Short stories complete, p.1
Short Stories Complete, page 1
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Short Stories Complete
William Walling
(custom book cover)
Jerry eBooks
Bibliography
Short Fiction Bibliography
Rings on Her Fingers
The Unsigned
The Sorrowful Host
The Devil We Know
Modus Vivendi
Interference
Earth, Air, Fire and Water (Part One of Three Parts)
Earth, Air, Fire and Water (Part Two of Three Parts)
Earth, Air, Fire and Water (Conclusion)
Nix Olympica
Triage
Memo to the Leader
The Norn’s Loom
Triggerman
Star Dreck
TTCB
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Novels
No One Goes There Now (1971)
Earth, Air, Fire and Water (1974)
The World I Left Behind Me (1979)
Serials
Earth, Air, Fire and Water, Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact, February-April 1974
SHORT FICTION BIBLIOGRAPHY
Rings on Her Fingers, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, September 1970
The Unsigned, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, April 1971
The Sorrowful Host, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, December 1971
The Devil We Know, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, January 1973
Modus Vivendi, Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact, February 1973
Interference, Galaxy Science Fiction, March/April, March 1973
Earth, Air, Fire and Water (Part One of Three Parts), Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact, February 1974
Earth, Air, Fire and Water (Part Two of Three Parts), Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact, March 1974
Earth, Air, Fire and Water (Conclusion), Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact, April 1974
Nix Olympica, Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact, December 1974
Triage, Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact, November 1976
Memo to the Leader, Galaxy Science Fiction, December 1977/January 1978, December 1977
The Norns’ Loom, Galaxy Science Fiction, March 1978
Triggerman, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, September 1979
Star Dreck, Analog Science Fiction/Science Fact, August 1984
TTCB, Analog Science Fiction and Science Fact, January 1992
Rings on Her Fingers
William Walling is 43, a life-long Californian, and an engineer in the space systems division of Lockheed. This is his first published story, but not his first sale. That was a novel, NO ONE GOES THERE NOW which will be published by Doubleday. “Putting together shorter lengths is really tough for us amateurs," writes Mr. Walling, “too long winded to make the necessary compression come easily, I suppose.” But he makes it look easy in this concise and suspenseful account of a lethal stalemate in deep space.
“READY, SIR?” ASKED THE COURier pilot, watching his control board closely. “Coming up on one minute minus, now.”
Grije Van Polder nodded, bumping his chin on the microphone key of his headpiece. He cursed. “Why is it so confounded dangerous? After all, Shenandoah’s expecting us.”
The pilot glanced sharply at the xenologist, then back to his instruments. “Entering an interdicted zone’s touchy,” he explained. “You never know; a surprise bogey could spook the Llanasans into firing . . . Best close your faceplate now.”
Van Polder grumbled, snapping down the dogs of his helmet as the pilot counted to zero. The whirling vertigo of transition churned his bowels, then sudden weightlessness. The pilot motioned him into the lock chamber with a thumbs-up gesture of good luck.
He listened to the sighing suck of pumps scavenging air, wrinkling his nose at the pressure suit’s legacy: a ghostly odor of machine oil combined with the taint of previous wearers. When the outer hatch opened, he clumsily launched himself into interstellar vacuum, twisting to watch the slim needle of the courier craft flicker and vanish back into n-space.
Grije Van Polder drifted in star-shot emptiness. He had been this near the galactic hub once before. An awesome spectacle, then and now—vast star fields flung pendant from the seething, sky-filled whorl of suns and coalescent gas at the crux of the island universe.
Seconds ticked away; he tired of the view, beginning to feel apprehensive. A piloting error of one-half percentile in matching computed n-space emergence coordinates would place him beyond hope of retrieval. He would float through eternity, a frozen mummy, after his air was gone.
Then a star winked. The gentle tug of a tractor field relaxed him. The winking star became a tumbling sliver, a toothpick, a blunt-bended pencil limned in starlight. He felt pressure on his chest as pressors snubbed his momentum. He was drawn steadily toward a midship hatch of the Shenandoah.
“Daughters of the stars,” grunted Van Polder. “How appropriate.” It was an ancient Terrestrial Amerind name—one of the loveliest names ever coined.
A squad of Imperial Marines braced to attention as the flagship’s inner lock cycled open. A sergeant major helped him unsuit with a brisk, “Happy to have you aboard, sir. This way, please.”
Exasperated, Van Polder rescued his personal kit from a pouch in the p-suit and half ran to keep step with the long-striding marine. He was ushered into the captain’s suite, minutes later, finding the slight, waspish Commodore Pleigh rising from behind a cluttered desk to shake hands.
“Trust your journey was pleasant, doctor; you’ll be shown to quarters in a moment. Frankly, now that you are with us at last, there are affairs to discuss, affairs which will not keep. Will you have some coffee?”
The xenologist felt steam gather beneath his collar. “Commodore, I’ve been whisked half a galaxy away from my research, dumped into space like so much baggage. Might I impose upon you for the luxury of a shower, several hours to compose myself, before getting to work?”
Deep lines around the commodore’s eyes tightened perceptibly. “Those hours are not available, I’m afraid. Besides, while you shower, I want you to be thinking about Llanasa.”
“But, Commodore . . .”
“Doctor Van Polder,” said Pleigh tiredly, “I am an unhappy man. My ship crawls with civilians—no offense intended—my hands are tied by this asinine truce, my crew is slap-happy from standing to red alert watch on watch, and I’ve been tearing what small amounts of hair I still possess waiting for you to arrive and save us all.
“Now, what do you know about the Llanasan Hegemony?”
Van Polder’s shrug was resigned. “Only what I see on video.” He sat down. “Pardon my selfishness; you’ll find me an excellent listener.”
Pleigh smiled the very briefest of smiles. He poured coffee, sipping his own. “Forget what you have seen on video. I’m aware of homeworld propaganda techniques, and of the quite logical reasons behind them.
“Van Polder, we have a profound and possibly lethal stalemate on our hands. We’ve won many supposedly conclusive space-side engagements, while losing as many—or more—on the ground. The battle of Cerberus is typical: after our firepower, superior guidance, and ferrite-seeker warheads decimated the Llanasan fleet, we landed Imperial Marines, the toughest, best-trained troops in service. Taking Cerberus, the second link in a chain of planetary bases leading to Llanasa was vital.
“All told, we sustained in excess of one-quarter million casualties in Cerberus.”
Van Polder gasped. “In a single engagement?”
“There were many bloody battles in Cerberus,” announced Pleigh somberly. “Worse, the planet remains in enemy hands to this day, while total casualties in the Llanasan war mount toward the incredible—nearly seven million! That figure is not to be openly discussed, if you please. I tell you merely to impress upon you the scalding importance of our business out here.
“Your run-of-the-mill Llanasan warrior,” he continued, “does well enough in the beginning. As battles progress, he somehow transforms himself into an all but unstoppable berserker. Inflict a mortal wound, he crawls at you; burn off one leg, he hops at you, weapons blazing. You cannot imagine how demoralizing that might be unless you have faced him yourself.
“We—I—expect no resolution to evolve from this truce; differences between Llanasans and Terrans are too vast. Calling you out here,” said Pleigh slowly, “was a last-ditch effort to find some basis for these drastic metamorphoses. We must have an answer when—if—negotiations break down. Theorists have argued everything from drugs to a specific electromagnetic frequency, with which warriors are irradiated. Thus far, no one has turned up even the vaguest clue.” Van Polder frowned. “But, you’ve taken many prisoners.” Pleigh’s lips compressed. “Llanasan prisoners,” he drawled, “have a habit of dying within a few hundred hours of capture. In sheer agony! The supposition that denial of substance X, process Y, or what have you, is responsible, would seem valid.”
Van Polder drummed his fingers on the commodore’s desk. “Medical investigations have been made, I take it?”
“Any number. Medicorps has isolated a strain of virus which may prove a potent BW weapon when—if—hostilities are renewed, but . . . Bio-med data will be available whenever you are ready.” Pleigh rose, conducting Van Polder to th e hatchway. “After you refresh yourself, I’ll send a man round to fetch you. Ambassador Clive is anxious to meet you. He should be finished with today’s session in an hour or so.”
“Is the conference here?”
“Aboard Shenandoah today,” affirmed Pleigh. “We alternate, day by day.” The commodore sighed. “Llanasouki floats less than a thousand kilometers from our hull. Aboard her, no doubt, is my opposite number—a senior officer going swiftly mad soothing ruffled dignitaries while keeping his trigger-happy firecontrol men from precipitating a thermonuclear finis to our peace conference.
“Enjoy your shower, Doctor Van Polder.”
Grije Van Polder thoroughly enjoyed his shower, his mind adjusting to the impact of Pleigh’s calm, devastating words. He emerged from the autolave to discover that a small mountain of microfilm spools and a viewer had been deposited in his cubicle. He donned singlet and sandals, wrapping his cummerbund carelessly before sampling microfilm labels. Then he smiled.
The commodore did not want him to lack for diversion, it seemed. He plugged a random spool into the viewer. The tank lighted; an image condensed, and after a stern security warning, an impersonal voice announced the subject to be a male Llanasan—obviously a corpse—captured in the second battle of Concrellin.
Without conscious effort, Van Polder let the information seep into his mind: a relatively ordinary species of exoskeletal mammal, averaging one-hundred ninety centimeters in height, erect, quadripedal—six digits and an opposable thumb—with enormous brow ridges flaring beneath a hairless cranium. The sex organs seemed conventionally mammalian. Not a terribly exotic appearance, really. Discount the smooth external armor, covered by a faintly blue-tinged epidermis, and a suitably dressed Llanasan might pass for a tall human under poor light.
Van Polder, knowing his own mental processes better than most men, did not allow externals to influence him. Xenic mind and mores were what mattered, not whether the being was humanoid or shaped like a leafy vegetable.
His interest quickened when a female Llanasan, sleeker and more finely sculptured than the male, flashed into being within the tank. Only the mammaries and, as in the male, abdomen, sex organs and lower face were unarmored. He was informed that the female had also been taken during the second Concrellin battle, and was then treated to a clinical portrayal of her death throes which made his forehead bead with sweat: racking convulsions, jaws clenched in agony, her limbs pinioned, flailing. Her terminal condition was appalling, ending in low-pitched screams and a final, back-arching spasm that strained the heavy strap binding her torso to the table.
Shaken, Van Polder switched off the viewer. What had a female been doing aboard a Llanasan warship? Was it their custom for women to fight alongside men? He was rummaging through the spools, plugging in one after another, when a polite tap on the hatch distracted him.
A marine bowed in the companionway. “Commodore’s compliments, sir. Will you join him and the ambassador for dinner?”
The Honorable R. N. Clive was suave and polished, but his flattering, ivory-laden smile failed to mask a troubled countenance. Cordiality, however, was to him as natural as breathing. “Your reputation precedes you, Doctor,” he greeted. “We’re so honored to have you with us.”
Through soup and salad Clive maintained a lively, conversational banter, complimenting Van Polder often. The xenologist was privately amused at the way Commodore Pleigh fretted, eyeing the diplomat as if to goad him into getting down to business. At last Pleigh could not restrain a pointed suggestion. “Perhaps Van Polder would like to hear what transpired today, Mr. Ambassador.”
Clive looked startled; the thought of initiating serious conversation while dining had not occured to him. “Yes, of course. Ah, you must forgive me for broaching our mutual problem, but time does weigh against us. I fear we took a backward step again today.”
“I’m anxious to learn all I can,” urged Van Polder.
“Certainly, certainly. The first hour went rather well. His Radiance, the Llanasan Plenipotentiary, seemed to be having one of his better days. We are in the process of hammering out a neutral zone, you see. Surprisingly, His Radiance did not protest loss of the Achumate system beyond a few words of token argument.
“Then,” Clive continued, “as he spoke, later, on Terran prisoner repatriation, his manner changed markedly. He became quite restless, then abusive. You have never seen anger, sir, until you’ve seen an enraged Llanasan! He stalked from the chamber, hurling epithets against the Terrestrial Imperium and its warmongering’ allies, all but proclaiming renewal of hostilities!”
“Perhaps the inequity of repatriating human prisoners, knowing his own warriors can never return, angered him,” suggested Van Polder.
Clive assured him this could never be the case. “Llanasans absolutely refuse to discuss their own captured warriors. We have grown used to that.”
“I see.” The xenologist pondered. “How much time elapsed between his change in mood and the walkout?”
“Oh, I should say fifteen minutes. Twenty at most.”
“It has happened over and over,” said Pleigh grimly.
Van Polder cleared his throat. “But, did he receive some message, some counsel which might have angered him?”
“Not unless he’s telepathic,” denied Clive. “No one came near him. Let me tell you what I’ve learned of His Radiance. He can be articulate, mannerly, and utterly charming when the mood strikes him. He has a canny, well-disciplined mind; one supposes that he enjoys diplomatic work immensely. But to see him change from congenial envoy to scowling, tongue-lashing demon is to be forever wary!
“I assure you, I’m the least xenophobic of men, Doctor, but I confess a deep-seated aversion to His Radiance. A terrible thing to say, perhaps, but how can one deal with such a mercurial personality, however intelligent.”
“That’s very understandable,” placated Van Polder. “Er, have you observed this abrupt personality change in others?”
Clive blinked. “Other Llanasans? Unthinkable, Van Polder! The Llanasan delegation walks on eggs . . . Wait, perhaps I see what you’re getting at . . .
“What is it?” asked Pleigh brusquely.
“Dull of me not to have connected behavior patterns,” mused Clive. “There have been other instances, though by no means as apparent. Last week, for example, a Llanasan speaker grew restive, broke off while addressing the conclave and left without so much as a by-your-leave. Another chap finished the speech, not missing a phrase. Extraordinary! Perhaps you’ve hit upon something!”
“Perhaps. Do the Llanasans come and go at will?”
“Constantly. We’ve simply never questioned it. Er, have you an inkling . . .?”
“The ‘how’ and ‘what’ may come easily, sir. I suspect the ‘why’ might prove more elusive. Would His Radiance object if I were to attend tomorrow’s session, observe firsthand?”
“Delighted to have you,” encouraged Clive. “I’m not at all certain that Llanasans are able to distinguish between human beings.”
“Fine. If you’ll excuse me, now, I have homework to do. I’d like to learn what they have for lunch, how they celebrate birthdays, their marriage customs, how they dispose of their dead, that sort of thing.”
Commodore Pleigh looked put upon. “While you study Llanasan folk dancing, Doctor, bear in mind that Shenandoah could at any instant become a cloud of radioactive vapor!”
Van Polder’s smile was bemused. “I hope the noise doesn’t wake me. Good night, Mr. Ambassador, Commodore.”
The data collected from one source or another during the Llanasan campaigns proved disappointing, if not surprising. For almost three objective Terran cycles since first contact, practically all encounters had been military. The Imperium and Llanasa had, it seemed, met, growled, then scrabbled for one another’s throats like predatory animals.
Facts and figures on military space tonnage, armaments, size and disposition of strategic and tactical bases, and the like, were very exhaustive. Not one iota of which helped Grije Van Polder, though he appreciated the espionage feats necessary to garner such data.
He was not interested in espionage, nor in military or any other purely external facets of Llanasan life. The tapes told nothing of folkways, history, politics, art, music or literature. Nothing! He was skilled at interpretation, adept at deducing motivations, but lacked a basis from which to derive. Solving the Llanasan enigma by the exclusive evidence of eyes and ears did not sound promising.
