Chapter 2: “Slime Laud”
Valkarr had the cover of heavy foliage as he peered from the cave-like tunnel. Once again he saw the sun, on its way to setting beyond steadily rising hills in the distance. The caked residue of drying slime had begun to harden and felt increasingly heavy to the tired Journeyman, but he counted as camouflage the many greens and browns predominating the strange, matted and, in places, wet covering.
Contrasting the barren sea from which he’d come, he now beheld an enormous rain forest with lots of magnificent fruit-bearing plants. The air was filled with the sounds of life, and soon he located a narrow stream of pure, clear water. Following the liquid’s flow to a small pool, he waded in and tried to wash, but was unable to make any appreciable progress in removing the dried planet—or that quamwold smell.
Deciding the waterhole would make a good campsite he returned to the passageway for his freshly killed meat. Darkness closed in fast as he gathered firewood. From the rocks that lay handily about he improvised a simple “smoker,” and once the fire was roaring he began cooking his food.
With the smell of the fire “almost right,” the Journeyman was hungrily checking the progress of his supper, repositioning the meat with his knife, when he heard an animal stepping in the nearby brush.
Valkarr’s eyes reflected the many pharms of two days’ walk as he concluded it was a man-sized creature he heard. Knowing he was exposed, he expectantly looked to the night at the edge of the campfire light. Behind him he heard a spring-loaded twang.
Spinning around he was lassoed by some sort of gaming device which looped his torso, pinning his elbows to his side. There was a shout, and the tether grew tight from a slow mechanical reeling. A man in uniform held him trapped while another, wielding an odd club, ran up swinging it hard, striking Valkarr across the back of his head and shoulders.
Valkarr cut the rope.
Diving across the fire, he rolled, springing to his feet, knife in hand. Despite the hardened slush, with agility and speed the Journeyman leapt across the fire at his attackers.
Snatching the crossbow-like device from the one who’d snared him, Valkarr swung, wresting the weapon free, flinging its owner into the fire. The hot coals burst into flame, igniting the assailant’s uniform. The man began rolling and screaming on the ground.
The second man, having begun to flee, was soon caught and introduced to the Bellranian laser-arm-lock. Disarming the man with his right hand, Valkarr used his left forearm to squeeze his captive’s throat, stifling gasps to a gurgle.
The Journeyman growled intimidation, prefacing the ritual utterance, which he spoke in distinct BASIC STANDARD:
“By Zos, speak truth: Why hast thou stricken me?”
“No, no, please,” the man cried. Valkarr studied the symbols on their military attire. The burned, having extinguished his fire, moaned, succumbing to the pain and unconsciousness.
Valkarr could smell the man’s fear over the pleading, “We thought you were of the mutants. You speak! What are you?”
Throwing the man to the ground, looking at the club-like weapon, which appeared to be some kind of spear-gun, Valkarr paused till he was watched:
“I am a Journeyman of the Combine Brotherhood, Valkarr, Lord of House Bellran, Prince of the Seventh Sector, Holder of the Ankhen, and Heir to the Hallowed Hologram.”
The reverence was unfeigned, “We did not know, my lord! We have only heard of the Journeymen. Dacoomans brag of one having visited there, but he was said to be a man! We have never seen such as you. We could not know! If you must kill us, please be merciful and do so now, for we are sorry.”
The language had its roots in GALAK BASIC, but the linguistic conduits were badly fragmented. Valkarr would stick with specifics, hoping to avoid delusive interpretations.
“I have business near. My transport has long failed. Beyond the rocks, far into the sea of green was I lost. Four days have I wanted help. For two days I have walked, not sleeping, lest I be swallowed by the soft sea.”
“You have been four days in the Land of Green Death? ‘To go is to never be.’ You carry only a knife! How can this be? What of the black rockrats?”
Truly, he had bested the two in good form, but he was reading deep down terror in the empty eyes of his beholder. Stepping to the fire, Valkarr lifted a small strip of meat and took a bite. Piercing the soldier’s engramms, the Journeyman quickly jisted the man’s fear banks while savoring, “Rockrats?”
“They tear a man’s heart out in seconds!”
Withdrawing from the man’s psyche, sealing the passage, Valkarr found amusement in the facts.
The still drying slime, with its patches of blood-like liquids, presented him as a creature of nightmarish improbability. Thinking to ease tensions, he moved casually to sit next to his fire.
Looking down at the encrustation, he took his knife and started scraping the hardened layers, “If they’re dog-sized furry things, these ‘rockrats,’ they taste kinda like chicken…which reminds me…you have a man down, soldier.” Chipping at the crust, “If you want to check on him, I won’t bite.”
The trembling one went, bowing and scraping, to the aid of his comrade.
“You guys certainly look military. Are you private, or some sort of national mercs?”
There was a try for pomp, “We are protectors of the Holybody, lieutenants in Her guard.”
“Are you at war, am I trespassing, or what? I’m sure you don’t see me as appetizing, so what gives? Do you always greet strangers this way?”
“With the storm came the blaze in the heavens. We have been watchful for fear of Dacooma, but there has been no attack.”
The second soldier, given a stimulant, was coming around quickly, and his eyes widened as he looked upon a seated, slime encrusted outworlder, who was slicing strips of the gelatin-like slime from his left forearm.
The burned one cried out, “No lord! We could not behold!”
“Relax, will you? This is not the way I really look. Beneath this covering, I am the same as you.”
Still stupefied, the injured man seemed to be quoting, “To walk among, as!”
Somewhat consternated at his inability to break through the primitive superstitious awe he was inspiring, Valkarr found himself becoming downright irritated by a change in the texture of the slime that covered him. No longer drying, it was becoming supple, even syrupy, and he was convinced it had started regeneration. Whenever or wherever he would remove it, he seemed to be making no progress.
“Dacooma?” Valkarr recognized the planet name, though it meant little to him. “I am not of Dacooma.” He was encouraged that, in spite of their backward behavior, his hosts were familiar with space. The way back to Cyncor might not be so difficult after all.
“I’ve never been to Dacooma and know nothing of its powers. Nor do I know your place, or what power you may have. I have no stake here. Nevertheless, I am sworn to the Code of Commerce. If there is strife, it is my duty to evaluate. Should your troubles involve or endanger trade, perhaps I can be of assistance.”
Valkarr stood and the two cowered as he rose. Oddly, almost audibly, the slime coating began to glow; first red, then gold, then it dimmed, but remained. The two natives seemed about to die of fright. Valkarr, perplexed by the occurrence, which he first beheld via the illumination of the faces before him, stood still. This was not nominal fungal behavior.
Looking down at his hands and arms Valkarr sought to understand the soft radiation coming from the covering goo. He felt the muck on his face soften again and noted, as it began oozing into the corners of his mouth, that it had lost its vile taste. The repugnant smell was gone, but the unmistakable quamwold was still there, and in its unobtrusive way was overwhelming.
Once again when he started to move the coating glowed. He watched as the darkness beyond the soldiers was blasted by a brilliant strobing light, emanating from his bizarre costume. The slime’s taste had become totally palatable. The dripping, around his nose and into his eyes and mouth, was abating. As it ceased to ooze, he found breathing much easier. Then the pulsing light stopped and, for the moment, he felt very good.
No longer tired, he was losing concept of pain as the inherent euphoria of the quamwold swept over him. Worried that the disorientation of the drug might inhibit his diplomacy, he reached down to his pack, which lay by the fire, and withdrew a sack of pharm bars to combat the renowned quam lethargy. He accepted that there was no longer any point trying to explain everything to his terrified hosts.
“The one you call ‘Holybody,’” his breathing began to even out again as the pharms met with the natural pain suppressant, “Does she have only your ‘guard’ for her protection from Dacooma?”
Immediately the unburned one got to his knees, then he prostrated himself. The injured man, much revived, did the same. The first to lie flat spoke, “How blind we have been! So long have we prayed for Listra to reveal his hand, and now, you come! The High Priestess’s faith is strong, as surely your being here doth reveal, oh, master from Listra!”
“For one thing, I’m not a Master. Not yet.” Valkarr was getting the drift that his having come from the slime was the key. These people thought it was holy something and he had come from it. Furthermore, he looked like he was slime, and that he didn’t like. Still, he preferred the awe inspired fear to the alternative of being captive.
“You need not fear, for you are loyal and faithful to your service.” He was beginning to get ideas. “Rise, both of you, and look into my eyes!” This was a command, and in spite of themselves, the two obeyed, snapping to attention.
The slime was less and less of a problem for Valkarr. It stopped glowing, and as it faded its color was becoming a more uniform off-white. No longer was it stiff. Rather, it was becoming comfortable and elastic, almost easy to ignore—for the one so clad. Not so for those looking at him.
The wounded, to Valkarr’s left before him, seemed much better. As Valkarr extended his left hand offering a pharm bar the arm glowed slightly. The Journeyman addressed him, “Tell me soldier, what are you called? Your name?”
“I am Sildarn, of Calomasac,” he took the bar and bit, chewing slowly.
“And you?” Valkarr handed the other a bar also.
“I am Corlman, I am of Sincaton.”
Valkarr smiled, “Well, you might say you have been ‘chosen’ to do a great service, for you shall be my guides. There are things I have to say which perhaps your Holybody should hear.”
The eyes of the soldiers grew wider (partly due to the pharm bars) and they seemed profoundly aware of “lifetime fulfillment.”
Corlman somehow found speech, “My lord, thou art most gracious! We are blessed indeed! Our honor shall be served to serve you, as Her!”
Sildarn, “The city will not sleep for this! Our day has come! To go with thee—as your chosen! This is our honor!”
“I…” Sighing, Valkarr again gave up on “discussion,” turning his attentions toward motivating his new converts:
“Well, do we walk, or do you guys have a ride nearby?”
Corlman stepped away from his comrade, bowed, and motioned with his hand as if to lead Valkarr between the two. Looking beyond the gesture Valkarr saw a trail at the edge of the clearing. “We have a small carrier, lord, it is near, and the Holy City is not far. We can go at once.”
“Your sense of priority is clear and wise,” Valkarr smiled and nodded thanks. “But, you two, please, lead the way. I’ll watch the rear for Dacoomans.” He kept the weapons.
These were simple men. His thoughts began to turn to this “Holybody.” He doubted that she, their leader, would be so easy. Nonetheless, indications were that it was she that he must see and, as she was preparing for a space war, there was likely a vehicle in her arsenal that he could use.
