Pretender

CHAPTER 11.

Amalek was in charge of the tour of the torture chamber. He stopped at the door before they entered and turned to face Enkidu, while Dishon and the idiot lamp-bearer stood back. Amalek’s hood was down now, revealing a face somewhat younger than Enkidu had supposed—darker than the average, but not worth looking twice at in a crowd. He spoke matter-of-factly.

“Torture is generally employed for the riddance of malefactors in a manner discouraging similar behavior by others. The spectators are benefited as much as the felon. Perhaps more so, because there are more of them. A man who sees the flayed skin of a thief stretched upon a frame in the street will think again—and yet again—before reaching for what is not lawfully his. The head of a murderer mounted on a stake outside the city serves as an object lesson to potential murderers.”

The eyes fell darkly on Enkidu. “It is the custom, therefore, that the torture be exhibited to many witnesses, and that it compel their attention. The effect is enhanced if the culprit screams often and loudly and if there is an impressive flow of blood. The beholder must respond, he must feel that he is the one being corrected, for the evil he harbors in his spleen. This is what makes public flogging so successful. Not to mention impalement.”

Enkidu wished Amalek hadn’t mentioned impalement. His posterior winced.

“But our purpose is different,” Amalek continued, still eyeing Enkidu disturbingly. “We seek only to prevent the worship of a certain god. The moment that is effected, we are content. We gain no personal satisfaction from such persuasion. Only as a last resort do we employ physical duress, and only to the precise extent necessary. We try to avoid mutilation or permanent injury.”

Enkidu let out his breath. That implied that they would stop short of burning out his eyes or splitting his tongue. This might not be so bad.

“Nevertheless we have found that pain will achieve our purpose. It does not have to be impressive or loud; it merely has to be severe and sustained. The very fact that the instruments you are about to see do not destroy the body means that similar pain can be repeated and intensified and extended. There is no practical limit to such duress.”

He flung open the door and led them inside. The lamp-bearer held his light high, while Dishon’s glove prodded Enkidu forward.

It was not impressive. In the center was a large flat slab of stone propped waist high. In one corner was an open place for a fire, with a flue leading through the ceiling. Within it sat an enormous metal pot. Against the far wall rested an assortment of smaller crocks, along with thin rods, chains and unidentifiable shapes. That was all.

Amalek tapped the center slab. “The pretender is chained securely to this platform,” he explained. “He is gagged so that he cannot scream. The milder measures are begun.” He gestured toward the fire corner. “Oil is heated in that cauldron and poured carefully over his body. Because it is much hotter and thicker than water, it burns away large sections of the skin very readily. We use it sparingly, of course, so that its effect is felt over many watches, even days. The effect may be enhanced by quantities of salt applied to the raw surface.”

Enkidu reacted less strenuously than Amalek evidently expected. He knew intellectually that the process described would be intensely painful—but it lacked the sheer horror of the impalement stake.

Amalek must have read something of this in Enkidu’s face, for he added in a hard voice: “You will find that the agony Dishon can inflict in this way is as great as that of any other torture you know of. But should this be insufficient, he will resort to a harsher corrective. Dishon knows just where and how to place heavy stones on your chest and belly, until the normal processes of your body can take place only with such difficulty and discomfort as you have never imagined. With each breath you will fight for your life. You will disgorge the contents of your stomach and intestines in any manner the weights will permit. Dishon will see to your forced consumption of great quantities of water.”

That impressed Enkidu more specifically. To lie for days fighting suffocation, bloated with water…

By the time Amalek had described the knives and hooks and hot spikes, Enkidu was quite satisfied with the capabilities of this room.

So was NK-2. His host, once subjected to this treatment, would be disinclined to pursue Station A-10 further. He would have to change hosts and re-instill the directive—whereupon the new host would face the same obstacle.

The purpose of the enemy was becoming clear. Had A-10 been destroyed, a new station would have been set up after the circumstance had been investigated and the enemy routed. This way there was no need to investigate. The planet had been quietly nullified by the enemy, and NK-2 was in trouble.

But he had docked here randomly, and he could, if necessary, return to his craft and expose the situation in another distress call. True, the enemy would then discover his craft and destroy it, and probably catch him too in the fifteen or twenty years required for galactic response. But the whole thing seemed far too complex just to interfere with random galactic visitations.

But as preparation for a major enemy offensive—yes. Any number of planetary stations in this sector could have been similarly nullified, so that they would not give alarm when the full-scale thrust came. This preliminary campaign was evidently far advanced.

The strike could come within the century—or even the decade.

He could not afford to gamble that there would be time for his second message. He had to do something now.

“You are Gilgamesh to me,” Amys had written. Enkidu paced his cell, mulling over her words. Gilgamesh had been her childhood hero; she had dreamed of him as a lover. She was grown now, but her adult faith had been shaken. She was turning to the little-girl images again. And to Enkidu, her fellow-sufferer.

It was useless, of course. He was no hero, and he could not help himself, let alone her. But he had to deal with her gently, so as not to make her suffering worse. Surely they would be separated soon, one or both going to the torture; better for neither to care about the other too much.

YOU ARE NOT REALLY GILGAMESH, she agreed readily, AND I AM NOT ISHTAR. WE ARE BOTH PRETENDERS SUFFERING FOR OUR GOD. I LOVE YOU.

What?

If the gods were not rational, neither were women! He tried to explain again: love was difficult when two people had never seen each other. He had seen Tamar and even married her, but he did not love her. So how could—I WILL BE YOUR SECOND WIFE.

Oh, no!

What ploy was this? Was the enemy aware of NK-2’s knowledge? Was this another intricate pressure on the host? Marriage was a very close relationship within this species, he knew. It was physical, but also mental. Perhaps it would bring the two hosts close enough so that an entity could bridge the gap even without physical contact—penumbra and umbra. Good, if NK-2 wished to expand; bad, if the enemy intended to invade.

Strange pulses and emotional currents were forming in the host. He had been profoundly affected by this female’s suggestion. NK-2 would have to exert himself to reverse the trend, for it was dangerous.

He had been a fool to marry Tamar, for he still did not comprehend her devious purpose. Should he therefore be twice a fool—or was it eight times? he had lost count—and pledge himself to a second wife he had never seen?

No.

NO!

And yet—

And yet, though he had never seen her or touched her, he knew Amyitis. In a strange way that defied all his logic, he knew her more intimately than he had known any other person. Her body might be fair or it might not; her mind was still worth loving. His spirit reached out to hers, regardless of the wall. They were indeed two pretenders suffering for their god. Why not suffer together?

Ridiculous!

Yet—

She needed a husband’s protection. And she loved him. She was at the edge of an abyss, and the sand was crumbling away beneath her feet and she stretched out her hands to him, that he might grasp them and pull her free…

And he stood on the same sand, falling into the same abyss. He could do nothing.

The battle had been won. The host understood that the proposed liaison was pointless, even cruel. NK-2 relaxed.

ENKIDU, DO NOT ABANDON ME THUS. WE HAVE VERY LITTLE TIME LEFT. EVERYTHING THAT HAS SUSTAINED ME HAS FALLEN AWAY AND I AM ALONE EXCEPT FOR YOU. ATEN HAS TURNED HIS FACE FROM ME SINCE I DENOUNCED HIM, YET I THANK HIM FOR BRINGING YOU. WE SHALL NEVER SEE EACH OTHER; WE SHALL NEVER BE CLOSER THAN WE ARE NOW. ENKIDU, FOR YOUR SAKE ALSO, BIND ME TO YOU. WE NEED NOT BE ALONE IN THIS. ACCEPT MY LOVE AND GIVE ME YOURS, FOR I CANNOT ENDURE WHAT I FACE OTHERWISE.

No! NK-2 cried. Too late.

They were united by mud tablet in separate and filthy prison cells, invisible and inaudible to each other, with only the rats for witnesses.

I TAKE THIS WOMAN AMYITIS TO BE MY SECOND WIFE, IN THE PRESENCE OF ATEN, THE MERCIFUL.

He regarded the tablet for many moments, then added: I PUT UPON HER FACE THE VEIL.

He replicated his handfashioned seal and passed the tablet to her. She wetted down a section of the hardened surface with her tears and added her own signature. Below that, he discovered, she had added a line: THY LOVE IS AS THE SCENT OF CEDAR WOOD, O MY LORD…