by Hogan, James
up at twenty-eight point-three megahertz. Then reprogram the descent profile and
follow the beam down to where it takes us, okay?"
30
PRIVATE SALLAKAR OF THE KROAXIAN INFANTRY INHALED deeply from the effort of
climbing the rise and coughed as his coolant system switched over to
reverse-flow to eject the intake of dust raised by the foot soldiers ahead of
him. Mumbling profanities and curses at the dust, the desert, the army, and the
seemingly endless distance to Carthogia, he moved to one side and stopped to
look back at the long column of infantry and cavalry regiments, fireball
throwers, war chariots, and supply wagons snaking its way back and out of sight
among the rounded dunes and low scarps of the Meracasine. It was going to be the
real thing this time, he reflected glumly. He had tangled before with the
Carthogians in border skirmishes, and the experience hadn't left him restless
with impatience and wild with enthusiasm to meet them again. Oh yes, the
officers had sounded very confident, as usual, and been full of assurances that
the new weapons would make short work of the Carthogians; but Sallakar had heard
too much of that kind of talk before. It was easy to tell everyone not to worry
when you knew you'd have a fast mount underneath you to get you out of trouble
if it all went wrong. Oh, yes indeed, it was fine for them to talk.
But—according to the barracks gossip, anyway—the cavalry captain, Horazzorgio,
hadn't been doing so much talking since he'd chased after a Carthogian
undercover unit and come back minus his whole company, and an arm and an eye to
boot. Oh no! Now that didn't sound like opposition likely to allow itself be
made short work of.
He moved a hand to feel the cold, hard lines of the newly introduced projectile
hurler that was slung across his back—the product, so he and the others had been
told, of many twelve-brights of labor carried out in secret by some of the best
artisans and craftsmen in Kroaxia. Oh yes, it was a nice-looking piece of
workmanship, and yes, it had seemed effective enough in the hurriedly improvised
training sessions that they had been rushed through, with everything left until
the last minute as usual —probably for security reasons—but what did that prove?
Only that somebody had discovered how to make better weapons. The Carthogians
had good artisans too. If the Kroaxians could do it, why couldn't the
Carthogians? No reason at all. In fact, from what Sallakar had seen in the past,
the Carthogians were more than likely to have done it first. And that would be
something the officers wouldn't tell us about, he thought to himself. Oh no,
they'd never tell the troops about something like that.
"Sallakar, what the 'ell d'yer think yer a-doin' of? 'Avin' a nice nap there,
are yer?" the voice of Sergeant Bergolod bellowed from farther back down the
line. "Get fell back in."
"Go fornicate with yourself," Sallakar muttered as he hitched his pack into a
more comfortable position and rejoined the column at a gap next to Moxeff.
"You must find your delight in serving extra watch-duty, Sallakar," Moxeff
murmured. "Is it the tranquillity of contemplating the desert in solitude at
early bright that attracts you so? And to think, I had no idea you were of such
poetic disposition."
"A plague of rusts and poxes upon this desert!" Sallakar spat. "Thrice have I
crossed it now, and each time its breadth doubles."
"More likely the quality of thy temper halves."
"Your constitution is unaffected by this heat, no doubt," Sallakar said.
"Pleasantly dry and refreshing after Kroaxia's debilitatingly humid air," Moxeff
agreed.
"Zounds! Your own admission disqualifies the sole excuse left you for your
insufferable temperament."
"You should save such peevishness to vent upon the Carthogians," Moxeff advised.
"In truth I do believe you welcome combat as you relish the desert heat. And do
you thrive also on breathing this carborundum powder, and conserving one bucket
of methane per bright to top up your solutions and wash off the grime extruded
from your joints?"
"Ah, as always you bitch too much, Sallakar."
"And the likes of you bitch not enough. Would any bondslave tolerate abuse such
as this? Oh no! But it is I who bitch too much. Oh yes! Do you have no desire to
assert your freeman's rights?"
"Must I remind you that the army is our law, Sallakar? Who ever heard of foot
soldiers demanding rights?"
"And why not?" Sallakar asked. "In Carthogia, so 'tis said, authority is
conferred by majority agreement among the citizens, and owes naught to any force
of arms nor nobility of birth—a most commendable precedent. Why not, then, I
say, in the army also?"
"You're kidding!"
"Not so. This matter has occupied my thoughts now for many brights. We will form
ourselves a union, Moxeff, to match rank with collective strength, and bargain
our services and loyalty only in return for fair and reasonable conditions that
shall be contractually underwritten. To fight, we would require favorable
numerical odds of two-to-one or better, at least moderately clement weather, and
a minimum-compensation guarantee against worthless plunder. Rest periods would
be fixed at mid- and quarter-bright, one bright in every six declared
combat-free, and a peace-tax levied from the populace to maintain our
remuneration in times of unemployment."
"Oh, that the foot soldier's life should bring such bliss! And have you the
intention of reading this, thy proclamation, to our King, Eskenderom, and his
Court personally? Well, may good luck go with you, Sallakar. Doubtless we shall
all speak of you with fondest sentiments and remembrances."
"Shame on you who can speak thus contemptibly without embarrassment. Would you
partake your share of the betterments we might secure? Oh yes—unquestionably!
But to pledge in return your share of allegiance to our cause? Oh
no—unthinkable! Is it not . . ." Sallakar stopped speaking and turned his head
away to look as a commotion broke out somewhere up ahead. A moment later the
column halted. "What the fom—"
"The desert heaves!" Moxeff exclaimed.
"Is't a storm?" someone ahead shouted.
"No storm appears thus," another cried.
"Is this some Carthogian trickery?"
"The ground ahead boils! It is on fire!"
"And around us also—we are trapped!"
A wall of smoke and flame had erupted across the line of march and was climbing
higher by the second to blot out the sky ahead, while above, on the overlooking
slopes to left and right, curtains of shimmering violet light had appeared,
hemming in the front of the column. "I AM THE ENLIGHTENER, WHOM THE LIFEMAKER
HAS SENT AMONG YOU," a voice boomed, seemingly from everywhere at once, and
echoing among the surrounding hills. "SOLDIERS OF KROAXIA, LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS,
FOR HE HATH COMMANDED, 'THOU SHALT NOT KILL.'"
"Deploy for ambush! Scatter the column!" a mounted officer shouted as he
galloped back down the line. "Infantry under cover. Cavalry to the flanks. Close
up the wagons."
"A Company to thos
e rocks. B Company, string out along the gully. C Company,
follow me," Sergeant Bergolod called out. Officers in front and in the rear
began to shout orders, and in moments the column had disintegrated into bodies
running in all directions. Sallakar found himself crouched with Moxeff and a
couple of others behind some rocks. He peered up over the rock and saw that
figures dressed in white had appeared amid the wall of swirling radiance higher
up—elusive, dancing, etheric figures, apparently devoid of physical substance.
They seemed to be approaching, down the slope.
A soldier nearby raised his hurler loosely to his shoulder and fired, knocking
himself over backward with the recoil. A ragged volley came from another group
behind, and in seconds firing had broken out all along the column. Gripped by
the fear that had seized everyone, Sallakar sighted at a pair of white-robed
figures, held the hurler hard and firm against his shoulder as he had been
taught, and squeezed the finger-lever. The hurler juddered . . . but had no
effect, even though Sallakar was aiming straight at the advancing figures. He
swept the weapon desperately from side to side and up and down to cover every
inch of them, but they kept on coming.
Inside the flyer hovering just at the edge of the smoke clouds boiling upward
from the napalm tanks and explosives planted ahead of the Taloids, Zambendorf
was watching the scene in close-up. It was as well that they had allowed for the
possibility of the Paduans' panicking, he reflected, and decided not to expose
any of the Taloids on their own side prematurely. Stretching away from the lurid
glow immediately below the flyer, two streaks of whiteness flickered eerily
where recorded Taloid images were being projected onto internally illuminated
smokescreens from lanterns concealed several hours earlier on the rock-strewn
slopes overlooking the obvious route through the valley. "Let's see if we can
put a stop to that shooting," he said to Clarissa.
"Plan C?" she said.
"Yes—a low-level bomb run at those ice crags, accompanied by some pyrotechnics."
In the copilot's seat, Abaquaan prepared to repeat another recording of a
pretransmogrified message from Moses over the flyer's bullhorns, suitably
modified for high frequency, and from the ultrasonic amplifiers positioned to
command the area.
"Ayee!" One of the soldiers dropped his weapon and stood up, pointing in terror
at the sky above the wall of fire. "A dragon descends! We have brought the
Lifemaker's wrath down upon us!" A sleek, slender-limbed creature, unlike any
that Sallakar had ever seen before, was swooping down at them. Instinctively he
turned and aimed his hurler upward in its direction, then realized the futility
of that and lowered it again.
"We are doomed," MoxefF moaned next to him. Several nearby infantry robeings
dropped their weapons and began running blindly back the way they had come. Then
a series of brilliant lights and clouds of violet radiance blossomed overhead,
and simultaneously more lights streaked down from the dragon and destroyed a
formation of rock outcrops and large boulders in a fury of deafening
concussions. Sallakar cringed and covered his ears . . . but he was still alive.
"DESIST, SOLDIERS," the voice that had called itself Enlightener thundered again
from above. "THE COMMANDMENT IS, 'THOU SHALT NOT KILL'!"
And then a much larger dragon emerged from the fiery wall before them, flying
slowly and majestically right above their heads with fire blasting from beneath
it. "Angels!" Moxeff gasped, straightening up and pointing. "Angels are
descending from the skies!"
"See how they shine!" another soldier shouted. "Truly this is a time of
miracles." On every side, soldiers were running from cover and standing with
their faces raised to watch. Some had thrown away their weapons already and were
clasping their hands together, and some had fallen to their knees. Even the
officers were sitting motionless, awed and cowed by what was happening. Above,
more heavenly figures, each borne on white, frilly wings, were floating serenely
downward behind the dragon.
"PREPARE TO MEET THE ENLIGHTENER," the Voice boomed. "I COME TO THEE IN PEACE,
BRINGING GOODWILL TO ALL ROBEINGS."
Inside the cargo bay of the NASO surface lander making a low pass at just above
stalling speed, Joe Fellburg checked Moses' harness one last time, gave a
satisfied nod, and motioned the Taloid to the edge of the deck by the open
loading-doors. Moses leaned forward a fraction and peered down apprehensively.
"Tell him he'll be okay if he makes sure to jump hard and clear, and counts five
before he pulls the ring," Fellburg shouted to West, who was standing by them,
holding the transmogrifier. "And look at the others who've just jumped—they're
doing fine." West spoke into the microphone, verified the interpretation that
appeared on the screen, and the machine passed the message on to Moses. Moses
nodded trustingly,
"Great stuff, guy," Fellburg said. He stooped to ignite the fireworks lying on
the floor and attached to Moses' pack by wires long enough to ensure they would
hang a safe distance below him, then stood up again, stepped back a pace, and
patted the top of the robot's head. "Geronimo!" he yelled as the assemblage of
sputtering flares and white-robed robot launched itself out into space. A
searchlight from the flyer, which was circling nearby, picked out the figure as
its parachute opened and it began to descend slowly through Titan's dense
atmosphere.
A gasp of wonder went up from the soldiers as at last the Master appeared,
descending in a luminous halo and bathed in a beam of heavenly brilliance.
Sallakar didn't know what to believe, but in his own mind he had already come to
a profound realization of immense theological significance: Rejecting the
Enlightener's creed would mean having to fight the Carthogians; conversion to
it, however, would not. "Hallelujah!" he shouted, throwing his weapon aside and
climbing up on the rock to stand with both arms extended. "I am saved! This
sinner has seen the light! Hail to thee, Enlightener!"
Most of the Kroaxian army, it seemed, was only just behind him in reaching the
same conclusion. All along the column, figures were standing up, coming out from
cover, and throwing their weapons to the ground. The air rang with hundreds of
voices rejoicing:
"I see the light! I see the light!"
"The Enlightener cometh!"
"Praise the Enlightener!"
"We are saved! We are saved!"
"No more killing! No more war!"
"All are my brothers. I shall not kill!"
For many hours the Enlightener preached great words of love and wisdom from a
hilltop to the soldiers assembled on the slopes below. When he had finished,
they abandoned their weapons in the desert and turned back to return to Kroaxia.
The Enlightener was lifted again into the sky to be borne ahead by the angels.
He promised he would await his converts at the city of Pergassos, where they
would join him to begin together the founding of the new world.
"It's amazing! I simply don't believe this," Massey s
aid to Zambendorf over the
link from the Orion as the departing flyer climbed higher and transmitted a view
of the shambles that had been the Paduan army.
"Just the last phase left now, Gerry," Zambendorf told him confidently. "Next
stop—Padua. We've rehearsed the cast, tested all the props, perfected our
technique, and everything works just fine. What could possibly go wrong?"
An hour later, a military reconnaissance aircraft flew over the deserts between
Padua and Genoa, and sent a series of views up to the Orion showing the entire
Paduan army streaming back the way it had come. Caspar Lang was given the report
shortly after receiving confirmation that a surface lander had disappeared on a
routine descent to Padua. No signal had been received from any of the ship's
automatic fault-monitoring devices, and the crew had been highly rated for
reliability and stability; the NASO experts who investigated were unanimous in
concluding that the vessel had been hijacked.
Lang arranged with the military commander at Padua base for James Bond, the spy
employed by the Paduan king, Henry, to be airlifted ahead of the retreating army
in order to intercept it and learn what had happened. Afterward, Bond rode off
into the hills to a rendezvous with the Terrans and was flown back to Padua Base
to make his report.
The news was that the planned Paduan invasion of Genoa was off. The entire
Paduan army was out of its officers' control and was returning home to build a
new society after encountering a messiah in the desert who had converted all of
them to a new religion of tolerance and nonviolence. The messiah had descended
from the sky accompanied by flying dragons, winged angels, heavenly voices, and
all kinds of miracle-workings.
Lang's suspicions were immediately aroused. "Check Zambendorf out," he
instructed his chief administrative assistant. "He's been too quiet for too
long. I want to know where he is, and every move he's made in the last
forty-eight hours."
Neither Zambendorf nor practically anyone on his team were anywhere to be found.
"You were supposed to have been keeping him busy and under observation at all
times!" Lang screamed at a white-faced Osmond Periera in the Globe I executive
offices fifteen minutes after Lang received the news. "Well, he isn't anywhere