Asgard's Conquerors

20

When they brought me back to Sigor Dyan everything was the same, except for the stuff he gave me to drink. The new liquor was brown and turbid, and reminded me a little bit of mussel soup. I had drunk quite a lot of mussel soup in my youth, because the closed ecospheres on asteroid microworlds—unenlivened in those days by imported Tetron biotech—frequently used engineered shellfish as a key element in their recycling processes. Mollusks, it seems, are clever in ways that other kinds of organisms aren’t. They don’t taste very good, though. I had never learned to love mussel soup.

I took a couple of sips from the cup, then laid it down for good. I was still feeling queasy, and my temperature was way above normal. I had hoped earlier that I might be on the road to recovery, but the fever didn’t seem to be clearing up and my nose was still runny. The headache seemed to be getting steadily worse.

“Personally,” I told him, “I don’t have any strong feelings about who I work for. I’m not altogether keen on the way the Tetrax do business, but I can work with them. I guess I can work with you, too. I’ll tell you where to find the dropshaft into the lower levels that Jacinthe Siani has told you about. Say the word, and I’ll even lead you to it.”

He smiled with pleasure. “Actually,” he said, “we already know the location of all the bases established by the Co-ordinated Research Establishment—including the one built around your shaft from level three downwards. We may be savages, in the eyes of the Tetrax, but we’re not stupid. We can understand the maps we found at C.R.E. headquarters.”

So much for secrecy.

“Why do you need me?” I asked him bluntly.

“Because we don’t understand much apart from the maps. We can’t read Tetron script and we can’t cope with the Tetron data-storage systems. All we know about what you discovered in the course of your adventure is what the Kythnan told us. Why have the Tetrax not established contact with the advanced race which you encountered—if that is indeed what happened?”

“They didn’t want to be contacted. Like you, they were somewhat surprised to discover the universe. You can probably appreciate what a shock it was far better than I can. Like you, they wanted time to figure out what to do about it. They had been in contact with the level we reached at the bottom of the dropshaft—an ecology run wild, its humanoid inhabitants real savages—but after meeting us, they decided to withdraw, and seal themselves off from it. So they told me, anyhow.”

“What did they look like? They were humanoid, I presume?”

“I presume so too,” I told him. “But I only spoke to an intermediary.” Rapidly, I sketched in the story of Myrlin, and explained that he had been adopted by the underworlders. I tried to keep the story as simple as possible, but there were several matters of detail that I had to fill out in response to his questions. I told him no lies, and by the time I’d responded to all his questions I’d told him virtually all the truth as I knew it. Which didn’t necessarily mean that he believed it all.

“As far as you know, then,” he said, taking up the thread of the argument, “these people have no more idea than we do who built Asgard?”

“So I was told,” I assured him. “And there’s not the slightest reason to believe that they’re your ancestors. It’s entirely possible that they’re another race like your own, who have simply made more progress in understanding the technology they found all around them.”

“So you say. You also say that you know of no way to establish contact with them. It is all very convenient—as though you are trying your utmost to persuade me that we have nothing to gain from what you can tell us.”

“I don’t know whether you’d have anything to gain by making contact with these people—or with any other races who may be living in the deeper levels below your empire. Maybe you could find allies to side with you against the Tetrax. Maybe you could even find your ancestors. But I think you already know that there are no guarantees. You have no god-given right to come out of this situation as the winners.”

I think he did know that. Certainly, he didn’t want to get into a heavy discussion about his hypothetical ancestors. As far as the origins of his species were concerned, he seemed to be an agnostic—no matter what the rest of his people might believe. After a pause, he brought the discussion back to more practical matters.

“This weapon they used, which you call a ‘mindscrambler’—do the galactics have anything similar?”

“Yes. The Tetrax certainly have a similar device, and so do one or two others. It doesn’t work on all humanoids, and sometimes has to be attuned to the particular brain- characteristics of a species, but it’s basically a matter of using a rapid-fire sensory transmission to trigger a protective withdrawal-response from the victim. It’s the visual equivalent of a shot of anaesthetic. A messy and somewhat indiscriminate weapon, though—you can’t target a particular individual, and you can’t just put it on a TV screen: you really have to blast it out. It was neat the way they used the entire sky on the second occasion—the first time, they used some kind of robot to deliver the punch.”

“Where would large-scale versions of such weapons be found in Skychain City?”

“You probably won’t find them now. There were mindscramblers incorporated into the anti-sabotage devices protecting the skychain itself and one or two other places. I suspect that you probably reduced those defences to rubble, mindscramblers and all, when you blasted the skychain.”

“I am suspicious of one part of your story,” he admitted. “I wonder why it was that you were brought back to consciousness in order to hear what your friend had to say. Is it possible that they lied to you?”

“I don’t know,” I told him. “It could be all lies.”

“It could indeed,” he observed, in a fashion which suggested that he wasn’t entirely convinced of my honesty.

I’d never been entirely happy with the story either, though I didn’t like to admit it. I had come back from the depths convinced that I was cleverer than everyone else, exuberantly proud of my little secret. They might have fed me that happy feeling in much the same spirit as an adult bribing a child with a sweet. Maybe Myrlin was dead, and I was the dupe.

I blew my nose, and ran the back of my hand across my brow. I was sweating quite heavily, and I felt as if my brain had been hit by a mild dose of mindscrambling.

“Another thing puzzles me,” said Dyan, after a pause during which he sipped his mussel soup. “If these people are so much more advanced than we are, why did they not know about the universe? Why have they not explored Asgard thoroughly, if they have been able to move about in the levels for so much longer? It seems too much of a coincidence to imagine that despite their sophistication, they have only been exploring for much the same time as ourselves, and had penetrated only a limited number of levels.”

“Not necessarily,” I countered. “Remember that they started from a home base a lot further down than yours. Myrlin suggested that they’re immortal—that might imply that they long ago stopped multiplying. I doubt that an immortal race would be troubled by something as petty as Malthusian population problems. If their population within their own level is stabilised, they’d have no practical interest in expanding into others. Scholarly curiosity isn’t such an urgent driving force as lust for conquest. They may have been exploring for tens of thousands of your lifetimes before they penetrated as many levels as you’ve invaded.”

He nodded, abstractedly, and sipped more of his drink. “You should try to take some,” he said. “While you have a fever, you should drink plenty of liquid. Shall I ask the doctor to look at you? He may be able to help.”

“It’s okay,” I muttered. “Only a cold in the head.”

“Are you well enough to answer a few more questions?”

“I think so,” I said—then wished that I had said no.

“I’ll try to keep to essentials. I’m grateful that you have decided to tell me all this, but there are other matters with which you might be able to help us, and about which I must question you. I’d like you to record for us, if you will, all the details of the plans which you and your employers made before you returned to Asgard. We’d like confirmation of what we already know about the groups of spies which were dropped from orbit—their personnel, their objectives, the bases they intended to use, and the places at which they planned to enter the city. Can you do that?”

If I hadn’t been feeling so awful anyhow, that might have been one to set me aback. As things were, I cared somewhat less than I might have.

“So Jacinthe Siani did know I’d left Asgard,” I said, resignedly.

“No. But you were only the first member of your group to be apprehended. We have captured others, some of whom have been co-operative. Information about your mission reached me this morning. Some of your companions will be joining you tomorrow. I think that our people have enough information to round up all the invaders, but just by way of checking, I’d be obliged if you could tell us all you know.”

I looked at him sulkily, wishing that I felt in better shape to make a decision.

“As an officer in the Star Force,” I said, finally, “I’m not able to tell you anything that might imperil my companions. It’s a matter of military honour.” I was only being slightly sarcastic. Susarma Lear might not be my favourite person in all the world, but I was hesitant about betraying her.

“As you wish,” he said, in an easy tone which suggested that he did indeed have the information already. “In fact, you do not seem to me to be well enough to undertake such a laborious task. I think that I will ask the doctor to see you again. After all, we do not want you to. ...”

Suddenly, the easy manner evaporated, and he was looking at me with a very different expression. I thought I could read him exactly as I would another human, and he had the appearance of a man who had been struck by a distinctly unpleasant idea.

I swallowed. My throat was sore, and I was becoming dizzy. The sweat was trickling from my forehead into my eyebrows, and running into the corners of my eyes to gather like bitter tears. I had to lie back, lolling against the leathery material of the sofa.

“Is it possible, Mr. Rousseau,” he said, in a deadly voice, “that your Tetron masters intended that you should all be captured?”

I opened my mouth to say no, but the denial wouldn’t pass my lips. It wasn’t just the sore throat—it was the awful possibility dawning in my own mind.

I had asked myself more than once how the Tetrax might plan to go to war against the invaders of Skychain City. I had tried to weigh up the possibilities in my mind. But I hadn’t really kept it in mind that the Tetrax aren’t like humans. They aren’t heavy-metal-minded. They’re biotech- minded. They would always think first in terms of biological weaponry and biological warfare.

Now—very belatedly indeed—it occurred to me that the best way, and maybe the only way, to get a virus weapon into a domed city would be to use live carriers. And if the virus in question had to be carefully tailored to a particular biological pattern, so that it would hurt the enemy far more than the Tetrax themselves, then the carriers would have to be as similar as possible to the targets.

Suddenly, lots of little pieces of the puzzle seemed to fall into place. The Tetrax had received messages from the surface for some days after the attack. They had photographs of the invaders. Maybe they even had the results of gene-analysis of invader tissue. Maybe they had all that they needed to plan a swift and efficient counter-attack—everything except a group of clever carriers, to take the disease into the city for them.

They knew how primitive the invaders were—how unprepared they were to fight off a virus epidemic. They knew how easy it would be for their own people to seize control of the city again, if only the occupying forces could be comprehensively weakened.

And so they had used us. They had hired the Star Force, and they had hired me, feeding us that half-way plausible story about needing us to open lines of communication, to gather intelligence . . . when all they really wanted to do was use us as a bunch of Typhoid Marys.

“Oh merde!” I said, with a great deal of feeling. “The bastards!”

But I could see in Sigor Dyan’s face that he didn’t believe that I was innocent.

It seemed the perfect time to give up the unequal struggle and let go, so I let the dizziness and the fever take control, and I fell into insensibility.