Jack Chalker - Lilith - A Snake in the Grass

“For a man with that idea of the civilized worlds, you are mighty complacent about this one,” I noted.

He shrugged. “Here it is necessary—at least until somebody comes up with something better and has the power and win to enforce it and make it work. But back home—oh, no. Man is master of his environment, but he is also the slave of the technocratic class that rules so cleverly that the slaves don’t even know they’re slaves. What of complacency? Aren’t you guilty of the reverse, Cal ? Aren’t you raring to change Lilith, but totally complacent about the civilized worlds? Son, the time for carrying out the orders of your superior are over. You’re calling your own tune now. You can think what you like. It provides a fascinating contrast, does it not? Here on Lilith man is enslaved in body yet free to think, to love, to dance, to tell stories, whatever. The mind is free, although the body’s in chains—just like much of human history. Back where we come from it’s not the body they own—hell, they made it—it’s the mind. Nobody’s enslaving your mind any more, boy. Use it to solve your own, not their, problems.”

I recoiled from the dialogue. I didn’t like to think about what Bronz was saying, for if I lost my belief in my own culture and the rightness of it, I had nothing else, nothing left. Worse, if what he said was true, then what had my whole life been? Tracking down those who didn’t fit, ferreting out those who would challenge, subvert, or topple the system on which the civilized worlds were based.

If what he said was true, then in the context of the civilized worlds, I was…

Kronlon.

Could it be true? I asked myself unbelievingly. If so, did Marek Kreegan go out one day to find the enemy and come face to face with himself?

What had Marek Kreegan been like, Vola?

A lot like you, Col Tremon. An awful lot like you …

A few hours after darkness on the second night we made the rendezvous point. Until now I’d left myself entirely in Father Bronx’s hands, but now I wanted information.

“Who are these—savages?” I asked. “And what can they do for us?”

“Cal, the savages in these parts—in fact, in most parts I’ve seen—aren’t savage, except to members of a Keep,” he told me. “They are the misfits. People with the power but untrained, people with no power but determined never to work the fields their whole lives, renegades, political outcasts like yourself, and of course their children. I picked this group because of its relative power. They are strong and highly skilled, if somewhat anarchistic.”

“I thought you said that wouldn’t work here,” I taunted, feeling good that I’d scored at least once.

“Oh, it doesn’t,” he responded airily. “Not on a large scale, anyway. Not even on a small one, really, but people can be made to think they’re in an anarchy if that’s what they want. On a very small scale they can be truly savages, of course—but they meet the fate of all true savages. They die young and usually violently. No, these folks have an organization and powerful people, but they are, ah, a bit unorthodox.”

Father Bronz crossed himself when he said that last, and it was such an interesting reaction I had to press it. I’d seen him do that only a very few tunes, such as just before and just after the roadblock.

“These people are dangerous, then?”

He nodded. “Very. You might say that we—that is, they and I—are in the same business. Competitors.”

“Another church?”

He chuckled. “In a sense, yes. They are the opposition, my lad, and you don’t know how it galls me to have to use them, let alone trust them. They are witches, you see, and worship Satan.”

I had to laugh. “ Witches? Oh, come on, now.”

“Witches,” he acknowledged gravely. “I don’t know why that should surprise you. Let’s just say you were of a magical or romantic bent. Take a look at Lilith then. A spoiled Eden. Now, instead of Warden organisms and mathematical constructs, chemical catalysts and the other stuff of science we take so much for granted, replace it with the word magic. The upper classes, those with the power, then become magicians, wizards, sorcerers. Utilizing the Warden organism as you tell me you did, on that chair for example. A thing of nature? How about a ‘magic spell’ instead? You know what runs this world, and how, and / know, but do most people? Without that knowledge, isn’t it a world of wizards and magic spells?”

I saw his point, although it didn’t cheer me. “So we’re being placed in the hands of people who believe all this?”

He nodded. “So watch your step. They’re doing this mostly because it gives ’em a kick to have a priest ask a favor of Satanists. But they believe it, and they don’t have much of a sense of humor about ft, either. Some of ’em can fry you, too, so watch that sharp tongue.”

I shut up. Whatever craziness these people believed, no matter how absurd it might be, they were the only hope I had. We waited for the Satanist party.

They appeared without our having ever detected their presence. At one moment we were just lounging by the cart, relaxing and hoping that one of Lilith’s frequent and violent thunderstorms, which was looming close on the horizon, would not hit where we were when I was suddenly aware of a number of people standing around us. I jumped up and turned in fighting posture, but quickly relaxed when Bronz seemed less concerned.

They were all women, about a dozen of them, some with the look of the civilized worlds about them—but certainly different-looking in this context Their hair was cut very, very short, and then* faces and skins had that rough, weathered look pawns get, although these women were not pawns. All wore some sort of breech-clout that as nearly as I could tell was made of some tough and weathered leaf, held on by carefully braided and tied rope like vines. On a loop of that vine, each bore some sort of weapon—a stone axe, some kind of mineral-carved knife, or in at least two cases, bows and flint-tipped arrows.

One of them, a large woman who was tall and imposing, was the exception to the hair rule, her long, silky-black hair reaching down past her buttocks. She was obviously the leader and radiated a charismatic confidence you could almost feel. Not that she could fail to dominate any scene she was in; at more than two meters in height, she was almost as big as I was.

“Well, well, Father Bronz,” she said, her voice deep and rich. “So-this is the fugitive in trouble.” She looked at me and I felt as if I were being examined by some scientist unpleased with the odor and look of her specimen. She turned back to the priest. “You said something about a girl. Was that just a papist lie?” -

“Oh, stow it, Sumiko,” Bronz growled. “You know me better than that. She’s in the cart.”

A flick of the leader’s head and three of the other women rushed to the cart, pulled the straw off Ti, and gently removed her.

“Sons of bitches,” the leader snorted in genuine anger and stalked over to the comatose girl. She repeated what Bronz had done when he’d first seen her, placing her hands on Ti’s forehead and concentrating hard. After a moment she drew back, opened her eyes, and turned again to face us. “What bastard did this?” she almost snarled.

“Pohn, over at Zeis,” Bronz responded wearily. “You’ve heard the stories, and now you know they’re true.”

She nodded gravely. “Someday, I promise you, I will get that worm in my hands and I will slowly, very slowly, dissect him as he watches.”