The Fleet Book 2: Counter Attack (17 page)

“That would also be a quick way to get myself killed.”

He shook his head. “I myself, on my oath as a Master Poet, would see that you were returned to your friends alive and well. And the glory would be yours, rather than the shame of letting Tostig escape.”

“But I gave Tostig my word,” I said.

“You gave it from a posture of constraint rather than of free will. In this case, it could not be considered binding.”

“When I give my word,” I told him, “I consider it binding.”

“Now you are arguing like a stupid Khalian trooper. Aren’t you interested in furthering the concerns of your race and people? Or are you another romantic like Tostig?”

“I don’t know what in hell to do,” I said irritably. “Damn it, I
like
Tostig!”

“And I, his bard and companion through all the famous battles, I love him as myself. If you are his friend as well as his enemy, will you not give him the great conclusion he longs for?”

“You’ve got it wrong,” I told him. “The Baron wants to get out of here. He’s told me himself how he wants to fight for booty and glory on other fronts, in better circumstances.”

“Oh, he likes to give the appearance of being a rational life-fearing creature.” Homer said, “It is a foible he picked up in the London Zoo. But at heart, he is pure Khalian, and he will embrace the hero’s death whether he wills it or not. It is a situation repeated time and again in our old Sagas. The hero tries to avoid his destiny, but his best friend betrays him and so the hero embraces his fate.”

“I’m not his best friend!” I shouted. But he had turned away from me and was praying to his Gods of Communication. And I was left with a fearful tangle in my mind and heart.

XVI.

My last meeting with Tostig was as pleasant as all the others had been. The Khalian Captain was in his quarters, finishing his grooming. He was a little vain in this regard, and even used a hot iron to curl his chin hairs in the upward tilt so popular that year among the Khalian nobility.

“It’s hardly worth trying to stay in style,” he grumbled. “Just when I have my whiskers trained to go one way, I hear that everyone’s wearing them in some quite different fashion. And it doesn’t look very flattering anyhow. So much for my vanity. Tell me, Judah, is the ship ready?”

“It is,” I told him. “I located the glitch and took care of it. With the invaluable assistance of Homer Farsinger, of course. Is there any of that whiskey left?”

“Help yourself. The bottle’s in its usual place.”

I poured myself a stiff one. Tostig watched me, concern showing in his brown eyes.

“You seem a little out of sorts today, Judah.”

I had spent the night wrestling with my conscience. We Jews of the planet Perdido spend a lot of time doing that. We call it “arguing with the angel.” This time, however, the issue was far from clear-cut. I found it difficult to define my terms, to determine just what ends I wished to accomplish, and which means I could permit myself to use. It was true, on the one hand, as the Destination Master had pointed out, that Baron Tostig and his battling weasels would be a thorn in our sides as long as they lived. On the other hand, individuals don’t determine the fate of interstellar empires. It was vital to the Alliance that I returned with the information I had learned. But wasn’t a man’s, word of honor worth something in the scheme of things?

There were good reasons, even compelling ones, which argued in my mind that I should not betray Baron Tostig, that I should act the part of a true friend, tell him about Homer’s scheme, give the baron his chance to get away from this killing ground, on to further exploits, or to the little retirement cottage he once mentioned to me, tucked away among low green hills on a planet whose name he never revealed.

I had just, about made up my mind to tell Tostig everything. But then I would remember the central role of the Sagas in the life of the Khalia, and how they all featured a friend who becomes a traitor, who conspires to bring the hero to his glorious doom, satisfying his deep-seated desire for a glorious death, which would live forever in the Sagas of his people.

Was a true friend the one who helped the hero get away, so that he could die at last, quietly in bed, perhaps attended by pretty little bright-eyed weasel nymphets? Or was a true friend the one who assisted the hero toward his true, inner goal, the valiant death in battle against great odds?

“I’ll be sorry to see you go,” I told him, speaking the truth, though not all of it.

“My feelings, too,” Tostig said. “Perhaps friendship isn’t possible between our races. I don’t know the truth of that, it is too deep for me. But this I know—friendship between individuals
is
possible. I shall miss you, Judah.”

It was in my mind to say something to him then, but his guard of honor had just arrived, four piratical-looking Khalia liberally covered with weapons, one of them with a black patch over one eye.

“Let us inspect your work,” Tostig said lightly, and we marched out surrounded by the guard of honor.

Tostig’s men were drawn up in front of the battle cruiser. There were almost a hundred of them, since other battle groups fighting on Target had sworn fealty to him, wishing to have some share in his glory. Homer Farsinger was there, too, resplendent in his silver-grey robe, his face an unreadable mask.

After the cheering had subsided, Tostig boarded his ship, and Homer and I followed him. As we came to the pilot’s section, I could hold myself in no longer. “Tostig,” I said, “there is something I must tell you!”

He regarded me with a level gaze. “No,” he said, “you do not. You see, I already know.”

“You know?”

Tostig smiled. “I know the old Sagas a lot better than you do. Almost as well as our colleague here, the Destination Master. Isn’t that so, Homer?”

“The Baron’s knowledge of matters poetical is unexcelled,” Homer said. “For a layman, of course.”

“Of course,” Tostig said. He looked over the controls, then turned to Homer again. “How, exactly, did you arrange the treachery, Homer? Something ingenious, I trust?”

“Ingenious enough,” he said. “When you go to turn on the ship’s computer, I’ve set up a special code you must enter before making any other move. Otherwise, a disabling program is implemented, putting the computer out of service once and for all. But how did you find out?”

“I had no idea,” Tostig said. “I just thought I’d pretend to know and see what you said.”

“So you tricked us!” Homer said.

“One good trick deserves another,” Tostig said. “I’ve known your plans for me for a long time, Destination Master. And of course you were able to convince my naive friend here that death in battle and glory in song is what I really wanted for myself.”

“I should never have listened to him,” I said. “Tostig, you can still get away. The code to disarm the disabling program—”

Tostig held up an imperious paw. “No, don’t tell me. I might be tempted to use it.”

We stared at him. Then a grim smile crossed the face of the Destination Master.

“Then I was not wrong about you, Baron Tostig!”

“You knew me better than I knew myself. But then, he who can read the soul of the race has the key to the individual as well.”

We followed Tostig as he walked to the spaceship door. The crowd of Khalian warriors fell silent as he looked at them.

“Men,” he said, “the spaceship is fixed. But we do not need it. This is too great an opportunity to be missed. We’re going to take on the entire Fleet and all the land forces the humans can throw against us. We are going to perform the greatest feats of arms known to Khalian history. We have lived long enough. Now I invoke the code of the berserker. I will attack, even if I must do so alone. Are there any of you who would like to accompany me?”

The resounding cheer that came up showed that the vote was unanimous. True Khalia all, they could not resist the glamour of a great death under a famous leader and immortality in song.

“We’ll be celebrating tonight,” Tostig said, “in preparation for our attack. Go now, Judah, my friend, go home in safety and with my regard. Baron Tostig keeps his word. And take this Poet with you, because his Saga must be preserved for our future generations.”

Homer Farsinger drew himself-up to his full height. “No, Tostig, I won’t go. You have made the right decision, the only decision possible for a hero. But my decision is the correct one for a Poet. I will stay here with you, witness your last battle, and record it for the conclusion of my Saga.”

“But, you silly idiot,” Tostig said, “you’re likely to be killed with the rest of us, war being no respecter even of poets. And then what will become of my great Saga?”

“I have considered the problem,” Homer said. “I hoped that matters would work out in this way. I made my preparations.”

From within his long robes he took out a small machine. I recognized it at once as one of our standard model cassette recorders.

“I took this piece of alien technology from the spoils of our most recent battle. On it I have recorded all of the Saga, right up to the present moment. The human has shown himself to be worthy of trust, to yourself in regard to friendship and to me in terms of the deepest poetical wishes of the Khalian people. We understand each other, Judah and I. No doubt I will survive your death, Tostig, because Bards are often lucky in that way. In that case, I will finish the Saga myself and find a way to get it back to the College of Poets on Khalia. But if I should die, then I request of you, Judah, that you find some way to get this to the Khalia, so that they can finish the story themselves.”

“I’ll do that,” I said, taking the little cassette recorder and putting it in my pocket. I shook Homer’s paw, embraced Tostig, and then I was on my way.

The rest is well known to the members of this court-martial. It took our forces another two months to bring Tostig to bay, and it cost us many lives before we killed him in the great slaughter at Deadman’s Pass.

As for the Great Saga, it is a sadness for me to have to report that the Destination Master was no mastery of gadgetry, not even something as straightforward as a cassette recorder. He had managed to turn it on, and the winking little red light had convinced him that the thing was working properly. But evidently he had forgotten to release the pause button, and so, despite the spirited winking of the little red light, no words were taken down.

And Homer Farsinger did not survive the battle to be able to sing his song again.

These words which you now read are my own poor effort to tell the story of Tostig’s glory. I have done the best l could for him. He was my enemy, he was my friend, and I betrayed him in the prescribed Khalian manner, and now, to the best of my ability, I have sung his song
.

The rest is quickly told. Through an intermediary, I delivered this account of my meeting with Tostig to a representative of the Khalian Poet’s Guild.

“It is not in proper metric form,” he said, “and it speaks rather more of you than of Tostig. But we are grateful for your efforts. We accept your Saga. Let it be called:
‘The Ballad of Baron Tostig.’
And let it also be known that you are the only alien ever to invent a Saga accepted by the Khalian Poet’s Guild.”

He gave me a silver-grey cloak of office, and the pointed hat of a bard. They are too small for me to wear but I have hung them on the wall of my study in New Jerusalem. When I look at them, I remember Tostig. If that be treason, I stand condemned out of my own mouth.

“Markedly strange,” Admiral Meier agreed, looking up from the screen at the special investigator. Smythe waited for a further comment out received none.

“Even more strange,” he replied to fill the silence, “is the other file I found. Completely different. Almost as if we were dealing with another race entirely, but it was definitely the Khalia.”

During the hour that Meier had studied the occupation file from Target, exhaustion had caught up with Smythe. He had been pushing himself for weeks and only by dint of willpower had stayed awake while sitting in the admiral’s office. The investigator’s hand shook as he inserted a second file.

THE TANDELEISTRASSE ON
Efrichen was officially off-limits from 9:00 P.M. to 8:00 A.M. local time, but the spacers stayed away even in daylight hours. There was no reason for them to do so; the Tandeleistrasse was no more foreboding than any other street in the city, with its whimsical antique lights and scrubbed steps and modestly closed lace curtains at every window. The brass knockers were fiercely shiny and there was rarely anyone abroad. Over several of the heavy wooden doors were primitive carvings of animals, worn and grained with most of their paint lost to time and weather. Near the middle of the street was a door engraved with a giant snake that looked to be the oldest and shabbiest carving in the entire area. The colony of Efrichen was only ten generations old, yet already it was showing signs of wear around the edges.

Ensign Diego Bach leaned back in the webbing as the Gs increased during descent. If it had been his choice he wouldn’t opt for liberty on Efrichen, but it hadn’t been his choice and he wasn’t exactly on liberty. The thin hull of the merchanter shuddered slightly and Diego tried not to wince. He was used to the solid ships of the Fleet, not these ration cans that hauled junk at the very edge of safety. He’d better get used to them, though, he told himself, and the thought stung. Bad enough to be out here on the uncivilized Ridge half the galaxy away from the real action, the honor and glory and chance to distinguish himself on Target. Instead he had to pray that Ari wasn’t drunk and would get them down in the pattern, that the authorizations would hold, that the snake-would pass.

The thought of the snake made Diego wince internally. “Beautiful piece of work, if I do say so myself,” the artist in the disguise section of Intelligence had said as he put the tattooing needles away. “You might want to think about leaving it on. I would.”

Leaving it on was the last thing Diego had ever contemplated. Not that it was hideous. In a way he would have preferred it ugly and miserable, not the sinuous metallic violet creature with the sapphire eye that might have almost passed as decoration in the pits of Anares. Which was the reason above all he hated it. There was nothing in the known universe that could render that tattoo anything other than what it was, a passport to the rateri clubs of-the Tandeleistrasse. It was exactly the kind of thing a Bach never did, that his father the admiral would call disgraceful, and his mother the admiral would call common.

The merchanter shuddered violently for the last time and jerked abruptly. Diego’s teeth ground together under the pressure as the Tobishi Lines System interfaced with the Port, feeding in idents and registrations. He had shipped aboard
Lodestone
just before they got under way for Efrichen, his ident stating that he was an engineer, 2
nd
class, on the Tobishi Lines freighter
Tompkin,
and transferred to
Lodestone
when Davis was promoted. All very routine, courtesy of Fleet Intelligence which had provided documents that weren’t precisely forged. He knew that, knew the documents were good, but he still held his breath as the registration went through. Palming the new ident disc and slinging his battered red flight bag over his shoulder, Diego disembarked, the perfect image of a merchanter on liberty.

“I’ll take care of business,” Ari had said. “I hate this place, and I’d rather be working than using up liberty time. Imagine, orders from Tobishi himself. To come here. To pick up a consignment of bacteriological, no less.”

Ari’d winked as they crossed into the union reception lobby and checked into their quarters. No one had liked the idea of liberty on Efrichen. It had been a subject of speculation why Tobishi himself, the owner of the merchant line, should order them into this hell-forsaken place. Diego had started at least three of the rumors currently in circulation among the crew of the
Lodestone
and was rewarded by the fact that no one suspected any Fleet intervention at all.

The union hall was filled with heavy haulers, merchant liners, and skip-runners who were little better than the Khalia pirates. In the gaudy heraldry Diego had studied the few months since his assignment to Intelligence, he could pick out the UV white stripes on the haulers jackets and the colored belts of the indies. A few turned to stare at him, and Diego felt a pang of fear. Surely they could see what he was under the Tobishi grey worksuit, couldn’t miss the bearing and stride that had been stamped into cellular memory.

Keeping up the front was the worst. Aboard
Lodestone
he’d gotten a reputation as a loner. Ari had offered to share a bottle more than once and Diego had refused. He hadn’t wanted to. Since leaving Port he hadn’t talked to anyone and the loneliness was beginning to eat at him, but he had resisted temptation. He didn’t trust himself not to talk.

It wasn’t even like he’d chosen Intelligence, he thought as he passed the last of the lobby stares and dropped his kit on the floor of the tube. He’d had his whole career very carefully mapped out. Starting with Junior Weapons Officer aboard a cruiser and sticking with cruisers until he got enough seniority to really make a name in the Scout Fast Attack Wing. There wasn’t any going back, and it only made things worse to dwell on the preferable. Now, today, he should have been on his way to Target with the Fast Attack Wing. Instead he was on Efrichen, the boonies of the backwater, and his assignment was just beginning.

The merchant spacer’s union quarters on Efrichen weren’t exactly sumptuous. Diego found his room was an oversized closet with a sleeping platform and a washroom barely large enough to turn around in. He peeled off his Tobishi uniform and muttered to activate the lights and shower, both of which came on full force. He caught a glimpse of a stranger in the mirror and nearly broke the glass before he realized that he was only seeing himself.

On
Lodestone
he’d managed to avoid looking in the mirror as much as possible, so the change was startling. The violet snake wound from his right knee around his thigh, slithered over his back and arched down from his left shoulder. The disguise artist had also instructed him to grow out his hair, which now hung in almost colorless tendrils past his shoulders. The two earrings in his left ear had different meanings depending on whether he was being a merchanter or an Efrichen rateri addict. He’d always managed to avoid looking at them before, so the glitter of the jewels startled him. All in all, Diego thought, he looked thoroughly disreputable. His parents would be ashamed if they saw him. Even his old school friends wouldn’t recognize him now as the Academy’s “Most Likely to Succeed.”

He glanced at the blinking green chrono over the bed. He was supposed to meet his contact at the Snake Club just before planetary midnight. If the contact was still alive. The reports had stopped coming months ago. At first Intelligence thought that a courier had been captured. Now no one was sure of anything, only that Jurgen was in trouble.

That was the only name he had been given. At the briefing he had seen two pictures, one of a young officer and one of a rateri addict. He’d memorized the second. His orders were for one evening only and were perfectly explicit. Get Jurgen and bring him in, along with any evidence.

Exactly what kind of evidence they were looking for was unclear. Diego had asked more than once, and Sein had muttered something vague about Khalia incursions into the region. Diego knew when he wasn’t going to get a straight answer. It was one of the things he hated about working in this group, almost more than he hated missing the chance to distinguish himself in combat. Everyone knew that the best way to make major career strides was combat, and he cursed again under his breath that the opportunity had been under his nose and yanked away. Maybe when this was done there’d still be some mopping up to do, something where he could really show his stuff. Not this backwater police effort, that was for sure. He still wasn’t certain why the Fleet should be involved at all. Two-bit drug running was a local issue. The Fleet had better things to worry about.

Maybe it was a little early, and his instructors had been very clear about being careful on site, but Diego decided that he just couldn’t stay still any longer. From the red kit he pulled on silver pants and a loose jacket that opened to reveal the snake’s attacking head. The outfit cost more than he could possibly afford on his salary, which was just fine. It reminded him more of his costume for the Beaux Arts Ball, where he had escorted debutantes three years ago. The debs had been silly and the party had been boring. The only good part had been the champagne, and this time even that wasn’t guaranteed.

The streets of Efrichen caught him up once he left the union hall. The great stone houses seemed to soak up all sound and he could hear the light hollow slap of his soles against the pavement in the darkness. Above him, soft yellow light wound from behind the closed creamy lace curtains and occasionally he could hear muted laughter. It was quick, muffled, and then swallowed up again in the light. They used antique electric bulbs, lights that only halfheartedly pierced the blackness with a puddle of cheer, leaving most of the street cold and lonely. Inside, against the windows, it looked like a haven of warmth and company closed against the world. Huddled against the night, the rateri, the Tandeleistrasse, Efrichen vigorously barricaded its fiercely middle-class respectability behind thick walls and lace curtains.

When he turned the corner, Diego discovered that he had entered the Tandeleistrasse. Slowly, feeling some oppression from the simple knowledge that this was enemy territory, he entered and continued to walk. At this hour the street appeared no different from its neighbors. He found the club with little trouble; the wooden serpent carved in the door matched the one on his body. It was one of the rateri clubs, the oldest and most established. The inner core, Jurgen had called it in an early report, the club favored by the Khalia and the one delegated by them to handle the precious rateri trade. Softly, hesitantly, he turned the heavy brass knob and entered.

The first thing that hit him was the smell. It was a strange mixture of stale tobacco, half-washed glasses, warm beer, and furniture polish, mingled with heavy spice perfume and the faint bitterness he knew was rateri. The antechamber looked as innocuous as the rest of the street, but Diego caught the soft clicking of a telltale near the second door. The telltale would either admit him or it would trap him. Sein had never said what happened to an intruder in a rateri den.

For a moment it occurred to Diego that he could simply turn around and go back. He hadn’t really volunteered for this assignment. Then his hand found the gold St. Barbara medal that had been his grandfathers’ all the way back to the Fuentes who had fought for freedom and human honor at the side of Bolivar. He should have taken it off, left it back at the union hall, but here the presence called up all those generations who had served the human cause and drained all the fear and anger away. Diego placed his palm against the talelock without wavering, and without surprise when he was admitted.

It took him awhile to adjust to the extremely dim light and the haze of smoke that permeated every centimeter of the hall. Colors drifted through the cloud. There were human faces and masks, brilliant dominoes decorated with paste jewels and feathers, some painted metallic colors with quasi-Aztec designs.

A woman with glittering ruby hair brushed past him clad in red. She raised her hand on a glass of some pale green liquid and he noticed that her hands were tattooed into five-headed hydras, tipped with gold and green lacquer depicting the jaws and venom. It was beautiful. Diego slumped into a chair at an empty table full of dead beer glasses and heavily laden’ ashtrays.

The woman turned to regard him suspiciously. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you here before.”

“I’m a friend of Jurgen’s,” Diego answered, relaxing with some effort across the arm of the chair. “And who are you?”

She giggled and held out one of the hydras, writhing. “Then it’s okay. I’m called Zoe. Jurgen won’t be here for a while anyway. Dance with me.”

Diego danced. He felt silly spending so much time when he should be gathering evidence, dancing with a succession of ladies whose only unusual quality was their makeup and hand tattoos. Intelligence had spent a lot of time and money, and so far it all was just like the Beaux Arts Ball without the champagne.

The red hydra-hand fingered his holy medal light and smiled. “You’re with the ship, aren’t you?” she asked in a throaty voice.

Suddenly Diego’s hearing perked up. “What makes you think that?”

Zoe shook her head slowly. “That won’t work with me. I know. I’ve been around a long time. Jurgen trusts me and he knows the ships. I’m glad you’ve come. We’ve waited for a long time. Tell the friends that I’m a good friend, too. I’m ready.”

Diego permitted himself a small smile. “Just how ready?” he demanded.

The hand at the chain twisted hard around his throat and cut off his breath for only a moment. A show of force. Diego’s hands came up independently and broke the hold, twisted the vividly colored wrist back so far he could feel the bones strain before he even realized what he ‘had done. Slowly he let the woman go.