The Alternate Martians

by A Bertram Chandler

  Yet there were other codes, other traditions. The tribespeople, who had stood by to watch while Wilkinson was fighting for his life, were spectators no longer. The girl who had befriended them was screaming, “Are yer goin’ ter let these bastards slaughter a defenseless woman?” There was a rising, ugly growl, and from all sides the mob closed in on the two swordsmen. They panicked, turned to run — but this only hastened the inevitable end. They went down beneath the sheer weight of numbers, with no chance to use then-weapons. One of them screamed in a high, dreadful voice, wordlessly, and the other one was bawling for help. There were more screams, from the men Wilkinson had stunned with the cauldron, who had been kicked and battered back into consciousness only so that they could fully appreciate the manner of their deaths.

  It was the women who took charge — the women who, far more than the men, had been victimized by the guards.

  Sickened, not wanting to watch, Wilkinson and Vanessa stumbled to the nearer wall and leaned against it weakly. They were not surprised when the door opened again, letting in a flood of bright, white light. But there would not be a massacre, Wilkinson told himself: the Master would not be pleased if the game captured for their feast were wantonly slaughtered.

  Even so, he turned Vanessa from him, forced her down to the angle between floor and wall, and then fell beside her, holding her in his arms, shielding her with his own body, dreading the sudden, vicious chatter of automatic rifles, or the hiss of striking laser beams.

  He heard, instead, a series of dull thuds.

  He looked around, and saw the vapor billowing from the bursting gas grenades.

  XX

  WITH THE first faint flickerings of returning consciousness Wilkinson realized dimly that the gas had not been a lethal one. He inhaled deeply of the pure, cool air, untainted either by the anesthetic vapor or by the mephitic reek of the prison pen. He began to feel better, less weak — and, at the same time, was beginning to become aware of his discomforts. The many cuts and scratches upon his body were painful, and he tried to bring his left hand up and around so that he could massage the cut on the right side of his chest. But he could not move. Straps were holding him down. He could wriggle a little against the resilient surface beneath him, but that was all.

  He heard somebody say, “He’s coming around, and so is the woman. Have the others brought in, and we shall soon see if they recognize each other.”

  “Very good, sir,” was the reply.

  There was a hard light beating against Wilkinson’s eyelids. He opened them cautiously, and was almost blinded by the blue-white glare from the unshaded globe hanging from the ceiling. But he was able to move his head, and did so, turning it to one side. Vanessa came into his field of view. She was strapped, on her back, to a low couch, the metallic bands deeply indenting her golden skin. Her breasts rose as she inhaled deeply, and then her eyes opened. She stared at her husband.

  “Chris! Where are we?” she asked.

  “You have been brought to my office,” announced the voice that had issued the orders. Then, to somebody unseen, “Mr. Parkinson, would you please adjust the couches? I wish to introduce myself to my … ah … guests.”

  A man, naked save for the sword belt about his waist, stooped beside Vanessa’s couch. It folded in the middle, the upper part of it snapping to the vertical with a sharp click. She cried out in pain as one of the straps cut into her flesh. And then it was Wilkinson’s turn. He found himself being stared at by the coldest pair of eyes that he had ever seen, steely gray under heavy black brows. And then he took in the rest of the details — the bald head, the plump face, the beaky nose, the petulant mouth. Only the upper part of the man’s torso was visible above the side desk, which was covered by what looked like pale leather. What could be seen of the body was fat, but not flabby.

  “I am Hamilton Montgomery,” said the man behind the desk. “My rank is that of Chief Slave. It is as good a title as any — although the noun, I admit, is somewhat meaningless. And now …” The voice hardened. “Your name.”

  “Wilkinson.”

  A fist crashed into the side of Wilkinson’s face, and the man who had adjusted the couches growled, “Call Mr. Montgomery ‘sir’.”

  “You are a little overzealous, Mr. Parkinson,” reproved Montgomery gently. “The lesson in etiquette could have been deferred. However …” He stared again at Wilkinson. “Your full name, if you please.”

  Wilkinson told him, stubbornly refraining from adding the honorific. Nonetheless, he was relieved when the omission did not bring another blow.

  “So. Wilkinson, Christopher. Male, obviously. Age? That, at the moment, is of no great importance. Place of origin …” He steepled his fingers, regarded the prisoners over them. “That, my man, is the burning question. You are obviously not one of those whom we call Wild Ones; you are well-nourished, and you practise depilation. But, equally obviously, neither are you one of us. So. But I shall return to you after I have asked a few questions of the lady…. Your name, my dear? Wilkinson? Then you are, no doubt, the wife of this gentleman. And, like him, you seem to have come from far away, from very far away….

  “So, Vanessa Wilkinson, you are his wife. That would account for the zeal with which he protected you from Mr. Talbot and his squad. Please do not think that I bear any malice; on the contrary. I had already reached the decision that Mr. Talbot was to be transferred to the fattening pens — as an inmate, not as a guard. After all, we must tread delicately; we must, as it were, go through the motions of being faithful and docile slaves of the Overlords, even though … But no matter.”

  “Mr. Montgomery, sir. The other prisoners are here.”

  “Good. Then bring them around to where our new friends can see them, Mr. Martin.”

  There was the sound of shuffling feet somewhere behind Wilkinson’s back, a metallic rattling. Then Titov and Farrell shambled into his field of vision. Both of them were manacled at wrists and ankles, the leg chains permitted them to take short steps only. Their faces and bodies — bruised, and with scabbed-over cuts — showed signs of ill-usage. But they walked as erectly as the irons would permit, glaring at Montgomery. And then they saw the new captives.

  “Chris! Vanessa!” cried Titov — but the glow of recognition faded from his face, and was replaced by the shadow of anxiety. “So they got you, too. But what about Natalie?”

  “She’s all right, as far as I know,” said Wilkinson. He thought how much better it would have been if the biologist had pretended not to recognize them.

  “And as for you, you fat swine …” began Titov, turning to face Montgomery, raising his manacled hands before him. He dropped them slowly as two of the guards, then swords out and ready, interposed themselves between him and their master.

  “Dr. Titov,” said the fat man reprovingly. “I did not expect such a show of temper from one of your educational attainments — although, to be true, we have only your word for it that you are a doctor. But …” Again the steepled fingers, the thoughtful expression. “But we still have to establish from where you have come. We know that there are four of you, and, to judge by your reference to somebody called Natalie, there is at least one other. So …” There was a long silence while he stared at the captives, then he went on in a thoughtful voice.

  “You do not belong to this planet. Your strength and agility — the strength and agility that I have found it necessary to curb — are evidence of that. Could you be from Earth? I do not think so. I am in correspondence with the Chief Slaves of the Home World, and they have not told me of any seizures of the Overlords’ ships; in any case, the Wild Ones of Earth are remarkably similar to their counterparts here — nomadic tribesmen, the very limit of whose technology is the manufacture of a wheeled, animal-drawn vehicle. So perhaps you are Tame Humans from Earth, shipped to Mars for some reason, who succeeded in escaping from the spaceport. But that I cannot believe, either. I should have known of such an occurrence almost as soon as it happened.

  “Then too, you a
re all utterly ignorant of the nature of the position held by a Chief Slave in this society, of the very real power that he wields. The Overlords — yes, they are the Owners, but they are no longer the Masters. We, their administrators, hold most of the actual power in our hands. ‘Most of the power?’ do I hear you ask? Not all of the power? Regrettably, no. The Overlords jealously keep to themselves the spaceships and the airships and the vehicles that they use for surface locomotion, and their heat ray projectors and the lethal poison gases. The situation — I have always been a keen student of history — is analogous to that prevailing in one of the countries of Earth at the time of the Invasion. There was an army in India, composed of English soldiers and native troops — sepoys, these latter were called. The sepoys could serve as infantry, as cavalry — but never as artillerymen. The big guns of the Europeans were their main defense against another Indian Mutiny.

  “We, as it were, are the sepoys. We are trusted, but not entirely.” He leaned forward over his desk, his manner confidential. “I know that you come from another world-could it be Venus? Was there an escape from Earth to that planet in the early days of the Invasion? I know that you come from a world with a high level of technology. The Overlord who captured you, Titov and Farrell, outside the pumping station did not realize the significance of his find.” He smiled confidentially. “Strictly between ourselves, the Overlords are not very bright. And they are becoming decadent — for decadence is ever the obverse to slavery — but their arrogance persists. They just cannot believe that a mere human would be capable of any but the most simple feat of engineering. So …

  “But, to continue. I received from my own people a reasonably detailed report on the suits that you were wearing. I was told that you had weapons — some sort of projectile pistols. But the Overlord was not curious at all, merely ordered his personal slaves to toss everything into the incinerator. He was mildly interested when the pistol ammunition exploded, killing a couple of slaves — but his only real worry was when the High Overlord learned of his find and ordered that the two prisoners be tossed into the common pool. I have heard it said that the Overlords are emotionless — but if you ever learn their odd, piping language you will find out that this is very far from the truth.

  “Then too, I was able to make a very thorough examination of the clothing that you, Wilkinson, and your wife were wearing when captured. There were the fur jackets and the leather boots that are standard wear among the tribespeople — but the rest of it did not fit in at all. It was never manufactured on Mars, and I doubt very much if that peculiar cloth was woven on Earth.

  “So I have, in my hands, four strangers, four outsiders who, given the tools and the raw materials, will be able to make me weapons, who will work for me, who will work for the day when I shall be King, not” — and his voice dripped contempt — “Chief Slave.” He smiled again. “I am sure that you will put your knowledge at my disposal.”

  “Help us to get back to the ship, and we will help you,” said Wilkinson.

  “Ah, yes. This famous ship of yours. As a matter of fact, I have come to the conclusion that your landing on this world was by accident rather than by design. Was there an engine breakdown? I think there must have been, otherwise this mighty vessel would be roaring all over the surface of this world, turning the canals to steam with its flaring exhaust — in general, playing hell with a big stick. Of course, the Overlords would make short work of her with their heat rays, but I should by this time have heard about it. Or it could be that the four of you are her entire crew … No. There must be at least one other — this Natalie about whom Titov was so concerned.

  “But you must face facts, and I will help you face them. Either your companions have written you off, and abandoned you here, or the Overlords have already found your ship — at times their airship patrols fly north of the ice barrier — and destroyed her. Your only chance of continued survival is to work for me. I can see that you are stubborn, all of you. I have my methods of persuasion — but, unluckily, my staff is often more enthusiastic than cautious in their application. Of what value is an engineer with no fingers, or no eyes?

  “Even so, I think I know of a means whereby you may be persuaded. For some days prior to the Feast, the High Overlord samples, as it were, the game that has been hunted down and captured and imprisoned in the pens to await the celebration of the Anniversary. Perhaps you would care to witness such a sampling. You can imagine that it is one of your number — the woman, perhaps — who is being … ah … sampled.

  “And as you watch you can tell yourselves what I am telling you now — that I, and I alone, can save you from the same fate.”

  XXI

  THEY SHUFFLED down the long corridor, Wilkinson and Vanessa weighted down with chains and manacles, as were Titov and Farrell. Ahead of them marched Montgomery, with two of his guardsmen. Two more brought up the rear. The passageway was circular in section, and illumined only by the red-glowing tubes, widely spaced. But their eyes became accustomed to the ruddy darkness and they could see, at the very end of the tube, a pinpoint of frosty light.

  They came, at last, onto a balcony overlooking a vast hall, a protrusion from the black wall that was oddly like a theater box. There were soft couches here, and onto one of them Montgomery sank, disposing his gross body more for comfort than for grace. He grunted to the prisoners, “You may sit down if you wish.” They seated themselves, not without a clanking of chains. The guards remained standing.

  Wilkinson looked out over the rail, down into the hall. It was, by the Overlords’ standards, well lit. There was a polished expanse of bare floor but, save for an odd looking cradle in the center of the room, no furniture.

  “Rank, even in a society of slaves, has its privileges,” remarked Montgomery complacently. “My revered Owner is aware that I derive a certain pleasure from watching these … samplings, and so does not object if I, together with a few friends, am a witness to them.” He chuckled.

  “It could be that he thinks that the fear that I, even I, might become the main course on the royal table will make me a yet more loyal and hardworking slave. But quiet, all of you. Here comes the High Overlord.”

  It was a party of humans who entered the hall first, a dozen tall, muscular men marching with military precision to the muffled rattle of a little drum carried by one of them. They wheeled smartly and took up positions about the cradle, standing at rigid attention, bringing the butts of their spears down, with a sharp crack, to the floor.

  “Decadence….” muttered the Chief Slave. “Why should they, with their spaceships and heat rays, want this archaic military ritual borrowed from a conquered people whom they regard as little better than cattle? You can see, can’t you, that only the smallest push is required to unseat the Owners. And you will help me to give that push.”

  “I have yet to be convinced that the change would be for the better,” said Titov disgustedly.

  Montgomery laughed. “I have no doubt that I shall be able to convince you that it will be.”

  More humans were coming into the hall. First there were two women, armed with those absurd spray guns, filling the air with the nauseating reek of carrion. And then, walking slowly and carefully, four girls entered, carrying between them the disgusting bulk of the High Overlord, the loathsome gray sack into which was packed, presumably, the thing’s brains and internal organs. The saucer eyes glared coldly, and the tentacles writhed like twin nests of snakes.

  Gently, tenderly, the carriers lowered their burden into the padded cradle, then stood at attention on either side of it. The women with the atomizers sprayed the wrinkled gray hide until it glistened with moisture in the ruddy light.

  Finally, four men entered. Their burden was a trestle bed, and to it was strapped a woman. She was obviously a Wild One: she was scrawny, her hair was matted, and her skin was dirty. But she was human; she was far more human than the plump, well-groomed placid cows, the female slaves who tended the filthy Overlord as though the thing were something
divine. She was human, and she was terrified. She knew what was to happen to her, that there was no hope of escape. She was terrified, but still she was defiant. She was screaming, but it was not a mere, wordless shriek of terror. She was screaming curses — at the Overlord and especially against the Tame Humans who were its slaves.

  “He enjoys this racket,” said Montgomery. “It gives him an appetite for his meal.”

  “Do you enjoy it?” asked Titov coldly.

  “It does not worry me unduly. After all, is there not an old saying? ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones; hard words will never hurt me.’ ”

  “I hope I’m around when the Wild Ones come for you with sticks and stones,” Titov told him.

  “Do you? Then I hope, my man, that should this ever come to pass I have at my command the weapons you and your friends have made for me. But watch.”

  The stretcher had been set down before the Overlord’s cradle. The beast in its padded nest set up a thin, high piping. As though obeying an order, one of the men picked up a long, silver tube that had been lying beside the victim’s pinioned body. He held it in his right hand and, sadistically, made sure that the bound woman could see it, could realize what he was going to do with it. She had fallen silent for a brief spell but, at the sight of the instrument, resumed her frenzied cursing. And then she screamed horribly as the pointed end of it plunged through her skin, into her body at the junction of neck and shoulder. The watchers could see all her muscles tense and strain as she tried to shake her body to dislodge the shining lance, but the straps held her immobile. A spurt of blood issued from the free end of the tube.

  “Slovenly,” muttered Montgomery. “Slovenly. He doesn’t like his dinner spilled. Mr. Martin, who is that man?”