Andre Norton - Janus 02-03 - Janus

Janus

Andre Norton

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are

fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

form.

A Baen Books Original

Baen Publishing Enterprises

P.O. Box 1403

Riverdale, NY 10471

www.baen.com

ISBN: 0-7434-3553-2

Cover art by Larry Elmore

First Baen printing, August 2002

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Norton, Andre.

[Judgement on Janus]

Janus / by Andre Norton.

p.cm.

Contents: Judgement on Janus — Victory on Junus.

ISBN 0-7434-3553-2

1. Life on other planets—Fiction. I. Norton, Andre. Victory on Janus.

II. Title.

PS3527.O632 J36 2002

813'.52—dc21 2002023223

Distributed by Simon & Schuster

1230 Avenue of the Americas

New York, NY 10020

Production by Windhaven Press, Auburn, NH

Printed in the United States of America

"ONE OF THE ALL-TIME MASTERS"

—Peter Straub

How far away was the river? Naill tried to place landmarks about him. And then he heard the hounds

again—faint, to be sure, but with an exultant note in their cry. They had picked up the fugitives' trail,

knew the scent was fresh. He hoped they were still leashed.

Ashla huddled down, her eyes wide and wild as she watched his every move. But she no longer tried

to scream. If he could only bring Illylle memory to the surface of her mind again!

"Illylle!" Naill did not try to touch her, made no move toward the shaking girl. "You are Illylle of the

Iftin," he said slowly.

Her head shook from side to side, denying that.

"You are Illylle—I am Ayyar," he continued doggedly. "They hunt us—we must go—to the

forest—to Iftcan."

She made a small choking sound and her tongue swept across her lips. Then she lunged past him, to

the side of the pool, hanging over the water and staring down at her reflection there. From mirror to man

she glanced up, down, up. Apparently she was satisfying herself that there was a resemblance between

what she saw in the water and Naill.

"I—am—not—" She choked again, her wailing appeal breaking through her hostility.

"You are Illylle," he responded. "You have been ill, with the fever, and you have had ill dreams."

"This is a dream!" She caught him up.

Naill shook his head. "This is real. That"—he waved a hand southward—"is the dream.

Now—listen!"

The baying reached their ears.

"Hounds!" She identified that sound correctly, glanced apprehensively over her shoulder. "But why?"

"Because we are of the Iftin, of the forest. We must go!"

Baen Books by Andre Norton

Time Traders

Time Traders II

Warlock

Janus

Judgment on Janus

ONE

THE STUFF OF DREAMS

Here even the sun was cold. Its light hurt the eyes as it glittered on the square, sullen blocks of the

Dipple. Naill Renfro leaned his forehead against the chill surface of the window, trying not to think—not

to remember—to beat down those frightening waves of rage and frustration that brought a choking

sensation into his throat these past few days, a stone heaviness to his chest.

This was the Dipple on the planet of Korwar—the last refuge, or rather prison, for the planetless

flotsam of a space war. Forced from their home worlds by battle plans none of them had had a voice in

framing, they had been herded here years ago. Then, when that war was over, they discovered there was

no return. The homes they could remember were gone—either blasted into uninhabitable cinders through

direct action, or signed away at conference tables so that other settlers now had "sole rights" there. The

Dipple was a place to rot, another kind of death for those planted arbitrarily within its walls. A whole

generation of spiritless children was growing up in it, to which this was the only known way of life.

But for those who could remember . . .

Naill closed his eyes. Limited space, curved walls, the endless throb of vibrating engines driving a

Free Trader along uncharted "roads" of space, exciting glimpses of strange worlds, weird creatures, new

peoples—some alien of mind and body, some resembling the small boy who lurked in the background,

drinking in avidly all the wonders of a trade meeting . . . these he could remember. Then confusion—fear,

which formed a cold lump in a small stomach, a sour taste in throat and mouth—lying in the cramped

berth space of an escape boat with warm arms about him—the shock of the thrust-away from the ship

that had always been his home—the period of drift while a mechanical signal broadcast their plight—the

coming of the cruiser to pick them up as the only survivors. Afterwards—the Dipple—for years and

years and years—always the Dipple!

But there had been hope that the war would end soon, that when he was big enough, old enough,

strong enough, he could sign on a Free Trader, or that they would somehow find credit deposits owed to

Duan Renfro and buy passage back to Mehetia. Wild dreams both those hopes had been. The dull, dusty

years had wasted them, shown them to be flimsy shadows. There was only the Dipple, and that would go

on forever—from it there was no escape. Or, if there was for him, not for her—now.

Naill wanted to cover his ears as well as close his eyes. He could shut out the grayness of the Dipple;

he could not shut out now that weary little plaint, half croon, half moan, sounding monotonously from the

bed against the far wall. He swung away from the window and came to stand at the side of the bed,

forcing himself to look at the woman who lay there.

She—she was nothing but a frail wraith of skin and bones, not Malani.

Naill wanted to beat his fists against the gray wall, to cry out his hurt and rage—yes, and fear—as

might a small child. It was choking him. If he could only gather her up, run away from this place of

unending harsh light, cold grayness. It had killed Malani, as much as Duan Renfro's death. The ugliness

and the hopelessness of the Dipple had withered her.

But instead of giving way to the storm within him, Naill knelt beside the bed, caught those restless,

ever-weaving hands in his own, bringing their chill flesh against his thin cheeks.

"Malani—" He called her name softly, hoping against all hope that this time she would respond, know

him. Or was it far more kind not to draw her back? Draw her back—Naill sucked in his breath—there

was a way for Malani to escape! If he were just sure, overwhelmingly sure that no other road existed . .

.

Gently he put down her hands, pulled the covering up about her shoulders. Once sure . . . He

nodded sharply, though Malani could not see that gesture of sudden decision. Then he went swiftly to the

door. Three strides down the corridor and he was rapping on another door.

"Oh—it's you, boy!" The impatient frown on the woman's broad face smoothed. "She's worse?"

"I don't know. She won't eat, and the medico . . ."

The woman's lips shaped a word she did not say. "He's said she ain't got a chance?"

"Yes."

"For once he's right. She don't want any chance—you gotta face that, boy."

What else had he been doing for the past weeks! Naill's hands were fists against his sides as he

fought down a hot response to that roughly kind truth.

"Yes," he returned flatly. "I want to know—how soon . . . ?"

The woman swept back a loose lock of hair, her eyes grew suddenly bright and hard, locking fast to

his in an unasked question. Her tongue showed between her lips, moistened them.

"All right." She closed the door of her own quarters firmly behind her. "All right," she repeated as if

assuring herself in some way.

But when she stood beside Malani, she was concerned, her hands careful, even tender. Then she

once more drew up the covers, looked to Naill.

"Two days—maybe a little more. If you do it—where's the credits coming from?"

"I'll get them!"

"She—she wouldn't want it that way, boy."

"She'll have it!" He caught up his over-tunic. "You'll stay until I come back?"

The woman nodded. "Stowar is the best. He deals fair—never cuts . . ."

"I know!" Naill's impatience made that answer almost explosive.

He hurried down the corridor, the four flights of stairs, out into the open. It was close to midday,

there were few here. Those who had been lucky enough to find casual labor for the day were long since

gone; the others were in the communal dining hall for the noon meal. But there were still those who had

business in certain rooms, furtive business.

Korwar was, except for the Dipple, a pleasure planet. Its native population lived by serving the great

and the wealthy of half a hundred solar systems. And in addition to the usual luxuries and pleasures, there

were the fashionable vices, forbidden joys fed by smuggled and outlawed merchandise. A man could, if

he were able to raise the necessary credits, buy into the Thieves' Guild and become a member of one of

those supply lines. But there was also a fringe of small dealers who grabbed at the crumbs the Thieves'

captains did not bother to touch.

They lived dangerously and they were recruited from the hopelessly reckless—from the Dipple

dregs, such as Stowar. What he sold were pleasures of a kind. Pleasure—or a way of easy dying for a

beaten and helpless woman.

Naill faced the pale boy lounging beside a certain doorway, met squarely the narrow eyes in that

ratlike face. He said only a name: "Stowar."

"Business, boot?"

"Business."

The boy jerked a thumb over his shoulders, rapped twice on the door.

"Take it, boot."

Naill pushed open the door. He felt like coughing; the smoke of a hebel stick was thick and cloying.

There were four men sitting on cushions about a bros table playing star-and-comet, the click of their

counters broken now and then by a grunt of dissatisfaction as some player failed to complete his star.

"What is it?" Stowar's head lifted perhaps two inches. He glanced at Naill, acknowledging his

presence with that demand. "Go on—say something—we're all mates here."

One of the players giggled; the other two made no sign they heard, their attention glued to the table.

"You have haluce—how much?" Naill came to the point at once.

"How much do you want?"

Naill had made his calculation on the way over. If Mara Disa could be relied upon, one pack . . . no,

better two, to be safe.

"Two packs."

"Two packs—two hundred credits," Stowar returned. "Stuff's uncut—I give full measure."

Naill nodded. Stowar was honest in his fashion, and you paid for that honesty. Two hundred credits.

Well, he hardly expected to have it for less. The stuff was smuggled, of course, brought in from off-world

by some crewman who wanted to pick up extra funds and was willing to run the risk of port inspection.

"I'll have it—in an hour."

Stowar nodded. "You do that, and the stuff's yours . . . My deal, Gram."

Naill breathed deeply in the open, driving the stink from his lungs. There was no use going back to

their own room, turning over their miserable collection of belongings to raise twenty credits—let alone

two hundred. He had long ago sold everything worth while to bring in the specialist from the upper city.

No, there was only one thing left worth two hundred credits—himself. He began to walk, his pace

increasing as he went, as if he must do this swiftly, before his courage failed. He was trotting when he

reached that other building set so conveniently and threateningly near the main gate of the Dipple—the

Off-Planet Labor Recruiting Station.

There were still worlds, plenty of them, where cheap labor was human labor, not imported machines

which required expert maintenance and for which parts had to be imported at ruinous shipping rates. And

such places as the Dipple were forcing beds for that labor. A man or woman could sign up, receive

"settlement pay," be shipped out in frozen sleep, and then work for freedom—in five years, ten, twenty.

On the surface that was a way of escape out of the rot of the Dipple. Only—frozen sleep was chancy:

there were those who never awoke on those other worlds. And what awaited those who did was also

chancy—arctic worlds, tropical worlds, worlds where men toiled under the lash of nature run wild. To

sign was a gamble in which no one but the agency ever won.

Naill came to the selector, closed his eyes for a long moment, and then opened them. When he put

his hand to that lever, pulled it down, he would take a step from which there would be no

returning—ever.

An hour later he was once more at Stowar's. The star-and-comet game had broken up; he found the

smuggler alone. And he was glad that was so as he put down the credit slip.

"Two fifty," Stowar read. From beneath the table he brought a small package. "Two here—and you

get fifty credits back. Signed up for off-world?"

"Yes." Naill scooped up the packet, the other credit slip.

"You coulda done different," Stowar observed.

Naill shook his head.

"No? Maybe you're right at that. There're two kinds. All right, you got what you wanted—and it's all

prime."

Naill's pace was almost a run as he came back to the home barracks. He hurried up the stairs, down

the corridor. Mara Disa looked up as he breathlessly entered.

"The medico was here again—Director sent him."

"What did he say?"

"The same—two days—maybe three . . ."

Naill dropped down on the stool by the table. He had believed Mara earlier; this confirmation should

not have made that much difference. Now he unrolled the package from Stowar—two small metal tubes.

They were worth it—worth selling himself into slavery on an unknown world, worth everything that might

come to him in the future . . . because of what they held for the dying woman who was his mother.

Haluce—the powder contained in one of those tubes—was given in a cup of hot water. Then Malani

Renfro would not lie here in the Dipple; she would be reliving for a precious space of time the happiest

day of her life. And if the thin thread that held her to this world had not broken by the time she roused

from that sleep, there was the second draught to be sure. She had had to live in terror, defeat, and pain.

She would die in happiness.

He looked up to meet Mara's gaze. "I'll give her this." He touched the nearer tube. "If—if there is

need—you'll do the other?"

"You won't be here?"

That was the worst—to go and not to know, not to be sure. He tried to answer and it came out of

him in a choked cry. Then he mastered himself to say slowly, "I—I ship out tonight . . . They've given me

two hours . . . You—you'll swear to me that you'll be with her . . . ? See"—he unrolled the slip for fifty

credits—"this—take this and swear it!"

"Naill!" There was a spark of heat in her eyes. "All right, boy, I'll swear it. Though we don't have

much to do with any of the old gods or spirits here, do we? I'll swear—though you need not ask that.

And I'll take this, too—because of Wace. Wace, he's got to get out of here . . . not by your road,

either!" Her hands tightened convulsively on the credit slip. Naill could almost feel the fierce determination

radiating from her. Wace Disa would be free of the Dipple if his mother could fight for him.

"Where did you sign for?" she asked as she went to heat the water container.

"Some world called Janus," he answered. Not that it mattered—it would be a harsh frontier planet

very far removed from the Dipple or Korwar, and he did not want to think of the future.

"Janus," Mara repeated. "Never heard of that one. Listen, boy, you ain't ate anything this morning. I

got some patter-cakes, made 'em for Wace. He musta got labor today, he ain't come back. Let me—"

"No—I'm shipping out, remember." Naill managed a shadow smile. "Listen, Mara, you see to

things—afterwards—won't you?" He looked about the room. Nothing to be taken with him; you didn't

carry baggage in a freeze cabin. Again he paused to master his voice. "Anything here you can use—it's

yours. Not much left—except . . ." He went directly to the box where they had kept their papers, their

few valuables.

His mother's name bracelets and the girdle Duan had traded for on Sargol were long since gone.

Naill sorted through the papers quickly. Those claim sheets they had never been able to use—might as

well destroy them; their identity disks . . .

"These go to the Director—afterwards. But there's this." Naill balanced in his hand Duan Renfro's

master's ring. "Sell it—and see . . . she has flowers . . . she loves flowers . . . trees . . . the growing things

. . ."

"I'll do it, boy."

Somehow he was certain Mara would. The water was steaming now. Naill measured a portion into a

cup, added the powder from the tube. Together they lifted Malani's head, coaxed her to swallow.

Naill again nestled one of the wasted hands against his cheek, but his eyes were for the faint curve of

smile on those blue lips. A tinge of happiness spread like a gossamer veil over the jutting of the

cheekbones, the sharp angles of chin and jaw. No more moaning—just now and then a whisper of a

word or a name. Some he knew, some were strange, out of a past he had not shared. Malani was a girl

again, back on her home world of shallow seas beaded with rings and circles of islands, where tall trees

rustled in the soft breeze that always came in late spring. Willingly she had traded that for life on a ship,

following Duan Renfro out into the reaches of space, marrying a man who had called no world, but a

ship, home.

"Be happy." Naill put down her hand. He had given her all he had left to give, this last retracing—past

care, sorrow, and the unforgivable present—into her treasured past.

"You there—you Naill Renfro?"

The man in the doorway wore the badged tunic of the Labor Agency, a stunner swung well to the

fore at his belt. He was a typical hustler—one of the guards prepared to see the catch on board the

waiting transport.

"I'm coming." Naill gently adjusted the blanket, got to his feet. He had to go fast, not looking back,

never looking back now. But he halted to rap on Mara's door.

"I'm going," he told her. "You will watch?"

"I'll watch. And I'll do all the rest—just like you'd want it. Good luck, boy!" But it was plain that she

thought that last a wasted wish.

Naill walked for the last time down the hall, trying to make his mind a blank, or at least hold to the

thought that Malani was out of the Dipple in another way, a far better way. The guard gathered up two

more charges and delivered them all at the processing section of the port. Naill submitted without

question to the procedure that would turn him from a living, breathing man into a helpless piece of cargo,

valuable enough once it was delivered intact and revived. But what he carried with him into the sleep of

the frozen was the memory of that shadowy smile he had seen on his mother's face.

How long that voyage lasted, what path it took among the stars, and for what purpose, Naill was

never to know, or really care. Janus must be a frontier world, or else human labor would not be

necessary there. But that was the sum total of his knowledge concerning it. And he was not awake to see

the huge dark green ball grow on the pilot's vision plate, develop wide continents and narrow seas—the

land choked with the dense green of forests, vast virgin forests that more civilized planets had long since

forgotten existed.

The spaceport on which the cargo vessel landed was a stretch of bare rockland, scarred and

darkened by the years of fiery lashing from arriving and departing ships. And extending irregularly from

that center were the clearings made by the settlers.

Garths had been hacked out of the forest, bare spots in the dark green. The green carried a hint of

gray, as if some of the wide leaves of those giant trees had been powdered with a film of silver. Men

cleared fields, setting disciplined rows of their own plants criss-crossing those holdings, with the logs of

the forest hollowed, split, and otherwise forced into serving as shelters for the men who had downed

them.

This was a war between man and tree, with here a runner of vine, there a thrust of bush, or a sprout

of sapling tonguing out to threaten a painfully cleared space. Always the forest waited . . . and so did that

which was within the forest . . .

The men who fought that battle were grim, silent, as iron-tough as the trees, and stubborn as

space-scoured metal. Their war had begun a hundred years earlier, when the first Survey Scout had

marked Janus for human settlement. An earlier attempt to conquer the world for man had failed. Then

these off-worlders had come and stayed. But still the forest had been cleared only a little—a very little.

Settlers were moving portward from the scattered garths, gathering at the town they hated but which

they had to endure as their link off-world. These were hard men, bound together by a stern, joyless,

religious belief and unshakable self-confidence. These were men who labored steadily through the

daylight hours, who mistrusted beauty and ease as part of deadly sin, who forced themselves and their

children, their labor slaves, into a dull pattern of work and worship. Such came now to buy fresh labor in

order to fight the forest and all it held.

TWO

FRINGE OF FOREST

"This is the lot, garthmaster. Why should I hold back my wares?" The cargomaster of the space

freighter balanced lightly, his fists resting on his hips, a contemptuous light in his eyes. Beside the

would-be customer he was wire-slim and boyish in appearance.

"For forest biting, for fieldwork, you bring such as these?" His contempt was as great, but divided

between the spaceman and his wares.

"Men who still have something to bargain with do not sign on as labor, as you well know,

garthmaster. That we bring here any at all is something to marvel at."

The settler himself was quite different from the miserable company he now fronted. In an age when

most males of Terran descent, no matter how remote from the home planet that strain might be,

eradicated facial and body hair at its first appearance, this hulking giant was a reversion to primitive times.

A fan of dense black beard sprayed across his barrel chest masking his face well up on the cheekbones.

More hair matted the backs of his wide hands. As for the rest of him, he was gray—his coarse fabric

clothing, his hide boots, the cap pulled down over more bushy hair.

His basic speech was guttural, with new intonations, and he walked heavily, as if to crush down some

invisible resistance. Tall, massive, he resembled one of the trees against which he and all his kind had

turned their sullen hatred, while the men before him seemed pygmies of a weaker species.

There were ten of those, still shaken by the process of revival, and none of them had ever been the

garthmaster's match physically. Men without hope, as the cargomaster had pointed out, were

labor-signers. And by the time they had reached that bottom in any port, they were almost finished

already, both physically and mentally.

The settler glowered at each, his eyes seeming to strip the unfortunate they rested upon in turn,

measuring every defect of each underfed body.

"I am Callu Kosburg—from the Fringe. I have forty vistas to clear before the first snow. And

these—these are what you offer me! To get an hour's full labor out of any would be a gift from the Sky!"

He made a sign in the air. "To ask a load of bark for such . . . it is a sin!"

The cargomaster's expression was serious. "A sin, garthmaster? Do you wish to accuse me of such

before a Speaker? Here—now? If so, I shall bring forward my proof—so many credits paid for sign-on

fees, cost of transportation, freeze fees. I think you will find the price well within allowed bounds. Do you

still say 'sin,' Garthmaster Kosburg?"

Kosburg shrugged. "A manner of speaking only. No, I make no charge. I do not doubt that you

could bring your proof if I did. But a man must have hands to help him clear—even if they are these puny

crawlers. I will take this one—and this—and this." His finger indicated three in the labor line.

"Also—you." For the first time he spoke directly to one of the laborers on view. "Yes, you—third man

from the end. What age have you?"

Naill Renfro realized that demand was barked in his direction. His head was still light, his stomach

upset by the concoction they had poured into him. He struggled to make a sensible answer.

"I don't know—"

"You don't know?" Kosburg echoed. "What sort of an empty head is this one, that he does not even

know how many years he has? I have heard much foolishness spoken here by off-worlders, but this is

above all."

"He speaks the truth. According to the records, garthmaster, he was space-born—planet years do

not govern such."

Kosburg's beard rippled as if he chewed his words before spitting them out. "Space-born—so . . .

Well, he looks young enough to learn how to work with his hands. Him I will take, also. These are all

full-time men?"

The cargomaster grinned. "For such a run—to Janus—would we waste space on less? You have the

bark ready for loading, garthmaster?"

"I have the bark. We shall put it in the loading area. To be on the road quickly, that is necessary

when one travels to the Fringe. You—before me—march! There is unloading to be done—though by the

looks of you, not much will pass by your muscles this day."

The spaceport of Janus was a cluster of prefabs about the scorched apron of the landing field, having

the strangely temporary look of a rootless place, ugly with the sterile starkness of the Dipple. Urged by a

continuous rumble of orders, the laborers hurried to a line of carts. Their cargoes, unwieldy bundles of

silvery bark, were being transferred by hand to growing stacks carefully inspected by a ship's tally-man.

"This—goes there." Kosburg's simple instructions were made with waves of his hand indicating

certain carts and the bark piles. Naill looked up at the man standing in the nearest wagon, balancing a roll

of bark to hand down.

He was a younger edition of Kosburg. There was no mistaking they were father and son. The beard

sprouting on his square thrust of chin was still silky, and the lips visible above it pouted. Like his father, he

was dressed in heavy, ill-fitting gray clothing. In fact all the men working along that line of rapidly

emptying wagons presented a uniformity of drabness that was like some army or service garb.

But Naill had little chance to note that, for the bundle of bark slid toward him and he had just time to

catch it. The stuff was lighter than it looked, though the size of the roll made it awkward to manage. He

Andre Norton - Janus 02-03 - Janus

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: