A single word, harsh with hatred, came from the first officer.
“Kerek!”
Veautrin nudged Zhorga. His expression had changed to one of restrained ferocity. “Stay,” he grated. “As well you see what Maralia may soon be up against.”
The screen zoomed and refocused, bringing into closer view a drove of strange vessels. To Zhorga they appeared like nothing so much as ancient sea-galleys, crudely adapted for space. Their hulls were clinker-built, of overlapping planking, and to the gunwales were welded the sides of leathery coverings, or bags, which bulged by air pressure over what were presumably decks, and in which were cut square windows. The ships were driven by crescent-shaped lateen sails, vast in proportion to the loads they carried, supported by enormously long out-riggers, so that seen head-on the craft looked like some grotesque species of blue-winged butterfly.
Veautrin agreed bitterly when Zhorga remarked on their makeshift appearance. “They are exactly what they seem,” he said. “Galleys taken from the oceans of the Kerek world. It’s astonishing how well they are able to travel in interstellar space. But then the Kerek have a talent for improvisation—as well as an insatiable appetite for conquest! Yet they were completely unknown until fifty years ago, when the secret of ether silk was unwisely introduced there.”
“The Kerek are not human, then?”
“Indeed they are not!” Veautrin spoke with what, for him, was an uncharacteristic degree of passion. “They are monsters with a terrible ability—the ability to enslave the minds of men, to capture the human will, though just how this is done is still a mystery. Their hordes are constantly swelled by incorporating seemingly willing slave-soldiers in this way, from their conquered worlds.” His voice fell. “And that’s not all. They also have a practice of converting these worlds into likenesses of the Kerek world, creating new atmospheres, even climates, by planting fast-growing forests and lichen beds from their home planet. Kerek-forming, the process is called, and a pretty unpleasant business it’s supposed to be.”
A hollow laugh came from behind them. “Yes, Zhorga, even your native Earth may be Kerek-formed before long. Like the smell of sulphur compounds, do you?”
It was Baron Matello, who had already received a message by speaker tube. He strode over to stand by the captain, peering at the glass screen.
“They’re coming this way, I see.”
“I think they mean to attack, my lord.”
“When they get close enough, hit them with everything we’ve got. Just like the jackals to be lurking in these reefs.”
“I have already given the orders to prepare, my lord.”
Kerek craft were clearly not handled as carefully as those of Maralia. One, striking an asteroid, shattered to dust which exploded in all directions. But the rest came on, magnified by the viewfinder so that every detail of their construction became visible.
The battle board was unlocked. The Bucentaur prepared to engage the enemy. As the Kerek ships came near all her subsidiary craft quit her decks, approaching the attackers from their flanks, spreading out to give the giant starship’s guns and catapults a clear line of fire.
The captain ordered a full salvo. Seconds later the ship shook and thundered to the bark of the bombards and the loud, snapping twang of fire-darts being shot off. The effect of the bombards, which discharged a type of spreading shot, was not seen, but that of the fire-darts was dazzling even on the shifting field of view of the glass screen. For a moment space coruscated and seemed to catch fire.
Only one of the glimmering fire-darts found its mark. A Kerek galley began to burn, glowing as some sort of seething fluid spread all over it.
There was a second salvo, to which the lighters added their fire. Zhorga was surprised that the Kerek failed to answer with any armament of their own. He saw no sign that they even possessed any. Their one tactic, it seemed, was to board.
The leading vessel came through the barrage. It swooped down toward the starship’s superstructure, but then was hit by a bombard and apparently lost control, crashing into the maindeck and ripping down the air balloon like so much paper.
From the broken hull crawled and staggered two score or so space-suited figures. Most were man-shaped, but a few were four-legged creatures, with narrow, rearing bodies and long necks. The forelegs were longer than the hind legs, and together with a pair of grasping limbs the creatures looked a little like miniature giraffes with arms. These, Zhorga imagined, were the Kerek.
But they all, men and aliens alike, fought with equal ferocity as the Bucentaur’s commandoes rushed to engage them. They wielded outlandish blades that were oddly curved, almost circular. They aimed ring-shaped devices which hurled spinning discuses capable of slicing a man in half. They gave no quarter nor expected any, and soon a bloody brawl was in progress.
The captain shifted the scene away from the deck, back to the Kerek flotilla. Two more galleys were blazing in the darkness. The rest were withdrawing, beaten off.
“They’re licked!” Zhorga exclaimed loudly.
Baron Matello cast him a sour glance. “A small squadron like that is no great threat to a ship of our size, but the Kerek can rarely resist a chance to attack,” he told him. “When they really move, their fleets number thousands.”
He turned back to the screen, fretting. “A damned nuisance just the same! This close to Maralia!”
“Strange we should come upon them accidentally, space being so vast,” Zhorga ventured with a frown.
Matello ignored this, but Veautrin spoke quietly to Zhorga. “It’s no accident. The Kerek have some instinct that helps them find ships over immense distances.” His lips quirked. “Yet one more facet of the ‘Kerek Power.’”
Before Zhorga could ask the meaning of this phrase, the screen focused back on the maindeck, where the last of the intruders were being efficiently butchered. Clouds of vapor puffed from slashed space suits, shining briefly in the light of the deck lamps before dissipating into the void.
At the troop sergeant’s orders a prisoner was taken; overwhelmed, disarmed, and then dragged down below. Minutes later, under heavy guard and with a sword point at his neck, he was brought into the control room.
Zhorga was somewhat startled to see that the renegade human cut an impressive figure. He stood tall and proud, his head held high. His space suit was a magnificent piece of work, made of honey-colored metal inlaid with what looked like silver and gold. The helmet, however, had been removed, and his face reminded Zhorga very much of Captain Veautrin—young, moustachioed, with blazing but steady eyes, and blond hair. But a foul smell, like the odor of rotting eggs, seeped from him, and the handsomeness of his features was made bizarre by a proboscis-like gadget clipped to his nose, enabling him to stomach the odious mixture of gases that made up the Kerek atmosphere.
“You want to see one? Here it is!” Baron Matello intoned somberly. “A human turned Kerek!”
His expression a mixture of contempt and pity, the starship captain rose and gazed at the prisoner. “Were you born under the Kerek?” he asked mildly.
The prisoner seemed unconscious of the proboscis, which dangled and danced as he spoke but did not prevent him from speaking clearly. “No,” he said, “I am from Frujos, of the Anderra system, which came under the Kerek Power in my youth.”
“Why were you sailing these reefs?” Matello demanded suddenly.
“You know the reason. Kerek ships rove everywhere.”
The man’s manner was disconcertingly rational and self-possessed. “You would do well not to resist, but to join with us,” he declared. “Cease your opposition. Live in vigor and harmony with us, not against us. Ours is the better life! We know true joy under the Kerek Power!”
“As slaves of the Kerek?” Matello snorted.
The prisoner’s voice took on a ringing tone. “Not so! We are no slaves, for the Kerek also are under the Kerek Power. With us, all are equal and together as brothers.”
“Kill him,” Matello said gloomily. “Throw
his body overboard with the rest.”
The warrior put up barely any resistance as he was bustled from the room. Zhorga heard chopping sounds from the other side of the door; then something heavy was dragged away.
Baron Matello grunted. “Hah! The Kerek Power!”
Without another word he swept from the room.
“What is this ‘Kerek Power?’” Zhorga asked Veautrin, as the two of them also turned to go.
Veautrin took his time about replying. “It has never properly been accounted for,” he said. “It is only known that it is a mental force that can command human and Kerek alike. Some say it does not exist as such and is only a form of collective hypnosis—others that it is a living entity that can reach out across space.” He shuddered. “Already whole kingdoms have fallen to the Kerek. If they are not stopped the outlook for the galaxy itself will be bleak. But the Kerek will be stopped! They have to be stopped!”
Zhorga felt chill. Why had this menace never been mentioned to him before?
It could only be because it was such an ever-present shadow that it was taken for granted.
They stepped out into the corridor. The Bucentaur swept on, sinuating through the asteroid shoals toward the clear void beyond.
Chapter NINE
For all his grandiose titles, Baron Goth Matello’s actual standing in life went little way toward satisfying his true ambitions for himself. In fact his highest rank—Margrave of the Marsh Worlds—was really worth least of all, for the Marsh Worlds were a dismal group of border planets not even worth taxing, but which it was his onerous duty to defend. Also largely empty was his title of Baron (by which he was formally addressed in keeping with Maralian tradition, it being his only hereditary title), most of the barony he had inherited having been gambled away in his impetuous youth, when he had been overmuch addicted to the card table and the dueling field.
To Rachad or Zhorga, or indeed to any Earthman, he was incredibly wealthy, but in his own estimation Matello regarded himself as poor. What he aspired to was a dukedom: a goodly crop of rich worlds where a man of expansive appetites need not feel cramped.
As it was, his base these days was the unprepossessing Castarpos Moons demesne, of which he was official Protector, and his one concession to undeniable luxury was the Bucentaur, his magnificent personal starship to buy which he had taxed his holdings till they bled. As the giant starship swung down toward the pitted surface of Arp, largest of the moons, those on deck were able to look down on the huddled town of Corrum which was Matello’s residence. Not long after she had landed, in a permanent dock on the edge of the town, a procession of horses and carriages suddenly issued forth from her, to go clattering through the narrow, winding streets, making for the craggy manor-castle that loomed on high ground.
Castarpos, the moon system’s primary, a vast striated world on which no man had ever set foot, bulked huge in the sky. By contrast the sun was small and amber, and seemed to add a burnished hue to everything it touched in the perpetually gloomy landscape. The sight of his domain afforded Matello no pleasure, however, and he kept the curtains drawn as his carriage passed through the town, mulling meanwhile over the plan that was forming in his mind.
During the journey from Mars he had been discreetly informed that an improper liaison had developed between the young Earthling, Rachad Gaban, and his niece Elissea. He would have been quite within his rights to kill the youth immediately; but he had chosen to do nothing, and on the contrary had gone out of his way to show the impudent youngster every consideration, giving no sign that he knew what was going on. Caban, he had decided, was just the man to carry out the scheme he had in mind. He was audacious, self-interested—a chancer if ever there was one—and he even had some alchemical knowledge, which was excellent for Matello’s purpose.
Ensconcing himself in his stone fortress, Matello spent some time disposing of household affairs. That evening, he sent for Caban.
Nervously Rachad entered a vaulted hall of modest proportions. A fire blazed in a huge grate, adding a wavering glow to the light of the cressets. The baron sat at a large table that might have been of teak, but was more probably of a local material. Near him was a flagon and two goblets. He was thoughtfully tapping the lead cover of the alchemical treatise he had taken so much trouble to obtain.
At the other end of the hall Rachad saw something odd. A cloud of yellow dust hovered in the air over a large iron tank. Traces of the same dust were scattered about the floor.
Rachad coughed, and bowed.
“Ah, it’s young Caban!” Matello greeted jovially. “Come over here. Try some of this.”
Rachad approached. Matello filled a goblet with murky brown liquid and handed it to him. Rachad looked at the beverage doubtfully before sipping it. The stuff had a thick, aromatic flavor. He swallowed, then spluttered as it scorched his throat.
“The local vintage,” Matello told him. “It’s brewed from berries grown on the upland plateaux. Rough stuff, but not bad once you get used to it. Drink!”
The order was peremptory. Rachad forced himself to gulp down the wine, feeling his stomach burn and his senses reel.
“Now sit down,” grunted Matello with a grin. “We have something to discuss. How best make use of this.”
Once more he tapped the book. In his woozy state, Rachad wondered how long he could keep from revealing that the book was of little help without its supporting text, the Asch Mezareph, which thanks to his silence had been left behind on Earth. “I am to help you make gold, my lord?” he said, slurring his words a trifle. “You have an alchemical laboratory?”
Matello threw back his head and laughed loudly. “What, me make gold? What in space for? Not far from here I can show you a moonlet composed entirely of gold.”
His eyes twinkled to see Rachad’s startlement. “I can see that you’re a real backwater boy. Maybe gold’s something special back on Earth where you come from, but here in Maralia it’s worth no more than iron. Real wealth takes the form of power. Power over men, over territories.”
Rachad lowered his head, biting his lip. He should have thought of this before, he realized. Out here among the stars there would be a plenitude of every kind of material.
He looked up. “Then why do you need the book, my lord?” he asked, puzzled.
Matello slammed his goblet on the table. “Not to make gold, you may be sure! This book is bait. I need it to help me to get a man inside the Duke of Koss’s Aegis. Do you understand me?”
“No, my lord.”
Matello sighed. “I feared not.”
“What is this ‘Aegis,’ my lord?”
“An aegis,” Matello answered, with self-conscious patience, “is an impregnable fortress. It is built of adamant, a substance which is absolutely indestructible, and once inside it there is no known weapon that can harm you, and no way that the fortress can be breached. Now, as to the Duke of Koss, who lives in its protection—” Suddenly Matello rose to his feet. “Let someone else give you an indication of his character.”
Beckoning to Rachad, he strolled to the far end of the hall, stopping at the iron tank. As he followed, the fog of yellow powder stung Rachad’s nostrils and made him cough. He looked into the low tank, and recoiled with a gasp.
“Don’t be afraid,” the baron murmured. “He’s as civilized as you or I.”
Rachad guessed that the tank was deeper than it appeared from the outside and was set into the floor. It was filled to within a foot of the brim with fine yellow powder, resembling flowers of sulphur. The powder was waving and rippling. “Swimming” just beneath its surface was an undulating shape.
“Flammarion!” Matello said in a loud voice. “I have with me the young man I mentioned.”
The swimming shape surfaced. The creature was gray in color and resembled a stingray, with a waving, flapping cape. From beneath it came slim tentacles which tapped the sides of the tank, but Rachad could not properly see what else the cape hid. He forced himself to be calm as the beast flopped part
of itself over the side of the trough, splashing out gouts of bright yellow powder.
“I sense you, humans. Greetings, Rachad Caban.”
“Er—greetings,” Rachad stuttered. The creature’s voice was soft and human-sounding, yet somehow larger than a man’s without being louder.
“This is Flammarion,” Matello said to Rachad, “a master builder from the other side of the galaxy. He it was who built the duke’s Aegis, long ago, and he and I are now united in a common purpose—somehow to break into that aegis. It is an ambition not altogether unique to us, for the duke has many enemies.”
He turned to the tank. “Tell Caban your story, Flammarion. It is best he should know the background to his mission.”
There was a pause, while the alien creature flapped and stirred in the powder-bath. “It is a sad tale, a pathetic tale, one that can only bring bathos and pity,” the voice said mournfully. “I am an acknowledged expert in the building of aegises. I alone know the secret of adamant, a material impervious to any weapon, unaffected even by alkahest, the universal solvent. No gun, arbalest or sonic trembler can break it, no acid can corrode it. It deadens even the shriek of Vurelian war trumpets, whose vibrations pass through stone and steel to kill those within.”
Flammarion paused again and went surging through the powder. “Thinking to employ my talents in foreign parts of the galaxy, I traveled to that region where humans dwell. Here I was commissioned by the Duke of Koss to build an aegis for him. I labored mightily, constructing, I believe, the best example of my skills so far. Finally the work was finished, the duke took up residence, and after a decent interval to allow inspection, I presented myself before the gate to collect my fee: two tons of heavenly water, a rare commodity much prized by my kind.”
The voice of the alien became burdened with dole. “His answer was direct and most unkind. ‘If the Aegis is truly invulnerable as claimed by you and specified by contract, you have no means by which to enter and extract payment. You cannot hurt me; here I shall remain forever. Begone!’ Oh, cruel injustice! Since then I have remained nearby, trying by this stratagem and that to force payment from my client.”
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