by Bob Shaw
After a moment’s hesitation a dark-haired young man took two paces forward. His triangular face was so pale as to be almost luminous, but his posture was erect and he appeared to be well in control of himself. Captain Hlawnvert approached him and placed a hand on each shoulder.
“Airman Pouksale,” he said quietly, “you have taken the dust?”
“I have, sir.” Pouksale’s voice was lifeless, resigned.
“You have served your country bravely and well, and your name will go before the King. Now, do you wish to take the Bright Road or the Dull Road?”
“The Bright Road, sir.”
“Good man. Your pay will be made up to the end of the voyage and will be sent to your next-of-kin. You may retire.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Pouksale saluted and walked around the prow of the airship’s gondola to its far side. He was thus screened from the view of his former crewmates, in accordance with custom, but the executioner who moved to meet him became visible to Toller, Sisstt and many of the pikon workers ranged along the shore. The executioner’s sword was wide and heavy, and its brakka wood blade was pure black, unrelieved by the enamel inlays with which Kolcorronian weapons were normally decorated.
Pouksale knelt submissively. His knees had barely touched the sand before the executioner, acting with merciful swiftness, had dispatched him along the Bright Road. The scene before Toller — all yellows and ochres and hazy shades of blue — now had a focal point of vivid red.
At the sound of the death blow a ripple of unease passed through the line of airmen. Several of them raised their eyes to gaze at Overland and the silent movement of their lips showed they were bidding their dead crewmate’s soul a safe journey to the sister planet. For the most part, however, the men stared unhappily at the ground. They had been recruited from the crowded cities of the empire, where there was considerable scepticism about the Church’s teaching that men’s souls were immortal and alternated endlessly between Land and Overland. For them death meant death — not a pleasant stroll along the mystical High Path linking the two worlds. Toller heard a faint choking sound to his left and turned to see that Sisstt was covering his mouth with both hands. The station chief was trembling and looked as though he could faint at any second.
“If you go down we’ll be branded as old women,” Toller whispered fiercely. “What’s the matter with you?”
“The barbarism.” Sisstt’s words were indistinct. “The terrible barbarism… What hope is there for us?”
“The airman had a free choice — and he behaved well.”
“You’re no better than…” Sisstt stopped speaking as a commotion broke out by the airship. Two airmen had gripped a third by the arms and in spite of his struggles were holding him in front of Hlawnvert. The captive was tall and spindly, with an incongruously round belly.
“…couldn’t have seen me, sir, “he was shouting. “And I was upwind of the ptertha, so the dust couldn’t have come anywhere near me. I swear to you, sir — I haven’t taken the dust.”
Hlawnvert placed his hands on his broad hips and looked up at the sky for a moment, signifying his disbelief, before he spoke. “Airman Lague, the regulations require me to accept your statement. But let me make your position clear. You won’t be offered the Bright Road again. At the very first signs of fever or paralysis you will go over the side. Alive. Your pay for the entire voyage will be withheld and your name will be struck from the royal record. Do you understand these terms?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Lague tried to fall at Hlawnvert’s feet, but the men at his side tugged him upright. “There is nothing to worry about, sir — I haven’t taken the dust.”
At an order from the lieutenant the two men released Lague and he walked slowly back to rejoin the rank. The line of airmen parted to make room for him, leaving a larger gap than was necessary, creating an intangible barrier. Toller guessed that Lague would find little consolation during the next two days, which was the time it took for the first effects of ptertha poison to become apparent.
Captain Hlawnvert saluted his lieutenant, turning the assembly over to him, and walked back up the slope to Sisstt and Toller. Patches of high colour showed above the curls of his beard and the sweat stains upon his jupon had grown larger. He looked up at the high dome of the sky, where the eastern rim of Overland had begun to brighten as the sun moved behind it, and made an impatient gesture as though commanding the sun to disappear more quickly.
“It’s too hot for this kind of vexation,” he growled. “I have a long way to go, and the crew are going to be useless until that coward Lague goes over the side. The service regulations will have to be changed if these new rumours aren’t quashed soon.”
“Ah.…” Sisstt strained upright, fighting to regain his composure. “New rumours, Captain?”
“There’s a story that some line soldiers down in Sorka died after handling ptertha casualties.”
“But pterthacosis isn’t transmissible.”
“I know that,” Hlawnvert said. “Only a spineless cretin would think twice about it, but that’s what we get for aircrew these days. Pouksale was one of my few steady men — and I’ve lost him to that damned fog of yours.”
Toller, who had been watching a burial detail gather up Pouksale’s remains, felt a fresh annoyance at the repetition of the indictment and his chiefs complaisance. “You don’t have to keep on blaming our fog, Captain,” he said, giving Sisstt a significant glance. “Nobody in authority is disputing the facts.”
Hlawnvert rounded on him at once. “What do you mean by that?”
Toller produced a slow, amiable smile. “I mean we all got a clear view of what happened.”
“What’s your name, soldier?”
“Toller Maraquine — and I’m not a soldier.”
“You’re not a…” Hlawnvert’s look of anger gave way to one of sly amusement. “What’s this? What have we here?”
Toller remained impassive as the captain’s gaze took in the anomalous aspects of his appearance — the long hair and grey robes of a philosopher combined with the height and blocky musculature of a warrior. His wearing of a sword also set him apart from the rest of his kin. Only the fact that he was free of scars and campaign tattoos distinguished him in physique from a full-blooded member of the military.
He studied Hlawnvert in return, and his antagonism increased as he followed the thought processes so clearly mirrored on the captain’s florid face. Hlawnvert had not been able to disguise his alarm over a possible accusation of negligence, and now he was relieved to find that he was quite secure. A few coarse innuendoes about his challenger’s pedigree were all the defence he needed in the lineage-conscious hierarchy of Kolcorron. His lips twitched as he tried to choose from the wealth of taunts available to him.
Go ahead, Toller thought, projecting the silent message with all the force of his being. Say the words which will end your life.
Hlawnvert hesitated, as though sensing the danger, and again the interplay of his thoughts was clearly visible. He wanted to humiliate and discredit the upstart of dubious ancestry who had dared impugn him, but not if there was serious risk involved. And calling for assistance would be a step towards turning a triviality into a major incident, one which would highlight the very issue he wanted to obscure. At length, having decided on his tactics, he forced a chuckle.
“If you’re not a soldier you should be careful about wearing that sword,” he said jovially. “You might sit on it and do yourself a mischief.”
Toller refused to make things easy for the captain. “The weapon is no threat to me.”
“I’ll remember your name, Maraquine,” Hlawnvert said in a low voice. At that moment the station’s timekeeper sounded the littlenight horn — tonguing the double note which was used when ptertha activity was high — and there was a general movement of pikon workers towards the safety of the buildings. Hlawnvert turned away from Toller, clapped one arm around Sisstt’s shoulders and drew him in direction of
the tethered airship.
“You’re coming aboard for a drink in my cabin,” he said. “You’ll find it nice and snug in there with the hatch closed, and you’ll be able to receive Lord Glo’s orders in privacy.”
Toller shrugged and shook his head as he watched the two men depart. The captain’s excessive familiarity was a breach of the behavioural code in itself, and his blatant insincerity in embracing a man he had just thrown to the ground was nothing short of an insult. It accorded Sisstt the status of a dog which could be whipped or petted at the whim of its owner. But, true to his colours, the station chief appeared not to mind. A sudden bellowing laugh from Hlawnvert showed that Sisstt had already begun to make his little jokes, laying the groundwork for the version of the encounter he would later pass on to his staff and expect them to believe. The captain loves people to think he’s a real ogre — but when you get to know him as well as I do…
Again Toller found himself wondering about the nature of Hlawnvert’s mission. What new orders could be so urgent and important that Lord Glo had considered it worth sending them by special carrier instead of waiting for a routine transport? Was it possible that something was going to happen to break the deadly monotony of life at the remote station? Or was that too much to hope for?
As darkness swept out of the west Toller looked up at the sky and saw the last fierce sliver of the sun vanish behind the looming immensity of Overland. As the light abruptly faded the cloudless areas of the sky thronged with stars, comets and whorls of misty radiance. Littlenight was beginning, and under its cover the silent globes of the ptertha would soon leave the clouds and come drifting down to ground level in search of their natural prey.
Glancing about him, Toller realised he was the last man out in the open. All personnel connected with the station had retreated indoors and the crew of the airship were safely enclosed in its lower deck. He could be accused of foolhardiness in lingering outside for so long, but it was something he quite often did. The flirtations with danger added spice to his humdrum existence and were a way of demonstrating the essential difference between himself and a typical member of one of the philosophy families. On this occasion his gait was slower and more casual than ever as he walked up the gentle incline to the supervisors’ building. It was possible that he was being watched, and his private code dictated that the greater the risk of a ptertha strike the less afraid he should appear to be. On reaching the door he paused and stood quite still for a moment, despite the crawling sensation on his back, before lifting the latch and going inside.
Behind him, dominating the southern sky, the nine brilliant stars of the Tree tilted down towards the horizon.
Chapter 2
Prince Leddravohr Neldeever was indulging himself in the one pursuit which could make him feel young again.
As the elder son of the King, and as head of all of Kolcorron’s military forces, he was expected to address himself mainly to matters of policy and broad strategy in warfare. As far as individual battles were concerned, his proper place was far to the rear in a heavily protected command post from which he could direct operations in safety. But he had little or no taste for hanging back and allowing deputies, in whose competence he rarely had faith anyway, to enjoy the real work of soldiering. Practically every junior officer and foot soldier had a winestory about how the prince had suddenly appeared at his side in the thick of battle and helped him hew his way to safety. Leddravohr encouraged the growth of the legends in the interests of discipline and morale.
He had been supervising the Third Army’s push into the Loongl Peninsula, on the eastern edge of the Kolcorronian possessions, when word had been received of unexpectedly strong resistance in one hilly region. The additional intelligence that brakka trees were plentiful in the area had been enough to lure Leddravohr into the front line. He had exchanged his regal white cuirass for one moulded from boiled leather and had taken personal control of part of an expeditionary force.
It was shortly after dawn when, accompanied by an experienced high-sergeant called Reeff, he bellied his way through forest undergrowth to the edge of a large clearing. This far to the east foreday was much longer than aftday, and Leddravohr knew he had ample reserves of light in which to mount an attack and carry out a thorough mopping-up operation afterwards. It was a goad feeling, knowing that yet more enemies of Kolcorron were soon to go down weltering in blood before his own sword. He carefully parted the last leafy screen and studied what was happening ahead.
A circular area some four-hundred yards in diameter had been totally cleared of tall vegetation except for a stand of brakka trees at the centre. About a hundred Gethan tribesmen and women were clustered around the trees, their attention concentrated on an object at the tip of one of the slim, straight trunks. Leddravohr counted the trees and found there were nine — a number which had magical and religious links with the heavenly constellation of the Tree.
He raised his field glasses and saw, as he had expected, that the object surmounting one of the trees was a naked woman. She was doubled over the tip of the trunk, her stomach pressed into the central orifice, and was held immovably in place by cords around her limbs.
“The savages are making one of their stupid sacrifices,” Leddravohr whispered, passing his glasses to Reeff.
The sergeant examined the scene for a long moment before returning the glasses. “My men could put the bitch to better uses than that,” he said, “but at least it makes things easier for us.”
He pointed at the thin glass tube attached to his wrist. Inside it was part of a cane shoot which had been marked with black pigment at regular intervals. A pacebeetle was devouring the shoot from one end, moving at the unchanging rate common to its kind.
“It is past the fifth division,” Reef said. “The other cohorts will be in position by now. We should go in while the savages are distracted.”
“Not yet.” Leddravohr continued watching the tribesmen through his glasses. “I can see two look-outs who are still facing outwards. These people are becoming a bit more wary, and don’t forget they have copied the idea of cannon from somewhere. Unless we take them completely by surprise they will have time to fire at us. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to breakfast on flying rock. I find it quite indigestible.”
Reeff grinned appreciatively. “We’ll wait till the tree blows.”
“It won’t be long — the top leaves are folding.” Leddravohr watched with interest as the uppermost of the tree’s four pairs of gigantic leaves rose from their normal horizontal position and furled themselves around the trunk. The phenomenon occurred about twice a year throughout a brakka tree’s span of maturity in the wild state, byt it was one which as a native of Kolcorron he had rarely seen. In hi.s country it was regarded as a waste of power crystals to permit a brakka to discharge itself.
There was a short delay after the top leaves had closed against the trunk, then the second pair quivered and slowly swung upwards. Leddravohr knew that, well below the ground, the partition which divided the tree’s combustion chamber was beginning to dissolve. Soon the green pikon crystals which had been extracted from the soil by the upper root system would mingle with the purple halvell gathered by the lower network of roots. The heat and gas thus generated would be contained for a brief period of time — then the tree would blast its pollen into the sky in an explosion which would be heard for miles.
Lying prone on the bed of soft vegetation, Leddravohr felt a pulsing warmth in his groin and realised he was becoming sexually excited. He focused his glasses on the woman lashed to the top of the tree, trying to pick out details of breast or buttock. Until that moment she had been so passive that he had believed her to be unconscious, perhaps drugged, but the movement of the huge leaves farther down the trunk appeared to have alerted her to the fact that her life was about to end, although her limbs were too well bound to permit any real struggle. She had begun twisting her head from side to side, swinging the long black hair which hid her face.
“
Stupid bitch,” Leddravohr whispered. He had limited his study of the Gethan tribes to an assessment of their military capabilites, but he guessed their religion was the uninspired mishmash of superstitions found in most of the backward countries of Land. In all probability the woman had actually volunteered for her role in the fertility rite, believing that her sacrifice would guarantee her reincarnation as a princess on Overland. Generous dosages of wine and dried mushroom could render such ideas temporarily persuasive, but there was nothing like the imminence of death to induce a more rational mode of thought.
“Stupid bitch she may be, but I wish I had her under me right now,” Reeff growled. “I don’t know which is going to blow first — that tree or mine.”
“I’ll give her to you when we have finished our work,” Leddravohr said with a smile. “Which half will you take first?” Reeff produced a nauseated grimace, expressing his admiration for the way in which the prince could match the best of his men in any branch of soldiering, including that of devising obscenities. Leddravohr turned his attention to the Gethan look-outs. His field glasses showed that they were, as he had anticipated, casting frequent glances towards the sacrificial tree, upon which the third pair of leaves had begun to rise. He knew there was a straightforward botanical reason for the tree’s behaviour — leaves in the horizontal attitude would have been snapped off by the recoil of the pollination discharge — but the sexual symbolism was potent and compelling. Leddravohr was confident that every one of the Gethan guards would be staring at the tree when the climactic moment arrived. He put his glasses away and took a firm grip on his sword as the leaves clasped the brakka’s trunk and, almost without delay, the lowermost pair began to stir. The flailing of the woman’s hair was frenetic now and her cries were thinly audible at the edge of the clearing, mingled with the chanting of a single male voice from somewhere near the centre of the tribal assembly.
