by Mitch Benn
- But how did YOU find it? Terra persisted.
- Er, that was me actually, said Pktk, shuffling up behind them. I found Lsh-Lff. Or rather I figured out that it was still here.
Terra could tell that Pktk was dying to say how he’d done this but was far too modest – even now, after all he’d done to save his friends during the invasion – to volunteer the information. So she asked him.
- Well, said Pktk happily, I’ve been writing an account of the invasion for the Preceptorate archives. Terra nodded; she remembered Pktk’s fondness for military history. No doubt the opportunity to record some military history that he’d actually played a part in himself had been irresistible.
Pktk went on. - I’d been interviewing refugees from Dskt who’d ended up in Mlml about their experiences of the G’grk occupation – pretty heavy stuff actually. You can read it if you like, but I’ll warn you it’s not very . . . Erm. Yes, so anyway, I made lists of where all the refugees had come from, and when I sorted them all out, there weren’t ANY from Lsh-Lff. Not one. It just didn’t seem possible. There’s never been a city attacked and NOBODY got away. I’ve been reading the histories of wars on other planets and it’s NEVER happened. Even when a city’s been wiped out with one of those massive bomb-things like they have on Rrth (at this Terra and Billy exchanged sheepish glances), SOMEBODY’S got out in time. It just struck me as odd.
While Billy was listening, he was trying to make sense of it in his head. So Terra’s home country was Mlml, this was Dskt, the previous bad guys were the G’grk. The new bad guy is the Gfjk-something. If only I had an idea how to spell any of this, Billy thought sadly, it’d be so much easier to understand.
- So, anyway, Pktk continued, I looked at images of the city taken from orbit, and sure enough, it was burned out and deserted, but when I looked at ENERGY readings taken from space, there’s a MASSIVE energy field being generated, right in the centre of the city. The fusion stations here are working permanently at full capacity to maintain the camouflage field. I don’t think they’ll be able to keep it up for ever.
- Why ARE they keeping it up? asked Terra. They do know the war is over, right?
- They do since we got here, said Fthfth importantly, but now that the Gfjk-Stupid-Thingy-Face has taken over back home, they’re as scared of him as they were of the G’grk. I don’t think they’ll be switching the field off just yet.
Pktk coughed. He hadn’t quite finished his story. - So after I told Preceptor Shm that Lsh-Lff was probably not destroyed after all, he managed to get a message to ArchRector Qss-Jff at the Polynasium. They’re old friends.
- Used to play gshkth together apparently, said Fthfth matter-of-factly. Terra boggled at the idea of stiff old Preceptor Shm playing gshkth, and shuddered at the memory of what gshkth had become back in Hrrng. She looked around at the blithe, bustling streets of Lsh-Lff and felt envious on Hrrng’s behalf.
- The ArchRector invited Preceptor Shm and his closest advisers— began Pktk.
- Which these days includes US, interjected Fthfth proudly.
- To stay here, at the Polynasium, so we can work on ways to beat the Gfjk-Hhh and take Mlml back, said Pktk. And there it is! He pointed to a grand, colonnaded temple-like structure a few hundred metres ahead of them.
- Impressive, said Terra. So what’s Lbbp been doing all this time?
A leaden silence. Fthfth and Pktk stopped walking, glanced sorrowfully at each other and then lowered their eyes. Billy sensed Terra’s sudden alarm and panic.
- Fthfth? Pktk? Terra said, with just the faintest tremor in her voice. Where’s Lbbp?
2.15
Lbbp looked through the doorway.
He looked into the main room of his apartment in Hrrng.
Someone was there.
Sitting on the bench seat, gazing out of the window as the orange evening sun streamed into the room.
- Bsht?
She turned and smiled.
- Bsht, said Lbbp. Oh, Bsht, I’m so sorry. I looked everywhere for you – the refugee centres, the nosocomia . . . I checked the casualty lists; I even looked through pictures of the unidentified dead . . . Where have you been?
She raised a hand and touched his face.
- Where are you now, Lbbp?
- I’m . . . what do you mean, where am—? I’m here, aren’t I?
Lbbp looked around the room.
- I can’t be here. I’m not here, am I? He looked sadly at Bsht. And neither are you.
He slumped onto the seat beside her and plunged his face into his hands.
- He’s won. He’s won, hasn’t he? He’s finally driven me out of my mind.
She put an arm gently across his shoulder.
- No, silly, she said, he hasn’t won. He hasn’t won at all. And you’ll see why. But first you have to go.
He turned to her imploringly.
- No, not yet, please . . .
Bsht smiled in that exasperated, understanding way she used to smile at him.
- It’s time, Lbbp. It’s time to—
- WAKE UP!
Lbbp sat up with a nerve-jangling start. He felt hard stone beneath him.
A custodian – one he’d not seen before – was hammering on the crystal.
- Breakfast, the custodian said simply. He opened a tiny flap at the bottom of the crystal barrier and pushed the hexagonal dish of grey slop through the open slot. He then closed the transparent flap, and the slot sealed itself.
- Might as well eat it, said the custodian. He’s in a weird mood. You’ll need your strength.
Lbbp stared at the dish of slop. He would probably eat it in due course, but it didn’t interest him. He had too much to think about.
I was dreaming, wasn’t I? he thought. Like a baby . . . Like a Ymn.
He got up and stretched. Had the Gfjk-Hhh finally driven him insane?
No, he was certain that wasn’t it. Lbbp began to pace, and think.
Prolonged isolation . . . sensory deprivation . . . Fnrrns don’t dream past infancy, but I haven’t been LIVING like a Fnrrn. Sleeping on a hard floor instead of weightless in a sleep-well . . . darkness and silence instead of the constant bombardment of information . . .
My brain isn’t broken, concluded Lbbp, it’s restarting itself. Those parts of the mind that years of comfort and convenience have rendered inert and silent, they’re all coming back to life because I need them now – I need them like no Fnrrn has needed them for eras.
Lbbp smiled.
He began to eat the slop. It was disgusting, but he needed some fuel. Fuel for his starving body and his racing mind.
Come on then, he thought. Come and play with your favourite toy. Because your favourite toy has just figured out how he’s going to beat you. Even from inside this box, thought Lbbp, I can beat you.
2.16
- But I can’t stay here! I’ve got to go back! I’ve got to get him out of there!
Terra was pacing frantically round and round the Polynasium committee room. The ArchRector had allocated it to Preceptor Shm and his friends for meetings and general conspiracy purposes.
- Get him out of where? asked Shm wearily. No one knows where Lbbp, is, or even if he’s still alive.
Fthfth looked at Terra with great sadness. Sadness at her friend’s distress and sadness at what she felt obliged to say.
- Terra. The Gfjk has executed HUNDREDS of dissidents since he took over. Lbbp was the very first one he had arrested. It seems INCREDIBLY unlikely he’s kept him alive all this time.
- But we’d know! cried Terra. We’d know if he’d killed him! That’s how he does things! He doesn’t just quietly do away with people, he makes a show of them! Terra stopped pacing, turned and screamed at Fthfth right in the face. He’s got people HACKING EACH OTHER TO DEATH IN THE GSHKTH PIT!
There was a moment’s silence,
and then Terra collapsed, weeping piteously, into the nearest chair. Billy rushed over and threw his arms around her. He tried to imagine her anguish, but failed. To have travelled across so much space, braved so much danger to find the person dearest to her in the whole galaxy – only to find that, at best, he was being tormented by a crazed tyrant. Billy could only guess how distressed she must be. So he did the only thing he could, and held her tight.
After a few moments, Terra’s sobs stopped. Billy felt her tensing up, as if she were hardening herself both mentally and physically. Terra looked up at her friends, and spoke in a level tone.
- This has to stop. We have to stop this and we can’t do it alone. What are we? A bunch of dusty old professors and scared schoolchildren, hiding out across the sea. We need help. We need an army.
She stared at Preceptor Shm. Her jaw clenched and unclenched, as if reluctant to open, to allow her mouth to say the words she knew she had to say.
- We need the G’grk, said Terra.
2.17
When James Hardison had joined the Air Force as a young man, he’d imagined many of the places his career might end up taking him to. This, he thought as he looked around him, had not been one of them.
-Ymn! Ymn! Drink! You play hard! You play well! Like G’grk!
The slap on the back felt more like a punch in the ribs. If James Hardison – COLONEL James Hardison, as he now was – hadn’t spent enough time among the G’grk to acquire an appreciation of just how boisterous they could be in their expressions of comradeship, he might have felt threatened, or at least challenged. As it was, he winced, grunted, took the d’kff and drank long and deep.
His companions set up a roaring hiss of approval. It resounded through the stone hall of the H’dksh Tribe’s Winter Fortress, and their celebrations continued.
The game had been hard fought. Literally; since the ceasefire between the G’grk and their neighbouring peoples had been in effect, their reserves of aggression had been channelled in other directions, and one of these directions had been sport. Kkh-St’grrss, a sort of full-contact cross between polo, lacrosse and medieval jousting, was particularly popular at the moment among fit young G’grk males, combining as it did skill, vigour, bravery, and the very real possibility of serious injury.
It was still only a little over two years since Colonel Hardison – or Major Hardison, as he had been back then – had received the phone call that had changed his life. He’d been asleep when the phone rang and still half asleep as he answered, but upon hearing General Wyndham say the words ‘. . . the real thing this time, James,’ he’d woken up sharply.
The scientists at the Hat Creek SETI (Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence) lab had greeted him with bleary terseness – none of them had slept enough either, and the lab guys always got nervous and defensive around uniforms, however hard you tried to convince them you were all on the same side – but as he studied their readings, and they all got some hot coffee inside them, the atmosphere eased and a mutual excitement took over. This was, after all, what they had been waiting for their whole professional lives, and as Air Force/SETI liaison officer he’d met most of them before. In particular he recognised Dave Steinberg, a highly distinguished but extremely talkative and excitable Canadian scientist with whom he’d had a number of ‘conversations’ over the years. Thus far he’d managed to get about six words in.
That morning. The morning of the signals, the numbers, the coffee, the map-reading, more coffee, and finally the helicopter ride with the giggling Professor Steinberg, to what was being referred to, in that specific-but-vague way the military have of naming things, as the Location.
It was only when the ship materialised above the heads of the expectant onlookers that Major Hardison realised he had indeed been expecting it to be lemon-shaped, but he couldn’t, for the moment, remember why.
When the beam of light burst from the underside of the vessel and revealed a human child standing beneath it, Major Hardison felt a faint twinge of memory in a neglected corner of his, by and large, unusually well-organised mind. Something on the news, years ago now, about a couple whose baby had disappeared, a story no one had believed, a story about a deserted road and a lemon-shaped UFO (had there maybe even been a court case?). When the child enquired (in English!) about the whereabouts of her parents, everything suddenly made a glorious sense. Major Hardison found himself blinking back extremely uncharacteristic tears of joy as he realised that for him, this adventure had only just begun.
Major Hardison spent the next few days in a state of riveted fascination as he sat in on – and occasionally conducted – interviews with the returned child (Terra, she was called; even the name was perfect) and her alien . . . well, stepfather, it appeared. Their planet sounded both surprisingly similar to and unimaginably different from Earth. He was disappointed to hear that the planet had been at war until recently. He’d hoped that armed professions such as his own might be obsolete on other worlds – but was astonished and delighted at the story of how the war had been ended by the bravery of these two remarkable individuals, who – for want of a better word – were a family from two worlds. This had led to her nation’s leaders (the planet – Fnrr, it was called – was divided into nation states, much like Earth) granting her request to be returned to her own people, breaking a century-old moratorium on contact with the human race. The aliens had always believed humans to be too primitive and brutal to be exposed to advanced technology. Major Hardison couldn’t honestly say he blamed them, although it sounded like Fnrr wasn’t exactly free from brutality itself (Terra’s descriptions of the G’grk invasion had been vivid and compelling; he hoped that the peace accord they’d managed to bring about would endure).
Then the time came for Terra to be reunited with her original family, her human family. Major Hardison reflected that there had been nothing in any Air Force training manual on how to deal with the deluge of conflicting emotions he’d felt standing in that little house. As the girl’s decision to stay was greeted with tearful jubilation by her parents (and Professor Steinberg – Hardison was still unsure as to how he’d managed to get himself invited), the Major caught a glimpse of the alien – Lbbp, he was called – sitting alone and in silence. The alien’s smooth grey face had hardly any features to read, but Major Hardison knew a broken heart when he saw one.
As soon as it became apparent that some sort of envoy was to be appointed and sent to Fnrr to formalise relations with Earth, James Hardison volunteered immediately. The chance to spend a year on this alien planet was just irresistible. He’d accompanied Lbbp (and, inevitably, Dave Steinberg) in the little spaceship and was pleased to see that the alien had rallied a little morale-wise. He saw Terra and her parents waving them off and felt a fleeting twinge of regret that he couldn’t stay to see how she turned out. But he already had a feeling their paths would cross again one day.
As the ship containing himself, Lbbp and Professor Steinberg had ascended silently into deep space, the newly promoted Colonel Hardison finally got over his disappointment at having joined the Air Force just too late to sign up for the space shuttle programme.
Colonel Hardison took his role as the first Senior Earth Attaché to Fnrr seriously – Colonel Hardison took EVERYTHING seriously – and so when, a few months after his arrival, his assignment working with the Mlml government ended and the time came for him to take up temporary residence in T’krr, the G’grk capital city in the heart of the Central Plains, he had immersed himself in study of G’grk culture, suspecting it to be more complex and less brutal than his Mlmln hosts had described it.
He’d been right about the more complex part.
Colonel Hardison had been invited to his first Kkh-St’grrss match (battle?) as a spectator shortly after arriving in T’krr, and later, during conversation with the conscious members of the winning team, he got the distinct impression that he was being goaded into saddling up and having a try himself. H
e’d learned to ride at his uncle’s farm as a boy; looking at the way the G’grk riders handled their saddled gnth-sh’gsts, he felt confident that he could at least give it a shot.
After meeting with varying degrees of success on his first couple of attempts (he was very glad that the G’grk’s post-ceasefire softening of their attitude towards modern Fnrrn technology had at last allowed the use of bone-regenerators) Colonel Hardison had now progressed as a Kkh-St’grrss player (combatant?) to the point at which he was, if he did say so himself, pretty darn good at it.
A contributing factor was that his stay in T’krr had become rather less temporary than had been intended. The Gfjk-Hhh’s sudden takeover on Mlml had caught him out along with everyone else; his return to Hrrng had been delayed indefinitely, and moreover, he discovered that his attempts to contact his superiors back on Earth were being thwarted. Some sort of jamming signal set up by the Gfjk-Hhh’s people, that was the theory. Apparently the dictator was convinced that his opponents had been trying to contact a powerful race of aliens (called the FerZing, or something) in an attempt to enlist their aid in overthrowing him, and so he’d sabotaged all extra-planetary communications.
Without new orders, and without any way of requesting new orders, Colonel Hardison acted like the good officer he was, and stayed put. And got better at playing Kkh-St’grrss and drinking d’kff from hollowed-out gnth-sh’gst horns.
As it happened, subtle differences in body chemistry between humans and Fnrrns meant that while the d’kff had a highly intoxicating effect on the G’grk, Colonel Hardison found that he could knock it back and feel none the worse for wear until the fourth or fifth hornful. He hadn’t shared this with his hosts; he suspected that a reputation as someone who could hold his d’kff was probably worth having.
One end of the long hall was dominated by a huge stone hearth, in which blazed a great open fire. Above this was set a blackened metal grate, onto which a large animal carcass was now tossed by a party of happily hissing G’grk. As the smell and sizzle filled the hall, Colonel Hardison recalled an earlier conversation with a G’grk chieftain in which he explained that while there was an Rrth game called ‘polo’ which bore a superficial similarity to Kkh-St’grrss, it differed in a couple of major respects. Firstly, polo was an altogether less egalitarian affair than Kkh-St’grrss, being very much the preserve of wealthy Ymn elites. Secondly, after a polo match, the victorious team did not, as a rule, get to eat the losers’ horses.
