Although He May Be Poor
Although He May Be Poor was originally written in the late 1990s I think. It passed through various incarnations to reach this one, dating from about 2002.
I knew exactly what I was doing when I shot the herald.
It’s ironic, but in their culture I was doing no wrong. Murdering the herald is considered a polite if rather graphic way of refusing a diplomatic proposal. And you know what? I really think he meant what he said. I believed his words about honor and respect. I think they truly would have let us go.
But I shot him all the same.
We were supposed to be escorting a contact team. You know: make a good impression, find out all about them, start them thinking about asking for Confederation Membership.
Well, we made an impression all right.
Instead of opening relations with the Luracha Protectorate, we’d freed three hundred of their slaves and made a run for it. Now they’d caught up with us – Me and Bob Morgan anyway – but they were so impressed with our weaponry and fighting skills that they still wanted to negotiate.
They sent a messenger into the old stone hut where we’d holed up when Bob couldn’t go on. The herald came in unarmed, smiling. Told us that all we had to do was return their property – the slaves – and the treaty was a go. He even gave us an out for the rescue, saying they believed it was our way of making the point that we weren’t scared of their warriors, and besides, it’d brought on the running fight that showed them exactly what we could do. They were impressed, wanted us for allies.
He told us he’d come back in an hour.
I turned to Bob, who was propped against the opposite wall of the one-room hut, with blood slowly seeping through his tattered bandages.
“Go out the back and run like hell,” Bob said softly. “Leave me your rifle.”
“No chance, Bob. You were right all along,” I replied. Bob had insisted we free the slaves. Well, he would, what with his perspective on slavery. You see, before the Confederation came and forced equality down our throats, Bob Morgan’s family were property. The property of my family.
My father owned Bob’s up until I was about five or six years old. It made sense at the time, presumably. Can’t see it myself, but I still don’t have the sheer hatred for the idea of slavery that Bob does. Which isn’t surprising really. Nor was it much of a shock when Bob denounced the idea of alliance with slave-owners again and again. In the end I gave him a direct order not to interfere in the alliance negotiations. He just looked sadly at me and said, “My soul isn’t for sale.”
We’d thought real hard about that, and in the end we all agreed to his plan, though the responsibility is mine. It went well enough that by the time we found ourselves in that hut the rest of the escort and the diplomatic team were well away, along with the slaves. They’d be calling for pickup any minute. At least I’ll not be to blame for them getting killed, though it’s pretty much the end of my career. Our generals view direct violation of orders rather dimly. Starting wars with potential allies is generally considered a bad thing, too. The diplomatic corps wanted the Luracha alliance, and they’d probably cashier me for letting Bob wreck it.
I laughed bitterly at that thought. With a hundred warriors priming their flintlocks outside, cashiering was a very soft option.
Time ticked by. Bob got weaker. Near the end he suddenly said, “Mike, make the call how you like. You’re not going to die for my ideals, you hear?”
I blinked back tears at the sound of his voice. Thin, breathless. I remembered that huge – though rather tuneless - bass voice. Recalled hearing him singing that old, old song from Terra. I thought of the strength and power that used to live in that broken body.
And I remembered firing a second too late to drop the marksman, seeing my closest friend double up around a musket ball, watched him over and over as he dragged himself into cover and gasped at me to get clear and save myself… But I went back for him, ex-slave though he may be, for we are brothers in arms.
And I no longer an owner of sentient beings.
The herald approached, singing his truce-chant. He came into the tiny hut and gazed at us for a long moment. I think there was real respect there. He came to the end of his truce-chant and fell silent, awaiting my answer without repeating his offer. Bob reached up and touched my hand to get my attention.
“Your call,” he said softly.
All I had to do was okay the treaty and agree to return the slaves. They’d send me back as an envoy. Unharmed, since they wanted the deal as much as we did. I almost agreed then, to save my skin. But I saw Bob lying there dying on the packed-earth floor; saw him plunging back into a burning APC to drag Jimmy Hughes out while the rest of us shivered in mortal terror. I remembered lying in the path of an armored car with a snapped ankle; remembered Bob actually saying “sorry; this’ll hurt,” as he picked me up and ran out of its way.
I remembered sharing our last rations in an arctic snowhole; remembered what he’d said in the Luracha castle; “The Imperium is more than a trade federation or a military alliance. It exists to preserve the ideals of free people. If we compromise those ideals, the Imperium may survive but that very survival will be meaningless. Ethnic cleansing, genocide, slavery... what price is too high?”
And I remembered his favorite song, from a time when brother fought brother for the right to keep fellow human beings as property.
We will welcome to our number the loyal, true and brave,
And although he may be poor, he shall never be a slave.
Bob Morgan’s parents were slaves, and mine were owners. And Bob was my friend. The best I ever had. The herald drew breath to speak, but I cut him off as I snarled, “How many Bob Morgans do you own?” My hand went to my pistol holster.
The herald blinked in surprise. Then he understood he was going to die. He didn’t run, though. Heralds do not bear arms, but they are the bravest warriors of their culture. This one was a hero. He drew himself up to his full height and looked me in the eye as I emptied my pistol into his chest. He even managed to stagger back out through the door, so that the warriors outside would have no doubts about what had happened. They began a disciplined fire-and-movement towards the hut.
I ducked back against the far wall, buttoned out the magazine on my pistol and inserted a new one. I dropped the hammer, holstered the pistol. Picked up my rifle. I had half a magazine left.
They were halfway to the hut entrance. Bob raised his handgun in one weak and shaking hand. “You could have saved your skin,” he whispered.
“My soul isn’t up for sale today, Bob,” I said as I selected burst fire and engaged the laser sight.
I knew exactly what I was doing when I shot the herald.
It’s ironic, but in their culture I was doing no wrong. Murdering the herald is considered a polite if rather graphic way of refusing a diplomatic proposal. And you know what? I really think he meant what he said. I believed his words about honor and respect. I think they truly would have let us go.
But I shot him all the same.
We were supposed to be escorting a contact team. You know: make a good impression, find out all about them, start them thinking about asking for Confederation Membership.
Well, we made an impression all right.
Instead of opening relations with the Luracha Protectorate, we’d freed three hundred of their slaves and made a run for it. Now they’d caught up with us – Me and Bob Morgan anyway – but they were so impressed with our weaponry and fighting skills that they still wanted to negotiate.
They sent a messenger into the old stone hut where we’d holed up when Bob couldn’t go on. The herald came in unarmed, smiling. Told us that all we had to do was return their property – the slaves – and the treaty was a go. He even gave us an out for the rescue, saying they believed it was our way of making the point that we weren’t scared of their warriors, and besides, it’d brought on the running fight that showed them exactly what we could do. They were impressed, wanted us for allies.
He told us he’d come back in an hour.
I turned to Bob, who was propped against the opposite wall of the one-room hut, with blood slowly seeping through his tattered bandages.
“Go out the back and run like hell,” Bob said softly. “Leave me your rifle.”
“No chance, Bob. You were right all along,” I replied. Bob had insisted we free the slaves. Well, he would, what with his perspective on slavery. You see, before the Confederation came and forced equality down our throats, Bob Morgan’s family were property. The property of my family.
My father owned Bob’s up until I was about five or six years old. It made sense at the time, presumably. Can’t see it myself, but I still don’t have the sheer hatred for the idea of slavery that Bob does. Which isn’t surprising really. Nor was it much of a shock when Bob denounced the idea of alliance with slave-owners again and again. In the end I gave him a direct order not to interfere in the alliance negotiations. He just looked sadly at me and said, “My soul isn’t for sale.”
We’d thought real hard about that, and in the end we all agreed to his plan, though the responsibility is mine. It went well enough that by the time we found ourselves in that hut the rest of the escort and the diplomatic team were well away, along with the slaves. They’d be calling for pickup any minute. At least I’ll not be to blame for them getting killed, though it’s pretty much the end of my career. Our generals view direct violation of orders rather dimly. Starting wars with potential allies is generally considered a bad thing, too. The diplomatic corps wanted the Luracha alliance, and they’d probably cashier me for letting Bob wreck it.
I laughed bitterly at that thought. With a hundred warriors priming their flintlocks outside, cashiering was a very soft option.
Time ticked by. Bob got weaker. Near the end he suddenly said, “Mike, make the call how you like. You’re not going to die for my ideals, you hear?”
I blinked back tears at the sound of his voice. Thin, breathless. I remembered that huge – though rather tuneless - bass voice. Recalled hearing him singing that old, old song from Terra. I thought of the strength and power that used to live in that broken body.
And I remembered firing a second too late to drop the marksman, seeing my closest friend double up around a musket ball, watched him over and over as he dragged himself into cover and gasped at me to get clear and save myself… But I went back for him, ex-slave though he may be, for we are brothers in arms.
And I no longer an owner of sentient beings.
The herald approached, singing his truce-chant. He came into the tiny hut and gazed at us for a long moment. I think there was real respect there. He came to the end of his truce-chant and fell silent, awaiting my answer without repeating his offer. Bob reached up and touched my hand to get my attention.
“Your call,” he said softly.
All I had to do was okay the treaty and agree to return the slaves. They’d send me back as an envoy. Unharmed, since they wanted the deal as much as we did. I almost agreed then, to save my skin. But I saw Bob lying there dying on the packed-earth floor; saw him plunging back into a burning APC to drag Jimmy Hughes out while the rest of us shivered in mortal terror. I remembered lying in the path of an armored car with a snapped ankle; remembered Bob actually saying “sorry; this’ll hurt,” as he picked me up and ran out of its way.
I remembered sharing our last rations in an arctic snowhole; remembered what he’d said in the Luracha castle; “The Imperium is more than a trade federation or a military alliance. It exists to preserve the ideals of free people. If we compromise those ideals, the Imperium may survive but that very survival will be meaningless. Ethnic cleansing, genocide, slavery... what price is too high?”
And I remembered his favorite song, from a time when brother fought brother for the right to keep fellow human beings as property.
We will welcome to our number the loyal, true and brave,
And although he may be poor, he shall never be a slave.
Bob Morgan’s parents were slaves, and mine were owners. And Bob was my friend. The best I ever had. The herald drew breath to speak, but I cut him off as I snarled, “How many Bob Morgans do you own?” My hand went to my pistol holster.
The herald blinked in surprise. Then he understood he was going to die. He didn’t run, though. Heralds do not bear arms, but they are the bravest warriors of their culture. This one was a hero. He drew himself up to his full height and looked me in the eye as I emptied my pistol into his chest. He even managed to stagger back out through the door, so that the warriors outside would have no doubts about what had happened. They began a disciplined fire-and-movement towards the hut.
I ducked back against the far wall, buttoned out the magazine on my pistol and inserted a new one. I dropped the hammer, holstered the pistol. Picked up my rifle. I had half a magazine left.
They were halfway to the hut entrance. Bob raised his handgun in one weak and shaking hand. “You could have saved your skin,” he whispered.
“My soul isn’t up for sale today, Bob,” I said as I selected burst fire and engaged the laser sight.
