by B. V. Larson
They fenced tightly, shuffling back and forth with feet thumping on the deck plates. The men among the crew watched with squinted eyes, expecting to witness sudden death at any moment. The women watched with a different expression, their eyes glassy with fascination. It was clear the two men were in earnest and each was prepared to slay the other.
The swords clattered, rang and sizzled as they struck one another. To a casual observer from the hallway, it might have appeared that men were working in the mess hall with hammers and arc welding units. The blades were made of fine steel and were deadly in their own right. In addition to a precise mono-molecular edge, the rapiers ran with shimmering emanations of kinetic force. The slightest touch would deliver a serious jolt while a full-force slash might cut through flesh, bone or even steel.
The Lieutenant was the bigger man, and he beat at Aldo’s blade unmercifully. His strategy was easy to deduce: he planned to crash through the rogue’s defenses and weaken him over time. If a single assault made it through, the contest was over.
Aldo had a different plan. He deftly deflected each of the hammering attacks with an economy of motion. Soon, it was Lieutenant’s sides that were heaving, not Aldo’s.
The man’s face had started ugly and heavy with out-sized features, but as he divined the way of things, that changed into a twisted mask of hate. He thrust powerfully for Aldo’s face, a foul in a gentlemanly contest to the first touch. Startled, Aldo was forced to ram his blade upward, parrying in quinte. The tip of the Lieutenant’s rapier slid upward and pierced the curved ceiling overhead, and despite a three inch thickness, the hull was ruptured. Gases hissed as they escaped while the blade sizzled there, fixed in the roof. The Lieutenant growled in frustration, tugging at the stuck sword.
His straining grunts turned to howls of pain as Aldo danced around him and slapped the Lieutenant in the posterior with the flat of his sword. There was a vivid blaze of light, as his sword imparted many volts of energy. The Lieutenant’s legs gave out beneath him, but he still hung from his stuck weapon.
“First touch!” the Captain announced immediately. “The contest has ended, Aldo is the winner.”
The crowd laughed and sighed with relief. The duel had ended with embarrassment, but no bloodshed.
Aldo sought Joelle among the many faces. She beamed at him encouragingly. He immediately wondered if he might manage to bed her after all. Noticing his gaze, she stepped forward to greet him.
“You should just have switched it off, man,” the Captain said irritably to the Lieutenant, who had finally plucked the sword from the ceiling. “Now, we’ll have to patch it.”
The Lieutenant crawled, his legs inoperable. Aldo turned away, directing his attentions toward Joelle again. He carefully gauged her expression, weighing the opportunity and his odds of success. Tonight, over a glass of fine wine…at that moment, he would make his move. That would be the proper time to rekindle their past mutual interest. Had he not done as she’d requested? Now, she might well see him as a tough man who could be guided to gentleness by the right woman. Such fantasies had gotten Aldo far with women who’d fostered them in the past.
It was Joelle’s expression that warned Aldo, even before the gasps of the onlookers, who were all excitedly talking amongst themselves. Her face changed from that of warmth, with a pleasant greeting on the tip of her tongue, to surprise and dismay. Her eyes strayed behind Aldo.
Aldo did not even bother to turn around. He simply swept behind himself with his blade, which he’d shut off a moment before.
There was a sensation of heavy resistance, then nothing. A grim wet slap sounded immediately afterward. He turned to see what he’d wrought and his lips curled away from his teeth at the sight.
The Lieutenant now lay stretched upon the decking, decapitated. Unable to do more than creep forward after taking a numbing shock to the buttocks, the Lieutenant had lifted his sword to thrust it into Aldo’s rump. Aldo’s blind slash had ended these dark ambitions.
The Lieutenant’s fallen sword still sizzled and sparked. The blade’s tip sent streams of brightly hued plasma arcing down to the metal deck plates in intermittent pulses.
There was a moment of shocked silence in the mess hall. This soon passed and was replaced by screams, gasps and cries of recrimination erupted around the room. Aldo’s lips twisted in annoyance. He looked for Joelle, but unsurprisingly, she had fled the room in horror.
Aldo sheathed his blade after wiping away dripping fluids, and grunted unhappily. He shook his head slowly as he eyed the mess lying upon the deck. He had only done what was necessary, but he knew there would be no fine wine shared with Joelle tonight. This backstabbing Lieutenant had seen to that, even if it had cost him his life.
Four
Upon finally entering the sanctuary the skalds had arranged for themselves aboard Gladius, Garth left behind the terror of the alien monsters—but he felt far from safe. These people were controlled by the Tulk, a race of aliens that were as erudite as the Skaintz were visceral. But they were still strange and dangerous.
Tulk riders lived inside the skulls of their hosts. Parasitic beings, they rarely dealt with the outside world, and one of their greatest fears was that of being exposed to that exterior environment. Physically, they were little more than a pound or so of spiny jelly, but they were quite capable of invading a host and dominating it at will. They did not ‘take the reins’ of their mounts often, preferring to live a dreaming life inside the skull of the host, contemplating deep philosophical concepts. Occasionally, however, events took a grim turn and they were forced to dominate their host in order to ensure their survival and avoid the risk of exposure.
Having two minds riding in one skull, one human and one alien made skalds behave oddly from the point of view of observing humans. The alien Tulk, even though they were generally quiescent, affected the nervous system of their hosts. To Garth, who’d once been a skald himself, the behavior of these human-alien hybrids was predictable and rational—but sinister.
“What has become of your rider, rogue?” a skald asked him. She was a pretty waif, with slack features, pale skin and soft, padding feet.
“I’m not sure,” Garth answered.
He was decidedly nervous among the skalds, who’d once sought to kill him. He licked his lips continuously as he followed the skald girl into the central saloon of the VIP lounge. There, a central seating arrangement allowed a group of skalds to sit in a ring, holding hands. They appeared unconscious, but he knew they were aware. Their riders were communing. It seemed odd to have such a large group conferring at once. Tulk usually preferred wandering isolation, with rare moments of contact. Garth knew that they must be discussing the enemy aboard the ship.
“Your answer is unsatisfactory,” one of the communing skalds said, speaking from the couch. This one was a male, and taller than most. He had a large head—the skull was fringed in white hair and almost bulbous in shape. As he spoke, he did not look up, but let his head loll to one side as if sleeping.
Garth licked his lips again. “I’m sorry, but they took Fryx from me. I—”
“Who do you refer to with a vague pronoun, rogue?”
“Excuse me?”
“Who is: they?”
“Ah, well, Lucas Droad and his crew. They took Fryx and imprisoned him on Neu Schweitz. I don’t know what has become of him since that time.”
The skald on the couch lifted his hand toward the female who’d allowed Garth to enter their sanctuary. His skinny arm extended toward her unerringly, despite the fact his eyes remained closed and his head continued to droop. Wordlessly, the girl approached and took his hand. She looked at Garth with a new sharpness in her expression. Her eyes had become piercing and judgmental.
“He will do,” the old skald on the couch said.
Garth understood that the old Tulk had borrowed the vision of the younger, and it was he who looked out of her pale, blue, wet eyes now.
“Will do for what?” Garth asked. “I’ve come to hel
p you. I know where the enemy is. The infection is still light, and early in its discovery. Perhaps they can be excised. I can help in this matter. The crew can join with the skalds and save the lives of all.”
After this brief speech, during which Garth found his words tumbling out of his mouth and seemingly blurring over one another, the attitude of the girl shifted. She smirked lightly, then made an odd, barking sound. Garth realized she was laughing at him.
“You are a fool, even for a rogue,” she said. “There will be no cooperation.”
“Why not? We are all trapped on this ship. We die or survive as one.”
“If we join the riderless human cattle in their struggle with the Skaintz, we will perish.”
“You will perish in any regard, if the enemy is not defeated.”
“This enemy can’t be defeated. They can only be avoided.”
“Nonsense. I’ve read the archeological texts. The Tulk once fought the Skaintz. Your people beat them once—in this very section of space.”
For the very first time, the Tulk controlling the girl’s speech paused, and appeared troubled. Garth knew that in and of itself was a triumph. He pressed ahead.
“You can hide in here, but they will find a way in eventually. You don’t have a separate propulsion system, placing you at their mercy. If they tire of you, they can steer this vessel into the furnace of a nearby star. You must fight at some point.”
“We have held council, discussing these things. It is possible the unspeakable events you prophesize will come to pass. But for now, we will remain quiet and hidden. Let the wild humans flail against them. With luck, they will succeed and drive them from the ship. If they do not, we have our walls. If those fail, we will act because we will be forced to act.”
Garth sighed. The mindset of the Tulk had not changed much since he was one with them. They seemed to have little of the fire left that had caused them to stand up to the Skaintz in the past.
“Why then,” he asked delicately, “did you allow me to enter your sanctuary?”
“We have need of you. My mount is ailing. I need a new one.”
Horror swept through Garth, and he reacted with physical revulsion at the thought. The pain alone would be bad enough, but the process of the mounting—he could not imagine going through it again. The Tulk would be an old one, meaning it had bulk. It would not fit easily, sliding through his nasal orifice and digging its way into his skull. Commonly, the Tulk made decisions about what sections of brain tissue were extraneous and carefully excised them as bloody waste when they found themselves in a tight fit. Once inside, they dug in their spines and took command of their new hosts, tapping blood vessels to feed and nerve endings to exert control.
Before coming here, Garth had considered the possibility of ill-treatment on the part of his hosts. He had a blade in his belt, and he withdrew it now. He held it up so it gleamed in the light of the jeweled chandeliers that hung over the couches.
“I will not allow any Tulk to mount me again,” he said.
None of the skalds moved, but Garth sensed a change in their demeanor. They often seemed to be dreamy and aloof, but the threat of physical, bodily harm coming to their mounts always got their attention.
“You would threaten your masters with violence?” the skald girl asked. Her face registered dull shock.
“You have threatened me.”
“We’ve offered you a rider, a chance to rise again from the herds of filthy, wild humans into the ranks of the skalds. Such an elevation of status should be met with tears of joy. This is an especially rare honor since you are a rogue, who would normally be put down.”
“I thank you for your consideration, but I must refuse.”
“I am Ornth, the greatest of the Tulk in this region of space. Unfortunately, I’m riding a dying mount. I must have a new mount in order to persist. It is inconceivable you would deny me this request.”
Garth shrugged with casual disinterest. “You should consider sharing another skull among your party. If they will not have you, perhaps they will feed you tidbits while you float in a tank of liquid. Fryx did exactly that for years while in space, and the experience caused him no permanent harm.”
“Your suggestions are insulting.”
“Let me clarify the situation, then,” Garth said, brandishing his long workman’s blade under the small nose of the skald girl. “No pain will be visited upon your bodies. Nor will any of you be exposed—if you leave me alone.”
They fell quiet again for several seconds. Garth knew they were conferring between themselves. They were not a telepathic race—that was a common misconception concerning the mysterious Tulk. They communicated with their hosts via interrupted nerve endings, and controlled muscles and thoughts in precisely the fashion a human’s mind might send an electrochemical pulse through a nerve strand to cause a finger to twitch. Amongst a collection of skalds such as these, they used a code of varied, almost imperceptible taps and pressures applied to the hands of one by the fingers of another. When touching bodies, from one skald to another, they formed a network of sorts and relayed concepts from one to the next silently and efficiently.
“Your lack of civility and ingratitude at being admitted into this sanctuary is disgusting. However, we have need of occasional systems repairs. Can you effect these adjustments for us?”
Garth considered. He’d lost his work cart and most of his tools, but he had been trained in basic maintenance. Further, he was certain a toolkit would be stashed somewhere in the large VIP suites.
“I can perform such duties, and I will do so willingly.”
“Very well, you may stay among us until such a time as we deem your presence unwarranted.”
Garth accepted this statement without comment. Privately, he calculated the odds that the skalds would be able to eject him from this place without injury to themselves were extremely low.
#
Garth found there were more than a few failing systems in the suites where the skalds had taken refuge. The first such system he worked on was the security network feed. There were a fair number of monitors recessed in the walls of the various saloons and lounges, but none of them could connect to the outside world of the larger ship. He spent a full day working on the security network before he managed to get it working. In the end, it turned out to be a simple burned-out coupling. This was a relief, as he’d half-expected to find an enemy shrade in the works, chewing on the cables or infecting their subsystems with viruses.
When he managed to tap into the outside feed, he looked at the screens with interest. He flicked from one input camera to the next, but things looked pretty dull out there. Every corridor was empty. Every auxiliary hold was quiet and tranquil.
Garth thought of the bridge, but the cameras there didn’t operate. He licked his lips again. Nervousness had returned. After a day of hard work, he felt a familiar tickle of fear. He checked the cameras in the main hold, and saw nothing. This proved little, as the hold was miles long and held such a vast array of goods it was hard to say what was happening inside. One might as well look at a forest while cruising above it on a skimmer and declare it lifeless.
After a moment of hesitation, he switched channels and directed the monitors to feed him the vid from the lifepods. In all honesty, he’d expected to get nothing but static air, as he had when viewing the bridge. What he found instead was exhilarating.
The crewmen were there. Dozens of them. Security people in red, maintenance in green, flight crew in royal blue. Among them were others—they could only be passengers who’d been awakened. All in all, it was a veritable army. They were well-armed, too. They carried everything from beam weapons to fire axes. No one seemed unarmed.
Garth took on a predatory—almost prideful—expression. Here were his people, marching on the enemy. They’d followed up on his warning. They’d gathered their strength, and even now they were moving in for the kill. They’d repelled these invaders once before, and although the infection had returned, the
y were more than ready and capable of vanquishing it again. They had done so on Garm, Neu Schweitz and this very ship in the past.
Garth reached up and switched the feed to broadcast. Every monitor in the skald suites blazed into life in response, and began relaying the vids as he watched them. Let these cowardly Tulk know what humans were capable of! Activating the loudspeaker, he keyed open the microphone and spoke into it, his breath gusting loudly in the speakers as he made an announcement.
“I am Garth, a former skald. I have repaired your video feed from the ship. I’ve discovered something interesting while testing the system. A battle is about to be joined.”
He sat back, crossed his arms and smiled at the screen. It was time to enjoy the show.
The crewmen advanced to the pods of lifeboats, creeping quietly. Garth recognized the Captain among them. They paused at the bulkheads, massing up for the final assault. A number of them carried flamethrowers. These were signaled forward. The nozzles of their weapons dribbled molten orange plasmas.
A signal was given—Garth could not hear it, as the sound was still disabled. He adjusted and readjusted the controls, vainly. This would be far better with sound.
The six entrances to the lifeboat pods on the starboard side of Gladius snapped open at once. The crewmen with flamethrowers trotted forward and let loose with flares of brilliant flame. Garth cheered appreciatively, and realized why there was no sound. He’d never turned the volume up on the video input. A moment later, sound boomed from every monitor. The skalds could scarcely ignore the battle now!
Events moved rapidly. After hosing the lifeboats with cleansing flame, the crewmen began to advance into the compartments. Garth watched tensely.