Bob Shaw - The Fugitive Worlds

Guilt! The word was a spiteful mosquito hovering and dipping in Toller’s confused consciousness. Is greyface lying to me? Are Baten and I being tricked? Are we being led meekly to our deaths?

Clumsily and inexpertly, he tried to reach out with his mind to the one Dussarran he knew, but there was only an echoing mental silence. Divivvidiv had withdrawn, was lost behind the palisades of his previous existence, and there was no time for retrospection. The vehicle which had nuzzled through the nocturnal ferment of the alien cityscape looked like nothing so much as a huge black egg. It floated a hand’s breadth above the seamless pavement. An opening appeared in its side with no apparent aid from mechanisms that Toller could visualize—in one instant the shell was complete, in the next there was a circular entrance to a redly glowing interior. Dozens of hands were pushing him and Steenameert towards it.

Toller’s first instinct was to resist with all the power he could muster, but one part of him had somehow come to hope that Divivvidiv was not entirely his enemy. It was a slim hope—based on little more than certain nuances of thought and the notion that the alien might have a sense of humor—but it was the only dim guide star remaining to him.

With Steenameert jostling against him he clambered into the vehicle, feeling it rock slightly under the shifting of their weight. The door flowed itself out of existence, like molten metal closing in response to surface tension, and a sudden pressure under foot told them the vehicle was rising into the night sky. There were no seats, but that was of no importance in the cramped interior because the thickly quilted skysuits of the two Kolcorronians largely filled the available space. It was easier to remain standing. Toller had been too hot for some time, but was only becoming aware of it as stealthy rivulets of sweat darted down his back.

“Well, Baten,” he said dispiritedly, “I gave you ample warning about what might happen.”

Steenameert mustered a smile. “I have no complaints. I am going to see sights the like of which I had never imagined, and my life is in no danger.”

“That’s if we can believe what greyface said—he has already lied to us.”

“For a reason! This time he has nothing to gain by telling us an untruth.”

“I suppose you are right.” Toller was reminded of the odd wavering, the telepathic stains of guilt and self-reproach in Divivvidiv’s last communication, but he had no time to pursue the line of thought. He and Steenameert swayed against each other as the direction of their weight shifted. There was a barely perceptible jolt as the vehicle came to rest. A small hole appeared in the side and rippled outwards in the dull metal to become a circular doorway.

Beyond it was a kind of short corridor which seemed to be fashioned from a mottled glassy tube of elliptical cross-section. The material was blurrily streaked with grey, yellow and orange, and was either lit from behind or was giving off an even glow of its own. Toller looked to his left and right and saw that the near end of the tube met the outer shell of the transporter in a curved seam so neat that it would have been impossible to slide a strip of finest paper into it. He transferred his attention to the far end of the corridor. It terminated in an ovoidal wall at the center of which was a small circular aperture which continuously opened and shrank in a manner which for Toller, exhausted and emotionally drained though he was, had to have biological implications.

“Is somebody trying to make us feel welcome?” he said to Steenameert as he started forward, moving clumsily in his voluminous skysuit, hands still tied behind his back. As he and Steenameert reached the end of the corridor the aperture in the wall rolled back to give them clear access to a large and complicated enclosed space, a circular hall rimmed with stairs and galleries. Imposing though the alien cathedral might have been to Toller in his normal state of mind, its architectural vistas now flowed outwards in his vision, centering all of his attention on the small group of women who were running in his direction.

And foremost among them was the Countess Vantara!

“Toller!” she screamed, her beautiful features transformed into a mask of inhumanly enhanced desire. “Toller, my love!

You came, you came, you came … I should have known it would be you!”

She hurled herself against him with such force that he was almost driven backwards. Her arms went around his neck and she kissed him with wet lips and urgently probing tongue. Toller was both thrilled and gratified, senses overwhelmed to the extent that he scarcely noticed the stockier form of Lieutenant Pertree moving behind him. The lieutenant began to untie his hands, while the three remaining members of the crew converged on Steenameert with similar intent. Vantara pushed Toller back to arm’s length, still clasping his neck, and it was only then that her eyes began to take stock of the true situation.

“You’re a prisoner!” she accused. “You have been captured, just like us!” She recoiled from Toller, her expression changing to one of disappointment and anger. “Did your ship also blunder into that strange reef?”

“No. I approached it in daylight and managed to get by. On reaching Prad and being told that your ship had failed to arrive, I immediately set out to find you.”

“Where are your forces?”

Toller rubbed his newly freed wrists. “There are no forces—Baten is my only companion.”

Vantara’s jaw sagged as she shot an incredulous glance to her lieutenant. “You set out—a general commanding an army of one—to challenge an invader!”

“At that time I had no way of knowing there was an enemy presence,” Toller said stiffly. “My only thought was of your safety. Besides, two men or a thousand—what difference would it have made?”

“Can this be the real Toller Maraquine who preaches defeatism, or is it an impostor conjured up by those foul beings who deny us our freedom?” Vantara turned away before Toller could protest and walked quickly towards the nearest stair.

First I’m too foolhardy — then Tm too timid, Toller thought, feeling both wounded and baffled. In his confusion he stared at the three young women in ranker uniforms who were attending to Steenameert. They were helping him out of his cumbersome skysuit, and at the same time—their welcome to him apparently undiminished—were smiling and plying him with questions. Steenameert looked embarrassed but gratified.

“You must excuse my aristocratic commander,” Lieutenant Pertree said, gazing up at Toller with a wry glint in her eye. “The terms of our detention here could hardly be described as onerous, but the countess—being of royal blood, and therefore possessing an exquisite degree of sensitivity—finds the life much more harrowing than would a commoner.”

Toller was almost grateful for the flicker of anger which brought reality into sharp focus. “I remember you, lieutenant, and I see that you are as insubordinate and disloyal as ever.”

Pertree sighed. “I remember you, captain, and I see that you are as besotted and calf-eyed as ever.”

“Lieutenant, I will not tolerate that kind of…” Toller allowed the sentence to die, suddenly recalling that he had only permitted Steenameert to accompany him into the unknown on condition that they discard all the stultifying appurtenances of rank and class. He smiled apologetically and began ridding himself of the stifling swaddles of his skysuit.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “The old ways die hard. I have heard your given name more than once, but confess to having forgotten it…”

“Jerene.”

He smiled. “My name is Toller. May we pledge friendship and in consequence present a united front against the common enemy?” He had expected the sturdy lieutenant to appear mollified to some extent, and therefore he was surprised when a look of alarm manifested itself on her rounded features.