Land and Overland Omnibus

CHAPTER 3



The skyship was being borne eastwards on the lightest of breezes, but the ground over which it was drifting was uneven and covered with scrub, which meant that the mounted soldiers had some difficulty in keeping pace with their alien quarry.

Colonel Mandle Gartasian, riding at the head of the column, kept his gaze firmly fixed on the ship and for the most part trusted his bluehorn to find its way around obstacles. The sight of the vast balloon and its room-sized gondola was activating bleak memories, causing a degree of pain he had not experienced since his first years on Overland, and yet he was unable to look elsewhere.

He was a tall man, with the powerful build typical of the Kolcorronian military caste, and showed few signs of his fifty years. Apart from a dusting of grey in his cropped black hair and a deepening of the lines on his square face, he looked much as he had done at the time of the hasty evacuation of Ro-Atabri. He had been an idealistic young lieutenant then, and had unhesitatingly taken his place on one of the first military ships to depart the doomed city. Thousands of times since that day he had cursed the naive trust in his senior officers which had led him to take off ahead of his wife and infant son.

Ronoda and the boy had been assigned places on a civilian ship, and he had left them in the belief that the army was in full control of the situation, that the embarkation schedules would be maintained, and that the separation would last just for the duration of the flight. Only when his binoculars revealed the growing chaos far below had he felt the first pangs of fear, and by then it had been much too late…

"Look, sir!" The words came from Lieutenant Keero, who was riding at Gartasian's side. "I think they're preparing to land!"

Gartasian nodded. "I believe you're right. Now, remember to keep your men from crowding in on the ship after it touches down. Nobody is to go closer than two hundred paces, even if the ship appears to have landing difficulties. We don't know what the crew's intentions are—and they may have powerful weaponry."

"I understand, sir. I can hardly believe this is happening. Can they really have flown all the way from Land?" Keero was infringing field discipline by making inessential remarks, but it was explained by the excitement on his pink-cheeked face. Gartasian, normally strict on such points, decided the lapse was excusable in the unique circumstances.

"There can be no doubt that they have come from the Old World," he said. "The first question we have to ask is … why? Why after all these years? And who? Are we dealing with a small group who managed to survive the ptertha attacks, and finally succeeded in making an escape? Or…?" Gartasian left the question unspoken. The idea that the pterthacosis plague might have abated—sparing enough of the population to rebuild an organised society—was too far-fetched for words. It certainly was not the kind of fanciful speculation to be voiced before a junior officer, especially as concealed within it were the seeds of a far wilder notion. Was there the remotest possibility that Ronoda and Hallie were still alive? And had all his years of guilt and remorse been a self-indulgent waste? With sufficient vision, enterprise and courage could he have instigated a return flight to Land?

The torrent of questions, a distillation of fantastic wish-fulfilment dreams, was the last thing Gartasian needed if he were to function well as the commander of a military operation. He gave himself a mental shake and forced his mind to concentrate on the palpable realities of the situation. It had been more than a minute since he had heard the hollow, echoing roar of the skyship's burner as it discharged hot gas into the balloon—an indication that the crew had selected a suitable landing site. The gondola was now a mere twenty feet above the ground, and at its sides he could see the silhouettes of several men who appeared to be working with rail-mounted cannon. He was beginning to wonder if two hundred paces was a good enough margin of safety for his own force when the cannon fired in a downwards direction. Four harpoon-like anchors speared into the ground, each trailing a line, and at once crewmen began hauling the lines in, thereby drawing the gondola into a controlled touchdown. The balloon above it remained inflated, swaying ponderously.

"We have learned one thing," Gartasian said to his lieutenant. "Our visitors never had any intention of staying for long—otherwise they would have vented their balloon."

His only answer was a hurried salute as Keero wheeled away with a sergeant beside him to deploy the soldiers in a circle around the skyship. Gartasian took a pair of binoculars out of his saddle pouch and trained them on the gondola.

He could see the heads of the four crewmen as they went about the work of securing the ship, but something else in the magnified image attracted his attention. The gondola was of basically the same design as those used in the Migration, and yet had no anti-ptertha cannon on the sides. In spite of the weight penalty imposed by such weapons, they had been deemed necessary for the passage through Land's lower atmosphere, and Gartasian found their absence intriguing. Could it really be a sign that the ptertha—the airborne globes whose poison had all but annihilated Kolcorron—had ceased their onslaught on humanity? Gartasian's heart lurched as he again considered the possibilities. A civilisation which embraced two worlds … a mass return to Land for those who were discontent on Overland … miraculous reunions with loved ones who were believed to be long-dead…

"You fool!" Gartasian made the whispered accusation as he put the binoculars away. "What new folly is this? Are you so excellent a commander that you can afford to handicap yourself with winedreams?"

As he made ready to ride forward he reminded himself of two pertinent facts—his advancement in the army had been hindered by the ambivalence springing from his guilt; and fate had now given him an unparalleled opportunity to compensate by placing him close to the landing site of the enigmatic skyship. The sunwriter message from Prad had said that King Chakkell was on his way with all possible speed, and that in the meantime Colonel Gartasian was empowered to deal with the situation and take any steps he considered necessary. A good showing on this occasion could yield incalculable benefits in the future.

"Remain here," he said to Lieutenant Keero, who was just returning to his starting point. He nudged his bluehorn into a walk which he deliberately kept slow, demonstrating to the visitors that his intentions were not hostile. As he neared the ship he was uneasily aware that his cuirass, moulded from boiled leather, would provide little protection if he were to be fired upon, but he remained upright in the saddle, presenting the appearance of one who was satisfied with his ability to deal with the situation.

Those aboard the ship, observing his approach, ceased their activities and came to stand at the near side of the gondola. Gartasian looked for an identifiable commander, but the crew all seemed to be of an age—not much more than twenty—and were wearing identical brown shirts and jerkins. The only visible insignia were small circles of different colours sewn to the lapels of the jerkins, but the variations had no significance for Gartasian.

He was surprised to note that the men were sufficiently alike to have been mistaken for brothers—each with a narrow forehead, close-set eyes and narrow jutting jaw. As he entered the shadow of the balloon he saw, with a sudden sense of disquiet, that the four had dark jaundiced complexions and a peculiar metallic sheen to their skins. It was an appearance which would have suggested a recent brush with some cruel disease, except that the men also exuded that unconscious arrogance which can arise from being superbly fit. They regarded Gartasian with expressions which to him seemed both amused and contemptuous.

"I am Colonel Gartasian," he said, halting his bluehorn a few yards from the gondola. "On behalf of King Chakkell, the planetary ruler, I welcome you to Overland. We were greatly surprised by the sight of your ship, and many questions clamour in our minds."

"Keep your questions and your welcome to yourself." The man on the right, tallest of the four, spoke in oddly accented Kolcorronian. "My name is Orracolde, and I am the commander here, but I also have the honour of being a royal courier. I come to this world with a message from King Rassamarden."

Gartasian was shocked by the speaker's immediate and overt hostility, but he decided to control his temper. "I have never heard of a King Rassamarden."

"That is hardly surprising under the circumstances," Orracolde said, smiling disdainfully. "Now, I expected that Prad would be dead by this time, but how did Chakkell become King? What of Prad's son, Leddravohr? And Pouche?"

"They too are dead," Gartasian said stiffly, realising that the deliberate challenge in Orracolde's manner would have to be taken up for the sake of honour. "And for your further enlightenment, I intend that this meeting will henceforth be conducted along different lines. I will provide the questions, and you the answers."

"And what if I decide otherwise, old warrior?"

"My men have your ship surrounded."

"That fact had not escaped my attention," Orracolde said. "But unless their flea-infested mounts can soar like eagles they pose my ship no threat. We can be airborne in an instant." He turned away from the rail and a second later the skyship's burner discharged a burst of hot gas into the balloon which loomed overhead, maintaining its buoyancy. Gartasian's bluehorn, startled by the echoing blast, half-reared and he had to act quickly to bring it under control, much to the amusement of the four onlookers. It came to him that for the present the visitors were in a greatly superior position, and that unless he devised a better method of dealing with them he could be humiliated. He glanced at the sparse circle of mounted soldiers, now seeming so distant, and chose new tactics.

"Neither of us has anything to gain by quarrelling," he said reasonably. "The message you spoke of can be relayed to the King through me, or—if you would prefer it—you can wait until his Majesty arrives in person."

Orracolde tilted his head. "How long will that take?"

"The King is already on his way and could be here within the hour."

"Giving you ample time in which to draw up long-range cannon!" Orracolde scanned the brush-covered terrain as though expecting to find evidence of troop movements.

"But we have no reason to bear you ill will," Gartasian protested, dismayed by the other man's irrationality. What kind of envoy was this? And what kind of a ruler would entrust such a man with diplomatic responsibility?

"Do not take me for a fool, old warrior—I will deliver King Rassamarden's message without delay." Orracolde stooped, momentarily disappearing behind the gondola's side, and when he came into view again he was removing a yellowish scroll from a leather tube.

Gartasian had time in which to find his thoughts seizing on a triviality. Orracolde derogated him with every sentence he spoke, but he uttered the word "old" with a particular venom, as though it was one of the most insulting in his vocabulary. It was a minor mystery compared to the other puzzling aspects of what was happening, even though Gartasian had never considered himself as being old, and he resolutely pushed it aside as he saw Orracolde unroll a square sheet of heavy paper.

"I am an instrument of King Rassamarden, and the following message must be regarded as issuing directly from his lips," Orracolde said.

"I, King Rassamarden, am the rightful sovereign of all men and women born on the planet of Land, and of all their offspring, wherever they may be. In consequence, all new territories on the planet of Overland are considered to have been occupied on my behalf. I therefore proclaim myself sole ruler of Land and Overland. Be it known that I intend to exact all tributes which are rightfully mine."

Orracolde lowered the paper and stared solemnly at Gartasian, awaiting his response.

Gartasian gaped at him for a few seconds, then began to laugh. The sheer preposterousness of what he had heard, combined with the pompous style of the delivery, had abruptly translated the entire scene into farce. Release of the tension which had been growing inside him fuelled his mirth, and he had genuine difficulty in bringing his breathing back under control.

"Have you lost your reason, old man?" Orracolde leaned over the rail, bronzed face thrust forward, like a snake spitting venom. "I see nothing to laugh at."

"Only because you can't see yourself," Gartasian said. "I don't know which was the greater fool—Rassamarden for issuing that ridiculous message; or you for undertaking such a long and hazardous journey to deliver it."

"Your punishment for insulting the King will be death."

"I tremble."

Orracolde's mouth twitched. "I will remember you, Gartasian, but for now I have more important concerns. Littlenight will soon be upon us. When darkness falls I will take my ship aloft—rather than give you the chance to launch a sneak attack—but I will pause at a height of one thousand feet and wait for aftday. Chakkell will no doubt be with you by that time, and you will communicate his response to me by sunwriter."

"Response?"

"Yes. Either Chakkell bows the knee to King Rassamarden willingly—or he will be compelled to do so."

"You truly are mad—a madman speaking for a madman." Gartasian held his bluehorn steady while one of the crewmen fired another burst of gas into the balloon. "Are you talking of war between our two worlds?"

"Most certainly."

Struggling with his growing incredulity, Gartasian said, "And how would such a war be prosecuted?"

"A fleet of skyships is already under construction."

"How many?"

Orracolde produced a thin smile. "Enough."

"There could never be enough," Gartasian said calmly. "Our soldiers would be waiting for each ship as it landed."

"You don't really expect me to swallow that, old warrior," Orracolde said, his smile widening. "I know how thinly your population must be scattered. With informed use of wind cells we can put down almost anywhere on this planet. We could land under cover of darkness, but there will be little need for stealth, because we have weapons the like of which you have never imagined.

"And on top of everything else—" Orracolde paused to glance at his three companions, who gave approving nods as though knowing what he was about to say—"there is the natural and undeniable superiority of the New Men."

"Men are men," Gartasian said, unimpressed. "How can there be new men?"

"Nature saw to that. Nature and the ptertha. We have been created with total immunity to the ptertha plague."

"So that's it!" Gartasian ran his gaze over the four narrow faces which, with their inhuman metallic sheen, could almost have belonged to four statues cast from the same mould, and understanding began to flicker in his mind. "I thought that … perhaps … the ptertha might have ceased their attacks."

"The attacks continue unabated, but now they are futile."

"And what about … my kind? Are there any survivors?"

"None," Orracolde said, smugly triumphant. "The old have all been swept away."

Gartasian was silent for a moment, saying a final goodbye to his wife and son, then his thoughts were drawn back to the problems of the present and the need to learn all he could about the interplanetary visitors. Implicit in the few words Orracolde had already spoken was a dreadful scenario, a vision of a civilisation in its death throes. The drifting globes of the ptertha had swarmed in the skies of Land, hunting down their human quarries without mercy, driving them closer and closer to extinction, until their numbers were so…

My stomach is on fire!

The burning sensation was so severe that Gartasian almost doubled over. Within seconds the heat centre beneath his chest had spread tendrils into the rest of his torso, and at the same time the air about him seemed to cool a little. Unwilling to show any sign of discomfort, he sat perfectly still in the saddle and waited for the spasm to come to an end. It continued unabated and he realised he would have to try disregarding it while he gathered precious information.

"All swept away?" he said. "All? But that means your entire population has been born since the Migration."

"Since the Flight. We refer to that act of cowardice and betrayal as the Flight."

"But how could the babes have survived? Without parents it would have been…"

"We were born of those who had partial immunity," Orracolde cut in. "Many of them lived long enough."

Gartasian shook his head, pursuing the thought in spite of the spreading fire at the core of his being. "But many must have perished! What is your total population?"

"Do you think me a fool?" Orracolde said, a sneer appearing on his dark countenance. "I came here to learn about this world—not to throw away knowledge about my own. I have seen as much as I need to see, and as littlenight is almost here…"

"Your reluctance to answer my question is answer enough! Your numbers must be small indeed—perhaps even less than ours." Gartasian gave a violent shudder as, in contrast to the heat within his body, the air seemed to press in on him with a clammy coldness. He touched his brow, found it slick with perspiration, and a shocking idea was born deep in his mind, coiling like a worm. He had not seen a case of pterthacosis since his youth on Land, but nobody of his generation could ever forget the symptoms—the burning sensation in the stomach, the copious sweating, the chest pains and the bloating of the spleen…

"You grow pale, old warrior," Orracolde said. "What ails you?"

Gartasian held his voice steady. "Nothing ails me."

"But you sweat and shiver and…" Orracolde leaned forward across the rail, his gaze hunting over Gartasian's face, and his eyes widened. There was a moment of near-telepathic communion, then Orracolde drew back and gave a whispered order to his crew. One of them stooped out of sight and the ship's burner began a continuous roar while the other two men hurriedly began releasing the anchor lines from the downward-pointing cannon.

Gartasian had a pure, clear understanding of what he had read in the other man's eyes, and in the instant of accepting his own death sentence his mind had vaulted far beyond the circumscribed present. Earlier Orracolde had boasted of weapons outside the Overlanders' imaginings, but even he had been taken by surprise, had not sensed the dreadful truth foreshadowed by his own words. He and his crew were weapons in themselves—carriers of the ptertha plague in a form so virulent that an unprotected person had only to go near them to be smitten!

Their King, though apparently insane by Gartasian's standards, had been prudent enough to send a scout ship to gauge the opposition an invading force would meet. If he received word that there could be very little effective resistance, that Overland's defenders would be annihilated by pterthacosis, his territorial ambitions would be even further inflamed.

The skyship must not be allowed to depart!

The thought spurred Gartasian into action. His men were too far away to be of any assistance, and the ship was already straining upwards, making him solely responsible for preventing the take-off. The only course open to him was to rupture the fabric of the huge balloon by hurling his sword at it. He drew the weapon, twisted in the saddle to make the throw and gasped aloud as pain erupted through his chest cavity, paralysing his upraised arm. He lowered the sword into a position from which he could try an underarm lob, suddenly aware that Orracolde was bringing an oddly shaped musket to bear on him.

Counting on the delay which always occurred while power crystals were combining in a gun's combustion chamber, Gartasian began the upward swing. The musket emitted a strangely flat crack. Something punched into Gartasian's left shoulder, slewing him around and causing his sword—weakly thrown—to tumble wide of its mark. He jumped down from the startled bluehorn and went for the fallen blade, but the agony in his shoulder and chest turned what should have been a highspeed dash into a series of stumbles and lurches. By the time he had retrieved the sword the gondola was a good thirty feet above ground, and the balloon carrying it was far beyond his reach.

He stood and watched helplessly, his personal catastrophe eclipsed for the moment, as the skyship rapidly gained height. Although it was centred on the misty blue disk of Land, the ship was hard to see because the sun was almost in the same line of sight, already silvering the sister world's eastern rim. Gartasian gave up trying to penetrate the dazzling rays and spokes and oily needles of light. He lowered his head and stared down at the grass, musing on the fact that the last action of his career and life had ended in abject failure, and it was only the sound of an approaching bluehorn which brought him out of the dark reverie. There were duties yet to be discharged.

"Stay back," he shouted at Lieutenant Keero. "Don't come near me!"

"Sir?" Keero slowed his mount to a walk, but kept it moving forward.

Gartasian pointed at him with his sword. "This is an order, lieutenant. Do not come any closer! I have the plague."

Keero halted. "Plague?"

"Pterthacosis. You've heard of it, I trust."

The upper half of Keero's face was masked by the shade of his visor, but Gartasian saw his mouth distort with shock. A moment later the sunlit hills of the western horizon blinked with prismatic colour, then abruptly dimmed as the shadow of Land came rushing over the countryside at orbital speed. As its edge swept across the scene, initiating the brief penumbral phase of little-night, the darkening sky was seen to be spanned by a huge spiral of misty radiance, its arms sparkling with brilliant stars of white, blue and yellow. The knowledge that it was the last time the spectacle of the night sky would be unfurled for him filled Gartasian with a yearning to ponder it in detail, to memorise the patterns of lesser whirlpools and comets so that he would have light to take with him into the place where there was no light. Pushing the notion aside, he addressed himself to the lieutenant, who was waiting about twenty yards away.

"Listen to me carefully, Keero," he called out. "I will be dead before littlenight is over, and you must…" The fire in his lungs, aggravated by the effect of shouting, forced him to abandon the plan to transmit his precious new knowledge verbally.

"I am going to write a message for the King, and I charge you with the responsibility of ensuring that he receives it. Now, take out your dispatch book, make sure the pencil is not broken, and leave the book on the ground for me. When you have done that, rejoin your men and wait with them for the King to arrive. Tell him all that has happened here—and remind him that nobody is to approach my body for at least five days."

Drained of strength by the painfully prolonged speech, Gartasian forced himself to remain upright and militarily correct while Keero dismounted and placed his dispatch book on the ground.

The lieutenant got back into the saddle and hesitated for a moment. "Sir, I'm sorry…"

"It's all right," Gartasian told him, grateful for the fleeting human contact. "Do not concern yourself about me. Just go, and take my bluehorn with you—I have no more need of him."

Keero gave an awkward salute, collected the redundant animal and rode away into the twilight. Gartasian walked to where the book lay, his legs buckling further with each step, and allowed himself to sag to the ground beside it. He had barely finished removing the pencil from its leather sleeve when the last coin-clip of the sun slid behind the curvature of Land. In spite of the reduced level of illumination he was still able to see well enough to write, thanks to Land's halo and the extravagant spangling of the rest of the heavens with fierce stars, some of them in tightly packed circular clusters.

He attempted to lean on his left arm, but jerked upright again as pain flared in the wounded shoulder. Exploring the injury with his fingers, he found that the brakka slug from the musket had spent much of its energy in gouging through the rolled leather at the edge of his cuirass. It had lodged in his flesh, but had not broken the bone. Reminding himself to include a note on how the weapon had fired without the normal delay, he sat with the book in his lap and began to write a detailed report for the benefit of those who would soon have to repel a deadly invader.

The mental discipline involved in the work helped him avoid dwelling on his fate, but his body interposed frequent reminders of the losing battle it was fighting against the ptertha poison. His stomach and lungs seemed to be filling with hot coals, agonising cramps encircled his chest and occasional bouts of shivering made his writing almost illegible in places. So rapid was the progress of the symptoms that on reaching the end of his report he was dully surprised to find himself still conscious, still with some dregs of strength.

If I move away from here, he thought, the book can be picked up without delay, and with no risk to any man's life.

He set the book down and marked its position by weighting it with his red-crested helmet. The effort of raising himself to his feet was much greater than he had anticipated. He was unable to prevent himself from swaying in vertiginous circles as he scanned his surroundings, which seemed to be a scene painted on slowly undulating cloth. Keero had brought all his men together and a fire had been lit to guide King Chakkell to the spot. The soldiers and their mounts formed a stationary, amorphous mass in the dimness, and there was little movement anywhere but for the near-continuous flickering of meteors against the dense fields of stars.

Gartasian guessed the men's eyes were fixed on him. He turned and walked away from them, staggering grotesquely, blood beading into the grass from the fingers of his left hand. After some twenty paces his feet were snared by bracken and he pitched forward, to lie with his face buried in rough-haired fronds.

There was no point in trying to get up again.

No point in trying to cling on to consciousness any longer.

I'm coming back to you, Ronoda and little Hallie, he thought, closing his eyes on the universe. I'll soon be with…