The Elder

Chapter 8 of the science fiction novel Elis Royd

Elis Royd

Chapter Eight

The Elder

The Coalition was stunned.

Their dignified queen’s crash-and-burn, before a single shot had been fired, along with that surreal black scarecrow standing with one foot on the parapet and one fist raised high, was so emblematic of utter defeat…

Nothing in the annals of royd conflict--no brilliant strategy, no relentless mob, no screaming revolution--nothing could match the all-trumping audacity of good old Terran testosterone. So finalizing was that characteristically brutal act, in fact, that the two sides might have simply returned to their well-defined realms--the Earthmen to their feast and security and the royds to their wasteland and want--had not an unseen archer let fly a single shaft that appeared to soar in slow motion through the fluttering patches of dark and light.

The arrow pierced the Elder’s left upper chest. One hand shot to the spot, the other went out as though to ward off a second impact. The illusion of slow motion immediately leaped into fast-forward: the old man fell back like a struck arcade target, the searchlight jerked up to search the heavens, the bulwark’s nearest guards raced to his aid.

A great cheer went up from the Coalition, quickly followed by a series of war cries and a protracted battle chant. Mhendu signaled the charge.

First to hit the wall were the whoopseem.

They scrambled up in jerky, stop-and-go fashion, mindful of both the positioning riflemen above and the anxious royd archers below. The lead climber had his head blown off even as he popped into view, and a royd sharpshooter immediately took out the offending guard in response. This quick exchange triggered a call for a general volley and rally: the whoopseem made the top in a rush and engaged the Gate Guard tooth and nail, while royd archers picked off the nervier bulwark guards, and royd sharpshooters kept the wisest behind cover.

Beneath the great arch the thickset tumtams maniacally worked their ram against Administration’s heavy wood Gate, then, growing frustrated, doused the whole thing with oil and set it ablaze. Amid the smoke and flames it was difficult to see if any whoopseem had survived to man the Gate Wheel from within, and then it was purely academic--the burning Gate split laterally, a huge chunk blew in, and seconds later the overhanging masonry came crumbling to the ground.

Mhendu urged his steed left and right, leaned in tight, and cleared the Gate’s flaming remains in one mighty leap. The Coalition poured in behind him.

EarthAd’s grounds were unfamiliar to all but a few royds: a vast cobbled courtyard surrounded by looming contoured buildings, partitioned here and there by broad brick paths leading to streets fringed with fine shops and official residences. And steps, steps--steps everywhere. Those streets, now active with sprinting soldiers and civilians, seemed to extend forever, and that courtyard, far too grand for the soles of a common royd, was alive with guards and awkward new recruits. The Coalition went in as a single-minded wave, heedless of their own safety. In half a minute it was all a blind reeling brawl.

Mhendu well understood that the Coalition’s sole goal was to humble the master. There wasn’t a reasonable hope of working things out; humans had demonstrated their arrogance was incurable. And the queen’s murder had sealed the issue beyond all redemption--no longer would the average royd allow rule by intimidation. Suddenly Mhendu found himself prey to a lifetime of vengeful fantasies. He temporarily overcame his species’ ethos, shooting a pair of crouching guards in the back and setting a large shop ablaze while his Closest rode in a shifting swirl. The human soldiers about them were completely unprepared for the royds’ unflinching will to engage, even when outnumbered and unarmed; these Earthmen intuitively took to sniping, ambushing, and playing dead. It was subterfuge for naught: their shops were gutted by fire, their official buildings made into dark badlands of guerrilla warfare. Soon it would seem there were more fallen than standing, and no participant willing to aid another. But humanity is indomitable--barely visible in the lancing shadows, two men were busy with a limp fading form: Leroy and Ernie had propped up a winged Rhydsylmn, determined to keep him alive.

“Where’d you hide your gold?” Leroy panted. “Where? Don’t you die on us! Ernie, check him again.”

“He don’t wear proper clothes!” Ernie snapped. “What you want me to do, go up his crap hole?”

“If that’s where he keeps it, then, damn it, that’s where we’ll go!”

“Aww…” Ernie dug his forearm into the belly wound, hollering, “Where? Tell us where! Where?” while the dying royd choked out abbreviated screams.

“Outta my way!” said Leroy. He whipped out a blade and stuck it in the Rhydsylmn’s single nasal aperture. “You wanna die, monster? Clean and quick? Or you wanna go just as slow as we can make it? Either way, you’re nothing more’n a bitty bounty to me and Ernie. But if you make it sweet for us, we’ll do you like a human, instead of like a damned wiggly royd. Where’s your gold? Where?” He dug deeper, until blood foamed out the opening in panting syncopation with the Rhydsylmn’s gurgling screams. “Where?”

Came a burning voice from behind.

“Earthman!”

Leroy froze. A snarl took his face and he whirled. “What the--”

The first arrow caught him between the teeth. The tip plowed off the roof of his tongue and pierced the glottis, ripping a hole into his midbrain. So powerful was the archer’s thrust that the shaft tore out Leroy’s nape and pinned him to the backing wall.

The second arrow went into his left eye even as his head was rocking back. The third and fourth took out his Adam’s apple and right cheek bone, respectively.

“Enough!” Mhendu raised an arm, and with the other quivered his bow. The royds, seven strong, clopped up and bent over Ernie.

“Please, sirs,” Ernie whined. “Don’t hurt me! I was trying to save your friend, that’s all, I swear! But this dirty swine human--” and he repeatedly kicked Leroy’s body, “I couldn’t overpower him, sirs! No way. He was just too strong. Let me go, oh please. I’ll tell everybody how wise and merciful you are, sirs. I’ll tell the Council!”

The mounted royds leaned closer.

“They’ll give you more gold! Honest! They were gonna give it to us, but I’ll tell them it should go to you. You can have all our gold; all our lovely, lovely gold! We don’t want it--we don’t even like it. Please. Just take it all, okay?” He choked on his own backwash. “Sirs?”

The riders slowly sat upright. After a minute Mhendu turned his steed. The royds clopped off.

Ernie scrambled to his feet and vanished in the shadows.

* * *

“I got here as fast as I could.”

The Elder opened an eye. His physician was watching closely, sterile pad in gloved hand. Outside the high room’s open window came shouts, followed by a brief cannonade and the stately arc of a flaming arrow.

“You were rushed to your quarters by litter. The shaft has been excised, the tip examined. It’s deeper than a flesh wound, but nothing to lose sleep over. You’ll live.”

The Elder grimaced. “It feels…much worse than you describe. But thank you.” He steadied his breathing. “I…I must have lost consciousness rather quickly. How goes that awful little disturbance at the Gate?”

“Most of the wall stood the test, but the Gate was completely destroyed and the courtyard infiltrated. Our entire military is now invested in the complex, and to the best of my knowledge the invaders are at an impasse. The fence has been assaulted in several places. Royds don’t have the good sense to back off, even when they’ve been cut to pieces on razor wire. The Council’s Head Administrator, your colleague, ordered the fence electrified wherever there’s suspicious royd activity, and a number were fried before they got the message. But they’re clever devils, and don’t give up easily. While you were drifting the Administrator took executive command of the military and police, and relegated your new Guard Commander to Chief of Recruits. If the whole population is mustered, the fence proper can be held using a regularly spaced civilian guard.”

The Elder, attempting to sit up, fell back with a groan. “My ‘colleague’…” he grated. “I--I am emasculated in bed.”

The doctor reached into his medicine bag. He leaned close, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “This is morphine, from the original stock locked away in Warehouse 17.” He injected the Elder and leaned back. “You are fortunate on two accounts. First, you’re lucky the arrow’s tip was not poisoned. At your age even a less than generous dose could prove fatal. Second, be glad the archer was at a considerable distance, and that the projectile struck well away from important vessels. There was only minor bleeding, and I anticipate little or no infection. You’ll be sore. I strongly advise bed rest, and that you keep the affected area as stationary as possible. Your aide has received brief but thorough instructions on the methodology of cleaning and dressing wounds.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“The opiate should be taking effect any minute now. How do you feel?”

“Lovely.”

“Good sign.” He checked the pupils and pulse, waited, leaned back down, checked again. When satisfied he said, “As these are off-hours in a crisis situation, my usual fee will be increased accordingly.”

“Of course.”

“Your health is my one worry. Now, it breaks my heart to have to discuss money, but there will be an additional charge for going out during a siege.”

“Certainly.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow. He continued studying the pupils while speaking in a dreamy monotone: “This emergency visit forced me to cancel three appointments. That’s lost revenue, and these are lean times, but we men of medicine are an honorable breed--my profession vigorously embraces the concept that a patient’s health shall always be his physician’s principal concern. Therefore my obsession with your well-being completely overshadows all monetary considerations.” He leaned back.

“I understand, and deeply appreciate your faith and dedication. Administration will cheerfully cover your financial needs.”

The doctor licked his lips. “You are prepared to place that in writing?”

“Just show me where to sign.”

“There is, of course, the added expense for tutoring your aide.”

“Naturally.”

“I might append the considerable wear and tear on both mine and my horse’s shoes.”

“It’s only money.”

“There were extra costs related to new medical equipment, reupholstering the carriage seats, and a proposed deck.”

“It’s always something.”

“The kids really should have their own rooms.”

“A big house is a happy house.”

The doctor pulled a sheet from a folding file. “Your signature on this line. Don’t worry about all this fine print.”

“Never been one to worry. Ouch. There you go.”

“Keep that arm steady. Indulge in a sedative only should the need arise.”

Once he was alone, the Elder took his physician’s advice by ordering a tall bourbon and water. The aide brought him both and a glass. The Elder giggled feebly and, even minus a wing, managed to pour a stiff one. He was soon complimenting the remedy.

Amazing: there were anomalies popping in and out of the mundane--he’d have sworn his black shirt had just waved a sleeve. The light’s reflection on his window was performing a kaleidoscopic pirouette--but he was seeing things! Clouds of featherflies wove patterns through the air--all in his imagination. And there, seated at the foot of his bed, was an ugly little green monster, staring right back. He looked very solid. Moreover, the Elder recognized him! He sat up straight and pushed the cobwebs from his brain.

“You!”

The Cept boy lowered his head and peered up shyly. “Where Father?”

“How did you get in here?”

“Through door.”

The Elder fell back. “Makes sense.” One minute his mind was wool-gathering, the next it was a cauldron of inspiration. He sat up again. “Your father, sweetheart, was freed to go back to Maldea. He asked me to look after you when you returned, and begged me to escort you to him. He’s waiting there for you now, and wants to make sure I get plenty of treasure as a reward for being your mentor, and for being his wonderful, wonderful friend.” His expression melted. “We’re all just so glad you made it home safely, son.”

The boy considered. “Here not home. Maldea not home. Where Father?”

The Elder, pain-free, swung his legs off the bed. “Like I said, darling, he just wants to give me all the treasure I can handle, and he wants you to bring me to him so he can give it to me! You don’t expect him to carry it all the way back here by himself, now, do you? Of course, you don’t--oh, you’re such a cutie. So let me just write a nice little bye-bye letter to that mean old Mr. Administrator, and I’ll be right with you.”

He tore a scrap from his nightstand drawer, dipped his quill, and wrote:

Dearest friend and colleague.

It pains me profoundly to have to say farewell in this way, but I fear my time is at hand. As you are well aware, I was gravely wounded in battle--I do not regret my reckless courage under fire; war fever has taken far braver men. My physician has offered me an encouraging prognosis, but he cannot sense that which my soul far better knows. So this is my end. Yet I refuse to waste away like some lovelorn spinster while the battle rages without! Rather than self-commiserate, I intend to walk out into that savage wasteland I have so long endeavored to tame, and take out as many of the enemy as my waning vitality permits. Do not bother looking for me; I shall face the world of men no more. The you-know-what is hereby dissolved, and there is certainly no sense in your seeking the you-know-what-else. I leave you now, good soldier, to maintain this fair enclosure as you will.

Yours even in passing,

You-Know-Who.

“Now,” he said. “Out that window you go. Take this note two windows down and slide it under the frame. Skedaddle back here and away we’ll fly.”

The boy scooted out and the Elder dressed: black shirt and cassock, black robes, black cloak. Black boots and a wide-brimmed black hat, the better to disguise himself. He sheathed his saber and tried the shoulder; it was only sore when rubbed, and even then the pain was mild, transient, and somehow unreal. The boy scampered back in and they snuck out into the Grand Hall; the Elder had him walk under his robes as they passed the standing Administration Guard.

Signs of battle were everywhere; the Cept boy led him deep into the city, past shops still open under siege, down dark streets and bright, and so into a long-abandoned warehouse. They clambered through the gloom, up and over mounds of shattered cinder blocks and around fallen shelves.

“This is laborious.” The Elder said, and sat to gather his breath. He tenderly massaged the wound area. “You’re sure this way will lead us to safety?”

“Under here,” the boy piped. He squeezed behind a sprawling heap of broken timbers, cracked pipes, and torn chain link. The Elder had to follow on hands and knees, and then barely escaped a plunge into what he first imagined was a hidden sinkhole.

The space beneath him was all a part of the asteroid’s natural honeycombed interior: countless pitted taffy-like columns joined in seemingly impossible formations; bound, twisted, curved and coiled by the world’s earliest expanding gases. It was rather like looking into the body of a highly perforated meteorite. Deep, deep below reverberated a muffled roaring, as of tremendous volumes of water spilling into a basin. The realm was fuzzily illuminated by a soft amber light filtering in from miles away. From that unseen place came, too, a thudding of heavy machinery and the protracted gasp-and-sigh of pumps. The Elder stared down at the boy beaming up five feet below.

“The power plant,” he whispered.

The boy nodded, grinning.

The Elder felt his way down feet-first, using his knees and elbows as points of balance. He hunched on a ledge and nursed his shoulder. “How did you come upon this place?”

The boy shrugged. “Follow light.”

For a moment the Elder was certain the morphine had kicked back in: those twisting pocked columns were melting before his eyes. Then he understood: mottled gray footlong cockroaches, millions of them, were on the move, having frozen at his and the boy’s entrance. With a start he realized they were everywhere--on the ledge, on the rock walls around them, on his shoes and cuffs. The boy giggled and squashed a fat one with his stubby tail. The Elder shook himself up and down, stamping and kicking while the boy danced along with delight. When the area was clear they cautiously followed the ledge, keeping low. Subterranean roaches are not aggressive; they picked up on the footfalls and scattered correspondingly, allowing the Elder and boy a narrow ongoing carpet of lifeless rock. After a while the ceaseless flow of roaches became just another harmless feature.

A nasty breeze wafted in and out as they scrambled along: the distant pumps’ residue. The sound of falling water, and of a massive spillover, continued to grow below, and a humping oppressiveness took the Eustachian--it was possible to imagine great falls, hammering on some monstrous heaving contrivance. EarthAd was certainly powered hydroelectrically; the steam must be fanned and chamber-vented. The fuzzy white light remained constant, the air acrid and suspicious on the palate. In places the ledge broke away from the wall, becoming a scary narrow bridge before reconnecting. On one of these perches the Elder, fighting to retain his balance, found himself nevertheless peering down at what looked to be miles and miles of interwoven columns and bridges. It was a Gothic, dwarfing view, built of deepest black and hazy shadow. For one crazy moment he had a horrifying notion something enormous had squeezed out of the dark to stare back at him, and then he was scurrying like mad for the adjoining wall, hundreds of equally busy roaches moving before and behind him, thousands more streaming up the walls just below.

The Cept boy looked down at that huge black shape, appearing to pass column-to-bridge-to-column by way of long grasping tentacles. He carefully pitched a rock, and two gray, dully glowing eyes vanished. “Grandmater,” he explained.

The Elder collapsed, clutching his chest. “How much more of this? How much more?”

“Look!” the boy whispered.

Not thirty yards ahead the ledge began to climb, and a hundred yards farther shone the unmistakable beauty of night.

“Thank” the Elder coughed, “god.” He walked his back up the wall and immediately commenced a ribs-hugging hike. They managed the last few yards on a segment only a foot wide, pushed aside some gnarly roots, and forced their way out.

The night air was sweet as nectar. The old man rolled on his back, then, mindful of his cloak and robes, forced himself to sit.

“Never again,” he wheezed, and glared at the boy. “How long have you known of this hidden highway?”

The boy shrugged: the Elder was to get used to that non-responsive response. But he was too exhausted to whip him proper. Instead, he merely smiled and gently wagged his head. “Y’know, son, what’s important is we made it out okay.” He gazed back at the series of mounds hiding West Gate, now outlined by the glow of battle fires. “Though it’s beginning to look like your funny route may be the only way back in.” He flicked his hand disdainfully. “Good riddance, then. It’s time we got busy.”

Yet his injury, exacerbated by struggle and with the morphine worn off, quickly grew unbearable; after only a hundred yards he was all-in. The boy eventually walked away, returning with his steed. It was a thymrn pony: tiny purple creature with ash-white mane and short puffy tail. Thymra are a sturdy breed--low wide bodies, tunnel vision, phlegmatic dispositions--and this one was certainly tough enough to accept a scrawny, fagged-out old man. The Elder rode on his stomach while the boy walked alongside, cheerfully guiding the pony over hard fields, up and down gullies, and so to the brink of that cracked, unmapped desert east of EarthAd. Occasionally the Elder shifted his position to favor the wound. As the hours passed he grew increasingly ill and irritable. At last they stopped and the boy helped him down.

It was a warm night, even this far from the sultry pall of Administration. There was no blanket, so the Elder curled up on the ground and clasped his filthy cloak about him. The boy sat close by, his chin on his knees, and watched that old mouth jabber of rubies and gold until the night sealed his eyes.

* * *

“We all know why we’re here.”

The room was partitioned into two distinct halves--not by any material contrivance, but by deep human sentiment.

“We’re here because it’s time we got off our asses and did something about protecting our damned border.” The speaker, Martin Ralfwissel, had rehearsed this moment throughout the long ride to People’s Hall. “There’s an army of those things all set to do the unmentionable to anything human. Who knows what diseases they carry? And who knows what foul practices they’ll introduce to our children?”

“That’s just the point,” countered Bill Hemley. “Who knows? And who the heck are you, Marty Ralfwissel, to drag out all these tired old prejudices right when we need to stick together? You’re a rabble-rouser.”

“And you, sir, are a moron. Will you believe absolutely anything you hear--why can’t you have the good sense to listen to reason? Man, oh man alive; didn’t you just catch the Administrator’s address? They’ve poisoned our water, violated our livestock, and danced and defecated all over our beloved flag--why, they’ve even kidnapped, tortured, and mesmerized our Council Elder! They’re holding him for ransom, even as we speak, in some place dark and obscene.”

“But why can’t we just talk to them first?” Ms. Humphardy tried. “They speak English; what’s the problem with just trying to communicate?”

“Everybody on the asteroid speaks English. Everybody in the damned galaxy speaks English. That’s not the point. The point is they’re liars, ma’am. Don’t you get it? Am I the only one here with two Alexanders’ worth of wit and wile? English is our gift to them, and English is their weapon against us. They’re going to tell you exactly what you want to hear. And you, ma’am, no offense, are buying right into the whole program. It’s people like you who befriend the enemy, take one in the back, and then run around crying, ‘oh why didn’t anybody protect me’. Let me ask you a simple question, ma’am; do you have any children?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Hemley objected.

“I’m just asking--does she have any children?”

“That’s a sexist question and you know it. Why don’t you stick to the matter at hand?”

“I am sticking to it! Now, does she or doesn’t she?”

“Oh, this is ridiculous.”

“Ma’am?”

“I fail to see what my fertility index has to do with this meeting.”

“I’m just asking. It’s got everything to do with everything. So, let me put it to you a--”

“We really need a monitor,” Hemley cried, “or we’ll never get anywhere.”

“It’s a simple question.”

“I nominate Mr. Hemley here. He’s got his head screwed on right.”

“Why can’t she just answer? It’s how you say integral to the business at hand.”

“I second the motion.”

“Ma’am? Let me try one more--”

“Okay, then,” Hemley called. “All in favor of marching out to North Fence and negotiating--give a shout!”

“Yay!”

“It’s a fair question, isn’t it? Isn’t it a fair question?”

The crowd swept out the main entrance, thrilled to be moving instead of talking. Once exertion had caught up, they proceeded as an orderly mob, growing more pacifistic in sentiment with each step. Upon reaching North Fence they discovered that a small gang of royds had built a shaky gangway of tree limbs and were attempting to vault the electrified fence. The fence snapped and sparked with the jouncing wood. When they saw Hemley’s group coming up they dropped to the ground, leveled their rifles, and used the makeshift ramp for cover. Hemley waved his arms over his head. “Sirs!” he called. “We come as friends.”

The royds set down their weapons. “Speak,” said one.

“We’re all the same,” Hemley panted. “I mean, pretty much. We have lives, we have dreams, we have families. You, madam. Is that your child? She’s lovely.”

“He,” said the female. She lifted the boy to eye level. They were a squat family of shrems; a race from a nondescript planet around Sirius B, or Little Dog as she’s known. Your typical shrem has a face that appears to have been stepped on at birth, with flat aural and olfactory folds covered in brown scaly moles, capped by a wide bonnet of slimy tentacles peeking out of thorny humps. “He has never seen an Earthman before,” the female said.

The child took one look and turned away. “Ugly,” he whispered.

His mother’s flap lifted slightly in a half-smile. “Now, I wonder where they get these ideas.”

“Kids,” Hemley laughed. “The same all over.” He spread his hands. “Look, we’ve been going over and over this, and the upshot is we feel our grievances can be settled diplomatically.”

“We have seen enough of your diplomacy,” gargled a phaxc in the crowd. “Maybe you’d like a taste of ours.”

“There we go!” Hemley beamed. “We’re negotiating already!”

There was a shout down the way. A party of mounted guards came storming up, their rifles ready.

Hemley threw up his arms. “Wait! We’re negotiating!”

The first shot took out the shrem boy, the second and third his mother. The royds returned fire, but were no match for the well-armed and highly trained guards. Hemley and Co. hit the dirt while the battle raged. When they looked back up there were half a dozen bloody royd corpses, the survivors were running for the hills, and the dismounted guards were placing the prone men and women under arrest.

“This is outrageous!” Hemley cried. “We were conferencing, we were making headway!”

“You were dealing with the enemy,” a guard replied. “Don’t tell me you didn’t hear the dictate about selling arms to royds. Well, I sure hope you got your money’s worth. And you’d better keep your gold out where he can see it--everybody knows the hangman’s got bills to pay.”

* * *

Dismounting had never been so difficult. The Elder slid down the thymrn’s flank inch by inch; clinging to that sturdy neck with his good arm, catching the mane in his fist, at last making the pony droop its head to support his weight. His grip relaxed; he dropped to his side. He’d ridden halfway through the morning, on a beast too brainless for caution, too one-dimensional for dexterity. There’d been good miles and bad miles, but now the continuous thudding had pounded his shoulder into a wretched hunch. He carefully rolled onto his back. In a minute the Cept boy crept over and stuck in his face: the Elder was breathing hard. The boy fanned him until those withered old eyelids cracked.

“Worse than I expected,” the Elder panted. He motioned with his head. “Can’t move it at all. Damned arm’s locked up on me.” The boy drew the pony over so that the Elder was catching some shade. The old man nodded, had a minor flirtation with delirium, and passed out. When he came to, he was staring at a broadly smiling young Cept. The boy used his tongue to push forward his mouth’s contents--he’d been chewing some kind of root; a faintly acrid smell rolled with his breath. He now removed the root and made sure the Elder saw him gently rubbing it into the wound. There came a stinging, followed quickly by a penetrating warmth. His shoulder went numb, and in less than a minute the pain had passed. The boy wrapped up the wound in fresh bandages.

“My compliments,” the Elder breathed, nodding and clenching. “And my gratitude. You’ll have to show me where you dug up that stuff; I could make a killing back home.”

The boy simultaneously smiled and shook his head. “Use royd spit only,” he said.

“Ah! Evolution is a beautiful thing, especially on this fast-forward little world. But I’ll bet you guys don’t have any morphine.”

The boy cocked his head.

“Kind of an Earthman root,” said the Elder. He creaked to his feet. “Better, I am. Much better.”

And not only that. The wound healed even as he rode; he could feel the stiffness melt out of his arm and chest, could sense a new vigor to his side. Within an hour the swelling was all but gone, and a pinkness had replaced the brown. They plugged through the desert forever. At a broad stretch of canyons the boy stopped and said, “Royd come on horse.”

The Elder leaned closer, instinctively lowering his voice. “But how do you know?”

The boy shrugged. “Cept know.”

“Then how many are there?”

The boy shrugged again. “Many?”

“We must hide! We are at war, and they are the enemy. There’s no telling what wickedness such fiends will stoop to. They aren’t like Earthmen, boy! They have no compassion, no honor, no interest in anything other than their own selfish wants. They cannot be believed, much less trusted. Should we go that way?”

The boy shook his head.

“Then how about that way?”

He shook his head again. As though to underscore his responses, a number of riders showed to the southeast, and, a minute later, perhaps a dozen to the northeast. The Elder sagged. Catching himself at this, he sat erect as the parties neared.

The riders bore long flag-tipped poles. These flags showed the new Coalition logo: a single level line meant to represent a horizon, capped by a fatly hemispherical crescent signifying a rising Sirius. They also carried rifles slung behind the right shoulder, and short spears sheathed on their saddles. The Elder thrust out his chin as the leader clopped up beside him.

“You are lost?” the rider inquired. “There is nothing for you in this direction.” He looked down at the boy. “You are well?”

The Elder arched his torso in the universal male posture of confrontation. “He rides under my protection! You’ll keep your filthy paws off of him!” He drew out his saber.

The rider backed his horse a step, then smiled at laughter from his troops. He reached down and pulled out a blade easily four times the length, and twice the width, of the Elder’s. He allowed its shaft a long kiss of Sirian rays.

The Elder shrank back. “You would not harm a crippled old man?”

The rider grinned. “Never before lunch.” He touched the tip to his crown, sheathed the sword, and casually rode back to his fellows.

“You see?” the Elder whispered. “He didn’t want us to go this way. He knows we’re onto something.” He watched the parties pass out of view, his eyes burning under the wide black brim. “Vile freaks. Notice how they need an entire squad to intimidate a helpless old man and his faithful young companion? Where are they now?”

The boy shrugged.

“Press on then, son. And know that I will protect you if it takes my final breath.”

They traveled all through the afternoon, into and out of areas absolutely strange to the Elder, but perfectly fair to the pony and boy. On the edge of a broad gulch they stopped for lunch; the boy, like most royds, carried a little pouch of dried roots and suckflowers. Awful as it was, it was desperately needed nourishment for a recuperating old man. He sat the pony and used it for a recliner while the Cept boy built pebble castles. Time seemed to die. Finally the boy said, “Why you hurt Father, if he your friend?”

“Hurt him?” The Elder looked over, one brow arched. “Oh! You mean downstairs at Administration.” He laid a comforting hand on a scaly forelimb. “That was all an act, son, a game. Me and your dad were out to fool that evil Commander and Administrator. We both knew what they were up to. They wanted to steal Maldea’s gold and jewels and keep it all for themselves. I couldn’t stop them--not one man against two. So me and your dad decided to even the odds. He’s a pretty good actor, eh? You should be proud.” He stirred the dirt with a forefinger. “Are you proud of your father, son?”

The boy looked away. “Why they want to take royd treasure?”

The Elder sighed. “Children and their endless questions.” He too looked away, in the general direction of a small blue world he’d studied extensively. “Where my ancestors lived, son, things aren’t as straightforward as on this big old asteroid. Leaders on Earth work things out in the dark, and put on the Big Smile for the light.” He fingered his dirty robes. “And they wear fine clothes, and eat only delicacies. They marry the most beautiful women, are escorted in awesome things called Panthyrs, and receive fear and respect from all they encounter. And do you know why they are able to live the way they do? Do you know why? It’s because they command great stores of wealth, and wealth on Earth means power on Earth. Just as it does here. No one can withstand the dazzle of treasure. Do you hear me, boy? No one!”

“Royd,” the little Cept explained, “make jewel into pretty charm, sell metal to EarthAd for big treats.”

“Ha! Your stupid traders are fleeced to the quick. Precious metals for food scraps and cheap manufactured baubles. Our hand-me-downs for your gemstones. Rigged scales, empty promises, and lollies for the kiddies. Royds are the laughingstocks of this asteroid.”

The Cept boy was quiet for a minute. He looked over at the old man, still intent on the heavens. The boy matched his gaze. “No natchu, natchura…”

“No. Royds will never be naturalized. Humans will never see their glorious imperial planet. Royds will never be Earthmen, and Earthmen will never go home. Never, never, never. We’re all stuck here.”

The boy mulled this over. His face broke into a smile. “Go see Father!”

“Yes.” The Elder creaked and groaned to his feet. “Time to go see your father.”

The boy hiked an hour longer, leading the riding Elder through a vast desert land peppered with enormous pocked boulders. Beyond this realm rose a place of gently rolling hillocks; dry and brown, dusty and forlorn. They moved weaving between these hillocks, some mere rises, until they came to one nondescript hill, slightly isolated from the rest. The boy stopped and pointed, his face breaking into a smile. “Father!”

The old man dismounted, instantly galvanized. “This…this is it? You’re sure?”

“Yes.” The boy wagged his stub of a tail. “Maldea!” He made to rush off. “Go see Father!”

“No, no!” The Elder grabbed a limb. “Your father and I have an arrangement. He wants to see you alone, quietly, and with dignity. He loves you very, very much, son. As do I. He asked me, as his personal friend, to make certain you reach him without being seen. He said he’ll be waiting in the treasure room, and he wants you to bring me to him. Do you know where the treasure room is?”

The boy shrugged. “All Maldea treasure room.”

“Really!” The gawking Elder wrung the pony’s mane until it cried out. “Well, he’ll be easy to find then! Let’s not waste any more time. Just think how excited he’ll be to give me all that treasure. Man, is his face ever going to light up! I’m sure he wants to see you, too, son, so let’s get a move on! Go, go, go!”

They walked the pony around the hill and crouched near the mine entrance, using the animal for cover.

“We can’t let them see me, son--oh, no-no-no, not a mighty Earthman! Like I told you, this is all a wonderful surprise set up by me and your father. We have to work out a way to get past the guards.”

“No guard,” the boy said. He scampered inside and reappeared leading a pair of royds pulling an old wooden cart. The adults and boy shared a joke; the boy returned to his place and the adults to their work. There was a leather bridle in the bed, and a rough hide tether rope. The Elder attached the bridle to the pony’s neck and hitched the cart. He climbed inside and whispered instructions while keeping low. The boy nonchalantly led the pony down the main track. The place grew brighter as they progressed, the sounds of tapping and talking more pronounced. The Elder peeked off and on, but couldn’t bear to focus too long on all that splendor. He had the boy steer him into an alcove, and there fell out onto a broad ledge overflowing with jewels.

The Elder absolutely lost it, feverishly running his hands back and forth over the pile. At last he looked up, only to find himself staring straight into the Cept boy’s wide liquid eyes.

“Where Father?”

“I’ll give you ‘Father’, you little--” He tore the hide rope from the cart’s bed and tightly wound it round the boy’s throat. “Start filling this cart, you freak.” He gripped the loop at the sobbing boy’s neck with one hand and used the other to lash him with the slack. “Faster, damn you! Faster! We don’t have all day.” So great was his need that he scooped and tossed wildly: diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires; a broad rainbow shower. When the little cart was brimming he stepped atop the pile and dragged the boy in with him. “You’re coming with me, so I don’t get lost on the way back. You got that? If you think I’m leaving all this here then you’re dumber than the average royd. But, man, with this load I’ll be able to finance equipment, laborers--damn it, I’ll bring me back an army!” And with that he kicked furiously at the pony’s rump. The thymrn, hereditarily programmed to obey, strained at the load until the cart began to roll. Even against the grade it tugged resolutely. It lurched side to side rhythmically, then managed a zigzag trot, and finally, prodded by the Elder’s repeated vicious stabs, broke into a crouched shambling uphill run.

The astonished workers moved to cut off the cart, but were quickly dispatched by the saber. The Elder, hugging the Cept boy as a shield, kicked and slashed wildly as the flustered pony barreled up the track and out the main entrance. The cart fishtailed in the dirt, its sturdy wheels shaking. As workers spilled outside, the Elder dragged the boy up his chest until their heads were level and his blade was dug deep into that trembling scaly throat.

“I’ll kill him!” the old man shouted. “Don’t think I won’t! All of you back off and return to whatever you were doing. If you try to follow us I’ll cut off one of his toes for every tracker I see!” Still holding the boy, he hopped out and whipped the pony, then poked and swatted until it had worked its way back around. Panting, he dragged the boy aboard and lashed the pony on. The dumbfounded workers watched as the leaning cart shook against the horizon.

The boy struggled up and down in the old man’s hold, at last managing to slip from his noose. He backed away over the pile as the exhausted Elder, fighting to control the digging pony, took great lunging swipes with the blade. The boy easily timed the thrusts while working his way to the rear of the cart. He leaped free.

“Get back in here!” the Elder bawled. He stood erect, waving his saber with one hand and fighting the reins with the other. “I killed your father, boy! Do you hear me? I cut him open wide! I made sure he died in agony! Follow me if you want to see him! We’ll dig him up together! Aww--” and he hurled the blade. It whirled like a toy before falling harmlessly. The boy stared as the spectacle receded, then, crying his heart out, scurried back to the mine.

The cart lurched between the hillocks while the Elder jealously monitored jewels rocking at the cart’s rim. He quickly lost his way, rediscovered a landmark, lost his way again, and finally just relied on Sirius as his guide. Every now and then he was compelled to rest the pony, and during these breaks laid full-out under the cart, in the grip of his years. Only his sapphire dreams kept him going. But by twilight he’d become truly worn, and prone to panic attacks--based on a variety of extraneously-induced hallucinations, a narrow run-in with a frantic swarm of crag leapers, and a very real fear of being stranded without provisions. Plus, while pushing through the boulder-strewn desert, the cart’s rear wheels had become mired in a sticky, thin red mud. He whipped the pony mercilessly until the poor thing, too stalwart to surrender but too stupid to resist, simply dropped on its belly and let the lashings fly.

“You thick b*****d.” The Elder threw down his whip and shoved, hoping to dislodge the cart and spur the pony on. Little by little he sank to his knees. He all but died there, his elbows buried in diamonds, his kneecaps buried in muck.

Almost as in a dream he heard it: a distant, rapid clattering, as of many running feet. He very quietly pulled himself upright. In a minute the first antennae came waving around the largest rock, and two heartbeats later the Elder was completely surrounded by predatory Great Roaches.

They raced over the mud and each other, pouncing on the little old man and his tiny purple pony. The Elder was able to buy a minute by squeezing well under the cart, but those grasping feelers were everywhere. The pony fell with a heartbreaking scream, the writhing mass went mad, and the over-laden cart split down the middle, half-covering the Elder in precious stones. A pair of Roaches took his arms, two more his legs. So ferocious was their assault that he was quartered in seconds, and his trunk and head left to settle under a sprawling heap of jewels in the sucking and popping mud.

* * *

“Civilian Guard, front and center!”

The sergeant fumed.

A few seconds later he stormed back to the bewildered file. “That means,” he hissed, “that you are to move your sorry butts up here where I can see them!” When he’d marshaled the men he addressed them as in boot camp, though they were assembled right in the street. “Before you compulsory recruits go out and shoot yourselves in the feet, you will respond to this field order: you are hereby commanded to go into these houses and shops and deputize all adult males for immediate placement. That means you are to direct them to me, and I will make sure they are furnished with arms and posts. You are not to sit and chat over coffee and scones, okay? They are not being given an option, and neither are you. This is a martial situation; Administration has declared all service-worthy males military property. Get them out here where I can handle them. No excuses, no delays. Now go!”

Ed Sales and Whitey Pinn were more than glad to break rank. “Jeez,” Whitey said, “who’s gonna be watching my store with me out here playing soldier?”

“Theoretically,” Ed replied, “the Guard. Meaning me, them, and everybody but you. Watch that rifle, Whitey! It’s not a baton.”

They knocked politely at a haberdasher’s. After a minute the door opened and a curmudgeonly middle-aged man peered out.

“You’re deputized, Earl,” Whitey said. “Sorry, but the sergeant says everybody has to go out in the street, right now. You’ll get a gun and a post to guard, and any royd’s fair game.”

Earl was about to slam the door when his expression shifted. “What’s the inside bounty rate?”

“Administrator’s upped it,” said Ed, “to two Eagles for any adult royd soldier.” He licked his lips repeatedly. “They’re coming in by the hundreds.”

“How many skins are in already?”

Whitey shook his head. “They won’t tally or pay up till after the dust settles.”

Earl blinked, slowly eased himself out, quietly closed the door behind him. “That’s two Eagles per hide?”

“Skinned or whole, dead or alive.”

“Who’s to say if dead bodies was scooped off the battlefield and turned in as kills? Who’s to say?”

Ed and Whitey exchanged stares. “Not me,” Whitey said.

Earl cracked the door. “Woman! Fetch me my coat and flask. I’m off to join the Army.”