Warriors of gor gorean s.., p.62
Warriors of Gor (Gorean Saga), page 62
I no longer saw Agamemnon hovering above the tree tops.
Where was he?
Perhaps he had returned to the rendezvous point to meet with Lucilius, perhaps to utilize a supply depot of sorts. Might not such a body, from time to time, have to replenish its resources? Might not the living brain ensconced in the machine require its own nutriments of some sort?
Then I shuddered.
Not fifteen yards away I saw the silver tarn, on the ground, amongst the trees. It moved, silently, stalking a few feet, with a stiff, regal gait. Then it was still again. Its head swiveled about on its shoulders, and it stared at me. I had no doubt that those large, round, glowing eyes were transmitting information to the brain of Agamemnon. The beak opened and I saw the nozzle. The stream of fire is swift, but not like a bullet. I thought I could leap behind the blackened tree trunk beside me, before the stream could reach me. I awaited the torrent of fire, but it did not come. Rather the tarn, wings folded, lurched toward me. The large, hooked, heavy, tarnlike beak opened, and snapped shut. I had no doubt it could, in one motion, sever an arm or cut a head from a body. I was reasonably sure that the silver tarn was still capable of flight, and that its appearance on the ground was merely to facilitate stalking ground prey. I was also sure that it, abetted by its propulsion system, could, given clear ground, be upon me almost instantly. I had no thought that I could outrun it. My only chance, as I saw it, was to make an ally of the woods, and perhaps one of Agamemnon himself.
“Turn on your translator,” I invited the silver tarn.
I then hoped he had done so.
“Your body is unsightly and clumsy,” I said. “No one would take it for the handsome, majestic tarn. A tabuk would scorn it. A verr would laugh. Perhaps it could frighten a tiny urt, one fearing to be stepped on.”
That engine was, however, powerful. It thrust its way between two trees, half uprooting one, and I backed away.
It approached more closely. A thick branch blocked its way. It snapped it in two with one opening and closing of that heavy, hooklike beak.
“I did not know a metal tarn could be such a weakling,” I said. “A true tarn would not waste his beak on such a twig. With a robust exhalation, he would just blow it from his path.”
The right leg of the silver tarn lifted, and reached out, and its talons extended about, and grasped, a burned tree trunk, and then it slowly, shedding ash and carbon, tore at the tree. The curved furrows in the trunk were clearly some inches deep.
I admitted to myself that I was impressed.
As this brief but remarkable demonstration did not close the gap between myself and the tarn, nor it did it seem to further its likely projects in any significant manner, I suspected that what I had witnessed was mere displacement activity.
It is well known that kings, emperors, warlords, chieftains, and such, seldom respond well to criticism, however worthwhile and benignly intended it might be. Therefore, I speculated that my observations, however far off the mark they might have been, might have succeeded in annoying the Eleventh Face of the Nameless One.
As I moved, it moved, sometimes seemingly eccentrically. After some three or four Ehn, I became aware, not to my reassurance, that I was being denied, bit by bit, access to the more thickly wooded ground about me. I was being cut off from better shelter. Trees were becoming more sparse. I continued to back away from the machine. Behind me, on a relatively flat, stony upgrade, there was a semicircular clearing, a surface of a sort in which trees would find it difficult to take root. In shape it was much like one of the low, round bluffs that occasionally broke up the density of the woods. I was being driven to this clearing. I backed up the slope. The machine emerged from the woods. It was now only a few yards from me.
I picked up a stone, and then another. I cast these at the machine, and they bounded harmlessly away from the fuselage.
They surely did not damage anything, unless it might be Agamemnon’s sense of propriety. Such behavior on my part, a mere human, would at least be regarded by the average Kur as an unfortunate and regrettable lapse of respect or courtesy.
The silver tarn was now clearly between me and the woods. Behind me there was a ledge where the upgrade abruptly terminated. I guessed, from the apparent height of my current position, that there would be a drop of some twenty or thirty feet. I could, glancing over my shoulder, see the tops of trees, where the woods had reasserted itself. There was smoke in the air and the smell of smoke and burned wood.
Agamemnon had, with intent, in his effort to kill me, set fire to a thriving, living woods. Far lesser infringements on nature’s well-being were regarded by many Goreans as a capital offense, requiring a capital retaliation.
I was sure I could not reach the ledge behind me and fling myself over it, hoping to survive in adjacent branches or clinging shrubbery, before the machine could overtake me.
I picked up another rock.
I hoped this would seem amusing to Agamemnon, reinforcing his presumed sense of superiority to a seemingly foolish, doomed member of an inferior species.
Let your enemy underestimate you. Few things are more to your advantage.
I also hoped that, even in his metal ensconcement, he would be subject to the instinctual withdrawal from strong stimuli likely to be selected for in the course of natural evolution, subject to it if only for a fleeting instant.
The great hooked beak opened and I regarded the concealed nozzle. I tensed. There was a sudden rush of air, jerking my tunic back, and almost causing me to lose my balance, but no flame issued from that hidden barrel.
I clutched the rock.
Then, with a whir of sound, the two large metal wings of the machine carefully, slowly, unfolded and extended themselves, so that they were parallel to the ground. The forward edges were tapered in such a way, I suddenly realized, that they constituted blades. Thus, even if one might elude the grasping of talons and the slashing and tearing of the metal beak, one might, in the machine’s charge, be cut apart by the bladelike wings.
I hoped that Agamemnon, before charging, would provide me with an instant in which I might admire the formidableness and beauty of the powerful machine in which he was a temporary component.
I suddenly screamed and pretended to hurl the rock at the machine while at the same time racing toward it.
Since when does the verr charge the sleen? How long has it been since the tiny, graceful tabuk last attacked the larl?
I was at the machine clambering on its extended left wing, pounding on the nearest round, glowing eyelike sensor in the head of the tarn. But, ela, the blows of the stone, hammering on the lens-like protuberance, barely scratched its surface. The apparatus by means of which the active brain of Agamemnon was informed of the world outside the machine was neither fragile nor easily injured. I supposed I should have realized that so sophisticated a device of conquest and war would not be easily subject to attack and damage.
I discarded the rock and began to search for some aspect of, or part of, the machine on which I might gain some purchase. Surely the machine must be constructed in such a way that it can be opened and closed, that the living brain of Agamemnon could be inserted into it or withdrawn from it, that it could be serviced or repaired, that it might be resupplied with flammable materials, with nutriments to nourish the controlling brain, and so on.
“Where have you gone?” inquired the machine, in its evenly spaced, quiet, mechanically constituted phonemes. I suspected that this audio tranquility did not do justice to what must be the agitation, rage, frustration, and roiling emotions seething now in the ensconced, unseen brain somewhere within that large, metal body.
“Where have you gone?” came again from the machine. This time the volume was increased, but there was no sign beyond that of possible interest, concern, stress, or urgency.
“Speculate,” I said, looking for something to which I might cling.
“You are close,” it said.
“Not far,” I granted it. Then, to be helpful, I pounded on the fuselage a few times with my fist.
“Depart,” said the translator.
I did not respond.
The head of the machine rotated. The metal talons trembled but, as the machine was constructed, I did not think they could reach me. Similarly, the large beak opened, and then snapped shut, hideously. But, pretty obviously, the machine had not been constructed in such a way that it might easily remove an unwanted guest from its exterior, at least as it was presently oriented and situated.
“Begone, leech,” said the machine.
I was pleased that the machine was not built closer to the anatomy and musculature of an actual tarn, or it would have allowed for preening, in which case I would be well advised to leave my post promptly.
“I can be rid of you easily and quickly,” said the machine.
“I am then in serious trouble,” I said.
I found some small, recessed depressions on the fuselage where, I supposed, it might be opened with a key or tool, but, to my annoyance, I could locate no rings or handles to which I might cling, should the machine leave the ground.
“For a human,” said the machine, “I find you a brave and noble fellow. I like you. Let us be friends.”
“Few things would please me more,” I said. I was not sure that this was true, but some things seemed called for in the name of civility. Rudeness is seldom deemed a social virtue.
“You are not as sophisticated, learned, well groomed, nicely polished, smoothly spoken, or as affable as Decius Albus,” said the machine, “but then you are a barbarian, as I understand it.”
“From the Gorean point of view,” I said, “I believe you, too, would be considered a barbarian.”
“Ela,” said the machine, “that is doubtless true. Goreans can be insufferably vain. They often do not even realize that they, lacking the civilized graces of Kurii, are, like you, a barbarian.”
“I had not thought of it that way,” I said.
“Despite his manners,” said the machine, “I have occasionally thought that Decius Albus was something of a lout.”
“I do not know him very well, personally,” I said.
“Now that we are friends,” said the machine, “you may dismount and be on your way.”
“It is not polite to desert a friend,” I said.
“I can use a brave, enterprising fellow like you,” said the machine. “Enlist in my service and you will become rich. When Gor is a Kur world, and I am its sole Ubar, as must inevitably come about, you will stand high, be given cities, ships, gold, power, women, whatever you like.”
“I am willing to wait,” I said.
“I am not,” said the machine.
“You set fire to the woods,” I said. “It still burns. That displeases Goreans.”
“I am the Eleventh Face of the Nameless One,” came from the machine.
“You tried to kill me,” I said.
“That was before we were friends,” came from the machine.
“If I dismount,” I said, “have I your guarantee that I will not be harmed?”
“Certainly,” came from the machine.
“How do I know I can trust you?” I asked.
“You have my word,” it said.
“Upon a Steel World,” I said, “you once promised amnesty to rebels, but you betrayed your word, and did much slaughter upon them.”
“That was long ago and faraway,” he said. “Such things are now irrelevant. I have changed.”
“You were exiled,” I said. “You were banished.”
“I have adherents, Kurii, and humans, on Gor,” came from the machine. “Too, I have secret adherents on the Steel World of which you dared to speak. I will have my world, either my former world, or another.”
“Gor?” I said.
“Yes,” came from the machine.
“How do you propose to achieve such an aim?” I asked.
“By bribery, subversion, division, and recruitment,” came from the machine. “Even today I have made a fine start, for Marlenus of Ar is my prisoner. His ransom will fund several projects.”
“Marlenus of Ar,” I said, “is now safe amongst his troops.”
“You jest,” it said.
“Not at all,” I said.
“You lie,” it said.
“Marlenus was freed,” I said, “while his warder, Lucilius, sought to apprehend a possible intruder.”
“The falsity of your words is easily determined,” it said. “I need only look into the matter. I can do so within Ehn. Dismount. Do not fear. You will be quite safe.”
“I am not sure that leaving my present position is in my best interest,” I said.
“I must insist,” it said. “Dismount.”
“Do you not fear Priest-Kings?” I asked. “Your aerial device would seem to incorporate capacities and components clearly proscribed by their technology laws.”
“Much occurs on Gor of which Priest-Kings are ignorant,” it said. “A few cubic feet of apparatus somewhere on an entire world is unlikely to be noticed by the Sardar, or, if noticed, would provoke interest. Too, Priest-Kings are weak, or passive. Dozens of Steel Worlds, lusting for their world, threaten them, and they remain inert. They see little; they care little.”
“You have appeared publicly in Ar, in the Stadium of Blades,” I said. “You have warred at the beaches of Port of Samnium. You have streamed fire into the woods of Samnium. It seems such things might be noticed.”
“They are inattentive,” it said. “One can steal their world while they do not even notice.”
“Beware of Priest-Kings,” I said.
“Priest-Kings care only for the Sardar,” it said. “I may let them keep it. I have no great interest in it. Dismount.”
“At the moment,” I said, “I am content to be where I am, as I am.”
“Very well,” it said.
I faced a rather obvious dilemma. If I were to descend from the machine, I would be at its mercy. If I did not descend from the machine, I would be not much less at its mercy, for, if it took flight, it would be very difficult to cling to its surface.
I did not have much time to ponder this dilemma because, suddenly, the machine rose into the air, some forty feet or so, hovered, and then began a sharp ascent. The metal wings began to move, their beating simulating the motion of a tarn’s wings, but one could tell, certainly from my position, clinging to the crest of the head, that the lifting power of the machine was independent of the wings. I was reminded of the transportation disks of the Sardar Nest, a drive which was somehow accessing and exploiting the ambient environment itself, possibly utilizing and manipulating local gravitational forces.
The device reared up from its sharp ascent and for some three or four Ihn sped vertically into the clouds, whose moisture coated my face and the fuselage of the machine. Then the machine leveled its flight, and inverted, and I was dangling, my arms about the head and beak. The machine then began a succession of rolls, and I, hands and arms now bloody against the metal, fought to keep conscious. Originally I feared the machine might ascend to a height where the air would be insufficient or the cold intolerable, but it did not do so. I did not know its ceiling, but I now reasoned that the machine would have been engineered for needs far short of high-altitude flight and pressurization. There would be no need for, or justification for, such properties, properties far beyond those of an actual living tarn.
Then the machine descended to perhaps three or four hundred feet. It then hovered, paused in the air. The wings even stopped moving.
There was a silence.
It must have lasted twenty or thirty Ihn.
I supposed that Agamemnon would suppose that I had been dislodged from my position long ago, but that he would not be sure.
Below us, the woods were still smoking.
“Are you there?” came from the machine.
I supposed that he expected no answer to that question, either because I was not there, or because I would have the common sense to remain quiet. I suspected that he was really talking more to himself than to me, and the translation device had not yet been deactivated. Who but an idiot would respond to that question? Certainly the supposition of the question was less than flattering.
On the other hand, if I remained quiet and slipped away, or tried to slip away, from the machine after it landed, things would not be much advanced. Agamemnon would be at liberty to pursue his aims.
“No,” I said. “I fell off long ago.”
If there was a response to that, it was not carried by the translator. Rather the machine ripped upward and began a series of maneuvers much like those earlier performed.
Then, finished, it again hovered, wings still, a hundred feet or so above the woods.
“Are you there?” came again from the translator. I was sure, this time, that he was not talking something over with himself.
I had been nearly thrown free of the device several times. My hands and the head and beak of the machine were washed in blood.
“Tal,” I said, greeting him as brightly as I could manage.
“I am annoyed,” came from the translator.
“I am not surprised,” I said. “I effect nothing critical. You have every right to be so.”
“I do not have time to have you tortured to death at great length,” came from the machine.
“I know you are busy,” I said.
“I can crush you like a straw, I can tear you apart like rence paper, I can rip you into tatters like rep cloth, I can sweep you aside as a hurricane might a leaf.”
“How will you manage that?” I asked.
“With wood, with stone,” he said.
