Refugee

by Piers Anthony

  But I digress, as is my fault. The point is, it does require fair balance and skill to ride such a saucer, for the passenger’s weight reduction is proportional to the amount of the body within the region of shielding and the angle of the shielding disk. It is a common misconception that a grav-shield angled sidewise abates gravity sidewise; of course that could never be true. Such an angle merely reduces the size of the null-gee region. Thus a person floating too high can always bring himself down by tilting the shield. Properly managed, the saucers provide precisely controlled individual flotation with the rider drawing his body into the shielded region to increase lift, and extending it beyond that region to increase weight and make a gentle descent.

  So when Spirit tilted the saucer, two things happened. Its cross section intercepting the planetary gravity diminished slightly—and the man aboard it found himself angled to a greater extent outside that field. Naturally the saucer sank under his increasing weight. It also threw him off balance, so that yet more of his body projected from the shielded zone.

  Balancing on a gravity lens has been described as similar to balancing on a surfboard or skateboard—which provides modern folk a hint of the fun the ancients had—and a slight miscue could quickly become calamitous.

  It was so in this case. Only the man’s grip on Faith’s arm steadied him, enabling him to jump off the saucer instead of being dumped on his face. Shaken and furious, he whirled about—just in time to spy the burgeoning smirk on my face.

  I had not done the deed, but I was certainly guilty of appreciating it. “I’ll teach you!” he cried angrily in that idiomatic expression that means the opposite. He released Faith and concentrated on me. Behind him the vacant saucer righted itself and hovered in place, as it was programmed to do. It had not failed him; he had failed it, with a little help from Spirit.

  The scion was substantially older and larger than I, for five years can be a tremendous distinction in this period of life, and I was afraid of him. I did not want to fight him. I have never regarded myself as a creature of violence in the most propitious circumstances, and this one was least propitious. At the same time, I was aware that this development had distracted his malign attention from Faith, and that it would return to her the moment he settled with me. Therefore I could not seek to elude him. Not until my sister was safe. That was the onus attached to my privilege of being male.

  “Get on home, girls,” I snapped peremptorily.

  Spirit started to go, knowing it was best, though she didn’t like leaving me. By herself she would have stayed, but she was aware that the real threat was to Faith, who had to be moved out of danger.

  But Faith, less perceptive of the realities of the situation, had the endearing loyalty of the Hubris family. She did not go. “You can’t fight him, Hope,” she protested, her voice quavering with reaction and fear.

  “I won’t fight the twerp,” the scion snarled. Again I take a liberty with the translation, ameliorating the essential term. “I’ll only jam his head into a wall to teach him his place. Then I’ll deal with you.” And he made a small gesture of universal and impolite significance.

  Emboldened by my awareness of the peril of our situation, I never paused to see the horrified blush I knew was crossing Faith’s face. I punched the scion in the stomach.

  It was a foolish gesture. He was not only larger than I, he was in better physical condition. He looked clean and soft, but he had access to expensive complete-nutrition foods tailored to his specific chemistry, while my stature had been somewhat retarded by sometimes inadequate diet. He could go regularly to a private gymnasium for expertly supervised exercise crafted to be entertaining and efficient, while I got mine playing handball in the back alleys. Even if I had been his age and size, I could not have matched his training and endurance. This was a gross mismatch.

  The scion smiled grimly, well aware of these aspects. He might not have completely enjoyed the various facets of his training, since he would have preferred at any given time to be out slumming in the city, as he was now, but he had nevertheless profited from them. He assumed a competent fighting stance, body balanced, fists elevated. I had hit him; I had not hurt him, but I was committed by the convention of our culture that transcended the difference in our stations. A person who hits another had better be ready to fight.

  The scion stepped forward, leading with his left fist, his right cocked for the punishing follow-up. In that moment I saw Faith standing frozen to my right and Spirit to my left. My older sister was terrified, but my younger one, who now had a pretext to stay, was intrigued.

  I ducked and dodged, of course. Fights are an integral part of youth, and though I never sought them—perhaps I should say because I never sought them—I had had my share. I am a quick study on most things, and pain is a most effective tutor. I had been hurt so many times that my response had become virtually instinctive. It was not that I had any special competence in fisticuffs or any delusion about winning, but I could at least put up a respectable defense, considering the disparity in our forces. Like the scion, I had been an unwilling student, but I had mastered the essentials.

  The scion turned with a sneer, unsurprised at his miss. Only a complete fool stands still to take a direct hit. He retained his poise. He had only been testing, anyway. He stepped forward again, jabbing with his left, still saving his right for the opportunity to score. He was too smart to swing wildly; he knew he would catch me in due course unless I fled, in which case he would have undistracted access to Faith. This was, in its fashion, merely a preliminary to that access. He was, perversely, showing off for her, impressing her by beating up her little brother. He had no need of her pleasure or her acquiescence, just her respect, to feed his id. He was the dragon slayer who would get the fair maid—in his own perception.

  Young as I was and inexperienced as I was, I still understood that the sexual drive is superficial compared to the human need for recognition and favor. This man could have bought willing sex elsewhere, or possibly even had it from Faith had he chosen to dazzle her with some costly gift or tour of the realm of the rich. But that would have lacked the cutting edge of this little drama. The thing a person works for has more value than the thing too easily obtained. Also, it seemed to be a requirement of his need that the girl he got be inferior, someone to be coerced in an alley rather than wooed like a lady. A certain kind of upbringing fosters that attitude. To that type of perception, sex could not be enjoy-able unless it was dirty.

  Meanwhile I dodged again, not allowing my thoughts to interfere with the immediate business of self-preservation. The scion shifted to face me again, satisfied to bide his time while Faith watched. Now I was fielding information about him: the way he moved, the standard procedure he employed, the glances he made at Faith to be sure he was sufficiently impressing her. He was larger and stronger and healthier than I, but not actually faster, and certainly not more versatile. He was using no imagination in his attack, relying solely on basic moves. He was in fact limited by his arrogant attitude and his certainty of success.

  He came at me a third time, and I ducked a third time—but this time I did not dodge aside. I launched myself at his knees, tackling him, my shoulder striking his thigh in front and shoving him back. The force of my strike and the surprise of my attack gave me an advantage I lacked in conventional combat. But this was not convention; this was the street. The rules here were not exactly what the scion might have been taught.

  The scion stepped back, surprised, but did not fall. He had maintained good balance, as he had been trained to do, and it is in fact very hard to dump a balanced opponent. But he had lost his poise. As I had anticipated, he was unprepared to deal with atypical strategy. The odds remained uneven, but not as much so as before.

  I scrambled away before he could adjust and club me. I had hoped to dump him on his back, but simply lacked the force. Still, my confidence grew, and I began to hope I could after all take him. I have always been an excellent judge of people, whether that judgme
nt is positive or negative; it is my special talent. This was now my key to victory. An opponent understood is an opponent potentially nullified. Had this one simply gone after me with full force at the outset, he should have pulverized me; be-cause he preferred to posture, he had given me opportunity to utilize my own strength.

  The scion came at me another time, shaken and angry. He had intended an object lesson; now he was serious. I had heightened the stakes. He feinted with his left hand as usual, expecting me to duck again. Instead I pulled back. His knee came up in a manner that would have cracked my chin, had I performed as before. As it was, it missed—and I stepped in to grab his leg.

  I had learned this early: A person on one foot is largely helpless. This is a liability of such martial arts as karate or kickboxing; blows with the feet are powerful, but if the other party gets hold of a foot, that’s trouble. I hung on, preventing him from recovering his balance while staying out of the reach of his fists. He hopped about on his other foot, absolutely furious at his loss of dignity, especially with Faith watching, but unable to do much about it. His training evidently had not covered the handling of such an exigency. Spirit tittered, which didn’t help.

  I had him but I didn’t know what to do with him. I couldn’t really hurt him in this position, and the moment I let go I would be in trouble. It was like riding the tiger: how does one safely get off?

  Of course he could have broken my hold quickly by lying down and grappling for my own feet. But I knew he wouldn’t do that; it was counter to his self-image. That was my advantage of understanding again.

  But I had grown too confident myself and made an error. I had not judged what he would do if trapped in a position of indignity.

  The scion reached into his shirt and brought out a miniature laser weapon. It flashed, and the beam seared into my left side, causing my shirt to smoke and burning a line across my flesh. I yelped and let go, for I had to get clear of that beam before it penetrated to an inner organ and cooked it. A laser can do a lot more damage than shows, because of the invisible heat-ray component. It doesn’t have to vaporize the flesh to make it useless.

  The man made an exclamation of victory and stalked me, aiming his laser. It scorched my buttock, making me leap out of the way. He laughed. I could not dodge that beam of light.

  If I fled him, not only would I lose the fight, but Faith would be subject to his will. If only she had fled when I gave her the chance! If I did not depart, he would soon score on my face, perhaps destroying my vision. I was in real trouble.

  Then the scion cried out and dropped the laser. I took immediate advantage of his distraction and charged in to the attack. Those burns had eradicated any faint reticence I might have had. I stiffened my fists and clubbed him on ear and neck as hard as I could.

  He fell back, seeming hardly to notice my blows though I knew they stung. He bent to pick up his weapon with his left hand, and I kneed him in the nose, exactly the way he had in-tended to knee me before. In a moment blood was flowing across his face. The laser skittered away from his misdirected hand.

  He turned, one hand to his face, cupping the blood, and jumped for his saucer. It lurched upward; it seemed he still had sufficient command of his body to control it. In a moment he was gone.

  Now I looked at Spirit, realizing what she had done. “You used your finger-whip!” I cried as though accusing her.

  She smiled smugly, whirling her finger to re-coil her weapon. The finger-whip was a spool of translucently thin line that hooked to her middle finger. When she flicked her digit just so—she had practiced this diligently in private—the weighted tip carried the line out rapidly to its full length of a meter. That, plus the reach of her arm, gave her a fair striking distance. Invisible the whip might be, but she could snap coins out of the air with it. That line could really sting, and sometimes cut into the skin. Spirit had savaged the scion’s weapon hand, disarming him. It had not been a fair tactic—but of course the laser itself had not been fair. She had rescued me from a nasty situation. This was not the first time, though it was the most significant.

  I decided to drop the matter. Children were not supposed to have weapons, but Spirit had won the whip on a bet a year before and had made a point of mastering it. She had become the junior champion of the schoolyard, partly because of her finesse with her finger and partly because of her indomitable fighting spirit. Oh, yes, she lived up to her name! Once she had been tagged four times by an agile whip opponent, suffering scours on a leg, both arms, and one ear, but only came on more intensely, until her opponent, a boy of her own age, had lost his nerve and yielded the issue without being struck himself. He had realized that if he continued, Spirit would score, and her flicks had already come so near his eyes that it was obvious that discretion was the better part of valor. Pain could make her scream; it could not make her yield. Nerve, not skill, had won her that battle—but since then her skill had increased. Of course a finger-whip is a little thing, not capable of dealing death—but I knew from that time on that I never wanted to have my little sister truly angry with me. I had never betrayed her secret and neither had Faith, and we were not about to now.

  “We had better not tell our folks about this incident,” I said, picking up the scion’s laser and pocketing it after noting that its charge gauge read about half. Several good burns remained in it. Now I had a secret weapon too, and the others would keep my secret.

  Silently, Spirit nodded acquiescence. I put my arm around her small shoulders and hugged her, my thanks for her help. She melted against me, letting down now that it was over. However tough she was in combat, she did need emotional support, and this I could offer. We understood each other.

  Faith came out of her stasis. “You shouldn’t have done that, Hope,” she reproved me shakily.

  I exchanged another glance with Spirit. We both knew Faith’s naïveté was a necessary aspect of her self-image. “I guess I got carried away.”

  “Did you see his nose splat!” Spirit said enthusiastically.

  “I didn’t really mean to do that,” I admitted. “I was aiming for his chin, but he went down too fast.”

  “All that blood!” Faith said, horrified. She seemed oblivious of what could have happened to her had we not driven the scion off, and this was just as well.

  Faith had some clothing-patching material that she kept for possible emergencies in connection with her dress. She used this to repair and conceal the damage the laser had done to my clothes. The burns on my flesh would simply have to heal.

  We hurried on home, and by the time we got there Faith, too, had agreed that it was best that we not mention this incident to our parents.

  CHAPTER 3

  HARD CHOICE

  Maraud, 2-2-’15—They came resplendent in the military uniform of the Maraud police, delivering the foreclosure on our property. I mentioned the debt and mortgage our father took on to insure an education for his children. He was in arrears on the payments, of course, because all peasants were. That was the way of life on Callisto.

  My father, Major Hubris, was an intelligent man with mini-mal formal education. He knew very well that the big landowners were systematically cheating the peasants, but didn’t know how to stop it. I had progressed far enough in my education to have a fair notion of the situation, and was confident that by the time I reached maturity I would be able to set about reversing, the downward trend for our family. But until that time, the Hubrises were vulnerable and that vulnerability had abruptly been exploited.

  Foreclosure—that finished us before we could begin to fight back.

  We had three days to vacate, unless we could pay off the mortgage in its entirety before that deadline. Of course we could not. People do not get into debt if they have the wherewithal to escape it. That clause of the contract is an almost open mockery of the hopes of the peasants. If there had been any reasonable hope of paying on demand, you can be sure the landowners would have passed a law to eliminate that hope.

  My father put in
a call to our creditor, who had been reason-ably tolerant before. This was Colonel Guillaume, of an ancient military family, now retired to his wealth and not really a bad person as creditors went. That is, he cheated the peasants less than some creditors did, treated them with reasonable courtesy, and did seem to have some concern for their welfare. The colonel did not speak to my father personally, of course; the secretary of one of his administrative functionaries handled that matter. That was all we had any right to expect.

  “Why?” my father asked, and I perceived the baffled hurt in his voice. “Why foreclose with no warning? Have we not behaved well? Did I make some error in the tally? If I have given any offense, I shall proffer my most abject apology.”

  I did not like hearing my father speak this way. To me he had always been strong, the master of the household, a column of strength. Now his darkly handsome face showed lines and sags of confusion and defeat, as though the column were cracking and crumbling under a sudden, intolerable and inexplicable burden. His newly apparent weakness frightened and embarrassed me and made my knees feel spongy and my stomach knot. I saw little beads of sweat on his forehead and shades of gray in his short curly hair. But his hands bothered me more, for now the strong fingers clenched and unclenched spasmodically behind his back, out of the view of the secretary in the phone screen but in full view of my eyes, and the tendons flexed along the back of his hand as if suffering some special torture of their own. But most of all it was his voice that bothered me: that cowed, self-effacing, almost whining tone, as if he were a cur submitting to legitimate but painful discipline, sorry not so much for the strike of the rod on his flesh as for the infraction that caused this punishment to be necessary. I had never before seen him this way and wished I were not seeing it now. A bastion of my self-esteem, rooted ineluctably in my perceived strength of my father, was tumbling. This is an insidiously unpleasant thing for a child. It is as if he stands upon bedrock and experiences the first tremor of the earthquake that will destroy his house.