HARM, Page 3

  He fell, still urinating, and lay there sobbing in a pool of his own piss.

  TWO

  A WHILE LATER, he realized he was swimming in a small lake. He had to adjust to the reality of it. Warm though the water was, cold was in the air and a speckled darkness spread overhead. The Shawl was passing, that sheet of dust and debris in near-space which brought Dimoff. He and Duskshine were taking advantage of the Dimoff to cross the lake and visit some associates of hers.

  Duskshine still wore her all-concealing veil. She swam confidently beside him. Eventually, his feet touched shingle. He vaguely made out a shoreline with small hills beyond, although all was featureless at this period. When Fremant began to tread sand, he turned to assist the woman.

  Their clothes dripping, they gained the shore. Once out of the water, the cold got to them. A challenge was called ahead. She answered. A man came up to them, leading them to a path. Some men came close, silent, showing no light. He felt their hostility.

  He was intimidated. The long, coarse grass of Stygia brushed their legs. They were guided to a hut behind a ridge and ushered in. The men followed, closing the door. They negotiated an insect-screen. Then a lamp was lit. They were in a long room, furnished with benches and tables.

  To one side stood an iron stove. A woman opened a door in its belly and warmth filtered into the room. Duskshine and Fremant were brought nearer to it, in order to help them dry off. They were glad of it and stood shivering, hands extended to the flames. Her fingers were long and pointed.

  A tall old man with a mane of silver hair came forward and clutched the hands of both of them in welcome.

  “My name is Habander. I am one of the Clandestine Order. We welcome you here. But we need to search you.”

  While the search was in process, Habander raised an interrogatory eyebrow at the girl.

  Duskshine prompted Fremant to introduce himself.

  “He’s here secretly,” she said, her gesticulating hands also trying to explain the situation. “He is one of four of Astaroth’s guards. He must return to the Center before the Shawl passes. Astaroth shuts himself up all alone when it is Dimoff. He comes out afterward and checks that all is as it should be.”

  “How do you know he’s alone? Completely alone?” Habander asked. “And the—er, the wife?”

  The hands fluttered. “Ameethira? They are rarely together…”

  She sighed and looked away.

  Tension mounted in Fremant. There was something here he did not understand.

  Words of welcome came from the throats of many of the men and women assembled in the long, drab room. They had recognized Duskshine. Fremant looked about him. The place reeked of sweat and food and piss. The men here appeared anxious, not of fighting quality. Much like himself, in fact.

  “What’s all the secrecy about?” Fremant asked.

  Habander replied. He had come with his Clandestine companions to Stygia on the starship. The captain, Captain Calex, had been a wise and compassionate man, a great thinker. He had hated the confusions and terror of Earth cultures and had sought out the planet Stygia like a pilgrim, to build a more just world. Many of those who voyaged, as essence, on the ship felt as he did. Many, but not all.

  When the colonists had been reconstituted and the ship finally made landfall, Captain Calex gave a moving speech, according to Habander.

  “He said that we would build a single gentle culture, without the divisions that troubled Earth, with its poisonous history. Our first big effort must be to make friends with the native peoples who lived on this world. There must be no sexual reproduction until we have peace. Peace is paramount. They are strange to us—he said that—but we must face that strangeness and prepare. Any remaining weapons must be destroyed—”

  While Habander was reporting on this noble speech, with an eloquence of his own, Fremant was saying to himself with equal passion, “Who are these crazy people? I prefer working in the Center. Overbearing though Astaroth is, he is at least a reasonable man. Well, with some eccentricities, and of course that poisonous creed. Why did I allow Duskshine to bring me here to this gang of loonies?

  “Why do I trust this bitch when I can’t even see her face? Why do I always play subordinate roles in life? What a pathetic loser I am! And then these nightmare episodes I have, when I seem to be a prisoner somewhere and have to undergo a series of tortures…I’m in my twenties still—I should see someone about all this. Habander is probably another figment of my hallucinations.”

  But Habander was concluding by saying that even before the captain finished his address, a figure jumped on the platform holding a knife.

  The crowd watching gave a great cry. They recognized Astaroth as the attacker. On the ship, after reconstitution, Astaroth had been the leader of the clique known as the Waabees, which had developed in opposition to the Calex party. The Calex party, in the furtherance of peace, had destroyed all weapons on the ship. Astaroth alone had concealed a weapon.

  The knife came down. Captain Calex raised an arm against his attacker. The knife plunged into his heart. He fell at once.

  Many in the crowd gasped in horror, while others of the Waabee party cheered. The assassin shouted, “I am Astaroth! You’ll get to know me better! This dead man misled you all. He was the fool captain who destroyed our weapons. These natives here, these primitive dog-owners, are going to rise and kill us all if we don’t make a show of strength. We are a mere handful of humanity. There are who-knows-how-many millions of them! We must fight them, and no nonsense about it!”

  So it was, said Habander, that Astaroth had come to rule with his stern ascetic creed, calling himself the All-Powerful. He claimed to have secret orders from distant Earth, in particular from WAA. It was on these orders, he claimed, that he and his men began the killing of natives. Task forces were sent out from the city.

  “We Clandestines seek to overthrow Astaroth. We want to make peace with the natives—those who survive.”

  Habander fell silent. He then spoke quietly to Fremant. “So this woman you call Duskshine brought you here. We know who she is. We know you are a guard of Astaroth’s. Why would we trust you?”

  Looking into Habander’s face, Fremant felt some compassion. Here was a man wanting to be liked—in fact, a loser. A loser, yet correct in rejecting Astaroth’s policy of genocide.

  “In another life, I was peaceful, Habander. I was a writer. I wrote comic novels. The only job I could get here was as a guard. I assure you I have no affection for Astaroth.”

  Several Clandestines had gathered to listen, suspiciously, to the conversation. One of them, bearded and as pale as paper, now asked, challengingly, “What is the name of your god?”

  “Believe me, I’m too poor to afford a god.”

  The group muttered to itself at this answer. “So what about god?” Fremant asked, impatiently. “Who is your god?”

  The pale man now pushed himself forward, pointing a grimy finger at Fremant. “We have all been reconstituted. It is a resurrection. So we know our god is great and rules this insect-ridden world. His name may not be spoken—certainly not to you, a stranger.”

  Habander spoke reprovingly. “Please do not offend this man whose help we need.” Turning to Fremant, he said, in a lowered tone, “We do not dare mention the name of our god in case the insect world hears of it and so takes power over us. But you must believe, our god is great and rules the clouds and the seas of Stygia.”

  Fremant was tired of all the oratory and wished to get back to the Center before the Shawl had passed.

  “What’s all this to me?” he asked contemptuously.

  Duskshine touched his arm. “We need you to kill Astaroth,” she said. Her frail little hands made a downward chopping motion.

  The small community started clapping and cheering.

  Fremant took a deep breath. “Haven’t you Clandestines got the guts to kill Astaroth yourselves?” Later he reflected that it was at this moment that he ceased to be a loser and became something more form
idable. He had fallen into the servitude of a man he hated and despised—yes, and feared. Astaroth was a dictator. Yes, it would purge his soul to assassinate him.

  A small bald man with a meager mustache answered him. “Three of our number tried to kill the hated Astaroth the All-Powerful in the past few months. All died trying. But you get close to him in your duties all the time.”

  “Yes, for that reason you are ideal,” another chimed in. “Ideal!”

  “Okay, you deal if you like, but I don’t play cards,” Fremant said, but no one present understood puns. “What’s your secret god doing about all this?”

  “Please,” said Duskshine, clutching his arm. “You are so brave, Fremant, dearest. Strike for being free of tyranny. Then I will be yours.”

  “All right. I’ll do it. I will kill him. I need no nameless god! I’m no coward.”

  He was made to swear on a homemade wooden sword. Anger rose in him. These poor homeless people hid out on this island. Although Stygia was no Paradise, they should be able to lead quiet, ordinary lives. That might come about if he killed Astaroth. In his mind, he saw himself doing the deed—and winning glory for it…

  He and the hooded woman swam back across the lake. All the way, ferocity boiled up in him. As they climbed the shore, he demanded to know why she had not warned him what he was in for. She said she trusted him but needed secrecy. She loved him.

  “Love? Love? You don’t even trust me to see your face!”

  “It’s the rule here, dearest…You know Astaroth insists women go veiled.”

  “Astaroth!” Another Ramson… Ramson, Ramson? Who was…But the thought darted away like a small fish among reeds.

  In a rage, he flung her down on the bank and sat astride her. He tugged and tugged at her hood, tightly tied about her neck. He ripped it off, to stare down at the face, gray in the pallid light, of Aster, the wife or the mistress of Astaroth.

  “You, you brazen bitch? You’d kill your man for love—not for principle? What sort of a woman are you?”

  “Let me go! I hate him, I hate the bully—you have no idea how greatly!” Her face became a mask of loathing.

  “You vile scheming insect! You tricked me into this! Why couldn’t you be honest?”

  “You don’t know what I—”

  “You don’t know what the word honest means! I’ll show you what it means!”

  He stifled her words. He tore off her clothes. She fought him in silence, trying to bite and scratch as they rolled in mud. Still he held her down, growling with rage and lust, finally ripping off her undergarments, tearing them from her legs. The animal scents of her body maddened him. He forced his flesh into her, with a savagery and bitterness that held no joy—a victor’s act. Aster ceased struggling and gave a groan between pain and pleasure, though her face remained distorted with anger.

  The Shawl slid over to the western sky, revealing a sickly dawn.

  Not speaking, they made their way back to the Center, she clutching her torn clothes, sobbing as she went.

  ONCE THEY GAINED THE STREETS, they parted without a word, only a bitter backward look. In his billet, clothes still wet, he flung himself down on his mattress, to dive as into a cold, dark pool of exhaustion.

  He was coming before the All-Powerful when the nightmare overtook him, and the two guards were pulling him to his feet. The room was in darkness, made more shadowy by the lantern one of the guards had set on the floor while manhandling him.

  “Treat for you today. Extra-special interrogator here. Better watch your step, matey!”

  “Who is he?”

  “Santa Claus. Get moving and don’t ask questions.”

  Prisoner B was helped along the corridor, his feet sliding on the floor. The floor of this corridor was covered by a coarse carpeting of sorts, perhaps coconut matting; it was not the usual corridor down which he had been dragged before. They propelled him into a room he had not been in previously. He was strapped into a chair, and his head was wedged so that he was unable to move it. The older guard brought up two wires from a nearby machine and attached them with a clamp to his temples, one on one side, one on the other.

  Then they stepped back and sat on a dusty sofa, to wait. They muttered to one another in tones of complaint. The prisoner heard one say to the other, “After all, the Yanks are the only friends we’ve got.”

  “What about the French?”

  “The French? Ferget it!”

  Part of the terror regimen was to keep prisoners waiting for whatever was to come. Dread and the imagination worked further to undo them.

  Slowly, Prisoner B took in his surroundings. He was waiting in a small part of what had once been a much bigger, grander room. Partitions cut off all but a small portion of the old room. Through one partition, a man’s voice could be heard saying, sobbing, “I admit I did it. I know I did it. I admit I did it. I must have done it. I didn’t realize. I admit I did it. Spare me,” over and over. The repetition drained the words of emotion.

  One feature of the magnificent scale on which life had been lived in this grand mansion was a bust set in an alcove in the wall at just above eye level. The bust was surrounded by a frame of carved stone laurel leaves. The bust itself was of white marble. It commemorated an elderly man with curled hair and a prominent patrician nose. The dead lips were pursed. His stony gaze, directed down at the occupants of the room, expressed contempt.

  Below the bust was his name and his titles. He was a general, a leader of armies, who had been knighted.

  Now a spider’s web was woven across the raised lettering. It was clear that he had been responsible for the deaths of many men—both the enemy and his own compatriots, who had had no choice but to follow him. For this carnage he had been celebrated by a grateful nation.

  The prisoner regarded this relic of the good old days with a dull wonder. It could be, he speculated, that this bust indicated that he was imprisoned in a building, palatial and grand, which had once served as the British Embassy in some foreign capital. In Baghdad? In Damascus? Someone had told him that he had been moved to Syria. The speculation was far from encouraging.

  He could not recall how he had arrived in this place. All was uncertainty. In his befuddled brain, he wondered if all men were made of stone.

  A LARGE, HEAVY MAN entered the room by a rear door, accompanied by a small, scurrying type of lackey. The big man walked to a chair and stood waiting, staring ahead as blankly as the bust behind him, while his inferior placed a cushion on the seat, officiously adjusting it. The big man sat himself down, placing a book on the table before him.

  He looked across at Prisoner B with a toadlike, expressionless stare. He began to speak in a deep voice, with elaborate politeness.

  “Good morning. My name is Abraham Ramson. I hold the rank of Paramount Government Inspector of the Western Armed Alliance and occupy a senior position in the American Punishment Section investigating hostile activities in the world. I am well known on both sides of the Atlantic as a military judge, famed for holding the lives of many villains in my hands. My aim is to function as a terror of the terrorists. I have prosecuted many famous cases and, although justice interests me, over and above justice I value the continued survival of Western civilization as of maximum import for the culture of this world, as the greatest bastion of enlightened law and behavior on this planet, certainly in comparison with the degenerate and superstitious tribalism prevalent in the Middle East. As a Muslim, you will be aware that we in the West—”

  Here the prisoner interrupted to protest that he was not of the Muslim faith.

  “You will shut the fuck up, you scumbag, while I am speaking!

  “—we in the West have a distaste for Sharia law as well as for many Islamic rules of behavior, from the circumcision of women to the indoctrination of ignorant youths into a form of religion which is in most respects long obsolete and degrading.

  “You know what Wahhabism is, Prisoner B?”

  B was startled to be suddenly expected to speak.
“Wahhabism? Yes, I have heard of it…”

  “It is a hateful, archaic creed which destroys relationships and withers everything creative. We must fight it before it destroys us, like deathwatch beetles destroy sturdy oak beams. The slaves of Wahhab have the deathwatch habit of infiltrating and endeavoring to destroy the decent and law-abiding cultures into which you have inserted yourselves; together with the cowardly resort of suicide bombing.

  “All this I tell you to make my position clear. You must understand, before I question you, that if your answers are unsatisfactory in any way, you will receive a series of electric shocks of increasing severity. So, Prisoner B, question number one: What were your motives when you wrote this subversive novel entitled Pied Piper of Hament?”

  All of this speech, designed to be deliberately offensive, was spoken rapidly without pause in a deep, cultured, American voice.

  Prisoner B, disconcerted, hesitated.

  “I have to explain, sir, that I was born in London, in the borough of Ealing, and I have always considered myself an Englishman, even to the extent of—”

  “I will remind you that I asked you why you wrote this pernicious novel.”

  “Sir, I was under the impression I was English and so I wrote this novel in a comical satiric style, hoping to amuse people.”

  “And what sort of people did you hope it would amuse?”

  “Ordinary literate people, I suppose.”

  “You suppose?” A frown creased the broad brow of Abraham Ramson. “You mean Muslims, naturally?”

  “No, sir, the British reading public in general.”

  “You are contradicting me?” Abraham Ramson gestured with his right hand. A man working beyond Prisoner B’s limited line of sight threw a small lever. The electric shock burned between Prisoner B’s temples, a flash of lightning, of unbearable pain. Then it was gone, leaving the prisoner fearing that some part of his brain had been burned out. He was immediately craven.