“Stand firm. No curse is here. These beings are with me.”
After a while he had the warriors calmed enough that he could say more quietly: “Many of you have heard how I am become a friend of the dauri. You have heard how I fared into the Starklands which they haunt, where never mortal trod before, and brought back from their tomb city a Thing of Power. Behold, it was no lie. We cannot but conquer.
“Tonight we begin. I have spoken; and you will understand.”
Before the troop set off, Narvu rose in the east, smaller, duller, slower, but full, which Kilivu was not. That meant full in the light of the True Sun. The Invader cast its own wan red glow on both; no longer were they always eclipsed when they crossed the top of the sky at this phase. Between moons, stars, and Ghost Bridge, the Tassui saw well.
Nonetheless, descent to the valley was hard. Often Arnanak must grip with all three toes on all four feet, lest he tumble down a slope eroded to treacherousness. His hearts thumped. His throat felt sere as the brush which clawed at his pasterns. He could well-nigh sense the leaves of mane and brows, the blades of his pelt, go likewise dry. The night brooded thick. He knew it must be growing milder, but his overburdened body did not.
He had left his riches and the Thing behind in care of the dauri. No Tassu—belike no legionary—would try to steal them from those creatures. Rather, such a person would run or, if uncommonly bold, make an offering on the spot in the hope of good luck later on. Now Arnanak carried war-gear on his back. Made in Beronnen for him when he served the Gathering, it was heavier than what most of his followers bore.
He heard them behind him, foot-thuds, metal-chink, rattle of stones, muttered oaths and harsh breath. Stiffly, he kept ahead. If he would be obeyed, he must ever be in the van of trek or battle.
Foolishness, he thought. Civilized folk were wiser. His commandant in his soldiering years had been lamed by wounds long before, but stayed in charge because there was no better tactician or day-by-day administrator. Barbarians—yes, barbarians—could win against civilization only by default, when it was breaking down.
He was glad that the legion he meant to throw out of this land was the Zera, not his old Tamburu Strider.
Of course, the latter might chance to come here as reinforcement. But that was beyond likelihood. One by one, the Gathering was abandoning its outer territories, as civilizations did each thousand years when the Stormkindler returned. Let Valennen be lost, and the Gathering would hardly try to regain it… even though this would presently mean the fall of the Fiery Sea islands, and thereafter—
Unless the humans—What could a male really know about beings more eldritch than the dauri, beings from so far away that their sun was lost to sight—if that story of theirs, or any other, could be believed—?
Arnanak clutched the hilt of the sword sheathed at his torso. If he had heard, and understood, and guessed aright, the humans would be too busy around Sehala to help in this remote outpost. Foreign as they were, they shouldn’t grasp the meaning of the Valenneners’ advance until too late. Then… why should they not be willing to deal with the High Overling? He would have more power, more to offer, than the shards of the Gathering.
If Arnanak had caught the truth and planned well.
If not, he would die, and most of his people with him. But Fire Time would have kilted them anyhow, in worse ways than battle. Arnanak let go the sword and gave himself to making haste down the stony, scored Hanks of the hilts.
Travel was easier in the flatlands. On orders from their chief, the warriors stayed off a trade trail along the river, save twice when they slipped thither to quench thirst and lave their skin-plants. They might have met a patrol, a few of whom might escape to give the alarm. Instead they trotted cross-country.
The fields there were free of brush if not of thorn fences. Taught by the towndwellers, folk hereabouts had been cultivators for two or three sixty-four-years. Speargrain, breadroot, and tame animals grew well. But come Fire Time, farms where food was would draw more hungry raiders than the legion could handle, until weather destroyed crops and cattle from the gentler climes of Beronnen. The cultivators were leaving their homes while a chance remained to take up different ways of life. Arnanak’s band met no one in the few steadings it passed. However, pasture was not yet completely ruined; the fighters foraged sparingly as they went.
The east had lightened when they swung back toward the stream. Black ahead of them, limned against western stars and moon-shimmer on water, bulked the walls and watchtowers of Tarhanna. Leaders uttered low-voiced commands to halt and arm quickly, before the Demon Sun rose and betrayed them to yonder sentries.
By now, air and soil were nearly cool. The Invader would not by itself bring back great heat. Though somewhat larger in the sky than the True Sun when passing nearest the world, it gave less brightness and warmth—about a fifth as much, a philosopher in Sehala had once told Arnanak. Indeed, the worst part of a Fire Time came after the Marauder was again outward bound.
Still, by True noon today, when it set, the plain would be fevered. (And this was only spring, in an early year of the evil!) Arnanak hoped to be inside the town before then. Whether or not he would be out of his armor depended on the garrison. He believed the legionaries would surrender on promise of being allowed to depart disarmed. Civilized soldiers reckoned it an empty bravery to die in a lost cause. But their captain might decide death was worthwhile for the sake of killing as many barbarians as might be.
Well, then the bone kettles would seethe; and kindred from end to end of South Valennen would join the Overling of Ulu in revengefulness.
He unpacked his kit, fastened helm and mail to his body with the help of his standard-bearer, took shield on arm. The bad dawn broke, crimson across the land. Arnanak lifted his sword to grab that tight. “Come!” he roared. “Attack and win!” He trotted into a run. Behind him the ground drummed under the weight and haste of his warriors.
TWO
The door chimed. “Entre,” called Yuri Dejerine. Rising, he waved the phonoplay to silence. Had it been drawing something classical from the data bank—a piece of Mozart, say, or a raga concert—he would have reduced the sound level to a gentle background. But most humans dislike Gean music, all of it, never mind that that planet has as old and wide a variety of traditions as ever did Earth. To understand, one needs the interest from which springs patience, plus a good ear.
The door admitted a young man whose uniform bore air corps pursuit squadron insignia. They shone very new, and his salute was a bit awkward. He handled himself well in Lunar gravity, though; he wouldn’t have qualified for his service if he weren’t more quickly weight adaptable than most. His frame was tall and powerful, his face handsome in a blond Caucasoid mode. Dejerine wondered whether he really bore subtle indications of having been born and reared beyond the Solar System. Knowing he was, an observer could too easily read clues into a look, a stance, or a gait.
Accents were more reliable. Dejerine spared his visitor wrestling with Spanish by taking the word in English:
“Ensign Conway? At ease. In fact, relax. It was good of you to come.”
“The captain sent for me.” Yes, Conway did speak an odd brand of the language, markedly different from Dejerine’s pan-European version. It was the dialect of a people whose mother tongue this had been for a long time, but carrying a softness and a lilt that were partly nonhuman?
“I requested you visit me, only requested.” The door having closed, Dejerine astounded the other by extending a hand. After an instant, the clasp took place. “You can do me a large personal favor, and conceivably Earth too. Perhaps I can make a return, but that isn’t certain. What is certain is that we both ship out quite shortly, and I am taking time you could spend with the girls or enjoying several unique sports. The least I can do is give you a drink.” He took Conway’s elbow and guided him to a lounger opposite his own, while he chatted on. “That’s why I suggested we meet in my quarters. A dormitory or clubroom is too unprivate, an office
too austere. What would you like?”
Donald Conway sat down under the arm-pressure. “I… whatever the captain wishes, thank you, sir,” he gulped.
Dejerine stood over him and smiled. “Do fall free. Forget rank. We’re strictly alone, and I’m not a lot older than you. What is your age—?”
“Nineteen—I mean twenty-one, sir.”
“Still used to Ishtarian years, are you? Well, last month I had my thirtieth birthday, terrestrial. No yawning gap, true?”
Conway eased a trifle. His nervousness had not taken away candor from a gaze which now grew thoughtful, regarding his host. Dejerine was medium-sized, slender, his hands and feet small, his movements catlike; he had been a championship tumbler in Academy days. His features were regular and fine-boned, complexion olive, nose short, lips full, eyes as brawn as the sleek hair and neat mustache. He was in mufti, blouse, sash, flared slacks of iridescent cloth, tabi and zori. His class ring was standard, but the tiny gold circlet in his right earlobe bespoke a measure of brashness.
“Mainly,” he continued, “I became a cadet at sixteen and have stayed in the service. You reached Earth two years ago, enlisted when war began, and have barely hatched out of hurry-up training.” He shrugged. “What of it? Later you will finish your studies, and go on to become a distinguished professor of fine arts, and be president of a major university when I am beached at half pay. So, what is your pleasure?” He moved to the minibar. “I am for cognac and a timid hint of soda.”
“The same, then, thank you, sir,” Conway said. “I haven’t had much chance to learn, uh, the science of drinking.”
“You have no large choice on Ishtar?”
“No, mostly homebrew beer and local wine.” Conway forced loquacity on himself. “They taste different enough from Earth’s that many lifetimers don’t care for what little import we get. We’re self-sufficient, our agriculture flourishes, but, well, everywhere else is a whole other ecology to affect the soil, plus weather and radiation and—Anyhow, a few people operate stills, but they admit what they produce is nothing to brag about.”
“You see, already you’ve helped me,” Dejerine laughed. “I’ve been warned to stock up before departure.”
While he prepared the refreshments, Conway glanced around. Though not an admiral’s suite, the chamber was large and well furnished for Tsiolkovsky Base. However commodious in peacetime, facilities here grew overloaded when men were shunted in by the thousands for ready transport to scenes of action. They must be doubled into barracks; power shortages developed till interior Earthweight generators must be shut down; that meant everybody must suffer tedious extra hours of exercise; on liberty they must stand in line for a chance at sightseeing crawlers, climbing outfits, slide-ski slopes, or catch a train to Apollo and hope not to get very badly rooked… A half-wall transparency, dimmed against glare, showed majestic desolation. A cargo ship crossed the view, backing down on gravs toward an auxiliary field hastily scraped from the basalt.
This room held few personal traces of its occupant. You travel light through space, barebones in wartime. Some printouts lay on a table: a book about Anubelea, a girlie periodical, a mystery novel, the collected poems of Garcia Lorca. Beside them stood a humidor.
“Here you are.” Dejerine handed Conway his drink. “And would you care for a cigar?… No? I suppose tobacco also turns peculiar on Ishtar? Well, I’ll ignite if you don’t mind.” He settled into the facing seat and lifted his own glass. “Salud.”
“Uh, cheers,” Conway responded.
Dejerine chuckled. “That’s right. You are becoming your true self-I expected you would.”
“You checked me out, sir?”
“Nothing more than your open file-I don’t pry. What I did was ask the bank for data on personnel from Ishtar whom I might contact. Your name appeared. According to the entries, you were born there and never got off the planet until lately. I doubt if a coward or incompetent would have been tolerated that long, assuming he survived. Then in spite of growing up among—what is the figure?—about five thousand scientists, technics, and their children, more than three hundred parsecs from Sol and seldom visited—you showed such promise in visual art that you were offered a scholarship here. And then, when the war broke out, you didn’t continue safe in your studies, you enlisted, in one of the toughest branches at that. I need no more information to know you fairly well.”
Conway flushed, took a considerable sip, and ventured:
“Obviously you’ve been assigned there, sir, and you’d like to hear what I can tell you. Isn’t that surprising, for a man with your record? The assignment, that is.”
Dejerine frowned a bit. “Such things happen.”
“I mean, well, after your message I used the bank too.” The brandy had no doubt gone fast to Conway’s unpracticed head, for his words came rapid and heedless—not flattery, Dejerine judged, but a gauche attempt at responding to the senior’s amicable overtures. “You were my age when you got the Diamond Star for a rescue off Caliban. You went on to be exec of a blastship, captain of a ranger, operations chief for constructing a base on Gea. Quite a variety, even if the Navy does like to rotate jobs; and you’re quite young for your rank.” He checked himself. His cheeks reddened. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to be forward.”
“That’s all right.” Dejerine waved his cigar in dismissal. Discontent remained on his mouth.
“If I may guess, sir—Gea has natives who’re pretty strange by our lights. I found no mention of them registering any complaints against you. Which must mean you treated them right, wisely, cleverly, kindly. Maybe Cincpeace figures you’re our best representative to the Ishtarians.”
“Then why aren’t you posted back there?” Dejerine demanded. He took a savage puff of smoke. “You’ve lived in their midst. Your community has for a hundred years.”
Conway hesitated, glanced aside, finally said low:
“Well, it isn’t a place for my kind of unit, unlikely as combat is. And… whether Staff thought of it or not… I’d be none too good on Ishtar. Emotional conflicts—You see, my family, parents, sisters, my old friends… they’re against the war. Many are really bitter.”
Dejerine smoothed his countenance. “How do you feel about it?” he asked.
Conway met his look square on. “I enlisted, didn’t I? Oh, sure, rights and wrongs on both sides. But—humans have been attacked. Their presence has been challenged, on real estate they made theirs with blood and sweat. If we don’t stop that kind of thing early, we’ll be in a bad way later. I recall the Alerion affair.”
Dejerine smiled. “You don’t, son,” he replied. “I myself was busy getting born that year.” His humor faded. “But, yes, we try to learn lessons from history. Besides, speaking as an individual, I’ve seen the Welfare and Backworld misery on Earth—been there in person, felt it, smelled it—and I’ve seen people who left it for Eleutheria, and what they’ve done and what they hope for—
“Well, I am not being sent to help themI’m bound a thousand light-years in the opposite direction!”
He drained his glass, rose in a single motion, and sought the bar. “Are you ready for a refill?” he asked quietly.
“No, thanks.” Conway searched for words. “Captain, Cincpeace must have reasons. Suppose the Naqsans did make a long surprise move and occupy Ishtar. It has resources. Or I suppose it has more hostage value, less in those few people of ours than in all the high-powered man-years we’ve got invested for scientific knowledge that’s finally begun to pour in. Come negotiations, Ishtar could be a mighty good bargaining counter for Naqsa.”
“Do you truly think so?” Dejerine brightened a trifle. “My orders just are to establish a reconnaissance base against the possibility, remote but still a possibility, that action may move toward that volume of space.”
Conway nodded. “And unless it’s well done, it’s a waste of effort. That’s why you’re in charge, sir. Once you’ve got it running, I’ll bet my Y chromosome you’ll be reassigned—to
the front—if we haven’t finished the war before then.”
Dejerine laughed anew. “Tiens, you do know how to make a chap feel better, don’t you? Thanks.” He returned to his lounger. “Those Naqsans are tough and smart. I expect fighting will go on for years.”
“I hope not.”
“Well, naturally. If anybody likes the idea of war, any war, past, present, or future, let him speak forth so we may shoot the son of a bitch and get on with a rational discussion. The lesser of two evils doesn’t stop being evil on that account. And I… have had friends on the opposite side, in happier days.”
Dejerine paused before he added, “It is that, you understand, I want to have a part in ending this thing. I happen to take seriously the theory that our service is the space police arm of the Peace Control Authority of the World Federation.” He stirred. “Tell me, since you say they generally oppose the war on Ishtar, why? Most Earthside intellectuals support it with crusading fervor.”
Conway drank. “I’m afraid at that distance, the issues look kind of unreal,” he said, and leaned forward. “Mainly, though—from what I heard and read before leaving home, when the conflict was only potential but the news kept getting uglier—and from letters and tapes I’ve gotten since, and talking with visitors here—mainly, they see it as a disaster to their special cause, to the whole planet. If nothing else, the supplies they need are being pinched off. Let the affair go on awhile, and they won’t be able to get any stuff for their projects. At the worst possible time. too.”
“Ah.” Dejerine blew a smoke ring and followed its progress through squinted eyes till it had dissipated. “We come to what I want from you. Information. Background. Advice. The care and feeding of Ishtarians and of the small but venerable scientific-altruistic colony which the Exploratory Consortium maintains among them. Anything you can tell. You see, my orders were cut last week. Nearly all my waking hours and half my sleeping ones have gone to getting my command organized, and will until we leave, which is soon. I suppose it would be indiscreet to tell a junior officer how much high-level sperm I receive—”
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