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THE
WARRIORS FROM NOWHERE

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“Crime,” said Captain Dominic Flandry of the Terran Empire’s Naval Intelligence Corps, “is entirely a matter of degree. If you shoot your neighbor in order to steal his property, you are a murderer and a thief, subject to enslavement. If, however, you gather a band of lusty fellows in the name of honor and glory, knock off a couple of million people, take their planet, and hit up the survivors for taxes, you are a great conqueror, a hero, a statesman, and your name goes down in the history books. Sooner or later, this inconsistency seeps into the national consciousness and produces a desire for universal peace. That in turn brings about what is known as decadence, especially among philosophers who never had to do any of the actual fighting. The Empire is in this condition, of which the early stages are the most agreeable period of a civilization to live in—somewhat analogous to a banana just starting to show brown spots. I fear, however, that by now we are just a bit overripe.”

He was not jailed for his remarks because he made them in private, sitting on the balcony of a rented lodge on Varrak’s southern continent and finishing his usual noontime breakfast. His flamboyantly pajamaed legs were cocked up on the rail. Sighting over his coffee cup and between his feet, he saw a mountainside drop steeply down to green sun-flooded wilderness. That light played over a lean, straight-boned face and a long hard body which made him look like anything but an officer of a sated imperium. But then, his business was a strenuous one these days.

His current mistress offered him a cigarette and he inhaled it into lighting. She was a stunning blonde named Ella Mclntyre, whom he had bought a few weeks previously in Fort Lone, the planet’s one city. He had learned that she was of the old pioneer stock, semi-aristocrats who had fallen on times so bad that at last they had chosen by lot some of their number to sell as “voluntary” slaves. That kind of sacrifice was not in accordance with law or custom on Terra, but Terra was a long way off and its tributaries necessarily had a great deal of local autonomy. Flandry had wangled an invitation to the private auction and decided she would be a good investment. She could have far worse owners than himself, and when he resold her—at a profit—he’d make sure the next one was a decent sort too.

He sipped, wiped his mustache, and drew breath to continue his musings. An apologetic cough brought his head around. His valet, the only other being in the lodge, had emerged from it. This was a native of Shalmu, remarkably humanoid, short, slender, with hairless green skin, prehensile tail, and impeccable manners. Flandry had dubbed him Chives and taught him things which made him valuable in more matters than laying out a dress suit.

“Pardon me, sir,” he said. His Anglic was as nearly perfect as vocal organs allowed. “Admiral Fenross is calling from the city.”

Flandry swore. “Fenross! What’s he doing on this planet? Tell him to—no, never mind, it’s anatomically impossible.” He sought the study, frowning. He wasted no love on his superior, and vice versa, but Fenross wouldn’t contact a man on furlough, especially in person, unless it was urgent.

The screen held a gaunt, sharp countenance with dark-shadowed eyes. Red hair was dank with sweat. “There you are!” the admiral exclaimed. “Code 770.” When Flandry had set the scrambler: “All leaves cancelled. Get busy at once.” His voice broke across. “Though God knows what you or anyone can do. But it means all our heads.”

Flandry took a drag of smoke that sucked in his cheeks. “What do you mean, sir?”

“The sack of Fort Lone was more than a raid—”

“What sack?”

“You mean you don’t know?”

“Haven’t tuned the telly for a week, sir. I’d better occupation.” Beneath the drawl, the carefully casual manner, Flandry’s skin prickled.

Fenross snarled something and said thickly, “Well, then, for your information, Captain, yesterday a barbarian force streaked in, shot out what defenses the town had, landed, looted, put the place to the torch, and were gone again in three hours from first contact. They also took about a thousand captives, mostly women. No Naval base here, you know, as thinly populated as this globe is. By the time word had gotten to the nearest patrol force and it had arrived, they were untraceable.”

“You happened to be with it, sir, and have taken charge?” Flandry asked. He knew the answer; he was merely stalling while his mind regained balance and got into karate stance.

Barbarians—Beyond this Taurian sector of the Empire lay the wild stars, ungarrisoned, virtually unexplored; and among them prowled creatures who had gotten spaceships and nuclear weapons too soon. Raids and punitive expeditions had often gone back and forth across the marches. But an assault on Varrak? Hard to believe. Predators go for fat and easy prey.

“Of course I was, and have, you jigglebrain,” Fenross snapped. “After we cleared up that last business, I didn’t set my trajectory for the nearest vacation area. As undermanned as we are out here—Now we’ll have to fight.”

“I, sir?” Flandry couldn’t resist saying. “That’s the combat services’ department, I’m told. Why pick on me?”

“You and every other man in the sector. Listen.” Fenross seemed almost to lean out of the screen. “The bandits have not been identified, though mainly they look human. And . . . among the people they kidnapped is her Highness, Lady Megan of Luna, the favorite granddaughter of the Emperor himself!”

Not a muscle stirred in Flandry’s visage, save to form a long, low whistle; but his belly tautened till it hurt. “Any clues at all?”

“Well, one officer did manage to lie hidden in the ruins and take a holofilm, just a few minutes’ worth. Otherwise we’ve only the accounts of demoralized civilians, practically worthless.” Fenross paused. Obviously it hurt him to add: “Maybe it’s luck that you were here. We do need you.”

“I should say you do, dear chief.” Modesty was not a failing of Flandry’s, nor would he pass by a chance to twit his superior when he couldn’t be punished for it. “All right, I’ll flit directly over. Cheers.”

He cut the circuit and returned to the balcony. Chives was clearing away the breakfast dishes; Ella was nervously pacing. “So long, children,” the man said. “I’m on my way.”

Eyes like blued silver sought him. “What has happened?” the girl asked, all at once gone calm.

Flandry gave her a smile of sorts. “I’ve just been handed a chance for either a triumph that may earn me a fortune, or a failure that may earn me burial in a barbarian’s barnyard. If a bookmaker quotes you odds of ten to one on the latter, bet your life savings, because he’s ripe for the plucking.”


It was like a scene from some mythic hell, save that its kind had been enacted much too many times in history.

Against a background of shattered walls and jumping flames, men crowded, surged, shouted, laughed—big men in helmet, cuirass, kilt, some carrying archaic swords as well as modern small arms. The picture was focused on an ornamental terrace above the central plaza. There huddled a dozen young women, stripped alike of clothing and hope, weeping, shuddering, or lost in an apathy of despair. Elsewhere, others were being led off to a disc-shaped vessel, doubtless a tender to an orbiting mother ship; still others were being herded through the swarm toward the upper level. It was a hastily conducted sale. Silver, gold, gems, the plunder of the city, were tossed at a gnomish unhuman figure that squatted there and pushed each purchase downstairs to a grinning conqueror.

The film ended. Flandry looked through the transparency in the undamaged, commandeered office where he sat, out over desolation. Smoke still made an acrid haze in what had been Fort Lone. Imperial marines stood guard, a relief station dispensed food and medical help, a pair of corvettes hung in the sky and heavier battlecraft swung beyond its blueness—all of which was rather too late to do much good.

“Well,” rasped Fenross, “what do you make of it?”

Flandry replayed, stopped motion, and turned the enlarger knob, till a holographic image stood big and grotesque before him. “Except for this dwarf creature,” he replied, “I’d say they were all of human race.”

“Of course—” The admiral sounded as if he barely stopped himself from finishing, “—idiot!” After a moment: “Could they be from some early colony out in these parts that reverted to barbarism . . . during the Troubles, perhaps? I don’t believe complete records are left on every attempt at emigration and settlement made during the Breakup, but we do know quite a few were less than successful. Could such a retrograded people have worked their way back up to a point where they could start reduplicating some of the ancestral technology, before outgrowing the wild ways they’d acquired meanwhile?”

“I wonder,” Flandry said. “The spacecraft in the film is an odd design. I think there are some societies within the Merseian hegemony that employ more or less the same type, but it’s not what I’d expect barbarians imitating our boats to have.”

Fenross gulped. His fingernails whitened where he gripped the table edge. “If the Merseians are behind this—”

Flandry gestured at the dwarf. “Tall, dark, and handsome there may provide a clue to their origin. I don’t know. That’s for data retrieval in the nearest well-stocked xenological archive to tell us, and I’m afraid it is not very near at all.”

He leaned back, tugged his chin, and continued low-voiced, “But I must say the pattern of this raid is strange in every respect. Varrak’s well inside the border, with only a small area that’s been worth colonizing, thus not an especially tempting mark. Plenty of better prospects lie closer to the Wilderness. Then too, the raiders knew exactly how to neutralize the defenses; it was done with almost unnecessary precision, scanty as they were. And, of course, the raid collared the princess. Suggests inside help, eh?”

“I thought of that, naturally,” Fenross grunted. “I’m setting up a quiz of every survivor of the security force. If narco indicates anything suspicious about anybody, we’ll give him the hypnoprobe.”

“I suspect it’s wasted effort, sir. The bandit chief is too smooth an operator to leave clues of that kind. If he had collaborators here, they left with his lads and we’ll list them as ‘missing, presumed killed in action.’ But what’s the story on her Highness?”

Fenross groaned. “She was making a tour of the marches, according to a couple of servants who escaped. Officially it was an inspection, actually it seems to’ve been for thrills. How could those muck-heads on Terra conceivably have allowed it?” His fist struck the table, then he sighed: “Well, I’ve heard she has the Emperor around her little finger.”

I suppose even the hardest old son of a bitch must have a sentimental streak, perhaps mushier than in most of us, Flandry thought. Also, his newly and forcibly acceded Majesty has so much else to worry about, one can understand how he could be wheedled into supposing a region was safe that never caused him trouble before, and indeed gave him support.

“Anyhow,” Fenross went on, “she traveled incognito, as simply a nouveau riche tourist, and her staff included a crack secret service detail. No use, it turned out. The raiders blasted their way into the hotel where she was staying, gunned down her guards, and made off with her and most of her attendants.”

“Again,” said Flandry, “they appear to have had inside information. I’d hypothesize they got her itinerary beforehand, on Terra itself or early during the trip. The looting here was a sideline and a red herring. That includes the picturesque little bit of salacity we’ve seen filmed. There wasn’t time to sell off any substantial fraction of an estimated thousand prisoners, but it’s the kind of thing that barbarians are popularly supposed to do.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Fenross said slowly. “I’m also afraid, however, that some powerful people in this sector will not. They’ll demand that whole task forces be sent to scour the Wilderness before their own precious interests suffer attack; and they’ve got the influence to have their demands met.”

Flandry nodded. “Exactly,” he replied. He took forth a cigarette. “What’s your guess at the real motive? Ransom?”

“Probably, and I hope to God the kidnappers only want money. But—you know as well as I, barbarian kings and the like may be rough, but they’re seldom stupid. I’m afraid her ransom will be concessions we can ill afford. If they are barbarians we’re dealing with. If they’re really, let’s say, the Merseians—That hardly bears thinking about, does it?”

“I can’t see the Emperor—the present one, at any rate—selling out the Empire, even to get his favorite granddaughter back.”

“No . . . no. . . . But he’ll be distraught when he hears, I suppose. It may go ill with officers like you and me, who were on the scene or near it.” Fenross’ head bobbed up and down. “Yes, I’m quite sure it will.”

Flandry scowled. He was fond of living. “Somehow I doubt the operation was mounted just to get rid of you, or even of me, sir. The political purpose—”

“I haven’t had a chance to wonder about that yet,” Fenross snapped. “I doubtless won’t get one, either. Too much else on hand. Setting up intensive studies here—probably useless, I know, but they must be carried out. Contacting commands throughout the sector. Getting an Intelligence operation mounted that’ll go through the whole adjacent Wilderness, and in among the Merseians, and—” He lifted haunted eyes to meet Flandry’s. “I’m an administrator, that’s what I am, a bloody damned administrator, understaffed and swamped. You’re the dashing, glamorous field agent, independent to the brink of insubordination, aren’t you? Aren’t you? Well, don’t just sit there! Get going!”

“I might do something unorthodox, sir, without checking with you first,” Flandry was careful to warn. “Time could be short and you preoccupied. For the proverbial covering of my own rear end, may I have a roving commission, duly entered in the data bank? And I’ll also need clearance and code for instant access to any information whatsoever.”

Fenross’ desperation was made plain when he mumbled, “All right, you slippery bastard, you’ll have ’em, and God help us both if you misuse the authority. Now go away and start whatever you have in mind.” He retained the coolness not to ask what that might be.

Flandry rose. “It might stimulate my wits if a small reward were offered, sir,” he said mildly.


The lodge was as good a place as any to commence work. Like all capital ships, the dreadnaught now in orbit around Varrak bore very complete electronic files of Intelligence material pertinent to the sector of her assignment, as well as much else. The special receiver which he had brought back with him, responding to his properly identified requisition, gave him any displays he called for that were available; when he demanded printouts, those were on sheets that would crumble within the hour. In dressing gown and slippers, he sat perusing records of which many had cost lives, of which some were worth an empire. Chives kept him supplied with coffee and cigarettes.

Near dawn of the planet’s thirty-one-hour day, Ella stole up behind him and laid a hand on his head. “Aren’t you ever coming in to sleep, Nick?” she asked. He had encouraged her to address him familiarly, but this was the first time she had yet done so.

“Not for a while,” he answered curtly, without glancing at her. “I’ll load up on stim instead, if need be. I’m on the track of a hunch; and if it’s right, we’re on mighty short rations of time.”

She nodded, light sliding down unbound tresses, and settled herself quietly onto a couch. After a while the sun rose.

“Stars and planets and little pink asteroids,” muttered Flandry all at once. “I may have an answer. The infotrieve is a splendid invention, if you’re on the seeking rather than the hiding end of things.”

She regarded him in continued silence. He got up, moved his cramped limbs about, rumpled his seal-brown hair. “The answer could be wrong,” he said aloud, only half to her. “If it’s right, the danger is the same, or perhaps more. Talking about sticking your head in a lion’s mouth—when the lion has halitosis—”

He began to pace. “Chives is a handy fellow with a spacecraft, a gun, or a set of burglar’s tools; but I need a different kind of help as well.”

“Can I give it, Nick?” Ella asked low. “I’d be glad to. You’ve been good to me. I never quite expected that.”

He regarded her a moment. She rose to stand before him, tall and lithe, descendant of those who made a home for themselves on a hostile world and even turned a small part of it into a bit of Terra—“My dear,” he replied, “can you shoot?”

“I used to hunt axhorns in the mountains,” she told him.

“Then . . . what’d you say if I set you free? Not just that, but hunted up what I could of your other kinfolk who had to be sold, and acquired them and manumitted them and provided a bit of a grubstake? The reward should cover that, with a trifle to spare for my next poker game.”

She had never wept before in his presence. “I, I, I have no words.”

He held her close. “The price is a considerable risk of losing everything,” he murmured. “Of death, or torture, or degradation, or whatever horror you dare imagine, or maybe some that you can’t. We’re dealing with an utterly monstrous ego. If power corrupts, the prospect of it can do worse.”

She lifted her tear-wet face to his. “You’re . . . going too . . . aren’t you?” she breathed. Stepping back, straightening: “No, don’t you dare leave me behind!”

His laugh was shaken, but he slapped her in a not very brotherly fashion. “All right, macushla. You can come out on the target range and prove what you claimed about your shooting while Chives packs.”


The boat Flandry chose was no match in any respect—speed, armament, comfort—for his private speedster; but the latter was afar, and this one was an agile fighter. In her, it was a three-day flit to Vor. After they had rehearsed what must be done as best they could, he spent the time amusing himself and his companions. There might not be another chance.

Vor had been discovered early in the age of exploration by Cynthians, but colonized by humans, like Varrak. More terrestroid, it had become populous and wealthy, and was a natural choice of capital for the duke who governed the Taurian Sector. Less grandiose than Terrans, but perhaps more energetic, its inhabitants eventually found themselves dominant in what was almost an empire within the Empire, their ruler sitting high in the councils of the Imperium.

Flandry left Chives in charge of the boat at Gloriana spaceport, and slipped the portmaster a substantial bribe in case he should need cooperation. He and Ella took a flittercab into the city and got a penthouse in one of its better hotels. He never stinted himself when he was on expense account, but this time the penthouse had a sound business reason. You could land on the roof, should a quick getaway become necessary.

Having settled in, he phoned the ducal palace and got through to a secretary in charge of appointments. “This is Captain Sir Dominic Flandry of his Majesty’s Naval Intelligence Corps,” he announced to the face in the screen with a pomposity equal to its effeminacy. “I have official business to conduct at his Grace’s earliest convenience.”

“I am afraid, Sir Dominic, that his Grace is engaged until—” A buzz sounded near the secretary’s elbow. “Excuse me, sir.” He turned and conferred over a sonic-shielded instrument out of the scanner field. When he resumed the earlier conversation, he was obsequious. “Of course, Sir Dominic. His Grace will be pleased to see you at 1400 tomorrow.”

“Good,” said Flandry. “I’ll bring a lollipop for you.” He switched off and laughed into Ella’s astonishment: “Usually in this business one doesn’t want fame, but sometimes the fact that one has a certain amount of it can be used. Pretty Boy there was being monitored, as I’d expected. He was informed that my presence is urgently desired at the palace. No doubt the idea is to find out whether I nourish any suspicions, and, if I do, to allay them.”

Night had fallen. They had not yet turned on the lights, for the one great moon of Vor was in the wall transparency, its radiance making the roof garden outside into a sight of elven beauty. Ella also became dreamlike, quicksilver amidst shadow. But he saw how she bit her lip. “That doesn’t sound good for us,” she whispered.

“It sounds very much as though my notion is right. Look here.” Flandry leaned back in his chair, confronted her where she hunched on a sofa, and bridged his fingers. He had been over this ground a dozen times already, but he liked to hear himself talk, and besides, it might soothe the poor, lonely, brave girl.

“The Corps is highly efficient if you point it in the right direction,” he said. “In this case, the kidnapping was so designed that Fenross is pointed in a hundred different directions. He’s forced to tackle the hopeless job of investigating uncounted barbarian worlds and the very Roidhunate of Merseia. But I, having a nasty suspicious mind, thought that our own space might harbor persons who wouldn’t mind having the Emperor’s favorite granddaughter for a house guest.

“That alien-type spaceship was a clue toward Merseia, but I didn’t like it. Merseia’s too far from here for it to be a likely influence on any local barbarians; and if the operation was Merseian, why such a blatant signature on it? Likewise, ordinary buccaneers would not have come to Varrak in the first place if they had any understanding of the economics of their trade, and could scarcely have garnered such accurate information in the second place. But who then were the raiders, and who led them?

“That gnome creature gave me a hunch. He was obviously in some position of authority, or he wouldn’t have been demanding loot in exchange for those girls. The pirates could simply have taken the women for themselves; it’d have made an equally effective charade. The files held no information on a race of that description, but I did find out that Duke Alfred of Tauria has a number of aliens in his household, some from regions little known or unknown.

“Let’s make it a working hypothesis that those humans were also Alfred’s folk, in operatic garb. What then?

“Well, my guess is that before long, word will come from what purports to be a barbarian king: he’s got Princess Megan, and her ransom will be a goodly chunk of this sector. The Emperor will scarcely yield, but in his grief and outrage he’ll want nothing but war. However, we’re spread too thin, our internal peace is still too precarious, for him to dare bring the whole Navy to bear, or even a substantial part of it—especially when no one knows yet where the enemy lives. Duke Alfred is responsible for Tauria. He’ll offer to mobilize its strength, to assume most of the burden. Mobilization en masse can’t take place overnight, and under any other circumstances would rouse such suspicion that he’d instantly be replaced, with all his senior officers. But as matters stand, he’ll be cheered on, given every possible assistance . . . and presently be ready to declare himself an independent monarch. I’m afraid that the key people in too many units will see too much gain for themselves to refuse his leadership. I’m also afraid the cost of crushing him will be too great. Probably, after some fighting, he’ll get his wish. And so the Empire—human civilization—loses another prime bulwark.

“At least,” finished Flandry, “that’s how I’d work the swindle.”

Ella shivered. “War,” she said; her voice wavered. “Cities going up in flame. Deaths in the millions. Looting, enslaving—No!”

“Of course,” he reminded her, “we need proof. I’ve left my suspicions in the appropriate data bank, in case we don’t return, but saw no point in telling Fenross just yet. He’d surely consider them fantastic; he has an exaggerated opinion of our aristocracy. Besides, if I’m right, the Taurian divisions of the Corps are riddled with Alfred’s agents; you don’t start a coup like this on the impulse of a moment. So you and I are here to infiltrate right back.”

She nodded, mute, and hugged herself as if caught in a winter wind. He rose, went to her, urged her gently to her feet, held her close and stroked her hair. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I needn’t have repeated all this to you, eh? It only told you once again what an utter bastard I am, using a beautiful young girl for a chess piece. What can I say except that I’m on the board too, and—”

She lifted her countenance toward his. Moonlight glimmered off tears, but somehow she smiled. “Y-y-you’re a nice bastard,” she said.

He laughed, a bit wistfully, before he completed his sentence: “—and we ought to have several hours ahead of us to spend as we like. Hmmm?”

—Afterward they stood watch and watch. It was good that they did. Between midnight and morning, Ella shook Flandry awake. Silently, she pointed at the optic wall. A flitter was landing on the roof.

He glided up and sought the weapons laid nearby. “Quick reaction,” he said low. “I did expect his Grace would wait to receive me first. Let’s hope this means he’s rattled.”

Ella cradled a slugthrowing rifle in her arms. Slowly moving, the moon still cast her into white, unreal relief. Her tone was steady. “Could they be innocent?”

“If so, they haven’t had the courtesy to call ahead, which by itself makes me dislike them,” he answered. “Here, take the rest of your gear. Come on back to the corner. Be ready to use the sofa for a shield.”

Three murky forms emerged and approached the wall. Moonbeams glittered on metal in their hands. “They look like hirelings, not regular militiamen,” Flandry observed. He felt quite cool, now that action was upon him. “Well, the underworld always has been a recruiting source for revolutionaries. Let’s see what they do.”

One man bore no gun, but a thing that Flandry soon recognized as a high-powered portable drill with a head of synthetic diamond. On his back was a tank. The bit made the lowest of whines as it went through the wall. He retracted it and brought a hose around from the tank. “Sleepy gas,” Flandry said. “They want us for interrogation. But we’d never live to dine out on the experience afterward.”

He and Ella had masks against the contingency, but he saw no point in donning them. Nor was he in a position to conduct a quiz himself. He gave the woman her instructions and aimed his blaster. As the nozzle of the hose came through the hole, the weapon cracked. A blue-white lightning bolt pierced the wall and the intruder went down. Ella’s rifle barked next to his ear, dropping the one on the right at the same time. They never knew which of them took the third, a second later; both shots struck home.

The flitter did not stir. Flandry clicked his tongue. “Nobody left at the controls,” he said. “Rank amateurism.”

He went outside to make sure the three were dead and to search for any clues. There were none to speak of, though he strengthened his impression that these had been civilians. Returning, he found Ella motionless, staring down at her weapon. “I never fired at a sophont before,” she said thinly. “I never killed a man before.”

He kissed her. The lips beneath his were cold and dry. “Don’t let it bother you,” he counselled. “Occupational hazard in their profession, as in mine. Remember, we’re trying to head off the killing of millions of innocents.” He moved toward the phone. “It’d be in character for an officer of Intelligence not to want the police in, and I have the authority to order that.” He punched a key. “Night manager, please. . . . Hello. I’m afraid we’ve a bit of a mess in our place. Can you have somebody come clean up?”


The audience hall was cathedral-vaulted and ornate. Its present master had not changed it, but his more austere personality showed in the relatively streamlined ceremonies at court, and in the black-uniformed guardsmen who stood ranked along the walls. Flandry’s dress garb, like the gown and veil of the young woman who followed him, outshone the appearance of the man on the throne.

Duke Alfred was big, his frame running to paunchiness in middle age but still basically muscular, his blocky, gray-bearded face devoid of humor but alive with pride. His dossier had given Flandry a distinct idea that here was a dangerous person. Yet when the latter had snapped a salute and identified himself, Alfred said graciously enough: “At ease, Captain, and welcome in your own right as well as on his Majesty’s service. Who is your company?”

“A token of esteem for your grace,” Flandry replied. Alfred’s glance dropped to the control bracelet on Ella’s wrist which marked and sealed her status as property. “Ella is her name, and I’ve found her satisfying. Now—well, I may have to trouble you a fair amount in line of duty, and wouldn’t want you to feel I was being arrogant, so—” He spread his palms and grinned his smarmiest grin.

“Well. Well, well.” Alfred stroked his beard. “Let us see.” Shyly, Ella lowered her veil. Appreciation kindled on his countenance. “Very good, Captain. I thank you indeed.” He gestured. “Let her be well quartered.” With a leer: “We’ll soon get acquainted, girl, you and I.”

She smiled and curtsied in half frightened, half servile fashion. She was quite an actress, as Flandry had learned when he tested her on the trip here. A gigantic, four-armed Gorzunian slave led her out, toward the harem.

“And what is your errand?” Alfred asked Flandry. “I’ve heard of you. You wouldn’t be sent on any trifling matter.”

“The details are for no ears but your Grace’s and your most trusted officers’,” was the reply. “However, thus far I have no details, and see no harm in confessing before this assembly that I’m on rather a fishing expedition.” He went on to spin a plausible tale of Merseian agents, some of human race, at large in the outer provinces for the purpose of reviving discord, and the need to track them down. Having described the incident of the previous night, he attributed it to the machinations of the opposition, implying quite clearly that his role was partly that of decoy. The bodies were now in charge of the local Corps office, in hopes that they could be identified and thus provide a lead. Nowhere did he mention Varrak, or Ella’s marksmanship.

“I’ve no direct knowledge of subversive activity,” Alfred said after expressing appropriate shock, “but you shall certainly have every cooperation we can give you. What are your immediate needs?”

“Nothing at once, thank you, your Grace. I’ll just be sniffing around. If something comes up—” Et cetera, et cetera, until dismissal.

The ducal palace was part of a castle, a fortress within an outer wall of fused stone, raised during the Troubles. By the time Flandry got to the outer gate, his spine was a-tingle. Alfred was not about to let him go freely hither and yon. There would surely be another attempt to capture him for hypnoprobing, to determine what his mission really was. When he disappeared—forever—the Merseian agents he had invented would be the obvious culprits. And this time the Duke would scarcely trust hired thugs.

Flandry checked with the commandant of Intelligence for Vor, since he knew Alfred’s men would verify whether or not he did. He was unsurprised, though saddened, to hear that no progress had been made on tracking down those who dispatched his attackers. So here, at least, the dry rot had entered his own service. . . . Back in the penthouse, he changed into loose civilian dress. It concealed the weapons and kit he secured under its blouse.

In the hotel restaurant he ate a solitary supper, thinking much about Ella, and dawdled over his liqueur. Two men who had entered soon after him and taken a corner table idled too, but somewhat awkwardly. He studied them without seeming to do so. One was small and clever-looking, the other big and rangy and with a military bearing—doubtless from the household guards, out of uniform for this occasion. He would do.

At last Flandry got up and sauntered out to the ground-level street. A good many people were around, afoot, under gaudy lights and luminescent elways. (He remembered how moonbeams washed across Ella.) His shadows mingled with the crowd. He would have shaken them easily enough, but that wasn’t his intention. Let him give them every break instead; they were hard-working chaps and deserved a helping hand.

He hailed a flittercab. Such vehicles were not autopiloted in Gloriana. “Know any good dives?” he asked fatuously as he climbed in. “You know, girls, dope, anything goes, but not too expensive.”

“I wouldn’t be much of a cabdriver if I didn’t, would I, sir?” the man replied, and took off for a less respectable part of town. He landed on the twenty-fifth flange of a tall building, beneath a garish flickersign. Another taxi came down behind his.

Flandry spent a while in the bar, amused at the embarrassment of his followers, and then picked a girl, a slim creature with an insolent red mouth. She snuggled against him as they went down the corridor. A door opened for them and they passed through.

“Sorry, sister,” Flandry murmured. He pulled out his stun pistol and let her have a medium beam. As she collapsed, he eased her onto the bed. She’d be unconscious for hours. He tucked a decent sum of money into her bodice and stood waiting, weapon in hand.

It was not long before the door opened again. The two men were there. Had they bribed the madam or threatened her? In any event, this had looked like an excellent opportunity to carry out their assignment. Flandry’s stunner dropped the smaller one.

The big fellow took him by surprise, pouncing like a cat. A skilled twist sent the gun clattering free against the wall. Flandry drove a knee upward. Pain lanced through him as it hit body armor. The guardsman got a hold which should have pinioned him. Flandry broke free with a trick he knew, delivered a karate chop, and added a rabbit punch. The guardsman fell.

For a moment Flandry hesitated, panting. He had no use for the short one, whom it might be safest to kill. However—He settled for giving both a calculated jolt which ought to keep them unconscious for hours. Thereafter he opened the window and stepped out onto the emergency landing. With his pocket phone he summoned another cab. It came to hover before him on its gravs, and the driver looked out into the muzzle of a blaster.

“We’ve three sleepers to get rid of,” said Flandry cheerfully. The girl must be included, since her slack body—after she was much overdue for reappearance—would raise an alarm, as her mere absence would not. “Give a hand, friend, unless you want to add a corpse to the museum.”

He had the appalled man lug his victims out into the vehicle and fly him well beyond the city. They descended on a meadow in a patch of woods. Flandry stunned the driver and laid all four out under a tree. He tucked a goodly tip in the cabbie’s tunic.

Now to work! He stripped the guardsmen naked and tossed the clothes of the smaller one into the taxi. The big one he measured in detail with his identification kit, and bundled up the garb of him, complete with wallet and documents. Wildflowers grew round about, long-stemmed and white-petaled. Flandry folded all four pairs of hands on breasts and put a flower in each. “Requiescant in pace,” he intoned. The sleepers wouldn’t wake till perhaps noon, and had a long hike to the nearest place where they could call for help. The nakedness of the guardsmen would probably cause further delay. By the time they could report in, the affair ought to be finished, one way or another.

Flandry returned in the cab. At the edge of town, he abandoned it and got a different one, which brought him to the spaceport. He was sure that a ducal agent or two would be watching his spacecraft. If so, that person saw him go aboard, presumably without seeing the bundle under his cloak. He got immediate clearance from the portmaster’s office and lifted into space. His idea was that the opposition would guess he’d been scared off and was at least going to conduct his business from a safe distance. If so, splendid; he always preferred to be underestimated.

Once in orbit, he and Chives got busy disguising him. Much can be done with responsiplast on the face, contact lenses with holographic retinal patterns, false fingerprints, and the rest. Possibly more can be done by sheer theater, and Flandry had paid attention to the ways his man walked and sat and gestured. The effect wouldn’t pass a close examination, but he was gambling that there wouldn’t be any. When he got through, he was Lieutenant Roger Bargen of the ducal household guards.

Chives took the boat planetside again, deftly evading Traffic Control’s monitors, and landed near a village some fifty kilometers from Gloriana. Dawn was not far off. Flandry walked in and caught the morning monorail to the city.

When he entered the castle, he did not report to his colonel. That would have been what he mildly termed a tactical error. It was pretty clear, though, that Bargen’s assignment had been secret, none of his fellows aware of it. Therefore, if they saw him scurrying around the place, too busy for conversation, they wouldn’t suppose aught was amiss. To be sure, the deception could last only a few hours; but Flandry didn’t think he’d need more.

In fact, he reflected, I bet my life I won’t.


Ella the slave, who had been Ella Mclntyre and a free hillwoman of Varrak, was shocked to her guts by the harem. Incense gagged her, music scratched at her nerves, velvyl hangings in gloomy colors seemed to close in everywhere around. She prayed the Duke would not send for her that night. If he did—well, that was part of the price. However, he did not.

The inmates had a dormitory, a suite of rooms for games and relaxation, and nonhuman servants. They numbered about a score, and few of them said much to the new arrival as she prowled about; she sensed wariness in some, hostility in others, outright dread in a few. Among the worst horrors of slavery is what it does to the spirit of the enslaved.

But she had to make friends, fast. The harem, where seclusion and secrecy were the natural order of things, was the logical place for hiding a female prisoner. Within its own walls, though, it must be the most gossipy of little worlds. She picked an alert-looking girl with wide bright eyes, wandered up to her, and smiled shyly. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Ella.”

The other arched her brows. “Well. How did you get here?”

“I’m a . . . a present. What’s it like here? Please.”

“Oh, nothing too dreadful, dear. Terribly boring most of the time.” Ella shuddered at the thought of years lost thus, but smiled in meek gratitude. The other girl wanted to know everything she could tell about the outside—everything, anything—and this took several hours. Meanwhile several more women gathered to listen and comment.

Finally conversation drifted the way Ella had hoped it might. Yes, she was told, something strange had lately occurred. The entire western end of the suite was now closed off, with household troopers keeping watch. They were normal males, but television monitors kept them proper, damn it. Somebody or something new must be housed there, and speculation ran wild as to the who or the what or the why.

Ella masked her tension with an effort that only her muscles could measure. “Have you any ideas?” she asked brightly.

“Many,” said her first acquaintance. “They’re all wrong, I’m sure. His Grace has funny tastes. But you’ll find that out, my dear.”

Ella bit her lips.

That night she could not sleep. The blackness was thick and strangling. She wanted to scream and run, break free, run among the stars until she was back in her loved, lost greenwood hills. A lifetime without seeing the sun or feeling a wind kiss her cheeks! She thrashed wearily about and wondered why she had ever agreed to Flandry’s proposal.

But if he lived and came to her, she could now tell him what he needed to know. If he lived. And even if he did, this was the middle of a fortress. He’d die under hypnoprobe and she under nerve-lash. God, let me sleep. Only for an hour.

In the morning, fluorotubes gave her a cold dawn. She used the swimming pool without pleasure and ate breakfast without tasting and wondered if she looked as haggard as she felt.

When she left the mess, a scaled hand touched her shoulder. She whirled about with a little shriek and looked into a scaly, beaky countenance. Somehow it made the question sibilant: “You are the new concubine?”

She tried to answer but her throat tightened up.

“Come.” The being turned and strode off. Numbly, she followed. The chatter in the harem died as she went by, eyes grew wide and faces pale, here and there a finger traced a furtive religious sign. She was not being summoned for the master’s sport.

At the end of a hall was a door, where two men stood uniformed and armed. She thought in her fear that they glanced at her with pity. The door opened at the nonhuman’s gestures. He waved her through. As he also passed by, the door closed behind him.

The room beyond was small and nearly bare. It held a chair with straps and wires and a switchboard; she recognized the electronic torture machine which leaves no marks on the flesh. In a chair more peculiarly shaped crouched another being that was not human. Its small hunched body was wrapped in gorgeous robes, and great lusterless eyes regarded her from a hairless bulge of head.

“Sit down,” the creature ordered. A thin hand waved her to the electronic seat. Helpless, she obeyed. Through the stammering of her heart, she heard: “I want to discourse with you. You will do best not to lie.” The voice was high and squeaky, but there was nothing ridiculous about the goblin who spoke. “For your information, I am Sarlish of Jagranath, which lies beyond the Empire, and his Grace’s chief Intelligence officer. Thus you see this is no routine matter. You were brought here by a man of whom I have suspicions. Why?”

“As . . . a gift . . . sir,” she whispered. Her tongue felt like a block of dried wood.

“Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,” remarked Sarlish surprisingly. “I did not learn of it until an hour ago, or I would have investigated sooner. You are a slave born?”

“N-no, sir. For debt—He bought me and—”

“Where are you from?”

I must not tell! “I was born on . . . on Freya—”

“Unlikely, I think. It is unfortunate that I cannot hypnoprobe you at once. That would leave you in no fit state for his Grace tonight, should you be innocent. However—” Sarlish stroked his meager chin contemplatively. “Yes. Sufficient pain will disorganize your mind until questioning will bring out inconsistencies. Should there be any, we can go on to the probe. Let us get you secured.” He gestured to the other, different alien.

That being hulked forward. Ella leaped up with a yell of raw terror—and rage, rage. The creature snatched for her. She dodged and drove a kick at his midriff. He grunted and stepped back, unharmed. She plunged for the door. As it opened, the rough hands closed on her arm. Whirling, she jabbed fingers at his eyes. He ululated and backed away.

“Ah-h-h,” breathed Sarlish. He drew a stunner and took judicious aim.

“Not recommended, comrade,” said a voice from the doorway.

Sarlish jumped from his seat and whirled about, to confront a blaster. The guards who lay at the newcomer’s feet had quietly been stunned. “Bargen!” shrilled Sarlish, and dropped his weapon. Then, slowly: “No. Captain Flandry, is it not?”

“In person, and right in the traditional nick of time.” The injured being lurched toward the Terran. Flandry slew him with a narrow beam. Sarlish scuttled forward at fantastic speed, between the man’s legs, and brought him down. Ella bounded over him and caught the gnome with a flying tackle. Sarlish hissed and clawed. She struck him on the jaw with her fist, in sheer self-defense. The thin neck twisted back with a snapping noise. Sarlish kicked once and was still.

“Good show, girl!” Flandry scrambled to his feet. In a sweeping motion, he peeled off his face mask. “Too hot in this flinkin’ thing. All right, did you find our princess?”

“This way.” A far-off part of Ella watched, surprised, the swiftness and gladness with which she responded. She bent and took up a guardsman’s blaster. “I’ll show you. But can we—?”

“Not by ourselves. I got at a phone a few minutes ago and gave Chives a radio buzz. Though how he’s going to locate us exactly in this warren, I don’t know. Couldn’t say much, you realize, necessarily using code. I simply had to assume you’d succeeded—” Flandry swerved around a bevy of screaming girls. “Hoo-ee! No wonder the harem attendants are nonhuman!”

Ella pointed to a blank wall. “She must be behind there. No other possibility, as far as I could learn. We’ll have to go around, into the next hall—”

“And get shot on the way? No, thanks!” Flandry began assembling scattered furniture into a rough barricade before the wall. “Cut our way through, will you?”

Plastic bubbled and smoked as Ella’s flame attacked it. Flandry went on: “I bluffed my way into this quarter by saying I had to fetch someone. One of the ladies told me where you’d been taken. Doubtless the only reason I made it this far is that no man would dare come in unless he had orders from Alfred himself. But now there’s hell to pay and no pitch hot. I only hope Chives can track us before he gets blown out of the sky.” He looked along the barrel of his blaster, down the arched length of the corridor to the chamber beyond. “Hang on, here we go.”

A squad of guards had burst into sight. Flandry set his weapon to needle beam. That gave maximum range, provided you had the skill to hit a target at such a distance. A man toppled. A curtain of fire raged in response. The heat of it scorched his face through the gaps in his defense. He picked off another man, and another. But the rest were zigzagging, belly-flopping, coming into wide-beam range, where a single shot could fry him. “Get that wall open, will you?” he cried.

“Done!” Ella dodged as the circle she had cut collapsed outward. Droplets of molten plastic seared her skin. The barricade burst into flame. She tumbled through the hole, heedless of its hot edges. Flandry followed.

Beyond, a young woman crouched against the opposite wall. Terror contorted her features. She was dark and rather pretty, but a resemblance to the Imperial grandfather was in her bones. “Lady Megan?” snapped Flandry.

“Yes, yes,” she whimpered. “Who are you?”

“At your service, your Highness—I hope.” Flandry sent a wide beam through the hole. A man screamed forth his agony. The Terran had a moment to wonder how many brave folk—probably including Ella and himself—would be dead because a spoiled darling had wanted an excursion.

The door swung open. Ella let loose a blast. More screams followed, and horrible smoke. Flandry heaved a divan up against the door. That was cut-rate protection, good only for minutes.

Sweating, blackened, blistered, his countenance turned back to the princess. “I take it you know the Duke had you kidnapped, your Highness?” he asked.

“Yes, but he wasn’t going to hurt me,” she wailed.

“So you think. I happen to know he intended to kill you.” That was less than true, but served Flandry’s purpose. In the unlikely event that he survived, Megan wouldn’t get him in trouble for endangering her life. In fact, she began to babble about a reward. He hoped she would remember afterward, if there was an afterward.

He had one advantage. The Duke could not use heavy stuff without losing his hostage and, incidentally, creating a sensation throughout Gloriana. But—he passed out three gas masks.

The outer wall glowed. Blasters were cutting a fresh circle from it, big enough to let through a dozen men at a time. Doubtless they’d wear armor.

The air was thick and bitter, hot and stinking. Flandry grinned lopsidedly and laid an arm about Ella’s waist. “Well, sweetheart,” he said, “it was a fairly spectacular try.” Her hand reached briefly up to stroke his hair.

Something bellowed. Walls and floor trembled. He heard the rumble and crash of falling masonry. A storm of gunfire awoke.

“Chives!” whooped Flandry.

“Wha-what?” gasped Megan.

“We’re getting what we ordered, salade d’Alfred au Chives,” burbled Flandry. “You must meet Chives, your Highness. One of nature’s noblemen. He—how in this especial hell did he do it?”

A volcano growl came, and silence.

Flandry removed the divan and risked a glance into the corridor. Daylight poured through its ruined walls. The place had taken the full impact of a Naval blaster cannon, and the attacking troopers had ceased to exist. Hovering alongside was the speedster.

“Chives,” said Flandry in awe, “merely swooped up to the fortress under full drive, blew his way past the defenses, and opened up on the Duke’s men here.”

The airlock swung wide. A green head looked out. “I would recommend haste, sir,” said the Shalmuan. “The alarm is out, and they do have warcraft.”

Flandry helped the women cross over. The airlock hissed shut behind them. Chives had already returned to the pilot room. The boat took off with a thunderbolt of cloven air for her wake.

Flandry sought his valet. “How did you find us?” he mumbled. “I didn’t even know where the harem was myself when I called you.”

“Why, sir, you must be in great need of rest and tea, if you do not see the obvious,” Chives replied. “I assumed there would be some objection to the removal of her Highness and combat would ensue. Energy beams ionize the air. I employed the radiation detectors.”

Flandry nodded and turned his attention to the viewscreens and instruments. A light cruiser showed against the receding brilliance of the planet. “That chap,” he fretted; and then: “No. The vectors and distances . . . we’re leaving him and his missiles behind. This can has legs. We’ll make it back to Varrak all right.”

“In that case, sir,” Chives said, “I will turn control over to the autopilot.”

He departed for the galley. Flandry sought the main cabin, where Ella strove to soothe a hysterical Megan. For a moment, as the blonde woman looked up at him, he saw utter glory.

He found a cigarette, lighted it and drew deep. “Relax,” he advised, “and bathe—all of us bathe.” A scowl crossed his brow. “We’ll worry later about the possibility that Alfred, now he’s exposed, will try to rebel anyway. He couldn’t succeed, but it might prove expensive for us—give Merseia an opening, or—”

Chives appeared, a loaded tray in his hands. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “As I approached the castle, I monitored the bands of individually worn radio transceivers, and learned that the Duke was personally directing the assault on you. I fear I took the liberty of disintegrating his Grace. Does her Highness take sugar or lemon in her tea?”








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Framed