Tragar noted that he had no reluctance to think of this one as a slave. The Twos were bought and sold, but people didn’t usually refer to them as slaves: perhaps, Tragar thought, there was beneath all the imperial pride a sense of unease at exploiting prisoners of war. But there was something different about this one: she wasn’t like a Two. She was unique. It pleased Tragar to think of her as a slave. As his slave, even though she was Balon’s property.
‘Great heavens, Tragar,’ Balon cried, ‘what have you dressed her in? She’s positively indecent.’
‘These are her own clothes, my lord,’ Tragar said. ‘I confess I was confounded myself, at first. That she wears trousers is shocking enough, and they are a disgracefully tight fit. And the bare arms! But consider, my lord, that it’s said the womenfolk of our forefathers used to dress like the men. And she is decently covered, after all.’
Balon grunted and paced around the slave. ‘I’ve never seen one like this before,’ he said. ‘Is she from the northern islands?’
Tragar shrugged. ‘She was in the latest consignment. It consisted entirely of Twos from the northern islands. I don’t believe our armies have yet started to conquer the south. But ask her yourself, my lord.’
Balon looked suspiciously at his chamberlain, as if he suspected a trick. And Tragar could hardly conceal his mirth, because he knew that Balon was in for a surprise.
‘Hmm,’ Balon said. ‘Very well. Girl, what’s your name?’
‘Ace, sir,’ the slave replied, and favoured Balon Ferud with a dazzling grin.
‘What’s that? Ace? Just Ace?’
‘Yes, sir. Just Ace. No other names at all.’
Balon turned and looked at Tragar. His face showed his amazement. Tragar lifted his hands and his eyebrows.
‘She’s got a peculiar accent,’ Balon said. ‘And a very strange name. Are you sure she’s a Two?’
‘Ask her, my lord. Ask her.’
‘Well then, Ace,’ Balon said cautiously. ‘Where are you from, eh?’
‘Perivale, sir,’ Ace replied. Tragar stifled an urge to laugh.
The girl was remarkable.
‘And where, pray, is Perivale?’ Balon persisted.
‘It’s a suburb of Deadsville, sir,’ Ace said earnestly. ‘The back end of nowhere.’
‘I see,’ Balon said. He and Tragar had another wordless exchange. He turned again to Ace. ‘And what was your occupation, before you were brought here?’
Ace screwed up her face as she considered her answer. ‘I was a time traveller, I suppose, sir. A righter of wrongs, a fighter of monsters. I used to be the assistant to this meddlesome old Professor.’
Balon was about to ask another question, but abruptly he turned on his heel and moved close to Tragar. ‘Is this some sort of prank, Tragar?’ he said in a low voice. ‘If so I shall not be amused.’
Tragar held up his hands again. ‘I assure you, my lord, everything is as it seems. I bought her yesterday, fresh from Kedin Ashar’s transport ship.’
‘But has she been correctly processed, Tragar? Her answers are nonsensical.’
‘I saw her leaving the ship with my own eyes, my lord,’
Tragar said. ‘She must have been processed along with all the others. She learns. She obeys. Allow me to demonstrate.’
Tragar tried to think quickly. He hadn’t expected Balon to be this sceptical. How could he demonstrate the slave’s obedience? Disfigurement would damage the slave’s value.
And he didn’t want bloodstains on his carpets.
‘Poa-Nan,’ he said, ‘go and stand beside Ace. Keep still and don’t make a noise. Ace, eat Poa-Nan’s right ear.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the two slaves said in unison. Tragar and Belon watched as Ace grasped Poa-Nan’s head, bit into the tough cartilage of his ear, and began to rend and chew with her strong, white teeth.
Poa-Nan gritted his teeth, clenched his fists, and began to gasp with pain. But he didn’t cry out or try to move away.
Once again Tragar marvelled at the technical skill of the King’s chemists.
‘Enough, Tragar,’ Balon said. ‘I’m convinced she’s been dosed with the potion.’
Tragar breathed a sigh of relief: blood from Poa-Nan’s ear was dripping on to the Two’s tunic. He hated wasting money on new clothes for the servants. ‘Stop, Ace,’ he said. He gave her a handkerchief. ‘Wipe clean your mouth.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ace said. She looked very pleased with herself.
‘Thank you, sir.’
Balon looked once again into her smiling face. Tragar noticed that Balon and Ace were the same height. ‘One more thing, Ace,’ Balon said. ‘What are your particular skills?’
Tragar saw that once again Ace considered her answer before replying. A thoughtful slave: that was unusual in itself.
‘Shove ha’penny football, sir,’ Ace said. ‘I was always dead good at that. Computers, these days. Explosives - for use in demolition, as weapons, and just for the fun of it, really. And I once had a job as a waitress, sir.’
‘Remarkable.’ Balon was chuckling. ‘Quite remarkable.’ He turned to Tragar. ‘Well, chamberlain, I think you might be right. She is unique. And she claims a bizarre range of talents. Young and pretty, too. I’m not convinced she’s worth 350, but I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt for the time being. I’ll leave her in your hands. Train her up, and keep me informed of your progress.’
Bep-Wor wondered whether the Doctor ever slept. There was little else to do in the dimly lit chamber into which the prisoners had been herded. There was enough room for each person to lie down, and there was air and warmth. In all other respects conditions were little better than during the journey in the cargo pod.
Bep-Wor dozed, drifting in and out of sleep.
Sometimes when he woke the Doctor was sitting beside him, conversing in whispers with one of the succession of wretched men and women who made their way through the maze of prone bodies to ask his advice. Some were ill; others were simply overwhelmed by the disasters that had befallen them - the destruction of their homes, separation from their families, fear of what was still to come. And some were simply curious about the little man with the strange clothes who had brought Hap-Lor back from the dead.
The Doctor listened patiently to each one, and did his best to offer comfort and reassurance. Bep-Wor was amazed at the Doctor’s stamina. For himself he could hardly bear to overhear the recurrent accounts of pain and loss, and he would cover his ears and try to sleep again. The Doctor simply absorbed the distress of everyone who came to him: he soaked up the anguish, and the petitioners went away with brighter eyes and a surer step.
At other times when Bep-Wor awoke the Doctor was absent. His voice could be heard from near the single door of the chamber. He would be in animated conversation with one of the guards who were posted outside. He asked for medicines, fresh dressings for wounds, water and, more and more urgently, food. His requests, except for the last item, were usually granted.
Hunger was making it more and more difficult for Bep-Wor to sleep. His stomach was hollow, and ached.
‘Why won’t they give us food, Doctor?’ he asked when there was a brief respite from dealing with the tribulations of the prisoners.
The Doctor tipped back his hat and scratched his head. ‘I don’t know, Bep-Wor. But I can’t believe that they’ve brought us all this way just to starve us to death.’
Bep-Wor hardly dared to ask, but hunger drove him to it.
‘Could we not take some sustenance from your silver flask, Doctor?’
‘Emergency use only,’ the Doctor said. ‘There must be a reason why they’re refusing us food. I want to know what it is.’
‘What will happen to us, Doctor?’ It was the question that the Doctor had been asked a hundred times already, and Bep-Wor was reluctant to irritate the Doctor by asking it again. But he was afraid, and he wanted to know. ‘What are they going to do with us?’
‘I wish I knew,’ the Doctor said. ‘I’ll tell you
everything I’ve been able to deduce. You know, don’t you, that your world travels in a circle around the sun?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Bep-Wor wondered how this basic truth could be relevant to their predicament. ‘That’s how we have the cycle of the seasons: the long winter nights, the long summer days, and the two festivals each year when the day and the night are equal.’
‘Good. And what do you call your world?’
Bep-Wor thought long and hard, but could come up with no clever answer. ‘It’s just the world.’
In the near-darkness Bep-Wor could see the Doctor’s toothy smile. ‘Your ancestors were brought to your world by people who travelled between the stars.’
Bep-Wor was not surprised. ‘There are old stories that say so.’
‘Those travellers,’ the Doctor went on, ‘called your sun Mendeb. And your world was named Mendeb Two, because it is the second planet from the sun.’
A thought appeared in Bep-Wor’s mind, like a coin glinting in freshly-turned soil. ‘The soldiers,’ he said. ‘They call us Twos.’
‘Well spotted,’ the Doctor said. ‘That’s right. And therefore I believe they’re not from your planet, but are from another world. And they have discovered records about the history of this planetary system.’
It was almost too much for Bep-Wor to comprehend.
‘Another world, Doctor? What other world?’
The Doctor sighed, as if facing up to an unpalatable truth.
‘I think they’re from Mendeb Three,’ he said. ‘Your neighbour planet. Their ancestors were brought there at the same time as your ancestors were settled on Mendeb Two. Unfortunately they seem to have rediscovered some advanced technology rather more quickly than you have.’
Bep-Wor gazed up at the titanic bulkheads that supported the prison chamber roof. ‘Did they build this place?’ he asked.
‘No, no,’ the Doctor said impatiently, as if the question was absurd. ‘This is a space station. It’s been here for centuries.
It’s fifty kilometres in diameter, for goodness’ sake. It’s remarkable that the people of Mendeb Three have reached it.
But now that they have, they have access to some even more sophisticated machinery. Such as the cargo pod in which we were brought here.’
‘And what do they want with us, Doctor?’ This was the crucial question. ‘Why have they brought us here?’
The Doctor pursed his lips. ‘I can think of only five reasons why an entire population is rounded up and taken away. The first stems from racial intolerance: the idea is to exterminate a people that is regarded as inferior or unclean. I don’t believe that can apply in this case. The Threes don’t know you, and have had no opportunity to develop a fear or hatred of you. And the soldiers seem sympathetic, if anything.’
‘That’s good,’ Bep-Wor said cautiously. He didn’t like the sound of extermination.
‘Second is a desire for living space. If Mendeb Three were threatened with climate change, or ecological catastrophe, or overcrowding, they might try to clear your planet so that they could move to it.’
The idea horrified Bep-Wor. It seemed so horribly plausible.
‘But wait,’ he said. ‘Why then do they bother to bring us here? Why not just kill us in our homes?’
‘Precisely,’ the Doctor said. ‘Good thinking. So we can rule out that explanation, probably.’
‘The third possibility?’ Bep-Wor asked.
‘It’s not likely,’ the Doctor said, ‘but it’s possible that for some reason the people of Mendeb Three have become infertile, and they need you for breeding stock.’
Bep-Wor winced as an image of Kia-Ga flashed into his mind.
‘But there seem to be plenty of Threes,’ the Doctor said, and they’re taking men as well as women. So we come to the fourth possibility.’
The Doctor paused before resuming. ‘I hope it’s not this one,’ he said, ‘because it’s particularly unpleasant.
Sometimes a society in the grip of religious or political fervour finds itself in a spiral of ever-increasing violence. The gods demand ever more propitiation; the ideologues see traitors everywhere. In the end everyone has to be sacrificed: the citizens of the society itself, and everyone with whom it comes into contact. So we may be on our way to ritual execution.’
‘Oh,’ Bep-Wor said. He couldn’t conceive of killing an entire population for so little reason.
‘But it’s probably not that,’ the Doctor said. ‘I’ve seen no evidence of religious zeal or dogmatic ideology among the guards or their officers. So that leaves only the fifth reason for taking an entire people into captivity.’
‘Yes?’ Bep-Wor said. ‘What’s the reason?’
‘Forced labour,’ the Doctor said. ‘They need workers.’
While Bep-Wor was turning over this conclusion in his mind, the door slid open.
‘Form a line,’ shouted the soldier who appeared in the doorway. ‘There’s plenty for everyone.’
Two more soldiers wheeled into the chamber a trolley on which was a large metal cylinder. This was followed by a second trolley piled with beakers.
Hundreds of pairs of eyes watched the soldiers and then, as the air from the doorway percolated throughout the chamber, carrying the aroma of cooked vegetables, hundreds of pairs of nostrils began to twitch, and hundreds of stomachs rumbled.
The soldiers had brought food at last.
Everyone stood. Everyone moved towards the door.
The soldiers drew their swords and stood in a line in front of the trolleys.
‘Keep back,’ one of them shouted. ‘If you can’t form an orderly line, there’ll be none for any of you.’
The prisoners shuffled and shoved. Arguments flared, and died quickly because the Opponents were too hungry to fight.
Eventually the hundreds of captives had organised themselves into a queue that snaked back and forth and filled the chamber.
‘That’s better,’ the soldier said. ‘Now step forward one at a time. You’ll get a beaker of soup. It’s good stuff, so don’t waste any.’
The soldiers positioned the trolleys across the doorway and stood behind them. Bep-Wor and the Doctor were near the head of the queue, and they shuffled forward each time another prisoner reached the front and stepped forward to receive a ration of soup.
Soon there were only three people between the Doctor and the front of the queue. Bep-Wor, standing behind the Doctor, noticed that the guards seemed nervous and uneasy. Another prisoner was served, and sipped the hot soup from his beaker as he wandered back into the depths of the chamber; then another. Bep-Wor was fascinated by the expressions on the faces of the guards. They might have been expected to enjoy providing food for hungry prisoners, but instead they looked tired and tense. They didn’t speak to the prisoners, or even to each other.
The Doctor stepped forward to collect his ration. He took a beaker from the first trolley and stood in front of the second while one of the soldiers took the beaker from him, ladled soup from the metal cylinder, and passed the full beaker back to the Doctor.
The Doctor began to carry his soup back into the chamber.
He lifted the beaker to his face and inhaled the rich aroma of vegetables and spices. And then, as Bep-Wor watched, the Doctor’s appreciative smile turned into a grimace of disgust.
‘Come on,’ the soldier with the ladle shouted. ‘Keep moving.
Let’s have the next one.’
Bep-Wor started. He was holding up the queue. Before he could step forward, the Doctor clutched his arm.
‘Don’t touch a drop,’ the Doctor whispered. ‘It’s poisoned.
Don’t make a fuss. As soon as you’ve got your soup, go and tell the others. Try to stop them eating it.’
‘Come on!’ the soldier yelled, and the woman behind Bep-Wor pushed him in the back.
As the soldier ladled soup into Bep-Wor’s beaker, Bep-Wor looked over his shoulder. The Doctor was moving along the queue, whispering his urgent message.
‘Yo
u there,’ one of the soldiers shouted. ‘You with the hat.
Stop talking and go and eat your soup. Stay clear of the line.
No second helpings.’
The Doctor lifted an arm to acknowledge the instruction, and disappeared into the gloom of the chamber. Bep-Wor did the same, looking for the prisoners who had been in the queue ahead of the Doctor.
‘Don’t eat it,’ he whispered, as loudly as he dared, as he approached a group of prisoners holding beakers. ‘The Doctor says it’s poisoned.’
The warning was too late. Some of the prisoners had already drained every drop: they seemed sleepy, their speech was slurred, and their only concern was to lie down and rest.
Others, who had eaten less, insisted that the soup was good, and would not listen to Bep-Wor. A few looked worried and confused, and stopped eating.
The Doctor appeared out of the darkness. ‘I’ve tried to warn everyone still in the line,’ he said. ‘Now I’ve got to be out of sight. I’ll be in the corner near the privy, where there’s least light. Bep-Wor, send everyone to me. Tell them I have food for them. But they mustn’t eat the soup.’ He pulled open his jacket, and Bep-Wor saw the metallic gleam of the flask in the Doctor’s pocket.
‘Yes, Doctor,’ Bep-Wor said. He had no idea what the Doctor intended to do, and it was easier to follow the Doctor’s instructions than to try to work out what was going on.
‘Follow the Doctor,’ he told the prisoners who hadn’t eaten all of their soup. ‘He will feed you. Don’t eat the soup.’
He went as close to the door as he could without attracting the attention of the guards. He wandered back and forth. He pretended to sip from his beaker. ‘Don’t eat it,’ he told all the prisoners he managed to intercept as they made their way from the doorway. ‘The Doctor has better food. This is poisoned. He’s in the corner near the privy. Go and see him.’
He tried not to wonder how the Doctor would feed so many people with the contents of one small flask.
Independence Day Page 10
