On the morning of the third day Jason saw a line of demarcation on the flattened horizon and before the midday meal they came to a sea of billowing, bluish-gray sand. The ending of what he had been accustomed to thinking of as the desert was startling. Beneath their feet were yellow sand and gravel, while occasional shrubs managed a sickly existence as did some grass and the life-giving krenoj. Animals as well as men lived here and, ruthless though survival was, they were at least alive. In the wastes ahead no life was possible or visible, though there seemed to be no doubt that the d’zertanoj lived there. This must mean that though it looked unlimited—as Ijale believed it to be—there were probably arable lands on the other side. Mountains as well, if they weren’t just clouds, since a line of gray peaks could just be made out on the distant horizon.
“Where do we find the d’zertanoj?” he asked the nearest slave who merely scowled and looked away. Jason was having a problem with discipline. The slaves would not do a thing he asked unless he kicked them. Their conditioning had been so thorough that an order unaccompanied by a kick just wasn’t an order and his continued reluctance to impose the physical coercion with the spoken command was just being taken as a sign of weakness. Already some of the burlier slaves were licking their lips and sizing him up. His efforts to im-
prove the life of the slaves were being blocked completely by the slaves themselves. With a mumbled curse at the continued obduracy of the human race Jason sank the toe of his boot into the man.
“Find them there by big rock,” was the immediate response.
There was a dark spot at the desert’s edge in the indicated direction and when they approached Jason saw that it was an outcropping of rock that had been built up with a wall of bricks or boulders to a uniform height. A good number of men could be concealed behind that wall and he was not going to risk his precious slaves or even more precious skin anywhere near it. At his shout the line halted and settled to the sand while he stalked a few meters in front, settling his club in his hand and suspiciously examined the structure.
That there were unseen watchers was proven when a man appeared from around the corner and walked slowly towards Jason. He was dressed in loose-fitting robes and carried a basket on one arm, and when he had reached a point roughly halfway between Jason and the rock he had just quitted he halted and sat crosslegged in the sand, the basket at his side. Jason looked carefully in all directions and decided the position was safe enough. There were no places of concealment where armed men might have hidden and he had no fear of the single man. Club ready he walked out and stopped a full three paces from the other.
“Welcome, Ch’aka,” the man said. “I was afraid we wouldn’t be seeing you again after that little . . . difficulty we had.”
He remained seated while he talked, stroking the few strands of his scraggly beard. His head was shaven smooth and as sunburned and leathery brown as the rest of his face, the most prominent feature of which was the magnificent prow of a nose that terminated in flaring nostrils and was used as sturdy support for a pair of handmade sunglasses. They appeared to be carved completely of bone and fit tightly to the face, their flat, solid fronts were cut with thin transverse slashes. This eye protection, the things could only have been for weak eyes, and the network of wrinkles indicated the man was quite old and would present no danger to Jason.
“I want something,” Jason said, in straightforward, Ch’akaish manner.
“A new voice and a new Ch’aka—I bid you welcome. The old one was a dog and I hope he died in great pain when you killed him. Now sit friend Ch’aka and drink with me.” He carefully opened the basket and removed a stone crock and two crockery mugs.
“Where you get poison drink?” Jason asked, remembering his local manners. This D’zertano was a smart one and had been able to tell instantly from Jason’s voice that there had been a change in slaves. “And what your name?”
“Edipon,” the ancient said as, uninsulted, he put the drinking apparatus back into the basket. “What is it that you want—within reason that is? We always need slaves and we are always willing to trade.”
“I want slave you got. I trade you two for one.”
The seated man smiled coldly from behind the shelter of his nose. “It is not necessary to talk as ungrammatically as the coastal barbarians, since I can tell by your accent that you are a man of education. What slave is it that you want?”
“The one that you just received from Fasimba. He belongs to me.” Jason abandoned his linguistic ruse and put himself even more on guard, taking a quick look around at the empty sands. This dried up old bird was a lot brighter than he looked and he would have to stay on guard.
“Is that all you want?” Edipon asked.
“All I can think of at this moment. You produce this slave and perhaps we can talk more business.”
“I have an even better idea than that.”
Edipon’s laugh had very dirty overtones and Jason sprang back when the oldster put two fingers into his mouth and whistled shrilly between them. There was the rustle of shifting sand and Jason wheeled to see men apparently climbing out of the empty desert, pushing back wooden covers over which the sand had been smoothed. There were six of them, with shields and clubs, and Jason cursed his stupidity at meeting Edipon on a spot of the other’s choosing. He swung his club behind him but the oldster was already scampering for the safety of the rock. Jason howled in anger and ran at the nearest man who was still only halfway out of his hiding place. The man took Jason’s blow on his upraised shield and was toppled back into the pit by the force of it. Jason ran on but another was ahead of him, swinging his own war club in readiness. There was no way around so Jason ran into him at full speed with all of his pendant teeth and horns gnashing and clattering. The man fell back under the attack and Jason split his shield with his club, and would have done further damage except that the other men arrived at that moment and he had to face them.
It was a brief and wicked battle, with Jason giving just a little more than he received. Two of the attackers were down and a third holding his cracked head when the weight of numbers carried Jason to the ground. He called to his slaves for aid, then cursed them when they only remained seated, while his arms were pinioned with rope and his weapons stripped from his body. One of the victors waved to the slaves who now stood and docilely marched into the desert. Jason was dragged, snarling with rage, in the same direction.
There was a wide opening in the desert-facing side of the wall and once through it Jason’s anger instantly vanished. Here was one of the caroj that Ijale had told him about: there could be no doubt of it. He could now understand how, to her uneducated eye, there could exist an uncertainty as to whether the thing was an animal or not. The vehicle was a good ten meters long, shaped roughly like a boat, and bore on the front a large and obviously false animal head covered with fur and resplendent with rows of carved teeth and glistening crystal eyes. There were hide coverings and not-too realistic legs hanging about the thing, surely not enough camouflage to fool a sophisticated six-year old.
This sort of disguise might be good enough to take in the ignorant savages, but the same civilized child would recognize this as a vehicle as soon as he saw the six large
wheels below. They were cut with deep treads and made from some resilient looking substance. No motive power was visible, but Jason almost hooted with joy at the prominent stink of burnt fuel. This crude looking contrivance had some artificial source of power, which might be the product of a local industrial revolution or have been purchased from off-world traders. Either possibility offered the chance of eventual escape from this nameless planet.
The slaves, some of them cringing with terror of the unknown, were kicked up the gangplank and into the caroj. Four of the huskies who had subdued and bound Jason carried him up and dumped him onto the deck where he lay quietly and examined what could be seen of the desert-vehicle’s mechanism. A post projected from the front of the deck and one of the men fitted what could only have b
een a tiller handle over the squared top of it. If this monolithic apparatus steered with the front pair of wheels it must be driven with the rear, so Jason flopped around on the deck until he could look towards the stern. A cabin, the width of the deck, was situated here, windowless and with a single inset door fitted with a grand selection of locks and bolts. Any doubt that this was the engine room was displaced by the black metal smokestack that rose up through the cabin roof.
“We are leaving,” Edipon screeched and waved his thin arms in the air. “Bring in the entranceway. Narsisi stand forward to indicate the way to the caroj. Now—all pray as I go into the shrine to induce the sacred powers to move us towards Putl’ko.” He started towards the cabin, then stopped to point to one of the club bearers. “Erebo you lazy sod, did you remember to fill the watercup of the gods this time, because they grow thirsty?”
“I filled it, I filled it,” Erebo muttered, chewing on a looted kreno.
Preparations made, Edipon went into the recessed doorway and pulled a concealing curtain over it. There was much clanking and rattling as the locks and bolts were opened and he let himself inside. Within a few minutes a black cloud of greasy smoke rolled out of the smokestack and was whipped away by the wind. Almost an hour passed before the sacred powers were ready to move, and they announced their willingness to proceed by screaming and blowing their white breath up in the air. Four of the slaves screamed counterpoint and fainted, while the rest looked as if they would be happier off dead. Jason had had some experience with primitive machines before so the safety valve on the boiler came as no great surprise. He was also prepared when the vehicle shuddered and began to move slowly out into the desert. From the amount of smoke and the quantity of steam escaping from under the stern he didn’t think the engine was very efficient, but primitive as it was it moved the caroj and its load of passengers across the sand at a creeping yet steady pace.
There were more screams from the slaves, and a few tried to leap over the side but were clubbed down. The robe-wrapped d’zertanoj were firmly working their way through the ranks of the captives, pouring ladlefuls of dark liquid down their throats. The first ones to receive it were already slumped unconscious or dead, though the chances were better that they were unconscious since there was no reason for their captors to kill them after going to such lengths to get them in the first place. Jason believed this, but the terrified slaves did not have the solace of his philosophy so struggled on, thinking that they were fighting for their lives. When Jason’s turn came he did not submit meekly, in spite of his beliefs, and managed to bite some fingers and kick one man in the stomach before they sat on him, held his nose and poured a measure of the burning liquid down his throat. It hurt and he was dizzy, and he tried to will himself to throw up, but this was the last thing that he remembered.
To be concluded
SYNOPSIS
JASON dinALT has had his fill of PYRRANS and the constant battle for survival on their death world. The two human groups have reached a reluctant armed truce and the battle against the native life forms is growing easier. But META cannot understand Jason’s growing discomfort, and she has an argument with him just before a strange spaceship lands. Because he is angry and fed up with PYRRUS Jason allows himself to be captured by MIKAH SAMON who is piloting the ship, and whom Jason mistakingly believes to be a policeman.
Once in space Jason discovers his error and regrets the subconscious impulse to leave Pyrrus that allowed him to be captured. Mikah is a zealot who feels that he has a moral mission in life to cure all the ills that human society is heir to. He is unflinchingly narrow-minded in outlook. In order to escape Mikah—and the rigged death-sentence trial he is being returned to C ASSY LI A to face—Jason sabotages the ship. He ruins the controls so that the spaceship will be forced to land on a nearby planet, but does too good a job and the ship is wrecked. Jason is knocked out in the crash landing and saved from certain death by Mikah. They are captured at once by the gruesomely armored CH’AKA and join his gang of slaves.
Life on this backwater planet appears to be short, brutal and nasty. As slaves they struggle up and down a stretch of shoreline desert, booted on by Ch’aka and living very much like animals in this dim version of a stone-age culture that the human colonists have sunk to. Since Ch’aka has all the weapons and know-how, Jason resigns himself to a short interim of slaveship while he learns the local ropes. When Mikah is sold to another slaver he is unable to interfere. Jason befriends MALE, a female slave, and learns from her that this is a dog-eat-dog society with selfishness as the only motivation, and the only way one can rise in life is to kill the person whose job one wants. Armed with this knowledge and a sharpened animal horn Jason unsuccessfully attempts to assassinate Ch’aka and finally defeats him in a desperate hand-to-hand combat. He takes the dead man’s armor and weapons and becomes the new Ch’aka.
Jason discovers that Mikah has been sold to the D’ZER- TANOJ, a mysterious group who live in the inland desert and appear to have at least an iron-age culture since they trade crossbows and fire-makers to the slave holders. Still feeling indebted to Mikah for saving his life, Jason contacts the d’zertanoj in an attempt to buy Mikah back. But he is tricked by their ancient leader, EDIPON, and after a short battle is captured with his slaves. They are all loaded aboard a caro, a large and clumsy steam-powered wagon, and driven off into the desert. Jason fights, but like the others he is forcefully fed a dark liquid that is either an anesthetic or a poison, and loses consciousness.
Part 2
VII
“Drink some more of this,” the voice said, and cold water splashed on Jason’s face and some of it trickled down his throat making him cough. Something hard was pressing into his back and his wrists hurt. Memory seeped back slowly, the fight, the capture and the potion that had been forced upon him. When he opened his eyes he saw a flickering yellow lamp overhead, hung from a chain. He blinked at it and tried to gather enough energy to sit up. A familiar face swam in front of the light and Jason squinted his eyes at it and groaned.
“Is that you Mikah—or are you just part of a nightmare?”
“There is no escape from justice, Jason. It is I, and I have some grave questions to put to you.”
Jason groaned again. “You’re real all right. Even in a nightmare I wouldn’t dare dream up any lines like that. But before the questions, how about telling me a thing or two about the local setup, you should know something since you have been a slave of the D’zertanoj longer than I have.” Jason realized that the pain in his wrists came from heavy iron shackles. A chain passed through them and was stapled to a thick wooden bar on which his head had been resting. “Why the chains—and what is the local hospitality like?”
Mikah resisted the invitation to impart any vital information and returned irresistibly to his own topic.
“When I saw you last you were a slave of Ch’aka, and tonight you were brought in with the other slaves of Ch’aka and chained to the bar while you were unconscious. There was an empty place next to mine and I told them I would tend you if they placed you there, and they did. Now there is something I must know. Before they stripped you I saw that you were wearing the armor and helmet of Ch’aka. Where is the man—what happened to him?”
“Me Ch’aka,” Jason rasped, and burst out coughing from the dryness in his throat. He took a long drink of water from the bowl. “You sound very vindictive, Mikah you old fraud. Where is all the turn-the-other-cheek stuff now? Don’t tell me you could possibly hate the man just because he hit you on the head, fractured your skull and sold you down the river as a slave reject? In case you have been brooding over this injustice you can now be cheered because the evil Ch’aka is no more. He is buried in the trackless wastes and after all the applicants were sifted out I got the job.”
“You killed him?”
“In a word—yes. And don’t think that it was easy since he had all the advantages and I possessed only my native ingenuity, which luckily proved to be enough. It was touch and go
for a while because when I tried to assassinate him in his sleep—”
“You what?” Mikah Samon hissed.
“Got to him at night. You don’t think anyone in his right mind would tackle a monster like that face-to-face do you? Though it ended up that way, since he had some neat gadgets for keeping track of people in the dark. Briefly, we fought, I won, I became Ch’aka, though my reign was neither long nor noble. I followed you as far as the desert where I was neatly trapped by a shrewd old bird name of Edipon who demoted me back to the ranks and took away all my slaves as well. Now that’s my story. So tell me yours, where we are, what goes on here?”
“Assassin! Slave holder!” Mikah reared back, as far as he could under the restraint of the chain, and pointed the finger of judgment at Jason. “Two more charges must be added to your role of infamy. I sicken myself, Jason, that I could ever have felt sympathy for you and tried to help you. I will still help you, but only to stay alive so that you may be taken back to Cassylia for trial and execution.”
Deathworld: The Complete Saga Page 24