American Science Fiction

by Gary K. Wolfe

  This empire filled a rough sphere in space, about two thousand light-years across. (A light-year being the incredible distance that light covers in one standard Wersgor year, which Branithar said was about 10 per cent longer than the Terrestrial period.) It included millions of suns with their worlds. But most of these, because of poisonous air or poisonous life forms or other things, were useless to the Wersgorix and ignored.

  Sir Roger asked if they were the only nation which had learned to fly between the stars. Branithar shrugged contemptuously. “We have encountered three others, who developed the art independently,” he said. “They live within the sphere of our empire, but so far we have not subdued them. It was not worth while, when primitive planets are such easier game. We allow these three races to traffic, and to keep the small number of colonies they had already established in other planetary systems. But we have not allowed them to continue expanding. A couple of minor wars settled that. They have no love for us; they know we will destroy them someday when it is convenient for us to do so, but they are helpless in the face of overwhelming power.”

  “I see,” nodded the baron.

  He instructed me to start learning the Wersgor language. Branithar found it amusing to teach me, and I could smother my own fears by hard work, so it went quite fast. Their tongue was barbarous, lacking the noble inflections of Latin, but on that account not hard to master.

  In the control turret I found drawers full of charts and numerical tables. All the writing was beautifully exact; I thought they must have such scribes it was a pity they had not gone on to illuminate the pages. Puzzling over these, and using what I had learned of the Wersgor speech and alphabet, I decided this was a set of navigational directions.

  A regular map of the planet Tharixan was included, since this had been the home base of the expedition. I translated the symbols for land, sea, river, fortress, and so on. Sir Roger pored long hours over it. Even the Saracen chart his grandfather had brought back from the Holy Land was crude compared to this; though on the other hand the Wersgorix showed lack of culture by omitting pictures of mermaids, the four winds, hippo­griffs, and similar ornamentation.

  I also deciphered the legends on some of the control-panel instruments. Such dials as those for altitude and speed could readily be mastered. But what did “fuel flow” mean? What was the difference between “sub-light drive” and “super-light drive”? Truly these were potent, though pagan, charms.

  And so the sameness of days passed, and after a time which felt like a century we observed that one star was waxing in the screens. It swelled until it flamed big and bright as our own sun. And then we saw a planet, similar to ours save that it had two small moons. Downward we plunged, till the scene was not a ball in the sky but a great rugged sweep of landscape under our footsoles. When I saw heaven again turned blue, I threw myself to the deck in thanksgiving.

  The lock-bar snapped upward. The ship came to a halt and hung where it was, a mile in the air. We had reached Tharixan.

  Chapter VI

  * * *

  SIR ROGER had summoned me to the control turret, with Sir Owain and Red John, who led Branithar on a leash. The bowman gaped at the screens and muttered horrid oaths.

  Word had gone through the ship that all fighting men must arm themselves. The two knights here were in plate, their esquires waiting outside with shields and helmets. Horses stamped in the holds and along the corridors. Women and children huddled back with bright fearful eyes.

  “Here we are!” Sir Roger grinned. It was eldritch to see him so boyishly gay, when everyone else was swallowing hard and sweating till the air reeked. But a fight, even against the powers of hell, was something he could understand. “Brother Parvus, ask the prisoner where we are on the planet.”

  I put the question to Branithar, who touched a control button. A hitherto blank screen glowed to life, showing a map. “We are where the cross hairs center,” he told us. “The map will unroll as we fly about.”

  I compared the screen with the chart in my hand. “The fortress called Ganturath seems to lie about a hundred miles north by northeast, my lord,” I said.

  Branithar, who had been picking up a little English, nodded. “Ganturath is only a minor base.” He must put his boasts into Latin still. “Yet numerous spaceships are stationed there, and swarms of aircraft. The fire-weapons on the ground can blast this vessel out of existence, and force screens will stop any beams from your own guns. Best you surrender.”

  When I had translated, Sir Owain said slowly: “It may be the wisest thing, my lord.”

  “What?” cried Sir Roger. “An Englishman yield without a fight?”

  “But the women, sire, and the poor little children!”

  “I am not a rich man,” said Sir Roger. “I cannot afford to pay ransom.” He clumped in his armor to the pilot’s chair, sat down, and tapped the manual controls.

  Through the downward vision screens, I saw the land slide swiftly away beneath us. Its rivers and mountains were of home-like shape, but the vegetation’s green hues were overlaid with a weird bluish tint. The country seemed wild. Now and again we saw a few rounded buildings, amidst enormous grainfields cultivated by machines, but otherwise it was bare of man as the New Forest. I wondered if this, too, were some king’s hunting preserve, then remembered Branithar’s account of sparse habitation everywhere in the Wersgor Empire.

  A voice broke our silence, chattering away in the harsh blueface language. We started, crossed ourselves, and glared about. The sounds came from a small black instrument affixed to the main panel.

  “So!” Red John drew his dagger. “All this time there’s been a stowaway! Give me a crowbar, sire, and I’ll pry him out.”

  Branithar divined his meaning. Laughter barked in the thick blue throat. “The voice is borne from afar, by waves like those of light but longer,” he said.

  “Talk sense!” I demanded.

  “Well, we are being hailed by an observer at Ganturath fortress.”

  Sir Roger nodded curtly when I translated. “Voices out of thin air are little compared to what we’ve already seen,” he said. “What does the fellow want?”

  I could catch only a few words of the challenge, but got the drift of it. Who were we? This was not the regular landing place for scout craft. Why did we enter a forbidden area? “Calm them,” I instructed Branithar, “and remember I will understand if you betray us.”

  He shrugged, as if amused, though his own brow was also filmed with sweat. “Scoutship 587-Zin returning,” he said. “Urgent message. Will halt above the base.”

  The voice gave assent, but warned that if we came lower than a stanthax (about half a mile), we would be destroyed. We were to hover until the crews of patrol aircraft could board us.

  By now, Ganturath was visible: a compact mass of domes and half-cylinders, masonry over steel skeletons as we later found out. It made a circle about a thousand feet in diameter. Half a mile or so northward lay a smaller set of buildings. Through a magnifying view screen, we saw that out of the latter jutted the muzzles of huge fire-bombards.

  Even as we came to a halt, a pale shimmering sprang up around both parts of the fortress. Branithar pointed. “The defensive screens. Your own shots would spatter harmlessly off. It would be a lucky hit that melted one of those gun muzzles, where they thrust out beyond the shield. But you are an easy target.”

  Several egg-shaped metallic craft, like midges against the huge bulk of our Crusader, approached. We saw others lift from the ground, the main part of the fortress. Sir Roger’s fair head nodded. “’Tis as I thought,” he said. “Those screens stop a fire-beam, mayhap, but not a material object, since the boats pass through.”

  “True,” said Branithar by way of me. “You might manage to drop an explosive missile or two, but the outlying section, where the guns are, would destroy you.”

  “Aha.” Sir Roger studied the Wersgor with ey
es gone pale. “So you possess explosive shells, eh? Doubtless aboard this very craft. And you never told me. We’ll see about that later.” He jerked a thumb at Red John and Sir Owain. “Well, you two have seen how the ground lies. Go back to the men, now, and be ready to emerge fighting when we land.”

  They departed, nervously eying the screens, where the aircraft were very near us. Sir Roger put his own hands on the wheels that controlled the bombards. We had learned, with some experimentation, that those great weapons almost aimed and fired themselves. As the patrol boats closed in, Sir Roger cut loose.

  Blinding hell-beams stabbed forth. They wrapped the aircraft in flame. I saw the nearest one cut in two by that fiery sword. Another tumbled red-hot, a third exploded. Thunder boomed. Then all I saw was falling metal scrap.

  Sir Roger tested Branithar’s claims, but they were true: his beams splashed off that pale, translucent screen. He grunted. “I looked for that. Best we get down now before they send up a real warship to deal with us, or open fire from the outlying emplacement.” While he spoke, he sent us hurtling groundward. A flame touched our hull, but then we were too low. I saw Ganturath’s buildings rush up to meet me and braced myself for death.

  A ripping and crunching went through our ship. This very turret burst open as it brushed a low lookout tower. But the battlements of that were snapped off. Two thousand feet long, incalculably heavy, the Crusader squashed half Ganturath beneath itself.

  Sir Roger was on his feet even before the engines went dead. “Haro!” he bellowed. “God send the right!” And off he went, across the canted, buckled deck. He snatched his helmet from the terrified esquire and put it on as he strode. The boy followed, teeth chattering but nonetheless in charge of the de Tourneville shield.

  Branithar sat speechless. I gathered up my robe and hurried off to find a sergeant who would lock up the valuable captive for me. This being done, I was able to witness the battle.

  We had come down lengthwise rather than on our tail, protected by the artificial weight generators from tumbling around inside. Havoc encompassed us, smashed buildings and sharded walls. A chaos of blue Wersgorix boiled from the rest of the fortress.

  By the time I got to the exit myself, Sir Roger was out with all his cavalry. He didn’t stop to gather them, but charged into the thick of the nearest enemies. His horse neighed, mane flying, armor flashing; the long lance spitted three bodies at once. When at length the spear was broken, my lord drew his sword and hewed lustily. Most of his followers had no scruples about unknightly weapons; they eked out blade, mace, and morningstar with handguns from the ship.

  Now archers and men-at-arms poured forth, yelling. Belike it was their own terror that made them so savage. They closed with the Wersgorix ere our foe could unleash many lightning bolts. The battle became hand-to-hand, a leaderless riot, where ax or dagger or quarterstaff was more useful than fire-beam or pellet gun.

  When the space about him was cleared, Sir Roger reared on his black stallion. He clashed back his visor and set bugle to lips. It shrieked through the din, summoning the mounted force. These, better disciplined than the foot soldiers, disengaged themselves from the immediate fray and joined the baron. A mass of great horses, men like steel towers, blazoned shields and flying plumes and lances aloft, formed behind my lord.

  His gauntleted hand pointed to the outlying fort, where the skyward bombards had ceased their futile shooting. “That we must seize, ere they rally!” he cried. “After me, Englishmen, for God and St. George!”

  He took a fresh shaft from his esquire, spurred his charg­er, and began to pick up speed. The earthquake roll of hoofs deepened behind him.

  Those Wersgorix stationed in the lesser fort poured out to resist the attack. They had guns of several kinds, plus small explosive missiles to be thrown by hand. They picked off a couple of riders. But in that short distance there was no time for more long-range shooting. And they were unnerved in any event. There is no sight more terrifying than a charge of heavy cavalry.

  The trouble of the Wersgorix was that they had gone too far. They had made combat on the ground obsolete, and were ill trained, ill equipped, when it happened. True, they possessed fire-beams, as well as force shields to stop those same fire-beams. But they had never thought to lay down caltrops.

  As it was, the frightful blow struck their line, rolled over it, stamped it into mud, and continued without even being slowed.

  One of the buildings beyond gaped open. A small spaceship—though big as any seagoing vessel on Earth—had been trundled forth. It stood on its tail, engine growling, ready to take off and flame us from above. Sir Roger directed his cavalry thither. The lancers hit it in a single line. Shafts splintered; men were hurled from the saddle. But consider: a charging cavalryman may bear his own weight of armor, and have fifteen hundred pounds of horse beneath him. The whole travels at several miles per hour. The impact is awesome.

  The ship was bowled over. It fell on its side and lay crippled.

  Through and through the lesser fort, Sir Roger’s horsemen ramped, sword, mace, spurred boot, and shod hoof. The Wersgorix died like swatted flies. Or say rather, the flies were the small patrol boats, buzzing overhead, unable to shoot into that melee without killing their own folk. To be sure, Sir Roger was killing their own folk anyway; but by the time the Wersgorix realized that, they were too late.

  Back in the main section where the Crusader lay, the fight sputtered down into a question of slaying bluefaces or taking them prisoner or chasing them into the near-by forest. It was still one vast confusion, though, and Red John Hameward felt he was wasting the skill of his longbowmen. He formed them into a detachment and quick-stepped across open ground to aid Sir Roger.

  The patrol boats swooped low, hungrily. Here was prey they might get. Their thin beams were intended for short ranges. On the first pass, two archers died. Then Red John yelled an order.

  Suddenly the sky was full of arrows. A cloth-yard shaft with a six-foot yew bow behind it will go through an armored man and the horse beneath him. These little boats made matters worse by flying directly into the gray goose flock. Not one of them escaped. Riddled, their pilots quilled as hedgehogs, they crashed. The archers roared and ran to join the fray ahead.

  The spaceship which the lancers had knocked over was still manned. Its crew must have recovered their wits. Suddenly its gun turrets spurted flame, no mere hand-weapon beam but thunderbolts that knocked down walls. A horseman and his steed, caught in that fire, were instantly gone. Vengefully, the lightnings raked around.

  Red John picked up one end of a great steel beam, part of the dome shattered by those bombards. Fifty men aided him. They ran toward the entry port of the ship. Once, twice, crash! Down came the door, and the English yeomen stormed within.

  The Battle of Ganturath lasted for some hours, but most of that time went merely to ferret out hidden remnants of the garrison. When the alien sun smoldered westward, there were about a score of English dead. None were badly wounded, for the flame guns usually killed if they hit the mark at all. Some three hundred Wersgorix were slain, roughly an equal number captured; many of these latter were minus a limb or an ear. I would guess that perhaps a hundred more escaped on foot. They would carry word of us to the nearest estates—which, however, were not very close by. Evidently the speed and destructiveness of our initial attack had put Ganturath’s far-speakers out of action before the alarm could go abroad.

  Our true disaster was not revealed till later. We were not dismayed at having wrecked the ship we came in, for we now had several other vessels whose aggregate volume would hold us all. Their crews had never gotten a chance to man them. However, in her atrocious landing, the Crusader had burst open her control turret. And the Wersgor navigational notes therein were now lost.

  At the moment, all was triumph. Red-splashed, panting, in scorched and dinted armor, Sir Roger de Tourneville rode a weary horse back to the main fortress. A
fter him came the lancers, archers, yeomen—ragged, battered, shoulders slumped with exhaustion. But the Te Deum was on their lips, rising beneath the strange constellations that twinkled forth, and their banners flew bravely against the sky.

  It was wonderful to be an Englishman.

  Chapter VII

  * * *

  WE MADE camp at the nearly intact lesser fort. Our people chopped wood from the forest, and as the two moons rose, their blazes leaped up. Men sat close, faces picked out of darkness by the homely unrestful light, waiting for the stewpots to be ready. Horses cropped the native grass without enjoying its taste. The captured Wersgorix huddled together under guard of pikemen. They were stunned; this did not seem possible. I felt almost sorry for them, godless and cruel though their dominion was.

  Sir Roger summoned me to join his captains, who were camped near one of the gun turrets. We manned what defenses were available, against expected counterattack, and tried not to wonder what new frightfulness the foe might have in their armory.

  Tents had been erected for the more wellborn ladies. Most were abed, but Lady Catherine sat on a stool at the edge of the firelight. She listened to our talk, and her mouth was drawn into bleak lines.

  The captains sprawled, weary, on the ground. I saw Sir Owain Montbelle, idly thrumming his harp; scarred, fierce old Sir Brian Fitz-William, the third of the three knighted men on this voyage; big Alfred Edgarson, the purest of Saxon franklins; gloomy Thomas Bullard, fingering the naked sword on his lap; Red John Hameward, shy because he was the lowest born of them all. A couple of pages poured wine.

  My lord Sir Roger, the unbendable, was on his feet, hands clasped behind his back. Having removed his armor like the others, while leaving his clothes of pride in their chest, he might have been the humblest of his own sergeants. But then one saw the sinewy jut-nosed face and heard him talk. And spurs jingled on his boots.