Sir Dominic Flandry: The Last Knight of Terra

by Poul Anderson

  On the way, Eonan had fed her from a stock of preserved Terran food, and explained he was the factor for Nakamura & Malaysia in the area where he dwelt. This gave him wide contacts and sources of information, as well as an easy excuse to travel, disappearing into the hinterland or across the sea whenever he wished. Thursday Landing had no suspicion of his clandestine activities. He would not speak about those until she related her story in full.

  Then he breathed, "E-e-e-ehhh," and crouched in thought on the gravsled bench. Finally, sharply: "Well, your Terran officer has likeliest concluded you slipped off in search of the cloudflyers—the, keh, the underground. A spacecraft was seen to lift from hereabouts not many sunspins ago. When I heard, I wondered what that meant."

  "I imagine he went to warn the resident and start a hunt for me," Kossara said. "He did threaten to, if I deserted." Anxiety touched her. "Yes, and a tightened space watch. Have I caused us trouble?"

  "We shall see. It may have been worth it in all events. To learn about that spy device is no slight gain. We shall want your description of the place where you threw the ring away. Perhaps we can safely look for it and take it to study."

  "Chances are he's recovered it. But Eonan!" Kossara twisted around toward him. "How are you doing here? How many survive? With what strength, what plans? How can I help?"

  Again the third lids blurred his gaze. "Best I keep still. I am just a link. They will answer you in the nest where I have decided to take you."

  The hideout was high in a mountainside. Approaching, Kossara felt her eardrums twinge from pressure change and cold strike deep. Snowpeaks, glaciers, ravines, cliffs, crags reached in monstrous confusion between a cloud ocean which drowned the lower slopes, and a sky whose emptiness the sun only seemed to darken. Silence dwelt here, save for air booming over the windshield and a mutter of native language as Eonan radioed ahead.

  Why am I not happy? she wondered. I am about to rejoin my comrades and regain my past—my purpose. What makes me afraid?

  Eonan finished. "Everything will be ready," he informed her. Was he as tense as he looked? She must have come to know Diomedeans well enough during her stay that she could tell; but that had been robbed from her. What had he to fear?

  "I suppose," she ventured, "this is headquarters for the entire mission. They tucked it away here to make it undiscoverable."

  "Yes. They enlarged a cave."

  She recalled another cave, where she and Trohdwyr and a few more had huddled. "Were we—those who died when I was captured—were we out in the field—liaison with freedom fighters whose homes were below timber-line? Maybe we were betrayed by one of them"—she grimaced—"who'd been caught at sabotage or whatever, and interrogated."

  "That sounds plausible."

  "But then nobody except us was destroyed! Am I right? Is the liberation movement still healthy?"

  "Yes."

  Puzzlement: "Why didn't I tell the Impies about our main base when they put me under hypnoprobe?"

  "I do not know," Eonan said impatiently. "Please be quiet. I must bring us in on an exact course, or they will shoot."

  As the sled glided near, Kossara spied the defense, an energy cannon. It was camouflaged, but military training had enhanced her natural ability to notice things. A great steel door in the bluff behind it would go unseen from above, should anyone fly across this lofty desert. Instruments—infrared sensors, neutrino detectors, magnetometers, gravitometers, atmosphere sniffers, a hundred kinds of robot bloodhound—would expose the place at once. But who would think to come searching?

  The door swung aside. The sled passed through and landed in a garage among several aircars. Here were warmth, echoes, a sudden brilliance of light better suited for eyes human or Merseian. Kossara shed her parka before she stepped off. Her pulse raced.

  Four stood waiting. Three were men. She was not surprised to see the last was a big green heavy-tailed person, though her heart said O Trohdwyr—and for an instant tears stung and blurred.

  She rallied herself and walked toward them. Her boots thudded on the floor; Eonan's claws clicked. Those in front of her were simply clad, shirts, trousers, shoes on the men, a tunic on the zmay. She had expected them to be armed, as they were.

  It flashed: Why did I think zmay, not ychan? And: They aren't Dennitzans! None of them!

  She slammed to a halt. The men differed widely, genes from every breed of mankind scrambled in chance combinations. So they could be from Terra—or a colony within the Empire—or—

  Eonan left her side. The Merseian drew his pistol. "Hold," he rapped. "You are under arrest."

  He called himself Glydh of the Vach Rueth, nicknamed Far-Farer, an afal of his navy's Intelligence corps. His immediate assistant was a lanky, sallow, long-nosed man, introduced as Muhammad Snell but addressed by the superior officer as Kluwych. In the middle of wreck, Kossara could flickeringly wonder if the Eriau name had been given him by his parents, when he was born somewhere in the Roidhunate.

  They took her to an office. On the way she passed through such space and among such personnel that she estimated the latter numbered about twenty, two or three of them Merseian by species, the rest human. That was probably all there were on Diomedes: sufficient to keep scores of native dupes like Eonan going, who in their turn led thousands.

  Though are they dupes? she thought drearily. Merseia would like to see them unchained from the Empire.

  No. That isn't true. Merseia doesn't give a curse. They're cheap, expendable tools.

  The office was cramped and bleak. "Sit," Glydh ordered, pointing to a chair. He took a stool behind a desk. Snell settled on the left; his eyes licked her, centimeter by centimeter and back again.

  "Khraich." Glydh laid his hands flat on the desktop, broad and thick, strangler's hands. "An astonishing turn of events. What shall we do with you?" His Anglic was excellent.

  "Isn't this, uh, Captain Flandry more urgent, sir?" his subordinate asked.

  "Not much, I believe," Glydh said. "True, from Vymezal's account via Eonan, he appears to be capable. But what can he know? That she defected, presumably joining a remnant of the underground if she didn't perish en route." He pondered. "Maybe he isn't capable, at that—since he let her go, trusting her mere self-interest to keep her on his side."

  Hoy? Chives said Flandry is famous.—No. How many light-years, how many millions of minds can fame cover before it spreads vanishingly thin?

  "Of course, we will have our cell in Thursday Landing keep him under surveillance, and alert our agents globally if he leaves there," Glydh continued. "But I doubt he represents more than a blind stab on the part of somebody in the opposition. I don't think he is worth the risk of trying to kidnap, or even kill."

  "We may find out otherwise, sir, when we interrogate Vymezal in detail," said the man. He moistened his lips.

  "Maybe. I leave that to you. Co-opt what helpers you need."

  "Um-m-m... procedures? Treatment? Final disposition?"

  "No!" Kossara heard the yell and felt the leaping to her feet, as if from outside her body. This was not real, could not be, must not be, God and saints, no. "I am not a, a Terran agent—I came here to—at least I'm a prisoner of war!"

  "Sit!" Glydh's roar, and the gunshot slap of palm on desk, flung her back like a belly blow. She heard his basso through fever-dream distances and humming: "Don't babble about military conventions. You are a slave, property we have acquired. If you do what you are told, there need not be pain. Else there will be, until you are broken to obedience. Do you hear me?"

  Snell's fingers twisted together. He breathed fast. "Sir," he said, "it could be a long while before we get a chance to send a report offplanet and ask for instructions about her. So we have to use our own judgment, don't we?"

  "Yes," Glydh answered.

  "Well, considering what was originally intended for her, and the reason—sir, not a woman among us in this whole region—"

  Glydh shrugged. His tone was faintly contemptuous. "Quiz her out first under narco
. Afterward do what you like, short of disfiguring damage. Remember, we may find use for her later, and the nearest biosculp laboratory is parsecs hence."

  I will make them kill me! Even as she plunged toward Snell, fingernails out to hook his eyeballs, Kossara knew Glydh would seize her and not let her die.

  The explosion threw her against a wall. It made a drum of her skull. The floor heaved and cracked. Snell went over backward. Glydh flailed about to keep his balance.

  Faintly through the brief deafness that followed, she heard screams, running, bang and hiss of firearms. Ozone drifted acrid to her nostrils, smoke, smells of roastedness.

  She was already out of the office, into the central chamber beyond. At its far end, through the passageway which gave on the garage, she saw how the main door lay blown off its trunnions, crumpled and red-hot. Beyond was the ruin of the cannon. Men boiled around or sprawled unmoving.

  Enormous shone the bulk of a suit of combat armor. Bullets whanged off it, blaster bolts fountained. The wearer stood where he was, and his own weapon scythed.

  As she broke into view—"Kossara!" Amplified from the helmet, his voice resounded like God's. His free hand reached beneath a plate that protected his gravbelt. He rose and moved slowly toward her. Survivors fled.

  Fingers closed on her arm. Around her shoulder she saw Glydh. He swung her before his body. "That's not nice," the oncoming invader pealed. He spun his blaster nozzle to needle beam, aimed, and fired.

  Glydh's brow spurted steam, brains, blood, shattered bone across Kossara. She knew a heartbeat's marvel at that kind of precision shooting. But then the heavy corpse bore her down. Her head struck the floor. Lightning filled the universe.

  The armored man reached her, stood over her, shielded her. A spacecraft's flank appeared in the entry. It had sprouted a turret, whose gun sprayed every doorway where an enemy might lurk. Kossara let darkness flow free.

  XI

  A breath of air cool, pine-scented; all noises gone soft; a sense of muted energies everywhere around; a lessened weight—Kossara opened her eyes. She lay in bed, in her cabin aboard the Hooligan. Flandry sat alongside. He wore a plain coverall, his countenance was haggard and the gray gaze troubled. Nonetheless he smiled. "Hello, there," he murmured. "How do you feel?"

  Drowsy, altogether at ease, she asked, "Have we left Diomedes?"

  "Yes. We're bound for Dennitza." He took her right hand between both of his. "Now listen. Everything is all right. You weren't seriously harmed, but on examination we decided we'd better keep you under sleep induction awhile, with intravenous feeding and some medication. Look at your left wrist." She did. It was bare. "Yes, the bracelet is off. As far as I'm concerned, you're free, and I'll take care of the technicalities as soon as possible. You're going home, Kossara."

  Examination—She dropped her glance. A sheer nightgown covered her. "I'm sorry I never thought to bring anything more decorous for you to sleep in," Flandry said. He appeared to be summoning courage. "Chives did the doctoring, the bathing, et cetera. Chives alone." His mouth went wry. "You may or may not believe that. It's true, but hell knows how much I've lied to you."

  And I to you, she thought.

  He straightened in the chair and released her. "Well," he said, "would you like a spot of tea and accompaniments? You should stay in bed for another watch cycle or two, till you get your strength back."

  "What happened... to us?"

  "We'd better postpone that tale. First you should rest." Flandry rose. Almost timidly, he gave her hair a stroke. "I'll go now. Chives will bring the tea."

  Wakefulness returned. When the Shalmuan came to retrieve her tray, Kossara sat propped against pillows, ready for him. "I hope the refreshments were satisfactory, Donna," he said. "Would you care for something more?"

  "Yes," she replied. "Information."

  The slim form showed unease. "Sir Dominic feels—"

  "Sir Dominic is not me." She spread her palms. "Chives, how can I relax in a jigsaw puzzle? Tell me, or ask him to tell me, what went on in that den. How did you find me? What did you do after I lost consciousness? Why?"

  Chives reached a decision. "Well, Donna, we trust that in view of results obtained, you will pardon certain earlier modifications of strict veracity which Sir Dominic deemed essential. The ring he gave you was a mere ring; no such device exists as he described, at least within the purview of Technic civilization." She choked. He continued: "Sir Dominic, ah, has been known to indulge in what he describes as wistful fantasizing relevant to his occupation. Instead, the bracelet you wore was slave-driven from an external source of radiated power."

  "Slave-driven. A very good word." And yet Kossara could feel no anger. She imitated it as a duty. Had they given her a tranquilizing drug which had not completely worn off?

  "Your indignation is natural, Donna." Chives' tail switched his ankles. "Yet allow me to request you consider the total situation, including the fact that those whom you met were not noble liberators but Merseian operatives. Sir Dominic suspected this from the start. He believed that if you reappeared, they were sure to contact you, if only to find out what had transpired. He saw no method short of the empirical for convincing you. Furthermore, admiration for your honesty made him dubious of your ability knowingly to play a double role.

  "Hence I trailed you at a discreet distance while he went to Thursday Landing to investigate other aspects of the case. Albeit my assignment had its vexations, I pinpointed the spot where you were brought and called Sir Dominic, who by then had returned to Lannach. Underground and surrounded by metal, your bracelet was blocked from us. We concluded immediate attack was the most prudent course—for your sake particularly, Donna. While Sir Dominic flitted down in armor, I blasted the cannon and entrance. Shortly afterward I landed to assist and, if you will excuse my immodesty, took the single prisoner we got. The rest were either dead or, ah, holed up sufficiently well that we decided to content ourselves with a nuclear missile dispatched through the entrance.

  "The resultant landslide was somewhat spectacular. Perhaps later you will be interested to see the movie I took.

  "Ah... what he has learned has made Sir Dominic of the opinion that we must speed directly to Dennitza. Nevertheless, I assure you he would in all events have seen to your repatriation at the earliest feasible date."

  Chives lifted her tea tray. "This is as much as I should tell you at the present stage, Donna. I trust you can screen whatever you wish in the way of literary, theatrical, or musical diversion. If you require assistance of any kind, please call on the intercom. I will return in two hours with a bowl of chicken soup. Is that satisfactory?"

  Stars filled the saloon viewscreen behind Flandry's head. The ship went hush-hush-hush, on a voyage which, even at her pseudospeed, would take a Terran month. The whisky he had poured for them glowed across tongue and palate.

  "It's a foul story," he warned.

  "Does evil go away just because we keep silent?" Kossara answered. Inwardly: How evil are you, you claw of the Empire?—but again without heat, a thought she felt obliged to think.

  After all, his lean features looked so grim and unhappy, across the table from her. He shouldn't chain-smoke the way he did; anticancer shots, cardiovascular treatments, lungflushes, and everything, it remained a flagellant habit. One could serve a bad cause without being a bad man. Couldn't one?

  He sighed and drank. "Very well. A sketch. I got a lot of details from a narcoquiz of our prisoner, but most are simply that, details, useful in hunting down the last of his outfit if and when that seems worthwhile. He did, though, confirm and amplify something much more scary."

  Memory prodded her with a cold finger. "Where is he?"

  "Oh, I needled him and bunged him out an airlock." Flandry observed her shock. His tone changed from casual to defensive. "We were already in space; this business doesn't allow delays. As for turning him over to the authorities when we arrive—there may not be any authorities, or they may be in full revolt, Merseian-allied. At best, the
fact he was alive could trickle across to enemy Intelligence, and give them valuable clues to what we know. This is how the game's played, Kossara." He trailed out smoke before he added, "Happens his name was Muhammad Snell."

  Blood beat in temples and cheeks. "He got no chance—I don't need avengers."

  "Maybe your people will," he said quietly.

  After a second he leaned forward, locked eyes with her, and continued: "Let's begin explanations from my viewpoint. I want you to follow my experiences and reasoning, in hopes you'll then accept my conclusions. You're an embittered woman, for more cause than you know right now. But I think you're also intelligent, fair-minded, yes, tough-minded enough to recognize truth, no matter what rags it wears."

  Kossara told herself she must be calm, watchful, like a cat—like Butterfeet when she was little.... She drank. "Go on."

  Flandry filled his lungs. "The Gospodar, the Dennitzans in general are furious at Hans' scheme to disband their militia and make them wholly dependent on the Navy," he said. "After they supported him through the civil war, too! And we've other sources of friction, inevitable; and thoughts of breaking away or violently replacing the regnant Emperor are no longer unthinkable. Dennitza has its own culture, deep-rooted, virile, alien to Terra and rather contemptuous thereof—a culture influenced by Merseia, both directly and through the, uh, zmay element in your population.

  "Aye, granted, you've long been in the forefront of resistance to the Roidhunate. However, such attitudes can change overnight. History's abulge with examples. For instance, England's rebellious North American colonies calling on the French they fought less than two decades before; or America a couple of centuries later, allied first with the Russians against the Germans, then turning straight around and—" He stopped. "This doesn't mean anything to you, does it? No matter. You can see the workings in your own case, I'm sure. Dennitza is where your loyalties lie. What you do, whom you support, those depend on what you judge is best for Dennitza. Right? Yes, entirely right and wholesome. But damnably misleadable."