A Circus of Hells df-2 Read online

  But he dared not go far from his shelter; storms were too frequent and rough. He’d already spent most of his resources of contemplation while wired to the bunk in Jake. Besides, he was by nature active and sociable, traits which youth augmented. Initially, whenever he decided that reading one more paragraph would make his vitreous humor bubble, he tried sketching; but he soon concluded that his gifts in that direction fell a little short of Michelangelo. A more durable pastime was the composition of scurrilous limericks about assorted Merseians and superior officers of his own. A few ought to become interstellar classics, he thought demurely—if he got free to pass them on—which meant that he had a positive duty to survive…And he invented elaborate new forms of solitaire, after which he devised ways to cheat at them.

  The principal benefit of his exile was the chance to make plans. He developed them for every combination of contingencies that he could imagine. Yet he realized this must be kept within limits; unforeseen things were bound to pop up, and he couldn’t risk becoming mentally rigid.

  “All that thinking did raise my hopes,” he told Rrinn.

  “For us too?” the chief answered. He gave the man a contemplative look. “Skyswimmer, naught have we save your saying, that we should believe you intend our good.”

  “My existence is proof that the Merseians have not apprised you of everything. They never mentioned races in contention with them—did they?”

  “No. When Ydwyr and others declared the world goes around the sun and the stars are suns themselves with worlds aspin in the same wise…that took years to catch. I did ask once, were more folk than theirs upon those worlds, and he said Merseia was friend to many. Further has he not related.”

  “Do you seize?” Flandry crowed. (He was getting the hang of Ruadrath idioms in Eriau. A man or Merseian would have phrased it, “Do you see?”)

  “S-s-s-s…Gifts have they given us, and in fairness have they dealt.”

  Why shouldn’t they? Flandry gibed. The scientists aren’t about to antagonize their objects of research, and the Navy has no cause to. The reasons for being a tad less than candid about the interstellar political brew are quite simple. Imprimis, as this chap here is wise enough to understand, radically new information has to be assimilated slowly; too much at once would only confuse. Secundus, by its effect on religion and so forth, it tends to upset the cultures that Ydwyr’s gang came to study.

  The fact is, friend Rrinn, the Merseians like and rather admire your people. Far more than the Domrath, you resemble them—or us, in the days of our pioneering.

  But you must not be allowed to continue believing that.

  “Among their folk and mine is a practice of keeping meat animals behind walls,” he said. “Those beasts are treated well and fed richly…until time for slaughter.”

  Rrinn arched his back. His tail stood straight. He bared teeth and clapped hand to knife.

  He had been walking with Flandry ahead of the group. It consisted chiefly of young, aged, and females. The hunters were scattered in small parties, seeking game. Some would not rejoin their families for days. When Rrinn stopped stiffened, unease could be seen on all the sleek red-brown bodies behind. The leader evidently felt he shouldn’t let them come to a halt. He waved, a clawing gesture, and resumed his advance.

  Flandry, who had modified a pair of Merseian snow-shoes for himself, kept pace. Against the fact that he wasn’t really built for this environment must be set his greater size. Furthermore, the going was currently easy.

  Wirrda’s were bound across the tundra that had been jungle in summer. Most years they visited the Merseian base, which wasn’t far off their direct route, for sightseeing, talk, and a handout. However, the practice wasn’t invariable—it depended on factors like weather—and Flandry had made them sufficiently suspicious that on this occasion they jogged out of their way to avoid coming near the compound. Meanwhile he continued feeding their distrust.

  The Hell-kettles would have been visible except for being wrapped in storm. That part of horizon and sky was cut off by a vast blue-black curtain. Not for weeks or months would the atmosphere settle down to the clear, even colder calm of full winter. But elsewhere the sky stood pale blue, with a few high cirrus clouds to catch sunlight.

  This had dropped to considerably less than Terra gets. (In fact, the point of equal value had been passed in what meteorologically was early fall. Likewise, the lowest temperatures would come well after Talwin had gone through apastron, where insolation was about 0.45 Terran.) Flandry must nevertheless wear self-darkening goggles against its white refulgence; and, since he couldn’t look near the sun disc, its dwindling angular diameter did not impinge on his senses.

  His surroundings did. He had experienced winters elsewhere, but none like this.

  Even on planets akin to Terra, that period is not devoid of life. On Talwin, where it occupied most of the long year, a separate ecology had developed for it.

  The divorce was not absolute. Seas were less affected than land, and many shore-based animals that ate marine species neither hibernated nor estivated. Seeds and other remnants of a season contributed to the diet of those which did. The Merseians had hardly begun to comprehend the web of interactions—structural, chemical, bacteriological, none knew what more—between hot-weather and cold-weather forms. As an elementary example: No equivalent of evergreens existed; summer’s wild growth would have strangled them; on the other hand, decaying in fall, it provided humus for winter vegetation.

  The tundra reached in crisp dunes and a glimpse of wind-scoured frozen lake. But it was not empty. Black among the blue shadows, leaves thrust upward in clumps that only looked low and bushy; their stems often went down through meters of snow. The sooty colors absorbed sunlight with high efficiency, aided by reflection off the surface. In some, a part of that energy worked through molecular processes to liquefy water; others substituted organic compounds, such as alcohols, with lower freezing points; for most, solidification of fluids was important to one stage or another of the life cycle.

  North of the mountains, the glaciers were becoming too thick for plants. But south of them, and on the islands, vegetation flourished. Thus far it was sparse, and it would never approach the luxuriance of summer. Nonetheless it supported an animal population off which other animals lived reasonably well—including the Ruadrath. Still, you could understand why they had such intense territorial jealousies…

  Flandry’s breath steamed into air that lay cold on his cheeks; but within his garments he was sweating a trifle. The day was quiet enough for him to hear the shuffle-shuffle of his walking. He said carefully:

  “Rrinn, I do not ask you to follow my counsel blind. Truth indeed is that I could be telling you untruth. What harm can it do, though, to consider ways by which you may prove or disprove my speech? Must you not as leader of Wirrda’s attempt this? For think. If my folk and Merseia’s are in conflict, maneuvering for position among the stars, then harbors are needed for the sky-swimming craft. Not so? You have surely seen that not every Merseian is here to gather knowledge. Most come and go on errands that I tell you are scoutings and attacks on my folk.

  “Now a warlike harbor needs defense. In preparation for the day the enemy discovers it, a day that will unfailingly come, it has to be made into more than a single small encampment. This whole world may have to be occupied, turned into a fortress.” What a casuist I am! “Are you certain the Merseians have not been staring into your lives in order that they may know how easiest to overwhelm you?”

  Rrinn growled back, “And am I certain your folk would leave us be?”

  “You have but my speech,” Flandry admitted, “wherefore you should ask of others.”

  “How? Shall I call Ydwyr in, show him you, and scratch for truth as to why he spoke nothing about your kindred?”

  “N-n-no, I counsel otherwise. Then he need but kill me and give you any smooth saying he chooses. Best you get him to come to Wirrda’s, yes, but without knowledge that I live. You can there draw hi
m out in discourse and seize whether or not that which he tells runs together with that which you know from having traveled with me.”

  “S-s-s-s.” Rrinn gripped his vocalizer as if it were a weapon. He was plainly troubled and unhappy; his revulsion at the idea of possibly being driven from his land gave him no peace. It lay in his chromosomes, the dread inherited from a million ancestors, to whom loss of hunting grounds had meant starvation in the barrens.

  “We have the rest of the trek to think about what you should do,” Flandry reassured him.

  More accurately, for me to nudge you into thinking the scheme I hatched in the cache house is your own notion.

  I hope we do feel and reason enough alike that I can play tricks on you.

  To himself: Don’t push too hard, Flandry. Take time to observe, to participate, to get simpâtico with them. Why, you might even figure out a way to make amends, if you survive.

  Chance changed the subject for him. A set of moving specks rounded a distant hill. Closer, they revealed themselves as a moose-sized shovel-tusked brute pursued by several Ruadrath. The hunters’ yells split the air. Rrinn uttered a joyous howl and sped to help. Flandry was left floundering behind in spite of wanting to demonstrate his prowess. He saw Rrinn head off the great beast and engage it, knife and spear against its rushes, till the others caught up.

  That evening there was feasting and merriment. The grace of dancers, the lilt of song and small drums, spoke to Flandry with an eloquence that went beyond language and species. He had admired Ruadrath art: the delicate carving on every implement, the elegant shapes of objects like sledges, bowls, and blubber lamps. Now tonight, sitting—bundled up—in one of the igloos that had been raised when the old females predicted a blizzard, he heard a story. Rrinn gave him a low-voiced running translation into Eriau. Awkward though that was, Flandry could identify the elements of style, dignity, and philosophy which informed a tale of heroic adventure. Afterward, meditating on it in his sleeping bag, he felt optimistic about his chances of manipulating Wirrda’s.

  Whether or not he could thereby wrest anything out of the Merseians was a question to be deferred if he wanted to get to sleep.

  Ydwyr said quietly, “No, I do not believe you would be a traitress to your race. Is not the highest service you can render to help strike the Imperial chain off them?”

  “What chain?” Djana retorted. “Where were the Emperor and his law when I tried to escape from the Black Hole, fifteen years old, and my contractor caught me and turned me over to the Giggling Man for a lesson?”

  Ydwyr reached out. His fingers passed through her locks, stroked her cheek, and rested on her shoulder for a minute. To save her garments—indoors being warm and she simply an alien there, her body neither desirable nor repulsive—she had taken to wearing just a pocketed kilt. The touch on her skin was at once firm and tender; its slight roughness emphasized the strength held in check behind. Love flowed through it, into her, and radiated back out from her until the bare small office was aglow, as golden sunsets can saturate the air of worlds like Terra.

  Love? No, maybe not really. That’s a typical sticky Anglic word. I remember, somebody told me, I think I remember…isn’t it caritas that God has for us mortals?

  Above the gray robe, above her, Ydwyr’s countenance waited powerful and benign.

  I mustn’t call you God. But I can call you Father—to myself—can’t I? In Eriau they say rohadwann: affection, loyalty, founded on respect and on my own honor.

  “Yes, I could better have spoken of burning out a cancer,” he agreed. “The breakdown of legitimate authority into weakness or oppression—which are two aspects of the same thing, the change of Hands into Heads—is a late stage of the fatal disease.” A human male would have tried to cuddle her and murmur consolations for memories that to this day could knot her guts and blur her eyesight. Then he would have gotten indignant if she didn’t crawl into bed with him. Ydwyr continued challengingly: “You had the toughness to outlive your torment, at last to outwit the tormentors. Is not your duty to help those of your race to freedom who were denied your heritage?”

  She dropped her gaze. Her fingers twisted together. “How? I mean, oh, you would overrun humanity…wouldn’t you?”

  “I thought you had learned the worth of propaganda,” he reproached her. “Whatever the final result, you will see no enormous change; centuries of effort lie ahead. And the goal is liberation—of Merseians, yes, we make no bleat about our primary objective being anything else—but we welcome partners—and our endeavor is, ultimately, to impose Will on blind Nature and Chance.”

  Junior partners, she added to herself. Well, is that necessarily bad? She closed her eyes and saw a man who bore Nicky Flandry’s face (descendant, maybe) striding in the van of an army which followed the Merseian Christ. He carried no exterior burden of venal superiors and bloodless colleagues, no interior load of nasty little guilts and doubts and mockeries; in his hand was the gigantic simplicity of a war knife, and he laughed as he strode. Beside him, she herself walked. Wind tossed her hair and roared in green boughs. They would never leave each other.

  Nicky…dead…why? These people didn’t kill him; no, not even those back yonder who wanted to wring him empty. They’d have been his friends if they could. The Empire wouldn’t let them.

  She looked again and found Ydwyr waiting. “Seeker,” she said timidly, “this is too sudden for me. I mean, when Qanryf Morioch tells me I should, should, should become a spy for the Roidhunate—”

  “You desire my advice,” he finished. “You are always welcome to it.”

  “But how can I—”

  He smiled. “That will depend on circumstances, my dear. After training, you would be placed where it was deemed you could be most useful. I am sure you realize the spectacular escapades of fiction are simply fiction. The major part of your life would be unremarkable—though I’m sure, with your qualifications, it would have a good share of glamour and luxury. For example, you might get a strategically placed Terran official to make you his mistress or his actual wife. Only at widely spaced intervals would you be in contact with your organization. The risks are less than those you habitually ran before coming here; the material rewards are considerable.” He grew grave. “The real reward for you, my almost-daughter, will be the service itself. And knowing that your name will be in the Secret Prayers while the Vach Urdiolch endures.”

  “You do think I should?” she gulped.

  “Yes,” he said. “Those are less than half alive who have no purpose in life beyond themselves.”

  The intercom fluted. Ydwyr muttered annoyance and signaled it to shut up. It fluted twice more in rapid succession. He tensed. “Urgent call,” he said, and switched on.

  Cnif hu Vanden’s image flicked into the screen. “To the datholch, homage,” he said hurriedly. “He would not have been interrupted save that this requires his immediate attention. We have received a messenger from Seething Springs.” Djana remembered hearing how fast a Ruad could travel when he had no family or goods to encumber him.

  “Khr-r-r, they must be settling down there.” Ydwyr’s tailtip, peeking from beneath his robe, quivered, the single sign he gave of agitation. “What is their word?”

  “He waits in the courtyard. Shall I give the datholch a direct line?”

  “Do.” Djana thought that a man would have asked for a briefing first. Men had not the Merseian boldness.

  She couldn’t follow the conversation between Ydwyr and the lutrine being who stood in the snow outside. The scientist used a vocalizer to speak the messenger’s language. When he had blanked the screen, he sat for a long period, scowling, tailtip flogging the floor.

  “Can I help?” Djana finally ventured to ask. “Or should I go?”

  “Shwai—” He noticed her. “Khr-r-r.” After pondering: “No, I can tell you now. You will soon hear in any case.” She contained herself. A Merseian aristocrat did not jitter. But her pulse thumped.

  “A dispatch from the chief of
that community,” Ydwyr said. “Puzzling: the Ruadrath aren’t in the habit of using ambiguous phrases, and the courier refuses to supplement what he has memorized. As nearly as I can discern, they have come on Dominic Flandry’s frozen corpse.”

  Darkness crossed before her. Somehow she kept her feet.

  “It has to be that,” he went on, glowering at a wall. “The description fits a human, and what other human could it be? For some reason, instead of begetting wonder, this seems to have made them wary of us—as if their finding something we haven’t told them about shows we may have designs on them. The chief demands I come explain.”

  He shrugged. “So be it. I would want to give the matter my personal attention regardless. The trouble must be smoothed out, the effects on their society minimized; at the same time, observation of those effects may teach us something new. I’ll fly there tomorrow with—” He looked at her in surprise. “Why, Djana, you weep.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said into her hands. The tears were salt on her tongue. “I can’t help it.”

  “You knew he must be dead, the pure death to which you sent him.”

  “Yes, but—but—” She raised her face. “Take me along,” she begged.

  “Haadoch? No. Impossible. The Ruadrath would see you and—”

  “And what?” She knelt before him and clutched at his.

  “I want to say goodbye. And…and give him…what I can of a Christian burial. Don’t you understand, lord? He’ll lie here alone forever.”

  “Let me think.” Ydwyr sat motionless and expressionless while she tried to control her sobbing. At last he smiled, stroked her hair again, and told her, “You may.”