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Novels by William Walling
Novels by William Walling
Category:
Science Fiction
Publisher: Doubleday & Company, N.Y.
ISBN-10: 1589399218
Type: Fiction
Pages: 350
Copyright: Copyright William Walling 1971
ISBN-13: 9781589399211
Price: $7.95 (eBook)
Imperial interstellar explorers discover the remote, idyllic planet Dan, but the enigmatic indigenes are unhappy over Code Duello, a facet of Convention males of Imperium Terrestriana live by, and also die by.
Millennia after a thermonuclear holocaust decimates civilization, the myriad, mutated children of Earth have spread their wings and colonized the galazy’s near reaches. Imperium Terrestriana, loosely governed by an elite oligarchy of elders forsters Convention, the body of civil law featuring Code Duello, a custom allowing interpersonal affairs to seek unnatural equilibrium as trillions of eligible patricians as well as hardy plebes wield their swords to settle disputes. Explorers on the empire’s parsecs-distant periphery discover Planet Dan, an idyllic, green and golden world ripe for colonization, where enigmatic, supposedly ancient indigenes of superior intellect come and go like shadows, yet lack habitations or any sort of infrastructure.
Disapproving of violence, the alien Danii observe askance as humans arrive in droves and colonization begins in earnest, and become horrified to learn that sequestered convicts and violators of Convention start to vanish before the eyes of astounded colonists. When questioned about what might be happening, the Danii repeatedly explain how unseen beings called “Higher Ones” have taken them because they are vastly displeased over the wanton destruction of life wrought by victorious duelists, and have brought the miscreants “into their gentle care.”
The Higher Ones eventually make their acute displeasure known via precipitate action that leads to a chilling, ironic climax, and raises provocative questions about neo-humankind’s place in the eternal scheme of things.
Excerpt
No One Goes There Now
William Walling
I
Ecce homo Triumphalis!
First inscribed upon the Medallion
of ImperiumTerrestriana, 3794 CE
Shortly after sunup a neohuman male in a matte black pressure-suit bearing the imperial crest warily emerged from the grounded pinnace’s hatch; it closed behind him. Toting a megajoule laser rifle at high port, Holt Morrow paused at the foot of the extended access ramp and scanned the meadow for movement, any type of movement. Birdsong impinged upon the external transducers of his cumbersome vacuum gear and amplified to ring faintly within his bubble headpiece. On the fringe of forest, wisps of downy, fern-like growth stirred here and there under a vagrant breath of morning breeze. He discerned no other movement.
A veteran explorer, Morrow’s wealth of experience coupled with a deeply ingrained survival instinct, made him ultra-suspicious of the verdant stretch of grassland bordered by what to outward appearances was pastoral forestland. If anything, the meadow and forest looked too promising — a pastoral scene hinting that it contained nothing the least bit inimical. Having set foot on a radically differing spectrum of raw worlds during his century-long career, Morrow was preternaturally aware that the unknown was indeed suspect, and what might or might not lurk beneath the recently discovered planet’s inviting veneer would remain suspect for some time. First and foremost was Morrow’s certainty that the knowledge that concealed within the peaceful paradigm in which he had been awarded the privilege of being first to set foot, anything at all might lie in wait unseen, yet suspected.
Morrow stepped off the ramp, walked forward a few paces turning round and round, and paused again. His leathery cheeks patinaed with a traceries of broken venules, deep crow’s-feet gathered at the corners of his narrowed eyes as he squinted into the bright sparkle of morning. After a second intense inspection of the immediate surroundings, he began to distance himself from the starcruiser’s landing craft, moving forward cautiously, bearing himself erectly, athletically despite the encumbering pressure-suit. Vigilant, his reflexes at hair-trigger, he again turned round and round as he walked, churning metaled boots through the dewy meadowgrass of early morning.
Temporarily satisfied, pending further examination of the evidence, Morrow leaned the laser weapon butt-downward against his suit’s bulbous, articulated knee and, rough-chiseled features split in a homely grin, waved a benediction to the alien surroundings. “Out, come out wherever you are!” he sang into the suit’s throat microphone. “At first glance, this pretty lump of mud looks to be a patch of prime, A-number-one-real estate.”
The pinnace’s main hatch rumbled open. A dozen armored shock troops spilled down the ramp and double-timed into the meadow, forming a loose, outward-facing arc to interdict the landing craft. Watching the deployment with a vaguely cynical expression, Morrow succumbed to a spur-of-the-moment impulse, unclipped the dogs of his pressure-suit’s globular headpiece, and cracked the seal with apparent unconcern. Drawing a shallow, tentative breath, he savored the fresh tang of unregenerated air. He lifted off the fishbowl, set it on the turf and began shucking off the vacuum gear with wriggling ease that suggested much practice. Disregarding the trio of gesticulating explorers who approached, he sat down on the turf, stripped off heavy sweat socks and slid his bare feet through the dewy grass, with an expression of sybaritic pleasure.
Maran Roberts, the exploratory mission’s nominal commander led the way clad in matte black vacuum gear identical to that Morrow had put aside ⎯ an unspoken declaration of verifiable aristocracy through six or seven generations of unmutated or lightly mutated neohuman stock. The orbiting starcruiser’s first officer, Ennis Ladeen, trailed Roberts towing via remote control a pair of null-grav aerial search drones. A jittery flight surgeon clad in gray-green vacuum gear brought up the rear.
The medic gesticulated and said something to Morrow lolling unprotected on the turf. When no response was forthcoming, the physician tried again, his mouth working indignantly. Holt could hear only the indistinct voice-buzz emanating from the fishbowl headpiece resting beside him on the grass.
Commander Roberts dropped a gauntlet to his utility belt and energized his suit’s external speaker. “A touch hasty, weren’t you, Holt?”
“Nothing too scary in this pretty lump of mud,” assured Morrow.
“Hereafter,” suggested Roberts with no hint of levity, “you will either do as the surgeon suggests, or chance a personal encounter with . . . the ‘hereafter.’ You claimed seniority, badgered me into foolishly awarding you the signal honor of being first off, and now act irresponsibly. Despite posing as a modern Methuselah with practically limitless experience, why so eager to forfeit the honor next time? Old hands do not behave like green youngsters; it sets an extremely dangerous example.”
The accused grumbled about having been resurrected so many times that one more session could do no harm. A sharp look from Roberts silenced him.
His frown visible despite the reflective fishbowl partially obscuring his features, the flight surgeon’s head wagged knowingly. He turned away in disgust, retreated toward the relative safety of the pinnace.
“This one certainly looks promising,” endorsed Ennis Ladeen. Gazing across the expansive meadowland, he added, “Except for lacking a natural satellite, it could be a clone of Old Terra.”
“Exemplary,” declared Roberts. “One might even say idyllic, but perhaps only after a quick first glance. The orbital survey report raved about it, and recorded a most favorable summarization of the entire stellar system. Five also looks promising, though extensive atmosphere and ecosystems enhancement will be mandatory before reaching first stage viability. The other relatively close-in pair may require six or seven cycles of intensive terraforming, plus ancillary improvements. But there can be no doubt that Three, here, is the authentic gem. How shall we begin, Ennis?”
“Best, I think,” replied Ladeen, “will be to send POLLY up for a quick look-see to log the landing site perimeter. Once the meadow and surrounding forested area prove secure, we might send GEG on an expanding search spiral out to, say, a hundred-klick radius.”
“So ordered,” approved Roberts. “Perhaps we’ll also move the picket ring out another fifty meters or so, give ourselves a bit more elbow room.”
“Aye, ser Roberts,” said Ladeen, The second in command began issuing orders as he walked away.
Outwardly at peace with himself and the universe, Morrow lolled on the turf, chewing on a grassblade.
“What caused this wild urge to desuit?” Roberts casually inquired. “I’d hate to lose you over a senseless misstep like this, Holt; we’ve voyaged together too long. Why choose to suddenly exhibit such adolescent behavior?”
Morrow spat out the grassblade. Clambering to his feet, he scuffed a big toe through the meadow grass — a show of penitence that fell light-years short of deceiving Commander Roberts. “Nothing very hairy to fret about in this grassy green garden.”
“You chose a curious method to prove that thesis.”
“Aw, don’t be crotchety, Maran. S’pose I felt a sudden urge to, uh . . . Being cooped up aboard ship made me —”
“Holt,” declared the commander, cutting the other short, “we’ve seen a portion of the visited galaxy together. More than once we’ve stumbled across a ‘pretty lump’ like this, albeit none anywhere near as inviting. You more than anyone, should know that no two raw worlds are ever alike. In their pristine state, all share a universal presumption of danger in equal measure.”
“Guess I needed a breath of fresh air after being penned up for ⎯”
“Most virgin planetary matrices,” pursued Roberts, not allowing Morrow restate his point, “turn out to be innocuous, and want no more than the touch of a friendly hand to achieve stage one viability. Then, if you will recall, after all our hard work we explorers receive a polite request to step aside so that the newfound global matrix can be scraped, weaned, watered and made fruitful by legions of ‘experts’ and political wonks in a rush to prepare for the multitudes soon to swarm in, breeding and fighting. Then shortly ⎯ far too shortly ⎯ the Planners insist that we industriously dig deeper into the galaxy and turn up yet more viable planetary matrices.”
Holt shrugged. Looking pensive, he said, “If a century-and-more of strife and struggle hasn’t bilged what few memory links’re left in my head, “the computer tabbed Arcania as the first major real estate deal our team sighed off on.”
“Your memory remains sound,” said Roberts, “even if your survival instinct does not. But how many, many ‘real-estate deals have we turned since Arcania.” Roberts reflected wistfully on the wildernesses and dreary vacuum where much of his long life had been spent. Then his chin lifted sharply inside the fishbowl. “No, you impulsive old pelican,” he accused, “you are not not going to change the subject.”
Holt refused to wilt under the other’s penetrating gaze. “This lump’s special, Maran.”
“Um, yes. Perhaps especially dangerous.”
“Uh-uh,” denied Holt. “This grassy green and golden garden’s floating way to hell and gone out here, a goodly number of parsecs from the noise and the crush. Hadn’t intended to mention it until you started riding me about dumping the p-suit. For some reason a spooky feeling came over me . . . What I mean is, when the pinnace’s hatch slid open and I planted my boots outside on the ramp it was like I’d been here before, and just now come back again. In a way, I’m almost sorry the survey team found this lump.”
“Déjà vu.”
“Say again?”
“I also felt it — still feel it,” Roberts told him. “Chalk it up to a psychological mind game the subconscious never seems to tire of playing. An exotic ambience of some kind seems to permeate what little we’ve seen of your ‘pretty lump.’ For me, it was like stepping into an imaginary dreamworld, not just another altogether real raw planet overly ripe for settlement. It made me feel right at home, as if a matrix this ideal comes along only once in several lifetimes.”
“Uh-huh. Good, bad or indifferent, a dose of deja-whatever-you-called-it socked me right in the gut.”
Appraising the stir of activity commencing around them, the commander gently clapped Morrow’s shoulder. “Come, time to do penance.”
A chuckle. “For instance?” Holt bent and retrieved his fishbowl. Lugging the clumsy pressure-suit and laser rifle, he trailed Roberts to a slim gray console hovering millimeters above the turf, its null-grav field flattening the meadow grass in a neat rectangle.
“Exposing yourself to an alien environment automatically bars you from the pinnace for whatever quarantine period the medics prescribe,” said Roberts, “so you might as well make yourself useful.” He touched an amber switch-plaque marked LOG, causing it to glow green and illuminate the word EXPEDLOG. “Ser Morrow,” declared Roberts formally, “you are ordered to supervise the preliminary survey. All natural phenomena within a one-hundred-kilometer radius are to be observed and recorded, analysis to immediately follow. Constant audiovisual contact with the pinnace is to be maintained at all times.”
The commander’s orders continued as the anonymous system’s primary climbed higher above the trees and the turf began to dry, assisted by the gentle morning breeze rustling unfamiliar leaves in the nearby copse of soaring trees.
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