The Hand of My Enemy (2 page)

Crax, leader of the Hurds, kept close watch on
the situation.  At first he'd been amused, delighted to see his archenemy in
such dire straits; but now, having had time to ponder the what and why of it,
he actually felt sorry for the Galts.  It seemed somehow unfair that they
should come to such an end.  They were a noble and worthy foe, unlike the other
nations of the planet.  At least one knew where he stood with a Galt.  They had
a code of honor.  They attacked head on, refusing to engage in devious diplomatic
intrigue.  They honored their alliances and treaties.  Were stalwart and honest
in their dealings with their allies and trading partners, a rarity in this day
and age.  Unlike other nations, they did not annihilate their enemies, wreaking
vengeance on the women and children of those they conquered.

Crax remembered back to the time of the great
plague.  The epidemic swept through Hurd, killing tens of thousands, leaving
the nation weak and vulnerable; yet the Galts had not attacked them.  Though
the single God of Galt was far different from the Hurd pantheon of deities,
they were a moral, principled people.  Unfortunately, the same could not be
said for the other inhabitants of their world.

Those whom the Galts had once called allies were
now plotting their demise.  They were gambling that Galt could not survive the
continuing devastation of their homeland.  They were counting on the winds not
shifting, hoping the radioactive clouds would provide a deathblow to the
once-great nation.

Should the winds change direction, the first
country affected would be his own.  Only the narrow Straits of Tandor separated
Hurd from Galt.  Radioactivity had already been detected in the barren desert
of Nameb; but since the coast and inland area was largely uninhabited, except
for an occasional military outpost, there was no real threat.

Crax's ministers were shocked by the attitude of
Galt's so-called "friends.”  But then they were warriors; Galt's allies,
on the other hand, were lily-livered opportunists.  It was simply a matter of
economics.  The international cartels were responsible for the decision to deny
the Galts aid.  For years Galt had controlled the markets of the developing and
nonaligned nations.  With their vast natural resources, they set world prices
and limited exports.  Their rich soil and plentiful rainfall made them the
"breadbasket" of the world.  They mined nearly seventy percent of all
the copper, iron, titanium, magnesium and bauxite on the planet and had
untapped fuel resources and reserves in excess of ten times that of all other
nations combined.

Their decision to deny aid to an ally was
cold-blooded and calculating.  They didn’t care about contamination, contagion,
starvation, suffering, death...any of it.  All they cared about was about
driving up the world price of grain, propping up the price of tin, and shoring
up faltering economies.  It was about the commodities markets, the price of
chromium, manganese, nickel, and radium.  For years their allies had been
competing for the same markets, markets dominated by Galt.  Now with the nation
in ruin, the worm was turning.

It was as Crax had always contended: there was
more to fear from a friend than from a foe.  Ally was just another word for
enemy.  With a friend your guard was down, making you vulnerable and ripe for
attack.  It was a cornerstone of Hurd government policy that they keep
themselves as isolated as possible from the community of nations.  They signed
no treaties of friendship, had no trading partners, and no allies.  They kept
their own counsel, distrusting everyone.  Perhaps that was why they were the
strongest and most feared nation on the planet.

The enmity between Hurds and Galts had been going
on since the prehistory of the planet.  War had been their way of life, but now
that time was coming to an end.  He loathed the nations that would rise to
power with the demise of Galt.  They were devious and deceitful, groveling to
your face while secretly plotting your destruction.

Hurd maintained its superiority over other
nations by the sheer size of its army and navy.  Their warriors were the best
trained and equipped of any on the planet.  Boys were impressed into the
national service at ten and spent years training under the most spartan living
conditions so that they might become part of the most feared fighting force in
existence.  Even the females trained for war.  In addition to being educated in
the domestic arts, they also learned hand-to-hand combat, weaponry, military
tactics, bomb making, sabotage, and guerilla fighting techniques.  Every town,
village, and hamlet, no matter how small, had an organized women’s militia and
another formed of elderly battle-hardened warriors who were sworn to defend
their land to the death.  Other nations trembled in the face of such a force.

If nothing else, he at least respected Ozrik.  He
was a competent leader and an inspired tactician on the battlefield.  Worthy
adversaries were few in a world populated by craven cowards, indolent gluttons,
double-dealing sharks, grifters, and ne’er-do-wells.  And worse still, by
loathsome politicians and smarmy diplomats.  In such a world, an opponent like
Ozrik would certainly be missed.

He spent hours contemplating how such a disaster
occurred.  He could only conclude that some new kind of weapon the Galts were
developing had caused it.  That had been the pattern for the two nations.  A
military buildup.  The development of new, ever more deadly weapons.  Then the
inevitable wars and death.  It always ended in a stalemate, both sides claiming
victory.  Even in their hatred, they had never unleashed the true horrors of
war upon each other, their worst weapons always held in reserve.  Instead, they
preferred to face each other on the field of battle, warrior against warrior,
testing their skill, might, and daring.  Blood was spilt, but their nations had
survived and prospered.  He had long dreamed of the defeat of the Galts; but
now that the time was at hand, he could only view the prospect with sadness. 
His nation would grow lazy and weak on a diet of peace.  The fate of Hurd, it
seemed, was inexorably tied to that of its enemy.  Their relationship was
symbiotic.  If Galt were allowed to falter and die, fade into oblivion, then
Hurd, he feared, would soon follow.  That was the sad truth of it.

Shema snuggled closer to him, eyes shut in
sleep.  He gently stroked her hair and brought the coverlet up to her neck to
keep her warm.  With drooping breasts and a bulging belly, she was the oldest
and least attractive of his seven wives; yet she was his favorite.  She’d given
him eight children in her time.  Though only one survived: his oldest son and
heir, Mica.

Crax's thoughts kept turning to the boy.  Nearly
grown to manhood now, he was tall and strong with a quick mind and handsome
features.  Crax had seen to the boy's education himself.  He'd groomed him from
infancy to someday lead the nation, teaching him to use courage and cunning
against his enemies, to face them bravely upon the field of battle.  He was to
be a warrior, the greatest their world would ever know; but with Galt
destroyed, the days of conflict and glory would be over.  There would be no
need for warriors.  Without an enemy there would be no army.  A suspension of
hostilities, the end to centuries of conflict, would render his soldiers
flaccid and feeble.  Their stones would shrink.  Their tits enlarge.  They’d be
little better than women!  War in the new order would be fought the coward's
way: by machines not men.  He felt sorry for his son.  He'd never experience
the thrill of battle, the seduction of danger, the feeling of triumph as you
watch your enemy fall before you on a battlefield soaked in blood.  He blamed
technology for this terrible turn of events, for denying his son his rightful
place among the legends, his chapter in the history books.

Damn scientists!  It was they who had sanitized
war.  There was nothing noble in bombs, in chemical weapons and biological
warfare.  In slaughtering hundreds of thousands of beings in the blink of an
eye.  Such weapons were an abomination!  He longed for the good old days when
soldiers felt their enemy's breath hot against their faces, when combat was
hand to hand, and the sight and smell of blood assailed the senses.  He hated
this new method of war, machine against machine, killing from a distance.  The
lines of battle had changed.  No longer was soldier pitted against soldier on a
narrow field of honor.  New weapons had enlarged the battlefield.  The killing
ground now encompassed the entirety of the world.  He cursed the scientists who
had refined killing to a blind and seemingly bloodless act of terror.

A true warrior looked his enemy in the eye as he
took his life.  There was a code of conduct intrinsic to killing.  It wasn’t
done for blood lust or sport, but for honor and glory.  It celebrated valor and
courage, strength of character, devotion to duty, love of country.

He'd read history, the decline and fall of
civilizations, and now feared for his people.  In the past, the elusive peace
had brought with it immorality and corruption, the pursuit of pleasure, concern
for self replacing hard work and commitment to society.

What would they do without war to purify them to
give their lives purpose?

There were three sharp raps at his door, an
exchange of whispered words, then the lights went on as a cadre of uniformed
men walked quickly into the room, one carrying a small squirming bundle.

They were being invaded!  A small armada of rafts
and boats were crossing the Straits of Tandor.  Crax quickly sat up in bed. 
Quickly followed by his startled wife.  Their cargo was children!

Galt was dying and as its people perished, they
tried to save their most precious possessions, their little ones.  They cast
them out upon storm-tossed seas, hoping that the small open boats might make it
to safety across the narrows.  They were sending their future into the arms of
the unknown.  They were offering their babes to the Hurds, praying they'd be
allowed to live, even as slaves.  Anything was better than the certain death
that awaited them at home.

Crax barely heard the words of his officers.  His
eyes were fixed upon the rag-wrapped bundle, which occasionally made pitiful
whimpering sounds.  He rose from his bed and went to the child.  He pulled back
the dirty cloth covering its face and peered down at the baby.  He was horrified
by what he saw.  A thin layer of yellowed skin clung to its skull; the little
hair remaining on its head was fixed in patches amid running sores.  Its eyes
bulged from dark sockets, cheeks sunken, lips cracked and bleeding.  The baby
boy was naked, its limbs scrawny and withered, belly swollen.  It appeared to
be dying.

A lump gathered in his throat.  He was
overwhelmed with pity for the poor, suffering infant.

A few days ago flotillas of boats filled with
refugees had sailed from Galt attempting to reach the shores of their supposed
friends and allies.  They sailed north to the Cunny Islands, east to Icynee,
and west to Mygea and the Republic of Perneum.  Their so-called friends had
fired on the boats, blowing them out of the water, drowning all on board.  So
much for treaties and alliances!  So much for friendship, loyalty and extending
a helping hand in an hour of need!  Now, with no where else to go, the Galts
turned to their most hated enemy.

What was he to do?  To turn the boats away,
sending the children back where they came from, was far crueler then killing
them here and now.  A projectile, laser, or ray fired into the brain was quick
and relatively painless, far preferable to starvation and death from exposure. 
He looked down at the dying child, its fate in his hands.

He took the babe, cradling it in his arms.  Crax
looked at his wife.  Her eyes were filled with tears, silently pleading,
piercing his soul.  He laid the little one on her breast, watching as she
quickly pulled the cord to summon the servants.  The child needed nourishment
and care if it was to survive.  Shema cuddled the baby and softly cooed in its
ear.  It was safe now.  Safe in the arms of its enemy.

Compassion stirred his heart.  It mattered little
that the baby was the child a Galt; he could not turn his back on it.  He
issued the order: any child who made it to the shores of Hurd would be cared
for.

A few days later with severe storms blowing down
from the north and thousands of children still in danger on open water, Hurd warships
left port in an active attempt to rescue them.  The rest of the world watched
this demonstration of Hurdian benevolence in stunned disbelief.  The world
thought them bloodthirsty savages; yet they were the only ones who showed any
concern for the fate of the Galt children.

It was only a matter of time before the
inevitable happened...the winds began shifting, the radiation spreading.  When
he received the news, Crax was on the coast, seeing with his own eyes the
condition of the pitiful refugees.  It was worse than anything he'd imagined.

Since they were still intercepting Galtian
communiqués, Crax had to assume that some vestige of government remained; but
there was no mention of his old adversary Ozrik.  He wondered as to his fate. 
And that of his sons.

Crax had agonized for days over the situation in
Galt, wondering what, if anything, should be done, when things began happening
at home which no one could have predicted.

The animosity between the Galts and Hurds had
been the driving force behind his nation's prosperity.  Industry had burgeoned
because of the ongoing hostilities.  Factories produced munitions and
armaments, hardware for war.  The wages they paid were in turn spent on other
goods which spurred the economy. War was good business, but it had somehow
gotten out of hand, becoming the sole business and only exportable commodity of
the nation.  The results were already being felt around the country.  Arsenals
and factories, which produced war materials, had begun to furlough workers.  This
started a cascade effect that spread throughout the economy, forcing other
industries to trim their workforce as well.

Tinderboxes of trouble, long quiet, suddenly
ignited all around the nation.  There had been a resurgence of the age-old
hatred between the provinces of Sitar and Broatia.  Hurd was actually a
confederation of many different tribes and homelands.  Factionalism had always
been a problem after the unification; but with the population galvanized
against the Galts, the regional hatreds simmered beneath the surface.  Now,
like a boiling cauldron, the enmities bubbled forth.

Hurd government was feudal in nature.  Crax was
king, but under him were some two hundred nobles, each claiming a geographic
fiefdom as his own.  They ruled their territories with impunity, the
unquestioned lords of their little domains.  It was they who owned the land,
not the people.  In years past, there had been some agitation for reform, for a
more equitable distribution of wealth; but little had come of it.  The focus of
attention had been drawn away from the internal problems of the nation to the
Galts.  All that would change now, he feared.  Turmoil would engulf them if
something weren’t done.

It became increasingly apparent, the more he
thought about it, that the Galts were a necessary evil.  Because of the ongoing
hostilities and their self-imposed isolation, the Hurds managed to avoid the
rampant immorality and decadence of their neighbors.  They remained a
puritanical society where duty, obedience, and conformity were the norm.  He
feared that without the discipline of war to keep them focused, the hedonism
and corruption that plagued other societies might soon take hold.

Without war, without a worthy enemy, their whole
society would collapse.  Without war Hurd would cease to exist.  Who would they
fight now...the Arianis who practiced incest and lay with their sisters?  Or
the Silurians who destroyed their brains chewing hallucinogenic berries from
the Inketta bush?  Who snorted the narcotic asterian and slurped quak till they
collapsed unconscious in a drunken stupor?  Or perhaps the Culeds who’d skin
their mothers for a thimbleful of gold.  Or the inhabitants of Fyland who feast
on the bodies of dead family members and keep slaves for food.  What Hurd in
his right mind would want to go to war against an army of perverts, drug
addicts, thieves, or cannibals?  Not that they didn’t deserve killing.  But
such an undertaking would be inglorious and beneath his troops.  He supposed
they could always declare war on the Cunny Islands, or Mygea, or maybe Icynee. 
They were all wealthy, powerful nations with standing armies.  Of course their
combined armies were only a tenth the size of the Hurd’s.  What sport would
there be in that?  It would keep the Hurd war machine operating, but not for
very long.  The cowards would throw up their hands in surrender the moment the
first drop of blood was spilled.  Then what would he do with them?  He didn’t
want the responsibility of overseeing and ruling conquered nations and peoples. 
Crax did not aspire to world domination.  Far from it!  He just wanted to
maintain the status quo.  Keep Hurd on a constant war footing.  The threat of
conflict always looming over them so the economy and people could prosper.

He pondered long and hard on how to proceed.  To
give aid to an enemy seemed madness; yet to allow them to perish seemed an even
greater folly.

Something had to be done and soon!