The Companions (59 page)

“In his heart, mankind has never been able to evolve past the tribal stage,” Gainor said. “Civilization does not take the place of tribalism, but if it is well designed, it can control it. Here, on Moss, these men have their whole lives centered upon their tribes, the defense of territory, the shielding of honor. Any threat against tribe, territory, or honor is an acceptable excuse for battle. The women have children and caves and gardens to manage, but the men live only for what they think of as valor. When no fighting is imminent against a remote foe, they will fight one another, and whenever things get too peaceable, they may claim to have been deathly insulted if someone walks through their light.”

I knew that. In the towers, back on Earth, sports teams from various locals or sections competed with one another for championships of a tier, or a section, or even a sector! They would crow or complain for days, depending upon the score of a game in which nothing had happened except that
one team had scored one more point than the other team. The dogs were the same. Even among the six dogs we had brought to Moss, I had seen them defending their personal space, their relationship with their mates. I mentioned this to Gainor. “Perhaps it's why we get on with dogs so well. We and they have the same societies.”

He gave me a surprised look and a grunt, whether of agreement or admonition, I had no idea.

The trail we were following was clear. I had already noticed that warriors in crab armor could not move without snapping twigs and crushing mosses. We drove the floater at its top speed, some good bit faster than a walk. The men ahead of us had one or two hours' head start, and we hoped to come up to them when they stopped for an evening meal. In fact, that is what happened. We came into a clearing at top speed, sliding to a halt when we saw thirty or forty warriors sitting stock-still around a small fire, plates on their laps, utensils halfway to their lips, frozen. Before we could realize what was happening, Derac poured out of the forest all around us.

The next few moments were too chaotic to make sense of. By the time things settled, we had been loosely shackled to good-sized trees, and the Derac were finishing the meal the warriors had started. They had not taken our packs, they had not tied our hands, they had simply chained us up out of the way in their hurry to get something to eat, and they were totally concentrated upon consuming it. I therefore opened my pack and took out the lingui-pute.

“You brought a 'pute?” Gainor whispered. “By all the tail joints of…”

“Never mind,” I said. “You're the diplomat, some of the time, anyhow, what do you want to say to them?”

“Tell them we know the Orskimi have plotted against them.”

Unfortunately, the 'pute wasn't an automatic model. We had automatic ones, but they were six times as heavy. Gainor couldn't remember the codes for common speech or Derac,
so I had to look them up. I whispered them in, then said what Gainor had said, in my most ingratiating voice. Not that tone of voice mattered. The Derac responded with the most dreadful gagging, coughing, vomiting noises one might imagine. Nonetheless, the 'pute at top volume silenced them.

One of them stood, licking his jaws with an extremely long and sinuous tongue, and bellowed in my direction.

The 'pute bellowed at me on his behalf:

“You think we stupid? We not stupid. We know Orskis bad. We kill all them Orskis.”

That response made me remember what Paul had had to say about Derac shipclan vocabulary and understanding, so I revised what I had been going to say next. Fewer, shorter words.

“We help you fight Orskis,” I said, both mendaciously and telegraphically. “Why you take us prisoner?”

They talked among themselves, the 'pute translating bits and pieces, “Eat them, right? They meat? Not for eating? Why not for eating? Who said do it? We don't do what he says, he's not even our clan.” This last by what looked like an elder among them, perhaps one who had reached midlife and was going through the morono-pause. Pinning a modest faith on that assessment, I directed the 'pute toward him.

“Orski long time keep female Derac from male Derac, tell lies to Derac, try to keep Derac weak. Humans find out. Humans want to help Derac. Humans fight Orski. Why you catch us?”

The 'pute translated a subsequent Derac conversation which was in all respects a duplicate of the former Derac conversation. Finally, the older one—I had become convinced he was an older one—told the others to leave us chained up but not to eat us. That decision resulted in an argument during which every Derac present asserted a pressing need to eat us, because they had been sent to Moss in such a hurry, no one had given them supplies.

One of the warriors chained quite close to me whispered,
“We've got food supplies back at the cliffs. Tell them we'll give them food.”

I did. Another argument. Human food wasn't fit to eat. It wasn't bloody enough, we never let it rot enough, most of the smell was gone.

“If you're hungry now, you don't want to wait for us to rot, do you?” I said, with some anger. They were really just too stupid for words. “The human food will fill your bellies until you can dine on Orski flesh. Orski flesh rots very fast and smells very much.”

Though it was obvious to me that the Orskim exoskeletons indicated both limited palatability and little likelihood of decomposition prior to desiccation, the Derac decided that what I said made sense. I suggested a few of them go with a few of the human warriors to get the food. When they had the food, they would bring it back to the others and let us humans go. My suggestion met with general approval after only another half hour's discussion in which not more than one hundred different words were used, jointly, by all the participants.

While the Derac wrangling continued, I turned off the translation speaker, though not the ear, long enough to tell the Mountain warriors that the rest of our party had gone on along the edge of the plateau and it might be a good idea to join up with them and stay clear until matters sorted themselves out.

A dozen Derac unchained a score of the prisoners, chivvied them back along the trail, and were immediately followed by every blessed Derac in the group. I asked the 'pute for a translation of the recent talk, and learned that none of them trusted any of the rest of them to bring the food back, so they all intended to stick together. After they had eaten, maybe they would come back and let us loose, or maybe they'd just go back to the battle.

So, there we were, a dozen or so warriors, Gainor and I, shackled to various trees. Gainor's weapons and those of the warriors were lying about, some of them within reach, but
all of them were designed to affect flesh, in or out of armor, and none of them were designed to cut or melt steel. Gainor and I were still wearing our locators, and presumably, some of the people we had left with the boys back at the cliffs would eventually come looking for us, or Sybil would be bringing Gavi…right into the oncoming Derac. Oh, very fine, I told myself. Excellent.

As you can appreciate, our situation, while it had not yet become truly life-threatening, was continuing to deteriorate. The next thing we heard was a monstrous twittering, like a flock of enormous crickets, all sawing away. There were crickets in several of my Joram wall views, and these noises might have been made by giants of the species.

“Orski,” said Gainor, through his teeth.

I looked up the translation code for Orski-speak and entered it in the 'pute, ready to talk when the next creatures arrived, which they did immediately, from above. One minute I was sitting there, rehearsing what I was going to say, and the next instant I was grabbed from above by six horny, segmented feet, and hauled into the air, an escalation which was stopped only by the length of my chain. All around the little clearing, people were being tugged between chains and feet, until finally a twittered order came. “Put them down.”

“Yes,” I cried. “Please put us down.”

The 'pute twittered the request with my own panicky inflection, and we were, accordingly, dropped the last few feet. I rose unsteadily to my feet, saying:

“We welcome the Orskimi. We join with them in our abhorrence of the invidious Derac, who have gone in that direction, only a few moments ago.” I tried desperately to remember if Orskim culture had a deity one could invoke.

Gainor saved me the trouble. “May we wish you success in your Great Work,” he cried. “The invidious Derac have among them some of our people. We give great reward to those who free our people from bondage.”

The 'pute burst into speech. “We, Orskim righteous followers of the plans laid by our ancestors, have come to take
the preeminence formerly held by the Zhaar. That great people departed from this galaxy. Now, we, Orskim achievers of the Great Work, will rule in their stead.”

“You will, indeed,” cried Gainor. “But, as it is written by your own historians, in the interim you need allies, and we are your allies.”

“Besides,” I interrupted, “the Zhaar have returned, so it will be necessary to kill them first in order to rule the galaxy. You must report this at once to your officers!”

A brief confusion preceded the abrupt departure of the Orskim, half of them in pursuit of the Derac and the other half flying away through the forest at top speed, leaving us still shackled to our trees.

“How did you know that, about what was written?” I asked.

“I don't know what they've written,” he said. “But neither do these guys. They're warriors, not priests.”

“If you're both so clever,” muttered one of the Day Mountain warriors, “maybe you can figure out how to get us out of here.”

The suggestion received no reply, for from behind the chained warriors came a flash of light, followed at once by others, left and right, then by others still, as far as we could see into the trees. We heard a howl, then another, then a whole chorus of them, a cacophony of yelps, snarls, great chest-rumbling growls. I thought of Behemoth, first, but then I smelled them on the wind. Not dogs. Not dogs at all. Zhaar. Zhaar who didn't care what race they killed, or enslaved. Zhaar who had it in for me personally for bilking them of their prey in Splendor.

They came through us and past us at top speed, hides shining, plumed tails streaming. One or two of them made a quick reconnaissance around us, seeing that we were chained. Another one or two took a quick sniff, perhaps identifying us. When they came to me, they stopped, howled, as if in question, and received a delighted howl in reply. The 'pute didn't translate. Not that it needed to, as I
could pretty well figure out the content. Unlike the Phaina's translator, this one had never been designed to decipher odors. I had the odor organ in my pack, but I couldn't play it. In any case, what would I say?

What would I say? Just because the Zhaar spoke in odors now didn't mean they didn't understand language!

“Gainor, the Orskimi lied when they said the Zhaar are finished,” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “The Orskimi say they govern the galaxy, that the Zhaar grew weak and powerless and are no more, that the Zhaar are nothing, of no regard. Why did they say that if it isn't true?”

“That is what they said,” Gainor bellowed. “The Orskimi told us they would kill all the Zhaar who may be left….”

A look of pure astonishment went across the faces of the nearest Zhaar, then they streamed away from us, toward the thick of the battle. Through the trees more and more doors were glittering. They batted open and shut, like Earth eyes blinking. Somehow the Zhaar had managed to perforate the membrane between our worlds until it was permeable as a sponge, and I wished most fervently for the Phaina, or better yet, for her whole race. Surely, there would be something they could do.

Nothing miraculous happened, however, which gave me time to wonder which of our various enemies would come back for us first. Derac? Orskimi? Zhaar? Or maybe Dame Cecelia would think up something else.

As it turned out, it was none of the above. I felt the shackle on my leg seized by something, looked down, saw two woody roots growing through it, looked up into a spread of bright leaves that sparkled against the sun, and heard the shackle part with a shriek of tortured metal.

“Walky,” I cried. “Oh, I'm so glad to see you!”

“I am glad to find you at this time,” it crowed. “So many battles going on, such excitement, disturbance, and tumult. The World is quite overcome! Whole communities are fleeing all this fire and confusion. Luckily, I found you at first try!”

“How did you know to look?”

“When the great battle began this morning, I was already down from the height, where I thought it best to stay, rather than go where you were and be bombarded. I was waiting at foot of plateau for someone, anyone, and behold, there was Jewel coming down with a great many others, including Gainor Brandt—How are you, sir? Well, I hope.—and, thinking perhaps you would not want our acquaintance to be known to all these people, I went aside into the woods while you people went on to the little, what is it called, fortress? Where the children keep the supplies so well guarded?

“At that very time, I received a message from World, and that took a little time to take care of. When I returned, you had gone, so I waited, listening, and soon Gavi Norchis is there, talking to Sybil, and I learn you have followed after the warriors of the Mountains.

“Such adventuring! Such great turmoil, upheaval, and commotion! So, I set out to find you, and suddenly are Derac alligators here, there, and everywhere with warriors of the Mountains, so, I am pausing, quite still, and they go on by. I summon willogs from vicinity and tell them to go at once to protect warriors and your people, then I proceed on my way. No sooner have I moved than I see Orskim come flying, climbing, walking, great bugs, many legs, wings, many arms with weapons, very warlike ugly—though I long to send roots into a few dead ones to find out if there are useful parts! Again, I let them go by, summon more willogs, then I came on, and here you are.