Short Fiction · Venus Enslaved (4/7)

“Don’t start that again,” he bade her, more roughly than he felt. “Lead the way.”

Mara took a nearby jungle trail. After some time, she paused and studied the matted footing. “Tracks,” she pronounced. “Certain Skygors, and two pairs of feet shod like yours.”

Planter looked at the muddled marks thus diagnosed by the skilled trail-eye of Mara. “My friends and their captors?”

“Aye, that. They went this way. Come.”

She slipped aside through the close-set stems. Planter did likewise. Mara slung her crossbow behind her, and climbed a trunk as a beetle scales a flower-stalk. “ ’Tis safer from Skygors up here,” she told him over her shoulder “Follow me carefully.”

Planter did so, with difficulty. He was a vigorous climber, and the lesser gravity of Venus made him more agile. But Mara, some forty feet overhead, swung through the crisscross of limbs and vines like a squirrel. “Wait!” he called, striving to catch up.

She paused, finger to lips. As he came near, she said softly: “Not so loud! We come close. Feel you the spell?”

Hanging quietly, Planter did feel it.

Uneasiness came, chilling his back despite the steamy warmth. His hair stirred on his head, his teeth gritted, and he could not reason himself out of the mood. Mara moved ahead, and he followed. Growing accustomed to the climbing, he made progress. But the uncomfortable sense of peril grew rather than diminished.

Once in their strange journey Mara paused, and from a belt-pouch produced food. It consisted of fire-dried fruits, strange to Planter but tasty and substantial; also two meat-dumplings, made by wrapping a nut-flavored dough around morsels of flesh. For drink she plucked long spear-like leaves from a vine, and Planter found them full of pungent juice. While they munched, he heard boomings in the distance, which Mara identified as Skygor speech.

“We are almost there,” she whispered. “Look well.”

She rose, and again they took up the journey. After a time she paused again, and pointed.

Just beyond them the branches thinned out over a great open space in the jungle. Under a far-flung canopy of white vapors lay the swamp-city of the Skygors.

Planter, gazing in wonder at the strange city, thought of old Venice, or of a beaver colony in a diked pond. Before and beneath him was a quiet greeny-clear body of water. Around its rim grew shrubs, bushes and huge reeds, their roots clasping the great facing of white rock which apparently paved the banks and bottom of the pool. In the water itself, poking above the surface in little pointed clusters and plainly visible where they extended beneath, were the houses of the Skygors.

They were of some kind of soil or clay that had been processed to a concrete hardness, and were tinted in various colors. Some of the smaller dwellings were roughly spherical, and crowned with cone-shaped roofs. Others, larger, protruded well above the water in cylindrical form. Here and there travel-ways connected the clustered groups.

But it was beneath the surface that the town was complex and great. It seemed to lie tier above tier, closely built and grouped, with here and there protruding arms or wings of building, like coral budded from the main mass. In those depths swam myriads of Skygors, plainly at home under water. More of them, at the window-holes of the upper towers or paddling on the surface, boomed and roared to each other in their deafening language. From on high, Planter saw them as smaller and less to be dreaded. They might have been slight fantasy things, water-elves or super-intelligent frogs.

“Look you, David Planter,” prompted Mara, at his elbow.

From a tunnel-like hole in the jungle, a group of Skygors emerged. Among them were two human figures, clad like Planter in loose overalls and helmets.

“Your friends?” Mara questioned.

“Right,” snapped Planter grimly. He drew the pistol-weapon and glared.

Disbro and Max, the latter stooping under a great bale of goods from the ship, had paused on the brink of the water. A Skygor was thundering to them, in words of English which Planter, across the water, found hard to catch. Other Skygors motioned at the pool, and one or two jumped in and struck out for nearby buildings.

“They want your friends to dive,” Mara informed him. “See, the slim one shakes his head.”

Planter rested the pistol on his forearm, and sighted on the Skygor who harangued Disbro. Meanwhile, other Skygors were bringing up what appeared to be a small, inflated boat, that operated with a paddle-wheel arrangement behind.

Mara saw what Planter was doing. “No!” she gasped. “Don’t, David!”

“I’m going to,” he told her.

“We’ll be next!”

“Nonsense! Those flapper-footed devils can’t climb! They’re too heavy, too clumsy!”

She caught at his weapon wrist, but he had fired.

The Skygor weapon was a wondrous one. Even an indifferent shot like Planter could not miss with it. The Skygor beside Disbro seemed to burst into flame around his flat, bushel-mouthed face, and then he collapsed and lay still. His companions swarmed to his side, rending the air with their horrid yells.

Planter chuckled, and Mara moaned. The man moved forward among the branches, to a place where he could be seen.

“Hai, Disbro!” he trumpeted, as loudly as any Skygor. “Max! It’s David Planter! Run while you have the chance, I’ll pick those toads off!”

But neither of his friends offered to escape. They only stood and gazed at him.

“You idiots!” blazed Planter, and then saw that two of the Skygors on the inflated boat were aiming weapons at him. He sent a silver pen at their craft, and it melted abruptly as its air escaped from the puncture. A third shot took one of the Skygors splashing in the water. “Run, you two!” Planter bade his companions once more.

He felt a grip on his ankle, and glanced down. Mara had crouched low, was trying to pull him back from view. As soon as she had his eye, she let him go, and thrust both fingers into her ears in some sort of a sign he did not comprehend.

Understanding dawned suddenly, and too late.

The mist trembled and swirled at a sudden outburst of sound louder than even a Skygor chorus. Planter dropped his weapon, began to lift his hands to his ears in imitation of Mara. But he could not!

The noise possessed him, as a rush of electric current might course through a body, paralyzing and agonizing it. He swayed and floundered among the branches. His hair bristled, his ears rang, his blood coursed, every fiber of him vibrated. Yet something about it was vaguely familiar, as though it was something he had experienced, or a magnification of such a something.

Yes, of course⁠ ⁠… the uneasiness that Mara called the “spell.” Some device made a noise-vibration, normally sub-audible but unpleasant enough to warn aliens away. In a time like this, when attack came, it could be intensified to the point of striking the enemy stupid.

Meanwhile, he was falling, through branches and leafage, to splash clumsily into the water of the pool. Abruptly the noise ceased. The Skygors were around him, their flipper-hands fastening upon him, and he was too wrung out, too grateful for silence, to resist.

He may have fainted. Later on, he could not be sure. But his next clear memory was of lying in one of the inflated paddle-boats, in which sat Skygors with weapons. There also sat Disbro, watching him intently.

“Disbro!” muttered Planter. “They got you, too?”

“No, they didn’t get me, too,” mimicked Disbro. “I’m in the racket with them, understand?”

Planter sat up, and two Skygors half-drew their weapons to warn him. “I thought you were captured,” he mumbled.

“Not me. I do things neatly. Showed I could be an enemy, but would rather be a friend. You butted in, killing two of them. Someone says you got two others earlier today. They’re holding you a prisoner, and probably you’ll be killed.”

Planter studied Disbro. “Easy does it,” he said softly. “Better not act as if you know me. You might get mixed up in⁠—”

“No chance!” snarled Disbro. “I told them that you were an enemy of mine. I’m not mixed up in anything.”

Planter subsided. Plainly Disbro was able to take care of himself. Plainly Planter must do the same, with no help from anyone. He wondered about Mara, with a sudden chilled pang. The brave girl had guided him here, despite her knowledge that Skygor country was dangerous. She had done it to please him, because she liked him. He wondered what had happened to her.

He lounged under the Skygor guns, thinking of Mara. In his mind he saw the light of her steady blue eyes, felt the touch of her slim, strong hand. His heart quickened.

“Hang it,” he told himself, “you aren’t in love with her. She’s a savage, and you only met her a few hours ago! You’re only worried because you feel responsibility.”

But he knew he lied.

The boat brought them to an entrance-hole at water-level, in a large cylindrical structure. Disbro swaggered inside, with his new friends. A guard prodded Planter with his pistol-barrel to follow. As Planter obeyed, he saw behind him another boat, in which rode Max with all the baggage he had been carrying. Skygors sat with Max, plainly on good terms. Max saw Planter, too, and his face twitched and scowled as in an effort to rationalize.

Inside, he found himself in a large bare room with dry, roughcast walls. Disbro waited there, with a Skygor whose elaborate chain-mail suggested that he was an officer.

“Disbro,” boomed this individual cordially, “You say this is your enemy? What shall be done to him?”

“I leave that to you, Phra,” answered Disbro, with the grand manner of bestowing gifts. “You have your own ways of handling such problems. I am content.”

Another Skygor approached, and the officer discussed the case in deafening Skygor language. Then, facing Planter, he resumed English:

“Your life is forfeit, but you look strong. Perhaps you can prove yourself worth keeping. Join the slaves.”

He struck his webbed hands together. A human man ran in.

Like Mara and the other crossbow-girls, this man was blond, but the resemblance ended there. He wore loose, brief garments of elastic fabric, no weapons, and his face was mild and servile. Phra pointed to Planter.

“Below with him! Put him to the spring mill!”

The slave beckoned, and led Planter away, studying him curiously.

Planter spoke at once: “You have many friends here, in slavery? Perhaps I can get you out of this.”

“Out of this!” The echo was horrified. “To starve in the jungle? Marry, sir, art mad or sick to say such a thing! Come, down these stairs.”

Planter obeyed his new companion. They went down a dim, stone stairway, lighted with green bulbs. From below came sounds of mechanical action.

“What’s your name?” Planter asked the slave.

“Glanfil. And you?”

“David Planter. How many slaves are there here? Human slaves?”

“Two hundred, belike. Half as many as the Skygors.”

That was a new thought to Planter. On Earth, races were numbered in the millions⁠—here, by the scores. Of course, this might not be the only Skygor city. Mara had mentioned the difficulty of exploring any distance from this habitable pole. For a moment he felt the thirst for knowledge. Wasn’t this world as large as his own planet? Might it not have continents, oceans, mountain ranges, whole genera of strange species, perhaps other civilizations and climates? Then he remembered. He was a slave. And a booming voice drove the memory home.

“Below, men,” thundered a Skygor guard. “You are not fed and lodged to be idle.”

“Pardon,” mumbled Glanfil, and quickened his descent. Planter followed, beating down a rage of battle at the rough shouting of the guard.

The underwater levels were not flooded, though the walls were gloomily damp. Planter found himself in a great rambling chamber, bordered and cumbered with machines, at which men toiled. Glanfil was presenting him to a Skygor, who made notes with a crayon-like instrument on a board. “New?” he questioned in his ear-dulling roar. “Whence came he? Never stop to answer⁠—show him how to work your machine.”

Glanfil led him to a cylindrical appliance against a wall. It had a multitude of levers and push-buttons, and lights shone in its glassed forefront. Most of these were green, but one turned red as they approached. Glanfil pushed a button and turned a lever. The light switched to green again.

“The red means a faulty rhythm somewhere in the light system,” explained Glanfil. “Fix it by manipulating the buttons and levers near the red lights⁠—yes, so. It takes not skill, but wary watching.”

Planter took over. He found time to observe the rest of the slave-teemed basement.

Some operated a treadmill, others wound at keys or turned cranks. The machines were strange but not mysterious. He judged that they pumped, elevated, and modelled. Glanfil answered his questions:

“ ’Tis the Skygor method. We supply power by our labors. Springs, levers, such things, are worked.”

“Springs and levers?” repeated Planter. “Is this a clockwork town? Why not fuel? Steam?”

Glanfil shook his head. “We men make small fires, but the Skygors not. Their nature is moist, they want such things not. As you say, clockwork is the use of this place.”

“If you refuse to do this slave work, what then?”

Glanfil shrugged, and shuddered. “If the sin is not too great, you go to a level below this. Men drag upon a capstan, to wind the mightiest of springs for town works.”

“Like rowing in a galley!” Planter summed up wrathfully. “But if the sin is pretty sinful?”

A Skygor overseer came close, saw that Planter had learned the simple machine, and called Glanfil to some other task. Planter worked until such time as a raucous voice bade another shift take over. Marshalled with twenty or more slaves, he was led away to a musty vault, one side of which was lined with cell-like sleeping quarters. Here was a brick oven⁠—perhaps those in the Nest were designed from it⁠—over which two sturdy women toiled at cookery. As the slaves entered, these women quickly passed out stone plates and metal spoons. Into these were poured generous portions of hot, appetizing stew.

“They feed you well, these Skygors,” commented Planter to Glanfil as he finished his plateful.

“ ’Tis their fashion. They seek to make us happy.”

Planter went to the kettles for another helping of stew, and ate more slowly. “I’d rather eat in freedom,” he commented, half to himself.

“Freedom?” echoed Glanfil, as if scornful. “We hear of what freedom can be. Scant commons, rough beds, danger and damp. Better to toil honestly and fare well.”

“Aye,” said a bigger slave, with a spade beard of reddish tinge. “Did not the Skygors help our first fathers, stranger, as now they help you?”

“I’ve heard otherwise,” Planter rejoined. “It seems there was a fight⁠—the men were licked⁠—the survivors made captive and put to work. That’s what happened to me.”

“Best be silent,” murmured Glanfil, bending close. “That talk makes few friends.”

Planter changed the subject, asking various questions about Venus. His companions eyed him strangely as he displayed his ignorance, but made cheerful answer.

The noise that had overwhelmed him was a vibrating metal instrument, they said. Their description made it sound like an organ of sorts. As he had surmised, it was always in some sort of operation, and could be turned on full force if need be. The Skygors, with senses meant to endure great noises, were not hurt by such a din, but human ears would be tortured if not quickly closed. “Our labors give the instrument power,” informed Glanfil, rather proudly.

Planter thought over his experiences of the day. “The Skygors have many human devices,” he ventured.

“Aye, that,” agreed the big bearded one. “In the first days, our fathers brought many articles, which the Skygors developed and used.”