Young Flandry

by Poul Anderson

  They took loungers. Flandry received a goldleaf-tipped cigaret from Persis' own fingers. Wine and excitement bubbled in him. He made the tale somewhat better than true: sufficient to drive Abrams into a coughing fit.

  "—and so, one day out of Ujanka, we met a ship that could put in a call for us. A flier took me and the prisoner off."

  Persis sighed. "You make it sound such fun. Have you seen your friends again since?"

  "Not yet, Donna. I've been too busy working with Commander Abrams." In point of fact he had done the detail chores of data correlation on a considerably lower level. "I've been temporarily assigned to this section. I do have an invitation to visit down in Ujanka, and imagine I'll be ordered to accept."

  "Right," Captain Menotti said. "One of our problems has been that, while the Sisterhood accepts our equipment and some of our advice, they've remained wary of us. Understandable, when we're so foreign to them, and when their own Seatroll neighbors were never a real menace. We've achieved better liaison with less developed Starkadian cultures. Kursoviki is too proud, too jealous of its privacies, I might say too sophisticated, to take us as seriously as we'd like. Here we may have an entering wedge."

  "And also in your prisoner," Hauksberg said thoughtfully. "Want to see him."

  "What?" Abrams barked. "Impossible!"

  "Why?"

  "Why—that is—"

  "Wouldn't fulfill my commission if I didn't," Hauksberg said. "I must insist." He leaned forward. "You see, could be this is a wedge toward something still more important. Peace."

  "How so . . . my lord?"

  "If you pump him as dry's I imagine you plan, you'll find out a lot about his culture. They won't be the faceless enemy, they'll be real bein's with real needs and desires. He can accompany an envoy of ours to his people. We can—not unthinkable, y' know—we can p'rhaps head off this latest local war. Negotiate a peace between the Kursovikians and their neighbors."

  "Or between lions and lambs?" Abrams snapped. "How do you start? They'd never come near any submarine of ours."

  "Go out in native ships, then."

  "We haven't the men for it. Damn few humans know how to operate a windjammer these days, and sailing on Starkad is a different art anyhow. We should get Kursovikians to take us on a peace mission? Ha!"

  "What if their chum here asked 'em? Don't you think that might be worth a try?"

  "Oh!" Persis, who sat beside him, laid a hand over Flandry's. "If you could—"

  Under those eyes, he glowed happily and said he would be delighted. Abrams gave him a bleak look. "If ordered, of course," he added in a hurry.

  "I'll discuss the question with your superiors," Hauksberg said. "But gentlemen, this is s'posed to be a social evenin'. Forget business and have another drink or ten, eh?'

  His gossip from Terra was scandalous and comical. "Darling," Persis said, "you mustn't cynicize our guest of honor. Let's go talk more politely, Ensign."

  "W-w-with joy, Donna."

  The suite was interior, but a viewscreen gave on the scene outside. Snowfall had stopped; mountaintops lay gaunt and white beneath the moons. Persis shivered. "What a dreadful place. I pray we can bring you home soon."

  He was emboldened to say, "I never expected a, uh, highborn and, uh, lovely lady to come this long, dull, dangerous way."

  She laughed. "I highborn? But thanks. You're sweet." Her lashes fluttered. "If I can help my lord by traveling with him . . . how could I refuse? He's working for Terra. So are you. So should I. All of us together, wouldn't that be best?" She laughed again. "I'm sorry to be the only girl here. Would your officers mind if we danced a little?"

  He went back to quarters with his head afloat. Nonetheless, next day he gave Jan van Zuyl a good bottle's worth.

  At the center of a soundproofed room, whose fluoros glared with Saxo light, the Siravo floated in a vitryl tank surrounded by machines.

  He was big, 210 centimeters in length and thick of body. His skin was glabrous, deep blue on the back, paler greenish blue on the stomach, opalescent on the gillcovers. In shape he suggested a cross between dolphin, seal, and man. But the flukes, and the two flippers near his middle, were marvels of musculature with some prehensile capability. A fleshy dorsal fin grew above. Not far behind the head were two short, strong arms; except for vestigial webs, the hands were startlingly humanlike. The head was big and golden of eyes, blunt of snout, with quivering cilia flanking a mouth that had lips.

  Abrams, Hauksberg and Flandry entered. ("You come too," the commander had said to the ensign. "You're in this thing ass deep.") The four marines on guard presented arms. The technicians straightened from their instruments.

  "At ease," Abrams said. "Freely translated: get the hell back to work. How's she coming, Leong?"

  "Encouraging, sir," the scientific chief answered. "Computation from neurological and encephalographic data shows he can definitely stand at least a half-intensity hypnoprobing without high probability of permanent lesion. We expect to have apparatus modified for underwater use in another couple of days."

  Hauksberg went to the tank. The swimmer moved toward him. Look met look; those were beautiful eyes in there. Hauksberg was flushing as he turned about. "D'you mean to torture that bein'?" he demanded.

  "A light hypnoprobing isn't painful, my lord," Abrams said.

  "You know what I mean. Psychological torture. 'Specially when he's in the hands of utter aliens. Ever occur to you to talk with him?"

  "That's easy? My lord, the Kursovikians have tried for centuries. Our only advantages over them are that we have a developed theory of linguistics, and vocalizers to reproduce his kind of sounds more accurately. From the Tigeries and xenological records we have a trifle of his language. But only a trifle. The early expeditions investigated this race more thoroughly in the Kimraig area, where the Merseians are now, no doubt for just that reason. The cultural patterns of Charlie here are completely unknown to us. And he hasn't been exactly cooperative."

  "Would you be, in his place?"

  "Hope not. But my lord, we're in a hurry too. His people may be planning a massive operation, like against settlements in the Chain. Or he may up and die on us. We think he has an adequate diet and such, but how can we be certain?"

  Hauksberg scowled. "You'll destroy any chance of gettin' his cooperation, let alone his trust."

  "For negotiation purposes? So what have we lost? But we won't necessarily alienate him forever. We don't know his psyche. He may well figure ruthlessness is in the day's work. God knows Tigeries in small boats get short shrift from any Seatrolls they meet. And—" The great blue shape glided off to the end of the tank—"he looks pretty, but he is no kin of you or me or the landfolk."

  "He thinks. He feels."

  "Thinks and feels what? I don't know. I do know he isn't even a fish. He's homeothermic; his females give live birth and nurse their young. Under high atmospheric pressure, there's enough oxygen dissolved in water to support an active metabolism and a good brain. That must be why intelligence evolved in the seas: biological competition like you hardly ever find in the seas of Terra-type planets. But the environment is almost as strange to us as Jupiter."

  "The Merseians get along with his kind."

  "Uh-huh. They took time to learn everything we haven't. We've tried to xenologize ourselves, in regions the conflict hasn't reached so far, but the Merseians have always found out and arranged trouble."

  "Found out how?" Hauksberg pounced. "By spies?"

  "No, surveillance. 'Bout all that either side has available. If we could somehow get access to their undersea information—" Abrams snapped his mouth shut and pulled out a cigar.

  Hauksberg eased. He smiled. "Please don't take me wrong, Commander. Assure you I'm not some weepin' idealist. You can't make an omelet, et cet'ra. I merely object to breakin' every egg in sight. Rather messy, that." He paused. "Won't bother you more today. But I want a full report on this project to date, and regular bulletins. I don't forbid hypnoprobin' categorically, but I wil
l not allow any form of torture. And I'll be back." He couldn't quite suppress a moue of distaste. "No, no, thanks awf'lly but you needn't escort me out. Good day, gentlemen."

  The door closed on his elegance. Abrams went into a conference with Leong. They talked low. The hum, click, buzz of machines filled the room, which was cold. Flandry stood staring at the captive he had taken.

  "A millo for 'em," Abrams said.

  Flandry started. The older man had joined him on cat feet. "Sir?"

  "Your thoughts. What're you turning over in your mind, besides the fair d'Io?"

  Flandry blushed. "I was wondering, sir. Hau—milord was right. You are pushing ahead terribly fast, aren't you?"

  "Got to."

  "No," said Flandry earnestly. "Pardon, sir, but we could use divers and subs and probes to scout the Zletovar. Charlie here has more value in the long run, for study. I've read what I could find about the Seatrolls. They are an unknown quantity. You need a lot more information before you can be sure that any given kind of questioning will show results."

  Beneath lowered bushy brows, behind a tobacco cloud, Abrams regarded him. "Telling me my business?" His tone was mild.

  "No, sir. Certainly not. I—I've gotten plenty of respect for you." The idea flamed. "Sir! You do have more information than you admit! A pipeline to—"

  "Shut up." The voice stayed quiet, but Flandry gulped and snapped to an automatic brace. "Keep shut up. Understand?"

  "Y-yes, sir."

  Abrams glanced at his team. None of them had noticed. "Son," he murmured, "you surprise me. You really do. You're wasted among those flyboys. Ever considered transferring to the spyboys?"

  Flandry bit his lip. "All right," Abrams said. "Tell uncle. Why don't you like the idea?"

  "It—I mean—No, sir, I'm not suited."

  "You look bundled to the ears to me. Give me a break. Talk honest. I don't mind being called a son of a bitch. I've got my birth certificate."

  "Well—" Flandry rallied his courage. "This is a dirty business, sir."

  "Hm. You mean for instance right here? Charlie?"

  "Yes, sir. I . . . well, I sort of got sent to the Academy. Everybody took for granted I'd go. So did I. I was pretty young."

  Abrams' mouth twitched upward.

  "I've . . . started to wonder, though," Flandry stumbled. "Things I heard at the party . . . uh, Donna d'Io said—You know, sir, I wasn't scared in that sea action, and afterward it seemed like a grand, glorious victory. But now I—I've begun remembering the dead. One Tiger took a whole day to die. And Charlie, he doesn't so much as know what's going to happen to him!"

  Abrams smoked awhile. "All beings are brothers, eh?" he said.

  "No, sir, not exactly, but—"

  "Not exactly? You know better'n that. They aren't! Not even all men are. Never have been. Sure, war is degrading. But there are worse degradations. Sure, peace is wonderful. But you can't always have peace, except in death, and you most definitely can't have a peace that isn't founded on hard common interest, that doesn't pay off for everybody concerned. Sure, the Empire is sick. But she's ours. She's all we've got. Son, the height of irresponsibility is to spread your love and loyalty so thin that you haven't got enough left for the few beings and the few institutions which rate it from you."

  Flandry stood motionless.

  "I know," Abrams said. "They rammed you through your education. You were supposed to learn what civilization is about, but there wasn't really time, they get so damned few cadets with promise these days. So here you are, nineteen years old, loaded to the hatches with technical information and condemned to make for yourself every philosophical mistake recorded in history. I'd like you to read some books I pack around in micro. Ancient stuff mostly, a smidgin of Aristotle, Machiavelli, Jefferson, Clausewitz, Jouvenel, Michaelis. But that'll take awhile. You just go back to quarters today. Sit. Think over what I said."

  "Has the Fodaich not seen the report I filed?" asked Dwyr the Hook.

  "Yes, of course," Runei answered. "But I want to inquire about certain details. Having gotten into the Terran base, even though your objective was too well guarded to burgle, why did you not wait for an opportunity?"

  "The likelihood did not appear great, Fodaich. And dawn was coming. Someone might have addressed me, and my reply might have provoked suspicion. My orders were to avoid unnecessary risks. The decision to leave at once is justified in retrospect, since I did not find my vehicle in the canyon when I returned. A Terran patrol must have come upon it. Thus I had to travel overland to our hidden depot, and hence my delay in returning here."

  "What about that other patrol you encountered on the way? How much did they see?"

  "Very little, I believe, Fodaich. We were in thick forest, and they shot blindly when I failed to answer their challenge. They did, as you know, inflict considerable damage on me, and it is fortunate that I was then so close to my goal that I could crawl the rest of the way after escaping them."

  "Khr-r-r," Runei sighed. "Well, the attempt was worth making. But this seems to make you supernumerary on Starkad, doesn't it?"

  "I trust I may continue to serve in honor." Dwyr gathered nerve. "Fodaich, I did observe one thing from afar while in Highport, which may or may not be significant. Abrams himself walked downstreet in close conversation with a civilian who had several attendants—I suspect the delegate from Terra."

  "Who is most wonderfully officious," Runei mused, "and who is proceeding on from here. Did you catch anything of what was said?"

  "The noise level was high, Fodaich. With the help of aural amplification and focussing, I could identify a few words like 'Merseia.' My impression is that Abrams may be going with him. In such case, Abrams had better be kept under special watch."

  "Yes." Runei stroked his chin. "A possibility. I shall consider it. Hold yourself in readiness for a quick departure."

  Dwyr saluted and left. Runei sat alone. The whirr of ventilators filled his lair. Presently he nodded to himself, got out his chessboard, and pondered his next move. A smile touched his lips.

  Chapter Six

  Starkad rotated thrice more. Then the onslaught came.

  Flandry was in Ujanka. The principal seaport of Kursoviki stood on Golden Bay, ringed by hills and slashed by the broad brown Pechaniki River. In the West Housing the Sisterhood kept headquarters. Northward and upward, the High Housing was occupied by the homes of the wealthy, each nestled into hectares of trained jungle where flowers and wings and venomous reptiles vied in coloring. But despite her position—not merely captain of the Archer but shareholder in a kin-corporation owning a whole fleet, and speaker for it among the Sisterhood—Dragoika lived in the ancient East Housing, on Shiv Alley itself.

  "Here my mothers dwelt since the town was founded," she told her guest. "Here Chupa once feasted. Here the staircase ran with blood on the Day of the Gulch. There are too many ghosts for me to abandon." She chuckled, deep in her throat, and gestured around the stone-built room, at furs, carpets, furnishings, books, weapons, bronze vases and candelabra, goblets of glass and seashell souvenirs and plunder from across a quarter of the planet. "Also, too much stuff to move."

  Flandry glanced out the third-floor window. A cobbled way twisted between tenements that could double as fortresses. A pair of cowled males slunk by, swords drawn; a drum thuttered; the yells and stampings and metal on metal of a brawl flared brief but loud. "What about robbers?" he asked.

  Ferok grinned. "They've learned better."

  He sprawled on a couch whose curves suggested a ship. Likewise did his skipper and Iguraz, a portly grizzled male who had charge of Seatraders' Castle. In the gloom of the chamber, their eyes and jewelry seemed to glow. The weather outside was bright but chill. Flandry was glad he had chosen to wear a thick coverall on his visit. They wouldn't appreciate Terran dress uniform anyhow.

  "I don't understand you people," Dragoika said. She leaned forward and sniffed the mild narcotic smoke from a brazier. "Good to see you again, Dommaneek, but I don't
understand you. What's wrong with a fight now and then? And—after personally defeating the vaz-Siravo—you come here to babble about making peace with them!"

  Flandry turned. The murmur of his airpump seemed to grow in his head. "I was told to broach the idea," he replied.

  "But you don't like it yourself?" Iguraz wondered. "Then why beneath heaven do you speak it?"

  "Would you tolerate insubordination?" Flandry said.

  "Not at sea," Dragoika admitted. "But land is different."

  "Well, if nothing else, we vaz-Terran here find ourselves in a situation like sailors." Flandry tried to ease his nerves by pacing. His boots felt heavy.

  "Why don't you simply wipe out the vaz-Siravo for us?" Ferok asked. "Shouldn't be hard if your powers are as claimed."

  Dragoika surprised Flandry by lowering her tendrils and saying, "No such talk. Would you upset the world?" To the human: "The Sisterhood bears them no vast ill will. They must be kept at their distance like any other dangerous beasts. But if they would leave us alone there would be no occasion for battle."

  "Perhaps they think the same," Flandry said. "Since first your people went to sea, you have troubled them."

  "The oceans are wide. Let them stay clear of our islands."

  "They cannot. Sunlight breeds life, so they need the shoals for food. Also, you go far out to chase the big animals and harvest weed. They have to have those things too." Flandry stopped, tried to run a hand through his hair, and struck his helmet. "I'm not against peace in the Zletovar myself. If nothing else, because the vaz-Merseian would be annoyed. They started this arming of one folk against another, you know. And they must be preparing some action here. What harm can it do to talk with the vaz-Siravo?"

  "How do so?" Iguraz countered. "Any Toborko who went below'd be slaughtered out of hand, unless you equipped her to do the slaughtering herself."

  "Be still," Dragoika ordered. "I asked you here because you have the records of what ships are in, and Ferok because he's Dommaneek's friend. But this is female talk."

  The Tigeries took her reproof in good humor. Flandry explained: "The delegates would be my people. We don't want to alarm the seafolk unduly by arriving in one of our own craft. But we'll need a handy base. So we ask for ships of yours, a big enough fleet that attack on it is unlikely. Of course, the Sisterhood would have to ratify any terms we arrived at."