by Gray Prince
“Loot.”
“Which means they know the wreck is here.”
“And that means—” Jemasze looked around the sky. He jerked at the controls. “Sky-shark!”
Not fast enough. An explosion: metal cracked and groaned; the Apex shuddered and sagged by the stern. Down to the side swooped the sky-shark—a narrow platform with a curved windshield and a long concave bow-cone, which functioned both as gun and lance on those occasions when the pilot might wish to dart low and spit an enemy.
The sky-shark swerved, rolled and went streaking high. The Apex hung dangerously down by the stern. Jemasze manipulated the controls and managed to control the rate of descent. Down swung the sky-shark; the Apex shuddered to another impact. Jemasze cursed under his breath. The ground came up to meet them; Jemasze used every ounce of thrust remaining to break the fall, almost toppling the Apex over on its back.
The Apex settled upon the flinty soil. Jemasze seized a gun from a locker and jumped to the ground but the sky-shark, fleeting into the west, had disappeared.
Kelse staggered to the radio and attempted a call. “Nothing. No power.”
Jemasze said, “He shot away our rear pods—to bring us down, not to kill us.”
“Rather sinister,” said Kelse. “We might learn more about rascolade than we want to know.”
“Get the guns from the locker,” said Jemasze. “There should be a grenade tube there as well.”
Schaine, Elvo and Kelse joined Jemasze on the ground. Kelse went over to the wrecked Sturdevant and peered within. He returned with a grim face. “He’s there. Dead.”
Elvo Glissam looked in bewilderment from wrecked Sturdevant to wrecked Apex to Kelse. He started to speak, then held his tongue. Schaine blinked back tears. Five years wasted on Tanquil; five years gone because of arrogance and pride and reckless emotions—and now she’d never see her father again.
Gerd Jemasze asked Kelse: “Did you identify the Blues?”
“Most likely Hunge. They’re certainly not Ao. The erjins show a white ruff, so they’re not Garganche.”
“You three take shelter behind the Apex,” said Jemasze. “If they come around from the north, open fire. I’m going out yonder to intercept them, and maybe reduce the odds a bit.”
Kelse went behind the Apex; Schaine followed and Elvo more slowly, looking doubtfully after Jemasze who was trotting off in a half-crouch toward a knoll of compacted sand a quarter-mile west. “Why is he going out there?”
“To kill some Blues,” said Kelse. “Do you know how to use this gun?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“It’s quite simple. Fix that yellow dot on your target and touch this button. Trajectory is automatically computed. You’re shooting OB-16 explosive pellets which should take out a Blue and an erjin together.”
Elvo Glissam scowled down at the gun. “Are you sure they’re hostile?”
“If they’re Hunge, they’re hostile. They’ve got no business here on the Dramalfo; this is Garganche territory. Even if they’re Garganche they’re hostile, unless they keep clear of us. They know the rules.”
“If there are thirty of them, I wouldn’t think we have much chance. Shouldn’t we try to parley with them?”
“Pointless. As for the odds, Gerd went out to even things up a bit.”
Reaching the knoll, Jemasze scrambled up to a clump of dwarf ibix on the crest. The Uldras, still a mile distant, came bounding forward at full speed, flourishing their ancient Two Star thio-manuals. Jemasze scanned the sky. No sign of the sky-shark; perhaps it hung somewhere up against the sun, unseen in the pink dazzle.
The Uldras approached and Jemasze saw that they were Hunge indeed. They came directly toward him, apparently ignoring the possibility of ambush, which suited Jemasze very well. He settled himself comfortably, arranged the grenade tube to the side, and thrust his gun forward. The Hunge bounded close; he could hear the panting cries of the erjins. Jemasze selected the leader: a tall man in flapping gray and yellow robes, with a headdress fashioned from a human skull. He touched the trigger button, then immediately aimed and fired again, and again and again. At the explosions, the erjins squealed in outrage and halted, digging talons into the soil. Jemasze discharged the grenade launcher at the knot of riders: a shattering blast and the survivors wheeled their mounts to the side. Jemasze rose to his feet and fired after the scattering Uldras…On the ground erjins lay kicking and roaring. A wounded Uldra groped for his gun and fired at Jemasze; the pellet whistled close past Jemasze’s head. He lobbed across a second grenade and all motion ceased.
From above came the shock of a concussion; Jemasze knew what had occurred before he turned to look. The sky-shark had swung down from out of the sun; anticipating such a move, Kelse had fired on the sky-shark. Jemasze looked up, and as he had expected, the sky-shark was swerving and jerking, apparently out of control. Jemasze aimed and fired, without effect; the pilot applied thrust and sent the sky-shark limping into the west.
Jemasze approached the dead bodies. He counted fourteen Blue corpses; about as many had escaped. He gathered the guns, stacked them in a pile and destroyed them with a grenade, then returned to his knoll. Two miles away the surviving Hunge had halted to take counsel. The range was extreme, but Jemasze aimed his gun, and allowing a trifle for the breeze, fired, but the pellet fell short.
Jemasze returned to the wrecked air-car. Kelse, Schaine and Elvo Glissam already were digging a grave in the sandy soil, using sticks to loosen the dirt. Kelse and Jemasze dragged the body of Uther Madduc forth and lowered it into the grave. Schaine looked off into the sky, while Elvo Glissam stood uncertainly to the side. Kelse and Gerd Jemasze filled the grave and covered it with stones. Whatever the wonderful joke, they would never hear it now from Uther Madduc.
Gerd Jemasze and Kelse sought through both the Sturdevant and the Apex, bringing forth Uther Madduc’s weapons and the contents of the water tank: about three gallons. The Apex yielded a map, a compass, binoculars, several packets of emergency rations and another four gallons of water. “We’ve got about a hundred miles to go; four or five days cross-country,” said Jemasze. “We’re not in bad shape—if the Blues don’t come back. I fear they will. Keep your eyes open for dust or movement along the skyline.”
Elvo Glissam asked: “We can’t call for help by radio?”
“No chance whatever,” said Jemasze. “Our power-banks are gone. The attacker apparently wanted to take us alive.”
Kelse shouldered his pack. “The sooner we start, the sooner we arrive.”
Schaine looked him over dubiously. “Will your leg hold up?”
“I hope so.”
The four set off to the north and had proceeded only a mile when the Hunge reappeared on the skyline. They ranged themselves into a line: sixteen silhouettes on restive erjins, arms groping forward, great bearded heads outthrust, and above, straddling sling-saddles, the Hunge warriors. They looked across the plain without display or gesture in a silence more sinister than cries and whoops. Elvo Glissam asked uncertainly: “If they attack—what are we supposed to do?”
“They won’t attack,” said Kelse shortly. “Not here; their old Two Stars don’t have the range. They’ll wait for an ambush, or they might try to take us by night.”
Jemasze pointed ahead to a set of grotesque sandstone pinnacles carved by the wind. “And there’s good ambush country.”
“I make it about ten miles,” said Kelse. “Say three hours, or an hour before sunset.”
The four trudged onward across the waste. The Uldras watched for two minutes, then swung their mounts about and riding northward disappeared behind the skyline.
Schaine spoke to Elvo Glissam: “You’ll long remember your visit to Uaia.”
“If I live to think about it.”
“Oh, you’ll live. Gerd Jemasze will see to that. His self-esteem would suffer if anything happened to us.”
Elvo Glissam glanced at her sidewise but made no comment.
As they walked Kelse an
d Gerd Jemasze exchanged muttered comments and occasionally indicated one or another aspect of the landscape. In the shade of a sprawling hag-tree they halted to rest. Kelse said to Elvo Glissam and Schaine: “We’ve got to keep clear of those buttes ahead, because the Blues could get up within range of us. The butte on the far right is somewhat safer, with open ground to the side. We’ll pass around it to the east.”
The four trudged onward through the hot afternoon. Schaine noticed that Kelse’s limp was becoming more pronounced…They came to a dry watercourse a hundred yards across, with a sandy bed and banks supporting a growth of poison cassander and junkberry bushes. Jemasze signaled a halt and drew the group into the shade of the purple cassander foliage. “They might have ridden ahead of us and crossed the gully. If so they’re waiting behind the far bank, to get us as we cross…We’d better continue along this side for a mile or two.”
“Then what?” demanded Elvo Glissam.
“Then we’ll see how the land lies.”
They continued, wary and uneasy. A half-mile along, Jemasze pointed to tracks on the sand of the riverbed. “There’s where they crossed. They’re over there now, waiting for us.” He reflected a moment. “You three continue along the bank, as far as that big jossamer tree.”
The three set off. Jemasze crouched low and slid away to where he could not be seen from the opposite bank, then loped back the way they had come. He went three hundred yards, then cautiously returned to the top of the bank. He looked behind him, then scanned the opposite bank. He saw no movement; he felt no tension of danger. He waited another minute, then slid down into the watercourse and ran crouching across the pink sand and quartz pebbles toward the opposite side, every instant expecting the impact of a bullet, although both his reason and his instinct assured him that the Hunge had left no one to guard this area of the watercourse. Without molestation he made it to the far bank and gratefully climbed into the cover of the junkberry bushes. Gaining the top of the bank he looked north and, as he expected, discovered the party of Hunge approximately opposite the big jossamer tree where Kelse, Schaine and Elvo Glissam waited. Jemasze returned to the riverbed and keeping close under the shrubbery, ran north a hundred yards, then made another reconnaissance. Still too far. He returned to the riverbed and ran crouching another hundred yards. Now when he clambered up through the vegetation the Hunge were barely a hundred yards distant.
He watched a moment, selecting the rider who now seemed to be the leader. He aimed his gun and without further ado opened fire. Three Blues fell sprawling to the soil; erjins screamed in fury and shock. The survivors jerked instantly into flight. They crashed down through the shrubbery into the riverbed and charged at a zig-zag toward the jossamer tree, shooting as they rode.
Kelse instantly opened fire. He looked toward Elvo Glissam who lay looking in numb fascination toward the charging Hunge.
“Shoot, man, shoot!”
Elvo Glissam shook his head in distress, then gritting his teeth fired the gun.
Pellets sang over their heads; the riverbed seemed littered with flapping erjins and dying Blues. Five still survived and clambered up through the shrubbery. Schaine and Kelse fired at point-blank range; three neared the top of the bank. Elvo Glissam, motivated by a complex mixture of outrage, humiliation, fear and fury, gave an inarticulate yell of passion and hurled himself upon the back of one of the Blues and tore him down from his mount. The two thrashed among the junkberries; the erjin, roaring and hissing, stamped upon them both, then bounded down into the watercourse and away on enormous exultant strides. The Blue drew his dagger and slashed at Elvo’s arm which encircled his neck. Jemasze, arriving on the scene, clubbed the Blue with the butt of his gun, and the Blue sprawled back into the bushes.
Silence, except for panting and the sounds of riderless erjins trying to dislodge their fang-guards and electric gyves against the rocks. Elvo Glissam sat staring at the blood flowing from his forearm. Schaine uttered an exclamation and went to help him. Kelse produced a flask of all-purpose medicament and sprayed the wounds, which almost instantly stopped bleeding. When the protective membrane had formed, Schaine poured water over Elvo’s arms and washed away the blood. In a shaky voice he said: “Sorry to be so bemused; I’m afraid I’ve led a sheltered life.”
“Shock has nothing to do with a sheltered life,” said Schaine. “It can happen to anyone. You’re very brave.”
Jemasze went back for his pack; the party once more set out toward the north, leaving behind the dry watercourse and the Blue corpses.
Methuen sank behind the far Lucimers; the four made camp on the slope of a butte. To avoid attracting the attention of such Uldras as might still be near, they built no fire, and supped on emergency rations and water. The sky faded through phases of vermilion, scarlet, ruby and purple; dusk fell across the landscape. Schaine went to sit by Elvo Glissam. “How is your arm?”
Elvo looked down at the gash. “It aches a bit, but it could be far worse. I also resent that erjin kicking me in the ribs.”
Schaine said gloomily: “I wonder if you’ll ever forgive me for inviting you to Morningswake.”
Elvo Glissam replied and in so doing initiated a conversation which, when later he consulted his recollections, seemed more unreal and incongruous than any other aspect of the adventure.
“I forgive you right now,” said Elvo Glissam. “If nothing else, the trip is an education. I see myself from a new perspective.”
Schaine objected vigorously. “Not at all. The surroundings have changed. You’re the same!”
“It amounts to the same thing. Delicate sensibilities are of small assistance when a person is fighting for his life.”
Schaine glanced from Kelse, propped against a tree trunk with what she suspected to be a half-smile on his face, to Gerd Jemasze who sat on a flat rock, arms around knees brooding across the twilight; and she felt impelled to put Elvo Glissam’s self-deprecation into proper perspective. “In civilized surroundings it’s not necessary to fight for your life.”
Kelse chuckled mirthlessly. Schaine looked at him coldly. “Did I say something foolish?”
“A fire department isn’t necessary except when there’s a fire.”
“Civilization is a very normal ordinary condition,” said Schaine. “Civilized people don’t need to fight for their lives.”
“Not often,” said Kelse laconically. “But you can’t kill a Blue by invoking an abstraction.”
“Did I suggest as much?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I agree that I must be confused, since I have no such recollection.”
Kelse shrugged and raised his eyes to the sky, as if to indicate that he did not care to pursue the topic any further. But he said, “You used the word ‘civilization’, which means a set of abstractions, symbols, conventions. Experience tends to be vicarious; emotions are predigested and electrical; ideas become more real than things.”
Schaine was taken somewhat aback. She said: “That’s rather all-inclusive.”
“I don’t think so,” said Kelse mildly.
Elvo Glissam said, “I can’t understand your objection to ideas.”
“I can’t either,” said Schaine. “I think Kelse is indulging in whimsey.”
“Not altogether,” said Kelse. “Urban folk, dealing as they do in ideas and abstractions, become conditioned to unreality. Then, wherever the fabric of civilization breaks, these people are as helpless as fish out of water.”
Elvo Glissam heaved a sigh. “What could be more unreal than sitting out here in the wilderness discussing civilization? I can’t believe it. In passing, I might point out that Kelse’s remarks indicate considerable skill in urbane and civilized abstraction.”
Kelse laughed. “Also in passing, I might mention that urbane folk make up the membership of the Redemptionist Alliance, the Vitatis Cult, the Cosmic Peace Movement, Panortheism, a dozen more: all motivated by abstractions four or five or six times removed from reality.”
“Real
ity, so-called, is itself an abstraction,” Elvo Glissam remarked.
“It’s an abstraction with a difference, because it can hurt, as when your sky-car comes down in the wilderness with a hundred miles to walk. That’s real. Aunt Val’s chamber of winds at Villa Mirasol isn’t real.”
Schaine said: “You’re simply beating a horse to death. Because a person can deal with ideas doesn’t signify that, ergo, he’s helpless.”
“In an urban environment he’s quite safe; in fact, he prospers. But such environments are fragile as cobwebs, and when they break—chaos!”
Gerd Jemasze joined the conversation. “Reflect on human history.”
“I’ve done so,” said Kelse. “History describes the destruction of a long series of urban civilizations because the citizens preferred intellectualism and abstraction to competence in basic skills, such as self-defense. Or attack, for that matter.”
Schaine said in disgust: “You’ve become awfully crabbed and illiberal, Kelse. Father certainly stamped his opinions upon you.”
“Your theory has its obverse,” said Elvo Glissam. “From this viewpoint, history becomes a succession of cases in which barbarians, renouncing crassness, develop a brilliant civilization.”
“Usually destroying older civilizations in the process,” remarked Kelse.
“Or exploiting other less capable barbarians. Uaia is a case in point. Here a group of civilized men attacked and plundered the barbarians. The barbarians were helpless in the face of energy weapons and sky-cars—all contrived through the use of abstractions, and, incidentally, built by urbanites.”
Gerd Jemasze chuckled, a sound which annoyed Schaine. She said: “These are merely facts.”
“But not all the facts. The barbarians weren’t plundered; they use their lands as freely as before. I must concede that torture and slavery have been discouraged.”
“Very well then,” said Elvo Glissam. “Imagine yourself an Uldra: disenfranchised and subject to alien law. What would you do?”
Gerd Jemasze pondered a moment or two. “I suppose it would depend on what I wanted. What I wanted I’d try to get.”