"It's just the formal order," said the sergeant. "You're to come at
once."
"Commoners," said Donovan mildly, "address me as 'sir.'"
"You're a commoner with the rest of 'em now." The sergeant's voice
wavered just a little.
"I really must demand a little respect," said Donovan with drunken
precision. There was an unholy gleam in his eyes. "It's a mere
formality, I know, but after all my family can trace itself farther
back than the Empire, whereas you couldn't name your father."
Sam Olman snickered.
"Well, sir--" The sergeant tried elaborate sarcasm. "If you, sir, will
please be so good as to pick your high-bred tail off that chair, sir,
I'm sure the Imperium would be mostly deeply grateful to you, sir."
"I'll have to do without its gratitude, I'm afraid." Donovan folded
the summons without looking at it and put it in his tunic pocket. "But
thanks for the paper. I'll keep it in my bathroom."
"You're under arrest!"
Donovan stood slowly up, unfolding his sheer two meters of slender,
wiry height. "All right, Wocha," he said. "Let's show them that Ansa
hasn't surrendered yet."
He threw the tankard into the sergeant's face, followed it with the
table against the two marines beside him, and vaulted over the sudden
ruckus to drive a fist into the jaw of the man beyond.
Wocha rose and his booming cry trembled in the walls. He'd been a slave
of Donovan's since he was a cub and the man a child, and if someone
had liberated him he wouldn't have known what to do. As batman and
irregular groundtrooper he'd followed his master to the wars, and the
prospect of new skull-breaking lit his eyes with glee.
For an instant there was tableau, Terrans and Ansans rigid, staring
at the monster which suddenly stood behind the earl. The natives of
Donarr have the not uncommon centauroid form, but their bodies are more
like that of a rhinoceros than of a horse, hairless and slaty blue and
enormously massive. The gorilla-armed torso ended in a round, muzzled,
ape-like face, long-eared, heavy-jawed, with canine tusks hanging over
the great gash of a mouth. A chair splintered under his feet, and he
grinned.
"Paraguns--" cried the sergeant.
All hell let out for noon. Some of the customers huddled back into the
corners, but the rest smashed the ends off bottles and threw themselves
against the Terrans. Sam Olman's remaining arm yanked a marine to him
and bashed his face against the wall. Donovan's fist traveled a jolting
arc to the nearest belly and he snatched a rifle loose and crunched it
against the man's jaw. A marine seized him from behind, he twisted in
the grip and kicked savagely, whirled around and drove the rifle butt
into the larynx.
"Kill the bluebellies! Kill the Impies! Hail, Ansa!"
Wocha charged into the squad, grabbed a hapless Terran in his
four-fingered hands, and swung the man like a club. Someone drew his
bayonet to stab the slave, it glanced off the thick skin and Wocha
roared and sent him reeling. The riot blazed around the room, trampling
men underfoot, shouting and cursing and swinging.
"Donovan, Donovan!" shouted Sam Olman. He charged the nearest Impy and
got a bayonet in the stomach. He fell down, holding his hand to his
wound, screaming.
The door was suddenly full of Terrans, marines arriving to help their
comrades. Paraguns began to sizzle, men fell stunned before the
supersonic beams and the fight broke up. Wocha charged the rescuers and
a barrage sent his giant form crashing to the floor.
They herded the Ansans toward the city jail. Donovan, stirring on the
ground as consciousness returned, felt handcuffs snap on his wrists.
* * * * *
Imperial summons being what they were, he was bundled into a groundcar
and taken under heavy guard toward the ordered place. He leaned wearily
back, watching the streets blur past. Once a group of children threw
stones at the vehicle.
"How about a cigarette?" he said.
"Shut up."
To his mild surprise, they did not halt at the military government
headquarters--the old Hall of Justice where the Donovans had presided
before the war--but went on toward the suburbs. The spaceport being
still radioactive. They must be going to the emergency field outside
the city. Hm. He tried to relax. His head ached from the stun-beam.
A light cruiser had come in a couple of days before, H. M.
_Ganymede_. It loomed enormous over the green rolling fields and the
distance-blued hills and forests, a lance of bright metal and energy
pointed into the clear sky of Ansa, blinding in the sun. A couple of
spacemen on sentry at the gangway halted as the car stopped before them.
"This man is going to Commander Jansky."
"Aye, aye. Proceed."
Through the massive airlock, down the mirror-polished companionway,
into an elevator and up toward the bridge--Donovan looked about him
with a professional eye. The Impies kept a clean, tight ship, he had to
admit.
He wondered if he would be shot or merely imprisoned. He doubted if
he'd committed an enslaving offense. Well, it had been fun, and there
hadn't been a hell of a lot to live for anyway. Maybe his friends could
spring him, if and when they got some kind of underground organized.
He was ushered into the captain's cabin. The ensign with him saluted.
"Donovan as per orders, ma'm."
"Very good. But why is he in irons?"
"Resisted orders, ma'm. Started a riot. Bloody business."
"I--see." She nodded her dark head. "Losses?"
"I don't know, ma'm, but we had several wounded at least. A couple of
Ansans were killed, I think."
"Well, leave him here. You may go."
"But--ma'm, he's dangerous!"
"I have a gun, and there's a man just outside the door. You may go,
ensign."
Donovan swayed a little on his feet, trying to pull himself erect,
wishing he weren't so dirty and bloody and generally messed up. You
look like a tramp, man, he thought. Keep up appearances. Don't let them
outdo us, even in spit and polish.
"Sit down, Captain Donovan," said the woman.
He lowered himself to a chair, raking her with deliberately insolent
eyes. She was young to be wearing a commander's twin planets--young
and trim and nice looking. Tall body, sturdy but graceful, well filled
out in the blue uniform and red cloak; raven-black hair falling to
her shoulders; strong blunt-fingered hands, one of them resting close
to her sidearm. Her face was interesting, broad and cleanly molded,
high cheekbones, wide full mouth, stubborn chin, snub nose, storm-gray
eyes set far apart under heavy dark brows. A superior peasant type, he
decided, and felt more at ease in the armor of his inbred haughtiness.
He leaned back and crossed his legs.
"I am Helena Jansky, in command of this vessel," she said. Her voice
was low and resonant, the note of strength in it. "I need you for a
certain purpose. Why did you resist the Imperial summons?"
Donovan shrugged. "Let's say that I'm used to giving orders, not
receiving them."
"Ah--yes." She ruffled the papers on her desk. "You were the Earl of
Lanstead, weren't you?"
"After my father and older brother were killed in the war, yes." He
lifted his head. "I am still the Earl."
She studied him with a dispassionate gaze that he found strangely
uncomfortable. "I must say that you are a curious sort of leader,"
she murmured. "One who spends his time in a tavern getting drunk,
and who on a whim provokes a disorder in which many of his innocent
followers are hurt or killed, in which property difficult to replace
is smashed--yes, I think it was about time that Ansa had a change of
leadership."
Donovan's face was hot. Hell take it, what right had she to tell him
what to do? What right had the whole damned Empire to come barging in
where it wasn't wanted? "The Families, under the king, have governed
Ansa since it was colonized," he said stiffly. "If it had been such a
misrule as you seem to think, would the commons have fought for us as
they did?"