The Goda War

by Deborah Chester

  “Dire-lord?” came the suprin’s hoarse whisper. “Is that you?”

  There was death in the suprin’s voice. He had lived this long perhaps because of Brock’s attempt to help him, but his time was ending. Brock groped his way carefully to the suprin’s side and sagged to his knees with a sigh. Exhaustion washed over him, but he pushed it back as he reached out to clasp the suprin’s hand.

  Immense age and weariness surged across the empathy threshold. Immediately they were one, bonded by earlier pain, held together now by the strength of their own wills.

  “You must not die,” said Brock. “The Held cannot continue without you.”

  “It is time,” breathed the suprin. “Help me.”

  “I am not a healer. My skills are—”

  “Do not evade me. You know what I ask.”

  Brock lifted his head and let his clasp fall from the suprin’s. Yes, he knew. Thoughts flew faster than words. The suprin’s wish had leapt into him at the first touch. Brock closed his eyes. He had been exiled for becoming what he was now. If he did as the suprin asked, the Sedkethrans would surely kill him.

  “Many of my sons tried to betray me over the years,” whispered the suprin. “None of them succeeded. I have eaten much skial in order to live until someone worthy could follow me. Tregher is my last son.”

  “He betrayed you too,” said Brock, feeling the suprin’s grief.

  “Worse!” The suprin grunted a Chaimu oath with some of his old vehemence, then fell into a violent bout of coughing. “Betrayed…all of us. Betrayed the throne…just to…save himself. Betrayed the…Held. I cannot forgive him.”

  “No.” Brock bowed his head, his own anger swelling through him. The Held, as old and corrupt as it was, still permitted the greatest freedoms to an individual. Anyone could reach for what he wanted. No one cared if he laughed, or cried, or sang. No one sneered at emotion. No one sneered at the most remote meditations. To be Held was to be free, unfettered by prejudice and repression. Of course that freedom permitted gross injustices to occur. But were any of the evils committed as bad as those of prohibition and restriction? Brock’s own race lived in the shadows of its own doubting. To feel was to be a fool. To care emotionally for anyone or anything was to be wasteful. All was hidden, folded away within layers upon layers of quiet solitude. Such restrictions had logical origins; they were designed to keep self away from patient, to make self a perfect receptor to draw out the illness without sharing or intruding upon the patient’s psyche. But to force such inner denial upon all was wrong. It had to be wrong.

  And the Colonids, those brawling, savage old-humans who could think of nothing save destroying the Held and all it stood for, nurtured a hatred based on ancient injustices and resentment at being flung out of the Held centuries ago. Old-humans had been too primitive, too erratic to fit comfortably within the Held. Kicking them out had not improved them, however. They had forced themselves to evolve into higher abilities out of no greater desire than revenge. And it was a blind motive. Brock had heard the spy reports. He knew of their rigid militaristic societies, of how everyone was geared from birth toward the single aim of destroying the Held. He knew of how they scorned anything which was designed for pleasure rather than utility, of how they preferred to destroy something unfamiliar rather than try to understand it. To live under their reign of terror would be as bad if not worse than to live on Felca.

  Brock tightened his hand into a fist, thinking of how he had first learned to take life, to kill, not just to defend but to attack. Those had been the first dark days of a life spent in shadow. He could not go back, even if he still wished.

  “You cannot let the Colonids succeed, Brock,” said the suprin. “I am very old. I have lived a careless life. I looked the other way at the corruption in Heldfleet. I wanted only to laugh and play, just like all my honorables. But my mistakes do not mean I loved the Held less. You think of it as I do. Keep it, Brock. Fight for it!” He sighed, his voice thinning to a faint thread. “In my place.”

  Brock swallowed. The air seemed to be choked from him. “I am not Chaimu,” he whispered. “Who will follow me?”

  The suprin’s hand found his in the darkness. The blood had dried on the scar-ridged fingers, making them rough and cold. “You are Held,” he whispered. “Those who are…Held…will. Brock, receive the Superior Life.”

  He tried to lift Brock’s hand but was too weak. Brock himself placed his fingertips upon the heavy ridges of the suprin’s skull. He closed his eyes, opening his mind.

  Utdi’s mind met his sharply. The images burned their way in: inventories of Held treasures, loving words for favored dalmas and children, the faces of trusted friends and of enemies, the oinrth serpent which never left Nairin Tregher’s arm, the laws of the honorables, the sacred recital to Meir—supreme Chaimu deity—and last of all, the all-important codes to the goda weapons.

  A sharp tug followed by the vicious sucking of a void made Brock pull back, snapping the link that had nearly pulled him down into eternity. He moved himself a pace away from the suprin’s body, afraid to touch it until all vestiges of spirit and soul were truly gone, and painfully bowed himself low until his forehead touched the floor. Grief, silent and keen, filled him, but he could do nothing except crouch there. The Sedkethrans had no way to express sorrow. They could not weep at the eyes like the humans; they could not scream from the soul like the gentle Slathese; they could not wail the death chants of the Chaimu. To feel such grief was forbidden. There was no physical means of release, no way to show honor to the suprin.

  No way…except to fulfill the request of the Superior Life.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Brock raised himself up.

  “I will not let the Held die with you, Utdi,” he vowed. “I will not!”

  Carefully he bent over the dead suprin, arranging the blackened limbs according to the formal Chaimu Rites of Eternity. On his hands and knees he crawled about the floor of the unlit bunker, using his palms to scrape dust together into a small pile. This was then sprinkled over the suprin’s face.

  Brock paused. He must leave soon. He must find another place of safety where he could tend to his own needs of rest and healing. He must also find the sectors of Impryn still protected by Held warriors.

  The muffled sounds of battle overhead vibrated through the bunker, raining more dust down upon him. Brock looked up, fearing the seepage of nust gas down to his level. It was time to go. He drew in an unsteady breath, seeking courage. His fingers unbuckled the wrist bands of the suprin’s armor and took the heavy corybdium bracelet that signified ultimate power. It had been bonded to the suprin’s own mental pattern; it could not be removed unless one possessed the specific code awarded upon the passage of the Superior Life. With difficulty, Brock clamped it upon his own wrist. It was too large and slid on his arm, chafing the burns. He grimaced, holding himself still until the new bonding was complete. There remained one last thing to do.

  Slowly he drew the ceremonial dagger from its jeweled sheath and laid it across his palm. He could not see it there in the darkness, but he did not have to. He had seen its golden brilliance flash a thousand times uplifted in the sun or winking steadily at the suprin’s side. The curled hilt which fitted so perfectly into a Chaimu palm and felt so alien upon his own was studded with gwirleyes, purple jewels renowned throughout the galaxy for their incomparable brilliance and rarity. The grooved blade was fashioned from bard crystal, glittering and thin, its molecular structure so unique it refracted light into color spectrums revealed in no other manner. If swung swiftly enough through the air, the blade would sing in a piercing note capable of shattering ordinary glass. Abruptly his hand closed on it. He drew his own plain dagger from its sheath and placed it in the suprin’s stiffening hand, pressing on the finger ridges to extend the vestigial claws. The ceremonial dagger went to its new place at his side. Brock got to his feet. He had performed the ritual acts. Anyone who now came upon the corpse would know at a glance that the suprinship had been pro
perly passed on to a named successor.

  The Held continued!

  He swung aloft his right arm, crashing it into his aching left shoulder in a final salute to the man he honored, and left Utdi lying in the cold darkness.

  3

  Colonel Kezi Falmah-Al paced slowly around the circumference of the battle room, listening to Governor Nls Ton receiving his final briefing from the nine fleet commanders sitting around the vast table of black malachite. The gold and scarlet of their collar braid reflected off the table’s gleaming surface.

  She did not like the battle room with its broad expanse of windows. Even the floor was transparent to give the illusion of being suspended totally in space. A useless achievement, this new need growing within her culture to create illusions. All around her lay the void, a limitless black vacuum that sucked at her vision. The stars blinded her. Some glowed red like feral eyes attracted to a desert fire. Blue giants as big as coins yet millions of miles away dwarfed the little ones twinkling white or glittering yellow. There was the aqua of Darjahl Imperial’s sister planet shimmering like a distant jewel, and the grey deadness of Darjahl Imperial’s twin moons hanging in orbit as stony witnesses to the death of an empire. Falmah-Al grimaced, resuming her pacing. She felt as though at any moment a misstep would send her plunging forever into the black throat of space.

  What am I doing here? she wondered, prowling around the room once again as Lt. Izak droned on with statistics of ground casualties and damage to city structures. What induced me to take this godless assignment of protecting Ton?

  Until now she had been too busy to permit the questions to boil up inside her. There had been all the excitement of battle, the intense hours of planning strategy and of directing her security staff. She had been caught up in a united rush of adrenaline, eager to succeed in finally achieving the dream her people had striven toward for centuries. But now, swift upon the heels of this ultimate victory, the doubts came rushing upon her.

  What insanity had driven her back into Ton’s circle? What was she trying to prove? That she could ignore the past as though it had never been? The emotions remained a knife thrust under the ribs. Would she never forget? They were no longer partners, no longer lovers, no longer serving side by side as in the early days when they were both junior lieutenants assigned to death squads assaulting the out-worlds of the Held. The union was over, bitterly ended in a series of worsening quarrels that replayed endlessly in her dreams at night, words still cutting wounds that refused to heal. For a few years the solution had been to avoid him, to take brutal assignments that kept her far away from Kentra while he spiraled higher into governmental authority. She, limited by her own rage, which had sent her down this career path of assassinations and poison sniffings, had finally been offered the plum—the chance to be security chief to the governor of the conquered Darjahl Imperial. She had accepted at once, only to find out afterwards who the governor would be. Ton, who pretended they had never known each other and had never shared a life together at any time, did not dispute the appointment. Pride kept her from backing out of it. She intended to prove that she was still his match. She could do her job. Besides, she thought half-ruefully, if anyone ever does stick a dagger in his back, it will be me and no one else.

  Lt. Izak’s recital faltered a moment. The governor glanced up in swift annoyance. His face was stern and blocky about the jaw, the kind of face that would become fleshy and harsh in old age. Ton was famous for his leaps of judgment and insight which made him a skilled negotiator and diplomat, but those skills never extended into his personal life. He was courted and flattered but not liked. But I loved him once, she thought, watching him as he gestured at the sweating Izak, now hastily consulting his notes. Gazal help me, it was so long ago.

  Clearing his throat, Izak managed to resume.

  Falmah-Al’s strategy, as always, was flawless. It had been her idea to destroy the breeder planet Mabruk last year instead of letting the fleet sweep on in at that time to attack Darjahl Imperial. Other military strategists had protested, arguing that such a merciless attack against children would rouse the Chaimu into an invincible fury. She had convinced them that a race which no longer bore children from their own bodies would lose rather than gain courage from such a blow. She had borne two children of her own, both of whom had died during her own agony to give them life. She knew the difference. She had judged the honorables’ reaction correctly. Spies had relayed accounts of the mourning entered by whole sections of Chaimu society. And as the fall-out from Mabruk began to filter through the atmosphere of Darjahl Imperial, the suprin himself had spoken publicly, saying, “We breathe the ashes of our own children.” The Chaimu honorables, shackled by intense dynastic traditions, had fled to Darjahl Imperial for refuge, abandoning their huge estates on the mid-worlds, and bringing their treasures with them for safekeeping in the imperial treasuries. They launched no concerted retaliation and had simply waited until now, depending upon their outmoded planetary defense systems to protect them from annihilation.

  Falmah-Al had also correctly read the character of the heir to the throne, and her agents had succeeded in persuading the nairin to give Imish forces the defense keys to Darjahl Imperial in exchange for a guarantee of his safety when the capital fell. It had been these two great successes gained from her suggestions which had won her this appointment.

  Governor Ton had not been permitted within range of the final battles. His ship had come in only after news of the victory had been transmitted. As chief of security on Darjahl Imperial, renamed Baz I on Imish charts, it had been her duty to oversee the mopping-up efforts of Major Millen, the half-breed mercenary who commanded the planetside assaults. She had divided the city Impryn into sectors, and her crews had swept clean the buildings chosen by the governor and his staff for their private and official use. The Chaimu honorables were reputed to enjoy intrigue, using Fet assassins as private bodyguards and countless poisons to eliminate their feud enemies. Death devices had to be searched for continuously. Throughout the city there were still nests of resistance, but most of the population was quiet, stricken with shock, and giving no trouble. She kept troops visibly armed and out on frequent patrol through the rubble-strewn streets. For the moment, control was at a satisfactory level. There was only this final meeting to go through before the Imish fleet withdrew to patrol more troublesome areas of the dead empire. One ship would remain as backup to Ton’s ground troops. There was, after all, the rest of this planet to clean out.

  Izak finished droning and nervously shuffled his documents.

  “Colonel?” prompted the governor without looking her way. “I am sure you have a lot of ground to cover.”

  Inclining her head, she hid her scorn of his patronizing tone while more than one of the fleet commanders shifted restively. Her eyes stabbed at Izak, who again consulted his notes and began the series of statements she had prepared.

  “Troop deployment has been spread evenly through Sectors Four through Seven. Concentration has been stepped up along city perimeters.” Izak cleared his throat. “Heavy usage of nust gas has poisoned the river. Water supplies are being rationed. Approximately five thousand Chaimu honorables and their families took refuge in the palace. They are being held until appropriate labor quota requests are issued. Other races currently imprisoned have not yet been inventoried.”

  Falmah-Al resumed her pacing, like a sand tigress behind the backs of the fleet commanders. Her movements made them uneasy, and that’s how she wanted it. She saw Ton’s eyes move in her direction and felt as though she had scored a triumph. Our bodies mature, she thought, angered by her own emotions, but inside we remain children.

  “What,” asked the deputy of one of commanders, “about these scattered nests of resistance? Are they all being eradicated with bombings of nust gas, or are prisoners being taken for interrogation?”

  Izak’s eyes sought Falmah-Al’s. She gave her head an imperceptible shake.

  Another deputy, prompted by his commander, lean
ed forward. “We know the Held has doomsday weapons scattered throughout the galaxy. Those locations must be found before rebel factions can trigger them!”

  “Naturally this is a priority effort,” said Izak smoothly, his eyes still upon her for his cues.

  “Can you even guarantee that the suprin is dead?” demanded another. “His ship was destroyed, but he may have escaped the crash.”

  “We are certain that—”

  “Certain! How?” snorted Commander Daggio, impatiently breaking etiquette to speak for himself. “Eondal got away. The suprin did too. The Chaimu are canny bastards—”

  “It has been six days since victory,” said Izak, sweating now. “He would have surfaced—”

  “A hope, nothing more.” Daggio threw himself back in his chair.

  “It will soon be substantiated by a valid report, Commander,” said Ton with a frown. “Besides, we do have the heir…what is he called?”

  Ton was looking at her as he spoke. Too experienced to fall into the trap of answering him directly at a high-level meeting, Falmah-Al snapped her fingers at Izak, who shuffled hastily through his flimsies and said, “The nairin’s name is Tregher.”

  “Yes,” said Ton in displeasure, drawling the word. “He will be the central figure of any resistance efforts. And I am sure the colonel has contingency plans concerning his future.”

  “It’s all loose, Governor. Far too loose,” said Daggio. “I don’t like the situation. The fleet should stay here—”

  “We are ordered out in three hours,” said another commander, stung into protest. “For valid reasons. We can’t hold up the entire fleet here. Sala’s cruiser will be sufficient.”