by Jack Vance
During the day the young men and women trained separately, mastering their new weapons and mechanisms, but at night they ate and slept together indiscriminately, distinction being only one of rank. Sexual contacts were common, casual, barren of any sublimation or fervor. Emotional import was given only to organizational relationships, to competition for rank and honor.
On the evening of Beran’s arrival at Deirombona, a ceremonial convocation took place at the cantonment. At the center of the parade ground a great fire burnt on a platform. Behind rose the Deirombona stele, a prism of black metal emblazoned with emblems. To either side stood ranks of young Myrmidons, and tonight all wore common garb: a plain dark gray leotard. Each carried a ceremonial lance, with a pale flickering flame in the place of a blade.
A fanfare rang out. A girl in white came forward, carrying an insignia of copper, silver and brass. While the Myrmidons knelt and bowed their heads, the girl carried the insignia three times around the fire and fixed it upon the stele.
The fire roared high. The Myrmidons rose to their feet, thrust their lances into the air. They formed into ranks and marched from the square.
The next day Beran received an explanation from his immediate superior, Sub-Strategist Gian Firanu, a soldier-of-fortune from one of the far worlds. “You witnessed a funeral — a hero’s funeral. Last week Deirombona held war-games with Tarai, the next camp up the coast. A Tarai submarine had penetrated our net and was scoring against our base. All the Deirombona warriors were eager, but Lemauden was first. He dove five hundred feet with a torch and cut away the ballast. The submarine rose and was captured. But Lemauden drowned — possibly by accident.”
“‘Possibly by accident’? How else? Surely the Tarai …”
“No, not the Tarai. But it might have been a deliberate act. These lads are wild to place their emblems on the stele — they’ll do anything to create a legend.”
Beran went to the window. Along the Deirombona esplanade swaggered groups of young bravos. Was this Pao? Or some fantastic world a hundred light-years distant?
Gian Firanu was speaking; his words at first did not penetrate Beran’s consciousness. “There’s a new rumor going around — perhaps you’ve already heard it — to the effect that Bustamonte is not the true Panarch, merely Ayudor-Senior. It’s said that somewhere Beran Panasper is alive and grows to manhood, gaining strength like a mythical hero. And when the hour strikes — so the supposition goes — he will come forth to fling Bustamonte into the sea.”
Beran stared suspiciously, then laughed. “I had not heard this rumor. But it may well be fact, who knows?”
“Bustamonte will not enjoy the story!”
Beran laughed again, this time with genuine humor. “Better than anyone else, he’ll know what truth there is in the rumor. I wonder who started this rumor.”
Firanu shrugged. “Who starts any rumor? No one. They come of idle talk and misunderstanding.”
“In most cases — but not all,” said Beran. “Suppose this were the truth?”
“Then there is trouble ahead. And I return to Earth.”
Beran heard the rumor later in the day with embellishments. The supposedly assassinated Medallion inhabited a remote island; he trained a corps of metal-clad warriors impervious to fire, steel or power; the mission of his life was to avenge his father’s death — and Bustamonte walked in fear.
The talk died away, then three months later flared up again. This time the rumor told of Bustamonte’s secret police combing the planet, of thousands of young men conveyed to Eiljanre for examination, and thereafter executed, so that Bustamonte’s uneasiness should not become known.
Beran had long been secure in the identity of Ercole Paraio; but now all complacency left him. He became distrait and faltered in his work. His associates observed him curiously and at last Gian Firanu inquired as to the nature of his preoccupation.
Beran muttered something about a woman in Eiljanre who was bearing his child. Firanu tartly suggested that Beran either expel so trivial a concern from his attention or take leave of absence until he felt free to concentrate on his work. Beran hastily accepted the leave of absence.
He returned to his cottage and sat several hours on the sun-flooded verandah, hoping to strike upon some sensible plan of action. The linguists might not be the first objects of suspicion, but neither would they be the last.
He could immerse himself in his role, make the identity of Ercole Paraio a trustworthy disguise. He could conceive no means to this end, and the secret police were a good deal more sophisticated than himself.
He could seek help from Palafox. He toyed with the idea only an instant before discarding it with a twinge of self-disgust. He considered leaving the planet, but where would he go — assuming that he were able to book passage?
He felt restless. There was urgency in the air, a sense of pressure. He rose to his feet, looked all around him: up the deserted streets, out across the sea. He jumped down to the beach, walked along the shore to the single inn still functioning in Deirombona. In the public tavern he ordered chilled wine, and taking it out on the rattan-shaded terrace, drank rather more deeply and hastily than was his custom.
The air was heavy, the horizons close. From up the street, near the building where he worked, he saw movement, color: several men in purple and brown.
Beran half-rose from his seat, staring. He sank slowly back, sat limp. Thoughtfully he sipped his wine. A dark shadow crossed his vision. He looked up; a tall figure stood in front of him: Palafox.
Palafox nodded a casual greeting and seated himself. “It appears,” said Palafox, “that the history of contemporary Pao has not yet completely unfolded.”
Beran said something indistinguishable. Palafox nodded his head gravely, as if Beran had put forward a profound wisdom. He indicated the three men in brown and purple who had entered the inn and were now conferring with the major-domo.
“A useful aspect of Paonese culture is the style of dress. One may determine a person’s profession at a glance. Are not brown and purple the colors of the internal police?”
“Yes, that is true,” said Beran. Suddenly his anxiety was gone. The worst had occurred, the tension was broken: impossible to dread what had already happened. He said in a reflective voice, “I suppose they come seeking me.”
“In that case,” said Palafox, “it would be wise if you departed.”
“Departed? Where?”
“Where I will take you.”
“No,” said Beran. “I will be your tool no more.”
Palafox raised his eyebrows. “What do you lose? I am offering to save your life.”
“Not through concern for my welfare.”
“Of course not.” Palafox grinned, showing his teeth in a momentary flash. “Who but a simpleton is so guided? I serve you in order to serve myself. With this understanding I suggest we now depart the inn. I do not care to appear overtly in this affair.”
“No.”
Palafox was roused to anger. “What do you want?”
“I want to become Panarch.”
“Yes, of course,” exclaimed Palafox. “Why else do you suppose I am here? Come, let us be off, or you will be no more than carrion.”
Beran rose to his feet; they departed the inn.
Chapter XIV
The two men flew south, across the Paonese countryside, rich with ancient habitancy; then over the seas, flecked with the sails of fishing craft. League after league they flew, and neither man spoke, each contained in his own thoughts.
Beran finally broke the silence. “What is the process by which I become Panarch?”
Palafox said shortly, “The process began a month ago.”
“The rumors?”
Palafox was perhaps irritated by the implied deprecation. He answered in a metallic voice, “It is necessary that the people of Pao realize that you exist.”
“And why am I preferable to Bustamonte?”
Palafox laughed crisply. “In general outline, my interests
would not be served by certain of Bustamonte’s plans.”
“And you hope that I will be more sympathetic to you?”
“You could not be more obstinate than Bustamonte.”
“In what regard was Bustamonte obstinate?” Beran persisted. “He refused to concede to all your desires?”
Palafox chuckled hollowly. “Ah, you young rascal! I believe you would deprive me of all my prerogatives.”
Beran was silent, reflecting that if he ever became Panarch, this indeed would be one of his primary concerns.
Palafox spoke on in a more conciliatory tone. “These affairs are for the future, and need not concern us now. At the present we are allies. To signalize this fact, I have arranged that a modification be made upon your body, as soon as we arrive at Pon.”
Beran was taken by surprise. “A modification?” He considered a moment, feeling a qualm of uneasiness. “Of what nature?”
“What modification would you prefer?” Palafox asked mildly.
Beran darted a glance at the hard profile. Palafox seemed completely serious. “The total use of my brain.”
“Ah,” said Palafox. “That is the most delicate and precise of all, and would require a year of toil on Breakness itself. At Pon it is impossible. Choose again.”
“Evidently my life is to be one of many emergencies,” said Beran. “The power of projecting energy from my hand might prove valuable.”
“True,” reflected Palafox. “And yet, on the other hand, what could more completely confuse your enemies than to see you rise into the air and float away? And since, with a novice, the easy projection of destruction endangers friends as well as enemies, we had better decide upon levitation as your first modification.”
The surf-beaten cliffs of Nonamand rose from the ocean; they passed above a grimy fishing village, rode over the first ramparts of the Sgolaphs, flew low over the moors toward the central spine of the continent. Mount Droghead raised its cataclysmic crags; they swept close around the icy flanks, swerved down to the plateau of Pon. The car settled beside a long low building with rock-melt walls and a glass roof. Doors opened; Palafox floated the car within. They grounded on a floor of white tile; Palafox opened the port and motioned Beran out.
Beran hesitated, dubiously inspecting the four men who came forward. Each differed from the others in height, weight, skin and hair-color, but each was like the others.
“My sons,” said Palafox. “Everywhere on Pao you will find my sons … But time is valuable, and we must set about your modification.”
Beran alighted from the car; the sons of Palafox led him away.
They laid the anaesthetized body on a pallet, injected and impregnated the tissues with various toners and conditioners. Then standing far back, they flung a switch. There was a shrill whine, a flutter of violet light, a distortion of the space as if the scene were observed through moving panels of poor glass.
The whine died; the figures stepped forward around the body now stiff, dead, rigid. The flesh was hard, but elastic; the fluids were congealed; the joints firm.
The men worked swiftly, with exceeding deftness. They used knives with entering edges only six molecules thick. The knives cut without pressure, splitting the tissues into glass-smooth laminae. The body was laid open halfway up the back, slit down either side through the buttocks, thighs, calves. With single strokes of another type of knife, curiously singing, the soles of the feet were removed. The flesh was rigid, like rubber; there was no trace of blood or body fluid, no quiver of muscular motion.
A section of lung was cut out, an ovoid energy-bank introduced. Conductors were laid into the flesh, connecting to flexible transformers in the buttocks, to processors in the calves. The antigravity mesh was laid into the bottom of the feet and connected to the processors in the calves by means of flexible tubes thrust up through the feet.
The circuit was complete. It was tested and checked; a switch was installed under the skin of the left thigh. And now began the tedious job of restoring the body.
The soles were dipped in special stimulating fluid, returned precisely into place, with accuracy sufficient to bring cell wall opposite cell wall, severed artery tight to severed artery, nerve fibril against nerve fibril. The slits along the body were pressed tightly together, the flesh drawn back into place over the energy bank.
Eighteen hours had passed. The four men now departed for rest, and the dead body lay alone in the darkness.
Next day the four men returned. The great machine whined again, and the violet light flickered around the room. The field which had gripped the atoms of Beran’s body, in theory reducing his temperature to absolute zero, relaxed, and the molecules resumed their motion.
The body once more lived.
A week passed, while Beran, still comatose, healed. He returned to consciousness to find Palafox standing before the pallet.
“Rise,” said Palafox. “Stand on your feet.”
Beran lay quiet for a moment, aware by some inner mechanism that considerable time had passed.
Palafox seemed impatient and driven by haste. His eyes glittered; he made an urgent gesture with his thin strong hand. “Rise! Stand!”
Beran slowly raised himself to his feet.
“Walk!”
Beran walked across the room. There was a tautness down his legs, and the energy-bulb weighed on the muscles of his diaphragm and rib-sheathing.
Palafox was keenly watching the motion of his feet. “Good,” he exclaimed. “I see no halting or discoordination. Come with me.”
He took Beran into a high room, hitched a harness over his shoulders, snapped a cord into a ring at his back.
“Feel here.” He directed Beran’s left hand to a spot on his thigh. “Tap.”
Beran felt a vague solidity under his skin. He tapped. The floor ceased to press at his feet; his stomach jerked; his head felt like a balloon.
“This is charge one,” said Palafox. “A repulsion of slightly less than one gravity, adjusted to cancel the centrifugal effect of planetary rotation.”
He made the other end of the cord fast on a cleat. “Tap again.”
Beran touched the plate, and instantly it seemed as if the entire environment had turned end for end, as if Palafox stood above him, glued to the ceiling, as if he were falling head-first at a floor thirty feet below him. He gasped, flailed out his arms; the cord caught him, held him from falling. He turned a desperate glance toward Palafox, who stood faintly smiling.
“To increase the field, press the bottom of the plate,” called Palafox. “To decrease, press the top. If you tap twice, the field goes dead.”
Beran managed to return to the floor. The room righted, but swung and bobbed with nauseating effect.
“It will be days before you accustom yourself to the levitation mesh,” said Palafox briskly. “Since time is short, I suggest that you practice the art diligently.” He turned toward the door.
Beran started to reply, but Palafox silenced him with a gesture.
Beran watched him walk away, frowning in puzzlement. “Just why is time short, then?” he called to the spare retreating back.
Palafox swung around. “The date,” he said, “is the fourth day of the third week of the eighth month. On Kanetsides Day I plan that you shall be Panarch of Pao.”
“Why?” asked Beran.
“Why do you continually require that I expose myself to you?”
“I ask from both curiosity and in order to plan my own conduct. You intend that I be Panarch. You wish to work with me.” The gleam in Palafox’s eyes brightened. “Perhaps I should say, you hope to work through me, in order to serve your ends. Therefore, I ask myself what these ends are.”
Palafox considered him a moment, then replied in a cool even voice. “Your thoughts move with the deft precision of worm-tracks in the mud. Naturally I plan that you shall serve my ends. You plan, or, at any rate, you hope, that I shall serve yours. So far as you are concerned, this process is well toward fruition. I am working diligently
to secure your birthright, and if I succeed, you shall be Panarch of Pao. When you demand the nature of my motives, you reveal the style of your thinking to be callow, captious, superficial, craven, uncertain and impudent.”
Beran began to sputter a furious refutal, but Palafox cut him off with a gesture. “Naturally you accept my help — why should you not? It is only right to strive for your goals. But, after accepting my help, you must choose one of two courses: serve me or fight me. Forward my aims or attempt to deny me. These are positive courses. But to expect me to continue serving you from a policy of abnegation is negative and absurd.”
“I cannot consider mass misery absurd,” snapped Beran. “My aims are …”
Palafox held up his hand. “There is nothing more to say. The scope of my plans you must deduce for yourself. Submit or oppose, whichever you wish. I am unconcerned, since you are powerless to deflect me.”
Day after day Beran practiced the use of his modification, and gradually became adjusted to the sensation of falling head-first away from the ground.
He learned how to move through the air, by leaning in the direction he wished to travel; he learned how to descend, falling so fast the air sang past his ears, then braking with deft timing to land without a jar.
On the eleventh day, a boy in a smart gray cape, no more than eight years old, with the typical Palafox cast to his features, invited Beran to Palafox’s apartments.
Crossing the concrete quadrangle, Beran armed his mind and arranged his emotions for the interview. He marched through the portal stiff with resolution.
Palafox was sitting at his desk, idly arranging polished trapezoids of rock crystal. His manner was almost affable as he directed Beran to a chair.
Beran warily seated himself.
“Tomorrow,” said Palafox, “we enter the second phase of the program. The emotional environment is suitably sensitive: there is a general sense of expectation. Tomorrow, the quick stroke, the accomplishment! In a suitable manner we affirm the existence of the traditional Panarch. And then —” Palafox rose to his feet “— and then, who knows? Bustamonte may resign himself to the situation, or he may resist. We will be prepared for either contingency.”
