Escape Velocity Read online

  “Yes.” Dar pushed the door open. “Shall we?”

  They came out into the light of early afternoon. Dar led the Hume to a long, narrow grav-sled, lumpy with trade goods under a tarpaulin. “No room for us, I'm afraid—every ounce of lift has to go to the payload. We walk.”

  “Not till I get an answer.” The Hume planted her feet, and set her fists on his hips.

  “Answer?” Dar looked up, surprised. “To what?”

  “To my question. This boss of yours—what is he? A capitalist? An immoral, unethical, swindling trader? A bartender? Or a professor?”

  “Oh.” Dar sat down on his heels, checking the fastenings of the tarp. “Well, I wouldn't really call him a capitalist, 'cause he never really does more than break even; and he's as moral as a preacher, and as ethical as a statue. And he's never swindled anybody. Aside from that, though, you've pretty well pegged him.”

  “Then he is a professor!”

  Dar nodded. “Used to teach at the University of Luna.”

  The Hume frowned. “So what happened? What's he doing tending bar?”

  Dar shrugged. “I think he got the idea from his last name: Barman.”

  “ ‘Barman’?” She frowned. “Cholly Barman? Whoa! Not Charles T. Barman!”

  Dar nodded.

  “But he's famous! I mean, he's got to be the most famous teacher alive!”

  “Well, notorious, anyway.” Dar gave the fastenings a last tug and stood up. “He came up with some very wild theories of education. I gather they weren't too popular.”

  “So I heard. But I can't figure why; all he was saying was that everybody ought to have a college education.”

  “And thereby threatened the ones who already had it.” Dar smiled sweetly. “But it was more than that. He thinks all teaching ought to be done on a one-to-one basis, which made him unpopular with the administrators—imagine having to pay that many teachers!—and thought the teaching ought to be done in an informal environment, without the student realizing he was being taught. That meant each professor would have to have a cover role, such as bartending, which made him unpopular with the educators.”

  The Hume frowned. “I didn't hear about that part of it.”

  Dar shrugged. “He published it; it was there to read, if you managed to get hold of a copy before the LORDS party convinced the central book-feed to quit distributing it down the line to the retail terminals.”

  “Yes.” Her mouth flattened, as though she'd tasted something sour “Freedom of the press isn't what it used to be, is it?”

  “Not really, no. But you can see why the talk gets so deep, back in there; Cholly never misses a chance to do some teaching on the side. When he's got 'em hooked on talk, he lets 'em start hanging out in the back room—it's got an open beer keg, and wall-to-wall books.”

  She nodded, looking a little dazzled. “You don't sound so ‘innocent of books’ yourself, come to think of it.”

  Dar grinned, and picked up the towrope. “Shall we go?”

  They trudged down the alley and out into the plastrete street, the Hume walking beside Dar, brooding.

  Finally she looked up. “But what's he doing out here? I mean, he's putting his theories into practice, that's clear—but why here? Why not on some fat planet in near Terra?”

  “Well, the LORDS seem to have had something to do with that.”

  “That bunch of fascists! I knew they were taking over the Assembly—but I didn't know they were down on education!”

  “Figure it out.” Dar spread his hands. “They say they want really efficient central government; they mean totalitarianism. And one of the biggest threats to a totalitarian government is a liberal education.”

  “Oh.” Her face clouded. “Yes, of course. So what did they do?”

  “Well, Cholly won't go into much detail about it, but I gather they tried to assassinate him on Luna, and he ran for it. The assassins chased him, so he kept running—and he wound up here.”

  “Isn't he still worried about assassins?”

  Dar flashed her a grin. “Not with Shacklar running the place. By the way, if we're going to be traveling together, we really oughta get onto a first-name basis. I'm Dar Mandra.” He held out his hand.

  She seemed to shrink back again, considering the offer; then, slowly, she extended her own hand, looking up at him gravely. “Samantha Bine. Call me Sam.”

  Dar gave her hand a shake, and her face his warmest smile. “Good to meet you, Sam. Welcome to education.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “There is a lot here that wasn't in the reports, isn't there?”

  Sam looked at the town gate as they passed through it, and frowned. “A little archaic, isn't it? I thought walled towns went out with the Middle Ages.”

  “Only because the attackers had cannon, which the Wolmen didn't have when this colony started.”

  “But they do now?”

  “Well,” Dar hedged, “let's say they're working on it.”

  “Hey! You, there! Halt!”

  They looked back to see a corporal in impeccable battle-dress running after them.

  “Here now, Dar Mandra!” he panted as he caught up with them. “You know better than to go hiking out at two o'clock!”

  “Is it that late already?” Dar glanced up at the sun. “Yeah, it is. My, how the time flies!” He hauled the grav-sled around. “Come on, Sam. We've gotta get back against the wall.”

  “Why?” Sam came along, frowning. “What's wrong?”

  “Nothing, really. It's just that it's time for one of those continual battles you mentioned.”

  “Time?” Sam squawked. “You mean you schedule these things?”

  “Sure, at 8 a.m. and 2 p.m., eight hours apart. That gives everybody time to rest up, have lunch, and let it digest in between.”

  “Eight hours?” She frowned. “There's only six hours between eight and two!”

  “No, eight. Wolmar's got a twenty-eight-hour day, so noon's at fourteen o'clock.” He pulled the sled up against the wall and leaned back against it. “Now, whatever you do, make sure you stay right here.”

  “Don't worry.” Sam settled herself back against the plastrete, folding her arms defiantly. “I want to get back to Terra to tell about this. I don't intend to get hit by a stray beam.”

  “Oh, no chance of that—but you might get trampled.”

  Brightly colored figures rose over the ridge, and came closet Sam stiffened. “The natives?”

  Dar nodded. “The Wolmen.”

  “Purple skin?”

  “No, that's a dye they use to decorate their bodies. I think the chartreuse loincloths go rather well with it, don't you?”

  The warriors drew up in a ragged line, shaking white-tipped poles at the walled town and shouting.

  “Bareskins go down today! Jailers of poor natives! Wolmen break-um free today! Bareskins' Great Father lose-um papooses!”

  “It's traditional,” Dar explained.

  “What? The way they talk?”

  “No, just the threats.”

  “Oh.” Sam frowned. “But that dialect! I can understand why they'd speak Terrese, but why the pidgin grammar and all those ‘ums'?”

  Dar shrugged. “Don't know, actually. There're some of us have been wondering about that for a few years now. The best we can come up with is that they copped it from some stereotyped presentation of barbarians, probably in an entertainment form. Opposition cultures tend to be pretty romantic.”

  The soldiers began to file out of the main gate, lining up a hundred yards away from the Wolmen in a precise line. Their bright green uniforms were immaculately clean, with knife-edge creases; their boots gleamed, and their metal work glistened. They held their white-tipped sticks at order arms, a precise forty-five degree angle across their bodies.

  “Shacklar's big on morale,” Dar explained. “Each soldier gets a two-BTU bonus if his boots are polished; another two if his uniform's clean; two more if it's pressed; and so on.”

  The soldiers mutte
red among themselves out of the corners of their mouths. Dar could catch the odd phrase:

  “Bloody Wolmen think they own the whole planet! Can't tell us what t' do! They think they c'n lord it over us, they got another think comin'!”

  Sam looked up at Dar, frowning. “What's that all about? It almost sounds as though they think the Wolmen are the government!”

  “They do.” Dar grinned.

  Sam scanned the line of troops, frowning. “Where're their weapons?”

  “Weapons!” Dar stared down at net scandalized. “What do you think we are—a bunch of savages?”

  “But I thought you said this was a . . .”

  BR-R-R-R-ANK! rolled a huge gong atop the wall, and the officers shouted, “Charge!”

  The Wolmen chiefs whooped, and their warriors leaped down toward the soldiers with piercing, ululating war cries.

  The soldiers shouted, and charged them.

  The two lines crashed together, and instantly broke into a chaotic melee, with everyone yelling and slashing about them with their sticks.

  “This is civilized warfare?” Sam watched the confusion numbly.

  “Very,” Dar answered. “There's none of this nonsense about killing or maiming, you see. I mean, we're short enough on manpower as it is.”

  Sam looked up at him, unbelieving. “Then how do you tell who's won?”

  “The war-sticks.” Dar pointed. “They've got lumps of very soft chalk in the ends. If you manage to touch your opponent with it, it leaves a huge white blotch on him.”

  A soldier ran past, with a Wolman hot on his heels, whooping like a Saturday matinee. Suddenly the soldier dropped into a crouch, whirled about and slashed upward. The stick slashed across the Wolman's chest, leaving a long white streak. The Wolman skidded to a stop, staring down at his new badge, appalled. Then his face darkened, and he advanced toward the soldier, swinging his stick up.

  “Every one loses his temper now and then,” Dar murmured.

  A whistle shrilled, and a Terran officer came running up. “All right, that'll do! You there, tribesman—you're out of the war, plain as the chalk on your chest! On your way, now, or I'll call one o' yer own officers.”

  “Oppressor of poor, ignorant savages!” the Wolman stormed. “We rise-um up! We beat-um you down!”

  “Ayuh, well, tomorrow, maybe. Move along to the sidelines, now, there's a good chap!” The officer made shooing motions.

  The Wolman stood stiffly, face dark with rebellion. Then he threw down his chalk-stick with a snarl and went stalking off toward a growing crowd of men, soldiers and Wolmen alike, standing off to the east, well clear of the “battle.”

  The officer nodded. “That's well done, then.” And he ran off, back toward the thick of the melee.

  The soldier swaggered toward Dar; grinning and twirling his stick. “Chalk up one more for the good guys, eh?”

  “And another ten BTUs in your account!” Dar called back. “Well done, soldier!”

  The soldier grinned, waved, and charged back into the thick of the chaos.

  “Ten credits?” Sam gasped, blanching. “You don't mean your General pays a bounty?”

  “No, of course not. I mean, it's not the General who let himself get chalked up, is it? It's the Wolman who pays.”

  “What?”

  “Sure. After the battle's over; the officers'll transfer ten credits from that Wolman's account to the soldier's. I mean, there's got to be some risk involved.”

  “Right,” she agreed. “Sure. Risk.” Her eyes had glazed. “I, uh, notice the, uh, ‘casualties’ seem to be having a pretty good time over there.”

  “Mm?” Dar looked up at the group over to the east. Wolmen and soldiers were chatting amicably over tankards. A couple of privates and three warriors wove in and out through the crowd with trays of bottles and cups, dispensing cheer and collecting credits.

  He turned back to Sam. “Why not? Gotta fill in the ‘dead’ time somehow.”

  “Sure,” she agreed. “Why not?”

  Suddenly whistles shrilled all over the field, and the frantic runners slowed to a walk, lowering their chalk sticks. Most of them looked pretty disgusted. “Cease!” bellowed one officer. “Study war no more!” echoed a Wolman chief. The combatants began to circulate; a hum of conversation swelled.

  “Continual warfare,” Sam muttered.

  Dar leaned back against the wall and began whistling through his teeth.

  Two resplendent figures stepped in from the west—an I.D.E. colonel in full dress uniform and a Wolman in a brightly patterned cloak and elaborate headdress.

  “The top-ranking officers,” Dar explained. “Also the peace commission.”

  “Referees?” Sam muttered.

  “Come again?”

  “I'd rather not.”

  Each officer singled out those of his own men who had chalk marks on them, but who hadn't retired to the sidelines. Most of them seemed genuinely surprised to find they'd been marked. A few seemed chagrined.

  The officers herded them over to join the beerfest, then barked out orders, and the “casualties” lined up according to side in two ragged lines, still slurping beer. The officers walked down each other's line, counting heads, then switched and counted their own lines. Then they met and discussed the situation.

  “Me count-um twenty-nine of mine, and thirty-two of yours.”

  “Came to the same count, old chap. Wouldn't debate it a bit.”

  The Wolman grinned, extending a palm. “Pay up.”

  The I.D.E. colonel sighed, pulled out a pad, and scribbled a voucher. The Wolman pocketed it, grinning.

  A lieutenant and a minor Wolman stepped up from the battlefield, each holding out a sheaf of papers. The two chief officers took them and shuffled through, muttering to each other, comparing claims.

  “That's the lot.” The colonel tapped his sheaf into order, squaring it off. “Only this one discrepancy, on top here.”

  The Wolman nodded. “Me got same.”

  “Well, let's check it, then . . . O'Schwarzkopf!”

  “Sir!” A corporal stepped forward and came to attention with a click of his heels, managing not to spill his tankard in the process.

  “This warrior, um, ‘Xlitplox,’ claims he chalked you. Valid?”

  “Valid, sir.”

  “Xlitplox!” the Wolman officer barked.

  “Me here.” The Wolman stepped forward, sipping.

  “O'Schwarzkopf claim-um him chalk you.”

  “He do-um.” Xlitplox nodded.

  “Could be collusion,” the colonel noted.

  The Wolman shrugged. “What matter? Cancel-um out, anyhow. Null score.”

  The colonel nodded. “They want to trade tenners, that's their business. Well!” He tapped the sheaf and saluted the Wolman with them. “I'll have these to the bank directly.”

  “Me go-um, too.” The Wolman caught two tankards from a passing tray and dropped a chit on it. “Drink?”

  “Don't mind if I do.” The colonel accepted a tankard and lifted it. “To the revolution!”

  “Was hael!” The Wolman clinked mugs with him. “We rise-um up; we break-um and bury-um corrupt colonial government!”

  “And we'll destroy the Wolman tyranny! . . . Your health.”

  “Yours,” the Wolman agreed, and they drank.

  “What is this?” Sam rounded on Dar “Who's rebelling against whom?”

  “Depends on whom you ask. Makes sense, doesn't it? I mean, each side claims to be the rightful government of the whole planet—so each side also thinks it's staging a revolution.”

  “That's asinine! Anybody can see the Wolmen are the rightful owners of the planet.”

  “Why? They didn't evolve here, any more than we soldiers did.”

  “How do you know?” Sam sneered.

  “Because I read a history book. The Wolmen are the descendants of the ‘Tonies,’ the last big opposition culture, a hundred years ago. You should hear their music—twenty-four tones. They came out
here to get away from technology.”

  Sam shuddered, then shook her head. “That doesn't really change anything. They were here first.”

  “Sure, but they think we came in and took over. After all, we've got a government. Their idea of politics is everybody sitting around in a circle and arguing until they can all agree on something.”

  “Sounds heavenly,” Sam murmured, eyes losing focus.

  “Maybe, but that still leaves General Shacklar as the only government strong enough to rebel against—at least, the way the Wolmen see it. And we think they're trying to tell us what to do—so we're revolting, too.”

  “No argument there.” Sam shrugged. “I suppose I shouldn't gripe. As ‘continual wars’ go, this is pretty healthy.”

  “Yeah, especially when you think of what it was like my first two years here.”

  “What? Real war—with sticks and stones?”

  Dar frowned. “When you tie the stone to the end of the stick, it can kill a man—and it did. I saw a lot of soldiers lying on the ground with their heads bashed in and their blood soaking into the weeds. I saw more with stone-tipped spears and arrows in them. Our casualties were very messy.”

  “So what are dead Wolmen like—pretty?”

  “I was beginning to think so, back then.” Dar grimaced at the memory. “But dead Wolmen were almost antiseptic—just a neat little hole drilled into 'em. Not even any blood—laser wounds are cauterized.”

  Sam caught at his arm, looking queasy. “All right! That's . . . enough!”

  Dar stared down at her. “Sorry. Didn't think I'd been all that vivid.”

  “I've got a good imagination.” Sam pushed against him, righting herself. “How old were you then?”

  “Eighteen. Yeah, it made me sick too. Everybody was.”

  “But they couldn't figure out how to stop it?”

  “Of course not. Then Shacklar was assigned the command.”

  “What'd he do—talk it to death?”

  Dar frowned. “How'd you guess?”

  “I was kidding. You can't stop a war by talking!”

  Dar shrugged. “Maybe he waved a magic wand. All I knew was that he had the Wolmen talking instead of fighting. How, I don't know—but he finally managed to get them to sign a treaty agreeing to this style of war.”