Secret of the Stars (10 page)
Read Secret of the Stars Online
Authors: Andre Norton
“History is made up of thin chances which have succeeded.” Hogan slung his supply bag over his shoulder. “Has Perks given you any idea, Samms, when we should start moving?”
“Soon. You’ d better call in your raiding parties.”
“Will do.” Hogan, Rysdyke, Roose and Joktar left the cone. When they were across the river and heading to the back trail, Hogan spoke to the Terran.
“What do you think of Samms?”
“Just now he isn’t very happy.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re playing the hand he picked.”
Hogan laughed. “Yes, I fear I spoiled his original plan somewhat.”
“But you backed him, otherwise Ebers would have walked out!” Rysdyke objected.
“He took over,” Joktar corrected. With great daring he added a question of his own. “Are you Cullan’s man?”
“You’ve an active imagination, son,” was Hogan’s only reply.
Fenris’ moon, brighter, yet in its way more cold and stark than Terra’s, rode a cloudless sky. Below the fluff of brush on the mountain slopes were the clustered domes of the Harband holdings, covering the mouths of the galleries running back into the mountains. There were lights in those domes, and sweeping spotlights outside to cover the land lying within the sonic barrier. These kept off outlaw and beast alike. To Joktar their own expedition seemed increasingly foolhardy.
Hogan might have been reading his mind when, after rising on one knee to use a pair of vision lenses, he said, “There’s this in our favor, they won’t be expecting any attack.”
“From what I see, they won’t have to. How can anyone get across those spot paths? And what happens if the sonic barrier isn’t cut before we reach it?”
“Ifs, ands, maybes, and buts again. Perks is to take the barrier out.”
“And will he?” queried Rysdyke.
Hogan laughed. “How pessimistic we are tonight. Well, the charge hasn’t been sounded as yet. You have a chance to withdraw in good order, heroes.”
“There
is
a ship!” Rysdyke crowded up closer, his hand reaching past Hogan to point at that slim shape caught momentarily in one of the spots: a silver needle aimed at the cold heavens.
“So that much is true.” Hogan’s glasses were aimed, not at the ship, but at the domes with their wreaths of colored lights.
Another of the mob crawled up under the cover of the brush.
“Jumper on the road,” he reported. “Our boys in it, they flashed the signal.”
Close to sunset, hours before, the first move in their attack had been made when they overran the nearest road station. The personnel found there were imprisoned, their broadcasting equipment smashed, and a jumper and a crawler seized. The machines were now coming along and if, with their cargos of armed men, they could get through the sonic gates, the forces they carried could hold those entrances open for their fellows.
The smaller vehicle proceeded at the odd leaping gait peculiar to its kind and behind it the crawler emerged from around a bend. Hogan loosened his mask, gave a high carrying whistle. Shadows arose, to flit from cover. Joktar heard that whistle picked up, relayed. A pattern of lights winked on the nearest dome, was answered by a beam from the driver’s cabin on the jumper.
“Let’s hope,” Rysdyke breathed as his shoulder rubbed Joktar’s in their forward creep, “that we do have the right recognition signals.”
The sonic barrier was invisible. The driver maneuvering the jumper along the rutted road would never know he had crossed it successfully until he reached the domes, or doubled up in agony of wrenched nerves and muscles.
On the jumper surged, rolled, surged again. The machine was in the open and the beam of a spot caught and held it for a moment before flicking on. The crawler trailed. If neither vehicle were expected at the compound, there would be questions and perhaps an alarm. Joktar’s fingers tightened on the blaster as he watched that all too slow advance.
The spot was halfway through a sweep across the landing field when its funnel of light jerked skywards.
“That’s it!”
Perks’ moves were coming on schedule. Now the men in hiding went into action as jumper and crawler halted, discharging their cargos in a boil of outlaws dashing on to the domes. The crackle of blaster fire and the shriller explosion of vorps bolts broke the silence of the night as the weird lightning of blaster fire crossed or met in the air.
Joktar ran forward, part of the first wave headed by Hogan. He saw Roose put on a burst of speed, turn to the right. Rysdyke peeled off after the trapper, and Joktar made a third. There would be a guard on the ship but the crew would normally be quartered at the domes. Whether or not this watchman could close the ship in time depended upon the quality of his vigilance and their own rate of speed. Roose went to one knee, fired, while Rysdyke darted on.
A tracer of fire illuminated for a moment the dark mouth of the hatch in the needle’s side. A figure writhed, fell out to the scorched ground beneath. Rysdyke reached the crew ladder, was climbing.
Joktar caught the ladder below the ascending pilot, well aware of what an excellent target he must make against the side of the ship. Rysdyke was in the air lock now, a moment or so later Joktar made the same haven.
The lock was empty. Roose was on the ladder below, the pilot was heading with single-minded determination for the control cabin. Joktar came out in a short corridor. His only knowledge of the geography of the ship had been the points drilled into him by Rysdyke back in camp, and the ex-pilot had been only guessing at the type of spacer this might be.
For all they knew, members of the crew might be in any of the closed cabins, but their time table allowed no time now for a search. Roose came through, closed the lock. And that shut out the wild clamor of the fight. Now all they could hear was the soft thud of their boots on the stair treads.
Three levels and then they were in the control cabin. Rysdyke had already seated himself in one of the web slung seats, his fingers flickering from button to lever to stud. Roose wriggled through the well opening of the stair, locked down its cover. Joktar relaxed, they could not be easily routed now and Rysdyke had before him the controls governing the ship.
“About now,” Roose caught the back on one of the other seats, “they must be trying to raise Siwaki and the patrol on their dome coms.” But he did not seem at all alarmed at that thought.
“The only way they can get at us is to try to fry us out with a cruiser’s tail flames,” Rysdyke returned. “And they’ve no reason to make this a suicide mission. Well, here goes for the second step, boys.”
9
He triggered a last lever. “Now we’re in business!”
Joktar hoped that the opposition realized that those open ports just above the tail fins had been noted and their threat understood. This ship had been adapted for passenger use from an outer rim scouting craft, and it was still equipped with armament designed to protect explorers landing on newly discovered and perhaps hostile worlds.
“Gonna tickle ’em up now?” Roose asked, highly interested.
“Oh, we’ll give ’em a shot, to impress. Joktar, press that white stud . . . the one to the left of the four-lever plate.”
As the Terran did just that, a vision plate, topping one of the control panels, came to life. Rysdyke gave more instructions and suddenly the domes appeared clearly on that square. Flashes of blaster and vorp fire still rent the night about them.
The pilot read dials, made some minute corrections, and then pressed a button.
In the air, well above the dome bubbles, burst a small core of light, light which spread in waves, shooting skyward in angry brilliance. Both blaster and vorp fire were swallowed up in a poisonous green radiance.
“Quite a show,” commented Roose. “Where do you plant the next shot?”
“On the crag, over that way.” Again Rysdyke made adjustments and fired.
A second ball of angry green glowed on an outjut of the heights behind the domes. The fire continued as if feeding upon the substance of the rock, waves spreading from it for an area of yards. Then the glow died, and where that outjut had been there was nothing but a softly glowing hole eaten into the mountain’s skin, a hole which Joktar knew would go on, deeper and deeper, until the charge of the bolt was completely exhausted.
“Now they
should
have been watching that one!” Roose laughed. “Might even bite into one of their precious mine galleries and bust it wide open.” He moved closer to the vision plate. “You know, fellas, that wouldn’t be a bad idea, let’s just chew their mine to pieces.”
“It’s a thought,” Rysdyke was grinning. “But I’m afraid we’ll have to wait and see if they’ll tail-up first. That’s orders.”
Now as the glow of the initial shots faded, they could catch sight of blaster explosions once more. But it was very evident that the exchange of small fire was not nearly so spirited.
“Calling ship . . . calling ship . . .” a disembodied, metallic voice startled them. Joktar and Roose put back their blasters, smiling
sheepishly at each other, while Rysdyke drew the mike of the com to him.
“Ship here. Who calls?”
“This is Waigh. What are you trying to do, you fool, burn us out?”
“That’s up to you, Waigh. The range will be corrected one notch for every two minutes you continue your opposition.”
There was a startled and baffled silence, before the dome com called again.
“This is Waigh, Cowan, Waigh! You’re on range for the domes!”
“Correction,” Rysdyke was plainly enjoying the exchange. “This is not Cowan, but Rysdyke, commanding officer, ship. We have taken over in the name of Fenrian Free Men. And I am well aware we are on range for your domes, that is our intention.”
“That gives him a tough strip to chew on,” Roose remarked. “First time in years anyone’s warmed Waigh’s tail hot enough to really sting him.”
“The blaster fire’s stopped.” Joktar had been studying the scene on the vision plate.
Rysdyke held the mike closer, counting into it. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, correction one notch now being made. We mean what we say, Waigh. One!”
He pressed the firing button. A second flower of light appeared on the rock face of the mountain to spread in ripples.
“If the first one didn’t eat into one of their galleries, this one certainly will,” Roose observed. “Waigh’s as stubborn as a lamby, though.”
“He may be the top Harband man on Fenris, but he has some visiting vips in there, remember? Hogan’s betting the off-worlders won’t take kindly seeing good ore disintegrated.”
“Ship, this is Sa Kim,” the voice coming from the com was distorted, but still more remote in tone than Waigh’s bellow. “I speak for Harband. What are your terms?”
“Contact the Free Men ground force. They’re prepared to state terms,” Rysdyke answered briskly.
The center dome on the vision plate flashed white. Rysdyke put down the mike.
“Well, our move worked. This Sa Kim is ready to talk.”
Roose stretched. “As neat a job as I ever had a hand in. The chief might have been taking company compounds all his life.”
Rysdyke stirred. “He might just have to take over more than this compound.”
Joktar leaned back, his slung seat swayed a little. “Trouble with Samms?”
“Yes.” With an overflow of furs, Roose fitted his bulk into
another of the cabin seats. “I kinda thought Samms was shaping up into a lord-high-what-have-you, but, again, he isn’t too solid with his own mob. The Perks deal still smells as far as some of the boys are concerned. I’d say if our chief raised his finger and said, ‘Boys, I’m taking over, as of here and now,’ Samms could only ask for a blast out to settle it. Then he’d have as much chance as a snowball in a vorp beam. The chief moves slow when he’s not being snarled at, but I’ve seen him take two call-outs against top men. He’s alive: they aren’t.
”
“Who
is
Hogan?” Joktar asked impulsively.
Rysdyke’s voice was chill. “We don’t ask a man here on Fenris what he was off-world. Hogan was a trader in Siwaki. When the trade was pinched off, he turned woods-runner.”
“Sure,” Roose nodded. “Only me, I don’t think he was ever trader, or hunter. He gets a big kick out of blasting the companies where it hurts the most. But he knows a lot about what’s going on off-world. You heard how he spouted off at the meeting. I think he’s an undercover man for someone big—”
“Ship!”
This time they all recognized the voice. Rysdyke caught for the mike eagerly.
“Ship here.”
“This is Hogan. The deal’s complete, visitors coming, be ready to open ports.”
“That we will, chief.”
Roose sent his seat bobbing with a stir. “Wonder what kind of a deal they made. Might circulate a little and find out.”
“We stick here. Too easy for someone to sneak in and take over, the same way we did.” Rysdyke put down the mike.
“When do you take off for Loki?” Roose wanted to know.
The pilot shrugged. “It’ll have to be soon. Hogan wants to planet before Cullan arrives.”
“Loki. Fenris is cold, Hel hot, and Loki bare of rock and water. This is a damn twister of a system.”
“You chose to come here.”
“Sure, but then me, I’m second-generation from Westlund. We’re used to cold there. It’s not as bad as Fenris, but still cold. I came here for the first alibite rush. Staked me a good claim down on the Frater. That was before the companies rigged registration. I was doing pretty good ten years ago, then they started the freeze-out. My stamper broke down in a cold clip, couldn’t get me a new one through their shipping regulations. So . . .” he spread out his mittened hands, “I lost time on the claim, couldn’t deliver my tax quota and they took over. They did the same with all the early boys—those who weren’t burned trying to fight it out.
“Well, I’d done some lamby hunting on the side, so I made a fresh start that way, dealing through the chief. When they tried to stamp him flat, we both hit the outlands together. I figure the companies owe me about eight years’ living. Maybe now I can collect some of that.”
“Party coming.” Joktar had been watching the plate.
Roose squinted at the view of the outside. “Yeah, the chief’s leading them. I’ll go down and open the door.”
Joktar lay on a narrow bunk, pressure straps anchoring him. The ship strained now to break the planetary bounds of gravity. Had he felt this before?
Those hazy memories which could not be recaptured, yet existed far inside his brain, answered yes.
Weight crushed him, lay heavy on his bones, lungs, flesh. He fought back in his own way, striving to relax nerve and muscle. They were heading out from Fenris. Slowly, he turned his head to glance at the other occupant of the small cabin.
Hogan lay still, his eyes closed. He must still be anesthetized by the take-off shot. Joktar’s private wonder grew. Why hadn’t he, himself, succumbed to that anodyne which eased passengers and crew alike, save for the pilot, through the discomfort of the first upward thrust? In these small ships, the break shot was mandatory and he had thought it always worked.
The vibrations reaching him through the walls, the bunk on which he lay, the very air of the cabin was not the punishment he had feared, but rather something more—an energizing revitalizer. He was more alert and alive in spite of the pressure than he had ever remembered being before. It was as if this environment was for him the normal and rational one.
As the pressure lessened, he wanted out of the confines of the cabin. He unfastened the buckles of the straps, sat up on the bunk. The magnetic soles of his looted crew boots anchored him. He took four steps out of the cabin to the ladder. There he paused, making a new discovery. This too was familiar, yet he was no spaceman.
Joktar went to the control cabin. Rysdyke half-lay, half-sat in the pilot’s chair, within finger reach of the manual controls. The ship was on auto, but any slip must be instantly rectified by human training and intelligence.
The Terran dropped into the matching seat before the com-unit, watching the vision plate. There was Fenris covering three-quarters of the screen, silver, dark blue, as cold to the sight as it was to all the other senses of the men who battled its forbidding land masses. Joktar closed his eyes, reopened them. That blue and silver ball . . . the color was wrong . . . some long-repressed memory shouted so vigorously that he stirred uneasily.
“Gold,” he murmured, unaware that the spoke aloud, “a golden world . . .”
Rysdyke was relaxed in the embrace of his chair, the strain of take-off beginning to fade from his young-old face.
“A golden world,” he repeated softly. “There is one golden world, or so they say. The Ffallian know . . .” Again he slid into that other unknown tongue with its singing lilt, “Ffal, yruktar llyumn, Ris syuarktur mann . . .”
To Joktar, the sounds sang, he could almost make sense of them. But because he could not break the barrier within himself, a small spark of rage glowed. He was being deprived of something truly his own, and until he regained that lost treasure he could not live as did other men.
“Who are the Ffallian and where is the golden world?” His demand was as sharp as a blaster bolt.
Rysdyke answered the second part of his question: “Not on any map of ours.”
“Why?”
“Because when it was offered to us, we threw it away. Or rather it was thrown away for us.” The frustration in Rysdyke’s answer matched the bitterness Joktar knew.
“Why?”
“Because,” the pilot brought his fist down upon the edge of the control panel as if he were beating against a firmly closed door, “our vips will not admit that we have superiors in space!”
“But the Kandas, the Thas, the Zaft,” Joktar told the roll of the planet civilizations the Terrans had found, “none of them have galactic ships, and only the Tlolen are free in their own solar system.”
“Yes, those who are not to our own level, we can acknowledge them,” Rysdyke sneered. “But you haven’t heard of the Ffallian, have you, nor of the others . . . those who claim the golden world? We knew . . . we in the service. I myself saw a video tape and heard . . .” his voice softened. “And I tried to go out there. That’s why they blasted me out of space! Proper scouts see nothing, hear nothing, and never tell anything which is not covered by regulations!”
“Scouts?”
“Those in exploration service. But that had its Bluebeard chambers. You stayed in the limits of your assigned sector; some sectors were off-limits altogether. I found a beacon on an asteroid. The signal called me in. And I wasn’t the first who had answered. There was a scout ship anchored there, an obsolete type. And in it was a message tape; I ran it for reading, against orders. Then I wanted to go, too.”
“To go where?”
“To where the beacon gave a course, as the other scout had before me. Only I’d signaled in when I first found the beacon and the patrol was after me before I could relay to the Others that I was waiting.”
