Mack Reynolds - The Space Barbarians

Without further words, John of the Hawks turned on his heel and left.

Outside the longhouse he barked orders to several of his clannsmen who were standing about. Two horses were brought up, a litter rigged on one of them.

Dewey said. “What do you propose?”

“The fleshrot has set in. This Guru of the Marks informs me that on the ship from Beyond there is means to cure it. I take Don of the Clarks to Nairn.”

“But it is a three day ride!”

John looked at his kynsman.

Dewey said, “He will be dead before you arrive.”

John of the Hawks brought his steed to a halt and looked up at the looming spaceship. As before, the ramp was down and the entry open, though no one was in sight He wondered vaguely at the arrogance of the strangers from Beyond. Did they believe themselves immune to raid?

He dismounted and turned to the other horse and its burden. As gently as was possible, he worked at the litter, unbinding the unconscious Don, taking him in arms. There was a nauseating stench of putrefying flesh.

He slung his companion in arms over his left shoulder, so that his right hand could be free, and began the ascent of the ramp.

The ship’s defenses were not as negligent as all that. As he reached the entry port, two of the strangers from Beyond stepped forth. Both were dressed in the clothing of Harmon, the dark garb of the acolyte of the religion of the Shrine of Kalkin. However, neither was of the caliber of the guru or his orange clad assistants. At least, so their expressions suggested.

Nor were their voices exactly the gentle tones of Mark.

One said, “Where do you think you’re going, big boy?”

John came to a halt and said, “I have come to cure the fleshrot in the autohospital told of by Guru of the Marks.”

The second of the strangers wrinkled up his nose. “If you think you’re going to bring that stinking specimen into this ship, you’re more of a dully than you look.”

The other one said, “None of the monks are around, big boy. Go on over to town, there’s a couple of them there. They’ll take care of you.”

John said evenly, “I am not of Nairn. I am of the Hawk Clann of Aberdeen. I have ridden far to reach the auto-hospital, and my comrade is near death.”

“That’s too bad, but you’re not coming into the Revelation . Skipper’s orders. No Caledonians inside the ship, unless the guru personally brings them in.”

The bleakness of the wastelands in his voice, John said, “I take my blood comrade to the autohospital, man from Beyond. I suggest you do not attempt to hinder me.”

The other answered that by darting his hand inside his jerkin. But he reckoned without the abilities of the most celebrated war cacique of Aberdeen. His handgun had hardly cleared his clothing before he felt the sharp sting of the skean bite deep into his side, then rip toward his belly. All turned black, even as he caved forward.

His dagger free again, John of the Hawks turned to the other, the bleakness in his eyes now. “You will lead us to the autohospital, man from Beyond, or you will share the fate of your fellow.”

The other was obviously a slink, John of the Hawks realized. His whiteness of face proclaimed that. He turned and started down the metal corridor, his shoulders held in such wise that he was obviously afraid of having the clannsman behind him, expecting momentarily to feel the skean in his back. John sneered his contempt and shifted the body of Don of the Clarks slightly, to relieve the cramp of his burden, for his blood comrade was no small man.

The corridor was long and unrelieved by other than periodic doors. They tramped along wordlessly.

At long last they reached a portal somewhat larger than the others, and the spaceman turned, his face surly. “This is the entry to the autohospital,” he said.

“Very well. Lead the way.”

The other shrugged and opened the door and entered, John Immediately behind. The man from Beyond stood to one side.

The room was fairly large, furnished considerably as Mark the guru had furnished John’s living quarters in Aberdeen, that is, with equipment obviously of a medical nature, though not understood by John—with metal files, and medicine chest and all spotlessly sterile.

And in the center of the room, a sardonic twist on his mouth, stood Harmon, a weapon in his hand directed at the belly of the Caledonian.

“Welcome to the Revelation , John of the Hawks,” he said.

John looked at him.

Harmon said, “Did you labor under the illusion that you could force your way into a spaceship without setting off alarms? Are you so empty that you couldn’t guess that every word you’ve spoken since you entered the ship has been picked up?”

John said, “I have brought Don, Sagamore of the Clarks, to be treated in the autohospital, Mister of the Harmons.”

The other spaceman blurted, “He knifed Petersen. I think he’s dead. Give him the flamer, Skipper!”

Harmon said thoughtfully, “I don’t think the guru would approve of that, Jim. Besides, it would dinge up our image with the locals. Remember our bit, thou shalt not harm.”

“But he finished Petersen!”

“In honorable defense,” John said. “He drew his weapon.”

Harmon stepped back and sat down in a chair, his gun still at the ready and his face thoughtful.

“A sagamore, eh?” he said. “That’s kind of a subwar-chief, isn’t it? And you’re raid cacique of your clann, aren’t you, John? It occurs to me that you are two of the top bullyboys of Aberdeen.”

John, ignoring the other’s hand weapon, stepped over to the white sheeted operating table and deposited Don there, making the unconscious clannsman as comfortable as possible. He turned then, back to the Revelation’s captain.

“He is dying,” he said. “Where is the autohospital?”

Harmon nodded toward a door studded with dials, switches, small wheels, meaningless to John of the Hawks. “In there,” he said.

John said, “We must hurry, or he is dead.”

Harmon said musingly, “It would be quite impressive if the two of you returned to Aberdeen as loyal followers of Lord Krishna, wouldn’t it?”

John stared at him.

Harmon jiggled his weapon. “Jim,” he said, “help this overgrown dully put his friend in the autohospital and activate it.”

Jim growled, “He knifed Petersen.”

“Forget about Petersen. Evidently, it’s too late to worry about him now.”

Grumbling, the spaceman opened the indicated door and motioned to John, who took up Don in his arms, as a baby is taken up, and carried him into the small compartment beyond. The interior was only bewildering to him. However, there was another metal bed.

“Take his clothes off,” Jim directed sourly. “Bandages and all.”

He will bleed to death!

“He won’t have time to. The minute we step out of here he begins to get blood transfusions.” The other began to throw various switches.

John obeyed orders.

“All right,” the one addressed as Jim said. “Now get on out.”

Back in the room with Harmon, John watched as the spaceman closed the door, isolating Don of the Clarkes.

John said, “What happens now?”

Harmon said, “Over there. Sit down, where I can watch you. Jim, get back to Petersen. If he’s still alive, get one of the other boys and get Petersen into the autohospital. If he isn’t, put him in Disposal and get back to your watch. We’re short handed with so many out spreading the good word of Lord Krishna.”

Jim left, and John of the Hawks seated himself as directed, keeping his eyes on Harmon.

Harmon jiggled his gun again in an amused fashion and smiled mockingly at the clannsman. “What happens now? We wait about an hour or so, and then your buddy buddy comes out all whole again. And then the two of you take your soma and return to Aberdeen to set a good example. Six months from now, oh, perhaps a year, and you’ll both be working in the new mines, all civilized, along with everybody else on Caledonia.”