Various Fiction

by Robert Sheckley

  Was a true friend the one who helped the hero get away, so that he could die at last, quietly in bed, perhaps attended by pretty little bright-eyed weasel nymphets? Or was a true friend the one who assisted the hero toward his true, inner goal, the valiant death in battle against great odds?

  “I’ll be sorry to see you go,” I told him, speaking the truth, though not all of it.

  “My feelings, too,” Tostig said. “Perhaps friendship isn’t possible between our races. I don’t know the truth of that, it is too deep for me. But this I know—friendship between individuals is possible. I shall miss you, Judah.”

  It was in my mind to say something to him then, but his guard of honor had just arrived, four piratical-looking Khalia liberally covered with weapons, one of them with a black patch over one eye.

  “Let us inspect your work,” Tostig said lightly, and we marched out surrounded by the guard of honor.

  Tostig’s men were drawn up in front of the battle cruiser. There were almost a hundred of them, since other battle groups fighting on Target had sworn fealty to him, wishing to have some share in his glory. Homer Farsinger was there, too, resplendent in his silver-grey robe, his face an unreadable mask.

  After the cheering had subsided, Tostig boarded his ship, and Homer and I followed him. As we came to the pilot’s section, I could hold myself in no longer. “Tostig,” I said, “there is something I must tell you!”

  He regarded me with a level gaze. “No,” he said, “you do not. You see, I already know.”

  “You know?”

  Tostig smiled. “I know the old Sagas a lot better than you do. Almost as well as our colleague here, the Destination Master. Isn’t that so, Homer?”

  “The Baron’s knowledge of matters poetical is unexcelled,” Homer said. “For a layman, of course.”

  “Of course,” Tostig said. He looked over the controls, then turned to Homer again. “How, exactly, did you arrange the treachery, Homer? Something ingenious, I trust?”

  “Ingenious enough,” he said. “When you go to turn on the ship’s computer, I’ve set up a special code you must enter before making any other move. Otherwise, a disabling program is implemented, putting the computer out of service once and for all. But how did you find out?”

  “I had no idea,” Tostig said. “I just thought I’d pretend to know and see what you said.”

  “So you tricked us!” Homer said.

  “One good trick deserves another,” Tostig said. “I’ve known your plans for me for a long time, Destination Master. And of course you were able to convince my naive friend here that death in battle and glory in song is what I really wanted for myself.”

  “I should never have listened to him,” I said. “Tostig, you can still get away. The code to disarm the disabling program—”

  Tostig held up an imperious paw. “No, don’t tell me. I might be tempted to use it.”

  We stared at him. Then a grim smile crossed the face of the Destination Master.

  “Then I was not wrong about you, Baron Tostig!”

  “You knew me better than I knew myself. But then, he who can read the soul of the race has the key to the individual as well.”

  We followed Tostig as he walked to the spaceship door. The crowd of Khalian warriors fell silent as he looked at them.

  “Men,” he said, “the spaceship is fixed. But we do not need it. This is too great an opportunity to be missed. We’re going to take on the entire Fleet and all the land forces the humans can throw against us. We are going to perform the greatest feats of arms known to Khalian history. We have lived long enough. Now I invoke the code of the berserker. I will attack, even if I must do so alone. Are there any of you who would like to accompany me?”

  The resounding cheer that came up showed that the vote was unanimous. True Khalia all, they could not resist the glamour of a great death under a famous leader and immortality in song.

  “We’ll be celebrating tonight,” Tostig said, “in preparation for our attack. Go now, Judah, my friend, go home in safety and with my regard. Baron Tostig keeps his word. And take this Poet with you, because his Saga must be preserved for our future generations.”

  Homer Farsinger drew himself-up to his full height. “No, Tostig, I won’t go. You have made the right decision, the only decision possible for a hero. But my decision is the correct one for a Poet. I will stay here with you, witness your last battle, and record it for the conclusion of my Saga.”

  “But, you silly idiot,” Tostig said, “you’re likely to be killed with the rest of us, war being no respecter even of poets. And then what will become of my great Saga?”

  “I have considered the problem,” Homer said. “I hoped that matters would work out in this way. I made my preparations.”

  From within his long robes he took out a small machine. I recognized it at once as one of our standard model cassette recorders.

  “I took this piece of alien technology from the spoils of our most recent battle. On it I have recorded all of the Saga, right up to the present moment. The human has shown himself to be worthy of trust, to yourself in regard to friendship and to me in terms of the deepest poetical wishes of the Khalian people. We understand each other, Judah and I. No doubt I will survive your death, Tostig, because Bards are often lucky in that way. In that case, I will finish the Saga myself and find a way to get it back to the College of Poets on Khalia. But if I should die, then I request of you, Judah, that you find some way to get this to the Khalia, so that they can finish the story themselves.”

  “I’ll do that,” I said, taking the little cassette recorder and putting it in my pocket. I shook Homer’s paw, embraced Tostig, and then I was on my way.

  The rest is well known to the members of this court-martial. It took our forces another two months to bring Tostig to bay, and it cost us many lives before we killed him in the great slaughter at Deadman’s Pass.

  As for the Great Saga, it is a sadness for me to have to report that the Destination Master was no mastery of gadgetry, not even something as straightforward as a cassette recorder. He had managed to turn it on, and the winking little red light had convinced him that the thing was working properly. But evidently he had forgotten to release the pause button, and so, despite the spirited winking of the little red light, no words were taken down.

  And Homer Farsinger did not survive the battle to be able to sing his song again.

  These words which you now read are my own poor effort to tell the story of Tostig’s glory. I have done the best l could for him. He was my enemy, he was my friend, and I betrayed him in the prescribed Khalian manner, and now, to the best of my ability, I have sung his song.

  The rest is quickly told. Through an intermediary, I delivered this account of my meeting with Tostig to a representative of the Khalian Poet’s Guild.

  “It is not in proper metric form,” he said, “and it speaks rather more of you than of Tostig. But we are grateful for your efforts. We accept your Saga. Let it be called: ‘The Ballad of Baron Tostig.’ And let it also be known that you are the only alien ever to invent a Saga accepted by the Khalian Poet’s Guild.”

  He gave me a silver-grey cloak of office, and the pointed hat of a bard. They are too small for me to wear but I have hung them on the wall of my study in New Jerusalem. When I look at them, I remember Tostig. If that be treason, I stand condemned out of my own mouth.

  1989

  THE HOMECOMING

  The John Carter Military Academy of New South Mars had its own river, The Red, modeled after a stretch of the Red River in Virginia on the planet Earth. The Red was less than half a kilometer long, a recirculating stream framed by large weeping willows. Prince Kemal Gavilan liked to walk down to it after the evening meal. It gave him a chance to be alone.

  The attackers had hidden behind the big willows. There were two of them, and they came at him hard and fast, wearing faded rose-and-sand-colored jumpsuits that blended into the Martian lighting and conferred a moment of near-invisibility.
It was a textbook assault, one coming high, the other low. Yet something had signaled Kemal, some subclue too subtle to classify. The instructors called it combat sense, and it came with hard training. The privileged young men of the academy who wished to live long lives worked hard to acquire it.

  As they came at him, Kemal fell back in a defensive martial arts stance. Then he attacked, delivering two blows almost simultaneously: a kick to one attacker’s groin, a hammer-hand to the other’s temple. He rolled past them, taking a stiff elbow in the kidneys and a kick along the shin. Then he was on his feet, ready to attack again.

  But the two had put their hands down, palms open in a gesture of peace. The fight was over.

  Kemal, adrenaline hammering in his head, gene-teched nerves ready to explode into violence, managed to bring himself under control.

  His attackers saluted. “Nicely done, sir,” one of them said. They were both underclassmen, trained by the survival skills instructors to perform surprise attacks on highly trained upperclassmen, like Kemal. It was part of the training. Of course, what made it interesting was that one could never tell if an attack was the real thing or not.

  “Hope I didn’t hurt you,” Kemal said, noticing that one of them was holding his ribs. Actually, he was pleased with himself about that hit.

  “Not at all, sir,” the man said. “I hope we weren’t unnecessarily rough with you.”

  “Are you kidding?” Kemal said. “You guys barely made contact. But your attack was well done.”

  “Thank you, sir,” one of the underclassmen said. “The commandant asked me to tell you that you have a visitor.”

  “Whom did he say it was?”

  “He gave no further information, sir.”

  “Describe him to me.”

  “I didn’t see him myself, sir.”

  “Thank you.” Kemal returned their salute. “Dismissed!”

  As the youths left, Kemal gingerly moved to the water’s edge, taking care to walk naturally, even though his kidneys hurt badly and he knew he was going to have a painful bruise on his shin.

  Slowly, the small hazel eyes set into his bronze face surveyed the river’s artificial beauty. As he leaned over the water, he could see his own reflection, that of a Mercurian prince locked within the formal magenta uniform of the Martian academy.

  2

  Kemal walked down the central promenade to the Commons, where guests were received. He wondered who the visitor could be. He had no real friends on Mars.

  Reaching the Commons, Kemal straightened his uniform, checked to see that his tie was properly bloused, and went in.

  The man sitting in the armchair near the open window was in his fifties, Kemal guessed, of medium height, bearded, stout, and high-colored, with a receding hairline that showed a tanned forehead and skull. He wore the insignia of a prince of a ruling family. His expensive, brocaded longcoat was cut in the latest Metroplex style.

  The visitor was Garrick, one of his uncles. Garrick had the same look of compact strength that all three Gavilan brothers had shared, although he was the smallest and youngest of the three.

  “Hello, Uncle,” Kemal said as civilly as possible, taking his own seat instead of accepting the man’s outstretched hand. He found it hard to keep an edge of surliness out of his voice and manner.

  “Good afternoon, Kemal. How’ve you been?” his uncle replied simply.

  Kemal managed to avoid directly insulting his kin, or blaming him for contributing to Kemal’s current predicament. The two of them labored at small talk for a few minutes. Garrick was visibly ill at ease and trying to hide it by smiling frequently and bantering about the discomforts of the Mercury-Mars run.

  “Well, Nephew, I imagine you’re wondering why this visit, eh? I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. I’ve come on your Uncle Gordon’s instructions. He wants you home, Kemal!”

  If Garrick had expected a delighted response from Kemal, he was disappointed. Kemal’s expression, tight-lipped, impassive, cynical, never changed.

  “Home?” Kemal said. “You’re referring to Mercury?”

  “Of course! That’s where you’re from, isn’t it? He wants you back as soon as possible.”

  “What’s Uncle Gordon’s rush, after sixteen years?”

  “He has his reasons, Kemal, and he’ll tell you himself when you get there. He sends his affectionate greetings, as does the whole family.”

  “That is kind of them,” Kemal said. “It seems I will get to thank everyone in person for their attentions over the years. Especially Uncle Gordon.”

  Garrick frowned. “Now, Kemal,” he said, “don’t go to Mercury Prime with an attitude problem. The duties of a Sun King of Mercury are neither light nor simple. As you will see.”

  “No doubt,” said Kemal. He stood and moved to the Commons’ large window, overlooking the academy’s wooded front lawn. A small bird flitted by, and Kemal imagined it was him, finally leaving the “nest” imposed upon him, flying to a more beautiful, if more dangerous, side of the fence. “Are you accompanying me?” he asked Garrick, not out of fear, but of the knowledge that safety lay in numbers, and that when facing his Uncle Gordon he would need all the allies he could muster.

  “Unfortunately, I will not have that pleasure,” Garrick said, standing, seeming to know that he was again abandoning Kemal to his own devices. “Gordon has sent me to inspect the RAM Academy installations on Deimos, with a view to modernizing our own equipment. After that, I will be touring other military installations in the inner solar system.”

  Although Kemal had been taught little about galactic political history, everyone in the solar system knew of RAM, the Russo-American Mercantile, the mega-corporation based on Mars. In fact, it was hard not to notice that RAM was involved in every political situation that it could be. Nearly all the academy’s materials were requisitioned straight from RAM, and Mars had been terraformed exclusively under RAM’s direction. So it was no news to Kemal when Garrick’s statement implied a connection between the ever-growing corporation and ever-powerful Sun King regime.

  Garrick’s presence on Mars, delivering this message in person, Kemal feared, followed by the unnecessary tour of military bases, seemed to mean just one thing. It was a one-way trip: Garrick was meant to stay away. But why?

  “I wish you a pleasant stay, Uncle,” Kemal said. “I’ll go make my travel arrangements at once.”

  3

  Commandant James Middleberry, director of the John Carter Military Academy, lived in a good-sized bungalow just outside the military school grounds. Kemal walked there, rather than take one of the small, open monorail cars that were always available. He strolled past tall, dark green poplars, their branches just stirring in the evening breeze under a sunset sky of golden-rose, stained with the indigo of dusk. The Martian weather was as finely crafted as everything else on the planet, thanks to RAM. After terraforming, plant and animal species from Earth had been introduced. Even the insects were of Terran origin.

  Kemal reached Middleberry’s cottage and knocked on the door.

  Middleberry answered it. Normally clad in one of his spit-and-polish commanders’ uniforms, he now had on a light dressing gown over faded khakis.

  “Cadet Gavilan! Come in! It seems that we are to lose you.”

  “News travels fast, sir,” Kemal said. “I just heard it myself.”

  “Your uncle reported the decision to me first, as was proper. I have already signed your transit papers, and they are on the mantel by the door. Stand at ease, Mr. Gavilan. May I give you a glass of sherry?”

  “Thank you, sir.” Transit papers in order, thought Kemal. Someone had probably booked his flight for him, too. They didn’t waste much time getting you out once you had your orders.

  Middleberry went to the sideboard and came back carrying two amber drinks. He was a small man in his fifties, with cold blue eyes, a thin mouth, and a silly, bristly little moustache. The moustache had been brown when Kemal had entered the academy, and now was sprinkled with gra
y.

  A graduate of the legendary, resurrected, and now Martian West Point Military Academy, Middleberry had served in a number of RAM-organized military battles throughout the solar system, none of which he ever disclosed. Finally, when RAM gained hegemony over all the Martian independent states, Middleberry accepted an appointment as commandant of the John Carter Military Academy in the free principality of New South Mars. His long-standing support of RAM made him a preferred candidate, in the eyes of the NSM council.

  “Well, Mr. Gavilan,” Middleberry said, standing very erect with his hands clasped behind his back, “you’ve been with us for ten years.

  “Your scholastic marks have always been acceptable, though your instructors have often pointed out your ability for greater achievement, if you only put your mind to it. In survival skills, you rank among the top ten in your class. That is valuable indeed for a prince of a ruling family.

  “Our boys here are from the power elite of the solar system, the men in command of trade, government, and armed forces. Your position exposes you to great dangers, but carries with it high privilege. You are a Gavilan. You could become an important figure in the high councils of your planet. Not inconceivably, you could come to a position of rulership yourself one day. Whether that happens or not, I hope you will never forget the principles we tried to inculcate in you here at John Carter.”

  “No, sir, I’ll never forget.” Kemal heard the tinniness with which the commandant recited this speech. He had heard the tone at every graduation ceremony he had attended at John Carter—none of which were his own, but which were required attendance for all cadets if they hoped to get out themselves.

  “We expect great things of our people, Kemal. Go out there and show them what a John Carter boy can do.”

  “Yes, sir!” Kemal saluted.

  “Dismissed. By the way, your travel itinerary and trip vouchers are in the folder with your papers.”