Earthblood (15 page)

"Poundin' my head with that macaroni stick won't buy you nothin', Terry," he grated. His mouth was set in a blue-toothed grin. "I'm comin' to get you now . . ."

He charged, and Roan watched the blade swing toward him in a sweeping slash and at the last moment he leaned aside, pivoted, and struck down at the Minid's collarbone; the skrilwood club hit with a sound like an oak branch breaking. Snaggle-head yowled and grabbed for his shoulder, spinning away from Roan; his face twisted as he brought the knife up, transferred it with a toss to his left hand.

"Now I kill you, Terry!"

"You'd better," Roan said, breathing hard. "Because if you don't, I'm going to kill you." Roan moved in, aware of a layer of blue smoke in the muggy air, wide eyes in big Minid faces, the flat shine of Chronid features, the distant putter of a ventilator fan, a puddle of spilled beer under the fallen bench, a smear of dark blood across Snaggle-head's cheek. The Minid stood his ground, the knife held before him, its point toward Roan. Roan circled, struck with the club at the knife. The Minid was slow: the blade clattered from the skinned hand, and Roan brought the heavy bludgeon up—

His foot skidded in spilled beer, and he was down, and Snaggle-head was over him, his wide face twisting in a grimace of triumph; the big hands seemed to descend almost casually and Roan threw himself aside, but there were feet and a fallen bench, and the hands clamped on him, biting like grapple hooks, gathering him into a strangling embrace. He kicked, futile blows against a leg like a tree trunk, hearing the Minid's breath rasp, smelling the chemical reek of Minid blood and Minid hide, and then the arms, thick as Roan's thigh, tightened, and Roan's breath went out in a gasp and the smoke and the faces blurred . . .

". . . let him breathe a little," Snaggle-head was saying. "Then we'll see how good his eyeballs is hooked on. Then maybe we'll do a little knife work—"

Roan twisted, and the arms constricted.

"Ha, still alive and kicking." Roan felt a big hand grope, find a purchase on his shoulder. He was being held clear of the floor, clamped against the Minid's chest. The Minid's free hand rammed under Roan's chin, forced his head back. A blunt finger bruised his eye.

"Let's start with this one—"

Roan wrenched his head aside, groped with open jaws, found the edge of a hand like a hog-hide glove between his teeth, and bit down with all the force of his jaws. The Minid roared, and Roan braced his neck and clung, tasting acrid blood, feeling a bone snap before the hand was torn violently from his grip—

And he struck again, buried his teeth in Snaggle-head's shoulder, grinding a mass of leather-tough muscle, feeling the skin tear as the Minid fell backward.

They were on the floor, Snaggle-head bellowing and striking ineffectually at Roan's back, throwing himself against the scrambling legs of spectators, kicking wildly at nothing. Roan rolled free, came to his knees spitting Minid blood.

"What in the name of the Nine Devils is going on here?" a voice bellowed. Henry Dread pushed his way through the crewmen, stood glaring down at Roan. His eyes went to the groveling crewman.

"What happened to him?" he demanded.

Roan drew breath into his tortured chest. "I'm killing him," he said.

"Killing him, eh?" Henry Dread stared at Roan's white face, the damp red-black hair, the bloody mouth. He nodded, then smiled broadly.

"I guess maybe you're real Terry stock at that, boy. You've got the instinct, all right." He stooped, picked up Snaggle-head's knife, offered it to Roan.

"Here. Finish him off."

Roan looked at the Minid. The cuts on the bald scalp had bled freely, and more blood from the torn shoulder had spread across the chest. Snaggle-head sat, legs drawn up, cradling his bitten hand, moaning. Tears cut pale paths through the blood on his coarse face.

"No," Roan said.

"What do you mean, no?"

"I don't want to kill him now. I'm finished with him." Henry Dread held the knife toward Roan. "I said kill him," he grated.

"Get the vet," Roan said. "Sew him up." Henry stared at Roan. Then he laughed. "No guts to finish what you started, hey?" He tossed the knife to a hulking Chronid, nodded toward Snaggle-head.

"Get the vet!" Roan looked at the Chronid. "Touch him and I'll kill you," he said, trying not to show how much it hurt to breathe.

In the profound silence, Snaggle-head sobbed.

"Maybe you're right," Henry Dread said. "Alive, he'll be a walking reminder to the rest of the boys. Ok, Hulan, get the doc down here." He looked around at the other crewmen.

"I'm promoting the kid to full crew status. Any objections?" Roan listened, swallowing against a sickness rising up inside him. He walked past Henry Dread, went along the dim way between the high bunks, pushed out into the corridor.

"Hey, kid," Henry Dread said behind him. "You're shaking like a Groac in molting time. Where the hell are your bandages?"

"I've got to get back to my mop," Roan said. He drew a painful breath.

"To hell with the mop. Listen, kid—"

"That's how I earn my food, isn't it? I don't want any charity from you."

"You'd better come along with me, kid," Henry Dread said. "It's time you and me had a little talk."

In his paneled, book-lined cabin, Henry Dread motioned Roan to a deep chair, poured out two glasses of red-brown liquid.

"I wondered how long you'd take the pushing around before you showed you were a Man. But you'll still have to watch yourself. Some of the boys might take it into their heads to gang up on you when they think I'm not looking."

"I'll be looking," Roan said. "Why do they want to kill me?"

"You've got a lot to learn, lad. Most of the boys are humanoids; I've even got a couple that call themselves Terries; I guess they've got some Terry blood, but it's pretty badly mutated stock. They don't like having us damn near purebreds around. It makes 'em look like what they are: Gooks." He took a swallow from his glass, blew air over his teeth.

"I don't like to work around Gooks, but what the hell; it's better'n living with Geeks."

"What's the difference between a Gook and a Geek?"

"I stretch a point: if a being's humanoid, like a Minid or a Chronid, OK, give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he's descended from mutated human stock. You got to make allowances for Gooks. But a life-form that's strictly non-human—that's a Geek."

"Why do you hate Geeks?"

"I don't really hate 'em—but it's them or us."

Roan tried his drink, coughed, put the glass down. "What's that? It tastes terrible."

"Whiskey; you'll learn to like it, boy. It helps you forget what you want to forget."

Roan took another swallow of the whiskey, make a face.

"It doesn't work," he said. "I still remember."

"Give it time," Henry Dread growled. He stood and paced the room.

"How much do you know about Terry history, boy?"

"Not much, I guess. Dad used to tell me that once Terries ruled the whole Galaxy, but then something happened, and now they're scattered, what there is left of them—"

"Not 'them,' boy. 'Us.' I'm a Terry. You're a Terry. And there are lots more of us. Sure, we're scattered, and in lots of places the stock has mutated—or been bred out of the true line—but we're still Terries; still human. And it's still our Galaxy. The Gooks and Geeks have had a long holiday, but Man's on the comeback trail now—and every Man has to play his part."

"You mean murdering people like—Stellaraire and Gom Bulj—"

"Look, that's over and done. To me a Geek's a Geek. I'm sorry about the girl, but what the hell: you said she was only a mule—" Roan got to his feet; Henry Dread held up a hand. "OK. No offense. I thought we had a deal? Let's lay off this squabbling. We're Terries: that's what counts."

"Why should I hate Geeks?" Roan finished his drink, shuddered, put the glass on the table. "I've got reason to hate you, but I was raised with Geeks. They weren't any worse than your Gooks. Some of them were my friends. The only human I ever knew was my father—and I guess maybe he wasn't all human. He was shorter than you, and wide through the shoulders, and his arms were almost as thick as a Minid's. And he had dark brown skin. I guess that couldn't be real Terry human stock."

"Hard to say. Seems like I read somewhere that back in prehistoric times, Men came in all kinds of colors: black, red, yellow, purple—maybe green, I don't know. But later on they interbred and the pure color strains disappeared. But maybe your old man was a throwback—or even descended from real old stock."

"Does anybody know what a real Terry looks like?" Roan took a lock of his thick dark red hair between his fingers, rolling his eyes up to look at it. "Did you ever see hair that color before?"

"Nope; but don't let it worry you. Everybody's got a few little flaws; Hell, Men have been wandering around the Galaxy for over thirty thousand years now; they've had to adapt to conditions on all kinds of worlds; they've picked up everything from mutagenic viruses to cosmic radiation to uranium burns; no wonder we've varied a lot from the pure strain. But pure or not, us humans have got to stick together."

Roan was looking at the empty glass. Henry filled it and Roan took another drink.

"He wasn't really my father," he said. "He and Ma bought me in the Thieves'

Market on Tambool. Paid two thousand credits for me, too."

"Tambool; hmmm; hell of a place for a Terry lad to wind up. That where you were raised?"

Roan nodded.

"Who were your real parents? Why did they sell you?"

"I don't know. I was only a fertilized ovum at the time."

"Where'd those Geeks get hold of Terry stock?"

"I don't know. Dad and Ma would never talk much about it. And Uncle T'hoy hoy either. I think Ma told him not to."

"Well, it doesn't matter. You're the closest thing to pure Old Terry stock I've seen. I've made you a member of my crew—"

"I don't want to be a member of your crew. I want to go back home. I don't know if Ma's still alive, even, with Dad not there to look after her. I miss Dad. I miss Stellaraire, too. I even miss Gom Bulj—"

"Don't cry into your beer, kid. What the hell, I've taken a liking to you. You play your cards right and you'll do OK. You'll live well, eat well, see the Galaxy, get your share of loot, and some day—when I'm ready—you may be in on the first step toward something big—bigger than you ever dreamed of."

"I don't want loot. I just want my own people. I don't want to destroy. I want to build something."

"Sure, you've got a dream, kid. Every Man has. But if you don't fight for that dream, somebody else's dream will win."

"It's a big Galaxy. Why isn't there room for everybody's dream?"

"Boy, you've got a lot to learn about your own kind. We've got the drive to rule—to conquer or die. Some day we'll make this Galaxy into our own image of Paradise—nobody else's. That's the way Men are."

"There's billions of Geeks," Roan said. "But you're the only Man I've ever seen."

"There are Terries all over the Galaxy—wherever the Empire had an outpost. I mean to find them—one at a time, if I have to. You think I'm just in this for the swag? Not on your life, boy. I could have settled down in luxury twenty years ago—but I've got a job to do."

"Why do you want me? I'm not going to kill Geeks for you."

"Listen, kid, goon squads are cheap; I can hire all I want for the price of a good dinner at Marparli's on Buna II. But you're human—and I need every Man I can get."

"I still haven't forgotten," Roan said. "That whiskey's a fake. So are you. You killed my friends and now you think I'm going to help you kill some more."

Henry gripped Roan's shoulder with a hard hand. "Listen, boy: a Man's got to live. I started off in the Terry ghetto on Borglu, kicked around, spit on, worked like a tun-lizard in the wood mines. There wasn't a day they let me forget I was a Man—and that all I'd ever get was a Man's share—the scraps, and the kicks, and the curses. I hung around back doors and ate garbage, sure. A Man's got a drive to live—no matter how. And I listened and learned a few things. They used to call me in and laugh at me; they'd tell me how once the Terry Empire had stretched across half a Galaxy, and how Terries had been the cock of the walk in every town on ten million worlds, master of everything. And how I was a slave now, and just about good enough, maybe, to wash their dirty clothes and run their errands and maybe some day, if I was a good worker, they'd get me a half-breed wench and let me father a litter of mules to slave for them after I was gone.

"Well, I listened—and I got the message—but not the one they had in mind. They didn't know Terries, boy. Every time they'd show me a book with a picture of a Terran battle officer in full dress, and tell me how the Niss had wiped out the fleet—or hand me an old Terran pistol and tell me how their great grandpap had taken it off a starving Man—it didn't make me feel like a slave. It made me feel like a conqueror. One day one of them made a mistake. He let me handle a Mark XXX hand blaster. I'd read a book or two by then. I'd studied up on Terran weapons. I knew something about a Mark XXX. I got the safety off and burned old Croog and two bystanders down and then melted off the leg band . . ." Henry Dread stooped, pulled his boot off, peeled back his sock. Roan stared at the deep, livid scar that ringed the ankle.

"I made it to the port; there was a Terry scout boat there, dozed offside, buried in the weeds. I'd played around it as a kid. I had a hunch maybe I could open it. There was a system of safety locks—

"To make it short, I got clear. I've stayed free ever since. I've had to use whatever gutter scrapings I could find to build my crew, but I've managed. I've got a base now—never mind where—and there's more battlewagons ready for commissioning—as soon as I get reliable captains. After that—

"Well, I've got plans, boy. Big plans. And they don't include Geeks running the Galaxy."

"Iron Robert's a Geek—and he's my friend. He's a better friend than any of those Gooks of yours—"

"That's right, boy. Stick up for your friends. But when the chips are down—will he stick by you?"