Piers Anthony - Bio Of A Space Tyrant 1- Refugee

Piers Anthony

Bio of a Space Tyrant, Volume 1:

Refugee

CONTENTS

Editorial Preface

1. RAPE OF THE BUBBLE

2. FAITH AND SPIRIT

3. HARD CHOICE

4. FLIGHT INTO VACUUM

5. FIGHT FOR LIFE

6. BUBBLE, BUBBLE

7. BETRAYAL

8. ADJUSTMENT

9. MASSACRE

10.TO LOVE AND BE LOVED

11.SACRIFICE

12.FOOD

13.REFUGEES' WELCOME

14.HELL PLANET

15.WHEN WILL IT END?

16.VIOLATION OF TRUST

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17.FEMALE MYSTIQUE

18.PIRATE TREASURE

19.THE FINAL RAID

20.SALVATION

Editorial Epilog

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,

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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 separation 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 missileships 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

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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 the 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

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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, nonplussed. "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.

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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 ofdéjà 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 protection 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.

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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

his 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.

Ill-timed it was, but that scream electrified the refugees in a manner no prior event had. Suddenly they

were acting, all at once, as if choreographed by a larger power. Four of them grabbed the pirate beside

me, stripping him from me. Others jumped on the one I had stunned with my butt. Still others went after

the oncoming pirates.

The refugee throng had been transformed from an apathetic, frightened mass to a fighting force. Faith's

third scream had done it. It remains unclear to me why her first or second screams had not had that

effect. Perhaps the first ones had primed the group. I like to understand human motives, and sometimes

they defy reasonable explanation.

At any rate, in moments all the pirates except their leader had been caught and disarmed, surprised by

the suddenness and ferocity of the refugee reaction and overwhelmed by our much greater number.

The Horse stood, however, not with a drawn sword, but with a drawn laser pistol. This was another

matter, for though a laser lacked the brute force of a sword, it could do its damage a great deal faster,

particularly when played across the face.

"Turn loose my men," the Horse said sternly.

My father spoke up. I knew he did not like this sort of showdown, but he was, after all, our leader, and

with Faith and me involved he was also personally responsible. "Get out of this bubble!" he said. "You're

nothing but robbers!"

The Horse's weapon swung to cover my father. I tensed despite my continuing discomfort, knowing that

little weapon could puncture a man's eyeballs and cruelly blind him before he could even blink.

"Who are you?" said the pirate.

"Major Hubris," my father responded.

"You're no military man!"

"It's my name, not a title. Fire that laser, and the rest of us will swamp you before I fall."

The Horse grinned humorlessly. "I can take out five or six of you first."

"Two or three of us," my father corrected him evenly, and I felt a surging pride at his courage. My father

had always had the nerve to do what he had to do, even when he disliked it. This was an example. "And

there are two hundred of us. We've already got your men. You stand to lose, regardless."

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The pirate leader considered. "There is that. All right—you release my men, and we'll leave you alone."

My father turned to the crowd. "That seems fair enough." He noted the scattered nods of approval, then

turned back to the pirate. "But you have to leave the things you stole from us. No robbery."

The Horse scowled. "Agreed."

By this time I had recovered most of my wits. "Don't trust him, Father!" I cried. "These are pirates!"

"I am a pirate," the Horse said. "But I keep my word. We will not rob you, and we will leave the

bubble."

My father, like most men of honor, tended to believe the best of people. He nodded at the men who

held the pirates, and the pirates were released. They quickly recovered their weapons and rejoined their

leader, somewhat shamefaced.

The Horse stood for a moment, considering. Then he indicated me. "That's your boy who floored my

man?"

My father nodded grimly. "And my daughter, whom he was defending."

As I mentioned, thoughts scurry through my head at all times, not always relevant to the issue of the

moment. Right now I wondered where my little sister Spirit was, as I didn't see her. I don't know why I

thought of her right then. Maybe it was because, the way my father spoke, it sounded as though he had

only two children, when in fact he had three. Of course, he wasn't trying to deceive anyone; the pirate

hadn't asked how many he had, just whether I was one. It was just that my meandering brain insisted on

exploring surplus details.

"And when she screamed, the others rallied around," the Horse said. "We misjudged that, it seems."

"Yes."

"So we'll just have to try it again," the Horse concluded. He made a signal with his hand. "Take them."

Suddenly the nine other pirates advanced on us again, each with his sword or club ready.

"Hey!" my father protested. "You agreed—"

"Not to rob you," the Horse said. "And to leave the bubble. We'll honor that. But first we have some

business that wasn't in the contract." He looked at Faith and me. "Don't hurt the boy or the girl or the

man," he ordered. "Bring them here."

Pirates grabbed the three of us. In each case, two men menaced the refugees nearby while the third

cornered the victim. They were much more careful than before. It was not possible to resist without

immediate disaster, for the Horse backed them up with his laser. More than that, it was psychological:

The remaining refugees, rendered leaderless again, did nothing. The dynamics had changed.

That's another phenomenon that has perplexed me. The mechanism by which a few uninhibited

individuals can cow a much larger number, when both groups know the larger group has the power to

prevail. It seems impossible, yet it happens all the time. Whole governments exist in opposition to the will

of the people they govern, because of this. If I could just comprehend that dynamic—

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"Bind father and son," the Horse said. "String them up to the baggage rack."

I struggled, but lacked the strength and mass of any one of the pirates. They tied my hands behind me,

cruelly tight, and suspended me from the guyed baggage net in the center of the bubble. My father

suffered a similar fate. We hung at a slight angle, overlooking the proceedings, helpless.

Now the Horse turned to Faith. He whistled. "She's a looker!" he exclaimed. His vernacular expression

may have been cruder, but that was the essence. Faith, of course, blushed.

"Leave her alone!" I cried foolishly.

"No, we won't let this piece go to waste," the Horse said, running his tongue around his lips. "Prepare

her."

The pirates held Faith and methodically tore the rest of her clothing from her struggling body, grinning

salaciously. Oh, yes, they enjoyed doing this! In my mind they resembled burning demons from the

depths of Hell. Someone among the refugees cried out, but the swords of the other pirates on guard

prevented any action.

When Faith was naked, they hauled a box out of the baggage and held her supine, spread-eagled across

it. The Horse ran his rough hands over her torso and squeezed her breasts, then dropped his pantaloons.

There was a gasp of incredulity from the refugees. This was not because of any special quality of the

Horse's anatomy, which was unimpressive and unclean, but because of the open manner in which he

exhibited himself before such a company of men, women, and children. The man was completely without

shame.

I am striving to record this sequence objectively, for this is my personal biography: the description of the

things that have made me what I am. I strive always to comprehend the true nature of people, myself

most of all. There is a place for subjectivity—or so I believe. My feelings about a given event may change

with time and mood and memory, but the facts of the event will never change. So I must first describe

precisely what occurred, as though it were recorded by videotape, uncluttered by emotion, then proceed

to the subjective analysis and interpretation. Perhaps there should be several interpretations, separated by

years, so that the change in them becomes apparent and helps lead to the truest possible comprehension

of the whole.

But in this case I find I cannot adequately perform the first requirement. My hand balks, my very mind

veers away from the enormity of the outrage and hurt. I can only say that I loved my two sisters with a

love that was perhaps more than brotherly, though never would I have thought that there was any

incestuous element. Faith was beautiful, and nice, and I was charged with her protection, though she was

a woman while I was a mere adolescent. I had in fact never before witnessed the sexual act, either in

holo or in person, and had never imagined it to be so brutal.

It was as if that foul pirate shoved a blunt dagger into my sister's trembling, vulnerable body, again and

again, and his face distorted in a grimace of urgency that in ironic fashion almost matched her grimace of

agony, and his body shuddered as if in epileptic seizure, and when he stopped and stepped away there

was blood on the weapon.

And I—I with my absolute horror of that ravishment, my hatred of every aspect of that cruelty—I found

my own body reacting, as it were a thing apart from my mind, yet I knew it could not truly be separate.

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There was some part of me that identified with the fell pirate, though I knew it was wrong and more than

wrong. My innocent, lovely sister Faith possessed certain attributes of Heaven, while now I knew that I

possessed, at least in part, an attribute of Hell. I looked upon the foul lust of Satan, and felt an echo of

that lust within myself.

I cannot write of this further. It is no pleasant thing to confess an affinity to that which one condemns. I

can only say that I swore a private oath to kill the pirate Horse: some time, some way. And the pirates

who followed him in the appalling act. I tried to note the details of each of them, so that I would not fail to

recognize them if ever I encountered them again. I saw that several of the pirates, however, did not

participate; they obeyed the Horse in all other things, but would not ravish a helpless woman. Even

among pirates, there were some who were not as bad as others.

Apart from that effort of identification, my mind retreated from what was happening. My sister, I think,

had fainted before the second pirate readied his infernal weapon, and that was a portion of mercy for her.

She, at least, no longer knew what was being done to her body. I knew—but chose not to see.

I fled into memory, into that sequence that was the origin of my feeling ofdéjà vu , for it related directly

to the present situation. Probably I should have commenced my bio there, instead of with the shock of

Faith's violation, for I see now that the true beginning of my odyssey was then. This bio is more than a

record of experience; it is therapy. Biography, biology, biopsy—all the ways to study a subject.

Bio—life. My life. Not only do I seek to grasp the nature of myself, I seek to strengthen my character by

reviewing my successes and my mistakes with an eye to improving the ratio between them, painful as this

process can be at times.

Therefore I will now illumine that prior sequence, demarking it with a new dateline, and will try to keep

my narrative more coherent hereafter. I would perhaps dispose of my "false start," but my paper and ink

are precious, as is my evocative effort. After all, if once I begin the process of unwriting what I have

written, where may it end? Every word is important, for it too is part of my being.

Chapter 2 — FAITH AND SPIRIT

Maraud, Callisto, 2-1-2615—My sisters and I walked home together after school, because there was

a certain safety in numbers. Faith, eighteen years old, resented this; she claimed her social life was

inhibited by the presence of a skinny fifteen-year-old little sibling. The vernacular term she was wont to

employ was less kind, and I think not completely fair, and does not become her, so I shall not render it

here. Yet she smiled as she said it, deleting much of the sting, and I think there was some merit to her

complaint. It is true that a fifty-kilo sibling is not much company for a fifty-kilo girl. Our weights were

similar, in full Earth gravity, but the distribution differed substantially. Faith was about as pretty a girl as

one might imagine, with the rich ash-blond tresses and gray eyes that made her face stand out among the

darker shades that predominated in our culture, and a generously symmetrical figure and small

extremities. I was young and not versed in social relations between the sexes, and I was her brother;

even so, I understood the impact such physical qualities had on men.

Faith was not really intelligent, as I define the concept, though she did well enough in scholastics. It was

said that a single look at her was enough to raise her grade before any given class commenced, and that

may not have been entirely in jest. She lacked that ornery attitude that passes for courage in others; these

qualities of intelligence and courage were reserved in healthy measure for her sister. Spirit was as bold

and cunning a gamin as could be found on the planet. Technically Callisto is merely the fourth Galilean

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Piers Anthony - Bio Of A Space Tyrant 1- Refugee

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