Starship Home

by Morphett, Tony

‘No deal, what do you mean no deal?’ croaked Harold. ‘Negotiate!’

  ‘Trolls don’t negotiate,’ said Rocky, as if stating yet another immutable law of the universe, ‘but if he kills you, you have my promise he’ll be dead in seconds.’

  ‘If that’s supposed to make me feel better, it doesn’t do the trick,’ said Harold.

  ‘Boy dies,’ said the Sullivan, who was clearly a man of his word, but before his knife hand could move, Zoe raised her Slarnstaff and pressed a button. The effect was instantaneous and dramatic. Harold and the Sullivan both dropped like logs falling off the back of a truck. One moment standing, the next moment flat on their backs unconscious.

  Zoe had acted from instinct, and now she was appalled at what she had done. She dropped the Slarnstaff and ran to Harold, knelt and started slapping his cheeks. ‘Harold, Harold, are you all right!’

  ‘How’d that happen?’ said a bewildered Rocky, not immediately associating what had happened with the strange object Zoe had been holding when Harold and the Sullivan suddenly went unconscious.

  Zoe was now feeling Harold’s throat for a pulse. ‘He’s alive!’ she said, her voice charged with relief.

  Rocky pointed at the unconscious Sullivan. ‘What about him? Alive too?’

  Zoe did a cursory check. ‘Yes. Breathing.’

  ‘We can easily fix that,’ said Rocky, drawing his sword, moving toward the unconscious Sullivan, as with a thud of hooves, the Don, Ulf, Meg and Zachary ran the horses in under the trees.

  The Don surveyed the scene and then looked at Rocky. ‘Good work.’

  Rocky shrugged. ‘One Troll against four Sullivans. The poor devils were outnumbered.’

  ‘I beat my own,’ said Maze, indignantly.

  ‘Me too!’ said an equally indignant Zoe.

  ‘The secret of leadership,’ said Rocky, ‘is to delegate. Now before you arrived I was just about to kill the prisoners, so I’d better get on with it.’

  ‘You kill prisoners?’ exclaimed Meg.

  ‘We can’t take them with us,’ said the Don, reasonably, ‘and if we leave them alive, then they’ll follow us, or alert the rest of the Horde.’

  ‘You kill unconscious prisoners I’ll never speak to you again in my life!’ said Meg, and then added what seemed to her to be the clinching argument, ‘my father was a Brigadier and he says it’s against the Geneva Convention.’

  ‘I guess these Geneva people never met Sullivans,’ said the Don, ‘but since you insist, okay, just this once. Let’s go.’

  And with that, Ulf threw the still-unconscious Harold over the back of one of the horses and they moved on into the forest. Harold had dropped his Slarnstaff and Zoe now picked it up, thinking it was hers. A moment or so later the party was swallowed up in the darkness beneath the trees, leaving Zoe’s abandoned Slarnstaff lying in the grass.

  Half an hour later, a mounted party of Sullivans, riding at the walk, filtered out of the open woodland, and proceeded to cross the open grassland, their eyes on the ground in front of them. What they were looking at were the distinctive marks of iron-shod hooves. The Sullivans were tracking. Coming to the edge of the forest, they reined in briefly at the sight of the four unconscious Sullivans. The Sullivans in general had no truck with failure, and in the eyes of the tracking party, these four had failed in whatever they had tried to accomplish. If any question arose in the minds behind the blank faces, it was only: why still alive? Mysterious! Leaving their comrades to lie unconscious where they fell, the tracking party rode on into the forest.

  Up ahead, and half an hour later, the Don’s party began hearing the distinctive yelping sounds of a Sullivan war party emanating from the depths of the forest behind him. Rocky was delighted. ‘Sullivans!’ he told Zoe, who was walking beside him. ‘We’re being tracked. Maybe we’ll have to turn and fight.’

  Zachary turned, continuing to lead his salt-laden horse. ‘Yeah and it’s a big forest, so maybe they won’t find us.’

  Ulf put him straight on that idea. ‘Sullivans are part horse, part hound,’ he said. ‘If they track you, then they find you.’

  ‘Gee Ulf, thanks a million, I was just starting to think I might survive another few hours.’

  ‘Is that a joke?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s a joke.’

  Behind them, the Sullivan trackers knew they were closing on their prey. The hoof marks were fresher, as was the horse dung. They urged their horses into a swifter gait.

  Zachary put on some pace until he was walking alongside the Don. ‘Just for argument’s sake,’ he said, ‘if these Sullivans catch up with us, what happens next?’

  ‘We fight. If there’s not too many of them we win.’

  ‘And if there’s too many?’

  The Don smiled a wintry smile. ‘Then today might be a very good day to die.’

  ‘You want to explain that?’

  ‘The females become the wives of whoever takes them. Males are castrated and sold as slaves.’

  If Zachary had not been walking, he would have crossed his legs. ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘Sometimes they crucify their captives. That can take two, three days before you die.’ He paused. ‘I’ll say this for them though, they breed good horses.’ He slapped his horse’s flank. ‘This horse is Sullivan-bred.’

  ‘You trade with them?’

  ‘Once a year, at Showtruce time.’ The yelping was growing near and he looked back. ‘They’ll catch up any time now.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we be hiding?’ asked Zachary.

  ‘They’d smell us,’ said the Don and then there was light ahead, the forest was petering out, and within moments they had left the cover of the trees and were on a road which they recognized from their journey out. The Don hand-signalled their direction and they turned their horses’ heads for home, which was when, with ear-splitting yelps, the war party of Sullivans burst from the forest only 400 yards behind them.

  Zachary barely had time to think enslavement, castration, crucifixion when, on their own volition, his hands lifted his Slarnstaff, aimed it, and pressed a button at random. It was the leading Sullivan’s lucky day, for the button that Zachary pressed set the Slarnstaff to stun rather than flame or kill. The Don saw it happen, and knew once more that he was looking at a weapon which could change the course of history. His insight was instantly confirmed when Meg and Zoe limbered their Slarnstaffs and took out several more of the charging Sullivans. The puzzling thing to Zachary’s mind was that none of this stopped the Sullivans’ mad charge. The falling horses certainly added a touch of chaos to what was happening, but the Sullivans did not seem to be in the least discouraged by the sight of their fellow warriors falling senseless from the saddle.

  Ulf growled, and drew his sword. ‘Whatever it is they’re doing lacks honor, my lord,’ he said then crossed himself and prepared to die fighting.

  ‘Quite correct Ulf,’ said the Don, ‘but you must admit it’s very interesting.’ And he and Rocky drew their swords and stepped forward to meet the charging Sullivans.

  By this time the Slarnstaffs had wreaked havoc among the ranks of the Sullivans, but they came on, dividing into two streams to by-pass the falling men and horses, and then turning to ride back toward the Don’s party. As they turned, there was a thunder of hooves from behind them and cries of ‘Troll Turf!’ and ‘Walk tall!’, and a wave of mounted Trolls, led by Father John wielding a war hammer (for in the manner of ancient times he was sworn to shed no blood) came round a bend in the road and crashed into the Sullivan war party.

  As the fighting began, Father John kept on riding to the Don’s side, where he dismounted. ‘Looters!’ he gasped, ‘at the Iron Castle!’

  The Don leapt into the saddle that Father John had just vacated. ‘Guide them back while we deal with this scum!’ he shouted and kneed the horse forward, shouting ‘Troll turf!’ as he charged the Sullivans, with Ulf and Rocky, not to be denied their part in the skirmish, running behind. Father John took the reins of the Don’s salt-laden horse, and l
ed the way past the fighting, heading for the starship and home.

  Meanwhile, some miles away, where the forest met the grassland, the four Sullivans were beginning to stir into consciousness. Slowly they staggered to their feet, and then one of them looked down. In the grass lay a strange metal rod with differently colored buttons on it. The Sullivan picked up the Slarnstaff which Zoe had left behind, and examined it. He frowned, wondering what it was for. His finger hovered over a button. And then he pushed the red button.

  As he did so, fire belched out of the end of the Slarnstaff, struck a tree and caused it to burst into flames. The Sullivan tried it again, and another tree was blazing.

  The Sullivan smiled the kind of smile which said where has this been all my life? The sort of smile that a Viking might smile were he introduced to a machine gun.

  63: HOME AGAIN

  Zoe, Zachary, Meg, Maze and Father John were leading the salt horses along the ancient road, and Harold, still lying across the back of one of the hoses, was showing signs of returning consciousness. One eye opened, and then another, and then he closed them again, having decided that being draped across a horse’s back was preferable to walking. Unfortunately for him, Zoe had seen his eyes open and close. ‘Get off the horse, Harold!’

  ‘Mmnnh?’ Harold responded.

  ‘You’re awake. Get off the horse.’

  ‘It wasn’t me that put me to sleep,’ Harold answered, sliding down off the salt horse, ‘a certain person Slarnstaffed me unconscious.’

  Meg and Zachary looked quickly at Zoe, who shrugged and said: ‘Heat of the moment kind of thing? A Sullivan was going to kill him so I just reacted?’

  Before Meg and Zachary could answer, they all heard the sound of hoofbeats behind them and turned, expecting the worst. It was, after all, that kind of day. But it was not Sullivans riding up behind them, but the Don, leading the Troll party, all looking very pleased with themselves. Ulf and Rocky were now riding captured Sullivan steeds, and driving before them five more riderless horses. One way and another they seemed to have done very well for themselves. As the parties met they failed to see, on a distant ridgeline, silhouetted by the setting sun, the figure of a horseman.

  It was Marlowe, watching the reunion, and then spurring down the further slope into the gathering gloom of night.

  Back at the hatchway of the Starship, the Eldest Looter sat cross-legged by his small fire, engaging Guinevere in conversation. ‘You not remember now, Dark One?’

  ‘Let me sleep,’ she moaned.

  ‘Dark One never sleep,’ the Eldest explained with the ingrained certainty of the true believer, ‘I tell you your story again, so you remember.’

  ‘Not again. Prithee, not again.’

  ‘Once there was all dark, then dark moved all together so Dark One egg was made…’

  ‘If thou dost not cease thy heathen blathering I shall forget my vows as a nun and burn thee to crackling!’

  Marlowe now entered the clearing and moved toward the Eldest, who turned to him sadly, and said: ‘Dark One lost memory. Gone mad. Told Dark One his story ten times, still not remember.’

  ‘Good warlock,’ said Guinevere, ‘take this village oaf away, I prithee.’

  With a grim smile, Marlowe reached down and took the Eldest by one scrawny arm, and lifted him to his feet. Ignoring the stench emanating from the chief Looter, Marlowe bent close and murmured to him, ‘The strangers say iron castle must be fed. You must let strangers feed Dark One. Make him strong. But the strangers fear you. They’ll not feed Dark One while you’re here.’

  To the Eldest, this made perfect sense. Did not all creatures fear the Human Race? ‘Understand. Strangers fear Human Race.’ And as Marlow released his grip, the Eldest ran among his sleeping followers, kicking them awake and screaming ‘Up! Up! Move! Move! We leaving!’

  The Looters, accustomed to the Eldest’s sudden mood swings, woke, rolled onto their feet, snatched up their possessions and began blundering around, uncertain of where they should go, and afraid of taking the initiative in case they displeased the Eldest and ended up as foods.

  ‘Dark One must be fed by foreign foods! Foreign foods afraid of Human Race! Move out!’ the Eldest shrieked, and, choosing a direction at random, he raced out of the clearing, his followers running behind.

  In the sudden silence, broken only by the crackling of the Looters’ fires, Guinevere sighed with relief. ‘I thank thee, good warlock,’ she said, and then added, in tones of concern, ‘what news hast thou of my people and the Don?’

  ‘They’re on their way with salt for you,’ Marlowe replied, ‘and should be here by dawn.’ And his one good eye swept across the clearing, taking in the Looters’ fires, and the piles of skulls, and the designs crudely painted on Guinevere’s hull.

  Some hours later, when first light filtered through the treetops into the clearing, Marlowe was long gone, and the jingle of harness and the tramp of horses’ hooves announced the arrival of the Trolls, who rode into the clearing, swords out and ready. The Don surveyed the scene, the ashes of dead fires, the piles of skulls, the daubings on Guinevere’s hull, and ‘Gone,’ he said, ‘a pity,’ and he turned in the saddle as Zoe, Harold, Meg, Zachary and Maze, now riding the five captured Sullivan mounts, rode into the clearing leading the salt-laden horses. Gratefully, they dismounted and looked around in amazement at the scene.

  ‘Someone been having a party?’ said Zachary.

  ‘Disgusting,’ said Meg.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Harold.

  ‘Guinevere! Are you all right!’ said Zoe.

  ‘Aye,’ replied Guinevere. ‘Indians came. And the warlock Marlowe. He said thou had’st salt.’

  Harold patted the sacks on one of the salt horses. ‘Two hundred pound.”

  ‘I thank ye all. For me this could mean life.’

  Maze was looking at the Don, eyes twinkling, ready to bargain. ‘You and me split rest.’

  ‘Oh do we?’ said the Don, a small grim smile tightening his lips.

  ‘We split even,’ replied the fierce little Forester girl, eyes narrowing.

  Now a broad smile spread on the Don’s face, and it was Ulf who spoke. ‘We did the fighting.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the Don, ‘but the fighting was for the honor of the Lady Henderson. The salt we split even.’

  ‘Was ever there such a perfect gentle knight,’ gushed Guinevere, ‘and thou, cruel Meg, wouldst say him nay?’

  Meg, who had just been thinking what a nice thing the Don had said, and had begun to warm toward him as a result, now reacted like a furious spitting cat. ‘He fights because he loves fighting!’

  The Don was not sure what point she was making. ‘Am I not a man?’ he said, bewildered, ‘and should a man not love to fight?’

  ‘Don’t make me your excuses!’ Meg responded, and then to change the subject said, ‘now can we get on with this salt business? Please?’

  In the feeding chamber of the starship, the floor panel slid back, and vapor rose from the interior of Guinevere’s feeding pit. The Wyzen, always interested in everything going on about her, watched closely as Zoe, Harold, Meg and Zachary dragged two bags of salt to the edge of the dark gap in the floor, and then Zachary slit the first of the bags and started pouring the salt into the starship’s alimentary system. Strange bubbling sounds and even stranger chemical smells arose from the pit in the floor, and the humans stepped back, gagging, but as they did, the Wyzen reached out, scooped a pawful of salt from the half-empty sack, and gobbled it down.

  ‘Wyzen!’ exclaimed Zoe, ‘that’s not good for you!’ But the Wyzen merely grabbed another pawful of salt and ate it, evidently finding it delicious.

  ‘Let’s get this over with,’ said Zachary, swallowing hard, emptied the first bag and then rapidly slit the second and poured the rest of the salt in, but the Wyzen was too quick for him, and leaned in to claim just one more pawful of the precious substance. As the last of the salt disappeared into Guinevere’s insides, the panel slid shut, but the W
yzen was still searching for more.

  Disappointed in her search, she then tottered on unsteady legs to Zoe, reared up, and licked her face. ‘Wyzen?’ she said in pleading tones.

  ‘Guinevere?’ said Meg disapprovingly, ‘your animal just got drunk on three handfuls of salt.’

  But Guinevere had seen it all before. ‘Poor Wyzen,’ she murmured, full of sympathy, ‘rare alchemical mixtures ofttimes do this unto her. Care for her. Please.’

  ‘Actually,’ Harold said, ‘salt is not a rare substance.’

  ‘On the Wyzen’s world it is,’ Guinevere replied in a voice which brooked no argument, ‘so I say again, care for her.’

  As the door into the Bridge slid open, from without came the sounds of melodious howlings, and then Meg and Zachary entered, followed by Harold and Zoe carrying the Wyzen, much affected by salt. They put her down on an acceleration couch to sleep it off, and then Harold moved to the clock which monitored progress of the self destruct mechanism designed by the Slarn to prevent their technology falling into primitive hands, a device which would vaporize Guinevere and everything in a 60 mile zone around her if she stayed earthbound. Harold read the clock. ‘Twenty five days and counting.’

  ‘How are you feeling Guinevere?’ Zoe asked, at the same time looking puzzled and sniffing the air.

  ‘In growing health. I feel my strength returning,’ the Starship replied.

  Harold was pulling out the list of elements Guinevere needed for her repair. ‘Okay, copper, tin, salt, what do you need next?’

  Zoe sniffed again. ‘Yuk! The place stinks. Harold, did you put out the garbage before we left?’

  ‘Zoe? I’m working here. Guinevere? What next?’

  Zoe went to the bench, looked under it, and dragged out a forest-made basket full of mouldering food scraps. ‘Pity you didn’t work before we left,’ she said in disgusted tones.

  ‘Zyglan,’ said Guinevere.

  ‘Harold? Put it out! Now!’

  ‘Zoe, I’m trying to get information from Guinevere about an element I’ve never heard of and I can’t think about garbage as well! You’re Action Woman, you put it out.’