“No … the dolls will fool them. It was a good idea — and yours.”
She smiled, peered through the window. “Too bad that you must hide inside. Really, they are putting their hearts into it out there. You’d think it was Lukanahan’s Day, or Solstice…. ah, the music! Let me show you, Giant, how we dance to this tune in the forests. Put your arms … so. And I put mine … so. Now, this way. And back. And to the right … Very good, indeed. It is most curious, dancing with a man. We can’t dance with our own, you know. They are very dear, some of them, but it had never occurred to me how small, how very, very small they were. Now forward … Are you finding it as pleasant as I am? No, no, you can’t. You have danced with women your size before, but never until now have I had the arms of a Great Man around me.”
He found his feet adapting quickly to the simple step, alien as the music was. “What?” he asked. “Have none of our crewmen answered questions for you?”
“No,” she said. “I am not so eager. I am patient.”
He stopped, abruptly. “Shall I reward your patience?” he murmured. He pressed his lips upon hers. She sighed, deeply. And then the music stopped in mid-note. The shouting and the screams began. Nelsa tore herself from his arms. “Remember!” he called to her as she ran. “Remember!”
At least twenty men in baggy and soiled Guild uniforms had burst into the circle of light. The small men who had been dancing there fled, shouting. The invaders stopped a moment, looked down the street. “There are the women!” one of them cried. And the pursuit began. The women screamed, fell back, but not far. The small men milled around, noisily. Deeper and deeper into the throng the crewmen pushed, laying about them with the metal bars they used as clubs. Jory, peering through the partly closed window, decided that Blaise Darnley must be keeping the lock on the laser-guns, issuing them only to “authorized expeditions” — of which this was patently not one.
The mutineers passed closely by, faces intent and furious. And the women still retreated, still screamed shrilly, still moved none too fast. And then the high, piercing whistle of the arptor-bone … And Nelsa and her friends appeared from their hiding holes, in their black armor, brandishing the weapons retrieved from where they had deposited them after taking refuge at Court. The decoy women uttered their final scream, and turned to watch the fight. The mutineers were outclassed as far as weapons were concerned, but they had the superiority of numbers. They beat back the attack, were in turn beaten back, were harried by the unexpected assaults of swarms of little men who poured from the side-streets and houses. To and fro the struggle went, with shouts and screams and blood in the dim glow of the lamps and the guttering light of the torches.
Jory wondered if he was going to have to stay, lurking, inside the house forever. Then, finally, his ears heard what he was waiting for. He rushed out into the night. One of the mutineers lay in the gutter, bleeding, motionless. Jory stooped, snatched up the metal bar lying by the flaccid hand, and ran forward, shouting.
Again, the shrill whistle of the arptor bone, imitating the cry of the beast itself … arp-tor! … arp-tor! The small men vanished away into the darkness again. The fighting women melted away into the shadows, one by one. The mutineers hesitated, turned to check the source of the cries now echoing in the all but deserted street. They did not at first identify Jory, still wearing the robe of royal blue which the tailors of the Holy Court had fashioned for him. They huddled, confused, at the lower end of the street.
Then came the sound of running feet.
From out of the darkness of the upper end of the street poured — as Jory had calculated they eventually would and must — the reinforcements which had until now been lying in wait outside the walls of Tula. The second group of mutineers came hurtling down the way. And Jory stood, as if confused, between the two groups. Too late, he made for the safety of the doorways. In a moment they were upon him, bearing him to the ground.
A voice said, “Who in the hell is this?”
And another said, “I’ve seen that face … he’s no native….” Astonished, triumphant, then: “It’s the First! The First! It’s Jory Cane!”
They were far from gentle with him. No traces of past loyalty kept them from killing him, then and there, as the last of the torches sank down into smoking ambers — he owed his life to one thing alone. “Blaise’ll want him,” someone said. The others drew back, reluctantly. “Blaise wants too damn much,” said another.
“You want to tell him that?”
“Sure, I’ll tell him that.”
“Aaa … So you didn’t get no women?”
Sullenly, accusing and excusing, they tore the sleeves from his robe, bound his arms and hands and hobbled his feet, and led him away with them. One small note of cheer they seemed to get from it all. “You must’ve thought we wouldn’t see through your scheme, hey, Cane? Figured you’d really drygulch us. Maybe you aren’t as bright as you thought, First Officer.”
As they dragged him, stumbling painfully, through the darkness spottilly lit by their belt-lamps, Jory thought, Maybe not. Rond didn’t think much of his First Officer’s grounding in the classics of the pre-Technic Era, for instance. But Jory knew something of a few of them, and one line kept repeatedly running through his mind.
Don’t throw me in the briar patch, Br’er Wolf!
nine
THE WARNING NODES ON THEIR UNIFORMS BUZZED, telling them they were near the guard-wires … guard-wires, Jory noted, set too close to the ship. Was Darnley nervous? Or just careless? “What’s the password?” someone wanted to know, as they halted.
“I dunno.”
“Free ship … isn’t it?”
“Free ship was yesterday.”
“Well, what the hell, try it anyway.”
They did, and it worked. They passed through safely, and in a few minutes came to the lighted circle in which Persephone sat. Jory’s heart beat faster at the sight of her. If only she could be recaptured! But, fast as the thought was, objections came crowding just as fast. The task was impossible, probably. Even if it succeeded, how could the six men and two officers take her up safely and bring her through successfully? Or, how could they trust any of the mutineers? The answer to both questions was — they could not.
There was excitement at the ramp.
“Hey, the liberty party’s back … Aaah, that ain’t no woman!”
“That’s for sure. But look who it is!”
“Jory Cane!”
“Some people never learn, huh?”
The signs of slackness and ill-discipline lay everywhere around, from the unkempt clothing to the littered passageways. “Where’s Blaise right now?” one of Jory’s captors asked.
“Where is he usually? Up in officers’ country, laying plans of glory.”
The men sniggered, jerked him along.
“Excuse us, First Officer, the side-boys are busy right now, but maybe the Bosun himself will pipe you aboard.” Some of the light-units had gone dead, others blinked warningly. No one seemed to be doing any repairs. Men strolled around listlessly, not even bothering to look up when informed of Jory’s capture. Others laughed or jeered, offered him drinks. Here and there groups or single crewmen were busy boozing it up, and once or twice he heard female voices. Evidently not all the captive women were finding captivity unpleasant — which was to be expected.
Up in what had been officers’ country some measure of discipline still prevailed. Guards patrolled the corridors, and there was less dirt visible. What was left of the liberty party — most of it had dropped out on the way — turned Jory over to the guards.
“We figured Blaise would want him.”
“Probably. Okay — ”
“We want to see what Blaise is going to do with him.”
“He’ll send you a letter. On your way.”
Muttering and scowling, but with eyes on the guards’ guns, the others took themselves off. Jory was marched along the once-familiar passage by the silent guards. He did not know the men personally,
but recognized the type: men who smiled seldom, had no friends, enjoyed cleaning their weapons more than almost anything else, enjoyed using them even more than cleaning them. Blaise had chosen his Praetorians well.
The tramp of feet echoed. Someone came suddenly out of an open door and all but ran into Jory — someone in the filthiest uniform he had yet seen. His exclamation, “Mr. Stone!” was a mixture of astonishment, pity, and revulsion. The guards halted.
Aysil Stone peered at him, tried to focus his red, dimmed, filmy eyes. A light of recognition shone, and something which might have been meant for a smile struggled a moment on his bloated face, then gave up.
“Jory Cane …” His drunkard’s breath stank worse than ever. Then the guards pushed him aside. There was not even contempt in the act. He might have been an object. They pulled at Jory’s arms, and he followed. Behind him, he heard the Leading Officer say, in a low, low voice, “See … you got to have the breaks …”
Not surprisingly, they halted in front of the Captain’s quarters. Surprisingly, this area was immaculately clean. A voice behind the door asked the ancient question, “Who goes there?”
“Duty guard, sir, with a prisoner.” The door opened, and the oddest sight Jory had yet seen in Persephone stood before him. He recognized the man at once, but did not know, had never known, his name. The rudiments of a handsome face were there, but they had somehow been pulled too long, twisted too much askew. The result was slightly grotesque. He wore an officer’s uniform which did not fit him. Two guns were at his hips, which were disproportionately low in relation to his height, and an elaborately ornamental dagger hung from his belt.
“I relieve you of your prisoner,” said the masquerader.
He drew one of his guns, gestured Jory inside. They passed through the outer cabins and halted outside the office. “Sir, request permission to come in with a prisoner.”
“Granted.”
Blaise Darnley sat at the Captain’s desk. His face was yellower then ever, and under the blue-white lights it even looked a trifle green. His hands lay half-open, thumbs up, before him — yellow-green hands, tufted with sparse bristles of black hair. There was a slight gummy deposit in one corner of the too wide mouth. He looked at Jory with wary interest, without anger or amiability. The effect was somehow of a huge and unfamiliar animal; it was not pleasant.
“Well …” said Darnley. Then, “I was forgetting introductions. Former First Officer Jory Cane — Brevet Lieutenant-Commander Brend Wace.” There had been neither brevet rank nor lieutenant-commanders in space service for centuries, but the 3-D costume dramas (upon which poor Wace had certainly drawn for his own getup) were still full of both. The two mutineers looked at him carefully, defying him to laugh or even display amusement.
He inclined his head just the slightest and said, “Sir.”
Darnley and Wace seemed to relax the least bit. “Mannerly fellow,” said the former. “You always were. Junked your uniform, I see. Gone native. Good idea. Squaw-man? Well, never mind. Where are you at and what are you up to?”
Addressing his remarks to Darnley, but intending them for Wace, Jory said, “I cannot tell you, Bosun. Loyalty to my men and my Commanding Officer forbids me.”
Wace’s eyes widened; he gave a little nod of approval.
Darnley, who certainly understood what Jory was up to, simply ignored it. “Too bad I didn’t have time to work on you and win you over, First,” he said. His rumbling voice seemed a little tired. “Instead of letting the old man bamboozle me into giving him and the other jackasses the pettyboat. I could use that boat now. And I could use you, now, too — hey, Commander.”
Wace nodded, violently. Jory said, “Thank you, gentlemen. But the carefree life in the Cluster doesn’t appeal to me.”
Darnley looked at him carefully. “It doesn’t appeal to us, either. You’re no fool. You know what would happen. These slobs would blow their money in about a year’s time — less, in some cases — and then they’d be on the beach. Looking for us. Wanting us to support them. Mad at us for still having something. No, no. That’s no good.”
Again he paused. Jory said nothing. He had a growing impression, not based on anything Darnley had yet said, of the man’s alienation. The human and familiar in him seemed submerged, replaced largely by something Jory was not able to identify and could but partly sense. Darnley resumed his discourse. The crewman thought he just wanted to find treasure here, precious cargo. In a way he did. Not for export — that was the old way of doing things, the way of the Guilds — buying, shipping, selling — out. The whole of Valentine’s Planet was one big treasure. Why look elsewhere? He hadn’t found out much yet about the other continents and island groups. But this one right here had the best, the toughest class of people.
What if the ruling caste were women? They could be used the same as men. With the right man behind them they could take over the whole planet.
“And I,” said Darnley, flatly, as if communicating some minor but incontestable piece of information, “am the right man.”
Jory did not bother to deny it. It occurred to him, with great force, that Darnley was the right man … if “right” could apply to the conquest of a planet.
Darnley went on, in his flat, echoing voice. Those ancient pre-T people, Pizarro and Cortez, hadn’t they conquered a continent apiece? They had, and with only a hundred men between them. “I could do the same,” he said, “if I had a hundred men — if they were a hundred good men. I’ve got more bodies, but that’s all they are … bodies. They had a chance, but I see it was no use.” He pondered a moment. “No use,” he repeated; and Jory for a moment felt his bowels turn, thinking of how easily Darnley would get rid of those useless “bodies” when he was ready.
“Never mind,” Darnley continued. “There are other ways. I’ll get the power. But, you know, First, there are more kinds of power than physical force. What people do depends on what they believe. There aren’t many men like me. You know that. Wace knows it. The people here on planet Valentine will all know it, soon. They won’t worship this midget anymore, Cane. They’ll worship me, Cane. Some of them are doing it already. I can feel it. Can you feel it, Wace?”
Jory didn’t hear Wace’s reply. He felt cold. There was a more than physical fear, too, and that was what he was feeling now. The alien thing inside Blaise Darnley was visible to him now. And, despite all he could do, he shuddered.
Blaise said, “You’re feeling it now, too, Cane. Don’t resist it. Ride with it. There’s nothing for you with the Guild anymore. Even if you could get back. You can’t.”
His voice went on and on, then it stopped. Then it said, “You won’t be stubborn. Not for long. You can be a king, possess countries and castles, slaves, women, power, glory, anything you want. You’ll come around. Don’t take too long.”
Wace took him and led him out. The door closed on the no-longer human thing which spoke with Blaise Darnley’s voice. “I’m cutting your bonds now,” Wace said. “Don’t try to escape. Remember what he said: ‘It was a mistake to leave you alive, but that can be rectified … one way or another.’ You better pick the right way.”
The guards took him, discussed among themselves where to put him, finally took him off to what had once been a chart room. There was a couch and a cloak, stacks of rations, and water.
“Blaise wouldn’t like you to try and escape,” one of them said. “Personally, I wouldn’t mind.” The look he gave him left no doubt that such an escape was not intended to succeed.
• • •
Eventually, Jory came to wonder if Blaise had not just forgotten about him. Days passed. He spent his time scanning the charts. The long-familiar names, with their power to summon up the past … Humboldt’s Two Worlds and Hudson’s Sun, the P’vong Cluster and Island L’vong, Harrison Binary, Trismegistus, and the blue-white and multitudinous stars of the Lace Pattern … Verdanth, Toranth, and Saramanth, Sartissa, Larnissa, Tarntissa, and the Moieties of Larn … no. No, that was wrong. Those names had n
othing to do with the Lace Pattern. They belonged here, right here, on planet Valentine. They —
It was then that Jory decided two things. One: he had been on the ship too long. Two: if his being here was to accomplish anything at all, it had better not wait upon Blaise Darnley’s megalomaniac pleasure any further. What did the names on the star charts mean to him any more? Island L’vong was as far off now as the never-seen Homeworld; distant, distant Trismegistus, whose black skies held but two stars, which the autochthons believed to be the eyes of God — what was Trismegistus to him now? As much — and as little — as the Directorate of the Guild of the Third Academy. The once-august phrase now seemed to echo in a hollow and an empty chamber. They did not matter.
What mattered to him now? Answers crowded, thick and many. O-Narra mattered, Nelsa mattered, Little King Mukanahan and tall Levvis, the anguish in the eyes of Red Larn, the fate of the towns and cities of the Dales of Lan. Planet Valentine mattered now, and almost nothing else!
And here he stood, locked up and useless….
The door, of course, was locked. That way out was no way out. He heard a voice, looked around to see its source, realized it was his own, paused to listen. “The way out is the way in and the way in is the way out …” What had he meant by it? What other way in was there, except the door? What came into the room, besides himself? Nothing, no one. Unless …
Water came in. And air came in — and, hence, had to go out again.
He scanned, very carefully, almost cunningly (for who knew but what Blaise Darnley might not have overheard?), the walls, one by one. There were the water fixtures plainly visible. But that way out was no way out for a man. The air? No visible vents. But vents there had to be. He took a chair, piled another chair on it, climbed, felt the bulkheads and overheads as far as his hands could reach. Nothing. He climbed down, moved the chairs, climbed again, felt again — and still nothing.
His neck and back began to ache. Once, he fell, lay in terror lest someone, alerted by the noise, come in. But no one came. He piled the chairs and began again. The overhead of the chartroom was, appropriately enough, one great chart itself, showing the sectors. He looked at it, dully. From this angle there seemed to be a slight distortion. In fact, from every angle, there seemed to be a slight distortion. Surely the Lace Pattern, despite its name, was by no means so symmetrical? Slowly, plainfully, he dragged his chairs over and under; painfully, slowly, he climbed once more and groped his hands over — no, no. That was wrong. He took his hands away, spit on them, rubbed them together, then — holding them palms up — a few inches below the inset chart, moved them slowly along. And so, at last, he felt the cool breath of the moving air as it entered and as it left, circulated by the great lungs of the great ship itself.
Mutiny in Space Page 10
