The last snow was melting in the forest shade when Deeth made
his second bid for freedom. He had prepared for months. First he
concentrated on convincing Jackson that he had resigned himself to
his fate. He faithfully did all he was told, and cared for the old
man beyond what was demanded. He made no effort to flee when
apparent opportunities arose. Nor did he struggle much against
perversions or the incessant maltreatment. He suffered in silence,
stoically waiting.
He began decorating the stage of his revenge in the fall, under
the guise of caring for Jackson. During autumn he carpeted the
cavern floor with leaves. When the chills moved in and it became
necessary to keep a fire burning, he gathered piles of firewood.
While foraging wood he collected small, sharp stones that he
concealed around the cave.
On the night he chose he cut his neck rope with an edged rock.
Hours passed while he sawed, painstakingly avoiding rustling the
leaves of his bed. When he was done he did not immediately
flee.
Holding the parted rope round his neck, he rose and stoked up
the fire. The old man wakened, as he always did when Deeth stirred.
He cursed Deeth for disturbing him. Deeth bowed his head and went
on with his work. Jackson settled back into a grumbling snore.
Deeth built the fire higher and higher. It began to roar, and
pull a breeze into the cave.
Concealed near the fire were the things he wanted to take: a
hide blanket, steel for fire-starting, a package of dried fruit. He
tossed them out the cave mouth.
Jackson snapped to awareness, suspicious and crabby. He jerked
the rope. It flew into his face. He stared at the frayed end in
dull-witted surprise.
Deeth seized a forked stick and shoveled fire onto the dry,
powdery leaves. He skipped back and toppled the huge kindling
stack, carefully prepared for the moment. It slid into the flames.
The fire gnawed at it, leaping higher and crackling louder by the
second.
Deeth dumped piles of larger wood.
The old man, cursing, terrified, staggered out of his chair and
tried to charge through before the barrier became impassable.
Deeth floored him with a thrown stone.
The power of hatred was in his arm. He whistled that rock into
Jackson’s chest with such force that he heard brittle old
ribs crack.
Jackson rose for another try. The trap had closed. He retreated
instead.
Deeth watched in fascination as Jackson screamed and danced in
the fire. Eventually, crazed with pain, the old man flung himself
at the barrier again. He crashed through and collapsed outside,
twitching all over, feebly crawling toward his tormentor.
Deeth backed a step when necessary, and collected his supplies,
but did not leave till Jackson died.
He felt no real emotion afterward. It had not been an execution,
even, just an ending of misery.
He started toward the village.
The boy had been scarred. Something had been carved out of him
in that cave. Never again would he feel true, whole, mortal
emotion. He had become that fearful, wholly pragmatic monster which
has no conscience, and no comprehension of emotion. Henceforth he
would fake it, when necessary, as protective coloration, and would
believe that everyone else was doing the same. The only things with
meaning, most of the time, would be his own whims, fancies, and
hatreds. Everyone else he would see as objects to be moved and
used.
Deeth had acted now because the village chieftain had condemned
the girl Emily to another week in the punishment pit. He could
spirit her away without having to sneak her out of the
chieftain’s house.
He had to enter and leave the village past a guard watching for
a night raid by neighboring tribes. Going in, the sentry was asleep
at his post. Deeth crept past. Keeping to the deepest darkness, he
moved to the chieftain’s hut.
The pit had been covered with a lid made of hide on a wooden
frame. Rocks weighted it down. Deeth removed it.
He lay on his stomach and whispered, “Emily! It’s
time.” He could see nothing below, but knew she was awake. He
heard her frightened breathing.
One of the village’s domesticated beasts snorted nearby.
It sensed his presence, but was neither noisy nor excitable. It did
not give him away.
“Emily! Come on. It’s Deeth.”
She did not respond.
“Come on!” Time was passing. He dared not waste much
on a frightened slave. He reached down, tried to get hold of her
hair. His arm was not long enough. “Come on, girl. Give me
your hand. We’ve got to get moving.”
She whimpered.
He knew she had suffered, but hardly more than he. What was the
matter with her? Was the spirit of these animals that easily
broken?
“Your hand!” he snapped. He reached again.
And felt her touch and grab him. He braced himself and pulled.
Wriggling and whimpering, naked, she slithered out of the pit.
“Now what?” he asked himself. She could not face the
cold unclad, nor could she run through the woods naked. The
underbrush would flay her. “Get something to wear,” he
ordered, indicating the chieftain’s hut.
She shook her head.
“Move!” Deeth snarled.
Still she shook her head.
“Dammit, go!” He snapped fingertips against her cold
bare buttocks. She yipped softly, then vanished into the house.
Deeth chewed his lip, crouched beside the hovel, watched the
hills for the ghost of dawn. They had made noise. Had anyone
heard?
The animal made more curiosity sounds, a kind of continuous
questioning grunt. It could not leave its pen to investigate. The
night creatures of the woods hooted and chattered and whistled.
What about those? He had heard of no large predators. That did
not mean that they did not exist. He knew Prefactlas only by what
he had seen. Jackson had not let him see much.
The girl returned. She had clothed herself in furs.
“Yuloa’s things,” she whispered. She had stolen
them from the chieftain’s son.
Deeth chuckled softly, nervously. “We’d better get
started. It’ll be sunrise pretty soon.”
“Where’re we going?”
He did not know. He had not planned beyond getting her out of
the pit. He just did not know enough about this world.
“Back to the station,” he told her. He set off
before she could protest. They had to go somewhere, if only to get
away from here. She followed after a moment’s hesitation.
The sentry had moved, but was asleep again. They passed him
carefully.
Deeth stopped after another hundred yards. He did not know the
way. The direction, yes, but not the paths.
Pride would not permit him to confess ignorance to an animal. He
resumed walking before Emily asked questions.
An hour later, while they were struggling through underbrush on
a steep hillside, she asked, “Why don’t we use the
trail? It’s just over there.” Panting, she added,
“Doing it this way takes a lot of time. They’ll be
after us pretty soon.”
Deeth frowned. Was she going to be a talker, all the time
questioning and nagging?
She had a point. And had presented it without questioning his
reasons for doing things his way. “You could be
right.”
He went in the direction she indicated. He encountered a narrow
track. The going became easier. They reached the forest’s
edge as dawn began painting bold strokes of crimson and gold on a
canvas of indigo clouds.
“We’ll rest here,” Deeth said. He settled down
with his back against the trunk of a huge tree. Two giant roots
made arms for his momentary throne.
Before him lay the plain the Norbon had cleared when first they
had come to Prefactlas. It was lifeless now, except for a few feral
grazers and the morning birds dipping and weaving after insects.
Nothing but ruins remained where the Norbon complex had stood. Even
the great-house, which had been constructed as a fortress, had been
smashed level with the plain. Grass and moss colored its
fire-blackened remains.
Of the other structures there was even less evidence. The human
Marines had done a thorough job.
And then they had gone. Not even a watch unit had been left
behind. The baked landing sites of their assault craft had
disappeared under new growth.
He stared and thought. There would be little here for him.
Nothing lay behind but torture or death. He had to go on.
Where to? Any animals they encountered would treat them no
better than those they had known. And if they reached an area
controlled by Confederation humans? The girl would give him
away.
Tomorrow and tomorrow. This was today. He had to meet the
problems as they arose. Right now he had to keep moving.
“Deeth? Maybe we shouldn’t stay here too long. They
know I’m gone by now.”
Deeth rose and walked toward the ruins. Maybe he could find
something useful.
The lower limb of the sun cleared the horizon before they
reached the site. Their path led them past scores of skeletons.
Some had been scattered by scavengers. Shreds of Sangaree clothing
clung to most. Deeth found one small one wearing Dharvon
w’Pugh’s bright party pantaloons. His skull had been
crashed.
Deeth stood over his old enemy. That was no way for an heir to
die.
He looked for the kitchens. They seemed the most likely source
for something useful.
He poked around for an hour. It was useless. The ruins had been
picked as clean as the Sangaree bones. Emily said all the nearby
villagers had appeared once the Marines departed.
He came up with a battered aluminum cup and a butcher knife
without a handle. He gave them to Emily. He scrounged a pointed,
foot-long shard of glassteel for himself. He might be able to mount
it on a handle or shaft. He moved to the armory, hoping to find a
weapon. The raiders and scavengers had been thorough. He came up
with nothing but a bottle of lasegun coolant he could drain for use
as a canteen.
He was empting the bottle when the girl shouted. She waved at
the sky. A faint chuga-chuga-chuga came from hight overhead.
A Confederation support ship was moving south. Deeth scrambled
across the rubble, knocked Emily down. She kicked and screamed
and . . .
The patrol dwindled into the distance. They watched it go. Deeth
helped Emily up.
“Why?” she demanded. “They would’ve
helped us. Oh. Well, I could’ve gone with them.”
“You’re Norbon.” Deeth turned his back. He
started kicking rubble around, remembering.
He had been on Prefactlas just one week when the raiders came.
Not long, but long enough to have fallen in love with the station
and staff. It had been his first trip off Homeworld. Everything had
seemed romantic. Especially old Rhafu.
What had become of the breeding master? He had been a real man.
Probably took several of the animals with him.
“Time to go, Emily,” he said. “We should be
off the plain before they track us here.” He started after
the copter. South was the only direction to go.
He was not ready to confront Prefactlas’s conquerors, but
had to be near their main base when he was. Their headquarters, he
guessed, would be the Sexon holding. It was the biggest on the
planet, most easily defended, and had the best communications
facilities. It would make an ideal bridgehead for human occupation.
It lay near the planet’s main spaceport, a facility capable
of handling the heaviest lighters.
That would have to be their destination. Only there could he get
off planet.
There was one small problem. The Sexon holding lay more than a
thousand miles away.
The journey took the youngsters three years. It was punctuated
by interims of slavery as grim as their first. Adversity forged
nickel-hard transethnic bonds between them. They became a survival
unit.
Emily lost any desire to be away from or to betray him.
Years passed after their arrival. They begged. They were forced
into schools or orphanages. They did odd jobs. Emily got work as a
cleaning girl in the offices of Prefactlas Corporation. They
survived. And Deeth almost forgot his father’s parting
charge.
They were sixteen when the wildly improbable happened. Emily
became pregnant.
Deeth’s world shifted its axis. He woke up. He began
looking in new directions. He could not raise a child himself. He
was Sangaree. He had a duty to the infant, wanted or not.
Emily’s job had brought her into contact with the
President of the Corporation. He was bemused by the girl. He kept
plying her with little gifts.
Deeth went off by himself. He did a lot of thinking. And
hurting. Emily’s suitor was the man who had led the attack on
his family. His orders had caused all the deaths at the Norbon
station. The man was his dearest enemy. And the one real hope for
his unborn child.
Sangaree prided themselves on their pragmatism.
“Go to him,” Deeth told Emily. “Make him your
man. Don’t argue. He has what you need. Yesterday is done.
Tomorrow we begin new lives.”
She refused. She fought. She cried.
He put her out of their shanty and held the door till she went
away. He sat with his back to it and wept.
The last snow was melting in the forest shade when Deeth made
his second bid for freedom. He had prepared for months. First he
concentrated on convincing Jackson that he had resigned himself to
his fate. He faithfully did all he was told, and cared for the old
man beyond what was demanded. He made no effort to flee when
apparent opportunities arose. Nor did he struggle much against
perversions or the incessant maltreatment. He suffered in silence,
stoically waiting.
He began decorating the stage of his revenge in the fall, under
the guise of caring for Jackson. During autumn he carpeted the
cavern floor with leaves. When the chills moved in and it became
necessary to keep a fire burning, he gathered piles of firewood.
While foraging wood he collected small, sharp stones that he
concealed around the cave.
On the night he chose he cut his neck rope with an edged rock.
Hours passed while he sawed, painstakingly avoiding rustling the
leaves of his bed. When he was done he did not immediately
flee.
Holding the parted rope round his neck, he rose and stoked up
the fire. The old man wakened, as he always did when Deeth stirred.
He cursed Deeth for disturbing him. Deeth bowed his head and went
on with his work. Jackson settled back into a grumbling snore.
Deeth built the fire higher and higher. It began to roar, and
pull a breeze into the cave.
Concealed near the fire were the things he wanted to take: a
hide blanket, steel for fire-starting, a package of dried fruit. He
tossed them out the cave mouth.
Jackson snapped to awareness, suspicious and crabby. He jerked
the rope. It flew into his face. He stared at the frayed end in
dull-witted surprise.
Deeth seized a forked stick and shoveled fire onto the dry,
powdery leaves. He skipped back and toppled the huge kindling
stack, carefully prepared for the moment. It slid into the flames.
The fire gnawed at it, leaping higher and crackling louder by the
second.
Deeth dumped piles of larger wood.
The old man, cursing, terrified, staggered out of his chair and
tried to charge through before the barrier became impassable.
Deeth floored him with a thrown stone.
The power of hatred was in his arm. He whistled that rock into
Jackson’s chest with such force that he heard brittle old
ribs crack.
Jackson rose for another try. The trap had closed. He retreated
instead.
Deeth watched in fascination as Jackson screamed and danced in
the fire. Eventually, crazed with pain, the old man flung himself
at the barrier again. He crashed through and collapsed outside,
twitching all over, feebly crawling toward his tormentor.
Deeth backed a step when necessary, and collected his supplies,
but did not leave till Jackson died.
He felt no real emotion afterward. It had not been an execution,
even, just an ending of misery.
He started toward the village.
The boy had been scarred. Something had been carved out of him
in that cave. Never again would he feel true, whole, mortal
emotion. He had become that fearful, wholly pragmatic monster which
has no conscience, and no comprehension of emotion. Henceforth he
would fake it, when necessary, as protective coloration, and would
believe that everyone else was doing the same. The only things with
meaning, most of the time, would be his own whims, fancies, and
hatreds. Everyone else he would see as objects to be moved and
used.
Deeth had acted now because the village chieftain had condemned
the girl Emily to another week in the punishment pit. He could
spirit her away without having to sneak her out of the
chieftain’s house.
He had to enter and leave the village past a guard watching for
a night raid by neighboring tribes. Going in, the sentry was asleep
at his post. Deeth crept past. Keeping to the deepest darkness, he
moved to the chieftain’s hut.
The pit had been covered with a lid made of hide on a wooden
frame. Rocks weighted it down. Deeth removed it.
He lay on his stomach and whispered, “Emily! It’s
time.” He could see nothing below, but knew she was awake. He
heard her frightened breathing.
One of the village’s domesticated beasts snorted nearby.
It sensed his presence, but was neither noisy nor excitable. It did
not give him away.
“Emily! Come on. It’s Deeth.”
She did not respond.
“Come on!” Time was passing. He dared not waste much
on a frightened slave. He reached down, tried to get hold of her
hair. His arm was not long enough. “Come on, girl. Give me
your hand. We’ve got to get moving.”
She whimpered.
He knew she had suffered, but hardly more than he. What was the
matter with her? Was the spirit of these animals that easily
broken?
“Your hand!” he snapped. He reached again.
And felt her touch and grab him. He braced himself and pulled.
Wriggling and whimpering, naked, she slithered out of the pit.
“Now what?” he asked himself. She could not face the
cold unclad, nor could she run through the woods naked. The
underbrush would flay her. “Get something to wear,” he
ordered, indicating the chieftain’s hut.
She shook her head.
“Move!” Deeth snarled.
Still she shook her head.
“Dammit, go!” He snapped fingertips against her cold
bare buttocks. She yipped softly, then vanished into the house.
Deeth chewed his lip, crouched beside the hovel, watched the
hills for the ghost of dawn. They had made noise. Had anyone
heard?
The animal made more curiosity sounds, a kind of continuous
questioning grunt. It could not leave its pen to investigate. The
night creatures of the woods hooted and chattered and whistled.
What about those? He had heard of no large predators. That did
not mean that they did not exist. He knew Prefactlas only by what
he had seen. Jackson had not let him see much.
The girl returned. She had clothed herself in furs.
“Yuloa’s things,” she whispered. She had stolen
them from the chieftain’s son.
Deeth chuckled softly, nervously. “We’d better get
started. It’ll be sunrise pretty soon.”
“Where’re we going?”
He did not know. He had not planned beyond getting her out of
the pit. He just did not know enough about this world.
“Back to the station,” he told her. He set off
before she could protest. They had to go somewhere, if only to get
away from here. She followed after a moment’s hesitation.
The sentry had moved, but was asleep again. They passed him
carefully.
Deeth stopped after another hundred yards. He did not know the
way. The direction, yes, but not the paths.
Pride would not permit him to confess ignorance to an animal. He
resumed walking before Emily asked questions.
An hour later, while they were struggling through underbrush on
a steep hillside, she asked, “Why don’t we use the
trail? It’s just over there.” Panting, she added,
“Doing it this way takes a lot of time. They’ll be
after us pretty soon.”
Deeth frowned. Was she going to be a talker, all the time
questioning and nagging?
She had a point. And had presented it without questioning his
reasons for doing things his way. “You could be
right.”
He went in the direction she indicated. He encountered a narrow
track. The going became easier. They reached the forest’s
edge as dawn began painting bold strokes of crimson and gold on a
canvas of indigo clouds.
“We’ll rest here,” Deeth said. He settled down
with his back against the trunk of a huge tree. Two giant roots
made arms for his momentary throne.
Before him lay the plain the Norbon had cleared when first they
had come to Prefactlas. It was lifeless now, except for a few feral
grazers and the morning birds dipping and weaving after insects.
Nothing but ruins remained where the Norbon complex had stood. Even
the great-house, which had been constructed as a fortress, had been
smashed level with the plain. Grass and moss colored its
fire-blackened remains.
Of the other structures there was even less evidence. The human
Marines had done a thorough job.
And then they had gone. Not even a watch unit had been left
behind. The baked landing sites of their assault craft had
disappeared under new growth.
He stared and thought. There would be little here for him.
Nothing lay behind but torture or death. He had to go on.
Where to? Any animals they encountered would treat them no
better than those they had known. And if they reached an area
controlled by Confederation humans? The girl would give him
away.
Tomorrow and tomorrow. This was today. He had to meet the
problems as they arose. Right now he had to keep moving.
“Deeth? Maybe we shouldn’t stay here too long. They
know I’m gone by now.”
Deeth rose and walked toward the ruins. Maybe he could find
something useful.
The lower limb of the sun cleared the horizon before they
reached the site. Their path led them past scores of skeletons.
Some had been scattered by scavengers. Shreds of Sangaree clothing
clung to most. Deeth found one small one wearing Dharvon
w’Pugh’s bright party pantaloons. His skull had been
crashed.
Deeth stood over his old enemy. That was no way for an heir to
die.
He looked for the kitchens. They seemed the most likely source
for something useful.
He poked around for an hour. It was useless. The ruins had been
picked as clean as the Sangaree bones. Emily said all the nearby
villagers had appeared once the Marines departed.
He came up with a battered aluminum cup and a butcher knife
without a handle. He gave them to Emily. He scrounged a pointed,
foot-long shard of glassteel for himself. He might be able to mount
it on a handle or shaft. He moved to the armory, hoping to find a
weapon. The raiders and scavengers had been thorough. He came up
with nothing but a bottle of lasegun coolant he could drain for use
as a canteen.
He was empting the bottle when the girl shouted. She waved at
the sky. A faint chuga-chuga-chuga came from hight overhead.
A Confederation support ship was moving south. Deeth scrambled
across the rubble, knocked Emily down. She kicked and screamed
and . . .
The patrol dwindled into the distance. They watched it go. Deeth
helped Emily up.
“Why?” she demanded. “They would’ve
helped us. Oh. Well, I could’ve gone with them.”
“You’re Norbon.” Deeth turned his back. He
started kicking rubble around, remembering.
He had been on Prefactlas just one week when the raiders came.
Not long, but long enough to have fallen in love with the station
and staff. It had been his first trip off Homeworld. Everything had
seemed romantic. Especially old Rhafu.
What had become of the breeding master? He had been a real man.
Probably took several of the animals with him.
“Time to go, Emily,” he said. “We should be
off the plain before they track us here.” He started after
the copter. South was the only direction to go.
He was not ready to confront Prefactlas’s conquerors, but
had to be near their main base when he was. Their headquarters, he
guessed, would be the Sexon holding. It was the biggest on the
planet, most easily defended, and had the best communications
facilities. It would make an ideal bridgehead for human occupation.
It lay near the planet’s main spaceport, a facility capable
of handling the heaviest lighters.
That would have to be their destination. Only there could he get
off planet.
There was one small problem. The Sexon holding lay more than a
thousand miles away.
The journey took the youngsters three years. It was punctuated
by interims of slavery as grim as their first. Adversity forged
nickel-hard transethnic bonds between them. They became a survival
unit.
Emily lost any desire to be away from or to betray him.
Years passed after their arrival. They begged. They were forced
into schools or orphanages. They did odd jobs. Emily got work as a
cleaning girl in the offices of Prefactlas Corporation. They
survived. And Deeth almost forgot his father’s parting
charge.
They were sixteen when the wildly improbable happened. Emily
became pregnant.
Deeth’s world shifted its axis. He woke up. He began
looking in new directions. He could not raise a child himself. He
was Sangaree. He had a duty to the infant, wanted or not.
Emily’s job had brought her into contact with the
President of the Corporation. He was bemused by the girl. He kept
plying her with little gifts.
Deeth went off by himself. He did a lot of thinking. And
hurting. Emily’s suitor was the man who had led the attack on
his family. His orders had caused all the deaths at the Norbon
station. The man was his dearest enemy. And the one real hope for
his unborn child.
Sangaree prided themselves on their pragmatism.
“Go to him,” Deeth told Emily. “Make him your
man. Don’t argue. He has what you need. Yesterday is done.
Tomorrow we begin new lives.”
She refused. She fought. She cried.
He put her out of their shanty and held the door till she went
away. He sat with his back to it and wept.