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  REFUGEE

  Volume 1: Bio of a Space Tyrant

  * * *

  Piers Anthony

  Los Angeles, CA

  CALIGULA OF THE STARS

  Though he was later accused of every crime and sexual perversion in the system, Hope Hubris began as an innocent. Because he defended his older sister against the violent lusts of a wealthy scion, Hope and his peasant family were forced to flee Callisto, one of the moons of Jupiter. Pursued by bloodthirsty scions across the airless desert, they barely escaped with their lives. The illegal space bubble was overcrowded with refugees, all hoping to reach Jupiter for asylum.

  But the space travelers had not reckoned on the terrible threat of high space—the pirates, barbaric men who rape, rob, and murder, with no thought but to satisfy their bestial appetites. It will take all Hope’s ingenuity to survive, but the atrocities he witnesses will never die. There is only one way he can be rid of them...

  REVENGE

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Editorial Preface

  Chapter 1: Rape of the Bubble

  Chapter 2: Faith and Spirit

  Chapter 3: Hard Choice

  Chapter 4: Flight Into Vacuum

  Chapter 5: Fight for Life

  Chapter 6: Bubble, Bubble

  Chapter 7: Betrayal

  Chapter 8: Adjustment

  Chapter 9: Massacre

  Chapter 10: To Love and Be Loved

  Chapter 11: Sacrifice

  Chapter 12: Food

  Chapter 13: Refugees’ Welcome

  Chapter 14: Hell Planet

  Chapter 15: When Will It End?

  Chapter 16: Violation of Trust

  Chapter 17: Female Mystique

  Chapter 18: Pirate Treasure

  Chapter 19: The Final Raid

  Chapter 20: Salvation

  Editorial Epilog

  Author’s Note

  Copyright and permissions

  EDITORIAL PREFACE

  There have been many biographies of the so-called Tyrant of Jupiter, and countless analyses of the supposed virtues and vices of his character. He was, after all, the most remarkable figure of his generation, as even his enemies concede, and will no doubt be ranked with the other prime movers or disturbers of history, such as Alexander, Caesar, Attila, Genghis Khan, Napoleon, Hitler, and the like. But his personal model was Asoka, who was also called a tyrant in his day, though he may have been the finest ruler the subcontinent of India, Earth, ever had. It is virtually certain, however, that neither the inimical nor the sanitized references adequately describe the real man.

  Now that the Tyrant of Jupiter is dead, his voluminous private papers have been released to researchers. These reveal some phenomenal secrets, confirming both the best and worst aspects of his reputation. It turns out to be true, for example, that this man was personally responsible for the deaths of between fifty and a hundred human beings before he was sixteen years old, and thousands more thereafter—but still, it is not fair to call him a cold-blooded mass murderer. It is also true that there were many women in his life, including several temporary wives or mistresses—the distinction becomes obscure in some cases—but not that he was promiscuous.

  The legal name of the Tyrant was Hope Hubris, literally reflecting the hope his family had for him. He was of Hispanic origin, and the name Hope was at that time an unusual appellation for a male of his culture. It is perhaps a measure of his impact that it is so no more. He was, throughout his life, literate in two languages, and able to speak others. He was, in any language, always possessed of that particular genius of expression any leader needs.

  Hope Hubris was charged with many terrible things, and his seeming unwillingness to deny or clarify many of these charges appeared to lend credence to them. It was said that he watched his father being murdered without lifting a hand; that he sold his sisters into sexual slavery; that he permitted his mother to practice prostitution in his sight; and that he killed his first girl friend in order to save himself. He was also accused of practicing incest and cannibalism, of trafficking in illegal drugs, and of being a coward about heights. There is an element of truth in all these charges, but appreciation of their full context goes far to exonerate him. As he himself wrote: “We did what we had to. How can that be wrong?”

  Hope was fallible in the fashion of his kind, especially during his truncated youth, but he did possess a single and singular skill, and there was a certain greatness in him. His early and savage, if limited, experience in leadership was to serve him excellently later in life, as Tyrant. He seldom repeated his mistakes. Remember, too, that he suffered tribulations such as few survive. How pretty do we really expect the survivors of holocaust to be?

  The Tyrant was not a bad man. This assessment is well documented by the series of autobiographical manuscripts he left, each written with disarmingly complete candor. It seems fitting that the final word on his nature be his own. The intelligence and literacy of young Hope Hubris, who wrote at age fifteen in a secondary language, is manifest, coupled with a quaint naïveté of experience. This is, however, no juvenile narration.

  Herewith, edited only for clarification of occasional obscurities, and for reparation and titling of episodes, but otherwise uncensored, is the earliest of these five major documents, editorially titled Refugee.

  HMH

  CHAPTER 1

  RAPE OF THE BUBBLE

  Jupiter Orbit 2-8-2615—The shell of the bubble was opaque, for it had to be thick and solid to contain the pressure of air and to insulate against the cold of empty space. But there were portholes, multiply glazed tunnels that offered views outside, and naturally I was interested.

  The view really wasn’t much. Jupiter, the colossus of the system, dominated as it always did, about the apparent size of my outstretched fist. Its turbulent cloud-currents and great red eye were looking right back at me. The planet was almost full-face right now, because the sun was behind us. Our progress toward the planet was so slow that the disk seemed hardly larger than it had been when we started three days before. But giant Jove was always impressive, however distant and whatever the phase.

  “Ship ahoy!” our temporary navigator cried. I didn’t know whether this was standard space procedure, but it was good enough for us, who were less experienced than the rankest of amateurs.

  A ship! Excitement rippled through the refugees massed in the bubble. What could this mean?

  Soon we all saw it through the portholes: a somewhat bloated barrel with attachments. Of course streamlining was not needed in space, and a tub like this one was never intended to land on any significant solid body. Still, I felt a certain disappointment. Perhaps I had been spoiled by all those dramatic holographs of the Jupiter Space Navy in action, with needle-sleek missile ships homing in on decoy drones and exploding with instant fireballs. I had always known that real spacecraft were not like that, and yet my mental picture remained shaped by the Jupe publicity ads.

  The ship overhauled us readily, for it had chemical jets to boost its gravity shields. It closed on us, and its blunt nose clanged against our access port with a jolt that shook us all. What was it up to?

  I turned to discover my big sister, Faith, immediately behind me. She was absolutely beautiful in her excitement, though as always I pretended not to notice. I had the chore of staying near her during this voyage, to discourage mischief. Faith attracted men the way garbage draws flies in the incredible films of old Earth—perhaps it would be kinder to say the way flowers draw bees—partly because no man had touched her. We Latins place importance on that sort of thing; I understand there are other cultures that don’t.

  “Who are they?” Faith asked.

  “Maybe traders,” I answered, feeling a mild burgeoning of importance in the expressing of such an opinion. But
I felt a slow clutch of apprehension. We were refugees; we had nothing to trade.

  In any event, we were powerless to oppose their boarding. Our bubble had only one weak propulsive jet; we were virtually free-floating in space. Our main physical motivation was the selected gravity of Jupiter and the forces of inertia. We could not have performed an evasive maneuver had we known how. The entry ports could be operated from either side; this was to prevent anyone from being trapped outside. Our competence was such that this was a necessary safety feature, but it did leave us open to boarding by any craft that chose to do so.

  The seal was made and the port opened, making an open window to the other craft. There were of course safety features to prevent the lock opening both doors simultaneously when the pressure was unequal, but the normal air pressure of the ship did equalize it. In space, safety had to be balanced by convenience; it would have been awkward to transfer any quantity of freight from one vessel to another if one panel of the air lock always had to be sealed.

  A burly, bearded man appeared, garbed in soiled yellow pantaloons, a black shirt, and a bright red sash. He needed no space suit, of course; the merged air lock mechanism made exit into the vacuum of space unnecessary. Most striking was his headdress: a kind of broad, split hat like that of the classical buccaneers. There is a lot of conscious imitation of the past, so archaic costumes are not unusual.

  Buccaneers. I had been uneasy before; now I was scared. I was aware that not all of those who emulated buccaneers in costume were playing innocent games. Some took the part more seriously, particularly in this region of the system. “We’ve got to hide, Faith,” I said, in our natural Spanish. The translation of course is not perfect, and neither is my memory; allowance must be made.

  Her clear brow furrowed. “Why, Hope?” she asked. “I want to meet the traders. Maybe they have soap.” She had been unable to wash her luxuriant tresses, and so she fretted. It was the way of pretty girls.

  “They’re not traders,” I snapped. “Come on!”

  She frowned. She was three years older than I, and did not like taking orders from me. I could hardly blame her for that, but I really feared the trouble that could come if my suspicion was correct. I took her by the arm and drew her along with me.

  “But you said—” she protested as she moved.

  It was already too late, for several more brutish men had crowded through the open port, and they were armed with clubs and knives. “Line up here on the main floor!” their leader cried. I found it mildly anomalous that he did not use the proper term, “deck.” Maybe he did not consider our little bubble to be a true spacecraft.

  The refugees looked at our navigator, who seemed to be most likely authority in a situation like this. He looked suddenly tired. “I think we must do as they say,” he said. “They are armed and we are not.”

  “Stay back,” I whispered to Faith. “Stand behind me. Try to—you know—make yourself inconspicuous.”

  “Oh, no!” she breathed. She had a very feminine way of expressing herself, even when under stress. She had the business of being pretty down virtually to a science. “You don’t think—?”

  “I think they’re pirates,” I said, trying to speak without moving my lips as I faced the intruders, so they wouldn’t know I was talking. “They’re going to rob us.” I hoped that would be the limit of it.

  We moved slowly to merge with the mass of people forming on the designated portion of the deck. Fortunately the bubble’s spin was high at the moment, so there was enough centrifugal gravity to hold us firm. Our concentration at this spot did cause the bubble to wobble slightly, however.

  “Now, I’m called the Horse, because of the way I smell,” the red-sashed leader said. “I run, this party. That’s about all you need to know about me. Just do what I say, and no one will be hurt too much.” He chuckled, but none of us saw any humor in this. We were frightened.

  The pirates spread out around the bubble, around the curve of the deck, poking into things. The leader and several others attended to the refugees. “All right, come on up here, you,” the Horse said, beckoning an older man.

  “What?” the man asked in Spanish, startled.

  The pirate leaped and grabbed him by the arm, hauling him roughly forward. “Move!” he shouted.

  The man recovered his balance, nonplused. “But, Señor Horse—”

  Deliberately, yet almost carelessly, the pirate struck him on the head, backhanded. It was no token blow; the man cried out and fell to the deck. A trace of blood showed on his lip as he put one hand to his face.

  “Check him,” the Horse said brusquely. Two others stepped up, hauled the old man to his feet, and searched him roughly. They found his wallet and a small bag of golden coins, his fortune. They dumped these in a central box and threw him to the side. I think the violence upset him and us more than the actual robbery did. We were plainly unprepared for this.

  “You,” the Horse said, pointing to a middle-aged woman.

  She screamed and shrank back into the crowd, but he was too quick for her. He caught her by the shoulder and dragged her into the open. “Strip!” he ordered.

  Horrified, unmoving, she stared at him.

  The Horse did not repeat his order. He gestured to the two assistant pirates. They grabbed the woman and literally ripped the clothing from her body, shaking it so that all objects in her pockets fell to the deck. These were mostly feminine articles: a comb, a mirror, a vial of perfume, and a small change purse. The pirates took the change and cast her aside, naked and sobbing.

  Now the pirate’s eye fell on Faith. My effort to conceal her had been unsuccessful; there were too many of the intruders scattered around the bubble. Also, the curve of the deck meant that those of us who stood behind the group actually were more visible than those near the center, because the curve had the effect of elevating us. “Here’s something better than money!” he exclaimed, beckoning her.

  Faith shrank away, of course. My father shoved his way out of the crowd. “She has nothing!” he cried.

  One of the peripheral pirates strode forward to intercept my father. Another went after Faith. My father was not a man of violence, but he could not tolerate abuse of his children. He raised one fist in warning as he met the pirate. It was not that he wanted to fight, but that he had to give some signal that the limit of our tolerance had been approached. Even confused refugees could only be pushed so far.

  The pirate drew his curved sword. “Get back!” another refugee cried, catching my father by his other arm and drawing him back into the throng. The pirate, satisfied by this act of retreat, scowled and did not pursue.

  Meanwhile, the other pirate reached Faith, who now stood close beside me, no longer protesting my leadership. He caught her by the elbow. She screamed—and I launched myself at the man.

  I caught him in a clumsy tackle about the legs, making him stumble. This brought a feeling of deja vu to me, the sensation of having been here before. My mind is like that; I make odd connections at the least convenient times. A teacher once told me that it is a sign of creativity, that can be useful if properly harnessed. I had tackled a man before, rescuing my sister—

  A fist like a block of ice-rock clubbed me on the ear. There is a peculiar agony to the injured ear; my very brain seemed to shake inside my skull.

  The pirate had knocked me down with the same almost careless contempt the Horse had applied to the old man. It was as effective. I sat up, my ear seeing red stars. For a moment I was disorganized, not doing more than hurting and watching.

  The pirate hauled Faith into the open. She screamed again and wrenched herself away. Her blouse tore, leaving a shred in the man’s grip. He cursed in the manner of his kind and lunged for her again.

  I scrambled up and launched myself at him a second time. This time I didn’t tackle, I butted. The man was leaning toward me, reaching for Faith; I brushed past her and struck him dead center with the top, of my head.

  His arms were outstretched; he had no protec
tion from my blow. His mouth was open, as he was about to say something. I was braced for the impact; even so, it was one spine-deadening collision.

  The air whooshed out of the pirate like gas from a punctured bag, while I dropped half-stunned to the deck. Now my whole head saw stars, and they had heated from red to white. We were both lightweight in the fractional gravity of the bubble, but our inertial mass remained intact; there had been nothing light about the butt.

  I lay prone, waiting for the shock to let go of my system. I was conscious, but somehow couldn’t get my limbs to coordinate. I heard the pirates shouting, and Faith’s voice as she turned about and returned to me. “Hope!” she cried. “Are you all right? Oh, they’ve hurt him!”

  I presumed that “him” was me, news for a third party. I tried to tell her I would be all right in a moment, when the universe stopped gyrating quite so wildly and my head shrank back to manageable dimension, but only a grunt came out. Maybe that sound actually issued from the pirate next to me, who was surely hurting as much as I was. Maybe with luck, I had managed to separate his ribs.

  But now other pirates charged in. “Hack that boy apart!” the Horse cried, and rough hands hauled me into the air.

  My dizziness abated rapidly; there is nothing like a specific threat to one’s life to concentrate one’s attention!

  Faith screamed again—that was one thing she was good at— and flung her arms about me as my feet touched the deck. The scream was ill-timed; at that moment all the pirates were doing was standing me on my feet and supporting me as I wobbled woozily. Their intent was unlikely to be kind, but in that instant no one was actually doing me violence, despite their leader’s order. Maybe it had been intended to cow the other refugees, rather than to be implemented literally. I make this point, with the advantage of retrospection, because of the importance of that particular scream.