by Jack Vance
The men stared eye to eye, each determined to pursue the course he deemed vital, neither intending to yield.
“You press us hard,” said the Marshal in a glacial voice. “Many here at Deirombona feel that we who wield the power should enjoy the fruits of power — so unless you wish to risk …”
“Act!” cried Beran. He raised his hand. “Or I kill you now!”
Behind him there was sudden movement, a spatter of blue light, a hoarse cry, a clatter of metal. Wheeling, Beran saw Finisterle standing over the body of a Valiant officer. A hammer-gun lay on the floor; Finisterle held a smoking energy-needle.
Carbone struck out with his fist, hit Beran hard on the jaw. Beran toppled back upon the desk. Finisterle turned to shoot, but was forced to hold his fire for the confusion.
A voice cried, “To Eiljanre! Death to the Paonese tyrants!”
Beran rose to his feet, but the Marshal had departed. Nursing his sore jaw, he spoke into a shoulder microphone; the six sky-barges, now above Deirombona, swooped down to the square; the monstrous black Mamarone poured forth.
“Surround the corps headquarters,” came Beran’s orders. “Allow neither entrance nor exit.”
Carbone had broadcast orders of his own; from nearby barracks came hasty sounds, and into the plaza poured groups of Valiant warriors. At sight of the neutraloids they stopped short. Mamarone in magenta and green stared at the young Valiants, and the air seemed to harden with hate along the line of sight.
Squad leaders sprang forward; the Valiants became a disciplined force instead of a mob. For a space there was silence, while Mamarone and Myrmidon weighed each other.
At the necks of the squad leaders vibrators pulsed. The voice of Grand Marshal Esteban Carbone issued from a filament. “Attack and destroy. Spare no one, kill all.”
The battle was the most ferocious in the history of Pao. It was fought without words, without quarter. The Myrmidons outnumbered the Mamarone, but each neutraloid possessed three times the strength of an ordinary man.
At a signal the Myrmidons came running forward, weaving and dodging. The neutraloids opened fire with shatter-beams and killed several dozen Myrmidons. The Myrmidons, lying prone, returned the fire; the neutraloids, secure behind absorption shields, waited.
The Myrmidons advanced in enveloping waves, one segment forcing the neutraloids to shelter behind their shields, while the other advanced, and so they leapfrogged across the plaza, fifty feet at a time.
Within the headquarters Beran called into his microphone.
“Marshal, I beseech you, prevent this spilling of blood. It is unnecessary, and good Paonese will die!”
There was no response. In the plaza only a hundred feet separated Mamarone from Myrmidon; they stood almost eye to eye, the neutraloids grinning in humorless rancor, contemptuous of life, unconscious of fear; the Myrmidons seething with impatience and verve, anxious for glory. The neutraloids, behind their screens and with backs against the wall of the corps headquarters, were secure from small weapons; however once they should move away from the wall, their backs would be vulnerable.
Suddenly they dropped the screens; their weapons poured death into the nearby ranks: a hundred men fell in an instant. The screens returned into place and they took the retaliating fire without casualty.
The gaps in the front line were filled instantly. Horns blew a brilliant fanfare; the Myrmidons drew scimitars and charged against the black giants.
The neutraloids dropped the screens, the weapons poured out death, a hundred, two hundred warriors were killed. But twenty or thirty sprang across the final few yards. The neutraloids drew their own great blades, hacked, hewed; there was the flash of steel, hisses, hoarse calls, and again the Mamarone stood free. But while the shields had been down, lances of fire from the rear ranks of the Myrmidons found targets, and a dozen neutraloids were fallen.
Stolidly the black ranks closed. Again the Myrmidon horns sounded, again the charge, and again the hack and splinter of steel. It was late afternoon; ragged clouds low in the west veiled the sun, but an occasional beam of orange light played across the battle, glowing on the splendid fabrics, reflecting from glistening black bodies, shining dark on spilled blood.
Within the staff headquarters Beran stood in bitter frustration. The stupidity, the arrogance of these men! They were destroying the Pao he had hoped to build — and he, lord of fifteen billion, could find insufficient strength to subdue a few thousand rebels.
In the plaza the Myrmidons at last split the neutraloid line into two, battered back the ends, bunched the giant warriors into two clots.
The neutraloids knew their time had come, and all their terrible detestation for life, for men, for the universe boiled up and condensed in a clot of pure fury. Swinging their great swords with one hand, grasping necks and heads with the other, they waded back and forth across the plaza, and the ground was littered with corpses and parts of corpses. One by one they succumbed, to a thousand hacks and cuts. Their number dwindled — to fifty, to thirty, to twenty, to ten, to five.
These last few looked at each other, and laughed, inhuman hoarse bellows, and presently they too died, and the plaza was quiet except for subdued sobbing. Then behind, by the Stele, the Valiant women set up a chant of victory, forlorn but exulting, and the survivors of the battle, gasping and sick, joined the paean.
Beran and his small company had already departed, flying back to Eiljanre in the air-boat. Beran sat steeped in misery. His body shook, his eyes burnt in their sockets, his stomach felt as if it were caked with lye. Failure, the breaking of his dreams, the beginning of chaos! All to the score of Palafox!
He thought of the tall spare form, the lean face with the wedge-shaped nose and opaque black eyes. The image carried such intensity of emotion as to become almost dear to him, something to be cherished from all harm, except that destruction which he himself would deal — in the event, of course, that he himself should survive. Because now hostility had erupted into bloodshed, and it was inconceivable that the Myrmidons should not go on the offensive. With what weapons could he subdue them? He had no army, no air-force, no space-navy, not even the Mamarone. He had his own two hands, no more.
Beran laughed aloud. Could he enlist the aid of Palafox?
With the last rays of sunset flickering over the roofs of Eiljanre, he arrived at the Palace.
In the great hall sat Palafox, in his usual gray and brown, a wry sad smile on his mouth, a peculiar shine to his eyes.
Elsewhere in the hall sat Cogitants, Palafox’s sons for the most part. They were subdued, grave, respectful. As Beran came into the room, the Cogitants averted their eyes.
Beran ignored them. Slowly he approached Palafox, until they stood only ten feet apart.
Palafox’s expression changed no whit; the sad smile trembled on his mouth; the dangerous shine glittered in his eyes.
It was clear to Beran that Palafox had completely succumbed to the Breakness syndrome. Palafox was an Emeritus.
Chapter XXI
Palafox saluted Beran with a gesture of apparent affability; but there was no corresponding change in his expression. “My wayward young disciple! I understand that you have undergone serious reverses.”
Beran came forward another step or two. He need only raise his hand, point, expunge this crafty megalomaniac. As he marshaled himself to act, Palafox uttered a soft word, and Beran found himself seized by four men strange to him, wearing garments of Breakness. While the Cogitants looked on soberly these men flung Beran flat on his face, opened his clothes, touched metal to his skin. There was an instant of piercing pain, then numbness along his back. He heard the click of tools, felt the quiver of manipulation, a wrench or two, and then they were done with him.
Pale, shaken, humiliated, he regained his feet, rearranged his garments.
Palafox said easily, “You are careless with the weapon provided you. Now it is removed and we can talk with greater relaxation.”
Beran could find no answer. Growling deep in his throat, he m
arched forward, stood before Palafox. He opened his mouth to speak, but the only words which came to mind were such paltry vehicles for his hate that he stood in silence.
Palafox smiled slightly. “Once again, Pao is in trouble. Once again, it is Lord Palafox of Breakness to whom appeals are made.”
“I made no appeals,” said Beran in a husky voice.
Palafox ignored him. “Ayudor Bustamonte once needed me. I aided him, and Pao became a world of power and triumph. But he who profited — Panarch Beran Panasper — broke the contract. Now, again the Paonese government faces destruction. And only Palafox can save you.”
Realizing that exhibitions of rage merely amused Palafox, Beran forced himself to speak in a voice of moderation. “Your price, I assume, is as before? Unlimited scope for your satyriasis?”
Palafox grinned openly. “You express it crudely but adequately. I prefer the word ‘fecundity’. But such is my price.”
A Cogitant came into the room, approached Palafox, spoke a word or two in Breakness. Palafox looked to Beran. “The Myrmidons are coming. They boast that they will burn Eiljanre, destroy Beran and set forth to conquer the universe. This, they claim, is their destiny.”
“How will you deal with the Myrmidons?” asked Beran tartly.
“Easily,” said Palafox. “I control them because they fear me. I am the most highly modified man on Breakness, the most powerful man ever to exist. If Esteban Carbone fails to obey me, I will kill him. To their plans for conquest I am indifferent. Let them destroy this city, let them destroy all the cities, as many as they will.” His voice was rising — he was becoming excited. “So much the easier for me, for my seed! This is my world, this is where I shall live magnified by a million, a billion sons. I shall fructify a world; there never shall have been so vast a siring! In fifty years the planet will know no name other than Palafox, you shall see my face on every face. The world will be I, I will be the world!”
The black eyes glowed like opals, pulsing with fire. Beran became infected with the madness; the room was unreal, hot gases swirled through his mind. Palafox, losing the appearance of a man, took on various semblances in rapid succession: a tall eel, a phallus, a charred post with knotholes for eyes, a black nothingness.
“A demon!” gasped Beran. “The Evil Demon!” He lunged forward, caught Palafox’s arm, hurled Palafox stumbling to the floor.
Palafox struck with a thud, a cry of pain. He sprang to his feet holding his arm — the same arm that Beran had wounded before — and he looked an Evil Demon indeed.
“Now is your end, gad-fly!” He raised his hand, pointed his finger. From the Cogitants came a mutter.
The finger remained pointed. No fire leapt forth. Palafox’s face twisted in passion. He felt his arm, inspected his finger. He looked up, calm once more, signaled to his sons. “Kill this man, here and now. No longer shall he breathe the air of my planet.”
There was dead silence. No one moved. Palafox stared incredulously; Beran looked numbly about him. Everywhere in the room faces turned away, looking neither toward Beran nor Palafox.
Beran suddenly found his voice. He cried out hoarsely, “You talk madness!” He turned to the Cogitants. Palafox had spoken in Breakness, Beran spoke in Pastiche.
“You Cogitants! Choose the world you would live in! Shall it be the Pao you know now, or the world this Emeritus proposes?”
The epithet stung Palafox; he jerked in anger, and in Breakness, the language of insulated intelligence, he barked, “Kill this man!”
In Pastiche, language of the Interpreters, a tongue used by men dedicated to human service, Beran called, “No! Kill this senile megalomaniac instead!”
Palafox motioned furiously to the four men of Breakness — those who had de-energized Beran’s circuits. His voice was deep and resonant. “I, Palafox, the Great Sire, order you, kill this man!”
The four came forward.
The Cogitants stood like statues. Then they moved as if at a single decision. From twenty parts of the room streaks of flame leapt forth. Transfixed from twenty directions, eyes bulging, hair fluffing into a nimbus from the sudden charge, Lord Palafox of Breakness died.
Beran fell into a chair, unable to stand. Presently he took a deep breath, staggered to his feet. “I can say nothing to you now — only that I shall try to build the sort of world that Cogitants as well as Paonese can live in with satisfaction.”
Finisterle, standing somberly to the side, said, “I fear that this option, admirable as it is, lies not entirely in your hands.”
Beran followed his gaze, through the tall windows. High up in the sky appeared bursts of colored fire, spreading and sparkling, as if in celebration for some glory.
“The Myrmidons,” said Finisterle. “They come for vengeance.”
The sky was filled with explosions of colored sparks in flower-like garlands, three-dimensional snowflakes, heraldic medallions. A dozen great black warships cruised over Eiljanre, circled over the palace, in tighter and tighter circles, funnelling down toward the landing deck.
Finisterle touched Beran’s arm. “Best had you flee while there is yet time. They will show you no mercy.”
Beran made no answer. Finisterle took his arm. “You accomplish nothing here but your own death. There is no guard to protect you — we are all at their mercy.”
Beran gently disengaged himself. “I shall remain here; I shall not flee.”
“They will kill you!”
Beran gave the peculiar Paonese shrug. “All men die.”
“But you have much to do, and you can do nothing dead! Leave the city, and presently the Myrmidons will tire of the novelty and return to their games.”
“No,” said Beran. “Bustamonte fled. The Brumbos pursued him, ran him to the ground. I will no longer flee anyone. I will wait here with my dignity, and if they kill me, so shall it be.”
An hour passed, the minutes ticking off slowly, one by one. The warships dropped low, hovered only yards from the ground. The flagship settled gingerly upon the palace deck.
Within the great hall Beran sat quietly on the dynastic Black Chair, his face drawn with fatigue, his eyes wide and dark. The Cogitants stood in muttering groups, watching Beran from the corners of their eyes.
From far off came a whisper of sound, a deep chant, growing louder, a chant of dedication, of victory, sung to the organic rhythm of pumping heart, of marching feet.
Louder and louder — the sound of a hundred voices, and now the tread of heavy steps could likewise be heard.
The chant swelled, the door burst open: into the great hall marched Esteban Carbone, the Grand Marshal. Behind him came a dozen young Field Marshals, and behind these, ranks of staff officers.
Esteban Carbone strode up to the Black Chair and faced Beran.
“Beran,” spoke Esteban Carbone, “you have done us unforgivable injury. You have proved a false Panarch, unfit to govern the planet Pao. Therefore we have come in force to pull you down from the Black Chair and to take you away to your death.”
Beran nodded thoughtfully, as if Esteban Carbone had come urging a petition.
“To those who wield the power shall go the direction of the state: this is the basic axiom of history. You are powerless, only we Myrmidons are strong. Hence we shall rule, and I now declare that the Grand Marshal of the Myrmidons shall now and forever function as Panarch of Pao.”
Beran said no word; indeed, there was no word to be said.
“Therefore, Beran, arise in what little dignity you retain, leave the Black Chair and walk forth to your death.”
From the Cogitants came an interruption. Finisterle spoke out angrily. “One moment; you go too far and too fast.”
Esteban Carbone swung about. “What is this you say?”
“Your thesis is correct: that he who wields power shall rule — but I challenge that you wield power on Pao.”
Esteban Carbone laughed. “Is there anyone who can deter us in any course we care to pursue?”
“That is not a
ltogether the point. No man can rule Pao without consent of the Paonese. You do not have that consent.”
“No matter. We shall not interfere with the Paonese. They can govern themselves — so long as they supply us our needs.”
“And you believe that the Technicants will continue to supply you with tools and weapons?”
“Why should they not? They care little who buys their goods.”
“And who shall make your needs known to them? Who will give orders to the Paonese?”
“We shall, naturally.”
“But how will they understand you? You speak neither Technicant nor Paonese, they speak no Valiant. We Cogitants refuse to serve you.”
Esteban Carbone laughed. “This is an interesting proposition. Are you suggesting that Cogitants, by reason of their linguistic knack, should therefore rule the Valiants?”
“No. I point out that you are unable to rule the planet Pao, that you cannot communicate with those you claim to be your subjects.”
Esteban Carbone shrugged. “This is no great matter. We speak a few words of Pastiche, enough to make ourselves understood. Soon we will speak better, and so shall we train our children.”
Beran spoke for the first time. “I offer a suggestion which perhaps will satisfy the ambitions of everyone. Let us agree that the Valiants are able to kill as many Paonese as they desire, all those who actively oppose them, and so may be said to exercise authority. However, they will find themselves embarrassed: first, by the traditional resistance of the Paonese to coercion, and secondly, by inability to communicate either with the Paonese or the Technicants.”
Carbone listened with a grim face. “Time will cure these embarrassments. We are the conquerors, remember.”
“Agreed,” said Beran in a tired voice. “You are the conquerors. But you will rule best by disturbing the least. And until all Pao shares a single language, such as Pastiche, you cannot rule without great disturbance.”
“Then all Pao must speak one language!” cried Carbone. “That is a simple enough remedy! What is language but a set of words? This is my first command: every man, woman and child on the planet must learn Pastiche.”
