he thought, it's worse off; but why hurt you again by explaining?

  She brought her left hand from beneath the cloak and took both his. "And what will you be doing?" she asked.

  He met her gaze. Loneliness was sudden within him. How beautiful she stood there.

  But what she meant could never endure. They were too foreign to each other. Best he depart soon, that the memories remain untarnished in them both. She would find someone else at last, and he—well—"I have my work," he said.

  Far above them, the first of the descending Imperial ships glittered in heaven like a falling star. L

  HONORABLE ENEMIES

  The door opened behind him and a voice murmured, "Good evening, Captain Flandry."

  He spun about, with a reflexive grab for his stun pistol, and found himself looking at a blaster. Slowly, then, he let his empty hand fall and stood poised. His eyes searched beyond the weapon and the six talon-like fingers that held it, to the tall gaunt body and sardonic smile.

  The face there was humanoid, if you overlooked countless details of shape and proportion—lean, hook-nosed, golden-skinned. There was no hair, but a feathery blue crest rose high and plumelets formed brows above the eyes. Those eyes were sheer beauty, big and luminous bronze in hue. The being wore a simple, knee-length white tunic and his clawed feet were bare. However, jewels indicating rank hung from his neck and a cloak like a gush of blood from his shoulders.

  The whole Merseian group is occupied elsewhere, Flandry thought in dismay. I've seen to that. Or supposed I had. What's gone wrong?

  He forced relaxation of a sort upon himself, and even an answering smile. The main question was how he might get out of here with a whole skin. Assessment . . . this wasn't actually a Merseian, though a member of that party. It was Aycharaych of Chereion, who had arrived only a few days ago, presumably on a mission that corresponded to Flandry's.

  "Pardon the intrusion," the Terran said. "Purely professional, I assure you. No offense meant."

  "And none taken," replied Aycharaych with equal urbanity. He spoke perfect Anglic, save for a touch of accent that added a kind of harsh music to it.

  Nevertheless, he could easily blast the man down and later express regret that he had mistaken an ace Intelligence officer of the Terran Empire for a common burglar.

  Flandry dared hope the Chereionite would not be so crass. Little was known of that race—this was the first one that the human had ever met—but they were said to have a very ancient civilization and very subtle ways. Flandry had heard stories about Aycharaych's specific operations. . . .

  "You are right, Captain, I intend you no harm," the being said. Flandry started. Had his mind been read, or what? "I will be content with chiding. This attempt to search our quarters was deplorably crude, quite unworthy of you. I trust you will give us a better game in future."

  Flandry gauged distances and angles. A vase on a table stood close to hand. If he could sweep it across Aycharaych's wrist—

  "I would not advise that, either," said the Chereionite. He stepped aside. "You may go now. Goodnight."

  The Terran moved slowly toward the door. He couldn't let himself suffer this—dismissal. It was vital that he learn what the Merseians were brewing in the way of trouble for the Empire. Yes, a karate leap and kick—

  Hampered by a greater gravity than his species had evolved under, Aycharaych should not have dodged fast enough. Yet somehow he did. He wasn't there when the boot arrived. Momentum carried Flandry on past. The blaster butt cracked against the base of his skull. He fell and lay for a minute while darkness roared through him.

  "You do disappoint me, Captain," said the other, most softly. "A person of your reputation should be above theatrics. Now I must bid you goodnight."

  Sickly, the human got to his feet and stumbled out into the hall. Aycharaych watched, still smiling.

  Long passages brought him to the suite, as capacious as a small hotel, assigned the Terran delegation. Its common room was empty, like most of the rest. A feast was going on elsewhere. Flandry mixed himself a stiff drink at the bar and settled down.

  A light step and a suggestive rustle of a long shimmerlyn skirt brought his glance around. Aline Chang-Lei, the Lady Marr of Syrtis, had entered. The sight of her lifted his spirits a trifle. She was tall and slender, raven-haired and oblique-eyed and delicate of feature; the blue gown seemed to make her ivory complexion luminous. She was also one of Sol's top field agents and his teammate here.

  "What's the matter?" she asked at once.

  "Why are you back?" he responded. "I thought you'd be at the party, helping distract people."

  She shrugged. "No further point in that, at the present stage of it. An official function on Alfzar almost makes me long for a staid and stuffy one on Terra. I wanted a little quiet and an absence of drunks who've decided they're God's gift to womankind." Her gaze upon him sharpened. "You've failed, then. How?"

  "I'd trade my air-conditioned room in hell for an answer to that." Flandry rubbed the ache at the back of his head. His wits had not yet fully recovered from the blow; he heard his voice plod through the obvious: "Look, we prevailed on the Sartaz to throw a brawl with everybody invited. We made doubly sure that every Merseian in the palace would be there. They'd trust to their
robolocks to keep their place safe. They had absolutely no way of knowing we can nullify that sort of lock." The obtaining of the necessary information had been a minor triumph of his not long ago. "But what happened? No sooner was I in than Aycharaych appeared." He struggled to pronounce the name properly, but it came out sounding more Scottish than Chereionite; his vocal organs were not shaped like the other's, nor as versatile. "He was elaborately polite. Nevertheless he kept a blaster on me the whole while, anticipated my every move—would you imagine a scarecrow like him could avoid an attack and slug me? At last he sent me off wishing I had a tail to tuck between my legs."

  "Oh, dear." Aline examined the bruise and stroked gentle fingers across it. Then her tone hardened: "He's bad news for certain, isn't he? What do we know about him? You've roved around more than most. Do you have anything to tell?"

  "Nothing but what you've already heard. Apparently the Chereionites have a privileged position in the Roidhunate, not subjected like most non-Merseian races though not exactly citizens either. I've never heard of anyone who claims even to have seen their planet, or to know its location. Aycharaych appears to be quite active as a field agent—spy, saboteur, general troublemaker—but of course that's impossible to verify, precisely because he is so good at it. I'm afraid our mission is rather badly compromised, Aline."

  Flandry got up and walked out onto a balcony. Both moons of Alfzar were aloft and near the full, pouring coppery light over gardens beneath that blended, kilometers away, with forest. The breeze was warm, laden with scents of flowers that had never bloomed under Sol. From afar in the vastness of the palace drifted sounds of music at the feast, on a scale and out of instruments that had never been heard on Terra.

  Stars showed faint through the radiance. As he beheld them, Flandry felt daunted. Even the four million or so suns over which his Emperor claimed suzerainty were too many to know; most had never been visited more than perhaps once, if that. Too many mutually alien races; rival imperia, too, Merseia before all. . . .