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Bio of a Space Tyrant Volume 1: Refugee
Piers Anthony


Editorial Preface

There have been many biographies of the so-called Tyrant of Jupiter, and countless analyses of the supposed virtues and vices of his character. He was, after all, the most remarkable figure of his generation, as even his enemies concede, and will no doubt be ranked with the other prime movers or disturbers of history, such as Alexander, Caesar, Attila, Genghis Khan, Napoleon, Hitler, and the like. But his personal model was Asoka, who was also called a tyrant in his day, though he may have been the finest ruler the subcontinent of India, Earth, ever had. It is virtually certain, however, that neither the inimical nor the sanitized references adequately describe the real man.

Now that the Tyrant of Jupiter is dead, his voluminous private papers have been released to researchers. These reveal some phenomenal secrets, confirming both the best and worst aspects of his reputation. It turns out to be true, for example, that this man was personally responsible for the deaths of between fifty and a hundred human beings before he was sixteen years old, and thousands more thereafter-but still, it is not fair to call him a cold-blooded mass murderer. It is also true that there were many women in his life, including several temporary wives or mistresses-the distinction becomes obscure in some cases -but not that he was promiscuous.

The legal name of the Tyrant was Hope Hubris, literally reflecting the hope his family had for him. He was of Hispanic origin, and the name Hope was at that time an unusual appellation for a male of his culture. It is perhaps a measure of his impact that it is so no more. He was, throughout his life, literate in two languages, and able to speak others. He was, in any language, always possessed of that particular genius of expression any leader needs.

Hope Hubris was charged with many terrible things, and his seeming unwillingness to deny or clarify many of these charges appeared to lend credence to them. It was said that he watched his father being murdered without lifting a hand; that he sold his sisters into sexual slavery; that he permitted his mother to practice prostitution in his sight; and that he killed his first girl friend in order to save himself. He was also accused of practicing incest and cannibalism, of trafficking in illegal drugs, and of being a coward about heights. There is an element of truth in all these charges, but appreciation of their full context goes far to exonerate him. As he himself wrote: "We did what we had to. How can that be wrong?"

Hope was fallible in the fashion of his kind, especially during his truncated youth, but he did possess a single and singular skill, and there was a certain greatness in him. His early and savage, if limited, experience in leadership was to serve him excellently later in life, as Tyrant. He seldom repeated his mistakes. Remember, too, that he suffered tribulations such as few survive. How pretty do we really expect the survivors of holocaust to be?

The Tyrant was not a bad man. This assessment is well documented by the series of autobiographical manuscripts he left, each written with disarmingly complete candor. It seems fitting that the final word on his nature be his own. The intelligence and literacy of young Hope Hubris, who wrote at age fifteen in a secondary language, is manifest, coupled with a quaint naivete of experience. This is, however, no juvenile narration!

Herewith, edited only for clarification of occasional obscurities, and for separation and titling of episodes, but otherwise uncensored, is the earliest of these five major documents, editorially titled Refugee.

HMH



Chapter 1 RAPE OF THE BUBBLE



Jupiter Orbit, 2-8-2615-The shell of the bubble was opaque, for it had to be thick and solid to contain the pressure of air and to insulate against the cold of empty space. But there were portholes, multiply glazed tunnels that offered views outside, and naturally I was interested.

The view really wasn't much. Jupiter, the colossus of the system, dominated as it always did, about the apparent size of my outstretched fist. Its turbulent cloud-currents and great red eye were looking right back at me. The planet was almost full-face right now, because the sun was behind us. Our progress toward the planet was so slow that the disk seemed hardly larger than it had been when we started three days before. But giant Jove was always impressive, however distant and whatever the phase.

"Ship ahoy!" our temporary navigator cried. I didn't know whether this was standard space procedure, but it was good enough for us, who were less experienced than the rankest of amateurs.

A ship! Excitement rippled through the refugees massed in the bubble. What could this mean?

Soon we all saw it through the portholes: a somewhat bloated barrel with attachments. Of course streamlining was not needed in space, and a tub like this one was never intended to land on any significant solid body. Still, I felt a certain disappointment. Perhaps I had been spoiled by all those dramatic holographs of the Jupiter Space Navy in action, with needle-sleek missileships homing in on decoy drones and exploding with instant fireballs. I had always known that real spacecraft were not like that, and yet my mental picture remained shaped by the Jupe publicity ads.

The ship overhauled us readily, for it had chemical jets to boost its gravity shields. It closed on us, and its blunt nose clanged against our access port with a jolt that shook us all. What was it up to?

I turned to discover my big sister, Faith, immediately behind me. She was absolutely beautiful in her excitement, though as always I pretended not to notice. I had the chore of staying near her during this voyage, to discourage mischief. Faith attracted men the way garbage draws flies in the incredible films of old Earth-perhaps it would be kinder to say the way flowers draw bees-partly because no man had touched her. We Latins place importance on that sort of thing; I understand there are other cultures that don't.

"Who are they?" Faith asked.

"Maybe traders," I answered, feeling a mild burgeoning of importance in the expressing of such an opinion. But I felt a slow clutch of apprehension. We were refugees; we had nothing to trade.

In any event, we were powerless to oppose their boarding. Our bubble had only one weak propulsive jet; we were virtually free-floating in space. Our main physical motivation was the selected gravity of Jupiter and the forces of inertia. We could not have performed an evasive maneuver had we known how. The entry ports could be operated from either side; this was to prevent anyone from being trapped outside. Our competence was such that this was a necessary safety feature, but it did leave us open to boarding by any craft that chose to do so.

The seal was made and the port opened, making an open window to the other craft. There were of course safety features to prevent the lock opening both doors simultaneously when the pressure was unequal, but the normal air pressure of the ship did equalize it. In space, safety had to be balanced by convenience; it would have been awkward to transfer any quantity of freight from one vessel to another if one panel of the air lock always had to be sealed.