The sledge left two narrow furrows in the dirt that trailed off until they disappeared, following a sharp bend in the beach. The footprints that marred the neatness of the furrows were deep, the marks of heavy treads and labored walking. At frequent intervals even those footprints were obliterated by the outline of fallen bodies. Ahead, the path was blocked by a rocky outcropping where the woods jutted out almost to the water. The woods were not those of Ta-tjenen. Pod-trees had not been seen for many teclads. The plants that grew here might be cousins of the bamboo, faster growing than any weed, towering in height and sometimes breadth, but underneath as transient as the Bannk. A single Patra would reduce them to hibernating spores.
Stringer put down the branch that served as a handle for the sledge, looked
at his red-blistered hands, and pressed them against the small of his weary
back. Let’s sit down in the shade,
he said as
he contemplated how they were to cross the outcropping.
Taljen walked up to one of the trees and sunk her knife into it. Water
gushed forth and she filled her flask from the stream. Carefully she tasted
it before offering a drink to Stringer. I hope this
town is not far,
she said.
Stringer found his map cassette and scanned the coast. I can’t tell, exactly. Maybe another hundred
kilometers, maybe more. But it’s the next town on the route and looks
big. It is our only choice.
Hey, Stranger! Where are you heading?
Stringer jumped up abruptly and vainly scanned the woods for the source of the voice.
Why are you passing through Baluf lands?
the voice shouted again. Stringer only half understood the words.
He doesn’t sound very friendly,
Taljen said,
voice modulating quickly.
Stringer waved her silent and moved toward the sailplane. We are traveling south to the next town for
help. There is a city nearby, isn’t there?
Are you friends of the Gostum?
Stringer was taken aback. No,
he managed with
a laugh.
Then why are you going to Pant? Only Gostum
friends go there.
We need help.
Your dialect is strange and your speech
deformed. Where are you from?
A man wearing loose clothing emerged from
the woods. The stubble of a beard covered his face. He was followed by two
men and two women.
Would he believe me if I told him?
Stringer
wondered. Who wants to know?
We are asking the questions. You are in our
territory.
Enough of this!
one of the other men
exclaimed as he stepped forward holding a knife.
Stringer ducked behind the fuselage of the sailplane and reached into the cockpit. He drew out his kalan. Absent for so long, it felt strange in his swollen hand. His adversary waited for him to stand up, then leaped from the ledge on which he had been standing, onto the dirty sand.
Stringer sprang to life, using his last reserve of energy, and bounded over the plane. He caught his opponent’s arm with the tip of the blade. Blood trickled, but the other man did not stop moving. Stringer saw him raise his knife, preparing to hurl it underhand. Stringer fell backward and the knife flew over his head, lodging itself in the peeling paint of the glider’s fuselage. His enemy sprang, but Stringer managed to roll away and was on top of him in an instant, kalan ready to plunge into the base of the stranger’s neck.
Suddenly he was surrounded by three others, knives drawn. His graser was still in the cockpit. Could he reach it? Taljen’s leap toward the leader gave him the instant he needed. The three strangers reacted together, the kalan dipped deep into its target before the victim could even stir, and, within a heartbeat, Stringer had the graser out. So, he still had some speed left.
Hold!
Stringer
shouted. Or I’ll kill you all before you move a
centimeter.
Hold,
the leader said simultaneously to his
followers. Few men fight with a kalan too fast to
be stopped. And Stringer is among them.
Stringer dropped his gun in shock. The word kalan
followed by his
name were two rapid-fire impossibilities.
’Tis been a long time, yuh, Stringer?
the
leader said in Stringer’s old language.
Valyavar!
Stringer cried, peering into the
other’s eyes, clasping the rock-hard shoulders. You’re supposed to be dead!
And I thought you to be gone, sure.
I didn’t even suspect—you’ve shaved! You really
have a face! I didn’t see your hands; I can hardly see a meter, I’m so
sick. Even your skin didn’t—I didn’t recognize you.
You look terrible, if you don’t mind the
observation. Looks as if Sarek did his best to finish you off. But you
fight as always.
Stringer shook his head as he took a long look at the body on the
ground. I was slow, out of practice, and almost
dead. He nearly had me twice.
My recognition was slow, too, too slow to stop
you. I was so convinced you to be dead, I didn’t suspect it was a kalan I
was seeing, even an Alien.
Sorry,
Stringer said as he kicked the red
sand.
And how did you get
here?
they asked each other simultaneously.
That’s a long story,
they answered in unison.
Best told over some food, yuh?
Yuh!
Then gather your things and I’ll take you to our
home.
Stringer collected the tent, his rodoft, and his few other supplies. What about the sailplane?
These two will take it.
Taljen was standing alone all this time with sunken shoulders and heaving breast. Her sun suit had another tear to add to the growing collection.
What’s wrong?
Stringer asked. We’re among friends.
She pointed with her chin in the direction of the dead man and brushed back
tangles of her hair with swollen fingers. You did
that,
she said.
Yes,
Stringer replied. And what did you have in mind when you lunged at
Valyavar here?
Taljen stammered. Stringer turned away with Valyavar and walked off the beach with him.
It was story-telling time around the campfire. Valyavar talked his own brand of what was the universal language of Patra-Bannk.
Those Gostum are a nasty crew, to be believed for
sure. Do you remember the crash? When I pulled you from the wreck,
unconscious, no sooner had I done so than we were beset by Gostum, black
and orange devils. I killed one of them before I realized they wanted me
alive. They must have thought you were more than dead and ran off with me,
leaving you and that other rascal alone.
Stringer turned to Taljen. Why didn’t you tell me
it was a Gostum I ate and not Valyavar?
I told you when you first asked that we ate a
Gostum. Whether or not it was your friend, we couldn’t be expected to
know. But you surely realized that finding you with the Gostum was one of
the main reasons you were suspected of being Polkraitz.
Stringer tried to remember the unfocused words of that first conversation
but found that sounds without meaning were as ephemeral as sounds entirely
unheard. He shook his head then. If there was any possible way of people’s
misunderstanding each other, they would. Go on,
Valyavar.
To me it seems I was blindfolded, and when I awoke
I was at Pant. To be sure, I didn’t know it then. But I managed to get away
from them when they were eating. So to truth, that’s it. I ran far and came
across some natives around here in Baluf land who put me Under for the
Patra. God, to be sure, didn’t show an interest, and I strike up another
mark against him. But evidently my dress was appropriate. So I have been
around here hunting what little is to be found and taking sturdy aim at the
Gostum whenever they appear, no friends of mine, those. And now to cap it
all, you run into me. I am amazed. What brought you to the middle of
nowhere?
A longer story than yours, from the sound of
it. I’ll tell you the details later. But perhaps the meeting is less
amazing than we think. We were heading this way to begin with, and since
everybody seems to live near the coast—our route—assuming you were alive
and us, too, our paths would have crossed somewhere.…So, now we are here in
the middle of nowhere. Do we stay forever or fix a sailplane?
Before you decide,
Valyavar said, let me continue. A few beclads ago, if my memory for
timelines hasn’t flown from me completely, this girl, young enough to be a
virgin, comes riding up from Pant alone, alone here in the Killer Bannk,
the most reckless thing I ever set ears to.
Valyavar pointed to one of the two women who had been on the beach, now sitting around the fire. Stringer studied the girl. She seemed about his own age. Her shiny, waist-long black hair was braided and tied behind her head. Her skin, like that of all the natives this Bannk, was dark and lizardlike. A bolo was strapped around her slender waist and a knife hung across her chest opposite her water flask.
She calls herself Barbalan,
Valyavar went on,
and said she was trying to find me. And that I
must go south with her. Seems, it would be, that our friend Pike is down
there and she knows where he’s about. I’m not sure I trust her. She talks
about as much as you used to, Stringer.
Stringer had not taken his eyes off Barbalan, and she met his gaze without flinching. She surprised him by speaking first.
You must also come south with me. It is
imperative. We must go to Pike and take him with us.
Why?
We are all in great danger if we do not go south
to Neberdjer. I am not sure why, exactly; I have only spoken to Neberdjer
once and did not understand anything it told me. But I am sure this entire
planet is in danger of being destroyed. Your help is needed.
Valyavar boomed: Is that to be believed? Do you
trust her?
Stringer put his hand on Valyavar’s knee to silence him. Why are you doing this, Barbalan? Do you trust
Neberdjer?
Yes. Why am I doing this? Pike, too, wanted me to
explain my actions. How can one explain one’s self? I am the way I am. I am
told that I do not speak much, that I act quickly, perhaps too
quickly. Very well. I accept that. I do not consider myself and weigh
myself as often as others do. I do not think it worth the time reflecting
on myself; I am not worth it. I do what needs to be done.
Stringer smiled. Valyavar, is she a saint or a
maniac? How will we get to Neberdjer, Barbalan?
The way will be difficult. I left Konndjlan—where
we must go—without orders and, even worse, assisting an escape. That is
punishable by death. You see…I am Gostum.
Both Taljen and Valyavar sprang up. Valyavar grabbed his knife, but Barbalan was faster.
Stringer held back the giant’s arm. Now, don’t go
nonlinear,
he said in the old language. She
obviously means no harm. Go on, Barbalan. Talk slowly so I can understand
you.
He noticed out of the corner of his eye that Taljen had left the
campfire.
Shortly after Pike arrived in Konndjlan last
Bannk, there arose a rumor in Konndjlan that another Alien had been
captured in the north but had escaped at Pant. Later I helped Pike escape
from Konndjlan, and soon I encountered Neberdjer at Daryephna. When Pike
refused to go to Neberdjer, I thought I should find this other Alien. I
returned Pike to Konndjlan and followed the pendant map to the stala in the
desert. Normally that fifty kilometers would not have been difficult, but
how I survived those winds I still do not know. With the information in the
pendant it was easy to guess how to use the stala to get to Pant. I stayed
there all last Patra, assuming that until this Bannk the Gostum at Pant
would not know I was there without orders. I escaped near dawn, but that
was teclads ago. Now that I have found you at last, the Bannk is more than
half done, and the Gostum at Pant have certainly learned by now that I am a
fugitive. My life is in danger both there and at Konndjlan.
If you are recognized,
Stringer added.
Valyavar glanced at Stringer. You’d be to risk
it?
Yes.
Well,
Valyavar said, cocking his eyebrows, what is it that you’re thinking?
Tell me, Barbalan, if what I say is true. Many
people are going south to the place called Konndjlan for a great
gathering. Rumors abound of the Polkraitz returning. The Gostum are taking
anyone south who will go—and some who won’t. Villages we have recently
passed are being deserted for whatever is happening. Why don’t we just go
with them?
It may work,
Valyavar agreed. I have noticed the migration myself. But there is one
problem. Except for old friends who fail to recognize one another because
thought dead, we clearly look Alien this Bannk, to even a blind man.
That may help,
Barbalan said. It may be your safe passage.
Barbalan, how long would it take?
Stringer
asked, remembering the Patra was not infinitely far away.
From Pant? Ten telclads.
Ten telclads! And how far is Konndjlan? A walk
over the next hill?
Beyond the World’s Edge, if there is one. From the
old map it must be nearly fifty thousand kilometers.
You are joking.
No,
Barbalan replied.
Stringer looked at Nothing strapped in pieces to the sledge. We spent more than half the Bannk flying here in that
thing. Ten telclads to go as far as we’ve come already? I usually sleep
longer than that.
Yes,
Barbalan repeated, ten, as near as I can guess.
Stringer puzzled over that as he began to stamp out the fire and gather up
his things. Valyavar disappeared with his friends. The strangers returned,
leading four grask. Barbalan threw a leather sack over one and mounted. In
a moment Valyavar returned with his own sack, the same one he had always
carried on Two-Bit, and a kalan strapped to his waist. He spent a few
moments with a tall, dark, curly-haired girl. You’ll see me again,
he said, and kissed her.
Not a second later he was mounted on the tallest grask. Come on, Stringer! After your journey, the trip to
Pant is not even a child’s punishment.
Well, Nothing,
Stringer said to the
sailplane he had fashioned with his own hands, you’ve done better than I ever believed was
possible. Maybe you will fly again sometime.
He patted the faded nose
of the bird and turned away, only to bump into a bamboo tree. I have better luck flying,
he grumbled, and grabbed
the reins of the grask that was waiting for him.
Before them, in a shallow valley covered with dull greens and browns, lay Pant, founded by the Gostum when the stala to that Elsewhere had opened up. Stringer led his grask out of the woods and sat down on the hill to rest. He glanced at the sun and winced. Was it seventy degrees? Was it eighty or ninety? All Stringer knew was that a pan of water didn’t boil sitting on the ground.
Suddenly they were surrounded by Gostum. What
business do you have in Pant?
asked one from atop his mount.
Valyavar answered. We have heard that you wish
help in the south. We have come to help.
The Gostum smiled, teeth shining. Where are
you from?
All hesitated, except Taljen. From Ta-tjenen,
she said proudly.
From Baluf land,
Valyavar said, pointing to
the remaining three.
Come with us.
They were marched into the center of a town whose houses were largely open
to the wind. Their escorts stopped at a hut. The Gostum who had spoken
before stared a long time at Barbalan. Her hair had been hidden, her faced
dirtied, her Gostum black exchanged for a loose white tunic. If the guard
had known her once, recognition did not come now. He said, You will stay in this room until we are ready to
take you south. Your weapons, please…They will be returned.
Stringer and Valyavar unstrapped their kalans and handed them over. Barbalan unwound her bolo and unslung her knife.
Leave your packs outside with this guard.
The guard sitting on the step seemed uninterested in anything but staying
out of the way of the sun and the loose dirt that flew around them.
Stringer pulled out his journal from the tent sack. The guard let him keep
it. Barbalan and Valyavar put down their sacks and stepped over the guard
into the hut. Stringer was about to follow when the leader took Taljen by
the arm and told her, You will come with
me.
What?
Stringer shouted.
You said you were from Triesk, is that not
true?
the guard asked Taljen.
I said I was from Ta-tjenen.
That is what I thought. The ancient name. You
will come with me.
To Stringer he said, She must be held until further instructions are received to see if
her travel is allowed. She will be questioned.
Taljen yanked her arm free but did not run.
I won’t let you!
Stringer shouted.
Stringer, what can you do?
Taljen asked. I will see you in the south, perhaps.
She followed
the guard after leaving Stringer alone in the sun.
No!
he called after her. We can’t risk—
Silence for now, Stringer,
Barbalan whispered
in his ear as she caught his arm. She dragged him into the hut and shut the
door behind them. The entire building shook and the hinges creaked with
rust.
The three sat facing each other in the middle of the stifling room. The floor, made of half-rotted planks, was green and purple with mold and sagged under their weight.
Wonderful,
Stringer sighed. What now?
I might have foreseen this,
Barbalan said. Both Gostum and your friend Pike wanted to know of
Triesk, and Taljen is from Triesk—
Taljen is from Ta-tjenen.
I am afraid they are the same place,
Barbalan
said, shaking her head sadly. Taljen might have
valuable information. I should have warned you.
Stringer was rapping his knuckles rapidly on the floor. What will they do to her?
I don’t know.
We gave them our weapons, like idiots—
Stringer, weapons won’t do us any good in the
middle of Pant. But let me think a moment.
After a few minutes of
silence Barbalan looked up. Do we need Taljen
south?
What do you mean? Leave her here? No, I can’t let
you do that.
No, you misunderstand. I mean, what good is
rescuing her at Pant and taking her to Konndjlan to be recaptured?
Stringer nodded at the reasoning. Where can we
take her?
Barbalan raised her thin eyebrows hopefully. Triesk?
Can you?
If it is possible to take her anywhere, we can
take her to Triesk. But—
—can we take her anywhere?
Barbalan once again lowered her head in thought. Stringer and Valyavar must
be brought south at all costs. That was important. And she was still
Gostum. Abruptly, she stood up and leaned out the window. Guard, we’re hungry. Can I have that gray sack with
food in it?
The guard ambled off the step and picked up the sack. Barbalan bit her lip
and he opened it, but he saw only some freshly cut meat. He handed her the
sack and sat down again. Barbalan tried closing all the windows, but most
of the shutters, swollen from the damp, did not fit properly. She dumped
the contents of the bag onto the floor. Her black Gostum uniform toppled
out on top of the food. Luckily we have a sleepy
guard out there. I will report him myself if the chance comes. Now, perhaps
I can be of use as a Gostum. Remember, I may not.
She talked as she
began undressing. Stringer openly admired the sight of the slender beauty
in her rugged Killer Bannk skin. My life may be
wanted—it should be. If I am recognized, I will be killed. It is that
simple.
So what are you planning?
To go and get Taljen. I will simply go and get
her. You can even come.
How?
There are hundreds of Gostum at Pant. I stayed
close to myself all Patra, so how many can know who I am? As long as we are
not seen by someone who knows me, we are safe.
Won’t you be questioned?
Stringer asked,
biting his lip.
No one of lower rank will challenge this,
she
said as she struggled to get the Fairtalian necklace over her head. We are again in luck that the previous owner was more
well endowed than myself.
Stringer smiled at this girl who could be so resigned to the constant
danger and yet deal with it so calmly. What about
higher rank?
Few and far between. The man outside certainly
isn’t. Are the odds acceptable to you?
Yes. My mind is blocked; I can’t think of anything
else to do. I’m glad you can.
Then I think it is usually better to do something
than nothing. Let’s go.
Indeed,
Valyavar laughed somberly, she is a saint or a maniac.
Barbalan flung open the door. The guard jumped to his feet and whirled
about, his short spear ready for action. His eyes came to rest on the
necklace and slipped down to the pendant hanging across Barbalan’s
breast. She did not wait for him to be startled. This is a secret mission. Give us our sacks and
weapons.
The guard did as he was told without any hesitation.
Where is the other girl being kept?
In the hut across the yard.
Come, Stringer.
She waved them out of the shed
and onto the dirt yard, which was covered by a profusion of hoof
prints. Stringer thought that short walk in the sun was the longest he had
ever taken. As they approached the opposite side of the court and the
waiting guard, Barbalan sucked in her breath, so far that her diaphragm
moved visibly. Stringer knew what that meant and prayed for anonymity on
Barbalan’s part.
You’ll do nothing,
Barbalan said, as if
anticipating Stringer’s planned action. She stepped ahead. Stringer still
admired her courage but now wondered if hers was the only life in
danger. I want the woman from Triesk to take
south,
she said without a hint of nervousness.
Are the others going also?
the guard
asked, scanning Barbalan quickly and then dwelling on Stringer and
Valyavar.
Yes.
Barbalan felt her heart beating and
forced control.
Fine,
came the response, and the guard
ducked into the hut to bring forth a quiet Taljen.
The four walked toward the center of town and the stala. I don’t understand,
Barbalan said. He should have recognized me, unless I am so
radically changed in appearance.
I don’t suspect it’s God’s intervention—yet,
Valyavar chuckled.
The problem ahead is not one to laugh at. Only the
Fairtalian are allowed unblindfolded into the stala. You see those
guards. They will be Fairtalian and will question me. Be prepared for a
fight.
This is crazy, Stringer thought.
Stringer, I will take Taljen to Triesk. Do you
wish to come with me?
At that remark, Stringer suddenly forgot that they were in immediate danger. He was now only conscious of the four of them standing along under the mid-bannk sun, the same deadly sun, high in the south, that had done its best to kill them and failed. Taljen, dirty, clothing torn, hair tangled, and hands blistered, remained undiminished, regal always, even next to the extraordinary Barbalan, who stood by her lithe and slender. Taljen had not spoken a word in the last few moments, hardly more during the last few beclads. What could be said now?
Is it necessary that I go?
I don’t think so. It will probably be safer for
you if you arrived in Konndjlan without me.
Stringer nodded. There is nothing for me in
Ta-tjenen.
Then say your farewells now.
Stringer walked up to Taljen, brushed her loose cowl aside, and kissed her
lightly on her cracked lips. Good-bye, Taljen,
he said simply.
Will I see you again, Stringer?
she asked in
return.
I don’t know.
He pulled the battered journal
from the tent sack and handed it to her. Give this
to Alhane. It may amuse him.
Taljen took the book without looking at
it. I wish I had something to give you.
Good-bye, Stringer, Alien Nesta, good-bye.
Barbalan nudged them to the stala. It was a much larger building than any other in Pant. Stringer was sure it was metal, a giant cylinder with a spire on top. He wrinkled his nose, puzzled that such a thing should be found here.
Halt!
shouted the Fairtalian guarding
the stala. What business do you have
here?
To take these south to Konndjlan.
The guards eyed them thoroughly, concentrating on Stringer and Valyavar. Do you intend to take them yourself?
Yes.
Blindfold them.
One of the guards
produced three blindfolds, which were then fastened around Taljen and the
Aliens. The chief guard stepped aside, but only after he had taken their
kalans and given them to Barbalan for her keeping. She smiled in thanks as
she took her companions through the opening door. It shut behind them.
Barbalan quickly glanced around and saw no one else present. She removed the blindfolds from her hostages and handed out the weapons.
Stringer had only a moment to regard his surroundings: the huge chamber
room whose circumference was lined with doors and whose center was
dominated by a huge cylindrical map. He had only a brief glimpse before
Barbalan shoved him to an opening door. Hurry! In
you go before someone comes!
Stringer hesitated, staring for a second at Taljen. Then he turned and entered the awaiting room. The door shut silently and Taljen, already turning away, was lost from view.