Asgard's Conquerors

by Brian Stableford

  I found a hiding place behind a stack of empty crates in a gigantic "warehouse" beneath the carpet. It seemed a useful place to be because food was being stored here, and I was getting pretty hungry. Unfortunately, it looked as if it would be difficult for me to get my hands on any, because the place was so busy. At one end of the open space was the terminus where the trains came to load up, and there was a big computer console nearby from which the routing of the trains could be controlled. It was only a tiny substation— the main control centre for the entire field-system was thirty kilometres away—but a system that large needs a good many entry-points for information and minor control-points for exactly the same reason that a nervous system needs bundles of sensory cells and ganglia. I wasn't at all surprised to see a party of uniformed invaders in front of the screens, deep in conversation with a couple of galactics.

  The galactics were both Kythnans. Ninety percent of the galactic races claim not to be able to tell humans and Kythnans apart, though neither humans nor Kythnans have much difficulty. Almost the first thing I was told by a fellow human when I first arrived on Asgard was that the fact that Kythnans looked like us was no reason to start trusting them. Maybe Kythnans told each other the same thing about humans.

  Anyhow, my own experience with Kythnans hadn't prejudiced me in their favour—the last one I'd come into contact with was Jacinthe Siani, who had worked for Amara

  Guur. Given this, I was quite ready to jump to the conclusion that the Kythnans were probably being a lot more obliging in their dealings with the invaders than the Tetrax.

  After a little while of watching the group by the control panels in deep discussion, I guessed that the co-operation the neo-Neanderthalers were getting from the Kythnans wasn't doing them much good. The Kythnans probably didn't understand Tetron technology much better than the invaders. They would have learned how to operate those systems up on the surface that were useful in everyday life, but this would be a new world to them.

  I was trying to get closer, in order to overhear what was being said, when another group joined the party. There were two more invaders, in the fancier uniforms which I took to be those of officers, and what I first assumed to be an invader in civilian clothes. It wasn't until I caught a snatch of conversation in parole that I realised he was human. I didn't recognise him, but I wasn't acquainted with more than half of the two hundred and fifty of the humans on Asgard, so that wasn't too surprising.

  The sight of the human gave my spirits the first uplift they'd had in some time. I hoped, paradoxically, that he would turn out to be a full-blown collaborator and a dyed-in-the-wool traitor to the galactic cause—because if he were, he might have the freedom to walk around on his own, and that meant that I might be able to walk where I wanted to without being seized or shot on sight.

  As I strained my ears to catch some of the conversation, though, my enthusiasm dwindled somewhat. The human didn't seem to be in a helpful mood, and what he was trying to tell his interlocutors, not very politely, was that he was a starship pilot, not a biotech engineer, and that he didn't know the first thing about manufacturing manna.

  There was an exchange of words between the newcomers and the group that was already there. Then they moved away from me, to the beginning of the underground tracks. There was a passenger-car already attached to the train that was waiting there, and the invaders put the Kythnans and the human aboard, along with half a dozen guards. The two officers who'd come in with the human stayed behind.

  I watched them walk back to the console. They seemed to be arguing. I inferred that they couldn't find anyone who could or would tell them how to do what they wanted, and that they were getting very impatient about it. In the meantime, they were afraid to tamper with the computers for fear of accidentally shutting down the entire operation, or otherwise messing things up. So far, it seemed, they'd mastered the manual controls on the trains, and that was about it.

  It isn't easy to take over a highly-automated city when you don't understand the language or the machines. On the other hand, these guys seemed to have made virtually no progress at all in months of occupation. Stupid, the Ksylian had said. It was easy to see why he thought so. I wondered, though, whether I could have done much to help them myself, if I were actually trying to. You get used to taking technology very much for granted, especially when there's always a Tetron repairman at the other end of the phone. The horrible thought struck me that, given his interest in certain kinds of electronic systems, a man like John Finn might have been much more use to the invaders than me.

  I looked at my wristwatch, and was dismayed to discover that time had been passing more quickly than I thought. It was 22.50, and my hastily arranged rendezvous with Serne was not much more than half a human hour away. Was there a chance, I wondered, that I could still make it, and get out of the city without being taken prisoner?

  I was seized by a terrible temptation to try something desperately reckless. I had just enough charge left in Scarion's mud gun to drop both the officers.

  In an invader uniform, I thought, I just might be able to walk straight through the crowds and into the corridors.

  There was every chance that the section of tunnel leading to the plug was still dark and unused—or so, at least, I persuaded myself. And I had a golden opportunity here to create something of a diversion. Like the luckless human they'd been questioning, I was no biotech engineer, but it's a lot easier to sabotage an automated system than it is to make it work as you want it to. Like John Finn on Goodfellow, I thought I could create a little emergency.

  I suppose my commission had finally soaked into my personality; I was thinking like a Star Force commando. Anyhow, I was getting rather tired of discretion. I'd always had a submerged reckless streak. If I hadn't, I never would have come to Asgard in the first place.

  The two officers were too deep in discussion to see me coming, until one glimpsed me out of the corner of his eye. By then, it was too late; I had two clear shots at their naked faces. One yelped as the stuff hit him in the eye, and they both tried to haul their sidearms out, but they crumpled slowly to their knees as their nervous systems gave up the ghost.

  I went to the console first, and studied the keyboards and the displays on the screens. I managed to conjure up a system-map with lights to indicate the positions of the trains both underground and on top. I knew better than to try to arrange a real crash; what I wanted to do was convince the system that something awful had happened, to get each and every one of its emergency systems going.

  I typed in a mayday message, and told the machine there was a blocked tunnel just in front of one of the moving trains. The tell-tale light stopped moving, and I knew that the machines had slammed the brakes on. Then I told the system that there was a fire under the surface, that lives were endangered. It wouldn't necessarily believe me—it had its own smoke detectors—but the system wasn't rigged to take risks, and it would take appropriate action pending a check.

  Somewhere in the distance alarm bells were beginning to ring.

  I tried to think of something else—a crack opening into the cold on level two ... a medical emergency involving some workers. But I was already glancing round fearfully at the main body of the warehouse. There were three or four doorways where people were only too likely to appear at any moment.

  I decided that there wasn't time for further subtlety. I took out the needier I'd borrowed from one of Scarion's killers, stood well back to avoid the danger of ricochets, and held down the firing stud. I sprayed the slivers of metal all around the console—keyboards, screens, junction-boxes.

  The systems believed that emergency, all right. Alarm bells began ringing all around me now, setting up a terrible clamour. Quickly, I dragged one of the officers behind the crates, to buy me an extra couple of minutes when the crowds began to arrive, and stripped off his jacket and trousers. It was more difficult than I had expected, because he was a dead weight and an awkward shape. By the time I was able to start pulling the garments on
—without bothering to remove my own first—people did start arriving, over by the tracks and from the farther region of the warehouse as well. I left all the weapons behind except the stricken man's sidearm, and walked out of hiding with a purposeful stride.

  There were soldiers everywhere, plus a couple of neo-Neanderthal civilians and a handful of galactics. I just walked to the side door and went out. Nobody said a word, and I doubt that they even saw me—all attention was focused on the wrecked console and the unconscious officer.

  Up on top, no one had a clue what was happening. There were people running along the walkways in several different directions. I didn't want to be left out, so I ran too. The only difference was that I knew where I was going. I got out of the fields and into the corridors that crisscrossed the solid mass holding up the topmost of all Asgard's layers. I ran purposefully past dozens of invader troopers, trying my very best to look like a man with an urgent mission, who must at all costs not be interrupted.

  It worked like a dream for fully nine-tenths of the distance I had to cover, but then—in a corridor far too narrow to allow me to pass—I ran into a whole bunch of the enemy, including two men with such fancy decoration on their torsos that they had to outrank the poor sap whose uniform I'd stolen.

  One of them—a big, bald man—barked an order at me. I don't know what he said, but all I could do was stop and look foolish. There was nowhere to go—I couldn't get past and as I half-turned, the man in charge barked again. I was grabbed, and pulled forward.

  I could tell by the way he stared that the bald man had jumped to the right conclusion. My brow-ridges obviously weren't prominent enough, given my inability to respond in any way whatsoever to his challenge. It probably helped that he'd been shipping humans down here to try and help his own boys out. He was quick to conclude that I was a member of the species Homo sapiens.

  I had been feeling very good about my boldness until that moment—high on my own adrenalin, and pleased to take credit for my brilliance. Now, all of a sudden, I began to feel nauseous and extremely foolish.

  The guns came out, and suddenly I was in the middle of a very hostile crowd. I stuck my empty hands up into the air, hoping fervently that they could recognise the symbol of surrender. I let them take the sidearm from my belt, having made no attempt to reach it myself.

  There was nothing very gentle about the way they hustled me along. Stupid they might be, but they could put two and two together well enough to figure out who was responsible for all the alarms that were ringing. They had no way of knowing where I'd been headed, so Serne should be safe enough, but I was going to be treated as a saboteur.

  I wondered, as they hustled me along, what they did to saboteurs. On good old Earth, I remembered, they used to shoot them.

  14

  Eventually, having removed my stolen uniform, they threw me into an ill-lit room with a table and a couple of chairs. They hadn't handled me too roughly—somewhere along the line, I guess, they had found out that I hadn't killed the man from whom I'd taken the uniform. They searched me, but I wasn't carrying anything to give them a clue as to who I was or where I'd come from.

  The questions finally began after an hour or so. I couldn't tell whether the temporary chaos that I'd caused was still giving them trouble. A Tetron system wouldn't have gone down in its entirety because of such a brutal assault, but I assumed that the Tetrax wouldn't be keen to assist their unwelcome guests in the vexing task of putting Humpty Dumpty back together again. I knew that I would still be very unpopular, especially as I had struck at what they must consider a vital target.

  Two men came in to do the interrogation—not because they intended to play good cop/bad cop, but because the one guy who could speak parole had to report everything back to the other, who didn't. I didn't mind that—it slowed things up. Despite the fact that the interrogation had to be conducted at a leisurely pace, though, the atmosphere was far from relaxed.

  They obviously weren't above a bit of calculated drama. Before they began, they threw the empty mud gun on the table, to show me that their clever little minds had at least taken step one in figuring out who I was, what I'd done, and to whom.

  "What is your name?" asked the parole-speaker. He was about my age and height, with pale skin, very blond hair, and weak blue eyes. His companion was older, with white hair, but his eyes were a darker blue. I'd never seen Earth's sea or its sky except on video, but I began thinking of them nevertheless as the man with sea-blue eyes and the man with sky-blue eyes. Otherwise, they might have been brothers.

  "Jack Martin," I replied, almost without thinking.

  "And where do you live?"

  "I used to live in a singlestack in the third sector, but I haven't been home in a while."

  "Where have you been?"

  "Down here. I figured after the tanks rolled in that I'd hide out."

  They both looked at me solemnly, but they didn't immediately call me a liar.

  "What is your job?" asked Sky-blue.

  "I used to be a scavenger—I used to go down into levels three and four, hunting for artefacts. The bottom seems to have dropped out of the market, though. I don't suppose you'll be maintaining the Co-ordinated Research Establishment now that you're in charge."

  As the blond man relayed this to his companion, they both remained very poker-faced. I didn't know whether they could understand sarcasm. Almost all humanoid races have some such concept, but it's difficult even for two humans from different cultural backgrounds to be sure when they meet it. Sea-blue took some flimsies from his pocket, and the two of them scanned the pages for a minute or two. I practised staying calm, reminding myself that the Star Force way was to maintain grace under pressure.

  "Are you a human?" was the next question.

  "Yes," I replied.

  "Your race is very like ours," said Sky-blue, "but I am told that you come from a world very distant from here."

  "About a thousand light-years," I told him. I didn't suppose the term "light-year" would mean a lot to him, given that his kind must have had a very different idea of what the universe was like, but he didn't query it. He must have heard it before.

  "We have drawn up a list of all humans known to be resident in the city. There is no Jack Martin on the list."

  I met his eye steadily. "Nobody knows how many humans there are in the city, and nobody knows all their names. Scavengers come and go."

  Actually, the Tetrax probably knew exactly how many humans there were in Skychain City, and all their names, but I had to gamble that the invaders had not been given free access to Immigration Control's data. They didn't press the point. I began to feel more in control of the situation, though they were still frowning with displeasure.

  "Why did you steal the uniform and destroy the computer?"

  "I wanted to get into your stores here, and I had to create a diversion. I needed food, weapons, clothing. I was getting desperate. It's not easy, living wild out there. A lot of the other people running around are pretty nasty characters— vormyr, Spirellans, and the like. I take it you've met the vormyr?"

  They had a brief conference about that.

  "Are there many others . . . living wild, as you put it?" asked the man with paler eyes.

  "Hundreds, probably. The city sprawls over a big area down here, and there are many dark regions where the Tetrax hadn't really got anything going. Plenty of places to hide."

  "Is that where the resistance to our occupation has its

  headquarters? Where sabotage is planned?"

  "I doubt it," I said, calmly. "I steer clear of other races. There's a grave danger of being mistaken for one of you. They'd probably be just as enthusiastic to kill me as you are."

  After another brief exchange between themselves, they turned to stare balefully at me again. "We do indeed shoot saboteurs, Mr. Martin," said the man with pale eyes. "In the past, we have treated members of your race generously. We believed—perhaps wrongly—that because your species is so very like our own, we m
ight easily develop a sense of kinship. We have been told that the Tetrax are oppressive rulers, and that your species has no reason to feel loyalty to them. In spite of these assurances, humans have given us little real help—and now we find you trying to destroy the trains that carry our food. Can you give us one good reason why we should not execute you?"

  It was nice to be given the chance, but I wasn't entirely sure that I could.

  "You came into the city shooting in all directions," I told him. "I've heard rumours that you're shipping people away to some kind of concentration camp way down below. Sure I hid out. If I'd been sure that you'd treat me well if I was useful to you, maybe I would have volunteered—but how could I be sure? I thought I'd try to make it on my own, at least for a while, and see how things turned out. I was doing what any one of you would have done in my situation. But if there is any help I can give you, I'd naturally prefer that to being shot."

  As I said it, I couldn't help feeling that it was a weaker argument than I'd have liked to offer. But it was all that a Jack Martin could reasonably be expected to produce.

  "Were you hiding in the hope that the Tetrax would launch

  some kind of counter-invasion?" asked my interlocutor.

  "Not really," I replied, laconically. "The Tetrax aren't the type. They'll try to talk you into being friends with them, and they'll probably succeed. They talk everybody into being friends, in the end."

  "Do you have many friends among the Tetrax?"

  "I don't have many friends at all. I'm not a friendly person."

  I was trying to put on a show of being harmless and utterly insignificant, though I didn't want them to be entirely convinced. It might have been the wrong tack— perhaps I should have been trying to worm my way into their affections by telling them how much I could do for them, but my reasoning was that it might only make them suspicious. I wanted them to make me some kind of offer. I had a suspicion they might, on account of what I'd seen in the warehouse. They were obviously shopping for collaborators among the races who looked most like them—exhibiting a kind of chauvinism that the Tetrax would undoubtedly have considered barbaric. I wondered what that implied about the variety of races in the levels below.