Star Soldiers (43 page)

A third figure in ranger uniform beat through the brush. And at the sight of
his
face the sergeant gave a wild cry. Something burst in Kartr's skull, he was falling down into the dark—a welcoming, sheltering dark where dead men did not walk or greet one smilingly. He hid in that darkness thankfully.

"Kartr?"

The dead called him, but he was safe in the dark and if he did not answer no one could drag him out again to face madness.

"What is the matter with him?" demanded someone.

He lay very quiet in the dark, safe and quiet.

"—have to find out. We must get him back to camp. Look out, Smitt. Use binders on him before you put him aboard, he could twist right over the edge—"

"Kartr!" He was being shaken, prodded. But with infinite effort he locked his lips, made his body limp and heavy. And his stubbornness gave him a defense at last. He was left alone in his dark safety.

Then slowly he became aware of a warmth, a soothing warmth. And, as he had at his first awaking in the wilderness, he lay still and felt his body come back to life. There were hands moving over him, passing over half-healed wounds and leaving behind them a refreshing coolness and ease.

"You mean he is insane?"

Those were words spoken through his dark. He had no desire to see who spoke them.

"No. This is something else. What that devil did to him we can only guess—planted a false memory, perhaps. You saw how he acted when we caught up with him. There are all sorts of tricks you can play—or rather someone without scruples can play—with the mind, your own and others'—when you are a sensitive. In some ways we are far more vulnerable than you who do not try to go beyond human limits—"

"Where's Cummi? I'd like to—" There was a cold and deadly promise in that and something in Kartr leaped to agree with it. And that act of emotion pushed him away from the safety of the dark.

"Wouldn't we all? But we shall—sooner or later!"

A hard edge was pushed against his lips, liquid trickled into his mouth and he was forced to swallow. It burned in his throat and settled into a pleasant fire in his stomach.

"Well, so you have found him?" A new speaker broke through the mists about him.

"Greetings, Haga Zicti! We have been waiting for you, sir. Maybe you can suggest treatment—"

"So—and what is the matter with the rescued? I see no wounds of importance—"

"The trouble is here." Fingers touched Kartr's forehead. And he shrank away from that touch. It threatened him in some odd fashion.

"That is the way of it, eh? Well, we might have deduced as much. A false memory or—"

He was running away, running through the dark. But that other was behind him, trying to compel him—and, with a moan of desolate pain, Kartr found himself again in the hallway, facing Cummi and the Can-hound, made to relive for the third time that shameful and degrading defeat and murderous attack upon his own comrades.

"So Cummi took him over! He must have used other minds to build up such power—!"

Cummi! There was a hot rage deep inside Kartr, burning through the shame and despair—Cummi— The Ageratan must be faced—faced and conquered. If he did not do that he would never feel clean again. But would he even if he vanquished Cummi? There would remain that moment of horror when he had fired straight into Zinga's astonished face.

"He took over." Was he actually saying those words or were they only ringing in his head. "I killed—killed Zinga—"

"Kartr! Great Space, what
is
he talking about? You killed—!"

"Describe the killing!" And he could not disobey that sharp command.

He began to talk slowly, painfully, and then with a spate of words which seemed to release some healing in their flow. The fight for the sled, the escape, his awaking in the wilderness, he told it all.

"But—that's perfectly crazy! He didn't do that at all!" someone protested. "I saw him—so did you, and you! He walked right through the whole fight as if he didn't see any of us—took the sled and went. Maybe he did pick up Cummi as he said—but the rest—it's crazy!"

"False memories," stated the authoritative voice. "Cummi supplied them—guilty ones so that he would want to keep away from us even if Cummi couldn't control him fully. Simple—"

"Simple! But Kartr's a sensitive—he does that sort of thing himself. How could he be taken in—?"

"Just because he is a sensitive he could be that much more vulnerable. Anyway—now that we know what is wrong—"

"You can cure him?"

"We shall try. It may leave some scars. And it will depend upon how adept Cummi has been."

"Cummi!" That was spat out as if the name were an obscene oath.

"Yes, Cummi. If we can turn Kartr's will to meeting— Well, we shall see."

Again a hand was laid on his forehead, soothingly.

"Sleep—you are asleep—sleep—"

And he
was
drowsily content now—it was as if some weight had been shrugged away. He slept.

Waking was as sudden. He was staring up at a sloping roof of entwined branches and leaves—he must be lying in a lean-to such as the rangers built when in temporary camp. There was a cover over his body, one of the blankets of Uzakian spider silk from their packs. He turned his head to see a fire. There was a dankness in the air, a mist or fog dulled the outlines of the trees that ringed in the clearing.

Someone came out of the mist and flung down an armload of wood.

"Zinga!"

"In the flesh and snapping!" returned the Zacathan genially, bringing his jaws together smartly to prove it.

"Then it
was
a false memory—" Kartr drew a deep breath of wonder and infinite relief.

"That was the biggest lie you ever dreamed, my friend. And how do you feel now?"

Kartr stretched luxuriously. "Wonderful. But I have a lot of questions to ask—"

"Which can all be answered later." Zinga went back to the fire and picked up a cup which had been resting on a stone close to the flames. "Suppose you get this inside you first."

Kartr drank. It was hot broth and well flavored. He glanced up with a smile which seemed to stretch muscles that had not been used for a long, long time. "Good. I think I detect Fylh's delicate talent in cooking—"

"Oh, he stirred it up now and then right enough, and added some of his messy leaves. Down every drop of it now—"

But Kartr was still holding the cup and sipping at intervals when another stepped out into the firelight. And the sergeant stopped in mid-gulp to stare. But Zinga was right here, beside him. Then who, in the name of Tarnusian devils, was that?

Zinga followed Kartr's eyes and then grinned. "No. I haven't twinned," he assured the sergeant. "This is Zicti—of Zacan to be sure—but a Hist-techneer, not a ranger."

The other reptile man strolled up to the lean-to. "You are awake then, my young friend?"

"Awake and"—Kartr smiled at them both—"in my right mind again—I think. But it may take some time for me to sort them out—the real and fake memories, I mean—they are rather mixed—"

Zinga shook his head. "Do not work too hard at that sorting until you are stronger. Weak as you are it might set you twirling about like a Tlalt dust demon."

"But where—?"

"Oh, I was a passenger on the
X451
, along with my family. We joined your force yesterday—or rather the rangers found us in the early morning—"

"What happened in the city after I—er—left?"

Zinga's taloned finger moved with a faint scraping sound along his jaw. "We decided to come away—after the fight was over."

"Hunting for me?"

"Hunting for you, yes, and for a couple of other reasons. Smitt and Dalgre came across a ship the city people built. It brought us this far before it gave out. They are still working on it under the delusion that they may be able to put it back together again if they can just solve a few of its internal mysteries."

"Smitt and Dalgre?"

"Yes, the Patrol withdrew as a unit. It seemed best at the time."

"Hmm." Kartr considered all that statement might imply. There
had
been changes. He was suddenly eager to know how many.

Three in the uniform of the Patrol squatted on their heels by the fire. Kartr sat up, his back braced against bedrolls, watching them.

"You never said"—he broke the silence at last—"why you left the city—"

None of the three seemed to wish to meet his gaze. Finally it was Smitt who answered, an almost defiant ring in his tired voice.

"They were grateful to have Cummi and his men removed—"

Kartr continued to wait but that appeared to be all the answer the com-techneer was going to give.

"Big of them," Dalgre added after a long pause, a dry rasp under-running his words.

"They decided," Zinga took up the explanation, "that they did not want to exchange one official ruler out of the past for another—at least the impression they conveyed was that the Patrol had better not plan to take over in Cummi's place. So we weren't welcome—especially the rangers."

"Yes, they made it clear." Smitt was bleakly cold. " `Now that the war is over, let the troops depart'—the usual civilian attitude. We tended to be a disturbing element as far as they were concerned. So we took one of the city aircraft and left—"

"Jaksan?"

"He went after the jetman who had burned down the Commander. When we found them later they were both dead. We're the last of the Patrol—except for Rolth and Fylh—they're out scouting—"

The three did not enlarge on that story and Kartr accepted their reticence. Perhaps to the city castaways who had tasted Cummi's grab for power the Patrol had become too much a symbol of the old way of things. And so the Patrol had to go, after the ruler had been deposed. But one thing had come of that—there were no longer crewmen or rangers—there was only Patrol—their second exile had cemented tight the bonds of the survivors.

"Ah, our fishing party returns!" Zicti, who had been napping in the warmth of the flames, rolled over and got to his feet to greet the three coming through the screen of the trees. "And what luck did you have, my dears?"

"We put Rolth's blue torch down at the water's edge and the creatures were attracted by its light, so we return heavily laden," the thinner voice of a Zacathan female answered. "This is indeed a very rich world. Zor, show your father the armored creature you found under the rock—"

The shortest of the three ran into the firelight, holding in one hand a kicking thing of many legs and thick claws. Zicti accepted the captive, being careful not to encounter the claws, and examined it critically.

"But how strange! This might almost be a distant cousin of a Poltorian. But it is not intelligent—"

"None of the water dwellers appear to be," agreed his wife. "However, we should be glad of that, for they are excellent eating!"

Kartr had seen few Zacathan women, but his long companionship with Zinga had accustomed him to the difference between human and Zacathan features and he could understand that both Zacita and her young daughter, Zora, would be considered attractive by others of their race. As for young Zor—like an impish young male of any species, he was enjoying every minute of this wilderness life.

Zacita made a graceful gesture to suggest that the company seat themselves again. Kartr noted that Smitt and Dalgre had been as quick to rise to greet the Zacathan ladies as the others. Their feelings concerning Bemmys had certainly undergone a change.

Kartr awoke early the next morning and lay still for a long moment frowning up at the slant roof of the lean-to. There was something— Then his mouth straightened into a thin hard line. He knew now what it was he had to do and soon. Meanwhile, he crawled out of his bedroll. Above the drowsy quiet of the sleeping camp he could hear the murmur of the river not too far away.

A little unsteadily at first and then firmly as he gained balance he made his way down to its edge. The water was chill enough to bring a gasp out of him as he waded in. Then he lost touch with the sands of its bed and began to swim.

"Ah—the supreme energy and recuperative powers of the young!"

The booming voice was drowned out by a splash. Kartr raised his head just in time to receive a face full of water as Zor passed him at full swimming speed. And Zicti was sliding cautiously down over a flat rock, allowing the stream to engulf him by inches.

The dignified Zacathan blinked in mild benevolence over the wavelets at the ranger sergeant. With two lazy strokes Kartr joined him.

"Pretty primitive, I'm afraid, sir—"

The former hist-techneer of the Galactic University of Zovanta gave a realistic shudder but answered calmly:

"It does one good at times to be shaken out of the comfortable round of civilized life. And we Zacathans are not so physically breakable as you humans. The general idea now held by my family is that this is a most delightful holiday, showing much more imagination on my part than they had believed possible. Zor, for one, has never been so happy—" He grinned as he watched that small scaled body shoot across the current of the stream in pursuit of a water creature.

"But this is not a holiday, sir."

Zicti's large grave eyes met Kartr's. "Yes, there is that to take into consideration. Permanent exile—"

He looked away, over the tumbled rocks, the bluffs beyond the river, the massed greenery of the wilderness. "Well, this is a rich world, and a wide empty one—plenty of room—"

"There is the city, partly in working order," Kartr reminded him.

And in that instant he felt a warmth of reassurance close about him, a mental security he had not known for a long, long time. Zicti was not replying with actual mind speech, but answering the ranger in his own way.

"I believe that those in the city must be left to work out their own destiny," the hist-techneer said at last. "In a manner of thinking that choice is now a retreat. They wish life to remain as it always has been. But that is just what life never does. It goes up—one advances—or it goes down—one retreats. And if one tried to stand still—that is retreat. We are now following the path our whole empire is taking. We have been slowly slipping back for the past century—"