The Harriers Book One: Of War and Honor

by S. N. Lewitt

  "If you say so." Haakogard's left eyebrow rose.

  "Don't worry—really," she assured him. "Because when all's said and done, he's boring, and only the situation is novel, and this planet is a prison, like all planets." Impulsively she kissed his cheek. "But thanks for watching out for me."

  "Part of my job," he told her, adding, "Now go in and get out of that rig before Tenre decides it means something."

  She gave him a wide, jeering smile before hurrying into the port of the Yngmoto, leaving Haakogard to serve as an escort for Tenre.

  Tydbar Grabt was one of the four officers who approached the Katanas shortly after sunrise the next morning. They all carried their weapons reversed, a sign of peaceful intention, and two of them carried large jars of oil and wine, the traditional gifts for allies.

  "And that sheaf of arrows without points, that's the most significant," said Thunghalis as he watched the gifts set out right at the edge of the shimmering barrier. "More than the wine and oil."

  "Why?" asked Haakogard. "What makes it so special?"

  "It's from the founding of Civuto poMoend. This was supposed to be the central city of the north coast. It is, but the coast itself here is not like the coast to the south. We were not able to build on the cliffs and rocks, and so the city was built inland. The idea was that we would manage the development of trade but . . . Look around you. We do not trade very much in this part of Neo Biscay." He indicated the surveills and their barren setting. "So Bilau, on the other side of the continent, thrives and the south coast is filled with cities and towns while poMoend remains isolated with Other Colonists around it." He pointed to the arrows. "To give up arrows this way is to show you they are willing to go without food because you cannot hunt without arrows, and all for the sake of peace between us. They will do nothing harmful."

  "All right," said Haakogard, faintly perplexed at this explanation, though he had long since become accustomed to odd traditions in out-of-the-way places. "What do we do, to let them know we'll cooperate?"

  "Send out three or four officers, carrying no weapons. Two of them should bring some recognizable kind of food, and one should have a token like the arrows. That way you will do them honor and they will not be disgraced by the decisions you reach together." Thunghalis made a sweeping gesture that Haakogard suspected was intended to encompass the entire Petit Harrier mission on Neo Biscay. "If their offerings are dishonored—"

  "I can imagine," said Haakogard. "All right," he announced to the control room and the communications nodule. "Bunters, I need two large sacks of simple foodstuffs. Take it from the shipwreck locker—that looks more like food than most of what we carry—and include a medium-sized container of Standby Hooch. I need them at the loading hatch in five minutes."

  Communications Leader Alrou Malise was the only other crew member in the control room, and he was startled by these orders. "Isn't that getting a little generous?" he asked Haakogard, his long face seeming to grow longer with disapproval.

  "Better than getting into more trouble," said Haakogard philosophically. "Besides, look at this place. A little extra food is going to gain us a lot more goodwill. We're near enough to the Semper Arcturus. We won't need those stores before we get back to her. And if we do, a few handfuls of protein isn't going to make that much difference."

  "You think so?" Malise asked, trying to affect the same light-handed cynicism as Haakogard, and failing.

  Haakogard shook his head. "I'll want Dachnor and Fennin and Chaliz with me. And Pangbar Thunghalis. Make sure you're in top kit. That way we won't get bogged down as much." He looked at the poMoend officer. "Is there any need for special dress for the rest of us for these negotiations, or will our standard uniforms do?"

  "Why do you ask? You are the ones who may decide these matters, for you are the ones of superior strength," said Thunghalis.

  "You know what sticklers these out-of-the-way planets can be for dress codes. And cities like poMoend are the worst. We had better use the tunics with the braid and bright buttons," Haakogard decided aloud. "The Senior Bunter approved it."

  "Done," said Malise, knowing that there was little point in arguing with the Senior Bunter on such points. He was about to go change when he asked, "Do you think your ploy is working?"

  "Is this nothing more than a ploy?" Thunghalis demanded, shocked.

  "More of a gamble than a ploy," said Haakogard. "We'll find out." He hoped it would: the most recent zaps had warned him that a shipful of Grands could be coming his way before sunset tomorrow. The whole dispute of the clones would have to be resolved by then or the Grands might well use it to create a scandal and a war. His lips set in a grim line as he went to put on his braided tunic.

  Tydbar Grabt offered salutation to the four Harriers and Thunghalis. The poMoend company examined the food they were offered and pronounced it most acceptable, and pretended to understand the use of the target-locking boomerangs which Chanliz had taken from her shipwreck stores. At last the Tydbar put the two sets of gifts aside and sat down on the elaborate carpets spread on the ground for the occasion. "We have come to offer you a proposal to end this conflict. It is the only one acceptable to the Comes Riton, and therefore it is the only one we may endorse."

  "Which Comes Riton?" Haakogard could not resist asking.

  "The Comes Riton who rules in poMoend," said Tydbar Jeshalest, the only one with a scar on his face: it ran from the outer corner of his eye to the lobe of his ear. "We must protect him or be dishonored."

  "True," said Thunghalis. "But you must protect the alternate clone as well—and we are not in agreement which of the clones is the alternate, are we? —since he was not devivified at the proper time. To do otherwise would also dishonor us." He kept his head lowered as he spoke.

  "It would," agreed Tydbar Grabt. "And we have spent the night hoping to reach an acceptable way to resolve this to our mutual advantage."

  "Yes," chimed in the third officer, a Tsambar in a metallic surplice. "At first it was thought that the clones must fight, but we cannot permit that to happen, for we are sworn to protect the Comes Riton in any phase and if they were to fight, we would have to prevent it or die for disgrace."

  "Naturally," said Haakogard softly.

  Tydbar Grabt gestured emotionally. "That was the one thing we could not change. We cannot stand by and see the Comes Riton exposed to any danger. So such a contest between clones could not be acceptable. We were agreed on that. But . . ." He let the hopeful word hang.

  "But we decided on a way that would preserve the lives of the Comes Riton yet would not imperil our honor," said Tsambar Foethwis with pride. "We have hit upon the means to settle the whole."

  The poMoend officers gestured their agreement and support, and Tydbar Grabt addressed Haakogard. "It is entirely acceptable to us, and we will gladly abide by the results, no matter what they are, of a combat between appointed champions of the Comes Riton and his alternate. That way neither clone need lift his hand against the other and we need not—"

  Haakogard broke into this. "You're assuming that whichever champion wins, the losing clone will submit to . . . would not disgrace you. Have I got that right?"

  "Most certainly. What Comes Riton could live when his champion was dead? It would be a more dishonorable thing than lifting his hand against his clone." Tydbar Jeshalest spoke as if Haakogard were slightly deaf. "It is entirely appropriate and exposes no one to disgrace. You can see why this is so worthy a plan."

  "Of course," said Haakogard, who could see nothing of the sort. He had set his mind to resolving the whole problem through negotiation, and here the officers of Civuto poMoend were advocating trial by combat. He decided to give basic sense another try. "Perhaps it might be wise to delay before taking so . . . so extreme an action? The two clones might discover a way to rule as partners?"

  All four of the poMoend officers laughed, and Thunghalis joined in. Tydbar Grabt was the first to stop. "How entertaining you are. I was told you had a droll wit, and surely it is true."
He slapped the carpet twice, and explained. "How could that be possible? We would have to obey both clones equally, and that could easily lead to disgrace and dishonor if the clones were not always in perfect agreement. To say nothing of the confusion when the next phase clone is activated. At whose orders would that occur? How would the clonery know that the wishes were those of the Comes Riton and not the whim of the alternate?"

  "Champion?" said Haakogard quietly, hating the sound of the word.

  "An ideal way to settle the matter," concurred Thunghalis, who supposed that Haakogard was in accord with the rest of them. "When it is over there will be no question of who is entitled to rule, and all confusion about the next phases will be ended." He made himself overcome his shame and looked directly at Tydbar Grabt. "Excellent, Most Excellent Tydbar."

  Tydbar Grabt clearly knew it was not completely correct to acknowledge the praise of an officer who was so compromised as Thunghalis, but he lowered his head, and let Thunghalis decide if that was a response or not. "We are prepared to undertake the contest as soon as the alternate of the Comes Riton appoints someone to fight for him, providing that person is honorable and of fighting age, so that the match is a fair and honorable one." He got to his feet and made two graceful, confusing gestures. "By midafternoon?"

  "That isn't a suggestion," said Dachnor, knowing an order when he heard it. His manner continued unruffled. "We'd better find someone."

  "But by midafternoon?" Haakogard wanted to argue, to make the officers of Civuto poMoend give up their ridiculous notion; but he could see that was not going to be possible. He rose, motioning to his officers to do the same. "We will consult with the Comes Riton called Tenre, and if he is willing to be defended in this way, and chooses to appoint a champion, we will be here at midafternoon." He bit down hard on the last word, his jaw tightening.

  "Most worthy Petit Harriers," said Tydbar Grabt, lacing his enormous hands together in a gesture of short-term farewell.

  As the three Tydbars and the Tsambar marched away from the Katanas, Group Chief Ower Fennin shook his head. He attempted to laugh but it sounded rusty. "You don't suppose they mean it, do you?"

  "Oh, yeah," said Haakogard, weary and irritated. "Yeah, they mean it."

  Thunghalis stood straighter. "It is the honorable thing to do."

  To Haakogard's dismay—though not to his surprise—Tenre endorsed the plan with alacrity. "Yes!" he declared in a tone like golden thunder. "That is the perfect way!" He looked over at Navigator Zim. "What a superb idea they have. I have never thought well of poMoend, but they have shown that they are not entirely fools. How pleased I am that my honor will be preserved. I cannot thank you enough."

  "Why is the idea superb?" Zim asked, her smile definitely strained.

  "There will be no question of who has the right, and no one will have to sacrifice his honor to end the matter." He shook his fists in the direction of Civuto poMoend. "They will not be able to claim that the First Colonists were reprehensible in their conduct, as they have in the past."

  "Why reprehensible?" asked Haakogard, puzzled by what Tenre said.

  "Because we did not attack as they would," said Tenre simply. "We do not have their weapons, nor do we have their city, so we must fight them as the chance presents itself, without the proper form and music." He beamed at Zim. "No one can dispute the outcome of a battle of champions."

  "Why do you say that?" Zim wanted to know, curious as much for Haakogard's sake as for her own.

  "Because who shall say that a Petit Harrier is not an honest champion?" answered Tenre, his smile so beatific that he looked ten years younger.

  "What?" Zim demanded.

  "Wait a minute!" Haakogard ordered at the same time. "You leave her out of your arguments, Tenre. She has no part of it."

  Tenre's grin widened. "You are certainly right," he said, his eyes moving from Zim to Haakogard. "It is not Nola Zim who will defend my claim. It is you." He slapped his palm hard against his chest. "You are the leader of this mission; therefore I make you my champion, Line Commander Goren Haakogard."

  Haakogard was already moving toward Tenre, distress making him clumsy. "No. Wait. Tenre, no." He planted himself two steps in front of the Comes Riton's clone. "Don't do this. It doesn't make sense. I can't be your champion; no one in my command can. We are Petit Harriers, sworn to the Magnicate Alliance, not mercenaries for you to hire at will. Come on, Tenre. Be reasonable."

  "Yes," said Tenre with a vigorous nod. "Yes, that is what I must be, and why I must choose you. None of my followers could be my champion without that choice being an unforgivable insult to the rest. Therefore I must select another, and who better than you, who has brought me to this place and put my case before the men of poMoend?" He still smiled but there was grim purpose in his sand-colored eyes.

  "Tenre," Zim protested.

  "There is nothing more to say," Tenre stated. "I have made up my mind that my honor and my claim will be defended by you, Haakogard, or it will not be defended at all and my cause will fail. I will die for dishonor." He folded his arms. "And the deaths of those who have fought with me and for me will be on your head, Line Commander."

  "Why not Pangbar Thunghalis?" Zim recommended before Haakogard could mention him. "He has defended you already. Everyone knows that he will support your claim. He is one of yours."

  "All the more reason not to use him. He is disgraced already, though he was disgraced for my sake. He cannot be made champion, for that would be a great betrayal of the honor of all the First Colonists. Only you, Line Commander, are appropriate."

  "This isn't reasonable, Tenre," Haakogard warned him.

  "Is it not?" Tenre inquired with feigned innocence. "Why does it seem so to me, then?" He glanced toward Zim. "You will watch with me and share my fate."

  There was something unreadable in her face, an expression that was partly sardonic, partly deprecating, partly condemning. "And die with you if your champion does not prevail?" she suggested when the silence had lengthened enough. "Goren?"

  Haakogard was still trying to summon arguments to end his obligation to Tenre, and so he gave her an answer without thought. "If that's what you want."

  Her face clouded. "I guess it is."

  "So you are going to fight?" said the Mromrosi as he gamboled along the hall at Haakogard's side.

  "I don't know what else I can do," said Haakogard unhappily.

  "You could always leave," said the Mromrosi, his mop of ringlets an incendiary orange.

  "And leave Tenre in disgrace, facing a war and ready to kill himself because of some ludicrous code they use to gauge honor?" He stopped at the entrance to his quarters. "It's folly; the whole debate is farcical. But there are a lot of people who could get killed because of it, no matter how absurd the reason for it." He thumbed the latch.

  "But you do not want to fight," said the Mromrosi.

  "No, I don't," said Haakogard. "But I prefer it to a massacre." His Bunter had recommended a class two combat uniform for the contest, and Haakogard had put it on with an abiding sense of unreality. This could not possibly be happening, not in actuality. He had been allowed his choice of hand-to-hand weapons and had chosen the one with which he was most expert—which meant passably competent—the Shimbue bola. He hoped that no one on Neo Biscay had ever seen one of these tricky weapons that could be used to whip an opponent with three long, slightly stiffened thongs tipped with sharp metal stars, or be thrown to disable him. He hefted the bola and gave it an experimental swing, hearing the air whine as the thongs sliced by.

  "Your mask, Line Commander," said his Bunter, presenting him with the protective head-and-face gear that was part of the class two combat uniform.

  "Thanks," murmured Haakogard before he pulled this on.

  "Let me wish you success, Line Commander," the Bunter said as he stood aside, permitting Haakogard to leave his quarters.

  There were few things Haakogard wanted to do less. He let his breath out slowly, hoping it did not shake. "I'll be b
ack in a while," he told his Bunter, doing his best to sound confident.

  "Certainly, Line Commander."

  He found Tenre and Zim waiting at the loading hatch, both of them in class three formal gear. If other crew members were watching, they were staying out of sight. Tenre looked over Haakogard, frowning with concentration. "How is it that you chose that weapon?"

  "It's a Shimbue bola," said Haakogard curtly. "I like it. It's . . . unusual."

  "So much the better," said Tenre, and nodded courteously to Zim. "It honors you as well as me."

  "I suppose so," said Zim, her voice uncertain, her eyes haunted.

  "They will be waiting," Tenre continued.

  Haakogard wished he had had the chance for a last conversation with Viridis Perzda, just in case. Not that anything was going to happen to him, he went on at once, scolding himself silently for doubting his own abilities. "Let's get it over with," he said with more enthusiasm than he felt. He rested his hand on the Shimbue bola as if it might try to escape from its scabbard.

  As the hatch opened, Zim stepped out into the bright afternoon sunlight. She stood as if gilded, then took Tenre's hand as he came out beside her. "Is everything ready?" she asked quietly.

  Tenre indicated the soldiers of Civuto poMoend. "I believe so. Line Commander? If you will?"

  Haakogard gave a single, exasperated snort, then stepped out beside them. He hated the day for being so beautiful, and the crew of his mission for obeying his orders not to interfere. If he did not feel so full of disbelief, he might become angry. "Who is the champion for the other side? Have you been informed?"

  "They have sent word. Their champion is the Tsambar, of course," said Tenre as if the conclusion were obvious. "There is no higher-ranking officer who is permitted to bear arms in this way. Tydbars are not permitted to fight hand-to-hand."