The Fifth Science Fiction Megapack

by Gardner Dozois

  Meinora struck suddenly at Flor’s hand with the flat of his blade, then engaged the man’s sword with his own, and twisted. The weapon clattered to the floor and Flor stooped to recover it.

  The team chief laughed shortly, bringing the flat of his blade down in a resounding smack and Flor straightened, involuntarily bringing a hand to his outraged rear. Again, the blade descended, bringing a spurt of dust from his clothing. Flor twisted, trying to escape, but his assailant followed, swinging blow after full armed blow with the flat of his sword. He worked with cool skill.

  It seemed to Flor that the punishing steel came from all directions, to strike him at will. Blows fell on his back, his legs, even his face, and he cringed away, trying desperately to escape the stinging pain. Under the smarting blows, he remembered previous whippings, administered by a strong-armed kitchen master, and he seemed to smell the stench of the scullery once more. Suddenly, he sank to his knees in surrender.

  “Please, Master. No more, please.” He raised his hands, palms together, and looked up pleadingly.

  The Duke looked down in horrified disgust.

  “And this, I accepted. This, I made a Baron of my realm.” He transferred his gaze to Konar. Suddenly, he looked feeble and humbly supplicant.

  Flor sniffled audibly.

  “I know you have come a long way,” the Duke said, “but I would ask of you a favor. I would deal with this miscreant. Your injury is old. It has been partially healed by time, and it does not involve honor so deeply as does my own.” He shook his head.

  “I have abandoned the dignity of my station, and the injury is fresh and must continue unless I act to repair it.”

  Konar nodded graciously. “Your Excellency’s request is just,” he said. “We but came to reclaim the lost insignia of Budorn.” He stepped forward, taking the circlet from Flor’s head. Two guards seized the prisoner, and Konar tore the belt from the man’s waist.

  “This insigne must be remounted,” he said. “The belt has been dishonored for too long.” He broke the fastenings holding the body shield to the leather, and threw the heavy strap back at Flor.

  “We are deeply indebted to you, Excellency,” he added, turning to the Duke. “If it is your will, we shall remain only for the execution, then return to our own land.”

  The Duke sighed. “It is well.” He nodded at the guards. “Remove him,” he ordered. “An execution will be held at daybreak.”

  * * * *

  “Very good, Konar. You handled that beautifully.”

  “Thanks, Chief. What’s next?”

  “Just keep the Duke busy with bright conversation. Buck up his spirits a bit. The old boy’s had a nasty shock, and unfortunately, he’s due for another one. Too bad, but it’s for the best. I’ll take it from here.”

  * * * *

  Diners looked up curiously as the two guards led Flor through the hall to the outer door. A few rose and followed as the three men went past the sentries at the portal, and came out into the sunshine of the inner ward. Across the cobblestones was the narrow entrance to the dungeon.

  Flor looked around despairingly. His charger stood, waiting for the rider, who would never again—Or would he?

  He remembered that he was still carrying the heavy belt that had been so contemptuously flung at him. When the strap had been thrown, he had flung a hand up to protect his already aching face. He had caught and held the belt, and no one had thought to take it from him.

  He suddenly swerved his thick shoulders, swinging the heavy strap at the eyes of one of his guards. With a cry of pain, the man covered his face, and Flor spun, to swing the strap at the other guard. Before the two men could recover, he dashed to the side of his mount, swung into the saddle, and urged the beast into motion.

  The wall was low on this side, but Flor remembered it towered high above the dry moat. And across that moat were the woods, where his men waited. He urged the beast to full speed, forcing the animal to the top of the wall and over.

  For an almost endless instant, time seemed to stop. The barren moat and green weeds floated beneath him, and the only reminder of his rapid drop was the air, which whistled past his ears. Suddenly, motion was restored again, and they lit with a jarring crash, just at the lip of the moat.

  With a cry of agony, the charger pitched forward, pawing at the stones that had smashed his chest, and throwing his rider over his head. Flor managed to land uninjured. He picked himself up and ran to the edge of the forest before he stopped to look back.

  Heads were appearing atop the wall. At the edge of the moat, the charger struggled vainly, then dropped from sight. Flor waved defiantly at the growing crowd which stared from the high wall.

  “The Duke hangs nobody,” he shouted, “unless he can catch and hold him.” He turned, to make his way through the trees.

  “In fact,” he added to himself, “I may yet return to hang the Duke.”

  He went to the meadow where his escort was encamped.

  “We have been betrayed,” he shouted. “The Duke plots with the merchants to destroy Bel Menstal and hang his men. Break camp! We must gather the forces of the barony.”

  * * * *

  Baron Bel Orieano looked worried.

  “The Duke has sent couriers,” he said, “to gather the fighting men of the duchy. But it will be a long, hard struggle. The serf has gained the hills of Menstal. He has raised his men, and has dared to attack. Some say he has enlisted those very hill tribes, from whose depredations he swore to defend the duchy, and even has them serving under his banner.” He looked at Meinora and Konar.

  “The roads of the duchy are no longer safe. Raiding parties appear at every wooded stretch. Nor can we even be certain that the couriers have gotten through to Dweros.” He shook his head.

  “I, of course, am loyal to the Duke. But my forces are few. My barony has been a peaceful community, having little need for arms.”

  Meinora smiled encouragingly. “Yet there are fighters here,” he said, “and in plenty.”

  The Baron looked at him curiously. “Where? I have no knowledge of such.”

  Konar leaned forward. “If you can help us get the Duke’s approval, we can raise an army which ten Bel Menstals would fail to withstand.”

  “The Duke’s approval?”

  “Certainly.” Konar waved his hand. “Look over your walls, Excellency. You have burghers. There are armorers, merchants, with their caravan guards, artisans, even peasants. Here, today, are gathered more able-bodied men than Bel Menstal could raise, were he to search out and impress all the hill tribes.”

  “But, to arm these Commoners? And would they fight?”

  “To be sure. Given reason, they will fight like madmen.”

  Meinora leaned forward, speaking rapidly. “For long years, they have suffered from the road and river taxes of Bel Menstal, as well as from the insults and blows of his officers. Many of them have been imprisoned, and held for ruinous ransom. Others have been tortured and killed. Under the serf, they would suffer additional taxes, until they were driven from the land, or themselves reduced to serfdom and even slavery.” He waved at the town.

  “Caravans would be halted and stripped of both goods and coin. All this, he has done before, but on no such scale as he would were restraining hands removed.” Meinora spread his hands.

  “The Duke has only to promise, under his solemn oath, to rid the land of robbers, to allow the merchants and artisans to police the land, and to form those guilds and associations which they have long petitioned for their own protection. For these things, they will fight.”

  The Baron leaned back in his chair. He had heard some of these arguments before, but had ignored them, thinking that they were mere special pleading from interested merchants. Now, they were being presented by men of his own station.

  And the situation was urgent. Drastic measures were necessary. Under the gaze of the two, he felt a change of thought. The whole thing was possible, of course, and it might be that trade, uninterrupted by robber d
epredation, would provide greater taxes than before.

  Finally, he rose to his feet. “Come,” he said, “we will seek audience with the Duke and put this matter before him.”

  * * * *

  “Well, that’s part of the job.” Klion Meinora twisted in his seat and craned his neck to look at the green fields spread out beneath the flier.

  “It worked out almost exactly as you explained it, Chief.” Konar looked curiously at his instructor. “But I missed a couple of steps somewhere.”

  “It followed from the culture pattern.” Meinora raised an eyebrow. “You saw the reaction of the Duke when he realized that Flor was actually a serf?”

  “Sure. He was so horrified, he was sick.”

  “But did you think of the reaction of the townsmen and peasants?”

  “You mean they’d feel the same way?”

  “Sure. Most of them did. These people have been ingrained with a firm belief in their mode of living. They regard it as right and proper. And the murder and robbery of a noble by a serf is just as serious in the eyes of serfs and freemen as it is to the nobles. No serf in his right mind would even think of raising a hand against a noble, not even in self-defense. Catch?”

  Konar leaned back. “Oh, brother,” he murmured. “I can just see what happened when Flor’s real status finally penetrated the minds of his own men.”

  “You’re probably right, too. And with no body shield to supplement his rather awkward swordsmanship, Flor was fresh meat for the first real fighting man that stood up to him.” Meinora shook his head.

  “His was a hopelessly twisted mentality, and there was no possibility of salvage.”

  “I know. They have a few of his type in the wards at Aldebaran.” Konar shrugged hopelessly. “Therapists just fold their hands when they see ’em.”

  “They do that. People like Flor are just pure ferocity. Oh, sometimes, they’re cunning, even talented. But there’s no higher mentality to develop—not a trace of empathy. And you can’t work with something that’s completely missing. Good thing they are quite rare.”

  “I should say so,” agreed Konar. “A very good thing.” He looked out over the fields. “His influence lasted for a while, too.”

  “It did. He’d conditioned his people to a certain extent. Just as I expected, it took some time to persuade that gang to stop their depredations, and it had to be done the hard way. But the merchants were willing, and that’s what it took.” Meinora brushed a hand over his hair. He knew how the rest of this story went——

  “It’ll take ’em some time to get used to their new charters, but the roots of the guilds are formed. And they did some fighting and learned their powers. It’ll take a lot to make ’em go back to the old routine. The Duke’ll never try it, and his successors won’t be able to. Anyone who tries to conquer that bunch of wild-cats’ll have a tough job, and he’ll get really hurt. It’ll spread, too. Merchants and artisans in the next duchy’ll get the idea. And then the next, and the next. Freedom’s a contagious thing.”

  Klion Meinora studied the terrain, then turned back.

  “It’s going to be a tough planet for a long time,” he said thoughtfully. “A tough, brawling planet. They’ll fight for everything they get, and sometimes for just the love of fighting. The people who come from here will be something to deal with. But they’ll knock their own rough edges off. No, they won’t be savages.”

  JOIN OUR GANG? by Sterling E. Lanier

  Commander William Powers, subleader of Survey Group Sirian Combine—1027798 and hence first officer of its ship, the Benefactor, stared coldly out of his cabin port. The Benefactor was resting on the bedrock of Island Twenty-seven of the world called Mureess by its natives. Like all the other such names, it meant “the world,” just as the natives’ name for themselves, Falsethsa, meant “the people,” or “us,” or “the only race.” To Commander Powers, fifty years old, with eleven of them in Survey work, the world was Planet Two of a star called something unpronounceable in the nebula of something else equally pointless. He had not bothered to learn the native name of Island Twenty-seven, because his ship had mapped one thousand three hundred and eighty-six islands, all small, and either rocky or swampy or both. Island Twenty-seven, to him, had only one importance, and that was its being the site of the largest city on the planet.

  Around the island’s seven square miles, a maze of docks, buildings, sheds, breakwaters, and artificial inlets made a maze stretching a mile out to sea in every direction. The gray sea, now covered with fog patches, rolled on the horizon under low-lying cloud. Numerous craft, some small, some large, moved busily about on the water, which in its components was identical with that of Terra, far distant in the Sirius Sector. Crude but workable atomic motors powered most of them, and there was a high proportion of submarines. Powers thought of Earth’s oceans for a moment, but then dismissed the thought. Biological technical data were no specialty he needed. Terra might be suitable for the action formulating in his mind, but a thousand suns of Sirian Combine might prove more useful. The biologists of Grand Base would determine, assisted by data his ship provided, in their monster computers, what was called for. Powers had been trained for different purposes.

  He was, as every survey commander was, a battle-hardened warrior. He had fought in two major fleet actions in his day, and had once, as a very junior ensign of the Sirian Grand Fleet, participated in the ultimate horror, the destruction by obliteration of an inhabited planet. For planetary destruction a unanimous vote of the Sirian Grand Council, representing over four thousand worlds, was necessary. It had been given only four times in the long history of the Confederacy. Every intelligent being in the great Union shuddered at the thought of its ever becoming necessary again. Powers stared moodily over the rocky ground toward a group of figures in the distance which were moving in his direction. The final delegation of the Mureess government, a world government, was coming for its last meeting before the Benefactor departed into the far reaches of space.

  Powers braced himself mentally for a grand effort. He held equivalent rank to that of a Galactic admiral, and it was held for one reason only, because of his real work and its importance. He was a super-psychologist, a trend-analyzer, a salesman, a promoter, a viewer, an expert on alien symbology and the spearhead of the most ruthless intelligence service in the known universe. Long ago, he had transferred from the battle fleet to the inner school at Sirius Prime for the most intensive training ever devised. Now it would be put to the ultimate test.

  He heard the air lock open and turned away from the window. He had a long way to walk to the neutral council chamber, for the Benefactor was a big ship, despite the fact that only twenty beings comprised the total complement. Down the echoing corridors he paced, brow furrowed in thought. Mazechazz would have his own ideas, he knew, but if they made no impression, he would have to put his oar in. Each being on board, whether he breathed halogen or oxygen, ate uranium or protein, had to be independent in thought and action under certain circumstances. The circumstances were here, here and now in his judgment.

  He arrived at the door of the Council chamber, and entered, an impressive sight in flaming orange and blue uniform.

  Four members of the Supreme Council of the Mureess rose solemnly and inclined their heads in his direction. They were tall bipeds of vaguely reptilian ancestry, most of their height being body. They stood on short powerful legs, terminating in flippered feet, and their long arms were flanged to the second elbow with a rubbery fin. Only four opposed fingers flexed the hands, but the dome-shaped heads and golden eyes screamed intelligence as loudly as the bodies shouted adaption to an aquatic environment. Around the brown torsos, light but efficient harness supported a variety of instruments in noncorrosive metal sheaths. All of the instruments had been discreetly examined by scanning beams and pronounced harmless before any contact had been allowed.

  Across the central table, Sakh Mazechazz, of Lyra 8, leader and captain of the Survey stared red-eyed at his executive of
ficer. Mazechazz resembled the delegation far more than he did his own officer, for he, too, had remotely reptilian forbears. Indeed he still sported a flexible tail and, save for his own orange and blue uniform, ablaze with precious stones, resembled nothing so much as a giant Terrestrial chameleon. The uniforms were no accident. Surveymen wore anything or nothing as the case called for it, and the Falsethsa admired bright colors, having few of their own and a good color sense. The gleaming jewels on Mazechazz’s uniform stressed his superiority in rank to Powers, as they were meant to.

  Of the twenty Surveymen on board the Benefactor, Mazechazz and Powers were the only two who most resembled, in that order, the oxygen-breathing natives of Mureess. That automatically made them captain and executive officer of the Benefactor. The native population saw only the captain and executive officer of the ship, and only the council chamber. On a world of ammonia breathers, Mazechazz and Powers would have been invisible in their own part of the ship providing advice only to the Skorak of Marga 10, Lambdem, and perhaps Nyur of Antares-bi-12. If a suspicious native saw an entity with whom he could feel a remote relationship giving orders to a weird-looking, far more, alien creature, a feeling of confidence might appear.

  Since Mazechazz came from a planet of super-heated desert and scrub resembling the Karoo of South Africa, the resemblance could have been bettered, but it was well within the allowable limits set forth in the Inner Mandate. And in Galactic Psychology, every trick counted. For persuasion was the chief weapon of the Sirian Combine. Outright force was absolutely forbidden, save by the aforesaid vote of the council. Every weapon in the book of persuasion was used to bring intelligent races into the Combine, and persuasion is a thing of infinite variety.

  As these thoughts flashed through Powers’ mind, he seated himself in a plain chair and adjusted the Universal Speaker to his mouth. Beside him, on a more elaborate chair, tailored to fit his tail, Mazechazz did the same, while the four Falsethsa seated themselves on low stools and took similar instruments from the oblong table which separated them from the two Surveymen. Deep in the bowels of the ship, a giant translator switched on, to simultaneously translate and record the mutually alien tongues as they were spoken. Adjustable extensions on the speakers brought the sound to the bone of the skull. For different life forms, different instruments would have been necessary and were provided for.