Sandcats of Rhyl

by Vardeman, Robert E.

  A juggler began spinning knives in an intricate circular pattern. Five knives were kept in the air, then six, then ten. He was tireless. His coordination was superb. The silvered blades twirled sharp and deadly. Slayton watched the juggler with admiration. A sudden desire to watch the juggler miss hit him.

  One of the razor sharp knives slashed the juggler on the arm. He continued deftly spinning the remaining blades. Slayton laughed and willed another slip. The juggler began to bleed profusely from the second cut. And the third and the fourth. He continued juggling until he died in a pool of his own blood.

  Slayton clapped his hands together in joy. How often he had wanted to see this! Then the body and blood vanished back into the realm of his inner mind.

  “A war! Fight! Have at it!” Slayton leaned back in his throne as ten men, dressed in primitive armor, attacked another ten outfitted with modern weapons. The latter’s force-blades sliced easily through even the tough metal greaves and shields. It was a slaughter. Slayton replayed it, fifteen men pitted against two with modern weapons. The result was the same. He tried once more. Nineteen against one.

  This time, the bloodshed was brutal, tragic, heroic, and the lone man fell under the sheer weight of his opponents.

  Slayton summoned the survivors to his throne. They bowed deeply. He reached out and produced a jeweled medallion for each. He said, “Here, my valiant warriors. A token of my esteem for your fighting prowess!”

  And they vanished.

  Slayton held the scepter in his hands, staring deep into the everchanging depths of the jewels. He realized how vast was his power. He could do anything his mind could conceive. And his appetites, his hatreds, were infinite. Throughout his life there had been those he wanted to see punished, put to death in slow and horrible ways.

  It happened in front of his throne. The reactions were exactly as he had always imagined they would be.

  Foods, wines, the finest of clothing was all his for the asking. He had only to think of it, and it was his.

  On impulse, Slayton began producing jewels of all varieties. Fire opals and maiden’s tears and sunstones and star sapphires and perfect rubies as big as his fist. All in piles waist deep. Slayton conjured up porters to take the gems to the tunnel leading out to the aircars. As they departed with their precious burdens, Slayton laughed aloud, his mocking tones filling the black wood room.

  “Why am I bothering with such things? I control the entire planet! I am invincible! Who can stand against me? No one!” he answered himself.

  A sudden coldness clutched at his belly. Who? The question wasn’t who but what.

  The answer: the sandcats.

  The beasts were all over the city. He had killed several of them earlier in the fight with Nightwind. The sandcats had to be eliminated. And he could do it! A little tug with his mind and the scepter would do his every bidding.

  He could wish them into nonexistence or blow them apart or…

  Or make them his slaves.

  The idea appealed to Slayton. The animals appeared to have hands and were obviously intelligent after a fashion. An entire race of slaves. Slaves doing his bidding, controlled by thought. It would be the ultimate in servitude. He would know their every thought, be warned immediately if they tried any treachery, and could make powerful animals bend to his will.

  He concentrated on touching the minds of the sandcats. At first, all he received was a garbled message. Then, clearer, came a feeling of being trapped. This was the sandcat thrown into the pit with Nightwind. By now, the beast should have finished off Nightwind, Heuser, and Steorra.

  Slayton laughed a little thinking of that strange trio. The tall, gaunt man, the puny little man, and the silly girl with ideals. Idealism had never been a part of his philosophical weaponry; cynicism served him too well.

  But he could afford to be generous. He was King Lane the First, the ruler of all of Rhyl. He reached out with his mind and gave the supreme compliment to the sandcat.

  Well done, he thought. So what else could the animal expect from him? To be let out of the trap? Hardly.

  Improving his grasp of the technique of using the scepter as a mind-control device, he ordered in several of the sandcats. They came against their wills, but they came. He lined them up, made them walk around his room in a circle, turn left and right, go through a complete close-order drill and then form an honor guard on either side of his throne. Tiring of these sandcats, he cast further afield and found others. They were forced to join their comrades. He began making them do ever more complex maneuvers for his pleasure.

  There was an odd quality about the sandcats’ minds. They were as powerful mentally as physically, yet crumpled when he entered their minds. There seemed to be no real resistance to his telepathic intrusion. Attributing this to his own omnipotence, Slayton continued adding sandcats to his strange kingdom. Some fought back mentally but, backed by the power of the scepter, he was able to easily quell their rebellion. He kept them in their place but knew, underneath the surface of subservience, they would turn on him in an instant.

  “Come! Come and see your new ruler!”

  The sandcats approached his throne. He forced them to bow their heads, to debase themselves in his presence. Oddly, the more he forced them, the quicker they were to respond a second time. Slayton enjoyed his power to the utmost.

  “Let’s see if this elite group can be enlarged.” His mind boiled out, hunting other sandcats. After adding a half-dozen more, he felt his control slipping. He could maintain discipline in the group but only at the expense of tremendous concentration. Knowing there were far more sandcats than he could control directly, he took the obvious course of action.

  “Protect me, warn me,” he commanded a group of twenty. “If any other sandcat comes, attack and kill.” He checked the loyalty of the group immediately.

  Forcing a lone sandcat to come into the palace, he watched what occurred. His mentally dominated beasts literally ripped the other to shreds using their ineffectual-looking little hands and fingers. Slayton vowed to never let them too close with those razor-sharp appendages. They reminded him too much of the wafer-thin razors carried by a tribe he had encountered on one of the frontier worlds. Genocide had been the only way he could control that particular uprising against authority.

  And he wasn’t about to let a never-ending stream of beings potentially subservient to him dry up because of their own stupidity. After all, he reasoned, he was their ruler and they should worship him. That he had to coerce them was a point against the sandcats. They should see the nobility inherent in him without being ordered. They should instantly obey because it was the proper thing!

  He held the scepter tightly, feeling its power seep through his tiring body. Controlling so many subjects was leaving him drained, exhausted, and unable to think clearly.

  “Go,” he ordered. “Go and guard my city.” He watched the silent stream of sandcats leave the throne room. Left alone, Slayton mentally checked his security. This was a fine system, he decided. He could make sure no traitors were plotting to assassinate him. If humans proved as amenable to control as the sandcats, he could conquer any world in the galaxy.

  “Any world,” he mused. “Any world in the galaxy. Like Earth. The old master of the inhabited sectors. But no, if I can have any world, why not an up and coming power like Medan? A military power to be reckoned with? Imagine, Lane Slayton, Emperor of Medan, Ruler of the Galaxy!”

  He chuckled at the thought. Fantasies wafted through his mind. He created situations, worlds, events, and let them parade in front of him. The ghosts-made-substantial faded away as he tired of his little game. The only certain way of finding if the scepter worked on humans as well as the sandcats was to try it.

  First Rhylston because it was nearby. If he could conquer the dusty little city, it would be an easy step taking over a starship. And from the starship to any other planet. And from that planet, then to Earth. Or Medan.

  The galaxy was waiting for a new name to be embl
azoned in its history. Earth had its Napoleons and Hitlers and Hsings. Medan its Markkins and Carlsons. He would add new chapters to both worlds, combine them and write an entire new history for all the colonized planets.

  The stars twinkled overhead until Slayton fell asleep, bone tired from his mental exertions. As he drifted off, like all his other phantasms, the stars vanished.

  CHAPTER TEN

  NIGHTWIND PACED AROUND the pit wondering exactly what he should do. The sandcat lay quietly, its eyes following his nervous path. The harder the man mentally worked over the problem, the more impossible it seemed escaping the trap they were in.

  On impulse, Nightwind sat cross-legged in front of the sandcat and carefully said, “Could you support the weight of two of us?”

  Yes…

  “I want to try getting out of the pit. What I …” Nightwind stopped as he saw the glazed look cross the eyes of the sandcat. The animal seemed in a trance, hypnotized. Then it purred like its smaller cousin on Earth, rolled over and kicked its feet at the air. Nightwind had the vague sensation of intense pleasure. He couldn’t imagine the reason for the sandcat’s sudden joy. It didn’t make sense at all.

  The Guardian rolled back over, getting its paws under its body. Looking Nightwind squarely in the eyes, the tattered thought came: Wand of Command … after centuries … evil slavery … never … unable resist.

  Heuser came over and stood by Nightwind’s shoulder. “What’s wrong with our, uh, friend, Rod? He looked like he’s gotten enough happy dust to keep a planet buzzing for a week.”

  “I don’t know. I’m getting a garbled train of thought. Something happened that I don’t understand. After the little pleasure high, it started rattling on about slavery and I think it was ‘Wand of Command’ although I couldn’t catch all of it.”

  “Slavery? I wouldn’t think any creature that large would have to worry about being made a slave. Not unless the slave master was a lot nastier. It looks like the kind of creature who can take care of itself.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Steorra. “The sandcats are obviously telepathic and communicate mind to mind. No ears, no real vocal cords. That means they neither hear nor speak. The only way of communicating would be visual or mental. What happens if the race that built this entire city had some method of applying a mental pressure on the sandcats?”

  Nightwind looked at Heuser, then to Steorra. “You might have hit on it. And I think I know what this ‘Wand of Command’ is. We saw it on an altar inside the palace. And I’ll bet a credit against any planet you care to wager that Slayton is taking over using it.”

  “Wait, wait, Rod. I’m getting lost. Slayton is using the scepter to mentally enslave the sandcats, right? How? Even with a monster of a telepathic amplifier, it’s simply not that easy to bend one creature to your will, much less dozens. The old wars and their brainwashing showed that. Anyone cracks, but it takes a lot of time and effort if you resist.”

  Steorra said, “Yes, that’s true, but after a person cracks, it’s easier getting him to crack again, isn’t it?”

  “Sure, but what’s that …”

  “Of course,” said Nightwind. “I see what Steorra means. The original rulers of this planet, the one who built this city, subjugated the sandcats. That makes the ‘cats vulnerable to the same type of attack — enslavement — again. Slayton doesn’t have to be all that strong mentally. He is just breaking down thin barriers recently built up. The sandcats might have a long history of enslavement by this other race.”

  “So ask your friend,” said Steorra.

  Nightwind turned and looked into the Guardian’s eyes. The amber orbs glowed with intense inner light. The man formed the question in his own mind as carefully as he could.

  The answer flashed back: Rulers total command using wands … many thousands of years … sun growing hotter … dying … built Ancient Place … not sandcats … multiplying … stronger as Rulers die…

  Nightwind shook his head. The pain inside his skull could have been caused by some sadistic fiend with a red-hot poker jabbing it into his eyeballs. The struggle to maintain the mental contact was great, almost too great a gulf to bridge. But he had to try. It was the only way of getting information.

  All dead … back now human … defiling sacred Ancient Place … must obey … no … no … no!

  Nightwind was breathing heavily from the mental exertion. He wiped away the perspiration from his forehead, dabbed at the sweat beading on his upper lip and thought of Richards. The desert dweller would be horrified at the idea of wasting precious liquid like this. But it couldn’t be helped. The equipment needed to salvage the water was outside Devil’s Fang in their aircar. It might as well have been a thousand light years distant due to their predicament.

  “Well?” demanded Steorra. “What was he saying?”

  Nightwind heaved a big sigh, then said, “I’m slowly getting a picture of what’s happened. The Rulers built this city, the Ancient Place the Guardian calls it. They ruled using the scepter to enforce their commands, but when the sun began to heat up the planet, they couldn’t adapt as well as the sandcats. Or maybe the ‘cats were basically desert creatures and the Rulers weren’t. Anyhow, the Rulers slowly died out. This was their last city. The sandcats seem to regard it as a religious shrine, a living page out of their history, or even a museum. The distinction isn’t too clear. It might be a combination of all of those — or none.”

  “And Slayton’s taken over using the scepter,” said Heuser. “You might have guessed a backstabber like him would finally graduate to the big time. An entire race — an intelligent race — enslaved.” He looked at Steorra as if blaming her for the problem.

  “Now look, you two,” she said. “If it hadn’t been for you two trying to steal all the credit for discovery from my father, I wouldn’t have had to hire Slayton and Dhal.”

  “We were just interested in a little, shall we say, lucrative remuneration for the salvage job we did in space. That tub was glowing blue, it was so hot with radiation. Your father might have still been alive, though, and we were the ones who risked life and limb to check. So why shouldn’t we get something out ot it?”

  “You got the half the salvage.”

  “Which didn’t go far. We knew what was found on Sigma Draconis. And if a ‘find utterly beyond belief’ is mentioned by a guy who explored Sigma, then it’s open territory for us since he’s dead.”

  “This is an archeological find. It belongs to everyone in the galaxy, not just … a pair of grave robbers!” she flared.

  Nightwind sighed. “So what are archeologists but legitimate grave robbers? It strikes me as damned ghoulish going around making a living off ripping into somebody else’s grave. But you want to know something? You father never found this city.”

  “What?”

  “Let me check with our furry friend. I think we were the first ones to get into the Ancient Place.” He smiled wryly, saying, “I might as well use the name the sandcats give this place since the entire city is theirs.”

  Nightwind concentrated, carefully forming the proper thoughts.

  You first to enter … others never … Watcher good … kill … I Guardian must kill now … enter Ancient Place … defile … duty given by Old Ones.

  “Yeah,” he said, “Heuser, Richards and I were the first humans to ever get in. Seems like a series of mistakes all added up to a positive stroke of luck.”

  “But what was my father’s discovery?”

  “Another intelligent race, of course,” said Heuser in a burst of insight. “Somehow, he figured out the sandcats were intelligent, maybe even telepathic. He didn’t put it down because he was afraid of possible exploitation before the Council could rule. It’s happened before. An intelligent nonhumanoid race is discovered, then virtually destroyed before the Council gets off their fat asses to declare equal status.”

  “But the city…”

  “That was our mistake and our good fortune. Your father didn’t know it existed. Neither d
id we, but we weren’t looking for an intelligent race still running around. We were hunting for something worth a couple credits. And where do you look for buried treasure?”

  “Underground,” supplied Heuser.

  “Right. Underground. So we looked and we found the Ancient Place. We were too stupid to realize this was merely a fraction of the true value of Rhyl. The sandcats have to be granted full intelligent alien rights or knaves like us will continue to come in and take advantage of them.”

  “They’ve done all right up till now,” commented Heuser dryly.

  “But how long would they last if the word got out this … Ancient Place existed?” demanded Steorra. “Nightwind’s right. We’ve got to bring their case before the Council. That’s the only way they can preserve their race and their cultural heritage.”

  “You’re forgetting one minor thing,” said Heuser. “We’re trapped in a pit. We can’t get out to save anyone. We can’t even save ourselves at the moment. And Slayton isn’t likely to have a change of heart.”

  Steorra pursed her lips for a moment, then bit down hard enough on her knuckle that Nightwind thought she would draw blood. Suddenly, she said, “Nightwind! Talk to the Guardian. Ask him if he can communicate with the other sandcats. They could get us out. Toss us a rope, do something!”

  “It’ll be a thought,” he said grinning. He formulated the request and carefully insinuated it into the sandcat’s mind.

  Under compulsion … like when Rulers live … no talk with other … turned against me … but not you … mistake made … think you die … you safe … not me.

  “So much for that. He says the other ‘cats have turned against him. Slayton seems to have shut off its mental rapport with the scepter.”

  “If we can’t get out right this minute, why not find out more about his culture? It’ll prove invaluable when we take the case to the Council. We can point out all the specifics, then.”