"I need not say," he added benignly, "that this investigation proceeds under the permission of Lord Bor Damon. He has sworn to punish all wrongdoers without mercy - whoever they might be."
The tribunal members murmured and nodded their assent; they all understood what their chairman implied. Under no circumstances were any suspicions to be raised against the ruling family, especially in these times of unrest. But an outsider - he was fair game. The chairman turned to Darc, who sat with his arms propping up his tired body.
"Your name is Darc?" he asked formally.
Darc straightened himself, and answered in his most dignified manner: "No. My real name is -"
" Answer when I tell you to! What is your real name and origin?"
The accused sighed, and answered with painstaking slowness: "I am David Archibald , born in Liverpool in Great Britain , also known as England , in the year 1963 After Christ . According to your time scale, that is in roughly Year Zero."
The tribunal members mumbled to each other, aggrieved and unbelieving.
The speaker pointed his hammer at Darc, and growled ominously: "I warn the accused not to lie before the tribunal! We are authorized to sentence you to prison or death , sentences which are formally executed by the city lord."
"I know the truth sounds strange, but please let me explain."
"Speak."
"I was frozen in 'cryogenic' sleep in the year 1999 After Kristos, by another doctor. The sarcophagus where I was preserved was discovered by Lord Damon's servants a few months ago, and I was brought back to -"
"Silence!" The chief court physician rapped frantically with his little hammer.
Darc protested: "You cannot deny it - I know you were there! You saw it! "
"Silence!!"
A guard smacked Darc's ear from behind, sending a searing flash of pain through his head. Darc flew up from his chair and raised his fists; another grim-faced guard poked him in the chest with his rifle. He slumped down again. Shara remained dead still - she only hoped they wouldn't notice her. The speaker took a deep breath, and smirked at his colleagues.
"As you can hear, my brothers, the accused is a notorious liar. Not only does he claim to be nine hundred years old, in defiance of our professional wisdom; he also tries to draw our own names into his filthy affairs.
"Now, for the last time, confess your true identity and the cause of your presence in Damon City! Are you an agent of the Pasko family?"
" No! I'm nobody's agent!"
"What is your true profession?"
"Pardon?"
"What... line of work are you educated for?"
"Medicine... and I'm a merchant."
Darc meant biochemistry and economics, but he knew this kangaroo court would twist his every word into another meaning.
The speaker went on, almost gleefully: "I see! Could you be more specific? Name your teachers! What is the name of your guild? Which volumes did you study? Can you," he boomed, "by any chance, show us documents to prove you are a certified physician?"
Darc stared his judges in the eyes - and met a wall of closed minds.
He answered, slowly: "I am not a physician. I am a... 'scientist' ."
Speaker and doctors alike sneered at the foreign-sounding, archaic word. "And what does this... 'sa-yen-tist' thing have to do with the medical profession?"
"I work to find new ways... to cure diseases."
The tribunal murmured louder; the word "witchdoctor" was uttered several times. The speaker rapped at the table again.
" Order! Have you performed any of these vile... acts ... in Damon City?"
"No."
"Or before you came here, or while you left the city a few days ago?"
"I have."
The tribunal went into an uproar, and their chairman called frantically for silence. Darc's mind, powered by the urgent threat to his life, worked to find a way out. Truth was no defense - he had to fight lies with lies.
He asked, even as he tried to figure out what to say: "Excuse me, Your Honor. I have something very important to say, but... I cannot say it to anyone but you, Your Honor."
The doctors went silent, eyeing Darc suspiciously.
"Dare not think you can intimidate members of the Guild and get away with it," the chairman retorted.
Darc gave him his most disarming smile: "Please do not think that of me, Your Honor. I mean, what I wish to say is fit only for doctors to hear. The guards -"
The guard behind him raised his hand to slap Darc again; the chairman gestured at the henchman, who backed off.
Nodding, the speaker declared: "Very well; I will listen to what you have to say. But no tricks, you hear?"
As the speaker walked over to his chair, Darc finally got the idea of what to say. He was an outsider; what about an outsider would give him an edge? What did the Guild fear most of all? How could that be used to manipulate them? It was a long shot and a great risk, but - yet again - the circumstances offered no alternative.
The speaker leaned close to Darc, and lowered his voice: "Well?"
"You ought to sit down, Your Honor. I need you to be calm and controlled when you hear it."
Shara was pulled off her chair; the speaker pushed it close to Darc, and seated himself. Sweating nervously, he nodded
. "I am not a time traveler," Darc said very softly and slowly.
"So?"
"I am a Leper."
The speaker of the tribunal gasped; before he could stand up, Darc grabbed his arm and held him down.
Darc whispered with feigned concern: "Calm down, Your Honor! What would your colleagues do to you if they understood you had touched, and examined, One Whose Very Name Brings Disease? Your reputation, your family - what would people say?"
The ashen speaker shivered in Darc's grip, and managed to croak an objection: "It - is - impossible! You are not deformed - you are lying -"
"No, I am deformed! Why is my hair so white? Why did I suffer from cancer? You did examine me, right?" Darc glared at the shaken chairman with mad eyes, lying like a devil: "My bodily defenses are different, you discovered it yourself! I am deformed, only it does not show the first time you look! That is why the Lepers chose me as their agent! Don't scream - if you do, we are both done for. Listen. I want to make a deal."
From some inner reserve, the doctor summoned the strength to control his panic. "What - do - you - want?"
"I want to get out of Damon City alive, is all. No one has to know, no one but you and me. Just arrange that I am banished to the Wastelands, and I won't tell them the truth. Okay?"
"You are insane! And if it is true, I am doomed -"
"No, no, you will be fine! I may be a Leper, but a healthy one - that's why they made me an agent, see. Now do as I say, or I will really contaminate the city - and I start with the tribunal!"
Darc let go of the speaker's tense hand - it seemed to leap back to its owner like a scared rabbit. He staggered to his own seat, and his colleagues asked what was the matter, but he dismissed them. After several minutes' consideration, the speaker understood that Darc had him pinned down.
"It is the wish of the accused," he said faintly, "that he be banished to the Wastelands for his crimes against the law. Since the accused has confessed to practicing the forbidden arts, I strongly recommend the tribunal to heed his wish."
The tribunal conferred for a while.
Another doctor stood up and declared: "We all agree on the recommended punishment - on one condition." The chairman nodded, and the man added: "On the condition that the other suspect, Shara Rawiman, is also banished to the Wastelands, as a warning to other citizens."
Shara flew up from her seat. "No!" she pleaded. "You cannot do this to me! I swear I do not know this man!"
She repeated her plea - it was the truth, of course - as she sank to the floor, sobbing. Darc looked helplessly at the devastated woman, then at their cruel judges. The tribunal voted unanimously for banishment, and the speaker clubbed it. Darc and Shara were brought back t
o their cell, to await imminent deportation from Damon City.
Chapter 22
They both slept badly. Shara had experienced some close shaves in her thirty-year life: knife-fights, arrests, attempts on her body. But somehow she had always managed to escape - lashing out with her stiletto, darting into an alley, bribing an official, seducing someone important. This, however, was a hopeless situation: no one ever returned alive from the Wastelands.
Like all city-dwellers, Shara's childhood had been terrorized by horror stories about the desolate outback, the crumbling ruins where nomadic Lepers ruled - and even weirder menaces created by the poisons of the Second Great War. The Lepers were never pictured - the taboo was so powerful, one believed mere representations bred sickness. Still, the mythology about the deformed nomads on the vast Outside was large and thriving.
Now, as Shara spent her last hours in relative safety, all her childhood legends came back in vivid dream images - all the myths:
The Lepers are the punishment of the Goddess for our sins.
The sight of a Leper can cause a man to die of fear.
If a Leper gives you the evil eye, something bad will happen to you.
Lepers torture, kill, and eat healthy humans.
If a Leper touches you, you will become a Leper yourself - as will all your children, and your children's children.
The Plague never leaves its victims.
Only fire can kill the Plague and the Leper.
The Lepers only live to hate and punish mankind.
Only one legend gave her a little comfort: The Singing King shall return and undo the sins of man.
Shara had her own personal reasons for not overly trusting that promise.
The second day after the battle dawned on the citadels of Damon City. And it could now be seen, that the gash in the outer wall was halfway repaired - thanks to an enormous effort of the citizens, who worked with a frenzy that impressed even the Damon family. It did not visibly impress Azuch Fache, though - he visited the building site in his wheelchair, urging on the tired volunteers and guildworkers.
"I saved Madrivalo with just two thousand men!" he thundered. "Lord Damon should expect no less of you!"
Meanwhile, the castle hangar had been sealed off by Lord Damon's human guards. Bor personally overlooked that Darc and Shara were escorted into a troop carrier and shackled to the cabin wall.
The transport vessel had been tanked during the night, and fitted with an expansion tank for long flights. Bor then instructed Surabot where to fly and drop the prisoners off - a secret location, unknown to all but Bor and his most trusted mechanical servant. The heavy old robot accepted his orders with emotionless calm, and stepped up into the carrier. The guards closed the rear port and cleared the starting area together with their lord. Minutes later, the large carrier warmed up its engines, ignited them and soared into the sky.
Bor kept watching the receding vessel until it had disappeared from sight. Apart from the two prisoners and the robot pilot, the troop carrier went empty. No human would ever have to witness the two unfortunates being taken by the Lepers, or learn where to find them.
During the long flight, Darc talked to Surabot. It resulted in the sort of bizarre conversation he, by this time, had come to expect of a robot.
"Surabot, where are you taking us?"
The robot responded like a drill sergeant: "Destination secret, Sir Darc. Lord Damon's orders. I apologize, Sir Darc."
Darc waited a while, then tried a sneakier approach: "Surabot, my friend. You are programmed not to hurt humans?"
"Yes, Sir Darc."
"And if you leave me and Shara in the Wastelands, will that not hurt us?"
"If I allow you to stay in Damon City, you will be executed by Lord Damon. If you are abandoned in the Wastelands, your chance of survival will be slightly higher... Sir Darc."
"Yes, of course. How stupid I am."
"Is that a question or a statement, Sir Darc?"
"It is irony - ignore it. But how can you follow Lord Damon's orders so blindly, even if you know he will cause harm to other humans?"
"One human is as potentially harmful as another, Sir Darc. I interpret my programming from occasion to occasion."
"And what is your general interpretation... of the directive not to hurt humans?"
The machine seemed to hesitate - its visorplate flickered slower, as if its brain was getting bogged down with calculating the reply.
"Just a moment... just a moment... I generally let humans do as they please, Sir Darc. If I wait long enough, there is a slight likelihood that the programming of humans will improve."
"And how long are you prepared to wait for that to happen?"
"Just a moment... I have been waiting for one hundred and forty-seven years so far. A robot has the chance to outlast all humans, Sir Darc."
Darc wasn't really certain whether these feudalistic robots were plain dumb, or just faked intelligence with excellent subtlety, or lived for the opportunity to piss off humans. Deep down, he suspected the last alternative.
Shara was too despondent to try anything during the entire journey; she half believed Fate was sending her to die, as a punishment for her sins.
Chapter 23
Many hours later, the troop carrier slowed its flight and circled toward the ground. The vessel touched down; Surabot unshackled Darc and Shara.
With an iron hold of their wrists, he shoved them out through the rear port of the craft - and slammed the metal door shut after them. Darc helped Shara onto her feet, and they rushed for cover - the craft's engines had never stopped, and Surabot lifted off without waiting. Columns of dust blew up around the rising carrier; from outside, the engine whine was deafening. Holding their ears and closing their eyes hard, the two outlaws crouched behind a cliff until the carrier had flown away.
The couple rubbed their eyes, coughed up sand, and regarded their surroundings. In Shara's eyes, the landscape offered nothing but miles and miles of rocky desert under a blue, cloud-specked sky. Tall cactuses and bushy patches stuck up among the sand-colored rocks, but no other signs of life were evident - not even ruins. The wind rustled through dry bushes and blew Shara's black hair into her face.
From the shape of the distant vertical cliffs, with their flat peaks, Darc concluded they were in the central parts of North Amreca, or maybe a desert of South Awrica - or possibly Awstrala. No cities lay in sight. He weighed their water bottles; they would last one day, at most.
"First, we must find water," he explained as he scanned the landscape. "And some firewood. And a cave or a ruin - the nights are cold in the desert."
"You're crazy!" she cried. "Can't you see? We're as good as dead! Just promise me one thing -" She hesitated, but when Darc turned to look at her, she gazed steadily into his eyes.
"What?"
"Darc... when the Lepers find us... you must kill me first. If I try it myself, I might fail... I can't risk that. Swear, you hear?"
Darc shook his head violently, looking away: "No, no, no. Never."
"You bastard! After all the misery you've caused me, can't you at least do me that final favor?"
She lunged at him, tried to claw out his eyes with her nails; he grabbed her wrists and flung her to the ground.
He cursed, almost losing his self-control: "Damn you, Shara! I'm trying to think out a way of keeping us alive! If we meet any Lepers, we'll hide or try to talk to them..."
" Ha! The rat talking to the cat!" She spat at his feet.
Suddenly, Darc felt like laughing. This situation began to resemble a parody of his endless quarrels with his ex-wife. It could have been Maggie arguing with him in the desert now - her stubby hair ruffled by the breeze, her voice rising to that searing pitch she knew went on his nerves - instead of this black-eyed gypsy of a woman, determined to die out of plain superstition...
Shara noticed that he was grinning, and stood up. She wrapped her cloak around her; the sun was coming out of a cloud, and the heat was dry and unforgiving
.
Surly yet defiant, she asked: "All right then, crazy man. Where do we find water?"
As a child, Darc had hated his time in the Boy Scouts, and they soon kicked him out for insubordination - but now, he was grateful for the Boy Scouts having taught him the essentials of wilderness survival.
The sun sank, red and bloated, below the distant, vertical cliffs - and darkness swallowed the desert. From the tiny cave that they had found, Darc and Shara could only see black land and starry sky. Their puny campfire seemed the only thing that prevented the cold night from reaching inside.
This, Darc thought to himself, is what the world must've looked like before electricity - a great darkness lurking in the night. You hear a wolf or a nightly bird... and you imagine all kinds of monsters out there, waiting for you. I should know better. I should. If only I wasn't so damn hungry and cold.
Shara sat wrapped up in her thick cloak; Darc's cloak was thinner and failed to keep him warm. He huddled closer to Shara. When he spoke, vapor steamed from between his lips.
"Sorry about this mess, but I'm sure there's a way out."
Shara sniffed at him, and looked away. If he tried something, she would crack his skull open with the rock she was hiding in her hands.
"Could you tell me something, Shara... just to keep my mind off the cold?" Every time he felt cold, Darc remembered the terror of being thawed out of his cryonic sleep... a memory he wanted to blot out as much as possible. He explained, with chattering teeth: "I mean, anything. For instance, who are you? Who are you really?"
His request confused her. Nobody had ever wanted to know who she really was; from her childhood, she had survived by learning to pretend and deceive. Eventually, the word "truth" become an empty joke to her - better than most city-dwellers, she knew the hypocrisy and falseness of adulterous husbands and their spendthrift sons.
Only her intelligence and stubborn self-preservation had saved her from becoming a prostitute and drunkard. If some complete stranger was asking her to reveal the bleak truth, she was certainly not prepared to oblige... but her curiosity had been tempted by Darc's weirdness.
Yngve, AR - Darc Ages Page 16