The Ethical Engineer (6 page)

They stopped at the usual distance and shouted compliments about the
quality of the shot and what a mighty hunter Ch'aka was. Jason had to
admit there was a certain truth in the claims. A large, furred
amphibian lay at the water's edge, the fletched end of the crossbow
bolt projecting from its thick neck and a thin stream of blood running
down to mix with the surging waves.

"Meat! Meat today!"

"Ch'aka kills the
rosmaro
! Ch'aka is wonderful!"

"Hail, Ch'aka, great provider," Jason shouted to get into the swing of
things. "When do we eat?"

The master ignored his slaves, sitting heavily on the dune until he
regained his breath after the stalk. Then after cocking the crossbow
again he stalked over to the beast and with his knife cut out the
quarrel, notching it against the bowstring still dripping with blood.

"Get wood for fire," he commanded. "You, Opisweni, you use the knife."

Shuffling backwards Ch'aka sat down on a hillock and pointed the
crossbow at the slave who approached the kill. Ch'aka had left his
knife in the animal and Opisweni pulled it free and began to
methodically flay and butcher the beast. All the time he worked he
carefully kept his back turned to Ch'aka and the aimed bow.

"A trusting soul, our slave-driver," Jason mumbled to himself as he
joined the others in searching the shore for driftwood. Ch'aka had all
the weapons as well as a constant fear of assassination. If Opisweni
tried to use the knife for anything other than the intended piece of
work, he would get the crossbow quarrel in the back of his head. Very
efficient.

Enough driftwood was found to make a sizable fire, and when Jason
returned with his contribution the
rosmaro
had been hacked into
large chunks. Ch'aka kicked his slaves away from the heap of wood and
produced a small device from another of his sacks. Interested, Jason
pushed as close as he dared, into the front rank of the watching
circle. Though he had never seen one of them before, the operation of
the firemaker was obvious to him. A spring-loaded arm drove a fragment
of stone against a piece of steel, sparks flew out and were caught in
a cup of tinder, where Ch'aka blew on them until they burst into
flame.

Where had the firelighter and the crossbow come from? They were
evidence of a higher level of culture than that possessed by these
slave-holding nomads. This was the first bit of evidence that Jason
had seen that there might be more to the cultural life of this planet
than they had seen since their landing. Later, while they were gorging
themselves on the seared meat, he drew Mikah aside and pointed this
out.

"There's hope yet. These illiterate thugs never manufactured that
crossbow or firelighter. We must find out where they came from and see
about getting there ourselves. I had a quick look at the quarrel when
Ch'aka pulled it out, and I'll swear that it was turned from steel."

"This has significance?" Mikah asked, puzzled.

"It means an industrial society, and possible interstellar contact."

"Then we must ask Ch'aka where he obtained them and leave at once.
There will be authorities, we will contact them, explain the
situation, obtain transportation to Cassylia. I will not place you
under arrest again until that time."

"How considerate of you," Jason said, lifting one eyebrow. Mikah was
absolutely impossible, and Jason probed at his moral armor to see if
there were any weak spots. "Won't you feel guilty about bringing me
back to get killed? After all we are companions in trouble—and I did
save your life."

"I will grieve, Jason. I can see that though you are evil you are not
completely evil, and given the right training could be fitted for a
useful place in society. But my personal grief must not be allowed to
alter events: you forget that you committed a crime and must pay the
penalty."

Ch'aka belched cavernously inside his shell-helmet and howled at his
slaves.

"Enough eating, you pigs. You get fat. Wrap the meat and carry it, we
have light yet to look for
krenoj
. Move!"

Once more the line was formed and began its slow pace across the
desert. More of the edible roots were found, and once they stopped
briefly to fill the water bags at a spring that bubbled up out of the
sand. The sun dropped towards the horizon and what little warmth it
possessed was absorbed by a bank of clouds. Jason looked around and
shivered—then noticed the line of dots moving on the horizon. He
nudged Mikah who still leaned heavily on him.

"Looks like company coming. I wonder where they fit into the
program?"

Pain had blurred Mikah's attention and he took no notice and,
surprisingly enough, neither did any of the other slaves nor Ch'aka.
The dots expanded and became another row of marchers, apparently
absorbed in the same task as Jason's group. They plodded forward,
making a slow examination of the sand, followed behind by the solitary
figure of their master. The two lines slowly approached each other,
paralleling the shore.

Near the dunes was a crude mound of stones and the line of walking
slaves stopped as soon as they reached it, dropping with satisfied
grunts onto the sand. The cairn was obviously a border marker and
Ch'aka walked to it and rested his foot on one of the stones, watching
while the other line of slaves approached. They, too, stopped at the
cairn and settled to the ground: both groups stared with dull-eyed
lack of interest and only the slave-masters showed any animation. The
other master stopped a good ten paces before he reached Ch'aka and
waved an evil looking stone hammer over his head.

"Hate you, Ch'aka!" he roared.

"Hate you, Fasimba!" boomed back the answer.

The exchange was as formal as a
pas de deux
and just about as
warlike. Both men shook their weapons and shouted a few insults, then
settled down to a quiet conversation. Fasimba was garbed in the same
type of hideous and fear-inspiring outfit as Ch'aka, differing only in
unimportant details. Instead of a conch, his head was encased in the
skull of one of the amphibious
rosmaroj
, brightened up with some
extra tusks and horns. The differences between the two men were all
minor, and mostly a matter of decoration or variation of weapon
design. They were obviously slave masters and equals.

"Killed a
rosmaro
today, second time in ten days," Ch'aka said.

"You got a good piece coast. Plenty
rosmaroj
. Where the two slaves
you owe me?"

"I owe you two slaves?"

"You owe me two slaves, don't play like stupid. I got the iron arrows
for you from the D'zertanoj, one slave you paid with died. You still
owe other one."

"I got two slaves for you. I got two slaves more I pulled out of the
ocean."

"You got a good piece coast."

Ch'aka walked down his line of slaves until he came to the over-bold
one he had half-crippled with a kick the day before. Pulling him to
his feet he booted him towards the other mob.

"Here's a good one," he said, delivering the goods with a last parting
kick.

"Look skinny. Not too good."

"No, all muscles. Works hard. Doesn't eat much."

"You're a liar!"

"Hate you, Fasimba!"

"Hate you, Ch'aka! Where's the other one?"

"Got a good one. Stranger from the ocean. He can tell you funny
stories, work hard."

Jason turned in time to avoid the full force of the kick, but it was
still strong enough to knock him sprawling. Before he could get up
Ch'aka had clutched Mikah Samon by the arm and dragged him across the
invisible line to the other group of slaves. Fasimba stalked over to
examine him, prodding him with a spiked toe.

"Don't look good. Big hole on the head."

"He works hard," Ch'aka said. "Hole almost healed. He very strong."

"You give me new one if he dies?" Fasimba asked doubtfully.

"I'll give you. Hate you, Fasimba!"

"Hate you, Ch'aka."

The slave herds were prodded to their feet and moved back the way they
had come, and Jason shouted after Ch'aka.

"Wait! Don't sell my friend. We work better together, you can get rid
of someone else...."

The slaves gaped at this sudden outburst and Ch'aka wheeled raising
his club.

"You shut up. You're a slave. You tell me once more to do what and I
kill you."

Jason shut up since it was very obvious that this was the only thing
he could do. He had a few qualms about Mikah's possible fate: if he
survived the wound he was certainly not the type to bow to the
inevitabilities of slave-holding life. Yet Jason had done his best to
save him and that was that. Now Jason would think about Jason for a
while.

They made a brief march before dark, apparently just until the other
slaves were out of sight, then stopped for the night. Jason settled
himself into the lee of a mound that broke the force of the wind a bit
and unwrapped a piece of scorched meat he had salvaged from the
earlier feast. It was tough and oily but far superior to the barely
edible
krenoj
that made up the greater part of the native diet. He
chewed noisily on the bone and watched while one of the other slaves
sidled over towards him.

"Give me some your meat?" the slave asked in a whining voice, and only
when she talked did Jason realize that this was a girl; all the slaves
were alike in their matted hair and skin wrappings. He ripped off a
chunk of meat.

"Here. Sit down and eat it. What's your name?" In exchange for his
generosity he intended to get some information from his captive
audience.

"Ijale." She tore at the meat, held tightly in one fist, while the
index finger of her free hand scratched for enemies in her tangled
hair.

"Where do you come from? Did you always live here—like this?" How do
you ask a slave if she has always been a slave?

"Not here. I come from Bul'wajo first, then Fasimba, now I belong to
Ch'aka."

"What or who is Bul'wajo? Someone like our boss Ch'aka?" She nodded,
gnawing at the meat. "And the D'zertanoj that Fasimba gets his arrows
from—who are they?"

"You don't know much," she said, finishing the meat and licking the
grease from her fingers.

"I know enough to have meat when you don't have any—so don't abuse my
hospitality. Who are the D'zertanoj?"

"Everyone knows who they are." She shrugged with incomprehension and
looked for a soft spot in the sand to sit down. "They live in the
desert. They go around in
caroj
. They stink. They have many nice
things. One of them gave me my best thing. If I show it to you, you
won't take it?"

"No, I won't touch it. But I would like to see anything they have
made. Here, here's some more meat. Now let me see your best thing."

Ijale rooted in her skins for a hidden pocket and dragged out
something that she concealed in her clenched fist. She held it out
proudly and opened it and there was enough light left for Jason to
make out the rough form of a red glass bead.

"Isn't this so very nice?" she asked.

"Very nice," Jason agreed, and for an instant felt a touch of real
sorrow when he looked at the pathetic bauble. This girl's ancestors
had come to this planet in spaceships with a knowledge of the most
advanced sciences. Cut off, their children had degenerated into this,
barely conscious slaves, who could pride a worthless piece of glass
above all things.

"I like you. I'll show you my best thing again."

"I like you, too. Good night."

Ijale stayed near Jason the next day, and took the next station in
line when the endless
krenoj
hunt began. Whenever it was possible he
questioned her and before noon had extracted all of her meager
knowledge of affairs beyond the barren coastal plain where they lived.
The ocean was a mystery that produced edible animals, fish and an
occasional human corpse. Ships could be seen from time to time
offshore but nothing was known about them. On the other flank the
territory was bounded by desert even more inhospitable than the one in
which they scratched out their existence, a waste of lifeless sand,
habitable only by the D'zertanoj and their mysterious
caroj
. These
last could be animals—or mechanical transportation of some kind,
either was possible from Ijale's vague description. Ocean, coast and
desert, these made up all of her world and she could conceive of
nothing that might exist beyond.

Jason knew there was more, the crossbow was proof enough of that, and
he had every intention of finding out where it came from. In order to
do that he was going to have to change his slave status when the
proper time came. He was developing a certain facility in dodging
Ch'aka's heavy boot, the work was never hard and there was ample food.
Being a slave left him with no responsibilities other than obeying
orders and he had ample opportunity to discover what he could about
this planet, so that when he finally did leave he would be as well
prepared as was possible.

Later in the day another column of marching slaves was sighted in the
distance, on a course paralleling their own, and Jason expected a
repeat performance of the previous day's meeting. He was agreeably
surprised that it was not. The sight of the others threw Ch'aka into
an immediate rage that sent his slaves rushing for safety in all
directions. By leaping into the air, howling with anger and beating
his club against his thick leather armor he managed to work himself
into quite a state before starting off on a slogging run. Jason,
followed close behind him, greatly interested by this new turn of
affairs. Ahead of them the other slaves scattered and from their midst
burst another armed and armored figure. They churned towards each
other at top speed and Jason hoped for a shattering crash when they
met. However they slowed before they hit and began circling each
other, spitting curses.