by Brian Aldiss
There was an overseer with a short whip in his hand who saw us at once and came towards us. He had a long raw face and sandy eyebrows – yes, an Edinburgh type, I thought, even as I cast about and noted that there was only one other overseer in the whole place, to watch over the activities of perhaps thirty slaves. A plan formed in my mind.
‘Leave this one to me,’ I told Mark.
As the overseer came up, with a ‘What do you gentlemen want, pray?’ on his lips, I swung up a metal tray from a table at my right hand. The edge of it caught him clean across the bridge of his nose, and he dropped as if dead. Startled, I saw he had a yellow disc between his shoulder blades.
‘I’ll get the other blighter,’ Mark said, clapping my shoulder as he passed.
There were thick-handled mops standing in buckets against one wall. I seized one and ran it through the handles of the doors into the hall. That would settle them for a minute or two. Another pair of swing doors led to a scullery; I fixed them in the same way. One other door led from the kitchen, a wide door that gave onto a courtyard. Pushing a great wooden table, I smashed it against the door and jammed it shut.
Turning, I saw that Mark had settled with his overseer. By now the slaves had grasped that something had happened. They dropped their various tasks and stood gaping at us. Grabbing a butcher’s knife that lay on a bench, I jumped onto the bench and spoke to them.
‘Men, you can be free! It is a man’s right to be free! Arm yourselves and help us fight those who oppress you. You are not alone. If you can help us, others will help you. Now is the time for revenge. Arm yourselves! Fight for your freedom! Fight for your lives!’
I saw Mark turn to me in amazement and horror. Even more surprising to me was the response of the subs. They knotted together in fear, gazing at me as if I was about to kill them. Taken off balance, I waved my arms and shouted. A hammering at the hall doors roused them. Crying, they rushed for it, and began to try and tear away my mop, each impeding the other in their anxiety.
Jumping down among them, I pushed them back. They were flimsy and frightened.
‘I’m trying to help you! Don’t let them in – they’ll kill you. You know they’ll kill you. Barricade the doors with the tables!’
All they did was shrink back. A few uttered a sort of un-vocalised cry. Mark roughly grabbed my arm.
‘Sherry, by my shrine you’re crazy! These are slaves! Scum! They are useless to us. They won’t fight – slaves never do unless they have tasted better days. Leave them. Arm yourself and let’s get out of here.’
‘But Mark, the whole idea –’
He shoved a great bunched fist under my jaw, swinging it without touching me in time with his words.
‘The idea is to overturn this church regime. I know where my duty lies – with the free, not with the servile. Forget these slaves! Grab a bigger knife and move.’
‘But we can’t leave these people –’
‘You liberal fool, we can and we will!’ He ran across to a long lead sink and pulled a heavy chopping knife from it, tossing it to me. As I caught it, he bellowed again at me to move. By now, the hammering on the kitchen door had grown in volume. They were seriously alarmed, and would be breaking in in a minute. The slaves cowered in a group nearby, watching Mark and me anxiously. I turned and ran after Mark.
He pointed to a heavy goods lift in one corner. We ran to it.
‘It only leads upstairs.’
‘That’ll do. Get in, and haul.’
We jumped into the cumbrous contraption. It could be manhandled from inside by the ropes that supported it.
‘Hey, stop!’
At the shout, both Mark and I turned. The overseer I had laid out with the tray was staggering towards us.
‘Let me join you,’ he said. ‘I’d sooner die than carry on as I am. I’ll fight on your side.’
‘You’re an overseer. We don’t want you!’ I said.
‘No, wait,’ Mark said. ‘He is a promoted slave, isn’t that right, fellow? They generally have plenty of fight in them because they’ve learnt the difference between better and worse. Climb in, man. You can show us the layout of this place.’
The overseer climbed in beside us, and helped to haul away on the ropes. We creaked up into darkness. As we bent to the task, Mark said, ‘We want church police uniforms as quickly as possible. Then we can walk out of the building with any luck.’
‘Should be easy enough,’ grunted the overseer. ‘Friends, whether we meet death or daylight, my name’s Andy, and I’m glad to be of your company.’
‘We’re Mark and Sherry, and that tray was not delivered in anger.’
‘Man, I’d thought you’d cleft my skull in two pieces. I must work off my sorrow on a churchgoer as soon as possible.’
He hadn’t long to wait before he did that. As we emerged onto the ill-lit first floor landing, a portly man in gaiters and some sort of ecclesiastical garb was passing the hatch-way. As he turned, saw us, and opened his mouth, I leapt out at him. He gave a shout before I could bring him to the ground, and almost immediately a police officer appeared. I’ll never forget his look of horrified surprise as he rounded the corner and came upon three wild men. He went for his gun far too late. Andy was there, sinking a steel blade through his jacket, through his chest, into his heart He died with the look of surprise still frozen onto his face.
‘Ah, blood of the bull, neatly done, my noble lads!’ Mark exclaimed. He pulled open a nearby door, and we dragged the two bodies into the room. A wood fire burned in an old-fashioned grate. It looked as if the occupant of the room might be back fairly shortly.
‘We’ve got two good sets of clothing here,’ I said ‘You two climb into them if they’ll fit. I’ll see what goes on outside. I’m sure you wouldn’t want anyone to catch you with your trousers down.’
The portly man in gaiters was unconscious. Mark gagged him before beginning to strip off his clothes.
Prowling in the corridor, I could hear a din from below. It seemed to be rising from the lift shaft. I knew we were in the thick of trouble, and the knowledge only delighted and excited me. As I got to the head of the stairs, I heard a footstep on them, and knew someone was almost at the top of them, ascending rapidly but quietly. A sort of broom cupboard on wheels stood by me; hurridly I slid behind it, into the shadows, not sure whether I had exposed myself to view or not.
Whoever it was had gained the landing. A sort of fury to attack – based perhaps on fear – overcame me. I heaved the cupboard away from the wall and flung myself out. Falling, the cupboard struck the newcomer, sending him spinning against the wall. I was at his throat before I realised it was Rastell.
‘Mark!’ I called. He appeared almost at once, and we dragged Rastell into our room and shut the door. Mark drew his knife.
‘Don’t kill him, Mark. I know him.’
‘Know him? He’s our enemy, Sherry. Let me skewer him and you can wear his uniform. It’s about your size.’
‘Aye, skewer him, or I will,’ Andy said.
‘Leave him alone,’ I said. ‘We’ll strip him and leave him tied up here, but I won’t see him killed.’
‘Well, look sharp,’ said Mark, and he and Andy lowered their knives.
Rastell’s face had turned an ashy shade of white. He made no protest as I pulled off his jacket and trousers. I hated to see him look so craven.
‘Remember what you said, Rastell? “Men spend large parts of their lives awaiting a challenge.” Well, here it is!’
Ha did not answer a word. As I tugged his garments onto myself, I tutned to Mark.
‘What’s the plan?’
‘These people aren’t efficient, or they’d never have failed to post guards over us in the hall. After all, they had no particular reason to. think we should be friendly. But they can get mobilised against us more quickly than we can gather a force together against them. So we must leave Edinburgh.’
‘There is a police car outside. We could steal that and join the rebellion in London,
if either of you can drive,’ Andy said. He was over by the window, peering out at the back of the building.
‘In my matrix, transport is publicly owned, and I’m no driver,’ I said.
‘In mine, one learns to drive as part of the initiation rites at puberty,’ Mark said. Going to stare down at the car with Andy, he said, ‘We’ll try it. Hurry up and get those clothes on, Sherry. But we won’t try for London. We must leave Edinburgh the way we came – by the portal machines. The one that brought me here was up on Arthur’s Seat, and there were others beside it. We can drive there straight away. Once we get back to our own worlds – Andy, you can come to mine with me – we can muster aid there, and then reappear in London, armed and properly prepared to fight. My government would welcome the chance.’
I was not sure whether mine would, vitiated as the nation’s resources were after a long thermonuclear war, but in outline the plan was a good one. It was no time for argument. Having buttoned up Rastell’s tunic over my chest, I ripped a length of cord from the blind on the window and tied Rastell to the bars at the back of the cumbersome sofa. As I finished doing this, something creaked in the corridor. We all three turned to the door at once.
‘It’s the lift going down!’ Andy exclaimed. ‘Come on, Sherry, they’re onto us.’
With a whoop, Mark grabbed up a heavy rug that lay before the fire. Burying his hands in it, he seized the fire-basket out of the fireplace and ran with it blazing and smoking out of the room. He flung it, and burning logs, basket, and rug went flying down the lift shaft after the lift. Hardly pausing, he ran to the top of the stairs with us after him. We raced down together.
A half dozen church police, revolvers at the ready, came charging along the lower corridor. We met them at the bottom of the stairs. Before Mark could do anything rash, I gripped his arm and called to the police, pointing wildly back up the stairs as I did so, ‘Quickly, they’re up there – second floor! Cover them while we go and get the hoses!’
Cheering, the police burst past us. The look of delight on Andy’s face! As we ran to a rear exit, we could hear screams from the direction of the kitchen. I wondered if the lift was on fire, or if the slaves were being beaten for failing to stop us.
We broke out into a courtyard, under surveillance from a hundred windows. Although it was dark, several slaves were about, unloading meat from a van, lighting their way with long waxy torches. Nearer to us stood the car we had seen from the upper window; a policeman in the black and white uniform sat at the wheel, holding a paper, but looking uneasily about. As I wrenched open his door, he flung the paper in my face and fumbled for his gun. Yelling like a savage, I threw all my weight on him, knocking him sideways across the seat, springing on top of him. Andy had piled into the back seat. His hands came over to grasp the wretched man round the neck. At the same moment, the gun exploded.
Its noise, breaking only a foot away from my ear, seemed almost enough by itself to kill me, though the bullet tore through the roof. The man was struggling violently under me, but for the present I could do nothing; all fight had gone from me. I lay across the policeman while Andy choked the life out of him.
As they were struggling, Mark had started the car. His hands ran all over the controls as he tested their functions. It bucked as he cursed it, and then moved forward. In a daze I saw what happened next.
Two police officers came dashing out of a doorway slightly ahead. The revolver shot had brought them. They were armed only with swords. Without pausing, they both jumped on to the running board on the near side of the car. Unfortunately some of the narrow windows were open, and so they clung there. One managed to draw his sword, thrusting it in at Andy, who still struggled with my man. He let go and grasped the wrist that held the sword. As if in slow motion, as we slowly rolled forward, I saw the other hanger-on unsheath his sword and bring it through the window, preparing to settle Andy before he settled me. I could do nothing. The concussion of the explosion so near my head still left me dazed. I just slumped there, looking at the well-tended sword blade as it stabbed towards Andy.
Gathering speed, Mark slewed the wheel. We headed for the meat van. Slaves shrieked and scattered. Mark swerved again, missing the other vehicle by inches. A flaring torch splashed over our front windows. Agony distorted the faces of our two hangers-on. Their heads twisted, their mouths gaped open, their swords dropped, as they were crushed between the two vehicles and fell away from our sight.
Andy was patting us both on the back and cheering. He produced a small flask of whisky – which he found in the hip pocket of the trousers he had commandeered – and made me take a sizeable swig. My throat burned and I felt better.
The fellow I was half-lying on was unconscious. Together, Andy and I dragged him over into the back seat.
‘This is a crazy car to drive,’ Mark said, but he was doing well. We were clear on to the streets now. There was no sign of alarm here, and Mark was driving slowly, so as not to excite attention. The streets were ill-lit, and little traffic was about. I had no idea of the time, but it could not have been later than eight o’clock, yet hardly a soul could be seen. The slaves, I thought, probably had a curfew; the rest were probably in bed or at prayers.
‘It’ll be wonderful to get another place to live,’ Andy said. ‘And while I think of it, slow down, Mark, and turn right here up Hanover Street. There’s a big government store at the top here. Peace Militant it’s called, that supplies only to officials, I’ve heard. One of the fellows in the kitchen had to work here once on a time. If we can get in there, for sure it’ll be shut, and we can break in and find some of these portals.’
Mark shifted gear, and we growled uphill. Off Princes Street, lights were few and far between. At the top of the road we found the store. It was a great solid granite block with little pinchpenny ecclesiastical windows in which goods darkly lay. A board above a barred door said Peace Militant. Andy groaned.
At that moment I was taking another mouthful of his whisky. I turned to see what was the matter. The man he had half strangled had revived and thrust a knife between his ribs. He was just withdrawing it as I turned. Dim light shone on the blade, and by that same tawdry glow I saw his teeth as he growled and came at me. I was already at him with the bottle.
The heel of it caught him in the eye. Involuntarily, he brought his hand up, and I grasped his wrist and wrenched the knife from his grip. He yelped. My fury was back. Climbing over the seat at him, I bore him down into the darkness, while the knife – his own knife! – sunk down and carried him into a night from which there would never be a dawn.
I found Mark was shaking me.
‘You did a good job, boy, but once is enough. Leave him. Come on, we’ve got to get into the shop quickly before they catch up with us.’
‘He’s killed Andy. Andy’s dead!’
‘I’m sorry about it too. Weeping won’t help it. Andy’s dog’s meat now. Come on, Sherry, you’re a real warrior. Let’s move.’
We got out on the pavement. With an elbow, Mark stove in a window, and we climbed through. As simple as that! That terrible feeling of excitement was on me.
We began tramping through the store.
The ground floor yielded nothing, though we separated and searched. We were about to go upstairs when I found a notice board on which was a floor directory. In the light filtering in from outside, I read a line that ran: Basement: Tropical Plants, Gardens, Café, Library, Extra-matricial Equipment. Mark and I took the stairs at a run.
Below ground, we thought it safe enough to switch on a couple of lights. Here was the first evidence that this civilisation had some sort of aesthetic sense. Heating was on, and in the warmth basked a tropical garden. Flowering trees and shrubs, a line of banana plants, gaudy hibiscus, rioted here in carefully tended disorder. The centrepiece was a pool on which lilies floated and the lights were reflected back in dark water. Beyond the pool, the café had been arranged with tables and chairs out on a terrace overlooking the pool. Attractive, I thought, and we p
ushed past the chairs and came to the next department. Here stood a dozen portals, made in several different sizes and models.
We both cheered, dropped our knives, and got to work.
This was something about which we knew nothing. There was much to be learnt before we could return to our own worlds. To my relief, we found that the portals we came across first were primed for immediate sale and contained phials of nicomiotine as well as other drugs. There were manuals of instruction provided, and we sat down to master their contents with what patience we had.
The business of returning to one’s own matrix turned out to be fairly simple. One had a preliminary injection of a fluid with a complicated name which seemed to be a kind of tranquilliser, followed by a jab of nicomiotine in the stated quantity according to one’s size, age, ration, and then sat in the portal seat, the vibratory rate of which could be adjusted to matrix numbers shown on a dial. When the drugs took and the body’s vibratory rate reached the correct pitch the return was effected.
‘These people may have established a loathsome social order, but this invention is something to their credit,’ I said. ‘And if they would only educate and liberate their slaves. I can’t help admiring any matrix that has escaped with no more than one world war.’
‘We’ve had no world wars,’ Mark growled.
‘Then you look at it differently, but for the slaves –’
‘Sherry, you keep talking about these slaves. I’m tired of the subject. By the Phrygian birth, forget all about them. In every matrix there must be conquerors and conquered, dogs and masters. It’s a law of human nature.’
I dropped the instruction manual and stared into his face.
‘What are you saying? We have only done what we have done, fought as we have, for the sake of the poor wretches enslaved here. What else did we fight for?’
He was crouching beside me. His face had set hard. His words fell from his lips like little graven images.
‘I have done nothing for the slaves. What I have done has been against the church.’