Earthblood (38 page)

"The dogs are brave enough," Roan said. "But they don't know how to fight a force like Trishinist's. The ship won't fire; he'll want the city intact to loot; but the ground party will walk through them to take the city, and then they'll come on to Lower Town, and from here they'll go on to the next city, and when they're finished there'll be nothing left but ashes."

"Perhaps if the Lowers joined with the dogs—"

"No use. They're just a mob, drunk on a taste of victory."

"Why, Roan?" Sostelle whined. "What do these men seek here? Surely in the wide skies there must be worlds enough for all creatures . . ."

"They destroy for the love of it—like Daryl and his friends. Poor Terra. Her last, forlorn hope is gone now."

The landing force had advanced across the ramp to the reception buildings; a detachment broke off, and Roan saw the wink of guns as they smashed their way into the glass-walled lounge where he had met Daryl that first day, so long ago. The dogs, meanwhile, had grounded their flyers and were advancing in open order across a wide park to intercept the invaders at the causeway.

"Terra's own—her lost, wandering sons—returned to deal her her deathblow," Sostelle whispered. "In a sad world, this is the crowning sadness."

Roan was studying the advancing ITN column. Even from the distance of half a mile he could make out the hulking forms, the shambling gaits of the mongrel humans in the blue and silver uniforms. Two large men marched at the head of the column, a smaller figure between them.

Sostelle raised his nose and sniffed.

"Look there!" Roan said. "Can you see . . . ?"

"My eyes are not as keen as those of a Man, Roan; but—" Roan was on his feet. His heart beat in his throat, almost choking him. Then he was running, springing across a stretch of open grass, leaping up the embankment to the causeway. He heard Sostelle at his side.

"Roan—you'll be killed! Both sides will fire their guns at you—" But Roan ran on toward the approaching ITN detachment. The leader—a huge figure in ill-fitting blues—held up a hand, halted the column, brought a short-barreled power gun around . . .

Then he threw it aside.

"Roan! Chief!" he bellowed.

"Askor! And Sidis!"

They came together and Roan seized the half-breeds' broad shoulders in a wild embrace, shouting, while Askor grinned so widely that every one of his twenty-eight teeth showed.

"Chief, we knew we'd find you," he roared out. Sidis was looming then, his steel teeth glittering in the polyarc light.

"Askor and me come in here ready to blow this dump apart if we didn't find you OK." He clapped Roan on the back with his steel hook, and Roan seized him, danced him around, while the troops standing by at the ready gaped and grinned.

"I told that lunkhead you was OK." Askor gripped Roan's arm and pounded his back with a great, horny hand.

"Gee, Boss, you look different," Sidis said. "Your hair's got gray and you got lines in your face . . . and you ain't been eating good, neither. But to the Nine Hells with it! We're together!"

Roan laughed and listened to both men talk at once, and then other crewmen were crowding forward, and Roan caught a glimpse of a once-familiar face, now thin and dirty and streaked with tears. It was Trishinist, and there was an iron collar around his neck to which a length of heavy chain was welded.

"I knew you big plug-uglies would come back," Roan said. Sostelle was by his side, his tail wagging. "Didn't I, Sostelle?" Roan demanded, blinking back an annoying film in his eyes.

"Yes, Roan," the dog said. "You knew."

"Chief, I guess maybe we better take a few minutes to straighten out these fellows coming out from the city," Askor said. The dogs were marching across the causeway now, four abreast, advancing in defense of their masters.

"Sostelle—can't you stop them?" Roan asked.

"No," the dog said, almost proudly. "The dogs will fight." Then Askor was away, bawling orders, and Roan stood with Sidis under a tree as delicate as a lilac as the two columns met in fire and dust.

It was an hour after dawn; in a half-shattered house at the edge of the city, the leader of the surviving dogs stood before Roan and Askor. His fur was singed and there was blood clotted at the side of his head, but he stood straight.

"My animals are overwhelmed, Masters," he said. "Only twenty-three survive, and all of those are injured. We can no longer fight."

"You put up a good scrap," Askor said approvingly. "You knocked off a couple dozen ITN's and even nailed one or two of my own boys."

"I request one hour's time to permit my dogs to clean themselves and polish their brasses before we are put to death," the dog said. "They wish to meet their end in proper fashion, and not as masterless curs."

"Huh? Who said anything about killing you? You lost, we won, that's the breaks of the game."

"But . . . now your soldiers will loot the Upper City, which we were sworn to protect."

"Forget it. You tried. Now I got other plans for you dogs. What would you say to joining up?"

"Joining . . . ?"

"The ITN," Askor explained. "I need good fighters . . ." He looked at Roan.

"Sorry, Chief. I guess this last year I kind of got a habit of talking like it was my show."

"It is," Roan said. "You've earned it."

"If we hadn't of found Archaeopteryx and our old crew cruising around near Alpha Four looking for us, we never would of made it. But what about signing up the dogs, Chief? You like the idea OK?"

"Sure; they're Terrans too, aren't they?"

The dog's eyes gleamed. He straightened his back even more. "Sirs! My dogs and I accept your offer! We will fight well for Terra, sirs!" He saluted and limped away.

Sidis came up. "Boss, uh, the boys are kind of looking around a little in the city, if that's OK. They been a long time in space, and, uh . . ."

"No unnecessary killing or destruction," Roan said. "I leave it to them to decide what's necessary."

"Them poor Terries in the dump town," Askor said. "They look worse than the Geeks back in that place, Tambool, Chief. We give 'em some food and blasted down the gates so's they could help themselves to some of the stuff that's laying around in the fancy part of town. I got a idea we could sign on a few of them, too, after the fun's over."

"Yeah, Boss," Sidis said eagerly. "With a couple hundred of Trishinist's Gooks, and the dogs, and now these Terries, we got a nice-sized little navy shaping up. We could maybe even man two ships. What you got in mind for our next cruise?"

Roan shook his head. "I'm staying on Terra," he said. Askor and Sidis stared at him.

"This world needs every Man it can get," Roan said. "The old equilibrium's been shattered—and if I leave now, leave them to their own

devices—they'll die. The Lowers outnumber the Uppers a hundred to one—but they don't know how to run a world. And if the automatic machinery isn't properly tended, they'll all starve. They'll starve soon, anyway, when the system breaks down completely. But I can help. I have to try."

Askor nodded. "Yeah . . . from what I saw, there ain't much hope for these Terries on their own."

"There's still life in the old world," Roan said. "Now that the blockade is broken, the word will spread; they'll be coming, to get in on the spoils. But with a little time and luck, I can organize her defenses—enough to give her a chance."

Askor frowned. "Defenses? What about Trixie? There ain't many tubs in space can take her on."

"I can't ask you to stay here," Roan said. "For me, it's different. I have a wife now. And in a few months I'll have a son . . ."

Askor and Sidis looked at each other.

"Uh . . . you know, Boss, it's a funny thing," Sidis said. "I feel at home here myself." He waved a thick-fingered hand. "The air smells right, the sunlight, the trees—all that kind of stuff. I been thinking—"

"Uh, Chief," Askor broke in. "I'll be back . . ." Roan looked after him. "I guess I'm a great disappointment to him: Married, settled down, no more raiding the spaceways . . ."

"It ain't that, Boss." Sidis snapped the top off a tall wine bottle and occupied himself with swallowing. A big Gook named Gungle appeared at the door, grinned across at Roan.

"Hey, Cap'n, what you want to do with this Terry captain we got here?

Askor said bring him along from Alpha for you to roast over a slow fire if you wanted to." He tugged the chain in his hand and Trishinist stumbled into the room.

"Roan—dear lad," he babbled. "If you've a heart, surely you'll take a moment now to instruct these animals to release me—"

Gungle jerked the chain. "Talks funny, don't he, Cap'n?"

"Maybe we should find a nice deep hole to put him in," Roan said thoughtfully, studying the former officer. "But somehow the idea bores me. You may as well just shoot him."

"Roan—no! I'm far too valuable to you!"

"He's all the time talking about something he knows, Cap'n," Gungle explained. "Said you wouldn't never find out, if we was to blow a hole in him."

"Yes, Roan," Trishinist gasped. "Only set me free—with a stout vessel, of course—one of the flagship's lifeboats will serve nicely—and an adequate supply of provisions—and perhaps just a few small ingots of Terran gold to help me make a new start—and I'll tell you something that will astonish you!"

"Go ahead," Roan said.

"But first, of course, your promise—"

Gungle gave the chain a sharp tug. "Tell it," he growled. Trishinist bleated. "Your word, Roan—"

"I guess I might as well go ahead and plug him, Cap'n," Gungle said apologetically, tugging at his pistol. "I shun't of bothered you." He turned on the cowering man.

"I'll speak," he bleated. "And throw myself on your mercy, Roan. I have faith in your sense of honor, dear lad—"

Roan yawned.

"You're a Terran!" Trishinist screeched. "Yes, of the Pure Strain—the ancient strain! There was a ship—oh, old, old, it was, Roan! Hulled in Deep Space by a rock half as big as a lifeboat, and drifting through space and centuries—until I found it. There was the body of a Man—frozen in an instant as the rock opened her decks to space. They took from his body the frozen germ cells, and at my order—my order, Roan! our finest technicians thawed them, and induced maturation! And then—but the rest you know . .

." He stared at Roan, his mouth hanging open, his eyes pleading.

"His name was Admiral Stuart Murdoch," Roan said. "He died sixteen thousand years ago."

"Then—you knew . . ." Trishinist's face went gray; he sagged.

"I didn't know the whole story. Tell me, Trishinist, if I let you go, will you settle down here on Terra and live a useful life?"

"Live? Life?" The former captain straightened. "Roan, I'll be a model citizen, I swear it. Oh, I'm tired, tired! of killing, and struggle, and hate! I want to rest now. I'll till a plot of soil—Terran soil—and marry a Terran woman, raise a family. I want . . . I want to be loved . . ."

"Cripes," Gungle said.

"Get out," Roan said. "And if you betray me, I'll find you, wherever you are."

"Gee, Cap'n," Gungle said disgustedly. He dropped the chain and Trishinist caught it up, darted from the room. Roan heard a yell, then the scamper of retreating feet. Askor came in, grinning.

"I figured you'd let him go, Chief. And, uh, now I got something to show you . . ." He turned, beckoned. A girl appeared in the doorway, smiling shyly. She was small, pretty, obviously Terran. She was dressed in soft-colored garments from the Gallian World, and she held a baby in her arms. Askor went to her, put a protective hand on her shoulder, led her to Roan. A fat, three-month-old face looked up at Roan, suddenly smiled a wide, half-familiar smile.

"My kid," Askor said proudly.

Roan blinked.

"Me and Cyrillia," Askor went on, grinning. "I, uh, kind of took her along when me and Sidis left here, Chief. We was in kind of a hurry, but I seen her, and . . . you know . . ."

"You took her with you?" Roan took the baby. He was solid, heavy, with the round face of a Minid and the pert nose of his mother. "Then—this means—"

"Yeah," Askor said. "I guess that proves even a Gook's got a little Earthblood, huh? I want to stay here, Chief. With you. And the rest of the boys too. You need us here. Terra needs us to start her new Navy—and ever since Roan was born—" Askor blushed.

"We named him for you, sir," Cyrillia said in a soft voice.

"Hell's hull, Chief—all the boys are tired of this shipboard life. They all want to get a nice Terry gal and settle down. We'll keep Trixie shipshape—we'll cruise her enough to train the green hands and keep the crew in trim . . ."

"There are plenty of ships," Roan said, through a smile that felt as large and silly as Askor's. "We can crew fifty of them if we want to, and stand off anybody that comes looking for easy pickings. And meanwhile, we'll be building, and learning, and growing. Give us a few hundred years—"

"Just give me now, Boss," Askor said, taking the baby and holding him in his huge hands. "That's more than any Gook ever had a right to hope for." It was evening. Roan sat with Desiranne's hand in his on a grassy hillside above the city. Cyrillia, Askor, Sidis, and Sostelle were grouped around them. Below, fires winked and glimmered in a dozen places across the dark city. Faint sounds of raucous laughter, shouts, the unmelodic harmonies of drunken looters rose like the murmur of surf.

"Roan," Sostelle said. "Shouldn't you put a stop to the destruction—"

"No!" Desiranne spoke almost fiercely. "Let them destroy it! It's false, hateful, full of hideous memories! Let it all be burned clean—and then we can start new. We still have the soil and the sun; we still have Terra!"

"But the museums—the ancient things, the treasures of Terran art . . ."

"No," Cyrillia said. "The First Era of Man has ended. Let it be forgotten."

"But thirty thousand years of history; all Terra's past . . ."

"Terra's past is lost forever," Roan said. "Now she has only the future."