The Goda War

by Deborah Chester

  “Here.”

  They moved out of her way as she crouched by the corpse, her face puckering in distaste. It had been down here in the damp for several days. The body was swollen, the skin turned a noxious color. She gagged at the stench and tried holding her breath.

  “Here, Colonel,” said Alim, respectfully holding out a small filter mask designed for wear during nust spraying.

  She fitted it gratefully over her face and went back to her inspection. The suprin had been an ugly creature. Taller of stature than any of her race, with heavy skeletal and muscular development, he had been horribly burned. During the battle that destroyed his ship, she thought in satisfaction.

  “How did he escape the battle?” she asked.

  Millen shook his head blankly. “His dire-lord should be somewhere around. I’ve heard they usually kill themselves when their suprin dies. No readings for another Chaimu though.”

  Alim shook his head in agreement.

  Still in charge armor, the suprin lay on his back with his arms and legs folded precisely in a curious arrangement. The sharply defined nose ridges and heavy brow plates of his face were obscured by a covering of dust. In his heavy, clawed hands a plain dagger projected toward the low ceiling.

  Millen pointed at the swollen left wrist where the armor had been unfastened. “His band of office is gone. Priceless corybdium, I’ve heard. And his ceremonial dagger is supposed to be taken only by the successor.”

  Falmah-Al snorted. “Simple robbery—”

  “No.” Millen shook his head. “I had Barkey do a run­down on customs. The bracelet has a bonding lock on it. No one could just steal it. And a thief wouldn’t replace the dagger in that way. It means the successor has accepted the responsibilities of the Held.”

  “There is no more Held!” she said angrily. “We have ended it.”

  As soon as she spoke she regretted the outburst. She strode away from the corpse, tugging off the filter mask with a toss of her head.

  “This means great trouble,” she said in a calmer tone. “I’ll have to inform the governor at once. Obviously the rebels do not realize they are beaten. Since we have the nairin imprisoned, they are using the next available figure to spearhead their resistance.”

  “So,” said Millen heavily, rubbing the back of his neck. “We are going to have to—”

  A squawk from her ear module interrupted.

  “Colonel! Colonel! Trouble! The governor—”

  Static crackled in her ear. Wincing, she snarled a curse and thumbed the frequency on her large communicator. “Point Six, this is Falmah-Al,” she said urgently. “Respond. What is your difficulty? Respond.”

  There was another long burst of static. Then the voice blared out at them in raw panic. “The governor! He’s gone! Gone! They’ve got him!”

  4

  Furtive eyes peered out at Brock from silent buildings as he made his way slowly along the deserted street. The sun was setting on the city’s horizon like a vast bloody eye, tinging the evening sky with rust and ochre. The last ruddy slants of light filtered through the streets crisscrossing overhead. It was a very old part of Impryn. The buildings were lower, more crooked, jammed closely together. Steam gusted from street grids and curled about corners like fog. Walls glistened with damp. It was hard to breathe. His lungs felt full of water. Ever mindful of the danger of nust gas, Brock kept his nostrils alert for that acrid smell among the myriad odors of garbage, mold, burning mongcense, and private uba distilleries. There was a sniper watching him from overhead, positioned in the fork of an upper street girder support. Brock walked steadily, aware of the hand cannon trained on the base of his neck. No one could mistake him for a Colonid trooper, and he wanted to make contact with any Heldman he could find. But the sniper did not have a Chaimu mental pattern, and Brock feared he must be one of the citizens, slum dwellers who followed no law or allegiance but their own. After a moment Brock turned a corner and was out of cannon range.

  He had been walking for hours, moving short distances then concealing himself in pools of shadow as one more entity among the millions of people hiding in terror from the black-suited Colonid troops patrolling everywhere. No one was permitted out on the streets. Signs had been posted. Sectors had been marked off. The patrols came through on irregular circuits. To be out was to invite being arrested or ruthlessly shot down on the spot. Brock had witnessed both, and either fate seemed to depend upon the whim of the Colonid soldiers. Brock paused a moment to rest, then resumed walking. He could feel other eyes upon him. Their curiosity lapped at the edges of his mind. But no one sought more involvement than that as he moved deeper into the slum.

  Power was on here. Intermittently he passed a spitting, half-circuited light that had been broken. Others were black. The shadows grew inky. Clammy steam blew into his face as he walked over a grid. There were service tunnels directly underfoot. Beneath them lay the shielded defense bunkers. If only he could flick down to them! Then he would be safe. And he would have a better chance of linking up with other warriors.

  A faint scuffling noise from behind him made him melt at once into the shadows of an alley off the street. He reached up to tug at the hood of the cloak he had taken off a dead body earlier and wore now as a dirty, bloodstained cover of anonymity over his armor. For a moment there was only silence, then he heard very soft footsteps. Someone was following him.

  Whoever it was had just picked up the trail. Brock closed his eyes to concentrate on the hunter. He caught no scent. He dared not drop his mental shields to risk contact. The footsteps paused again. Trying to decide which hole I’m hiding in, thought Brock. His concentration drifted. With an effort, he shook off his fatigue and rubbed his chest where the internal pain continued in a persistent throb. This alley deadended. There was no way out except the way he’d come in. If the follower was an idle thief, he might decide to continue on. If he was an informer for the Colonids or something worse, then…

  I’m in no condition to fight, thought Brock. He would have to flick.

  As alert as he was, nevertheless, the sudden rush at him from the street was a surprise. Brock had not expected such quickness. His own lightning reactions seemed frozen. To whirl, flinging his arms free of the hampering cloak to thrust the attacker aside, and to jump back was like moving while submerged in water. He gathered himself, but the attempt to flick brought only a terrible, debilitating stab of pain through his chest that left him nauseated and dizzy. Doubling up, he staggered to one side in an attempt to elude another attack, but strong arms pinioned him and hot, fetid breath blew down his neck as his hunter tackled him, sending him crashing to the ground.

  The clatter of Brock’s armor upon the stone brought a grunt of surprise from his attacker. Dazed, with the wind half-knocked from him, Brock felt himself hauled back onto his feet. He was shaken violently until the cloak swung open. A fist thumped the protective surface of his corselet.

  “Merc sic-t ’a ki!” said a husky voice in Slathese. With a hiss he drew Brock closer to the mouth of the alley where there was dim illumination from the street. “What is this?” A fingerpad traced the swirled scar upon Brock’s cheekbone. “Dire-lord! You have survived. A’ chk di!”

  The slim wiry arm around Brock suddenly became protective. Throwing the hood back up over Brock’s head, the Slathese looked cautiously up and down the street before hustling Brock along.

  “Hurry,” he whispered in Brock’s ear. “We must be quick. This section is not good. Here, this way.” A few steps farther along, he abruptly pulled Brock into another alley. This one was so narrow they could scarcely walk abreast and wound for a considerable distance through dingy, run-down buildings where the denizens could be heard scuttling to and from the broken windows and wired-shut doors.

  The streets overhead ended, leaving them suddenly under open sky. Clouds had gathered in a black formation, hastening twilight into darkness. Wind gusted suddenly at their backs, whipping Brock’s cloak between his legs. He stumbled, leaning on the Slathe
se more than he meant to as they hurried. He could not seem to catch his breath completely. The pain was making him dizzier with every step. He wanted to speak, to establish identification, but the effort was so difficult.

  “Quiet.” The Slathese whipped them around a corner and pressed himself flat to a wall slick with the blue, fuzzy growth of fungus. They stayed there a moment, the Slathese listening and Brock concentrating on holding himself together. He still could not flick! Was the damage permanent? Desperately he pushed the fears away, trying to find the necessary Disciplines and failing.

  “Hear anything?” The Slathese cocked his head at Brock, who could not answer. “Merc t’. Let’s go.” He released his grasp on Brock’s arm and bent down, straining at something until he grunted. There was the sound of metal grating on stone. A rush of damp warm air exhaled from the earth.

  Raindrops fell in a swift patter across a stack of discarded cargo boards and engine parts. Brock lifted his face to the rain, wincing as it came harder. The Slathese gestured urgently, pulling Brock ahead of him to descend the steps leading down into the tunnels. Brock groped his way slowly, feeling out each step with his feet as he supported himself by leaning on the wall. The Slathese pulled the metal grate back into place, cutting off all light, and thumped Brock’s back impatiently.

  “Go. Go. Can’t you see in the dark? There are four more steps in front of you, then two paces forward, then turn to your right. Easy. Go. Hurry. We can’t be caught here. They are scanning the tunnels too.”

  Brock fumbled his way through the directions and finally caught enough breath to speak. “Who are you?”

  “Names later. No time to talk. Keep going. Follow the wall with your shoulder. Hurry!”

  Brock turned the corner and stopped, sagging against the wall. It was slimy beneath his cheek and stank of mold. “I…can’t.”

  The Slathese grabbed him by the arm and propelled him along without mercy. Brock felt himself floating in and out of consciousness. Dangerous, he thought in alarm, then remembered that he could not flick. He was trapped in this dimension, hurt, his reflexes slow and unreliable. I must find a healer, he thought in desperation just before he stumbled and fell to his knees despite the Slathese’s attempt to catch him.

  The Slathese tugged at his arm. “Get up. Dire-lord, you can’t stay here. You’ll endanger us all. Akc’t mut s.”

  Brock lifted his head, trying to focus on the Slathese’s face through the darkness. There was something he must tell him, something important. But although he tried to speak, he just faded slowly away into the mists of blissful coldness.

  “You’re a fool, Rho!” boomed an angry voice, jolting Brock to the edge of full awareness. “I put you out on the streets to keep your eyes and ears open, not to come dragging in more wounded. Anza can’t take care of what we’ve got now. How far did you carry him?”

  The soft reply was too far away for Brock to hear. He drifted off again, only to be brought back by the angry voice:

  “I don’t care if he’s the dire-lord! That only means the suprin really is dead. It’s the nairin we’re concerned with now.”

  “But look, Davn,” said the Slathese’s husky voice, coming into range now. A slim hand patted Brock’s side, moving the fold of the dirty cloak. “Look what he guards. Important—”

  “The dagger! Meir preserve us.”

  Brock struggled to open his eyes, to turn his head just in time to see a broad-shouldered newan dragging the ceremonial dagger from the sheath at Brock’s side.

  “No!” Brock’s hand gripped the newan’s wrist, startling him into releasing the dagger. It slid back into the sheath, and Brock flung the newan’s hand away before falling back with a gasp.

  The Slathese grinned widely, revealing a wicked set of poisonous fangs, and tapped a clawtip against his narrow skull. “Not dead yet, Davn. Plenty of life. Sic!”

  The newan grunted and frowned down at Brock. Broad-shouldered but short of stature, his face was wide at the forehead and square-jawed beneath a thick golden beard. Blue eyes glared at Brock without patience. He looked tired, and there was a half-healed cut along his left cheek that would doubtless leave a scar. Brock’s own gaze met his with equal intensity for a moment then faltered. The face was vaguely familiar. But he was too tired to think.

  “Oh, you’ve seen me before, Dire-lord Brock,” said the newan with a certain degree of insolence. “I’m sure you’re trying to remember where. I’m Davn. Arkist.”

  “Arkist!” whispered Brock. “Of course…gunnery.”

  “That’s right. The infallible memory of a Sedkethran. Arkist is the highest rank a new-human can hold. Only now, all of a sudden I’m in command of the forces remaining in the city. The honorables are all dead.” Davn grinned without amusement. “Amazing how war levels us all. Where’s the suprin?”

  Brock heard someone coughing, but he couldn’t see anything past Davn and the Slathese. He felt himself sliding off again and tried to hold himself together. “Dead.”

  “Obviously.” Davn briefly touched the jeweled hilt of the ceremonial dagger with a fingertip. “What happened? And how is it that the Superior Life is ended, yet the dire-lord pledged to his protection still lives? You owe us a full report on that.”

  “Let him rest, Davn,” said the Slathese with a faint hiss of protest. “Let Anza tend him. You should rest too.”

  “And you should get back out to your post,” snarled Davn. But with a shrug he walked off.

  Brock lifted a hand slightly at the Slathese. “Thank you,” he whispered, then winced, pressing a hand against his chest as the throbbing started again.

  “Anza!”

  A young woman came over at once. She was also a newan, with short dark hair that hung untidily in her eyes. She wore a smock with a green medic’s band around one sleeve. Her dark eyes, intelligent but glazed with the cynicism that medics achieved so soon in their careers, ranged swiftly over Brock.

  She smiled slightly and made the small formal gesture of one healer to another. “Have I the dire-lord’s permission?”

  Bracing himself to erect shields against her touch, Brock lowered his eyes in an affirmative.

  “Right,” she said briskly to Rho. “Help me get this armor stripped off. I’ll need my kit, I think. These burns look serious. The dire-lord has been neglecting himself.”

  Brock allowed his consciousness to fade behind the strictest Disciplines while the sections of armor were carefully pried away from his burned flesh. He made no sound although they could not be entirely gentle, but inside he beat against the walls of Sedkethran pride which would not let him scream out his agony. His senses swam; pride made him fight that. To hang on he focused on Rho’s thin ugly face with its lipless mouth and long, pointed teeth, orange deepset eyes, and pointed ears towering above his skull. The Slathese was wiry and slim, but his folded wings made his back look thick beneath the slitted tunic he wore. Anza’s face was rounder, with plump cheeks like a child’s, flushed pink as she worked, her dark eyes narrowed with concentration as she dressed his wounds. They helped him, but they remained distant, restrained in their care by the formality not only of his rank but also of his species. A Sedkethran permitted himself no friends. But I would! he thought, engulfed as always by the loneliness he could never escape.

  Anza shone a narrow beam of light into his eyes, frowning. “Is there anything else the dire-lord wishes me to examine?”

  He shivered with shame. The atrox…but he could not speak of it. The taboos, enforced from the whippings of childhood, could not be broken down.

  “The dire-lord thanks you,” he whispered, despising his own cowardice.

  She nodded, not satisfied with her own medical instincts yet obedient to his dismissal. “Rho will bring the dire-lord some soup. It’s all the food we have. And then the dire-lord should rest.”

  As she spoke, she moved her hand across his chest to check the bandage on his shoulder which had not yet fused to his skin. He jerked, his cry choking in his throat.
<
br />   “Easy.” Her hands gripped him, holding him until the spasm ended. “What is it?”

  There was real concern in her face now, breaking through the mask of formality. He felt himself shaking in her grasp and knew he must break down the taboos and say something. He needed her help. A Sedkethran healer would stand aside under the condemnation and let him die. But if he asked her, she would help.

  His eyes fell from hers as he struggled to find the words. “There is damage…inside.”

  Her fingers touched his lips. “I understand the taboos,” she said swiftly. “It is that which is injured, isn’t it? That organ which the taboos protect?”

  “Yes.” The pain was betrayed in his voice, but in his relief at her understanding he did not care. “Rest will help.”

  “What else can be done?”

  He lay there, looking up at her and could not answer.

  “Here is soup. Sic t’ hk,” said Rho, coming up with a bowl cradled in his long claws.

  “Rho will help you sit up,” said the medic. “I will let the dire-lord rest before I return. If the dire-lord will permit my dismissal, there are other injured to tend.”

  “Of course.” Brock started to say something more, but she had already turned away.

  Propped up on some rolled bundles, he drank the soup, finding the taste unspeakably foul. But his hunger overcame that, and he drained the last drop.

  This was one of the larger, more modern, of the underground bunkers. It was heavily shielded and should be safe from any Colonid scanner probes. Porta-lamps provided ample illumination. There were perhaps thirty people in the bunker. Some of them were injured and lying on pallets. Anza and another medic moved among them with quiet competence. Others were sitting about or pacing, speaking among themselves in low, excited voices. Something had happened, Brock realized. Warriors ducked in and out a low doorway into a tunnel obviously connecting with the next bunker. Had there been a skirmish? Or were they just plotting their next one? Dismay rose in him. Was this small group all that remained of the ground forces?