Rise of the Terran Empire

by Poul Anderson

  "My life is yours, Nathaniel Falkayn," said Keshchyi in the house. "I beg your leave to honor you."

  "Aye, aye," whispered through the rustling dimness where the Weathermaker Choth had gathered.

  "Awww . . ." Nat mumbled. His cheeks felt hot. He wanted to say, "Please, all I ask is, don't tell my parents what kind of trouble I got my silly self into." But that wouldn't be courteous, in this grave ceremony that his friends were holding for him.

  It ended at last, however, and he and Thuriak got a chance to slip off by themselves, to the same balcony from which they had started. The short Avalonian day was drawing to a close. Sunbeams lay level across the fields. They shimmered off the sea, beyond which were homes of men. The air was still, and cool, and full of the scent of growing things.

  "I have learned much today," Thuriak said seriously.

  "Well, I hope you've learned to be more careful in your next boat," Nat tried to laugh. I wish they'd stop making such a fuss about me, he thought. They will in time, and we can relax and enjoy each other. Meanwhile, though—

  "I have learned how good it is that strengths be different, so that they may be shared."

  "Well, yes, sure. Wasn't that the whole idea behind this colony?"

  And standing there between sky and sea, Nat remembered swimming, diving, surfing, all the years of his life, brightness and laughter of the water that kissed his face and embraced his whole body, the riding on splendid waves and questing into secret twilit depths, the sudden astonishing beauty of a fish or a rippled sandy bottom, sunlight a-dance overhead . . . and he looked at the Ythrian and felt a little sorry for him.

  RESCUE ON AVALON

  INTRODUCTION

  For his last chapter, Hloch returns to A. A. Craig's Tales of the Great Frontier. The author was a Terran who traveled widely, gathering material for his historical narratives, during a pause in the Troubles, several lifetimes after the World-Taking. When he visited Avalon, he heard of an incident from the person, then aged, who had experienced it, and made therefrom the story which follows. Though fictionalized, the account is substantially accurate. Though dealing with no large matter, it seems a fitting one wherewith to close.

  —Hloch of the Stormgate Choth

  The Earthbook of Stormgate

  The Ythrian passed overhead in splendor. Sunlight on feathers made bronze out of his six-meter wingspan and the proudly held golden-eyed head. His crest and tail were white as the snowpeaks around, trimmed with black. He rode the wind like its conqueror.

  Against his will, Jack Birnam confessed the sight was beautiful. But it was duty which brought up his binoculars. If the being made a gesture of greeting, he owed his own race the courtesy of a return salute; and Ythrians often forgot that human vision was less keen than theirs. I have to be especially polite when I'm in country that belongs to them, the boy thought. Bitterness rushed through him. And this does, now, it does. Oh, curse our bargaining Parliament!

  Under magnification, he clearly saw the arched carnivore muzzle with its oddly delicate lips; the talons which evolution had made into hands; the claws at the "elbows" of the wings, which served as feet on the ground; the gill-like slits in the body, bellows pumped by the flight muscles, a biological supercharger making it possible for a creature that size to get aloft. He could even see by the plumage that this was a middle-aged male, and of some importance to judge by the ornate belt, pouch, and dagger which were all that he wore.

  Though the Ythrian had undoubtedly noticed Jack, he gave no sign. That was likely just his custom. Choths differed as much in their ways as human nations did, and Jack remembered hearing that the Stormgate folk, who would be moving into these parts, were quite reserved. Nevertheless the boy muttered at him, "You can call it dignity if you want. I call it snobbery, and I don't like you either."

  The being dwindled until he vanished behind a distant ridge. He's probably bound for Peace Deep on the far side, to hunt, Jack decided. And I wanted to visit there . . . . Well, why not, anyway? I'll scarcely meet him; won't be going down into the gorge myself. The mountains have room for both of us—for a while, till his people come and settle them.

  He hung the glasses on his packframe and started walking again through loneliness.

  The loftiest heights on the planet Avalon belong to the Andromeda Range. But that is a name bestowed by humans. Not for nothing do the Ythrians who have joined them in their colonizing venture call that region the Weathermother. Almost exactly two days—twenty-two hours—after he had spied the stranger, a hurricane caught Jack Birnam. Born and raised here, he was used to sudden tempests. The rapidly spinning globe was always breeding them. Yet the violence of this one astonished him.

  He was in no danger. It had not been foolish to set off by himself on a trip into the wilderness. He would have preferred a companion, of course, but none of his friends happened to be free; and he didn't expect he'd ever have another chance to visit the beloved land. He knew it well. He intended merely to hike, not climb. At age twenty-four (or seventeen, if you counted the years of an Earth where he had never been) he was huskier than many full-grown men. In case of serious difficulty, he need merely send a distress signal by his pocket transceiver. Homing on it, an aircar from the nearest rescue station in the foothills should reach him in minutes.

  If the sky was fit to fly in!

  When wind lifted and clouds whirled like night out of the north, he made his quick preparations. His sleeping bag, with hood and breathing mask for really foul conditions, would keep him warm at lower temperatures than occurred anywhere on Avalon. Unrolled and erected over it as a kind of pup tent, a sheet of duraplast would stop hailstones or blown debris. The collapsible alloy frame, light but equally sturdy, he secured to four pegs whose explosive heads had driven them immovably into bedrock. This shelter wasn't going anywhere. When he had brought himself and his equipment inside, he had nothing to do but wait out the several shrieking hours which followed.

  Nonetheless, he was almost frightened at the fury, and half-stunned by the time it died away.

  Crawling forth, he found the sun long set. Morgana, the moon, was full, so radiant that it crowded most stars out of view. Remote snowfields glittered against blue-black heaven; boulders and shrubs on the ridgetop where Jack was camped shone as if turned to silver, while a nearby stream flowed like mercury. The cluck and chuckle of water, the boom of a more distant cataract, were the only sounds. After the wind-howl, this stillness felt almost holy. The air was chill but carried odors of plant life, sharp trefoil, sweet livewell, and janie. Breath smoked ghostly.

  After his long lying motionless, he couldn't sleep. He decided to make a fire, cook a snack and coffee, watch dawn when it came. Here above timberline, the low, tough vegetation wasn't much damaged. But he was sure to find plenty of broken-off wood. The trees below must have suffered far worse. He'd see in the morning. At present, to him those depths were one darkness, hoar-frosted by moonlight.

  His transceiver beeped. He stiffened. That meant a general broadcast on the emergency band. Drawing the flat object from his coverall, he flipped its switch for two-way. A human voice lifted small: "—Mount Farview area. Andromeda Rescue Station Four calling anyone in the Mount Farview area. Andromeda—"

  Jack brought the instrument to his mouth. "Responding," he said. Inside his quilted garment, he shivered with more than cold. "John Birnam responding to ARS Four. I . . . I'm a single party, on foot, but if I can help—"

  The man at the other end barked: "Where are you, exactly?"

  "It doesn't have a name on the map," Jack replied, "but I'm on the south rim of a big canyon which starts about twenty kilometers east-north-east of Farview's top. I'm roughly above the middle of the gorge, that'd be, uh, say thirty kilometers further east."

  It does have a name, though, went through his mind. I named it Peace Deep, five years ago when I first came on it, because the forest down there is so tall and quiet. Wonder what the Ythrians will call it, after I can't come here anymore?

&
nbsp; "Got you," answered the man. He must have an aerial survey chart before him. "John Birnam, you said? I'm Ivar Holm. Did you come through the storm all right?"

  "Yes, thanks, I was well prepared. Are you checking?"

  "In a way." Holm spoke grimly. "Look, this whole sector's in bad trouble. The prediction on that devil-wind was totally inadequate, a gross underestimate. Not enough meteorological monitors yet, I suppose. Or maybe the colonies are too young to've learned every trick that Avalon can play. Anyhow, things are torn apart down here in the hills—farms, villages, isolated camps—aircars smashed or crashed, including several that belonged to this corps. In spite of help being rushed in from outside, we'll be days in finding and saving the survivors. Our pilots and medics are going to have to forget there ever was such a thing as sleep."

  "I . . . I'm sorry," Jack said lamely.

  "I was praying someone would be in your vicinity. You see, an Ythrian appears to have come to grief thereabouts."

  "An Ythrian!" Jack whispered.

  "Not just any Ythrian, either. Ayan, the Wyvan of Stormgate."

  "What?"

  "Don't you know about that?" It was very possible. Thus far, the two races hadn't overlapped a great deal. Within the territories they claimed, they had been too busy adapting themselves and their ways to a world that was strange to them both. Jack, whose family were sea ranchers, dwelling on the coast five hundred kilometers westward, had seldom encountered one of the other species. Even a well-educated person might be forgiven for a certain vagueness about details of an entire set of alien societies.

  "In the Stormgate choth," Holm said, "'Wyvan' comes as close to meaning 'Chief' or 'President' as you can get in their language. And Stormgate, needing more room as its population grows, has lately acquired this whole part of the Andromedas."

  "I know," Jack couldn't help blurting in a refreshed rage. "The Parliament of Man and the Great Khruath of the Ythrians made their nice little deal, and never mind those of us who spent all the time we could up here because we love the country!"

  "Huh? What're you talking about? It was a fair exchange. They turned over some mighty good prairie to us. We don't live by hunting and ranching the way they do. We can't use alps for anything except recreation—and not many of us ever did—and why are you and I wasting time, Birnam?"

  Jack set his teeth. "Go on, please."

  "Well. Ayan went to scout the new land personally, alone. That's Ythrian style. You must be aware what a territorial instinct their race has got. Now I've received a worried call from Stormgate headquarters. His family says he'd have radioed immediately after the blow, if he could, and asked us to relay a message that he wasn't hurt. But he hasn't. Nor did he ever give notice of precisely where he'd be, and no Ythrian on an outing uses enough gear to be readily spotted from the air."

  "A low-power sender won't work out of that particular forest," Jack said. "Too much ironleaf growing there."

  "Sunblaze!" Holm groaned. "Things never do go wrong one at a time, do they?" He drew breath. "Ordinarily we'd have a fleet of cars out searching, regardless of the difficulty. We can't spare them now, especially since he may well be dead. Nevertheless—You spoke as if you had a clue to his whereabouts."

  Jack paused before answering slowly, "Yes, I believe I do."

  "What? Quick, for mercy's sake!"

  "An Ythrian flew by me a couple of days ago, headed the same way I was. Must've been him. Then when I arrived on this height, down in the canyon I saw smoke rising above the treetops. Doubtless a fire of his. I suppose he'd been hunting and—Well, I didn't pay close attention, but I could point the site out approximately. Why not send a team to where I am?"

  Holm kept silent a while. The moonlight seemed to grow more cold and white.

  "Weren't you listening, Birnam?" he said at last. "We need every man and every vehicle we can get, every minute they can be in action. According to my map, that gorge is heavily wooded. Do you mean we should tie up two or three men and a car for hours or days, searching for the exact place—when the chances of him being alive look poor, and . . . you're right on the scene?

  "Can't you locate him? Find what the situation is, do what you can to help, and call back with precise information. Given that, we can snake him right out of there, without first wasting man-hours that should go to hundreds of people we know we can save. How about it?"

  Now Jack had no voice.

  "Hello?" Holm's cry was tiny in the night. "Hello?"

  Jack gripped the transceiver till his knuckles stood bloodless. "I'm not sure what I can manage," he said.

  "How d'you mean?"

  "I'm allergic to Ythrians."

  "Huh?"

  "Something about their feathers or—It's gotten extremely bad in the last year or two. If I come near one, soon I can hardly breathe. And I didn't bring my antiallergen, this trip. Never expected to need it."

  "Your condition ought to be curable."

  "The doctor says it is, but that requires facilities we don't have on Avalon. RNA transformation, you know. My family can't afford to send me to a more developed planet. I just avoid those creatures."

  "You can at least go look, can't you?" Holm pleaded. "I appreciate the risk, but if you're extra careful—"

  "Oh, yes," Jack said reluctantly. "I can do that."

  With the starkness of his folk, Ayan had shut his mind to pain while he waited for rescue or death. From time to time he shrilled forth hunting calls, and these guided Jack to him after the boy reached the general location. They had grown steadily weaker, though.

  Far down a steep slope, the Ythrian sprawled rather than lay, resting against a chasuble bush. Everywhere around him were ripped branches and fallen boles, a tangle which had made it a whole day's struggle for Jack to get here. Sky, fading toward sunset, showed through rents in the canopy overhead. Mingled with green and gold of other trees was the shimmering, glittering purple foliage of iron-leaf.

  The alatan bone in Ayan's left wing was bent at an ugly angle. That fracture made it alike impossible for him to fly or walk. Gaunt, exhausted, he still brought his crest erect as the human blundered into view. Hoarseness thickened the accent of his Anglic speech: "Welcome indeed!"

  Jack stopped three meters off, panting, sweating despite the chill, knees wobbly beneath him. He knew it was idiotic, but could think of nothing else than: "How . . . are you, . . . sir?" And why call him "sir," this land-robber?

  "In poor case," dragged out of Ayan's throat. "Well it is that you arrived. I would not have lasted a second night. The wind cast a heavy bough against my wing and broke it. My rations and equipment were scattered; I do not think you could find them yourself." The three fingers and two thumbs of a hand gestured at the transceiver clipped on his belt. "Somehow this must also have been disabled. My calls for help have drawn no response."

  "They wouldn't, here." Jack pointed to the sinister loveliness which flickered in a breeze above. "Didn't you know? That's called ironleaf. It draws the metal from the soil and concentrates pure particles, to attract pollinating bugs by the sliminess. Absorbs radio waves. Nobody should go into an area like this without a partner."

  "I was unaware—even as the weather itself caught me by surprise. The territory is foreign to me."

  "It's home country to me." Fists clenched till nails bit into palms.

  Ayan's stare sharpened upon Jack. Abruptly he realized how peculiar his behavior must seem. The Ythrian needed help, and the human only stood there. Jack couldn't simply leave him untended; he would die.

  The boy braced himself and said in a hurry: "Listen. Listen good, because maybe I won't be able to repeat this. I'll have to scramble back up to where I can transmit. Then they'll send a car that I can guide to you. But I can't go till morning. I'd lose my way, or break my neck, groping in the dark through this wreckage the storm's made. First I'll do what's necessary for you. We better plan every move in advance."

  "Why?" asked Ayan quietly.

  "Because you make me sick! I mean
—allergy—I'm going to get asthma and hives, working on you. Unless we minimize my exposure, I may be too ill to travel tomorrow."

  "I see." For all his resentment, Jack was awed by the self-control. "Do you perchance carry anagon in your first-aid kit? No? Pity. I believe that is the sole painkiller which works on both our species. Hrau. You can toss me your filled canteen and some food immediately. I am near collapse from both thirst and hunger."

  "It's human-type stuff, you realize," Jack warned. While men and Ythrians could eat many of the same things, each diet lacked certain essentials of the other. For that matter, native Avalonian life did not hold adequate nutrition for either colonizing race. The need to maintain separate ecologies was a major reason why they tended to live apart. I can't ever return, Jack thought. Even if the new dwellers allowed me to visit, my own body wouldn't.