Deathworld: The Complete Saga

by Harry Harrison

  “My fortunes change!” Jason chortled as he fell on the other’s bulging purse. Food perhaps? Saliva dampened his mouth as he tore it open.

  XVIII

  Rhes was in his inner office, finishing up with his bookkeeping, when he heard the loud shouts in the courtyard. It sounded as though someone were trying to force their way in. He ignored it; the other two Pyrrans had gone, and he had a lot of work to finish up before he left. His guard, Rician, was a good man and knew how to take care of himself. He would turn any unwanted visitors away. The shouting stopped suddenly, and a moment later there was a noise that sounded suspiciously like Rician’s armor and weapons falling onto the cobbles.

  For two days Rhes had not slept, and there was still much to be done before he went away for good. His temper was, therefore, not of the best. It is very unhealthy to be around a Pyrran when he feels this way. When the door opened he stood and prepared to destroy the interloper. Preferably with his bare hands so that he could hear the bones crunch. A man with an ugly black beard, wearing the uniform of a free-lance soldier, entered, and Rhes flexed his fingers and stepped forward.

  “What’s the trouble? You look ready to kill me,” the soldier said in fluent Pyrran.

  “Jason!” Rhes was across the room and pounding his friend on the back with excitement.

  “Easy,” Jason said, escaping the embrace and dropping onto the couch. “A Pyrran greeting can maim, and I haven’t been feeling that good lately—”

  “We thought you were dead! What happened?”

  “I’ll be happy to explain, but would prefer to do it over food and drink. And I would like to hear a report myself. The last time I heard about Felicitation politics was just before I was pushed off a cliff. How does the trade go?”

  “It doesn’t,” Rhes said glumly, taking meat and bread from a locker and fishing a cobwebbed bottle of wine from its straw bed. “After you were killed—or we thought you were killed—everything came to pieces. Kerk heard you on his dentiphone and almost destroyed his morope getting there. But he was too late, you had gone over the edge of Hell’s Doorway. There was some jongleur who had betrayed you, and he tried to accuse Kerk of being an off-worlder as well. Kerk kicked him off the cliff before he could say very much. Temuchin was apparently just as angry as Kerk and the whole thing almost blew up right there. But you were gone and that was that. Kerk felt the most he could do for you was to try and complete your plans.”

  “Did you?”

  “I’m sorry to report that we failed. Temuchin convinced most of the tribal leaders that they should fight not trade. Kerk aided us, but it was a lost cause. I eventually had to retreat back here. I’m closing out this operation, leaving it in good enough shape for my assistants to carry on, and the Pyrran ‘tribe’ is on its way back to the ship. This plan is over, and if we can’t come up with another one we have agreed to return to Pyrrus.”

  “You can’t!” Jason said in the loudest mumble he could manage around the mouthful of food.

  “We have no choice. Now tell me, please—how did you get here? We had men down in Hell’s Doorway later the same night. They found no trace of you at all, though there were plenty of other corpses and skeletons. They thought you must have gone through the ice and that your body had been swept away.”

  “Indeed swept away, but not as a body. I hit a snowbank when I landed and I would have been waiting for you, cold but alive, if I had not fallen through the ice as you guessed. The stream leads to a series of caverns. I had a light and more patience than I realized. It was nasty, but I finally came out below the cliffs in this country. I knocked a number of citizens on the head and had an adventurous trip to reach you here.”

  “A lucky arrival. Tomorrow would have been too late. The ship’s launch is to pick me up just after dark and I have a ten kilometer row to reach the rendezvous point.”

  “Well, you’ve got a second oar now. I’m ready to go anytime after I get this food and drink under my belt.”

  “I’ll radio about your arrival so that word can be relayed to Kerk and the others.”

  They left quietly, in one of Rhes’s own boats, and reached the rocky offshore islet before the sun touched the horizon. Rhes chopped a hole in the boat’s planking and they put in some heavy rocks. It sank nicely, and after that all they could do was wait, and admire the guano deposits, and listen to the cries of the disturbed seabirds, until the launch picked them up.

  The flight was a brief one after the pilot, Cion, had nodded recognition at Jason—which was about all the enthusiastic Pyrran welcome he expected. When they arrived the off watch was asleep and the on watch at their duty stations, so Jason saw no one. He preferred it this way since he was still tired from his journey. The Pyrran tribesmen should arrive some time the following day and socializing could wait until then.

  His cabin was just as he had left it, with the expensive library leering at him metallically from one corner. What had ever prompted him to buy it in the first place? A complete waste of money. He kicked at it as he passed, but his foot only skidded off the polished metal ovoid.

  “Useless,” he said, and stabbed the on button. “What good are you, after all?”

  “Is that a question?” the library intoned. “If so restate and indicate the precise meaning of good in this context.”

  “Big mouth. All talk now—but where were you when I needed you?”

  “I am where I am placed. I answer whatever questions are asked of me. Your question is, therefore, meaningless.”

  “Don’t insult your superiors, machine. That is a definite order.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s better. I maketh and I can breaketh just as well.”

  Jason dialed a strong drink from the wall dispenser and flopped into the armchair. The library flickered its little lights and hummed electronically to itself. He drank deep, then addressed the machine.

  “I’ll bet you don’t think much of my plan to lick the natives and open the mine?”

  “I do not know your plan, therefore I cannot give a judged opinion.”

  “Well, I’m not asking you. I bet you think that you could think of a better plan yourself?”

  “In which area?”

  “In the area of changing a culture, that’s where. But I’m not asking.”

  “Culture changing references will be found under history and anthropology. If you are not asking I withdraw the reference.”

  Jason sipped and brooded, and finally spoke.

  “Well I am asking. Tell me about cultures.”

  Jason pressed the off button and settled back in his chair. The lights went out on the library and the hum faded into silence.

  So it could be done after all. The answer had been right there in the history books all the time, if he had only had the brains to look. There were no excuses for the stupidity of his actions. He should have consulted the library and he had not. Yet—it still might be possible to make amends.

  He paced the room, hitting his fist into the palm of his hand. The pieces might still be put back together if he played it right. He doubted if he could convince the Pyrrans that the new plan would succeed, or even that it was a good idea. They would probably be completely against it. Then he would have to work without them. He looked at his watch. The launch was not due to leave for the first pickup of Kerk and the others for at least another hour. Time enough to get ready. Write a friendly note to Meta and be deliberately vague about his plans. Then have Cion drop him off near Temuchin’s camp. The unimaginative pilot would do as he was told without asking questions.

  Yes, it could be done, and by the stars he was going to do it.

  XIX

  Lord was he, of all the mountains

  Ruled the plains and all the

  valleys.

  Nothing passed, without his

  knowledge,

  Many died with his displeasure.

  Temuchin sprang suddenly into the camach, his drawn sword ready in his hand.

  “Reve
al yourself,” he cried. “My guard lies outside, struck down. Reveal yourself, spy, so that I may kill you.”

  A hooded figure stepped from the darkness into the flickering light of the oil lamp and Temuchin raised his sword. Jason threw back the fur so his face could be seen.

  “You!” Temuchin said in a hollow voice, and the sword slipped from his fingers to the ground. “You cannot be here. I killed you with these hands. Are you ghost or demon?”

  “I have returned to help you, Temuchin. To open an entire new world to your conquest.”

  “A demon, that you must be, and instead of dying you returned home through Hell’s Doorway and gained new strength. A demon of a thousand guises, that explains how you could trick and betray so many people. The jongleur thought you were an off-worlder. The Pyrrans thought you were one of their tribe. I thought you a loyal comrade who would help me—”

  “That’s a fine theory. You believe what you want, then listen to what I have to tell you.”

  “NO! If I listen I am damned.” He grabbed up the sword. Jason talked fast.

  “There are caves opening from the valley you call Hell’s Doorway. They don’t go to hell—but they lead down to the lowlands. I went there, and returned by boat to tell you this. I can show you the way.

  You can lead an army through those caves and invade the lowlands. You rule here now—and you can rule there as well—a new continent to conquer. And you are the only man who could possibly do it.”

  Temuchin lowered the sword slowly and his eyes blazed in the firelight. When he spoke his voice was hushed, as though he were speaking only to himself.

  “You must be a demon, and I cannot kill that which is already dead. I could drive you from me, but I cannot drive your words from my head. You know, as no living man knows, that I am empty. I rule these plains and that is the end of it. What pleasure in ruling? No wars, no conquests, no joy of seeing one’s enemy fall and marching on. Alone, by day and night I have dreamt about those rich meadows and towns below the cliffs. How even gunpowder and great armies could not stand against my warriors. How we would surprise them, flank them, besiege their cities. Conquer.”

  “Yes, you could have all that, Temuchin. Lord of all this world.”

  In the silence, the lamp sputtered, tossing their shadows to and fro. When Temuchin spoke again there was resolve in his voice.

  “I will have that, even though I know the price. You want me, demon, to take me to your hell below the mountains. But you shall not have me until I have conquered all.”

  “I’m no demon, Temuchin—”

  “Do not mock me. I know the truth. What the jongleurs sing is true, though I never believed it before. You have tempted me, I have accepted, I am damned. Tell me the hour and manner of my death.”

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Of course not. You are bound as I am bound.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “I know how it was meant. By accepting all I lose all. There is no other way. But I will have it like that. I will win first. That is true, demon, you will allow that?”

  “Of course you will win, and—”

  “Tell me no more. I have changed my mind. I do not wish to know the manner of my end.” He shook his shoulders as though to remove some unseen weight, then thrust his sword back into the slings at his waist.

  “All right, believe what you will. Just give me some good men and I’ll open up the passage to the lowlands. A rope ladder will get us into the valley. I’ll mark the route and take them through the caves to prove that it can be done. Then the next time we do it the army will follow. Will they go—down there?” Temuchin laughed. “They have sworn to follow me to hell if I order it and now, so they will. They will follow.”

  “Good. Shall we shake on that?”

  “Of course! I will take the world and win eternity in hell, so I have no fear of your cold dead flesh now, my demon.”

  He crushed Jason’s hand in his and, despite himself, Jason could not help but admire the giant courage of the man.

  XX

  “Let me talk to him, please,” Meta asked.

  Kerk waved her away and clutched the microphone, almost swallowing it in his giant hand.

  “Listen to me now, Jason,” he said coldly, “we are not with you in this adventure. You will not explain your purpose and you will gain nothing except destruction. If Temuchin controls the lowlands too, we will never replace him and open the mines. Rhes has returned to Ammh and is organizing resistance to your invasion. Some here have voted to join him. I am going to ask you for the last time: Stop what you are doing before it is too late.”

  When Jason’s voice sounded from the radio it had a curious flat quality, whether the fault of the transmission or that of the speaker it was hard to say.

  “Kerk, I hear what you say and, believe me, I understand it. But it is too late now to turn back. Most of the army has gone through the caves and we’ve captured a number of moropes from the villages. Nothing I say could stop Temuchin now. This thing will have to be seen through to its conclusion. The lowlanders may win, though I doubt it. Temuchin is going to rule, above and below the cliffs, and in the end this will all be for the best.”

  “No!” Meta shouted, pulling at the microphone. “Jason, listen to me, you cannot do this. You came to us and helped us, and we believed in you. You showed us that life is not only kill and be killed. We know now that the war on Pyrrus was wrong because you showed us, and we only came to this planet because you asked us to. Now it seems, I think, it is as though you were betraying us. You have tried to teach us how not to kill and, believe me, we have tried to learn. Yet what you are doing now is worse than anything we ever did on Pyrrus. There, at least, we were fighting for our lives. You don’t have that excuse. You have shown that monster, Temuchin, a way to make new wars and to kill more people. How can you justify that?”

  Static rustled hoarsely in the speaker while they waited the long moments for Jason to speak. When he did he sounded suddenly very tired.

  “Meta . . . I’m sorry. I wish I could tell you, but it is too late. They’re looking for me and I have to hide this radio before they get here. What I’m doing is right. Try to believe that. Someone a long time ago said that you can not make an omelet without breaking eggs. Meaning you cannot bring about social change without hurting someone. People are being hurt and are dying because of me and don’t think I’m not aware of it. But . . . listen, I can’t talk any more, they’re right outside.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Meta, if I never see you again, just remember one thing. It’s an old fashioned word, but it is in a lot of languages. The library can translate it for you and give you the meaning.

  “This is better by radio. I doubt if I could say it right to your face. You’re stronger than I am, Meta, and your reflexes are a lot better, but you are still a woman. And, hell, I want to say that I . . . love you. Good luck. Signing off.”

  The speaker clicked and the room was silent.

  “What was that word he used?” Kerk asked.

  “I think I know,” she answered, and she turned her face away so he could not see it.

  “Hello Control,” a voice shouted. “Radio room here. A subspace message coming in from Pyrrus with an emergency classification.”

  “Put it through,” Kerk ordered.

  There was the rustle of interstellar static, then the familiar drumbeat warble of the jump-space carrier wave. Superimposed on top of it was the quick, worried voice of a Pyrran.

  “Attention, all stations within zeta radius. Emergency message for planet Felicity, ship’s receiver Pugnacious, code Ama Rona Pi, 290-633-087. Message follows. Kerk, anyone there. Trouble hit. All the quadrants. We’ve shortened the perimeter, abandoned most of the city. Don’t know if we can hold. Brucco says this is something new and that conventional weapons won’t stop it. We can use the fire power of your ship. If you can return, come at once. Message ends.”

  The radio room had put the subspace messag
e through to all compartments of the ship and, in the horrified silence that followed its ending, running footsteps sounded from both connecting passageways. As the first men burst in, Kerk came to life and shouted his commands.

  “All men to stations. We blast as soon as we’re secured. Call in the outside guards. Release all the prisoners. We’re leaving.”

  There was absolutely no doubt about that. It was inconceivable that any Pyrran could have acted otherwise. Their home, their city, was on the verge of destruction, perhaps already gone. They ran to their posts.

  “Rhes,” Meta said. “He’s with the army. How can we reach him?”

  Kerk thought for a moment, then shook his head. “We cannot, that is the only answer. We’ll leave the launch for him, on the same island where we make the contacts. Record a broadcast telling him what has happened and set it on automatic to broadcast every hour. When he gets back to a radio he will pick it. The launch will be locked so no one else can get in.

  There is medicine in it, even a jump-space communicator. He will be all right.”

  “He won’t like it—”

  “It’s the best we can do. Now we have to ready for blast off.”

  They worked as a team, driven by a common urge. Back. Return to Pyrrus. Their city was in danger. The ship lifted at 17G’s, and Meta would have used more power if the structure of the ship could have withstood it. Their course through jump-space was the quickest, and the most dangerous, that could be computed. There were no complaints about the time the journey took: they accepted this period with stoic resignation. But weapons were readied and there was little or no conversation. Each Pyrran held, locked within him, the knowledge that their world and their life faced extinction, and these things cannot be discussed.

  Hours before the Pugnacious was scheduled to break out of jump-space, every man and woman aboard was armed and waiting. Even nine-year-old Grif was there, a Pyrran like all the others.