Torian Reclamation 3: Test of Fortitude (21 page)

“You’re an amazing society,” Alan said. “I still find it difficult to conceive of a world where everyone is an entrepreneur.”

“In that case,” Shaldan responded, “I would suggest your perception is skewed. Tora is a free society, is it not?”

“It is.”

“No one is forced to work?”

“No.”

“Then you are all entrepreneurs, same as us, regardless of whatever titles and financial rituals you may apply. Ultimately, you all do as you wish, work as hard as you want to, and arrange the priorities of your lives as you each see fit.”

“But we recognize misfortune,” Alan said. “And are sympathetic to those who experience it.”

“Of course.” Shaldan nodded. “As are we.”

“What happens to those who fail in business on Mpar?” Jumper asked. “And are financially devastated as a result?”

“They typically apply for help with a financial rehabilitation clinic. Those are popular charities as well. Our most successful people tend to be the largest contributors, not only with funds but with new fledgling businesses individuals in need can be placed into. No one on Mpar is destitute who doesn’t want to be. And since we’re trained to desire success from youth, there is very little economic complacency among our population.”

As Alan contemplated the remarkable archetype of Mparian society, the three of them were suddenly distracted by a loud boom from the canyon where Threeclack and his friends now were. It was followed by shouts and the sounds of rocks crashing.

Fardo and Kush were still in view on the path. They reacted by running in the direction of the noise.

“What in Erob was that?” Alan said.

“Sounded like a rockslide.” Jumper stood up. “I hope everyone’s okay.” He looked down the slope. “Looks like Kayla’s heading back down. Probably to follow Fardo and go investigate. Maybe we should, too.”

Alan looked at the horizon. “It will take us several hours to get there. Going down is slower, remember.”

The three of them watched Kayla and Casanova descend back the short ways they had climbed. When they reached the ground again, Fardo and Kush were already rounding the bend into the canyon and shortly vanished behind it. Kayla and Casanova began trotting in that direction.

More shouts came from the canyon. As they watched, a faint red beam shot out across the open ground from that direction.

“That was a laser!” Alan said. “There could be trouble down there.”

The distant sound of Fardo’s voice then echoed across the landscape.

“Wasah!”

“That’s Kush’s attack command,” Shaldan said.

Alan and Jumper looked at each other. Jumper appeared both scared and frustrated. Alan understood. Something was wrong on the ground. Their friends might be in trouble. And here they were way up on these rocks, stranded and helpless.

Shaldan spoke again. “Jumper, you better tell Kayla to be careful. She and your cat are running towards the canyon. I don’t know if she saw the laser.”

Jumper looked back down.

“Kayla, no!” he shouted.

Kayla stopped and looked up. Casanova did the same.

“Wait for us!” Jumper yelled. “We saw a laser!”

Kayla looked back and forth between the canyon and Jumper up on the rocks several times. Finally, she turned and took off towards the canyon again at a full sprint. Casanova followed her.

Dirg was a large green planet, similar in appearance to the Torian worlds but with a thinner cloud cover. Brandon found the sight of it picturesque as they approached. Several dozen star-shaped transport ships could be seen in orbit, along with a significant number of fighters on patrol. Catching the Dirgs off-guard in a sudden attack didn’t look to be an easy task. Perhaps that’s why they hadn’t been approached by the dark enemy.

Brandon knew there were other possible reasons. The Dirgs were a known ally of Tora, and Tora was now the prominent military force in the Erobian Sphere. A force which also supposedly possessed a fearsome weapon of mass destruction. Then there was the fact that many other races found the Dirgs to be repugnant. But Brandon didn’t want to think about that now.

“We’ve been welcomed and are cleared to establish orbit,” Milon4 said. “Commander, they’re arranging a reception for you, as requested, and will send the shuttle coordinates shortly.”

“Thank you.” Brandon left the bridge.

Within the hour, Brandon was on the ground. His shuttle landed at a military base. It was, in a word, impressive. As slow and awkward as the Dirgs were in physically, they were swift and systematic when it came to handling important business. The base was a flurry of coordinated activity. Brandon witnessed what appeared to be the changing of a patrol shift as he and his pilots were brought across the grounds in a hover truck. A new squadron of fighters launched seconds before the patrol coming in landed. Hover vehicles of various sizes carrying pilots, ground crews, and equipment merged and separated seamlessly as they flowed to their individual destinations. The Dirgs were putting on a clinic of military efficiency. Brandon hoped it wasn’t all just a show for his benefit.

It probably wasn’t. Brandon remembered those half star-shaped fighters in the battle against the Latians and the unknown dark enemy in the space above Amulen five years ago. The Dirg fighters were fast and maneuverable. Moreover, the pilots were fearless. This was a good group to have on your side.

That is, as long as they were in spaceships shooting lasers and missiles. In an old-fashioned ground battle, their cumbersome physiques didn’t figure to be much use. Brandon and his two shuttle pilots had to politely restrict their gait after getting off the truck as they followed their slower moving hosts, who were straining to move as fast as they could. But those bulbous green and yellow legs could only do so much.

They stopped at a lounge.

“Will your pilots be attending the meeting, or would they prefer to relax here?”

Before Brandon could answer, his attention was drawn to one side by the familiar sound of tranquil drumbeats. When he saw the source of it he winced. Two Dirgs were playing the same instrument the Azaarians had given him. There it was—the flute with that wicked black box converting the sound to a dangerously hypnotic percussion rhythm. What in Erob were those things doing on Dirg?

“They’ll be attending the meeting, thanks.”

Brandon’s Banorian pilots cocked their heads, obviously not expecting to be privy to top-level intelligence. Brandon didn’t care what Olut6 might think. He didn’t want his pilots getting their minds numb from the tupinx.

They were then brought to a conference room where three Dirgs were already seated and waiting. Brandon was happy to recognize one of them, Admiral Hochob. Introductions were made and coffee was poured. One of the three was a general. Good. Brandon was being received with a noticeable degree of respect. The general acted graciously towards Brandon, and expressed an appreciation for the Torian fleet which currently patrolled this region of the galaxy. They were expected to return to Dirg within a few days’ time.

“What news of Tora brings you here?” Admiral Hochob asked after Brandon and his pilots sat.

“The High General Olut6 sends you his regards, as does the Chancellor of Banor and Belle-ub of Amulen. I am here at my own discretion, as directed by the High General, after a personal meeting with authorities on Azaar.”

“You’ve come here directly from Azaar?” The Dirg general asked. He began pulsating faster.

“Correct, General.”

“What was the nature of your business there?”

“To accuse them of being in league with the dark enemy, and closely observe their reaction. Our High General sent me to them explicitly for that purpose, because he believes me to be strong in perception and intuition.”

“And what did your perception and intuition tell you?” A slight hissing accompanied the general’s question.

Brandon replied in a louder voice. “That my High General’s concerns are well-founded.”

A short moment of silence ensued before the general spoke again.

“He suspects Azaar to be in league with the enemy?”

Brandon nodded. “If not in league, at least in association with. And not only Azaar, but all the worlds on the outer fringe of the sphere, from Latia to Azaar, with the exception of Dirg. He therefore fears a pending attack on Dirg, possibly involving a coalition which includes one or more of the other worlds who have been subdued by the enemy.”

The three Dirg commanders spoke in low hissing tones to each other.

“This is a remarkable suspicion,” the general finally said.

Brandon cocked his head. “Why is that, General?”

“No doubt you’ve noticed our patrols. We’re on high alert since the last alien containers were found floating in our space. Fortunately, they contained only freight. But there are those in our central government—including our Prime Minister—who have concerns similar to those of your High General. Let it be known that we are extremely thankful for your consideration. Your loyalty to our alliance is admirable.”

Brandon felt a sudden pain in his leg. Strange, that old wound hadn’t bothered him in years. He reached down and touched the tender spot. It had never completely healed.

“What was the freight you found drifting?” Brandon asked almost absentmindedly as he rubbed his leg. He suddenly felt spacey and needed to fight to stay focused.

“Only musical instruments.”

Brandon straightened up. “Flutes that sound like drums?”

“Yes,” the general hissed. “How did you know that?”

Brandon didn’t answer. He could no longer hold back the oncoming dizziness and held his head, trying to keep the room from spinning.

Admiral Hochob’s voice spoke from somewhere. “Several off-duty personnel have been playing them in the lounges. He must have seen them there.”

“What is the situation with your half-breed races?” Brandon asked without knowing why and without lifting his head. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the three Dirgs’ pulsations increase in pace. One of them began hissing. This was apparently a sore subject with them.

“A small population remains on Dirg,” Admiral Hochob said at length. “But most have been relocated to Milura.”

“You don’t respect their views, do you?” Brandon asked.

The Dirg general stood up, faster than Brandon thought Dirgs could move.

“What is the meaning of that question? What possible military significance can it have?”

The general’s reaction had the beneficial side benefit of snapping Brandon out of his trance. He stood to face him.

“Perhaps nothing. But perhaps much, General. In any case, I wish to meet with a representative of your half-breeds. Preferably someone who is considered important in their own community.”

The general and Admiral Hochob eyed each other curiously.

“This can easily be arranged,” Admiral Hochob finally said. “Especially since…” he looked at the general again.

“Especially since what?” Brandon asked.

“He asked to meet with you already,” Admiral Hochob confessed. “The Ulorkian delegate, that is. He represents the Ulorks to our people, and has been their primary spokesperson since the segregation of our societies. His name is Bleear. He is said to be a prophet among his own kind—although the Dirgs do not recognize the possible existence of any such thing. We’re actually concerned over the security breach which supplied him with the knowledge of your arrival. He was flatly refused, of course.”

“I respectfully request a conference with him,” Brandon said.

“Why?” the Dirg general asked.

“Those tupinx—the flutes that sound like drums—are a destructive device, General. I was given one at Azaar. Unfortunately, I was foolish enough to play it on the bridge of my ship. The Azaarians amassed a great force against us when we lingered in their space too long after our meeting. We nearly fell prey to them while under the influence of the pacifying drumbeats.”

The Dirgs looked back and forth at each other as Brandon continued.

“Beware of the Azaarians. I know you’ve considered them friends in recent times. Their current sympathies are questionable at best. Beware of these musical instruments! Only a fool would believe they were floating in your space by accident, as a lost freight container. I’m betting the Ulorks would tell you the same thing, should you give any credence to their opinions. Don’t allow your military personnel to come under the seduction of the drumbeats, please.”

Admiral Hochob stood, and then everyone else in the room did as well. His skin rippled down his torso in what Brandon recognized as a Dirg salutation. Brandon returned the bow.

“Very well then,” Admiral Hochob said. “Brandon Foss of Earth, please consider yourself an honored guest on Dirg. Your shuttle will be given full travel clearance, and we’ll provide you with the coordinates for Bleear’s village. We will also give your warnings serious consideration, especially since you have also given credible testimony which corroborates some of our other suspicions.”

“Some of which are worthy of lengthy contemplation,” the general added. Brandon appreciated that touch. He wanted to leave on good terms despite his bold—and obviously controversial—appeals.