The Final Planet

by Andrew M. Greeley

  Zylong was no more. Its driving life energy and political structure had been wiped out. Its population was in chaos, thousands dead. The Hooded Ones were not all killed; some must have survived and returned to their underground lairs. Perhaps some more escaped the City itself. They could expect the wild hordi under General Popilo to attack. Soon? Did the wind blow so strongly outside the City? Did the wild hordi avoid the frenzy?

  Perhaps they wouldn’t be able to attack before the end of the Festival time. Even if they could not enter the City, the food supplies for next year were stored in dumps at the edge of the City. They could be destroyed easily, meaning famine for those who managed to last through the Festival.

  The food supply … maybe that was where his band of rebels belonged. They would be close enough to open ground for the Iona to evacuate them. Deirdre had said nothing about more survivors than he and Marjetta.… Still, for all her bluster, she had great affection for young people. His troops would go to pieces if he kept them here in the dark, damp tunnel much longer.

  His thoughts were interrupted.

  “Seamus.”

  “What now, woman?”

  “I have another problem for you. I think the tranquillity pills are losing their effect. I can feel the frenzy returning. You are going to have to give us more pills.”

  “The first twenty-four hours are not over yet. There’ll be no pills left after another dose.”

  “The wind may die in the morning. It usually does. So we should last through the day. After that … it may not matter by then.” Her teeth were clenched; the words were forced and a little harsh.

  “One problem at a time, please.” Seamus thought desperately. He began to dispense the precious drug to his embarrassed followers. They were ashamed of their strange lunacy before the eyes of their Honored Leader.

  “Chronos never said anything about freedom from the frenzy,” muttered Yens when he took his pill from Seamus.

  “Poor man,” replied O’Neill. “He probably understood it even less than everyone else.”

  The decision to evacuate was clinched when Carina stumbled through the darkness, announcing, “Lord O’Neill, there is water coming down the tunnel! Either one of the reservoirs has collapsed or an underground stream has been diverted by the explosions. There are only a few inches so far, but it is coming rapidly!” Already O’Neill felt the water trickling around his feet.

  He called his band together. “This command,” he announced with more official confidence than he possessed, “is the only organized group left in the City. Therefore we must assume responsibility for protecting resources that will be absolutely indispensable when rebuilding begins. Horor and Ranon have ingeniously preserved the energy source; now we must redeploy to the City’s edge to guard the food dump just outside the main gate. We will not go hungry, though I do not think unrefined jarndt will be particularly tasty.”

  They obligingly laughed at his very thin joke.

  Seamus ordered them to stay close together during their march through the City. They would defend themselves against the “populace” only when attacked. With spears and carbines at ready, they would discourage civilian attack. There were not many Hooded Ones left, so he did not mention that if there were any, such a compact marching phalanx would be an easy target for an explosive charge.

  They climbed back to the surface of the City with their handlights and marched across the ruins of the Central Quarter, through streets where neither darkness nor disaster had quieted the wild revelry, and finally to the main gate.

  Their progress was impeded by repeated scuffles with bands of celebrants; the spears and determined faces of the Young Ones frightened the revelers. Most of the fires were contained within the Central Quarter, but the streets were littered with mutilated bodies, and screams rent the dark night air. Singing, shouting, drinking, and “lovemaking” were going on all around. The grimly determined Young Ones did not falter despite the exhortations of the fellow Zylongi to join them.

  Limping painfully beside him, leaning on his arm for support, Marjetta told him, “It has never been this bad, Seamus. It is really the end of everything.”

  “And the beginning. Chaos, then cosmos again.”

  He wasn’t altogether sure what that meant, but he had heard it in the monastery school, in a class most of which he had slept through, and it sounded nice.

  They arrived at the gate after first light and quickly moved out into the sloping meadows that lay in front of the vast pile of jarndt on the riverbank. Only Seamus was detached enough to look back at the City—now completely dark except for the towering fires still blazing in the Central Quarter and silhouetted against the brightening sky.

  As they passed the hospital, he saw it was undamaged. Was there a supply of tranquillity pills in the hospital? Maybe later in the day he could lead a patrol back there to explore. Now it was important to set up a defensible position near the jarndt dump and snatch a little sleep. He was so tired.…

  Margie woke him. The sun was shining brightly in his face. “Seamus, we have visitors coming,” she said calmly.

  A mob was pouring out of the main gate of the City, flaming torches in hand, running toward them. Their screams polluted the clear, cool morning air.

  Seamus O’Neill shook the sleep from his eyes. “Why the torches, Margie? It’s daytime.”

  “I don’t think they’re coming for us, Seamus. They want the food.”

  The advancing mob was many thousand strong. His young people had wanted to save Zylong; it was appropriate enough that they die defending the jarndt, which had been the basis of their civilization. He turned to look at his ragtag band. A sudden movement on the opposite bank caught his eye.

  “Narth’s advance guard, no doubt. Well, good luck to you, fella; you’re welcome to whatever is left.”

  He ordered his troops into a skirmish line in front of the grain, instructing them not to shoot until he gave the order. A sudden collapse of the leading wave of the mob might panic the others. He noted irrelevantly that it was the beginning of what would be a marvelously beautiful day. The sky was a deep purple, the sun a lovely rose; great white clouds were already marching by in stately ranks, the pile of still-brown jarndt smelled of good rich land. His skirmish line stirred nervously but did not break under the strain of the howling mob’s approach. They would hold, he knew, to the end.

  “Look,” said Carina, who was standing with Horor next to Margie. “See who is leading them?”

  “Who is he?”

  “Farge, the Police Commissioner.”

  Farge was a sturdy, handsome, silver-haired man, clad in the robe of the Hooded Ones but with his head bared. The leader of the police was also the leader of the Hooded Ones. A corrupt Zylongi to the end.

  The frenzied Zylongi were now quite close. “Ready to fire!” he ordered. Ready to die.

  “First shots over their head.”

  “I love you, Seamus.”

  “Fire!”

  The guns of his ragtag crowd sounded like a packet of cheap firecrackers. But they seemed to do the trick. The frenzied Zylongi turned tail and ran screaming back into the City.

  “We won!” He hugged Margie fiercely. “I’ll take an anticlimax any day. So long as it’s a victory.”

  “I don’t think we’ve won yet,” she pointed toward the River. “Look!”

  Narth’s army.

  26

  The rebel army stretched along the bank of the River in either direction as far as the eye could see, lances and spears glinting in the sunlight, crimson banners straining in the stiff wind. Across the water came the sound of rhythmically clicking hordi and pounding horses’ hoofs.

  As Seamus watched in stunned silence, swarms of aborigines rushed to the riverbank with giant rafts on their heads. They cast the rafts into the River like paper boats. Other hordi, monsters, and red-clad exile cavalry swarmed on them. The current carried the rafts downriver as solid massed ranks of poles on either side of the rafts steered them acros
s. A cluster of hovercraft put out from the bank, carrying several dozen troopers and their horses.

  The Imperial Guard, with a number of grudges to settle.

  “What do we do now?” Marjetta asked, still ice-calm.

  “We engage them in combat, that’s what we do.”

  As soon as I get an idea of what that means.

  “Reform the battle line. Hold your fire until I give the order.”

  That’s not a very original idea.

  Then he had another idea that was also not original, but seemed at least to be useful. He didn’t think through the possible outcomes, because there was neither the time nor the need.

  The Guard disembarked on the bank. Narth, on a mammoth black stallion, led them off and remained a safe distance away from Seamus. Learned his lesson, did he? Well, we’ll see about that.

  “I thought I’d toasted you for the hordi, frigging lardass,” Seamus bellowed. “What happened? Don’t they like grease?”

  “I’ll cut you up in little pieces, Taran worm.”

  Not a very creative response, at all, at all.

  “You’re a loudmouthed coward, you fat disgusting slob,” Seamus continued.

  “Seamus…” Margie whispered.

  “Shush, woman, I’m engaged in strategy.” And again at the top of his voice, “Maybe if I carve you thin, the hordi would find you more palatable.”

  “You and your whore will die for days.” His face was now as red as his cloak.

  “You notice, fellas, how he’s always big talk when he has the weapons, but he won’t fight fair man to man.”

  Popilo, guiding his mount daintily off a hovercraft, rode up behind his leader. “Kill him now,” he screamed.

  Sure the man is wound up tight enough to go into orbit. He’s completed his pilgrimage round the bend.

  “Ah, he can’t do that, Poppy old fella; you’d have to charge us first and some of you might get killed before you killed us. Maybe most of you. My crowd are crack shots.” A shameless lie. “And he won’t be in the first rank either.”

  “Prepare to charge!” Narth moved his horse back from the front of the troopers.

  “Tell you what, I’ll fight you myself, man to man.”

  Narth stopped his horse. “Your whore will tell you that I’m the greatest ax fighter in all Zylong.”

  “He is.” Marjetta was as cool as ever.

  “Regardless,” Seamus whispered. “I’ll make you a deal,” he yelled, his voice hoarse from shouting. “You come on foot with your ax and shield and I’ll fight you with one of these little spears.” He grabbed Marjetta’s weapon. “Winner take all. If you kill me, we won’t kill your troops when they charge. If I kill you, your Guard lets us leave before they destroy the City.”

  As Seamus had hoped, the troopers stirred restlessly. They expected their fearless leader to respond to the challenge. Narth had been trapped.

  “Kill him,” Popilo screamed again.

  “I’ll do just that.” The fat rebel climbed ponderously off his horse, discarded his cloak, took a shield from one of his lancers, hefted the biggest ax Seamus had ever seen, and strode manfully toward O’Neill.

  “Tell me about him quickly,” he said to his woman.

  “He’s most vulnerable when he raises his ax for the kill. He’s fat and out of condition. I’m sure he hasn’t fought in years. But he’s dangerous and you are wounded and exhausted.”

  Did the woman have no nerves at all, at all?

  “Well, then I guess I have him outnumbered.”

  “Seamus…”

  “Yes?” He hefted the spear and waited for words of love.

  “What do we do if you die?”

  “Run like hell.”

  “Will they honor his word if you win?”

  “Probably not.”

  No argument, no disagreement.

  “Form up behind me,” she ordered their band. “Be prepared to respond to my orders instantly.” Then in a whisper, “Be careful, Seamus.”

  Sure she was a lot like herself.

  “Ah, fat man,” he began the ritual insults, “how can someone as gross as you even lift that frigging ax?”

  “I will show you.” He lifted the ax over his head and swung it violently—and skillfully.

  Seamus ducked quickly, almost not quickly enough. The man was indeed good with the frigging thing.

  “Careful, now, big belly, you’ll hurt yourself swinging that thing around like a drunken grandmother with her pisspot.”

  Seamus’s strategy, if you could call it that, was to continue to duck until his opponent’s mighty heaves began to exhaust him. Then, taunted perhaps into an unguarded assault, Narth might leave himself open for a quick thrust, like Marjetta’s assault on the saber-toothed tiger.

  Roaring like an angry elephant, Narth charged again. The great ax whistled so close to Seamus’s ear that he feared he had lost it.

  “Ah, grandma is finding the pisspot heavy, isn’t she?”

  Some of the Imperial Guard snickered. Insane with rage, Narth hefted the ax again and charged at Seamus much as the tiger had. This time the Taran was quicker; he dodged the swinging ax and tripped the rushing rebel.

  “Earthquake, earthquake,” he shouted as Narth tumbled onto the ground. Quickly he darted in and jabbed his spear into his opponent’s body.

  And missed. Completely. His spear stuck in the soft ground and would not come out when Seamus tugged it.

  Too tired from the sleepless night and too weak because of my wounds. The man had been an easy target.

  For the first time Seamus was afraid.

  Narth rolled up and swung the ax at Seamus’s leg. The Taran had a choice, pull his spear out of the ground or save his leg. He elected to save his leg.

  But now he had no weapon and Narth was advancing on him with the light of victory shining in his black eyes. Exhausted and breathless, Seamus wondered what came next. Out of the side of his eye, he saw his woman waiting, calm and implacable.

  Holy saints, she thinks I can’t lose!

  He retreated toward the riverbank, leading on his slow and panting opponent and wondering what he would do when they arrived at the edge.

  Finally Seamus was cornered with the water behind him and the great ax in front of him. He feinted in either direction, as though he were trying to run back to his spear. Narth, supremely confident now, blocked his escape with a negligent wave of the ax.

  “Now I’ve got you, lardass,” Seamus taunted him. “Come on now, don’t let your men think you’re a gutless coward.”

  With a furious howl, Narth charged him; the ax poised over Seamus’s skull, and then swept downward.

  As if he was blocking a defensive charge in hurley, Seamus banged into the rebel’s knees. Personal foul, fifteen yards for unnecessary roughness, he thought as Narth sailed over him and into the waters of the River.

  Now all the Imperial Guard laughed. Standing in two feet of water and out of his mind with rage, Narth reached for his ax.

  He could not find it, because it was on the bank of the River. The fat man rushed to grab it, quickly for someone his size, but not quickly enough.

  “I don’t want to kill you,” Seamus said, struggling to lift the incredibly heavy weapon. “Do you want to talk peace?”

  Narth grabbed for the weapon. Seamus shoved it at him, cutting into his foe’s leg. The rebel collapsed on one knee, his hands still gripping the handle of the ax. His blood was spurting out on the soft sand of the bank, but with a mighty heave he pulled the weapon out of O’Neill’s grasp. Seamus scampered for his spear and then danced toward the riverbank.

  “I don’t want to kill you,” he repeated, raising the spear.

  “I want to kill you,” Narth bellowed. Despite the blood escaping from his artery, he rose and lunged toward Seamus, his ax raised for one final mighty swing.

  He charged limping and screaming into Seamus’s spear, dropped the ax, curled up on the ground like the dying tiger, and expired. Quietly.

&
nbsp; The falling ax hit Seamus a glancing blow on the head. He fell to the ground, momentarily stunned. He’d won fairly. Would that mean anything to Popilo? Of course not. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

  “Kill him now!” screamed the madman.

  The Guard hesitated.

  “I said kill him!”

  The cavalry lowered their lances and began to trot forward. This was the end. Seamus had a fleeting wish to embrace Marjetta, but it was too late now. He made a quick sign of the cross. A long way from Jerusalem.

  The lead lancer was only a few yards away, his deadly weapon pointed at the Taran’s chest. Seamus Finnbar O’Neill heard a mighty roar from across the River, inundating them all with a terrible, shattering shock wave of sound. The noise was the loveliest sound Seamus had ever heard—retrorockets.

  The lancers’ animals bolted, leaving only Popilo, a stone’s throw away from Seamus.

  A final explosive burst shook the ground, and a cloud of smoke enveloped Popilo and Seamus. Then there appeared, standing between them, a slender woman with long black hair blowing like a great frigging banner in the Festival wind. She was clad in dazzling cardinal-red robes and shining ermine and held in her right hand a thin gold crozier with Saint Brigid’s cross on the top.

  “Who are you?” screamed the demented Popilo. He raised his gun to fire at herself. She extended the Brigid crozier and lightning jumped out of it, knocking the gun from the madman’s hands.

  It was only psychic lightning, but sure it served the purpose. The hordi rafts, paralyzed in midstream, began to swing around. Some of the Imperial Guard had already plunged back on their hovercrafts.

  “I am,” announced the vision, “Lady Deirdre Fitzgerald, Countess of Cook, Archbishop of Chicago Nova, Fleet Commodore of Tara, Captain Abbess of the Pilgrim Ship Iona, and Cardinal Priest of the Holy Roman Church of Saint Clement. Who, may I ask, kind sir, are you?”

  That was enough for poor Popilo. He turned his horse and raced for the landing area. The frightened animal stopped at the edge of the bank and tossed its rider over its head into the River—right in the path of a fleeing hovercraft. The madman went under without a sound in a burst of bubbles that turned from white to red. He did not come up.