The Martian General's Daughter

by Theodore Judson

  "Don't sit!" Helen warned me as I waited in the smoky house. "You'll get yourself dirty! The emperor will think we live like swine."

  "How could the emperor see dirt on my underclothes?" I asked her. "Is he going to peek up my skirt?"

  "What a filthy mouth you have, child!" she scolded me. "Come here so I may slap you. Do you think the emperor is a criminal?"

  Helen's threats were hollow. She repeatedly told me she was going to slap me and never did.

  "I spoke before I thought," I said. "I apologize."

  Father told me I should say nothing when we got to the banquet, particularly not to the emperor.

  "He has a familiar manner for a great man," Father told me as we walked through the muddy grounds toward the large building. "He may speak to you directly. I don't know why. He speaks to a lot of people he shouldn't. If he does, pretend you are deaf and dumb. Make guttural sounds and wave your hands a bit. Remember this, girl: Mathias is going to be named a god someday. You may not believe in any of that official government nonsense, but some people do. Bow when he gets near you. Whatever you do, do not look him straight in the eye."

  "Is it true that when you were a boy people could just fly from place to place and never have to walk?" I asked him, for I hated wading through the mud in my white dress and having to lift up my skirt to keep it clean.

  "Some people could," said Father. "Now about the emperor ... ?"

  "I will not look him in the eye," I said. "I promise." And perhaps at the moment I said it I truly meant to keep my word.

  Upon entering the emperor's tall front doors I saw that his home in Progress was large, but far less than magnificent. The walls were bare stone, and the rafters were exposed beams of rough-hewn timber rather than any sort of composite material one sees inside the monumental buildings of Garden City. Several of the high windows did not even have shutters on them yet, for work on the building was not complete and never would be during our time in the camp. Rather than a central table filled with the sumptuous food one can find at any dinner in the capital, there were only rows of wooden benches and wooden chairs on which the diners were to sit. Some of the more important officers in the front of the hall had pillows to soften their stay on the hard seats; that was the highest sort of comfort I could see inside the big house. Everything looked as though it had been made on the site by military carpenters, and probably everything had been. Carpenters could also have made the food we ate. Each guest had some figs, a small loaf of fresh bread, some apples from Europe, and a glass of whiskey mixed with water to make a concoction that was so weak Father said he could have downed a couple dozen tumblers of it and remained sober. From our bench high on the steps overlooking the main floor, we could see the emperor and his party at the other side of the room, yet I did not realize which one was the great Mathias until Father pointed him out to me.

  "He is the one resembling a schoolteacher," said Father.

  The man he indicated wore a simple wool cloak fastened by a brass clasp on his shoulder. On the man's neck was a metal shell that ran down his spine, for the emperor, like most important men from earlier times, had mechanical implants that allowed him to communicate instantly with computers and with other men in distant locations. His very brain no doubt contained implants that supported his basic functions and allowed him to live longer than others. Mathias wore no crown, carried no scepter, had no emblem of his office other than the large gold rings on his left hand. Two bodyguards, both with implants similar to the emperor's, followed him as he walked to his dining place. I had thought the emperor would be as tall as his house and would have bigger muscles than the athletes I would one day see in the Field of Diversions; this man of fifty-seven years had thinning hair and limped when he walked because his right leg ached from an old war wound. When several of his more important guests came to salute him, he stood erect, allowing me to see him more clearly. I remember I thought he had the saddest, most weary eyes I had ever beheld.

  For our entertainment that evening an actor in Garden City broadcast to us on a hologram projector stood before the emperor and recited the poet Damnmus's description of Elvis's heroic actions as told in the sixth book of the Elvisid. We soon discovered why the ham was not in the cinema making real money. In front of the learned Mathias the actor got the names of the ancient cities confused and was saying Los Angeles when meant to say Las Vegas and Miami when he should have said Memphis. I was twelve and I could tell he did not know his lines. The generalsexcept for my father, who had never read the Elvisid-frowned in recognition of the man's mistakes. The emperor maintained a fixed expression of approval throughout the sorry performance. Mathias thanked the actor when the dope had ceased ranting and waving his arms in what I suppose was meant to be a dramatic fashion. The emperor was so kind he ordered via his implants that the fool be given two thousand dollars and bade him visit Progress on another occasion, perhaps during the area's two weeks of summer. Because Mathias applauded the sap, everyone present gave the actor an ovation.

  "Mathias is a good fellow, a good soldier, too," Father told me. "I shouldn't say he is like a schoolteacher. He's nowhere as bad as the chaps I had in school. Every master I had would beat us to toughen us up. Mathias would never do that. That is his great fault: he is much too soft."

  "Sir, is that young man near the emperor his son?" I whispered in Father's ear.

  I was of the age when I had recently began to look at men and just then felt a peculiar confusion later in my life I would recognize as desire. When I looked at the tall, blond, actually beautiful young man seated in Mathias's group I felt more confused than I had before in my brief lifetime. Unlike Mathias, this one stood out from the other men; he had an open, seamless face that was as bright as a candle flame. He was dressed as a young noble should be; he wore polished silk and had gold chains around his neck and waist.

  "That is the other emperor," said Father. "Luke Anthony."

  "He is very handsome," I announced, sounding as naive as only a twelve-year-old can be.

  Father laughed at my innocence.

  "Don't look too long at him, little one," he told me. "I had a talk with some of the officers accompanying him from Garden City. They tell me young Luke doesn't like girls."

  "He likes boys?" I asked.

  Helen had explained, in her direct manner, such matters to me. I did not fully understand; I was only aware such phenomena existed.

  "They say Luke Spacious likes death," said Father. "That ugly fat chap next to him is Sao Trentex. He travels with the young emperor wherever he goes. Luke Anthony has a whole group of such friends that loiter about him. Some of them are women, so I suppose I should say Luke likes a certain sort of woman as much as he likes death."

  "What sort of woman would that be, sir?" I asked.

  "Helen will explain it to you when you are older," said Father, and he scowled as he did when anyone close to him mentioned matters touching upon sex.

  "Why do you say he likes death, sir?" I asked.

  "They say he threw a poor cook onto a barbeque grill just because the wretch made his spareribs too spicy," said Father. "He has kept company with those thugs who call themselves the new gladiators. Some say he has killed unarmed men in the gladiators' practice arena merely for the thrill of doing it. He and Sao Trentex and other friends of theirs have picked up people right off the streets of Garden City and have done with them what they would."

  "But he looks nice," I said, and for the sake of young Luke's beautiful face I disbelieved everything Father had said about him.

  I did not note on this occasion that Luke Anthony did not resemble his father in any manner. Mathias was a slender, fine-featured man of Mediterranean and Hispanic descent, while young Luke's nose and mouth were as large as a German's. I did not know until years later that Luke was in fact the natural son of one of his mother's numerous lovers and no one knew which one. It is fortunate Nature made young girls innocent of the world, since I would not have slept for many nights after the b
anquet if I had known the stories Father had heard of Luke Anthony were true, and only a portion of the horrible complete truth. The handsome face I was gazing upon belonged to one of the worst monsters ever to burden the ground with his footsteps. Now when I think of Luke Anthony and how beautiful he appeared at his father's welcoming banquet, I think of the lovely black cat Arab mythology says lives south of the Sahara Desert; the beast, it is said, is so pleasing in its aspects and has such a beguiling voice that its prey will come to it whenever it calls, and so the creature may devour its victims at its leisure. To my young eyes Luke was lovelier than any beast of nature or legend. I could not have known that later in his short life he would prove himself to have a larger appetite than all the prey on Earth could have satisfied.

  One of the emperor's Guardsmen making his rounds through the rows of guests stepped to our bench and informed us Mathias was ready to receive us.

  "Remember: say nothing," Father warned me as we went to the other end of the hall.

  "Even should he speak to me, sir?" I asked.

  "We have been over this," growled Father. "You are a poor deaf girl."

  We stood in queue for several moments while other officers passed the emperor's table and paid their respects to him. At our turn Mathias addressed my father by name.

  "Ah, Peter, health to you," he said, and exchanged salutes with Father after Father bowed. "You've brought the little treasure. Let us have a better look."

  The ruler of the northern half of the world rose from his seat and limped on his bad leg from behind the table so he might lift my chin. To both his and my surprise, there was a spark of static electricity when he touched me, as sometimes happens when people have shuffled across a bare floor, and I jumped a half-step away from his hand after he made contact. Mathias laughed at my fright. Contrary to Father's admonishments, I looked directly into his eyes that had seemed remarkably sad at a distance. Up close I could see he was amused about something; whether it was I who made his eyes smile or if he thought the onus of his position somehow ridiculous I cannot say. I can say that I was suddenly unafraid of him.

  "Well, Lady," he said, though I did not merit the title "Lady." "Peter, she is very pretty," he said to my father in Syntalk. "Much too pretty to be kept a secret."

  "Thank you, my lord," I said to him in the same language, which startled my father. He recovered a second later and glared at me as if to say, "You've gone and done it now!"

  Mathias, contrary to Father's fears, was yet more amused and took my face in both his hands.

  "So you are clever as well," he said in English. "Beauty and brains in one small body. Did you learn Syntalk in the East, little one? What is her name?" he asked my father.

  "Justa," muttered Father, speaking as unenthusiastically as a dying man uttering his last words.

  "You have given her a portion of your name, Peter," said Mathias. Of me he asked, "Have you read any of the great books, Justa?"

  "Yes, my lord," I said. "I started at the beginning of Western civilization and read forward. I have read Plato, most of Aristotle, Epicurus-"

  "Have you now, little one? At your age?" asked the emperor.

  "`No one can be too early or too late in seeking the health of the soul,"' I said.

  "`Whoever says that the time for philosophy has passed or not yet come is like the man who says the hour for happiness has not yet arrived or has already gone,"' said Mathias, completing my citation of Epicurus. "Very good, pretty Justa," he said, and patted my head as he again stood fully erect. "There are others here who could not say who the Philosopher of Samos was." (He cast his gaze upon his son Luke, who was tossing bits of bread crust at his friend Sao Trentex.) "You will have to visit us another day," he said to me. "Tomorrow, Peter," he said to my father, "I will be talking to some young friends. Send her to me. She will enjoy the experience. We are understood?"

  "Yes, my lord," whispered Father.

  The master of everything between the Caribbean Sea and the northern border of China bent down and said into my ear, "You won't have to dress up like this when you next come to see us. Wear your hair as you like. The natural way is superior to artifice, Justa." (He playfully touched the crown of my absurd coif.) "Bring your tablet and pencils. Bring a laptop, if you own one that still functions. We have much to learn, both you and I do."

  The soon to be divine Mathias kissed my forehead, and Father and I returned to our bench.

  "You don't listen, do you, missy?" Father snapped at me as we walked away from the imperial presence. "That isn't some damned jolly soldier of the line you were talking to! That was the bloody emperor! The one man in charge of everything. You stupid, stupid child! Do you know men have been killed for saying the wrong thing to the emperor?"

  "To Mathias, sir?" I asked, for I could not believe the man we had just spoken to could be that dangerous.

  "Maybe Mathias himself wouldn't kill you. You can't tell about those others about him," said Father. "And when you talk to him, you speak to a thousand others. The way you run your mouth, you are bound to say something that will provoke somebody! Then we will all be executed! You, me, the entire family! I might as well hang myself tonight! That way my sons in Garden City will at least get my house; otherwise the emperor's people will take everything in the courts. That's what they do to traitors. See what you've done, you prattling, stupid child!"

  I felt such anguish at having caused my father's death I began sobbing. Already I could see Father swinging from the wooden beams of our lowly hut.

  "Quit that!" Father commanded me, perhaps feeling a little guilt of his own for having overreacted to my conversation with the emperor. "Nothing has happened, yet. In the future, keep your mouth shut when you're around Mathias and the other big shots, and maybe nothing will happen to us. But not another word to him. Absolutely nothing."

  I dried my eyes and managed to eat a couple more mouthfuls of the homely food. While I was looking about the vast room for what must have been the twentieth time I noticed an odd-looking little man seated two benches from us; his hair and his beard were like thick black wool, and he had dark, alert eyes that seemed to miss nothing of the activity around him. Though he ate his food vigorously-and noisily-his eyes did not glance at his meal but were kept darting about the rest of the dining room. Seated around him were thirty or so other dark, wire-haired men, each of them wearing a bronze cape clasp that was shaped like the stylized face of the sun.

  "That's Abdul Selin," said Father after I had pointed out the dark man to him. "Best damn soldier in the army. I pity any Chinaman who crosses the path of that nasty little Turk during this campaign. If all the sons of Ishmael had been akin to him back in the days of the Islamic Wars, you and I would never have been born. He's smart and he's vicious. Looks like an ape trained to wear a man's clothes, doesn't he? Look sharp; he sees you staring at him. Smile back, Justa. Like smiling at a cobra, isn't it? We can rejoice he is on our side, the bloodthirsty little beast."

  "Who are those other men sitting around him?" I asked.

  "Relatives of his," said Father. "Selin has lots and lots of relatives. Keeps a couple hundred of them on his staff or as his bodyguards. They're from the same big tribe of Turks the Empire settled in North Africa a dozen generations back. The ones Selin can't stick in the army are back home in Tunis and Alexandria and Casablanca; they're magistrates, judges, and whatnot. You can imagine what kind of justice they dish out down there."

  "What does the sun face mean, sir?" I asked, regarding the cape clasps.

  "That represents a god from way back before the times of the Christian Bible," said Father. "In the African and Middle Eastern provinces they call it Heliosomething. The Selin clan members are all in the same sun worshiping cult. If you ask me, their so-called religion just gives them the chance to meet together in private when they have their secret services. They're a big gang, really. A big bunch of tax farmers, smugglers, extortionists, and crooked lawyers."

  That was the first time I saw Father's ev
entual nemesis. We had no idea then what enmity would one day exist between Selin and our small family; nonetheless he frightened me when I first beheld him. Most of the generals at the banquet, Father included, had done terrible things on behalf of the Empire, and I did not consider them evil men; they were each a servant of the emperor and acted without malice and not out of choice. Such was the morality of the world they were born into. Selin was something more than the other generals. One look at him and a person knew he had the energy of a dozen other men compressed within his small body. He would keep that vigor through the whole of his long life and would not allow it to be diminished by the thousands of unspeakable deeds he would do with the same zest he displayed when he attacked his food at the banquet. Father said that Selin had been a financial administrator-and perhaps a secret informer in the emperor's service-before he became a general, which struck me as a strange background for a man possessing Selin's aggressive personality. One could not imagine him sitting at a computer and examining sets of numbers while he kept a seemingly passive eye on the accountants working in the office around him. Mathias the Glistening, again displaying his propensity for choosing unusual men to serve him, had promoted Selin from the ranks of drones slaving in the government's financial departments into the military hierarchy, where, as Father told it, the African-born Turk had displayed a fine talent for killing both the foreign enemies of Pan-Polaria and his own men.

  "The emperor is a-I don't know what-a la-de-da deep thinker," said Father. "Then, for some reason only he knows, he promotes a wildeyed killer like Selin and lets him in turn promote his bunch of moneygrubbing cousins. You know why I think Mathias does it? Because he knows most intellectuals can't fight-particularly not the deep thinkers you find back in the capital. Bear that in mind, my bookworm. Intellectuals and philosophers are good enough when they're among themselves at their silly get-togethers and talk counts as much as money. The trouble with thinkers is they know so much and take so much time pondering what they know they get to being doubtful of everything, even of the certain things every man believes. Now, if men have doubts, they won't fight. Mathias knows that Selin doesn't think a lick about anything he does; Selin just acts and knocks the pieces into some sort of shape after the dust has settled. That's why the emperor uses men cut from that hairy bugger's cloth."