The Space Barbarians

by Mack Reynolds

  The bedel was scowling again. “You sound as though you speak against the bann, clannsman. Let me point out to you that it is beyond a simple war cacique to understand all aspects of the Holy and of the Holy Books. It takes long years of study, long years of contemplation, before one can even begin to interpret the true meaning of the Holy Books. I cite a simple example, the first verse from one of the four.

  The stag at eve had drunk his fill

  Where danced the moon on Monan’s rill

  “Now then, lad, it is commonly understood that a stag was an animal of the chase, on one of the worlds Beyond. But tell me, what is a moon, and how does it dance? And above all, what is a Monan’s rill? And these are but simple problems that we bedels and Keepers of the Faith must dwell upon.”

  “I don’t know,” John said. “But it is I who wish to preserve the old ways. These so-called holy men will destroy all, and it will result in clannless men such as this Mister of the Harmons stripping us of the products of our lands.”

  The bedel said, “Why do you think all this? How do you know?”

  “I haven’t the time now to reveal, Bedel of the darks; however, I will tell all at the next Aberdeen muster.”

  He turned back to Don, who was breathing hard in his sleep, and stared down at his feverish comrade in blood. He turned again to the bedel. “You are sure it is the fleshrot?”

  “I am fairly sure.”

  Sally closed her eyes and moaned.

  John gripped her shoulder and squeezed. “I have promised Don of the Clarks will survive.”

  “You promise more than you can deliver, John of the Hawks,” the bedel grumbled.

  John of the Hawks went to his own longhouse and to his assigned quarters and banged on the door.

  It was opened by one of the expressionless younger orange clad strangers. The two were remarkably colorless. John wondered, in passing, if taking soma did this to a worshiper at the Shrine of Kalkin.

  He said, “I wish to talk to Mister of the Harmons.”

  “He has returned to the Revelation,” the stranger from Beyond said tonelessly. “Aberdeen is not the only town in which we spread the word of Lord Krishna. There are duties elsewhere.”

  John said impatiently, “Then Guru of the Marks.”

  “The guru is meditating upon the path of the Lord Krishna.”

  The other was a man of no more than six feet, a puny creature compared with John of the Hawks. John, irritation, put a hand on the stranger’s chest and pushed him back and to the side.

  “It is a matter of great importance,” he growled. He looked about the room. It was furnished quite differently than it had been when he was in residence. Various shiny metal devices and gadgets were here and there. Grey metal cabinets, holding John knew not what, lined the walls of the chamber. There was a high raised hard bed in the room’s middle, which reminded him strongly of the beds the bedels used when surgery must be performed upon the wounded.

  The orange clad stranger began to remonstrate with him, albeit in a gentle voice, but at that moment Mark, the guru, entered from, a back room.

  He said, with his usual calm dignity, “Ah, my son. You have come at last to take your soma and follow the footsteps of Lord Krishna?”

  “No,” John said. “I have not. I have come to ask you use your medicine to cure my blood companion Don of the Clarks.”

  “He is ready, then, to take the soma?”

  John’s eyes narrowed. “No, he is not.”

  The other said mildly, “Then how can I invoke the Lord Krishna in his behalf?”

  John said impatiently, “Guru of the Marks, you use your words in double meaning. I am beginning to suspect that such is the custom of all men of religion. The truth! Is it necessary to take soma for you to cure ills incurable by our bedels?”

  The guru looked at him for a long moment. Finally, he said, “What is wrong with your friend, my son?”

  “A carbine slug in his side. We were on a raid against the Thompsons of the Caithness Phylum.”

  “Thou shalt not harm, my son. Evil begets evil.”

  John snapped, “Nevertheless, the fleshrot has set in, and our bedels are helpless to cure the fleshrot when it is in the body. An arm or a leg, yes. They can amputate. But not in the depths of the body, and this wound is immediately beneath the lung.”

  “Gangrene,” the guru murmured unhappily. “How long since the wound was taken?”

  “Three days and more.”

  “Too long,” the orange clad assistant said. “Only the autohospital in the Revelation could handle him if the flesh has been gangrenous for that long.”

  John’s eyes went from one of them to the other. “What is an autohospital?” he demanded.

  The assistant looked at the guru, who said, “The Lord Krishna has seen fit, my son, to provide his followers of the path to the Shrine of Kalkin with the means whereby to cure all ills, save those of time. So it is that we who walk with Lord Krishna live lives free of sickness until we are ready to be gathered to the bosom of Kalkin.”

  John snapped, “You still talk with double meaning, Guru of the Marks. But this autohospital will free Don of the Clarks of the fleshrot?”

  “Yes, my son. But Harmon has returned with the skimmer of the Revelation and is not to return for a week. By that time our work hers in Aberdeen will be through, for the time, and we will proceed to the next town, leaving the good work here to be continued by those who have taken up the path of Krishna.”

  Without further words, John of the Hawks turned on his heel and left.

  Outside the longhouse he barked orders to several of his clannsmen who were standing about. Two horses were brought up, a litter rigged on one of them.

  Dewey said. “What do you propose?”

  “The fleshrot has set in. This Guru of the Marks informs me that on the ship from Beyond there is means to cure it. I take Don of the Clarks to Nairn.”

  “But it is a three day ride!”

  John looked at his kynsman.

  Dewey said, “He will be dead before you arrive.”

  Chapter Six

  John of the Hawks brought his steed to a halt and looked up at the looming spaceship. As before, the ramp was down and the entry open, though no one was in sight He wondered vaguely at the arrogance of the strangers from Beyond. Did they believe themselves immune to raid?

  He dismounted and turned to the other horse and its burden. As gently as was possible, he worked at the litter, unbinding the unconscious Don, taking him in arms. There was a nauseating stench of putrefying flesh.

  He slung his companion in arms over his left shoulder, so that his right hand could be free, and began the ascent of the ramp.

  The ship’s defenses were not as negligent as all that. As he reached the entry port, two of the strangers from Beyond stepped forth. Both were dressed in the clothing of Harmon, the dark garb of the acolyte of the religion of the Shrine of Kalkin. However, neither was of the caliber of the guru or his orange clad assistants. At least, so their expressions suggested.

  Nor were their voices exactly the gentle tones of Mark.

  One said, “Where do you think you’re going, big boy?”

  John came to a halt and said, “I have come to cure the fleshrot in the autohospital told of by Guru of the Marks.”

  The second of the strangers wrinkled up his nose. “If you think you’re going to bring that stinking specimen into this ship, you’re more of a dully than you look.”

  The other one said, “None of the monks are around, big boy. Go on over to town, there’s a couple of them there. They’ll take care of you.”

  John said evenly, “I am not of Nairn. I am of the Hawk Clann of Aberdeen. I have ridden far to reach the auto-hospital, and my comrade is near death.”

  “That’s too bad, but you’re not coming into the Revelation. Skipper’s orders. No Caledonians inside the ship, unless the guru personally brings them in.”

  The bleakness of the wastelands in his voice, John said,
“I take my blood comrade to the autohospital, man from Beyond. I suggest you do not attempt to hinder me.”

  The other answered that by darting his hand inside his jerkin. But he reckoned without the abilities of the most celebrated war cacique of Aberdeen. His handgun had hardly cleared his clothing before he felt the sharp sting of the skean bite deep into his side, then rip toward his belly. All turned black, even as he caved forward.

  His dagger free again, John of the Hawks turned to the other, the bleakness in his eyes now. “You will lead us to the autohospital, man from Beyond, or you will share the fate of your fellow.”

  The other was obviously a slink, John of the Hawks realized. His whiteness of face proclaimed that. He turned and started down the metal corridor, his shoulders held in such wise that he was obviously afraid of having the clannsman behind him, expecting momentarily to feel the skean in his back. John sneered his contempt and shifted the body of Don of the Clarks slightly, to relieve the cramp of his burden, for his blood comrade was no small man.

  The corridor was long and unrelieved by other than periodic doors. They tramped along wordlessly.

  At long last they reached a portal somewhat larger than the others, and the spaceman turned, his face surly. “This is the entry to the autohospital,” he said.

  “Very well. Lead the way.”

  The other shrugged and opened the door and entered, John Immediately behind. The man from Beyond stood to one side.

  The room was fairly large, furnished considerably as Mark the guru had furnished John’s living quarters in Aberdeen, that is, with equipment obviously of a medical nature, though not understood by John—with metal files, and medicine chest and all spotlessly sterile.

  And in the center of the room, a sardonic twist on his mouth, stood Harmon, a weapon in his hand directed at the belly of the Caledonian.

  “Welcome to the Revelation, John of the Hawks,” he said.

  John looked at him.

  Harmon said, “Did you labor under the illusion that you could force your way into a spaceship without setting off alarms? Are you so empty that you couldn’t guess that every word you’ve spoken since you entered the ship has been picked up?”

  John said, “I have brought Don, Sagamore of the Clarks, to be treated in the autohospital, Mister of the Harmons.”

  The other spaceman blurted, “He knifed Petersen. I think he’s dead. Give him the flamer, Skipper!”

  Harmon said thoughtfully, “I don’t think the guru would approve of that, Jim. Besides, it would dinge up our image with the locals. Remember our bit, thou shalt not harm.”

  “But he finished Petersen!”

  “In honorable defense,” John said. “He drew his weapon.”

  Harmon stepped back and sat down in a chair, his gun still at the ready and his face thoughtful.

  “A sagamore, eh?” he said. “That’s kind of a subwar-chief, isn’t it? And you’re raid cacique of your clann, aren’t you, John? It occurs to me that you are two of the top bullyboys of Aberdeen.”

  John, ignoring the other’s hand weapon, stepped over to the white sheeted operating table and deposited Don there, making the unconscious clannsman as comfortable as possible. He turned then, back to the Revelation’s captain.

  “He is dying,” he said. “Where is the autohospital?”

  Harmon nodded toward a door studded with dials, switches, small wheels, meaningless to John of the Hawks. “In there,” he said.

  John said, “We must hurry, or he is dead.”

  Harmon said musingly, “It would be quite impressive if the two of you returned to Aberdeen as loyal followers of Lord Krishna, wouldn’t it?”

  John stared at him.

  Harmon jiggled his weapon. “Jim,” he said, “help this overgrown dully put his friend in the autohospital and activate it.”

  Jim growled, “He knifed Petersen.”

  “Forget about Petersen. Evidently, it’s too late to worry about him now.”

  Grumbling, the spaceman opened the indicated door and motioned to John, who took up Don in his arms, as a baby is taken up, and carried him into the small compartment beyond. The interior was only bewildering to him. However, there was another metal bed.

  “Take his clothes off,” Jim directed sourly. “Bandages and all.”

  He will bleed to death!

  “He won’t have time to. The minute we step out of here he begins to get blood transfusions.” The other began to throw various switches.

  John obeyed orders.

  “All right,” the one addressed as Jim said. “Now get on out.”

  Back in the room with Harmon, John watched as the spaceman closed the door, isolating Don of the Clarkes.

  John said, “What happens now?”

  Harmon said, “Over there. Sit down, where I can watch you. Jim, get back to Petersen. If he’s still alive, get one of the other boys and get Petersen into the autohospital. If he isn’t, put him in Disposal and get back to your watch. We’re short handed with so many out spreading the good word of Lord Krishna.”

  Jim left, and John of the Hawks seated himself as directed, keeping his eyes on Harmon.

  Harmon jiggled his gun again in an amused fashion and smiled mockingly at the clannsman. “What happens now? We wait about an hour or so, and then your buddy buddy comes out all whole again. And then the two of you take your soma and return to Aberdeen to set a good example. Six months from now, oh, perhaps a year, and you’ll both be working in the new mines, all civilized, along with everybody else on Caledonia.”

  “What is this civilized?” John said. Inwardly, he quailed, but he would have been shamed to have the other see it. He knew the power of the other’s weapon. It was what DeRudder had once called a flamer. But it was not the gun that caused him to feel a slink, but the other’s threat to make both him and Don take the dreaded soma.

  “Civilized?” Harmon said, a cynical grin on his face. “You wouldn’t know, would you? We’ve got time to kill, John of the Hawks, so I’ll tell you a story. It’s a story about you. You and the rest of Caledonia. I think I’ve got it reconstructed fairly well. Krishna knows, it’s taken me the better part of the past ten years to trace it down. It started some centuries ago, when one of the early colonist ships, the Inverness Ark, was thrown out of warp and wound up here, far, far from where it was headed. The ship crashed, and it must have been one dilly of a crackup, since evidently things were destroyed to the point where they only rescued four books.”

  “The four Holy Books, you mean?” John said.

  Harmon laughed. “A volume of quatrains by an ancient Persian, an epic poem by a British romantic period writer named Scott, Ancient Society, an early work on American ethnology, and a volume by H. J. Muller on genetics. Holy Books! What a combination upon which to base a whole culture!”

  John didn’t understand the amusement, but he said, “Go on with the story, Mister of the Harmons.”

  “Of course. Practically everything must have been lost, and in the attempt to survive, a tribal culture based strongly on ritual and taboo evolved. The earliest of the Caledonians—that name, and other names you use, bear out the fact that most of the colonists were Scottish—must have understood your books well enough to take steps to strengthen your bloodlines by diffusing the genes as universally as possible. They adopted a gens system, based on Morgan’s anthropological work among the Amerinds.”

  John, scowling and getting only a portion of the other’s meaning, said, “You mean the holy man, Lewis of the Morgans?”

  Harmon laughed. “Is that what you call him? At any rate, the steps taken to preserve the colonists from interbreeding resulted in your society becoming ossified. You’re at about the same stage of development as the Iroquois, although you’ve got a few things, such as gunpowder and the working of metals, that they hadn’t.”

  The skipper of the Revelation yawned. “However, that’ll all end now. We’ll bring you out of barbarism and into civilization in one generation. The last generation,
in fact. After that, Caledonia will have to be colonized all over again, soma being soma.”

  John said, “What is this soma that you intend to force us to take?”

  Harmon jiggled his gun again. “Soma, my friend, is the most notable of the psychedelics, or hallucinogens, if you will.” He pointed with his gun. “Over there, on the table.”

  John looked. On the small table indicated were two of what looked to be tablets of sugar.

  “I got them out for you and your brawny friend,” Harmon said in mock agreeableness.

  “What is a hallucinogen?” John said.

  “Well, it’s a long and interesting story,” Harmon said. “Man’s history does not go back far enough to give the origins. Indeed, some scholars, such as the early Englishman Robert Graves, explored the idea that the raw mushroom amanita muscaria was the so-called ambrosia of the worshipers of Dionysus and that the Eleusinian, Orphic and other mysteries associated with Dionysus were all based on eating this early hallucinogen. Indeed, the eating of the mushroom psilocybe by the Masatec Indians of Oaxaca, Mexico, invoking the mushroom god Tlaloc, was very similar. Fascinating subject, don’t you think, John of the Hawks?”

  John realized the other was cozening him, but he kept his peace.

  “My own belief,” Harmon continued, “is that the guru is correct when he tells us that the soma of the early Indus Valley civilization was a hallucinogen that so affected the people that they could not bring themselves to violence. Thus it was that when the, ah, impetuous Aryans came down from the north they found such towns as Mohenjo-Daro and Harappa without even walls in the way of defense. Archaeologists, in excavating the Indus Valley towns, find much in the way of art and artifacts, practically nothing in the way of weapons. You see, soma then, as now, so affected its takers that they could subscribe only to the, ah, you would call it a bann, ‘thou shalt not harm.’ The tradition of being vegetarians came down well into historic times among the Hindu Indians.”