American Science Fiction

by Gary K. Wolfe

  “You are too modest, sire.” Sir Owain smiled.

  “Argh!” The baron’s pleasure vanished. “Satan take such matters. The only important thing now is: here we sit, stewing, until the fleet is raised. And meanwhile the enemy is on his way!”

  Indeed, that was a nightmare time. We could not leave Boda to join our women and children in the fortress, for the alliance was still unstable. A hundred times Sir Roger must patch it up, often using means that would cost him dearly in the next life. The rest of us spent our time studying history, languages, geography (or should I say astrology?), and the witchlike mechanic arts. This latter must be done on pretext of comparing local engines with those of our home, to the detriment of the former. Luckily, though not unnaturally—Sir Roger had extracted the information from officers and documents, ere we left Tharixan—certain of the arms we captured there were secret. Thus we could demonstrate an especially effective handgun or explosive ball and claim it was English, taking care that none of our allies got too close a look at it.

  The night the Jair liaison ship returned from Tharixan, with word that the enemy armada had arrived, Sir Roger went alone into his bedchamber. I do not know what happened, but next morning his sword needed sharpening and all the furniture lay in splinters.

  God granted, though, that we had not much longer to wait. The Bodavant fleet was already gathered in orbit. Now several dozen lean battlecraft from Ashenk arrived, and soon thereafter the boxlike vessels of Pr?*t lumbered in from their poisonous home world. We embarked and roared off to war.

  Our first glimpse of Darova, after we had fought past outlying Wersgor ships and into Tharixan’s atmosphere, made me doubt that aught was left to rescue. For hundreds of miles around the land lay black, ripped, and desolated. Rock bubbled molten wherever a shell had newly struck. That subtle death which can only be sensed with instruments had lain waste this entire continent, and would linger for years.

  But Darova was built to withstand such forces, and Lady Catherine had provisioned it well. I glimpsed a Wersgor flotilla as it screamed low above her force-field. Their missiles burst close, causing the near-solid stone of the aboveground structures to flow on the outside—but leaving the interiors unharmed. The seared earth opened; bombards thrust out like viper tongues, spat lightning, and retracted ere fresh explosives could smite. Three Wersgor ships tumbled in ruin. Their wrecks were added to the carnage which was left from an attempt to storm this place on the ground.

  Then I saw no more of smoke-veiled Darova. For the Wersgorix were upon us in force, and the combat moved up again into space.

  Strange was that battle. It was fought at unimaginable distances with fire-beams, cannon shells, unmanned missiles. Ships maneuvered under direction from artificial brains, so fast that only the weight-making fields prevented their crews from being smeared across the bulkheads. Hulls were blown open by near-misses, yet could not sink in airless space: the wounded portions sealed themselves off, and the remainder continued to shoot.

  Such was the usual way of space war. Sir Roger made an innovation. It had horrified the Jair admirals when he first proposed it, but he had insisted it was a standard English tactic—which it was, in a way. Actually, of course, he did it for fear that his men would otherwise betray their clumsiness with the hell-weapons.

  So he disposed them in numerous small, exceedingly fast craft. Our over-all plan of battle was made highly unorthodox, for no other reason than to maneuver the enemy into certain positions. When that chance came, Sir Roger’s boats flitted into the heart of the Wersgor fleet. He lost some few, but the others continued their outrageous orbit, to the very flagship of the foe. It was a monstrous thing, almost a mile long, even big enough to carry force-field generators. But the English used explosives to punch through its hull. Then, in space armor, atop which the knights planted their crests—carrying sword, ax, halberd, and bow, as well as handguns—they boarded.

  They were not enough to seize that entire labyrinth of corridors and cabins. Yet they enjoyed themselves, suffered small loss (sailors out here being untrained in hand-to-hand fighting), and threw matters into a confusion which vastly aided our general assault. Eventually the crew abandoned that ship. Sir Roger saw them doing so and withdrew his own troop just before the hull was blown to bits.

  Only God and the more warlike saints know if his action proved decisive. The allied fleet was outnumbered and very much outgunned, so every gain we made was valuable out of proportion. On the other hand, our attack had come as a surprise. And we had boxed the foe between ourselves and Darova, whose largest missiles flew into space itself to destroy Wersgor craft.

  I cannot describe the vision of St. George, for it was not my privilege to observe this. However, many a sober, trustworthy man-at-arms swore that he saw the holy knight ride down the Milky Way in a foam of stars and impale enemy ships on his lance like so many dragons. Be this as it may, after many hours which I remember but dimly, the Wersgorix gave up. They withdrew in good order, having lost perhaps a fourth of their fleet, and we did not pursue them far.

  Instead, we hovered above blackened Darova. Sir Roger and the chiefs of his allies went down in a boat. In the central underground hall, the English garrison, grimy and exhausted from days of battle, gave a feeble cheer. Lady Catherine took time to bathe and garb herself in her best, for honor’s sake. She swept out like a queen to greet the captains.

  But when she saw her husband, standing in dinted space armor against the chilly glow-light, her stride faltered. “My lord—”

  He took off his glazed helmet. The air tubes got somewhat in the way of his knightly gesture, as he tucked it under an arm and went to one knee before her. “No,” he cried aloud. “Say not that. Let me rather say, ‘My lady and love.’”

  She advanced like a sleepwalker. “Is the victory yours?”

  “No. Yours.”

  “And now—”

  He rose, grimacing as the necessities clamped back down on him. “Conferences,” he said. “Repair of battle damage. Making of new ships, raising of more armies. Intrigues among allies, heads to knock together, laggards to hearten. And fighting to do, always fighting. Until, God willing, the bluefaces are whipped back to their home planet and submit—” He stopped. Her face had lost its quick lovely color. “But for tonight, my lady,” he said, unskillfully, though he must have rehearsed it many times, “I think we’ve earned the right to be alone, that I may praise you.”

  She drew a shaken breath. “Did Sir Owain Montbelle live?” she asked. When he did not say no, she crossed herself, and a tiny smile flickered on her lips. Then she bade the alien captains welcome and held out her hand for them to kiss.

  Chapter XVII

  * * *

  I COME now to a grievous part of this history, and the most difficult to write. Nor was I present, save at the very end.

  This was because Sir Roger hurled himself into his crusade as if he fled from something—which in a way was true—and I was dragged with him like a leaf whirled along in a gale. I was his interpreter, but at every moment when we had naught else to do I became his teacher and would instruct him in Wersgor until my poor weak flesh could endure no more. My last glimpse, ere I toppled into sleep, would be of candlelight guttering on my lord’s haggard face. Then he would often as not summon a doctor of the Jair language, who would teach him until dawn. At this rate, it was not many weeks before he could curse hideously in both tongues.

  Meanwhile, he drove his allies nigh as hard as he did himself. The Wersgorix must be given no chance to recover. Planet after planet must be attacked, reduced, and garrisoned, so that the foe always fought off balance, on the defensive. In this task, we had much help from enslaved native populations. As a rule, these need only be given arms and leadership. Then they attacked their masters in such hordes, with such ferocity, that the latter fled to us for protection. Jairs, Ashenkoghli, and Pr?*tans were horrified. They had no experience in such ma
tters; whereas Sir Roger had encountered the Jacquerie in France. In their bewilderment, his fellow chieftains came more and more to accept his unquestioned leadership.

  The ins and outs of what happened are too complex, too various from world to world, for this paltry record. But in essence, on each inhabited planet, the Wersgorix had destroyed whatever original civilization existed. Now the Wersgor system in turn was toppled. Into this vacuum—unreligion, anarchy, banditry, famine, the ever-present menace of a blueface return, the necessity of training the natives themselves to eke out our thin garrisons—Sir Roger stepped. He had a solution to these problems, one hammered out in Europe during those not dissimilar centuries after Rome fell: the feudal system.

  But just when he was thus laying the cornerstone of victory, it crumbled for him. God rest his soul! No more gallant knight ever lived. Even now, a lifetime later, tears dim my old eyes, and I were fain to hurry over this part of the chronicle. Since I witnessed so little, it would be excusable for me to do so.

  However, those who betrayed their lord did not rush into it. They stumbled. Had Sir Roger not been blind to all warning signs, it would never have happened. Therefore I shall not set it down in cold words, but fall back on the earlier (and, I think, truer) practice of inventing whole scenes, that folk now dust may live again and be known, not as abstract villainies, but as fallible souls: on whom perhaps God, at the very last, had mercy.

  We begin on Tharixan. The fleet had just departed to seize the first Wersgor colony of its long campaign. A Jair garrison occupied Darova. But those English women, children, and grandsires who had so valiantly held fast, were given what reward lay in Sir Roger’s power. He moved them to that island where our kine were pastured. There they could dwell in woods and fields, erecting houses, herding, hunting, sowing and reaping, almost as if it were home. Lady Catherine was set to rule over them. She kept Branithar, of the Wersgor captives, as much to prevent his revealing too much to the Jairs as to continue giving instruction in his language. She also had a small fast spaceship for emergency use. Visits from the Jairs across the sea were discouraged, lest they observe too closely.

  It was a peaceful time, save in my lady’s heart.

  For her the great grief began the day after Sir Roger embarked. She walked across a flowery meadow, hearing wind sough in the trees. A pair of her maids followed behind. Through the woods came voices, the ring of an ax, the bark of a dog, but to her they seemed of dreamlike remoteness.

  Suddenly she halted. For a moment she could only stare. Then one hand stole to the crucifix on her breast. “Mary, have pity.” Her maids, well-trained, slipped back out of earshot.

  Sir Owain Montbelle hobbled from the glade. He was in his gayest garb, nothing but a sword to remind her of war. The crutch on which he leaned hardly interfered with his gracefulness as he swept off his plumed bonnet in a bow.

  “Ah,” he cried, “this instant the place has become Arcady, and old Hob the swineherd whom I just met is heathen Apollo, harping a hymn to the great witch Venus.”

  “What’s this?” Catherine’s eyes were blue dismay. “Has the fleet returned?”

  “Nay.” Sir Owain shrugged. “Blame my own awkwardness yestre’en. I was frolicking about, playing ball, when I stumbled. My ankle twisted, and remains so weak and tender that I’d be useless in battle. Perforce I deputed my command to young Hugh Thorne and flitted hither in an aircraft. Now I must wait till I am healed, then borrow a ship and a Jair pilot to rejoin my comrades.”

  Catherine tried desperately to speak sober words. “In . . . in his language lessons . . . Branithar has mentioned that the star folk have s-s-strange chirurgic arts.” She flushed like fire. “Their lenses can look . . . even inside a living body . . . and they inject simples which heal the worst wound in days.”

  “I thought of that,” said Sir Owain. “For of course I would not be a laggard in war. But then I remembered my lord’s strict orders, that our entire hope depends for the nonce on convincing these demon races we are as learned as they.”

  She clasped the crucifix still tighter.

  “So I dared not ask help of their physicians,” he continued. “I told them instead that I remain behind to attend certain matters of moment, and carry this crutch as a penance for sin. When nature has healed me, I will depart. Though in truth, ’twill be like tearing out my own heart, to go from you.”

  “Does Sir Roger know?”

  He nodded. They passed hastily to something else. That nod was a black lie. Sir Roger did not know. None of his men dared tell him. I might have ventured it, for he would not strike a man of the cloth, but I was also ignorant. Since the baron avoided Sir Owain’s company these days, and had enough else to occupy his mind, he never thought of it. I suppose in his inmost soul he did not want to think of it.

  Whether Sir Owain really hurt his ankle, I dare not say. But it would be a strange coincidence. However, I doubt if he had planned his final treason in detail. Most likely his wish was to continue certain talks with Branithar and see what developed.

  He leaned close to Catherine. His laughter rang out. “Until I go,” he said, “I feel free to bless the accident.”

  She looked away, and trembled. “Why?”

  “I think you know.” He took her hand.

  She withdrew it. “I beg you, remember my husband is at war.”

  “Misdoubt me not!” he exclaimed. “I would sooner lie dead than be dishonored in your eyes.”

  “I could never . . . misdoubt . . . so courteous a knight.”

  “Is that all I am? Courteous only? Amusing? A jester for your weary moments? Well-a-day, better Catherine’s fool than Venus’ lover. So let me then entertain you.” And he lifted his clear voice in a roundel to her praise.

  “No—” She moved from him, like a doe edging clear of the hunter. “I am . . . I gave pledges—”

  “In the courts of Love,” he said, “there is only one pledge, Love itself.” The sunlight burnished his hair.

  “I have two children to think of,” she begged.

  He grew somber. “Indeed, my lady. I’ve often dandled Robert and little Matilda on my knee. I hope I may do it again, while God allows.”

  She faced him afresh, almost crouching. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh— Nay.” He looked into the murmurous woods, whose leaves were of no shape or color ever seen on Earth. “I would not voice disloyalty.”

  “But the children!” This time it was she who seized his hand. “In Christ’s holy name, Owain, if you know aught, speak!”

  He kept his face turned from her. He had a fine profile. “I am not privy to any secrets, Catherine,” he said. “Belike you can judge the question better than I. For you know the baron best.”

  “Does anyone know him?” she asked in bitterness.

  He said, very low, “It seems to me that his dreams grow with each new turn of fate. At first he was content to fly to France and join the King. Then he would liberate the Holy Land. Brought here by evil fortune, he responded nobly; none can deny that. But having gained a respite, has he sought Terra again? No, he took this whole world. Now he is off to conquer suns. Where will it end?”

  “Where—” She could not continue. Nor could she pull her gaze from Sir Owain.

  The knight said, “God puts bounds to all things. Unlimited ambition is the egg of Satan, from which only woe can hatch. Does it not seem to you, my lady, when you lie sleepless at night, that we will overreach ourselves and be ruined?”

  After a long while he added: “Wherefore I say, Christ and His Mother help all the little children.”

  “What can we do?” she cried in her anguish. “We’ve lost our way to Earth!”

  “It might be found again,” he said.

  “In a hundred years of search?”

  He watched her in silence for a while before he answered:

  “I would not raise fal
se hopes in so sweet a bosom. But from time to time I’ve conversed a little with Branithar. Our knowledge of each other’s tongues is but scant, and certes he does not trust any human overmuch. Yet . . . a few things he has said . . . make me think that perhaps the road home might be found.”

  “What?” Both her frantic hands seized him. “How? Where? Owain, are you gone mad?”

  “No,” he said with studied roughness. “But let us suppose this be true, then Branithar can guide us despite all. He’ll not do so without a price, I suppose. Do you think Sir Roger would renounce his crusade and go quietly back to England?”

  “He—why—”

  “Has he not said again and yet again: while the Wersgor power remains, England lies in mortal danger? Would not the rediscovery of Terra only lead him to redouble his efforts? Nay, what use is it to learn our way back? The war would still continue, until it ended in our destruction.”

  She shuddered and crossed herself.

  “Since I am here,” Sir Owain finished, “I may as well try to learn if the homeward route can indeed be found. Perhaps you can think of some means to use that knowledge, ere it is too late.”

  He bade her a courtly good day, which she did not hear, and limped on into the forest.

  Chapter XVIII

  * * *

  MANY LONG Tharixanian days passed: weeks of Earth time. Having taken the first planet he aimed at, Sir Roger went on to the next. Here, while his allies distracted the enemy gunners, he stormed the main castle afoot, using foliage to conceal his approach. This was the place where Red John Hameward actually did rescue a captive princess. True, she had green hair and feathery antennae, nor was there any possibility of issue between her species and our own. But the humanlikeness, and exceeding gratitude, of the Vashtunari—who had just been in process of being conquered—did much to cheer lonely Englishmen. Whether or not the prohibitions of Leviticus are applicable is still being hotly debated.