F. Wilson - The Tery

That did it. He was frightened now. Jon was in trouble — he was sure of it.

He pressed up against the grate but still could not budge it. Leaving the latching lever in the open position, Dalt descended as rapidly as he knew how and hit the floor running. If he was wrong, Jon would be able to lift the grate and get down the airshaft on his own when he returned. If his suspicions were correct and Jon was in trouble…

There had to be something he could do.

The ceaseless struggle for existence in the Hole went barely noticed through the viewing wall to his right as he ran down the corridor. He came to the opening where the rocks had been pulled away and climbed out into the fresh night air.

Rab was gone. He was supposed to be waiting here but Dalt could find no trace of him. He couldn’t waste time looking for him. Dalt ran the two kilometers along a ravine that led up a hill to the fortress.

He saw the flames as soon as he topped the bank, but wouldn't allow himself to think that Jon might be in any way involved. They leaped high, those flames — six or seven meters into the air. The conflagration stood to the right of the gate, a short distance from the outer wall, and was surrounded by a knot of people.

Why the fire? That was the crucifixion spot. They burned teries and Talents in the pit on the far side of the fortress. What was going on?

A trooper shouted to him as he ran up.

"Where have you been? All villagers are to report to the gate when they hear the gong. You should know that by now. Get up there and learn a lesson!"

Dalt made no reply as he hurried on. He noted that the civilians were keeping to the rear of the circle of spectators, most with averted eyes. The front ranks were taken up by troopers, cheering, laughing, and drinking as they watched the burning body affixed to the cross.

He suspended all emotion as he pushed his way to the front to confirm his worst fears. No facial features remained on that charred corpse. But none was needed. The barrel chest, the shape of the head and legs…unmistakable.

Jon, the tery, the man, was dead.

Dalt heard the soldiers’ voices around him as if from a great distance.

"— hear he could have killed the captain but didn't —"

"— and she says he had Ghentren up in the air by the throat and just let him go —"

"— like they say, teries are stupid. Could have killed him clean and got out the same’s he came in but didn't. Deserve to burn, all of ’em —"

"— oughtta crucify them more often —"

"— Yeah. Better'n just running ’em through and then burning ’em —"

Dalt felt his control begin to slip. He feared he might fly into an uncontrollable rage, might grab his blaster and start burning holes in these savages. But he did not touch his blaster. He left it hidden in his belt as an icy calm slipped over him.

He quietly turned away and strode toward the forest.

He felt dead inside. Everything had gone wrong on this accursed planet and this was the final blow. He had grown to love Jon and now he was dead, horribly dead. If only…

If only! There was a long string of if-onlies trailing through his mind, starting with the Teratols and their perversity, on through the CSS’s refusal to authorize a protectorate, up to and including his own attempts to discourage Jon from trying to settle his score with Ghentren.

If only he had tried a little harder, maybe he could have convinced him not to go…if only he hadn't tried so hard, maybe Jon wouldn't have hesitated at the crucial moment, maybe he'd have dispatched that captain and been back in a few minutes’ time. Or perhaps he would have hesitated anyway because of the innate nobility that made him Jon. Dalt didn't know.

One thing he did know, however, was that Jon would still be alive if a protectorate had been set up. The CSS was at fault there. Always hesitating, always stepping back, always mincing around…rotten hands-off policy. Well, he was through with a hands-off policy as of this moment. Those scum back there liked fire, did they? Well, then they'd see some fire, more than they'd ever –

"You're to stay by the gate until you're dismissed!" said a torch-carrying trooper stationed back from the crowd.

He started to move forward to block Dalt's path, then retreated. Perhaps there was something in the way Dalt held himself, something in the way he moved; perhaps the torch light allowed him a glimpse of Dalt's white, tight-lipped face. Whatever it was, the lone sentry decided to let this one pass without an argument.

Not too much further along, Dalt came upon a staring, motionless figure, standing in the darkness, transfixed by the flames.

"Rab!" Dalt shook his shoulder roughly. "Rab, are you all right?"

Rab blinked twice, then staggered. For a heartbeat or two, he didn't seem to know where he was. Then he recognized Dalt.

"Tlad! I saw it all! It was horrible! They're all monsters in that fortress! What they did to Jon…I never dreamed anyone could —"

Dalt put a hand over his mouth to silence him. When he spoke, his voice was cold and flat.

"I know. We've got to tell the rest of the Talents."

"They already know. I made a conduit of myself and transmitted everything back to them. They saw it all through me. They are all witnesses."

"Adriel?"

Rab glanced back at the dancing flames outside Mekk's gate.

"Komak will tell her. Tonight I was glad she was without the Talent. We've lost a good friend, Tlad — another life Mekk will answer for some day. But for now, what do we do?"

"We split up. You go to your people in the forest and stay there. No one is to venture near the fortress until morning. No one !"

Rab looked at him questioningly, but before he could speak, Dalt hurried on.

"Remember what I told you a while back when you asked me how to fight a myth?"

Rab's brow furrowed momentarily, then he nodded. "Another myth, you said — a bigger and better one."

"Right. And the new one starts here. Tonight. It will concern a rough-looking creature everyone persecuted because he was called a tery. But he was really a man. It will tell how he tried to live in peace as a man. And how one day he was captured and died horribly at the hands of his persecutors. You spread the word about that, Rab. And tell the world what happened to those who killed him."

"But nothing happened to them."

"Not yet."

Rab stared uncomprehendingly at the man he knew as Tlad.

"Don't worry, Rab. I'm not mad. Not quite. But something is going to happen tonight, and I don't want it passed off as a natural catastrophe. I want people to remember tonight and know that it happened for a reason."

"What…what's going to happen?"

Dalt's face was a mask. "Something I'm going to have to live with the rest of my life."

As Dalt turned and trotted toward the trees, Rab called after him.

"I won't be seeing you again, will I?"

Dalt didn't reply.

Dalt brought his ship to a silent hover over Mekk's fortress. Except for a few sputtering torches, all was dark below. Perhaps a few embers glowed around the base of the cross that held the tery's charred remains, but Dalt could not see them from where he was. The villagers had returned to their frightened hovels far down at the base of the hill. All was quiet.

He pointed up the nose of his slender craft and aimed his ion drive tubes at the fortress. He had to do this now. If he gave himself enough time to think, if he allowed himself to weigh the risks of firing an ion drive within a planet's atmosphere, he would abandon the whole idea. But Dalt was not thinking now. He was doing.

He realized that during the course of the rest of his life he would analyze and reanalyze the reasons for what he was about to do. Eventually he knew he would conclude that it all hinged upon the uniqueness of Jon the tery. If anyone else in his group of contacts on the planet had been immolated outside Mekk's fortress, he would have grieved, cursed, ground his teeth with the rest of them, and continued the mission.