American Science Fiction

by Gary K. Wolfe

  Sir Roger scowled. Bloodshot, dark-rimmed eyes, in a face whose flesh seemed melted away by care, gave him a frightful appearance. I having translated, he snapped: “Huruga.”

  “We . . . we shall not surrender our grath. He told us so himself.”

  “Brother Parvus, tell that idiot I only want to talk to the duke! A parley. Haven’t they any idea at all of civilized custom?”

  The Wersgor gave us a hurt look, since I told him my lord’s exact words, but spoke into a little box and touched a series of buttons. His image was replaced with that of Huruga. The governor rubbed sleep from his eyes and said with forlorn courage, “Don’t expect to destroy this place as you did the others. Darova was built to be an ultimate strong point. The heaviest bombardment could only remove the aboveground works. If you attempt a direct assault, we can fill the air and the land with blasts and metal.”

  Sir Roger nodded. “But how long can you maintain such a barrage?” he asked mildly.

  Huruga bared his sharp teeth. “Longer than you can mount the assault, you animal!”

  “Nonetheless,” Sir Roger murmured, “I doubt if you’re equipped for a siege.” I could find no Wersgor term in my limited vocabulary for that last word, and Huruga seemed to have trouble understanding the circumlocutions by which I rendered it. When I explained why it took me so long to translate, Sir Roger nodded shrewdly.

  “I suspected as much,” he said. “Look you, Brother Parvus. These starfaring nations have weapons nigh as powerful as St. Michael’s sword. They can blow up a city with one shell, and lay waste a shire with ten. But this being so, how could their battles ever be prolonged? Eh? Yon castle is built to take hammer blows. But a siege? Hardly!”

  To the screen: “I shall establish myself near by, keeping watch on you. At the first sign of life from your castle, I’ll open fire. So ’twere best that your men stay underground all whiles. At any time you wish to surrender, call me on the far-speaker, and I’ll be pleased to extend the courtesies of war.”

  Huruga grinned. I could almost read the thoughts behind that snout. The English were more than welcome to squat outside, till the avenging armada came! He blanked the screen.

  We found a good camp site well beyond the horizon. It lay in a deep, sheltered valley, through which a river ran clean and cold and full of fish. Meadows were dotted throughout the forest; game was abundant, and off duty our men were free to hunt. For a few of those long days, I watched cheer blossom fresh among our people.

  Sir Roger gave himself no rest. I think he dared not; for Lady Catherine left her children with their nurse and walked among bowers with Sir Owain. Not untended—they were careful of the proprieties—but her husband would glimpse them and turn to snarl a command at the nearest person.

  Hidden away in these woods, our camp was safe enough from shellfire or missiles. Its tents and lean-tos, our weapons and tools, were not a large enough concentration of metal to be sniffed out by one of the Wersgor magnetic devices. Such of our aircraft as maintained watch on Darova, always landed elsewhere. We kept trebuchets loaded, in case any activity were revealed about the fortress; but Huruga was content to wait passive. Sometimes a daring enemy vessel passed overhead, having come from some other spot on the planet. But it never found any target for its explosives, and our own patrol soon forced it away.

  Most of our strength—the great ships and guns and war-wagons—were elsewhere all this time. I myself did not see the hunting Sir Roger undertook. I stayed in camp, busying myself with such problems as teaching myself more Wersgor and Branithar more English. I also started classes in the Wersgor language for some of our more intelligent boys. Nor would I have wished to go on the baron’s expedition.

  He had spacecraft and aircraft. He had bombards to fire both flame and shell. He had a few ponderous turtle-cars. He had hundreds of light open battle-cars, which he hung with shields and pennons and manned with a cavalryman and four men-at-arms each. He went out across the continent and harried.

  No isolated estate could withstand his attack. Looting and burning, he left desolation behind him. He killed many Wersgorix, but no more than necessary. The rest he stuffed captive into the huge transport ships. A few times, the franklins and yeomen tried to make a stand. They had hand weapons only; his host scattered them like chaff and chivvied them across their own fields. It took him only a few days and nights to devastate the entire land mass. Then he made a quick foray across an ocean, bombed and flamed whatever he chanced upon, and returned.

  To me it seemed a cruel butchery, albeit no worse than this empire had done on many worlds. However, I own I have not always understood the logic of such things. Certainly what Sir Roger did was ordinary European practice in a rebellious province or a hostile foreign country. Yet when he landed in camp again, and his men swaggered forth loaded with jewels and rich fabrics, silver and gold, drunk on stolen liquor and boasting of what they had done, I went to Branithar.

  “These new prisoners are beyond my power,” I said, “but tell your brothers of Ganturath that before the baron can destroy them, he must take off my own poor head.”

  The Wersgor gave me a curious look. “What do you care for our sort?” he asked.

  “God help me,” I replied, “I do not know, save that He must also have made you.”

  Word of this reached my lord. He summoned me to the tent he now used instead of his pavilion. I saw forest glades choked with captives, milling about like sheep, mumbling and terrified under the English guns. True, their presence was a shield to us. Though the ships’ descent must now have revealed our location closely enough to Huruga’s magnifiers, Sir Roger had taken care that the governor knew what had happened. But I saw blueskin mothers holding little wailing blue cubs, and it was like a hand about my heart.

  The baron sat on a stool, gnawing a haunch of beef. Light and shadow, filtered through leaves, checkered his face. “What’s this?” he cried. “Are you so fond of yon pigfaces you’ll not let me have those we caught at Ganturath?”

  I squared my skinny shoulders. “If nothing else, sire,” I told him, “think how such a deed must harm your own soul.”

  “What?” He raised his thick brows. “When was it ever forbidden to set free the captive?”

  My turn came to gape. Sir Roger slapped one thigh, guffawing. “We’ll keep some few, like Branithar and the artisans, who’re useful to us. All the rest we’ll herd to Darova. Thousands and thousands. Don’t you imagine Huruga’s heart will melt with gratitude?”

  I stood there in sunlight and tall grass, while “Haw, haw, haw!” bellowed about me.

  So under the jeers and spear-prods of our men, that uncounted throng stumbled through beck and brake, until they emerged on cleared land and saw the distant mass of Darova. A few stepped out of the crowd, timorous. The English leaned grinning on their weapons. One Wersgor began to run. No one fired at him. Another broke away, and another. Then the entire swarm of them pelted toward the fortress.

  That evening Huruga yielded.

  “’Twas easy enough.” Sir Roger chuckled. “I had him bottled up in there. I doubted he had more than just enough supplies, for siegecraft must be a lost art in this country. So, first, I showed him I could lay his whole planet waste—which he’d have to answer for even if we were conquered in the end. Then I gave him all those extra mouths to feed.” He slapped my back. When I had been picked up and dusted off, he said, “Well, Brother Parvus, now that we own this world, would you like to head its first abbey?”

  Chapter XV

  * * *

  OF COURSE I could not accept any such offer. Quite apart from difficult questions of consecration, I hope I know my humble place in life. Anyhow, at this stage it was mere talk. We had too much else to do, to offer God more than a Mass of thanksgiving.

  We let nearly all the recaptured Wersgorix go. On a powerful far-speaker, Sir Roger broadcast a proclamation to Tharixan. He bade every large lan
dholder, in those areas not yet ravaged, to come make submission and take several of the homeless ones back with him. The lesson he had taught was so sharp that for the next few days it swarmed with blue visitors. I must needs deal with them, and forgot what sleep was like. But for the most part they were very meek. Indeed, this race had been supreme among the stars so long that only their soldiers now had occasion to develop a manly contempt for death. Once these had submitted, the burgesses and franklins quickly did likewise—and were so used to having an all-powerful government above them that they never dreamed it might be possible to revolt.

  Most of Sir Roger’s attention in that period went to training his folk in garrison duty. The castle machines being as simple to operate as most Wersgor equipment, he soon had women, children, serfs, and aged manning Darova. They should be able to hold it against attack for at least a while. Those who seemed hopelessly incapable in the diabolic arts of meter-reading, button-pushing, and knob-twisting, he put on a safely distant island to care for our livestock.

  When transplanted Ansby was thus able to defend itself, the baron gathered his free companions for yet another expedition into the sky. He explained his idea to me beforehand: as yet, I alone had any fluency in the Wersgor tongue, though Branithar (with Father Simon’s assistance) was instructing others apace.

  “We’ve done well so far, Brother Parvus,” Sir Roger declared. “But alone, we’d never hurl back the Wersgor hosts being raised against us. I hope by now you’ve mastered their writing and numerology. At least well enough to keep watch on a native navigator and see that he doesn’t steer us where we would not go.”

  “I have studied the principles of their star maps a little, sire,” I answered, “though in truth they do not employ charts, but mere columns of figures. Nor do they have mortal steersmen on the spaceships. Rather, they instruct an artificial pilot at the start of the journey, and thereafter the homunculus operates the entire craft.”

  “How well I know that!” grunted Sir Roger. “’Twas how Branithar tricked us hither in the first instance. A dangerous wight, that, but too useful to kill. Glad I am not to have him aboard on this voyage; and yet I’m not easy in my heart at leaving him in Darova. . . .”

  “But where are you bound, sire?” I interrupted.

  “Oh. Aye. That.” He knuckled eyes sandy with weariness. “There are other kings than Wersgor. Lesser star-traveling nations, who dread the day when these snout-face fiends will decide to make an end of them. I shall seek allies.”

  It was an obvious enough move, but I hesitated. “Well?” demanded Sir Roger. “What ails you now?”

  “If they have not yet gone to war,” I said weakly, “why should the advent of a few backward savages like us make them do so?”

  “Hearken, Brother Parvus,” said Sir Roger. “I’m weary of this whining about our own ignorance and feebleness. We’re not ignorant of the true Faith, are we? Somewhat more to the point, maybe, while the engines of war may change through the centuries, rivalry and intrigue look no subtler out here than at home. Just because we use a different sort of weapons, we aren’t savages.”

  I could scarcely refute his argument, since it was our only hope except for a random flight in search of lost Terra.

  The best spaceships were those which had lain in the vaults of Darova. We were outfitting these, when the sun was darkened by a still greater vessel. As it hung up there like a thundercloud, it threw dismay among our folk. But Sir Owain Montbelle came running with a Wersgor engineer in tow, snatched up myself to interpret, and led us to the far-speaker. Standing out of sight of the screen, with sword drawn, Sir Owain made the captive speak with the master of the ship.

  It proved to be a merchant craft, paying a regular call at this planet. The sight of Ganturath and Stularax turned into holes horrified its crew. We could easily enough have blasted the ship down, but Sir Owain used his Wersgor puppet to tell the captain there had been a raid from space, beaten off by the Darova garrison, and that he should land here. He obeyed. As the ship’s outer portals opened, Sir Owain led a swarm of men aboard and captured it without trouble.

  For this, they cheered him night and day. And he made a brave, colorful figure, always prepared to fling a jest or a gallantry. Sir Roger, toiling without pause, grew ever more uncouth. Men stood in awe of him, and some little hatred, since he drove them to such exertions. Sir Owain contrasted, like Oberon versus a bear. Half the women must have been in love with him, though he had songs only for Lady Catherine.

  The booty from the giant ship was rich. Best of all, however, were many tons of grain. We tried some of this on our livestock on the island, which was growing thin on the detested blue grass. They accepted the feed as eagerly as if it were English oats. When he heard this, Sir Roger exclaimed, “Whatever planet that comes from is the one we must capture next.”

  I crossed myself and hurried elsewhere.

  But we had little time to lose. It was no secret that Huruga had dispatched spaceships to Wersgorixan immediately after the second battle of Ganturath. They would take a while to reach that distant planet, and the emperor would need a while more to raise a fleet among his widely scattered domains, and thereafter it would take time for the fleet to get back here. But already days had fled from us.

  To head the Darova garrison of women, children, aged, and serfs, Sir Roger appointed his wife. I am told that our chroniclers’ practice of inventing speeches for the great persons whose lives they write is unscholarly. Yet I knew those two, not just the haughty exterior but (in glimpses, for it was shy) the soul. I can all but see them, in a buried room of the alien castle.

  Lady Catherine has hung it with her tapestries, spread rushes on the floor, and left the walls darkened in favor of sconced candles, that this place might seem less eerie to her. She waits in garments of pride, while her husband bids their children farewell. Little Matilda weeps openly. Robert withholds the tears, more or less, until he has closed the door on his father; for he is a de Tourneville.

  Slowly, Sir Roger straightens. He has stopped shaving, for lack of time, and the beard curls like wire on his scarred hook-nosed face. The gray eyes look burnt out, and a muscle in his cheek will not stop twitching. Since hot water runs freely here from pipes, he has bathed; but he wears his usual rough old jerkin and patched hose. The baldric of his great sword creaks as he advances toward his wife.

  “Well,” he says awkwardly, “I must begone.”

  “Yes.” Her back is slender and very straight.

  “I believe—” He clears his throat. “I believe you’ve learned everything needful.” When she does not answer: “Remember, ’tis most important to keep those students of the Wersgor tongue hard at their lessons. Otherwise we’ll be deaf-mutes among our foes. But never trust our prisoners. Two armed men must always be with each one of them.”

  “Indeed.” She nods. She is uncoifed, and candlelight slides along the coiled auburn hair. “I shall also remember that the pigs don’t require that new grain we give the other animals.”

  “Most important! And be certain to stock this stronghold well. Those of our folk who have eaten native food are still in health, so you can requisition from Wersgor granaries.”

  Silence thickens about them.

  “Well,” he says, “I must begone.”

  “God be with you, my lord.”

  He stands a moment, studying each smallest tone in her voice. “Catherine—”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “I’ve wronged you,” he forces out. “And I’ve neglected you, what’s worse.”

  Her hands reach out, as if of their own accord. His coarse palms close about them.

  “Any man could be mistaken, now and then,” she breathes.

  He dares look into the blue eyes. “Will you give me a token?” he asks.

  “For your safe return—”

  He drops hands to her waist, draws her close and cries
joyous: “And my final victory! Give me your token, and I’ll lay this empire at your feet!”

  She pulls herself free. Horror bestrides her lips. “When are you going to start looking for our Earth?”

  “What honor is there in slinking home, when we leave the very stars our enemies?” Pride clashes in his words.

  “God help me,” she whispers, and flees him. He stands a long while, until the sound of her feet has vanished down the cold corridors. Then he turns and walks out to his men.

  We could have crowded into one of the big ships but thought it best to disperse ourselves in a score. These had been repainted, using Wersgor supplies, by a lad who possessed some heraldic skill. Now they were scarlet and gold and purple, with the de Tourneville arms and the English leopards emblazoned on the flagship.

  Tharixan fell behind us. We went into that strange condition, ducking in and out of more dimensions than Euclid’s orderly three, which the Wersgorix called “super-light drive.” Again the stars flamed on every hand, and we amused ourselves with naming the new constellations—the Knight, the Plowman, the Arbalest, and more, including some which are not fit to put in this record.

  The voyage was not long: a few Earth-days only, as near as we could estimate from the clocks. It rested us, and we were keen as hounds when we coursed into the planetary system of Bodavant.

  By now we understood that there are many colors and sizes of suns, all intermingled. The Wersgorix, like humans, favored small yellow ones. Bodavant was redder and cooler. Only one of its planets was habitable (the usual case); and while this Boda could have been settled by men or Wersgorix, they would find it dim and chilly. Thus our enemies had not troubled to conquer the native Jairs but merely prevented them from acquiring more colonies than they had when discovered, and forced them into grossly unfavorable trade agreements.

  The planet hung like a huge shield, mottled and rusty, against the stars, when the native warships hailed us. We brought our flotilla to an obedient halt. Rather, we ceased to accelerate, and simply plunged through space in a hyperbolic sub-light orbit which the Jair craft matched. But these problems of heavenly navigation make my poor head ache; I am content to leave them to the astrologers and the angels.