Science Fiction - Daily Short Stories
Warrior Race - Robert Sheckley
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- Duration:
- 28m
- Broadcast on:
- 09 Jul 2024
- Audio Format:
- mp3
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Go to thecityofdacono.com for more information. Warrior Race by Robert Shekley Destroying the spirit of the enemy is the goal of war, and the aliens had the best way. They never did discover whose fault it was. Fanny appointed out that if Donaut had had the brains of an ox as well as the build, he would have remembered to check the tanks. Donaut, although twice as big as him, wasn't quite as fast with an insult. He intimated after a little thought that Fanny's nose might have obstructed his reading of the fuel cage. This still left them 20 light-years from Thetis with a cupful of transformer fuel in the emergency tank. "Alright," Fanny has said presently. "What's done is done. We can squeeze about three light-years out of the fuel before we're back on atomics. Hand me the galactic pilot, unless you forgot that, too." Donaut dragged the bulky microfilm volume out of its locker and they explored its pages. The galactic pilot told them they were in a sparse seldom-visited section of space, which they already knew. The nearest planetary system was Hatterfield, no intelligent life there. Cerces had a native population but no refueling facilities. The same with a lead, hung and porter-eye. "Aha," Fanny has said. Read that, Donaut, if you can read that is. Cassilla, Donaut read slowly and clearly following the line with a thick forefinger. Type M Sun, three planets, intelligent AA3C human-type life on second, oxygen-breathers, non-mechanical, religious, friendly, unique social structure, described in the Galactic Survey Report 33877242, population estimate stable at $3 billion, basic Cassilla and vocabulary taped under CAS33B2. Known for Resurvey 2375AD, Cass showed transformer fuel left, beam-coordinate 8741KGL, physical description, unoccupied flatland. "Transformer fuel, boy," Fanny has said gleefully. "I believe we will get to Thedus after all," he punched the new direction on the ship's tape. "If that fuel's still there, should we read up on the unique social structure?" Donaut asked, still pouring over the galactic pilot. "Certainly," Fanny has said, "just step over to the main galactic base on Earth and buy me a copy." "I forgot," Donaut admitted slowly. "Let me see," Fanny has said, dragging out the ship's language library. "Cassilla, Cassilla, here it is. Be good while I learn the language." He set the tape in the hypnophone and switched it on. Another useless tongue in my overstuffed head. He murmured, and then the hypnophone took over. Coming out of transformer drive with at least a drop of fuel left, they switched to automics. Fanny erode the beam right across the planet, locating the slender metal spire of the galactic survey cache. The plane was no longer unoccupied, however. The Cassellans had built a city around the cache, and the spire dominated the crude wood and mud buildings. "Hang on," Fanny has said, and brought the ship down on the outskirts of the city in a field of stubble. "Now look," Fanny has said, unfastening his seatbelt, "we're just here for fuel. No souvenirs, no side trips, no fraternizing." Through the port they could see a cloud of dust from the city. As it came closer, they made out figures running toward their ship. "What do you think this unique social structure is?" Donut asked, pensively checking the charge in a needle or gun. "I know not, and care less," Fanny has said, struggling into space armor. "Get dressed." The air's breathable. "Look, pack a derm, for all we know these Cassellans think the proper way to greet visitors is to chop off their heads and stuff them with green apples. If galactic says unique, it probably means unique." Digg said they were friendly. "That means they haven't got atomic bombs. Come on, get dressed." Donut put down the needle and struggled into an oversized suit of space armor. Both men strapped on needleers, paralyzers, and a few grenades. "I don't think we have anything to worry about," Fanny has said, tightening the last, not on his helmet. Even if they get rough, they can't crack space armor, and if they're not rough, we won't have any trouble. Maybe these gigaws will help. He picked up a box of trading articles, mirrors, toys, and the like. Helmeted and armored, Fanny has slid out the port and raised one hand to the Cassellans. The language hypnotically placed in his mind leaped to his lips. We come, as friends and brothers, take us to the chief. The natives clustered around, gaping at the ship and the space armor. Though they had the same number of eyes, ears, and limbs as humans, they completely missed looking like them. If they're friendly, Donut asked, climbing out of the port, why all the hardware? The Cassellans were dressed predominantly in a collection of knives, swords, and daggers. Each man had at least five, and some had eight or nine. Maybe galactic got their signals crossed, Fanny has said, as the natives spread out in an escort, or maybe the natives just used the knives for mumbly peg. The city was typical of a non-mechanical culture. Narrow, packed dirt streets twisted between ramshackle huts. A few two-story buildings threatened to collapse at any minute. A stench filled the air so strong that Fanny's filter couldn't quite eradicate it. The Cassellans bounded ahead of the heavily laden earthmen dashing around like a pack of playful puppies. Their knives glittered and clanked. The chief's house was the only three-story building in the city. The tall spire of the cache was right behind it. "If you come in peace," the chief said when they entered, "you are welcome." He was a middle-aged Cassellan with at least fifteen knives strapped to various parts of his person. He squatted cross-legged on a raised dais. "We are privileged," Fanny said. He remembered from the hypnotic language lesson that chief on Cassellan meant more than it usually did on earth. The chief here was a combination of king, high priest, deity, and bravest warrior. "We have a few simple gifts here," Fanny added, placing the gigaws at the king's feet. Will his majesty accept? "No," the king said. "We accept no gifts." Was that the unique social structure? Fanny had wondered. It certainly was not human. "We are a warrior race. What we want, we take." Fanny had sat cross-legged in front of the dais in an exchanged conversation with the king while Donut played with the spurned toys. Trying to overcome the initial bad impression, Fanny had told the chief about the stars and other worlds, since simple people usually liked fables. He spoke of the ship, not mentioning yet that it was out of fuel. He spoke of Cassellan, telling the chief how its fame was known throughout the galaxy. That is as it should be, the chief said proudly. We are a race of warriors, the like of which has never been seen. Every man of us dies fighting. "You must have fought some great wars," Fanny said politely, wondering what idiot had written up the galactic report. "I have not fought in a war for many years," the chief said. "We are united now, and all our enemies have joined us." Bit by bit Fanny led up to the matter of the fuel. "What is this fuel?" The chief asked, haltingly, because there was no equivalent for it in the Cassellan language. It makes our ship go. "And where is it?" In the metal spire, Fanny has said, "If you would just allow us in the holy shrine," the chief exclaimed shocked. The tall metal church, which the gods left here long ago. "Yeah," Fanny has said sadly, knowing what was coming. "I guess that's it. It is sacrilege for an outworlder to go near it," the chief said. "I forbid it." We need the fuel. Fanny was getting tired of sitting cross-legged. Space armor wasn't built for complicated postures. The spire was put here for such emergencies. "Strangers know that I am God of my people, as well as their leader. If you dare approach the Sacred Temple, there will be war." I was afraid of that, Fanny has said, getting to his feet. "And, since we are a race of warriors," the chief said, "at my command every fighting man on the planet will move against you. More will come from the hills and from across the rivers." Abruptly the chief drew a knife. It must have been a signal, because every native in the room did the same. Being a dragged donut away from the toys. "Look, Lummox, these friendly warriors can't do a damn thing to us. Those knives can't cut space armor, and I doubt if they have anything better. Don't let them pile up on you, though. Use the paralyzer first, the needle, or if they really get thick." Right. Donut whisked out and primed a paralyzer in a single coordinated movement. Left weapons Donut was fast and reliable, which was virtue enough for Fanny to keep him as a partner. We'll cut around this building and grab the fuel. Two cans ought to be enough, then we'll beat it fast. They walked out of the building, followed by the cassellons. Four carriers lifted the chief who was barking orders. The narrow street outside was suddenly jammed with armed natives. No one tried to touch them yet, but at least a thousand knives were flashing in the sun. In front of the cache was a solid phalanx of cassellons. They stood behind a network of ropes that probably marked the boundary between sacred and profane ground. Get set for it, Fanny has said, and stepped over the ropes. Immediately the foremost temple guard raised his knife. Fanny had brought up the paralyzer, not firing it yet, still moving forward. The foremost native shouted something, and the knife swept across in a glittering arc. The cassellon gurgled something else, staggered and fell. Bright blood oozed from his throat. "I told you not to use the needleer yet," Fanny said. "I didn't," Donut protested. Dancing back, Fanny saw that Donut's needleer was still holstered. "Then I don't get it," said Fanny bewilderedly. Three more natives bounded forward, their knives held high. They tumbled to the ground also. Fanny has stopped and watched as a platoon of natives advanced on them. Once they were within stabbing range of the earthmen, the natives were slitting their own throats. He was frozen for a moment, unable to believe his eyes. Donut halted behind him. Natives were rushing forward by the hundreds now, their knives poised, screaming at the earthmen. As they came within range, each native stabbed himself, tumbling on a quickly growing pile of bodies. In minutes the earthmen were surrounded by a heap of bleeding cassellon flesh, which was steadily growing higher. "All right," Fanny shouted, "stop it." He yanked Donut back with him to profane ground. "Truce," he yelled in cassellon. The crowd parted and the chief was carried through. With two knives clenched in his fists he was panting from excitement. "We have won the first battle," he said proudly. "The might of our warriors frightens even such aliens as yourselves. You shall not profane our temple while a man is alive on cassella." The natives shouted their approval and triumph. The two aliens dazedly stumbled back to their ship. "So, that's what galactic meant by a unique social structure," Fanny said morosely. He stripped off his armor and laid down on his bunk. Their way of making war is to suicide their enemies into capitulation. "They must be nuts," Donut grumbled. "That's no way to fight." It works, doesn't it? Fanny got up and stared out a porthole. The sun was setting, painting the city a charming red in its glow. The beams of light glistened off the spire of the galactic cache. Through the open doorway they could hear the boom and rattle of drums. "Tribal call to arms," Fanny said. "I still say it's crazy," Donut had some definite ideas on fighting. "It ain't human!" All by that, the idea seems to be that if enough people slaughter themselves, the enemy gives up out of sheer guilty conscience. What if the enemy doesn't give up? Before these people united, they must have fought it out, tribe to tribe, suiciding until someone gave up. The losers probably joined the victors. The tribe must have grown until it could take over the planet by sheer weight of numbers. Fanny looked carefully at Donut trying to see if he understood. It's anti-survival, of course, if someone didn't give up, the race would probably kill themselves. He shook his head. But war of any kind is anti-survival. Perhaps they've got rules. Couldn't we just barge in and grab the fuel quick? Donut asked, and get out before they all killed themselves? "I don't think so," Fanny has said. They might go on committing suicide for the next ten years, figuring they were still fighting us. He looked thoughtfully at the city. "It's that chief of theirs. He's their god, and he'd probably keep them suiciding until he was the only man left. Then he'd grin and say, 'We are great warriors,' and kill himself." Donut shrugged his big shoulders and discussed. "Why don't we knock him off?" They'd just elect another god. The sun was almost below the horizon now. "I've got an idea, though," Fanny has said. He scratched his head. "It might work. All we can do is try." At midnight the two men sneaked out of the ship, moving silently into the city. They were both dressed in space armor again. Donut carried two empty fuel cans. Fanny had his paralyze around. The streets were dark and silent as they slid along walls and around posts, keeping out of sight. A native turned a corner suddenly, but Fanny paralyzed him before he could make a sound. They crouched in the darkness, in the mouth of an alley facing the cache. "Have you got it straight?" Fanny asked. "I paralyze the guards, you bolt in and fill up those cans. We get the hell out of here quick. When they check they'll find the cans still there. Maybe they won't commit suicide then." The men moved across the shadowy steps in front of the cache. There were three cassillons guarding the entrance. Their knives stuck in their loincloth. Fanny has stunned them with a medium charge and Donut broke into a run. Torches instantly flared, natives boiled out of every alleyway, shouting, waving their knives. "We've been ambushed," Fanny shouted. "Get back here, Donut!" Donut hurriedly retreated. The natives had been waiting for them, screaming, yowling. They rushed at the earthmen, slitting their own throats at five-foot range. Bodies tumbled in front of Fanny, almost tripping him as he backed up. Donut caught him by an arm and yanked him straight. They ran out of the sacred area. "True, damn it," Fanny called out. "Let me speak to the chief. Stop it. Stop it! I want a truce." Reluctantly, the cassillons stopped their slaughter. "This is war," the chief said, striding forward. "His almost human face was stern under the torchlight. You have seen our warriors. You know now that you cannot stand against them. The word has spread to all our lands. My entire people are prepared to do battle." He looked proudly at his fellow cassillons, then back to the earthmen. "I, myself, will lead my people into battle now. There will be no stopping us. We will fight until you surrender yourselves completely, stripping off your armor." "Wait, chief," Fanny had panted, sick at the sight of so much blood. The clearing was obscene out of the inferno. Hundreds of bodies were sprawled around. The streets were muddy with blood. "Let me confer with my partner tonight. I will speak with you tomorrow." "No," the chief said. "You started the battle. It must go to its conclusion. Brave men wish to die in battle at his our fondest wish. You are the first enemy we have had in many years since we subdued the mountain tribes." "Sure," Fanny had said, "but let's talk about it. I, myself, will fight you," the chief said, holding up a dagger. "I will die for my people as a warrior must." "Hold it," Fanny had shouted. "Grant us the truths. We are allowed to fight only by sunlight. It is a tribal taboo." The chief thought for a moment, then said, "Very well, until tomorrow." The beaten Earthmen walked slowly back to their ship amid the jeers of the victorious populace. Next morning Fanny still didn't have a plan. He knew that he had to have fuel. He wasn't planning on spending the rest of his life on Cassela or waiting until the Galactic Survey sent another ship in fifty years or so. On the other hand, he hesitated at the idea of being responsible for the death of anywhere up to three billion people. It wouldn't be a very good record to take to Thevis. The Galactic Survey might find out about it. Anyway, he just wouldn't do it. He was stuck both ways. Slowly the two men walked out to meet the chief. Fanny was still searching wildly for an idea while listening to the drums booming. If there was only someone we could fight, Donaut mourned, looking at his useless blasters. "That's the deal," Fanny said. Guilty conscience is making sinners of us all, or something like that. They expect us to give in before the carnage gets out of hand. He considered for a moment. It's not so crazy, actually. On Earth armies don't usually fight until every last man is slaughtered on one side. Someone surrenders when they've had enough. If they just fight us! Yeah. If they only, he stopped, "We'll fight each other," he said. These people look at suicide as war. Wouldn't they look upon war, but real fighting as suicide? What good would that do us, Donaut asked? They were coming into the city now, and the streets were lined with armed natives. Around the city there were thousands more. Those were filling the plain as far as the eye could see. Evidently they had responded to the drums and were here to do battle with the aliens, which meant, of course, a wholesale suicide. Look at it this way, Fanny has said. If a guy plans on suicideing on Earth, what do we do? Arrest him? Donaut asked. Not at first. We offer him anything he wants if he just won't do it. People offer the guy money, a job, their daughters, anything, just so he won't do it. It's taboo on Earth. So? So, Fanny went on, maybe fighting is just as taboo here. Maybe they'll offer us fuel if we'll just stop. Donaut looked dubious, but Fanny felt it was worth a try. They pushed their way through the crowded city to the entrance of the cache. The chief was waiting for them, beaming on his people like a jovial war-god. "Are you ready to do battle?" he asked, or to surrender. "Sure," Fanny has said. "Now, Donaut," he swung and his mailed fist caught Donaut in the ribs. "Donaut blinked." "Come on, you idiot, hit me back!" Donaut swung and Fanny staggered from the force of the blow. In a second, they were at it like a pair of blacksmiths, mailed blows ringing from their armored hides. "A little lighter," Fanny gasped, picking himself up from the ground, "you're denting my ribs." He belted Donaut viciously on the helmet. "Stop it!" the chief cried. "This is disgusting!" "It's working," Fanny appended. "Now, let me strangle you. I think that might do it." But obliged by falling to the ground, Fanny acclamped both hands around Donaut's armored neck and squeezed. "Make believe you're an agony idiot," he said. Donaut groaned and moaned as convincingly as he could. "You must stop," the chief screamed. "It is terrible to kill another." "Then let me get some fuel," Fanny said, tightening his grip on Donaut's throat. The chief thought it over for a little while, then he shook his head. "No." "What?" "You are aliens, if you want to do this disgraceful thing, do it. But you shall not profane our religious relics." Donaut and Fanny as staggered to their feet, Fanny was exhausted from fighting in the heavy space armor he barely made it up. "Now," the chief said, "surrender at once. Take off your armor or do battle with us." The thousands of warriors, possibly millions because they were arriving every second, shouted their blood wrath. The cry was taken up on the outskirts and echoed to the hills, where more fighting men were pouring down into the crowded plain. Fanny his face contorted. He couldn't give himself and Donaut up to the cassillons. They might be cooked at the next church supper. For a moment he considered going after the fuel and letting the damned fool suicide all they pleased. His mind and angry blank, Fanny as staggered forward and hit the chief in the face with a mailed glove. The chief went down and the natives backed away in horror. Quickly the chief snapped out a knife and brought it up to his throat. Fanny's hands closed on the chief's wrists. "Listen to me," Fanny acrobed. "We're going to take that fuel if any man makes a move. If anyone kills himself, I'll kill your chief." The natives milled around uncertainly. The chief was struggling wildly in Fanny's hands, trying to get a knife to his throat so he could die honorably. "Get it," Fanny told Donaut, "and hurry up." The natives were uncertain just what to do. They had their knives poised at their throats, ready to plunge if battle was joined. "Don't do it," Fanny warned. "I'll kill the chief, and then he'll never die a warrior's death." The chief was still trying to kill himself. Desperately Fanny held on, knowing he had to keep him from suicide in order to hold the threat of death over him. "Listen, chief," Fanny said, eyeing the uncertain crowd. "I must have your promise there'll be no more war between us. Either I get it or I kill you." "Warriors," the chief roared. "Choose a new ruler. Let me and do battle." The Cacellans were still uncertain, but knives started to lift. "If you do it," Fanny shouted in despair, "I'll kill your chief, I'll kill all of you." That stopped them. "I have powerful magic in my ship, I can kill every last man, and then you won't be able to die a warrior's death or get to heaven." The chief tried to free himself with a mighty surge that almost tore one of his arms free, but Fanny held on, pinning both arms behind his back. "Very well," the chief said, tears springing into his eyes. "A warrior must die by his own hand. You have one alien." The crowd shouted curses as the Earthmen carried the chief and the cans of fuel back to the ship. They waved their knives and danced up and down in a frenzy of hate. "Let's make it fast," Fanny said after Donut had fueled the ship. He gave the chief a push and leaped in. In a second they were in the air, heading for Thedus and the nearest bar at top speed. The natives were hot for blood, their own. Every man of them pledged his life to wiping out the insult to their bleeder and god and to their shrine. But the aliens were gone. There was nobody to fight. And of Warrior Race by Robert Shekley. 5280 Exteriors James Hardy's sighting is a low-maintenance sighting made primarily of cement that resists flame spread and repels wood-borne insects and woodpeckers. Through the month of July, you'll receive free rigid foam installation with the purchase of whole-house sighting. That's installing additional insulation behind your sighting, or free, but only for the month of July. Call today for more details or visit 5280 Exteriors.com, 5280 Exteriors.com, a James Hardy preferred contractor, 5280 Exteriors, the altitude of quality. The Dacono Music and Spirits Festival returns to Centennial Park Saturday, August 3rd from 2 to 10 p.m. and it's free. Live music from the Warren Treaty. Chris Daniels and the Kings is Callie and More. Enjoy a spirits competition, Kid Zone and fireworks presented by Oxy and the City of Dacono. Admission and parking are free. The Dacono Music and Spirits Festival brought to you by Breckenridge Brewery and City of Dacono. Go to thecityofdacono.com for more information.