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A.R.Yngve DARC AGES Book Three _________________________ |
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![]() City of Dakchaor |
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Chapter 4
Darc put on his straw hat and checked his crude disguise; Lucijja and Faluti put on some cheap jewelry, necklaces, and armbands. They instructed him harshly. "Now hear this," Lucijja said, "there are ways of doing things in the coastal cities; break the rules, and you are in danger." She showed Darc a well-worn map of the coast of Awrica, with enlargements of the main city-states. He skimmed the map, while she explained it: "This large, round wall surrounds the Old City. It's heavily defended, and the people inside never go outside for fear of the Plague. "The outer walls, here and here, are for protecting the harbor area, which we have to cross. Those who use the harbor are fishermen, traveling merchants, minstrels, thieves -- it's a separate city, with its own police force and laws. The Old City trades a lot with the harbor, but Old City people never touch an outsider or eat raw food from the outside -- all exchanges of money and goods are made with their robots acting as agents. Everything that passes into the Old City is sterilized, boiled and irradiated. We know this, because each year people die trying to smuggle themselves inside. "The harbor people are checked daily -- by their own militia, by each other, by the robot servants of the Old City. But the law stays the same, inside and outside -- to associate with witchdoctors and Lepers means death by burning!" Darc understood that this social system was more flexible, less crude than that which isolated the inland city-states up north. But the intent remained the same -- keep out the Plague. He asked the women of the crew: "What do they really know about your Kap Verita, these mainland people?" Lucijja answered him with a long, sad tale. "This came to pass many years ago,when the Mechao's grandfather was still alive. A stern man, loved and feared by all. A fisherman lost his way in a storm, and drifted all the way from Dakchaor to our islands. Our lookouts saw him coming and we all went into hiding, but... there was this one girl, who couldn't resist having a closer look at the visitor. And they fell in love. She helped him escape, and they both sailed back to the mainland. "In some way, the mainland people got the girl to talk. She revealed all about Mechao's family and their genetic engineering. Very bad. But Mechao had her tracked down, and arranged to have them both poisoned -- the sailor and the girl. He made it seem as if they had gotten some kind of disease on Kap Verita; they developed horrible boils all over their skin. So the harbor people, fearing a plague outbreak, burned the couple alive, destroyed everything they had touched, and banished the sailor's family to the Wastelands. "So today, people on the mainland coast believe there is plague on our islands -- that, plus the legends of monsters and wicked witchdoctors. We are pariahs, but we are left alone. Now do you see why we are so cautious?" Darc nodded agreement, and promised to follow their instructions. The catamaran would arrive at the port, be checked and cleared by the customs militia; they would buy the necessary goods, then leave at once. Should one of the crew fail to show up at the boat before sundown, she would be abandoned in the harbor at her own risk. The crew hauled down the sails. The boat's electric motor carried them into the inspection area, where all incoming traffic was checked before being allowed into the main harbor area. It was early morning, and Darc was still sleepy -- when a sobering thought hit him. Mechao's predecessors had used their knowledge to assassinate those who threatened the existence of their people. It had not occurred to Darc before, that this might happen to himself. Witchdoctors were likely to inspire fear and respect -- even among their own. Mechao seemed so mild-mannered, so friendly... was his trust in Darc and his friends as seamless as it appeared? Darc made a last check of the color of his hair -- now coal black and stripy -- and looked ahead of the boat stern. An inspection pram, full of armed black guardsmen, was approaching the catamaran. Their signal-red uniforms were light and with much less metal armor than Castilian soldiers. "Just act dumb, and say nothing," Faluti whispered to him. Among the men who boarded the catamaran, came an elderly gnarled fellow in a white robe and hat. While the guard searched through the cargo, the doctor had the crew lined up on the deck for a quick examination. Parts of the procedure were familiar to Darc... but he had to suppress a laugh when he heard the little man repeat certain phrases to each crewmember. "Stick out your tongue. More. -- Say 'Aaah'." The doctor also moved an advanced-looking scanning device over the crew's bodies, not unlike the doctors of Damon City. Such technology was beyond Darc's understanding, but probably this examiner hadn't the faintest idea how his equipment worked either -- for he found nothing to report. Finally the turn came to Darc, who stood last in line on deck. Darc struggled not to appear nervous, looked the short man straight in the eye -- and the old physician raised an eyebrow suspiciously. "I see your eyes are green," he stated sharply, in the manner of a man used to giving orders. "Where are you from?" Darc could only respond with a sheepish smile -- his foreign accent would have given him away the moment he spoke. Lucijja, standing next to Darc, came to his rescue: "He's quite dumb, sir, but there's nothing wrong with him otherwise." The doctor stepped back and eyed them both: "So? Why is he the only one with green eyes on board?" It was Faluti who interrupted now, feigning innocent knowingness. "But sir! Surely you know there are more people with green eyes, or blue eyes, in the harbors down south! Haven't you heard the stories?" The doctor was unimpressed; he gave the sergeant of the guards a warning glance. "What stories?" Faluti rolled up her eyes -- the short, chubby islander was quite an actress -- and leaned forward, lowering her voice: "They say many of the people in the closed cities are decadent and inbred -- everyone being each other's uncle or cousin, you know. And sometimes... some of their kids sneak into the harbor for an adventure. Nine months later, a harbor woman might give birth to a green-eyed baby, who turns out to be an idiot -- you know what I mean?" The doctor looked about himself, embarrassed -- this lowly customs officer was no better informed than she was. He gave Darc a silent nod, and told the sergeant that the crew was clear. Once the customs boat had departed, Darc shook hands with his two rescuers. "Faluti, Lucijja -- I swear to repay you for this! But why did he walk away when you told him that silly story?" Faluti flashed her gold tooth and made a shrug of modesty. "Well, what if the Old City people would go looking for their lost sons one day? That measly quack can't risk messing with them, or any relatives they might have!" The crew laughed long and heartily at Faluti's scam -- it would make a popular yarn once they returned home. The port of Dakchaor lay a few kilometers south of a large volcanic cape, which pointed westward in the direction of the Kap Verita islands. The heat in the sun-drenched bay dazed Darc; he took refuge under the canvas roof which the crew put up over the deck. Darc drank of their water supply, wondering if Mechao shouldn't have vaccinated him against cholera or dysenteria before he set his foot in a filthy, overcrowded harbor. "Rise and shine, paleface!" Faluti told him. "We have a lot of buying and selling to do, and little time." "I just remembered," he told her with a grin, "how much I hated it when my family forced me along on shopping tours." At last the catamaran crew cast anchor, and put their feet on one of the many stone-and-concrete piers. Some of the passengers were quite pale with seasickness. Around them, the harbor was already crowding with incoming fishermen, merchants, and travelers. Hundreds of jostling men and women from the ports of Noakchott, Banju, Bissaw, Konaki, and Monroia were there, screaming and scrambling to sell, buy, and get home. Darc thought it an enchanting sight. Compared to the somber isolation of Castilia this was a paradise of life and openness, albeit within very strict limits. Around the teeming bay and harbor stretched two very high, sloping fortress walls down into the sea and seemed to continue into the depths of the ocean. And in the distance, the behemoth hill of the Old City loomed over the harbor like a visitor from space. Spires and towers glittered above its sloping walls -- a fantasy palace, just out of reach. The walls of the Old City were dotted with narrow slits, from where rows of gun turrets guaranteed law and order. Strangely enough, nobody in the harbor seemed to mind about being threatened with cannons. All political power emanates from the barrel of a gun, thought Darc. Now who said that again? Just past noon, the expedition party gathered for food and rest under the tent roof of their boat. There was literally no space to sit anywhere else in the harbor. "I couldn't find the components on my list," Darc complained. "I must have them, or the radio signals cannot reach across the world! Then it's hopeless -- my message can't be spread by paper only, it would take forever." Lucijja spread her arms helplessly. "Perhaps we could try another harbor later," she suggested. "Or..." "Or what?" Faluti prodded. "No, forget it. Too dangerous." Darc grinned at Lucijja, and said: "Now, don't tell me that you were going to say: 'Let Darc ask the robots from the Old City if they have what he's looking for.' I'm not that crazy!" They ate in silence, and time seemed to slow down from the sheer air pressure. The monsoon was imminent, which might make any extra sailing trips impossible for a long period. Darc thought on it, slowly. The heat hammered on his brain until he wanted to dive screaming into the sea. And he gave in. "Okay!" he said. "I'll give it a try." "I'll go with you," Lucijja said quickly. I must be mad, Darc thought, as he walked up to the exchange plaza at the edge of the Old City. The plaza was a wide amphitheater lined with remote-controlled laser turrets on steel columns, and a central area where the robot servants of the Old City traded with outsiders. On the wall above the great portals of the Old City hung a gigantic electronic sign-table, made up of hundreds of lamps. The sign-table was flashing an unending stream of messages: ...TODAY WE SELL BATTERIES AT REDUCED PRICES... 1 LIGHT STRIP FOR 30 UNITS SEAFOOD... NO LEPER ACTIVITY IN THE PROVINCE... THE GODDESS WATCHES OVER AND LOVES YOU... THIRTY MINUTES PAST THIRTEEN... PREPARE FOR THE RAIN PERIOD... FEVER PILL PRICES UP 1/10... Human hands passed on sacks of grain and vegetables, baskets of fish, bars of metal, and left them to be weighed on wide scales, operated by vaguely humanoid metal robots. The goods were examined -- no barter accepted -- and metal hands paid the humans with electronic trinkets, machine components, and bottled chemicals. The robots loaded their purchases onto electric carriages, which rolled in through slots in the big portals and disappeared into the Old City. Everyone involved worked swiftly and deftly, repeating a centuries-old ritual. Darc watched the busy procedure from a corner, and tried to get a closer look at the electronic goods that the Old City produced and sold at high prices. Could he pay with the supplies they had on the boat -- some fish and Mechao's own medicines, or would they have to buy a larger offer of goods in the harbor? The robots seemed to ignore any shipments smaller than half a ton. While making up his mind, some commotion occurred; Darc and Lucijja looked to one end of the plaza, where a shouting man was causing tension in the crowd. It was a desperate lone merchant, resembling a black-skinned Bedouin, who tried pleading to the machines: "This is all I have, you must take it! Please! My family needs that medicine!" An expressionless robot, wearing some kind of official insignia on its forehead, answered blankly: "Your offer is below the trading limit. You have fifteen seconds to leave the exchange." The man seemed too needy to listen, too despairing to notice the other customers scattering away from him -- and suddenly, without warning, several laser pulses from above struck him down. His charred corpse was dead before it hit the sand. People screamed -- Lucijja muttered a curse under her breath. Then someone dragged away the smoldering corpse, and the commerce resumed as if nothing had happened. Darc could not believe the cruelty he had just witnessed; he covered his mouth to avoid puking or shouting. "Jesus Christ! Does this happen every day?" he asked his guide. "No," Lucijja replied bitterly, "but sometimes there are riots, when the crops are sparse and the Old City refuses to pay more. And they always end that way." She spat on the sand, and urged Darc closer. They had to stand in line for quite a while, until a robot official could deal with them. The robots wore wide, shiny hats covered with gleaming tinfoil – as if the heat bothered their electronic brains. "Selling or buying?" the robot asked. "Buying," Lucijja said quickly. "State the items you wish to buy. You have fifteen seconds." With a confirming glance at Darc, she stated loudly and clearly: "Large electronic components. They are described in detail on this list." She held out a bundle of sheets with a trembling hand. The robot official took the list, scanned it, and showed signs of confusion. "Wait... wait... wait here, until I have consulted my superiors." The machine rolled away into the shadows, and what felt like bucketloads of sweat ran down Darc's neck. "What if we run?" he whispered to Lucijja, who stood stiffly looking forward. Without moving an inch, she hissed back: "Keep still, or we both die. If we act harmless, nothing will happen. The law protects us here, unless we are violent or threatening." Darc stood as still as he could, given the heat and the jitters in his legs, and cursed himself. His own brazen curiosity had got him into trouble again -- what was it his old biology teacher used to say? "One'o these days, Archibald, your nosiness is going to make you one head shorter!" Unseen to outsiders, eyes and ears constantly surveyed the harbor from inside the Old City. A minority of them were human. And they noticed the peculiarities of Darc: his appearance, his accent, his behavior -- and his speech. Darc was cursing in a dead language. The robots of the Old City were given new orders. After twenty agonizing minutes of waiting, during which the others standing in line scattered, the robot official appeared again. It was not carrying the list any longer. Still as formal as before, the robot pointed a steel finger at Darc: "You are hereby invited into the Old City, where the city lord wishes to discuss your proposed business arrangement. If you accept, follow me. If you refuse the invitation, you and your company must leave Dakchaor before sundown. You have fifteen seconds to reply." Darc stared at the emotionless machine, then at Lucijja. Without thinking, he cut off the objection she was about to make: "Just go back to the harbor and wait for me. If I'm not back before nightfall, leave me here. Tell them that he knows what to do." He winked at her, and patted her shoulder. Lucijja blinked incredulously at him for a moment, then turned on the spot and walked off. When she was safely outside the plaza, she started to run toward the harbor. Darc followed the robot official inside. Once again, he found that his home planet had become an alien world. |
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