The Goda War

by Deborah Chester

“We must go below,” he said, his voice as sharp as the whip of a magstrus. “Now. There is no time to argue.”

  “But—”

  “There is nowhere else to go.”

  “He is right,” said an old instructor who had trained Brock years ago. “They have come to slaughter us. They intend us no mercy. Let us follow the dire-lord.”

  “Wait!” commanded a stern voice from above them.

  With a sinking heart, Brock tilted up his head to stare at the dim outline of Magstrus Olbin.

  “Do you so quickly forsake the Writings?” demanded the magstrus to the silent crowd. “Do you so quickly turn aside from the way of peace and serene order?”

  “How does the way of peace help us now?” demanded Brock sharply. “We have no weapons. No defense against the butchers outside.”

  “If we obey their instructions, they will not harm us. My children, do not let this promadi carry you away into his own evil. Return to—”

  “Where?” broke in Brock furiously. “Return outside? Is that what you are telling these children to do?”

  “Yes.”

  Seething, Brock seized a blood-stained child and held him up. “You would rather see the entire destruction of our race than admit that we were the original inventors of the goda weapons. That we were the greatest warriors in the galaxy. That we were admired and valued by the Chaimu as allies.”

  Someone gasped, but he was beyond caution. Twice before he had stood forth and asked for followers and both times he had been rejected. If the Sedkethrans chose now to obey the magstrusi and die, he might as well let himself be slaughtered with them. There would be nothing left to strive for.

  “You speak blasphemies!” shouted Olbin. “You shall die for it, promadi—”

  “No!” shouted a healer, a plump matronly woman with grey streaked through her hair. She reached up and took the injured child from Brock’s arms.

  “What is this?” demanded Olbin, his form shimmering to greater distinction. “Do you join in this disobedience, Healer Sarilai? Do you wish to be proclaimed promadise?”

  “If it is disobedience to reject your order to die without reason other than the pleasure of Imish barbarians, then we disobey,” she said calmly. Only Brock saw her hand tremble at her side. “If it is disobedience to follow Dire-lord Brock and live, then I choose to disobey. Call me what you wish, teacher. I have eyes, and I have intellect. I see that an exile has risked death to return here to save us, and I honor that.”

  “He is falsehood! He is danger!”

  “No,” she said, and her words fell like stones in the pool of silence around her. “Perhaps he is truth, and you are not. Perhaps you are the deception.”

  “Blasphemer!” A whip crackled out from the air, making several children cry out in fear, but although Brock quickly stepped in front of Sarilai, the whip did not strike.

  “I also follow the dire-lord!” shouted an instructor.

  “And I!”

  “And I!”

  Like a tide, they surged forward to stand with Brock, their faces hot with anger as they faced the shimmering forms of the elder council.

  “Fools!” said Magstrus Pare, his voice so faint it could barely be heard. “How will you survive without us?”

  “As we did before you,” said Brock.

  And the magstrusi faded away.

  “Hurry,” said Brock, not bothering to hide his relief. Swiftly he marked off the children into small groups, assigning a group to each adult who had the responsibility of flicking the children down. It was a long distance; the children could not flick that far on their own. One and two at a time they began vanishing, quiet now and calmer, standing patiently for their turn. Brock kept everyone going as adults flicked back and forth, making sure they went in relays so that there was a moment of rest for each one.

  Renar, the old instructor, stood beside Brock. The skin was stretched tightly over his skull; his body was whip thin, dried up like ancient leather and equally tough. “We should be in better training,” he muttered. “We are not equal to this task.”

  Brock was listening for the footsteps that he knew must come at any minute. “Hurry,” he said to a young woman who paused with a hand to her eyes. “You must keep trying. Hurry.”

  There were only a few children left now. Hannia and her brother had been among the first ones taken. Brock glanced at Renar, who had treated him no more harshly or kindly than anyone else during his days in the barracks.

  “You had better go down, old man. It is a long distance.”

  “Where you intend to go, yes.”

  Brock glanced at him sharply.

  “Of course I can guess what you have in mind,” said Renar with an unreadable smile. His old eyes were dim and hooded. “The magstrusi told us as soon as you arrived. How far you reach. But then we often had to repress the desire for leadership within you.”

  “I do only what I must,” said Brock. His keen hearing, amplified by mental scanning, caught the approaching cadence of booted feet ringing out upon stone. His heart leapt. “They’re coming! Quickly!”

  There were only two children left. They were scooped away. Brock turned to Renar. “Now what is to be done? There is no one to help you—”

  Renar laughed softly and grasped Brock’s arm. “You were always impetuous. It was another fault we could not repress in you. Who is to take you if I do not? Come.”

  And they flicked just as a round of disruptor fire spat across the room.

  The grey mist of non-dimension seemed to wind in an eternal spiral, down and down without end. Brock closed his eyes in the sweet coolness, his grasp on Renar firm, sharing in the old man’s strength and giving of his own. And then, as though it had taken no longer than the space of a heartbeat, there was that tiny jolt as they passed back through the thin dimensional membrane. They were in the caves.

  Brock stared in wonder, astounded not so much by the size of the cavern as by the city which had been constructed inside it. The architecture was Sedkethran, rounded and graceful, but there was more whimsey in the small spires and fluted columns adorning the buildings. He sniffed the air and despite a faintly metallic smell of dust, he detected nothing stale about it. He looked overhead at the vault of stone but could not find the source of the soft, clear light illuminating the caverm. Brock blinked. We did this, he thought. My people. My ancestors. My blood. Nothing the Chaimu have ever achieved surpasses this. A strong rush of pride caught him in the throat.

  And the city was not empty. People flicked here and there, examining it, pausing in the barren avenues, peering into windows that actually faced out onto the streets. Brock’s eyes widened as he tried to count how many people stood quietly at the edge of the city. A thousand? Two thousand? More? One by one their heads were turning toward Brock as he and Renar stepped forward. Soon they were all staring.

  “Dire-lord!” It was Silves who came pushing his way through the crowd. His leg was already repaired. He limped only slightly. His greeting was warm as he paused before Brock. “I am pleased to see you safe and with us at last. The city is most intriguing, isn’t it? Have you been here before?”

  Brock shook his head, his eyes straying past Silves’s shoulder to stare at the spires again. “They came,” he whispered, his voice still choked. “How many people came?”

  “We estimate five thousand from Clinic One. There has been contact from others. It seems your worldwide message got through. Approximately fifty thousand altogether are now beneath the planet’s surface.”

  “Fifty thousand…out of forty million.”

  “The Imish have killed twice that many.” Silves looked grim for a moment, then he touched Brock’s arm. “Come. You look as though you could use some attention to those hurts.”

  Exhaustion swept over Brock. Wearily he forced it back yet again. How long had he been pulling on his innermost reserves? It seemed an eternity since he had stepped off the wedge. But if he sat back and rested now, and Falmah-Al unleashed her goda…

 
“Some food, yes,” he said, pulling away. “The rest must wait. Will you flick me lower? To the control room?”

  Silves frowned, distaste and horror reappearing in his grey eyes. “You remain committed to that course?”

  “Yes.” Brock met his gaze firmly. “It is not enough to pull ourselves inside this sphere, never to venture out again. That is a form of cowardice equal to what we have been living all these centuries on the surface.”

  “But surely you understand!” said Silves. “Surely you see our position. As the race of complete nonviolence, how can we tell the rest of civilization that we are the inventors of the goda weapon? Does such an admission not undo all that we have accomplished?”

  “We accomplish nothing until we openly admit who and what we are, to ourselves as well as to others,” said Brock. “We must take responsibility for this. Even if it means we must use it.”

  “But—”

  “If we created the godas, can we stand back and let the Colonids have one? You have seen today what they will do with ordinary weapons—”

  “Yes, I have seen.” Silves frowned, clenching his fists. “Very well. I shall not argue further. You know what is best to do, Dire-lord.”

  “Will you flick me to the control room?” asked Brock.

  Silves glanced away. “Will you tell these others what you intend to do?”

  “No. It will take time for them to adjust to a new way of life, to new—or should I say old—concepts. Some will never adjust. We do not have time for councils and discussions. A democracy, Silves, does not run a war efficiently.”

  Silves frowned for a long moment, then slowly nodded. He held out his hand. “I shall flick you lower.”

  21

  The jolt into reality was abrupt. Total blackness engulfed them. Crowded next to Brock, Silves drew in an unsteady breath. “I can go no farther. Ungstan carbonix!”

  Brock sniffed the air. It was very thin, very cold. The mass of earth above them was crushing. The pressure of trying to breathe and move at such a tremendous depth felt like a wall. He stood motionless in the darkness, trying to take his bearings from the eddy of air around their faces to the rocks enclosing them. Soft, almost silent little currents. He extended a hand in one direction and touched nothing. Rotating to his right, he reached out again. His fingers brushed stone, dry and sharp cut. Rotating again, he touched nothing. Again, and he jerked his hand back from the slightly porous surface of living metal.

  “What is it?” demanded Silves, moving closer so that their shoulders touched. Brock could hear his breathing quicken. “What did you touch?”

  “The door. Wait.” Frowning, Brock drew upon the suprin’s instructions as he had before in the depths of Amul. Beside him Silves ceased to breathe at all, and in the resulting absolute silence, Brock spoke the sequence code.

  The door slid open slowly, smoothly, and as it opened a dim glow of light gradually brightened, giving their eyes a chance to adjust with it. Air as cold and sterile as that above on the glaciers curled into Brock’s nostrils. He stepped into the control room, his eyes widening with wonder as he glanced about. Soft whirs and purposeful clicks could be heard on every side as instrumentation panels awoke to life and began pulsing beneath dust covers that slid automatically into recesses in the control banks. The rough-hewn walls of stone which had surrounded the control room of Goda Secondary were concealed here behind gleaming panels of polished metal and acoustical absorption material. Soft carpet deadened their footfalls. Anatomically styled chairs fitted with complicated life support and communication linkages waited at each station. In the center rose a cylindrical booth of clear glastel. It contained a backless seat, 180 degrees’ worth of instrumentation, and a headset suspended from the top. Nothing seemed old. Nothing seemed dysfunctional. It was as though there had never been a standby of five centuries.

  An emotion he could not describe swelled through Brock. “Goda Prime,” he whispered reverently.

  Across the room, Silves turned his head. “What did you say?”

  It broke the spell. Brock abruptly turned away from the cylinder. “I’m going to contact the esmir. That is, if I can find communications.”

  “This?” asked Silves, pointing. “No, this perhaps?”

  “Yes.” His head cocked to one side, Brock examined it critically, matching what he saw to the overlays of the suprin’s memories and the Colonid pilot Molaud’s knowledge.

  “It is all incomprehensible,” Silves said. “I know so much about caring for the sick, and nothing about machines. How incredible to think we once had such technology and so completely turned away from it. Can this thing truly destroy the galaxy?”

  “Yes.”

  Silves rubbed a hand across his face. “What does any individual, any race need with so much power?”

  Brock began flicking toggles, tentatively then with increasing confidence as a frequency band lit and boosted the standard hailing signal to overshoot the Colonid forces currently decimating the surface of Felca.

  He met the healer’s troubled frown. “To live, a person needs food, shelter, and the means of obtaining both. You might as well ask why were we given minds and abilities? I know only that repression is wrong. If you are presented with the problem of an unusual disease, Silves, and you invent a new way of curing it which unfortunately no one else believes will work, do you throw the idea and the method away? Or do you try it?”

  Silves’s eyes flickered. “It would be very difficult not to at least test the theory.”

  “Of course. An idea, once thought of, exists and becomes part of the collective consciousness. Once born, it is not easily removed—”

  “Basic wisdom corollary,” said Silves nodding. “I see your application. But—”

  “Extend it. Is it logical to throw away a workable theory simply because it does not presently fit into what we wish to use? How does one throw it away? It exists, and someone somewhere will find it and use it. If we have a talent or a special ability, are we not responsible for using it? Is it not wrong to never utilize it?”

  Silves drew back. “You border on Forbiddens.”

  Brock nodded with an ironical twist to his mouth, and the healer winced as he realized what he had said.

  “You see how illogical this is?” pressed Brock. “Why have an ability if it was not intended to be used?”

  “What if it was intended to test our ability not to use it?”

  A sharp beep distracted Brock from the discussion. He whirled back to the communications panel. Warrior training told him to use coded Battlespeak, and he opened with the most recent Heldfleet code he knew, uncomfortably aware that the Colonids had probably cracked it weeks ago.

  “Goda Prime to Cluster 807. Come in please.”

  “This is Cluster 807,” came the response cautiously after a ten-second distance lag. “Repeat identification.”

  “Dire-lord Brock commanding Goda Prime. This transmission is for Esmir Eondal only. Repeat. Private transmission.”

  “Stand by.”

  Brock waited, consciously forcing himself not to fidget with impatience.

  “Do you follow the orders of this esmir?” asked Silves in bewilderment.

  “No. But I need information before I pull us from orbit. There is—”

  “Dire-lord!”

  It was Eondal’s gruff voice, crackling across space with an urgency that alerted Brock.

  “I am here, Esmir. Operation successful. Goda Prime is in my hands.”

  “We intercepted Colonid messages indicating an attack on Felca.”

  “Correct. But there are survivors—”

  “How many?”

  “We estimate fifty thousand.”

  Even over the ten-second lag, Brock heard a small gasp behind the esmir’s voice. His heart leapt.

  “Ellisne?”

  “Yes? Brock? Oh, Brock! Are you well?”

  “Yes, beloved. We are coming.”

  “I heard.” Her voice held all the tones of relief, anxiety, and
pride. “Thank you for saving so many. I know it cannot have been anything but difficult. I wish I could be at your side. You—”

  “Dire-lord!” Eondal’s voice broke in harshly. “How fast can that goda move?”

  Bewildered by the sudden change of subject, Brock frowned. “I’m not sure. Why? Have you reports that Falmah-Al has managed to move Goda Secondary?”

  “Reports? Meir above, man! My scanners just picked up the accursed thing on long range. Beyond Daijahl Imperial and approaching quickly. We’ll—”

  “Change course, Esmir!” said Brock in alarm. “You can’t face her with Heldfleet.”

  “I can’t hide Heldfleet either. If we’ve picked her up, she’s bound to have spotted us.”

  Brock frowned, coldness spreading through him. Ellisne! he thought in anguish. “Evade. Run. Do whatever you must, Esmir, but don’t stand off in direct battle. Don’t destroy yourselves just for the glory of the Held.”

  “Don’t worry,” said the esmir drily. “We’ll do our best to wait for you. But hurry! We haven’t much—”

  An angry burr of interference cut across his sentence. Certain Colonid scanners had picked up the transmissions, Brock cut communications and cursed aloud.

  “Surely they can surrender if they must,” began Silves, but Brock stopped him with a scornful laugh. Inside he felt sick. What if he couldn’t get there in time? And he had left Ellisne with Eondal to keep her safe. Great Meir!

  “You don’t know Falmah-Al, Healer,” he said. “She’ll blast Heldfleet to dust before they can even ask for terms.”

  “Can you operate the goda alone?”

  Brock followed the healer’s glance about at the station chairs. “Perhaps, but it is doubtful.” His eyes strayed to the cylinder. Unease caught in his throat. “That is central station. Where I must be.” As he spoke, he tapped the goda band on his wrist. “I will need your help, Silves. And that of your brightest, most flexible staff. Novices or full healers, it doesn’t matter. And if you know any engineers—”

  “Yes,” said Silves, nodding. “I shall call them now.”

  He turned away, lifting a hand to his temple, and Brock reluctantly stepped up to the cylinder and stuck his head inside. He had seen similar devices before, especially on ancient Chaimu craft. The pilot linked directly with the ship, his mind amplified through the headset to enable it to merge with operational computers, but it required years of training and a certain mental pattern. Otherwise linkage could blow a man’s mind apart.