by Andre Norton
Kosti was no experienced pilot and the thrust he had used to tear them loose from Fronn was greater than it need have been. Kana, coming back to life, found his face sticky with blood as he pulled groggily at his straps.
"The sleeper wakes!" Kosti looked back over his shoulder at the recruit. "Thought you had decided to make the trip in cold sleep, fella. Not necessary, we have plenty of room."
The ship was on Ro-pilot, to be guided through the warp by the tape Kosti had set in. They had nothing to do but eat and sleep, and live in the discomfort of return-to-Terra conditioning which would enable them to disembark on their own world without further adjustment.
"How long will we be in space?" Larsen asked.
All three looked to Kosti for an answer but he only shrugged. "I'd say maybe fourteen-fifteen days. These babies sure eat it up in warp. Patrol cruisers are built for speed."
Fifteen days. Kana, stretched in one of the inner cabin hammocks, had time to think without the pressure of immediate action or decision hanging over him. This mess was a nasty one—sinister. For some unknown reason that alien in a Mech uniform had set a scene, a scene which only their luck had spoiled. He was sure that the ship and its dead crew had been deliberately left to be discovered dramatically—for a purpose. Patrolmen shot with Arch rifles—on a planet where an Arch Horde was being hunted down. But why go to all this trouble? Why try to discredit as well as wipe out a Terran force, when the latter move was so easy and Combat might be led to dismiss it all as fortunes of war?
Such an elaborate frame meant that not only the renegade Mechs but the Agents wearing their uniforms had something to fear from Yorke's men. The story of the murder of Yorke and his officers? Hardly. They had no real proof of that—not even a witness's account which would be accepted at a formal hearing. Why—why—such a deliberate and elaborate plan to blacken them?
Could it be possible—his hand went half-consciously to the hilt of his sword-knife—could it be that the age-old stalemate between Terra and C.C. was to be broken at last? That C.C. was working feverishly to not only whittle down the Terran forces by attrition, but also to discredit them among the stars as renegades and murderers? Perhaps this would be their chance for an open fight—to stand against that condition C.C. had imposed—to prove that Terrans had as much right to the star lanes in freedom as any other race or species! It was a hope, only a thin one, but in that hour Kana sensed that it was there and he swore to himself that the next time he went into space it would not be wearing that green-gray coat which had been forced upon him.
The ship came out of warp, but they were still two days from Prime port by Kosti's admittedly ignorant calculations when it happened. A faint "beep" drew the attention of Kana and Larsen to the screen above the control panel. The Blademaster and Kosti were asleep and there was no one to explain the meaning of the pin point of light moving across the dark surface. Kana went to rouse Kosti.
"We might just have company—seeing as how we are out of warp." The pilot pro-tem rubbed sleep from his eyes. But one look at the screen brought him fully awake.
"Get Hansu—" he ordered tersely.
When Kana returned with the Blademaster the plaintive "beep" of the signal had strengthened into a steady drone.
"You can establish contact?" Hansu asked.
"If you want to. But that's no between-planets trader out there. We're on a cruiser course. Only another Patrol ship would be likely to cross us."
On a planet, armed, they would have known what to do when faced with a potential enemy. But in space, they might even now be needlessly alarmed over a routine happening.
"Shall I accept contact?" Kosti pressed.
The Blademaster ran his thumb along his lower lip, staring at the light on the screen as if he would have out of it "name, rank, and term of enlistment."
"Can that screen"—he jerked his thumb toward the vision plate—"be used for receiving only, or do we automatically broadcast when we switch it on?"
"It can be one way. But that would make them suspicious."
"Let them think what they want. We need a little time and maybe some fast answers before they see our faces. Cut out the tele-cast before you make contact."
Kosti adjusted some knobs. A bright wash of color rippled across the screen and then they saw the narrow, high-cheek-boned face of a humanoid from Rassam. The skull-tight cap of a Patrol officer covered his hairless head and he wore the star-and-comet of an upper rank commander.
"What ship?" he demanded with the unconscious arrogance of a Central Control official. He could not see them, but he might almost have sensed he was addressing Terrans. Kana bristled, noting by the set of Hansu's jaw that he was not alone in that reaction.
"Give me the speaker." Hansu took the mike from Kosti.
"This is a Patrol cruiser, name and registry unknown." He spoke slowly, enunciating each word flatly in basic trade speech, trying to keep his native accent undistinguishable. "It was found by us deserted and we are returning it to the proper authorities."
The Patrol Commander did not give them the lie openly, but his disbelief was plain to read on his face.
"You are not headed for a Patrol base," he pointed out crisply. "What is your destination?"
"As if he didn't know—or suspect!" whispered Kosti.
"We are reporting to out superior officers," Hansu continued, "according to law—"
That narrow face appeared to lengthen in a sinister fashion. "Terrans!" His lips shaped the word as if it were an incredibly filthy oath. "You will prepare to receive a boarding party—" His face vanished from the screen.
"Well," Kosti observed bleakly, "that's that. If we try to get away they'll burn us down with their big stuff."
"Come on!" Hansu was halfway through the door. And, revived by his confidence, the rest trailed him. Out of the artificial gravity of the living quarter they pulled themselves into the midsection of the ship where the Blademaster unfastened a hatch. Beyond was an escape bay complete with two boats. But they were so small—Kana eyed them doubtfully, battling his dislike for being confined in a limited space.
Hansu paused half inside the nearest. "Kosti, you take the other. That will give us a double chance of getting our report through. If but one of us lives he has to reach Prime! Failure to get through may—in a way—mean the end for Terra. This thing is bigger than all of us. Larsen, you team with Kosti. Set your tape for Terra—when you land make for Prime—if you have to beg, borrow, or steal transportation. Ask for Matthias—get to him if you have to kill to do it! Understand?"
Neither of the veterans displayed surprise at the drastic orders. Hansu lowered his body into the lifeboat and Kana climbed reluctantly after him. It required both of them to close the vent and seal it. Then Hansu flung himself into the cushioned hollow of the pilot's section and Kana took the other padded couch.
The Blademaster set a pointer on a small dial before him, checking it three times before he cut in the power which blasted them free from the cruiser. The force of that blast was almost as hard to take as the acceleration which had torn them out of Fronn's gravity. Kana's ribs, still sore from that ordeal, were squeezed enough to bring a choked cry out of him. When he was able to turn his head once more he saw that Hansu lay at ease, his cupped hands supporting his chin, his eyes fixed on the dial, though his thoughts might have been elsewhere.
"Are we free—? Did—did we get away, sir?" Kana asked dazedly.
"We're still alive, aren't we?" Hansu's ironical humor quirked set lips. "If they had sighted our getaway we'd be cinders by now. Let's hope that they will continue to concentrate on the cruiser for a few seconds more—"
"What made them so quick on the trigger, sir? The Patrol usually doesn't flare up that way—or do they? And that officer said `Terrans' as if we were Lombros muck worms—"
"It shouldn't surprise you, Karr, to discover that some of the more `superior' races who make up the C.C. Councils at the present moment are inclined to rate us at just about that level�
�in private, naturally. One doesn't boast of caste openly—that's too close to shape and race prejudice. But I've seen an Ageratan leave an eating booth before he had finished his meal because a Terran was seated as his neighbor. It's illegal, unethical, violates all those pretty slogans and refined sentiments drilled into them from the cradle or the egg—but it persists."
"But the Zacathans aren't like that—and Rey and Mic were friendly with that Lupan on Secundus—"
"Certainly. I can cite you a thousand different shapes and races who accept Terrans as equals as easily as we accept them in return. But note two things, Karr, and they are important. The systems where we are persona non grata are dominated by humanoid races and they are systems which have had space travel for a very long time, who have pioneered in the Galaxy. Embedded deep in them is an emotion they refuse to admit—fear.
"Back on Terra in the ancient days before the nuclear wars we were divided into separate races, the difference in part depending on the color of skin, shape of features, and so forth. And in turn those races were subdivided into nations which arose to power, held in control large portions of the planet, sometimes for centuries. But as the years passed each in turn lost that power, the reins slipped from their hands. Why?
"Because the tough, sturdy fighters who had built those empires died, and their sons, or their sons' sons' sons were another breed. For a while, even after the fighting quality died out, an empire would still exist—as might a well-built piece of machinery set in motion. Then parts began to wear, or oiling was needed, and there was no one who remembered, or cared, or had the necessary will and strength to pull it together and make repairs. So another, younger and tougher nation took over—perhaps after a war. History progressed by a series of such empires—the old one yielding to the new.
"Now the races of the Galaxy with whom we have established the closest ties are, so far, not of our species. We like the Zacathans who are of reptile origin, we enjoy the Trystians, whose far-off ancestors were birds. The Yubana—they're evolved felines. And most of these are also newcomers on the Galactic scene. But—and this is important—they have different aims, backgrounds, desires, tastes. Why should a Zacathan fret over the passing of time, hurry to get something done the way we must do? His life span is close to a thousand years, he can afford to sit around and think things out. We feel that we can't. But we're not a threat to him or his way of life."
"But, sir, do you think we are to the others—the humanoids of Agerat and Rassam? Their civilizations are old but basically they are similar to ours—"
"And are showing signs of decay. Yes, we're a threat to them because of our young pushing energy, our will to struggle, all the things they openly deplore in us. For, old as Terra seems to us, she is very young in the Galaxy. So they've met us with a devious design. It is their purpose to wall us off—not openly and so provide us with a legitimate grievance which we may take before the Grand Council—but legally and finally. They struggle to dissipate our strength in needless warfare which in no way threatens their control, sapping our manpower and so rendering helpless a race which might just challenge them in the future. And because we have fought and dreamed of the stars we have been forced to accept their condition—for a time."
"A time, sir?" burst out Kana passionately. "For three hundred years we've played their game—"
"What is three hundred years on the Galactic chessboard?" Hansu returned calmly. "Yes, for three hundred years we have taken their orders. Only now they must be beginning to realize that their plan is not working. I'm not sure that their motives had been plain even to them. They have played omnipotence so long that they have come to believe in their godhead—that they can make no wrong moves. For they have always operated against us under cover—until now.
"From the first we have had friends, and we are gaining more. And those worlds would ask questions if Terra were summarily condemned and restricted to its own system. Perhaps their own over-civilized minds shrink from such a practical solution, or have in the past. But where they could, they have cut us off. Terrans are not accepted in the Patrol—that is the service for `superior' races. Traders do not allow us to join their companies. Even the war we play at is carefully denatured—though we still die— The most modern Mech equipment is years behind weapons the inhabitants of—say Garmir—already consider obsolete."
"But, sir, why this move with the cruiser?"
"Either some hot heads on the Council are going to push through ideas of their own, or they have begun to wake up to the fact that we Terrans are not exactly what we seem." Hansu turned his head and gave Kana a measuring glance which was sharp enough to reach into his mind.
"Why do you suppose that we have X-Tee training—that we make an AL man a necessary member of every Horde and Legion lifting off-world?"
"Why—you need liaison officers on other worlds, sir."
"That is the correct official explanation—and one which no Control Agent can successfully counter. But any Terran with the proper temperament for X-Tee is screened and classified from the moment of his first response to the tests. He is given, unobtrusively, all the instruction we can cram into him. He is urged to meet X-Tees on a friendly basis—under cover. And when he enlists he is given every opportunity by his commanding officers to widen his knowledge of other planets."
"So that was why you wanted me to contact Venturi, sir?"
"Yes. And that is why you went to Po'ult. We have long known that we must have all the AL men we can get. And the wider their acquaintance with other life forms the better for us. If we must challenge C.C. in the open, we cannot stand alone. And the more races friendly to us, or at least with a favorable knowledge of us, the better. Incidentally we may be preparing ourselves for another form of service entirely. What if Terra in the future was to provide not fighting men but exploring teams?"
"Exploring teams?"
"Groups of trained explorers to pioneer on newly discovered planets, to prepare for colonization those worlds where there may be no intelligent native life. Groups, the members of which are selected for their individual talents, going not as Patrol nor traders, not as police or merchants, but only to discover what lies in orbit around the next sun. Groups including not only our own kind, but combining in a working unit half a dozen different species of X-Tees—telepaths, techneers, some not even vaguely humanoid."
"Do you think that can be done, sir?" demanded Kana, finding in the idea an answer to his own half-formed dream.
"Why not? And the time may not be too far off. Let us reach Matthias with our report on Fronn and he'll have a concrete argument to use in Combat circles against C.C. Suppose that all the Hordes and Legions now scattered up and down the Galaxy received orders to rebel. Such a situation would upset C.C. and bring an end to their carefully supervised peace. It would be cheaper to let us go our way than to tackle rebellions and uprisings on some hundreds of planets at once."
"I've heard a lot of rumors, sir, but nothing about revolt—"
"I should hope not!" countered the Blademaster. "Most of Combat are conservative. And we of Terra have lived a specialized life for generations. Combatants haven't much interest beyond the affairs of their own Horde or Legion. At Prime they try to locate the records of those with promise, to steer the men into enlistments where they can serve the cause best. But this mess on Fronn is going to bring the latent danger of our position home—to even the most hidebound of the Big Brass. Once they see that Terran can be turned against Terran with the approval of Central Control, that Mech can be used to hunt down Arch—they will listen to what we have to say." Hansu balled his fist and thumped it on the edge of his pad. "Time—just give us time enough! We must reach Matthias and he'll touch off the powder!"
16 — ROAD TO PRIME
But for the two inside the escape craft time moved leadenly. They could only sleep, cramped in the single position allowed them, swallow ration tablets, and talk. And talk Hansu did, spinning in an endless stream tales of far-off worlds on some of wh
ich their kind dared not venture, save in the protection of pressure suits, of weird native rites, and savage battles against stacked odds.
Kana forced himself to concentrate on every word, as if he were required to pass an examination on these lectures, for by doing so, he could forget the present, sealed in a minute ship which might or might not make a safe landing on his home world. And he also knew that his companion was now sharing freely with him the lore he himself had spent years in gathering. He was being crammed by a master in X-Tee, a man who was explaining the central passion of his own existence.
"—so they had a sacrifice on the night of the double moon and we hid out in the hills to watch. It wasn't at all what we had been led to expect—"
A sharp "ping" interrupted Hansu as a tiny bulb glowed red among the controls. They had entered atmosphere!
Kana tried to relax. The worst nightmare of all, that they would miss their home world and go traveling on forever into empty space, was behind them. There was still nothing to do—nothing they could do. Escape craft were entirely robot controlled—often those who rode in them were too injured or shocked to pilot any course. The tiny ships were designed to make the best landing possible for the passengers and they were to be trusted.
Where would they land? Kana stared blankly at the curve of metal roofing above him. A bad landing—say in the sea— But they did not have long to wait, that was a mercy.
"I hope we don't land too far from Prime, sir." He forced himself to deliver that in as even a voice as possible.
"We'd better not!"
When they did come in Kana discovered himself hanging head down in the straps and, panicked by that, he fought his fastenings, unable to loosen the buckles. Then the Blademaster came to the recruit's rescue and got him on his feet. The rear of the narrow cabin was now the floor, and the roof hatch through which they had entered was a side door the Blademaster turned to open. They wedged into the small air lock, to be met by a blaze of fire and billows of stifling white smoke. Hansu slammed the outer door, his face grim.
