The Chaplin's Rescue Read online

“That's too many for us to fight.”

  The Sheromi protested.

  “They destroyed our village! They burned trees!”

  “We can't fight several dozen,” I said.

  “Some Krishna,” muttered one of the Sheromi.

  “Take the best guns, and hide in the trees above us,” I said, “Then if they turn our deal down you can fire on them.”

  “What kind of a plan is that?” Gita protested, “They're three children.”

  “They're three children who will die if they stay on the forest floor with us and the Dilgarians don't take the deal,” I pointed out.

  Grumbling that they weren't children, the Sheromi took the best guns and swung up to take their perches above us. I wasn't at all sure they would hold their fire if the Dilgarians did take the deal, but at least for the moment they were safely overhead, and perhaps the Dilgarians would think they were dealing only with humans. If they didn't have rats of their own.

  We raised a flag of truce, and as the Dilgarian troops approached, we spoke, with one of the rats interpreting.

  “We are a troupe of Chaplins caught between lines,” Rachel told the rat, “and we offer you your dead for safe passage.”

  The rat chittered, someone on the Dilgarian side chittered back, and then the rat spoke to us.

  “You are actors? Actors who don't dare to fight yourselves, but incite others to kill us? And you dare to use our dead as bargaining chips? We spit on your flag of truce!”

  “Well, that worked well,” said Adisa, “What now?”

  “Get me that corpse,” said Rachel. “Quick, before they're close enough to see us.”

  So we handed her the nearest corpse, and she started to rig a trap with a grenade. Suddenly she turned to us.

  “Duck!” she yelled.

  We ducked just in time. The grenade exploded, taking Rachel's right hand. Gita rushed to her side, and began to bind her wound.

  Adisa and Babirye threw two more Dilgarian corpses on the ground.

  “At least they may stop before they chase us,” said Adisa.

  “Let's take the mules,” I said, “We don't need this.”

  And I tossed the poisonous Ubaganian food on the ground, to make room on several mules for us. We set out at a run. We had run blindly for quite some time before I realized that the Sheromi were not following.

  “Stop!” I yelled. “The fools stayed behind to fight.”

  The mules stopped.

  “Hare Krishna!” said Gita, “Only you can save them.”

  “Three against several dozen?” said Adisa, “Nothing can save them.”

  “We have to go back,” said Gita. “They're children.”

  We looked at each other. Going back was certain death.

  “I have sent a child to die in place of me,” I said. “No more.”

  And I turned my mule back, not looking back to see how many chose to follow. I could hear mule footsteps behind me, so I knew at least some were coming with me. It didn't matter how many or who. I, at least, could not leave children behind to die.

  We had not gone far, when we heard rustling in the trees. As we ran to meet them, we saw the Sheromi swinging to meet us.

  “Thank Krishna!” I heard Gita's voice behind me.

  “How the hell?” came Adisa's voice. “You can't have shot them all.”

  “We didn't shoot any of them,” said one Sheromi.

  “We were waiting, preparing for our chance,” said the second.

  “And they sat down, and ate the Ubaganian rations,” said the third, “and turned purple and fell.”

  Ubaganian rations are poison to almost anyone who isn't Ubaganian. And Ubaganian poison works fast.

  “Let's take those corpses,” Sanjeev suggested, “and leave the ones we have behind.”

  We had to agree that our Dilgarian corpses had begun to smell quite foul. So we returned for fresh ones, rigged the ones we had with grenades, and put the fresh ones upright on the mules, the better to pass through Dilgarian lines. Our make up and costume artist, Gita, supplied us with pliable fake bonds, the better to pose as Dilgarian prisoners, should we need to use the ruse of posing our corpses as live troops.

  Soon enough, we found our opportunity.

  “Troops ahead,” said one of the rats, “Not Sheromi. Several dozen.”

  At our signal, the Sheromi vanished into the trees above us.

  We marched forward, in fake bonds behind our fake Dilgarian captors. We might not be able to fire worth a damn, but we knew we could act. We made as much noise as we could, to cover the stealthier Sheromi movement overhead.

  Pulse rifle fire flew past us. Dilgarian corpses fell from their mules. Gita, hit, screamed and fell to the ground. We bolted from the trail and scrambled up a hill. Looking down from the hill, we saw the faces of the first troops. Human.

  “We're saved!” cried Babirye.

  But not all of us were saved. One of the soldiers lifted Gita's limp body.

  “She's dead, Arun,” he said.

  The Sheromi swung down from the trees to join the troops. We began to walk down the hill toward them. But before we could reach them, we heard the sound of pulse rifles, and the soldiers ran toward the gunfire, with the Sheromi accompanying them.

  “Either those children are dead, or they're safer than they were with us,” said Sanjeev, “but Krishna only knows which.”

  “Best follow them,” I said.

  But we were down to three mules and two rats, a pulse rifle apiece, one flame thrower, the broken hologenerator, some meager first aid supplies, and some poisonous Ubaganian rations. The rest of our supplies had stayed with the mules that followed the troops.

  With only three mules, we had to travel on foot, and soon lost the troops, who were mounted on their own mules. At least we knew that human lines were near. All we had to do was survive for long enough to reach them.

  We trudged past shattered stumps and singed trees and remnants of clothing. Surely we had passed the battle to which the troops had run, but no corpses remained. We supposed that the victors, whoever they might had been, had taken all the dead and wounded with them.

  We set up camp for the night, and got a radio report from the rats. Negotiations on a truce were stalled over a seating arrangement. Both sides were gloriously victorious.

  The next day, we set out again. At noon, the stench of death blew our way. I choked on the fumes. I pulled the belt from my kameez and wrapped it around my face. This tempered the smell a little, but it was still vile.

  Clumsily, with her left hand, Rachel fiddled with the rats. She attached a small camera to one, and a screen to the other. The camera rat scurried over the ridge. We watched the screen.

  The rat was mired in weeds. Bits of vegetation obscured its screen. Its motor whirred. Then it broke through the weeds to a clearing.

  Humans, Dilgarians, Sheromi, all lay strewn on the ground. Some corpses were whole, and others were scattered bits and pieces. Blood caked. The dark red of dried human blood, the green of died Sheromi blood, and the faded yellow of Dilgarian blood all mingled. Singed branches lay among odds and ends of fire sale Ubaganian military wares. As far as the rat's eye could see, there was nothing but destruction and death.

  What army was left in this neighborhood? If we found it, would it be friend or foe?

  “We should leave,” said Rachel.

  “It's our duty as Chaplins to sing the dead spirits on their way,” I protested.

  “How can we collect them all?” asked Rachel.

  So we took our one remaining flame thrower and made our way across the field, giving all human remains a proper cremation. Having no hammocks, we could do nothing for the Sheromi, and we did not care to do anything for the Dilgarians. After the fires had burned, we quenched them with dirt, lest the flames spread to the nearest trees. Then we walked a safe distance from the smell, and sang the spirits on their way. For good measure, in case our Sheromi companions were among the dead, we sang their praises.
/>   Then Babirye changed Rachel's bandages, and we set out again. We no longer bothered to listen to the radio. What would it tell us? All sides were always gloriously victorious.

  “There are troops ahead,” said the leading rat.

  “Sheromi?” I asked, no longer hoping that the answer would be yes.

  “Too low for Sheromi,” said the rat.

  “Set out the poisoned food and hide,” I said, “If it's humans, we can yell a warning before they eat.”

  “Wait,” said the rat.

  “Whatever for?” asked Adisa.

  “They're too low for Sheromi,” said the rat, “but they're too cold for humans or Dilgarians.”

  Too cold?

  “Leave the Ubaganian rations stashed,” I said, “and hide. We'll leave one rat nearby to watch.”

  We clambered off the train into the brush, and watched screen rat as camera rat observed.

  Footsteps thudded closer to the rat. Definitely not Sheromi. No rustling in the trees. But somehow not human, either.

  “We're done for,” whispered Sanjeev.

  But it was not a Dilgarian who approached the rat. His shell, which should naturally be a dull green, was painted rust and gold. As he approached the rat, he craned his long neck farther out of his shell, to get a better look at the camera.

  “Qorathi?” Rachel asked.

  “It's GalPax!” I cried. “And if it's GalPax, a truce must be signed.”

  Still we hesitated, until the rest of the troops appeared, some Qorathi and some of other species, and clearly bearing the GalPax flag. Then we threw down our guns and ran to meet them, waving our truce flag wildly.

  That evening, I sat in the outdoor cafe near city hall, in the small Terran settlement of New Kanpur, where I had first arrived. As I sipped my lassi, I saw a familiar