Hakazit
IT WAS A HARSH LAND. THE PLANET FOR WHICH IT was a laboratory model must have been something hellish indeed, Marquoz thought. The terrain was a burned, ugly, hard-packed desert with jagged, fierce-looking volcanic outcrops. Occasionally earth tremors would start slides and the very rare but horribly violent storms sometimes turned dry, dusty gullies into deadly torrents which carved great gashes in the landscape.
With almost no water on top, and the ocean to the north salt water only, the people were where the fresh water was—underground, on the bedrock at the water table, in huge caverns carved by millennia of erosion on the basic limestone and marble beneath. There had been predators, too; terrible, fierce beasts with skin like solid rock and endless appetites for Hakazit flesh.
And so, of course, the Hakazit were built for combat and for defense. Like granite itself, their fierce, demonic faces were tough skin over extremely thick bone, their features fixed in a furious and chilling expression, broad mouths opening to reveal massive canines capable of rending the flesh of their wild natural enemies. Their eyes were skull-like sockets that glowed blazing red in the darkness. It was not a traditional method of seeing, not eyes in the sense he had always known them, yet to his brain they served the same way, giving up long range for extreme-depth perception and, perhaps (he could never be sure) altering the color sense quite a bit to emphasize contrasts. Bony plates formed over each socket like horns.
The great, muscular steel-gray body was humanoid, a mass of sinew with arms capable of uprooting medium-sized trees and snapping them in two. The five-fingered hands ended in lethal, steellike talons also designed for ripping and tearing flesh, and the thick legs ended in reptillian feet that could grasp, claw, propel that heavy body over almost any obstacle. Trailing behind was a long tail of the same steely gray ending in two huge, sharp bones like spikes, which could be wielded by the prehensile tail as additional weapons. The body itself was so well armored, so tough and thick, that arrows bounced off its hide, and even a conventional bullet would do only minor damage. Control of the nervous system was absolute and automatic with the Hakazit; pain centers, for example, could be disabled in a localized area at will.
It was, thought the former small dinosaurlike creature, the most formidable living weapon he had ever seen. The males stood over three meters tall with a nine-meter tail; females were smaller and weaker: only two and a half meters, on the average, and just able to crush a large rock in their bare hands.
But now he, as one of them, was being taken down to a great cavern city, a prisoner, it seemed, of the local authorities. The city itself was impressive, a fairyland of colorful lights and moving walkways, scaled to the size of the behemoths who lived there. A high-tech civilization to boot, he noted, amazed. No handicaps, like some of the hexes on the Well World where only technology up to steam was allowed or where nothing that didn’t work by mechanical energy was possible. Yes, the world the Markovians had in mind for the Hazakit race had to be one real hell.
Everybody seemed to wear a leather or cloth pullover with some rank or insignia on it. He couldn’t interpret them, or the signs, or the codes, but it looked quite stratified, almost as if everybody was in the army. Here was a crisp, disciplined place where everybody seemed to be on some kind of desperate business with no time to dawdle or socialize. No trained eye was necessary to see that some of the creatures were there to keep an eye on the other creatures. One group, in particular, wearing leather jerkins with targetlike designs on them, wore side arms of an unfamiliar sort. Marquoz had no doubt that those pistols could penetrate to the vital parts of a Hakazit.
His escort, Commander Zhart, delighted in showing off Harmony City, as it was called. He pointed out the Fountain of Democracy, the People’s Congress, the Avenue of Peace and Freedom, and so forth. Marquoz just nodded and looked over the place. It somehow seemed all too familiar to him, an echo of every dictatorship he had ever been in. Coming from a world that didn’t even have a central government yet hadn’t had a major war in thousands of years, this was something of a contrast. Yet he had spent long years in the “human” Com, where dictatorship was the rule and things didn’t appear to be all that different.
They finally headed for a giant, palatial structure built into the side of the cavern and dominating it and the city skyline. The seat of government, he guessed, probably for the whole hex. Finally he could stand it no longer. “Where’s the enemy?” he asked Zhart.
The other stopped and turned, looking slightly puzzled. “What do you mean?” he asked, not suspiciously but just befuddled.
Marquoz waved a massive arm back in the general direction of the city. “All this. The militarization of the population, the fierceness of the race. All this points to a really nasty enemy. I just wanted to know who or what.”
“There’s no enemy,” Zhart responded, sounding slightly wistful. “No enemy at all. Used to be—long, long ago, maybe thousands of years. You can visit the Museum of Hakazit Culture sometime and see the dioramas and displays about it. But there’s nothing much now. None of the surrounding hexes could live in the radiations of the day, and they’re not up to tackling us even if there was a reason.” He shrugged as they continued walking to the palace.
That was it, of course, Marquoz realized. A warrior people created for a nightmare planet that they had conquered here, thereby proving that they could make it out there in the real universe. But that had been during the Markovian experiment, who knew how many millions of years ago, gone now, done now, leaving the descendants bred for battle but with nothing left to fight.
It would create a strange, stagnant culture, he decided. He understood now what sort of entertainment probably went on at the People’s Stadium, for example. So a rigid sort of dictatorship would be necessary to control a population made up of such muscular death machines—although he wondered how any regime could sustain itself for long if the people truly got pissed off at it. Maybe they were so accustomed to the situation they never considered the alternatives, he speculated to himself. Or maybe, deep down, they knew there was only one way to keep the place from breaking down into carnage and savagery—as it ultimately would, inevitably, anyway. This dictatorship was just buying time, but it was the best justification for a dictatorship he could remember.
The palace proved to have surprisingly few people in it. He had been conditioned by the Com to expect a huge bureaucracy, but only three officials were in evidence in the entry hall, and he had the impression that two of them were waiting to see somebody or other. Commander Zhart introduced him to the one who seemed to belong there and bid him good luck and farewell.
The official looked him over somewhat critically. “You are an Entry?” he asked at last.
Marquoz nodded. “Yes. Newly arrived in your fair land.”
The official ignored the flattery. “What were you before?”
“A Chugach,” Marquoz told him. “That would mean very little here.”
“More than you think,” the other responded. “Although we’re both speaking Hakazit, I wear a translator surgically implanted in my brain. It translated your own term into a more familiar one. There’s a bit of telepathy or something involved, although it’d be easier if you were wearing one, too. I got a picture of what your people were like and I recognize them. Here on the Well World they are called the Ghlmonese.”
“Ghlmonese,” Marquoz repeated, fascinated. His racial ancestors . . . Somehow that had never occurred to him. He decided he would like to visit there someday, if he could.
“You told Commander Zhart that you worked mostly on alien worlds in your old life,” the official continued. “Glathrielites and Dillians mainly. Naked apes and centaurs. Very unlike your own kind. You said you were a spy?”
Startled, Marquoz realized suddenly that somehow he had been bugged since being discovered on the surface by a military patrol. This explained Zhart’s chum-miness in contrast to the coldness the others showed— but it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that he should have anticipated this and had not. He hoped he wasn’t becoming old and senile.
“A spy, yes,” he admitted, realizing, too, that this individual was some sort of psychologist, possibly for the inevitable secret police. “You understand that my people were discovered by the others. They were an aggressive, warlike lot with a strong sense of cultural superiority that matched their real technological superiority. We hadn’t developed space travel, and most of our weaponry was museum vintage, even to us, except in sport. They had a big interworld council, of course, but we were entitled to only one seat and one vote as a one-world culture—hardly a position of influence. They needed somebody out there, traveling around, observing trends, attitudes, threats, and possibilities, and reporting same. A lot of somebodies, really, but I was the only one to really succeed at it.”
The psychologist was interested. “Why you? And why were you successful when the others of your kind were not?”
Marquoz shrugged. “I’m not sure. In terms of getting in the right positions, well, the dominant races have psychological quirks that make them either destroy lesser races, absorb lesser races, or, in some odd and perverse tendency, to bend over backward to show that they don’t consider your race lesser even if they actually do. I’ve always had some sort of knack for being where trouble is, even on my home world. If there was a big storm, or a fire, or some equally major event, I somehow usually wound up being there. Call it some kind of perverse precognition, I don’t know what. I happened to be in a position to overhear plans for a minor but nasty rebellion and took the opportunity to report it. The Com Police crushed the rebellion, of course, and I became some sort of minor celebrity to them. From there it was easy to worm my way into the Com Police itself, not only because I delivered the goods, so to speak, but also because, as a Chugach, I would be a symbol of their liberalism. There are some mighty guilty consciences there, I suspect. That helped immeasurably. And the deeper entrenched I became, the easier it was to pick up everything, from trade to forbidden technological information, and pass it along to my own people.”
The psychologist looked disturbed. “Do you think your being reborn as a Hakazit means that we are in for some particularly bad trouble?”
This race’s mouth wasn’t built for expression so Marquoz’s sardonic smile wasn’t evident to the other. “Oh, yes, I’d say so. I’d say that a catastrophe of major proportions is going to hit not only Hakazit but the whole of the Well World any minute now. I’m afraid I’m part of the cause this time, though. You see, I’m here on a mission.” He tried to sound really conspiratorial.
“A mission?” the psychologist echoed, looking more and more disturbed.
Marquoz nodded gravely. “Yes. You see, I’m here to save the universe in the name of truth and purity and justice.”
They kept him waiting for quite some time and he became very bored. There weren’t many people to talk to, and those who did come in or out were hardly the talkative type. He knew that somewhere in this building they were arguing, discussing, deciding his fate, and that he could do little about it, at least until they made their own moves. He wished terribly that he had a cigar. The Well World was supposed to change you, even make you comfortable in your new form—and it had. A rebirth is only a rebirth, he reflected glumly, but a good cigar is a smoke.
He tried a few of his old dance moves but soon discovered that those, too, were gone for good. Ballet ill-befitted armored tanks.
Finally someone came—not the same one, he decided, who had interviewed him. He was finding it easier to tell individuals apart now, more so as he went along, although he knew that non-Hakazit might have a problem in that direction.
“Thank you for waiting,” the newcomer said pleasantly, as if he had anywhere else to go. “The Supreme Lord will see you now. Follow me.”
He started and almost repeated the title aloud. The supreme lord? Well, no use getting your hopes up too far, Marquoz, he reminded himself. Around here that might be the term for chief palace janitor. These folks looked like they loved titles.
It was soon apparent, though, that this was a personage of considerable rank. Not only the smartly uniformed guards along the hall attested to this, but also the hidden traps, emplacements, and other nastiness that only his trained eye could make out signified rank and importance. Finally he entered a pair of huge, ornate steel doors and found himself in a barren hall. He looked around warily. Yes, television sensors, definitely, and a lot more—but no people. The steel grid he could barely make out under the flooring probably meant the possibilities of instant electrocution should he not meet with the unseen onlooker’s approval. He studied that great set of doors now sliding shut behind him. Some kind of detection system there, too, he noted. Probably x-ray, flouroscope, metal detector— the whole works. One thing beyond the power of this Supreme Lord was dead certain: Whoever and whatever he was, he was scared to death.
Finally he heard a click, as if a speaker had opened, and an electronically colored voice instructed, “You will go to the center of the room, under the large chandelier, and stay very still.” The voice held no menace, just a little suspicion. He did as instructed, and was told to move his tail a little this way or that, shift a bit here or there, until he was wondering if he was posing for a magazine layout. Finally the voice said, “That’s excellent. Now remain perfectly still. You will not be harmed.”
Suddenly he was engulfed in a series of colored beams, some of which felt oddly hot and irritating. That lasted only a few seconds, but it was damned uncomfortable. Even after they were cut off, he tingled uncomfortably.
“Now proceed to the door and enter the audience chamber,” the voice instructed. He looked around, realizing for the first time that an entire wall was silently sliding away. He shrugged and walked into the smaller chamber, which was spartanly furnished with a few tables, some glasses, and little else. The wall slid shut behind him, and he glanced back at it for a moment. Guards, booby traps, steel doors, wired rooms, sliding walls—what else?
What else proved to be a flickering in the air opposite him and the rapid fade-in of a figure much like himself, differing mainly in the fact that this newcomer wore a scarlet tunic and cape trimmed in expensive-looking exotic furs. The Supreme Lord, he knew, appearing as some sort of hologram. What kind of paranoia would sterilize somebody against germs when he was only going to meet a projection?
The Supreme Lord looked him over critically. “Well, I can tell you really are an Entry,” the Hakazit leader snorted. “None of the bowing and scraping or inbred social gestures.”
“For a solidograph?” Marquoz retorted.
The other laughed. “One of my predecessors had people salute his photograph, which was everywhere,” he responded. “He didn’t last long, needless to say.”
Marquoz studied the image, thinking furiously. “So that’s why you take all these precautions? Everybody’s out to bump you off?”
The Supreme Lord roared with laughter. “Now I know you are an Entry!” he laughed. “Such a question! Tell me, how did you come to that conclusion?”
“Most dictators fear assassination,” the Com worlder noted. “It’s not unusual, since they hold power by everybody else’s fear of them.”
The Supreme Lord stopped laughing and looked at the newcomer with interest. “So you know that this is, in fact, a dictatorship? You’re not very much like any Entry I’ve ever heard of before. No, ‘Where am I? What am I doing here?’ and all that. That’s what’s so interesting about you, Marquoz.”
The Entry looked around the room. “Is that why so many security precautions? Because you think there’s something funny about me?”
“Well, no, not really. Not entirely, anyway,” the Supreme Lord replied. “Ah, you call Hakazit a dictatorship. In the purest sense of that term I suppose it is. I flip the intercom, dictate an order, and it is unquestioningly carried out no matter how stupid. And yet—-well, Hakazit is also the most democratic nation on the Well World.”
Marquoz’s head snapped up. “Huh? How’s that?”
“I am fifty-seven years old,” the dictator told him. “Fifty-seven. And do you know how many Supreme Lords there have been in my lifetime? Sixty-seven! And at least one ruled for almost four years. The record according to recent history is nine years, three months, sixteen days, five hours, forty-one minutes. In a history that goes back over a thousand years!”
Marquoz sighed. “It figures,” he muttered. “And that’s despite all this protective stuff, this gimmickry, the best electronics you can devise. I suppose for every charm there’s a counter charm.”
“Exactly,” the Supreme Lord agreed. “Right now there are hundreds of officers trying to figure out how to get to me. One will, one of these days, and then they’ll add me to the books.”
“I’m surprised you don’t know who they are and have them taken care of,” the Entry noted practically. “I know I would.”
The ruler sniggered derisively. “Marquoz, you fail to appreciate the problem. Every Hakazit is doing it. Schoolchildren do it for fun or abstract exercise. Storekeepers, bartenders, you name it. Everybody. You can’t get rid of everybody—then you would have nobody to take dictation.”
“It’s a problem, all right,” Marquoz admitted. “It’s a wonder you’d want this job—or that anybody else would want it under those conditions.”
The Supreme Lord looked puzzled. “But what is the purpose of life if it isn’t to become Supreme Lord? It’s the only thing people have to live for!”
That stopped the newcomer for a moment as he digested the idea. A warrior race with no wars. What’s the result of conquest? The ability to order everybody about, to do anything you wanted, to have anything you wanted. The ultimate fantasy. And that position was here, open, available to anyone, regardless of rank, sex, social position, or authority, who could knock off the reigning leader. It was as crazy an idea as he had ever heard, as nutty a social system as he had ever thought about—and it made absolute, logical sense. That was the trouble. It made sense.
He changed the subject. “Well, one thing has got me curious. Why did you say you had only a thousand years of recorded history? Surely this land and this race are a lot older than that.”
“True,” the other agreed. “But, you see, combat is built into us. We’re the most aggressive race on the Well World, and we’re surrounded by hexes designed to make it impossible to conquer or even reasonably fight them. Radiations lethal only to us, poisons lethal only to us, and the like. We hire some of the people out as mercenaries, guards—even pirates—that kind of thing, to others, but the system has us boxed in. We’re too rational to fight to extinction or maybe fight a war when there’s absolutely nothing to be gained, since we can’t hold what we gain. So, naturally, after a while the system—any system—we create to hold things together here collapses. Civil war, anarchy, a return to barbarism when all the restraints are off. Civilization gets destroyed and has to rebuild again. Our people say any social system lasts an average of two thousand years, so we’re in the middle of a period now. You have no idea how ferocious these social breakdowns can be. And neither do we. After all, they’re so bad that almost nothing survives from the previous age except crumbling ruins and a few relics.”
Marquoz nodded. He appreciated what these creatures would be like in an all-out war with no quarter given or asked and surrender unthinkable. It was a wonder that any of them were left, he thought. But, no, as long as a single male and female were left, the Well would gradually replenish the stock, or so he understood the system. That thought was unsettling, though. Such devastation as the Supreme Lord intimated implied that those wars were literally wars of self-genocide; it was probably only the ones away from hex and home that returned to rebuild. The dead end, he thought glumly. The left overs from the Markovian dream in the eternal replay of the rise and fall of civilization. It was pretty damned depressing.
“I can understand Your Lordship’s interest in me,” he said carefully. “Here I show up in the middle of nowhere, an Entry or an exile, either one the same, but without any of the psychological problems or wonder of what you’re used to. You figure I’m the one to get you—right?”
The Supreme Lord shrugged slightly. “Are you?”
Marquoz sighed. “No . . . no, Your Lordship, absolutely not. The last thing I want is your job. That may be hard to believe under these conditions, but you’re a very clever man or you wouldn’t be where you are. I’m sure your lie detectors are telling you now that I’m being sincere.”
The other gave him a look of grudging admiration. “Clever one, aren’t you? But a psychopath would register the same.”
“Your Lordship, use those truth detectors now and believe what I say. Inside of a few weeks, if it hasn’t started already, you’re going to be flooded with Entries, and none of them are going to be typical. And I don’t mean ten, twenty, a hundred. I mean enough so that they’ll quickly double your population. Double it!”
The hollow burning red eyes of the projection shifted to a point outside the image, as if checking on something—a chart recorder, most likely, Marquoz guessed.
“Hakazit couldn’t support them,” the Supreme Lord said in a thin, worried tone. “We would have to kill them.”
“They won’t be that easy to kill,” Marquoz cautioned. “And, besides, they won’t be here to eat you out of house and home. They’ll be here to do a job and fulfill a set function.” Quickly he explained about Brazil, about the Well of Souls, about how it was damaged and had to be repaired.
“What are you offering?” the Supreme Lord asked warily.
“A battle. A full be-damned war! A war that could be fought by proxies trained by your people or by a combination of the two. An outlet for all this aggression, an outlet for all this pent-up civilization. And, of course, on the right side should Brazil gain the Well. And he will get there. Bet on it. Whether I die, whether Hakazit joins my side or opposes us, no matter what, he’ll win. And once he’s inside he might be able to help this situation you’ve got here. Think about it on a different level, too. This outlet, this release, will be enormously popular. You have a people who love war and have none. Now they’ll have one, and a set of purposes and objectives for it. It could be the safety valve you lack, put off collapse for many thousands of years—perhaps long enough to work out, this time, a more permanent system. And you’ll be a hero, too, for giving it to them. How long have you been Supreme Lord?”
The leader was thinking it over. “Huh? Oh, a little over three years.”
“Wouldn’t you like to hold on and maybe break that fellow’s old record? Hell, even if the yen doesn’t fade with the war, think about this: your biggest threats are going to be in the forefront of planning and leadership in this thing—not only too occupied to have a serious go at you, but up front, where you can see who’s really got a chance.”
“The people . . . they’ll have to be pre-prepared for this, you realize,” the Hakazit leader muttered. “It’ll have to be carefully planned, carefully orchestrated.”
Marquoz nodded. “That’s why I was sent here, specifically here, to Hakazit,” he told the other, realizing the truth himself, now, for the first time. “Uh, tell me, you have a secret police, of course.”
“A very good one,” the Supreme Lord confirmed proudly.
“Uh huh. And how does one get to head that service?”
The leader looked a bit sheepish. “Well . . . you know . . .”
“Oh,” Marquoz managed. “Your Secret Police chief, he doesn’t have this place bugged, too, does he?”
The Supreme Lord looked shocked. “Of course not! Only I control this. The proof is that I’m still here.”
That seemed reasonable to Marquoz. “Hmmm . . . this chieftan, is he a nice fellow as people go? Loving wife and kiddies?”
“General Yutz? Ha!” the dictator chuckled. “He’s a rotten son of a bitch, the rottenest I’ve ever seen. Strangled his last wife and his oldest son because he thought they were plotting against him.”