Hour of the Horde Page 11

9

  For one wild moment he tried to fight mist and Eff at once.

  Then, with the last flicker of conscious thought left to him before the tranquilizing effect stole all feeling from him, understanding woke in him. He realized suddenly that it must be the other way around—that he must have brought Eff to the point of suffocation and unconsciousness, where the tranquilizing effect needed to exert itself to save the rotund alien’s life. Miles had won.

  This time the tranquilizing effect lifted swiftly. It pulled away from both him and his opponent while they were still lying on the floor of the lounge. Miles pushed away the hands that were trying to lift him and got to his feet unaided. Opposite him, he saw Eff also getting to his feet. The bearlike alien’s face opened in a grimace that would never have been recognizable as a smile if the outwash of emotion from the other had not confirmed that a smile was intended. The furry chest was heaving for air, and Eff’s words came out in short gasps; but there was a cheerfulness to them that Miles had not yet encountered in any of the aliens aboard whom he had conquered.

  “Better… than I am,” panted Eff. “Now what? I’ve been wanting to know what you’ve been after… ever since you started fighting your way up to my position on the ship.”

  Still gasping for air himself, Miles stared at Eff. With the exception of Chak’ha, he had found no crew member desirous or capable enough of friendship to meet him on a level basis after he had conquered him. Invariably the other had assumed the subordinate position.

  But apparently, with Eff, being conquered physically did not mean that his soul had been dominated. This was a good sign for the success of the plan in the back of Miles’ mind.

  “I’ll tell you what I’m after,” Miles replied, “after I’ve beaten Luhon.”

  Around them the other crew members who had been spectators were drifting off. Only Chak’ha remained. Eff glanced at the tiger-faced alien for a second, then back to Miles.

  “You’ll never beat Luhon,” Eff said.

  “Yes, I will,” said Miles. “I have to. So I’ll manage it somehow.”

  Eff shook his head again, if amiably. His breathing was slowing to a normal rate.

  “You’ll never beat Luhon,” he repeated, not didactically or stubbornly, but in the calm tone of somebody who patiently states to a child or someone of simple intelligence.

  “Believe what you like,” said Miles. He hesitated, then took a long chance—a chance he had taken with no one so far except Chak’ha. “How about helping me?”

  Eff looked him frankly in the face.

  “I won’t help you fight him,” answered Eff. “But outside of that, I’ll help you with anything reasonable.”

  “That’s all I ask,” said Miles.

  Eff grinned more widely. Chak’ha moved in until he stood close to both of them, and the aura of emotion that Miles sensed around all three of them seemed to flow together into one unit of mutual understanding.

  From that point on began Miles’ first days of anything like comradeship aboard the small vessel.

  At first Miles had half expected Chak’ha to resent the sudden inclusion of Eff into what had been a two-way partnership. But he had forgotten that Eff had been high in the pecking order, while Chak’ha had been at the bottom. Chak’ha made no attempt to compete with Eff for Miles’ friendship. In fact, as Miles discovered, it would have been hard for anyone to resent Eff.

  Once he had opened up to the two of them, the bearlike alien turned out to own a warmth of character closer to human warmth than Miles had found otherwise aboard the ship. Eff was an extrovert. He was frank and—except for his belief that Luhon was unconquerable—apparently daunted by nothing, even including the Center Aliens. Amused by Miles’ determination to attempt the apparently hopeless task of fighting Luhon but fascinated by it, he joined happily in helping Miles study Luhon.

  “I tell you,” Miles kept insisting to him stubbornly, “Luhon has to have a weak spot! Any organism, by its very nature, has to have drawbacks as well as advantages.”

  “To be sure, he has to have weak spots,” replied Eff shrewdly. “But are they weak spots that you have strong spots to correspond with? Luhon’s simply too fast for you. He’s too fast for any of us aboard here. He’s from a heavy world—one where the gravity is much more than any of us is used to.”

  Miles stared at him.

  “You mean,” said Miles at last, “he’s stronger than he looks, because of that—”

  “Stronger? Some, of course.” Eff shrugged goodhumoredly. “But that’s not the point. He’s much faster, because of the gravity conditions he’s grown up with.”

  “Faster?” echoed Miles.

  Eff laughed.

  “You don’t understand, Miles?” said the stocky alien. “Stop and think then. The stronger the gravity, the faster an object falls, say from your hand to the ground. Correct?”

  “Yes,” said Miles slowly.

  “Also, the faster you fall to the ground, if you get offbalance,” said Eff. “Correct?”

  “Ah,” said Miles, suddenly understanding.

  “I see you follow me now,” said Eff. “Standing, walking, running—almost everything we bipeds do requires maintaining our balance. And the quicker we fall when our balance is lost, the faster our reflexes have to be to take muscular action to stop us from falling. Luhon is like that—his reflexes are simply that much faster than mine… or yours. So I tell you—there’s no hope. You will never beat him!”

  Miles shook his head. He did not believe that some key could not be found to defeat the slender, quick-moving, gray-skinned alien who continued—out of all those aboard the Fighting Rowboat— to ignore him.

  In fact, Luhon was isolated now in the old pattern of behavior, for all the rest aboard had begun to associate with and talk to one another, regardless of rank. They did it seldom, and they did it warily, but they were doing it. Miles’ friendship with Chak’ha had first broken the ice of the pecking order. Now, slowly but undeniably, a general thaw was setting in.

  The exception was Luhon. But if it bothered him to be set aside, separate within the old pattern of behavior aboard the ship, he did not show it. He spent his waking hours working with the ship’s controls, and he continued to ignore everyone aboard, Miles included. Nor could Miles notice any increase in the minimal signs that betrayed Luhon’s awareness of Miles whenever Miles got within jumping distance of the gray-skinned alien. Moreover, at the end of two weeks of study, with all the help that Eff and Chak’ha could give him, Miles had yet to find any sure counter for that inhuman swiftness of physical reflex Luhon possessed.

  The best Miles could do was to plan an attack that would at least give him the advantage of choosing the time and place of battle. He could hope to get in one quick blow—and that would be all. It would need to be a crippling or knockout blow if Miles were to win at all. The best place for it to be landed, Miles thought, was the narrow and apparently soft midsection of Luhon, just above the waist. He planned his blow and rehearsed it in the privacy of the cabin he shared with Chak’ha until it was reflexive, until it was essentially automatic.

  Then he stationed himself one day just within the open doorway of his cabin. Eff and Chak’ha took up their posts in the lounge.

  Miles waited. It was a long wait, and he ended up sitting rather than standing, until a preliminary signal, which was Chak’ha’s own peculiar bark of laughter, alerted him to the fact that Luhon had commenced to move through the lounge headed aft. Miles got swiftly to his feet.

  He stepped noiselessly to within half a step of the open doorway and listened, with ears tuned to unnatural acuteness by the tension within him. He heard the footsteps of Luhon approaching down the corridor outside the cabin. A coldness enfolded his forehead, and he knew that he had begun to sweat with anticipation. His heart beat faster. He tensed, poised—

  The laugh of Chak’ha rang out again from the lounge.

  Miles launched himself forward. He had a glimpse of a gray body before him, swiftly t
wisting away. His fist grazed a gray side. He felt the shock of a sudden heavy blow at the side of his neck. He caught himself, bounced off a corridor wall, and before he could even try to strike again, another blow somewhere on his head sent him sliding down and away into unconsciousness…

  When he opened his eyes, he found he was lying on his bunk. His neck ached with an ache that seemed to penetrate across his chest and down the opposite side of his body. The faces of Eff and Chak’ha floated above him. He opened his mouth to speak, but to his surprise what came out was barely more than a whisper—and even that hurt his neck.

  “What happened?” he whispered.

  “What I told you would happen,” replied the voice of Eff. “He was too fast for you.”

  The feeling of disillusionment and defeat closed around Miles like quicksand. He slipped back into unconsciousness.

  But when he opened his eyes next, it was from sleep, and it was as if his mind had come to its own conclusion and made itself up while he slumbered. Chak’ha was not in the room, but Eff was. Miles struggled to sit up on the edge of the bed. His neck ached, and his head was dizzy. But he made it. Eff looked at him with a tolerant humor.

  “Help me up,” husked Miles, even those few words sending pain up through his neck and into his head where it spread into a skullcap of headache.

  Eff came forward and pulled Miles to his feet.

  “There,” said Eff. “Now you’re up. But what’s the use in that? You’re just going to have to lie down again.”

  “No,” whispered Miles. In him was something cold and hard as a nugget of meteoric iron flung through light-years of empty space to its destination, death at last in the fires of a sun. “Help me… walk.”

  He headed toward the doorway of the room, with Eff holding one arm and guiding him. As he went, he seemed to draw strength from the very movement. He turned left down the corridor.

  “Where’s Luhon?” he whispered hoarsely to Eff.

  “Where he almost always is,” replied Eff, watching him curiously. “Up front by himself, in the control room.”

  “Good,” husked Miles. He continued to totter on down the corridor, with Eff helping to balance him. But his strength was coming back rapidly with that near-magic return of health that was part of the Center Alien science built into the ship. By the time he was halfway across the lounge he was able to shake himself free of Eff’s sustaining grip and walk alone.

  When he entered the forward corridor leading to the control room, he was striding a little in advance of Eff. The pain was still in his neck and head, but he could bear it. And the action of his muscles was coming more easily to him—which was important.

  Eff caught up with him.

  “What’re you going to do?” asked Eff.

  “Wait and see,” answered Miles.

  He went on, Eff beside him, until he reached the entrance to the control room. There, as usual, sat Luhon at the controls. But for once his fingers were not playing with them. Instead, his gaze was lifted above them to the control room’s main vision screen, which was set now on a view of intergalactic space—looking in that direction from which Miles’ implanted inner knowledge told him the Silver Horde was expected to come.

  There was something lonely about the way the still, slim, gray-skinned figure sat, with its gaze fixed unmovingly on empty intergalactic space. But Miles had no time for empathy now.

  Putting out a hand to stop Eff from following him beyond the open doorway, he walked forward without pausing and, when he was within range, launched himself without any attempt at trickery at the back of Luhon’s neck.

  This time, when he awoke, he remembered nothing beyond that single jump forward. His neck, surprisingly, was not so painful now. But his head was one single, solid ache, as if Luhon’s retaliation this time had been all in that area. He lay awhile, waiting and hoping for the ache to diminish. But if it did so, it did so only slightly.

  He turned his head and saw Chak’ha and Eff watching him. Painfully, once more he struggled to sit up on the edge of the bed. Neither of the others came forward to help him.

  Rage suddenly flooded through him—not rage at Luhon, but rage at the two who stood watching.

  “Come here!” he croaked hoarsely. “Help me!”

  It was not a request he was making of them. It was an order. And there was enough of the old pecking order pattern left in them that both came to him and helped him to his feet. For a moment his head reeled, and the room seemed to spin and sway around him. Then his gaze and sense of balance settled.

  He turned toward the doorway of the room.

  “To Luhon,” he said hoarsely. There was a moment’s hesitation on the part of the other two aliens. Then, silently, they each took an elbow and guided him out into the corridor and once more toward the front of the vessel.

  This time, as he walked through the lounge—which now was filled with silent, watching crewmen in all their various alien shapes and expressions of feature—recovery was slow in coming to him. But come it did. By the time he was halfway down the corridor toward the control room he was once more walking without assistance.

  He made it to the entrance of the control room and there paused. Because this time, evidently alerted by the sound of footsteps approaching, Luhon had turned about in his chair and was facing the doorway. His eyes met the eyes of Miles plainly this time, and for the first time without any pretense of avoidance.

  Luhon’s face, insofar as six weeks had taught Miles to interpret the gray-skinned alien’s features, wore a look of puzzlement. He stared searchingly at Miles in the doorway.

  Miles launched himself forward in a tottering rush, his hands outstretched to grab the throat of the other.

  But before his hands closed around the gray throat, Luhon was no longer before him. Miles found himself seized and swung about. He was pinned, with his back against the slanting face of one of the control consoles. With ease, Luhon held him helpless there, and the gray-skinned face looked down into Miles’ from a distance of a few inches.

  “What do you want?” asked Luhon.

  It was the first time that Miles had heard the voice of the other. It was a soft, low-pitched voice, a strange voice to belong to someone who had outfought everyone else aboard this vessel. And it, together with the emotions that Miles felt emanating from Luhon, was deep-stained with puzzlement.

  “I want”—Miles’ voice was almost too husky to be understandable—“to fight the Silver Horde.”

  For a long moment Luhon’s gray features continued to look down into Miles’ face. Then Miles felt the grip that was holding him pinioned against the console released. Luhon stood back from him, a slight, slim figure—not only in contrast with Miles, but also with Eff and Chak’ha, who now filled the control room doorway behind the ship’s champion.

  “You want to fight the Silver Horde?” echoed Luhon in his soft voice. His eyes traveled up and down Miles. “So do I. But, a great deal better than you, I know how impossible a hope that is.”

  10

  Miles slowly straightened up. He rubbed his aching head with a forefinger and tried to clear the hoarse vocal cords of his painful throat.

  “You’re wrong,” he answered Luhon.

  “No,” said Luhon evenly.

  “Yes,” said Miles. His weary legs began to tremble, and he sat down in the control seat Luhon had just vacated. “Do you know what I did the first day I was here? I looked around the ship, and then I looked around the platform. And then I took that small courier ship from its cradle on the platform and went in it up the line toward the big ships where the Center Aliens are.”

  Luhon’s pointed ears suddenly pricked and turned forward toward Miles.

  “You went in and saw the Center Aliens?” he asked.

  “I didn’t get as far as I’d planned to go,” said Miles. “All of a sudden I found one of them sitting beside me, and he turned the ship around and brought it back. But he answered my questions. He told me why this ship is never intended to fight
the Silver Horde. He told me he only wants us for feedback purposes on the total weapons of the total battle line, if it comes to fighting. He told me that one of them is worth more than all twenty-three of us in this ship put together.”

  Miles stopped talking. Luhon stared at him for a long moment.

  “You took that little boat,” said Luhon, almost wonderingly. “And you went in—you tried to get in up to where the Center Aliens are. You did that?”

  “None of you ever did anything like that, is that it?” he demanded suddenly of Luhon.

  Luhon made the negative gesture of his race. It was only a slight twisting of his upper body, but the aura of emotion around him carried the meaning behind it clearly to Miles’ emotional sensitivity.

  “But you asked him,” said Luhon, staring brilliantly at Miles. “And he gave you the answers.”

  “Yes,” said Miles. He struggled to his feet. “Only, I don’t believe him. I don’t agree with him. I think we can fight the Silver Horde—in this ship, the twenty-three of us, working her alongside all the other ships that go out to fight the Horde when the time comes.”

  Once more Luhon looked at him for what seemed a long time. Then he made a negative twist of his body again; only this time there was something like a shrug in it.

  “So you believe that?” demanded the gray-skinned alien. “And that’s why you fought your way up to just below me? You wanted to take over this ship to make it into something that could fight the Silver Horde?”

  “That’s right,” said Miles. He added, brutally. “None of the rest of you seemed to have the guts for it.”

  He tensed, bracing himself for a sudden attack by Luhon.

  But the gray-skinned alien only stared at him for a moment longer, then turned half around so that he had both Eff and Chak’ha in the doorway within his field of vision as well as Miles. Then he took a step backward.

  “I didn’t believe we could fight the Silver Horde,” he said. His eyes fastened brilliantly on Miles. “I still don’t. Also, I know that you could never beat me, no matter how many times you try. Do you understand that?”