‘It’s a short trip to the station,’ the officer said. ‘We don’t like using these ships, but the more civilised transports are needed for the other half of the journey. We do the best we can. By crowding in as many of these Twos as possible, we keep the temperature up. As for air: we release oxygen into the pod at intervals. We’re not barbarians.’
The Doctor’s face was taut with anger. ‘How many deaths?’
he said through gritted teeth.
The officer took a deep breath, and then coughed and swore. ‘Mostly they survive. We don’t attempt the trip until the planet and the station are at their closest alignment. It’s the best we can do.’
‘Oh, well done, lieutenant,’ the Doctor said with heavy sarcasm. ‘You’re a credit to your nation. I hope you’re very proud of yourself.’
The officer seemed suddenly very tired. ‘Just get in,’ he said. The soldiers pushed Bep-Wor and the Doctor through the doorway, into the stinking darkness. ‘And don’t waste your breath complaining.’
The pilot’s tuneless whistling echoed along the corridor. He turned the corner, saw Madok, and stopped at attention.
‘Sir!’
‘Easy, Parek,’ Madok said. ‘This isn’t a formal inspection.’
They were standing outside the door to one of the docking bays. ‘All ready to go?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the pilot said. ‘Another full load.’
There was a moment of uncomfortable silence as Madok and the pilot considered the implications of those three innocuous words.
‘Take care, Parek,’ Madok said. ‘The girl’s in this shipment.
She’s been given the new formula. Tell the guards to keep an eye on her. If she behaves in any way differently from the rest, don’t offload her. Bring her back. Understood?’
‘Of course, sir. May I ask - the new formula?’
Madok sighed. ‘It’s been slow progress. We don’t have the facilities here. Or Tevana and her chemists. But we think we’ve succeeded. Keep it quiet for now.’
That’s good news, sir,’ the pilot said. His restrained words were belied by the huge grin that appeared on his face.
Madok couldn’t help his own expression reflecting the pilot’s relief. ‘So keep the ship well pressurised,’ he said.
‘There’s one young girl in this consignment who might not be better off dead. Who might be able to thank us one day.’
‘Or who might turn round and blame us, of course,’ the pilot said.
Madok grunted in agreement. ‘And she’d have every right to. Parek, will you do one more thing for me?’
‘What is it, sir?’
‘When you’ve offloaded, try to stay long enough to find out which agent gets the girl. You’ve seen her, while she’s been on the station? You’ll recognise her?’
‘She’s not one you’d forget in a hurry, is she, sir? I’ll find out for you.’
‘Thank you, Parek. Both Kedin Ashar and I will be very grateful. We’re concerned for her. But don’t endanger the ship: we know Vethran wants to get his hands on one of these vessels. I doubt if he’d risk jeopardising our trade with him, but be careful. If any of his troops get too close, take off immediately. You know the drill.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The door next to them started to slide open.
‘Parek!’ a voice bawled through the widening gap. ‘Where the hell are you?’
A soldier appeared in the doorway. He took a deep breath, in readiness for an even louder shout, and then saw Madok and the pilot.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he said to Madok. ‘Sir, I must ask you to excuse Parek. The transport’s ready to go, and we need the bay for an incoming cargo pod. We can’t keep them waiting.’
‘I know,’ Madok said. He pictured the wretched mass of Twos fighting for breath in the freezing pod. ‘Go, Parek. My best wishes go with you.’
And my heart’s desire, he thought. Ace, will you ever forgive us?
Nothing could be more comfortable than to lie in bed with Kia-Ga. Her body was soft and warm. The bedclothes were soft and warm. Everything was soft and warm.
A distant voice was telling him to wake up. But it wasn’t morning: there was no light. In the long nights of winter it was better to stay in bed. Soft and warm.
‘Wake up, Bep-Wor! Wake up.’
Someone was rocking the bed. Was he at sea, sleeping in a hammock? No. Kia-Ga - where was she? Gone. He couldn’t feel his limbs. The smell. The terrible smell. His head hurt.
His body ached.
Stop shaking me. Leave me alone. Leave me in the soft and warm.
‘That’s it, Bep-Wor. Think. Feel. Breathe.’
The same voice, louder now: ‘All of you. Don’t let anyone fall asleep. Try to keep moving. Everyone must stay awake.’
The Doctor. That was the voice. Funny little man. Why was he shouting?
Then Bep-Wor remembered everything, in a sickening slide of recollections. He flailed his arms and tried to sit up. He wanted to scream.
‘Bep-Wor,’ the Doctor said. Bep-Wor felt a warm hand on his chest. ‘Try to keep still. The air’s very thin.’
Then the Doctor raised his voice again. It echoed eerily in the vast dark space. ‘Everyone must try to hold on. Don’t let go. Feel the cold. Feel the pain in your lungs. Hang on to those feelings. Just a few more minutes. We’ve arrived. We just have to hold on for a few more minutes, until the doors are open.’
A feeble chorus of muted moans and cries answered the Doctor’s exhortations. Bep-Wor sat with his head in his hands, trying to control the shivering of his limbs.
There was a resounding, metallic bang. The floor shook.
Suddenly there was light, and a rushing wind. Bep-Wor took gasping breaths of the warm air. All around him men and women were choking, gulping, retching and crying out as they filled their lungs.
The wide doors were sliding open, and soldiers stood silhouetted against the yellow light.
‘Everybody out,’ yelled a voice. ‘Come on, get moving.’
‘Where are we?’ Bep-Wor asked the Doctor.
The Doctor helped Bep-Wor to his feet. ‘We’re on the space station,’ the Doctor said. Under his breath he added, ‘I just hope I can find Ace quickly.’
Bep-Wor and the Doctor joined the stampede towards the doors. As the ragged crowd pressed round them and carried them along, the Doctor did his best to help those who were still dazed, sitting or lying on the floor, in danger of being trampled in the confusion. Bep-Wor followed the Doctor’s example.
‘Slow down,’ the Doctor called out. His words echoed. Bep-Wor wondered how such a little man could have such a powerful, commanding voice. Bep-Wor’s throat was raw and he could still hardly draw enough breath to speak. ‘Go carefully,’ the Doctor shouted. ‘Stop and help those who can’t walk. We must all help each other.’
The shuffling throng emerged through the doors, between two lines of grim-faced guards with guns, and into a square hall even larger than the hold of the cargo pod. The Doctor, holding Bep-Wor by the arm, fought his way to the edge of the crowd. ‘We have to stay near the pod,’ he said, but offered no explanation.
Bep-Wor and the Doctor were standing just beyond the guards. Bep-Wor’s eyes were drawn upwards: the ceiling was so high that he could hardly discern it, and the cargo pod which had seemed so unnaturally large when squatting amid the fields was now dwarfed by the chamber it was resting in.
He could see, behind the pod, a pair of metal doors each the height and width of a cliff. The prisoners dispersed across the floor of the chamber: they were no bigger than insects milling about in the village square.
‘Who built this?’ Bep-Wor whispered.
The Doctor was trying to look over the shoulders of the soldiers, but he turned briefly to answer the question. ‘The TAM corporation,’ he said. ‘But I expect your ancestors did a lot of the manual work.’
The stream of prisoners pouring through the pod’s doors became a trickle. Those worst affected by the cold and the thin air e
merged staggering, or crawling, or supported by others.
Some of the soldiers wrapped cloths around their faces and went into the pod.
Across the expanse of the great chamber the prisoners were becoming more animated. Some wandered, still dazed and exhausted; others paced urgently from group to group, searching for friends or members of their families. Bep-Wor was torn between staying with the Doctor and entering the throng. There was a chance that he might find Kia-Ga. But, he had to admit to himself, he could see no one from his village. He recognised many people from Porgum, and some from other, more northern, towns and villages. As the volume of the babel of voices increased, Bep-Wor’s heart sank. He remained at the Doctor’s side. The flame of hope that he nurtured was flickering and dying.
The soldiers who had gone into the pod began to return from inside. As they strode out they tore the cloths from their faces and took deep breaths of the clean air. For some reason they were smiling broadly.
‘That’s the best yet,’ one of them shouted towards the line of guards standing in front of the Doctor. ‘Only lost one.’
The last two of the soldiers emerged from the pod. Between them they were carrying the lifeless body of a young man.
Bep-Wor recognised the figure. ‘That’s Hap-Lor,’ he told the Doctor. ‘He’s a boat-builder from Kragen. Is he dead?’
The Doctor tapped on the shoulder of one of the guards.
The soldier turned. The Doctor doffed his hat.
‘Let me through,’ the Doctor said. ‘I’m a doctor.’
The soldier shrugged, and the Doctor pushed past him. The soldiers carrying Hap-Lor lowered him to the floor as the Doctor and Bep-Wor approached.
Hap-Lor’s face was pale. His eyes were closed and his lips were blue. His chest wasn’t moving. Bep-Wor could tell that he was dead. He wondered whether Hap-Lor’s wife, Noa-La, was in the crowd. And where were their children?
‘Your cape,’ the Doctor said. ‘Bep-Wor, give me your cape.’
Without thinking Bep-Wor unlaced his cape and gave it to the Doctor. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered any more.
‘More!’ the Doctor shouted. ‘Bring me more clothes. I have to get him warm.’
‘He’s dead, Doctor,’ Bep-Wor murmured. He noticed that all the prisoners had started to converge on the entrance to the pod. A dense circle of inquisitive faces surrounded the patch of floor where the Doctor was kneeling beside Hap-Lor’s body.
The soldiers struggled to hold back the crowd. Some of the prisoners tore off their grimy clothes and threw them over the heads of the soldiers, towards the Doctor. Bep-Wor collected the garments and helped the Doctor to pack them around Hap-Lor’s cold corpse.
‘He’s not dead yet,’ the Doctor said. ‘Not until I say so.
There must be something I can do right.’
The Doctor put his ear to Hap-Lor’s chest. He massaged Hap-Lor’s torso and throat. Then he tipped back Hap-Lor’s head, opened the blue lips, and kissed the dead man.
It was a long, intense kiss. The Doctor pulled his head away, took a deep breath, and kissed Hap-Lor again. Bep-Wor realised that the Doctor was blowing his own breath into Hap-Lor, as if he believed the vital exhalation of a living man could restore life to the dead.
The crowd was silent now, but for the constant murmured questions of those too far back to see. The soldiers, too, had all turned to face the centre of the circle.
The Doctor lifted his head again, and brought his fist down hard on Hap-Lor’s ribs. Again. And again. Another long kiss.
Another pounding on the chest.
Once again the Doctor listened for a heartbeat. Bep-Wor thought that he detected the ghost of a smile on the Doctor’s lips. ‘Bep-Wor,’ the Doctor said, ‘help me.’
Bep-Wor knelt beside Hap-Lor, facing the Doctor.
‘Lift him up a little,’ the Doctor said, and when Bep-Wor had hauled the dead weight of Hap-Lor’s torso into a sitting position, he noticed the flask in the Doctor’s hand, concealed under his jacket.
‘Come closer,’ the Doctor whispered, and as Bep-Wor leant forwards the Doctor did likewise, so that no one could see him bring the neck of the flask to Hap-Lor’s lips. Thick liquid trickled into Hap-Lor’s slack mouth.
‘Hold him steady,’ the Doctor said, and stood up, as he did so returning the flask discreetly to a pocket inside his jacket.
The Doctor stroked his chin as he looked down at Hap-Lor.
The crowd was silent. The guards stared intently.
Bep-Wor was the first to know that Hap-Lor had come back to life. He felt the man’s body shake, as if with an ague. Bep-Wor let out a cry, and almost allowed Hap-Lor to drop from his hands.
Hap-Lor’s eyes blinked open, and shut again. He coughed, and then drew a raucous, rattling breath. His lips were no longer blue.
And then a wave of shouting swept through the crowd, and Bep-Wor cowered on the floor as the noise grew and overwhelmed him. He held Hap-Lor in a warm embrace, and felt the man’s fitful movements and increasingly confident breathing.
The soldiers waved their guns and drew their swords, and gradually the shouting died away. There was still a buzz of conversation, however. Bep-Wor could hear one question, repeated over and over again by hundreds of different voices:
‘Who is he?’
Bep-Wor rose, and helped Hap-Lor to stand. He put his hand to his face, and realised that he was crying.
‘He is the Doctor!’ Bep-Wor shouted. ‘Trust him. He can save us all.’
Tragar knew that he would be summoned. He was waiting for the call.
He had returned to Underton by self-propelled vehicle, leaving Jellod in charge of the carts and camelopes that would bring the bulk of the purchases home to Balon Ferud’s city residence. As soon as he had arrived he had conscientiously submitted his purse and his receipts to Bared, the keeper of Baton’s accounts.
Then he had retired to his lodgings in the old castle. He had bathed, he had changed into the heavy, formal costume that Poa-Nan had prepared for him, he had packed a pipe with smoke-leaf and a sprinkling of dried spore-seed, and he had settled down in the window seat of his study to enjoy the view of Underton’s rooftops.
He had smoked only half the pipe, and his senses were beginning to relax into a gently narcotic cloud, when he heard footsteps hurrying up the stairs. There was a knock on the door.
‘Enter,’ Tragar called out.
Poa-Nan stood in the doorway. In his hand was a stiff envelope bearing a large seal.
‘I know,’ Tragar said. ‘Balon wants me.’
Poa-Nan looked troubled. ‘No, sir,’ he said, holding out the envelope. ‘A message.’
Tragar smiled. These Twos could be so literal in their thinking. ‘Yes, Poa-Nan,’ he said, taking the envelope and knocking it against the man’s head. ‘And the message will say that Balon wants to see me.’
Poa-Nan’s face resumed its usual expression of vacant bliss. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
Tragar tore open the envelope and read its contents. ‘Balon is on his way here,’ he said. He felt pleased with himself. His extravagance had clearly piqued his lord’s curiosity. ‘Come, Poa-Nan. Let’s go and greet him.’
Tragar took one last pull on his pipe, sucked the sweet smoke deeply into his lungs, and sighed with regret as he laid the pipe on the windowsill. ‘Help me,’ he said, and went to stand in front of the long mirror while Poa-Nan brushed the shoulders of his brocade coat and adjusted the lace ruffles at his neck and wrists.
It wouldn’t do to appear as expensively dressed as his lordship. Tragar wondered whether he should quickly change into one of his plain, black silk coats. No time for that. And in any case these days Balon’s uniform was so festooned with medals that the King himself looked hardly less gilded.
‘Follow me,’ he said, and strode from the room.
As Tragar entered the reception hall of the east wing, Balon Ferud and two uniformed attendants were being ushered through the doors that opened on to the courtyard. Balon�
�s medals and ornate sword-belt jingled as he marched across the flagstones. He could move surprisingly quickly, Tragar knew, considering he was a head shorter than Tragar, was running to fat, and was carrying enough gold and silver on his clothing to buy a dozen Twos.
‘Three hundred and fifty marks,’ Balon shouted at Tragar as soon as he saw him. ‘Three hundred and fifty marks, Chamberlain Tragar. Have you lost your senses?’
Tragar stopped in front of Balon and bowed. ‘Good day, my lord,’ he said. ‘I’m honoured to receive you. How can I be of service?’
Balon Ferud’s face was red with indignation. ‘You can be of service, Tragar, by not wasting my money. Do you have any explanation for this expense?’
Tragar put on an expression of mortified hurt. ‘Your lordship’s finances are my prime concern,’ he said. ‘I take a modest pride in the economy with which I run your lordship’s household. I venture to suggest that I take no less care than Bared himself.’
‘Then what’s your explanation for this, Chamberlain?’
Balon pressed a chubby finger into Tragar’s chest. ‘Three hundred and fifty marks for a poxy Two? You could have bought seven or eight of the smelly beggars for that amount.
Prices are coming down, if anything.’
Tragar glanced at Poa-Nan. The slave was, of course, unaffected by Balon’s insulting words and was smiling vacantly. Tragar wondered whether he would ever get used to owning Twos.
‘There was considerable competition for this particular Two,’ Tragar said. ‘If you’ll allow me to demonstrate her to you, I believe you’ll see why. I am sure that she will prove a sound investment. If your lordship would follow me?’
‘This had better be worthwhile,’ Balon grumbled as he followed Tragar towards the door to an anteroom of the reception hall.
Tragar had left to his domestic staff the tasks of making the new slave presentable and of coaching her in the basic rules of behaviour. As he ushered Balon into the anteroom he saw that his domestics had done a good job: the slave was wearing her own unusual clothes, washed and pressed, and was standing quietly with a distant smile on her lips.
Independence Day Page 9
