The Z-weapon. 15 million lives wiped out. Another 15 million people left with brain damage, gangrenous limbs that had to be amputated, bleeding from every orifice. Millions of children born with hideous deformities. Endless grey devastation, houses reduced to toxic sludge. Perhaps it was unsurprising if no-one with a first-rate mind really wanted to be a scientist anymore.
Fengor was nervous. The King’s summons was entirely unexpected, and indeed, unprecedented.
“There’s no need to worry, Fengor.” said Apla, Fengor’s wife. “He probably just wants to commend you on all your fantastic work over the years.”
“Somehow I don’t think that’s it.” said Fengor.
He took a small metal case from his pocket, opened it, took out a seed and threw it into the air, catching it in his mouth.
“Fengor!” said Apla. “You’ve had too many jonga seeds already. How many’s that? Three?”
“I’ve got to calm myself down somehow.” said Fengor miserably.
“Just imagine how great you’ll feel tomorrow, when it’s over and done with.” said Apla.
Fengor made a disgruntled sound, hissing between nearly-closed lips.
He went to stand at the window.
The achievements of Xuvian science were indeed great.
Numerous ordinary Xuvians zig-zagged across the sky in their personal flying vehicles. In the distance, several villages floated on large flat rocks suspended in the air, vegetation and tree roots trailing downwards beneath. Only a century earlier, no Xuvian had ever left the ground, and now their mastery of gravity was complete. Fengor had detailed all of this in his book, How Xuvia Conquered the Sky; a book which he was now afraid to publish and which probably wouldn’t get published even if he were brave enough to send it to a publisher.
That night he slept badly, and several times got up during the night to eat more jonga seeds.
Fengor spent half the morning carefully preparing himself to meet the King. Apla helped him, carefully brushing and smoothing his robes until they were absolutely perfect.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” said Fengor gratefully.
“I don’t know either.” said Apla with a smile. “Just don’t take any nonsense from the King. Stand up for yourself.”
Fengor tried to smile, but his smile more resembled a grimace.
Finally, when the time arrived, they went to the attic and got in the flyer. Fengor’s hands were shaking so much that, even though he usually enjoyed flying, he had to ask Apla to take the controls.
After half an hour they landed on the King’s visitors’ landing pad. Soon, burly officials were escorting Fengor into the building, while Apla flew off to see the town.
Fengor felt as though he was being taken to his execution. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the King was somehow angry with him. For what, he didn’t know.
After making him wait for half an hour, finally they ushered Fengor into the King’s presence.
The King was an enormous man with a huge chin and an impressive beard. It seemed, then, slightly incongruous that he sat on an ordinary chair at an ordinary plastic table and invited Fengor to sit next to him. Nevertheless, this conspicuous act of egalitarianism did slightly put Fengor at ease.
“Fengor,” said the King, in a tone of voice that seemed perfectly friendly, “you might be wondering why I’ve asked you here to meet with me.”
“Yes, of course.” said Fengor.
The King placed his hands parallel and flat in the air in front of him, as if trying to find the best way to grasp an invisible object. After a pause, in which he apparently attempted to find the right words to approach a delicate subject, he said, “The thing is, right, it’s like this. Up until the unfair and discriminatory war with the Zorgons—I mean, Zongorians, whatever you prefer to call them, let’s not get hung up on that—thirty years ago, scientific research was progressing rapidly. You yourself performed vital work that furthered our understanding of gravity, when you were a young man.”
“Yes, that’s true.” said Fengor with a slight smile.
“The problem, Fengor, is nothing much seems to have happened since then. When I was a boy, we all believed we’d have machines that can think and talk by now, and yet, where are they?”
“Well, but there have been some significant advances, Your Majesty.” said Fengor with an ingratiating grin that again more resembled a grimace.
“True, true.” said the King. “Most recently, the discovery that the universe is hexagonal.”
“Exactly.” said Fengor.
“And, not long ago, the discovery that two plus two is not always equal to four.”
“Precisely.” said Fengor.
“Not long before that, we discovered that viruses can cause bigotry.”
“Just ten years ago,” Fengor dared to interject, “We discovered that Zorgons actually built the first cities in Xuvia.”
“Yes, yes, a wonderful discovery.” said the King. “However, Fengor, can you see what all these discoveries have in common?”
“Well …” said Fengor, slightly confused, “I suppose there is the fact that they were all made by Zorgons.”
“Yes, and that’s wonderful.” said the King. “The Zorgons have been oppressed for thousands of years and now we’re finally empowering them to make scientific discoveries. But they’ve got an uphill battle to fight, against Xuvian bigotry, which is rife in our society, and meanwhile, we still haven’t got machines that can think and talk, and Xuvian scientists, like yourself, with respect, have done almost nothing of any note since the war.”
“One’s doing one’s best.” Fengor protested.
“I’ll cut right to the point.” said the King. “I’m sorry, but you’re the head of Xuvian research and really, you’ve done little other than take Xuvian money, while Zorgons have been the only ones producing anything at all. You’ve really left me with no choice.”
“You’re not going to fire me?” said Fengor, aghast.
“I wish I could.” said the King. “Really, I do. No, I’m going to have to have you executed.”
“Executed?”
“Not only for your lack of progress. I’ve got a pile of complaints this high”—the King laid his hand flat above the table to indicate a very substantial pile of papers—“saying that you’ve expressed discriminatory views against Zorgons.”
“Never!” said Fengor. “On the contrary, I’ve listened to their endless tripe—”
“Oop!” said the King. “Kind of giving yourself away there, Fengor. Zorgon tripe? Sounds bigoted as Hell. Look, I’ve always personally liked you. I do have some sympathy for you, so what I’m going to do for you is, you’ll be executed by the fastest method we’ve devised. A sixty kilozarg rock will be dropped on you, flattening you instantly.”
“Your Majesty, I must protest!” said Fengor, and he rose angrily to his feet. He was so worked up, he hardly knew what he was saying or doing.
Two guards advanced threateningly on him, but the King motioned for them to return to their posts.
“Out with it.” said the King.
“Listen here.” said Fengor, so rattled that he no longer cared to speak with the proper amount of respect. “Before the war, everything was going brilliantly. I was brilliant, my colleagues were brilliant, everything was brilliant. Then you started staffing all our positions with Zorgons! Since then, we’ve been able to accomplish nothing of real value at all! It’s all nonsense, to be blunt. Hexagonal universe, two and two not equalling four—nonsense!”
The King paused, in a way that terrified Fengor into sitting down again. He put his head in his hands, elbows resting on the table. When the King spoke again, it was with a profound solemnity and gravity.
“Are you telling me that even the scientific discoveries of the past three decades are useless?”
“Yes!” said Fengor, looking up suddenly, wild-eyed. “That’s exactly what I’m now confessing!”
“Perhaps you’re just too old to appreciate Zorgon ways of thinking. You have to understand, Fengor, Xuvians have oppressed Zorgons for thousands of years. The wars were all our fault! I’m convinced of that. This last awful war was the final straw. The Z-weapon was too much. Yes, we won, but at what cost? So much suffering. So much devastation. We owe the Zorgons, and they’ve as much right to be scientists as anyone else.”
“The Zorgons have never been interested in science!” said Fengor. “They don’t even believe in truth! All they really care about is the greater glory of the Zorgon people! You talk about the right to be a scientist. I’m all in favour of that, but the playing field must be level. It’s not! You prioritise Zorgons. You make them into scientists even when they’ve no business being scientists. Right to be a scientist? But scientists are supposed to discover things! Being a scientist isn’t supposed to be a luxury! It’s supposed to require endless dedication and hard work. Instead of making Zorgons into respected scientists, you’ve destroyed the respect people formerly had for science.”
The King made a loud harumphing sound, indicating disagreement.
“Now you hang on a minute, Fengor!” he said. “If you’re saying Zorgons have destroyed science, explain how it is that science ground to a halt even before any Zorgon was a scientist!”
Fengor was silent.
“You have no answer.” said the King.
“No,” said Fengor, “I do have an answer. Right after the war, you brought in a load of Xuvians who also didn’t care about science. You over-expanded the universities. You turned them into businesses. The whole field of scientific endeavour is either about the pursuit of truth, or it’s about the pursuit of money and respect. It can’t be about both. Most really significant Xuvian discoveries were made when we had only perhaps twenty physicists in the entire world. Now we’ve got more than eighty thousand of them. The bad ones simply drag the good ones down.”
“You’re an old elitist fool,” said the King icily. “and I’ve heard quite enough. Guards, take him away.”
Two guards stepped forwards, grabbed Fengor and dragged him out through the door, protesting all the way.
To his surprise, instead of taking him to the dungeons, they took him to the landing pad. With a shaking hand, Fengor took his radio from his pocket and called Apla.
The following ten minutes were the longest of his entire life. He fully expected the guards to drag him away to the dungeons at any moment. Instead, Apla soon arrived, and a few moments later they were flying through the clouds, on their way home. Fengor was too shaken to speak, but once they arrived home and he’d thrown four jonga seeds into his mouth one after the other, he finally calmed down enough to explain to Apla what had happened.
“Do you think he make a mistake, letting you go?” said Apla.
“I don’t know.” said Fengor. “I don’t know if it was a mistake, or deliberate. Maybe we should flee.”
“Flee? But where to?”
“I don’t know.” said Fengor, putting his head in his hands again. “I don’t know. Oh, this is just awful!”
“Fengor,” said Apla gently, “don’t you think the King had a point?”
“A point?” said Fengor.
“I mean, maybe it’s not completely bad if science has stopped advancing. You know, the Z-weapon, and that whole thing where cutting off people’s legs was supposed to cure insanity, and the explosion at that chemical plant that wiped out Lower Luria. Science was getting a bit out of hand, don’t you think?”
“No!” said Fengor vehemently. Then he said, “Well, maybe, but all that happened at the end of the war, or just after it. That’s my point. We lost our moral compass. We ceased to dedicate ourselves to truth.”
They sat in silence for some moments. Then Apla said, “We could go to Zongoria.”
“Zongoria!” said Fengor incredulously. “The Zorgons hate us! Why would we go there?”
“It’s better than being executed.”
Fengor thought for a moment.
“That’s true.” he said. “And they’d never find us there.”
“We’d better go immediately.” said Apla.
“You’re right!” said Fengor. “Collect all the Ytterbium we’ve got. We can trade it.”
“There’s twenty cubes in the safe.” said Apla. “I’ll get it.”
“I’ll upload a fake flight plan.” said Fengor.
Less than an hour later they were on their way to Zongoria. Fengor had informed the authorities that they would be flying to a city near the border, named Ushira, to talk with a certain scientist there, whom he didn’t particularly like and in reality had no intention of meeting.
Instead, once above Ushira, they would simply keep going and cross into Zongoria.
Soon they were approaching the border, and the time would shortly arrive when they would have to make the final, utterly illegal step.
As they approached Ushira, Fengor said to Apla, “You know, you don’t have to come with me. I can still drop you off if you want.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” said Apla. “Of course I’m coming with you.”
They flew clean over Ushira and were mere minutes from the border when a Xuvian patrol ship latched onto them.
“We’ll have to land.” said Apla. “We can say we made a mistake.”
“No.” said Fengor. “I’ve got a little trick ready. I fixed something up years ago in case I should ever need it.”
The radio crackled into life.
“Flyer 23093.” said a voice. “Stop immediately. You are illegaly approaching the Zongorian border. You do not have permission to cross.”
Fengor ignored the voice.
“Flyer 23093, we will shoot you down unless you land immediately.” said the voice, after a pause.
Fengor hastily typed something into the ship’s console.
“They’re going to kill us, Fengor!” said Apla.
“No, they’re not.” said Fengor.
A minute later there was a bright flash as a missile shot past them.
“They can’t target us correctly.” Fengor explained. “I’ve effectively created an infra-red clone of us, slightly over the the right.”
“You’re a genius, Fengor!” said Apla, although she was still terrified.
“Perhaps.” said Fengor, modestly.
Their pursuer fired one missile after another, all of them going wide, and soon they were at the border.
“They can’t stop us now.” said Fengor.
But Fengor had spoken too soon. Their pursuer’s parting shot skimmed the right side of the ship, causing a shower of sparks inside the cabin.
Fengor swore and ran to the controls.
“It’s OK.” he said. “Only minor damage. But we’ll have to land.”
They landed on the side of a hill in Zongonia, flying over the heads of curious Zongorian farmers. Apla and Fengor ran out of the crippled ship coughing from the smoke they’d inhaled.
“What are we going to do now?” said Apla.
“I’ll tell them I’m a scientist and we’ll try to claim asylum.” said Fengor.
In the distance, a small group of astonished Zorgons were already making their way towards the ship.
“I say, what are you doing here?” one of them shouted, as he approached. “You’ve gone over the border.”
“We want to claim asylum.” said Fengor.
“Come with us.” said the man.
“What are you going to do with us?” said Fengor nervously.
“Take you to the king, of course.” said the man. “If you want to claim asylum you’ll have to talk to the king. By the way, my name’s Shagrath.”
“Pleased to meet you, Shagrath.” said Apla. “In Xuvia we’re told Zorgons hate Xuvians, but you seem very nice.”
“What rot.” said the man. “Of course I’m nice. Hospitality is a key aspect of our culture here in Zongoria.”
The other Zorgons were gathering around, watching them curiously.
Apla caught a woman’s eye, and she shouted, “Welcome to Zongoria!”
Another man shouted, “Can you help me get to Xuvia? I want to apply for a visa.”
“We’re fleeing Xuvia!” Fengor shouted in reply. “The King wants to kill me!”
At this a muttering went up among the assembled crowd.
“Pay no attention to them.” said Shagrath. “But why does the King want to kill you?”
“I’m—I was the head of scientific development and the King’s angry with our lack of progress.”
Shagrath laughed.
“Well, he shouldn’t keep giving jobs to Zorgons, then!” he said. “We’ve no interest in your Xuvian science!”
“That’s what I told him!” said Fengor.
Shagrath took them to a building built by Xuvian engineers. At three storeys, it was the tallest in all of Zongoria. Inside, Zorgons stood guard, carrying spears.
They made him wait in a room festooned with portraits of the King and his eighteen wives, before eventually ushering him into the King’s presence.
The King sat on an enormous throne, bedecked with jewels and gold.
“Fengor!” the Zongorian King boomed. “The head of Xuvian scientific development himself! What is your business here?”
“My wife and I would like to claim asylum.” said Fengor. “If possible. You see, our King wants to kill me for lack of progress in science.”
The King laughed heartily.
“He has staffed nearly all his scientific positions with Zorgons!” he said. “No wonder there’s no progress. You can’t feed sausages to a horse! We hate science! So boring. Always some annoying geek telling us whether we are right or wrong. That’s not the Zorgon way!”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” said Fengor humbly. “Our own King can’t seem to grasp this.”
“Well, I tell you what, Fengor.” said the King. “I will grant asylum to you and your wife, on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You will be the head of our new Zongorian scientific enterprise. We have received many other asylum-seekers from your land recently. You will hire them to work for you.”
“I gratefully accept, Your Majesty!” said Fengor.
—
Soon the King had Fengor installed in the second-tallest building in Zongoria, which was two storeys high. Fengor began to interview all the Xuvian asylum-seekers, but among them all he found only two who he thought might be any use: Rangor, a former student from Ushira, and best of all, Fleestor, a former scientist with whom Fengor had previously been acquainted.
“What does the King actually want us to do?” said Fleestor.
“I don’t know.” said Fengor. “I think I’d better ask him.”
Soon Fengor was standing once again in front of the King.
“Well, it’s very simple, Fengor old boy.” said the King. “I want you to build us a Z-weapon, so we can use it against the filthy Xuvians. I mean as a deterrent, of course. To wipe them off the map once and for all! If they attack us again, I mean.”
“Your Majesty, you’re asking me to build a weapon to be used against my own people. My mother is still alive. And I have uncles and aunts, and many friends …”
“My dear fellow, you’re a Zongorian now, aren’t you?” said the King. “I’ve granted you citizenship. Or do you want to go back to Xuvia?”
“No!” said Fengor. “They’ll kill me.”
The King leaned forward.
“Then build me a Z-weapon!” he roared.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” said Fengor meekly.
—
Back at the new research institute, in the two-storey building, Fengor discussed the matter with Rangor and Fleestor.
“Right, well we’d better build it, then.” said Fleestor.
“We can’t build a weapon against our own people!” said Fengor, horrified.
“What are you talking about? I’m Zongorian.”
“You’re not a Zorgon!”
“No.” said Fleestor. “And I’d thank you not to use that brutish term around me. I’m a Zongorian.”
Fleestor rummaged about in the pocket of his jacket and produced a passport.
“Read here.” he said. “Citizen of Zongor. Zongorian.”
“Dear Flarg!” said Fengor. “Have you no conscience? What about all your friends in Xuvia?”
“He did say it would be purely defensive, didn’t he?” said Fleestor. “Science is science. We’d better get right on it, or he’ll have our heads.”
“Rangor, what do you think?” said Fengor, turning to the former student.
“I—, well—” stuttered Rangor. “I mean, we work for the King of Zongoria now.”
“Moral imbeciles, the pair of you!” said Fengor angrily. “You’d sell your souls to the highest bidder!”
He stormed out in a rage. As he was storming out, Fleestor shouted after him, “I don’t believe in souls! Flarg is a human invention!”
At home, in the luxurious new hut the King had provided him with, he raised the subject with Apla.
“Seems like you have two choices, Fengor.” she said. “Start building it, but drag your feet, or else just build it.”
“If I drag my feet he’ll probably have me beheaded.” said Fengor, tearing his hair. “If I actually build it, that lunatic might destroy half of Xuvia!”
She laid a hand gently on his arm.
“He won’t use it.” she said. “He knows the Xuvians will retaliate. Let him have his stupid weapon. Do everything he says. Get into his good books. Then you can try to exert a calming influence on him afterwards.”
“I suppose.” said Fengor wretchedly.
And so, for the following two years, Fengor, Rangor and Fleestor worked patiently on the weapon. Vast Zongorian hordes were summoned to mine the necessary Praybium. An enormous refinery was built, becoming the tallest building in Zongoria; taller than the King’s castle—which bothered the King greatly, but he accepted that it couldn’t be done any other way.
Soon, inevitably, the weapon was ready. Fengor had tried endlessly to ingratiate himself with the King in the hope of becoming a restraining hand on the King’s ambition, with little success.
One day, the King’s guards arrived at their research centre. The most senior of them approached Fengor and said, “Ready the weapon for deployment against Zongoria’s enemies.”
“R-ready the weapon?” stammered Fengor, paling. “But there’s no war.”
“You’re a scientist, not a politician.” said the guard curtly. “Concern yourself with science, not politics. We will wait while the weapon is prepared.”
“It’s take two days!” Fengor protested.
“You will work until it’s done.” said the guard.
A day and a half later, the weapon was ready, and the guards took it away.
“I suppose they’ll blow up Xuvia now.” said Rangor ruefully.
“Blow up—you’re damn right they’ll blow up Xuvia.” said Fengor. “What are we going to do?”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry.” said Fleestor. “I made some adjustments.”
“What adjustments?” said Fengor.
“Adjustments.” said Fleestor, shrugging.
Fleestor began hurriedly taking items from a drawer and putting them in a suitcase.
“Where are you going?” said Fengor.
“As far away as possible. I suggest you do the same. Collect your wife. We’ve got about half an hour.”
“What have you done?”
“Only what I had to do. Honestly, I’m rather glad I’m old and will be dead soon anyway. Better put a step on it, if you want to save your wife. Don’t worry, I’m going to take all the blame. You were right about me, Fengor. I rather lost sight of what was important. I’ve straightened myself out now. I’ve rediscovered Flarg’s all-encompassing grace.”
Fengor ran immediately to the landing pad and flew home.
“Fengor, I’m bored.” said Apla, as soon as she saw him. “I’m tired of being at home all the time. Why won’t they let me do something useful?”
“Never mind about that!” said Fengor. “We have to leave.”
“What do you mean, never mind about it?” said Apla indignantly, stung by his tone. “It’s OK for you, Fengor. At least you—”
Fengor grabbed Apla and hurried her towards the landing pad.
“What’s got into you?” she said angrily.
Soon they were speeding away from the city, Apla still demanding to know what was going on, and Fengor afraid to say in case someone was somehow listening to them.
They had gone nearly a hundred kilokraiks when an enormous green flash exploded behind them.
Apla turned to look at it.
“Oh my Flarg!” she exclaimed.
“Don’t look at it.” said Fengor. “Bad for the eyes.”
Apla turned back to the front hurriedly.
“Where shall we go?” she said.
“Well, if we go to Xuvia, they might hail me as a hero, but then again the King might still kill me. If we stay here and they find out I helped make the bomb, they might kill me as a traitor or a spy. But they might not find out.”
Fengor thought silently for a while.
“Tell you what, let’s flip a coin.” he said.
