Under Strange Suns (28 page)

The Hall appeared almost deserted. He figured he had probably overslept. The inhabitants of Girdled-by-Fields no doubt arose at the crack of dawn, or more precisely, at the first shift from the pallid illumination of night to the slightly brighter light of morning.

He carried his empty platter to the door through which he had seen it delivered. He nudged the door open, stuck his head through and confirmed he had found the kitchen. To the apparent surprise of the three joon–one male, two female–he returned the platter with a nod of thanks.

“First words I learn, I promise, will be ‘thank you,’” Aidan said.

Returning to the dining hall he heard a commotion from the direction of the front entry of the Hall. The door to the dining hall swung open and a knot of joon, boiled in, trailed by Doctor Yuschenkov. All were talking and gesticulating. Aidan, naturally, couldn’t make out a word of it.

One joon bellowed. Aidan, after a moment, recognized him as Checkok. The joon’s head flared out in the back a trifle more than others Aidan had yet seen, and he bore a slight patch of discoloration on his neck, a burn or perhaps a birthmark.

The crowd quieted. Without the hubbub and motion they ceased to be a crowd, instead revealed as only a dozen individuals.

Checkok began to speak.

Yuschenkov, noticing Aidan, waved him over.

Aidan worked his way across the room, trying not to disrupt the Esaul by drawing attention to himself. Probably a forlorn hope, given that he was one of but two human beings on the planet. Bound to stand out.

And indeed, all eyes followed his approach, including Checkok’s who pointed at him even as he continued speaking.

The Esaul halted his speech. He added another string of gutturals and stopped again, looking at the two humans now standing side by side.

“What’s up, Doc?” Aidan asked, completely unable to help himself.

“Remind me to slap my knee and laugh later, Aidan. We’ve had news.”

“Sorry. Just feeling good this morning. I’ll put a cork in it and you tell me what’s happened.”

“Checkok maintains regular scouting patrols along the Wall. Some even make periodic crossings. Word came in this morning of organized Lhakovi forces in one of the passes. Seems your training schedule just got curtailed. Checkok was telling these leading citizens here that you will be his general and that they are to heed your commands as if they were his own.”

“My morning took a turn for the worse, didn’t it,” Aidan said. War had come sooner than he had anticipated. He might not have time to pick up the language, accustom himself to the food, learn to differentiate individual joon. He didn’t know if he was ready for this.

What he did know was that the illusion of decisiveness could instill confidence. And the confidence of these joon about him could provide him the breathing room he needed to reach proper decisions.

“Right, then. I don’t suppose they have a map.” He waited for Yuschenkov to relay the request, then said, “Did the scout estimate numbers? Did it seem like an advance party or a main body? Weapons?”

That got the joon talking, trying to pick out concrete details from the second-hand report. And that allowed time for something like a wall hanging or tapestry to be found and spread out on the feasting table, a stylized representation of the broad cape north of the Wall.

“Not exactly precision cartography, but it will have to do,” Aidan said. “Okay, we are, what, here?” He stabbed his finger at a point on the map where a depiction of a building with a waterwheel and a plume of smoke sat on a wavy line. The wavy line meandered from the jagged triangles that represented the Wall to the slate-gray squiggles that represented the sea. The tapestry was a beautiful, colorful work of the weavers’ art. Aidan guessed he was missing ninety percent or so of the information it conveyed through its interplay of colors. But he could make out the abstractions of the map well enough.

“And where did the scout see the Lhakovi? And can we get the scout here so I can ask him questions directly? I mean, almost directly?”

That last got a chuckle from Yuschenkov.

“Damn,” Aidan said, “I wish we could talk to the ship, get real time intel on Lhakovi troop movements.”

“Yes,” Yuschenkov said, “it would be nice to speak to them.”

Aidan was struck by the wistfulness in Yuschenkov’s statement. And he agreed; it
would
be nice. “I wish one of the radio uplinks had survived. My datapad is too anemic, doesn’t have the range.”

“Wait. What? Your datapad has radio capability?”

“Of course. Short range. I tried to reach the ship when I bailed out of the shuttle, but I was already beyond the datapad’s reach. But of course it has radio capability. It can reach out and exchange handshakes across all sorts of data spectra. It’s designed to access the net anywhere, anytime, tap into the communication and information capabilities of more powerful computers or systems.”

“Right, I had something similar, but, apparently, much more primitive. So, what you’ve got there is a working radio?”

“A working radio that could talk to another radio if it were within, say, twenty miles. On a good day.”

“But if we amplified it, we could contact the ship.”

“Sure. What are you getting at, Doc?”

“My radios were demolished in the wreck. But I’ve salvaged what I could. That includes electronic components and power supplies. I can put together an amplifier.”

“We can contact the ship?”

“We can contact the ship.”

Aidan wondered what the joon made of the whoops of delight he and Yuschenkov exchanged.

“Hey, Doc,” he asked, “what’s joon for ‘thank you?’”

“L
ET’S HIT THE TRAIL,” YUSCHENKOV SAID.
“Throw some supplies in a sack and go.”

“Doc, I’m captain of the Girdled-by-Fields militia,” Aidan said. “I can’t exactly skip town without doing something to address that one little nagging issue–the Lhakovi invasion.”

“They’re still on the other side of the Wall. We’ve got time to get there and back again.”

“Look, we’ll go soon. Today even, if I can get enough done. But I’ve got to get a briefing from the scout and issue instructions. And we ought to take a couple locals with us, help carry supplies and lug back whatever salvage from the wreck might prove useful.”

“You’re right, Aidan. I just hate not putting an idea into practice immediately. Seems like wasting time. I know, I know, you’re not going to waste any time. That’s just a gut reaction, not a considered evaluation of your intent.” Yuschenkov scratched at his chin through his beard like another man might take a deep breath and count to ten. “But, for your information, we’re not going precisely to the site of the crash. I’ve been dismantling the ship for twenty years now, off and on. I’ve got a–I don’t know what you want to call it–storage depot or warehouse built a couple of miles from the crash site, up on high ground and concealed.”

“That sounds promising. We should be able to grab whatever parts you need without having to tear through a thousand metric tons of metal with our bare hands.” The sudden, multiple demands for his attention were beginning to fluster Aidan. But he shunted aside the burgeoning frustration, letting his mind work different tracks, tackling problems simultaneously. “Look, I know you’ve got preparations you’d like to make, but I need you to translate for me. At least until I can see to disposition of the troops. And explain exactly why their new captain needs to run off at the first sign of trouble. I don’t suppose you could take my datapad out to your salvage warehouse and rig up the amplifier yourself?”

“I can do most of it myself, but I’m going to need your help with the power supply. Two or three joon could provide the same muscle power, help shift some things about, but they possess neither your manual dexterity nor your familiarity with electronics. It’s a two-man job.”

“No help for it, then. Let’s get to work.”

A joon, whom Yuschenkov explained was both a highly regarded carpenter and the equivalent of the militia’s lieutenant, ushered in the scout. Aidan grilled the scout for details, gleaning what he could regarding troop numbers, speed of movement, armaments, and supply. Conferring with Checkok and the carpenter–or Lieutenant Hemjeck as Aidan referred to him–Aidan traced out the likely Lhakovi route and estimated the arrival of the main body at–worst case scenario - six days. At Aidan’s request, Checkok sketched a diagram of Girdled-by-Fields, seemingly bemused by Aidan’s insistence that he keep it monochromatic. Then Aidan took a brush and color pot and drew in his plan for defensive earthworks.

“You’ve got the manpower and time to throw up berms, even build breastworks. Height and cover should provide us the edge we need.” He hoped he projected confidence, though whether the joon could read his body language was open to question. What he wanted was the time to train a tight band of guerrilla fighters, snipe at the Lhakovi, whittle them down as they approached. But it seemed increasingly unlikely that he had that option. A solid line of entrenchments, where the enemy would expect a defenseless village, struck him as the best bet. It might buy them enough time for the runners Checkok had sent to the scattered settlements and nearest friendly villages to bring back reinforcements. And if it bought him time to employ whatever eye-in-the-sky real-time intelligence the
Yuschenkov
could provide it might be enough to send the Lhakovi home bloodied.

Yuschenkov translated a question from Checkok. “He wants to know why you can’t kill them all as they come.”

“Odds are they are going to spread out, invest the town. I’ve only got so much ammo. But let’s say I made every shot count, killed a hundred or so of them; that would only weaken one section of the siege lines. Those nearby might panic, but the rest of the army wouldn’t see what had happened, wouldn’t suffer any fear of my magic boom stick. Maybe if I could catch them all passing through a defile while they cross the Wall, and didn’t miss a single shot, I might be able to scare them off for a while. Maybe, but pretty damned unlikely. Even then, it would be only temporary; I’d be completely out of ammunition for the next attack, whether it came this year or next.”

Lieutenant Hemjeck studied the defense plans. He suggested placement of observation towers at intervals, a suggestion Aidan approved on the condition that construction not commence until after completion of the earthworks. It was a sound idea, an indication that his lieutenant had an eye for static defense. Possessing a reason to believe that Girdled-by-Fields was in the hands of at least two competent leaders eased Aidan’s anxiety over leaving during these early, critical days of battle preparation.

“And now,” Aidan said to Yuschenkov, “you need to explain that we have a way of spying on the Lhakovi movements, but it will require our absence for a few days. You’re on, Doc.”

“This should be fun,” Yuschenkov said, and then began a lengthy discourse, one that involved frequent hand gestures and a rough diagram of orbital mechanics sketched on a corner of the battle plan parchment. The conversation was involved and Yuschenkov didn’t bother to translate. Aidan assumed that the increased volume of Checkok’s voice meant he was none too pleased at Aidan taking a powder at the very moment the enemy reared his head. Yuschenkov answered decibel for decibel.

The Hall fell silent for some time, everyone waiting on the Esaul’s decision. When he broke the silence, his voice had lowered to its accustomed volume. He spoke briefly and then walked out of the Hall, Hemjeck trailing behind him.

“Right, Aidan, I think he understands the plan and the necessity,” Yuschenkov said. “And he’s going to spare a couple of joon to accompany us. Interestingly, one of those two is his son, Echeckok.”

“Wants to keep an eye on us, huh? Well, I don’t blame him. It does look a bit suspicious.” Aidan stretched, arching his back, then twisting side to side. “Now, let’s throw some supplies in a sack and hit the trail. We’re wasting time.”

* * *

Checkok’s son was the tallest joon Aidan had seen, easily pushing five-feet five inches in his boots. A wide belt and straps crisscrossing his torso supported the pack on his back. Javelins poked up from beneath the pack and a sword hung from the belt. Aidan noted that the scabbard was fitted with a simple hook attachment, allowing Echeckok to hang the sword anywhere on the belt.
Obvious, of course
, Aidan thought. Joon had no conception of right or left handedness.

Aidan fingered the hilt of his sword, hanging to his left side from his battle harness. The Master Smith had presented it to him–along with the matching parrying dagger that rode at his right hip–as he and Yuschenkov departed the Hall.
Khorknevot did good work
, Aidan thought. The grip fit his hand comfortably, and the balance felt natural. He did feel a trifle awkward with a sword swinging at his side, but that was simply one more car in the train of weirdness he had been pulling since bailing out of the shuttle over Ghark.

Accompanying Echeckok was a joon giving his name as Frejhig.

“Interesting fellow, this Frejhig,” Yuschenkov said.

The four men were already a couple of miles outside Girdled-by-Fields, crossing one farm after another. They had spotted several families coming the other way, the nearest farms responding quickly to the summons Checkok’s messengers issued.