by Rose Estes
There had been no hope of communication; the natives were in a surly, militant mood. They carried swords and spears made of some inferior metal and they certainly looked like they knew how to use them and would do so if given the least provocation. They jabbered among themselves in some unintelligible language and hurried Leif Arndtson and his men along the tunnel in the opposite direction from which they had come, deeper into the mountain, and if the advancing degree of heat was any indication, closer to the volcano. Not at all the way they wanted to go.
Leif attempted to communicate with their captors, to tell them what was going to happen. He would have been willing to take them through the transmitter with him in order to save himself and his men, but at the first sound of his voice, he was viciously clubbed in the mouth. He could feel the sharp, broken ends of his teeth rubbing against his swollen lips and his mouth was filled with the coppery taste of his own blood. He had not tried to speak again.
They had been hurried along the corridor at a fast pace. It was then that he had become aware that the natives were looking about them in a furtive manner that did not seem to have anything to do with the shaking of the earth. Far from it, in fact, for when the mountain shook, the scarred man stopped, opened his arms wide, and spoke with respect and awe, not fear.
He wanted desperately to ask the tectonic men how long the charge had been set for, but when he was able to turn and look back he found that neither of the experts was with them. He did not know when the men had been lost.
Black despair filled his heart and he trudged through the tunnels almost without caring. Now even if they found themselves back at the mouth of the volcano, they would be unable to defuse the charge for none of them had the skills. It seemed certain they would die.
Then the inconceivable had happened, as though any of this had made any sense. Turning yet another corner, they had literally bumped into an even larger party of armed Madrelli!
Both groups had stood electrified for a brief, thunderstruck moment as though neither could believe their eyes. Then the true insanity began, with natives and Madrelli raging against each other in the narrow corridor with Leif and his men standing helpless in between.
It was an odd sort of battle, almost a shadow play, and might have been very entertaining had he not been a participant. The mountain had begun to rumble and shake once again. The noise was so loud that nothing else could be heard. Eyes flashed, mouths gaped, lips formed silent, comic words, and arms and legs seemed to move in slow motion as the lights flickered on and off, on and off.
At first Leif had thought that he and his men might possibly sneak away during the heat of battle, but that thought was soon squelched for things went badly for the natives from the very first. They were heavily outnumbered and could not stand up to the superior strength and longer reach of the Madrelli.
These were Madrelli unlike any others he had ever known before. They were not the placid, docile creatures he had directed on many a menial course. Rather, they were taller and stronger than usual and had adorned themselves with elaborate headbands set with handsome stones and bits of feather. They looked regal and fierce and warlike. Leif Arndtson felt his broken teeth and tasted the blood of his wounds and could not bring himself to speak.
He had lost track of the time since then. All he knew was that they had reversed themselves once again. They had passed the hole in the wall a long time ago. The lights had failed and they had traveled through darkened corridors which did not seem to slow the Madrelli at all.
Leif Arndtson did not know where they were or how much longer they had to live. He thought that they might be somewhere near the control room for they had climbed several levels and the heat had diminished greatly even though the seismic activity had not.
Leif Arndtson lay in the darkness, the weight of his cowardice troubling him far more than the pain of his wounds or even fear of death. Then he heard a sound that struck to the very heart of him. It was the sound of crying; soft sobs that Leif knew came from young Thorson who was to have been married in a fortnight. Somehow, the sound of someone else’s grief strengthened him, and when the Madrelli came for him, jerking him to his feet after their brief rest, he was determined to speak.
20
Brandtson stared down at the scrap of material he held in his hand and frowned, wondering what to make of it. For a brief moment he wondered if it were some odd prank although he was many, many years past the age when he and his friends had indulged in such activities. And, if it were a joke, well, it was a cruel one.
Even after all these years, the mere thought of his son was enough to clench his heart into a fist of pain. He had had such hopes for Bracca. Seldom was there one as brilliant and gifted as his son had been; even allowing for an old man’s pride, it was true.
He had tried to tell the council that the young man would calm down in time, that the agitation for social reform was harmless and could be controlled. In vain did he suggest it was a positive note that the young man concerned himself with affairs of state rather than showing no interest at all as was the case with so many of their children. But his fellow Thanes had barely acknowledged his arguments and their stiff faces and worried eyes revealed their true feelings.
The Thanes of Valhalla had good reason to be concerned over the actions of their young. For many long centuries, they and those who had gone before them had been involved in a struggle for life. First, on old earth with the planet dying around them, there had been serious competition for the materials and food that made life possible. Only the strongest and most ruthless had survived those difficult days as the planet grew increasingly warmer, the seas became lifeless bodies of pollution, and the acid rains killed off most forms of plants and wildlife.
In the generations that followed, the much diminished Scandinavian nations had come together to protect what little they had left against the more aggressive and desperate hordes to the north. They had united as never before and forged a tight-knit community based on a single tenet, survival.
When it became obvious that it would take earth many thousands of years to heal, if such a thing could even be done, the Scandis had decided to leave earth, to search the stars for a new world.
The problems had been overwhelming: technology, financing, and the ability to adapt to strange, new conditions. All of it had been hard, almost beyond bearing; many had not been able to make the transition. But in the end, the Scandis did it.
The new planet had been claimed from the heavens and they had started building a new world, a way of life, an entire civilization from scratch. And succeeded.
They had done what was necessary, taken what they needed for survival by force, by the sweat of their brow, and finally by sheer guts, building a mining conglomerate that could make them rich enough to never worry again.
Who among them could have imagined that all of it, all the centuries of backbreaking, hard work, of fighting tooth and nail for the right to survive, could be turned around and brought to ruin within a single generation, not by their enemies but by their own children. But that was exactly what had nearly happened. It was the most bitter of pills.
In the span of one lifetime, their children had turned their backs on all the generations of deprivation and struggle that had gone before them. They had availed themselves of the comforts that their parents provided without asking or caring where they had come from or what they had cost. They took everything, all the hard-won gains for granted and took them as their due.
Insult followed injury as the youngest generation not only rejected its parents’ and leaders’ values, but actively set about undermining them and bringing them down.
The Thanes had reacted harshly, rightly or wrongly seeing the youngsters’ words and actions as a condemnation of their very existence. They had forbidden the young people the right to form any group that did not have Council approval and of course none of their groups received such approval.
Brandtson thought about those years of travail and the unhap
py years that had followed with a heavy heart. Where had they gone wrong? Perhaps if they had not reacted so harshly, but had allowed the young men and women the opportunity to talk freely, perhaps things would have been different.
Their stern actions had gained them nothing and had lost them everything. The best and brightest of the younger generation had turned militant, vanished underground to oppose them at every turn. The others, those who were left, were merely walking bodies with none of the fire and courage of their ancestors. These were the vapid, young faces that filled the tiers of the arena on game days. These were the empty young minds that had never experienced the thrill of danger themselves but were willing and anxious to experience it vicariously, by having others spill their blood and endanger their lives for their amusement.
It made Brandtson sick to see what they had become. More and more he found it difficult if not impossible to remain on Rototara. More and more often he found himself in agreement with the angry young rebels for there was much about their world that could do with change. But he was too old to bring about such changes and if he were to suggest it, he would lose what power he had left in the Council. Nor would the young ones accept him as their advocate for he was both old and a Thane as well.
Increasingly he thought about taking himself off to some desolate spit of land along the edge of the inland ocean, building a high-prowed boat such as the old books pictured and leaving his life behind. He was an old man and few would miss him, except one whom he had never known.
This was what had held him to life for so long. He summoned up the image of young Braldt, the son of his son—he who looked so much like Bracca that it was like reliving those distant days again. It had been hard watching the young life emerge on that distant planet, hard to relinquish the vital care and loving to another when he so yearned to provide it himself. But knowing that the young Braldt was safe and well-loved was almost enough to still the pain.
He had observed the young man’s progress over the years, taken pride in his considerable accomplishments, and wracked his brain for a way to bring the boy back to a world he had never known. It had never seemed possible, for even if he could be returned, Brandtson knew that the Thanes would see Braldt as a threat, a symbol of all they feared the most—revolt from within.
And now this. Brandtson opened his fist and stared at the crumpled bit of fabric that lay there. Not a holotransfer, not a vocal transcript, not an encoding, but a primitive note—large, childish, block printing on a torn fragment of fabric—furtively pressed into his hand as he made his way through the crowded marketplace.
Was it a trick of some sort? Did the Council suspect his true sympathies? What could they do to him at his age, put him in the ring? He almost smiled at the thought. But if it was not a trick, then what did it mean? Was it possible… could it possibly be true? Brandtson’s heart began to pound and the blood roared in his temples. He grew dizzy and was forced to sit down, then stared at the note again, although he had already committed the single word to memory. It was a scrap of primitively woven cloth, woven from organic fibers, like nothing worn on Valhalla, but identical to the robes worn by the natives on K7. Drawn onto the fabric with some inky dye was the single word, “BRALDT.”
* * *
Keri was frightened. Nothing had gone right for the last two days. Twice they had been readied for the arena and then hastily returned to their cell without any explanation. There seemed to be a great deal of coming and going and furtive whispers between guards, shifty looks that observed them when they were not looking, then turned away swiftly. Several of the white-robed men who wore Braldt’s face came and studied them, standing back from the bars, well out of Batta Flor’s long reach. They were the subject of intense scrutiny and it seemed that some momentous decision was being made that concerned them. Keri wished that she knew what was happening. Even more, she wished that she could talk about it, but there was no one to talk to except Batta Flor and the lupebeast pup, which meant that she might as well talk to herself for all the good they would do her.
And then the visits stopped. There were no more game days, for which Keri was thankful, but neither was there any explanation of what was happening. Their guards, never talkative to begin with, were even less eager to speak. They merely arrived bearing larger quantities of food than normal and of a far better quality. Their diet included meat for the first time and Batta Flor, who had always been a devout vegetarian, devoured the bloody cuts with gusto.
His behavior became even more bestial with every passing day and Keri found it increasingly difficult to fend off his advances. Often, he would become surly and snarl at her, baring his long eyeteeth when she refused to let him stroke or pat her.
Once, Beast had snapped at the Madrelli when he came too close to Keri and Batta Flor swatted him with the back of his hand, sending the pup crashing into a wall where he lay whimpering. Keri had rushed to his side, fearing the worst, but the pup was merely bruised and dazed. She had turned on Batta Flor and screamed at him, terrified that he might actually kill the pup at some point and then she would be all alone. Batta Flor had roared back at her and pounded his chest in fury. Both of them had retreated to opposite corners and ignored each other for the rest of the day.
Keri knew that something unusual was going on, something that concerned them; she just didn’t know what and there was nothing she could do but wait to find out.
Septua was furious. He strode back and forth inside the cell, pacing twenty steps in one direction then twenty steps in the other, cursing all the while.
“I told you we couldn’t trust ’er!” he ranted. “That old bitch! Lyin’ to us, sayin’ she was gonna ’elp. Then, nothin’, nothin’ a’tall, just leaving us ’ere to rot! I told you they was all alike, but no, you believed ’er, was taken in by ’er faintin’, by ’er sad, sad story. It was all a joke, I tell you! She never ’ad no intention of ‘elpin’ us!”
Randi sighed and shot a quick look at Braldt who was staring at the ground, his hands hanging limp. He had not reacted to the dwarf’s words, yet Randi knew that he had heard them and had probably thought them all himself as had they all. Several days had passed since Lomi’s clandestine visit and all of them had been buoyed by an almost euphoric sense of hope. Their hopes had been so high that the descent into reality was all the more painful.
“Maybe something happened to the woman,” Allo suggested. “She was not well; perhaps she was taken ill. She did not seem the type to break a promise.”
“Yeah, sure, take ’er side,” spat the dwarf as he whirled around to face Allo. “It’s no fur off your ugly ’ide; you probably like it ’ere. But I’ave a life I’d like to get back to!”
Randi’s head snapped up and her green eyes grew bright with anger. She was at Septua’s side in two long strides, and picking him up by the back of his neck, shook him back and forth so hard his vertebrae cracked.
“How dare you, you—you little piece of slime, you! How dare you speak to us that way. We all have lives we’d like to get back to. Lives that are far more significant than yours will ever be and people who love us and care what happens to us! What do you have waiting for you? Does anyone even give a damn whether you live or die?” The astonished dwarf hung limp from the end of her fingers and stared up at her, too stunned to speak.
“And another thing, you little piece of space garbage, you ever touch me again, it had better be to shake my hand. Got that?”
Septua did his best to nod and Randi dropped him abruptly. She turned on her heel and walked away without a backward glance as the dwarf crashed to the floor, still too wrapped in her own anger to notice the admiring glances that followed the amazing byplay.
“I hope you did not feel the need to defend me,” Braldt said as Randi thumped down onto the floor beside him. “His words no longer trouble me.”
“His words trouble me, damm it,” Randi snapped angrily. “That little slime! I have a husband and a child I would like to see again. And parents. And who’s
he got, a paid floxie who betrayed him the first chance she got!
“And I’m worried about Lomi,” she said in a quieter tone, her green eyes luminous with unshed tears. “I cannot believe that it was all a hoax. I’m afraid that something has happened to her.”
“I, too, fear that some misfortune has befallen her,” Braldt said heavily. “It took great courage for her to come here alone. But what can we do? We can do nothing trapped in this place. We cannot even help ourselves, much less another.”
He thought a moment, then rose to his feet and crossed to the front of the cell. “Water!” he cried loudly, rapping his cup on the bars. He continued to call until the water carrier trundled into view pushing her cart before her, grumbling loudly at every step.
It was most unusual for the crone to answer anyone’s request, for more than half the time she ignored her charges during even her normal rounds. But as soon as Braldt saw the sharp gleam in Saviq’s single eye, he knew that she was aware of the situation and was as concerned as they were.
“Have you any news of the woman, Lomi?” Braldt asked softly as he held his cup out to be filled.
Saviq focused on his face, listening intently to the words as she poured water that missed his cup entirely and splattered onto the ground.
“Nuzzing,” she replied in a thick accent, made all the more difficult to understand because of her deformed muzzle.
“We are worried about her,” Braldt said, speaking slowly and carefully. “She promised to return. To help us. Can you find out if she is all right?”
Saviq started to tremble and water splashed everywhere but into the cup. “Go to Scandi quarters?” Those were the last words that Braldt was able to understand, for the old crone’s words became jumbled and a bewildering juxtaposition of noises and words. She started to leave, but Braldt dropped his cup, and reaching through the bars seized her rough, scaly wrist and held on tightly, forcing her to turn around and look at him.
