Ensign Flandry

2

Night on Starkad—

Tallest in the central spine of Kursoviki Island was Mount Narpa, peaking at almost twelve kilometers. So far above sea level, atmospheric pressure was near Terran standard; a man could safely breathe and men had erected Highport. It was a raw sprawl of spacefield and a few score prefabs, housing no more than five thousand; but it was growing. Through the walls of his office, Commander Max Abrams, Imperial Naval Intelligence Corps, heard metal clang and construction machines rumble.

His cigar had gone out again. He mouthed the stub until he finished reading the report on his desk, then leaned back and touched a lighter to it. Smoke puffed up toward a blue cloud which already hung under the ceiling of the bleak little room. The whole place stank. He didn’t notice.

“Damn!” he said. And deliberately, for he was a religious man in his fashion, “God damn!”

Seeking calmness, he looked at the picture of his wife and children. But they were home, on Dayan, in the Vega region of the Empire, more parsecs distant than he liked to think. And remote in time as well. He hadn’t been with them for over a year. Little Miriam was changing so he’d never recognize her, Marta wrote, and David become a lanky hobbledehoy and Yael seeing such a lot of Abba Perlmutter, though of course he was a nice boy … There was only the picture, separated from him by a clutter of papers and a barricade of desk machines. He didn’t dare animate it.

Nor feel sorry for yourself, you clotbrain.

The chair creaked beneath his shifted weight. He was a stocky man, hair grizzled, face big and hooknosed. His uniform was rumpled, tunic collar open, twin planets of his rank tarnished on the wide shoulders, blaster at belt. He hauled his mind back to work.

Wasn’t just that a flitter was missing, nor even that the pilot was probably dead. Vehicles got shot down and men got killed more and more often. Too bad about this kid, who was he, yes, Ensign Dominic Flandry. Glad I never met him. Glad I don’t have to write his parents. But the area where he vanished, that was troubling. His assignment had been a routine reconnaissance over the Zletovar Sea, not a thousand kilometers hence. If the Merseians were getting that aggressive …

Were they responsible, though? Nobody knew, which was why the report had been bucked on to the Terran mission’s Chief of Intelligence. A burst of static had been picked up at Highport from that general direction. A search flight had revealed nothing except the usual Tigery merchant ships and fishing boats. Well, engines did conk out occasionally; matériel was in such short supply that the ground crews couldn’t detect every sign of mechanical overwork. (When in hell’s flaming name was GHQ going to get off its numb butt and realize this was no “assistance operation to a friendly people” but a war?) And given a brilliant sun like Saxo, currently at a peak of its energy cycle, no tricks of modulation could invariably get a message through from high altitudes. On the other hand, a scout flitter was supposed to be fail safe and contain several backup systems.

And the Merseians were expanding their effort. We don’t do a mucking thing but expand ours in response. How about making them respond to us for a change? The territory they commanded grew steadily bigger. It was still distant from Kursoviki by a quarter of the planet’s circumference. But might it be reaching a tentacle this way?

Let’s ask. Can’t lose much.

Abrams thumbed a button on his vidiphone. An operator looked out of the screen. “Get me the greenskin cinc,” Abrams ordered.

“Yes, sir. If possible.”

“Better be possible. What’re you paid for? Tell his cohorts all gleaming in purple and gold to tell him I’m about to make my next move.”

“What, sir?” The operator was new here.

“You heard me, son. Snarch!”

Time must pass while the word seeped through channels. Abrams opened a drawer, got out his magnetic chessboard, and pondered. He hadn’t actually been ready to play. However, Runei the Wanderer was too fascinated by their match to refuse an offer if he had a spare moment lying around; and damn if any Merseian son of a mother was going to win at a Terran game.

Hm … promising development here, with the white bishop … no, wait, then the queen might come under attack … tempting to sic a computer onto the problem … betcha the opposition did … maybe not … ah, so.

“Commandant Runei, sir.”

An image jumped to view. Abrams could spot individual differences between nonhumans as easily as with his own species. That was part of his business. An untrained eye saw merely the alienness. Not that the Merseians were so odd, compared to some. Runei was a true mammal from a terrestroid planet. He showed reptile ancestry a little more than Homo Sapiens does, in hairless pale-green skin, faintly scaled, and short triangular spines running from the top of his head, down his back to the end of a long heavy tail. That tail counterbalanced a forward-leaning posture, and he sat on the tripod which it made with his legs. But otherwise he rather resembled a tall, broad man. Except for complex bony convolutions in place of external ears, and brow ridges over-hanging the jet eyes, his head and face might almost have been Terran. He wore the form-fitting black and silver uniform of his service. Behind him could be seen on the wall a bell-mouthed gun, a ship model, a curious statuette: souvenirs of far stars.

“Greeting, Commander.” He spoke fluent Anglic, with a musical accent. “You work late.”

“And you’ve dragged yourself off the rack early,” Abrams grunted. “Must be about sunrise where you are.”

Runei’s glance flickered toward a chrono. “Yes, I believe so. But we pay scant attention here.”

“You can ignore the sun easier’n us, all right, squatted down in the ooze. But your native friends still live by this cheap two-thirds day they got. Don’t you keep office hours for them?”

Abrams’ mind ranged across the planet, to the enemy base. Starkad was a big world, whose gravity and atmosphere gnawed land masses away between tectonic epochs. Thus, a world of shallow ocean, made turbulent by wind and the moons; a world of many islands large and small, but no real continents. The Merseians had established themselves in the region they called the Kimraig Sea. They had spread their dromes widely across the surface, their bubblehouses over the bottom. And their aircraft ruled those skies. Not often did a recon flight, robot or piloted, come back to Highport with word of what was going on. Nor did instruments peering from spaceships as they came and went show much.

One of these years, Abrams thought, somebody will break the tacit agreement and put up a few spy satellites. Why not us?—’Course, then the other side’ll bring space warships, instead of just transports, and go potshooting. And then the first side will bring bigger warships.

“I am glad you called,” Runei said. “I have thanked Admiral Enriques for the conversion unit, but pleasure is to express obligation to a friend.”

“Huh?”

“You did not know? One of our main desalinators broke down. Your commandant was good enough to furnish us with a replacement part we lacked.”

“Oh, yeh. That.” Abrams rolled his cigar between his teeth.

The matter was ridiculous, he thought. Terrans and Merseians were at war on Starkad. They killed each other’s people. But nonetheless, Runei had sent a message of congratulations when Birthday rolled around. (Twice ridiculous! Even if a spaceship in hyperdrive has no theoretical limit to her pseudovelocity, the concept of simultaneity remains meaningless over interstellar distances.) And Enriques had now saved Runei from depleting his beer supplies.

Because this wasn’t a war. Not officially. Not even among the two native races. Tigeries and Seatrolls had fought since they evolved to intelligence, probably. But that was like men and wolves in ancient days, nothing systematic, plain natural enemies. Until the Merseians began giving the Seatrolls equipment and advice and the landfolk were driven back. When Terra heard about that, it was sheer reflex to do likewise for the Tigeries, preserve the balance lest Starkad be unified as a Merseian puppet. As a result, the Merseians upped their help a bit, and Terrans replied in kind, and—

And the two empires remained at peace. These were simple missions of assistance, weren’t they? Terra had Mount Narpa by treaty with the Tigeries of Ujanka, Merseia sat in Kimraig by treaty with whoever lived there. (Time out for laughter and applause. No Starkadian culture appeared to have anything like an idea of compacts between sovereign powers.) The Roidhunate of Merseia didn’t shoot down Terran scouts. Heavens, no! Only Merseian militechnicians did, helping the Seatrolls of Kimraig maintain inviolate their air space. The Terran Empire hadn’t bushwhacked a Merseian landing party on Cape Thunder: merely Terrans pledged to guard the frontier of their ally.

The Covenant of Alfzar held. You were bound to assist civilized outworlders on request. Abrams toyed with the notion of inventing some requests from his side. In fact, that wasn’t a bad gambit right now.

“Maybe you can return the favor,” he said. “We’ve lost a flitter in the Zletovar. I’m not so rude as to hint that one of your lads was cruising along and eyeballed ours and got a wee bit overexcited. But supposing the crash was accidental, how about a joint investigation?”

Abrams liked seeing startlement on that hard green face. “You joke, Commander!”

“Oh, naturally my boss’d have to approach you officially, but I’ll suggest it to him. You’ve got better facilities than us for finding a sunken wreck.”

“But why?”

Abrams shrugged. “Mutual interest in preventing accidents. Cultivation of friendship between peoples and individual beings. I think that’s what the catchword is back home.”

Runei scowled. “Quite impossible. I advise you not to make any such proposal on the record.”

“Nu? Wouldn’t look so good if you turn us down?”

“Tension would only be increased. Must I repeat my government’s position to you? The oceans of Starkad belong to the seafolk. They evolved there, it is their environment, it is not essential to the landfolk. Nevertheless the landfolk have consistently encroached. Their fisheries, their seabeast hunts, their weed harvests, their drag nets, everything disturbs an ecology vital to the other race. I will not speak of those they have killed, the underwater cities they have bombed with stones, the bays and straits they have barred. I will say that when Merseia offered her good offices to negotiate a modus vivendi, no land culture showed the slightest interest. My task is to help the seafolk resist aggression until the various landfolk societies agree to establish a just and stable peace.”

“Come off that parrot act,” Abrams snorted. “You haven’t got the beak for it. Why are you really here?”

“I have told you—”

“No. Think. You’ve got your orders and you obey ’em like a good little soldier. But don’t you sometimes wonder what the profit is for Merseia? I sure do. What the black and red deuce is your government’s reason? It’s not as if Saxo sun had a decent strategic location. Here we are, spang in the middle of a hundred light-year strip of no man’s land between our realms. Hardly been explored; hell, I’ll bet half the stars around us aren’t so much as noted in a catalogue. The nearest civilization is Betelgeuse, and the Betelgeuseans are neutrals who wish emerods on both our houses. You’re too old to believe in elves, gnomes, little men, or the disinterested altruism of great empires. So why?”

“I may not question the decisions of the Roidhun and his Grand Council. Still less may you.” Runei’s stiffness dissolved in a grin. “If Starkad is so useless, why are you here?”

“ Lot of people back home wonder about that too,” Abrams admitted. “Policy says we contain you wherever we can. Sitting on this planet, you would have a base fifty light-years closer to our borders, for whatever that’s worth.” He paused. “Could give you a bit more influence over Betelgeuse.”

“Let us hope your envoy manages to settle the dispute,” Runei said, relaxing. “I do not precisely enjoy myself on this hellball either.”

“What envoy?”

“You have not heard? Our latest courier informed us that a … khraich … yes, a Lord Hauksberg is hitherbound.”

“I know.” Abrams winced. “Another big red wheel to roll around the base.”

“But he is to proceed to Merseia. The Grand Council has agreed to receive him.”

“Huh?” Abrams shook his head. “Damn, I wish our mails were as good as yours … Well. How about this downed flitter? Why won’t you help us look for the pieces?”

“In essence, informally,” Runei said, “because we hold it had no right, as a foreign naval vessel, to fly over the waters. Any consequences must be on the pilot’s own head.”

Ho-ho!

Abrams tautened. That was something new. Implied, of course, by the Merseian position; but this was the first time he had heard the claim in plain language. So could the green-skins be preparing a major push? Very possible, especially if Terra had offered to negotiate. Military operations exert pressure at bargaining tables, too.

Runei sat like a crocodile, smiling the least amount. Had he guessed what was in Abrams’ mind? Maybe not. In spite of what the brotherhood-of-beings sentimentalists kept bleating, Merseians did not really think in human style. Abrams made an elaborate stretch and yawn. “ ’Bout time I knocked off,” he said. “Nice talking to you, old bastard.” He did not entirely lie. Runei was a pretty decent carnivore. Abrams would have loved to hear him reminisce about the planets where he had ranged.

“Your move,” the Merseian reminded him.

“Why … yes. Clean forgot. Knight to king’s bishop four.”

Runei got out his own board and shifted the piece. He sat quiet a while, studying. “Curious,” he murmured.

“It’ll get curiouser. Call me back when you’re ready.” Abrams switched off.

His cigar was dead again. He dropped the stub down the disposal, lit a fresh one, and rose. Weariness dragged at him. Gravity on Starkad wasn’t high enough that man needed drugs or a counterfield. But one point three gees meant twenty-five extra kilos loaded on middle-aged bones … No, he was thinking in standard terms. Dayan pulled ten per cent harder than Terra … Dayan, dear gaunt hills and wind-scoured plains, homes nestled in warm orange sunlight, low trees and salt marshes and the pride of a people who had bent desolation to their needs … Where had young Flandry been from, and what memories did he carry to darkness?

On a sudden impulse Abrams put down his cigar, bent his head, and inwardly recited the Kaddish.

Get to bed, old man. Maybe you’ve stumbled on a clue, maybe not, but it’ll keep. Go to your rest.

He put on cap and cloak, thrust the cigar back between his jaws, and walked out.

Cold smote him. A breeze blew thinly under strange constellations and auroral flimmer. The nearer moon, Egrima, was up, almost full, twice the apparent size of Luna seen from Terra. It flooded distant snowpeaks with icy bluish light. Buruz was a Luna-sized crescent barely above the rooftops.

Walls bulked black on either side of the unpaved street, which scrunched with frost as his boots struck. Here and there glowed a lighted window, but they and the scattered lamps did little to relieve the murk. On his left, unrestful radiance from smelters picked out the two spaceships now in port, steel cenotaphs rearing athwart the Milky Way. Thence, too, came the clangor of night-shift work. The field was being enlarged, new sheds and barracks were going up, for Terra’s commitment was growing. On his right the sky was tinted by feverish glowsigns, and he caught snatches of drumbeat, trumpets, perhaps laughter. Madame Cepheid had patriotically dispatched a shipful of girls and croupiers to Starkad. And why not? They were so young and lonely, those boys.

Maria, I miss you.

Abrams was almost at his quarters when he remembered he hadn’t stashed the papers on his desk. He stopped dead. Great Emperor’s elegant epiglottis! He was indeed due for an overhaul.

Briefly he was tempted to say, “Urinate on regulations.” The office was built of ferroconcrete, with an armorplate door and an automatic recognition lock. But no. Lieutenant Novak might report for duty before his chief, may his pink cheeks fry in hell. Wouldn’t do to set a bad security example. Not that espionage was any problem here, but what a man didn’t see, he couldn’t tell if the Merseians caught and hypnoprobed him.

Abrams wheeled and strode back, trailing bad words. At the end, he slammed to a halt. His cigar hit the deck and he ground down a heel on it.

The door was properly closed, the windows dark. But he could see footprints in the churned, not yet congealed mud before the entrance, and they weren’t his own.

And no alarm had gone off. Somebody was inside with a truckload of roboticist’s gear.

Abrams’ blaster snaked into his hand. Call the guard on his wristcom? No, whoever could burgle his office could surely detect a transmission and was surely prepared for escape before help could arrive. By suicide if nothing else.

Abrams adjusted his gun to needle beam. Given luck, he might disable rather than kill. Unless he bought it first. The heart slugged in his breast. Night closed thickly inward.

He catfooted to the door and touched the lock switch. Metal burned his fingers with chill. Identified, he swung the door open and leaned around the edge.

Light trickled over his shoulder and through the windows. A thing whirled from his safe. His eyes were adapted and he made out some details. It must have looked like any workman in radiation armor as it passed through the base. But now one arm had sprouted tools; and the helmet was thrown back to reveal a face with electronic eyes, set in a head of alloy.

A Merseian face.

Blue lightning spat from the tool-hand. Abrams had yanked himself back. The energy bolt sparked and sizzled on the door. He spun his own blaster to medium beam, not stopping to give himself reasons, and snapped a shot.

The other weapon went dead, ruined. The armored shape used its normal hand to snatch for a gun taken forth in advance and laid on top of the safe. Abrams charged through the doorway while he reset for needle fire. So intense a ray, at such close range, slashed legs across. In a rattle and clash, the intruder fell.

Abrams activated his transmitter. “Guard! Intelligence office—on the double!”

His blaster threatened while he waved the lights to go on. The being stirred. No blood flowed from those limb stumps; powerpacks, piezoelectric cascades, room-temperature superconductors lay revealed. Abrams realized what he had caught, and whistled. Less than half a Merseian: no tail, no breast or lower body, not much natural skull, one arm and the fragment of another. The rest was machinery. It was the best prosthetic job he’d ever heard of.

Not that he knew of many. Only among races which didn’t know how to make tissues regenerate, or which didn’t have that kind of tissues. Surely the Merseians—But what a lovely all-purpose plug-in they had here!

The green face writhed. Wrath and anguish spewed from the lips. The hand fumbled at the chest. To turn off the heart? Abrams kicked that wrist aside and planted a foot on it. “Easy, friend,” he said.