Friends (2013) - Adams, Robert

Bigboy always had trouble entering what had been the operations room a millennium ago but now served as the courtroom. Once inside, there was ample room for him; but despite a sloppy job of enlargement, the doorway still represented a tight squeeze. When there was to be a trial, the giant knew that the Judge would insist on his playing the role of something called “Abailiff.” Bigboy stood close to the olive-green wall, and waited.

Von was standing in the center of the room. When he closed his eyes, little sparkles of light danced behind the lids, and his balance was uncertain. How delightful it would be to simply lie down upon the hard floor . . . and sleep forever. With a start, he opened his eyes. No, he would not succumb; through force of will he would be as formidable as ever. The enemy would not claim his people or himself while life beat within the veins of any member of the Horseclans.

Yet no amount of bravado could completely remove the sour memories of being brought into this Hold. Down a flight of metal stairs, assailed by the stench of shaggy men’s unwashed bodies—so concentrated that it was indescribably revolting—they had been forced to march. Their weapons and supplies were dumped in a pile at the foot of the stairs. The scene was bathed in merciless white light from the ceiling. This made it more of a torment, because it was all too easy to see the shaggies clearly; and some of the Ganik females, with an even more noxious odor than their mates, poked and prodded them. Disarmed and surrounded by such as these, Von had to wonder if he had made the right decision. The machine gun remained a persuasive argument.

The sound of a dull thud attracted his attention. Berti had collapsed at Terrell’s feet. “Let me help,” said Ethera, but before she could take a step, a swarm of Ganiks surrounded the fallen man and made off with him. There was nothing Terrell could do, but he tried nonetheless. His attempt to hold on to his friend was met by one hamhock of a hand lifting him by the shoulders. Bigboy was the most alert giant Von had ever seen.

“Bigboy!” shouted Von. “Tell your chief Judge that should butchery befall our kinsman, he will answer to me, anon.”

The laughter of these part-men is said to be able to curdle milk. Von had to agree with that assessment as he listened to them snort and snuffle in a parody of mirth.

When the Judge entered the room, there was an end to levity. Von could see why. On first sight, there was little that could be more startling than the human monster that addressed the assembly: “In honor of our guests, I will speak in their language. Translations are available upon request. Now, which one of you is the theologian?” Nothing amused the Judge more than bafflement on the part of others. “Come, come, 1 mean the one of your group who knew about the Ganik demon, Plooshuhn, that forbids these, my children, to smelt ore or work bronze.”

Bigboy pointed to Terrell, who maintained a stony silence. “That’s all right,” said the Judge. “I don’t expect cooperation. Are you impressed that my giant remembers you? Of all the monsters I’ve collected in Muhkohee lands, he’s my favorite. He’s smarter than my children, if truth be told.” Here the Judge pointed first to a small band of large, hairless

Ganiks, then to the far larger number of small, hair-covered

ones.

“What are you?” asked Von, his voice a threat.

“You are the leader of your side; I the leader of mine.” “Ganiks don’t have leaders, just bullies, until they fall and are eaten,” said Terrell.

“Bravo, the scholar breaks his silence. 1 am flattered that you contribute to the discussion. 1 am their leader. Perhaps it is due to my being a special envoy from one of their gods. Why, I even chat with Kahlohdjee, chief of their deities, now and again. The future belongs to the Ohrgahnikahnsehrva-shuhnee. As for this theological question, you don’t appreciate the subtle nuances of High Church Ganik worship. They are not allowed to make anything interesting; but they are allowed to steal and use interesting things made by other people. In the long-ago days, they would have found many professions suited to these nice distinctions.”

Swifteye mindspoke to Von: “A Witchman.”

Von replied: “He could be naught else.”

The Judge grimaced, his version of a smile. “By your face, Chief Von, I sense that I’m failing to convince you. Very well, j’ll admit the truth: I am their leader because I am inedible. You asked what 1 was. I am no man, so behave.” “What would you have of us?” demanded Ethera.

The Judge hopped over to one of the Ganiks, reached out his long fingers, and triumphantly held up a squirming white louse. “See this? Their bodies are crawling with fleas and lice. They like it because it’s what they know. I want to broaden their outlook, bring out their potential.”

“If you choose to live with Ganiks, you’re lower than they,” said Ethera.

“A woman who thinks that she thinks! Very good. I am an expert on parasites, my lady, and eminently qualified to lead. A thousand years ago, they had their own city-—Paris I believe it was called. But enough history.”

A fat Ganik entered the chamber—Von wondered how long the man could avoid being on the menu of his leaner brothers—carrying something wrapped in a brown cloth, a red stain on the bottom. The Judge was given the now dripping parcel, which he opened to reveal a gelatinous object that he held with some difficulty between two fingers and thumb, as it was very slippery, and took a bite out of the end, pulling and chewing before he could separate a piece of the rubberlike material. There was a splatter of blood.

“1 won’t watch,” screamed Ethera, covering her eyes.

‘‘May I have a knife for this?” asked the Judge of the room at large. “A Horseclansman’s liver is tasty, but tough.” He looked straight at Von and said: “I’ve picked up a few bad habits, but when in Rome, do as the Romans. Of course, you don’t know anything more about Rome than Paris, but—”

Von’s discipline was forgotten as one of the prairiecats, Firepaw, leapt toward the Judge and bit into his arm with three-inch-long fangs. Once again, it was Bigboy who was first to react, throwing the cat with such force that its back was broken, legs quivering in death agony.

Several things happened at once: Swifteye pleaded for a command from her chief, flashing the thought that she had seen Chief Graypaw crushed beneath a rockslide, and was sure that Flatear was dead, as well. With no reason left for living, the cat wished to join the fray, but with the sanction of an order. Von was busy commanding that everyone resist temptation, Swifteye included. Until that machine gun was neutralized, he couldn’t take the risk. The Judge was as concerned over the gun as anyone. “Stop!” he shouted, as the nervous Ganik debated whether or not he should open fire. “Look!” cried the Judge, holding out his mangled arm to reveal that not one single drop of blood had been spilled. Several Ganiks fell on their faces in reverential swoons. “This always impresses them,” said the Judge, winking at Von.

“It’s fascinating to watch your expressions as you play with telepathy,” said the Judge, his mouth full. He had retrieved his meal from the floor. Swallowing by turning his head at an inhuman angle, and jerking his head in the process, he continued with better enunciation: “No need to be upset. You’ll end up as your friend did. They won’t eat your dead cat, of course. They really aren't the best material with which to bring back civilization, but they are all I have . . . and they do obey.”

A chair was brought for the Judge. When he was sitting, the folds of his robe draped about him, it appeared that his vulture’s head and emaciated arms grew out of a black obelisk, “Please note, if you will, the oversized head of the Ganik. You’d almost think that he had some intelligence. The overbite of his teeth help to correct that impression, as it makes him appear a caricature of the stupid. Here, then, is the creature I would bring into civilization. To accomplish this unlikely task will require repeated demonstrations of the court’s justice.”