a contrast in coloring, for the siocon’s brown skin had an odd bluish tint. His bald head carried a series of lateral ridges, and his eyes were very dark, protected from the morning sun by a natural shield which had evolved in the sioconi from a nictitating membrane owned by one of their distant ancestor species. He was, of course, veiled against the fine corrosive dust, but his veil was dyed to match the color of his skin. The sioconi and the er’kresha were members of the same species, but the er’kresha were, on average, considerably shorter and more bony in the features.
“We’ve got enough trouble as it is,” said Remy, “without this. What does Yerema suggest we do about it?”
“He wants you to ride north and meet them,” answered Fiemme. “Help escort them to Ziarat. Find out what they’re here for. I’m to come with you. Subala will take your report back to Yerema now, so that he can consider the matter of what to do about Belle Yella.”
“Those instructions came verbally, along with this?” said Remy, holding up the paper.
“That’s right,” replied Fiemme.
“I suppose he realizes that I might not exactly be welcome with these people? I am a deserter from the human army, when all is said and done.”
To that Fiemme made no reply.
“What is it?” asked Doon, leaning forward from the saddle as he tried to catch a glimpse of the paper. It would have done him no good—the message was written in the language of the clans.
“A ship from Omer docked at Pir some days ago,” said Remy dourly. “It was carrying Calvar trade goods, and also half a dozen wagons, an assortment of horses and something like twenty humans, mostly soldiers. They’re heading for Ziarat with a Calvar caravan.”
“Doesn’t exactly sound like an invasion force,” said Doon. “Wagons and horses instead of lorries and tanks. Must be figuring on a long stay with no support from home. Why didn’t Command fly them over?”
“I don’t know,” said Remy.
“Maybe more recruits for the cause?” suggested Madoc.
“On the other hand,” said Remy, “they may have come to arrest us all and take us back for trial.”
“They’ve never made a habit of chasing deserters,” Madoc pointed out, though with some unease in his voice. “It’s never been policy—not worth the trouble. They’ve always worked on the theory that if people want to go native they can.”
“Well,” said Remy, “we could find out. The caravan can’t be more than a day’s ride north of here. Yerema wants me to find out what they’ve come here for. You want to come? Or would you rather ride south with Subala?”
“Do they have any women?” asked Doon.
“It doesn’t say.”
“I’ll ride with you anyhow.”
“Me too,” said Madoc. “Why not? They’re hardly likely to shoot us down on sight.”
Remy folded the piece of paper and put it carefully away into his pocket. Then he swung himself back up into the saddle. Remy remembered the last time that he had seen army uniforms, during the last months of what Command Haidra referred to in its communications as “the pacification.” The real purpose of the operation had been to bring the civilian veich who had settled in Omer under the direct control of a human governing council whose job was to make sure that their surplus wealth went to a good cause—the human war effort. Remy had done his own bit toward the pacification through a long year of police work interrupted by occasional skirmishes. In ten years since his desertion he had frequently recalled all the key incidents of that year—his first real encounter with the war. The fighting which he had done after the first landing on Haidra had been brief, and he had seen no direct action except for having to defend the troop ships against aerial attack with the aid of a laser cannon. That had seemed to him to be a very impersonal mode of combat. The pacification had been different.
“All right,” he said, when Iasus Fiemme had mounted. “We’d better move on. Subala—you ride with us for a couple of miles and I’ll tell you what to report to Yerema. There isn’t much to add to what he already knew we’d find.”
He turned his mount to face north, and urged it into a slow walk.
On the ships, he remembered, Command Interstellar made a point of spreading slogans through the troops to help their thinking run along the right grooves. You can’t escape the war, said one of those slogans. There isn’t any world big enough to be a bolt-hole.
So much for military philosophy.
CHAPTER THREE
Justina Magna knelt over the body of Lieutenant Verdi, pulled the sunhat from his hand, and laid it over his face. Darkness was falling; the sun had set and there would not be a long twilight. It was possible that nightfall would bring a new attack, but she thought not. The wagons were out of the gully now, with open country to either side, and she was virtually certain that all but a handful of the er’kresha had fallen before the guns of the defenders. The bandits must have lost fifty men or more—their attack had been positively suicidal. Perhaps, as Garstone had suggested, they simply had not realized the strength of the force they were attacking. They could hardly have encountered this kind of firepower before.
Garstone saw her hide Verdi’s face, and came over to stare down at the dead lieutenant. He looked neither grief-stricken nor surprised. When the lieutenant had been hit the sergeant had known immediately that he was not going to make it. Garstone had never liked the officer, and had never trusted him, but that was all in the way of things. It had counted for nothing while Verdi was giving the orders.
“I don’t understand,” said the woman, looking up at Garstone. “Why didn’t they let us through and then attack the caravan? They could have hit the rearmost wagons and we wouldn’t have been able to get back to help. As it was, they ran right into our guns.”
“The reason they came at us,” said Garstone harshly, “was that we’re carrying something a great deal more valuable than the trade goods in the merchant’s wagons. Guns—grenades—explosives—ammunition. They must have thought that the long odds looked worthwhile.”
“Whatever happened to fear?” asked Justina Magna with equal bitterness.
“They may not have our educational advantages,” said Garstone, “but you can’t judge them by the standards set by creatures like Delizia. They aren’t afraid of death or injury...not because the possibility has been burned out of them, but because of their whole way of life. Death’s cheap on a world like this, and they know they have to face it. Never imagine that a man who can fear necessarily will. Fear and cowardice aren’t the same things at all.”
“Do you think they’ll come back with reinforcements?” she asked. “Is our cargo that valuable?”
“Maybe,” replied the sergeant. “But we can stand them off. We were unlucky to lose four men. It’ll teach the other young bastards not to be so damn complacent. Anyhow, we’re nearly halfway to the city. This is a corner of the desert, miles from anywhere—kresh territory. The closer we get to civilization the less will be the probability that we’ll have to face a further attack. In the city no one will dare to lay a finger on us. The last thing they want is a human invasion of Azreon.
“Don’t you think that you might be overvaluing yourself?” said a new voice. “What makes you think that Command Haidra would invade Azreon for revenge if anything happened to you in Ziarat?”
Garstone half-turned to see Ramon Delizia standing three meters away, watching him. Delizia was small and swarthy, and always seemed to move in a lazy, fluid manner. Garstone resented the face of his very existence.
“Get the hell out of here,” said the sergeant. “Stay under cover.”
“I came to see the lieutenant,” said Delizia evenly. “I see now that he’s dead. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt