by Hal Annas
He had no doubt that these were the stars the witch had referred to. The yellow one meant his tall, blonde, stately mother, Aleta, Queen of Unor. The galaxy had indeed become divided because of her. Mighty ships had burned and spread ruin on the planets.
The red dwarf meant his auburn-haired sister, slender, blue eyed, sensitive Aline, who had been instrumental in bringing about a truce which might result in an enduring peace.
A sense of foreboding came. On the visicom, shadowy and mysterious, was the dark star that held the system together. It was closer than either of the others. It reflected back dark rays the effects of which had never been clearly understood. About it were innumerable gravity standouts which prevented the ellipses of the orbits of outer planets from becoming too extended.
The system was neutral, inhabited by unwarlike Egs, but had been the scene of more bloodshed than any other. It was the key point in the spaceways which reached from the Solar System to SYZ, to Eg, and on out to colonies toward Andromeda.
He wondered why it held so much interest for every race. He’d heard it said that all life had begun here. Its history had been lost in the innumerable wars that had rolled over it, but discoveries from time to time indicated a high degree of civilization and advanced science millennia before Novakkan history began in the Lexn System.
He stirred uneasily as these thoughts reminded him of the dark girl aboard his own ship. Not in memory had there been another like her. Orphan, waif, defiant captive. Sultry, passionate, bewitching when she sought to hold him on Mallika. Mysterious. She remained aboard ship despite his order to put her off. And she held the key to the strange deaths and events which had brought his armada closer to destruction than the enemy fleet.
He experienced an uneasy feeling that hidden eyes were watching him. And as he turned from visicom to port he saw a bright star in the Constellation Lyra fade and vanish. It brought a sense of awe. He’d scorched planets, spread ruin; but some gigantic force, beside which his armada would be a mite, had snuffed out a star.
Inside the ship, he found an air of unreal quiet. Novakkans were not noted for making themselves inconspicuous. But none were visible. The airlock had been opened on his approach. He’d expected to find tense alertness and an undertone of murmuring. He was not prepared for the deathly stillness and sense of solitude.
Operational was deserted. A security violation that would bring the penalty of death to those responsible.
The conference room was vacant.
Not a soul stirred, not a sign of life, on this deck.
He stepped to the intercom, roared, “All hands.” Except for a grating sound the intercom gave back silence.
He went below, flung open the quarters. From every compartment came the sound of deep breathing. On every huge couch sprawled a Novakkan. Nor did a single one move and reach for weapons as he entered.
The ship had been in a state of tension and activity since they first struck the spacelane and plunged on toward Nobra. Mallikan and Havelon, so many months ago when he was just sixteen, was now asleep. He thought of it in that manner. It was as if it had grown weary with fighting and slowed down its inner activity, as a living creature.
The girl’s compartment was vacant. It was here he experienced the greatest sense of the unreal. It was here that memory came back of her gliding into his compartment and catching a steel blade in her hand.
A faint sigh reached him. It was a moment before he realized it had come over the intercom. He raced to the shaft and up to Operational. He turned up the amplifier, listened. It came again, magnified to the roaring of wind. It took time to check off compartments and passages and determine what unit was open.
The meter showed it to be in the dissecting room far aft. He was breathing hard when he reached it.
The door was open. A feminine voice softly whispered. “Now a suture. Now a small scalpel. Now a coagulant.”
Supine on two tables, side by side, lay the Havelon doctor and the daric girl. They were naked. The brilliant light above etched every line of their features and figures. It showed that the bruises had vanished from the girl’s upper legs and abdomen. It showed her relaxed, serene, except for her breasts which trembled with her breathing and some strange emotion.
Beside her the doctor was struggling for breath. His chest was open, some of his ribs had been removed, and one lung was exposed. Below the lung, and pressing against it, the upper part of his heart swelled and contracted laboriously.
This was not what held Moxol’s attention. Almost invisible silver wires ran from the doctor’s head, from nerve terminals over his body, to the head and body of the girl. Her lips moved in a whisper and they used surgical terms. And as they did scalpel and sutures obeyed without the aid of a hand to guide them.
They were performing an operation of the most delicate nature. They were repairing lungs. And sutures, holding laboring muscles together, showed that they had already done something to the doctor’s heart.
The most unreasonable part was that they were both asleep.
Moxol’s first impulse was to awaken the girl. As the thought came, she ceased whispering. The instruments stopped working inside the body of the Havelonian.
It dawned that he would die if the work was not finished soon. Connected to him as she was, the girl, Moxol feared, might also die.
And she held the answers.
Backing oat slowly, he went to the quarters of the Sedwonians. It took minutes to wake them and even then they were not alert. They seemed to be drugged. More minutes were required to make them understand that they must go to the dissecting room.
Going from compartment to compartment, he woke the Artonians and ordered them to wake others. The task was tiring. He’d been long without sleep. His eyelids grew heavier and heavier. His body felt weighted. His responses to his surroundings grew dull. He walked against a bulkhead, stumbled over things.
At last he knew he couldn’t keep himself erect longer. He stumbled to his compartment and collapsed on the couch.
But he couldn’t sleep. His mind worked feverishly, seeking the answer. His whole armada was in jeopardy. Overpowered by sleep, Iris men couldn’t defend themselves. If the enemy got word—
He struggled to a sitting position, a single thought compelling his action. He had to get back to Operational, had to alert the ship. And it seemed that gravity increased and drew him back to the couch. He couldn’t get his legs under him. He rolled off the couch, but couldn’t rise.
A terrible sense of danger grew. It forced itself to consciousness in logical terms. Some force had compelled his men to violate every rule of security. It had paralyzed his ship. It seemed but a continuation of the strange happenings in space. Whatever it was, it had grown stronger, become overwhelming in its might.
The intercom crackled, “All hands! Stations!”
Shock ran through him. The voice was as familiar as his own breathing. It was as if had come from his own throat and lungs. It was his own voice. But he lay here uttering not a sound.
Worming his way to the visicom, he reached up and snapped it on.
“Moxol to Relay.”
His lips hadn’t parted. His tongue hadn’t moved. Except for his labored breathing no sound had come from his throat. But his voice was sounding over the visicom in his exact inflection of command.
“Moxol to Relay. Inform SYZ Commander Christopher Darby terms acceptable to Rahn Buskner. Hostilities in all sectors shall cease in coordination with similar orders issued to Earth forces. Novakkan forces shall withdraw in coordination with similar movement of SYZ units, and remain well in space while peace pact is drawn up and endorsed by Rahn Buskner and emissaries from Earth.
“Repeat that message,” the voice added, “and get acknowledgement.”
Then the intercom came to life. “Stations! Proceed outward parallel to enemy. Remain alert. In the second hour maximum lateral acceleration inward. Strike the enemy on the flank. Crush him.”
And then, as he listened, Moxol hea
rd the same treacherous order go out over the visicom—in code.
At the end of it came the signal “Blue scrolo,” which meant that the mission was one of vengeance and that there would be no turning back until the last drop of blood was drawn.
It meant, he realized, as he fought the deadly force that held his body unmoving, that peace would not come. Taking the Earthmen by surprise, the Novakkans might win a huge victory, but the bulk of Earth’s fleet in the triangle had suffered few losses, and would be quick in reprisal.
The Earthmen would not again trust the Novakkans and war would flame across the galaxy until one or both sides were totally exhausted.
This, when his armada was disintegrating, when making peace had seemed the only way to save it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
HE felt vibrations run through the ship as the reactors went to work. He felt the shift of gravity. The mission of treachery had begun. In another hour the war that should’ve ended here would flare anew with the white heat of a star.
And there would be no truce until one side was crushed beyond hope of rising. There would be no Aline to bring about a momentary lull. The planets below would burn until their glaciers melted.
Not again would there be a mission of vengeance, an exalted crusade to rescue Aleta and make the Earthmen know that the Queen of Unor was untouchable for all time.
Not again would the call go out to the scattered Novakkans to rally and draw blood for violation of their first law.
Soon every green-tinged giant would knew that he had carried out a mission of treachery; that a leader, the son of Rahn Buskner, speaking for all Novakkans, had given his word, and then turned the might of his armada on the unsuspecting.
Fighting hearts that had faced odds-innumerable would be sick with the thought.
A Novakkan’s word was as certain as his vengeance. For the first time in Moxol’s knowledge it would be broken.
Struggling against the force that held him, he grew weaker. It was alien to him. He’d gone possibly a hundred hours without sleep. In much of that time his armada had been in action. In the remainder it had been constantly alert in effort to solve the strange happenings. But the fire inside him burned hot, and he knew that exhaustion alone could not restrain him. Some insidious force had taken possession of the ship.
As long as he could muster another spark of energy he struggled to rise. But at last darkness came down, and as it did he knew he and his ship were moving to open the gates to the furies of hell, to all the terrors from beginning to end.
He came awake with a shuddering. Sounds of fighting roared on every side. The bulkhead and plating echoed with crashings and thunderings. The intercom shrieked and groaned as if every unit were open and picking up the howling of a thousand demons.
The confusion was remindful of the intense first moments when raiders boarded a star liner jammed with passengers. It was worse. There was no shrill shrieking of women here in terror, but the cries of men in unbearable agony.
Something alien to Novakkans, he knew, had happened.
As his mind cleared he became aware of the girl bending over him. In her hand was his blade. Her other hand was under his head. Her long black hair trailed against the bare flesh of his upper body. Her black eyes were not on him but the doorway to the passage.
Following her gaze, he saw two Novakkans standing shoulder to shoulder in the entranceway. Their skirts had been ripped off, wrapped around their arms. Their right arms wielded their blades. The muscles in their broad backs rippled and flowed as they lunged and slashed. It was clear that they were holding the entrance against some deadly enemy.
And at that moment a third Novakkan came from the alcove beyond which was the girl’s compartment. He moved cautiously at first, then leaped and cut down the nearer man in the doorway.
The second man fell a moment later.
Those in the passage paused, breathing deep, wiping the blood from their blades, then came on into the room.
As they advanced the girl rose, stepped over Moxol’s body. He saw that she was again clothed in the colorless gown that she’d worn when she first came aboard the raider. Something about it made him think of metal.
But that was not what astonished him. She placed herself between his supine body and the advancing men. Her left foot was well back, her right knee bent, and about her left arm was wound his own skirt. His blade in her hand, was ready.
He couldn’t see her features, but knew the look of defiance that was there.
And he wondered who had taught her that stance, that use of a Novakkan fighting man’s skirt.
The green-tinged giants hesitated. They had no scruples, he knew, about sex. They would kill any creature that tried to stop them. But they were surprised to find a small girl standing across their path; more surprised, no doubt, to see the look on her features, the deadly intent of her blade.
They would not pause long. Of that he was certain. The bodies in the passage, the stream of hot blood running on into the room attested their determination.
And then he thought he grasped it. They were coming to exact Novakkan vengeance. By his orders they’d been led to a treacherous act. But there had been a disagreement. Some had defended him. The howls and shrieks were from those being skinned alive and dismembered.
The foremost man swung his blade. It moved like a flash of light. Had it struck the girl her body would’ve been cut in two. She deflected it a hairs-breadth with her protected left arm as she glided backwards. It swished by her body, struck her upraised blade, sent it spinning.
In that moment Moxol made the supreme effort and drew his photon gun. From his supine position he burned the blade arm off the Novakkan and killed the two behind him.
The numbness was going out of him. He rolled on his side, sat up.
“Sheath your blades,” he ordered.
But the others came on.
To get the girl out of the line of fire he seized her ankle, snatched it from under her. She fell on top of him, tried to shield his body with hers. He pushed her aside, sent photonic energy flaming at the advancing men.
Others came from the alcove, died as they entered the room.
But he knew he couldn’t hold out here. Novakkan persistence would find a way to get to him. And no number of dead sprawled in the room, entranceway and passage would deter them.
The girl helped him rise to his feet. His strength was coming back. With his foot he rolled the bodies out of the way and closed the door. He went into the alcove, made certain no one lurked there.
With the girl close behind him, he went on into her compartment, closed and locked the door to the passage.
Sounds of fighting still reached him over the intercom.
That something more than mutiny had occurred was apparent when the intercom began emitting rhythmical clicks and buzzes. Something, as he’d known earlier, alien to Novakkans.
He took stock of the situation. Remaining here was tantamount to surrendering without a fight. The stronger force outside would soon control the ship.
It also meant remaining in the dark as to what had happened, was happening.
He needed to get to Operational where he could get a partial grasp of some of the things that had occurred. There he could determine what had happened to the remainder of the armada.
The girl spoke, her voice vibrant with emotion. “We’re crossing the time streams,” she said. “We’ve been in the eddies hours. I couldn’t wake you. The other life is trying to take control.”
It didn’t make sense. Neither did many of the other things that had happened. The thing that was clear was that something had to be done.
“I came to you,” she went on, “as soon as I learned an attack had been ordered. Subcommanders and fighting men came. They couldn’t understand the orders. They knew something was wrong. But by that time the other life had gained control of many of your men.”
“Other life?”
“From the other era, the opposite time stream.”
“How did it get aboard here in space?”
“It was already aboard. It’s metal, the metal of your ship.”
He looked at her long and hard. “How did you get back aboard after you were put off on Mallika?”
She turned away. “I can’t tell you,” she said evasively. “But soon I’ll show you. For I, too, am from another era, the future.”
It was becoming more and more confusing. The thought that she was anything but flesh and blood wasn’t acceptable. He’d held her in his arms when she was a child. On Mallika he’d felt the warmth of her body glowing against his flesh.
The words of the Dexbo witch came back. He tried to deny them. But so many of them had already proved true.
The intercom crackled, “Operational to Moxol.”
He stepped to the table and answered.
“Operational to Moxol. This is an ultimatum. Agree to lead your armada against the Earthmen and you will not be harmed. The mutiny has been crushed. Every Novakkan will obey your orders without question.”
The girl stepped close, whispered, “They’re under control of the other life. They’ll do what they’re told if it suits the intelligence in the metal era.”
He opened the intercom and said, “Moxol to all hands! Put up your weapons and hold the ship in neutral space.”
“You refuse to lead your armada against the Earthmen?” Operational fired back.
“I order my men to take control of Operational and destroy any alien life there.”
There was a moment of silence, and then: “Operational to all hands. Ninth deck. Forward. Moxol’s quarters and the compartment adjoining. Skin him alive and then dismember. Kill or capture any with him. Blue scrolo.”
It didn’t seem reasonable that Novakkans would obey such orders. Unless his earlier thought had been right, that they meant to exact vengeance for the first treacherous order. It could be, he reasoned, that they were as confused as he and that they held him responsible.
