The Legend of Dan

by Robert Wingfield

  * * *

  Vac’s path through the trees widened as he sauntered along, and he eventually emerged into another clearing, at the side of the stream which flowed into his home village. He paused to lift the Smak higher on his shoulders, checked his face in the mirror again, in case the blood had wiped away, and descended towards the village stockade.

  The wooden gates opened as he approached. He acknowledged the two sentries, who clicked smartly to attention as he passed. One of the village girls rushed up to him from the cookhouse. She gave him the respect due to the chief hunter-warrior of the village, kneeling before him and gripping his legs.

  “Welcome, Lord Vac. I see you have had a successful hunting trip. Please allow me to relieve you of your burden. Then I must share dire news with you.” Vac eyed her up and down as she made her obeisance. A shapely golden-brown knee poked from the slit in her simple green smock and the line of her breasts showed through the soft material.

  “You will come to my hut.” He looked her straight in the eye, defying her to refuse. She looked young, and was probably still a virgin. Skagan women were normally out of bounds, until they were twenty-five, which caused serious problems in the unisex shower rooms.

  “But I have news…”

  “You know the consequence of arguing?”

  She dropped her eyes, and blushed. “Sorry my lord; it will be my honour,” was the standard response. Vac threw the Smak to another woman, as she emerged from a nearby hut. He took the girl by her hair and pulled her face up, to look him straight in the eyes. Upright, she was nearly as tall as he was, but with the slenderness of youth. She met his stare, defiantly.

  “Do not struggle, and I will not hurt you,” he said, harshly, “Your time has come.”

  She scowled at him. “Apart from the double-negative, which itself is a turn-off, I am not yet old enough. I have only twenty-three years...”

  “Forget the rules. I claim my hunter’s right to you, and will change the rules when I become chief, so you had better comply with my desires now.” He released her hair and pushed her ahead of him towards his hut. A group of the tribal women watched them go, muttered angrily amongst themselves and started towards the cookhouse with the evening’s dinner he had provided.

  Towelling his hair after a relaxing shower, Vac regarded his trophy. The girl lay motionless and naked on his bed, a tired smile on her face as she stared at the ceiling of his room. She turned her tousled blonde head to look at him, and made a growling sound in her throat. “I have desperate news I must tell you,” she managed to gasp.

  “Later. I have news of my own. Have to see the elder.” He dismissed the girl with a wave, and left the hut.

  The largest hut was at the centre of the village. It belonged to the tribal chief. Vac burst in without knocking.

  “I bring dire intelligence!” he said, dramatically.

  “Good or bad?” The Elder squinted at him in irritation. She was a striking woman5, older looking than the average Skagan but nonetheless, awesomely beautiful, following the Skagan standard of physique and looks. Her eyes had an emerald glint, which caught the light as she moved her head.

  “The Smorgs are coming!”

  “Smorgs? What do you mean Smorgs?”

  “You know, hairy, greasy little characters, like to eat animals and drink blood, live in the mountains over the water.”

  “I know what Smorgs are. I hear your sarcasm, and treat it with due scorn. Where are they coming from, and why, is what I want to be told.”

  “I do not know. All I do know is that I have recently killed twenty in the forest... in our forest.”

  “We had a treaty,” she said

  “They have broken it.”

  “For two-thousand years we have lived in peace with the Smorgs, after that hard-won settlement in the Inordinate Wars, a copy of which I have er... I can’t remember where. Since then, they have never crossed the Great River, except in approved tourist parties and for odd pre-arranged massacres. What does it all mean?”

  Vac shrugged. “You’re the leader. Nothing to do with me.”

  “So I am, and don’t you forget it.” She gave him a hard stare, and then turned her back on him. “Leave me now, I must meditate.”

  Two hours later, the Elder called a general village meeting using the tried and tested technique of turning off the hot water supply. Groups of damp Skagans in assorted towels formed in the square. There was a general buzz of excitement, as the Elder stood on the raised front porch of her hut, and held her hands aloft.

  “Call out the guards,” she shouted, “The Smorgs are coming!”

  Cries of “No?” and “Shame,” and “no bloody good for the tourist industry,” and “What did you say? My ears are full of water,” echoed round the assembly.

  “I am informed,” continued the Elder, once the hubbub had died, “that we have Smorgs in our lands. There is the possibility that we may soon be under attack. I call hunter-warrior-in-chief, Vac, to explain further.”

  Vac joined her on the porch and gazed importantly around at the expectant audience, temporarily forgetting why he was there. The Elder nudged him in the ribs. “Go on then, tell them about the forest.”

  Vac puffed out his chest. “Yes, there were, um, forty Smorgs in the north forest. I killed them all, using only a Smak root.” He finished, waiting for applause, but instead received a numb silence, stunned disbelief. Then a murmuration went through the crowd.

  “Who let those starlings loose?” shouted someone, and then somebody else shouted the ancient battle cry.

  “Glory, sex and death!”

  The rest of the assembly gradually took it up, shouting “Death to the Smorgs,” and “Don’t let those starlings get away; they will be good in a pie,” and “Can someone lend me a towel?” The village gates were opened, and a stream of Skagans began to pour towards the forest path.

  The Elder screamed after them. “Don’t be stupid. We can’t simply rush off into the night, looking for invaders. We have to protect our village first. Get dressed, armour up, get weapons, and prepare for attack.” She regarded her best warrior. “Vac, I suggest that, as you seem to have a total disregard concerning our laws...” she stared pointedly at Vac’s serving girl, who, with a dazed silly grin on her face, was dreamily combing her hair and leaning against a hut, “...you should use this opportunity to redeem yourself. I would like you to take a small force, reconnoitre the surrounding area, and determine exactly what we are up against. Perhaps your forty...”

  “Sixty,” said Vac.

  “Er, sixty Smorgs were all there are of them. Are you sure they were Smorgs and not simply Japanese tourists?”

  “They had no cameras.”

  “That clinches it. We are under threat. You must leave immediately.”

  “But I’ve not had my dinner yet...” Vac scowled, but dared not disobey the Elder. She waved him over to a small group of soldiers, hastily donning armour.

  “I will also send messengers to the other tribes, to pass the details on. They can make their own decisions. In the meantime, I do not feel we must be too alarmed. I will make sure the guards are doubled around the perimeter. You lot...” She pointed at a grumbling group of yawning guards, “...you heard me. I want you all awake, for a change.”

  There were grunts of dismay, but the soldiers on duty returned to their posts, as the remaining members of the tribe drifted self-consciously back through the gateway.

  Night fell, heralding the end of another physical day, showering and having sex. The exhausted villagers decided there was no danger, despite that Vac’s scouting party had not yet returned, and set up a victory party. The elder would not relax their readiness, though, and insisted that at least the palisade was kept manned. It was a clear, fine evening. The shrieks of night demons echoed through the woods, and were answered by a flaring of torchlight around the perimeter as the guards settled into their vigil. A huge fire was built in the centre courtyard, and th
e boiled Smak brought out of the cookhouse for final charring at the flames, to give it that extra something and a few starlings.

  The dinner bell rang. The whole of the village gathered together. After the ritual chant of thanksgiving to the Divine Norbert, God of Feasting and Bulk Haulage, the Elder gave the signal for the food distribution. The company ate silently, washing the meal down with large quantities of the ‘Ghoolipp’ beverage. Eating is a very serious business at a Skagan settlement, almost as important as sex and fighting, and should not be interrupted with polite conversation, on pain of being sprayed with half-chewed food.

  Finally, a loud burp from the Elder signalled that the meal was over, and conversations were allowed to resume. Naturally, the Smorg invasion was high on the agenda, but very soon, the storytellers took over, relating the old battles, when the Skagans, or rather what they were called in those days, which they could not remember, had been the superior race in the Galaxy. The tales told of how the ancestors had created powerful long-ships, and had journeyed to all parts of the cosmos, plundering, pillaging and raping, bringing back gold and one-legged pirates6, and the best of the women they found out there, to be their slaves, and hopefully add to the gene pool by getting pregnant, something which the Skagans found particularly difficult after years of inbreeding. It didn’t stop them trying, though.

  Finally, a long and desperate struggle had ensued with a race of advanced seven-legged beings, culminating in the decimation of the ancestors, and the annihilation of the aliens, their planet and most other objects in that particular solar system. Taking advantage of the weakened state of the survivors, another group of creatures, who seemed to appear out of nowhere, took away their ships in a bloodless coup, and dumped the last of the ancestors on Skagos, whence they inherited their present name. Not to be outdone, the Skagans multiplied in those days, and were soon warring with the Smorgs, another outcast race who had been similarly banished, but were settled on the other side of the planet, the two groups being separated by deep and dangerous waters.

  The ‘Inordinate Wars’ were much gaudier than the ‘Seven Leg Wars’, relying on old-fashioned weapons, and physical strength alone. Any machinery they attempted to build refused to function on Skagos. In order to control the two races, the mysterious aliens had placed a huge energy absorber somewhere in the planet, thus ensuring that any powered items were quickly discharged, thus preventing them being used in anger, and restricting the violence to a more personal level. The mobile communication industry thus failed miserably here.

  Eventually, even the Inordinate Wars ceased, as both sides had trouble maintaining their populations, and the fighters became younger and younger, eventually not being allowed time off from school to go killing. The storytellers had originally embellished this tale a little, by claiming a total victory over the Smorgs, and convincing anyone without thought or understanding, and supporters of political parties, that the Smorgs had been totally wiped out. They now they had to admit the truth. There were still Smorgs, and a lot of them lived over the water. This accounted for the stunned reaction at Vac’s news. By the end of the evening, the village was more aware of the true story. Muttering under their breaths at the way they had been misled, a good many people left the gathering early to sharpen their weapons.

  For the remainder, the singing and storytelling went on into the night. At midnight, the sentries round the palisade were supposed to have been replaced. The relief guards though, had become so enthralled with the new stories now being related, that they simply failed to report for duty. Half an hour later, the old guards dropped their weapons in protest, and joined the assembly with the others. It was some time before the Elder noticed the unmanned defences. She was furious, and both sets of warriors were sent back to the walls, with a firm promise it would be double shifts and no sex at all... for the next four hours at least.

  During the interval the village was unguarded, perhaps by chance, but then again, perhaps not, a squat grey-green Septapod, of the species allegedly wiped out in the Skagan legends, took the opportunity to sneak in through the deserted main gate. It searched through the empty huts until it found one that appeared to be derelict. Climbing into the loft, it fell asleep on a pile of discarded blankets and was completely forgotten about until later in the story, and earlier in time, such is the power of mind travel.

  Awayday

  In which Tom’s nightmares come true.

  B

  ewildered, Tom gazed at his new surroundings. He prided himself on being up to date with technology, but the instruments and equipment inside the cylinder defied all identification. Kara-Tay, as he now realised her name was, was sitting at a console, playing her hands over coloured control zones. The craft was responding to her every move, bucking and spinning erratically.

  After a short while, she sat back at the console, and folded her arms. The level of humming increased to a new pitch, and the craft seemed to settle. “That’s better,” she said. “The plasma coils were out of alignment and I needed to re-route the time-matter field sensor array.”

  “What seriously?”

  “Not really. I thought I’d throw in a load of technobabble, to make you feel at home, you being a sci-fi buff an’ all. I was only trying to engage the autopilot. The system’s been a bit ropey since it’s 12 yonks service. Welcome to my Time-Cylinder.”

  “But it’s...”

  “I know,” said Kara tiredly, “slightly smaller on the inside than it is on the out. Everybody says that. What are they expecting, I wonder?”

  The craft was about six metres in diameter, with internal walls, silver and shiny, but, oddly, not reflective. Various low containers were wedged between banks of equipment and consoles, giving a random chaos, the impression of both a muddle, and tidiness at the same time. The roof was fairly low, and shiny like the walls. It would have caused backache and possible skull damage for a basketball player, which possibly explains why Time Lords™ are necessarily short, or the tall ones don't last long. At the far side was a circular hole, presumably leading to an upper level, but with no obvious ladder. The floor was soft, comfortable, and sucked at his feet.

  “Er, why can’t I move?”

  Kara swivelled in her chair, and studied him with a half-smile. “Oops, sorry, I forgot to switch off the de-contaminator.” She flipped her hand over another section of the console. Tom collapsed as artificial gravity, of some ten times more than he was used to, took effect. “Sorry again,” said the vision, as he lay, groaning, on the floor. “I forgot what feeble creatures you ‘Earthies’ are. I’ll change it to somewhere near your expected normal.”

  The force reduced, and Tom struggled to his feet. “What the hell is going on?” he gasped. “Who are you?”

  “I already said.” She shrugged. “I am Kara-Tay, a traveller. And you are now Two-Dan. You will remember this. You would be advised to conceal your true identity from the people we are about to deal with. Your very life will be in danger. Your true name is already known across this galaxy. They will track you down, and remove your ‘being’. Now please stop distracting me. Our next relocation has to be planned very carefully.”

  “What do you mean, true name?”

  “Thomas $mith (sic). It’s out there with all the credit agencies, GCHQ, the NSA and the large internet search engines and retailers, who we can mention by name, because the book would be rejected when we try to market it through the electronic channels.”

  “But that’s not my name...”

  “Good man. Hold that thought.”

  Kara turned her back on him and returned to tinkering with the console. Tom thought about escape, and ran his hand over the entrance hatch, but its outline was barely visible in the smooth wall. There was no evidence of anything even remotely like a door handle or control. He gave up, and nosed about the room, kicking boxes and opening and shutting containers at random. One was neatly packed with modules of kit. He pulled at a piece, and an item resembling a pair of headphones c
ame loose, leaving a headphone-shaped gap between the other equipment packed there. He put it on his head.

  “Nothing, not even Radio Norfolk,” he said. He tapped his foot to an imaginary rhythm, and then reddened as he saw Kara watching him. She wore a scowl.

  “Put down the mind controller...”

  “Look, what’s with all this bollocks? Would you mind letting me out of here?”

  Kara smiled. “I suppose you must find it a bit strange.”

  “Too right—you may be a tasty tart, but that’s no excuse for locking me in a bean can. I get claustrophobic when surrounded by technology I can’t reconfigure.”

  Kara sat down and crossed her long legs, revealing more thigh than Tom thought possible. He gulped. She saw him gaping, and pulled the toga about her shoulders. “You want me to put something more ‘comfortable’ on? I only wore this because I supposed I’d have a better chance of persuading you into my ship…”

  “Ship, what do you mean ship? And what are you doing in my roses...?” He stared at the legs again. “Er, actually, I think you look rather nice, so please don’t change on my account… You haven’t got a Swedish ladies’ football strip anywhere, have you?”

  Kara ignored him and looked back at the console. “Yes, ship, my ship. This is how I get about.”