Spock Messiah sttos(n-3

by Theodore R. Cogswell

  Tram Sir held a bowl under the scarlet gush until it was full and then raised it to the heavens.

  “To Afterbliss!” he shouted, and brought it to his mouth. “Thus shall we drink the blood of the Messiah’s enemies!” He sipped the steaming blood and passed the bowl to an elder who stood next to him. The old man took it, repeated the cry, and touched it to his lips in turn. Then he carried the vessel to the waiting circle of warriors who passed it from mouth to mouth.

  There was a reverent hush as the shining pearl dropped out of sight behind the western hills, and then Tram Bir signaled for attention.

  “Before the feasting there will be a test of swords. My son Greth and the Beshwa Hikif will fight until the gods decide on whose side honor lies.”

  An incredulous buzz rose from the crowd. A Beshwa?

  As his father retired to the sidelines, Greth pushed his way into the ring. “Where is that cowardly zreel?” he roared.

  There was no answer for a moment, then Chekov sidled timidly into the arena, awkwardly holding a meter-long, broad-bladed sword straight out in front of him. Greth, holding a similar weapon, advanced slowly, hunching slightly forward. A titter of laughter began among some of the young girls as Chekov just stood there, staring at his sword as if he’d never seen one before. Then, as his opponent came within striking distance, he raised it, holding onto the hilt with a clumsy-looking over-and-under grip.

  Greth gave a nasty laugh as Chekov backed fearfully away, his sword wobbling as if he couldn’t control the shaking of his hands. The hillman made a sudden lunge, bringing his sword down in a whistling slash intended to split Chekov from crown to crotch. The young Russian seemed doomed, but he twisted awkwardly away so the blow missed him completely. Cursing, Greth whipped his sword up again, hungry for the kill. Chekov stumbled backward and sideways, his clumsy, foolish-looking attempts at defense somehow deflecting every blow Greth tried to land.

  Catcalls and jeers rose from the crowd.

  “What are you waiting for, Greth?”

  “Too old too soon?”

  “Hey, Greth, having trouble getting it up these days?”

  Stung by the taunts, the hillman rushed forward and unleashed a hammering attack that drove Chekov almost to the other side of the circle of spectators. Again, none of his blows landed; each time it seemed a thrust was sure to bite home, a clumsy, amateurish parry miraculously turned it aside.

  Suddenly, his sandal heel caught on a protruding rock thrusting from the soil hard-packed by generations of clan feet, Chekov toppled backward.

  Greth snarled and lunged in for the kill.

  As Chekov’s shoulders hit the ground, he threw up his blade in a desperate parry.

  The down-coming stroke was deflected, but not enough.

  Chekov screamed as blood gushed from a gaping wound in his stomach, jerked spasmodically, then lay still.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “How did I do?” Chekov asked, after he was carried into the van.

  “Beautifully,” McCoy said. “But you had me worried. You made it too realistic. Why did you stretch it out so long? You were supposed to go in there, let him get in a stomach cut, and take a dive.”

  “I wanted to make that cossack look like a monkey,” Chekov replied and chortled. “Did you hear them hooting when I was being carried out?” He mimicked a mocking, feminine voice. ” ‘Hey, Greth, next time you take on a Beshwa, have your father hold him for you.’” The Russian looked down at the deep, bloody gash in his stomach and said soberly, “He almost had me at the end; I wasn’t figuring on that fall. I may have been first sword at the Academy for two years straight; but if you hadn’t thought of putting a duraplas body shield under all the rest, that cut would have sliced in fifteen centimeters and I’d be dead for real. Get that stuff off me, will you?”

  McCoy nodded, and went to work.

  “Where did all that come from?” Kirk asked.

  “Mostly from the splint kit. The dermolastic on top looks like real skin,” McCoy said as he peeled it off to reveal a ten-centimeter layer of solidified, foam-like material underneath. “That’s used for making field casts. It’s sprayed on and the foam sets in seconds.” He pulled off the padding. Underneath that were the slashed remnants of two one-liter bags which still oozed a reasonable facsimile of Kyrosian blood.

  “Our gore,” McCoy said. “And lastly, a final precautionary measure in case Chekov’s swordmanship wasn’t quite as good as he thought—which it wasn’t—” He snipped and lifted a thin sheet of dark material which was glued to Chekov’s stomach. “That was tough enough to turn Greth’s point. Instead of cutting in, it just skidded along the surface.”

  “From the splint kit again, I suppose,” Kirk remarked.

  “Right. It’s a plastic that’s sprayed over the foam to protect it. OK, Chekov, clean that red gunk off and then well call Tram Bir and show him another Beshwa miracle.”

  “How aboot the scar?” Scott asked.

  “Oops, almost forgot that detail. Sara, what do you have in the way of makeup?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I found a woman’s bag among the other stuff we inherited, but I haven’t had a chance to check through it yet.” She went to the front of the van and, after a minute’s searching, came back with a small bone box containing & thick red substance and a brush.

  “That should do the trick,” McCoy said, and drew a fine pink line diagonally across Chekov’s stomach. He eyed it critically. “You know,” he said, “that’s one of the neatest jobs I’ve ever done.”

  A rapping came from the rear of the van. Kirk opened the door and saw Tram Bir standing in the darkness.

  “I’ve come to apologize for my son,” he said. “The killing was not done well. It was bad enough to challenge a Beshwa, but to bungle the job and make a fool of himself in front of the entire clan… gahl I’ve half a mind to leave him with the women tomorrow.”

  “Don’t be too hard on him; as you may have heard, the Beshwa have strange powers,” Kirk said and turned. “Hikif, come here.”

  As the young Russian bounced jauntily out of the caravan, Tram Bir let out an incredulous gasp.

  “I… I don’t believe it!” he said. “Greth must have sliced you to the backbone.”

  “He did,” Kirk said easily. “Without our sister we couldn’t have saved him. She called on Azrath and his power came down and filled her. When she touched Hikif, his gut closed before our eyes. Look!”

  Chekov stepped into the light that came from the open door of the van and pulled up his vest. Tram’s eyes widened when he saw the thin pink line.

  “This is why our sister must come with us when we go to join the Messiah with you,” Kirk said.

  “No,” Tram said flatly. “Women must stay behind when the warriors ride. If I let her come along, my men would demand a new chief.” He clapped Kirk on the shoulder. “But bring your brothers and come to the feasting. I want to hear what Greth says when he sees the dead walk hi.” He turned to go.

  Kirk thought quickly. Without Ensign George, their chances of getting close enough to use the nullifier on Spock were nil.

  “Wait,” he called. “What if your warriors wanted our sister to come?”

  “There’s no chance of that,” the chieftain replied.

  “Perhaps not,” Kirk said, “but let her speak to them in her own way after the feasting.”

  It was still dark when there was a banging on the van door.

  “First light is almost here,” a hill voice called. “We leave with it.”

  Kirk sat up with a groan and clutched his throbbing head with both hands. There was a stir as the others pulled themselves out from under their fur coverlets. Except for Sara, the others didn’t seem to be in any better shape than their captain.

  “I’ll go out and hitch up the neelots,” Sara said brightly. “I don’t think any of you are up to it.”

  “Who brought me home, Bones?” Kirk asked as she exited briskly into the gray of early dawn.


  “Beats me,” McCoy said. “The last thing I remember was Chekov doing a Beshwa version of the kazat-ski, while Scotty was speculating on whether a neelot stomach would do for a proper haggis. You know, Jim, I never could understand the Scots predilection for making puddings from chopped-up sheep’s lungs.”

  Kirk made a face, but Scott didn’t respond. He was too busy nursing a hangover.

  “Oh, well,” Kirk said, “I suppose this, too, will pass.” He got to his feet, poured water from a jug into a basin, and splashed his face. The van door opened and Sara came in.

  “All ready to roll,” she said. “If you’re driving, Captain, you’d better get up there. Tram Sir’s ready to leave.”

  “Glad you’re coming with us, Ensign,” Kirk said, “After that dance of yours, if Tram Bir had said no, his men would have strung him up right there and elected you chief.”

  “My dop is a woman of many talents,” Sara said demurely.

  “Don’t be so modest, Ensign. You did provide the body, you know.”

  Kirk went outside and climbed into the driver’s seat Tram Bir waved him into position behind the provision carts. As he pulled up behind them, there was a snarl of clan horns. Then, Tram Bir and his warriors at the head, the column moved out through the gate and across the drawbridge.

  Two hours later, they were back on the east-west migration trail.

  “Tell me, Jim,” McCoy said, “what do you think our chances are of getting within striking distance of Spock?”

  Kirk shrugged. “Not too good. If you were in his shoes, what would you expect us to do?”

  “Probably something pretty much like we’re doing.”

  “Right. What I’m hoping is that he’ll expect us to come in disguised as hillmen. There’s another thing in our favor, too. He doesn’t know about the radiation storm and how desperate our situation has become up there. As a result, he may not anticipate a try as crazy as this one—at least not this soon.” He glanced up at the sun and made a quick mental calculation. ‘I know this vehicle sticks out like a sore thumb but, with luck, it may take a few hours for word about strangers in the camp to get to him. According to the map, it’s going to be about dusk when we get there, and some big ceremony involving the dead we’re Bringing is planned. That should keep him busy for a while. What’s more, Tram Bir is on our side.”

  “How?” McCoy demanded.

  “Before we got too drunk last night, I suggested to him that he ought to hold off on asking the Messiah about us until he was in a position to ask a favor—like maybe after the first battle. I think he’ll go along with that because we’re a fairly valuable property, and he’d like to have us around as long as possible. Besides, I think he has designs on our little ensign.”

  McCoy chuckled. “I wouldn’t doubt it. When she tossed her G-string to the crowd on her final exit, I had a few myself.”

  There was a long silence during which Kirk thought of what lay ahead. Finally, he said somberly, “Every time I think of the odds we’re facing, I wonder if I shouldn’t have given Chekov’s suggestion more serious consideration.”

  “You mean using a shuttlecraft and phasers?”

  “Yes. My veto was based on the dynamics of Earth history. Maybe they don’t work the same way here.”

  “Could be, Jim,” McCoy said, “but it’s too late to do anything about it now. You ordered Sulu to refrain from any direct action until he heard from you and,” he added wryly, “I don’t think even your voice is loud enough to carry a hundred and fifty kilometers.”

  Kyr’s red bulk was dropping toward the horizon as the clan column emerged from the widening valley onto the northern limits of the great coastal plain, a gently rolling land covered with short, feathery fronds of reddish Kyrosian grass. The setting sun’s rays tinged them a deep maroon, making it look as if the land had been painted with blood.

  Kirk gestured toward the south. “Andros is someplace down there.”

  McCoy nodded and pointed off to the right as something caught his eye. “Look,” he said, “company…”

  In the distance, another clan column was moving on a converging course. As minutes passed and the two groups came closer together, white-sheeted dead could be seen heaped on long, flat-bedded carts.

  “Looks like they had a raiding assignment, too,” McCoy said.

  As they rode on, more groups of riders came into view, most of them from a westerly direction. Then they topped a slight rise, and the great gathering came into view. Tent clusters, each marking the camping place of a clan, formed a rough horseshoe, the open end facing south. Each grouping was separated from the one on either side by an open space of at least a hundred meters distance. It looked as if, in spite of their new-found unity, a certain amount of hostility and mutual suspicion remained. Smoke began to rise into the still air as cooking fires were lighted. In front of each tent stood spears, one for each occupant, their burnished heads gleaming in the last rays of the setting sun like fire-dipped pinpoints, a flickering, changing scatter of earthbound stars.

  Dominating the curved upper part of the horseshoe was a great black pavilion, a long, low rectangle that stood in marked contrast to the dome-shaped tents of the clan clusters. Directly in front of it, a tall pole had been erected and from it hung a black banner. Caught by a momentary gust of wind, it rippled out, displaying a large white circle in its center, the symbol of Afterbliss. Surrounding the pavilion, one every three meters or so, stood armed hillmen, weapons at the ready.

  McCoy jerked his thumb at them. “It looks like visitors just don’t wander in unannounced.”

  Kirk nodded in somber agreement. “Nobody ever said that getting to him was going to be easy. Spock may be crazy, but he’s shrewd.”

  A hundred meters or so behind the pavilion, a black tent stood by itself. Behind it was a semicircle of domed shelters that were larger and more elaborately decorated than those in the clan area. An ornate banner flapped in front of each.

  “Looks like he wants his chiefs close at hand,” Kirk said.

  A speaker’s platform had been erected in front of the pavilion. Before it, at a distance of two hundred meters or so, white-wrapped bodies had been placed in concentric circles, heads facing inward. More were being placed in position as additional contingents of hillmen arrived with their dead.

  “Looks like they’re going to cremate them,” McCoy said, as clansmen began to carry in armfuls of wood from a huge pile to one side. They continued to watch as they drove closer.

  “Uh, uh,” Kirk said. “They’ve got something else in mind. Look where they’re putting it.” Four long arms of wood were growing from the circle of bodies to form a cross, each arm pointing to a different point of the compass. Hillmen scurried back and forth like ants, adding wood until each pile was at least fifty meters long and a meter and a half high.

  As more bodies were carried in, Kirk made a mental calculation and then whistled. “Spock really bloodied his troops,” he said softly. “There must have been a clan raid on every settlement on the perimeter.” His brow furrowed. “Why would he waste men like that when he needs them for his attack on Andros? Once he has the capital, the outlying villages will stop resisting.”

  McCoy shrugged. “The Messiah moves in mysterious ways.”

  As the clan column neared the encampment, a rider trotted out and spoke briefly to Tram Bir, who was riding at the front. He nodded and sent Greth, who rode next to him, off with the message. Then he angled the column to the left, skirting the eastern edge of the horseshoe until they reached an open space at the end. Kirk pulled the caravan to a halt on the inner side of the assigned space. Around them, clansmen began unloading baggage carts with practiced haste, and umbrella-like tents were soon springing up. The carts bearing the clan dead were driven into the open center area, and stiff bodies, stinking after two days in the hot sun, were carried off and laid shoulder to shoulder with the rest.

  Chekov and Scott, who had been riding in the van, got out and began to stroll among the clan
smen. They hadn’t got more than twenty meters before Tram Bir, who was supervising the placement of the tents, stopped them and said something, jerking his thumb toward the caravan.

  “What’s up, Scotty?” Kirk asked as the two came up.

  “It looks like we’re under house arrest. The birkie says that i’ we go wanderin’ aboot barefaced, we might end up wi’ oot our heads.”

  “So tell hun we’ll wear hoods.”

  “I did. He says we canna. Relatives or nae, we’re still Beshwa.”

  Clan pennants began to ripple as night breezes blew in from the sea. The sharp scent of burning wood filled the ah-, and Tram Bir’s men began preparing their evening meal. Then, as leather provision sacks were opened, the stench of vris wafted across the campsite.

  McCoy sniffed. “You know, I think I’m finally getting used to that smell,” he remarked.

  “No wonder,” Kirk said with a grin, “you ate enough of it at the feasting last night.”

  “I… what?” McCoy exclaimed, his face incredulous.

  “At least three helpings. Isn’t that right, Mr. Scott?”

  “Och, aye, Captain,” Scotty said. “A’ the least. Wolfed it down like it was his last meal, he did. I remember thinking then that there was nae accounting for taste.”

  “There certainly isn’t, haggis eater,” retorted McCoy, not knowing whether to believe what he’d been told or not. He sniffed again, gagged slightly, and disappeared behind the van.

  As Kyr set, a mournful howl of clan horns began from the direction of the Messiah’s black pavilion. Hillmen began to move from clan tents out into the grassy area between the arms of the horseshoe-shaped encampment.

  Kirk moved forward, too, forgetting Tram Sir’s admonition, but was turned back by a guard. He thought for a moment, and then clambered onto the van’s top for a better view. McCoy and the rest climbed up after him.

  Hillmen bearing torches stationed themselves along each of the long arms of piled wood extending from the circle of corpses. They stood silently, waiting. There was another hooting of horns and the flaps covering the entrance to the Messiah’s tent were thrown back. Marching out of the pavilion came the clan chiefs in order of precedence, Tram Bir nearly last. Moving in single file, they circled around the platform that had been erected and formed a line in front of it, facing the dead.