Charles Ingrid - marked man 02 The Last Recall

by Charles Ingrid

  "My God!" Marshall said. "He's got Dusty with them!"

  On the grass plains, the Mojavans were getting to their knees, bowing low before their prince, son of their ruler. He acknowledged their obeisance with a salute of his own. It was his shrill whistle which had pierced the stillness after dawn. Halfway through the ranks of the army, he reined to a halt.

  "Shankar is dead!" Drakkar said. "His followers are known to me. Those of you within these troops have but one chance left to live. There will be great happenings this day. Follow my orders and live. Betray me and betray your very existence!"

  In one throat, the Mojavans roared back. "DRAK-kar!"

  Dusty stirred in Thomas' arms. "A bit feudal, isn't it?"

  "Feudal?"

  "Kings, peasants, that sort of thing."

  "Oh," he said. His voice buzzed pleasantly in his chest. "Like Macbeth."

  "Very like Macbeth," Dusty answered. "Now what do we do?"

  "We hope that the dean makes the nesters let us get within striking distance. He should, with you as hostage, even if only to get me close enough to kill."

  "He wants you that bad?" Dusty asked.

  Thomas laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, yes. He wants me that bad. And I want him."

  She squirmed a little, uncomfortable on the horse. They had been riding double, most of the night to reach the mesa and her bumps and bruises from the river were sharp as thorns. She could not have told either man the correct direction, but they'd recognized her description of the site. There was a fatalism in Thomas Blade that she could only describe as predestiny. She thought he would have known his way here regardless.

  Drakkar looked at them, his crest full and his face lit by a savage joy. "They'll let us through now."

  Thomas said laconically, "All the same, watch your back, boy," as he reined past Drakkar.

  The Mojavan prince took pause for just a moment, then rode after them. Thomas had been holding his longknife comfortably at her chest. Now he raised it to her throat as they paused at the mesa's base.

  "Be very careful," he said. "It's got an extremely sharp edge."

  Dusty could feel its prick at her skin, where the enviro suit could not protect her. "I'll remember that," she answered.

  "Do that."

  She felt his broad chest inhale deeply. "Commander Marshall!" he bellowed out. "I have someone of importance to you. Give me passage to come up and talk with you."

  Marshall had been looking intently through the binoculars. He knew the man had Dusty. He lowered them long enough to look at the dean. "Who the hell is that?"

  "That," the dean answered tensely, "is Sir Thomas Blade." He lowered his glasses as well. Ketchum inclined his head and evaporated at an invisible signal from the dean. Then he turned to Marshall as the commander spoke again.

  "Will he kill her?"

  "He," the dean said flatly, "is capable of slitting her throat and eviscerating her before you can draw three breaths."

  Marshall took one of those breaths. He studied Dusty through the glasses. Her face had a placid, resigned expression to it.

  "Let him come up," the dean urged. "I've got Ketchum placed with a rifle. Get the girl loose and we'll drop him in his tracks."

  At this, Marshall dropped his glasses and turned full face to look at the dean. "Just who is this man and how badly do you want him?"

  The dean hesitated, then also dropped his binoculars upon his chest, letting them dangle from their cord. "This is the man," he said, "who destroyed the College Vaults. This is the man who sent a party of children to destroy us. This is the man who, because he wears a mark upon his forehead, can frighten an entire nation of nester clans. Don't be fooled by whatever he says."

  Yet Marshall hesitated. Shipborn justice was swift and sure, with the threat of being airlocked to those who trespassed the law. Quibbles were minor, though sometimes debated through generations. But the crimes of their ancestors—rape, murder, maiming—were not among their sins. He felt like Reynolds trying to deal with her fear of wide-open spaces. If this is my fellow man, he thought, I am frightened to death of the consequences. He remembered the Challenger and shouted back, "Let her go, first."

  The rider's horse took the last bucking stride and halted at the edge of the mesa. Marshall could see Dusty clearly now, with the blade of the knife to her white throat. Her hair, already the color of fresh blood, hung about her face. The man who held her had taken in the number of nesters upon the mesa and placed him and most of the Away Team as well. Marshall felt his intent gaze sweep past him a second time, linger on the dean, and return.

  The commander thought he'd seen everything the shattered Earth had to offer when the lizard men had attacked, but the young man who rode to Blade's flank stopped him in surprise. He wore a feathered headdress, or perhaps it was part of him, and as his horse came to a halt beside Blade's, he stripped off his gloves, revealing spurs as large as talons on his wrist.

  The dean made a noise between his teeth and turned away from Marshall.

  "Who the hell is that?"

  "I'm not sure," the dean said. "I think that is Dene-than's son. His heir apparent. Evolution beyond the reptile, eh?"

  Blade moved in his saddle. "Seen enough?" he called out. "Let us approach and you'll get the girl back. She's a little waterlogged, but I've seen worse." He smiled tightly at the dean.

  Marshall cleared his throat. He said to the dean, "Let them come in.''

  With a glitter deep in his hooded eyes, the dean held up an arm and waved the riders closer. The nesters were already moving back, however, and Marshall could hear the whispered words, "The Marked Man. The mark of Shastra,'' as the nester warriors retreated to their original defensive front, protecting the mesa from the troops below.

  The commander said, "Everybody get aboard the shuttle."

  Reynolds began a protest.

  "Everybody, I said. I'll bring Dusty in."

  Reluctantly, they left him alone. The sun had come up enough, at the shuttle's back, to cast its shadow and he stood in the tip of it. He knew the dean would use him if he could. He had not yet figured out how.

  The riders came within ten paces of Marshall. He could see the tiny line of blood welling up from Dusty's throat. He wondered if she even knew she'd been cut.

  "Put the knife down," he said.

  The man in the brown leather jacket with a white scarf wrapped and tucked in about his neck relaxed the knife blade a touch but shook his head with a rueful smile. "I intend to ride back out," he said. He looked Marshall up and down. "So you're human."

  The commander was startled. "And you're not?"

  "No. None of us are, really. You're the foundation stock. We're the selective adaptives." He reached up with a free hand and ripped away the scarf. "I'm gilled. Drakkar here displays attributes which astonish even those of us used to the aberrations of the eleven year plague—a virus which mutates us beyond imagination. I will not apologize for our lack of purity."

  Marshall looked to Dusty who remained placid and quiet within the man's armhold, most unlike her. There was more here than met the eye. She did not look up at him. He heard the dean move restively at his side. The dean whispered, "Don't listen to him. The Countians have telepathic powers. He can sway a mob, he can convince you.''

  Marshall frowned. "Why are you here?"

  "To bring you back one of your own. And to convey to you a welcome from the Seven Counties where we try very hard, with sometimes spectacular failures, to be civilized."

  "A civilized man does not hold a knife to the throat of another.''

  "Not even in the midst of two armies?" Blade's thin smile flickered on and off. "I must remember that." He lowered his knife hand from Dusty's throat and rested it lightly on the horn of the saddle. Marshall didn't feel much better. The knife point was now just below her rib cage, where an upward thrust could send it into the heart. Thomas now said, "You were met by a scoundrel, Commander Marshall, a man who self-destructed an invaluable repository of human knowledge bec
ause he did not wish to share it with mutants. A man whose obsessive desire to gain vengeance led him to enslave an entire people. Nesters are free people. They are outcasts who have chosen to live outside our community. Because of their choice, they are often contaminated. Mutated further than any being should have to suffer. They are often deprived of pure water and careless about the pollution of the water they do have access to. What you see around you—those you see around you—have chosen their own punishment by moving outside county boundaries. There's little I could do to them to make them more miserable."

  Blade raised his voice. "But I could enslave them with promises, if I wanted to. Drive them off their campgrounds and mold them into an army. Promise them water rights and farms and herds once the Countians are driven away—those who are left alive, that is."

  "You lie," the dean said impatiently. He, too, raised his voice. "He lies!"

  "Do I? I was sent here by the new Director of Water and Power. He wants to remind you of your clan treaties. He wants to sit with you and forge new treaties if you're unhappy. He wants to ask why you're so eager to fight with the Mojavans and with us." Thomas' voice dropped and he looked at Marshall again. "And I was given permission to remove any obstacle in my way."

  Ketchum moved out of the shadow of the shuttle, where he had been all but obscured. His rifle lay across the cradle of his arm. He said, "Is this true? New treaties?"

  "Yes. We're aware that some of us have encroached your pastures, taken away your wells, raided the weaker clans. We're human, more or less. We're all on this land together. We will not deny any man or woman water."

  Dusty moved slightly. She lifted her eyes to look upon Ketchum. "You tried to kill me," she said.

  The nester went to one knee on the ground and bowed his head. "I was told to," he said.

  With a curse, the dean kicked the tracker in the side of the head, grabbing up the rifle as it rolled free. Swinging about, he fired. It was a weapon from the shuttle and the bullet struck the nester pony in the shoulder. The horse reared up with a scream, Dusty falling free, and the horse collapsed as it returned to ground, its shattered leg failing it.

  Blade was already off it and running. He threw a morning star which zithered through the air, tearing the cloth of the dean's robe through the flank as he ran. But it did not faze the man himself as he tried to gain the shuttle ramp.

  Dusty cried out, "Marshall! The shuttle!"

  A whistle split the air. The cries of a thousand voices rang out as the armies poised to war began their attacks. Drakkar hit the ground beside Dusty, hauling her up by the elbow and throwing her at Marshall's feet.

  Dubois and Reynolds, in the shuttle, began pulling the ramp up manually. The dean caught the lip of it, firing as he went in. Reynolds went down with a crimson blossom and a shrill cry. The dean paused long enough to club Dubois with the rifle stock as he passed him.

  Blade jumped and caught the ramp. He hung for a moment unnoticed and levered himself over the edge. He could hear screams and shots within the vehicle. Unfamiliar with it, he could only move in the direction of the mayhem.

  But the dean was familiar with it. Familiar enough to know that the thrusters were positioned toward the main front where the Mojavans would rush the mesa. All he had to do was fire them up and his war would be done, a thousand men wiped out in the blast. The nesters and longshippers who died here also would be martyrs to his cause.

  He could explain everything to the longship once this was over.

  A shadowy figure blocked the corridor. The dean fired, it toppled. He stepped over the bleeding body, going aft, always seeking the main bridge. With a triumphant cry, he found it.

  * * *

  Drakkar put his body between the girl and the commander. He pulled a vial from his ammunition belt and reloaded his rifle. He fired once, carefully, putting a wall of flame between the nesters and himself. Ketchum had gotten to his knees, using the massive front tires of the shuttle for protection.

  Dusty reached for Drakkar's arm. "Where's Thomas?"

  "He's gone after the dean. They're both in the shuttle."

  She felt sick to her stomach. "Marshall—"

  He took her in his arms. "Are you all right?"

  She could only nod. Smoke and blood filled the air as well as the cries of the victorious and the dying. And then the shuttle roared to life.

  "My God," said the commander. "He knows how to fire the thrusters!"

  The vehicle began to shudder as it warmed up. It trembled, straining for life, and its tires began to slowly turn. Ketchum was caught under them. His cry of pain burst into silence as he disappeared.

  Blade stalked after the dean. He found one body, checked it, found a steady pulse, and stepped over it. Then as he passed an alcove, he saw a woman pressed into it, her hands covering her face in desperation. He clapped his free hand upon her wrists.

  "Who are you?"

  "K-kerry."

  He thought over what Dusty had told him, frowning. Then, "The medic? A healer?"

  "Yes."

  "Down that way, behind me, there's someone who needs you. But first . . . did you see him? Which way did he go?" The gigantic vessel trembled about him, thrumming with energy.

  The woman's eyes got big. "The bridge," she said. "The controls!"

  "Which way?" Blade said, not too patiently.

  She pointed with a trembling hand. He went. * * *

  The dean had torn off his black robes. Beneath them he wore a simple shirt and jeans and boots—the shirt straining across his back muscles and across his flanks where handles of fat still rode. He heard Thomas' whisper-soft entry into the cabin.

  "Ah," the man said. "I should have known." He reached for the rifle resting against an instrument panel.

  "I should have killed you," Blade said, "the day Charles Warden came home and had his gills cut out because you made him feel ashamed of them."

  The dean smiled. "And I did try to have you killed. But now I have you to thank for this. So perhaps it was meant you should die today instead of those years ago."

  "I think," Blade responded, "that I can throw this knife before you can pick up that rifle."

  The dean did not lose his smile. "I have no intention of picking up the rifle yet," he said. "I have an army to fry first." With a harsh laugh, he moved several levers on the board.

  The shuttle roared out, erupting with power, shuddering with a thunderous noise. Thomas thought he could hear high-pitched screams under the blast. He moved, but the dean had sprung back from the instrument panel, a longknife in his hand, poised to fight.

  "I am Gerald Conklin," the dean said. "And I have lived and fought in more dojos than you could ever imagine. I was alive when the Earth died. I let my frustrations handicap me, cloak me in fat, but adversity has taken all that away from me. If you want me, come and get me."

  He had good moves. Thomas had to give him that. He thought he saw his last vision of Lady pass before his eyes with the first pass of the knife blade. In the cramped quarters, the dean had the reach on him. He defended, moved, and retreated. The shuttle continued to tremble underneath their feet, its roar muted.

  They both attacked at once, high, and the longknives clashed. Blade could hear the complaint of his edge nocking upon the other. They both showed their teeth and shoved each over backward.

  Then the dean moved swiftly. He had a feral grace that Thomas could only admire, and fear, in the close quarters. He felt himself backing back out in the corridor where the dean might still have allies behind Thomas. The notion made him careless. The dean connected.

  His jacket saved most of the flesh of his underarm. Thomas bit back his pain and said only, "Bad hit, that. Not well placed to blood me."

  "That will come," the dean said. He was breathing heavily. Sweat dotted his forehead.

  Thomas found something to smile about. The dean might remember his moves very well—but his body was not used to exerting them.

  He tossed his knife to his other hand. "Is t
his a fair fight? Because if it is, then I ought to tell you I'm ambidextrous—and that I use throwing stars as well as knives." He ran his hand under his collar and filled it with the weapon.

  The dean's hooded eyes narrowed. Their color stayed flat and dark. "You're a freak," he said. "Something that should never have been brought to life. I'm surprised your mother didn't strangle you the moment you passed her knees—"

  Thomas threw. The dean moved incredibly quickly. The wicked device passed him and sliced deep into the cabin well where it stuck. Before Thomas could react to the miss, the dean rushed him.

  The man collared him with his longer reach and Blade nearly panicked to find the knife at his throat.

  "Stop," he cried, and the dean hesitated. He could feel the wild thunder of the man's beating heart against his back.

  "Not in here," Thomas said. "I'm the Marked Man. The nesters will have to see you kill me—or they'll never follow you anywhere again. Never." The edge bit into his throat.

  Then the dean stopped. "You're right." He began to shove Thomas down the corridor, back toward the ramp.

  The wounded in the corridor had been removed, bright, shiny slick spots marking their presence. Thomas saw them, but the dean did not, intent upon the nearly closed ramp. He slammed his side into the controls.

  The ramp began to open. As it did, the sound of warfare reached them clearly. The doorway opened onto a scene of slaughter, hand-to-hand combat, men bent at impossible angles, fighting for their lives. The dean let out a harsh, wordless cry and the fighters stopped. They turned to see what was happening.

  Thomas threw his weight to the side. The dean slipped into a pool of crimson, going to his knees. Blade jumped him, going for the knife, and the two of them tumbled down the ramp to the ground. He wrestled the knife away and faced the dean bare-handed.

  The dean let out a bellow like a bull and charged him. Thomas met him with a fist. Conklin took it solidly on his jaw, rocking back on his heels. Then he swung himself. Thomas moved, taking the blow on his shoulder. The dean stepped back and dropped into a graceful stance. There was blood in his grin.