Running from the Deity (19 page)

With the attention of his friend-captors momentarily distracted by its arrival, Flinx bolted for the oncoming, descending vehicle, utilizing the lesser gravity to cover the rapidly shrinking space between them in long, graceful, bounds. Pip stayed above him, providing cover where none was needed, as he pulled the small com unit from his belt and began to direct the transport.

Treappyn was torn. He liked the alien. It was clear to him now that Flinx was not going to come back to Metrel City voluntarily. But the counselor had his orders. And much as he would have liked to have traveled among and seen the other worlds the alien insisted populated the night sky, Flinx was not the person to whom Treappyn ultimately had to report. He raised his right forearms.

“Bring him down! But aim for the legs—the Highborn needs him alive!”

Galvanized out of the momentary trance into which the appearance of the skimmer had placed them, soldiers raised their weapons. Lances and swords could not reach the retreating alien, but barbolts could. Mechanisms were cocked, crude ranging devices aligned, and half a dozen short, sharp metal bolts were soon cutting through the air between the sharpshooters and their fleeing target.

At Flinx’s command, the skimmer had already commenced a sharp descent surfaceward. The bolts struck its alloy frame and canopy and shattered or fell to the ground. They did not so much as scratch the vehicle’s transparent passenger compartment.

Treappyn was already huffing and puffing his way toward his own mount. “Arise, servants of the Highborn! Arise, and give chase!” The admonition sounded futile even to his own ears, but he knew that in the aftermath of this vital, failed mission his actions would be judged, and he had no intention of being found wanting. Besides, there was always the chance some mechanical fault would befall the alien’s craft, leading to an opportunity to once again remand him into their safekeeping.

Around him, the other soldiers were swinging themselves up into the saddles of their riding tethets, urging them in the direction of the skimmer. It floated before them, not far away at all, hovering just above the ground as its master and his pet entered the upper, glass-like compartment.

Flinx saw them coming as he settled into the familiar, comforting surrounds of the skimmer’s pilot’s seat. They were brave, these soldiers of Wullsakaa. He admired Treappyn’s hopeless persistence even as he made arrangements to put the counselor’s visage behind him forever. Having spent time in the company of a few bureaucrats, both human and otherwise, he was familiar with the pressures under which they functioned. If given the opportunity, could he even explain why he had to go? What would someone like Treappyn, or for that matter his much-exalted Highborn, make of news that some unknown and unidentified force was coming out of their night sky and threatening not just their country, but their whole world, and every star and world they could see in the sky? Such a thing would be beyond their comprehension. They would be convinced he was making it up. Existence would be so much simpler if only he were.

Over open ground, the riding tethets were much faster than he expected. Indifferent to proceedings now that her master’s mind was at ease, Pip had settled herself down on the narrow console and gone to sleep. With a sigh, Flinx muttered a command to the skimmer. If the Wullsakaan riders came too close, they might injure themselves on the skimmer, or unknowingly impact on its repulsion field.

The pulsepopper mounted on the front of the skimmer was not large. It did not have to be. The small globe of fiery plasma it discharged in response to Flinx’s command caused several of the terrified tethets to halt abruptly enough to dislodge their riders. Despite their multiplicity of limbs, the animals did not rise up in fear. Instead, they slumped down, not unlike a squatting Dwarra, and simply refused to move.

When the plasma ball struck the ground, there was no explosion. Instead, a noise like a deep-throated
whoosh
filled the air. There was a bright flash that caused Treappyn’s eyes to contract sharply in their sockets. When he could expand them enough to focus again, he saw that a hole several times deeper than himself and considerably wider had appeared in the earth between his mount and the alien machine. The sides of the cavity were smooth and glassy, like the panes of fine glass that were installed on the better manors and commercial buildings in Metrel. The bottom of the hole was curved. Everything that had once occupied that space—soil, small crawling things, plants—had disappeared. The smell of burning things was strong in his nostril.

He did not have to call a formal halt to the pursuit.

To their credit, several of his troops retained enough of their wits to load their barbolts and fire repeatedly at the rapidly disappearing alien craft. Like their predecessors, those bolts that reached it glanced harmless off its sides. What must it be like, Treappyn thought as he watched the skimmer recede eastward, to have access to that kind of technology? One such machine could sow panic among Wullsakaa’s enemies without even having to utilize its magical—no, not magical, he corrected himself—weapon. Such a wish would remain nothing more than that. The alien had declared his intention to leave Arrawd. It was now abundantly clear that nothing on Arrawd was capable of preventing him from doing so.

Even saving the alien’s life had not been sufficient to persuade him to stay and render assistance. Although, as he watched the skimmer fade from view, Treappyn was not entirely sure that Flinx’s life had ever been really in danger. What he did know was that he had failed in his mission.

Siryst,
he thought resolutely to himself as he started to bring his still-trembling mount around. He had done his best. The troops who had accompanied him would be witnesses to the fact, and would back him up on it. What could lances and barbolts do against technology that commanded small pieces of sun? It would be a long, joyless ride back to Metrel district, and then they would have to be careful to avoid outriding patrols of the enemy on their way back to the fortress. Wullsakaa would have to face the combined forces of Jebilisk and Pakktrine Unified alone.

The Highborn’s great gamble had failed.

CHAPTER

13

The sea of foliage beneath the skimmer gradually gave way to intermittent blotches of green interspersed with the first patches of sand, and then to the lightly vegetated dunes that marked the eastern coast of the Pavjadd Peninsula. Now back in familiar surroundings and completely safe, Flinx allowed himself to relax and examine from above the countryside through which he had previously traveled only on foot.

From the skimmer, he could see the coast approaching. It looked little different from seacoasts he had seen on other Earth-type worlds. Only the lack of real trees prevented the view from being one that might have suggested a landscape on Moth, or New Riviera, or Terra itself. Of Dwarran habitation there was no sign. This low, he could not see any of the inland towns. Looking back the way he had come, he found that he had already traveled too far to the east to locate the rural homestead of his Dwarran hosts, the net-caster Ebbanai and the weaver Storra.

One more interlude in a life that already seemed overfull of them. One more world to add to his catalog of the visited and explored. One more visitation that, inevitably, ended up leaving him with more questions than answers. It didn’t matter. He had done the best he could, and now he was going.

There was no one in the vicinity of his ship when the skimmer started down. As it neared a group of high dunes fronting the coast, an opening appeared at the base of one sandy hill. Lights gleamed within. Less than a minute later, the skimmer slipped into its docking receptacle as neatly as Clarity Held’s graceful foot into a waiting slipper.

The
Teacher
waited until he had exited the skimmer before announcing itself. “Welcome back, Flinx.”

He nodded absently, knowing that the ship’s internal pickups would note and interpret the gesture accurately. “Good to be back. Ready for departure.”

“Impatient. Always impatient. It’s not good for your blood pressure.”

He turned down the corridor that led, not to the bridge, but to the relaxation lounge. “Neither were my last days here. Not for the first time, I’ve lingered too long in a place where I shouldn’t have. We have a planet-sized weapons platform to locate. Let’s get going.”

“Repairs are completed. Unless there is an imminent threat I am presently not detecting, I would prefer to activate the systems relevant to departure gradually, in the event any unexpected fault should make itself known.”

“That’s right. I’m impatient, and you’re overcautious.” Slightly miffed, he entered the lounge area. Activated for his return, the waterfall and pool gurgled their own aqueous welcome. Carefully monitored and space-restricted small flying things zipped and darted through the air. Pip opened an eye to track several, then closed it. The lounge held no surprises, and she was not in the mood to exert herself in search of familiar amusements.

Gratefully, he sank into the waiting lounge chair. In its latest manifestation, it had configured itself to resemble a sloping pile of rocks. Preternaturally soft rocks, for all that they perfectly duplicated the look of unyielding basalt. Pip fluttered off to settle herself among some nearby pink plants. Music seeped into the lounge area, and into his consciousness. Something by the Muralian Quartet; soothing and undemanding. The
Teacher
knew him well.

“As soon as you feel comfortable with your condition, go ahead and lift,” he mumbled. “I might fall asleep, and there’s no need to wake me. Changeover will do that.”

“Understood.” A pause, then, “You appear discontented.”

“A condition you’ve never previously observed in me,” he snapped back sardonically.

“Though your occasional communications were intended primarily to check on the status of my repairs to self, I was given to understand that you had embarked on a mission to heal the sick and injured among the locals. Familiar as I am with the extensive spate of human actions and reactions, I would think this kind of activity would leave you both with a sense of accomplishment and feeling good about yourself and the time you have spent here. Did you fail to heal those who came seeking your aid?”

“Oh, I healed them, all right.” Stretching out in the malleable, cushioning quasi-stone, he accepted the cold fruit drink offered up by one rock. “Dozens and dozens of them. And in doing so, I gained the reputation among them of being not a skilled physician or even a traditional shaman, but a god. This utterly unjustified status apparently made a couple of neighboring political entities nervous enough to declare war on the country where I happened to be staying and—helping.” He downed half the glass of juice. “All three are presently fighting a war about it.”

The
Teacher
’s analysis was immediate. “Then when they learn you have departed, the reason for the war will be removed and the fighting will end.”

Staring into the foliage that the ship’s automatics so assiduously maintained, Flinx wondered if he should order up a libation stronger than fruit juice. “That was my thought. Then the local politician I befriended, who nonetheless tried to forcibly keep me from leaving, pointed out that the leaders of those attacking this region would think stories of my departure nothing more than a diversionary ploy on the part of those they’re fighting.” He waved the glass in a small arc. “Based on what this official told me, even if all concerned parties were to see you leave, the attackers still wouldn’t be convinced. They might think I stayed behind, or only lifted off to fool them so I could land later and further aid their wicked enemy.”

“I see.” The
Teacher
’s use of metaphor was flawless. “Then all sides need to be convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

Blinking, Flinx sat up so sharply that several peculiar-colored vines in his immediate vicinity which had started twisting toward him suddenly drew back, coiling in upon themselves.

“Oh no. No. Didn’t you hear anything I just said? I’ve caused all this trouble by involving myself in local affairs, when I should have stayed on board and done nothing but eat, drink, sleep, and wait for you to finish your repair work. Now you’re saying that instead of taking my leave and minimizing the damage I’ve already done, I should stay and somehow try to persuade these traditional enemies to stop their fighting and go back to the way things have always been?”

“Nothing you can do can make them go back to the way they’ve always been.” The ship-mind’s tone was unusually somber. “You have walked among them, and that in itself is enough to change them, and their respective societies, permanently. Once observed and recorded, the reality of Flinx and what he represents cannot be undone. But if you are the cause of this war, and it will not cease simply with our departure, then you must somehow find a way to put an end to it. To not attempt to do so constitutes moral abnegation of the worst kind.”

Flinx would have looked away from the admonishing ship-mind, except that in essence he was inside it. No matter which way he glanced, he was still looking at it—and it at him.

“I already have a conscience, thank you very much.”

“It would appear not to be in attendance. Did it perhaps get left behind on the surface?”

Thoroughly annoyed, he swung his legs over the side of the pseudo-stone lounge and sat up, setting his empty glass aside. It immediately vanished into an appropriate receptacle.

“What do you expect me to do? I’ve already made a mess of things by trying to help these people. I should have adhered to Commonwealth procedure for dealing with Class Four-b civilizations. Any further incursion on my part is only likely to make things worse.”

The ship-mind was imperturbable. “Searching my records, which as you know are quite extensive, I am unable to access any record where stopping a war incontrovertibly made things worse for those in imminent danger of dying as a result of it. One who can end such conflict and chooses not to invariably finds himself morally compromised.”

Staring hard in the direction of the nearest visual pickup, Flinx narrowed his gaze and announced in the most steadfast voice he could manage, “I’ve done too much here already. The local Dwarra will just have to work out the matter of whether I’m still on their world or not among themselves. Prepare for departure!” With that, he swung himself back onto the lounge, closed his eyes, and requested that instead of another glass of refreshing juice, the ship’s synthesizers provide him with an appropriate soporific.

Having stated its opinion and recorded its owner’s reaction, the
Teacher
commenced to do as it was told. Methodically, and at a leisurely pace that reflected prudence as opposed to urgency.

It could not directly disobey an order. But when options were available, there was more than one way in which it could proceed to comply.

The explosive-packed disc was as big as a bale of tethet feed. Landing just short of the rock-and-earthen bulwark that had been hastily thrown up on the west side of the Pedetp River, it detonated with enough force to knock the nearest Wullsakaan defenders off all four of their feet. When the dust and smoke finally cleared, it could be seen that the explosion had left behind a crater deep enough to swallow a good-sized cargo wagon. Dazed but determined, the rattled defenders picked themselves up, dusted themselves off, and prepared once more to defend their piece of sacred ground. But any interested observer could measure the depth of their fear by the width of their oculars. They did not need a seer to tell them what would happen if another such explosive landed in their midst, instead of in front of or behind them.

From his command position atop the highest hill to the west of the river, His August Highborn Pyrrpallinda of Wullsakaa observed the ongoing battle and fretted silently. Always willing to defer to experience and knowledge, he had taken the advice of his general officers and staked the defense of his realm on retaining control of the river.

It was not a difficult decision to take. This time of year, the Pedetp was in full spring flood. Attempts by the enemy to sneak troops across on rafts and boats had been thwarted by the current. Where the Pedetp was narrow, it ran fast, and the would-be invaders could not make the crossing quickly enough to reach the opposite shore before they were discovered and intercepted by Wullsakaan patrols. Where it was wide and ran slow, such attempts were easily spotted in time for defenders to cut the would-be invaders to pieces. After a few such failed attempts, the combined forces of Pakktrine Unified and Jebilisk had focused their energies on the ancient trio of massive stone bridges known as the Dathrorrj Triplets.

Located within shouting distance of one another, the three bridges had been so solidly constructed by the ancients, and so conscientiously maintained by their Wullsakaan descendants, that they were as solid and stable as the riverbed in which their stone supporting columns were deeply grounded. As soon as the disposition and intent of the advancing enemy forces had been perceived, many of Pyrrpallinda’s officers had argued for mining and destroying these critical approaches to the capital. Others had deplored the call for destruction of one of the country’s most important commercial transit points. By the time it looked as if a consensus might be reached, it was too late: the combined armies of Pakktrine and Jebilisk had reached the bridges. Immediately, enemy barbolt sharpshooters had taken up positions allowing them to cover the bridges’ foundations. That rendered the question of mining and blowing up the approaches moot, since any sappers who attempted to get near the structures would find themselves under immediate heavy fire, and would be picked off.

By the same token, repeated attempts by brave but foolhardy Jebiliskai riders to cross and take control of the bridges had been repulsed by clouds of bolts and lances from its Wullsakaan defenders. The Dathrorrj Triplets stood essentially untraveled; a bruised, battered, chipped, and scored no-Dwarra’s-land stretching essentially intact across the boiling, surging white water of the snowmelt-fed Pedetp. On its western side, the defenders of Metrel City had rapidly raised defensive barricades and other fortifications. The longer enemy forces failed to gain control of the bridges, the stronger these defenses became.

Until now.

Adjusting the multiscope on its mount, Pyrrpallinda peered through the eyepiece. The series of magnifying lenses was focused on a pair of devices the likes of which had never been seen before. They had been brought up behind the Pakktrinian lines several days ago and had been in action ever since. Pakktrine military engineers had been scurrying busily around both objects ever since they had been detached and rolled into position on their multiwheeled mounts.

The first launch had been a shock; not only to the Highborn, but to everyone on the Wullsakaan-controlled shore of the Pedetp. Shock had given way to response, which had proven notable only for its ineffectiveness, and then to a kind of dull realization. While officers and engineers anxiously tried to think of a way to counter this new means of warfare, the soldiers manning the defensive ramparts could only hunker down and pray to Rakshinn, or whichever deity they favored, that the terrible new weapon would not be aimed in their direction. A disturbingly high and growing number had already seen their prayers ignored, and the death toll continued to grow longer with every discharge of the new Pakktrinian weaponry.

A distant hiss signaled the imminence of the latest launch. Through the scope, the Highborn could see the Pakktrinian operators of the fiendish device scatter for cover. An explosion of vapor obscured his field of vision. Raising his gaze from the eyepiece, his eyes tracked the path of another disc as it described a smooth arc through the cloud-filled sky. The disc grew larger and larger, until it landed well
behind
the multiple defensive lines immediately opposite the approach to the central bridge. There followed another of the horrific explosions that had become all too common during the previous couple of days. He lowered his gaze back to the scope’s eyepiece. The Pakktrinian operators were already recharging and reloading one of the two massive steam catapults.

Both weapons had been carefully and strategically positioned well out of range of Wullsakaa’s most advanced weapons, and were therefore essentially invulnerable. Taking them out would mean sending a force across the bridge. That, Pyrrpallinda’s advisors had assured him, would amount to signing the death warrants of every soldier ordered to participate in such a foredoomed enterprise. So the Wullsakaan defenders could only squat, and watch, and hope, while the increasingly accurate Pakktrinians gradually got the hang of operating their new weapons.