Alan Foster - The Icerigger Trilogy

“While I’d dislike having to kill you, if you refuse to return peaceably with me and persist in these illegal actions, I will regretfully do just that. Now what is it you wish to tell me?” He sounded impatient. It was cold in the shadow of the wall and his survival suit did not fit properly.

Ethan gestured to Sir Hunnar. The knight went to the door of a chamber built into the base of the wall. Several sailors from the Slanderscree trooped out. They carried pika-pina fiber sacks. Carefully the contents of the sacks were removed, laid out on the ice in front of Trell. Knives, plates, bas-reliefs, all manner of relics removed from the buried metropolis they’d discovered inland.

Wishing Williams were present to offer a more scientific and comprehensive explanation, Ethan launched into an analysis of what they had discovered. His narrative produced a more pronounced reaction from the Tran bodyguard and Ro-Vijar than it did from Trell.

That didn’t mean the Commissioner was unaware of the significance of the artifacts spread out before him. He knelt, examined a strange tool made of native steel finer than any he’d ever seen. “I admit I’ve seen nothing like this before. All this means is that these Mulkins of yours are superb craftsmen.”

“You don’t believe that, Trell. You don’t have to be an expert to tell how old this stuff is. With Commonwealth help, the Tran would be able to preserve their accomplishments and heritage from one warm cycle to the next.”

“These Golden Saia you spoke of…”

Ethan continued enthusiastically. “Warm weather versions of the Tran we see around us, survivors in their thermal region of the previous warm period. Plants and animals from that era have survived there also. Living proof, Trell, of what I’ve told you. The Tran live together on the continents in large social organizations during the warm cycles. Give them communications technology and you’d have a real planetary government. Only the periods of terrible cold force them into city-states competing for habitable territory.

“Don’t you see, Trell? There’s much more than just Associate Commonwealth status at stake for the Tran here. They’ll have full status in a few millennia, and they’ll keep it, once they’re assured of a cultural foundation that’s not going to be shattered by a new ice age every time it gets started.” He paused, continued with more solemnity than he thought he possessed.

“If you take us back to Arsudun, shunt us off on the next ship through and forget all this, you’re condemning an entire race, hundreds of millions of sapient beings, to an existence of periodic crisis, starvation, and death that can all be avoided. You’d be personally responsible for denying them their rightful heritage.”

“Leastwise you got a simple choice, Trell,” September said pointedly. “A few credits in your own account against the future of an entire world. ’Course, if you decide for the former, you wouldn’t be the first to do so.”

Ethan could see the Commissioner was sweating inside. It was one thing to skim a little illegal profit off the trade of a quarrelsome, primitive people, quite another to do so at the expense of an entire civilization’s future. Trell was just moral enough, just civilized enough, in fact just enough of a Resident Commissioner to be thrown into a real quandary by the problem.

Sensing uncertainty, Ethan searched desperately for some additional semantic weapon to throw at Trell. “You’d still be in charge, still be Commissioner. You could still take a legal percentage, however much smaller, of the local trade. Think of the boom in that trade when the Tran organize themselves on a planet-wide basis. We’ve already started them on that path here in Moulokin.

“And if that’s not inducement enough, consider the fame a few stolen credits can never buy. You’d go down in the Church histories as the Commissioner who recognized the cyclic nature of this world’s civilization and its importance and took the first steps to aid a climactically impoverished people. How much is a footnote in immortality worth, Trell?” He went quiet. Having appealed to Trell’s morality and now to his ego, Ethan had nothing left to fight with.

“I don’t—I’m not sure…” Trell’s unctuous manner had vanished along with his confidence. He’d come in expecting to hear pleas or defiance. Instead he’d been confronted with artifacts and a new world history. He was badly shaken, needed time to recover his balance.

“I’ve got to think on this, consider it carefully. We—” He halted, turned abruptly to Ro-Vijar. “Let us go and talk, friend Landgrave.” Ro-Vijar simply gave acknowledgement, accompanied Trell to the opening in the gate.

The Commissioner looked back at Ethan. “I’ll give you an answer in less than an hour.”

“All we ask is that you consider the obvious,” said Ethan. “We’ll give you our answer at the same time.” Trell didn’t appear to have heard the last, sunk in thoughts deeper than outside communication could penetrate.

“What do you believe he will do, friend Ethan?” asked Hunnar as the wooden walls ground shut behind the departing four.

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. Usually I can tell when I’ve got a customer bubbled—when I’ve convinced someone of something—but Trell’s too numbed to read. Skua?”

“I don’t know either, young feller-me-lad. Trell’s tryin’ to decide whether immortality’s worth the pleasures of the present. It’s the old human dilemma: do you live for today or work for a place in heaven? Problem is, we can’t counter with the threat o’ Hell. We’ll know in an hour.”

“Assuming he refuses, Skua… what do we do?” September said nothing. His expression was answer enough.

THE SKIMMER HOVERED ALONGSIDE the royal raft of the Poyolavomaar fleet. Within the central cabin Trell, Ro-Vijar, and Rakossa conversed. The two peaceforcers stood nearby, chatting idly to each other and ignoring the curious stares of the Tran around them.

“Friend Calonnin,” Trell said wearily, “I keep telling you but you refuse to understand. I no longer have a choice in this. Events have taken it beyond my control.”

“You are right,” replied Ro-Vijar tightly. “I do not understand why you say you have no choice. Why do you not use your light weapon to make hearth-ashes of those three outworlders and scatter their ashes upon the ocean?”

“It’s not a question of three people any more.” Trell sat in the too-large Tran chair and worked his fingers. They rubbed, scratched, entwined and folded upon one another.

“Everything they said about the future of your people is quite correct, given the accuracy of their interpretation of the discoveries they made. I’m inclined to accept both. Besides, I like the idea of having my name in the history tapes. You will, too.”

“Your history is not mine.”

“It will be.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“Neither of us will sink into poverty because of these developments, Calonnin. You’ll still be Landgrave of Arsudun. As the port of Brass Monkey expands to handle increased trade from the rest of Tran-ky-ky, Arsudun and you will benefit.”

“In how many of your years?”

“Soon, soon,” Trell insisted.

“What of other, new ports?”

“There might be one or two,” Trell conceded. “But Arsudun will still be foremost.”

“I am little interested in what will occur after I am dead, friend Trell. I am interested only in what will happen tomorrow, perhaps also the day following.”

Trell glanced across the room at a figure standing in shadow. “What about you, Rakossa of Poyolavomaar? What do you want?”

Rakossa stepped out into the light. “We have wealth enough to satisfy us for all our future days. We have position and power. As to what happens to our name after we die we care not a k’nith. We do not even care what happens tomorrow, but only today. What do we want? We want justice! These merchants who dare to defy us and!—”