A Knight of Ghosts and Shadows

by Anderson, Poul

  ... of Gautama Buddha, Kung Fu-Tse, Rabbi Hillel, Jesus the Christ, Rumi

  ... Socrates, Newton, Hokusai, Jefferson, Gauss, Beethoven, Einstein,

  Ulfgeir, Manuel the Great, Manuel the Wise--would you let your war lords

  turn these instruments to their own vile ends? No!"

  And Flandry understood.

  Did Aycharaych, half blinded by his dead, see what he had given away?

  "Dominic," he whispered hastily, shakily, "I've used you ill, as I've

  used many. It was from no will of mine. Oh, true, an art, a sport--yours

  too--but we had our services, you to a civilization you know is dying, I

  to a heritage I know can abide while this sun does. Who has the better

  right?" He held forth unsubstantial hands.

  "Dominic, stay. We'll think how to keep your ships off and save

  Chereion--"

  Almost as if he were again the machine that condemned his son, Flandry

  said, "I'd have to lure my company into some kind of trap. Merseia would

  take the planet back, and the help it gives. Your shadow show would go

  on. Right?"

  "Yes. What are a few more lives to you? What is Terra? In ten thousand

  years, who will remember the empires? They can remember you, though, who

  saved Chereion for them."

  Candle flames stood around a coffin. Flandry shook his head. "There've

  been too many betrayals in too many causes." He wheeled. "Men, we're

  returning."

  "Aye, sir." The replies shuddered with relief.

  Aycharaych's eidolon brought fingers together as if he prayed. Flandry

  touched his main grav switch. Thrust pushed harness against breast. He

  rose from the radiant city, into the waning murky day. Chill flowed

  around him. Behind floated his robot-encased men.

  "Brigate!" bawled Vymezal. "Beware!"

  Around the topmost tower flashed a score of javelin shapes. Firebeams

  leaped out of their nozzles. Remote-controlled flyer guns, Flandry knew.

  Does Aycharaych still hope, or does he only want revenge? "Chives," he

  called into his sender, "come get us!"

  Sparks showered off Vymezal's plate. He slipped aside in midair, more

  fast and nimble than it seemed he could be in armor. His energy weapon,

  nearly as heavy as the assailants, flared back. Thunders followed

  brilliances. Bitterness tinged air. A mobile blast cannon reeled in

  midflight, spun downward, crashed in a street, exploded. Fragments

  ravaged a fragile facade.

  "Shield the captain," Vymezal boomed.

  Flandry's men ringed him in. Shots tore at them. The noise stamped in

  his skull, the stray heat whipped over his skin. Held to his protection,

  the marines could not dodge about. The guns converged.

  A shadow fell, a lean hull blocked off the sun. Flames reaped. Echoes

  toned at last to silence around smoking ruin down below. Vymezal shouted

  triumph. He waved his warriors aside, that Flandry might lead them

  through the open lock, into the Hooligan.

  Wounded, dwindled, victorious, the Dennitzan fleet took orbits around

  Chereion. Within the command bridge, Bodin Miyatovich and his chieftains

  stood for a long while gazing into the viewscreens. The planet before

  them glowed among the stars, softly, secretly, like a sign of peace. But

  it was the pictures they had seen earlier, the tale they had heard,

  which made those hard men waver.

  Miyatovich even asked through his flagship's rustling stillness: "Must

  we bombard?"

  "Yes," Flandry said. "I hate the idea too."

  Qow of Novi Aferoch stirred. Lately taken off his crippled light

  cruiser, he was less informed than the rest. "Can't sappers do what's

  needful?" he protested.

  "I wish they could," Flandry sighed. "We haven't time. I don't know how

  many millennia of history we're looking down on. How can we read them

  before the Merseian navy arrives?"

  "Are you sure, then, the gain to us can justify a deed which someday

  will make lovers of beauty, seekers of knowledge, curse our names?" the

  zmay demanded. "Can this really be the center of the opposition's

  Intelligence?"

  "I never claimed that," Flandry said. "In fact, obviously not. But it

  must be important as hell itself. We here can give them no worse setback

  than striking it from their grasp."

  "Your chain of logic seems thin."

  "Of course it is! Were mortals ever certain? But listen again, Qow.

  "When the Merseians discovered Chereion, they were already

  conquest-hungry. Aycharaych, among the ghosts those magnificent

  computers had been raising for him--computers and programs we today

  couldn't possibly invent--he saw they'd see what warlike purposes might

  be furthered by such an instrumentality. They'd bend it wholly to their

  ends, bring their engineers in by the horde, ransack, peer, gut, build

  over, leave nothing unwrecked except a few museum scraps. He couldn't

  bear the thought of that.

  "He stopped them by conjuring up phantoms. He made them think a few

  million of his race were still alive, able to give the Roidhunate

  valuable help in the form of staff work, while he himself would be a

  unique field agent--if they were otherwise left alone. We may never know

  how he impressed and tricked those tough-minded fighter lords; he did,

  that's all. They believe they have a worldful of enormous intellects for

  allies, whom they'd better treat with respect. He draws on a micro part

  of the computers, data banks, stored knowledge beyond our imagining, to

  generate advice for them ... excellent advice, but they don't suspect

  how much more they might be able to get, or by what means.

  "Maybe he's had some wish to influence them, as if they learned from

  Chereion. Or maybe he's simply been biding his time till they too erode

  from his planet."

  Flandry was quiet for a few heartbeats before he finished: "Need we care

  which, when real people are in danger?"

  The Gospodar straightened, walked to an intercom, spoke his orders.

  There followed a span while ships chose targets. He and Flandry moved

  aside, to stand before a screen showing stars that lay beyond every

  known empire. "I own to a desire for vengeance," he confessed. "My

  judgment might have been different otherwise."

  Flandry nodded. "Me too. That's how we are. If only--No, never mind."

  "Do you think we can demolish everything?"

  "I don't know. I'm assuming the things we want to kill are under the

  cities--some of the cities--and plenty of megatonnage will if nothing

  else crumble their caverns around them." Flandry smote a fist hurtfully

  against a bulkhead. "I told Qow, we don't ever have more to go on than

  guesswork!"

  "Still, the best guess is, we'll smash enough of the system--whether or

  not we reach Aycharaych himself--"

  "For his sake, let's hope we do."

  "Are you that forgiving, Dominic? Well, regardless, Intelligence is the

  balance wheel of military operations. Merseian Intelligence should be

  ... not broken, but badly knocked askew ... Will Emperor Hans feel

  grateful?"

  "Yes, I expect he'll defend us to the limit against the nobles who'll

  want our scalps." Flandry wolf-grinned. "In fact, he should welc
ome such

  an issue. The quarrel can force influential appeasers out of his regime.

  "And ... he's bound to agree you've proved your case for keeping your

  own armed forces."

  "So Dennitza stays in the Empire--" Miyatovich laid a hand on his

  companion's shoulder. "Between us, my friend, I dare hope myself that

  what I care about will still be there when the Empire is gone. However,

  that scarcely touches our lifetimes. What do you plan to do with the

  rest of yours?"

  "Carry on as before," Flandry said.

  "Go back to Terra?" The eyes which were like Kossara's searched him. "In

  God's name, why?"

  Flandry made no response. Shortly sirens whooped and voices crackled.

  The bombardment was beginning.

  A missile sprang from a ship. Among the stars it flew arrow slim; but

  when it pierced air, hurricane furies trailed its mass. That drum-roar

  rolled from horizon to horizon beneath the moon, shook apart wind-carven

  crags, sent landslides grumbling to the bottoms of canyons. When it

  caught the first high dawnlight, the missile turned into a silver comet.

  Minutes later it spied the towers and treasures it was to destroy, and

  plunged. It had weapons ready against ground defenses; but only the

  spires reached gleaming for heaven.

  The fireball outshone whole suns. It bloomed so tall and wide that the

  top of the atmosphere, too thin to carry it further, became a roof;

  therefore it sat for minutes on the curve of the planet, ablaze, before

  it faded. Dust then made a thick and deadly night above a crater full of

  molten stone. Wrath tolled around the world.

  And more strikes came, and more.

  Flandry watched. When the hour was ended, he answered Miyatovich: "I

  have my own people."

  In glory did Gospodar Bodin ride home.

  Maidens danced to crown him with flowers. The songs of their joy rang

  from the headwaters of the Lyubisha to the waves of the Black Ocean, up

  the highest mountains and down the fairest glens; and all the bells of

  Zorkagrad pealed until Lake Stoyan gave back their music.

  Springtime came, never more sweet, and blossoms well-nigh buried the

  tomb which Gospodar Bodin had raised for St. Kossara. There did he often

  pray, in after years of his lordship over us; and while he lived, no

  foeman troubled the peace she brought us through his valor. Sing, poets,

  of his fame and honor! Long may God give us folk like these!

  And may they hearten each one of us. For in this is our hope.

  Amen