Barrington Bayley - Empire of Two Worlds

We entered one of the buildings, which was similar to the corridor-like structures I was used to on Earth, and which had open doors in each wall through which I glimpsed the crater down below. Our Rotrox guides spoke to an older countryman who wore, in addition to the tribal uniform, a long flaring cloak, and then withdrew. The elderly Rotrox stared at me, ignoring the Rheattite, and gave a cold, withering smile.

“Welcome to Merame, blood-brother. The Council of the Rotrox knows of your arrival and will receive you now. Are you prepared?”

Bec and I had both studied Rotrox, but not deeply. I could just about follow him. The Rheattite interpreter, receiving no signal from me, said nothing. I nodded.

He led us through the opposite door and on to a platform which overhung the lip of the crater. The platform was an elevator: we sank down into the gloom past a smooth wall lined with numerous entrances. It seemed the whole lining of the crater was riddled with tunnels.

The platform came to a halt at one of these. We walked along it for some distance in silence. It was lit by fierce electric lights which cast an eerie, slightly greenish radiance and made the skin of the Rotrox look as if it was covered in some sort of fungus. Finally he took us down a flight of spiral steps and into a circular chamber more luxurious than anything we had seen so far.

The Council of the Rotrox lounged on low couches, their long legs sprawled out over the floor. There were eight of them, including the man who had brought us here and who now took his place among them. They were arranged roughly in a semi-circle. Behind them blank-faced Rheattite slaves stood on attendance.

Rotrox faces all look alike to me, but I recognised Imnitrin by the duelling scar that ran across his brow and down his left cheek. He nodded a greeting to me, climbed to his feet and named the others in turn.

The Rotrox language is poor in vowels; it has only two: short i and short o , and it is rare for both to occur in the same word. The names of the rulers of Merame were: Oblo, Mincinitrix, Tinikimni, Koblorotovro, Oxotoblow, Villitrinimin and Ozhtoblorro. And, of course, Imnitrin. Rotrox speech was a train of almost indistinguishably like-sounding syllables, which made it difficult to learn.

Imnitrin sat down. I felt nervous with their eyes all on me, but I decided to waste no time. Speaking through the interpreter, I said: “I have a message, blood-brothers, from your servant Becmath, Governor of Rheatt.”

Placing the recording on a table — which was Rotrox-size and came up to my chest — I flipped the switch. Bec’s baritone voice came out, speaking Rotrox with studied ease.

“From the Governor of the territory of Rheatt to the Supreme Council of the Rotrox, rulers of all Merame and of Territories on Earth,” Bec began. “I can now report to my blood-brothers that preparations are nearing completion for a successful conquest of the world of Killibol. I can promise my blood-brothers that if they so command the invasion can commence almost immediately, with every assurance of success. It is my fervent hope that the warriors of the Rotrox will be eager to join me in this great adventure.”

The recording finished. One of the Rotrox — I had failed to keep track of their names — lifted up a Klittmann-type repeater that was lying on his couch.

“Our brother speaks of success. But are these not the weapons wielded also by the nations of Killibol? Could they not put millions of men in the field?”

“The people of Killibol live in large, enclosed cities which do not make war on one another,” I explained. “They expect no attack and maintain no armies. There will be fighting, but with the help of one, perhaps two legions of Rotrox as well as the trained men of Rheatt who are now loyal to the Rotrox Empire, we cannot fail.”

For a moment or two the iciness in the air made me think that something was wrong. But then the atmosphere suddenly broke. Imnitrin gestured imperiously to his green-skinned servant, who hurried forward and poured a dark musk-coloured fluid from a jug into a silver goblet, which he handed to me. I sipped the drink. It had a deep, earthy flavour.

“Tell Becmath that we are well pleased with our blood-brothers the white men of Killibol,” said an aged Rotrox whose name might have been Oblo. “We shall despatch two legions to Earth for despatch to the new planet. Soon there will be three worlds in the Empire of the Rotrox and all beings everywhere will fear and quake at the mention of our name.”

A feeling of relief passed through me. They suspected nothing of our long-term intentions. They were going to play along, although frankly I would have been happier with one legion rather than two of Rotrox rampaging about Klittmann. All those cold-minded warriors might be hard to handle, I thought.

They all tossed off their drinks and had them refilled. They were developing a kind of jovial camaraderie at the prospect of the coming campaign. Imnitrin promised he would command the two Rotrox legions himself.

“It will be a pleasure to fight alongside Becmath again,” he said, his high-pitched voice becoming congratulatory and, perhaps, slightly drunk.

“Tell me,” he continued, drinking yet more of the brew, “what will Becmath do with his enemies when he has them in his power?”

I shrugged. “Kill them, maybe, if they still oppose him.”

“Kill them? That is a mild pleasure indeed.” Imnitrin leaped to his feet. “Will he not punish them at length, taunt them and gloat over them? Where is the joy of conquest if it is not to see one’s enemies miserable? Simply to die is no great pain. Come with me, brother, and perhaps Becmath will be interested to hear how we deal with the defeated.”

He paused at the door and glanced at my Rheattite secretary. “Never mind your interpreter. I will speak Rheattite where necessary.” The secretary, who had become more faltering and fearful as the councillors had become more jovial, thankfully joined his countrymen at the rear of the room.

Imnitrin led me through seemingly endless corridors and down winding stone steps. The atmosphere began to grow dank and depressing, the light dimmer. I sensed we were approaching the dungeons of this intricate warren.

“Let us through, jailer. Let the guest see our prisoners.”

At the end of a corridor whose walls dripped moisture two Rotrox stood to attention before a vast metal door. With a jangling of chains and locks the door swung open. A faint cacophony of sighs, groans, mutterings and clinkings met my ears.

I got the impression that the dungeon was well ramified. Other corridors crossed the one we took. We sauntered down it, peering in cell after cell.

It was pretty sickening. The cells were mostly occupied by minor chiefs and notables from conquered tribes on Merame. The Rotrox were ingenious in thinking up unbearable circumstances for their victims to spend the rest of their lives in. Men — and sometimes women — wallowed in filth, in excrement. One stood up to his neck in water, another in a sort of mud that bubbled and gave off a thick stench and was intolerably hot. They hung from hooks or were entwined in intricate cutting machines that sliced their internal organs slowly and perpetually. They stared back at us with eyes long gone blank from prolonged suffering.

“Tell Becmath we will accommodate any special prisoners he wishes to send us,” Imnitrin piped cheerfully. “We can arrange special television coverage so that he can watch their agonies. Here is a prisoner of special interest to you — Dalgo, once chief of Rheatt. We have long grown bored with torturing him. We decided that he is most miserable when simply sitting in pitch darkness and brooding over the humiliation that has befallen his nation.”