Starship Home

by Morphett, Tony

  70: HUMAN!

  Zoe looked up from the wounded Slarn marine and Zachary could read the compassion in her face, and knew he had to resist it. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Zoe, and stop thinking it.’

  ‘We can’t just leave her to die!’

  Harold nodded his agreement. ‘Zoe’s right. If we keep her alive we can use her as a bargaining chip.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant, you android! I meant she’s human, she’s a long way from home, and Guinevere’s got the technology to heal her!’

  Zachary shook his head. ‘The Forester people could look after her, the Troll women and Father John …’

  ‘Oh great. She’s got a choice between the Iron Age and the Middle Ages. How about we give her to the Looters, they can keep her alive, fatten her up and then eat her!’

  ‘If we take her to the starship, then she knows there’s a starship, and I just convinced them there wasn’t. And then if she gets loose, everyone knows there’s a starship and where it is.’

  ‘I don’t care if I have to carry her there single-handed, she’s coming back to Guinevere with us.’

  ‘You haven’t heard what I’m saying.’

  ‘I have heard what you’re saying and it’s disgusting.’

  Harold nodded. ‘And besides she makes a great hostage.’

  ‘And that’s even more disgusting!’

  Harold looked hurt. ‘What are you attacking me for? I’m on your side!’

  ‘I’m not going to let this happen,’ said Zachary.

  Half an hour later, as Zachary helped Zoe carry the unconscious Slarn marine, now slung in an improvised litter, he was still saying it. ‘This can’t be happening. I’m not this stupid …’ but his ruminations were broken off by his own yell of terror as he saw, coming out of another part of the forest along a converging trail, the Looter band carrying baskets of charcoal.

  ‘At last,’ said Marlowe and turned to greet the Eldest, whose beady gaze had fallen on the Slarn marine. ‘Give food to Dark One?’ he asked.

  ‘No!’ snapped Meg.

  ‘Sure we do,’ said Zachary. ‘Dark One great eater, eh?’

  ‘Cut out the jokes, Zachary and let’s get her inside,’ Meg said, and then looked around. ‘Where’s Maze got to?’ For the Forester child, who had set out with them, had slipped away and was no longer to be seen. Meg shrugged, knowing that Maze came and went like the wind, and got on with the task at hand. ‘Okay, Zoe, Zachary, let’s do it.’

  They moved into the clearing and headed for the starship, whose hatchway opened to welcome them. ‘As long as we all realize that this is a Slarn? One of those wonderful people who gave you the Great Exit? The ones who shipped our nearest and dearest off to the slave planets of the galaxy?’

  ‘She’s a person,’ Zoe said.

  ‘And when we’re all slaves on Streptococcus Five, I’ll hold that thought very close to my heart.’ They entered the starship, leaving Marlowe with the Looters, who were now putting down their baskets of charcoal in the clearing. The Eldest waved a hand at the baskets and said, royally, ‘We give charcoal for Dark One belly fire. Dark One give us foods.’

  Marlowe looked speculatively at the open hatchway. He needed to know what was going on in there. ‘I’ll be right back,’ he said to the Eldest and ran inside.

  On the bridge, Guinevere looked out of her screen, and then the medipod slid out of the wall. ‘Take the armor off her, and get her in there.’ They set the litter down, and as Marlowe entered, Zoe knelt to undo the marine’s body armor.

  ‘She looks human, Guinevere. How come she looks human?’ Harold asked.

  ‘Begone Harold. Zachary, Marlowe, begone for this is woman’s work.’

  The men retreated, with Harold still asking questions. ‘She looks human, breathes an oxygen-nitrogen mix, has red blood …’

  ‘Because she is human! Now go!’

  The men moved off the bridge, and the door slid shut behind them. Harold leant against the cool metal bulkhead. Then the penny dropped. ‘I get it. They capture people like Guinevere was captured. And then they recruit them into their armed forces. Maybe they even recruit scientists?’

  Without realizing it he had spoken out loud his greatest temptation, but before he could think about it, Marlowe cut in. ‘She’s pure Slarn,’ he said. ‘The Slarn are human. Their ancestors originally came from this planet.’ And without waiting for further questions, he stalked away, heading for the hatchway, saying, ‘I’ll get them moving the charcoal in.’

  In Helena’s hut, Our Mother was looking at Maze very hard, as if her gaze could peel back the layers of Maze’s mind to the truth within. ‘With your Talent they let you go?’

  Maze was on her knees before Our Mother. ‘They tell me come back, have many babies.’

  The suspicion in Helena’s eyes died. ‘Breeding stock. They want you for breeding. Now tell me everything that happened. Every detail. The survival of the Clan may depend upon it.’

  Back in the starship, as the medipod with the Slarn marine inside slid back into the bulkhead, the door from the bridge to the corridor slid back, and Harold came in like a questioning tornado, Zachary following at a slower pace. ‘Marlowe just said the Slarn are human, Guinevere, I don’t get it!’ cried Harold.

  ‘They are human indeed,’ said Guinevere. ‘Many thousands of years ago they hailed from Haardlandes, the ancient name for Atlantis. ‘Slarn’ is but ‘Slaarndes’, which means ‘the people of Atlantis’.’

  ‘You’re saying they’re Atlanteans? And they discovered space travel? That’s not possible.’

  ‘And yet it happened. Between Earth’s many ice ages, civilizations rose and fell, and before the last ice age there was a civilization, that of Haardlandes, which discovered how people who possessed the Talent could pilot vessels between the stars. But when their climate changed, and they knew that a new ice age was about to come upon them, they selected the best among them, put them on starships, and sent them out to make colonies in the galaxy. Many were lost in the attempt, but some won through, and met with the Elder Races, who had a use for those they deemed barbarians. And that use was in the wars between the stars. The Slarn sold their swords to the highest bidders, and became the mercenary soldiers of the galaxy and still are to this day.’ She paused, and with a heartfelt sigh, she went on, ‘We fallen humans love and hate too well. ‘tis these two poles within us that make us apt to war.’

  ‘So the woman in the medipod is an Atlantean marine?’ Meg asked. ‘And they come back from time to time to kidnap people to replenish their forces?’

  ‘And sell as slaves.’

  ‘But 90 years ago, they took nearly everyone,’ Harold protested. ‘Why so many?’

  ‘They had become aware that the people of the Home Planet had taken the first steps to discovering true space travel. The Slarn knew that sooner or later you would burst out of here and become their rivals. And the Slarn brook no rivals.’

  71: BETRAYALS

  The Slarn skimmer remained where it was, the only sign of what had happened being the hoof-trampled grass around it. Then three Slarn marines materialized, Slarnstaffs at the ready, watching each other’s backs. They spread out, searching the area within the now restored forcefield and then moved to the skimmer itself, pressed a concealed pad, and when the hatch slid open they moved in warily, as if expecting an ambush. Once inside, they checked every part of the skimmer for concealed hostiles, and then one of them moved to the communications console and hit a button. A Slarn face appeared on the screen above.

  In Helena’s hut, Maze had been reporting, and Helena was dismayed. ‘They took a Slarn prisoner?’

  ‘A woman like us. The Slarn are like us,’ Maze replied, as if still coming to terms with this new information. Then she stared at Our Mother. ‘In your head you think of Uncle Marlowe, and another man who looks like him.’

  ‘Yes I do,’ said Helena with a certain sadness, ‘I think of my son Marlowe, and of Marlowe’s father.’ She paused, and then added:
‘I loved him much.’

  On the bridge of the starship, Marlowe sat, deep in thought, alone, brooding, the eternal outsider. The Wyzen, her empathy aroused, climbed into the acceleration couch with him, and he stroked her head absent-mindedly, possessed by his own dreams. Meanwhile, Harold was discussing the menu with Guinevere. ‘So what you need next is calcium?’ ‘And much, much water,’ she replied.

  Roused from his thoughts, Marlowe stood, and said, ‘I’ll talk to the Eldest.’ And, as was his wont, he moved swiftly toward the door, clicking his tongue to the Wyzen who, always curious as to what her human companions were up to, followed him. As Marlowe passed the clock which marked the countdown to Guinevere’s programmed self-destruction, he gave it a glance and what he saw made him speed his pace. Harold saw the moment, and crossed the bridge to look at the clock. What he saw filled him with horror. ‘Guinevere!’ he said, ‘that’s now saying nine days! Nine day to self-destruct!’

  ‘Aye,’ she replied, ‘I told thee. The Zyglan sped the clock and but for the iron which slowed it we would all be ashes by now.’

  In the hall of Trollcastle, the Don sat at the high table flanked by Ulf, Father John and Rocky. Troll warriors stood in the body of the hall, surrounding two Slarn marines, holding Slarnstaffs and facing the high table. Using his Slarnstaff, one of the marines projected onto the wall an image of Zachary lying on the interrogation couch in the skimmer. ‘Have you seen this man?’ the marine said in the flat metallic tones of the translator system.

  ‘Never seen him before in my life,’ said the Don.

  ‘This is a planet of liars,’ the marine said, and flicked off the projected image.

  The Don rose to his feet at the insult. ‘You say?’ His hand was on the hilt of his sword.

  ‘I say you delivered him to our skimmer once before and that you will do so again. That way you will remain Don of this region and we will forget your attack on us.’ And then the two marines slapped the button on their wrists, and dematerialized.

  ‘Weak!’ came a voice from the assembled Troll warriors.

  The Don turned fast, expecting that whoever had spoken the traitorous word would back down, but instead a Troll warrior stepped out of the group. ‘You brother would not have taken that,’ he said and walked to the draped portrait of Don Spider III, the Don’s elder brother, and ripped the covering off it. What was revealed was the portrait of a man who stood with the grace of a swordsman or horseman, hand on the hilt of his sword as if about to draw it. Facially the man in the portrait resembled the Don. But there was a cruel twist to the mouth, a nasty glitter in the eyes, half hidden by drooping eyelids, that threatened danger. The fact that he was portrayed standing on a heap of dead enemies did nothing to soften the message.

  ‘Don Spider would’ve had their heads.’

  ‘My nameless brother would’ve had this castle down around his ears. Stupid!’

  The rebellious warrior turned to Rocky. ‘You agree with that, Rocky? That your father’s stupid?’

  Before the boy could reply, the Don strolled toward the Troll warrior. ‘Don’t make trouble between me and my adopted son. If you want trouble, you can have it from me. Ask yourself if that kind of trouble is what you want?’

  ‘I want you to fight them. Not to run after unveiled women. Not to be shamed by sky devils here in your own hall! I want you to act like a Don!’

  ‘In the past, you have served me well, and I don’t want to have to kill you.’

  ‘Your brother would have.’

  ‘I know that. But I am not my brother. Now cover the portrait and let this be forgotten.’ The warrior hesitated. ‘Or die.’

  The silence between them lengthened, and then the warrior picked up the cloth from the floor, and tossed it over the portrait. The first flicker of rebellion had been quenched for the moment but the Don knew he had publicly shamed the warrior, and no good could come of that.

  On the bridge of the starship, Zachary was staring intently at the screen which showed the clearing outside the starship. Where once the Looters had squatted there was now only their fire, smouldering down to ashes. ‘The Looters are gone!’ he said, and Harold looked up from his calculations about Guinevere’s menu. ‘Marlowe went to talk to them about getting calcium and water,’ he began, and then Zoe broke in. ‘Where’s the Wyzen?’ she said. ‘She left the bridge at the same time as Marlowe,’ Meg said. ‘He clicked his tongue at her and she followed him out.’ They were all beginning to get a very bad feeling.

  On the floor of Slarn Base 35, Marlowe’s lair, the Wyzen lay bound and gagged, her hurt, liquid eyes fixed on Marlowe. In her entire lifetime she had known only kindness and never encountered cruelty of this order. Where was her mistress? Where was her starship? Marlowe was packed to leave, his big journals bound together with cord and stacked neatly by the doorway and he was seated at the communications console, his eyes fixed on the screen. He had seen this message hundreds of times, it had been his support through some very bad times, but now that, as he believed, the time was soon coming when his dreams of leaving the planet and joining the Slarn would be fulfilled, he was watching it one last time. For this was a message from his Slarn father, Moorlow, a man in his middle years, just as Marlowe was now. Father and son looked remarkably alike, except for the metal eye, and the fact that Moorlow wore his hair cropped short in Slarn shipboard fashion. He was speaking with the singing lilt of Slarn-accented English, and what he was saying was this: ‘My dear son Marlowe, this is my last message to you. As you now must already know, you are born of two races. I, your father, was born on a planet far away from here, and your mother, Helena, is a native of this planet which we, the Slarn, first sprang from. The task which I have laid on you is to continue my work, studying the people of this world. For remember, this strange planet on which you were fated to be born, is the fabled Home World of the Slarn. The more we understand it and the human stock from which we come, the more we will understand ourselves.’

  Meanwhile, Harold, Zoe, Meg and Zachary were running along a forest trail in the direction of Marlowe’s lair. ‘Are you sure this is where he’ll be?’ shouted Zachary, and Harold was as sure of it as anything he had ever believed. ‘He won’t leave without those books!’ he answered. They were getting close.

  Marlowe was standing as his father’s message came toward its end. ‘My dear son,’ the image of Moorlow was saying, ‘there will come a day when the importance of our research will be understood, and you will be able to return with honor to your rightful place among our people. Until that day, I, your most loving father, urge you to continue to seek wisdom wherever it may be found, and commit it to permanent form, to await your day of returning home.’ The image of Moorlow saluted, striking his heart with his clenched right fist. Marlow responded with the same salute and then turned and moved to the door. ‘Ha-bra-ka-dah,’ he said and the door slid wide. Casting a glance at the bound Wyzen, Marlowe began to take his corded bundles of books out of the Slarnbase.

  Across the dusty plain, heading for the tents of the Sullivan encampment galloped a Troll warrior, the same Troll warrior who had challenged and been shamed by the Don. Sullivan scouts rode out to meet him and escorted him to the tent where the Sullivan Himself sat, surrounded by his leading henchmen. The Troll warrior dismounted, and knelt before the Sullivan Himself. ‘I challenged him,’ he reported.

  Then why are you still alive?’ asked the Sullivan Himself with a smile.

  The warrior dropped his head in embarrassment. ‘There are those who would welcome the return of his eldest brother, the Don Spider.’

  As if he had been waiting for these words, a figure emerged from the tent. He was recognisably the same man as the one in the portrait in the hall at Trollcastle, but during his years of exile he had allowed his hair to grow long, and it now cascaded in greasy ringlets from under his broad-brimmed felt hat. He wore leathers and a broadsword in a scabbard strapped to his back, the sword’s hilt protruding above one shoulder. In addition he was armed with t
wo knives, their scabbards strapped one to each thigh, spiked gloves, spiked greaves and spiked boots. A freshly picked wildflower adorned his button hole. Here was a dandy with death in his gaze, mayhem going somewhere to happen. ‘They want my return?’ said Spider, the former Don. ‘It pleases me to hear that.’

  The Sullivan Himself looked at Spider. You can take your brother in challenge?’

  Spider yawned, displaying steel teeth which had been filed to points. ‘Give me a slave you don’t need.’

  The Sullivan Himself gestured and two of his henchmen entered the tent and came out again dragging a lame slave. Spider beckoned and they dragged the lame slave to him. The speed was blinding. Spider had drawn a knife, nicked the slave’s arm and then sheathed the knife again. A moment’s pause, and the slave tottered on his feet and then crashed unconscious to the ground. The Sullivan Himself rose, went to the prostrate slave and examined the nick on his arm and then looked questioningly at Spider, who drew the knife he had used and demonstrated, pressing a button in the hilt. A drop of acid yellow liquid instantly dripped from a tiny hole in the knife’s point. ‘Your slave will sleep, and without an antidote, within two days he will die.’

  ‘And after you have become Don?’ the Sullivan Himself asked.

  ‘You’ll have slaving privileges within my duchy,’ Spider replied.

  Harold, Zoe, Zachary and Meg were even now slipping and sliding down the slope which led to the entrance to Marlowe’s lair in Slarnbase 35. Reaching the bottom, they ran into the cave and to the doorway where Harold shouted ‘Ha-bra-ka-dah!’ The door slid back and immediately they heard someone speaking. It was not Marlowe’s voice, but some other, the voice of someone with a lilting accent speaking English as a second language. ‘Until that day, I, your most loving father, urge you to continue to seek knowledge wherever it may be found, to commit it to permanent form, to await your day of going home.’