Pliocene Exile - The Adversary Part 56

They were safe inside a s.h.i.+mmering globe of psychocreative force that the King's mind had generated, gathered upon a length of unscorched catwalk that apparently hung unsupported in midair.

Gently, the bubble floated to the furnace-house floor. The section of walk came to rest on the pounded earth as the sphere evaporated.

Axel fell to his knees before Aiken and burst into tears. Vilkas could hear the King's reaction very clearly through his grey torc.

"Don't fash yourself, guy. It wasn't your fault and we're not hurt." The little man in the golden suit tilted his head to regard the fourteen young North Americans, now motionless near the end of the devastated mezzanine. "And it seems our overseas chums also survived the disaster! That's kaleidoscopic. We'd be hard put to build the time-gate and defend the Many-Coloured Land from your dear parents without your help! Of course, if some terrible accident deprived us of your company, we'd manage to muddle through somehow. But working together would see us all to our goals more handily ... Or don't you agree, Hagen Remillard?"

"I agree, High King."

Not looking at the people up on the catwalk, Aiken strolled over to the looming Bessemer converter and considered the cooling dribblets of slag depending from the lip. "With a little adjustment-and some new safety measures installed-this thing will serve us well. Safety measures can be installed on people, too. I'd really hate to do it, though, since some folks have such an adverse reaction to torcs. I haven't the faintest idea whether silver ones could be locked onto noncoadunate operants without blowing the circuitry of the collars-or the brains. I'm not anxious to experiment along those lines unless I've no alternative. Do you understand that, Hagen Remillard?"

"I understand, High King."

The King resumed his walk, waving a forgiving hand at the workers, who had pulled off their silvery hoods and gathered in an apprehensive little clutch. "Tush. Think nothing of it, lads and la.s.ses. All's well that ends well-as my crony Dougal would say ... " He spun about and faced his Tanu and human subjects.

"Nonetheless, there have been rumours floating around. It's been said that my royal powers were weakened, that I was no longer fit to be King of the Many-Coloured Land." His coercive power settled over them like a bright net. "What do you say to that?"

"Slonshal, Aiken-Lugonn!" they all cried.

The King was humming a ditty that might have been "Hail to the Chief." He came up to Vilkas, who stood at the foot of the catwalk stairs. "And here's another one who was lucky. Or was he?"

Vilkas uttered a strangled groan. The furnace building seemed to fade from view, then rush back to surround him with preternatural clarity. Agony flooded his skull.

Aiken clucked in sympathy. "I hate to be so crude in the mind-ream, but it's necessary to make sure. Ah. What a shame.

And it was all because you thought you deserved gold? You poor gowk. If you'd got it, you'd only have found something else to brood on-and perhaps another logical reason to betray those who trusted you."

"Please, High King-" Vilkas began. And then he gave a single shattering cry and seized his torc with fingers that crisped and stank of broiled meat. The grey metal around Vilkas' neck glowed like the yellow molten steel still smoking inside the Bessemer converter. He fell to the earthen floor without making another sound.

"You wanted gold," said the King, and turned away.

CHAPTER.

SEVEN Tony Wayland poled his dinghy through the vast marsh below the Lac de Bresse, trying to maintain a compa.s.s course that would take him north to open water. He was having a sticky time of it. The dank morning mist permitted only a few metres' visibility, and the swamp was alive with leeches that were ready to drink his blood if he happened to brush against their hiding places among the dense, dripping reeds.

He had been moving northward for more than three weeks since his escape from Bardelask, most of the time travelling on foot along the Great South Road that paralleled the Rhone. He had encountered no Firvulag at all in the West Bank country, where the widely scattered Little People were secretive and inclined to give the Foe-infested river corridor a wide berth.

The princ.i.p.al hazards Tony had suffered were vipers in the dry campsites and wild boars in the bottomlands-and unexpected perils from members of his own predatory species. He'd had a very close call when a band of bareneck outlaws ambushed him on a back trail as he tried to avoid a large fort. It had been necessary to shoot two of the b.u.g.g.e.rs before they gave him up as a bad job.

Coming up on the metropolis of Roniah, Tony had run afoul of a different sort of menace: the Royal Recruiting Service.

King Aiken-Lugonn was combing the bushes and byways for personnel of every sort, intensifying his earlier efforts as war with the Firvulag seemed more and more inevitable. Tempting perquisites were offered to volunteers who would accept grey torcs, and there were rumours that out-and-out conscription among the displaced persons had already begun. Tony, of course, wore gold. But the contrast between his Exalted neckware and his shabby accoutrements was in itself cause for official suspicion. He'd been careful to hide the torc with a neck cloth on the few occasions that he was forced to purchase supplies or mix with fellow travellers along the road.

The Recruiting Service had artfully spread its net on a treeless savanna where the Great South Road ascended to bypa.s.s a precipitous gorge of the Rhone. Up there on the windswept heights, one could see for scores of kilometres in almost every direction; any traveller who attempted to leave the main thoroughfare could be spotted at once. Tony's first clue to imminent danger was a cheery billboard: WELCOME WAYFARERS!

THIRSTY? HUNGRY?.

FREE FOOD & DRINK AHEAD!.

HILLTOP HOUSE R.R.S.-6 KM The afternoon when Tony hiked that stretch had been a hot and dusty one, and he viewed the sign with elation. But then a caravan of h.e.l.lads pulling carts of chaliko fodder to Roniah overtook him, and one of the teamsters gave Tony a lift. His name was Wiggy and he was quick to explain the true nature of the establishment they were approaching.

"Friggerty crimps' nest, that's wot it is! You watch your a.r.s.e there, pilgrim, or they'll have you grey-chokered and off to Goriah as a raw ree-cruit in the King's s.h.i.+tkicker Brigade."

The drivers, well known to the recruiting team and off limits because of their gainful employment, nonetheless were accustomed to pig out on the free refreshments every time they pa.s.sed. There was nothing Tony could do but face up to jeopardy with a stout heart. He tramped inside with the rest and soon they were sitting at long tables drinking cold beer or sangria and munching on snack foods. It was obvious that the teamsters were old acquaintances of the presiding captal and the squad of soldiers who ran the place. Tony felt his innards churn as the officer jokingly referred to him as a "live one" and promised that Wiggy would receive a nice bounty should Tony sign up.

"Thanks awfully, but I've been sick," the metallurgist said.

"I'm not the type you're looking for at all. You want brave people for the King's army." (The late Karbree's elephant rifle, concealed in a rancid rawhide sheath, had been left outside in the wagon with Tony's other duffle.) The recruiting captal's eyes twinkled. "Plenty of other good bunks available in the royal service! I can tell you're an educated man-not spook fodder like the rest of this gang of h.e.l.lypatoots." The drivers, drinking and eating fast while the game lasted, guffawed and elbowed one another. "If you've got a technical skill, we could sign you up for the new Scientific Corps that the Creator Guild is inst.i.tuting. It's headed up by good old Lord Celadeyr, a real Tanu gent if there ever was one. Loves human beings just like a genuine mensch and pa.s.ses out silver torcs like carnival kickshaws to scientific mavens who cooperate nicely."

"Well-uh-I'm more of a humanities student," Tony mumbled.

"Brains is brains," said the genial captal. "You'd like it in Goriah. All the women you want, good food and liquor, night life-shoot, I'd go myself if I could."

He whipped out a parchment scroll crowded with fine print, a ballpoint pen, and a handsome blue velvet bag that contained something circular, lumpy, and about sixteen cents in diameter.

"Just sign here, guy, and you'll never regret it. We can have you off to Goriah by express caravan tomorrow ... after an evening of fun and games in Roniah down the pike that you'll never forget! What say?"

The teamsters sitting around the table with Tony and the captal giggled like lunatics and all of them except Wiggy urged him to sign. As a final inducement, the captal opened the bag and dramatically took out a gleaming grey torc. The laughter and joking were instantly quelled. The necks of all the drivers were bare.

The captal pushed the torc across the table toward Tony. Its k.n.o.bbed catch was open. The twisted metal was hollow, incised with small openings to ventilate the psychoelectronic components inside.

"Take off your scarf," the captal suggested to Tony. "Just try it on." He touched his own grey necklet. "These things are wonderful. They do things for you, y'know? No more headaches or sore feet or feeling blah or tired or scared. And that's not the half of it. If your boss is a gold or a silver, he can program pleasure for you through the torc. Give you a rush like you never had from s.e.x or dope or even buzz-heading. Make you forget all your troubles in the wink of an eye, this magic collar will. Sign."

Four large troopers materialized behind Tony's seat. He half rose, then dropped back, with sweat streaming from his head and soaking his neckerchief. "I-I'd rather not just now."

The teamsters downed the dregs in their tankards, s.n.a.t.c.hed up a last cookie or handful of nuts, and drifted toward the door.

Wiggy had a shamefaced look.

"Sign," urged the captal, his eyes locked onto those of the panic-stricken metallurgist.

"Sign!" chorused the quartet of bruisers, grinning like wolves.

Tony tried to push his chair back. It wouldn't budge. The captal had risen and taken up the torc. He came around to Tony's side of the table, twisting the thing farther open on its rotating hinge, poising it above Tony's head.

"G.o.ddammit, no!"

Tony's mind triggered the pleasure-induction circuitry of the recruiting team through his own golden torc, hitting their brains with the maximum o.r.g.a.s.mic load. All five of the soldiers dropped to the floor as though they'd been poleaxed.

"Holy s.h.i.+t," breathed Tony's teamster friend. Several other drivers peered over his shoulder and gaped.

Pus.h.i.+ng the table back, Tony negotiated the bodies, faced the teamsters, and ripped the scarf from his neck. There was a gasp.

"Enough is enough! Now I've got to get out of here. These fellows won't remember a thing when they wake up ... I don't think. But in case they do, I want to be far away." Tony summoned his most imperious glare. "Will you drive me to Roniah or won't you?"

Wiggy touched his forehead, smirking. "Your carriage awaits, Exalted Lord."