Road Trip

A Story by Ron Sanders

For intelligent adult readers.

Road Trip is Chapter Six of my sci-fi novel Elis Royd. In this segment, the Triad’s human Guard Commander is forcing an extraterrestrial captive’s son to lead the Guard to the fabled Royd Hoard in Maldea, rumored to be an underground mountain of gems and precious metals.

The first, third, and fifth chapters (Bug, Four Horsemen, and Human Says, respectively) are also up on WritersCafe.

Road Trip

Forty-five miles of cracked dusty plains, and the horizon remained unbroken. The Commander stared until his vision blurred.

With all eyes on him, he snatched up a piece of parchment and attempted to tear it down the middle. The stuff wouldn’t give, so he went for a diagonal rip. Same result. Finally, after trying from every angle, he crushed it in his hands and tossed it over his mount’s head. The mass billowed out and gently settled on his saddle. He picked it back up and, rather than try again, used it to grimly mop his face.

“Stupid map’s a joke! A farce!” He swatted it off, only to see it lodge in the right stirrup. “This entire asteroid’s uncharted--unless those little monsters out there have learned how to finger paint.” He looked down. “The high price of exclusivity, eh, boy? Nothing to go by but urban legends…spontaneously mutating life forms, predatory vegetation, hallucination-inducing micro-spores, the ground opening up to swallow travelers…” He yanked the young Cept’s neck chain. “You’d better be good and goddamned sure we’re on the right track! I won’t tell you again.” He looped the chain around twice, forcing the boy to face west. “That’s the way we came.” He looped it again and tugged counter-clockwise. Now the boy was facing east. “That’s the way we’re going.” He tugged twice more, so that the boy in turn faced north--“Been that way;”--and south--“been that way too. Almost lost two good men in the gorges. Had to shoot a hobbled steed; broke my heart.” He relaxed his pull, allowing the boy to free his head by looping it in reverse around the chain. “Guard!” he called. “Dismount! Take five.”

The Commander heaved himself off his horse. “I want a lean-to,” he told a corporal. “Good water, some jerky, some honeyed oats. And bring me my vintage.”

Once the hide lean-to was up, the Commander muttered offhandedly, “Always wanted me a son.” He yanked the chain good-humoredly and handed the boy a cup filled from his jug. “You must be thirsty.” He then gave him a couple of honey-oat logs and leaned back into the hot shade. “Too good for the horses,” he remarked kindly, “but good enough for you.” The boy wolfed down the logs while the Commander chewed his jerky. “How far to Maldea?”

The boy pouted and gestured globally.

“No, damn you. Answer me straight!”

The youngster cringed.

“I’m not going to whip you again, son.” The Commander eased back and smiled. “I just want you to like me, that’s all.” He unscrewed his flask’s cap and poured some brandy into a little bowl. “Here’s something I’d like you to taste; a special treat.”

The Cept boy nervously unfurled his tongue. He lapped some back and immediately recoiled.

“Stings a little, doesn’t it? That’s all right. Can you taste it? Cherry…yummy, yummy cherries. That’s the kind of treat you’ll get used to in EarthAd’s great big warehouses. C’mon; try again. There you go. Isn’t that good? Drink some more, son. You’ll feel happy real soon.” The Commander sipped from his flask, laughed, and poured the boy another bowl. “How far to Maldea?”

The boy grinned and let his head roll in ever-widening circles.

“Stop that! You’ll make yourself sick. How many days? Two, three?”

The boy nodded broadly, then shook his head. A second later his head was rolling again.

“Stop it! You’re in a military encampment, boy! If you can’t learn to--”

“Sir?”

The Commander looked up irritably. “What is it?”

“We’ve sighted a party of riders, sir. On our westerly flank.”

“Riders?” The Commander pushed himself to his feet and handed over the chain. “Watch him.” He stalked up to a man with a glass. “What riders?”

“They’re royd horsemen, sir. And they’re armed.”

“You’re kidding! Give me that glass.”

Staring back from a large mound were maybe two score mounted royds, each bearing a rifle. “Corporal!” he called back, “send out a messenger. They must be an envoy from their ‘Queen’; they sure didn’t just stumble on us here. I don’t like all those guns around my men; let’s play up the whole Queen thing.” He slapped the guard on the back. “Fantastic!”

“Sir?”

“Don’t you see? We’re on the right track. They’re the first wall around Maldea.” He mounted his horse, pulled back his hood, and placed an embroidered cap squarely on his head. In a minute a messenger joined his flank, and the whole lot began a steady march toward the oddly staring royd riders. At a hundred yards the grouped Guard stopped. The messenger proceeded another fifty yards before halting.

“Royd Queen!” he called. “I bring you regards from Commander of The Guard, Earth Administration, Elis Royd.”

At length a solitary rider broke from the royd side. It was a gnarm, and an ugly one to boot: forehead pleats dangling round a narrow hooked snout; bulbous, pear-shaped eyes colored lichen green. His compound dorsal hunch caused him to ride in a most ungainly fashion, arms hanging down his steed’s cocoa flanks. It took him forever to clop up, and when he arrived his response was gloriously anticlimactic:

“Queen not here.”

The messenger glazed for half a minute. “Well then, who speaks for her? You?”

The gnarm chewed this over. Finally he said, “Queen not here.”

“I can see that, sir. But I’ve been directed to act as a go-between--for the Commander of our Guard and an officer; that is, someone who serves as an authorized representative of your queen--so that oral proceedings may commence. This is really a pretty standard procedure; a formality, actually.”

The gnarm glowered. His hand went for his rifle.

“Enough!” The Commander clopped up and booted the messenger’s horse in the rump. The messenger rode back to ranks.

“What is your name, soldier?” the Commander demanded.

The gnarm squirmed. “Rshxemnphri.”

“Outstanding. So. Does your force understand the rules of engagement?”

The gnarm drooped his head and peeked around his hump. All royd eyes were on him. A minute passed.

“Well?” the Commander said. “How many of you are there, then?”

The gnarm’s snout bobbed mathematically. At last he said, “Thirty-six.”

“Including you?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“That makes your force numerically superior. How fair is that?”

The gnarm blinked.

The Commander shook his head incredulously. He blew out a sigh. “So how many weapons do you carry? Just the rifles, or side arms as well?”

The gnarm shrugged guiltily. “Only rifle.”

“Well, do you have any back-up? Are there any reinforcements coming? Well? Speak up, sir! Speak up!”

The gnarm’s pride was a red-hot wad. He swallowed anyway, and humbly shook his head.

“So you’re telling me that your only weapons are the rifles showing? So you’re saying that you’re an isolated party lacking communications with your base, with only the rudest of arms at your disposal? Is this what I’m expected to believe, sir, or am I missing something overwhelmingly obvious here? I don’t mind telling you that I find this entire situation incredible. Help me out, sir, will you--that’s the whole picture?”

The gnarm sagged in his saddle.

The Commander huffed. “You really haven’t thought this out, now, have you? The rules,” he said icily, “are as follows: both sides simultaneously drop their rifles on the ground. This shifts the situation from conflict to discourse. Then we all dismount and get to know one another. We connect; do you understand? We network. We settle our differences like grown men.” He bowed condescendingly. “And grown royds.”

The gnarm sat up straight.

“So then;” said the Commander, “will your soldiers perfectly understand your orders from here?”

The gnarm nodded. “Royd follow example.” He held out his rifle at arm’s-length, looked back, and nodded sharply and with authority. The entire royd force copied his move, holding their rifles out at ninety degrees.

“Guard!” the Commander called, without looking back. “Rifles away from your bodies; right angle! Imitate the enemy!” The Guard followed the command with enviable military precision. Opposing forces stared across the gap.

The Commander slowly and deliberately unsheathed his rifle and held it out for all to see. “Earthmen,” he said diplomatically, “come from an ages-old tradition embodying tolerance, sincerity, fairness, and goodwill. I might also mention dignity, compassion, magnanimity, humility…ad infinitum. But the single most endearing virtue of our species is, particularly in a military situation, trust. Fair play and honor are foremost among adversaries--it is literally impossible for an Earthman to take advantage of an opponent, or to mislead him in a way that would result in a skewed contest. It simply is not in our genetic makeup. In this spirit I offer to be first to drop my weapon. This will be a highly symbolic act to the men of my command, who will recognize it as the classic human overture to a real and abiding friendship. You must then drop yours.” He nodded forward and back, indicating both forces. “Then everyone together.” He tossed his rifle.

After a second the gnarm did likewise.

“Guard!” called the Commander. “On my command drop your rifles!”

The gnarm, holding out his end of the agreement, demonstrated by thrusting out his arm with the palm down.

“Drop your rifles!” the Commander ordered. The Guard did so.

Half a second later the gnarm let his arm fall. The royds all dropped their rifles.

“Guard!” the Commander shouted. “Side arms! Fire at will!” And with that he drew a huge knife from his cassock’s waistband, lurched forward, and nearly decapitated the gnarm.

The Guard broke for the startled royds with pistols blazing.

Now utterly weaponless, those royds not killed outright pulled their horses into a hysterical retreats. The Guard chased them along a plain and into a small weathered canyon, cornering them in a cul-de-sac of rounded bluffs. There an unexpected turn occurred: the doomed royds came back fang and nail, throwing the Guard from their steeds and savaging them on the ground.

The Commander rode up picking off the scrabbling royds one by one. When the last few were trapped against a bluff wall he calmly dismounted and began the executions, posing perfectly erect and with admirable calm, taking plenty of time to aim and reload. The last brute standing proved a particularly insolent specimen; it took a pair of bullets in the knees to bring him down, another in the groin to teach him respect--and even then he refused to cow. The Commander swore through his teeth. He became very deliberate in his movements: smoothly going down on one knee, firmly but gently caressing the barrel. He didn’t miss a breath as he put a bullet directly between the glaring royd’s eyes.

The Commander rose with the aloofness becoming his office and handed the spent rifle to a cheering rider. “Guard!” he called. “We press on!” He cuffed the exuberant rider. “Now go find me my boy.”

This time the Queen’s entry was not so formal. Her entourage consisted solely of rush-drilled riflemen and a single tatterdemalion court crier. And this time she didn’t come all decked out: her rags were simple and sincere, though they were meticulously scrubbed and expertly trimmed.

The Elder leered from his high bench. “Dressing down, are we?” He was the only Councilman present.

“This time,” Emra said, “I did not come to dine. Read!”

The tall unsightly creature stiffly unrolled a new scroll and thrust it forward. He was one of those dreadful marsh sprenks; all scrawny neck, outsized head, and comical hairy paws. Each hem and pose, every awkward attempt at presence, only made the Queen look that much more foolish.

“Get on with it,” she grated.

“By the dictate of her majesty Emra,” he squawked, “Queen of Royds, matriarch of the unwalled many, muse of all who--”

“Get on with it!” the Elder snarled.

“--The Great Royd Coalition does hereby declare itself in a state of war with Earth Administration!” The sprenk collapsed on a bench.

The Elder smiled down. “You’ve grown exceedingly myopic in your ambition, Madame Queen.” He gestured at her new Royal Guard, adding, “And rather image-friendly in your corrective lenses.”

“Oh?”

“I see you’ve spent some time refurbishing your army.”

“Thank you for noticing.”

“You’ve spent some real money on ’em too! Don’t think I don’t know how you came upon all those weapons. I’ll have you know it is now a capital offense to trade arms for non-regulated jewels, gold, or silver within these noble walls. Miniature gemstones…” he muttered gloomily, “…battered old mantel pieces.” The Elder rapped a knuckle on his desk’s peeling trim. “So the ‘Great Royd Coalition’ comes to declare war…and how have we so displeased you? We’ve met with you, apologized, offered remuneration--on your terms--for that messy little scene involving our impetuous ex-Governor. We’ve drawn up a proposal for a new and better world, which you appear to have trashed. We’ve thrown our doors open…and you would ‘declare war’! Why must Earthmen always be the heavies?”

“A Queen’s Rider,” Emra asserted, “returned to Maert’n from a massacre in the Canyons. The Rider was mortally wounded, having been left for dead by his assailants. And he mentioned, by way of passing, the Administration Guard.”

The Elder raised an eyebrow. “Our forces are not under any geographical constraints. Are you implying some weird sort of trespass on ‘your lands’?”

“He told me a story of a truce broken by subterfuge, of a merciless ambush, of the slaughter of unarmed royds in a state of helpless surrender.”

“Stories,” the Elder mumbled. “Words broken. Helpless victims. Everybody has a story. What evidence have you? The ranting of a delirious royd rider…and for this you ‘declare war’?”

“The marauding humans were reported under the leadership of your Guard Commander, a major player indeed. Always the heavies. The Guard were dragging wagons and excavation tools--this was not a military operation.”

The Elder sat straight up. “Where was this force encountered? What direction were they taking? Did they appear lost, or did they seem to be closing on their goal?”

“I am unable to disclose that information.”

“Unable, Madame Queen, or unwilling?” He folded his arms on his desktop; it was a posture of deepest conciliation. “This is absolutely no way to comport ourselves--our common purpose is to become enriched through our exalted position in the world. Individuals of our caliber would not be having this discussion were we not like-minded, so let’s just dispense with the niceties of diplomacy and roll up our sleeves. Tell me the location of this unfortunate clash and I’ll get an investigative body right on it.”

Emra smiled thinly.

“Such a roundabout response to a declaration of war.”

“My dear Queen.” The Elder spread his black-robed arms and gripped the arms of his bench. “A great number of traitorous men, women, and children--whole families--were recently engaged in a frantic movement to steal and sell Administration arms.” He waved a languid hand at Emra’s well-armed Royal Guard. “A great deal of crudely hammered gold and silver is abruptly circulating underground. So don’t speak to me of the roundabout. A bona fide act of war was perpetrated upon this high noble institution long before your silly ‘declaration’.”

“These hypothetical thieves of yours would have to be most clever to operate right under your executive nose.”

“Those hypothetical thieves of mine are presently skinned and swinging from gallows just within our gates. It’s not too early for a tour.”

“No,” Emra returned. “It is far too late. I now retire to my war room. Your ‘noble institution’ will not suffer my presence again.”

“Where was the Commander apprehended, Queen? I’ll find out, with or without your assistance.”

“Good day,” said the Queen, “Council Elder.”

“Where?”

At Emra’s brisk order, her Royal Guard turned cleanly and marched her out of Chambers.

“Good riddance,” said the Elder, “Royd Queen.”

It wouldn’t be fair to perpetually harp on the flaws of Elis Royd without celebrating its one true success story. It’s a triumph that goes way back, with roots in the bowels of Earth, and with an ultimate destination among the stars. This was a destiny just gnawing to unfold, and its delivering agent was none other than that headstrong visionary, the Earthman.

And so it came about that the greatest, most flexible species of all rose to hold subtle dominion over the galaxies…when those waves of colonists laid claim to their armies’ conquered worlds, they brought a little bit of Earth with them: no single Earthcraft--be it domestic or cargo, large or small, local or outpost-hopping--did not contain a secret haul of that ubiquitous unbidden shadow, the cockroach. This gravity-defying, garbage-wallowing, feces-tracking scavenger transmitted so many viruses, lived and reproduced among so many extraterrestrial imports, and dominated so many unthinkable habitats, that it eventually became the true silent master of Elis Royd.

Roaches evolved concentrically on the titanic asteroid (arguably a smallish planet sucked into the Great Sirian Drift). The least-evolved bugs lived in, around, and under Earth Administration--rocketing little devils that ate anything under any circumstances, and weren’t about to surrender an inch of hard-won ground.

Larger specimens lived in the barren, moat-like ring of crushed rock encircling EarthAd; essentially the communal cemetery--you see, to their horror, the original Administrators found that a plucky Altayne flesher positively thrives on human cadavers, even as it relentlessly passes its dormant spawn into anyone close enough to infest. The passed spawn, those early Administrators discovered, vitalize and reproduce within their hosts, accelerating demise for consumption by each tertiary generation. Faced with the prospect of turning Earth Administration into a walled badlands, the disintegrating government of Elis Royd declared the affected dead, from then on, “In God’s Hands”, and had the bodies interred in shallow graves within that flat surrounding ring. Everybody turned their backs in those days, though they all knew that the Terran Roach was rapidly cross-breeding with the larger Pukenian Slimesucker, and that the old Earth phrase “In God’s Hands” had in fact become an EarthAd euphemism for “To The Roach Delivered”.

This tendency of species to quickly cross-evolve on the asteroid produced larger, sparer, and more aggressive breeds in the crags and caves. Sparer because, at least among the Cave Roaches, “omnivorous” now included cannibalism--on their living and on their dead, among the fallen in combat, and in spectacularly ferocious feeding frenzies every third hatching. Cave Roaches were therefore much larger, though much fewer, than the Locals. In the canyons and hills evolved the Great Roaches, the most aggressive and fearsome of all. Bigger competitors need more food, so Great Roaches supplement their diets with cadaver spoils won through savage hit-and-runs in the girding cemetery, with suspiciously well-timed raids on unsupervised pets and livestock, and with the occasional stolen royd child.

Great Roaches hive in the very deepest gorge crevices; some reaching eight feet high when propped on their vertebral buds (a cross-species contribution). Their antennae can number in the hundreds--but no longer as simple feelers. They’ve evolved into strong and versatile questing limbs that serve for propulsion, for climbing, and for the fishing-out and eviscerating of maters. A Great Roach will eat almost anything it can mount.

Now, the Commander and his Guard, picking their way through a foul mushy field in the roaring twilight, might have been caught completely unawares had it not been for their little guide. The Cept boy knelt and demonstrated, by darting his sharp fingers along the spongy ground onto his passive other hand, that the predatory Great Roach was nearby.

“And you know this?” the Commander whispered. “How?”

“Royd put here.”

“Why?”

“Defend Maldea.”

The Commander dropped to his knees. “You mean…you mean they’re trained?”

“Not train.” The boy shook his head vigorously. “Hungry.”

The Commander rose. “Why, you damned little traitor. You got us ambushed for dinner.”

“No.” The boy rolled about in the muck. “You roll too. Cover Earth stink.” He squirmed about until he was painted head to toe.

“Guard!” The Commander’s command was an unquestionably authoritative whisper--he was issuing a direct order sotto voce. “Copy my actions!” He dropped beside the boy and also rolled about, quickly becoming coated.

His men obeyed without hesitation, rolling energetically in the sticky mud until the area appeared peppered with natural humps.

“Stand slow,” the boy said. He, the Commander, and the Guard gently rose to their feet. Imported sub-soil adhesives were drawn up by the even motion, and upon contact with air rapidly produced a ruddy, porcelain-like transparent veneer that coated their hulking figures while simultaneously sucking in foul pockets of barely breathable air.

Far away came a scurrying that rattled the ground. In a minute the first antennae were dimly seen, palpating round some of the larger boulders, and ten seconds later the entire field was infested.

The Commander watched them through a reddish film--it was the eeriest experience imaginable…to be standing rooted in a man-shaped bubble, carefully respiring one’s own body aroma, while one of nature’s ugliest and most successful concoctions scurried up to you with its feeler-arms waving hypnotically. And worried at the muck around your ankles. And tentatively pulled itself up your plastic second skin. And stopped to look you directly in the eye.

The Commander didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t blink. Though its pliant helmet was riddled with compound eyes, there was something in the hardened muck that made the Roach blind to him. His view, however, was only slightly distorted: every supple bristle in that deep brown mask was luridly visible; testing, tasting, palpating. The Commander remained absolutely motionless. A limb lashed onto the veneer directly over his mouth--it struck him that his breath, however contained, was fogging the inner surface, and that this subtle activity had intrigued the Roach. One of its long hooked nails began to scratch at the veneer, patiently digging a diamond-shaped groove. After a minute of this it appeared to grow frustrated. The Roach slowly climbed over the Commander and down the other side. Two seconds later it was gone.

He cautiously turned his head. There were no Roaches to be seen. A stirring caught his attention and he turned back: the Cept boy was digging around his own enclosure’s perimeter. In a minute he’d managed an airway. He worked his hands side to side, widening the slot, and, as soon as he could get both hands through, gripped the base and heaved. The whole casing toppled over and immediately began reconstituting with the muck.

The Cept boy grinned and dug out a space for the Commander’s fingers, then scampered off to free the Guard. Once they were all reassembled, the Commander yanked the boy aside.

“And you have to do this every time you move a load?”

“Only when monster here.”

“Good show. Where do you wash this stuff off?”

“Come.” They followed him down to a large standing pool.

In many places the asteroid’s pumped-up water does not filter back for recycling. It’s caught in surface depressions and, in non-steamfed regions on a world with nil rainfall, becomes rank, supporting only those gnarly specimens able to acquire food and oxygen during pool-to-pool migrations. The bulk of these creatures’ lives are spent in a sort of submerged hibernation, waiting for topside motions to signal a feast.

The men could not have known this, of course, and the eager Guard were quite startled at the sudden rush of maniacal snappers, attracted by their footfalls in the gloom.

“No,” the boy said. “Here.” And he showed them a royd sauna: an enormous hide tent over an old steam blowhole. Once inside, the men were instantly sopping; they could scrape themselves dry and wring out their uniforms. Although it was now fully dark, there was consensus for getting as far away as possible.

The Commander twisted the Cept boy’s chain affectionately. “You get us all the way through this, son, and I might even adopt you. How does that sound? Eh, ‘son’?”

“Father,” the boy whined. “You promise…”

“Oh, don’t worry; he’s still waiting in EarthAd, I’ll guarantee you that much. But if we want to see him again, we have to get all the way to Maldea and back, don’t we, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just call me Dad.”

They rode on in the dark until the horses showed trouble negotiating their carts in the rutted earth. The Commander ordered a halt for the night. The men spread out in a rocky field, complaining of soreness, of muddled concentration, of a bone-deep weariness. The Commander felt it too. He reclined on an elbow, sharing his blanket. The boy pointed at a milky effervescence rolling in from the hills. The Commander slapped down his hand; it was a father-son moment. There ensued a quiet, ruminative pause. The Commander sighed.

“Some day, boy, when you’re all grown up and have plenty of experience under your belt, you’ll learn something about getting along in the real world. Or maybe you won’t.” He looked off at the stars. “Perhaps natural wisdom is a trait exclusive to the human being. You see, son, as a supremely successful social species, humans have learned that one’s word is one’s password. And not just one’s word--one’s gender, one’s race, one’s financial situation, one’s peer group…these are the standards by which Homo sapiens judges his fellow man. And this is why great men rise above small men, and why those great men are naturally entitled to the bulk of the best.” He tapped a fist on his chest. “Small men resort to talk in assemblies, and thereby enlist armed officials to legally oppress the mighty. Great men take what they want, and talk about it later.”

The Cept boy cocked his head. “Royd share.”

“Exactly my point. Royds are low beings. Your kind will always be our inferiors.” He stretched his arms and legs. “We’ll continue this little chat in the morning.”

The boy urgently shook the Commander’s shoulder. “No sleep!”

“Get your hands off me.” The Commander’s brain was turning to mush.

“No! No sleep! Dream bad!”

“Take your hands off of me!” The Commander forced open his eyes. He would have whipped him good and proper if not for the tremendous anxiety in the boy’s expression: his tongue was curled in and his eyes bursting in his skull. One hand covered his stubby proboscis while the other randomly stabbed the night. The Commander looked around groggily.

A low mist was falling on the men and wagons. It congealed upon contact, clinging in wide sticky clumps.

“Fog,” the Commander gasped. His chin dropped from the effort. “The pumps. The vents.”

“No, not fog, not pump! No breathe!”

“Hands off, I say! I’ll beat you bloody, boy…wrong with you--show respe…show re--” The mist painted his face and hands, forming a bubble over his gaping mouth, weaving his lashes and gumming up his eyes.

The boy hammered his fists on the Commander’s chest; then, both hands covering his face, scrambled for higher ground.

The Commander clumsily threw out a restraining arm, forced himself to his feet, and was absolutely blown away by the scene he faced. The field was ablaze. His men were sprawled on their bellies and backs. Stomping between them were armed grotesqueries--some unknown royd breed--and these monsters were stripping the fallen of their valuables and tossing the plunder into long wooden carts. The Commander shook like a dog out of water. Without a thought for his own safety, he grabbed his saber and ran it through the first he reached. At the sound of its scream three turned and came loping for him. The Commander lopped off the head of one, cut the next down the middle, and lost his footing with the impetus of his final swing. Rolling under one of these odd carts, he was thrilled to see a few of his men rise and successfully engage the enemy. The Commander was able to slice off the feet of one passing royd before the whole fighting mass toppled on the cart. He struggled upright and ran another through, then called to three of his men for assistance. All four heaved the cart over and smashed it to pieces with blows from their swords and rifle butts. They then systematically attacked all the visible carts, kicking savagely with their massive military boots, ripping off cartwheels, slaughtering the invaders’ strange violet steeds. A shot rang out. A royd keeled over. There were more shots, some screams, and then the sweet and giddy reward of his Guard’s victory cheer. He made to raise his saber in response, but all the smoke and exertion were just too much.

The Commander woke to a disaster of his own making. Most of his men were lain out in a drugged slumber, but many were quite dead--shot, stabbed, hacked to pieces. The overturned wagons were all totaled. He gathered his wits and went staggering along the field until he found the Cept boy sleeping in a hollow.

“You didn’t run!” he managed, collapsing on his rear. “You didn’t want to leave me.” The boy rubbed his eyes while he was hugged. “Terrible thing,” the Commander gasped. “Men dead, wagons smashed. All in a dream, a dream…but no; it was enemy action! Our transport is shot. It’s what you wanted to tell me, isn’t it? The ‘bad dream’ is another royd ploy to protect Maldea--by making us our own enemy!” He sniffed at the memories. “Stuff in the air. A vanguard of some sort--some kind of living matter, sent to put us off our heads. That underhanded, ruthless queen of theirs--all she wants is to kill us.” He gripped the boy’s shoulders. “But we survived her, didn’t we? That’s two walls, son. How many more before we’re there?” The young Cept was hyperventilating. “How many!” The Commander cocked his fist and checked himself. He sighed. “Come on, boy. We’ve got one hell of a mess to clean up.”

There were eleven dead, six critically wounded; one blinded by a rifle butt to the forehead, one with his legs cut off below the knees. Four slain horses; the rest had bolted. The Guard were in the process of rounding them up now. The wagons were trashed, picks and shovels scattered.

The Commander posed, undaunted: once the horses were contained he announced they were pressing on. The Guard would have to carry their loot on horseback. The wounded were put out of their misery, the dead buried in a brief and entirely forgettable ceremony.

He displayed the Cept boy on his shoulder. “From now on we have but one guide! Our goal is nearly in our grasp--prepare to become very rich men! Guard, to your steeds!”

In the very heart of EarthAd’s Administrative Center, not a hundred yards from the Officers’ Complex, stands a huge, rotting, hemispherical building known as Applications. It’s a caving relic; most of the glass tarped over, the giant lobby a lonesome, tilted ghost town. But when first in service, the original Administrators maintained a very wholesome Welcome Station featuring brochures, posters, and a thousand family-friendly artifacts of Planet Earth.

In the rear of this building are archived folders containing everything a model aspirant was expected to absorb, real and invented, about that distant dreamlike planet.

Only two scholars have ever haunted this place; only two men know the various locks’ combinations:

Here the Council Elder and Head Administrator became the savviest humans on the asteroid. Each, unbeknownst to the other, spent endless hours perusing files intended as civics propaganda for serious applicants. Here the Elder and Administrator learned of an Earth nation called the United States; a great and hugely respected power that had succeeded in political globalization, and eventually galactic dominance, through an insidious system known as capitalistic expansionism. The bad news was that the system methodically ground up and regurgitated the planet’s cultures, its poetry, its feel; its very soul. The good news was that a radial aspect, democracy, smoothed out the inequities that surely would have accompanied a less egalitarian push.

And the two dusty old men learned, from Elis Royd’s own vast archives, how the asteroid’s early intended government of executive, legislative, and judicial branches had collapsed during the Second Great Pestilence, and been transmogrified into a mock-tertiary system of Council, Administration, and Arbitration, with the Arbiters perforce relegated and replaced in the Triad by a Guard. Elis Royd was a de facto oligarchy.

To impress and encourage applicants, her warehouses had been “infinitely stocked”, her atomic plant vaunted as “eternally powerful”. These exaggerations weren’t all that far from the truth: the self-sustaining economy of Earth Administration was geared, just like its producers and consumers, for glomming rather than for survival. A man with real wealth could have anything he desired. The basic citizen was ignorant, spoiled, and entirely lacking in vision. Only those in power possessed the stuff to dream big.

The Elder possessed that stuff in spades.

His dreams were fueled by exotic images, and kept at a high burn by an addictive personality: he had to have his daily fantasy fix, in a dark and private place. The Elder was approaching that private place now.

Just outside Applications leans a mounted touch pad containing a universal translator, a grid-map of the Center, and basic emergency instructions accessible to over two dozen species. The Elder tapped out a sequence on the exclamatory icon marked Security, correctly entering the combination that unlocked the massive double doors. Graven on those doors was a gorgeous rendition of the planet Earth, looking down on the North American continent, with designs meant to represent bridges linking her borders with the globe’s perimeter. In the whole area outside the globe could be seen uncountable hammered asterisks, symbolizing the millions of Terran-managed stations and outposts.

The Elder stepped inside and reverently closed the doors. Once he’d breathed in the locked and lonesome rooms, the faded murals and webbed corners, and the tattered Terran blue and green, he padded under a lobby arch into an antechamber. Here the doors of one room featured padlocks as well as the original combinations.

This was the Elder’s hidden haven, his secret chamber. He worked the locks with the practiced care of a boy thumbing through his pornography stash, crept inside, and gently latched the doors, triggering a reverse-dimmer. A soft white haze gradually filled the room, seeming to emanate from its very center.

The North Wall was taken up by a giant full-color poster, one of Welcome Station’s original retro Earth memorabilia. It was an advertisement for a gorgeous, solar-powered luxury vehicle known as the Panthyr. The sleek, jet-black car was parked outside an Earth nightclub shining like a jewel-studded tiara. A coiffed and tailed playboy stood beside the open driver’s door; a wolfish grin on his face, a half-naked starlet on either arm. The Elder clenched his fists and ground his teeth, staring fixedly--he was born on the wrong world, at the wrong time. Earth, glorious Earth…ruthless, lavish, haughty master of the galaxies. Every attempt to mimic its glory only mocked his frustration. No EarthAd female could begin to approach the true honey of Earthwoman as depicted by that revered poster. No outfit conceived on this wretched asteroid, no matter how spectacularly tailored, had a prayer of competing with that shiny clipped tuxedo. And the Panthyr! No coach, no carriage, no wheeled litter…he took a deep breath and dropped his white old head.

The East and West Walls were collages and photo montages; testaments to the wonders of Planet Earth. There were images of fat politicians in high-windowed palaces…of herds of brainlessly grinning civilians…of great cities standing proud and fair. Martial images stirred his imagination: invincible armies, endless parades in his honor, staggering space flotillas, concubines nude and kneeling. The Empire of the Cosmos--no one else on Elis Royd even dreamed of living like these pictured lucky humans. And no one else imagined the Royd Hoard as the Elder conceived it--limitless wealth, hypnotic wealth, wealth on top of wealth. With such a trove he might realistically emulate those politicians, and might approximate, albeit belatedly, that dandified playboy.

The South Wall featured a huge profile of the Terran Bald Eagle. Fierce eyes, vicious beak: a merciless raptor. The Elder straightened and rocked on his heels; maybe he was growing soft with the years, maybe it was time to horsewhip a toady or two. He swept back his robes and crisply stepped from the room, locked the doors, exited the building, and marched the Administration corridors into the Grand Hall. Outside the Head Administrator’s rooms he twirled a hand over his head. A guard rapped smartly and announced him. The Elder stepped back to pace.

There came a muffled thumping, and what sounded like a curse.

“Again,” the Elder growled. “Harder.”

The guard butted the door with his rifle. This time the response was a threatening shout.

“Give me that.” The Elder snatched the rifle and hammered meaningfully and repeatedly.

In a moment the door flew open and a half-dressed Head Administrator peered out. He looked from the guard to the Elder. “Make it good.”

“A matter of State. Put some clothes on. We’ll get you a fresh batch of boys tomorrow.”

When the Administrator was dressed they dispensed with the Guard and marched back.

“What is this all about?”

“I need you as a witness.” They turned into a rear building and were promptly admitted by a trio of guards.

Inside was a cramped, ramshackle radio room, probably the asteroid’s most efficient aboveground operation. All the wonders of consumer technology--communication, entertainment, computing--had been lost in the shuffle of building and stocking Elis Royd. On the asteroid’s surface only the electrical basics survived: fans and lights, simple home appliances, crude radios for receiving this single station’s broadcast news and ancient Terran music files--piped pre-curfew into homes and shops, and through outdoor loudspeakers during public announcements.

The Administrator cuffed the operator. “Emergency broadcast.”

The operator cut the music file and initiated a series of descending triple beeps. He studied a pair of gauges before nodding.

The Elder leaned into a standing console microphone.

“All proud men of Earth.

“This day a vicious declaration of war was delivered against Administration by a body termed ‘The Great Royd Coalition’. Despite all our attempts at mollification, the Royd Queen will not be swayed. She has used subterfuge to purchase a substantial armory from within these very walls--the men and women who sold those weapons have been duly punished, and their homes and valuables confiscated. They were traitors.

“Supplying these animals with arms was an unspeakable wrong. They are savage, soulless, bloodthirsty predators committed to the destruction of all that is good and giving. They hate you, they hate me, they hate the very system designed for their betterment. They will stop at nothing to destroy us completely. So, as of this announcement, consorting with the enemy carries an automatic penalty of death. We are at war.

“I do not need to remind you of all those stories about royds--about their stealing and eating children, about their hypnotizing our pets for bizarre nocturnal rituals, about their systematic violation of females--the recent spree of rapes and murders should be more than enough to galvanize we good men of Earth.

“Administration will guarantee a solid gold Elis Eagle for the hide of each slaughtered adult royd male, five Eagles for each captured healthy pregnant royd female, ten Eagles for each sturdy royd youth deemed capable of work into adulthood.” He paused for emphasis. “And, oh yes…half a million Premium Gold Eagles for the delivery of one Emra, Queen of Royds--alive, in one piece�"and…voluble.”

They rode all that day; over treacherous swamps and through labyrinthine canyons, the Guard growing increasingly disgruntled at the poor food, bad water, and recurrent malaise. A persistent swarm of leapers threw many into itching delirium, even as some unknown bacterium brought on coughs and chills. These were conditions royds had adapted to over many generations; to the softer humans it was living hell. When at last twilight forced a halt, the Guard were one step from mutiny. A fetid wind blew in from the northeast; a wind so foul the men were forced to seek refuge in a depression lost among the gentle hills and ancient gale-strewn boulders. They curled up in a tight, common circle, moaning and rolling about. Very soon they grew still, as though drugged. The Commander, suspicious of their conspiratorial rumblings, stationed himself well to the rim. The Cept boy lay beside him like a faithful dog, and every now and then the Commander couldn’t help but reach out and stroke his scaly cheek. Once, only once, that long tongue rolled out and gave a rasping lick in return. Sometimes once is all you need.

“We are all alone up here, son,” he whispered. “I don’t trust this lot for a minute. How much farther to the treasure?”

The boy patted the ground with both palms.

The Commander just stared and stared. Something landed on his cheek. He swatted it off and seized the boy’s arm, preparing to shake a little data out of him. Another landed on his temple. The Commander angrily smacked himself upside the head. There came a determined tugging at his ankle. That did it--he sat up straight, vividly alert…pallid tendrils were slapping at his arms and knees, squeezing up between the rocks, ejecting pearly-white slugs of protoplasm in all directions. The whole depression was full of them.

“Guard!” he hollered. “On your feet! Now! That’s an order! Everybody up!” But the sick men were slow on the uptake, and slower to react. They rose to find themselves surrounded by long drifting clumps; slow-motion projectiles that accelerated upon approach and smacked into anything moving. The poison was fast-acting; some were succumbing with barely a struggle.

The Commander looked all around: the Cept youth was nowhere to be seen. He walked back on his palms and heels, using every rock and root for leverage, until he’d reached a spot a dozen feet below the depression’s rim. All beneath him were his calling men, some fighting vainly, others surrendering outright. There came a scraping noise above and to his left. The Commander spun around. “You!”

The boy gave a little cry and scrambled over the depression’s lip.

“Turncoat!” howled the Commander. “You set us up! You’ll pay for this, goddamn you--I’ll see your old man cut to pieces! I’ll kill--” he clawed his way up like a spelunker “--when I get my hands--I’ll kill you, I’ll--” The Commander pulled himself onto flat ground in time to see the boy flitting between outcroppings. He looked back.

The depression was now half-obscured by lancing mucilaginous streamers. Once the men were immobilized by poison, the pale goo immediately foamed over their exposed flesh, drying within seconds to cut off the breath and initiate the digestive process. To the astonished Commander, it was like looking down on a frothing pond, the surface broken here and there by the flailing limbs of drowning men and horses. His command was being eliminated, right before his eyes. He cursed and pushed himself to his feet.

He pursued the Cept boy in a crouch, pausing every dozen yards to catch his breath and get his bearings. Too dark to be certain of anything. It was just a matter of flushing him out, but the boy wasn’t about to be caught in the open. After way too much of this hide-and-seek, the Commander hunched behind a large spiny boulder and called:

“Son! Don’t be alarmed! I won’t hurt you. We had a bargain, remember? Now, if you want to see your father again, you’ll hold up your end.” He caught a deep breath. “Think of it! When we find the treasure, it’ll be just you and me, the wealthiest guys on the asteroid! We’ll buy your dad’s freedom, and we’ll set him up in the fanciest house money can buy. You can have anything you want, and you can bring all your friends.” He advanced a few dozen feet, carefully modifying the amplitude of his calling voice. “Don’t worry about those two old Councilmen. They won’t get a single stone. With our kind of wealth, we’ll be able to hire assassins. It’ll look like somebody else did it! Eh? Why, we can even buy our own army! You and me, masters of Elis Royd! And your dad of course. What do you say? Son?” He crept on hands and knees until he was among the outcroppings; actually a kind of natural rock garden, some stones over fifteen feet high. The Commander wormed around on his belly, making very little noise, pausing to pick up a scent and, finding none, worming along. After a while he began to mutter to himself; a labored, halting whisper. He was shot, and he knew it. The chase was out of him. At last he found himself splayed full-out; his right cheek buried in the dirt, his eyelids fluttering, his crimped fingers gradually relaxing. He could have slept there forever. But then he picked up a movement from the corner of his eye.

On a low, dune-like hill some two hundred yards off, the Cept boy was creeping along, silhouetted by a billion stars.

“You…” the Commander whispered, and hauled himself upright. He slid between stones, moving to his right and away from the boy, tailing him. When he emerged he was directly to his rear and so low as to be practically on his hands and knees. He followed quietly, testing each rock before trusting his weight. The boy and man moved up the hill like crabs.

The Cept passed from view down the other side, and when the Commander reached the summit he was alone. But there was some kind of cave opening at the bottom. He tiptoed down until he was right alongside and listened carefully. After a few seconds he picked up the sound of scuttling. The Commander slipped inside and began feeling his way along the cave wall.

Beyond the initial bend the darkness was utter. He stopped, listened, and whispered, “Boy!” No answer. The Commander froze. In a while he heard a scraping maybe thirty yards ahead. He quietly slipped out his flashdisk and held it directly above his head. The light showed a broadening tunnel moving inexorably downward. Guided by that one glimpse, the Commander picked his way, moving side to side, pausing every ten feet to perk his ears. The blackness played upon his other senses, so that his own voice seemed to shout back at him when at last he’d summoned the focus to call out: “Boy!” He waited in the echoes. “I know you’re in here, and I know you can hear me. This standing gets us nowhere. I only ask that you make your whereabouts known. I won’t harm you; I swear. Talk to me, boy--you must realize I am the sole link to your father.” Complete silence. “Boy. We must remain a unit. Do you understand? For both our sakes. We’ve come too far together, son, to grow too far apart.” There was a slight rustle a dozen yards off. The Commander soundlessly rose to his full height, his face dead-set on the spot. He raised his flashdisk, took a deep breath, and thumbed the wheel.

A small figure hopped out of the brief pool of light.

The Commander immediately began a pursuit, and almost at once caught his foot. He flicked his disk again. The tunnel floor was grooved, the walls ragged and showing occasional roots. It appeared to be some kind of crudely-worked shaft, bearing downward at maybe forty degrees. Not too steep to navigate with little leaps aided by guiding flashes. But he quickly lost his footing on a broken stone, and turned an ankle upon recovery. The next thing he knew he was kicking and thrashing downhill. A collision with the wall knocked the flashdisk out of his hand, but it wouldn’t have served him--he was sliding, ricocheting, tumbling--he was plunging headfirst into abyss.

The Commander did a belly flop on a rock pile, knocking out his wind. When he could breathe again he flailed his arms in all directions, searching for the flashdisk. Nothing but rocks and cold metal. That stopped him. It took a minute to put the pieces together, then he was wildly running his hands back and forth on the rocks. He chanced upon the disk, and when he thumbed the wheel reality almost knocked him over.

He worked the disk frantically. Emeralds. Sapphires. Diamonds. The blood-tinge of rubies. Some rough cuts, some fine stones. And here, a gold urn. Here a silver ladle. And there…there the most beautiful weapon the Commander of the Guard had ever seen.

A tempered silver sword, an astonishing five feet from point to pommel, its solid gold hilt stellar with spectrum-running gems. It seemed to warm in his hand, seemed to caress his fingers rather than the other way around. Each thumbing of his disk revealed greater intricacies of craftsmanship. It was almost as if--there was a muffled rumbling deep to his right, accompanied by a slight but growing glow. The Commander, up to his knees in treasure, carefully and quietly stuffed miscellaneous pieces down his cassock. As the light increased he dropped the flashdisk in with the precious stones and metals, now supported at the waist by his left forearm.

The approaching light played upon the ceiling and walls, revealing a wide pit overflowing with gems and gold. He was in a halfway post; a natural storage room. Narrow rails ran past this post through a low tunnel; the rumbling was coming from an empty cart banging uphill along those rails. The light was a little lantern swinging from the cart’s front end.

The Commander gently walked on his knees to the right-hand cave wall, out of the rocking yellow haze now filling the tunnel. The rumbling became a clatter, and the little wood cart appeared, pushed by two tiny old royds, a husband and wife team by their banter. They were yrts, gaunt and down-frosted quadrupeds using the cart like a walker. The moment light struck the pit the Commander came out of his crouch. The yrts, turning at the sudden movement, threw up their arms in dismay. The Commander ran them through with a couple of bolo thrusts and immediately bent to the pile.

It took him a good half hour to fill the cart, spilling treasure by the armful, passionately picking out and replacing gold, silver, and uncut stones with a kind of hysterical whimsy. He couldn’t bear to leave a single piece, so he carefully peaked the cart’s load one gem at a time. When it wouldn’t hold a stone more he slowly rolled the cart back down its track, his cassock again stuffed to the breast, the sword balanced on his forearms. As he progressed, the over-laden cart gradually picked up momentum, controllable only by braking hard left and right with his heavy riding boots’ heels. The tunnel began to curve and broaden, simultaneously brightening from a source not far along, and, as the light grew, the load sparkled with the bucking cart until the Commander became half-dazzled. The heap inside his cassock shifted and tumbled--he’d nearly lost a sapphire! Abruptly the Commander was fighting two losing battles: the cumbersome pile of gems and metal at his midsection, and a top-heavy cart now threatening to careen out of control.

A stumble, and those off-setting forces combined in a heartbeat. The Commander’s boots hammered against opposing walls like pistons as he struggled to brake. He hauled back on the hurtling cart, causing his legs to slide further down. The wheels clipped his boots, his whole body jackknifed back, and then he was tearing along on his toes. The Commander shot into a huge, brightly-lit chamber in a spray of precious stones.

Dozens of frozen royd workers stared in astonishment. By the ominous drum roll of his approach, they’d been expecting a rock slide, or worse. But their amazement was nothing compared to the range of emotions assaulting the Commander as he flew in headfirst like some misguided superhero, his robes billowing out behind him, his sword gripped instinctively by the hilt--

The immense chamber was filled wall-to-wall with a vast pool of raw gemstones, with gold and silver urns, with goblets, with pendants, with gold chains and jewel-encrusted frames. Tables and shelves were heaped high with crude ingots and piled jewels for cutting and finishing. Half-filled carts and cases were lined against the far wall, large smoky lanterns dangled from the chamber’s ceiling.

The Commander hit the pool in fine form, then went skimming like a stone, the plowing blade saving his face a major drubbing. He wobbled to his hands and knees, rocked back on his haunches, lifted his arms so that gems dribbled down his sleeves.

Shouts rang from the royd workers. The anxious Commander immediately began scooping treasure into his emptied cassock. The voices were approaching; workers were tentatively making their way out onto the pool. He bundled up his pickings in his left arm and reached for his sword. The Commander decapitated the first while still on his knees, then pivoted on his left knee, half-rising with a slice to an approaching belly, pushing off with a jab in a retreating back. Now hunched on his feet, he stumbled across the pool to the chamber’s main entrance, constantly pausing to retrieve dropped stones.

The workers’ shouts were answered by a great hubbub. The Commander halted--cut off, front and behind. Somewhere in there he must have snapped. Heedless of his bundled cargo, he took the sword’s hilt in both hands and, with an ongoing bellow, met all comers full bore; hacking and stabbing, swinging, thrusting, and bludgeoning. He went through them blindly, his madness agitated by their screams, until daylight struck his eyes. He puffed up to the mine’s entrance and burst out into the world.

The Cept lad, having followed silently, snuck around the entrance and scrambled up the hillside. He watched from behind rocks while the gasping Commander stood propped up by his gleaming sword.

Sounds of pursuit blew out of the mine. The Commander swung about and assayed his circumstances: the entrance was shored up by crossbeams secured with taut ropes wound thick as cables. These ropes were tethered to massive spikes set deep in the rocky earth. He stalked over and hacked at a rope until it split, then leaped back.

The beam shifted and slipped. Half a second later the entire roof came down, effectively sealing the shaft with a rock pile lost in a huffing plume of dust.

The Commander swayed there; staring, exhausted. Finally he picked up his few remaining stones, rested the blade on his shoulder, and staggered for home.

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