The small creature was a Jat. No one had ever been able to discover their full intelligence. However, when one bonded with a human it supplied an ever-present awareness of trouble—an alarm system of flesh, blood, and bone.
His guard’s warning had halted the Zacathan. He folded his long legs in a sitting position facing the wall. The Jat, freeing itself from the bag, dropped to join him. But the guard remained standing, positioning himself so he could view both his employer and the cliff.
With the arrival of Zurzal, authority passed to him. Galan’s hand went to the strap of his helmet, half expecting another bolt to strike at any moment. It did, but this time the thrust did not find him defenseless. The pain and disorientation were less, heard through the helmet’s warning signal.
Blinking his eyes, he saw that the Shadow had wavered a step or two from his position but otherwise did not seem much affected by the attack. The Jat and the Zacathan showed no signs of discomfort.
Jofre, Oathed Shadow, swallowed and swallowed again. As much as he had been trained in the inner Power, he had to meet that pressure with full strength, which aroused the fear of deep brainwash, a rumored weapon of the Guild. Zurzal continued to stare at the carvings, seemingly at ease. Yan, the Jat, had laid a hand-paw on one of the Zacathan’s mutilated arms as if in protection.
“The scaled one,” Yinko thought-linked. “That one has power—as does the small, furred thing. Not our power, but like to it.”
“Great Ones?” The question expressed doubt. These were too alien to People memory.
“Like—unlike,” Yinko shook his maned head. “But I doubt we can control these.” Once more he looked down at the three who seemed to be waiting—perhaps hoping to discover what defenses the People had.
“We wait,” Yinko decided.
Time no longer had any meaning; neither party made a move. At last, the two from the beetle joined the others.
Galan saluted. “There is—” He paused, wanting to explain with care. “It must be some security device. But where? We have not been here long enough for a full search.” He glanced at that dull globe carried by the leader of the procession.
“Mind touch,” the Zacathan returned calmly. “Hit you hard, did it?” He indicated the helmet.
“But—how? It’s all just stone and paint!” He had heard of mind touch, mind speech. However, as far as he knew, he had never encountered it before. That had not been a touch but a stab, one he felt had been delivered with intended malice.
“That is what we see, yes,” Zurzal nodded at the wall. “But no, there is no instrument set on guard here. Only living minds can reach so.”
“What is to be done?” Narco joined them.
“It lies with who or what watches here.” The Zacathan was scratching behind the Jat’s large ears. “Wait for a space—”
But time was against them, for again the whine of a flitter echoed arrogantly from the heights. A flitter? But the only one known here was just behind them.
This was larger, and Jofre, well trained, caught sight of those threatening tubes pointing fore and aft. It was armed! And there was no Patrol Star to be seen on the dirty brown of the cabin side. That paint was meant to fade against the mountain lands and desert around them.
The warning came from the Zacathan. “Down—! This is—”
His hissed speech was drowned out by a roaring voice from above.
“Halt! Stand! See and fear!”
A lash of fire flicked out of one of the fore tubes, striking the cliff face. The tip crossed the rubble in the triangle to touch the globe carried by the leader of the procession.
Galan reeled, saw Narco fall, curling up like an insect touched by flame. The Shadow was on his knees, his head shaking from side to side. The Jat plastered itself tightly against the Zacathan’s body, its mouth open as if it were screaming, though Galan could not hear through the roaring that filled his head.
Where that flash had fallen was dark—black—as if the very substance of the rock had been consumed. But the globe was alive—vivid ripples of blue, purple, and green were circling out from it. Galan found himself unable to raise his hands to push the helmet closer over his tortured ears. He was locked in place and unable to turn his head.
And now—
There was other movements beside those ripples. Not among the party in the canyon. Nor had anyone descended from the rogue flitter. Long, flattish bodies, the same color as the rocks, were slipping down from the crown of the cliff, hard to see except by their movement.
They avoided the curling streamers of color given forth by the globe, coming to ground to crouch in a defensive line before the Procession.
The black spots were spreading outward in patches as if the entrances to a number of caves were being revealed. In spite of his streaming eyes and painfully roaring head, Galan could not look away. Was this indeed the opening of some treasure-house?
There was a second ray from the enemy flitter—aimed now at that furred line waiting in what seemed to be a pitiful gesture of defense. The thrust did not touch, rather it turned in midair, flashing back toward its source.
The Zacathan and the Jat did not move, only stared ahead. Now the Shadow had crawled to them and raised a hand, though no weapon, so he also might grasp one of the mutilated arms Zurzal held out to him.
Before that deflected blast touched the flitter, it was gone. But the flyer itself bounced upward, steadying well above the cliff top as a hovering warning.
“This is surely of the Great Ones!” The Guardian broke the united mind hold. “Those—they gave to us Power—” He stared at the invaders, still quivering from that strange inflow of force he knew originated with the scaled one and his two companions.
Yinko mind sent in a way that commanded an answer. “Who are you?”
“Seekers of knowledge.”
“And those above who would destroy?”
“Those who fear true knowledge. But do not hold them lightly. They are a part of a great evil which has spread from world to world—”
Yinko interrupted: “They turn what they find to their own use?”
“It is so— On guard!”
The flitter had been moving away, only now to circle back. There was an opening in its belly, though if these jackers had come for wealth or knowledge of the past and used even a gas bomb, the effects of which might last long in this canyon, they could defeat their own purposes.
Yinko looked to the Guardian. The order he gave was one which had not been used for a thousand years or more. With a burst of speed that seemed incredible to the watching invaders the Guardian threw himself as if to crash against the wall. That wall which Galan saw was cracking as the circling light of the globe appeared to bring destruction farther and farther out.
Into one of those enlarging cracks the Guardian plunged headfirst. He was now back in the gallery from which he had earlier spied on the strangers. Speeding across it, he slammed his metal-sheathed claws into a spot on the inner wall and exerted all his strength.
The door he attacked gave reluctantly. Those without would buy him time if they could, but how strong was the power of the others? Could their weapons be held for a second time by the united effort of the People and those who had voluntarily aided at the first attack?
He was looking down, not into some dimly lit cavern but rather into a very large space where at intervals along the walls were set rods emitting light. Nearly all the floor was covered with large, topless bins, packed in turn with containers of all sizes and shapes. The Guardian turned left, finding footing on a narrow ledge.
Outside, the jackers seemed in no hurry to press an attack. They must know that the offworlders below knew very well the threat of that open hatch.
“You gave power—”
Zurzal still held the Jat and had drawn the Shadow closer. “We gave power,” he corrected
“Why? Are those not of your kind?” Yinko pointed upward.
“Not so,” Zurzal’s denial was quick. “They are en
emies who seek the destruction of many. My people came here to learn of the Forerunners, those Great Ones of the past. That is the work of my life. For knowledge is the greatest weapon and defense that any life-form may have.”
“Are you of the Great Ones? They had, we know, many forms.” Yinko watched the Zacathan closely.
“We cannot be sure that long ago they did not give us life. But they were long gone before we rode the starways.”
“Still you seek—for what—new weapons—treasure?” persisted Yinko.
“For knowledge such as you have guarded here.”
“Much has long been forgotten. Those who come know not even what they seek. Unless—” he glanced overhead, “it is for gain, for death. Surely, these deal in death.”
“I have said they are enemies of ours as well as of your people. Yes, they are death dealers.”
“Yet they came not until you did. Therefore, perhaps you were their guide.”
“Not knowingly. You have met us mind to mind. These have not mind speech,” he indicated Galan and Narco. “But they are allied in our searching. Those,” he glanced up, “may have followed, yes, but we knew it not.”
Galan wondered why the jack flitter did not move in. They must be well aware that those in the canyon—at least seemingly—had no visible weapons of defense.
His answer came from the sky like the growl of some great predator.
“Down on your bellies, all of you! Or be crisped!”
The flitter was again on the move, slowly and with visible precision, as if those on board had a task needing great care.
Yinko’s head jerked up as did those of his following.
“Though it has been forbidden, it must be done. We must use the great blanking—and from it there is no escape.” His thought was as sharp as a knife thrust.
In the depths of the cracking cliff the Guardian had reached his goal. Never had this action been carried out, but all those who had held this duty during the years had been well drilled in what was to be done. He dropped from the ledge to land in front of a large screen. Staring at it, he flexed his claws.
“Galan! Narco!” They had guessed that the Zacathan had been in contact with the creatures by the cliff, but now he used normal speech. “There is only one chance for us now. These are about to draw upon mind power. You have not had the training, nor perhaps the inborn talent, but—there remains one small hope. Discard your helmets, open your minds. Think of yourselves as channels and welcome what comes. I cannot promise you survival, but this I know. We have no other hope against what the Guild will do.”
Galan fumbled with the clasp of the helmet. This— It was beyond all reason, but one could only trust. If Zurzal thought they had a chance, he would try it. He closed his eyes as the helmet thudded to the ground beside him, not even looking to see if Narco had made the same choice.
The Guardian felt as if the whole of the mountain had come, shivering, to life. He jerked under the power of the order which came, bringing his claws down to depressions not made for the fingers of his kind but into which he could force them. He was no longer—no longer anything. Color, light, waves of darkness closed about him. He was—not!
Galan cried out as that which he could not see, only feel as a growing torment, filled his head. Then—then there was nothing at all.
From the cracks in the wall of the Procession came something. It could not be seen with blinded eyes, it could not be heard by deafened ears, nor answer to any touch. But the strength of it was beyond belief.
The jack flitter had released an oval object, yet it did not fall as it was meant to. Rather, it hung just below the opening through which it had come. None of those below saw; all of them had been woven into a single purpose.
With a jerk, as if it had been seized by a giant hand, the flitter spun and then was released. With the weapon still dangling below, it headed westward out over the wasteland. And, as it went, it sped far faster then its designers had ever intended. Then, there came sound, sound which broke through the concentration of the defenders. Near the far horizon arose a fiery cloud.
For those in the canyon it was as if they fell helplessly from a great distance. Pain—such pain—Galan could not see! He felt as if there was terrible pressure trapped within his skull battering a way out.
He never knew how long he was encased in that hell of torment. On opening his eyes he noticed there was still a web of mist about him. There came a touch on his head. It did not add to the pain; rather, the torment began to fade. He cared only for that touch and the ease it brought. At last, he could make out the Zacathan bending over him. There were no stones or sand under him. But as the pain lessened, he became aware he rested on something soft—fur? The—beast things. As he turned his head slightly, still fearing a return of pain, he could see the furry face, closer to him than the Zacathan. The alien must be holding him.
“Rest,” he was ordered and, even as he slid into waiting darkness, he was faintly aware that the order had reached him in a strange new way.
Morning brought full sight of what their defense had cost. Great cracks, slices of fallen stone lay against the wall. There was nothing left of the Procession to Var. But it was before the site of that irreparable loss that most of the People held conference with the offworlders.
“This shall be promised and sworn to by the First Law,” Zurzal’s thoughts came slowly as if he found it difficult to shape them.
Galan’s hands were at his head again. There was pain; there would be for some time, the Zacathan had told him. But he had awakened something he longed ardently to use—that he must learn.
“Sworn to,” Zurzal was repeating. “Our report to those who sent us shall be that there is no evidence of any Forerunner remains here. And that is now true.”
“True,” Yinko echoed. “Knowledge is worth much, but life is worth more. You have not asked what may lie within,” he gestured to the riven cliff. “By your aid you have bought the right to know.”
“No. There is this. I am a marked one. Those who attacked us here are my enemies. In some fashion they discovered that we were coming to your world to search. It is not my right to uncover secrets which should only be known by those left to guard them. This I promise you. There will be no report of what has happened. We shall destroy what records we have already made. Nor shall we speak of the People. This shall be an aborted mission and a forgotten world.”
He got to his feet, the Jat moving from the crook of his misshapen arm to lean against his shoulder. The Shadow was also on his feet, but he wavered a little until he raised his head with a look of grim determination on his drawn face.
The battle was not over for those three, Galan knew. Would it ever be?
Yinko lingered for a moment. “You serve the Power well. Truly the Great Ones must once have touched your people. Our People will guard until the stars change and those who once were shall come again.”
The furred ones were already climbing the battered cliff. Galan searched for sight of a single figure, a carved curve of stone or a faded sweep of paint. It was gone, all gone. Suddenly, fiercely he longed to see it again.
This had been a major find. Yet, with the mind touch still with him, he knew that the Zacathan was right.
He could not guess what had been here, but he felt that it was something his species should not find. And if, by trying to discover more, they would again bring in the Guild—no. Let them raise ship and go.
“Galan,” the mind touch could still startle him. “There are many worlds and many finds to be made. And a greater one may be waiting.”
Zurzal started for the flitter, and Galan entered the crawler where Narco was already at the controls.
On the cliff top Yinko and the others watched them go, one set flying, one crawling. Then he turned and saluted with both forepaws.
“To you, Guardian, rest well in the place of peace. You have fulfilled the duty set upon you.”
Set in Stone
Far Frontiers (2000) DAW
br /> If some mad god had deliberately set out to create a planet utterly alien from all that was normal to the crew of First-In Scout S-9, he or she could not have been more successful than with this one. A man had to force his offworld eyes to report matters that brain patterns found too grotesque to believe.
A dull throb was spreading down from Kannar’s temples, reaching out for room in neck and shoulders. This place was just wrong; yet, along the starways, one could never rightfully judge anything, no matter how it appeared—
“Get scruffing, you Gart!”
That sharp mind-beam smote like a blow, though it was a prodding he had come to expect during the past three years. Yes, he was a Gart. Not many of them could be left by now, as Garthold had long since been wiped from the maps. As for his kind, they were the least blessed of all their kin. Kannar no longer grasped at memory, which grew—mercifully—ever fainter with each recall.
Fifteen planet years ago . . . The young man plodded along through the dense gray sand, weighed down by his heavy pack but careful to avoid the thick pad-patches of yellow-green growth. Fifteen cycles past, he had been at Herber, a child selected by rigorous testing intended to prove his fitness for special service to Garthold’s need.
Two hellish days and a burning, blood-filled night had put an end to that life, though some Veep among the invaders did think to keep Kannar and some of his fellows alive for use in “experiments.” More trials were visited upon them by their new masters, during which many died, while others were rendered mindless and thrown into the Pits. What quality the alien overseers believed Kannar possessed had brought him into the Quasing Exploration Service—not, of course, as an equal, but rather as a living test-beast for the unknown perils of distant worlds.
The boy’s thick gray skin itched now, as it had ever since Captain O’ju had ordered him to gather a liver-red growth for the science officer using his bare hands. His masters had given Kannar no treatment for the fiery result; they had merely watched its progress detachedly, as yet another investigation.