“I counted from above. More than two sixty-fours of crafts, each loaded with warriors.”
“But then they must have raised the siege of Nyarr.”
Walfilo snorted. “Not exactly. They’ve withdrawn from its neighborhood, but I hardly think the people inside can venture far out. For if they do, the returning Ulunt-Khazul might well fall on them unawares.”
“The defenders could sally, to attack the enemy rear.”
“How? Those ships outpace any land army. No, Chalkhiz has seen an opportunity to defeat us in detail.” Walfilo rubbed his massive chin. “Of course if there is a sally, and it caught up with him while he is still engaging us—” He glowered at the ground for a while, then said:
“It’s our only hope. We must fly the message to Nyarr, that they are to hazard everything—though little there is left to lose—and hurry north. Meanwhile we must prolong the battle, retreating back to Windgate Pass. Perhaps Chalkhiz will not realize our strategy in time.” The soldier shook his head. “Of course, even if it works for us, I doubt we can prevail. So many will have fallen by the time the reinforcements come, that the Ulunt-Khazul can likely handle what’s left without overmuch trouble. Still, it will raise the price they pay for our country.”
Theor mastered a sickness and asked, “When will they fall on us?”
“Ush. I daresay they’ll camp tonight, lest unseen rocks tear the bottom out of ships. Tomorrow morning. Short time to make ready.”
He summoned his underlings and began giving commands. I wish I could lose myself thus, Theor thought.
The Nyarrans moved onto a hill some distance from the river. Its saddle-shaped ridge would protect their flanks, and the swale behind offered a northward line of retreat The bushes were soon trampled into mud, and the slopes became strewn with red centaur bodies, sharpening weapons, talking in a desultory way, staring into the sky or past the woods to the hazed mountains. Theor could count the ribs on them. There was no protest when Walfilo ordered most of the forgars slaughtered for meat. Too few were left to be of much service in battle, and an unfed army wouldn’t last a day. Nonetheless, Theor had trouble getting the food down.
I brought us to this, he thought bitterly. He almost looked forward to the spear thrust that would end his guilt.
The sunlight disappeared in the west. Not many Nyarrans slept well. Theor heard stirrings the whole night as he stood wakeful.
In the morning a shadow passed through the fog and landed on the hillcrest, an aerial observer using one of the half-dozen animals which had been spared. He reported that the Ulunt-Khazul had grounded their ships, tethered their swimming beasts to them and set off afoot. They seemed to know just where their opponents were. Well, they were swimmers themselves; a scout, gliding along with little more than his eyes above the river surface, could have gone ahead of his own people.
The mist lifted. Ice shimmered in the Nyarran ranks. Three tattered banners fluttered listlessly over the taut, massed faces, scale-armored bodies and stubbornly planted feet Theor stood near the middle of the front line, with Walfilo on his left They could think of nothing to say to each other. It seemed long before the Ulunt-Khazul emerged from the woods at the riverbank.
They formed for the charge under the volcano nimble of their drums, line after line of great gray thick-tailed shapes, fangs gleaming under the overshadowing helmets, menace painted on shields and cuirasses and flags. Nearly thrice our number, Theor estimated. But that no longer seemed important There was only the day’s work to do. He took a firmer grip on his own shield and swung his ax.
“See there!” Walfilo pointed. “The chiefly banner.”
“Hurgh?”
“I paid heed to such details, on Gillen Beach. Chalkhiz himself is here today.”
The drums by the river broke into a steady tattoo. Footfalls answered them, a pad-pad-pad which became a sound like surf as the enemy neared. Voices rose curtly from the Nyarran lines, and the spears of the second and third ranks snapped down past the shoulders of the first. The Ulunt-Khazul couched their own lances and broke into a gallop.
Closer, closer, closer. The few forgars swooped, the riders dropped stones, but to no effect that Theor could see. He remembered, briefly and distantly, his experiments with a bow and arrow, carried out at Fraser’s suggestion. It hadn’t been practical under Jovian conditions. Would that it had! His gaze focused on a hostile warrior who would evidently be the first one to come against him. The fellow had a partly healed wound on his left cheek. Let’s give it a mate. Theor raised his ax.
With a roar and a kettle clang, the Ulunt-Khazul fell upon the Nyarran spears. Their shields and horn breastplates protected most from being spitted, but the momentum of their charge was spent. Theor saw one spearshaft snapped by the collision of a giant on his right. The Ulunt-Khazuli stumbled. Another spear flicked out and caught him in the unarmored abdomen. He shouted—it could not be heard through the din—and struck back with a saw-toothed club.
Then Theor’s antagonist was upon him, shoving the pikes aside and stabbing with his lance at the Reeve. Theor caught the thrust on his shield. It glided off. His ax crashed down. It struck a shoulder-piece. The warrior growled and jabbed at Theor’s throat. Theor beat the shaft aside. A powerful hand shot out and caught his weapon-wielding wrist. He raised his shield and chopped the edge onto that arm, and the Ulunt-Khazuli let go. Theor smote him twice on the helmet. He staggered. Theor took the one step forward permitted a soldier in the line and struck across the enemy warrior’s back. The impact shivered along his own sinews. The gray barrel of the body crumpled. Blood ran gaudy. The Ulunt-Khazuli sank to earth, still alive. The one behind trampled over him to get at Theor.
The Nyarrans had held firm, the charge had failed, now it was mass opposed to mass. The rear lines on either tide thrust, sliced, clubbed with their spears. The first ranks stabbed and smote. Theor slipped in blood. That was fortunate for him; a knife whirred where he had been. He raised his forequarters and struck sideways at a leg. He didn’t know what damage was done, for the tide of combat took that warrior from sight. He rose to confront another. They traded blows, ax on shield, and Theor felt his lesser strength melting under the shocks.
What was that vibration beneath his mailcoat?
An impact banged nearly hard enough to break his arm. He chopped wildly, missed, the Ulunt-Khazuli grinned and pressed inward. Theor was only half aware of his danger. He could not hear with his ribs, but he could feel—the communicator on his breast had come alive.
He warded off another blow, but sank purposefully beneath it. The webbed feet of his enemy ramped across him. Let the male behind me take over. This is more important. Theor held the shield above him and squirmed between the churning legs.
Or does it matter? I have no right to desert. He glimpsed Walfilo, painted with blood, hewing and hewing. I left his side when he needed me. Now Theor was past the front line, in among his own spearfolk. He ignored their aghast stares as he rose and pushed through to the rear. But he could not drive away the image of Walfilo.
XVIII
After five gravities of deceleration, the change to free fall was like stepping off a precipice edge. Fraser’s brain whirled into red-streaked night.
A thread of consciousness remained, quivering with pain. The fear of death drove him to climb it, hand over hand, again and again slipping back into a gulf that tolled. When finally he broke through and remembered who he was, he felt a weak astonishment that only minutes had passed.
Perhaps that was too long. He couldn’t see the missile yet, among the stars which frosted the forward viewscreens; but the radar said it would soon close with him. In a convulsive movement, he activated the steering nozzles. The Olympia spun about and faced into Jupiter.
There was no longer a planet to be seen against space. He was too close; there was only a monstrous vision of clouds, yellow and brown and cobbled with shadows. A storm marched behind that curtain, a cauldron of lightning ten thousand miles wide. The horizon tilted i
nto sight. He stopped the ship’s rotation and threw the main switch. Once more his own weight suffocated him, his gear and body throbbed in time with the jets.
High thrust to make the crossing as quick as possible had had to be countered by equally stiff deceleration, lest the hull disintegrate in the Jovian atmosphere. But the enemy rocket was under no such necessity. It was fast overhauling its prey.
Fraser stole a glance at Lorraine. She had passed out more than an hour ago. Her face was smeared with blood from the nose, and he couldn’t tell if she still breathed. Well, she won’t feel what’s to come, anyhow. Maybe l won’t either. We could crack open when we strike, if the missile doesn’t get us first.
He knew the should be thinking of Eve at this penultimate moment, but there was too much to do, bringing the ship in at what he could only hope was the correct angle. And he was too weary, too beaten and bruised by the passage.
Here we go!
He looked behind. A thin silvery streak swelled in the after screen.
Then a troll’s fist slammed into him, the universe exploded, and he watched no longer.
So steep is the density gradient of Jupiter’s gaseous envelope that there was little heating while the Olympia flashed down through the uppermost layers—only enough to turn the hull red on the outside. A second or two afterward, she struck a level which, under her speed, acted as a solid, elastic surface. In huge shaken bounds, like a stone skipped across a lake, she rounded the curve of the world.
The missile’s hunter-pilot circuits were not intelligent enough to foresee that and change course while there was still time. It screamed straight down, an artificial meteorite. Ablation peeled away its skin. The chemical warhead exploded. The Jovian night did not notice that short, feeble burst of light.
Rapidly losing velocity, the Olympia spiraled toward the surface. The cherry glare of her exterior vanished in stratospheric cold. Great winds buffeted her to and fro, back and forth, and filled her full of their shrieks.
That roused Fraser. He struggled back toward awareness, remembered that he must get clear before the final plunge began and unleashed the jets. Time dragged toward eternity while he beat his way starward. He knew only pain. His bleared eyes needed a while to recognize the sight of open space. Now . . . get her into orbit . . . stay awake till you’ve established orbit, you’ve got to, you’ve got to . . . you have—
He let go all holds and drew the dear oblivion about him.
The first thing he observed on waking was the clock. A dozen hours were gone. He blinked around the cabin. Free fall embraced his aching body; Jupiter glowed warm amber in the port and forward screens; the ship brimmed with an unbelievable stillness. Lorraine floated toward him. He saw that she had cleaned herself up and looked almost rested.
“How are you, Mark?” she asked softly.
He shook arms and legs, twisted his neck inhaled and exhaled. “Ugh! Uh, I—I don’t think anything’s busted. You?”
“Same. I came to a while back. I wondered whether to do anything for you or not. Oh, God, I was worried! But you seemed better off sleeping.” She stopped her flight with a hand on his shoulder. “Now I’m going to spend a few minutes simply enjoying the miracle that we both came through.”
They exchanged a long-lived smile. She belied her words by offering him stimulant and analgesic from the scanty kit they had carried with them. He shoved the pills through the eating valve on his helmet, followed by a long suck of water from the suit’s bottle. Wellbeing coursed through every cell. “How about some chow?” he said.
“I haven’t touched any myself.” Her happiness disappeared. “We’ve only got those few standard food bars.”
“And need some now. We’ve a lot of recuperation to do, girl.”
Afterward Fraser followed her example and entered one of the emergency boxes for a wash. It wasn’t much bigger than a coffin, and a man with no other recourse could do little except lie there, breathing the few hours’ worth of air in its attached bottle and hoping for rescue. Squirming, Fraser swabbed himself off with alcohol tapped from the inoperative water cycler, and did what little he could to clean the space outfit crowded and collapsed in the box with him. The stubble on his face must perforce remain there. But it felt so good to get the crusted blood and sweat off that he could tolerate residual discomforts with ease.
Returning forward, he found Lorraine with eyes on the planet She glanced at him and back. Her voice whispered in his earplugs: “I never knew anything could be so terrible and so beautiful.”
He nodded. “It compensates for a lot, that view.”
She turned away and said with quick desperation, “Not for our failure, though. We have failed, haven’t we?”
“Don’t say that,” he chided her, well aware that he was whistling past a graveyard. “We outran and outfoxed a space missile, probably the first time an unarmed ship ever has. We’re free.”
“Free to die of thirst—unless our air gives out before hand. We can’t even leave the Jovian System with any hope of success.” She smote the bulkhead with her fist, and rebounded. “If we just had navigational equipment! We could still win, you know. We could put the ship on course for Earth, write our message, and deliver it dead. Isn’t there some way you could improvise—?”
“No. I don’t know whether to be sorry or not, but even given instruments and data, we couldn’t use them to any effect. To arrive in time, we have to travel at hyperbolic velocity. Since the Olympia was never intended to do that, she hasn’t got an autopilot which could make rendezvous at the end of such an orbit without human assistance.”
“If Jupiter were only the least bit like Earth!”
An oath broke from Fraser.
“What’s the trouble?” she asked.
“No trouble. I got a sudden idea. Crazy wild, but—” He pondered. “What we need besides pilot stuff is air and water; we can go without food for the transit time. Well, Jupiter has them!”
“What?”
“We’ve a big cargo space. There’s ice down on the surface. Theoris people can load it aboard for us. I should be able to rig a gadget for electrolyzing oxygen from some of the water. We have a pretty well equipped workshop along.”
“But the methane, ammonia, all the poisons. We can’t get them out of the mixture . . . can we?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem plausible. Still—I ought to call Theor anyway.” Fraser settled in the pilot chair and plugged in a radio jack.
The ship carried a small neutrino set, too weak for any but short-range communication. In orbit, though, he could employ the relay satellites. He hadn’t the data tables by which to send a beam, but he must be close enough for a broadcast to reach the nearest one. He adjusted the dials. “Theor,” he called. “Mark speaking. Are you there?”
“That’s a weird language.” Lorraine said. After a while: “No answer, eh?”
Fraser sighed. “None. I’ll try the frequencies used by the other personal transceivers, but I’m afraid none will reply. His cause lost out also.”
He turned his face away from the planet, but even after they should have adapted, his eyes were too full of tears to see the stars. “Wen—”
“Marhk! Kstorho g’ng korach!”
“Him!—I wish I had a God to thank.” Fraser sagged where he floated. “How are you, boy?”
“Sore beset, mind-brother. I have crept away from what may be our last combat. But gladness can yet touch me that you live.”
“Tell me. I’m not far off, as you can guess from the absence of transmission lag. Maybe, even—but tell.”
Fraser heard out the story. Numb with dismay, he recounted his own situation.
“Strange how our lives intertwine,” Theor mused. “I know not what counsel to give you. As for myself, I must return to the fight. I sit on the ridge above and see my folk die under the axes. Yet we strove well, you and I. Did we not?”
“If I could help. . . . Wait!” Fraser yelled. “I can!”
“Hurgh? Locke
d in your vessel as you must be?”
“Look, Theor, I don’t want to waste time in arguments. I’m coming down! Stay put. Keep yourself out of combat I’ll need your help to find you. Can you hold out a few hours yet?”
“Yes . . . yes, surely. I expect the enemy will soon withdraw, to rest a while ere charging again. We had hopes of playing him for days, a running off-and-on battle—But Mark, you cannot, ill prepared as you are.”
“Stay put I told you. Wait for my next call. I’m coming!”
Fraser snapped off the radio, which would be useless during atmospheric flight, and turned to Lorraine. “Strap in, girl. I’m sorry to do this to you, but we survived five gees, so I guess we can stand half that for a bit.”
She made no demurral, went quietly to her chair and got to work on the harness. As he fastened himself in place, Fraser explained how matters stood.
“At least we’ll win his war for him,” he finished.
She reached over to touch him. “That’s very like you, Mark.”
“Besides . . . there’s an idea at the back of my mind, something I can’t quite pin down, that might work better for us than—Well, I’m going to bleed some bathyscaphe gas into the main compartment. A few atmospheres’ worth. The descent wasn’t originally planned to be that way, but there is provision for doing it as an emergency measure, and I don’t fancy sitting in vacuum with Jovian air pressure outside.” The gas rushed in with a hollow noise. The quality of light and shadow changed as dust particles became airborne. The awakening engine boomed through ears as well as flesh Jetfire blossomed aft. The Olympia spiraled backward and down. That was a slow descent, with twenty-six miles per second of orbital velocity to shed, but neither Fraser nor Lorraine spoke much during it. The sight that grew before them, and finally engulfed them, was too overpowering.
The stars vanished. The sky turned from black to deep violet, where high ice-clouds coruscated in sunlight. Below lay the banded ocean of air, a thousand hues tumbled and streaming, with sheets of lightning at play between them.
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