Mayday Orbit

by Poul Anderson

  The gardens surrounding the driveway were of rocks, arched bridges, dwarf trees and mutant lichen. Nothing that needed much warmth or water would grow on Altai. Flandry noticed the dryness of his own nose and throat. This air snatched moisture from him as greedily as it did heat. Once inside the palace, he was more grateful for its Terralike atmosphere than he wished to admit.

  A white-bearded man in a fur-trimmed robe made a deep bow. “The Kha Khan himself bids you welcome, Orluk Flandry,” he said. “He will see you at once.”

  “But the gifts I brought for him—"

  “No matter now, my lord.” The chamberlain bowed again, turned and led the way. They passed through vaulted corridors hung with gaily colored tapestries. But the palace was very silent. Servants scurried about whispering; guards in dragon-faced, leather tunics and goggled helmets bore modem blasters at attention; tripods fumed incense. The entire sprawling house seemed to crouch, watchful.

  I imagine I have upset them somewhat, Flandry thought. Here, I suspect, they’ve got a cozy little conspiracy going, with beings sworn to lay all Terra waste, and suddenly a Terran officer drops in, for the first time in five or six hundred years. So what do they do next? It’s their move.

  Oleg Yesukai, Kha Khan of all the Tribes, was bigger than most Altaians. His long, sharp face bore a reddish, fork beard. Gold rings, thickly embroidered robe, silver trim on his fur cap, were worn with an air of impatient concession to tedious custom. The hand which Flandry, kneeling, touched to his brow, was hard and muscular; the gun at the royal waist had seen use.

  This private audience chamber was draped in red, its furniture inlaid and grotesquely carved, but it also held an up-to-date Betelgeusean graphone and a desk buried under official papers.

  “Be seated,” said the Khan. He himself took a low-legged chair and opened a cigar box of carved bone. A hard smile bent his mouth. “Now that we’ve gotten rid of my damn fool courtiers, we need no longer act as if you were a subject.” He took a crooked purple stogie from the box. “I would offer you one of these, but it might make you ill. In thirty-odd generations, eating food grown from Altaian soil, we have probably changed our metabolism a bit.”

  “Your majesty is most gracious.” Flandry inhaled a cigarette of his own and relaxed as much as the straight-backed chair permitted.

  Oleg Khan spoke a stockbreeder’s pungent obscenity. "Gracious? Hal See here, Terran. Fifteen years old, my father became an outlaw on the tundra.” (He meant local years, a third again as long as those of home. Altai was about one A. U. distant from Krasna, but the sun was less massive than Sol.) “By the time he was thirty, he had seized Ulan Baligh with 50,000 warriors and deposited old Tuli Khan naked on the arctic snows. So as not to shed royal blood, you understand. But he never would live in the city. And his sons were raised in the ordu—the encampment—as he had been. We practiced war against the Tebtengri as he had known war, but we had to master reading, writing, and science as well. Let us not bother with graciousness, Orluk Flandry. I never had time to leam any.”

  The out-worlder waited passively. That seemed to disconcert Oleg, who smoked for a minute in. short ferocious drags, then leaned forward and said, “Well, why does your government finally deign to notice us?”

  “I had the impression, your majesty,” answered Flandry in a mild voice, “that the original colonists of Altai came this far from Sol in order to escape notice.”

  “True. True. Don’t believe that rat crud in the hero songs. Our ancestors came here because they were weak, not strong. Planets where men could settle at all were rare enough to make each one a prize. By going far afield and picking a wretched icy desert, a few shiploads of Central Asians avoided having to fight for their new home. They didn’t plan to become herdsmen, either. They tried to farm. But that proved impossible. Too cold and dry, among other things. Nor could they build an industrial, food-synthesizing society; not enough heavy metals, fossil fuels, fissionables. This is a low-density planet, you know. Step by step, over generations, with only dim traditions to guide them, they were forced to evolve a nomadic life. That was suitable to Altai, and their numbers increased. Of course, legends have grown up. Most of my people still believe Terra is some kind of lost utopia and our ancestors were hardy warriors.” Oleg’s rust-colored eyes narrowed upon Flandry. He stroked his beard. “I’ve read enough, thought enough, to have a fair idea of what your Empire really is—and what it can and cannot do. So, why this visit, at this exact moment?”

  “We have remained absent for two main reasons, your majesty,” said Flandry. “First, we are no longer interested in conquest for the mere sake of conquest. Second, our merchants have avoided this entire sector. You see, it lies far from our heartland stars; the Betelgeuseans, close to their own base, could compete on unequal terms; the risk of meeting some prowling warship of our Merseian ,enemies is unattractive. In short, there has been no occasion, military or civilian, to search out Altai.” He slipped smoothly into' prevarication gear. “However, the Emperor does not wish any members of the human family cut off. At the very least, I bring you his brotherly greetings.” (That was subversive. The word should have been “fatherly.” But Oleg

  Khan would not take kindly to being patronized.) “At most, if Altai wishes to rejoin us, for mutual protection and other benefits, there are many possibilities we might discuss. Joining die Empire does not necessarily mean becoming a mere province. You might, for example, prefer simply having an Imperial resident, to offer help and advice . . .”

  He let the proposal trail off, since in point of fact a resident's advice tended to be, “I suggest you do thus and so, lest I call in die Marines.”

  The Altaian king surprised him by not getting huffy about sovereign status. Instead, amiable as a tiger, Oleg Yesukai answered:

  “If you are distressed about our internal difficulties of die moment, pray do not be. Nomadism necessarily means tribalism, which easily brings feud and war. I have mentioned that my father seized power from the Nuru Bator clan. We in turn have gurkhans who rebel against us. As anyone can tell you, that alliance called the Tebtengri Shamanate is giving us considerable trouble. But such is nothing new in Altaian history. Indeed, I have a firmer hold on more of the planet than any Kha Khan since the Prophet’s time. In a little while I shall bring every last tribe to heel.” “With the help of imported armament?” Flandry elevated his brows a millimeter. Risky though it was to admit having seen the evidence, it might be still more suspicious not to. Of course, he needn’t reveal how much he had observed. Since the other man remained unruffled, Flandry continued, “The Imperium would gladly send a technical mission.”

  “I do not doubt it.” Oleg’s response was dry.

  “May I respectfully ask what planet supplies the assistance your majesty is now receiving?”

  “Your question is impertinent, as well you know. I do not take offense, but I decline to answer. Confidentially: the old mercantile treaties between Altai and Betelgeuse guarantee that the blueface traders shall have monopolies in certain of our export items. This other race, the one which sells us weapons, is taking payment in the same articles. I am not violating an oath, for I do not consider myself bound by obligations which the Nuru Bator dynasty assumed. However, it would at die present time be inexpedient that Betelgeuse discover the facts.”

  It was a good spur-of-the-moment lie: so good that Flan-dry hoped Oleg would believe he had fallen for it. He assumed a fatuous smirk. “I quite understand, great Khan. You may rely on Terrestrial discretion.”

  “I hope so,” said Oleg humorously. “Our traditional punishment for spies involves a method to keep them alive for days after they have been flayed.”

  Flandry’s gulp was calculated, but not altogether faked. “May I respectfully remind your majesty,” he said, “just in case some of your less educated subjects should act impulsively, that the Imperial Navy is under orders to redress any wrong suffered by any Terran national anywhere in the universe.”

  “Very rightly,�
� said Oleg. His tone was so sardonic that he must have realized that that famous rule had become a dead letter, except as an occasional excuse for bombarding some world that got obstreperous without being able to fight back. Between the traders, his own agents in the Betelgeusean System, and whoever was selling him arms, the Kha Khan had become as unmercifully well-informed about galactic politics as any Terran aristocrat. Or Merseian.

  The realization was chilling. Flandry had perforce gone blind into his assignment. Only now, piece by piece, did he see how big and dangerous it was.

  “A sound policy,” continued Oleg. “But let us be frank, Orluk. If you should suffer, let us say, accidental harm in my dominions— and if your superiors should misinterpret the circumstances, though I am sure they would not—I should be forced to invoke assistance which is quite readily available.”

  Merseia isn’t far, thought Flandry; and Intelligence knows that at this time they have massed a lot of naval units at their nearest hose. If I want to hoist Terran vintages again, I’d better start acting the fool as never before in a gloriously misspent life.

  Aloud, a hint of bluster: “Betelgeuse has treaties with the Imperium, Your Majesty. They would not interfere in a purely interhuman dispute!” And then, as if appalled at his own boldness: “But there won’t be any. Certainly there won’t. The, uh, conversation has, uh, taken an undesirable turn. Most unfortunate, Your Majesty! No offense intended! I was, ah, I am interested in unusual human colonies. An archivist mentioned your, ah, your beautiful planet to me. As long as I was coming here, it was suggested I might as well carry official greetings to . „

  And so on and so on.

  Oleg Yesukai grinned.

  III

  Altai rotated once in 35 hours. The settlers had adapted, and Flandry was used to postponing sleep. He spent the afternoon touring Ulan Baligh, asking silly questions of his guides, which he felt sure they would relay to the Khan. Four or five meals were normally eaten during the long day, and he was invited to dine at the town houses of chieftains belonging to Clan Yesukai. This gave him a further chance to build up his role: a Terran fop who had wangled this assignment from an uninterested Imperium, simply for a lark. A visit to one of the joyhouses that was operated for transient nomads helped reinforce the impression. Also, it was fun.

  Emerging after sunset, he saw the Prophet’s Tower had become luminous. It lifted like a bloody lance over brawling, flicker-lit streets, up toward the wintry, steppe stars. The tablet wall was white, the words thereon in jet: two kilometers of precepts for a stem and bitter way of life. “I say,” he exclaimed, “we haven’t done that yet. Let’s go.”

  The chief guide, a burly, gray warrior leathered by decades of wind and frost, looked uneasy. “We must hasten back to the palace, Orluk,” he said. “The Kha Khan has ordered a banquet in your honor.”

  “Oh, fine. Fine! Though I don’t know how much of an orgy I’m in shape for . . . after this bout we just had. Eh, what?” Flandry nudged the man’s ribs with an indecent thumb. “Still, a peek inside, really I must. It’s unbelievable, that skyscraper, don’t you know? You could make it one of the galaxy’s great tourist attractions.”

  “We would have to cleanse ourselves before we could enter, Orluk.”

  A young man added bluntly: “In no case could it be allowed. You are not an initiate. And there is no holier spot amidst all the suns.”

  “Oh, well, in that case—Sorry, no offense, I hope. Mind if I photograph it tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” said the young man. “There is no law against it, perhaps, but we could not be responsible for what some tribesman who saw you with your camera might do. None but the Tebtengri would look on the Tower with anything but reverent eyes.”

  “Teb-”

  “Rebels and heathen, far in the north.” The older man touched brow and lips, a sign to ward off evil. “Brewers of bad luck at Trengri Nor and traffickers with the Ice People. Far worse, even, than the wild Voiskoye; for the Tebtengri know right from wrong, yet freely choose wrong. It is not well to speak of them, only to exterminate them. Now we must hasten, Orluk.

  “Oh, yes. To be sure.” Flandry scrambled into the tul-yak lent him, an open motor carriage with a dragon figurehead.

  While he was being driven to the palace, he weighed what he knew in an uncomfortable balance. Something was going on, much bigger than a civil war. Oleg Khan had no intention that Terra should hear about it. A Terran agent who actually learned a bit of truth must not go home alive; only a well-born idiot could safely be allowed return passage. Whether or not Flandry could convince die Altaians he was that idiot, remained to be seen. It wouldn’t be easy, for certainly he must probe deeper than he had yet done.

  If somehow I do manage to swirl my cloak, twiddle my mustache, and gallop off to call an Imperial task force, Oleg may summon his own friends, who are obviously not a private gun-selling concern, as he wants me to believe. All Altai couldn’t produce enough trade goods to pay for the stuff I saw from the spaceship. So ... if the friends get here ahead of my task force, and decide to protect this military investment of theirs, there’s going to be a fight. And with them dug in on the surface, as well as cruising local space, they’ll have the advantage. The Navy won’t thank me if I drag them into a losing campaign.

  He kindled a fresh cigarette and wondered miserably why he hadn’t told HQ, when this job was first laid before him, that he was down with Twonk’s Disease.

  At his guest suite in the palace he found a valet waiting. But the little man was rather puzzled by Terran garments. Flandry spent a half-hour choosing his own ensemble. At last, much soothed, he went back into the hallway. An honor guard awaited him with bared daggers in their hands. He was escorted to an immense feasting chamber, where he was placed at the Khan’s right.

  There was no table. A hundred men sat crosslegged on either side of a great stone trough stretching the length of the room. Broth, reminiscent of won-ton soup but with a sharper taste, was poured into this from wheeled kettles. When next the Khan signalled, the soup was drained through traps, spigots flushed the trough clean, and solid dishes were shoveled in. They weren’t bad, although rather greasy by Terrestrial standards. Meanwhile each man’s cup of hot, powerfully alcoholic herb tea was kept full. A small orchestra caterwauled on pipes and drums, and some fairly spectacular performances were given by varyak riders, knife dancers, acrobats, and marksmen. At the meal’s end, an old tribal bard stood up and chanted lays; a plump and merry man from the downtown bazaars related his original stories; gifts from the Khan were distributed to all present; and the affair broke up. Not a word of conversation had been spoken.

  Not quite sober, Flandry followed his guards back to his apartment. The valet bade him goodnight and closed the thick fur drapes which served for internal doors.

  A radiant globe illuminated the room, but seemed feeble compared with the light filling the balcony window. Flandry opened this and looked out in wonder.

  Beneath him lay the darkened city; roofs curved and thinly hoar-frosted; streets like black rivers. Beyond twinkling, red campfires, Ozero Rurik stretched out to an unseen horizon, a polished ebony sheet crossed by double moon-shivers. On his left the Prophet’s Tower stood as a perpetual flame, crowned with constellations. Both satellites were near the full, ruddy discs, broader to the eye than Lima, haloed with ice crystals. Their light drenched the plain, turned the Zeya and Talyma into ribbons of molten glass. But the rings dominated them, bridging the southern sky with rainbows. Second by second, thin firestreaks crossed heaven, as meteorites from that huge twin band hurtled into the atmosphere.

  Flandry was not much for gaping at landscapes. But this time he let minutes pass before he realized how frigid the air was.

  He turned back to die comparative warmth of the suite. As he closed the window, a woman entered from the bedroom.

  He had expected some such hospitality. She was taller than most Altaian females. Long, blue-black hair fell down her back; lustrous, tilted eyes with a greenis
h hue, rare on this planet, regarded him unwinkingly. Otherwise, she was hidden by veil and gold-stiffened cloak. She advanced till she was very near him, and he waited for some conventional token of submission.

  Instead, she continued to watch him for close to a minute. It grew so still in the room that he heard the wind blowing waves ashore. Shadows lay thick in the comers. Dragons and warriors on the tapestries appeared to stir.

  Finally, in a low uneven voice, she said: “Orluk, are you indeed a spy from the Mother of Men?"

  “Spy?” Flandry thought horrifyingly about agents provocateurs. “Good cosmos, nol I mean, that is to say, nothing of the sort!”

  She laid a hand on his wrist. The fingers were cold, and clasped him with frantic strength. Her other hand slipped the veil aside. He looked upon a broad, fair-skinned face, delicately arched nose, full mouth and firm chin: handsome rather than pretty. She whispered so fast and fiercely he had trouble following her:

  “Whatever you are, you must listen! If you are no warrior yourself, then give the word when you go home to those who are. I am Bourtai Ivanskaya of the Tumurji folk, who belonged to the Tebtengri Shamanate. Surely you have heard speak of them, enemies to Oleg, driven info the north but still at war with them. My father was a noyon—a division commander—well known to Juchi Ilyak. He fell at the battle of Rivers Meet, last year, where the Yesukai men took our whole ordu. I was brought here alive, partly as a hostage—” A flare of haughtiness: “As if that could influence my people!— and partly for the Kha Khan’s harem. Since then I have gained a little more confidence. More important, I have gotten connections of my own. The harem is always a center of intrigue. Nothing is secret for very long from the harem, but much which is secret begins there , .

  “I know,” said Flandry. “I’ve encountered polygynous cultures before.” Stunned, almost overwhelmed, he could nonetheless not resist adding: “Bedfellows make strange politics.”