Asimov's Science Fiction 12/01/10

by Dell Magazines

  They started talking before he had finished—three or four at a time, in the way they always pursued a question when they were gathered with their own kind and weren’t trying to communicate with the tree people and the humans. Harold had shaken his head the first time he had seen them do it, in the way that seemed to indicate he was seeing something puzzling and strange. But Harold had said he was awed, too. To the Imetens, as far as Vigdal could tell, it was another sign the itiji hadn’t developed the self-control that won battles.

  They knew Vigdal was right but they all had to have their say. Most of them wanted him to know they agreed. But they all hated the stuff in the bags. Two of them found it disgusting. The gourmet in the group couldn’t resist a small paean to warm flesh and the complexities of the flavors and aromas stored in its juices.

  Vigdal let them run on until he saw an opening. He told them about his promise to punish the offender and the whirlwind he received in response was just as agitated as he had known it would be. They hated the idea just as much as he had. But they knew they had to do something.

  “Are you going to let them whip us? Did you tell them they could whip us?”

  “Or cut off our ears?”

  “Who is it going to be? How many do they want?”

  “It was a natural thing.”

  “We must find the mildest punishment they will accept.”

  “I won’t agree to anything more.”

  “They would eat us if they thought we were edible. We know they would eat us.”

  In the end, two volunteers accepted the burden. One of them really was one of the perpetrators. The other insisted he had kept his impulses under control but he would do what had to be done, since the true culprit wasn’t willing to fulfill his responsibilities.

  Vigdal carried the decision to Jila-Jen. “I have uncovered the transgressors. They are to eat nothing but the food stored in the bags from now until we return to Imeten. They will not be permitted to hunt any other food. We will present them to the Five Masters when we return and they will determine the rest of their punishment.”

  “That’s all? That’s their punishment?”

  “It’s far more severe than you may realize, Jila-Jen. But I also feel it is the most we should inflict on them now. We are still surrounded by the domains of our enemies. They are both good scouts and strong fighters. I would have denied them access to every kind of food but we would all be weaker if I did that.”

  “I will tell Nama-Nanat. He will not be pleased. He would have bashed in their skulls if any of our people had committed such an act.”

  Harold said the humans had studied the past on the world they had come from. They had dug up the bones of creatures that had been dead for more years than there were leaves in the forest. They could see, from the bones, how things that helped you live and have children replaced older things that weren’t as good. Feet got faster. Muscles got stronger. The tallest trees received the light. Short trees died in the shade.

  On Harold’s world, they had something he called seasons. Sometimes it was very cold. Sometimes hot. They had large open spaces where the trees were far apart. The ancestors of the first humans had been creatures who started walking on two legs and descended from the trees.

  Harold understood the Rule of Self-Nurturing Fortune. The creatures who walked on two legs could use their hands to make things and throw things, Harold argued. And the more they used their hands, the more they needed their hands—and the minds that guided their hands.

  The itiji began to talk so they could hunt better in bands, according to Harold’s theories. And the itiji who talked the best, ate the best. They grew bigger heads and clever tongues instead of bigger teeth and stronger muscles.

  The tree people could have developed in the same way the humans had. But this world was warmer than Harold’s world and more uniform. The forest covered everything but the mountains. The tree people stayed in the trees. They lived in their world and the itiji lived in theirs.

  It was a good theory. Vigdal believed it was essentially correct. But Harold had another theory that felt less convincing.

  As the humans had become better thinkers, they had grown bigger heads. As had the itiji. And the tree people. But that created a problem, Harold claimed. Their hips had become narrower as they had stood up. How could their women pass those big heads through the narrow opening they had developed as they had become straighter?

  The children of the humans, Harold said, were as helpless as seeds. Their heads were still growing when they were born.

  The tree people were different, Harold felt. Their children were born with fully grown heads. They could scamper around and create problems from the day they were born. They had to be controlled. And this emphasis on control and coercion became a permanent part of the tree people’s character.

  Vigdal wasn’t sure. It was true the tree people seemed like a churlish lot compared to his own people. But they must have some feelings that encouraged them to bond with each other. Could you build huge communities merely by coercing people with rewards and punishments?

  The itiji hanging in the nets were sending a new message. Their tormentors were making new threats. They say they will let us live. But they will blind us. They will crush all our legs. They will cut out our tongues.

  They had stopped singing the song of remembrance. Now they were truly frightened. Now they were pleading for help.

  “The tree jumpers complain about us,” Vigdal’s youngest warfriend said. “They punish us for yielding to hunger. But when did we torment them? Do we do things like that to the creatures we eat?”

  “The Drovils are trying to lure us away from the iron road,” Vigdal said.

  “And what will they do if we attack the iron road? Don’t you think they’ll carry out their threats? They’ll blind and cripple the captives just so we’ll know they’re making a real threat the next time they do this to us.”

  Nama-Nanat claimed he believed the Drovils were baiting a trap. “The iron road is hard to guard,” Jila-Jen said. “We can attack anywhere. The prisoners could be surrounded with an ambush.”

  “I can appreciate Nama-Nanat’s logic,” Vigdal said. “But please tell him I feel there are other factors he should consider. The Drovils don’t care if we free the prisoners. They will probably put most of their guards on the iron haulers. A rescue attempt will probably be easier. And it will mean more. Every itiji who hears the news will sing about it. And praise Nama-Nanat’s name.”

  “I believe Nama-Nanat has decided to attack the iron haulers. But I will tell him your thoughts.”

  Vigdal rejoined his warfriends and watched them become more intense while they waited for Jila-Jen to return.

  “It’s the iron. The iron is all they care about.”

  “And their share of the loot. You don’t get a share of the loot when you rescue people from suffering.”

  “Make sure we get our share, Vigdal. We need every crossbow dart the humans can make for us. It’s the only thing our beloved allies respect.”

  Their tails stiffened into spears as they talked. They turned toward the ladder when Jila-Jen returned and Vigdal broke away from them. He jerked his head at a fallen branch a good thirty strides beyond the ladder and hurried toward it without waiting for a response.

  “Your band looks agitated,” Jila-Jen said.

  He was speaking his own language. To him, the possessive meant “the group you command.” To Vigdal, it would normally mean “the group you’re associated with” or “the group you belong to.”

  “They are angry. I believe I can persuade them to control their anger. But it would be better if I didn’t have to.”

  “Your leaders ordered them to obey Nama-Nanat.”

  “We understand that. But they are tormented by feelings that burn like poisoned stings.”

  “Are you making a threat? Are you telling me they won’t obey their orders if Nama-Nanat doesn’t give them what they want?”

  “I am only tel
ling you the facts. I will try to help them control their anger. But their feelings could affect their actions.”

  “Nama-Nanat has considered your arguments. We will attack the iron haulers.”

  “Then you can tell him we will do what he says. But you should tell him the things I just told you, too.”

  “Would it ease the stings disturbing your band if we rescued the prisoners at the same time?”

  “And how can we do that? With the numbers we have?”

  Jila-Jen’s posture changed. Vigdal didn’t know what the shift meant, but Jila-Jen seemed to have softened.

  “An all out attack might run into an ambush,” Jila-Jen said. “But three skilled Warriors could slip through the guards around the nets.”

  “And Nama-Nanat would approve such a raid?”

  “I believe he would let me do it if I asked him.”

  “They’re hanging from the highest branches that can support their weight.”

  “We’ll lower them to where they can survive the drop and cut them free. We can carry enough rope if we don’t carry anything except our weapons and armor.”

  “It would be dangerous, Jila-Jen.”

  “I’m willing to take the risk. I would have to ask you a favor in return. But I’m willing to take the risk.”

  “A favor?”

  “If I do it, I won’t be entitled to a share of the ore we capture. I would have to ask you for shares from whatever your band gets. For all three of us.”

  Vigdal raised his head and eyed the light above the trees. He was standing on familiar ground. He had been trading favors since he was a child. His cleverest aunt had given him his first lessons in formal rhetoric in return for the time he spent tending her children. His aunt was a dreamy woman with a limitless appetite for romantic gambols and she couldn’t have indulged herself without the help of a dependable child watcher.

  “You will have to haul the extra shares yourselves,” Jila-Jen said. “Nama-Nanat will insist.”

  “We will give you three shares from our portion, succeed or fail. And five if you succeed.”

  Jila-Jen’s head jerked. He probably hadn’t anticipated the extra offer.

  “It would be easier to divide six,” Jila-Jen said.

  “Our leaders are counting on the iron.”

  “I understand. But we’re talking about the lives of the captives.”

  “We’ll make it six,” Vigdal said.

  He had, of course, assumed Jila-Jen would ask for the extra share.

  Vigdal and his warband swallowed a hasty meal, napped for a third of a day, and set off for the iron road with the Imetens clustered above them. They kept their voices low but they argued about the bargain with Jila-Jen as they advanced. They had immediately realized they would be burdened with extra weight when they left the iron road and turned toward home.

  “We shouldn’t forget we’ll be setting the iron haulers free. They can carry some of it.”

  “We’ll still be carrying someone else’s load.”

  “What if we have wounded? Do we have to leave them behind so we can carry Jila-Jen’s bribe?”

  “We’re supposed to treat them the way we treat our own people. Why can’t they do the same?”

  “This is how they treat their own people.”

  “They have a philosopher who claims anyone who lets himself become a slave should be a slave. That he would have let himself be killed if he didn’t have the mind of a slave.”

  “It sounds like the kind of philosophy they would think up.”

  “They don’t all agree with it,” Vigdal said. “I don’t think Jila-Jen believes it.”

  “Enough of them believe it.”

  The iron road was essentially a trail that had been worn by the sleds itiji had dragged through the forest. A line of packed, exposed dirt ran through the trees like a river that had been robbed of its water.

  Nama-Nanat arranged his forces in two groups about two hundred strides from the road. The distance had been chosen with a precision that indicated Nama-Nanat had a good feel for tactics. Too far, and the attackers would waste energy making the initial rush. Too close, and there would be too much danger an outlying scout would spot the ambushers.

  Vigdal crawled under a tangle of flowering vines that covered a depression in sight of the road. He relaxed his muscles sector by sector, neck to tail, and focused on his ears. Behind him, on the ground under the Imetens, his warfriends had pressed themselves into anything that looked like it might give them some protection from a downward glance.

  The itiji who pulled the sleds were whipped if they gave away their position, but their guards disturbed the creatures of the trees as they advanced. Vigdal picked up the first squawks and flutters when they were still so faint he had to close his eyes and make sure he wasn’t being fooled by his emotions.

  The stir created by the advance guards passed over him. He was wearing his armored blanket, but his back muscles still cringed.

  Three itiji strained against the crossbar attached to the front of the first sled. The flat bed behind them was almost four strides long. A frame covered with hides contained a load of ore that must have weighed twice as much as the three itiji put together. Vigdal could feel his own shoulder muscles pressing against the crossbar as he watched. The tree people had carpenters who could smooth the bottoms of their sleds, but they filled them with the maximum load their slaves could pull.

  There were no Drovils on the ground. Above him, guards trotted along branches and leaped from perch to perch.

  Four pack bearers followed the sled, laboring under bags draped across their backs, with their necks secured to a long pole. Three single-yoke sleds crowded behind them.

  He let out a truncated yelp as the first single-yoke sled passed his position. A short, harsh screech let him know his message had been received. He counted his heartbeats, allowing—he hoped—for the effects of his fear.

  He didn’t hear any extra commotion in the trees until he reached twelve. Voices started shrieking orders in the Drovil language. He lifted his chin off the ground and gave the slaves the best yell he could produce without rising from his hiding place.

  “We are coming to save you. Run this way if you can. Prepare to fight for your lives.”

  The itiji assaulting behind him broke their silence. Imetens screamed war cries. His warfriends swept past him and he leaped up and initiated a zigzagging pattern.

  One of the slaves hauling a single-yoke sled turned off the road and started dragging his load through the vines and brush. The others were reacting the way they usually did. Half of them seemed to be looking up at the trees as if they were waiting for instructions.

  Vigdal was supposed to hang back and sing a view of the overall situation while he presented a moving target to the Drovil dartblowers in the trees. His warfriends had closed on the slaves and started urging them to move.

  “Who wants to be free?”

  “Sing if you want to be free.”

  The critical factor was the time the itiji had spent in captivity. The slaves who had been captive less than a year always leaped at the chance to break free. The slaves who had been born in captivity could be paralyzed by the fear that had dominated them since they first opened their eyes. Some of them had even accepted the idea that they were inferior creatures who had been created to serve their captors.

  Darts slapped against Vigdal’s armor. A Drovil dropped out of the trees and leaped onto the back of the itiji who was trying to pull his load away from the fracas. A second Drovil landed on the sled.

  Vigdal raced toward the two Drovils. He raised his pitch to underline the urgency of his words and added a request to the chorus of itiji voices weaving through the screams in the trees. The Drovils leaped off the sled and crouched on the ground with their war hammers poised. Padded armor hung from their shoulders. Iron helmets protected their heads.

  A high-pitched reply advised him help was arriving on his right. He veered to the left, as if he was trying to circ
le the Drovils and reach the sled, and both Drovils turned with him.

  It was one of those moments when everything worked exactly the way you hoped it would. Vigdal’s supporter leaped on one of the Drovils from the back. The other Drovil jerked his head around and Vigdal pounced.

  It was the longest leap Vigdal had ever attempted, but it did the job. His teeth ripped at the Drovil’s unprotected face. The salty taste of blood tickled responses that had been developing since his father gave him his first pre-chewed bit of flesh.

  He pulled back his head. The other Drovil was shrieking under the claws of the warfriend who had attacked him from behind. Vigdal turned toward the itiji who was yoked to the sled and glared at him with his teeth bared.

  “Go. Keep moving. Get as far from the road as you can.”

  He slipped into his zigzag pattern and returned to his primary mission. Messages flickered across his consciousness and he tried to form them into an integrated picture. Three more Drovils had dropped from the trees—two dead and one thrashing as he died. A dead Imeten with a smashed skull had fallen near the big sled. Two warfriends had gathered around the four itiji who were carrying packs and started prodding them off the road. The pole fastened to their necks disrupted their movements but they seemed to be coordinating themselves.

  Vigdal could understand some of the orders and outcries he could hear in the trees, but he still hadn’t mastered the intricacies of three-dimensional combat. On the ground, you could break an enemy line or strike it from the flank. In the trees, the vertical dimension created possibilities that multiplied the complexity. The Imetens maneuvered in unimaginative, rigidly disciplined Eights, but he couldn’t have evaluated the situation if he had grown wings and flown through the leaves.

  Had the Imetens broken the Drovil defense? Was a downward counterattack by the enemy worse than a high-speed ascent? He could pick out one useful element in the overall pattern communicated by the shrieks in the trees. Nama-Nanat and his Warriors had captured the Drovils’ undivided attention.

  The Drovil dartblowers were aiming their tubes at targets in the trees and ignoring the slaves and their rescuers. The Drovils on the ground had all tasted their last breath—or would when the nearest itiji added a final bite or claw stroke to their wounds.