Star Bridge

by James Gunn

  “It’s freedom, man!” Horn exploded. “Won’t any of them take orders for that?”

  “They might,” Redblade admitted. “But don’t trust any of them.” He hesitated. “Not even me. You can lure us with freedom and promises or force us with blows, but you can’t trust us.”

  Horn stared fiercely into the pirate’s eyes. “Stick with me,” he said, “and we’ll whip the Empire and get our pick of the pieces. Go off on your own, and you’ll get nothing except a quick death.”

  “I might do it,” Redblade muttered. “I might do it. I will do it. But don’t trust me.”

  “I’m going to,” Horn said firmly. He had no choice; he had to count on this amoral giant to guard his back. “We need weapons.”

  “Knives, blackjacks, slings, or bone clubs?”

  “Those that can be concealed are all right,” Horn said, “but we need something small that will kill from a distance.”

  “Like this?” Redblade asked. He pulled something metallic out of his rags.

  Horn took it and turned it over in his hands. It was a gun, crudely made with a small, rolled barrel, a bone handle, a trigger, and a crank of some kind on the side. “What is it?” he asked dubiously.

  Redblade dumped the contents of a small sack into his broad palm. The dim sunlight glowed along slim, pointed darts. “It shoots these. Inside the barrel is a spring. The crank pulls it back until it’s caught by the trigger. Drop in one of these”—he dropped a dart into the barrel of the gun, lifted the gun, and aimed at a boulder—“and pull the trigger.”

  Twang-g-g! S-s-s-s. Ping-ng-ng!

  “Not very accurate, but it’ll kill a man if you’re close enough,” Redblade said.

  “You didn’t make those out of belt buckles.”

  “There used to be metal troughs where the trench is. We took them out, hammered the metal, rubbed it against the rocks. It took a long time, but we had lots of that.”

  “With two of those,” Horn said reflectively, “we might do it. See if you can round up half a dozen men who are quick and will take orders. Nobody else is to know.”

  The men came sullenly, herded in front of Redblade like sheep in front of a sheepdog. But as Horn outlined the opportunity and the plan, they caught fire from him. When he asked them if they would take orders, they nodded eagerly.

  He gave them the same incentive to follow him that he had given Redblade, and then he added, “And if you don’t, we’ll kill you, Redblade or I.”

  The pirate growled agreement, and the ragged prisoners shrugged as if the terms were obvious.

  Horn paced off the fortress dimensions, assigned them their roles, and drilled them in the plan until they were able to go through it in unison with their eyes closed. It was uncomplicated, but the simplest plans are the best. Its success depended on surprise and timing.

  At last Horn realized that he had done all he could. “Nobody else gets told,” he said. “They’d give it away or interfere. There’s only one way to keep it to ourselves. Nobody leaves.”

  They accepted it, not gladly but with resignation to the realities of the situation.

  “Now,” Horn said, “all we have to do is wait and hope the Warden gets desperate enough to use us.”

  They were still fired and enthusiastic then. They gathered just out of sight of the footbridge that led to the solid, forbidding black door of the fortress. As the hours passed, Horn watched the unity of the group breaking apart.

  Horn stared at the door and turned the plan over and over in his mind. He realized how feeble it was and how feeble were the instruments he had to work with. A ragged handful of treacherous rogues with a few, poor, handmade weapons to throw against a fortress. It was folly, but even folly is preferable to resignation; any chance is better than none.

  Once, during the long wait, Redblade pulled him aside. “Look, man,” he said. “I’ve been thinking over what you told me. I’ll go along with you.”

  Horn felt then that he could trust the man—within reason. It was a moment of cheer in a deepening depression.

  He tried to keep his conviction that the Warden would call on them for help and that they could succeed, but it faded in front of the grim, black reality of the brooding fortress. There were too many things that could happen, too many reasons the Warden could find for not using the prisoners. He would have to be desperate or careless to let in these doomed, desperate men, unarmed as they were. Horn didn’t think that the Warden was a careless man.

  Time moved slowly. The sun arched lazily across the dark sky. It reached the horizon. The darkness crept in again. A clamor announced a new flow of food from the pipe into the trough. The men stirred, but Redblade glowered them back. Only he left. He returned quickly with a heavy, cloth bag. They ate moodily, staring at the black barrier that kept them from Eron.

  Before they were finished, the silence and the waiting ended. A voice boomed out of the fortress, amplified, urgent:

  “Prisoners! You have been condemned to spend the remainder of your lives on Vantee. Now you are given a second chance.

  “The Empire is at war. All of you who will fight her enemies will be admitted to the fortress and shipped to Eron. Survivors will be given a pardon and their freedom.

  “There will be no chance for escape. You will be heavily guarded at all times. Only those sincere in their repentance need enter. Others will be shot down without warning or mercy.

  “In five minutes the door will open. You, who wish to take advantage of this offer, file into the hallway.

  “A second warning: violence means death!…”

  Before the voice had reached the end, Horn and Redblade had shepherded their men toward the footbridge. A crowd had already collected. They forced their way through and stopped at the ditch.

  The crowd grew behind them. Tensions grew with it as the minutes passed and the dark door did not lift.

  A crack of light became a torrent. The door went up. There were four guns trained on them: the two mounted guns in the wall slits and unitron pistols in the hands of the two guards. It was just as Horn had visualized it, and it was firepower to make even desperation hesitate. The mounted guns could spew projectiles that would cut men down like a scythe, and the pistols weren’t much slower.

  The mass of men surged forward. Redblade planted his feet at the edge of the ditch, spread his arms wide, and braced his back. “Easy,” he bellowed. “One at a time.”

  Redblade trotted across the bridge. Behind him came Horn. Behind Horn came the men he had drilled so thoroughly. Behind them, hurrying, came the rest. They filed into the hallway, blinking, wary, like long-caged animals.

  Horn and Redblade matched strides at the head of the rabble, Horn counting under his breath. They moved toward the two guards. The guards backed away in front of them, guns ready, eyes shifting back and forth cautiously.

  Horn walked a little faster. Redblade lengthened his stride. The guards couldn’t back up fast enough. The distance closed. Perhaps, at that moment, a premonition struck them. One gave a little lift to his gun; the other opened his mouth. Horn was already diving, feeling Redblade moving beside him, fast and low, and the air was exploding from his lungs in a scream of “Now!”

  They hit the guards. A shot echoed and whined through the hall. One of the mounted guns chattered briefly, violently. Horn was too busy to worry about anything else. He shoved his guard’s arm straight up. The pistol went off into the ceiling. Horn’s fist plowed into the guard’s belly. The man grunted, doubled a little, but his own hand came around. Horn took it on the shoulder and swung a chopping backhand at the man’s neck. There was a dry, snapping sound. The guard dropped, his head lolling at an impossible angle. As he fell, Horn twisted the gun from his hand.

  Horn swung around. The mass of men were still frozen. The action had elapsed in less time than it took them to absorb the meaning of what was happening and move again. A few men were crumpled on the floor, but the wall guns were silent. A man was supporting himself by the muzzle of each
of them, peering through the slits, spring guns ready. Below them, two more men were frantically winding little cranks.

  Redblade’s guard was down and motionless. The pirate had a gun in his hand, too, and he seemed more complete. He smiled gleefully at Horn.

  “Quick!” Horn shouted, without a pause. “There’ll be gas. Run.” And as he said it, he was turning, running. Behind him began the thunder of feet.

  The hall was long and straight, but there were no more guns in the walls. If they could make it to the end, they would be in the barracks area. Beyond that was the Tube room. There were doors in the walls they passed. They were closed. Horn didn’t know what they were and didn’t stop to investigate. He glanced beside him at Redblade. The pirate was running with long, loping strides, his red mane floating behind him, his teeth bared in a fearsome grimace. Perhaps, Horn thought, it was a smile.

  At the end of the hall a door opened. A man stood in the doorway, blinking into the light, looking toward the running men and the noise. He was an old man, small and stout; his white hair glistened like an ice-cap seen from space. Horn’s eyes widened. Out of one corner, he saw Redblade’s arm lift. There was a gun at the end of it.

  Horn’s hand swept out and up. The bullet whined off the ceiling.

  “That’s Sair!” Horn shouted. “That must be Sair!”

  Still not a minute had passed. Redblade glanced at Horn and back to the figure at the end of the hall.

  Behind them, over the sound of the stampeding feet, the corridor began to hiss. That was gas, Horn knew, and it was quick; but not quite quick enough.

  And then, a few meters ahead, a partition began its swift, deadly fall from the ceiling.

  THE HISTORY

  Crisis.…

  It comes, inevitably, in the affairs of men and in the affairs of empires. The little decisions pile one atop another until the Big Decision must come. Men must live or die. Empires must rise or fall.

  The Big Decision. When it comes, it is only a little thing after all. Among the great sweeps of history, among the massive forces moving races and empires toward success or extinction, one man can make all the difference.

  A man is an insignificant thing. But so is a mote of dust. And if the scales are delicate, if they are perfectly balanced, a mote will bear down one pan as certainly as a lump of lead.

  A mote or a man.…

  17

  LIVING SYMBOL

  As they leaped forward, Horn realized that he and Redblade could get past the falling door without trouble; but few of the men behind would be able to follow. They would be trapped back there with the gas, and two men would be helpless against the fortress guards.

  And Redblade was under the door, reaching up to catch it as it descended, cushioning it slowly to a stop. His muscles cracked. His legs trembled under the strain; cloth ripped as his chest expanded and his back tightened. As he held it there, straining, his face reddened to match his beard, and sweat dripped from it to stain the beard darker.

  “Fast!” Horn yelled at the runners behind, and they came on, arms and legs working frantically but approaching with fantastic, dreamlike slowness.

  But they were streaming under the half-descended door, ducking as Redblade sagged a little, and a little more, and then the only men in the corridor were collapsed far back.

  “They’re past,” Horn said.

  Redblade released his tortured grip and threw himself forward. The door thundered against the floor.

  As Horn drew close to Sair, he realized how very old and tired the man was. His blue eyes peered dazedly at the men milling around him. His mouth opened and shut, but no sound came out. But Horn recognized him.

  This was the Liberator, hope of the Empire’s enslaved billions. It would be tragic if age and imprisonment had broken him beyond usefulness. Even broken, Horn told himself, Sair was a symbol, and symbols live on when the reality which fashioned them has disintegrated.

  “You and you and you,” Horn said, grabbing out of the passing throng three of the men who had helped in the assault. “This is Peter Sair. The Liberator. Guard him. If he’s not safe when I come back, I’ll kill you.”

  They stared at him, nodded, and turned toward the doorway. As Horn looked back, he saw them leading the old man into his room again.

  Horn sprinted until he was beside Redblade. There were others ahead, fanning out down the corridor that had turned a right angle. There was a doorway open on the left. Men hurled themselves through it—and died. More poured in; bullets whined through the packed bodies, but a few of them lived. The sounds of guns and splintering furniture and the shouts and screams of men were a cacophony of violence from the room. When Redblade and Horn reached the door, the room was quiet. It streamed with blood like an abattoir; the air steamed with still-warm flesh violently torn apart. A dozen ragged men trotted out of the silent barracks with guns in their hands.

  Horn tried to split them up into groups of armed and unarmed men, but they were beyond direction. The fighting raged ahead. By the time they reached the end of that corridor, they had lost at least fifty men. In the battle for the Tube room, the original three or four hundred was cut to less than a hundred. They were all armed, all sound except for minor flesh wounds, and all fighters.

  Only one scene stood out clearly to Horn in the whole kaleidoscope battle that shifted and blurred with meaningless colors. He saw Redblade throw open the door to the Warden’s office. The pirate stood there, feet spread wide, blazing eyes fixed on the Warden’s whitening face. Redblade roared, dropped his pistol as if he had forgotten it, and charged toward the Warden. He pawed frantically in a drawer, afraid to take his eyes away from Redblade long enough to find his gun.

  Redblade slid across the wide desk and hit him. The gun spun away. The Warden staggered back. He recovered quickly. He was fully as tall as Redblade and perhaps even heavier. It was not all fat, either. They came together like wild bulls. The impact shook the room. Their arms worked for a hold. The Warden’s knees came up like pistons, but Redblade twisted his body aside and got one massive arm around the Warden’s waist. The other was under the Warden’s chin, pushing backward, the outstretched fingers working into the Warden’s face, reaching toward the eyes.

  The Warden’s fists thundered against Redblade’s chest and belly for a moment, but the pirate ignored them. He pulled the man close with his arm while he pushed the chin away with the other hand. The Warden grabbed desperately for the hand under his chin, clamped it in two big hands and yanked at it, but he was off-balance now, his back arched, his feet straining to stay on the floor. It was too late. A moment later his neck snapped.

  Redblade let the body fall away. It fell like a doll stuffed with rags and poorly stuffed, at that, because it was all crooked. He looked down at it for a moment while his chest heaved once. He looked up and laughed; it was a joyous bellow.

  “I’ve dreamed about that,” he shouted. “He always hated a big man. Maybe he was afraid one of them would be bigger and stronger than he was.”

  The fortress was almost quiet. The sounds of fighting had died away. Quickly Horn explained what had to be done.

  “Try to get the men organized. Get as many as you can who will follow us to Eron and take our orders. Any of them who won’t, let them stay here. If you have any trouble, shoot straight.”

  Redblade nodded; Horn whirled and started away.

  Sair was sitting in the little room. It was bare of everything except necessities: a metal-framed bed, a chair, a table, toilet facilities starkly in sight. A slot at the bottom of the door provided space for a food tray to be passed through. The Warden had allowed the old man paper and pen; several sheets on the table were covered with hieroglyphics of some kind. As Horn entered, Sair was eyeing the three silent guards with suspicion. He swung toward Horn, grabbed the sheets of paper, folded them, and thrust them away inside his flimsy coat.

  The three men were on their feet.

  “It’s all over,” Horn said. “Report to Redblade in th
e Tube room.”

  “Damn you, Horn,” one of them said bitterly, “you made us miss all the fun.”

  “Don’t complain,” Horn told them. “Two of you would be dead by now. Out.”

  He motioned with the gun. They left quickly, and Horn was alone with Sair. The old man’s head was shaking. It looked like a senile tremor.

  “Who are you?” Sair asked. His voice was soft, hesitant, and old.

  “Alan Horn. A prisoner, like you. We’ve conquered Vantee. We’ve taken the fortress.”

  “I shall write an epic,” Sair said. “And now?”

  “We’re going back to Eron.”

  “Ah-h-h,” Sair sighed. He folded his veined, wrinkled hands across his paunch.

  “We want you to come with us.”

  Sair looked up slowly. “What is there for an old man on Eron?”

  “Rebellion,” Horn said. “Only you can unite it, make it work, keep it from reducing the Empire to savagery.”

  Sair shook his head, and it rocked back and forth until Horn thought it would never stop. “My fighting days are over. I’m an old man. Let younger men do what they must. I’m finished, worn-out, half-dead.”

  “It’s a job no one else can do,” Horn said grimly. “It’s not fighting we want. It’s your presence, your mind.” What’s left of it, he thought.

  Sair’s head continued to rock, but his eyes brightened just a little. “Rebellion, you said? Against Eron? It’s hard to believe.”

  “Kohlnar was assassinated. The Directors began fighting among themselves. When Duchane elected himself General Manager, the lower levels rose against him. What’s happened since, I don’t know. We’ve got to get back—quickly.”

  “Kohlnar dead? He was a great man. It’s hard to think of him as dead.”

  Horn stared at Sair without understanding. Kohlnar? A great man? “But he conquered the Cluster and condemned you to Vantee!”

  “Still, a great man. He kept the Empire alive long after it should have died. It was our misfortune that he was faithful to a dying dream.” Sair’s head had stopped rocking. He seemed steadier, more alive.