Mutiny in Space

by Avram Davidson

  The character of the land was undergoing a gradual change. Trees seemed to grow at regular intervals, to be all of a kind. Water ran alongside what was now a definite path, in a straight channel. Groups of awks were met more frequently. Every now and then Little Joe broke into a trot, his grass buskins flying, his arms beckoning. They were heading uphill when he stopped, suddenly, and held up his hand. A second passed; another one. He muttered something to himself, on a questioning note — an uneasy note. Jory found himself straining his ears. Wordlessly, they all drew together.

  Then it came. The sound of a rattle. The sound of stamping feet. The sound of metal beating on stone.

  Little Joe whirled around, his face full of dismay. Speech poured forth from him, his hands pushed at the air. Plainly, he was gesturing them back, toward the wilder land below.

  Rack! Rack! Rack-rack-rack!

  Rack! Rack! Rack-rack-rack!

  Without a word, they turned and fled. The clang of metal on stone ceased, abruptly. The noise of stamping feet grew duller. But the rattle grew louder. Always, as they ran, the sound of the rattle grew louder. Rack! Rack! Rack-rack-rack!

  Rack! Rack! Rack-rack-rack!

  Rack! Rack! Rack-rack —

  The last note did not come, or, if it came, it was drowned out by the howl of many voices. Rond gestured his men to a halt, and Jory, as he turned around, breath catching painfully in his chest, saw their pursuers as they poured over the crest of the hill.

  • • •

  “Take cover,” Rond directed. “Mr. Cane, fire a charge in front of them.”

  Jory Cane’s first impression, as he raised the flare-shooter, was of a horde of giant insects, in scarlet and black carapaces, fanning down the hill. He made a rapid, random calculation, fired once, turned and dived into the clump of woods. He was fleetingly aware of lanky, tall Levvis crawling on knees and elbows … and of Little Joe, crouched on his haunches, face buried in his arms.

  Making himself as small as possible, he moved around cautiously and parted the thicket just enough to peer through. The flare had hit halfway up the slope and the dense black smoke, which made a thickening column as it rose, billowed up without ceasing, like a cone inverted on its nose. It would do so, he knew, for hour after hour. If the rest of this part of the continent didn’t know where we were, he thought, it will now. Every scoutcraft for hundreds of miles —

  And then he realized.

  Whatever these things were, they were certainly non-Technic. No culture with aircraft would make this kind of attack on land. He realized, too, what Rond’s purpose had been in ordering the charge to be fired. It had landed, and flared, directly in the path of the attack. And it had quite disrupted it. The scarlet and black forms milled in noisy confusion. Then one of them darted off at right angles to the smoke. A second one followed, then a third, then all of them. Cutting across the hillside, they would — any moment now — make a left wheel and attack down-slope again. Jory lifted the shooter, fired again.

  They had started the howl again, but when the second burst of smoke arose, the noise stopped, abruptly. In the silence Jory could hear one of the men quietly praying. The insect-like figures scurried about like ants; then, still like ants, they came together in a knot. Most of them. One broke away and, followed by another, but by no more, came charging down the rise between the two fan-shaped columns of smoke.

  Howling, howling and leaping, and waving long and glittering things above their heads, they came. Scarlet, black, scarlet and black, scarlet on black, black on scarlet, howling and leaping, running, ever closer, closer, they came. Someone screamed, “Shoot them, shoot them, Captain — please!”

  Jory once more raised his hand. He had no idea how much force a flare-charge carried, or if he could hit his target. If he could at least knock one of the things off balance … he hefted his makeshift spear, sighted as best he could down the sightless barrel of the flare-shooter —

  — howling, running, scarlet —

  “ — please — ”

  — leaping, and in mid-air twisting, crumpling, falling, broken —

  — one —

  — and the other coming on —

  — fired —

  — down on one knee, back on one hand, thrusting, thrusting, scarlet gauntlet, black-palmed paw, thrusting now with both hands at the spurting smoke —

  “One for each of us, Mister Cane,” said the voice of Captain Rond. “Take this one alive, smartly, now, men … smartly!”

  It had the smoking flare caught up in one waving, smoking paw, now suddenly torn off … and then the men were on it, bringing it down, down, and Rond was shouting — “Alive! Alive! Not even hurt!” And Jory on it, too, staring into the hideous mask, the circles, triangles, crescents, whorls and loops, all scarlet and black, black on scarlet. Both his hands were on it, [knowing (somehow), though later knowing he did not know how he knew in that moment when there was no knowledge at all and only instinct — ]

  — and pulled —

  — the men yelling, the thing writhing —

  — for one flash of a second his own head thrust up and seeing the horde pouring back over the crest of the hill and the other thing lying fallen and broken —

  — and pulled — and pulled it off —

  — and looked down into her face —

  three

  HER RED-GOLD HAIR HAD COME UNCOILED. HER LEAF-COLORED eyes stared at him. Her mouth had been bruised and a tiny trickle of blood ran from one corner. Still, Jory stared. Awkwardly, he brushed with his sleeve at the blood.

  Said Levvis, “What do you think, Mr. Cane? Little Joe’s mother?”

  “Sure looks like him,” Mars said.

  And Duston wondered aloud if she thought they were kidnapers. “No wonder they come after us like that … I don’t blame them … now, probably the other kid gave the alarm.”

  And still Jory stared.

  “We’ve got to get out of this,” Captain Rond’s voice was at his ear. “This is a very unpromising beginning…. Tie the woman’s hand, some of you. There — cut off those tapes on her … clothes — no — armor. Gently, gently. I want bonds, Storm, not tourniquets. Ah. Good. And now, where is the boy?”

  Little Joe raised his head when they called to him. He had not been touched, apparently. He looked over the deserted field of battle, gazed in wonder at the fan-shaped smoke, still rising black and thick. “Ahhh …” at sight of the dead warrior and “Ohhh …” at sight of the living one.

  She was on her knees now, not resisting being bound, no longer looking at Jory. Her eyes were on something else. Jory followed them. There … lying on the ground … that shining thing she had so fiercely — he did not doubt, proudly, too — waved above her head in that wild and enraged attack. How it had glittered!

  Her sword. She spoke. It was difficult to credit this same clear, full — one could almost say civil — voice, with having uttered those wild howls.

  She spoke, her head bowed down. Then she lifted it, spoke again, in obvious surprise. Little Joe came up to Captain Rond, took his hand, pointed to the sword. Then child and woman spoke together, but without looking at one another. Now she gazed at each of them in turn. For a moment her look was scornful, then this gave way to confusion. She gave a gasp, then shrugged, and once again bowed her head.

  “I think,” said Rond, slowly, “that I … or we … are supposed to do something about that sword. I know that swords were of great significance in pre-T times on our own Homeworld, but …”

  The woman, finally mastering the notion that they really did not know what to do, looked at Little Joe, and, with a sound too curt for a word, indicated to him to show them. By means of gestures with pantomime, but without ever touching the sword or any of the martial gear, the child directed Captain Rond. Rond took up the sword with both his hands (“Rather a good steel, considering … I wonder if it might have been coked? If they know coal, they might know oil.”) and plunged it into the ground. Upon the hilt they placed her mask and helmet, a
nd layed her gauntlets, crossed, before it.

  She looked on, nodding, with a deep sound, once or twice. Once or twice her face twitched. But that was all. Then she had them do the same for the sword of the dead woman — for that one was a woman too — older, gaunt and grim, gray in her russet coils — but a woman. Dead …

  Lockharn said, suddenly, “Why, she don’t care about the body at all. It’s just the sword and gear she’s worried about. I suppose it’s their custom, but — ”

  Rond answered him. “You may pray, if you wish, Systemsman Lockharn.” He did not give him much time for it, though. He touched Little Joe’s cheek, looked into his eyes, and said, “What now? And where? But it must be quick.”

  Before the place was out of sight, Jory Cane turned his head to look. It seemed to him that two sentinels remained, heads alone protruding from the ground, heads bowed upon crossed hands.

  • • •

  Once again Little Joe’s grass buskins flew and they trotted after him. The woman made no resistance, her face showed no expression. Parts of her curious black and scarlet armor flapped loosely as she jogged along, where the tapes had been cut away to bind her hands. They came upon a road paved with broad, flat stones, crossed it in a moment and plunged into the woods on the other side; but not before Jory had time to reflect that it must have been here that the attackers had stamped the metal butts of their spears … and, as though confirming the source of the rythmic clangor, several of the spears lay where they had fallen … or been dropped. Other items of equipment lay scattered, but he didn’t stop to examine them.

  “Hey, look at this thing, Mr. Cane,” Storm said.

  “No time — ”

  “All right. I’ve got it — them. Look … what do you — ?”

  It took Jory a moment to identify the articles, even when he held them in his hand. One was a crossbow, rich in inlays of scarlet and black, with a touch or two of gold. The other was a leather pouch with tassels of the same two major colors. He squeezed it as he ran. “Pellets,” he said. “I don’t know what for.”

  “Change a letter or two,” Rond said. “Bullets. It’s a bullet-crossbow. They didn’t all shoot darts — that’s not the word — bolts … or arrows. Give me one.”

  The pellets or bullets were of some dull gray metal, and seemed to have been cast in a mold. Rond, running as effortlessly as a man half his age, bit into it; held it up for Jory to see the marks of his teeth. “Lead … that could be useful, you know.”

  Then he said no more, but saved his breath while they rested. Rond spoke into his pectoral, gave Crammer a brief report. Then they were off once more — deeper, always deeper into the woods, always higher into the hills. Animals — always six-legged — twittered or called or sang in the trees, or scuttled on rushing feet into the underbrush. There was much thicket here, and no awks grazed to keep it down. Eventually they made their way single file along a narrow trail. Then even the trail faded out. There were fewer trees and more rocks, huge boulders of a glossy blue-gray slate, and once, but only once, something with six long and slender legs went leaping from rock to rock and dodged away from sight.

  They were walking by that time, leaning heavily upon the hafts of their improvised spears. “I’m about bushed,” someone muttered. And someone else said, “Look — ” and pointed.

  Two great broad bands of smoke ascended into the air.

  “In front of us now … we must’ve circled around,” Levvis said.

  “ ‘Spiraled’ would be a better word … let’s get on. Oh — Mr. First, I think you might cut those tapes on the girl’s wrists. I don’t think she’ll be giving us any trouble.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  He unfastened his knife. She watched him as he came up, then, quite wordlessly, lifted her head, exposing her throat, and leaned forward. It was quite obvious that she expected to be killed.

  “No, Sis,” said Jory. “Not this time. And never by me.” He cut her bonds, then cut off the tapes from each wrist. She gave a long, deep sigh, and he realized that she had been holding her breath. On an impulse, he took up the severed tapes from where they lay on the blue-green moss, and awkwardly began to try to fasten her armor where it hung loose. But as soon as she saw what he was trying to do, she stopped him, turned around, and indicated with her hands the buckles and loops of the entire suit. He could not manage. Obviously no one could get in or out of such a costume alone. He took the knife and slashed.

  “There is no time for that now, Mr. First,” Rond called from up hill. “Later — should she be willing — I have no objection.”

  Jory felt himself flush angrily, and then blush. In a moment the ties were loose, and she stepped out of the armor, letting it fall. She had on a kilted robe something like Little Joe’s, but of plain white, shorter, and corded around the waist. Not giving any further glance at her mail, she started up after the others. After a moment she looked back. Her green eyes seemed expressionless. He snapped his knife back onto its staff, and followed.

  • • •

  “A cave,” said Rond. He seemed deeply disappointed. “Lower and lower — troglodytes. This is not good.”

  Jory, still feeling irritable, said, “We haven’t had any reason to expect a Guild-type installation, sir.”

  Rond did not reply. Slowly he sat down on the soft sand of the floor of the cavern. Slowly he drew open the power-pack in his emergency kit. “Which one of you has the therapy unit? Let me have it, Mars.” He fastened attachments to the pack, to his pectoral, to his head, and delved into the therapy unit.

  Little Joe came and stood by him, fondly, but Rond didn’t notice.

  “Wish you’d have a look at her mouth, sir,” Jory said. “It’s beginning to bleed again.”

  Rond grunted. “Let it bleed. This is more important. Maybe. If she is typical of her race, then language pick-up may be of no use at all. Still … bring her here, Cane.”

  What does he expect me to do — drag her? Cane’s thoughts were sullen; for a moment he felt he could understand why Rond had lost his ship. He touched her arm and waved his hand toward Rond. Her skin was warm. Calmly and with dignity, she moved forward to an experience she could not have been expected to comprehend.

  • • •

  “It does not matter,” she said. “Of course, I know how to use the bullet-bow. It’s just a weapon. And this” — she gestured toward the brace of game grilling over the fire Little Joe had made and was tending — “this is just food. I haven’t been used to eating, myself, the bag of the hunt. We hunted only for sport, threw the catch to the servitors. But now it’s all different, you see. It doesn’t matter.

  “Nothing of that sort matters now….”

  The firelight danced with ruddy shadows on her face. She had two or three of the lead balls in her hand, shook them together, absently. They rattled faintly, reminding Jory of the great war-rattle sounding — was it only this afternoon? It seemed long, long ago. Perhaps she, too, was reminded. She dropped the shots back in the pouch.

  “Why doesn’t it matter, Lady-Narra?” asked Rond.

  She put out her hand in a curious gesture. “Because,” she said. “Because I am no longer a Great Woman. Because my sword is dead….”

  “Yes,” said Little Joe, knees up to his chin, his hands clasping his legs. “Sword-Narra is dead. But, Madame … an honorable death and burial.”

  “Be quiet, child,” said Rond.

  “I am not a child, Father. I am a man.”

  Impatiently, “Yes, yes.” To the woman, “I understand. We defeated your people. And made you prisoner. So your sword is dead. I see.”

  Her hand sliced vertically across the air in the gesture they already had learned was negative.

  “No, you don’t really see at all. It has nothing to do with their retreat. Sword-Narra touched the ground. It is dead, it is dead! I am not really even Lady-Narra now, for I got name and title when I got Sword-Narra from the hands of my Dame. I was Maid Litha, then — before then. By rights I should
be Litha again. Not even ‘Maid’ — just Litha. And even if I should ever get another sword — it is possible that I might — then I would be another person, with another name.” Rond asked what the other name would be, and she made a slight, impatient gesture. “How can I say? The Dame would consult the Elders and they would select the name.”

  Jory said, “The same name, then, for Lady and for Sword?”

  Her look had something of surprise in it, and something of gratitude, that he should understand.

  “Yes,” she said. “The same name, for Sword and Lady are but two aspects of the same person. In a way it would be easier a second time. While my Sword was being forged, I was being trained. The training would be only a formality a second time…. But, in another way, it would be more difficult. Infinitely more difficult. It would be hard to find a leader who would be willing to take on someone who had suffered her Sword to die. Perhaps … perhaps some leader of the Border Marches, a remote and dangerous fief, short of warriors, where custom and discipline are less refined. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

  The fire was falling into embers. Most of the men, tired out by the long day’s flight, had fallen asleep. Little Joe’s eyes began to fall shut. He opened them, now, with effort.

  “You could become an outlaw,” he said.

  Her laugh was short. “Yes,” she said. “I, who was a swordswoman of Dame Hanna herself, the High Keeper, I can become an outlaw. Plunder the trading merchants, rob the tax collectors, take tribute from the farmers. Live in this cave as I am sure other outlaws have. I could have looked forward, perhaps, to my own fief someday — to glory, honor, husbands, and pretty boys. To daughters of my own.

  “But — now?” She shrugged. Then some sudden thought tugged at a corner of her mouth. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “I will become an outlaw and live in this cave, and you, Rahan, whom the Giants call Little Joe, shall be my pretty boy! Or my husband, if you like,” she concluded, indifferently. Obviously, she was not serious.