Independence Day

by P. Darvill-Evans

  Bep-Wor felt a sudden yearning loss that almost made him stumble. He could not see the sea. At home, on the archipelago, the ocean was hardly ever out of sight. The sheer extent of the land on this world was oppressive.

  He heard a shout. ‘Is that the lot, captain?’ The words were so strangely accented that Bep-Wor could hardly understand them.

  Another voice, from the direction of the transport ship:

  ‘They’re all out, commissioner.’

  The first voice again: ‘Twos. Turn towards me.’

  With a sideways glance to make sure that he was moving in the same way as the drugged prisoners, Bep-Wor shuffled to face the direction from which the voice had come.

  Standing on a platform at the edge of the square was a big, bearded man in a resplendent suit of dark brocade. His eyes swept back and forth along the rows of prisoners; his keen expression hardly altered, but his lips moved soundlessly.

  He’s counting us, Bep-Wor realised.

  The commissioner turned to one side and spoke to another, younger man, much less richly clothed. The young man listened, and wrote a note on the paper he was holding.

  The commissioner peered again at the prisoners. He seemed to be looking for a particular one. He raised his arm and pointed. Bep-Wor was grateful that the pointing finger was not directed at him.

  ‘You,’ the commissioner said. ‘The slave with the blue rag around your neck. Step forward. Stand before me.’

  Bep-Wor recognised the figure who walked slowly from the ranks of the prisoners and stopped in front of the platform, looking up at the commissioner. It was Mor-Pia, the wife of one of the krake-fishers Bep-Wor had sometimes sailed with.

  Bep-Wor had been unable to convince her that the soup was poisoned: she had eaten it, and had slept.

  The voice of the transport’s captain came again from behind the prisoners’ heads. ‘Don’t worry, commissioner,’ he shouted, ‘they’ve all had a dose of the potion. Every one of them.’

  ‘No harm in checking,’ the commissioner called back. ‘Just a random sample. This one won’t fetch much anyway. She’s too old and too scrawny.’

  Bep-Wor knew that something terrible was about to happen. Mor-Pia stood, unmoving, in front of the platform.

  Bep-Wor willed her to run, or at least to take some interest in her surroundings.

  The commissioner leant forward and spoke to her. His voice carried on the breeze. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked her.

  Mor-Pia’s reply was inaudible.

  ‘Mor-Pia,’ the commissioner said, ‘place your left hand on the platform. Here, in front of my feet.’

  Mor-Pia bent forwards and obeyed.

  ‘The rest of you Twos,’ the commissioner shouted, ‘keep still and keep quiet. Sarid,’ he added, to the young man at his side, ‘bring me an axe from the cart.’

  A silence fell on the square as the young man hurried away. Mor-Pia remained motionless, her left arm extended on the planks between the commissioner’s feet. The pennants snapped and rustled in the wind.

  Bep-Wor stole a sideways glance at the Doctor. The little man’s face was drawn, and his glittering eyes were fixed on Mor-Pia.

  ‘Thank you, Sarid,’ the commissioner said as the young man, out of breath from running, handed him a small axe.

  The blade glinted in the sunlight.

  The commissioner bent to place the axe on the platform, then straightened. ‘Mor-Pia,’ he said, ‘pick up the axe with your right hand and use it to chop off your left hand.’

  Bep-Wor saw Mor-Pia’s fingers grip the haft of the axe. He saw her lift it above her head. She was going to do it.

  ‘Mor-Pia!’ shouted a voice. For a moment Bep-Wor believed he had called out himself. He had wanted to. But the voice was not his own. It was the Doctor’s. ‘Mor-Pia! Stop! Put down the axe.’

  Bep-Wor turned towards the Doctor. ‘Keep still, you fool; the Doctor hissed as he strode forward, pushing between prisoners as he made his way towards the platform.

  Mor-Pia had placed the axe on the platform. She had turned round, to face the direction from which the Doctor’s voice had come, but her face showed no expression.

  As the Doctor emerged from the ranks of the prisoners half a dozen soldiers with drawn swords converged on him. He held up his hands. ‘Mor-Pia,’ he called out, ‘return to your place in the line.’

  Without hesitation Mor-Pia walked back into the rows of prisoners, her face as blank as theirs.

  ‘Come here, you Two,’ the commissioner shouted to the Doctor. ‘Captain!’ he called out even more loudly, ‘I thought you said every one of these Twos had been dosed.’

  ‘So they were,’ was the answering cry.

  ‘It’s true,’ the Doctor shouted, struggling to be seen above the heads of the soldiers surrounding him. ‘Everyone took the drug. It affected all the others.’

  ‘Bring another dose,’ the commissioner shouted, and then he looked down at the Doctor. ‘Stand clear of him, you clods,’

  he told the soldiers. ‘He’s no threat to us.’ When the soldiers had withdrawn a little the commissioner peered down at the Doctor.

  The Doctor lifted his hat. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m the Doctor.

  Whom do I have the pleasure of being ordered around by?’

  ‘Commissioner Dallid,’ the commissioner said absently. ‘His Majesty’s commissioner for the importation of Twos and the regulation of their sale. You don’t look like any Two I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘I apologise for my appearance,’ the Doctor said. ‘I suppose I have always thought of myself as a unique personality.’

  ‘Shut up,’ the commissioner said. ‘Are you are a Two? The same as the rest of these slaves?’

  The Doctor drew himself up to his full height. His eyes were level with Dallid’s knees. ‘I arrived on the same transport ship, didn’t I?’

  The commissioner turned away in exasperation. The captain of the transport was approaching, carrying one of the ship’s beakers.

  ‘Who is this fellow, captain?’ the commissioner said. ‘Are you Jerrissarians playing some trick on us?’

  ‘I haven’t noticed him during the voyage, commissioner,’

  the captain said. ‘But we don’t inspect the Twos closely. They all took the potion, though. I’d swear to it.’

  ‘This one didn’t,’ the commissioner growled.

  ‘Oh yes I did,’ the Doctor said. ‘It doesn’t affect me. I’m immune.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ the commissioner said. ‘Take this bowl of soup. Eat it.’

  The Doctor took the beaker from the captain’s hands and brought it reluctantly to his face. ‘It’s cold,’ he said. ‘Have you no moral scruples at all?’

  The commissioner gestured to the guards, who moved closer to the Doctor and held their sword-points at his body.

  ‘You heartless sadist,’ the Doctor said. He pinched his nose with one hand and with the other tipped the contents of the beaker into his mouth.

  He handed the empty beaker to one of the guards. ‘That wasn’t too bad,’ he said. ‘Rather refreshing. Now then,’ he began, but instead of continuing his speech he began to sway, and then to crumple slowly to the ground.

  Bep-Wor couldn’t believe his eyes. The Doctor was vulnerable after all. Perhaps, while one dose of the poison was not enough to harm him, two would make him as mindlessly obedient as Mor-Pia.

  ‘Wake up, slave,’ the commissioner said. ‘Stand up and face me.’

  The Doctor rose and stood motionless in front of the platform.

  ‘Step back.’

  The Doctor moved backwards.

  ‘Stop. Come here again.’

  The Doctor walked up to the platform.

  ‘Pick up the axe and sever your left hand.’

  The Doctor picked up the glinting axe. He hefted it in his hand. ‘Oh, bother,’ he said. ‘All right, you’ve rumbled me.

  Still not turned into a mindless zombie. Sorry.’

  Bep-Wor wanted to shout and c
heer. Instead he released as a sigh the breath he had been holding in his chest. Most of the undrugged prisoners reacted in the same way to the Doctor’s miraculous recovery, and the multiple exhalation sounded like a sudden gust of wind across the square.

  The commissioner looked up with a puzzled frown, and then returned his attention to the Doctor, who had pulled his handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and was wiping it across his brow.

  ‘It’s warm work,’ the Doctor said, ‘processing all those toxins and complex organic compounds.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ the commissioner said, ‘you irritating little man. You’re going to the capital. The King’s interrogators will want to see you. Then you’ll be only too pleased to talk.

  Captain, I’m not paying you for this one.’

  The captain protested that it was not his fault that the Doctor was immune to the potion, and an argument ensued.

  Bep-Wor, meanwhile, was racking his brains to think of a way to remain with the Doctor.

  Even if he could organise the prisoners to act together, to run away or to attack the soldiers, he realised that they would be cut down by the soldiers’ swords and guns. The only thing he could think of was to convince the commissioner that all of the prisoners were in some way unusual.

  He kept his head lowered. He took a deep breath. In a low, resonating voice he intoned the single word, ‘Doctor.’

  He didn’t dare to look up to find out whether the commissioner had heard him. ‘Doctor,’ he said again in a deep voice.

  The commissioner and the captain had stopped arguing.

  There was a long silence. Then, from the row behind Bep-Wor, another voice boomed. ‘Doctor.’

  Bep-Wor briefly lifted his eyes. The commissioner wasn’t looking in his direction. ‘Doctor,’ he called again.

  A third voice rang out. Then a fourth, and then a fifth.

  Soon the sepulchral word ‘Doctor’ was echoing around the square as prisoner after prisoner joined in the ragged chorus.

  Bep-Wor looked from side to side. He was amazed to see that even some of the prisoners who had taken the drug were intoning the word.

  ‘Quiet!’ the commissioner yelled. ‘Twos, be silent.’

  The swelling chorus receded and died away. Once again the only noise in the square was the fluttering of the flags.

  Into the hiatus Bep-Wor spoke again. ‘Doctor.’

  And the word was repeated by another voice, and another, and then from prisoners’ mouths across the square.

  ‘Silence!’ the commissioner roared. His face was red above his beard. The prisoners took no heed, and the word ‘Doctor’

  continued to ebb and flow like a tide washing through the ranks of motionless, expressionless slaves.

  The Doctor jumped on to the platform and stood between the commissioner and the captain. He raised his arms, and lowered them slowly. The prisoners’ voices faded.

  ‘Crowd control,’ the Doctor said to the commissioner. ‘It’s a matter of charisma. You’ve either got it or you haven’t.’

  The commissioner ignored him. ‘I’m withholding payment for the entire consignment,’ he told the captain. ‘You can argue about it later. I’ve got twenty traders who have come here to buy and I’ll have to tell them they’ve had a wasted journey. That’s my priority. They won’t be happy. I suggest that you and your men wait on your ship. I’ll see you later.’

  He stood with his hand on his hips and his beard jutting belligerently above the Doctor’s head towards the captain.

  ‘We did everything correctly,’ the captain said mildly.

  ‘Perhaps this batch of the potion was sub-standard. In which case I’ll be requiring compensation from you. As you say, we’ll meet later.’ He turned on his heel and stepped from the platform.

  The commissioner watched him leave. ‘Sarid!’ he shouted.

  Muster all of our men. And any of the King’s guards you can find. I want them here now. And I want these Twos - every one of them - in chains. Hire manacles from the traders if we don’t have enough. They’re all coming back to the capital with us.’ He turned to the Doctor. ‘This one,’ he said, ‘I want particularly well secured.’

  Tragar had resisted as long as he could. Each day the overseer brought him a report on the new slave’s progress, and each day he had conquered the urge to see for himself.

  But it had been almost a week since Ace had arrived in the house, and he was burning with curiosity to see her again.

  Therefore he had rescheduled his regular meeting with Bared about the household budget, he had brought forward his discussion with Balon’s chef about the menu for the evening’s banquet, and he had the afternoon to himself.

  He had smoked a pipe to relax his nerves: talking to the chef, particularly when a large dinner was in prospect, was always trying. He had dressed in one of his more colourful coats. As he stood before the mirror, inspecting his face and failing to find any pimples or protruding nostril hairs, he suddenly laughed aloud.

  I’m preening myself, he thought, as if I’m about to have an assignation with the wife of one of Balon’s guards. All this for a mere slave.

  He heard a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in, Poa-Nan,’ he called. He had recognised the Two’s hesitant raps.

  Poa-Nan came into the room. Tragar didn’t turn, but by looking in the mirror he was able to study his manservant.

  Poa-Nan stood with his hands folded together on his slightly rotund stomach. He had a gentle smile on his lips. He was gazing at the floor.

  There was something unnerving about Twos, Tragar thought. He wondered how they behaved on their home world, without the benefit of the potion that made them so obedient. The traders said that Twos, in their natural habitat, were savages. Looking at Poa-Nan, Tragar found that hard to believe.

  Still, they were cheap. That was the main thing. Always willing to serve, and never requiring to be paid. Tragar had invested wisely, and had been able to replace several of his servants with Twos. He had already saved in servants’ wages more than he had paid for the Twos.

  He wondered, not the first time, how long Poa-Nan would stand and wait if he ignored him. For ever, he supposed, or at least until he collapsed from hunger or exhaustion. The first instruction that Twos were given, long before they were sold to their owners, was to speak only when spoken to.

  He sighed. Twos were cheap, but real servants were better conversationalists. ‘Yes, Poa-Nan?’ he said.

  Poa-Nan lifted his head. ‘The overseer says that she is at your disposal, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Poa-Nan,’ Tragar said. Why did he bother to be polite? It was wasted on Twos. Force of habit, that was all.

  ‘Go and tell her I’ll be there shortly. Then proceed with your chores.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Poa-Nan plodded from the room.

  Tragar spent another few minutes in front of the mirror, impatiently plucking from his coat almost imperceptible loose threads. Having told Poa-Nan to announce his visit, he now had to wait for the Two to carry out the mission.

  He couldn’t wait any longer. He had to know how his new slave was shaping up. He corrected himself: Ace belonged to Balon Ferud, and Balon would be unhappy if she proved to be worth less than the exorbitant price his chamberlain had paid for her.

  Anxiety clenched Tragar’s innards. He strode to the door.

  Such was Tragar’s preoccupation that for once he forgot to count as he hurried along the length of the corridor that connected the rooms that made up his suite of apartments. It was ninety-seven paces from the door of his study to the top of the main staircase of the east wing. The corridor in Bared’s apartments in the west wing was only eighty-three paces long. The differential never failed to provide Tragar with a warm glow of satisfaction. Whenever Tragar found himself having to listen politely while Bared censured him for overspending by a few marks on anything from fine wines to household repairs, Tragar would repeat to himself: you are merely the keeper of the accounts, while I am the chamberl
ain - and my corridor is longer than yours.

  Tragar clattered down the back stairs. He descended from the realm of airy rooms with tinted window glass, hanging tapestries and thick carpets into the lower depths of Balon’s residence. Here the flagstones and walls were bare, and daylight streamed in through small, high windows.

  He slowed his pace. As he looked from left to right he saw Twos at work: rolling out pastry in the kitchen, stacking logs next to the ovens, scrubbing the floor of the meat store.

  These were Tragar’s own Twos: in the lower floors of the central block of the mansion, an army of Balon’s Twos were no doubt performing the same tasks on a much grander scale.

  It irked Tragar that Bared owned more Twos than he did.

  But Tragar had to admit, although only to himself, that he found the presence of even his own few Twos slightly unsettling. Apart from Poa-Nan he didn’t know their names, and he rarely visited the lower floors of his apartments. His reliable overseer, Rigora, managed the Twos: she was his chamberlain, just as he was Balon Ferud’s.

  He strode into the cubicle - a square room between the kitchen and the dry store - that Rigora used as her office.

  Rigora was seated behind her desk. Her meaty arms were resting on piles of ledgers and provisioners’ bills. Her cheeks were flushed. Tragar wondered whether she had been at the wine already, and if so whether he should upbraid her. He decided to ignore the problem: he didn’t want to aggravate her, she was entitled to her perks, and in any case he had other business on his mind.

  The other business was standing beside the desk. As he had instructed, Ace was wearing a new tunic and new trousers modelled on those she had been wearing when he had bought her. Like any other Two waiting for orders she was gazing at the floor with a vacant smile on her face.