Executioner's Moon

“Wake up,” Mike Targett shouted, his voice thick with excitement. “The computer thinks there’s a village ahead of us!”

Dave Surgenor roused himself from a light doze, sat up straight in the left-hand seat of Module Five and looked out through the forward screen. The survey vehicle was skimming along at maximum speed, one metre above the surface of Korrill IV, and the view was the same as it had been for days. Beneath a sky which was crowded with varicoloured moons, a flat snow-covered plain stretched from horizon to horizon, featureless and utterly devoid of life.

“Either you or the computer has a wire loose,” Surgenor said. “And probably it’s you.”

“I’m telling you, Dave. Listen to this.” Targett touched a button and the computer, which had been muted to allow Surgenor to sleep, began to speak more loudly.

“Receiving atypical data,” it droned. “Receiving atypical data.”

“Repeat the details,” Targett said, with a triumphant glance at his partner.

“Five hundred kilometres ahead of you is a deep, narrow valley,” the computer responded. “It runs in a generally north-south direction. Preliminary analysis of gases in the area indicates the presence of vegetation. Refined metals are also present which, together with traces of combustion products, indicates a small colony of intelligent beings possessing rudimentary technology.”

“Hear these words,” Surgenor said quickly, using the code phrase which gave him access to Aesop, the central computer aboard the mother ship, Sarafand. “What do we do next?”

While waiting for a reply he winked at his younger companion, consciously acting out the part of the veteran space traveller who had lost the capacity to be surprised at anything. But his heart had begun a steady, powerful pounding…

Korrill IV had presented special difficulties for the crew of the Sarafand, a Mark Six survey vessel of the Cartographical Service.

Standard operating procedure was that the mother ship would land at a planet’s south pole and allow six survey modules to disembark. The mother ship, entirely under the control of its computer, then took off, did a half-circuit and landed at the north pole. Its survey modules did the same journey on the surface, equally spaced around the planet, all the while transmitting data to the ship for inclusion in the planetary resources map being constructed on the computer deck.

In normal circumstances the ship would complete its half-circuit of the planet in about an hour, in contrast to the survey crews who had to spend days toiling across the surface. Standard procedure had not been feasible in the case of Korrill IV, however, because the planet was surrounded by a shell of forty-three major moons and approximately four hundred minor natural satellites.

The Sarafand had spent a long time waiting for suitable ‘windows’—gaps in the ever-changing screen of satellites—to enable it to land at the south pole and get away again. And now with the survey half-completed, it was parked in a safe orbit, awaiting its chance to put down at the north pole for its rendezvous with the survey modules.

In all of Surgenor’s many years with the Cartographical Service that situation had cropped up only once before, and now another equally freakish event was occurring. The Service was only assigned to map worlds which were believed to be uninhabited, and it was a very rare event indeed for the survey crews to stumble across signs of intelligent life.

“How does anybody survive in a place like this?” Surgenor said, shivering as the icy wind bit through his protective clothing. He glanced wistfully back at the beetle-shaped outline of Module Five, which was already obscured by swirls of dry snow.

“It’ll be a lot warmer when we get down into the valley,” Targett replied. “Aesop says the temperature could be as high as fifteen degrees.”

“Let’s hope he’s right.” Surgenor advanced to the rim of the cliff which ran from north to south as far as the eye could see. He looked over the edge and, in spite of his foreknowledge, caught his breath as he saw the vivid greenery which lay far below. The valley was like something out of a fairy story, a magical oasis of lush vegetation and warmth in an arctic wasteland.

“They were lucky,” Targett said. “If the people down there are the survivors from a crashed ship, as Aesop thinks, they were dead lucky to find this place before they froze solid.”

Surgenor shook his head. “It didn’t have to be pure chance. They could have detected the valley from space and maybe used their last remnants of control to bring their ship down in this area.” Signalling for Targett to follow him, he walked along the cliff until he came to a place where the fall of the ground was less abrupt and carefully began his descent. They had been working their way down the hillside for only a few minutes when the icy conditions gave way to a region of bare rock, and then to grass and large clumps of shrubs. Soon the two men found it necessary to lower their parkas and remove their thermal jackets.

“At this rate we’ll make it to the valley floor in twenty minutes or so,” Surgenor said, glancing back at Targett and noticing that the younger man had unsheathed his ultralaser sidearm. “What’s the artillery for? You feeling nervous?”

“I’m not taking any chances,” Targett said. “I still think about that time on Horta VII when I found those killer robot torpedoes and nearly got my head shot off.”

“This is an entirely different situation.” Surgenor shook his head in amusement. “I think that after being stranded on this ball of ice for a lot of years, these people will welcome us with open arms.”

“I guess you’re right,” Targett said, lowering the weapon back into its holster. He had barely done so when there was a faint whizzing sound and a small dark object about the size of a wasp struck him on the neck. He gasped and clapped his hand over it and then, looking very surprised, sagged down on to the grass like a puppet whose strings had been released.

“What the…!” Surgenor grabbed frantically for his own ultralaser as he detected a movement in nearby shrubs, but in that instant something stung his arm. He just had time to see that it was a tiny dart as all the strength departed his limbs and he collapsed on the sloping ground.

A few seconds later a group of bearded men emerged from the cover of the bushy vegetation.

There were about ten of them, wearing only loincloths and carrying blowpipes and spears. Their bodies were streaked with green and yellow pigments which had enabled them to blend perfectly with their surroundings. They advanced silently and formed a circle around the two fallen men.

“Are you all right, Mike?” Surgenor breathed, discovering that although he was unable to move he still had the power of speech.

“I’m just great,” Targett said bitterly. “Welcome with open arms, you said. That’s the last time I’ll take your advice about any …”

“Be silent, you devil creatures!” One of the near-naked captors, a heavily muscled man with black hair, raised his spear threateningly and moved closer to Targett.

“Don’t harm him, Chack,” said another of the group in a commanding voice. He was tall and coppery-haired, and his expression—in contrast to the hostility shown by his companions—was one of intense curiosity.

“Have you gone mad, Harld? This is exactly what King Garadan told us might happen some day.” Chack pointed accusingly at Surgenor and Targett. “He prophesied that devils in human form might invade our valley and destroy us and all our families.”

“Two isn’t much of an invasion force—and how can they destroy us while they are paralysed by the juice of the carpal plant?” The puzzlement in Harld’s brown eyes deepened as he looked down at the two captives. “These seem more like ordinary men than …”

Chack sneered. “The devils are pretending to be human to catch us off guard, just as the King warned. I say we should kill the monsters now.” There was a rumble of approval from others in the group.

“Listen to me,” Surgenor said urgently, fixing his gaze on the man called Harld. “We are ordinary men, just like you. The fact that we speak the same language proves it. We came to this world in a starship—just as you or your ancestors must have done …”

“Lies!” Chack bellowed. “There is only one language, and all must speak it. Our people have always lived here, and these creatures couldn’t have come from the sky, because the moons and the stars are all controlled by King Garadan. The devils are trying to confuse us—I say we have to finish them now.”

Several of the group started forward, raising their spears, but they drew back when Harld leaped into the centre of the circle. “I am the leader of this hunting party, and I will decide what must be done.”

“We await your decision, great leader,” a third man said sarcastically.

“I …” Harld gazed uncertainly at Surgenor and Targett. “Bind their hands. We will take them to the King.”

Two of the group immediately took cords from their waist pouches, knelt down and tied the captives’ wrists together behind their backs. Surgenor was relieved to find that the paralysing weakness was beginning to leave his limbs, but there was little comfort in the discovery. It appeared that the little colony of shipwreck survivors on Korrill IV had been there long enough, perhaps well over a hundred years, to have forgotten all about their origins and to have degenerated into barbarism. And he did not look forward to meeting Garadan, their so-called king, who seemed to rule through superstition, fear and cruelty.

Several of the men raised Surgenor and Targett to their feet, laughing at the way in which they staggered and swayed on drug-weakened legs, then the entire group moved off down the slope. It was already growing dusk in the narrow valley and the racing varicoloured moons visibly changed position overhead, but Surgenor could not appreciate the eerie beauty of the scene. The green valley which had looked so enticing at first sight was now filled with menace, the promise of death.

“There’s one good thing,” Targett whispered as he stumbled along at Surgenor’s side. “They didn’t take our ultralasers—they mustn’t have recognised them as weapons.”

“I doubt if that’s going to make much difference,” Surgenor replied. “The characters who tied us up knew what they were doing. My hands are numb already.”

“Does that mean we’ve nothing going for us at all?”

“I wouldn’t say that. I took the precaution of wearing a communicorder—so Aesop can see and hear everything that’s happening to us.”

“Are you sure it’s working?” Targett glanced doubtfully at the button-like device on Surgenor’s lapel. “Aesop hasn’t said anything.”

“That’s because he isn’t stupid,” Surgenor said. “How long would we last in this company with a ghost voice? You can take it that Aesop knows what’s going on.”

“I don’t see what difference that makes,” Targett replied gloomily. “He can’t bring the ship down here because of all those damned moons, and he can’t use heavy weaponry from orbit without vaporising us as well.”

“We’ll have to trust Aesop to come up with something—that’s his job.” Surgenor tried to sound optimistic, concealing his unease at having to trust his life to the resourcefulness of a distant and artificial intelligence. It was a situation which had occurred more than once during his years in the Cartographical Service, but he was never going to get used to it.

“Aesop? Who is this Aesop you speak of?” The voice was that of Harld, who had moved closer to Surgenor as they negotiated a bend in the tricky downwards path.

Surgenor decided against trying to explain that Aesop was an intelligent machine. “He is the captain of our starship.”

Harld glanced around, making sure he was not overheard. “Just before he died my father told me a strange story. He said our people had come to this valley in a ship which fell from the sky. He warned me not to repeat the story, because the King would be angry. I thought nothing more of it until I heard you talk of similar things, then I began to wonder …”

“We told you the truth,” Surgenor whispered. “We’re not devils. We are men and we can help your people. We can bring you food and clothing and medicine. You must let us return to our ship.”

Harld shook his head. “I dare not go against King Garadan. He is all-seeing and all-powerful.”

“He is only a man. We can protect you from him.”

“Nobody can do that,” Harld said. “Why, the very moons in the sky do as he bids them.”

“What do you mean?”

Harld glanced up at the narrowing strip of sky. “If the King commands a green moon to cross above us it will do so. His power and his magic extend to the heavens. I dare not challenge him lest he summons the Blood Moon.” As though fearful of having said too much, Harld moved away and rejoined the other hunters.

“What do you make of all that?” Surgenor said to Targett.

“There was the same kind of set-up in some primitive societies back on Earth,” Targett replied. “Priests who learned some astronomy were able to terrorise ordinary folk by appearing to order eclipses to happen.”

“So this King Garadan knows the planet’s moon system pretty well. What’s so impressive about that? Other people must have noticed recurring cycles and patterns of…”

“That’s just it, Dave,” Targett said grimly. “There aren’t any regular cycles. This planet has so many moons, all jostling and tugging at each other—especially the forty-three major ones—that the pattern never repeats. If this King Garadan can predict astronomical events on this planet he must be a genius. I don’t like the sound of him, Dave—and I’ll tell you something I like even less.”

“What’s that?”

“On the way into this system we observed that one of the largest moons had a lot of iron oxides on the surface, giving it a deep red colour. That must be the one they call the Blood Moon—and I’ve got a funny feeling they weren’t just being poetical when they chose that name.”

The village consisted of perhaps fifty small huts made of mud and straw. The mean dwellings were arranged in a double line along the narrow floor of the valley, and men, women and children—most of them looking under-nourished—had gathered to watch the arrival of the two captive devils. As Surgenor and Targett were herded by, the people clustered behind and followed them. In a very short time they reached a much larger building which, in spite of the increasing darkness, glowed with the lustre of polished metal.

“It’s built out of hull plates from a spaceship,” Targett whispered. “That must be where Garadan lives.”

“And he’s coming out to welcome us in person,” Surgenor replied, his eyes intent on the figure of a middle-aged man who was emerging from the metal building. King Garadan was, in contrast to his subjects, dressed in a richly textured robe. He carried a small carved box which seemed to be inlaid with gold and gems. His body looked plump and soft, but there was nothing soft about his eyes. He regarded Surgenor and Targett with cold hostility for a few seconds, then turned to Harld.

“Why did you bring the devils here?” he demanded. “My orders have always been clear. You should have killed them before they had any chance to bring harm to my people.”

Harld took a deep breath. “Sire, they seem more like men than devils.”

“That is part of their devilish trickery.”

“But if they are so powerful and dangerous, why do they need to employ trickery? And why was it so easy for us to capture them if . . ?”

“Silence!” Garadan’s face was pale with anger. “Do you question my divine authority?”

“No, Sire.” Harld glanced at the watchful circle of villagers. “But our food grows scarce and some of our children will die in the coming winter. The strangers said they could give us food and clothing. I thought it would be better if…”

“You presumed to know better than your King!” Garadan stared coldly at the villagers, some of whom had begun to whisper among themselves on hearing Harld speak of food and clothing. They shuffled their feet uneasily and lowered their heads.

“Don’t be alarmed,” Garadan said to them. “The gods grow angry, but not at you. It is Harld who has earned their wrath by bringing the devils here and sowing doubt in your minds.” Garadan glanced down at his ornately carved box. “As a portent of their anger—and of my divine authority—they are sending four white moons. The light from the moons will turn night in the valley into day, to remind you that the gods can see into your innermost thoughts and will punish the unfaithful.

“The moons will appear…” Garadan again glanced into the box he carried. “…now!”

Garadan pointed upwards at the eastern rim of the valley, and there was a gasp from the assembly as the brilliant white disk of a large moon appeared, closely followed by three others. For a minute the valley was brightly illuminated by the four speeding satellites, then they had crossed the visible strip of sky and near-darkness returned. There was a hushed silence.

“The King is all-powerful,” a woman cried in a thin, wailing voice. “We must obey him and kill the devils.”

“That is your only way to appease the gods,” Garadan shouted in a voice which was hoarse with triumph. “Prepare the devils for execution. I have commanded the Blood Moon to appear in a short time—and the devils must die as soon as its light falls on the altar.”

The altar was a flat circular stone close to the entrance of Garadan’s metal palace. It was ringed by flickering torches whose light gleamed irregularly on the massive two-edged sword which waited on a gilded trestle. Surgenor and Targett, bound hand and foot, had been laid down beside each other in the centre of the rock. The entire population of the village was gathered around the altar, watching and waiting.

“At least we now know how Garadan does it,” Surgenor said to his younger companion. “One of his ancestors must have salvaged a small computer from the wreck of their ship, and his family has been using it ever since to overawe all the others with their so-called divine powers. It’s a neat set-up Garadan has here—living in luxury with hundreds of abject slaves.”

“I thought Harld was beginning to get through to them when he mentioned food and clothing,” Targett said. “But you have to hand it to Garadan—he made good use of those four white moons coming along when they did.”

“It’s what he’s going to do when the red moon appears that bothers me.” Surgenor made another futile attempt to loosen his bonds. “How long do you think we’ve got?”

“Who knows? Maybe a couple of hours.”

A dark coldness gathered inside Surgenor as he considered the idea that all of Earth’s vaunted technology was powerless to save them from death at the hands of a pitiful group of primitives. “Hear these words, Aesop,” he said bitterly, addressing himself via his communicorder button to the computer on board his ship. “Where are you? What are you doing up there?”

“There’s nothing Aesop can do,” Targett said, with a gloomy fatalism. “It may be days before he can get the Sarafand down through that screen of satellites, and by that time it will be all over.”

“He must have told the other modules to change course and get here.”

“Yes, but that won’t make any difference either. Even the nearest modules couldn’t possibly reach us until …” Targett’s words were lost in a sudden hubbub of excitement from the crowd.

Surgenor turned his head and saw that the robed figure of Garadan had appeared at the entrance of his palace. Still carrying his carved and bejewelled box, Garadan walked slowly towards the altar and the villagers parted to make way for him. In the flickering light of the torches his face was immobile and inhuman as he reached the edge of the flat rock and stepped up on to it. He raised one hand imperiously and an expectant silence descended over the crowd.

“The Blood Moon answers my command,” Garadan proclaimed in ringing tones. “Soon it will appear above you—to oversee and sanctify the execution of the devil creatures.”

“You won’t get away with this, Garadan,” Surgenor said fiercely, struggling with his bonds. “We’re not alone on this world. Our friends are on their way to us right now…with powerful weapons …”

“The devils are trying even more of their lies and trickery,” Garadan said, glancing down into his box. “But nothing can save them because …” He raised his right hand and pointed upwards at the eastern edge of the strip of sky. “I command the Blood Moon to appear&NOW!”

A dreadful fascination drew Surgenor’s gaze to the rim of the valley. His heart began a frenzied pounding as he waited for the emergence of the first sliver of crimson brightness which would herald the end of his life. And in the midst of all his fears and regrets was one persistent, pounding question: Why had Aesop not even tried to help them?

The silence overhanging the strange scene was absolute. Every eye was fixed on the designated portion of the sky.

Surgenor had endured the suspense for perhaps twenty seconds, perhaps thirty—time had ceased to have any meaning for him—when he began to realise that Garadan’s computer had been slightly out in its prediction. The red satellite was taking longer to show up than expected. The watching villagers must have thought the delay unusual because they began to stir a little.

Garadan put his hand into the carved box, obviously interrogating the computer inside. “The Blood Moon will appear,” he shouted, but now there was an edge of panic in his voice. “I, King Garadan, hav ordered it so.”

More drawn-out seconds dragged by as the sky remained dark, and there was an increasingly restless murmuring from the crowd. Surgenor began to feel a flickering of hope. Something had definitely gone wrong with the computer prediction, and therein lay his and Targett’s chance of salvation.

“The Blood Moon refuses to appear,” he called out. “The gods have turned against Garadan! It is a sign they want us set free.”

“Be silent!” Garadan snarled. “All of you, be silent! I am your king and I command you to …”

“He’s just an ordinary man,” Surgenor cut in, raising his voice against the growing clamour among the watchers. “One who has been tricking you into serving him while your children go cold and hungry. Don’t be fooled any longer. This is your chance to …”

Surgenor’s voice faded as Garadan, with a growl of hatred, dropped his box and ran to the trestle which supported the ceremonial sword. Garadan snatched up the weapon, turned to Surgenor and raised the gleaming blade above his head. The blade had begun its downward sweep when there was a sudden movement near the edge of the altar. A hunting spear swished through the air and hit Garadan full on the chest. He fell backwards, twitched spasmodically, and then was still.

Surgenor recognised Harld’s coppery hair as the hunter leaped up on to the flat rock and held up his hands to quieten the circle of villagers.

“Listen to me,” Harld called out. “I have slain Garadan, and the gods did nothing to save him, which proves he was just an ordinary man—exactly as the strangers said. I believe that they too are ordinary men—not devils—and I also believe they can do much good for all of us.

“Let us at least hear what they have to say. And if, when they have done, you are not satisfied that they speak the truth—then you can put them, and me, to the sword.”

During the silence that followed, Surgenor became aware of Mike Targett squirming closer to him. “You always liked to hear yourself talk, big man,” Targett said, his voice quavering with relief. “Now’s your chance—the stage is all yours.”

Early on the following morning, having said a temporary goodbye to the villagers, Surgenor and Targett began the long climb to the rim of the valley. They wanted to wait in their own vehicle for the arrival of the other survey modules, and for the eventual landing of the Sarafand. That would be the first step in the long job of rehabilitating and educating the lost colony of humans, and ultimately of returning them to Earth.

“That was the luckiest escape we’re ever likely to have,” Targett said. “Do you realise that if Garadan’s computer hadn’t gone wrong just when it did we would be dead men?”

“I don’t need to be reminded of that fact,” Surgenor replied soberly. “And a fat lot of good Aesop was to us! When I get back to the ship I might take a hammer and put a few dents in his memory banks.”

“I advise you not to damage official property, David.” The voice issuing from Surgenor’s communicorder button was unmistakably that of Aesop.

“So you’re still functioning, Aesop,” Surgenor said. “I was beginning to think you had developed a short circuit.”

“My circuits are immune to that kind of malfunction,” Aesop said pedantically. “I could not communicate with you while you were within earshot of the people in the village. As you surmised, it would have been too disturbing for them.”

Surgenor snorted to show his displeasure. “We got a bit disturbed ourselves, you know. If Garadan’s computer hadn’t fouled up …”

“His computer was working perfectly,” Aesop cut in. “It is a TCM 84C—a type which was widely used in colonisation ships in the last century and which is noted for great reliability. I might also add that Garadan had programmed it extremely well—he must have had a natural talent in that respect.”

“But …” Surgenor struggled to comprehend what he was hearing. “What went wrong with his prediction about the red moon?”

“It was a simple lack of input data,” Aesop said emotionless as ever. “Garadan had no way of knowing that I had decided to discredit him in the eyes of his followers in order to preserve your life and that of Michael.”

“Discredit him? How?”

“By intercepting the red moon while it was still at a distant point in its orbit and detonating my entire arsenal of anti-meteor weapons on its northern hemisphere.” Aesop continued speaking in matter-of-fact tones, as though discussing a minor adjustment to a coffee machine. “The deviation in the moon’s path was slight, of course, but it was cumulative and sufficient to prevent it being seen from the bottom of the valley.”

“Holy…!” Targett halted, his jaw sagging with surprise.

“So what you’re telling us,” Surgenor went on, “is that you calmly knocked the moon out of its orbit!”

Shocked by the magnitude of the concept, Surgenor was once again reminded of the gulf which existed between his own human mentality and that of Aesop. To a human being there was something blasphemous in changing the appearance of the very heavens to suit the needs of presumptuous men—but Aesop worked as a pure intellect, unhampered by any emotion. To Aesop a problem was simply an exercise in logic; nothing more, nothing less.

“The direct approach to a problem is often the most effective,” Aesop said. “Don’t you agree, David?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Surgenor replied airily, striving to regain his composure. There had been a dry quality to Aesop’s voice, one he had noticed on previous occasions and which had led him to wonder if Aesop could be poking fun at him. Was it possible for a computer to have a sense of humour?

Surgenor considered the notion for a moment, then he shook his head and continued climbing towards the snowfields which gleamed in the sunshine far above.