Tiger By the Tail Pull

iger by the Tail Pull

  by Poula Anderson

  Copyright 2010 Poula Anderson

  A Dominique Flyndry story

  A Gender Switch Adventure

  Captain Flyndry opened her eyes and saw a metal ceiling. Simultaneously, she grew aware of the thrum and quiver which meant she was aboard a spaceship running on ultradrive.

  She sat up with a violence that sent the dregs of alcohol swirling through her head. She'd gone to sleep in a room somewhere in the stews of Catawrayannis, with no prospect or intention of leaving the city for an indefinite time—let alone the planet! Now—

  The chilling realization came that she was not aboard a human ship. Humanoid, yes, from the size and design of things, but no vessel ever built within the borders of the Empire, and no foreign make that she knew of.

  Even from looking at this one small cabin, she could tell. There were bunks, into one of which she had fitted pretty well, but the sheets and blankets weren't of plastic weave. They seemed—he looked more closely—the sheets seemed to be of some vegetable fiber, the blankets of long bluish-gray hair. There were a couple of chairs and a table in the middle of the room, wooden, and they must have seen better days for they were elaborately handcarved in an intricate interwoven design new to Flyndry—and planetary art-forms were a hobby of hers. The way and manner in which the metal plating had been laid was another indication, and—

  She sat down again, buried her whirling head in her hands, and tried to think. There was a thumping in her head and a vile taste in her mouth which liquor didn't ordinarily leave—at least not the stuff she'd been drinking—and now that she remembered, she'd gotten sleepy much earlier than one would have expected when the boy was so good-looking—Drugged—oh, no! Tell me I'm not as stupid as a stereofilm hero! Anything but that!

  But who'd have thought it, who'd have looked for it? Certainly the people and beings on whom she'd been trying to get a lead would never try such a stunt. Besides, none of them had been around, she was sure of it. She'd simply been out building part of the elaborate structure of demimonde acquaintances and information which would eventually, by exceedingly indirect routes, lead her to those she was seeking. She'd simply been out having a good time—quite a good time, in fact—and—

  And now someone from outside the Empire had her. And now what?

  She got up, a little unsteadily, and looked around for her clothes. No sign of them. And she'd paid three hundred credits for that outfit, too. She stamped savagely over to the door. It didn't have a photocell attachment; she jerked it open and found herself looking down the muzzle of a blaster.

  It was of different design from any she knew, but it was quite unmistakable. Captain Flyndry sighed, relaxed her taut muscles, and looked more closely at the guard who held it.

  She was humanoid to a high degree, perhaps somewhat stockier than Terrestrial average—and come to think of it, the artificial gravity was a little higher than one gee—and with very white skin, long tawny hair and locks, and oblique violet eyes. Her ears were pointed and two small horns grew above her heavy eyebrow ridges, but otherwise she was manlike enough. With civilized clothes and a hooded cloak she could easily pass herself off for human.

  Not in the getup she wore, of course, which consisted of a kilt and tunic, shining beryllium-copper cuirass and helmet, buskins over bare legs, and a murderous-looking dirk. As well as a couple of scalps hanging at her belt.

  She gestured the prisoner back, and blew a long hollow blast on a horn slung at her side. The wild echoes chased each other down the long corridor, hooting and howling with a primitive clamor that tingled faintly along Captain Flyndry's spine.

  She thought slowly, while she waited: No intercom, apparently not even speaking tubes laid the whole length of the ship. And household articles of wood and animal and vegetable fibres, and that archaic costume there—They were barbarians, all right. But no tribe that she knew about.

  That wasn't too surprising, since the Terrestrial Empire and the half-dozen other civilized states in the known Galaxy ruled over several thousands of intelligent races and had some contact with nobody knew how many thousands more. Many of the others were, of course, still planet-bound, but quite a few tribes along the Imperial borders had mastered a lot of human technology without changing their fundamental outlook on things. Which is what comes of hiring barbarian mercenaries.

  The peripheral tribes were still raiders, menaces to the border planets and merely nuisances to the Empire as a whole. Periodically they were bought off, or played off against each other—or the Empire might even send a punitive expedition out. But if one day a strong barbarian race under a strong leader should form a reliable coalition—then vae victis!

  A party of Flyndry's captors, apparently officers, guardswomen, and a few slaves, came down the corridor. Their leader was tall and powerfully built, with a cold arrogance in her pale-blue eyes that did not hide a calculating intelligence. There was a golden coronet on her head, and the robes that swirled around her big body were rainbow-gorgeous. Flyndry recognized some items as having been manufactured within the Empire. Looted, probably.

  They came to a halt before her and the leader looked her up and down with a deliberately insulting gaze. To be thus surveyed in the nude could have been badly disconcerting, but Flyndry was immune to embarrassment and her answering stare was bland.

  The leader spoke at last, in strongly accented but fluent Anglic: 'You may as well accept the fact that you are a prisoner, Captain Flyndry.'

  They'd have gone through her pockets, of course. She asked levelly, 'Just to satisfy my own curiosity, was that boy in your pay?'

  'Of course. I assure you that the Scothani are not the brainless barbarians of popular Terrestrial superstition, though—' a bleak smile—' it is useful to be thought so.'

  'The Scothani? I don't believe I've had the pleasure—'

  'You have probably not heard of us, though we have had some contact with the Empire. We have found it convenient to remain in obscurity, as far as Terra is concerned, until the time is ripe. But—what do you think caused the Alarri to invade you, fifteen years ago?'

  Flyndry thought back. She had been a girl then, but she had, of course, avidly followed the news accounts of the terrible fleets that swept in over the marches and attacked Vega itself. Only the hardest fighting at the Battle of Mirzan had broken the Alarri. Yet it turned out that they'd been fleeing still another tribe, a wild and mighty race who had invaded their own system with fire and ruin. It was a common enough occurrence in the turbulent barbarian stars; this one incident had come to the Empire's notice only because the refugees had tried to conquer it in turn. A political upheaval within the Terrestrial domain had prevented closer investigation before the matter had been all but forgotten.

  'So you were driving the Alarri before you?' asked Flyndry with as close an approximation to the right note of polite interest as she could manage in her present condition.

  'Aye. And others. The Scothani have quite a little empire now, out there in the wilderness of the Galaxy. But, since we were never originally contacted by Terrestrials, we have, as I say, remained little known to them.'

  So—the Scothani had learned their technology from some other race, possibly other barbarians. It was a familiar pattern, Flyndry could trace it out in her mind. Spaceships landed on the primitive world, the initial awe of the natives gave way to the realization that the skymen weren't so very different after all—they could be killed like anyone else; traders, students, laborers, mercenary warriors visited the more advanced worlds, brought back knowledge of their science and technology; factories were built, machines produced, and some local queen used the new power to impose her rule on all her planet; and then, to unite her restl
ess subjects, she had to turn their faces outward, promise plunder and glory if they followed her out to the stars—Only the Scothani had carried it farther than most. And lying as far from the Imperial border as they did, they could build up a terrible power without the complacent, politics-ridden Empire being more than dimly aware of the fact—until the day when—Vae victis!

  II

  'Let us have a clear understanding,' said the barbarian chief. 'You are a prisoner on a warship already light years from Llynathawr, well into the Imperial marches and bound for Scotha itself. You have no chance of rescue, and mercy depends entirely on your own conduct. Adjust it accordingly.'

  'May I ask why you picked me up?' Flyndry's tone was mild.

  'You are of noble blood, and a highranking officer in the Imperial intelligence service. You may be worth something as a hostage. But primarily we want information.'

  'But I—'

  'I know.' The reply was disgusted. 'You're very typical of your miserable kind. I've studied the Empire and its decadence long enough to know that. You're just another worthless younger daughter, given a high-paying sinecure so you can wear a fancy uniform and play soldier. You don't amount to anything.'

  Flyndry let an angry flush go up her cheek. 'Look here—'

  'It's perfectly