Terry Gene Carr - Warlord of Kor

T >> Terry Gene Carr >> Warlord of Kor

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"All right, let's go out!" Rynason said, and the two of them broke from
behind the altar. The Hirlaji stood completely still; several of those
that Rynason had dropped with his stunner had recovered consciousness,
but they made no move either. Rynason and the girl ran right through the
quiet aliens; only a few of them turned shadowed eyes to look at them as
they passed. They made the outside colonnade in safety, and paused
there.

"They may see through this in a minute," Rynason said. "Don't wait for
me--get out of the city!"

"You're not coming?"

"I won't be too far behind. Get going!"

She hesitated only a moment, then hurried down the broad levels of the
Temple steps. Rynason watched her to the bottom, then turned and
re-entered the altar room.

Rynason went quickly among them, taking their weapons. Most of them made
no effort to stop him, but a few tightened their grips on the
disintegrators and he had to pry those thick fingers from the weapons,
cursing to himself. How long would they wait?

There were fourteen of the disintegrators. They were large and heavy; he
couldn't hold them all at once. He dumped five of them outside the altar
room and returned to disarm the rest of the aliens. Sweat formed beads
on his forehead, but he moved without hesitation.

Another of the Hirlaji tightened his grip when Rynason began to take the
weapon from him. He looked up, and saw the quiet eyes of Horng resting
on him. The leathery grey wrinkles which surrounded those eyes quivered
slightly, but otherwise he made no movement. Rynason dropped his gaze
from that contact and wrested the weapon away.

As he started to move on to the next, Horng silently dipped his massive
head to one side. Rynason felt a chill go down his back.

In a few more minutes he had disarmed them all. He set the last three
disintegrators on the stone floor of the colonnade--and a movement in
the distance caught his eye. It was on the south wall of the city; two
men stood for a moment silhouetted against the Flat, then disappeared
into the shadows. In a moment, another man appeared, and he too dropped
inside the wall.

So Manning had already sent the men in. The mob was unleashed.

Rynason hesitated for a moment, then turned and went quickly back into
the altar room. Mara's radio was there; he lifted it by its strap and
took it with him out to the colonnade.

He could see the Earthmen moving through the streets now, darting from
wall to wall in the gathering darkness of evening. In a short time it
would be full night--and Rynason knew that these men would like nothing
better than to attack in the dark.

He warmed the radio and opened the transmitter.

"Manning, call off your dogs. I've disarmed the Hirlaji."

The radio spat static at him, and for several seconds he thought his
signal hadn't even been picked up. But at last there was a reply:

"Then get out of the Temple. It's too late to stop this."

"Manning!"

"I said get clear. You've done all you can there."

"Damn it, there's no need for any fighting!"

Manning's voice sounded cold even in the faint reception of the
hand-radio. "That's for me to decide. I'm running this show, remember."

"You're running a massacre!" Rynason shouted.

"Call it what you like. Mara says they weren't so docile when you broke
in."

Rynason's mind raced; he had to stall for time. If he could get Manning
to stop those men until they cooled down....

"Manning, there's no need for this! Didn't she tell you that the altar
is just a computer? These people haven't had anything to do with the
Outsiders since before they can remember!"

The radio carried the faint sound of Manning's chuckle. "So now they're
people to you, Lee? Or are you one of them now?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Lee, my boy, you're sounding like an old horsefaced nursemaid. You
linked minds with them, and you say you were practically a Hirlaji
yourself when you went into that linkage. Well, I'm not so sure you ever
came out of it. You're _still_ one of them!"

"Is that the only reason you can think of that I might have for wanting
to prevent a massacre?" Rynason said icily.

"If they tried to revolt once, they'll try it again," Manning said.
"Well crush them _now_."

"You think that will impress the Council? Slaughtering the only
intelligent race we've found?"

"I'm not playing to the Council!" Manning snapped. "I've got these men
following me, and I'll listen to what _they_ want!"

Rynason stared at the microphone for a moment. "Are you sure you aren't
afraid of your own mob?" he said.

"We're coming in, Lee. Get out of there or we'll cut you down too."

"Manning!"

"I'm switching off."

"_Not quite yet._ There's one more thing, and you'd better hear this
one!"

"Make it fast," Manning said. His voice sounded uninterested.

"If any of your boys try to come in, I'll stop them myself. I've got the
disintegrators, and I'll use them."

There was silence from the radio, save for the static. It lasted for
long seconds. Then:

"It's your funeral." There was a faint click as Manning switched off.

* * * * *

Rynason stared angrily at the radioset for a moment, then left it lying
at the top of the steps and went back inside. The Hirlaji stood
motionlessly in dimness; it took awhile for Rynason's eyes to adjust to
it. He found the interpreter that Mara had left and quickly hooked it up
to Horng. The alien's eyes, moving heavily in their sockets, watched him
as he connected the wires.

When everything was ready Rynason lifted the interpreter's mike. "The
Earthmen are going to attack you," he said. "I want to help you fight
them off."

There was no reaction from the alien; only those quiet eyes resting on
him like the shadows of the entire past.

"Can you still believe that Kor is a god? That's only a machine--I spoke
through it myself, minutes ago! Don't you realize that?"

After a moment Horng's eyes slowly closed and opened in acknowledgement.
KOR WAS GOD KNOWLEDGE. THE OLD ONES DIED BEFORE TIME, AND PASSED INTO
KOR. NOW KOR IS DEAD.

"And all of you will be dead too!" Rynason said.

The huge alien sat unmoving. His eyes turned away from Rynason.

"You've got to fight them!" Rynason said.

But he could see that it was useless. Horng had made no reply, but
Rynason knew what was in his thoughts now.

THERE IS NO PURPOSE.

TEN

Wearily, Rynason switched off the interpreter, leaving the wires still
connected to the alien. He walked through the faintly echoing,
dust-filled temple and stepped out onto the colonnade around it. It was
almost dark now; the deep blue of the Hirlaj sky had turned almost black
and the pinpoint lights of the stars broke through. The wind was rising
from the Flat; it caught his hair and whipped it roughly around his
head. He looked up at the emerging stars, remembering the day when Horng
had suddenly, inexplicably stood and walked to the base of a broken
staircase. He had looked up those stairs, past where they had broken and
fallen, past the shattered roof, to the sky. The Hirlaji had never
reached the stars, but they might have. It had taken a god, or a jumbled
legacy from an older, greater race, to forestall them. And now all they
had was the dust and the wind.

Rynason could hear the rising moan of that wind gathering itself around
him, building to a wailing planet-dirge among the columns of the Temple.
And inside, the Hirlaji were dying. The knives and bludgeons of the
Earth mob outside would only complete the job; the Hirlaji were too
tired to live. They dreamed dimly under the shadowed foreheads ...
dreamed of the past. And sometimes, perhaps, of the stars.

Behind the altar, the huge and intricate mass of alien circuits glowed
and clicked and pulsated ... slowly; seemingly at random, but steadily.
The brain must be self-perpetuating to have lasted this long ... feeding
its energy cells from some power-source Rynason could only guess at, and
repairing its time-worn linkages when necessary. In its memory banks was
stored the science of the race which had preceded even the ancient
Hirlaji. The Outsiders had sprung up when this planet was young, had
fought their way to the stars and galaxies, and eventually, when aeons
of time pressed down, had pulled in their outposts and fallen back to
this world. And they had died here, on this world, falling to dust which
was ground under by the grey race which had followed them to dominance.
"Before time," Horng had said; that must have meant before the Hirlaji
had developed telepathy, before the period covered by the race-memory.

But the Outsiders were still here, alive in that huge alien brain ...
the science, the knowledge, the strange arts of a race which had
conquered the stars while men still wondered about the magic of
lightning and fire. A science was encapsuled here which could speak of
war and curiosity as discontent, but could say nothing definite of
contentment. An incomplete science? A merely alien science? Rynason
didn't know.

And the Hirlaji.... Twenty-six of their race remained, dreaming under
heavy domes through which the stars shone at night and silhouetted the
worn edges of broken stone. Twenty-six grey, hopeless beings who had not
even been waiting. And the Earthmen had come.

For a moment Rynason wondered if the Hirlaji did not perhaps carry a
message for the Earthmen too: that decadence was the price of peace,
death the inevitable end of contentment. The Hirlaji had stilled
themselves, back in the grey past ... had taken their measure of quiet
and contentment for thousands of years, the searching drives of their
race dying within them. And this was their end.

THERE IS NO PURPOSE.

Rynason shook himself, and felt the cold wind cut through his clothing;
it reawakened him. Stooping, he gathered up several of the
disintegrators and brought them with him to the head of the massive
stairs up which the attackers must come. He crouched beside those
stairs, watching for movement below. But he couldn't see anything.

Something about the Hirlaji still bothered him; kneeling in the
gathering darkness he finally isolated it in his mind. It was their
hopelessness, the numbness that had crept over them through the
centuries. No purpose? But they had lived in peace for thousands of
years. No, their death was not merely one of decadence ... it was
suffocation.

They had not chosen peace; it had been thrust upon them. The Hirlaji had
been at the height of their power, their growth still gathering momentum
... and they had to stifle it. The end in view didn't really matter: it
had not been what they would have chosen. And, having had peace forced
upon them before they had been ready for it, they had been unable to
enjoy it; and the stifling of scientific curiosity that had been
necessary to complete the suppression of the war-instinct had left the
Hirlaji with nothing.

But it had all been so unnecessary, Rynason thought. The ancient
Outsiders brain, computing from insufficient evidence probably gathered
during a brief touchdown on Earth, had undoubtedly been able to give
only a tentative appraisal of the situation. But the proto-Hirlaji
language was not constructed to accommodate if's and maybe's, and the
judgments of the brain were taken as law by the Hirlaji.

Now the Earthmen for whom this race had deadened itself into
near-extinction would complete the job ... because the Hirlaji had
learned their mistake far too late.

Rynason shook his head; there was a sickness in his stomach, a gnawing
anger at the ways of history. It was capricious, cruel, senseless. It
played jokes spanning millennia.

Suddenly there were sounds on the stairs below him. Rynason's head
jerked up and he saw five of the Earthmen climbing the stairs, moving as
quickly as they could from level to level, crouching momentarily at each
beneath the cover of the steps. He raised one of the disintegrators,
feeling the rage building up within him.

There was a humming sound by his ear; the beam of one of the stunners
passed by him, touching the rock wall. The wall vibrated at the touch,
but the range was too great for the beam to have done it any damage.
They were close enough, though to stun Rynason if they hit him.

He dropped flat, looking for the man who had fired. In a moment he found
him: a small, lean man slipped almost silently over the edge of one of
the step-levels and rolled quickly to cover beneath the next. He had got
further than Rynason had realized; only three levels separated them now.
He could see, from this distance in the near-dark, the cruel lines of
the man's face. It was a harsh, dirty face, with wrinkles like seams;
the man's eyes were harsh slits. Rynason had seen too many faces like
that here on the Edge; this was a man with a bitter hatred, looking for
the chance to unleash it upon anyone who got in his way. And the
enjoyment which Rynason saw gleaming in the man's eyes chilled him
momentarily.

In that moment the man leaped to the next level, sending off a beam
which struck the wall two feet from Rynason; he felt the stinging
vibration against his body as he lay flat. Slowly he sighted the
disintegrator at the top of the level under which the man had crouched
for cover, and waited for his next leap. Within him he felt only a
bitter cold which matched the wind whipping above him.

Again the man moved--but he had crept to the side of the stairs before
he leaped, and Rynason's shot bit into the stone beside him as he rolled
to safety. Now only one level separated them.

Further down the stairs, Rynason saw the others moving up behind the
smaller man. Still more were moving out from the other buildings and
darting to the stairs. But he had no time to hold them back.

There was silence, except for the wind.

And the man leaped, firing once, twice. The second beam took Rynason in
the left wrist and spun him off-balance for a moment. But he was already
firing in return, rolling to one side. His third shot took the man's
right shoulder off, and bit into his neck. The man staggered forward two
steps, trying to raise his stunner again, but suddenly it clattered to
the floor and he crumpled on top of it. A pool of blood spread around
him.

Rynason moved back to the cover of the side wall, and watched for the
other men. The first one had got too near; Rynason hadn't realized how
easily they could approach in this near-darkness. He felt the numbness
of the stunnerbeam spreading nearly to his shoulder; his left arm was
useless. Cursing, he trained the disintegrator along the line of the
steps and fired.

The disintegrator cut through the stone as though it were putty, for a
range of twenty feet. Rynason played the beam back and forth along the
steps, cutting them down to a smooth ramp which the attackers would have
to climb before they could get to him.

One of them tried to leap the last few levels before Rynason could cut
them, but he sliced the man in two through the chest. The separate parts
of the man's body fell and rolled back to the untouched levels below. He
had not had time to utter even a cry of pain.

For a time, now, there was complete silence in the wind. Rynason could
see the inert legs of the last attacker projecting out over the edge of
the third level down, and undoubtedly the others saw them too. They were
hesitating now, unsure of themselves. Rynason stayed pressed to the
stone floor, waiting. The wind whipped in a rising moan through the
upper reaches of the building.

Another of the men slipped over the edge of the massive stairs, hugging
the deeper darkness at the side of the stair-wall, and slowly inched his
way up the newly-flattened ramp. Rynason watched him coldly, through a
grey haze of fury which was yet tinged with despair. What use was all
this, the killing, the blood and sweat and pain? It disgusted him--yet
by its perverse senselessness it angered him too.

He cut a swathe through the crawling man, through head and neck and
back. A gory shell-like hulk slid back to the foot of the ramp.

And abruptly the remaining men broke and ran. One of them rose and
stumbled down the steep levels of the stairs, heedless of his exposure;
with a shock, Rynason saw that it was Rene Malhomme. Another followed
... and another. There were almost a dozen of them on the stairs; they
all broke and ran. Rynason sent one beam after them, biting a depression
into the rock wall beside them. Then they were gone.

Rynason moved back from the head of the stairs and leaned wearily
against the stone. His left arm was beginning to tingle with returning
circulation now; he rubbed it absently with his good hand and wondered
if they would try the sheer walls on the other side of the Temple. He
had scaled one of these ancient walls, but would they try it? Certainly
they stood little chance coming up the stairs, unless they gathered for
a concerted rush. And who would lead such a suicidal attack? These men
were vicious, but they valued their lives too.

Yet he couldn't watch the black walls. Leaving the stairway unguarded
would be the most dangerous course of all.

In a few minutes the hand-radio, forgotten on the stone floor behind
him, flashed an intermittent light which caught his eye in the dusk.
That would be Manning.

Rynason slid the radio over to the head of the stairs and switched on
there, keeping an eye on the stairway.

"Lee, do you hear me?"

"I hear you." His voice was low and bitter.

"I'm coming in to talk. Hold your God damned fire."

"Why should I?" said Rynason,

"Because I'm bringing Mara with me. It's too bad you don't trust me,
Lee, but if that's the way you want it I won't trust you either."

"That's a good idea," he said, and switched off.

Almost immediately he saw them come out from behind the cover of a
fallen wall across the dusty street. Mara walked in front of Manning;
her head was high, her face almost expressionless. The cold wind threw
dust against their legs as they crossed the open space to the base of
the steps.

Rynason stood motionless, watching them come up. Manning still had his
two stunners, but they were in their holsters. He kept behind the girl
all the way, pausing before pushing her up the open ramp at the top,
then moving even more closely behind her. Rynason stood with the
disintegrator hanging loosely in one hand at his side.

On the colonnade Manning gripped the girl by her undamaged arm. He
nodded to one of the doorways into the temple, and Rynason preceded him
inside.

As they entered Manning lit a handlight and set it on the floor. The
room was thrown into stark relief, the shadows of the motionless aliens
striking the walls and ceiling with an almost physical harshness.
Manning paused a moment to look at the Hirlaji, and at the altar across
the room.

"We can hear each other in here," he said at last.

"What do you want?" said Rynason. There was cool hatred in his voice,
and the knife-scar on his forehead was a dark snake-line in the hard
glare of the handlight.

Manning shrugged, a bit too quickly. He was nervous. "I want you out of
here, Lee, and I'm not accepting any argument this time."

Rynason looked at Mara, standing helplessly in the older man's grip. He
glanced down at the disintegrator in his hand.

Manning drew one of his stunners quickly, and trained it at Rynason's
face. "I said no arguments. Put the weapon down, Lee."

Rynason couldn't risk a shot at the man, with Mara in front of him. He
carefully laid the disintegrator on the floor.

"Slide it over here."

Rynason kicked it across the floor. Manning bent and picked it up,
returned the stunner to its holster and held the disintegrator on him.

"That's better. Now we can avoid arguments--right, Lee? You've always
like peaceful settlements, haven't you?"

Rynason glared at him, but didn't say anything. He walked slowly into
the center of the room, among the Hirlaji. They paid no attention.

"Lee, he's going to kill them!" Mara burst out.

Rynason was standing now next to the interpreter. The handlight which
Manning had set on the floor across the room was trained upwards, and
the interpreter was still in the darkness. He lowered his head as if in
thought and switched on the machine with his foot.

"Is that true, Manning? Are you going to kill them?" His voice was loud
and it echoed from the walls.

"I can't trust them," Manning said, his voice automatically growing
louder in response to Rynason's own. He stepped forward, pushing Mara in
front of him. "They're not human, Lee--you keep forgetting that, for
some reason. Think of it as clearing the area of hostile native animal
life--that comes under the duties of a governor, now doesn't it?"

"And what about the men outside? Did you put it that way to them?"

"They do what I say!" Manning snapped. "They don't give a damn who they
kill. There's going to be fighting here whether it's against the Hirlaji
or between the townsmen. As governor, I'd rather they took it all out on
the horses here. Domestic tranquillity, shall we say?" He was smiling
now; he had everything in control.

"So that's your purpose?" Rynason said. There was anger in his voice,
feigned or real--perhaps both. But his voice rose still higher. "Is
butchery your only goal in life, Manning?"

Manning stepped toward him again, his eyes narrowing. "Butchery? It's
better than no purpose at all, Lee! It'll get me off of these damned
outworlds eventually, if I'm a good enough butcher. And I mean to be,
Lee ... I mean to be."

Rynason turned his back on the man in contempt, and walked past Horng to
the base of the ancient altar. He looked up at the Eye of Kor, dim now
when not in use. He turned.

"_Is_ it better, Manning?" he shouted. "Does it give you a right to
live, while you slaughter the Hirlaji?"

Manning cursed under his breath, and took a quick step toward Rynason;
his hard, black shadow leaped up the wall.

"_Yes!_ It gives me any right I can take!"

It happened quickly. Manning was now beside the massive figure of the
alien, Horng; in his anger he had loosened his grip on Mara. He raised
the disintegrator toward Rynason.

And Horng's huge fist smashed it from his hand.

Manning never knew what hit him. Before he had even realized that the
disintegrator was gone Horng had him. One heavy hand circled his throat;
the other gripped his shoulder. The alien lifted him viciously and broke
him like a stick; Rynason could almost hear the man's neck break, so
final was that twist of the alien's hands.

Horng lifted the lifeless body above his head and hurled it to the floor
with such force that the man's head was stoved in and his body lay
twisted and motionless where it fell.

Afterwards there was silence in the room, save for the distant sound of
the wind against the building outside. Horng stood looking down at the
broken body at his feet, his expression as unfathomable as it had ever
been. Mara stared in shocked silence at the alien.

Rynason walked slowly to the mike lying beside the interpreter. He
raised it.

"You can move quickly, old leather, when there's a reason for it," he
said.

Horng turned his head to him and silently dipped it to one side.

* * * * *

Rynason lifted the broken form of Manning's body and carried it out to
the top of the steps leading down from the temple. Mara went with him,
carrying the handlight; it fell harshly on Manning's crushed features as
Rynason waited atop the huge, steep stairway. The wind tore at his hair,
whipping it wildly around his head ... but Manning's head was caked with
blood. In a moment, the men from the town came out from cover; they
stood at the base of the steps, indecisive.

They too were waiting for something.

Rynason hefted the body up over one shoulder and drew a disintegrator
with the hand he had freed. Slowly, then, he descended the steps.

When he had neared the bottom the circle of men fell back. They were
uneasy and sullen ... but they had seen the power of the disintegrator,
and now they saw Manning's crushed body.

Rynason bent and dropped the body to the ground. He looked up coldly at
the ring of faces and said, "One of the Hirlaji did that with his hands.
That's all--just his hands."

For a moment everyone was still ... and then one of the men broke from
the crowd, snarling, with a heavy knife in his hand. He stopped just
outside the white circle of the handlight, the knife extended before
him. Rynason raised the disintegrator and trained it on him, his face
frozen into a cold mask.

The man stood in indecision.

And from the crowd behind him another figure stepped forward. It was
Malhomme, and his lips were drawn back in disgust. He struck with an
open hand, the side of his palm catching the man's neck beneath his ear.
The man fell sprawling to the ground, and lay still.

Malhomme looked at him for a moment, then he turned to the men behind
him. "That's enough!" he shouted. "_Enough!_" Angrily, he looked down at
the crumpled form of Manning's body. "Bury him!" he said.

There was still no movement from the men; Malhomme grabbed two of them
roughly and shoved them out of the crowd. They hesitated, looking
quickly from Malhomme to the disintegrator in Rynason's hand, then bent
to pick up the body.

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