Anthony, Piers - Tyrant 1 - Refugee

by Anthony, Piers

  It worked amazingly well. In hours, it seemed, we had become fused into a desperately close community. We knew this was all that lay between us and the physical and social void beyond.

  We survived. But what would we do when the next pirates came? When would it end?

  Chapter 16 — VIOLATION OF TRUST

  3-17-'15, Jupiter Ecliptic—We planned cynically for the next pirates. We knew, now, that pirates were as random and savage and uncaring as sulfur volcanoes and should be treated with similar dispassionate respect. If we wanted to live and to reach sanctuary at Leda, we would have to accommodate that reality. We had a gauntlet to run, and we could not avoid it, so we had to prepare for it.

  We were children—but we had lost our parents and siblings to pirates. The realities of space had forced themselves upon us in most brutal fashion. We were children who had been bloodied. I repeat this point, perhaps, in a kind of explanation or apology for the cynicism of the things we contemplated, which may disturb people who have not experienced what we had. We had, I believe it is fair to say, as fair a notion of necessity as any space crew of any age could.

  We concocted plans, discussed them, and acted them out in little playlets, searching for flaws, for we knew any error or oversight could be fatal. This became, really, part of our therapy; instead of telling stories, now we were developing scenarios. The important thing is that we did this together, giving respect to all views, making even the smallest child feel important—for, indeed, the smallest was important.

  We considered attacking pirates with knives, but realized that only a few men would get cut before the others destroyed us. We were, after all, children, and could not fight adults on any even basis, and any delusion that we could would be fatal. We thought of poisoning their food and/or water—but had no poison, and anyway, pirates didn't come to eat and drink, they came to rape and kill.

  In retrospect, I marvel at the psychology of the pirates. Apparently, civilized restraints break down the moment civilized enforcement ends, at least for certain types of men. They raid and destroy simply because they enjoy pillaging and hurting, and in space the refugees are easy targets. I find it very difficult to sympathize with such an attitude, but at least I think I understand it now. The pirates are that dreg of society that is least civilized, and that mankind as a whole would be best off without. Mighty Jupiter preferred to treat the refugees as if they were such dregs, but that was because the refugees were easy targets—helpless—while the pirates would have been more difficult to deal with.

  I was to spend long hours considering mechanisms to rid our species of the pirate trash, and if ever I have the means to implement any such notions, I shall do so, to whatever extent I am able. This is my promise to myself.

  We went over every kind of defense, both likely and unlikely. We finally settled on a three-stage program.

  Stage one: We would present ourselves as sweet, innocent orphan children and beg the pirates not to hurt us. If they were nice, or at least not homicidal, all would be well. After all, the scientists on Io had been nice; we could not assume with absolute conviction that every man in space was evil. Many of the children did not really believe that, but they grudgingly accepted the hypothesis because Helse argued the case so feelingly, and Helse in her female dress was very pretty. I had thought appreciation of prettiness was an adult trait, but revised my thinking when I saw how she swayed even the smallest children. In fantasy tales the pretty girl is always good, and children do seem to take that on faith though it is of course suspect.

  Stage two: If they were not nice (as seemed the overwhelming likelihood) and sought to kidnap, rape, or kill any of us, or got angry when we rejected their candy (we had learned that lesson well!), Spirit would give a signal. She would blow a whistle provided her, at which point every child would instantly draw a knife or nail or other sharp instrument and plunge it at the eyes or nearest other vulnerable region of the nearest pirate. If that succeeded, every pirate would be blind or castrated and presumably helpless; then we could consider what to do next. Maybe we would have to kill them, but we didn't have to make that decision right now. We drilled on this, stabbing at pirate-shaped-and-sized dummies; even our smallest children could run a mean spike into a crotch. This was not the same as fighting pirates, which we knew to be hopeless; this was to be a surprise maneuver, occurring explosively. Two seconds after that whistle blew, a dozen or more pirates would be hurting, and normally no more than that came aboard at one time.

  Stage three: If for some reason we failed to incapacitate the pirates—and, realistically, we deemed our chances to be no better than fifty percent—and the situation was critical, we would back off and Helse would say to me "Do it!" and I would go out the second air lock, with Spirit, or whoever else was handy, standing by to cut off the drive for the few seconds I'd need to get past the ring of fire. I would make my way around the outside hull to a particular refuse-tank release bolt that had been weakened, and knock it off. That would not only release the refuse, it would empty the bubble of air—because we would have jammed the automatic safety valve open.

  That would finish the pirates. It would also finish any of us who weren't in suits. So at Helse's signal, all others would have to go to their cells and get suited in a hurry. Since the pirates wouldn't have their suits in the bubble (we laughed uproariously at the joke we adapted about the pirate trying to rape a girl while in a space suit; what kind of attachment would that suit have to have?—juvenile humor gets quite fundamental), even if they caught on, they wouldn't have time to stop it. Their only recourse would be to flee immediately back to their ship and slam the air lock closed. We would try to block the lock open—just a few seconds delay in closure would be all we would need—but if we failed in that, we still would have saved ourselves from a larger disaster.

  We liked this plan so well we almost hoped for an early chance to test it. We spent hours perfecting the details. Spirit had to be suited from the outset, because, though she could cut off the drive from the inside—there was a simple make/break switch—to let me put, she would not be able to do it again to let me in unless she herself survived the vacuum inside. I had to use the rear lock, because the front one might be encumbered by the pirate ship. I really didn't want anyone else performing this particular office, because if there were any error of timing and the drive came on again while I was crossing its deadly ring, I would be cleanly sliced into pieces. I trusted Spirit to make no error; I wasn't quite sure of anyone else. Spirit had always been my most reliable support, even before we started this terrible voyage.

  We rehearsed all three stages until we had them down pat. We timed the last stage, so we knew exactly how long people would have to get into their suits once I used the air lock. We all got very quick about suiting up. Those suits now hung on hooks in each cell, perpetually available, and nobody touched another person's suit. We had to play it close enough to take out the pirates, and that was close indeed. A thirty-second delay in suiting could prove fatal.

  There were fairly sophisticated wrinkles that we worked out. Chief among these was my physical position. I had to have my suit on and stand by the lock, so that Helse could give me the signal from the Commons. To conceal my presence, we made a baffle before the rear lock and decorated it with colored tassels lovingly fashioned of waste paper, so it looked as if we were playing a childish game. My suit, too, was decorated so that it looked fake. Some of the littlest kids showed surprising ingenuity in the details.

  So we were ready—while those of us with most sense ardently hoped that we would never come to stages two or three. If the pirates missed us, and we made it unscathed to Leda—but few of us really believed that would happen.

  For a time, however, it seemed we would indeed be lucky. We floated on for several days, passing the orbit of Callisto, and no pirates came. Our rehearsals became precise, then perfunctory. We were now departing the Jupiter ecliptic, following the schedule set up by the Io scientists. Almost, I resented the time w
e had spent, planning and rehearsing, instead of finishing our mourning. But it would certainly be best if we never saw another pirate.

  We relaxed by gradual stages. Helse, as the oldest surviving female, became a den mother, seeing to the needs of the smaller children within the framework of the community family and counseling some of the larger ones. And I, as the oldest male, found myself becoming a father figure. I resisted this aspect at first, until Helse explained to me the need of these children for someone to play this role. We could not have a group family without a father; the thing did not set right. "Do it," she told me. "It must be done, and you are the one. You set up the community family, you labored to make it work; you are indeed the father of it."

  "How can I be a father, when I'm not even married?" I temporized, half in humor. But as I said it, I felt a catch in my being. Marriage...

  Things were going smoothly—almost too smoothly, since the distractions of our serious preparations tended to abate our horror of recent losses—and there was no present need for us to be on duty. The crew of kids was performing well enough, and it was important that they be permitted to exercise this responsibility. None of us could know who might be eliminated in the next pirate raid, so the skills had to be distributed throughout our group.

  We were not needed, at the moment, on duty. Helse guided me to our cell. "You could be," she said when we were private.

  "Could be what?" I knew she had something in mind, but I wanted her to express it.

  "A father."

  I smiled. "A father? I'm only fifteen!"

  "You have proved you are old enough. I could be pregnant."

  "Pregnant!" That particular aspect had never occurred to me. I shared the ordinary adolescent's self-imposed unawareness of the natural consequence of sex. Nature does not require awareness, merely performance.

  She laughed. "I didn't say I was, Hope. Just that I could be. That it is possible. You could be a father."

  She was right. "I'm not ready," I said. "But for you—oh, Helse, I want you forever!"

  "And I want you," she said. "Hope, I've never dared to love before, but now I do. Now I do! I don't care that you're younger than I am, or that we were thrown together randomly. We've been through more together than any regular couple, and when you risked your life for me on Io I knew, really knew, that I could trust you, and—"

  I realized that she was leading up to something, and I had a notion what, and I wanted very much to have it, but still I wanted her to say it. "What do you mean?"

  "Hope, I want to get married."

  That was what I had waited for but still I reacted carefully. "You mean an ad hoc marriage, like the ones in the military service?"

  "If you want."

  That was her way of suggesting I try another tack. "This isn't the military service."

  "True."

  "I'd prefer a civilian marriage."

  "Yes." That was her way of agreeing.

  "We could arrange a suitable term—"

  "If you wish."

  I cut it short, unable to hold back any longer. "What do you want, Helse? I want anything you want."

  "Till death do us part."

  When Helse loved, I realized, she loved completely. Now she was testing my love. I hardly, felt worthy, but I was willing. I knew I loved her absolutely, and would never love another like this. "Till death do us part," I agreed, and suffered a momentary spell of dizziness, awed by the profundity of the commitment. There were all kinds and lengths of marriages, and this was the most binding.

  "Oh, let's do it now!" she exclaimed.

  "Well, it wouldn't be official without a priest," I said.

  She kissed me, and my head spun again. "We'll do it by common law," she said. "We can have a wedding. It will be like a party for the children. They can rehearse it and take parts—and it will entertain the group while we travel, and—" Here she stopped and kissed me again, passionately. I had never before seen her so turned on, and I liked it. Her love had been well worth waiting for. "Maybe I had to love a younger man," she said. "I've always been used by older men, so I can't relate to them the same way. But you—you're a virgin boy, and you're all mine."

  "I'm yours," I agreed, overflowing with love for her. I suppose her description of me as a virgin boy might have been taken as uncomplimentary, yet I knew she didn't mean it to be so, and it was true. She had introduced me to love, in all its forms outside the family love I had grown up with. I don't know whether the harshness of our situation in the bubble had the effect of intensifying my emotion or whether I would have loved her as ardently anyway, but certainly this was the most positive emotion of which my being was capable. Helse was older and far more experienced—but I was the first man she had loved this way, and that was enough.

  "And I'm yours," she said. "I will be Helse Hubris." The cumbersome double surnaming of our culture had gradually faded out in favor of the Jupiter custom of using the masculine surname only.

  "Helse Hubris," I agreed, liking the alliteration, liking the meaning, liking every aspect of it.

  You might think we would have made love then, but we did not. It could only have distracted us from the greater excitement of our engagement. Sex had always had a different meaning for us; this was more vital.

  We fetched Spirit and put her in charge of operations. She was delighted to participate. She had, it seemed, gotten over her earlier jealousy of Helse, realizing that Helse was no threat to our brother-sister relationship. Indeed Helse was not; she had stabilized me during each crisis, so that I was better able to help others, including Spirit. Yet I suspect I misjudged the nuances of Spirit's acceptance, though I doubt I will ever be certain in what way. The same emotional involvement that prevented me from using my talent to judge Helse properly also interfered with my judgments of Spirit. Of course I knew Spirit; she was my sister and closest companion, and would never betray me in any way; that was never in question. Still, there may have been something.

  The kids set it up with gusto. They assembled stray bits of cloth into a wedding gown for Helse, and they made plans for a big cake. These seemingly simple things were not simple in the bubble! A choir formed and practiced singing the wedding march. The problem of the lack of a priest was solved by working out a ceremony in which the two of us would exchange vows ourselves, in the manner of the old Quaker religion, each speaking his or her piece, and sealing the vow with a kiss. That public kiss was very important; the children planned to applaud it. I found myself getting genuinely nervous; they were making it too real!

  Too real? That isn't what I meant to convey. This was ultimately real. This was the most solemn commitment of our lives. Maybe what I meant was that I did not want it to become too much of a show, as if it were not genuine. But weddings, as I learned, are not just for the nuptial couple; the crowd must have its satisfaction too.

  It took several days to put it all together, and several major rehearsals. Spirit insisted that every single detail be right. We worked up to full dress rehearsals, orchestrating it right through to the kiss. That kiss had to be right, too; the imps made us do it over and over, just so, not too long or too brief, too intimate or too distant. They even practiced their applause. Kids, I learned the hard way (though I really didn't mind this particular exercise, despite Helse's tendency to break up with mirth in the middle of it), are the worst sticklers in the universe for specific detail.

  I wondered just what the difference was between a full dress rehearsal, with all the participants, and the official ceremony, but knew better than to raise that question. I suppose it was merely a matter of designation: This one is a rehearsal, that one is the production. Besides, this was an excellent distraction from the tedium and grief we all would otherwise have had time to dwell on. This was more than a wedding or a rehearsal for same; it was group therapy. So we didn't push the date; we let the kids extend the rehearsals as long as they had a mind to.

  Helse looked wonderful in her home-fashioned patchwork wedding dress. She would h
ave looked good to me in rags, though. I was in my space suit. You see, no one knew how to make a man's formal wedding outfit, so Spirit, in her authoritative office of manager, decreed that one suit was as good as another and insisted that I be garbed as a space captain on duty. I even had to have the helmet on; then, ceremoniously, I would tilt it back for the nuptial osculation. I felt like an ancient knight in armor, especially since the suit was decorated for camouflage. Embracing her was awkward, not nearly as pleasant as it had been in nondress rehearsal, where her body was all soft and feminine against mine. And the inordinate laughter, when one brat advised me to remove the suit on the wedding night because it didn't have the necessary attachment—that actually made me blush, which set the little fiends off anew. But anything to make the kids happy! And though I protested the unnecessary elaboration, it was therapy for me too. It made me really believe that Helse would be mine forever.