Empire of Two Worlds

by Barrington J. Bayley

  There were still Rotrox in Rheatt, too, stalking about with their habitual arrogance, sometimes with the traditional molten metal-spewing lances, but more often with the repeaters and handguns that we had given them. They were respected by the Rheattic élite, but not admired.

  Mine was the face that was most known in Rheatt. The organisation was largely my direct handiwork, and I still put in a personal appearance from time to time. But lately, like the others, I had grown taciturn and had withdrawn into a self-created environment.

  Becmath had not stepped outside his tower for years. I myself had not seen him in the flesh since I had killed Tone; but he had been there, the constant shadow that followed and instructed me by television.

  So it was something of an event when Bec called us together. When I entered his apartment Reeth, Grale and Hassmann were already there, sitting around waiting for me. Bec was sitting in the same chair that I had seen him in five years before, still surrounded by flickering television screens.

  Of us all, Bec had aged the most. His white face had become slightly puffy and his eyes were tired. The others were simply ten years older, but fit and alert. At that, though, Bec was the only one who hadn’t put on weight through eating so much rich food.

  He wasted no time in getting down to business.

  “I guess you boys didn’t believe me, that time when we were on the outside and running, that one day we’d be back to get even with all those klugs who crossed us,” he said, “but that day has come. Now’s the time for the push on Klittmann.”

  Reeth shrugged. “I’m happy as things are. But anything you say, boss.”

  Grale grinned. His face had become more swarthy in the years we’d lived in Rheatt. “It can’t be too soon for me. We’ve been too long in this damned sun-drenched, green-skinned place.”

  “That’s the idea,” Bec said approvingly. “You think we’re doing all right here? So we are. But we’re living on the wrong planet. Wait till we’ve finished on Killibol: Klittmann’s only the beginning, we’re going to move all over. I’ll give you a city apiece all for your own. Ten cities apiece. Nobody knows just how many cities there are on Killibol.”

  “What about the Rotrox, Bec?” Hassmann rumbled, “Where do they fit in?”

  Bec snorted, making a vague gesture with his hand. “They’ll expect it to be their empire, like Rheatt. But don’t worry: I don’t intend to be their hireling for very long. In the cities of Killibol we’ll be in a world they don’t understand at all. Furthermore we’ll have gigantic industries and the energies of trained populations all at our disposal. It’ll make our effort here look like protein peanuts.”

  Grale gave a delighted laugh. “You mean we’re gonna push those klugs out of it, boss? I like that!”

  “That’s right. We’ll play along with them for a short while, but we’ll soon push them off Killibol; and then we’ll push them right off Rheatt and back up on to Merame. They can have Merame, I don’t want it.”

  Reeth made a face. “What do we want with Rheatt, if it comes to that? Let them have it. We can guard the gateway and they’d never get through. We could even destroy it again.”

  “We’ll need Rheatt for a while,” Bec said without explanation.

  I presumed he meant we’d need it for the sake of the Rheattite troops who would be on the campaign. He wouldn’t want to throw away all the work we’d done here. At that, it would be some months, at least, before we were sufficiently consolidated in Klittmann to consider turning against our blood brothers, the Rotrox tribe.

  I had kept silent so far because I already knew Bec’s mind on these matters. Now he turned to me.

  “We have to straighten out the position with the Rotrox, Klein. I want you to make a trip to Merame and talk to the Council.”

  A slight chill went up my spine at the thought of appearing before those cold, cruel men on their own ground.

  “What do I tell them?”

  “Formally it’s a request from me for them to order the campaign and contribute their own forces. I’ll give you a recorded message in my own voice. Besides that, we have to cover our rear. I don’t want any funny business going on while we’re all away in Klittmann settling scores. So make it look like we have a common accord and play the good servant.”

  Hassmann, Grale and Reeth were all grinning.

  Grale clapped his hands together. “I’ve waited nine years to get my hands on some white women!”

  I travelled in one of the cylinders that regularly dropped out of the sky and ascended again to Merame. This was my first time off-planet — the first time for any of us.

  The cylinders worked by acting on the Earth’s magnetic field in some way, and they gave off a loud humming when they moved that reverberated through the crude, cavernous interior. Crossing between Earth and Merame was as much as they could manage: they were helpless deeper in interplanetary space.

  I would have liked to take a look at a deep space, but there weren’t any windows. The crossing lasted about a day; then a heavy jolt told me we had landed on Merame.

  The Rotrox crew gladly stripped off their muscle assists. They were in their own element now.

  A section of the wall opened up to form a ramp. The cold, thin air of Merame breezed in.

  The sun was on the horizon, looking small and hot. The landscape was dull and grey, the soil lead-like. Some stunted, scrubby-looking bushes grew here and there, looking poor and wretched and cowed by the sharply rising mountains to the south.

  At one time, according to Harmen, Merame had possessed neither life nor air. It was habitable now only because of the work of man, who either by accident or design had introduced species which had survived and adapted themselves gradually to local conditions, like the Meramites themselves. Plants and bacteria had released an atmosphere out of the soil and in the course of time a self-supporting ecology had developed.

  Neither the Earth nor the Meramite races were aware of this. It had all happened a million years ago, back before the dawn of their history.

  The Rheattite secretary I had brought with me to help with the language scanned the scene. I could see the revulsion written on his face. To his cultured eyes the bleak landscape was like hell, an impression intensified by his already having served a spell here as a slave.

  But I found that I quite liked it. It reminded me of Killibol, except that the light was still far too bright. Half a mile away some low hut-like structures were the only sign of human life. Our Rotrox guides stepped down the ramp and led the way. Gone was the half-stalking, half-loping gait that had characterised them on Earth: their tall, gangling, broad-chested bodies really were adapted to low gravity and they walked upright with a new confidence.

  My Rheattite had already advised me how I should walk: body leaning forward slightly, taking small gliding steps, and always thinking one step ahead. I got the hang of it after a few yards and was able to continue looking around.

  There was one other feature of Merame that gave it an even closer, though bizarre, resemblance to Killibol. Dotted about the landscape were lumpy monoliths of a rough, concrete-like substance, looking for all the world like scale models of Killibol cities.

  But these were built by a species of insect called termites. I had seen these rocky towers on Earth also, where they rarely reached more than about seven feet in height. The Merame termites had evolved to a size of three or four inches and their silent, rocky pillars rose between fifty and a hundred feet.

  We passed through the shadow of one of them to reach the Rotrox buildings. These turned out to be more extensive than had appeared at first, forming a barrack-like circle round the rim of a large crater whose further end was lost in darkness. The lip of the crater had been smoothed down to the level of the surrounding terrain and its floor, about a hundred feet below us, was lost in shadows and flickering, purple lights.

  We entered one of the buildings, which was similar to the corridor-like structures I was used to on Earth, and which had open doors in each wall
through which I glimpsed the crater down below. Our Rotrox guides spoke to an older countryman who wore, in addition to the tribal uniform, a long flaring cloak, and then withdrew. The elderly Rotrox stared at me, ignoring the Rheattite, and gave a cold, withering smile.

  “Welcome to Merame, blood-brother. The Council of the Rotrox knows of your arrival and will receive you now. Are you prepared?”

  Bec and I had both studied Rotrox, but not deeply. I could just about follow him. The Rheattite interpreter, receiving no signal from me, said nothing. I nodded.

  He led us through the opposite door and on to a platform which overhung the lip of the crater. The platform was an elevator: we sank down into the gloom past a smooth wall lined with numerous entrances. It seemed the whole lining of the crater was riddled with tunnels.

  The platform came to a halt at one of these. We walked along it for some distance in silence. It was lit by fierce electric lights which cast an eerie, slightly greenish radiance and made the skin of the Rotrox look as if it was covered in some sort of fungus. Finally he took us down a flight of spiral steps and into a circular chamber more luxurious than anything we had seen so far.

  The Council of the Rotrox lounged on low couches, their long legs sprawled out over the floor. There were eight of them, including the man who had brought us here and who now took his place among them. They were arranged roughly in a semi-circle. Behind them blank-faced Rheattite slaves stood on attendance.

  Rotrox faces all look alike to me, but I recognised Imnitrin by the duelling scar that ran across his brow and down his left cheek. He nodded a greeting to me, climbed to his feet and named the others in turn.

  The Rotrox language is poor in vowels; it has only two: short i and short o, and it is rare for both to occur in the same word. The names of the rulers of Merame were: Oblo, Mincinitrix, Tinikimni, Koblorotovro, Oxotoblow, Villitrinimin and Ozhtoblorro. And, of course, Imnitrin. Rotrox speech was a train of almost indistinguishably like-sounding syllables, which made it difficult to learn.

  Imnitrin sat down. I felt nervous with their eyes all on me, but I decided to waste no time. Speaking through the interpreter, I said: “I have a message, blood-brothers, from your servant Becmath, Governor of Rheatt.”

  Placing the recording on a table — which was Rotrox-size and came up to my chest — I flipped the switch. Bec’s baritone voice came out, speaking Rotrox with studied ease.

  “From the Governor of the territory of Rheatt to the Supreme Council of the Rotrox, rulers of all Merame and of Territories on Earth,” Bec began. “I can now report to my blood-brothers that preparations are nearing completion for a successful conquest of the world of Killibol. I can promise my blood-brothers that if they so command the invasion can commence almost immediately, with every assurance of success. It is my fervent hope that the warriors of the Rotrox will be eager to join me in this great adventure.”

  The recording finished. One of the Rotrox — I had failed to keep track of their names — lifted up a Klittmann-type repeater that was lying on his couch.

  “Our brother speaks of success. But are these not the weapons wielded also by the nations of Killibol? Could they not put millions of men in the field?”

  “The people of Killibol live in large, enclosed cities which do not make war on one another,” I explained. “They expect no attack and maintain no armies. There will be fighting, but with the help of one, perhaps two legions of Rotrox as well as the trained men of Rheatt who are now loyal to the Rotrox Empire, we cannot fail.”

  For a moment or two the iciness in the air made me think that something was wrong. But then the atmosphere suddenly broke. Imnitrin gestured imperiously to his green-skinned servant, who hurried forward and poured a dark musk-coloured fluid from a jug into a silver goblet, which he handed to me. I sipped the drink. It had a deep, earthy flavour.

  “Tell Becmath that we are well pleased with our blood-brothers the white men of Killibol,” said an aged Rotrox whose name might have been Oblo. “We shall despatch two legions to Earth for despatch to the new planet. Soon there will be three worlds in the Empire of the Rotrox and all beings everywhere will fear and quake at the mention of our name.”

  A feeling of relief passed through me. They suspected nothing of our long-term intentions. They were going to play along, although frankly I would have been happier with one legion rather than two of Rotrox rampaging about Klittmann. All those cold-minded warriors might be hard to handle, I thought.

  They all tossed off their drinks and had them refilled. They were developing a kind of jovial camaraderie at the prospect of the coming campaign. Imnitrin promised he would command the two Rotrox legions himself.

  “It will be a pleasure to fight alongside Becmath again,” he said, his high-pitched voice becoming congratulatory and, perhaps, slightly drunk.

  “Tell me,” he continued, drinking yet more of the brew, “what will Becmath do with his enemies when he has them in his power?”

  I shrugged. “Kill them, maybe, if they still oppose him.”

  “Kill them? That is a mild pleasure indeed.” Imnitrin leaped to his feet. “Will he not punish them at length, taunt them and gloat over them? Where is the joy of conquest if it is not to see one’s enemies miserable? Simply to die is no great pain. Come with me, brother, and perhaps Becmath will be interested to hear how we deal with the defeated.”

  He paused at the door and glanced at my Rheattite secretary. “Never mind your interpreter. I will speak Rheattite where necessary.” The secretary, who had become more faltering and fearful as the councillors had become more jovial, thankfully joined his countrymen at the rear of the room.

  Imnitrin led me through seemingly endless corridors and down winding stone steps. The atmosphere began to grow dank and depressing, the light dimmer. I sensed we were approaching the dungeons of this intricate warren.

  “Let us through, jailer. Let the guest see our prisoners.”

  At the end of a corridor whose walls dripped moisture two Rotrox stood to attention before a vast metal door. With a jangling of chains and locks the door swung open. A faint cacophony of sighs, groans, mutterings and clinkings met my ears.

  I got the impression that the dungeon was well ramified. Other corridors crossed the one we took. We sauntered down it, peering in cell after cell.

  It was pretty sickening. The cells were mostly occupied by minor chiefs and notables from conquered tribes on Merame. The Rotrox were ingenious in thinking up unbearable circumstances for their victims to spend the rest of their lives in. Men — and sometimes women — wallowed in filth, in excrement. One stood up to his neck in water, another in a sort of mud that bubbled and gave off a thick stench and was intolerably hot. They hung from hooks or were entwined in intricate cutting machines that sliced their internal organs slowly and perpetually. They stared back at us with eyes long gone blank from prolonged suffering.

  “Tell Becmath we will accommodate any special prisoners he wishes to send us,” Imnitrin piped cheerfully. “We can arrange special television coverage so that he can watch their agonies. Here is a prisoner of special interest to you — Dalgo, once chief of Rheatt. We have long grown bored with torturing him. We decided that he is most miserable when simply sitting in pitch darkness and brooding over the humiliation that has befallen his nation.”

  He flung open an iron door and flicked a switch, at which light flooded the darkened cell. The man who sat there at a small table looked up, dazzled.

  So this was Dalgo. He was broad, for a Rheattite, and his face was less effete than was usual; it was a fighter’s face. It was ravaged and lined by the time he had spent here in the Rotrox dungeons, yet somehow his shoulders were still straight and undefeated.

  He said nothing. I stared at him, trying to imagine what it must have been like to have spent ten years in this place.

  “I’d like to talk to him,” I said suddenly.

  Imnitrin smiled. “You wish to remind him of the situation? Good! He will not attack you; he has lea
rned what that would mean to him. I will wait down the corridor.”

  He left, closing but not locking the door behind him.

  “Who is there?” Dalgo said in a hollow voice. “The light hurts me.”

  “My name is Klein,” I told him.

  “Klein?” He seemed to be searching his mind for the name. “Ah, yes. Helper of Becmath, the Rotrox puppet who rules my country. They keep me informed, you see.”

  I wondered if we were being bugged. I hesitated, then said: “Have the Rotrox never offered you a deal? Maybe you could be useful to them. They might free you if you swear loyalty to them, like I did.”

  The faintest hint of a grim smile came to his lips. He turned his eyes away from the light. “I am giving them everything they want from me: pleasure at my discomfort. I have nothing else they need. I know that my country can never be freed from its oppression and for that reason alone they keep me alive. If I had hope, that would give them reason to kill me.”

  Wearily he passed his hand across his eyes. “Perhaps you serve them because you have no choice. I am their prisoner because I have no choice. There is no question of co-operation. They are no more than a blot on creation, but unfortunately the force does not exist that could expunge them.”

  “Your wife is still in Rheatt,” I said after a pause.

  He sighed. “Is she well?”

  “Yes.”

  “She believes I am dead, I suppose.”

  “No,” I told him. “She knows you’re alive. The Rotrox saw to that.”

  A look of doggedness crossed his face. “Can you see her?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “If you truly wish me well, tell her I am dead.”

  I could think of nothing else useful to say so I left, leaving the cell door open behind me. Up the corridor Imnitrin greeted me with the pinched-up, mincing expression of Rotrox hilarity.