American Science Fiction

by Gary K. Wolfe

  Their ship screamed from atmosphere and lined out again for the hostile stars.

  Chapter XX

  * * *

  SIR ROGER had established himself on the planet we named New Avalon. Our folk needed a rest, and he needed time to settle many questions of securing that vast kingdom which has already fallen to him. He was furthermore in secret negotiation with the Wersgor governor of an entire star cluster. This person seemed willing to yield up all he controlled, could we give him suitable bribes and guarantees. The haggling went slowly, but Sir Roger felt confident of its outcome.

  “They know so little about the detection and use of traitors out here,” he remarked to me, “that I can buy this fellow for less than an Italian city. Our allies never attempted this, for they imagined that the Wersgor nation must be as solid as their own. Yet isn’t it logic, that so vast a sprawl of estates, separated by days and weeks of travel, must in many ways resemble a European country? Though even more corruptible—”

  “Since they lack the true Faith,” I said.

  “Hm, well, yes, no doubt. Though I’ve never found Christians who refused a bribe on religious grounds. I was thinking that the Wersgor type of government commands no fealty.”

  At any rate, we had a little while of peace, camped in a dale beneath dizzyingly tall cliffs. A waterfall rushed arrow-straight into a lake more clear than glass, ringed with trees. Even our sprawling, brawling English camp could not hurt so much beauty.

  I had settled down outside my own little tent, at ease in a rustic chair. My hard studies laid aside for a moment, I indulged myself with a book from home, a relaxing chronicle of the miracles of St. Cosmas. As if from far off, I heard the crackle of fire-gun practice, the zap of archery, the cheerful clatter of quarterstaff play. I was almost asleep, when feet thudded to a halt beside me.

  Startled, I blinked upward at the terrified face of a baronial esquire. “Brother Parvus!” he said. “In God’s name, come at once!”

  “Ugh, uh, whoof?” I said in my drowsiness.

  “Exactly,” he groaned.

  I gathered my cassock and trotted at his heels. Sunlight and blossoming bowers and birdsong overhead were suddenly remote. I knew only the leap of my heart and the realization of how few and weak and far from home we were. “What’s awry?”

  “I know not,” said the esquire. “A message came on the far-speaker, relayed from space by one of our patrol ships. Sir Owain Montbelle desired private talk with my lord. I know not what was spoken on the narrow beam. But Sir Roger came staggering out like a blind man and roared for you. Oh, Brother Parvus, it was horrible to see!”

  I thought that I should pray for us all, doomed if the baron’s strength and cunning could no longer uphold us. But I was at once too full of pity for him alone. He had borne too much, too long, with never a soul to share the burden. All brave saints, I thought, stand by him now.

  Red John Hameward mounted guard outside the portable Jair shelter. He had spied his master’s strickenness, and dashed thither from the target range. With strung bow, he bellowed at the crowd that milled and muttered: “Get you back! Back to your places! God’s death, I’ll put this arrow through the first by-our-lady sod to pester my lord, and break the by-our-lady neck o’ the next! Go, I say!”

  I brushed the giant aside and entered. It was hot within the shelter. Sunlight filtered through its translucency had a thick color. Mostly it was furnished with homely things, leather, tapestry, armor. But one shelf held instruments of alien manufacture, and a large far-speaker set was placed on the floor.

  Sir Roger slumped in a chair before this, chin on breast, his big hands hanging limp. I stole up behind him and laid my own hand on his shoulder. “What is the matter, sire?” I asked, as softly as might be.

  He hardly moved. “Go away,” he said.

  “You called for me.”

  “I knew not what I was doing. This is between myself and— Go away.”

  His voice was flat, but it took my whole small stock of courage to walk around in front of him and say, “I presume your receiver inscribed the message as usual?”

  “Aye. No doubt. I’d best wipe out that record.”

  “No.”

  His gray gaze lifted toward me. I remembered a wolf I had once seen trapped, when the townsfolk closed in to make an end of it. “I don’t want to harm you, Brother Parvus,” he said.

  “Then don’t,” I answered brusquely, and stooped to turn on the playback.

  He gathered his powers, in great weariness. “If you see that message,” he warned, “I must kill you for my honor.”

  I thought back to my boyhood. There had been various short, pungent, purely English words in common use. I selected one and pronounced it. From the corner of an eye, as I squatted by the dials, I saw his jaw fall. He sank back into his chair. I pronounced another English word for good measure.

  “Your honor lies in the well-being of your people,” I added. “You’re not fit to judge anything which can so shake you as this. Sit down and let me hear it.”

  He huddled into himself. I turned a switch. Sir Owain’s face leaped into the screen. I saw that he was also gaunt, the handsomeness less evident, the eyes dry and burning. He spoke in formal, courteous wise, but could not hide his exultation.

  I cannot remember his exact words. Nor do they matter. He told his lord what had happened. He was now in space, with the stolen ship. He had approached close to New Avalon to beam this call but taken to his heels again immediately it was spoken. There was no hope of finding him in that vastness. If we yielded, he said, he would arrange the transportation home of our folk, and Branithar assured him the Wersgor emperor would promise to keep hands off Terra. If we did not yield, the recreant would go to Wersgorixan and reveal the truth about us. Then, if necessary, the foe could recruit enough French or Saracen mercenaries to destroy us; but probably the demoralization of our allies, as they learned our weakness, would suffice to bring them to terms. In either case, Sir Roger would never see his wife and children again.

  Lady Catherine entered the screen. I recall her words. But I do not choose to write them down. When the record was ended, I wiped it out myself.

  We were silent awhile, my lord and I.

  At last: “Well,” he said, like an old man.

  I stared at my feet. “Montbelle said they would re-enter communication range at a certain hour tomorrow, to hear your decision,” I mumbled. “’Twould be possible to send numerous unmanned ships, loaded with explosive fused by a magnetic nose, along that far-speaker beam. Belike he could be destroyed.”

  “You’ve already asked much of me, Brother Parvus,” said Sir Roger. Still his words had no life in them. “Ask me not to slay my lady and children . . . unshriven.”

  “Aye. Ah, could the vessel be captured? No,” I answered myself. “’Twould be a practical impossibility. Any single shot which struck close enough to a little ship like that would more likely make dust of it than merely disable its engines. Or else the damage would be small, and he would at once flee faster than light.”

  The baron raised his congealed face. “Whatever happens,” he said, “no one is to know my lady’s part in this. D’ you understand? She’s not in her right mind. Some fiend has possessed her.”

  I regarded him with a pity still greater than before. “You’re too brave to hide behind such foolishness,” I said.

  “Well, what can I do?” he growled.

  “You can fight on—”

  “Hopelessly, once Montbelle has gone to Wersgorixan.”

  “Or you can accept the terms offered.”

  “Ha! How long d’ you think the blueskins would actually leave Terra in peace?”

  “Sir Owain must have some reason to believe they will,” I said cautiously.

  “He’s a fool.” Sir Roger’s fist smote the arm of the chair. He sat up straight, and the harshness of his
voice was a lonely token of hopefulness to me. “Or else he’s a blacker Judas than he has even confessed, and hopes to become viceroy after the conquest. See you not, ’tis more than the wish for land which’ll force the Wersgorix to overrun our planet. ’Tis the fact that our race has proven itself mortally dangerous. As yet, men are helpless at home. But given a few centuries to prepare, men might well build their own spaceships and overwhelm the universe.”

  “The Wersgorix have suffered in this war,” I argued feebly. “They’ll need time to regain what they have lost, even if our allies surrender all occupied worlds. They might very likely find it expedient to leave Terra alone for a hundred years or so.”

  “Till we’re safely dead?” Sir Roger nodded heavily. “Aye, there’s the great temptation. The real bribe. Yet would we not burn in hell, if we thus broke faith with unborn children?”

  “It may be the best we can do for our race,” I said. “Whatever lies beyond our own power is in the charge of God.”

  “But no, no, no.” He twisted his hands together. “I can’t. Better to die now like men. . . . Yet Catherine—”

  After another stillness, I said, “It may not be too late to dissuade Sir Owain. No soul is irredeemably lost while this life remains. You could recall his honor, and point out to him how foolish it is to rely on Wersgor promises, and offer him forgiveness and great position—”

  “And the use of my wife?” he jeered.

  But in a moment: “It may be. I’d far liefer spill his evil brains. But perhaps . . . aye, perhaps a talk . . . I would even try to humble myself. Will you aid me, Brother Parvus? I must not curse him to his face. Will you strengthen my spirit?”

  Chapter XXI

  * * *

  THE NEXT evening, we departed New Avalon.

  Sir Roger and I went alone, in a tiny unarmed space lifeboat. We ourselves were but little stronger. I had my cassock and rosary as always: no more. He was clad in a yeoman’s doublet and hose, though he wore sword and dagger and his gilt spurs were on his boots. His big form sat the pilot chair as it were a saddle, but his eyes, turned heavenward, were full of winter.

  We had told our captains that this was only a short flight to view some special thing Sir Owain had fetched. The camp sensed a lie and rumbled with unease. Red John broke two quarterstaffs before he restored order. It seemed to me as I embarked that our enterprise was suddenly rusted. Men sat so quiet. It was a windless evening, our banners drooped on their staffs, and I noticed how faded and torn they were.

  Our boat split the blue sky and entered blackness, like Lucifer expelled. Briefly I glimpsed a battleship, patrolling in orbit, and would have been much comforted to have those great guns at my back. But we must take only this helpless splinter. Sir Owain had made that clear, when we talked a second time along the far-speaker beam. “If you wish, de Tourneville, we’ll receive you for a parley. But you must come alone, in a plain lifeboat, and unarmed. . . . Oh, very well, you can have your friar, too. . . . I shall tell you what orbit to assume. At a certain point thereof, my ship will meet you. If my telescopes and detectors show any sign of treachery on your part, I’ll go straight to Wersgorixan instead.”

  We accelerated outward through a silence that thickened. Once I ventured to say, “If you two can be reconciled, it will put heart back in our people. I think then they would be truly invincible.”

  “Catherine and I?” barked Sir Roger.

  “Why, I-I-I meant you and Sir Owain—” I stammered. But the truth opened up before me: I had indeed been thinking of the lady. Owain was nothing in himself. Sir Roger was the one on whom our whole fate rested. Yet he could not continue much longer, sundered from her who possessed his soul.

  She, and the children they had had together, were the reason he came so meekly to beg Owain’s indulgence.

  Outward and outward we fled. The planet shrank to a tarnished coin behind us. I had not felt so alone before, not even when we were first borne from our Earth.

  But at last a few of the many stars were obscured. I saw the lean black form of the spaceship grow, as it matched velocities. We could have tossed a bombshell by hand and destroyed it. But Sir Owain knew well we would never do that, while Catherine and Robert and Matilda were aboard. Presently a magnetic grapnel clanked against our hull. The ships drew together, portal to portal, a cold kiss. We opened our own gates and waited.

  Branithar himself stepped through. Victory flamed in him. He recoiled when he saw Sir Roger’s glaive and misericord. “You were to have no weapons!” he rasped.

  “Oh? Oh, aye. Aye.” The baron looked dully down at the blades. “I never thought . . . they’re like my spurs, insignia of what I am . . . naught more.”

  “Give them over,” said Branithar.

  Sir Roger unbelted both and handed them to the Wersgor in their sheaths. Branithar passed them to another blue and searched our bodies himself. “No hidden guns,” he decided. I felt my cheeks burn at the insult, but Sir Roger hardly seemed to notice. “Very well,” said Branithar, “follow me.”

  We went down a corridor to the salon cabin. Sir Owain sat behind a table of inlaid wood. He himself was somber in black velvet, but jewels flashed on the hand which covered a fire-gun laid in front of him. Lady Catherine wore a gray gown and wimple. She had overlooked a stray lock of hair, which fell across her brow like smoldering fire.

  Sir Roger halted just within the cabin door. “Where are the children?” he said.

  “They are in my bedchamber with the maidservants.” His wife spoke like a machine. “They are well.”

  “Be seated, sire,” urged Sir Owain glibly. His gaze flickered about the room. Branithar had laid the sword and dagger down by him, and stood on his right hand. The other Wersgor, and a third one who had waited here, stood with folded arms by the entrance, just behind us. I took them to be the physician and navigator which had been mentioned; the two gunners must be at their turrets, the pilot up by his controls, in case aught went amiss. Lady Catherine stood, a waxen image, against the rear wall to Owain’s left.

  “You bear no grudges, I trust,” said the recreant. “All’s fair in love and war.”

  Catherine lifted a hand to protest. “In war only.” She could scarce be heard. The hand fell down again.

  Sir Roger and I kept our feet. He spat on the deck.

  Owain reddened. “Look you,” he exclaimed, “let’s have no cant about broken vows. Your own position is more than doubtful. You’ve arrogated to yourself the right of creating noblemen out of peasants and serfs, disposing of fiefs, dealing with foreign kings. Why, you’d make yourself king if you could! What then of your pledges to sovereign Edward?”

  “I’ve done naught to his harm,” Sir Roger answered, shaken of voice. “If ever I find Terra, I’ll add my conquests to his domain. Until then, we must manage somehow, and have no choice but to establish our own feudality.”

  “That may have been the case hitherto,” Sir Owain admitted. His smile returned. “But you should thank me, Roger, that I’ve lifted this necessity from you. We can go back home!”

  “As Wersgor cattle?”

  “I think not. But do be seated, you two. I shall have wine and cakes brought. You’re my guests now, you know.”

  “Nay. I’ll not break bread with you.”

  “Then you’ll starve to death,” said Sir Owain merrily.

  Roger became like stone. I noticed for the first time that Lady Catherine wore a holster but that it was empty. Owain must have gotten her weapon on some pretext. Now he alone was armed.

  He turned grave as he read our expressions. “My lord,” he said, “when you offered to come parley, you could not expect me to refuse such a chance. You’ll remain with us.”

  Catherine stirred. “Owain, no!” she cried. “You never told me—you said he’d be free to leave this ship if—”

  He turned his fine profile to her view and said gently, “T
hink, my lady. Was it not your highest wish, to save him? But you wept, fearing his pride would never let him yield. Now he is a prisoner. Your wish is granted. All the dishonor is on myself. I bear that burden lightly, since ’tis for my lady’s dear sake.”

  She trembled so I could see it. “I had no part in this, Roger,” she pleaded. “I never imagined—”

  Her husband did not look at her. His voice chopped hers off. “What d’ you plan, Montbelle?”

  “This new situation has given me new hopes,” answered the other knight. “I confess I was never overly joyed at thought of bargaining with the Wersgorix. Now ’tis not needful. We can go directly home. The weapons and chests of gold aboard this vessel will win me as much as I care to possess.”

  Branithar, the only nonhuman there who understood his English, barked: “Hoy, what of me and my friends here?”

  Owain answered coolly, “Why should you not accompany us? Without Sir Roger de Tourneville, the English cause must soon collapse, so you’ll have done your duty to your own people. I’ve studied your way of thinking—a particular place means nothing to you. We’ll pick up some females of your race along the way. As my loyal vassals, you can win as much power and land on Terra as anywhere else; your descendants will share the planet with mine. True, you sacrifice a certain amount of wonted social intercourse, but on the other hand, you gain a degree of liberty your own government never allowed you.”

  He had the weapons. Yet I think Branithar yielded to the argument itself, and that his slow mumble of agreement was honest.

  “And us?” breathed Lady Catherine.

  “You and Roger shall have your estate in England,” pledged Sir Owain. “I’ll add thereto one at Winchester.”

  Perhaps he was also honest. Or perhaps he thought, once he was the overlord of Europe, he could do as he wished with her husband and herself. She was too shaken to foresee the latter chance. I saw her suddenly enclouded with dream. She faced Sir Roger, smiling and weeping. “My love, we can go home again!”