Trekmaster. James B. Johnson

tremble. He paid no attention. The axeman wasted no time, and strode swiftly and silently to the front of the blindfolded man. His axe went high, paused, and sliced down. The only sound was a solid “thunk” as the blade cut into the timber. The killer’s head barely twitched, and rolled over on its side, an ear crumpling beneath it. TJ noted Mick blanch again. This was the third execution in a row. You’d think the kid would get used to death by now. “Just goes to show you,” he mused, thinking of an old saying, “you gonna run with the big dogs, you got to expect to get some of them big fleas.”

      Michale shot a look of pure horror at him. TJ saw Summer Camp squatting next to him trying to keep a straight face.

      “How can you be so callous?” Mick demanded.

      “A learned trait.” he replied. “Leadership isn’t only being the host of royal dances and poetry contests.”

      “Next,” came the executioner’s formal voice. A woman, kicking and struggling, appeared at the stairs. A gag muffled her screams. Her eyes were wild.

      “Sire,” the herald, Alfred, spoke from his position at the foot of the stairs, “a plea for mercy has been lodged.”

      “What was her crime?” TJ replied, knowing full well what her crime and those of all the others were.

      “Murder of her child by neglect and abuse,” the herald fairly shouted—as he had been instructed to.

      “Who asks for mercy in her behalf?” TJ said.

      “Her mother.”

      “What is the method of her execution?”

      “You determined slow-hanging at the hearing. Sire.”

      There were a few things on which TJ would never change his attitude, like barracks thieves in the army, and child abusers and rapists. This woman’s child had been consistently beaten and not sufficiently nourished. For once, TJ was glad he hadn’t seen the body (he ordinarily wished he could view the crime victim to reinforce his decisions).

      He spoke loudly, voice grim. “Appeal denied, method of execution changed,” he said, and paused. The hundreds of people present would expect him to change to a more humane execution. “Method of execution changed from slow-hanging to starvation and thirst. Lock her up. No water, no food. In four days, see that she has a dull knife in her cell with her.” There. He’d done it. A new form of capital punishment. One that fit the crime, too.

      Camp looked startled. “The Fed,” he whispered, “Sharon Gold.”

      Michale spoke, not hiding his anger. “Yes, what about that, father?”

      TJ spoke low. “They aren’t interested in individuals. They want to know about systems, cultures, governments. If they work, and how. Effectiveness is the key.”

      “Barbarity is the key.” Michale said.

      “Justice,” spoke TJ, his voice fraught with warning. “Perhaps we won’t have any more child abuse, no?”

      “Thought you would have considered the envoy, boss,” said Camp. “Had to make sure.”

      “May I leave now?” Michale asked.

      “No, Mick, you stay.” Michale preferred to be called Mike. Maybe you can’t raise a son this way, TJ told himself. But he had gotten his experience the hard way, learned by bleeding and watching men die. Was that right for Michale, though? Had his own experiences of twenty bloody years perverted his outlook on life? On justice? Had he lost his concern for his fellow man? Was he too callous? And, Summer had a point. Changing the method of execution on a woman was a calculated risk. On the one hand, Sharon Gold might not notice—though he doubted that. But the hell with that, there were certain principles he would not sacrifice or compromise even for Fed entry. On the other hand, it was possible that the Fed would approve of his strong reprisals against criminals. (And, he hoped, any possible rebels within his kingdom would take equal note of his swift and deadly justice.) He wanted the strongest deterrent to crime and threats to his rule he could devise.

      On the third hand, he wanted Michale to realize that being King meant hard decisions. It was time Mick learned what it was all about. Hell of a way to learn. That woman would pay a terrible price just so his son could learn a lesson. Maybe someday in the future this lesson would make a difference.

      Guards led the silent woman away. But her body reflected her fear with an uncontrolled trembling and moisture stained the rags she wore.

      Clouds obscured the sun and TJ glanced up. He hoped it would rain. There was something amusing about blood washing off the platform and thinning out until it colored the rivulets among the spectators. That would really be effective crowd participation. A quick wind blew those thick clouds off. Never knew what to expect from the weather, he reflected. Looking at the fields that fed off from the palace, he knew that heavy rains would turn the alluvial plain to a quagmire. That was one of the reasons he intended to build his spaceport right there—should he have the opportunity.

      Another woman appeared between two soldiers at the foot of the stairs to the platform. She was scarred about the neck and had only one arm. He felt Michale tense.

      “God,” whispered Michale. “Not this. I am leaving.”

      Casually, TJ linked his arm with Michale’s and closed it with an iron grip. Michale gave him a startled glance and after a brief but unsuccessful tug to remove his arm, said, “I’ll stay.”

      In the crowd below them, TJ saw Kellen Sing, the thumb drummer, watching him and Michale.

      The woman shook loose her captors and climbed the stairs unaided. A brave one. Briefly he considered commuting the death sentence, but, observing her bearing, he knew that life imprisonment would be more cruel than the axe. To the executioner’s question, he said, “Carry out your duty.” The woman was too handy with poisons, anyway.

      Prince Michale started away from whatever he was thinking with the thud of the axe. Would he never learn? TJ wondered if other monarchs had the same problems with their offspring? Or was it all fathers?

      7: THE OTHER KING

      “One kilogram!”

      “My price, I say again, is one kilogram...Majesty,” said the renegade captain.

      “One kilogram is many months’ production,” said Tirano. This goddamn pervert was robbing him. A kilogram of Tirano’s Dust for this smuggler’s services? Ridiculous.

      “That is your problem, Majesty. Have you alternatives?” Shawn appeared undisturbed. Little did he know of the anger of Tirano—not enough to realize his life was in danger. But Tirano needed Shawn. And the stakes were enormous. So, Tirano knew he’d have to pay the one kilogram.

      Another bird flew by in the private audience chamber and Shawn slapped at it.

      “Do not!” Tirano commanded.

      Shawn shook his head. “Mites,” he said, as if he couldn’t believe it. By weight, the most valuable commodity ever known to humanity. Tirano knew that Shawn was thinking the question, why? Why Two Tongues? Why the Birdking and Two Tongues of any planet in all the Federation and associated planets not yet admitted? Tirano snorted. He cared not for the wonder of this homofreak. But he couldn’t be choosy. He needed Shawn.

      The bird flew past again and Shawn merely ducked his head. Three other birds were free within the room, but only this one was airborne. The special species. The only organism that would support the valuable, but parasitic, mites. The dark gray bird settled on his perch. The two men were alone in this room of the sprawling, ranch-style summer palace of a ten-thousand-square-kilometer plantation.

      Tirano began the obligatory lecture he’d given so many times before. “Birds. Mites at the feather root. Picked from the bird by hand or a miniature suction tool. Then frozen. Processed by a special manner I am not at liberty to discuss. All hard, dirty, time consuming labor. And the bird must be kept alive.” He paused. “Think you that you ask too much now?” Tirano liked to sell