The Overlords of War

Chapter 26

They were walking through the forest and the dead scales of trees that were nothing like Earthly trees were crunching under Corson’s feet. The Urians went without a sound. Fragile creatures, those. They had inherited hollow bones from their ancestors. He could lay them out, croaking, with two punches. But they were grasping deadly weapons in their talons, and moreover he had need of them.

His first night on the planet, the darkness had been as deep as this. And—just like now—he had eavesdropped on the noises of the forest, trying to make out where the Monster had laired. Now he had to deal with a new monster, a human one called Veran.

They had left their floater behind, far from the camp, hoping that they might approach unnoticed in the confusion caused by the attack, or rather by his and Antonella’s getaway. He consulted his watch. This very instant they must be crossing the camp under the guidance of the unknown who was himself. They were approaching the pegasones. The stranger with a mask of midnight was harnessing one of the beasts. He was helping Corson and Antonella to mount. All three of them, and two pegasones, were going to vanish into the sky, into time.

Any moment now!

His first night on this planet… Then he hadn’t dared make a light, either, but this time he was wearing on his corneas contact lenses that enabled him to see in the infrared. The ground, except in patches, looked as black as a starless sky. The tree trunks were reddish. Their scale-like leaves, site of relatively intense energy processes, were orange. Here and there a stone on the ground was giving off stored heat from the daytime and showed as a pale speck. He saw something luminous sneaking silently away between the bushes—a frightened animal.

He could smell burned resin and melted sand. The camp was close.

Is this to be a historic moment? he wondered. So many things hung on it for this planet. Would Veran accept? What would happen if Veran’s men fired on sight, if he was killed? Then the alliance would never ensue, the monsters and the Monsters would continue to roam at liberty.

There would be a war. Maybe two. Between the humans and the natives, and between Uria and the Galactic Council or the Security Office or—whatever you called it, there was bound to be some organization. Something would snap. A crack would propagate across the centuries and shake the future. He was sure of that. There was no other reason for his presence. They had sent him to plug a breach in history without telling him how or why.

A historic moment! A place and a date where several time lines crossed, where he had met himself without knowing it and where now he was avoiding himself by choice. A historic moment! As though anybody would ever remember it! As though history were composed of battles and alliances and treaties signed and torn up. No, the opposite was the case. In the deceptive silence of the forest he understood that what deserved the appellation of “history” was the reverse of war. History was like a fabric. Warfare was so many tears in it, and wars so many thorns bloodstained from ripping that fabric which always healed itself with the persistence of a living creature.

Or, he corrected himself with a worse pang of alarm than any the sight of Veran’s sentries could have evoked in him, has always healed itself... so far!

He, this person Corson, felt himself to be the heir of millions and billions of men born and dead in the past, who with their bodies and their lives had woven the grand tapestry of history. He felt answerable to billions upon billions of men yet to come. He was going to give them a chance and offer a solution to those who were dead.

This potential fight wasn’t even an important war, yet no war anywhere—anywhen—had ever been more important. A battle in which spaceships by the millions clashed against each other, like those of six thousand years before, was no more important than the first squabble between cavemen throwing undressed stones. It was a matter of your point of view.

The curtain of the trees grew thinner. Crazy lights appeared. A fine purple trace, which Corson knew to be deadly, cut across the night in a dotted line broken where tree trunks obscured it. At a sign from him the Urians stopped dead, in perfect silence. He could barely make out their quick shallow breathing.

They had agreed that Corson would go forward by himself and talk alone to Veran until a preliminary agreement was reached, but they had attached a sound pickup to his neck. He did not doubt that Ngal R’nda would be listening.

The dotted line vanished. Corson hesitated.

A calm voice hailed them from the camp: “Corson, I know you’re there!”

It was Veran. Corson strode forward toward the harsh disc of a searchlight, pretending not to notice the weapons trained on his back and now on his chest as well.

“So you’ve come back. And found time to change your clothes, I see!” The voice was tinged with sarcasm rather than anger; Veran knew how to control himself. “And you’ve tucked the woman away in a safe place!”

“But I’m here,” Corson said simply.

“I knew you’d come back. A short reconnaissance into the future told me that. Just as I knew where to find you the first time. After all, it was you who picked this spot for me. I presume you had a good reason for offering me a base to refit after our setback at Aergistal, and it follows that you must have something to tell me.”

“I have a proposition to put to you,” Corson said.

“Come a little closer. I can’t leave a gap in my perimeter indefinitely, you know.”

Corson walked forward. The purple line reappeared behind him. He felt in his bones its characteristic vibration.

“So, Corson, what have you to offer?”

“An alliance. And don’t you need one!”

Veran did not even blink. His gray eyes shone in the glare of the searchlights. He looked like a crude statue, barely outlined. His men were a match for him. Two stood at his back, one on either side, motionless, frozen, but fingers no doubt ready on the triggers of the little guns they held, like tiny cannon with points instead of muzzles; one might have taken them for toys. Six more men formed a rough semicircle at whose center stood Corson. They were just far enough away for him to be unable to reach any of them with a desperate bound, even though it cost him his life, before they had time to fire. These were professionals all right, and in a way that was a comfort. They would not risk shooting on impulse before receiving the order or before being genuinely threatened.

Only Veran held no gun. His hands were out of sight behind his back, right fingers no doubt clutching left wrist; it was a customary stance for colonels. In another life, another age, Corson had often had to deal with colonels.

Veran would not be an easy man to persuade.

“I could kill you,” he said. “I haven’t done so because of that message you sent me. It bailed me out of a nasty jam. I’m waiting for an explanation, though.”

“Naturally,” Corson said.

“It was you who sent the message, was it? Or could it have been someone else?”

“Such as who?” Corson answered in a level voice.

A message signed by him that he didn’t remember sending! Which he would not even have known how to address to Veran. And which, beyond doubt, arranged a meeting place, identified this world, this spot, and this moment, and suggested a means of getting away from Aergistal at a point when the situation grew too hot for comfort. A message which he would send later on. That message might form part of the plan he was beginning to construct. Which suggested that in the future there would be another version of the scheme, more solid, more detailed. A version which he would perhaps evolve himself when he knew—and was able to tackle—a lot more. Already, though, he was uncovering snippets of it.

But if something went wrong, if Veran did not consent to the alliance, would he still be able to send that message? Since he knew of its existence, and without it Veran would not have come to Uria, he would be obliged to send it. But when would that happen? When would he think of it—now, later, when? Would he send it if he was unaware that Veran had received it?

It was no good. Trying to work out a strategy, or even a theory of war, in time was too difficult. First he must make a practical experiment.

“You’re taking a long time to think before you talk,” Veran said. “I don’t like that.”

“I have a great deal to discuss. Out here is not the ideal place.” Veran made a sign. One of his men said, “He’s not carrying a gun. Nor a bomb. He does have a transmitter on his neck, but it’s sound only, no pictures.”

“Fair enough,” Veran said. “Let’s go.”