War World: Jihad!

by John F. Carr

  In its favor, the Bureau is understaffed and underfunded for a task that would be impossible to carry out even if it were several orders of magnitude larger. The increasing minority problem throughout the Soviet Union and the southwestern and northeastern United States has made both CoDominium powers much less particular about the methods used to “administratively contain” the situation. When coupled with the growing demand from both off-world corporations and colonial governments for more “warm bodies” to develop established colonies, the Bureau of Relocation had been driven to use methods of transferring large numbers of minority-group deportees that in some cases might be construed as examples of criminal negligence.

  Further Bureau of Relocation abuses outside the Sol System have been extensively documented. Many colonial agents openly barter their deportees to planetary governments, private companies and wealthy individuals. Often transportees are sold into “indentured status” that is slavery in everything but name.

  Even those deportees who escape such a fate are frequently charged for their transportation costs by unscrupulous agents and arrive at their destinations with little more than the clothes on their backs. It is not unknown for families to be broken-up, with wives and daughters, being privately auctioned to brothels or wealthy colonists. Complaining husbands and fathers have been known to be “spaced.”

  There is almost universal agreement about the extent of the Bureau’s offenses. Unfortunately, nobody has yet proposed a more workable system for ridding Earth of its surplus population and the growing number of malcontents openly hostile to the CoDominium.

  The current Director of the Bureau of Relocation, Samuel Webb, has described the situation concisely:

  “Any and every abuse of this department can be corrected by the simple application of more funds. Give me the budget, and I’ll give you results that will make everybody happy.”

  In view of the increasing reluctance of the Grand Senate to fund even Navy appropriations, it is impossible to be optimistic as of this writing about the possibilities of Bureau of Relocation reform. A vicious circle seems far more probable: abuses, opposition, more political deportations arousing more opposition….

  DREAM VALLEY

  Edward P. Hughes

  2081 AD, Haven

  THE YURT lay like an abandoned toy on Haven’s vast northern steppe. Orfan Judeiks peered out of a window in the slave quarters. Snow had sifted through a break in the outer pane. It lay frozen in the double-glazed gap.

  Orfan stirred the pups over the charcoal burner, wishing the Cham all the benefits of his yurt’s ineffective double-glazing. The pipe gang would be back soon, cold, and expecting their supper. The Cham should try preparing it in a chilly, draughty kitchen.

  Once in a while Orfan regretted the maneuvering with which he had secured the kitchen billet. The comparatively comfortable job had set a gulf between him and the pipe gang which some of the slaves found difficult to stomach.

  Orfan sighed. Two years previously, when a Roosky judge in Daugavapils had sentenced him to five years interior exile for stealing bread, Orfan had scarcely heard of this moon Haven. BuReloc scouts had picked him up wandering on the outskirts of Kazan, and a year and some months later he was a kitchen slave on the prison world!

  And Haven was far from a comfortable place.

  Overhead, the glass-fiber onion domes creaked in the wind, fractured seams leaking warmth into the chill air.

  A cluster of muskylopes wandered into Orfan’s field of vision. The beasts were part of the herd the tartars kept for milking. The beasts were never permitted to stray far from the yurt. God alone knew how they endured the everlasting cold.

  Orfan craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the candy-striped world overhead. Hadn’t some schoolteacher once explained to him how a brown dwarf radiated heat? He shrugged. Profitless to speculate on such astronomical mysteries. Somewhere up in the sky, close to Cat’s Eye, was a magic hole invented by an American called Alderson. If you were lucky enough to find that hole, you could step through it and find yourself back in the solar system—and able to erect a finger to the Bureau of Relocation!

  Orfan stirred the pups pensively. What right had the Russkis to scoop-up civilized Balts along with their half-wild tartars to dump on a freezing world out among the stars?

  He shivered. Cold weather could be fun. He recalled frost fairs on a frozen Dvina. But Baltic winters lasted only six months. Here on Haven they went on and on. The door banged. A gust of air from the passage chilled his ankles. Lisa Grinbergs, assistant scullion—and pretty enough to stop the chief scullion’s breath—entered the kitchen.

  She put her back to the door. “Is supper ready? The pipe gang will be here in a minute.”

  He put down the ladle and sidled towards her. She was his assistant scullion by dint of some keen haggling with the tartar chef. She was also a native of Riga, and considered herself a cut above Daugavapils yokels. But the rest of the slaves were grown adults, and Lisa was just two months his junior. Orfan loved her with a passion only sixteen-year-olds can feel.

  She allowed him to put an arm around her waist and cup her breast.

  “Did you hear what I said, Orfins?”

  Only Lisa, among the slaves, used the diminutive.

  He nodded. “Supper’s ready.”

  She peered into the steaming pot. “Pups again? No meat?”

  He flourished a fist. “Remember you are talking to the monkey— not the organ grinder! Give me a knife and let me out there among those muskylopes—”

  She turned up her nose. “Pooh! You wouldn’t hurt a fly!”

  The outer portal slammed, rattling the kitchen door.

  Lisa dashed for her broom. The pipe gang would track melting snow all over her clean floor!

  Old Maksis arrived first, shivering. Bent and shriveled, the man was too old for lifting lengths of glass concrete piping. Too old, too, to dig trenches in frozen tundra. Too old, in fact, for any kind of physical labor—if only the slave masters would show a spark of humanity! He had taught mathematics at Riga University before BuReloc snatched him from a city park during one of his absent-minded spells.

  Orfan thrust a ready-warmed bowl and spoon into the old man’s hands. He ladled out beans. Maksis cracked icicles from his whiskers, warming his cheeks over the dish.

  Orfan pushed him gently away. “Shift, Maksis! You’re not the only one who’s cold.”

  Skinny Elmer Parn came next, bending over the cauldron, eyebrows shedding droplets. He cooed, “What peautiful peans!” Being Estonian, Elmer used English with the Lapps, and being Estonian, he couldn’t say his ‘b’s.

  Crippled Michel Tasvin from Jelgava followed. Then the Roosian, Golikov, round eyes in a round peasant face, watching his bowl fill. Then one-time fishwife Eva Abolins…then Kujucs, the wrestler…then Bella Buksum, the beautiful…then…

  Orfan Judeiks sighed. To be a slavey to the slaves of creatures lower than slaves must be the absolute nadir. Was it possible to sink lower?

  After they had eaten, he piled the pots in the sink. This was the best part of Haven’s eighty-seven hour day. The Cham had ruled two work and two rest shifts a day. Slaves and masters were both striving to reconcile Earth clocks and human circadian rhythms to a new world’s rotation period. For ten hours now, the yurt could rest or sleep, as it pleased. There were no chairs for slaves, so they sat in a ring on the floor. By tacit consent, Old Maksis got the spot next to the stove.

  “Tell us about the hot river and your dream valley, Maksis,” prompted gaunt Felix Anders, who acted as keeper to the dim-witted Tromifovics. They had all heard about the old man’s river and valley a dozen times already. But, with talk one of their few recreations, topics tended to be squeezed dry. Chess had once been an alternative, until someone had stolen their pieces. Now, if they tried to play chess with paper men, only the draughts won!

  Old Maksis sucked a strand of his whiskers. “You may scoff,” he told them. “But I’ve seen it. Not the valley—you can�
��t get through the mountains to see that. But the evidence is there to feel. The river comes out of a cave, warm to the hand. The sea ice is melted for half a verst.”

  Red-headed Voldemars Pics sniffed. “Sea ice, vatsajs? You must have been far to the north. Salt water doesn’t freeze here.”

  The old man cackled. “Wait until winter, laddie. You’ll see hot tea freeze, then!”

  Rita Purins, who worked as hard as any man in the pipe gang, ceased combing her hair to ask, “But, vatsajs, how do you know that the river comes from the valley?”

  The old man leered at her. “Didn’t I see the clouds? A sky clear as a bell all round, but clouds over one spot in the mountains.”

  Rita dismissed his answer with a wave of her hand. “Okay—so how come you’re the only one who’s seen this river?”

  Old Maksis appeared confused. “But…I’ve been here longer than any of you.” He scratched his head. “At least, I think so. They used to let me go out with the muskylopes. Then CoDo built this place for the tartars, and they don’t herd muskylope anymore. Those lazy scuts won’t lift a hand as long as they get free food and lodging.”

  They all nodded. Tartars were layabouts. And no one could understand why the CoDominium was so willing to support them.

  Usually taciturn, Vasily Bugovics asked, “Where exactly is this river of yours, vatsajs?”

  Old Maksis gestured vaguely westwards. “Oh—over that way. Three or four days ride.”

  “Haven days?” queried Bugovics. None of them had yet become accustomed to a day split into two work and two rest cycles.

  The old man snorted. “Earth days, of course. We decided our own sleep times ’til Liplap came along with his new rules.”

  Cham Liplap had brought more than arbitrary division of Haven’s day, but it was of little use grumbling about a tyrant’s ways.

  Vasily Bugovics elected to remain obtuse. “And riding on what, vatsajs? A BuReloc lander?”

  “Heh heh!” The old man cackled. “On a muskylope, my lad—if you were able to sit on one!”

  They all laughed, being aware that Maskis wouldn’t perform for long without some appreciation. They were awaiting the next sally, when the door was kicked open. One of Liplap’s baggy-trousered ruffians entered. He pointed at Orfan, speaking in Roosian.

  “Chingiz wants you.”

  Liplap the Chingiz, Grand Cham of Novy Tartary-on-Haven, was chief of the exiled nomads. Bunkered in their plastic yurt, Liplap and his stalwarts bragged endlessly about sweaty exploits on Earth, while relying on a CoDo reactor for creature comforts. But when the Chingiz crooked a finger, everyone—nomads and slaves—jumped.

  Orfan got to his feet. The Cham’s supper had gone in hours ago. The tartar chief probably required entertainment.

  Orfan said, “Me?”

  The Cham’s messenger flourished a curved blade.

  “Yes, you, tovarische. Scoro!”

  Orfan went quickly.

  The tartar stayed behind to see if there was anything left to eat in the slaves’ pot.

  Orfan sped along the corridor towards the tartar section of the yurt. He took his time going through the airtight door to allow warm air to blow into the slaves’ quarters. Inside the Chingiz sat on a pile of cushions in his audience chamber. Around the walls squatted his favorite male courtesans. No woman was ever permitted in this room, Orfan knew. Tartars believed that the harem was the place for the animal-that-talked.

  He halted a respectful distance from the Cham, bowed his head, and waited.

  “Scullion!” Liplap used English, since Orfan’s own language was beneath his dignity, and Russki was too superior a language for conversation with a slave.

  Orfan looked up. He responded in the same language. “Sire?”

  “Take off your clothes, lad.”

  Aware of the Cham’s exotic tastes, Orfan had come prepared for the worst. It seemed he might not be disappointed.

  He decided to make a production of it. He removed his coat. Then his shirt. Then his undershirt. Then the pajama jacket he wore under his shirts. Then he pulled off his vest. He folded each garment, piling them neatly beside him on the floor.

  Someone snickered.

  He took off his boots. His top pair of socks. His under pair of socks. Then the socks which were little more than a knitted sleeve linking the holes at heel and toe. These, too, went into a heap beside the discarded garments.

  A wizened ruffian at the Cham’s elbow hid a grin behind a dirty hand.

  Orfan then removed his trousers. Then the trouser underneath. Then his pajama bottoms.

  Someone giggled. Even the Cham smiled.

  Finally, Orfan removed his long johns and stood naked.

  The Chingiz clapped his hands. In a corner, a drummer commenced to thump out an irregular beat.

  “Dance for us?” suggested the Cham.

  It was an order. Orfan capered, ignoring the drumbeat. He knew what the Cham wanted. He hopped up and down to make his penis wag. The drumming continued, relentlessly. Orfan grew warm and sweaty.

  At a sign from the Cham, the drumming ceased.

  Orfan stood panting.

  Liplap pointed. “Can you make that stand?”

  Orfan dreaded suggestions of this kind. He looked down. “I…I think not, sire.”

  “Try!” the Cham urged.

  Orfan tried. Before an audience, it refused to respond.

  He desisted. “I’m sorry, sire.”

  Liplap contemplated him. “Can you stand on your hands?”

  Orfan knew that unless he provided some kind of entertainment voluntarily, worse might be demanded.

  “I can cartwheel, sire,” he offered. Cartwheeling had been one of his accomplishments during his spell with a circus. The Cham had not seen any of his gymnastics.

  “Cartwheel, then,” the Cham agreed.

  Orfan cartwheeled. Back and forth in the center of the chamber. Forth and back, careful not to trip over a casually extended leg. In circles, mindful of the limited space. Clockwise and widdershins. Facing the Cham, arse to the Cham. God damn! Why couldn’t they take up scrabble instead!

  Liplap clapped his hands. “Enough!”

  Orfan collapsed, like an unstrung marionette.

  The Cham stared around the chamber. “You desire more, gentlemen?”

  They shook their heads. Hadn’t the Chingiz already said “enough?”

  Liplap fumbled in a purse dangling from his ornamental gold belt. He drew out a gold coin, big as an overcoat button, and threw it to Orfan.

  “We prefer television, lad. Go back to your quarters.”

  Orfan stooped, grabbed the coin and his clothes, and backed from the chamber. Thank heavens they hadn’t wanted an obscene exhibition. He dressed in the anteroom, clutching the coin all the time. The yurt boasted no shops…but people might be bribed with gold!

  Lisa was awake when he returned to the kitchen. The other slaves sprawled about the floor, snoring. Her pupils gleamed in the light from the corridor.

  “Are you okay, Orfins?”

  He showed her the coin. “It was easy tonight. I made them laugh.” He stuffed the gold piece into a pocket and got down beside her. She snuggled up to him.

  “I hope it stays that way.”

  He put an arm around her. “What’s worrying you?”

  She lowered her voice. “Something Old Maksis talked about after you left. He’s been here longer than any of us. He was wondering where all the people who arrived with him had gone.”

  Orfan nibbled her ear. “His memory is hopeless.”

  She pushed him away. “A bad memory doesn’t make people disappear. There were a dozen others picked up with him. Where are they now?”

  Orfan frowned into the darkness. “Maybe they’ve wandered off? BuReloc picks on vagrants. They don’t like relatives enquiring after transportees. That’s why there are so many Tartars here—they’re natural vagrants.”

  She silenced him with her lips. “Listen to what I’m telling you. Mak
sis said he came back to the yurt one day, after being out with the muskylopes, and all his old comrades had gone. He thinks the Chingiz had them put away because a new batch of slaves was due to arrive. And he believes the same thing happens every time a new batch is due.”

  Orfan sniffed scornfully. “Why would the Chingiz overlook Old Maksis?”

  “Maybe he lets one slave live to show newcomers the ropes?”

  He squeezed her tightly. “Old Maksis imagines things.”

  She stiffened. “This isn’t imagination. How long has BuReloc been dumping homeless people here? Why are there so few Balts in the yurt and so many Tartars?”

  He stroked her hair. “I don’t know. For that matter, why are we slaves? I wasn’t a slave on Earth.”

  She shivered. “We’re slaves because the Tartars make us slaves. BuReloc doesn’t give a damn, so long as we’re relocated.”

  He held her tight. “What can we do about it? At least you and I don’t have to work on the pipeline like the others.”

  She whispered in his ear. “We could escape.”

  Orfan almost laughed. Escape across a tundra desert stretching for kilometers in every direction? He whispered back, “Where would we go?”

  She hissed fiercely. “Anywhere! I don’t care. I hate this place. You know I’m no longer a virgin?”

  His embrace tightened. So someone had stolen the privilege he had hoped for. He groaned. “Who did it? Tell me. I’ll kill the swine!”

  She shook her head. “It was a Tartar. They’d kill you first, if you tried to touch one of them.”

  They lay silent while Orfan pondered her news. It could happen again if they remained in the yurt!

  He said, “Where could we go—if we ran away?”

  She tucked a face into his chest. “We could look for Old Maksis’ valley.”