The Chalice of Death: Three Novels of Mystery in Space

by Robert Silverberg

  Rel Dominoor was his name, and he had held sway a hundred and eight years, having taken the Morankimar throne while Joroiran IV reigned in Jorus. During his years on Jorus, Navarre had learned to his sorrow the strength of this man Dominoor; nearly every attempt of his to plant a network of spies on Morank had been frustrated, and in the end he had simply abandoned hope of monitoring Morankimar activities the way he did those of Kariad and other worlds of the cluster. Old Dominoor was entirely too shrewd.

  Navarre bowed deeply at the entrance to the throne room; a dry deep voice said, “You may rise,” and the Earthman rose, looking about in some surprise for the Polisarch.

  He found him, finally—eight feet above his head, a withered little figure clad in glistening querlon sheaths, sitting cross-legged on nothing in the air. The floor of the throne room, Navarre realized in astonishment, must be one gigantic graviton-repulsor plate, and the Polisarch’s clothes equipped with the necessary resistile coils.

  Navarre took three hesitant steps inward and the Polisarch drifted downward until his crossed feet were but three feet off the ground and his eyes level with Navarre’s. “You’re Navarre, Joroiran’s man?” he said.

  “I was Joroiran’s man. It’s two years since I left the Overlord’s service.”

  One of the Polisarch’s eyes swiveled disconcertingly upward. “You Earthmen exchange loyalties as other men exchange greetings. Have you come now to sell your services to me, Navarre? I stand in little need of new advisers at this late date … though I’m always willing to receive information.”

  The Polisarch’s jewel-studded hand swept idly across his chest, gently touching a control stud; he began to rise, moving upward some eight feet. Navarre craned his neck, squinted up at the ruler, and said, “I bring you information, but there’s a price for it.”

  Dominoor scowled expressively. “Earthmen haggle well. Let’s hear the price, first; the information may come after, if I care to have it.”

  “Very well. The price is a fleet of Morankimar battleships—twelve of them, first-class, fully armed and manned, to be placed entirely under my command with no restrictions whatever as to their use.”

  Abruptly the Polisarch touched his controls again and dropped rapidly until he was Navarre’s level. His expression was grave, almost fierce.

  “I had heard Earthmen were bold, but boldness carried too far becomes insolence.” There was no anger in his voice, merely a sort of didactic peevishness. “You’ll sell your information for a mere twelve battleships, eh? I could flay you and get it for a less dear outlay.”

  Navarre met his gaze unflinchingly. “You could flay me, agreed. But then you’d be faced with solving the problem yourself. I offer a speedy and simple resolution. Your own spies will tell you what I have to tell you, soon enough—but that will hardly handle the situation adequately.”

  Dominoor smiled slowly. “I could like you, Earthman. Twelve battleships? All right. The terms are met. Now tell me what you came here to tell me, and see if you can save your skin from the hand of the flayer.”

  “Very well. Briefly, it’s this: Jorus and Kariad plan to form an alliance. The balance of power in this cluster will be upset.”

  The Polisarch’s pale, almost white skin began to deepen in color, passing through several subtle gradations of chartreuse and becoming finally an angry lemon-color that faded rapidly as the flood-tide of excitement receded.

  Navarre waited patiently; he saw that his words had made their intended effect. Victory was almost in his grasp now.

  Finally Dominoor said, “Do you have proof?”

  “My word as an Earthman is all I can offer.”

  “Hmm. Let that matter pass, then. Tell me, why is this alliance coming about?”

  Navarre took a deep breath. It was useless to lie to the old Polisarch; he was too wise, too keen-witted, to be easily fooled. Choosing his words with care, Navarre said, “There is a settlement on Earth. Ten thousand Earthmen live there.”

  “I know.”

  Navarre smiled. “Morank has its spies too, then.”

  “We have sharp ears here,” said the Polisarch gravely. “But continue.”

  “These ten thousand of Earth desire nothing but peaceful existence. But Kausirn the Lyrellan, the Overlord Joroiran’s adviser, fears them. He thinks Earth is much stronger than it actually is. He is afraid to send a Joran fleet against Earth unaided. Hence his pact with Marhaill; together Jorus and Kariad will dispatch fleets to crush ten thousand unarmed Earthmen.”

  “I see the picture. Mutual deception, leading to an alliance of cowards. But go on.”

  “Naturally, Earth will be destroyed by the fleet—but the link between Jorus and Kariad will have been forged. This Kausirn is unscrupulous. And Marhaill is a weak man. Before too many months have passed, you’ll see Jorus and Kariad under one rule.”

  “This would violate a treaty even older than I,” Dominoor mused. “The three worlds are to remain separate and unallied, perpetually outstretched at the vertices of a triangle. This to ensure safety in our galaxy. An alliance of this sort would collapse the triangle. It would break the treaty.”

  “Treaties are scraps of paper, my Lord.”

  “So they are. But important scraps. We would have to go to war to protect our rights. It would be painful and costly for all of us. Our cities might be destroyed.”

  “War, between Morank and the allied worlds could be avoided,” Navarre said.

  “By giving you twelve of our ships?”

  “Yes. My plan is this: your ships shall be unmarked, unidentified in every way. No one will know they originate on Morank. I’ll undertake to repel the Jorus-Kariad fleet that is converging on Earth; driving them off in such a way that they think Earth is incalculably powerful. With luck, it’ll smash the Jorus-Kariad axis. It’ll incidentally save Earth. But also Morank will be untouched by war.”

  The Polisarch was smiling again.

  “At worst, it would cost me twelve ships. Such a loss I could bear, if necessary. At best, I avoid a war in this cluster.”

  “You agree to the terms, then?”

  “The twelve ships are yours. Take them, Navarre, and use them well. Keep Jorus and Kariad apart. Keep war from touching Morank. Save your Earthmen from destruction. And perhaps, thank an old man who has become a coward.”

  Navarre flushed. “Sire—”

  “Don’t try to contradict me. You see me humbled before you, Earthman. I give you the ships; play your little ruse. I want only to die in peace. Let those who follow after worry about checking the rising tide that will eventually pour forth from Earth. I worry only about today; at my age, tomorrow is too distant.”

  There was nothing Navarre could say. He had achieved his goal; at least, in doing it, he had not deceived old Dominoor.

  Chapter Seventeen

  There were fifty ships in the armada: fifty great golden-hulled vessels, sleek and powerful, advancing at a steady pace across the galaxies.

  The flagship was a mighty gleaming ship that led the pack, a shark among sharks, a giant battleship of the realm of Jorus. The armada radiated confidence. They seemed to be saying, Here we are, twenty-five ships of Jorus and twenty-five of Kariad, crossing the universe to wipe out once and for all the pestilence of the Earthmen.

  Hallam Navarre sat in his own flagship, a vessel that once had borne the name Pride of Kariad, but now carried no designation whatever. He watched the steady advance of the alien armada.

  Fifty ships, he thought. Against eighteen.

  But we know how many they have. They can’t measure our numbers.

  He sat poised behind his viewscreens, biding his time, thinking, waiting. They were fifty thousand light-years from Earth, now, and he had no intention of letting Kausirn’s fleet come any closer than five thousand. If even one ship eluded the inner line of defense and got through to Earth …

  Helna appeared and slipped into the seat next to his. She said, “It’ll all be decided now, won’t it? All the thousands of years
of planning, ever since the Chalice was sealed and the sleepers put to rest.”

  Navarre nodded tightly. Thousands of years of planning, all dependent upon this one day, on these eighteen ships, ultimately on the mind of one man. He stared at his unquivering hands. He was steady, now; so much was at stake that his mind failed to encompass it, and apprehension was impossible.

  He jacked in the main communication line and studied the deployment of his eighteen ships.

  Four of them remained in close orbit around Earth, in constant radio contact with each other, ready to move rapidly when needed. He hoped they would not be needed; they were the last line of defense, the desperation blockaders, and it would be dark indeed if they had to be called into play.

  The smaller colony on Procyon had two ships guarding it. Six more were deployed at the farthest edges of the sphere of conflict, forming a border for the coming battle. That was his second line of defense.

  The remaining six ships formed a solid phalanx ten light-years across, turned outward toward the advancing combined armada. Navarre’s flagship was among this group. These would make the initial attack.

  The twelve ships given him by the Polisarch had been carefully recoated; their hulls no longer glowed in bright Morankimar colors, but now were an anonymous gray, all planetary designations concealed. Each of the ships had a small complement of Earthmen aboard, aiding the Morankimar captain. The aliens knew only that they were to take orders from the Earthmen; the Polisarch had made that amply clear in his instructions to the Grand Admiral.

  It might work, Navarre thought. If not, well, it had been a game try—and perhaps there might be another Chalice on some other world. Earth was not that easily defeated, he told himself.

  Time was drawing near. All the efforts, all the countless schemes, all Navarre’s many identities and many journeys, all converged into one moment now.

  He opened the all-fleet communicator and waited a moment until all the twenty-two bulbs at the side of the central monitor-board lit up.

  Then, in a quiet voice, he said, “Attention, Unit A—low-intensity defense screens are to be replaced with full screens immediately.

  “Unit B—stand by until called into action as previously instructed.

  “Unit C—remain at your posts in orbit round the planets, and under no circumstances leave formation.

  “Unit D—stand by for emergency use.

  “The battle is about to begin.”

  There was a moment of silence. Quickly, Navarre reached up to shut off the all-fleet communicator; what he had to say now was directed at the armada. He signaled for a wide-beam subspace hookup.

  “All right,” he muttered. “Now it starts.”

  He drew the microphone toward him and said, in a ringing voice, “Attention invaders! Attention invaders! This is Hallam Navarre, Admiral of the Grand Fleet of Earth. Come in, invader flagship!”

  He repeated the message three times in Joran and three times in Kariadi. Then he sat back, staring at the complex network of machinery that was the communicator panel, waiting for some reply.

  Less than a thousand light-years separated the two fleets. The time-lag in communication should have been virtually nil. But a minute went by, and another, with no response. Navarre grew cold. Were they simply going to ignore him and move right on into their midst?

  But after four minutes the speaker crackled into life.

  “This is Flagship calling Admiral Navarre.” The inflection was savagely sardonic. “Come in, Admiral Navarre. What do you want?”

  Navarre’s heart leaped. He hadn’t expected him to be commanding the armada in person!

  “Kausirn?”

  “Indeed. What troubles you, Navarre?”

  “You infringe on Terran domains, Kausirn. State the purpose of your invasion.”

  “I don’t think we need to explain to you, Navarre. The Terran Empire passed out of existence thirty thousand years before; you have no claim to any domain as such. And we’re here to see that no ghosts walk the starways.”

  “An invasion fleet?”

  “Call it that, if you will.”

  “Very well,” Navarre said sharply. “In that case I call on you to surrender or be destroyed. The full might of the Grand Fleet of Earth is waiting to hurl you back shattered to your own system.”

  Kausirn laughed harshly. “The full might! Six stolen ships! Six against fifty! You deceived me once, Ambassador Domell—you won’t a second time!”

  A moment later a bright energy flare licked out across space toward the Terran flagship. Navarre’s screens easily deflected the thrust.

  “I warn you, Kausirn. Your fleet is outnumbered six to one. Terra’s resources are greater than you could have dreamed. Will you surrender?”

  “Ridiculous!” But it seemed to Navarre there was false bravado in Kausirn’s outburst; the Lyrellan appeared to be uncertain.

  “We of Earth hate needless bloodshed,” Navarre said. “I call upon the captains of the invading fleet to head their ships back to home. Kausirn is an alien; he hardly cares how many Joran or Kariadi lives he throws away.”

  “Don’t listen!” came the Lyrellan’s shout over the phones. “He’s bluffing! He has to be bluffing!” It sounded a trifle panicky.

  “All right,” Navarre said. “Here we come.”

  He gave the prearranged signal, and the culminating battle that had been planned so long entered into existence. The six ships that comprised his fighting wedge moved forward, charging across hyperspace toward the evenly spaced invading fleet.

  “You see!” Kausirn shouted triumphantly. “They have but six ships! We can crush them!”

  Navarre’s ship shook as the first heavy barrage crashed into it; the screens deflected the energy and a bright blue nimbus sprang into being around the ship as the overload was dissipated.

  Six ships against fifty—but six rebuilt ships, six ships so laden with defense screens that they were no faster than snails. They moved steadily into the heart of the armada, shaking off the alien barrage and counterattacking with thrusts of their own.

  They were unstoppable, those six ships—but difficult to maneuver, slow at returning fire. In time, the alien fleet could wear down their screens by continued assault, and that would end the battle.

  “Six outmoded crawlers,” Kausirn exulted. “And you ask us to surrender.”

  “The offer still goes,” Navarre said curtly.

  He gave the signal for the second third of the fleet to enter the fray.

  They came down from six directions at once, their heavy-cycle guns spouting flame. They converged inward on the Joran-Kariadi fleet, six light Morankimar vessels equipped for massive offensive thrusts.

  The invaders were caught unaware; four Joran ships crumbled and died in the first shock of the unsuspected attack.

  Kausirn was silent. Navarre knew, or hoped he knew, what the Lyrellan was thinking: I had expected only six defending ships. If the Earthmen have these additional six, how many more may they have?

  The radar screen was crisscrossed with light. Navarre’s original six plowed steadily forward, drawing the heaviest fire of the aliens and controlling it easily, while the six new ships plunged and swerved in daring leaps, weaving in and out of the alien lines so fast they could not even be counted.

  Navarre gave another signal. And suddenly three of his offensive platoon leaped from view, blanked out like extinguished candles, and reappeared at the far end of the battlefield. They drove downward from their new angle of attack, while the remaining trio likewise jumped out of warp and back in again. Navarre picked up bitter curses coming from the harassed aliens.

  Three more ships had perished. The odds were narrowing—forty-three against eighteen, now. And the aliens were definitely bewildered.

  The tactic was unheard of; it was suicide to leave and reenter hyperspace in a confined area barely a thousand light-years on a side. There was the ever-present consideration that one ship might re-materialize in an area already occupied;
the detonation would be awesome.

  There was always the chance. But Navarre had computed it, and in actuality the chance was infinitesimal that two ships would re-enter the same space in such an area. It was worth the risk. Like leaping silver-bellied fish, his ships flicked in and out of space-time. And now the alien vessels moved in confused circles.

  Flick!

  Two astonished Kariadi vessels thundered headlong into each other to avoid a Terran vessel that had appeared less than a light-minute away from them. The proximity strained the framework of hyperspace; the hapless ships were sucked downward, out of control, into a wild vortex.

  Flick!

  Flick!

  Navarre’s checkboard showed eleven invader losses already, and not one Terran ship touched. He grinned cheerfully as one of his six original attackers speared through the screens of a bedeviled Joran destroyer and sent it reeling apart.

  “Kausirn? Are you convinced?”

  No answer came this time.

  Navarre frowned speculatively. So far the battle was going all Earth’s way; but eventually the shattered and confused invader lines would re-group, and eventually they would realize that only twelve Earth ships opposed them, not hundreds.

  Navarre gave one final signal. Suddenly, four more Terran ships warped into the area.

  They were dummies, half-finished ships manned by skeleton crews. They carried no arms, only rudimentary defense-screens; Navarre had ordered them held in check for just this moment. And here they were.

  At the same time the six warp-jumping ships stabilized themselves. Now sixteen Terran ships menaced the alien fleet at once, and there was no telling for the aliens how many more lurked in hidden reaches.

  The armada milled hesitantly. Ships changed course almost at random.

  Navarre’s vessels formed into a tight wheel and spun round the confused aliens. He opened the communicator channels wide and said, “We have already destroyed thirteen of your number at no cost to ourselves. Will you surrender now, or do we have to pick you all off one by one? Speak up, Kausirn!”

  Garbled noise came from the communicator—sure sign that more than one ship’s captain was trying to speak at the same time. Navarre joyfully sensed indecision; he flashed one last-ditch signal along his communication channel, ordering the six defensive ships stationed round the planets to leave their base and join the fray. It was a rash move, but he knew the time had come to gamble all on the chance of success.