The Ethical Engineer

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.”

Ijale

“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.

***