The Fleet Book 2: Counter Attack

by David Drake (ed)

  This was very interesting news, pointing, as it did, to the intervention of some race into Khalian affairs, the arming of Khalia and encouraging them to raid the ships of The Alliance. Who had given the Khalia their ships? This was something else the leaders of the Fleet would have to ponder—once I was able to return and tell them about it.

  After several days, I knew I was getting closer to programming the ship’s computer so that it would accept and access the Destinations Disc. Yet something always went wrong. It began to seem as though there were a perversity built into the machine, something that defeated even the most logical steps, even the most intuitive leaps.

  And then one day, coming back to the ship early from a solitary stroll, I came upon Homer Farsinger sitting at the keyboard, rapt in concentration.

  I watched his procedure with fascination. With unexpected skill for a pre-technological, he was undoing the information I had previously put in, like Penelope at taking out by night the work she had put on the loom by day.

  “You’re trying to glitz the program!” I shouted at him.

  His lips curled in a supercilious smile, but he did not reply.

  “You don’t want this ship to work! You want Tostig and the men to stay right here and die!”

  “I’m surprised that you didn’t catch on sooner,” Homer said.

  “Tostig will be interested to hear of this,” I told him. I hefted a crowbar. “Don’t try to stop me or I’ll brain you, you traitorous bastard!”

  By then, as was perhaps inevitable, I was identifying with the Khalia.

  Before you do that,” Homer said, “don’t you want to know why I’m doing it?”

  Perhaps I should have gone straight to Tostig. If I had, the outcome might have been very different. But I hesitated. Inquisitiveness is a well-known Perdidan quality. “Why are you doing it?” I asked.

  He smiled. In a mild voice, he said, “Tell me, human, what do you know about the requirements of writing Khalian Sagas?”

  I put down the crowbar. I sat down. I was hooked.

  XV.

  ‘“Sagas,” Homer told me, “are the heartblood of our people. All of the great Sagas have certain elements in common. There is a heroic figure, such as Tostig. There is an impossible situation, such as our stay on Target, there is treachery by a trusted key figure, and there is a glorious death in battle for the leader and his men. Tostig is a fit subject for the greatest of Sagas. I have employed my skill to construct such a one. I have enumerated in glowing verses all of his great triumphs—the massacre at Eagle Station, the devastation of Star Pass, the daylight raid against Algol IV. Never in living memory has a Khalian hero performed such feats. All that remains is a satisfactory conclusion.”

  “Such as?” I asked.

  “There is only one that is possible. Baron Tostig must fight a heroic and foredoomed last stand, betrayed by his friend, and die here upon the site of the greatest naval battle in all Khalian history, here on Target.”

  “Maybe that’s not what Tostig wants,” I suggested.

  “It doesn’t matter what the Baron wants. What is important is that his Saga be brought to a satisfactory conclusion, and be sung thereafter as an inspiration to the rest of us.”

  “It’s difficult for me to see how your saga can be preserved,” I said. “If you are here with Baron Tostig when he goes down to glory and death.”

  “That’s my problem,” Homer said. “No doubt I will solve it, as the great bards always have. Even if I die before finishing the final stanzas, I will manage to get a copy of my work back to the Poet’s Guild. Other paws will have to finish the final verses.”

  “I don’t like it,” I told him.

  “That’s because you do not have the poetic vocation. But you are clever enough to know where your own advantage lies.

  ‘’’I suppose you have some advice for me on that score,” I suggested.

  “Indeed I do. Your loyalty to your own kind should make you desire that Baron Tostig never leave this place.” Homer had a pungent way of speaking. But he had a point. I knew that Tostig was one weasel among a million, far more intelligent and flexible than is usual for his race.

  “What surprises me,” I said to Homer, “is why such a Khalian as Tostig was not given wider powers, more warriors.

  “It is not our way. We are not a cooperative people. That is why we cannot trust ourselves with a ship larger than a cruiser. A good leader can hold together groups of twenty, fifty, even a hundred warriors. But when it comes to the dreadnaughts with their crews of two thousand, that is beyond us. Nor have the Others encouraged us to combine clans under gifted leaders. They prefer us as we are, intimidating, but not quite overwhelming.”

  “They sound pretty smart, these Others,” I said. “What planet did you say they came from?”

  “I would die before telling you anything useful about the Others. And I am spared the necessity since I know nothing about them. But tell me, human, do not our aims coincide here? You wish for material victory, I for a spiritual one. Both of us can be satisfied by Tostig fighting his last stand here, and dying.”

  “That would also be a quick way to get myself killed.”

  He shook his head. “I myself, on my oath as a Master Poet, would see that you were returned to your friends alive and well. And the glory would be yours, rather than the shame of letting Tostig escape.”

  “But I gave Tostig my word,” I said.

  “You gave it from a posture of constraint rather than of free will. In this case, it could not be considered binding.”

  “When I give my word,” I told him, “I consider it binding.”

  “Now you are arguing like a stupid Khalian trooper. Aren’t you interested in furthering the concerns of your race and people? Or are you another romantic like Tostig?”

  “I don’t know what in hell to do,” I said irritably. “Damn it, I like Tostig!”

  “And I, his bard and companion through all the famous battles, I love him as myself. If you are his friend as well as his enemy, will you not give him the great conclusion he longs for?”

  “You’ve got it wrong,” I told him. “The Baron wants to get out of here. He’s told me himself how he wants to fight for booty and glory on other fronts, in better circumstances.”

  “Oh, he likes to give the appearance of being a rational life-fearing creature.” Homer said, “It is a foible he picked up in the London Zoo. But at heart, he is pure Khalian, and he will embrace the hero’s death whether he wills it or not. It is a situation repeated time and again in our old Sagas. The hero tries to avoid his destiny, but his best friend betrays him and so the hero embraces his fate.”

  “I’m not his best friend!” I shouted. But he had turned away from me and was praying to his Gods of Communication. And I was left with a fearful tangle in my mind and heart.

  XVI.

  My last meeting with Tostig was as pleasant as all the others had been. The Khalian Captain was in his quarters, finishing his grooming. He was a little vain in this regard, and even used a hot iron to curl his chin hairs in the upward tilt so popular that year among the Khalian nobility.

  “It’s hardly worth trying to stay in style,” he grumbled. “Just when I have my whiskers trained to go one way, I hear that everyone’s wearing them in some quite different fashion. And it doesn’t look very flattering anyhow. So much for my vanity. Tell me, Judah, is the ship ready?”

  “It is,” I told him. “I located the glitch and took care of it. With the invaluable assistance of Homer Farsinger, of course. Is there any of that whiskey left?”

  “Help yourself. The bottle’s in its usual place.”

  I poured myself a stiff one. Tostig watched me, concern showing in his brown eyes.

  “You seem a little out of sorts today, Judah.”

  I had spent the night wrestling with my conscience. We Jews of
the planet Perdido spend a lot of time doing that. We call it “arguing with the angel.” This time, however, the issue was far from clear-cut. I found it difficult to define my terms, to determine just what ends I wished to accomplish, and which means I could permit myself to use. It was true, on the one hand, as the Destination Master had pointed out, that Baron Tostig and his battling weasels would be a thorn in our sides as long as they lived. On the other hand, individuals don’t determine the fate of interstellar empires. It was vital to the Alliance that I returned with the information I had learned. But wasn’t a man’s, word of honor worth something in the scheme of things?

  There were good reasons, even compelling ones, which argued in my mind that I should not betray Baron Tostig, that I should act the part of a true friend, tell him about Homer’s scheme, give the baron his chance to get away from this killing ground, on to further exploits, or to the little retirement cottage he once mentioned to me, tucked away among low green hills on a planet whose name he never revealed.

  I had just, about made up my mind to tell Tostig everything. But then I would remember the central role of the Sagas in the life of the Khalia, and how they all featured a friend who becomes a traitor, who conspires to bring the hero to his glorious doom, satisfying his deep-seated desire for a glorious death, which would live forever in the Sagas of his people.

  Was a true friend the one who helped the hero get away, so that he could die at last, quietly in bed, perhaps attended by pretty little bright-eyed weasel nymphets? Or was a true friend the one who assisted the hero toward his true, inner goal, the valiant death in battle against great odds?

  “I’ll be sorry to see you go,” I told him, speaking the truth, though not all of it.

  “My feelings, too,” Tostig said. “Perhaps friendship isn’t possible between our races. I don’t know the truth of that, it is too deep for me. But this I know—friendship between individuals is possible. I shall miss you, Judah.”

  It was in my mind to say something to him then, but his guard of honor had just arrived, four piratical-looking Khalia liberally covered with weapons, one of them with a black patch over one eye.

  “Let us inspect your work,” Tostig said lightly, and we marched out surrounded by the guard of honor.

  Tostig’s men were drawn up in front of the battle cruiser. There were almost a hundred of them, since other battle groups fighting on Target had sworn fealty to him, wishing to have some share in his glory. Homer Farsinger was there, too, resplendent in his silver-grey robe, his face an unreadable mask.

  After the cheering had subsided, Tostig boarded his ship, and Homer and I followed him. As we came to the pilot’s section, I could hold myself in no longer. “Tostig,” I said, “there is something I must tell you!”

  He regarded me with a level gaze. “No,” he said, “you do not. You see, I already know.”

  “You know?”

  Tostig smiled. “I know the old Sagas a lot better than you do. Almost as well as our colleague here, the Destination Master. Isn’t that so, Homer?”

  “The Baron’s knowledge of matters poetical is unexcelled,” Homer said. “For a layman, of course.”

  “Of course,” Tostig said. He looked over the controls, then turned to Homer again. “How, exactly, did you arrange the treachery, Homer? Something ingenious, I trust?”

  “Ingenious enough,” he said. “When you go to turn on the ship’s computer, I’ve set up a special code you must enter before making any other move. Otherwise, a disabling program is implemented, putting the computer out of service once and for all. But how did you find out?”

  “I had no idea,” Tostig said. “I just thought I’d pretend to know and see what you said.”

  “So you tricked us!” Homer said.

  “One good trick deserves another,” Tostig said. “I’ve known your plans for me for a long time, Destination Master. And of course you were able to convince my naive friend here that death in battle and glory in song is what I really wanted for myself.”

  “I should never have listened to him,” I said. “Tostig, you can still get away. The code to disarm the disabling program—”

  Tostig held up an imperious paw. “No, don’t tell me. I might be tempted to use it.”

  We stared at him. Then a grim smile crossed the face of the Destination Master.

  “Then I was not wrong about you, Baron Tostig!”

  “You knew me better than I knew myself. But then, he who can read the soul of the race has the key to the individual as well.”

  We followed Tostig as he walked to the spaceship door. The crowd of Khalian warriors fell silent as he looked at them.

  “Men,” he said, “the spaceship is fixed. But we do not need it. This is too great an opportunity to be missed. We’re going to take on the entire Fleet and all the land forces the humans can throw against us. We are going to perform the greatest feats of arms known to Khalian history. We have lived long enough. Now I invoke the code of the berserker. I will attack, even if I must do so alone. Are there any of you who would like to accompany me?”

  The resounding cheer that came up showed that the vote was unanimous. True Khalia all, they could not resist the glamour of a great death under a famous leader and immortality in song.

  “We’ll be celebrating tonight,” Tostig said, “in preparation for our attack. Go now, Judah, my friend, go home in safety and with my regard. Baron Tostig keeps his word. And take this Poet with you, because his Saga must be preserved for our future generations.”

  Homer Farsinger drew himself-up to his full height. “No, Tostig, I won’t go. You have made the right decision, the only decision possible for a hero. But my decision is the correct one for a Poet. I will stay here with you, witness your last battle, and record it for the conclusion of my Saga.”

  “But, you silly idiot,” Tostig said, “you’re likely to be killed with the rest of us, war being no respecter even of poets. And then what will become of my great Saga?”

  “I have considered the problem,” Homer said. “I hoped that matters would work out in this way. I made my preparations.”

  From within his long robes he took out a small machine. I recognized it at once as one of our standard model cassette recorders.

  “I took this piece of alien technology from the spoils of our most recent battle. On it I have recorded all of the Saga, right up to the present moment. The human has shown himself to be worthy of trust, to yourself in regard to friendship and to me in terms of the deepest poetical wishes of the Khalian people. We understand each other, Judah and I. No doubt I will survive your death, Tostig, because Bards are often lucky in that way. In that case, I will finish the Saga myself and find a way to get it back to the College of Poets on Khalia. But if I should die, then I request of you, Judah, that you find some way to get this to the Khalia, so that they can finish the story themselves.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said, taking the little cassette recorder and putting it in my pocket. I shook Homer’s paw, embraced Tostig, and then I was on my way.

  The rest is well known to the members of this court-martial. It took our forces another two months to bring Tostig to bay, and it cost us many lives before we killed him in the great slaughter at Deadman’s Pass.

  As for the Great Saga, it is a sadness for me to have to report that the Destination Master was no mastery of gadgetry, not even something as straightforward as a cassette recorder. He had managed to turn it on, and the winking little red light had convinced him that the thing was working properly. But evidently he had forgotten to release the pause button, and so, despite the spirited winking of the little red light, no words were taken down.

  And Homer Farsinger did not survive the battle to be able to sing his song again.

  These words which you now read are my own poor effort to tell the story of Tostig’s glory. I have done the best l could for him. He was my enemy, he wa
s my friend, and I betrayed him in the prescribed Khalian manner, and now, to the best of my ability, I have sung his song.

  The rest is quickly told. Through an intermediary, I delivered this account of my meeting with Tostig to a representative of the Khalian Poet’s Guild.

  “It is not in proper metric form,” he said, “and it speaks rather more of you than of Tostig. But we are grateful for your efforts. We accept your Saga. Let it be called: ‘The Ballad of Baron Tostig.’ And let it also be known that you are the only alien ever to invent a Saga accepted by the Khalian Poet’s Guild.”

  He gave me a silver-grey cloak of office, and the pointed hat of a bard. They are too small for me to wear but I have hung them on the wall of my study in New Jerusalem. When I look at them, I remember Tostig. If that be treason, I stand condemned out of my own mouth.

  “Markedly strange,” Admiral Meier agreed, looking up from the screen at the special investigator. Smythe waited for a further comment out received none.

  “Even more strange,” he replied to fill the silence, “is the other file I found. Completely different. Almost as if we were dealing with another race entirely, but it was definitely the Khalia.”

  During the hour that Meier had studied the occupation file from Target, exhaustion had caught up with Smythe. He had been pushing himself for weeks and only by dint of willpower had stayed awake while sitting in the admiral’s office. The investigator’s hand shook as he inserted a second file.