Flight Path

(Or Flight of the Gourds)

By Storm

 

This particular episode of the Cross-Currents saga is more in the vein of Mercedes Lackey’s Valdemar series, in that magic, along with multiple gods and goddesses, exists in this alternate universe, albeit more subtlety so. If this type of fiction is not to your taste, turn back now.

 

Commander Lee Crane sat at a small café table and sipped morosely at a tall glass of deep burgundy colored liquid. It was some sort of icy fruit slurry with just a dash of a liquor similar to rum; it was tempting enough, but unfamiliar in taste. Small stuffed pastries, non-wheat bread and thin slices of mystery meat and cheese with names he was unfamiliar with decorated a plate in front of him. They were similar in appearance to things he might have ordered from a European street café - but the sweet filling of the pastries was made from the same burgundy fruit, while the crust was made from a grain he‘d never heard of. As for the rest … it might just be a translation problem, but he wasn’t willing to bet on it.

 

It certainly wasn’t what he’d normally be eating on Thanksgiving Day, which was what today was back in the US. That wasn’t a holiday celebrated by the Dawimhlar or their human compatriots. Not that the food in front of him wasn’t appetizing; it was just different enough to be vaguely disturbing, especially in his current frame of mind.

 

Just like the street and buildings that surrounded him.

 

The place reminded him of the ancient city of Petra, a place he’d once seen while on an ONI mission to Jordan. Like Petra, Tholus was carved directly from the bedrock, but instead of lining the walls of a narrow canyon, Tholus was completely underground, having been carved out of the rhyolitic throat of an ancient volcano. A high vaulted rock ceiling at least a hundred and fifty feet above the pavement arched overhead; the light was entirely artificial. The spaces between the rows of six story buildings consisted of a wide central canal with a spacious cobblestone walkway on each side that was partly overhung by balconies on each of the levels - the railings looked to be an odd combination of bronze or brass and wrought iron. The style of the buildings themselves was more Medieval European than they were ancient Middle Eastern, though. That was combined with a not so subtle hint of a neo-Victorian flair for an effect that was unique, to say the least.

 

The result was that while in some respects the city reminded him vaguely of Venice, Italy - or perhaps San Antonio, Texas along the riverfront, the overall effect was imperceptibly - and at times obviously - alien. That was particularly true when it came to color. The natural color of the cobblestones and some of the buildings was somewhere between a dark burgundy and reddish purple; the rest were plastered in an amazing array of bright hues, with plants vining up the walls and hanging from planter boxes on the balconies. Some of the plants he recognized, but some of the others….

 

He suppressed a shudder. There was nothing native to Earth that had lacy six foot palm shaped leaves streaked lavender and dark maroon, let alone brilliant yellow-green flowers the size of car tires. He had been somewhat surprised to find that it didn’t have teeth. There were a couple of plants resembling tiny purple buttercups that did. Thankfully the only thing on their menu was small insects.

 

There were fountains everywhere, with the attendant sounds of falling water. Given that the Dawimhlar were marine mammals, that wasn’t unexpected, but the sheer amount of stone statuary - mostly basalt, granite or rhyolite with only a scattering of lighter marbles - would have made the Romans green with envy. Much of it portrayed animals from earth, but some of the creatures depicted clearly weren’t of any earthly origin - and he had been informed that they weren’t all mythical either. Any of those would have been at home in a Roman square, but the statue of the Dawimhlar in a spacesuit with her helmet under left her arm struck him as incongruous in this particular setting. The lecture by his local guide had included information on that particular statue as well; that was Cu Belenus, the first Dawimhlar to set foot on Mars - an event that had taken place over thirteen thousand years ago.

 

The sheer age of this place was another thing that weighed on him. Tholus had been continuously occupied since before the end of the last ice age - and by humans as well as Dawimhlar. That was something he was having problems wrapping his mind around, for it totally turned everything he thought he knew about human history on its ear.

 

He sighed and picked up one of the pastries, looking at it distastefully - not because he found the taste unpleasant, but because the color of the crust, like the odd color of the stones of the street and building around him - was another not so subtle reminder that the table - and the city around him - were not on Earth.

 

As if the gravity and temperature weren’t enough to tell him that. He snorted to himself. Most of the city had an artificial gravity field to compensate for the much lower planetary gravity, but even that artificial field wasn’t at precisely one G. It was slightly higher, just enough to throw off his balance and make him have to exert himself just a little more to move. Not to mention it was cool. What passed for a warm summer day here would have been fall-like even in New England. If they stayed here long he’d be losing weight and having Jamie fuss about it. It was a good thing he’d thought to bring his flight jacket to keep warm.

 

He hitched his shoulders and bit into the pastry, all the while mentally berating himself. Intellectually he had known from the moment that Admiral Nelson had accepted the Dawimhlar’s offer of sanctuary that they would be going to another planet, but the emotional reality was proving to be more difficult than he’d expected. He also had the sinking feeling that the fact that the Dawimhlar were originally from Earth and related to humans - and therefore were not truly aliens - had a lot to do with his emotional confusion. He was beginning to wish that Seaview could just stay here on Mars until they could go home. One alien planet was already one too many.

 

“Skipper.” The worried voice of one of the crew penetrated his brooding. Crane looked up to find Kowalski standing at the side of the table with Clark. He’d given many of the crew shore leave, since it was supposed to have been a holiday for them.

 

“Is there a problem, Ski?” He put aside his own gloomy thoughts for the moment, hoping there wasn’t some sort of conflict between the crew and ‘natives’ he was going to be called on to deal with.

 

“Nosir.” That it was Clark who answered surprised him. Normally the electrician was shy and awkward around the senior officers. He gave the rating a look that clearly demanded an explanation.

 

The man gulped and hastened to explain. “I’ve been talking to some of the locals. This week is one of their annual celebrations. You know how laid back they usually seem - well, this is one of the few times when they let their hair down, so to speak. They tell me things can get pretty loud and boisterous.”

 

The Dawimhlar, loud and boisterous? Crane let his eyebrows drift upward in disbelief and looked over at Kowalski, who was looking equally dubious. He turned his eyes back to Clark.

 

“Just what is this celebration about, Clark?”

 

“Er.” Clark seemed to squirm under his gaze. “It seems to be a celebration of a victory in battle against overwhelming odds.”

 

Crane felt his confusion mount. “Wait, the Dawimhlar are celebrating a battle? How long ago did this battle take place?”

 

“Er… about fourteen thousand years ago, they tell me.” Crane felt his jaw drop. He could understand Kowalski’s skepticism. If he understood correctly what little he knew about Dawimhlar history, that would have been long before they achieved spaceflight. So who had they been fighting? Humans?

 

“So who did they achieve this victory against?”

 

“Aliens, sir.”

 

“Aliens? What kind of aliens?” And how the hell had they gotten mixed up in a battle with aliens before they’d ever gotten off Earth?

 

“Don’t know, sir. What I’ve heard is that they used catapults against a starship - and brought it down.”

 

“Catapults?” He guessed big enough rocks would bring down even a starship - if they were foolish enough to get within range. He said as much, only to have Clark shake his head.

 

“That’s the kicker, sir, and the reason it was such a big deal. They didn’t have any rocks to throw. They were transporting the catapults and had gotten separated from their supply wagons with the ammo. And according to the story, they were in farm country with no rocks. All they had was not quite ripe pumpkins from the fields. So they threw those - and it worked.”

 

“They threw pumpkins? With catapults? At a starship?”

 

“Yessir. And because it was so impossible, they still celebrate it to this day by throwing pumpkins.”

 

“And this takes place when?”

 

“Er,” Clark gulped and licked his lips. “The finals start today.”

 

“Finals? Finals for what?” This was like pulling teeth.

 

“To see who is the champion pumpkin throwing team.”

 

“With catapults?”

 

“Well,” Clark scratched his chin, “I understand they actually have three categories of machines now.” Crane started to look thunderous, so Clark quickly added, “There’s the classic catapult, of course. But there’s also trebuchet and torsion. For pure sport they also have centrifuge and air cannons, but those aren‘t part of the contest. We missed those, anyway.”

 

“All to throw pumpkins.”

 

“Yessir.”

 

Either he or the universe had gone mad. If not both.

 

Another thought occurred.  “Why here?”

 

Clark was starting to show beads of sweat on his forehead. “That I don’t know, sir. But maybe somebody at the parade could tell you.”

 

“Parade?”

 

“Er… the Pumpkin Parade, sir. They take the pumpkins and the machines to the local temple for a blessing and then float it all in a parade down the main central canal out to the arena. It’s a big event - there will be people from all the Dawimhlar worlds here to watch and participate. And they tell me there are usually - well, real aliens who come to watch.”

 

Lee Crane closed his eyes, wishing briefly for a wall to beat his head against. Ever since Seaview had encountered the damaged spacecraft that he’d been told by the officers on the Soese belonged to the species they knew as Queeeal, events in his life had kept becoming ever more bizarre. This however, had to beat everything to date.

 

“Does Admiral Nelson know about this?” The two sailors looked at each other and gave him helpless shrugs. He took that as a sign they had no idea, but if he were a betting man, he’d bet that Nelson not only knew, he had a front row seat for the entire festivities. The Admiral was enjoying this trip far too much for his comfort; Nelson had spent the entire day before flying around the planet with the captain of the cruiser that had ferried them here playing tour guide. Turned out Captain Hauer had been born here, in Tholus. He was … a Martian.

 

Crane sighed and got up from his chair. “Let’s go find the Admiral and see for ourselves what this is all about.” He signaled to the waiter who had been hovering in the doorway; the man - for the individual was human - rushed over, looking anxious.

 

“Is all satisfactory, sir?”

 

Realizing that the man spoke fairly understandable English, Crane paused and pondered for a moment before asking, “I was wondering … are you are going to the parade?”

 

The man’s amber eyes lit up and he bobbed his head eagerly. “Oh, yes. We don’t often get to hold the celebration here on Mars.” He smiled shyly and added, “I was afraid you didn’t know about it and that I’d have to stay here and miss the opening ceremony.”

 

“Ah. How long until it starts?”

 

The man pulled out a gold pocket watch and looked. “About an hour. Just enough time for me to change and get there.” He slipped the watch back into his pocket and asked, “Would you care to be my guests?”

 

“If it won’t inconvenience you, we would be delighted.” This might well be better than trying to find the Admiral in what he was beginning to suspect was going to be an enormous mass of people, both human and Dawimhlar.

 

********

 

He had, it transpired, been entirely correct about the crowd. It seemed that there were tens of thousands of Dawimhlar and humans lining the sides of the central canal. The place was packed from wall to wall and every balcony and rooftop looked like it should be collapsing under the sheer weight of numbers. There was no way they could have found Nelson in the crush; he was only able to spot the Admiral at a distance because their host had a third floor balcony of his own. As he had suspected, Nelson was still at Captain Hauer’s side - on one of the barges floating in the main canal, representing the Dawimhlar Navy.

 

It figured.

 

Crane turned his attention to the crowd itself. The Dawimhlar language was more lilting than Irish Gaelic, but not so much as say, Hawaiian, at least in its upper frequencies. The undertones took some getting used to, especially since he knew some of them were below the range he could hear. At least it was pleasant to the ear even if he couldn’t understand a word being said. The crowd, while somewhat noisy, wasn’t what he’d call boisterous, at least not yet. There seemed to be more of an excited anticipation, but no one seemed to be in any sort of fanatical frenzy. Well, that was a relief. He’d been places on earth were being a non-believer at a religious event could be hazardous to one’s health. Though he still wasn’t clear why this was considered a religious celebration and wasn’t sure if it would be okay to ask. If he understood what had happened correctly, it should have been more like America’s Independence Day.

 

He glanced sideways at their host and pondered the question.

 

It must have been obvious from his expression, because one of the Dawimhlar sharing the balcony chuckled at him and said, “You are wondering about why this is such a ‘big deal’ as you would say?”

 

The baldness of the question took Crane momentarily aback. “Er, if it’s not something that is offensive to ask about, well, yes.”

 

The obviously elderly Dawimhlar, one of the few males he’d encountered thus far, smiled a toothy grin. “It is not. Not being one of us, you cannot be expected to know our ways, and cannot learn them if you cannot or do not ask.”

 

“A sensible attitude,” replied Crane. And it was. He’d known people on earth who got really bent out of shape if you so much as dared to ask why about anything they believed - and expected you to intuit those beliefs as well.

 

“We think so. I am Daig’ar,” the grizzled Dawimhlar said, holding out a hand human fashion.

 

“Commander Lee Crane.”

 

Daig’ar nodded. “I thought you might be. It’s not every day that someone of your Admiral Nelson’s stature comes to roost on our doorstep and brings his submarine with him.”

 

Crane couldn’t help the snorted bark of laughter. “I would imagine it’s not common for submarines to be on Mars at all.”

 

“Actually, it’s more frequent than you might think,” responded Daig’ar solemnly. “The observer ships we normally keep on Earth are almost all submarines. The carrier-tenders usually stop here both on the way in for the latest updates and supplies when heading home. All of the subs but one are here now - and that is unusual enough to be commented on by almost everyone.”

 

Crane couldn’t help but sigh, for the one Dawimhlar sub left on Earth had to be the one that had taken on the dangerous task of impersonating Seaview.

 

He was about to ask more when the rumble of the crowd fell silent. Crane turned his attention back to the street and canal below; everyone was looking towards the temple. He looked as well, to see an ancient looking female Dawimhlar dressed in what he could only describe as a flowing exotic robe that shimmered like an iridescent rainbow exit from the massive bronze doorway. A priestess?

 

 “The Empress,” said Daig’ar beside him in hushed tones.

 

The Dawimhlar had an Empress? No one had mentioned that detail to him. From what he’d seen so far he’d assumed they were socialists of some sort. And hadn’t someone also mentioned that elections were coming up the next year? Did they have a constitutional monarchy like the British?

 

Three more figures stepped out behind the Empress. Crane realized with shock that one of them was a human male with bagpipes. He looked vaguely like a Scotsman in his garb, but not quite, nor were the pipes exactly like the ones he was familiar with. The long shaggy hair on the man’s head was red streaked with grey, with many small braids at his temples. The plaid cloth in shades of blue and green was in a strip over his shoulder, not in a kilt around his waist. The other two figures were female Dawimhlar; one with a hand drum and one with what looked like a small flute. Both were wearing a similar strip of blue and green plaid cloth in sashes around their waists.

 

The piper began to play.

 

It was, Crane realized immediately, a dirge of sorts, a slow haunting melody in a lower key than the pipes of Earth, that seemed to echo forlornly off the rock walls all around, with the flute a higher counterpoint and the drummer beating a soft tattoo that anchored both. The melody wasn’t anything he recognized, but every Dawimhlar and their human compatriots there clearly did. They all began to hum - or were they singing? -along in a low drone.

 

It was a sound he’d never forget. He knew the Dawimhlar had a wider vocal range than humans, but he hadn’t realized that those lower frequencies on a massed scale could be felt, even if they couldn’t be heard by merely human ears. The very stones under his feet seemed to quiver.

 

The sheer emotional power of it shook him to his core.

 

When the dirge ended there was a moment of absolute silence. Only when the Empress lifted her hand was there a sound like a great sigh. Two more figures garbed from head to toe in shimmering robes now joined her; these he quickly realized, were priestesses. The flowing syllables of the Dawimhlar tongue flowed across the crowd.

 

As the benediction, blessing, or whatever it was continued, the crowd began to part, allowing the participants in the contest to parade by in front of the temple. Actually, he realized as the columns formed and passed before their Empress and the priestesses, marching in review might be a better description of what was occurring. The military squads of twelve - for that was what they unmistakably were - were in what he could only conclude was period uniform, human and Dawimhlar together, accompanied by their war machines. Each machine was pulled by a team of eight of the oddest looking grey horses - with black stripes on their legs and flanks - that he‘d ever seen. At least he thought they were horses, but they had so much long hair it was hard to tell with absolute certainty just what species of equine they really were. They could have been some weird variety of zebra, except they had really small ears and short legs. There were three squads representing each of the nine worlds under Dawimhlar authority - and three to represent the homeworld, Earth. It made for thirty teams, with a total of three hundred sixty participants, both human and Dawimhlar, and two hundred forty of the equines. These were the best of the best, the ones who had survived the competitions to this point.

 

After each squad had been blessed, they marched to the edge of the canal and loaded their machines onto the waiting barges - but the draft teams and their drivers were left on the pavement. As he watched in puzzlement, the teams were hitched by towlines to the barges. Crane felt his eyebrows rise. The entire competition was apparently restricted to solely the tech available to the Dawimhlar at the time of the Great Battle. There was nothing mechanized. It left him wondering if the fabrication of these ancient war machines was also restricted to period tech. He also wondered about the composition of the squads. Had there really been humans fighting alongside the Dawimhlar fourteen thousand years ago?

 

Finally all the teams were ready. The priestesses stepped back, letting the musicians take position directly behind the Empress.

 

The drummer began a faster beat - and was greeted with a roar from human and Dawimhlar alike that made the air tremble. More pipers, drummers and flutists marched out of the great bronze doors, filling the steps of the temple. As the wail of pipes and flutes and the beat of drums filled the air, the very walls of the entire city seemed to shiver. The peculiar looking horses leaned into their harnesses and the barges began a slow procession out of the city.

 

Crane felt very much the alien at that moment.

 

“Commander,” said Daig’ar beside him, “if we wish to get a place with a good view, we should go now to the battlefield.”

 

Battlefield? He’d thought this was just some kind of contest on who could throw pumpkins the farthest and most accurately. No one had mentioned a battlefield. Surely Daig’ar didn’t mean that literally.

 

He found himself going out the back door of the building with Daig’ar and their host, Kowalski and Clark in tow, to grab a seat on one of the public transport barges that served the same function as a city transit bus. It seemed that everything in the city that could move was headed in the same direction, towards the spaceport landing pad. Was that were the contest would be held? It did make sense, Crane reflected - a place big enough to hold starships would surely be big enough to throw pumpkins.

 

But no. Once they’d arrived it was obvious the field was still filled with ships - but a steady stream of shuttles was leaving through the locks.

 

Crane’s Dawimhlar host escorted him and his companions to a small ship on the edge of the field. Lee found himself wishing he could read the words, which looked to be in a script similar to cuneiform writing, for the vessel was clearly different from most of the obviously civilian ships around it - and the markings on it looked more like those he’d seen on the Dawimhlar warships. Not exactly the same, but similar. A courier ship perhaps?

 

Daig’ar noted his interest and commented as the group boarded, “Reserve. I am retired from the Navy.”

 

That peaked Crane’s interest, for he’d seen but a handful of Dawimhlar males in uniform. There were lots of human males and females - and even more Dawimhlar females serving, but very few Dawimhlar males. So where were they? Did he dare ask?

 

“About that. I was noticing how few males of your people there are here….” He trailed off uncertainly.

 

The toothy smile flashed. “That is because we are few in the overall population.” As Crane blinked in surprise, Daig’ar added, “The Dawimhlar have a skewed birthrate - there are five times as many females born as males. And as you may have noted from the few you’ve seen, we are smaller than the females. We also tend to be homebodies.” He shrugged, noting with a smile, “I was one of the few with wandering feet, so to speak, so I joined the Navy to see the galaxy.”

 

There were muffled snorts of laughter from Kowalski and Clark; even Lee flashed a quick smile. Some things were apparently universal.

 

But some weren’t. If there were that many fewer males than females, how did they do marriage? Or did they even have marriage as he knew it? He decided not to ask - that was getting into issues he really wasn’t ready to confront yet.

 

Daig’ar settled in the pilot’s seat and powered up the little ship. Crane watched in interest. It was clear that most of the technology here was very advanced. He had to shake his head at the curious juxtaposition of the tech level of the event they were flying to see and the technology that had produced this ship. The Dawimhlar were a very peculiar people in some ways - but disturbingly human in others. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

 

The flight itself was relatively short; a few miles due south from Tholus, to a perfectly circular crater on the planetary bulge that all of the local volcanoes sat on.

 

The small ship landed on what looked to be a vast temporary space port; the ships - both large and small - had to number in the thousands, far more than at Tholus. He reflected briefly that it was a good thing that the Mariner 9 orbiter had run out of fuel and died several years previously, because he had to suspect this vast assemblage of spacecraft would be visible even to those primitive cameras. Mission Control would wonder if it was an invasion force. Tobin and company would be certain of it.

 

This time to exit, everyone had to don an environmental suit, for the landing field was open to the Martian atmosphere. More surface transport awaited to take them to the crater.

 

As the ground shuttle approached the edge, Crane became aware that what one saw from the air was not what was really there. The bottom was, from this distance, clearly artificial - and artfully constructed to give the illusion of greater depth than actually existed. As they entered through a lock he saw for the first time that the vast amphitheater that filled the crater underneath the false floor. The place could easily hold over two hundred thousand spectators. No wonder there were so many ships sitting outside.

 

The ground at the center had been sculpted into a flat river valley about two miles wide, flanked on each side by sheer bluffs that rose and merged with the terraces where the seating for the spectators was arrayed. If his memory of geology served him correctly, this might be a small graben - a dropped section of crust between two faults. A small river hugged the base of the bluff across the valley from where he sat. He scowled, thinking that a river beside a cliff must mean there were stones suitable for use in a catapult, but he couldn’t see anything that looked remotely big enough. Did that mean the farmers had cleared them all out, either to make farming easier or for building? He supposed that was possible. As for the flat floodplain, it was covered in a multitude of obviously cultivated small fields, with an unpaved road running between them and the river. Some of the plots of crops had been harvested, but many had not. At least some of those had to be the famed pumpkin fields, though it was difficult to tell which they were from where he was.

 

People were settling into seats all around him, pulling off their helmets. He followed suit, only to freeze for a brief second as the scent of the air washed over him.

 

It smelled like Earth.

 

Until that moment he hadn’t been consciously aware of just how different Mars smelled.

 

He looked closer at the landscape below and realized that all of the vegetation, not just the crops, looked terrestrial in origin. Was it possible that the Dawimhlar had recreated the actual site of the battle down to the last detail? Was this just a pumpkin throwing contest or an actual reenactment - and just how meticulous was this reenactment going to be if that was what was about to actually transpire? There was even a fake sun in a partly cloudy blue sky that gave the illusion of the valley having an east-west orientation - and it looked like the time was around midafternoon, which was a bit later than actual local time. It was, he suddenly realized as he glanced down at his watch, about the same as Eastern Time on Earth. His expression grew thoughtful.

 

The shuttle hooked itself to a rail and eased down to the bank of seats at the very bottom, perched right on the edge, with a clear view of the valley below. Crane cast a sideways glance at Daig’ar, wondering just how high in the Dawimhlar Navy he had been that he had such influence. He also had to wonder if Daig’ar was about as ‘retired’ as Admiral Nelson was.

 

The rumble of voices washed across the amphitheater as more people were rapidly pouring in. It looked like every seat in the place was going to be filled - and unless he was much mistaken, those were cameras strategically positioned all around the rim, just below the seats. He wondered if this was going to be broadcast live. Daig’ar saw the direction of his gaze and answered the unspoken question.

 

“Going out live to everywhere there are Dawimhlar.”

 

A stir across the valley on the other rim heralded the arrival of the Empress and the priestesses, which reminded Crane of the question he’d not gotten to ask earlier.

 

“Why exactly is this a religious event and not a secular one?”

 

Daig’ar looked surprised. “I suppose,” he said slowly after a few seconds, “that it is both.” He regarded Crane pensively, with a touch of wariness in the look that surprised Seaview’s captain. The Dawimhlar steepled his fingers and pursed his lips, as if contemplating what exactly to say. Finally he sighed.

 

“You will probably realize, if you have not already, that our people are what most on Earth would consider pagans.” At Crane’s nod, he continued. “Our gods have been more, oh, I suppose the word might be, proactive, in their relations with us, than yours have been.”

 

Crane blinked. “Proactive?”

 

Daig’ar gave him a wry smile. “The Eternal Mothers are far more approachable than most of the Powers and apt to make their concerns directly known. Not, mind you, that they are busybodies, or that they treat us like children. For the most part they let us make our own mistakes - so that we might learn from them. But they will, on rare occasions, step in to lend a hand - like they did in the Battle of the Pumpkins. After all, you don’t think an ordinary pumpkin could bring down a starship, do you?”

 

He hadn’t thought about it, to be honest. Strange things did occasionally happen out of the blue - like his XO Chip Morton turning out to be Admiral Nelson’s cousin. If asked, he’d have assumed the Dawimhlar had simply gotten lucky and hit the ship somewhere vulnerable. But when Daig’ar put it like that, he began to consider just how unlikely it was that a mere vegetable would be able to fatally wound a starship, particularly a warship, which he was beginning to realize the vessel must have been.

 

“Well, I hadn’t really thought about it,” he admitted, “But when you put it like that, it does seem a bit bizarre. But the other thing that seems strange to me is why they attacked you in the first place. Your people clearly hadn’t developed the technology to leave the planet yet - not if you were using catapults pulled by horses.”

 

“Se’apall, not horses.” Daig’ar made a small motion with one hand. “I know that seems unimportant, but we had left Earth long before the humans who remained domesticated horses. This species is much more cold hardy than horses and better suited to our lifestyle.” He paused, as a distant look came into his eyes. “As for the attack, the origins of that go back nearly a thousand years before, when we were still just simple marine mammals on a path to evolving into a wholly marine species.” Sighing, he continued in a soft voice, “I suppose you could say our species was in the innocence of its childhood - and then,” his voice turned hard, “the K’uk came.”

 

Crane kept his silence. Whatever the K’uk were, whatever they had done, it had clearly scarred the Dawimhlar soul deeply - but it hadn’t broken that soul.

 

“They were the interstellar equivalent of Yankee whalers - and we came to be on their list of things hunted for profit.” Crane’s eyes widened in horror as Daig’ar nodded grimly. “Oh, yes. In that time we had fine thick pelts of sable or white against the cold - and only stone tools. So even though it was against interstellar law, against treaties that their own government had signed, they slaughtered us for our fur.”

 

Of all the things Crane had expected to hear, this was not one of them. He was appalled.

 

“How did your people survive?” He knew how poorly the great whales had fared against humans in sail powered ships with just iron tipped harpoons; he couldn’t begin to imagine how the Dawimhlar could have prevailed against the technology of a starfaring race.

 

“The Mothers took a hand and helped conceal us - but there was an anthropologist from yet another world here that proved to be the deciding factor. Ironically, she had been studying your folk, Commander, not ours, but when she realized what was happening, she sent a message to her government. At that time there was a Confederation of planets within whose sphere of influence Earth lay. They actually responded with a small task force - and got here quickly enough to catch the K’uk at their bloody work.” Daig’ar briefly closed his eyes and was silent for a moment. “Hundreds of my people died at the hands of the K’uk in spite of all the Mothers could do - and billions from both the K’uk Empire and the Confederation died in the war between the two that followed.”

 

“Holy hell,” came softly from behind. Crane turned his head and saw that Kowalski and Clark were leaning in to hear what Daig’ar was saying. He couldn’t help but nod in agreement.

 

“So who attacked you a thousand years later?” Kowalski was the one who asked, beating Crane to the question.

 

“The last K’uk warship, as it turned out. The war lasted for almost a century, and it broke both the K’uk Empire and the Confederation. Especially the K’uk, for once it became widely known that they had murdered class 8 sentients for their fur, there were precious few who would trade with them. As a result their empire slowly collapsed in on itself, before finally shattering in a protracted series bloody civil wars. The last K’inich - the K’uk version of an emperor - decided that since it was over us that the first war had started, that we were to blame.” Daig’ar snorted to show how absurd he found the idea. “So K’inich Ix Sak sent his last warship to obliterate us from the face of the universe. They destroyed five of our cities with kinetic strikes from orbit - with casualties in the hundreds of thousands - before encountering the Fourth Army‘s catapults.”

 

Crane felt his jaw dropping. “A thousand years later?”

 

Daig’ar gave a very human shrug. “Absurd, I know. But if the K’uk had been a reasonable race to start with, they would have never been hunting us like animals in the first place.” He added almost as an afterthought, “The Mothers had warned us that they might be back sometime after the first attack. This is why we were pursuing technological advancement - we knew that if we stayed as we were we would have no chance to defeat them.”

 

There was that that. Although Crane had to admit in a moment of uncomfortable honesty that humans had done the same thing to their fellow humans as recently as the last century - and were still doing it to whales and the Great Apes. And if the Dawimhlar had not taken the path they did, they would have been hunted right along with them. So why did the Dawimhlar not harbor similar feelings against humanity?

 

His thoughts must have shown on his face for Daig’ar gave him a wry smile and said, “You wonder why we do not abhor humanity for the same kinds of actions.” At Crane’s unhappy nod, Daig’ar responded, “Because these things are becoming as abhorrent to a majority of humans as they already are to us. Unlike the K’uk, your people as a species are - mostly - beginning to mature past the point where you believe that you have the right to treat other people or species however you please. The K’uk, for all their advanced technology, never understood that or progressed socially to the point of being a truly civilized race. So there is hope for humans, in spite of all your flaws.”

 

Crane sighed. He could certainly hope there was a future for humanity. Sometimes he wondered, especially lately.

 

A hush from the crowd diverted his attention. He looked around and saw that the seats were all filled and the house lights beginning to dim, leaving the valley below illuminated in what was clearly the golden light of an autumn afternoon. Once the seating was in darkness, a sense of expectation seemed to fill the air.

 

A faint sound floated by on the breeze. He cocked his head and listened closely. It was the beat of a distant drum accompanied by a lone wind instrument; it sounded to his admittedly untrained ear to be similar to a fife or penny-whistle.

 

It also sounded oddly familiar. A gasp from behind told him that Kowalski had recognized the tune. He turned his head and eyed the seaman questioningly.

 

“Pat A Pan,” Kowalski whispered.

 

It did sound like that tune, but… “Are you sure, Ski?”

 

Kowalski nodded vigorously. Crane felt his eyebrows climb. What was a Christmas song doing here? Or… was the tune far older than anybody back on Earth realized? He shivered and turned back as the music grew louder.

 

There, coming out of the shadows at the east end of the valley, were the ancient Dawimhlar war machines. The Dawimhlar in the crews were mostly riding - their shorter legs clearly weren’t built for marching - while the human troopers were slogging along in step with the drum. It was so achingly realistic Crane felt his own legs twitch in sympathy.

 

As they moved from shadow into sun, the catapult squads began to sing. He couldn’t understand the words, of course, but the haunting feeling of them came through clearly. With almost four hundred voices behind it, the song rose from the small valley and seemed to reach for the stars themselves. A shiver ran down his spine as a sense of both foreboding and familiarity washed over him. It was like he could smell the sweat of the se’apall, men, Dawimhlar, green pumpkins, freshly turned earth and the river.

 

Something moved on the western horizon, coming out of the sun.

 

It was the K’uk ship - and it blazed a path towards the weary troops on the valley road, firing some kind of energy weapons as it came.

 

 The leading catapults vanished in a roar of flame as the ship screamed over and arced back up out of sight to be lost in the ‘clouds’.

 

Crane came out of his seat with a gasp of horror. He would have scrambled down to join the fight out of sheer reflex had Daig’ar not lain a restraining hand on his arm. “Commander,” the Dawimhlar whispered, “no one has truly died. It is illusion.”

 

It was one damned realistic illusion. He sank back down into his seat, quivering from the sudden rush of adrenalin. The troops below had scattered into the small fields, seeking cover. The remaining se’apall were still standing stoically in the road, whereas horses would have already bolted - even he knew that much. The ship came back for a second pass, obliterating catapults at the other end of the column; half the Dawimhlar force was gone.

 

Now that he knew it wasn’t real, he could view the scene more objectively. His eyes tracked the ship as it once again spat fire; some sort of plasma cannon was his best guess. He frowned. From some of his lessons with Admiral Nelson, he knew that plasma wasn’t a good atmospheric weapon because it tended to dissipate over long distances. Which begged the question - if the K’uk had used kinetic strikes on Dawimhlar cities, why had they entered the atmosphere and used energy weapons on the Dawimhlar Army column?

 

It was also clear that the illusionary ship had seen better days. Well, that would make sense if it was indeed an accurate representation of the last warship the K’uk had possessed. On top of which, the ship wasn’t very large, being perhaps the size of a WWII destroyer. Bringing it down with a large round vegetable suddenly didn’t seem quite so impossible.

 

Crane leaned over to Daig’ar and asked softly, “Do you know what the ship actually looked like? And if they‘d used kinetic strikes before, why not here?”

 

Daig’ar nodded. “We found records of it in the ruins of the old K’uk capital when we finally developed starflight of our own and went looking for them. This is an accurate reconstruction the Janaab Lak, the ship Ix Sak sent.” He gave Crane an ironic look. “As to why they switched to close range weapons, we can only make surmises. Either their rail gun malfunctioned or the captain decided he wanted to get personal in his punishment of our people.”

 

He couldn’t help being impressed. After being attacked like this, they went looking for the villains? Most human cultures he’d ever seen or studied shattered under that kind of tech disparity. That the Dawimhlar hadn’t, especially since this was the second attack on them as a species meant they must be made of stern and unyielding stuff.

 

And they were showing it down on the battlefield. By the time the ship had come around for the third pass, the remaining catapult crews had rallied and were searching frantically through the fields for stones large enough to throw. He saw one of the squad leaders throw down his bronze helmet in frustration, then snatch it up and load it into the catapult sling as ammunition. It clanged off the ship’s hull, making it jolt slightly off course, causing the next cannon shot to miss the Dawimhlar column entirely.

 

Crane narrowed his eyes and considered the implications.

 

The K’uk had never expected the Dawimhlar to shoot back, even if it was with tech several thousand years behind their own. And if they had been down to just one moth-eaten warship, both their civilization and technology had been on the verge of total collapse. The corollary to that was they probably hadn’t had a very experienced crew either. He shook his head. The odds that had looked impossible on the face of it were coming down.

 

Somebody had found the pumpkin patch. As the ship wheeled around for its fourth run, a volley of whitish green pumpkins rose to greet it. They hit with hollow thuds and splattered, making the ship skitter sideways again.

 

He blinked. Whitish green? These weren’t like any pumpkins he was familiar with, except in being large and more or less round. But they also didn’t seem to be doing the ship any real damage.

 

As the K’uk ship climbed once more, Crane’s attention was caught by a glowing mist that swept across the valley below - and settled into the pumpkins, turning them completely white. The murmur that swept across the crowd told him that this was the thing that the Dawimhlar saw as the hands of their Goddesses.

 

The ship dove again out of the western sun on its fifth pass and a volley of the white pumpkins soared to meet it. But this time, instead of hollow thuds, there came the solid clang of metal on metal - and the starship staggered as holes appeared in the hull. One large pumpkin slammed the nozzle of one of the plasma cannons just as it fired. A searing explosion followed, throwing the ship completely off course. It tried to claw back into the sky, but the stern clipped the jagged rocks at the top of the high bluff above the river. The ship paused for a moment, hanging in the air. Another volley of pumpkins, leaving more holes - and he could hear the note of the engines change, becoming a high protesting whine.

 

Something inside the now doomed ship gave way with a dull boom. The engines coughed once, flared briefly, then died completely. The Janaab Lak dropped like a stone stern first into the shallow river. A blood-curdling howl arose from the surviving troops; it was answered by every Dawimhlar and most of the humans in the watching crowd above. Crane found himself wanting to bay with them.

 

The Dawimhlar troops on the ground below were hastily unhitching the se’apall from their traces and mounting. In less than a minute they had sorted themselves into ragged formations; Crane estimated that there were at least a hundred mounted warriors, with almost that many more afoot. With another terrifying war cry of defiance, they drew swords and charged.

 

The rolling thunder of hooves reverberated through the small valley. A large hatch opened in the side of the K’uk ship; he could see the plum colored, scaly skinned alien crew trying to wrestle what looked like some kind of energy weapon into place to cover the approach.

 

There was neither the time nor the space for them to do so.

 

The road the Dawimhlar column had been on ran just beside the river; the Janaab Lak had crashed less than fifty yards from the surviving troopers. Short legged the se’apall might be, built for power and not speed, but over that distance they could sprint like quarter horses. Frantic K’uk ran out with hand weapons to try and defend the ship, to give their shipmates time to get the energy cannon into place.

 

The impromptu cavalry charge mowed them down like ripe grain before a scythe. Se’apall legs might be short, but for their height they were massive animals, with iron shod hooves the size of dinner plates - and Dawimhlar swords were sharp enough to cut the wind. Only a few went down to the invaders weapons, allowing a veritable wave of se’apall, Dawimhlar and humans to reach the ship. They poured through the hatch, grinding the ship’s defenders to bloody purple pulp on the deck. The foot troops were right on their heels to finish any K’uk who might have survived the initial onslaught.

 

The crowd above was on their feet, fists upraised, chanting in support. The sprinkling of aliens scattered among them was looking distinctly uncomfortable. Crane was hard pressed to maintain his silence, for a thin thread in his blood sang with fierce exaltation. The Dawimhlar might not be human as he thought of it, but at this moment he recognized their deep kinship to humanity - and they were originally from Earth, when all was said and done. This battle had happened on Earth, for Earth. He felt it in his blood and bones.

 

The last of the K’uk broke from the ship through a small hatch at the bow. It was too small for the mounted troops to get though, but the ones afoot were under no such handicap.

 

They didn’t get far. The last stand of the warship’s crew came in the knee-deep waters of the shallow river, in hand to hand combat with people who had been unjustly attacked - not once, but twice - and who were enraged about it. When it was over, there were no survivors left to carry the news back to K’inich Ix Sak that in what would be the final battle of the Empire, he had been defeated by early iron age barbarians on a primitive backwater world.

 

He’d have been apoplectic.

 

The chant rose to a climax, reverberating through the amphitheater as the mounted troopers exited the K’uk ship bearing their grisly trophies. The foot troops joined them; even from across the valley, Crane could sense their exaltation at having won, that this time the K’uk had not been able to slaughter them with impunity.

 

Daig’ar turned with a sad smile to him. “They didn’t know that our major cities had been already been destroyed when they defeated the K’uk ship. The loss of so many and so much,” he shook his head, “came close to destroying us as a people. But in the end it we realized we could either be broken by it - or forged into a stronger people. So we decided to be angry - and to let our anger serve as a goad to our advancement. We were determined that the next time we met, it would be in the sea between the stars.” He paused. “It was a long time before we finally realized that they weren’t coming back. That we had truly won.”

 

It was only when the light began to dim that the crowd began to quiet. As both the darkness and silence deepened, Crane could see the scene below begin to fade out. The ship and aliens vanished and the ends of the Dawimhlar column that had been ‘destroyed’ reappeared. The last action he was able to make out was the se’apall being led back to the road.

 

All was darkness. The crowd was silent, still standing, but it was a surprisingly calm stillness, given the emotion of only a few moments before. It was clear they were waiting for something.

 

The distant beat of a drum drifted in, followed by the thin melody of the flute. Not the same as before… he recognized it as a variation of the dirge from the ceremony at the temple. A pale blue sheet of light appeared, suspended in midair; on it were long columns of… names? They were in the Dawimhlar script, but Crane was positive they were names. He turned a questioning look to Daig’ar.

 

“The names of those who died at the hands of the K’uk,” Daig’ar confirmed. “So that we do not forget the lessons of the past - or the price paid to learn those lessons.”

 

There were a horrifying number of names.

 

 From somewhere the bagpipes joined in and the crowd once again joined in with their throaty drone - and this time he was sure they were actually singing, but part of the frequencies were too low for him to quite make out. He’d thought the emotion of it was powerful before, but this … this was like comparing a babbling mountain brook to the thunder of a mighty waterfall. The sheer power of two hundred thousand voices united threatened to sweep him away.

 

Crane wasn’t quite sure when it ended; he found himself joggled back to the present only when Daig’ar touched his arm.

 

“Now what?” He wasn’t quite sure he was up to anything else this intense.

 

“Now we all go get drunk,” said Daig’ar matter of factly.

 

Crane stared at him for a brief moment, not sure he’d heard correctly. Daig’ar chuckled. “We tend to be maudlin drunks, particularly on this occasion, Commander, more likely to cry in our beer than start a fight.”

 

“If you say so.” He couldn’t help being somewhat dubious.

 

“Come, Commander, you and your men can be my guests for the night - if that meets your approval?” Daig’ar cocked his head questioningly.

 

“I gotta get back to the boat,” murmured Clark. “Duty watch.”

 

“I can drop you off,” offered Daig’ar. “What about you?” He looked at Kowalski.

 

Ski looked at Crane with a touch of defiance and firmly stated, “I’m in for whatever the Skipper does.”

 

********

 

Crane found himself bemused as he sat at yet another table that wasn’t on Earth, nursing yet another alcoholic concoction that wasn’t exactly like anything he’d ever seen before, with another plate of mystery food accompanying his drink.

 

The place Daig’ar took them to after dropping Clark off at the spaceport lake - Seaview was berthed with the Dawimhlar subs - could have come straight out of an Irish seaside village. Situated on the shore of the lake, catering to both spacers and the sub crews, it was built of stone and timber with a low ceiling, and had a patina of age that was almost mind numbing. In many ways it resembled the archetypical Irish pub - if one overlooked the fact the place was on Mars and had been a pub for nearly ten thousand years. And so long as one also overlooked the fact that none of the patrons in the place looked the least bit Irish - and some didn’t even look human. The name of it translated - loosely - to The Sea Dragon’s Jug. He couldn’t begin to pronounce it in Dawimhlar, since some of the syllables were in the range just below his hearing, let alone what his vocal cords could produce.

 

The beer was made from one of the Dawimhlar grains that had been lost in the mists of time and climate change back on Earth; it had a unique color and incredible flavor that was more like brandy than any beer he was familiar with. Daig’ar had told him that it was also aged in wooden casks for fifteen years. The alcohol content reflected that; it had caught him by surprise when he’d taken his first sip. This stuff had to have double the amount of alcohol of any beer he’d ever drunk on Earth. He’d wager it was pushing thirty percent. It wasn’t something to be chugged in vast quantities, but rather sipped like a fine sherry. It was certainly unlike anything he’d have called beer, except that he understood that it started with fermented grain just like ordinary beer.

 

There were three other Dawimhlar sitting at the table with him and Daig’ar - along with an alien he’d met before. He’d been astonished to find the pilot of the Queeeal ship here - and even more surprised that the alien had made himself known to him. Crane had known the alien was a shape-shifter from their first meeting but would not have recognized him in his current form - which was his own. The Dawimhlar seemed quite unperturbed by either his appearance or his presence. The other three Dawimhlar were, like himself, submarine captains. Until the day before they and their boats had been posted to Earth.

 

They had been filling him in on the hunt for Seaview back home.

 

He found himself torn between being grimly amused and appalled at the lengths which Tobin and his cronies were willing to go to in order to keep Admiral Nelson from telling his side of the story. Had it not been for the efforts of the Dawimhlar to keep the crewmen who’d stayed - and the families of those who’d come - out of Tobin’s hands, he wasn’t sure what he and Nelson would have done. He was starting to worry about his mother - and his girlfriend Dr. Lynn McVie. Not many people knew they were dating, let alone that they’d been discussing marriage. She had been on a dig in the Yucatan when this all started; he wasn’t sure if she was still safe, but hesitated to ask.

 

Actually he wasn’t sure who he could ask, although he was beginning think that Daig’ar might be his best bet. He just didn’t want to ask in front of the others.

 

A hand clapped on his shoulder, startling him. He looked up to find the NIMR Security Chief Philip Haggen standing behind him.

 

“That was deep in thought, Lee. No situational awareness. Need to be more alert.”

 

Crane sighed. “Have a seat, Philip. And a beer. Though this isn’t beer like you’ve ever had before. Sip carefully - it bites if you try to swig it.”

 

“Really? This I gotta try.”

 

Daig’ar motioned to the pub staff for another beer and chair. Both were quickly produced.

 

Haggen took a sip. His eyes flew open and he gave the mug a quizzical look. “This is beer?” he asked.

 

“It is what you might call a specialty beer,” answered Daig’ar. “Most of our beers are not so dissimilar from any you would find on Earth. After all, we invented it first.”

 

Like so many other things. Crane couldn’t help the quick flash of resentment. So much his own country had thought they invented was really just a rediscovery of things the Dawimhlar already knew. But then he had to sigh as his logic chided him. That was probably true of everything and every species - somebody else, somewhere else, had already done it before. The Dawimhlar had gotten caught up in an interstellar war when they were still deep in their stone age. Their enemies had starships before they had figured out how to make anything more advanced than stone tipped spears. He couldn’t honestly begrudge them their technology; they had paid a heavy price for it.

 

“So, Haggen,” Crane said in an effort to shake himself out of his funk, “did you come for the beer or something else?”

 

“Both,” said the sandy haired Security Chief in his Tennessee drawl. “Scathach told me to tell you that your mother and a Miss McVie are both safe.”

 

Crane sat up and blinked in surprise. “How…?”

 

“That I don’t know. But they also said to tell you that the real story of what transpired - both aboard Seaview with Tobin and at Leavenworth with Chip is circulating - and not just in DC.”

 

“They’ve revealed themselves to the government?” He was incredulous.

 

“Not exactly. They’ve sent messages only to a select few. But they’ve also made known some very juicy details about some of Tobin’s other screw-ups and unsavory dealings with equally unsavory people. Right now it’s a PR war that Tobin seems to be losing.”

 

“Couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy,” drawled Crane in a voice dry with irony.

 

“Yeah, well, if they really do pull this off, most of us will be going home after the Inauguration in January.”

 

Most of us. Crane’s mood fell again. Patterson would be staying - he was a Dawimhlar citizen, after all. But Chip… What was going to happen with Chip Morton, his XO and best friend? Could Chip ever go home again - and be safe?