by Mike Resnick
"He seemed an industrious and honorable being when I knew him, but that was many years ago."
"You knew Krakanna?"
"I went to school with him."
"What did you do for a living?"
"I taught philosophy at Sabare University," he answered.
"And now you are reduced to being the servant of an alien being," I said sympathetically.
"No, Captain Papagolos," he replied. "I have been elevated to the rank of servant."
"Elevated?"
"It is more than I was an hour ago."
"What did you say you taught?"
He smiled. "My specialty was pragmatism."
33.
It was his pragmatism that had kept Maliachi alive. It taught him never to trust a politician, so while all his colleagues were listening to Labu's promises, he was already preparing for the worst. He learned protective coloration, and while all the other intellectuals were being murdered, he was able to pass himself off as a peasant farmer. Since he couldn't farm, he became an adept thief, and since the people he lived with had nothing to steal, he eventually went back to the city to prey upon politicians.
In a totalitarian society, the most valuable commodity is information, since the government guards it so jealously, and for the past four years Maliachi had kept alive by obtaining information and selling it. Nothing big like military secrets, since there was no market for them, but little things, things people like myself who had grown up in a free society never thought about, like which stores were selling tainted food, which tax collectors could be bribed, and which tribes were about to fall into disfavor with the government.
So it was not surprising that when I mentioned that I needed a place to stay, Maliachi told me that he knew of a house that had recently become available, if it hadn't been destroyed in the fighting. It turned out to have belonged not to a jason but a Man, Arthur Cartright, about whom Maliachi had told me so much.
I protested that we couldn't simply move in, that the estate must still own the house. But Maliachi assured me that it would stand empty until Cartright's heir, who lived many light years away, decided what to do with it, and that he would take care of the legalities once the new government's bureaucracy was established. I still didn't like it, but after I found out that the three main hotels in Remus had been destroyed in the fighting, it was either move into the house or stay in our temporary barracks. Being a captain and a doctor were supposed to afford me some advantages, so I finally agreed.
The house seemed in fine repair from the outside, as if the revolution had somehow missed it, but when I opened the door I saw that most of the furniture had been looted. Maliachi assured me that replacing it presented no problem. About the only thing remaining were the book and tape shelves, filled with tomes on sociology, cartography, politics, and a surprising large section on utopian philosophy.
Most of the kitchen appliances were gone, but the stove and sink, which had been built into the structure of the house, remained, and I made sure that both the power and water were operative.
"Once, when the house was first built," said Maliachi, pointing out one of the windows, "you could see thousands of animals grazing out there. On a clear day, when the mists rise, you can see the Hills of Heaven."
"What's a fair rent for the place?" I asked. "I'll start an escrow fund, and make monthly deposits, which we can turn over to the owner."
"The banks have all been looted and destroyed," he answered. "There is no place to deposit your funds."
"Then I'll take it out of one pocket and put it in another," I said firmly, "but I'm damned well going to pay for the use of the house. Now, what's a reasonable rent?"
"That's a difficult question," he said. "Probably it would be in the vicinity of a billion credits a month."
"A billion credits?" I said disbelievingly.
"Faligorian credits," he explained. "The last time I saw a loaf of bread for sale, the price was about 15 million credits. We haven't had any gasoline for our vehicles in months now, but it was selling for about ten million credits a liter when it was available."
"It sounds like your economy was as sick as my patients," I commented.
"Sicker," he replied. "We went from a barter economy to hyper-inflation in a single generation."
"What will this Krakanna do about it?" I asked.
"I don't know."
"What will he do about the tribalism you told me about?"
Maliachi shrugged.
"What about SLIM?"
"I have no idea."
"If you don't know what he's going to do about all your major problems, why do so many of you support him?"
"We knew exactly what Gama Labu and William Barioke would do," answered Maliachi. "Do you think that was better?"
"No," I admitted. "But surely he's formulated some plans while he was out in the wilderness, waiting for the day he could take over."
"I'm sure he has," said Maliachi. "But he's got a government to form before he starts instituting them."
"Well, he'd better get busy," I said. "If Faligor were a patient, I'd say its conditiion was critical."
"I'm sure he agrees with you," said Maliachi.
"Then we'll just have to wait to find out if he's the cure," I said, "or simply another symptom."
34.
James Krakanna's image flickered twice on the holoscreen, then solidified and remained.
He was wearing a conservative outfit, the first time anyone could remember seeing him without his battle fatigues, and he was barefoot. He stood behind a small podium, facing a trio of cameras. Just behind the camera were some two dozen jason and alien reporters, all summoned from their other duties to hear the new president's first public address.
"Good evening," he said with no trace of nervousness. "I am James Krakanna, the current Acting President of Faligor. Many of you, far more than the opposition ever suspected, have given me aid and comfort over the years. Many of you have opposed me. Since I am not the egomaniac that my predecessors were, I will even grant that many of you know nothing at all about me."
He paused and cleared his throat.
"To those who have helped my cause, I offer my most sincere thanks. To those who have opposed me, I hereby offer complete and total amnesty for all actions taken up to this minute—but from this minute on, you are Faligorian citizens, and will be expected to obey Faligor's laws. Those laws can be found in the original constitution that was amended by Gama Labu and later suspended by Wiiliam Barioke, and is once again in full legal force.
"To those of you who know nothing of me or my beliefs, I am giving this initial speech so that you may know who I am and what I plan to do."
He looked at some hand-written notes he had scribbled down, then stared directly into the largest camera's lens.
"To begin with, all of former President Dushu's soldiers who will surrender their arms must do so by midnight tonight, and you will be set free. After midnight, you will be considered criminals, and will be treated as such.
"Second, anyone found looting anything other than food in any of the war zones will be shot on sight. Anyone found looting food will be arrested.
"Third, all parts of Faligor's original constitution will go into immediate effect, with this one exception: there will be no elections for governmental office until such time as I decide that Faligor's enemies pose no serious threat to her continued existence. At this particular time in our history, continuity is more important than democracy."
"He doesn't sound any different from the rest of them," I remarked as Maliachi and I watched the speech on Cartright's holo set.
"He's absolutely right," said Maliachi. "There are more important things right now than free elections."
"To those moles who have remained here, or who wish to return," continued Krakanna, "if you can prove that you have spent a minimum of six months living on Faligor, now or in the past, and you desire citizenship, it is freely given, and you will be entitled to all the rights and privi
leges given to all other citizens of Faligor.
"To those Men who have remained here, we make the same offer.
"To those worlds that wish to reestablish diplomatic and economic relations with us, we welcome you with open arms."
He paused, as if weighing his next statement, and then continued:
"However," he said, "there are going to be some changes. For an entire generation, my people have been known as jasons. We do not consider it a perjorative, and we understand that it comes from Man's mythology—but we are not Men, and the term is no longer acceptable. From this day forth, we are Faligori. I understand that it will take some time for people who have lived here to adjust, but starting thirty days from today, the use of the term 'jason' will be considered a misdemeanor and punishable as such.
"You will also notice that I am not wearing shoes. The reason is simple: our feet are not shaped like Men's feet, and shoes are uncomfortable and restrict movement. We will assimilate what is useful from other cultures, but we will no longer pretend to be something we are not. The Faligori have no need to be ashamed of themselves, or to blindly imitate a race that, while it has been a staunch friend from time to time, is no better than we are."
Krakanna paused as applause drowned out his next line, and I turned to Maliachi. "He sounds aggressive," I noted.
"He wishes only to restore our self-esteem," answered the jason. "Do you consider that aggressive?"
"I think he might have stated it more diplomatically," I said.
"He has assumed command of a planet that is used to following orders," said Maliachi. "In a year, if all goes well, they will question those orders, but today they will not, and he must start somewhere."
I grunted a noncommittal answer, as I didn't want to argue, and turned my attention back to the screen.
Krakanna had agreed to accept questions from the journalists who formed the bulk of his live audience, and one of them asked when he was going to disarm his children.
"Never," he said firmly. "They are better disciplined than any military force that has ever existed on Faligor, and they grow older every day. We need them to keep the peace."
"But—"
"Next question?"
"What do you plan to do about SLIM?" asked an alien journalist.
"As you know, Faligor's treasury is bankrupt," answered Krakanna. "As soon as we can replenish it, we'll begin a research project to determine the cause and cure for SLIM. In the meantime, while we cannot pay for their help, we will gladly accept any input the Republic or any of the independent worlds wishes to give us. Next question?"
"You've captured three of Dushu's top generals. What do you plan to do with them?"
"I haven't decided yet."
"Will you release them?"
"I told you: I don't know."
An old Enkoti stood up. "The Enkoti have suffered more under the previous regimes than any of the other tribes. Will your government make restitution to us?"
"My government is only a few days old, and is not responsible for your situation. We can't afford to compensate every victim of Labu, Barioke and Dushu." He paused. "I am sorry, but I won't make promises that I can't keep."
He answered a few more questions, then announced that he was off on a tour of Romulus to make sure it was secure, and that was the end of the news conference. I deactivated the holo and turned to Maliachi.
"He sounds as opinionated and power-hungry as all the others," I commented.
"He is merely a good Faligori, not a perfect one," said my companion. "And it is true," he added, removing his torn shoes, "that these things hurt our feet."
"So you're not a jason anymore and you no longer have to wear shoes," I said. "What else has changed?"
"Give him a few months to put his plans into practice before you start criticizing him, Captain Papagolos," replied Maliachi.
"And then?"
"Then we shall see."
35.
It took almost a month to finish treating all the war victims in Remus, the area to which my company was assigned. At that point most of our medical forces were transferred to other worlds, but the Republic requested that a small number of us remain to work on the SLIM disease, and since I was comfortably ensconced in Cartright's house (and Maliachi, true to his word, had arranged for me to stay there legally), I agreed to stay behind on Faligor.
Once the equipment we requested began arriving, we knew it was only a matter of time before we pinpointed the cause of the disease. After all, we already knew the symptoms, and we had more than enough tissue and blood samples to work with.
But the more we studied it, the farther we seemed to be from a solution. We tested every staple foodstuff of the Faligori; everything was negative. We tested imported human foods. Negative. We tested the mutated crops that the first settlers had brought with them. Negative.
We tested every variety of livestock. Negative.
Water, soil, clothing. Negative.
We then hypothesized that the virus had spontaneously generated within a single Faligori and was transmitted sexually. Negative.
By touch. Negative.
Airborne. Negative.
We went back and began retesting, first the most likely sources, then the less likely sources, and finally the least likely sources.
That was when I found it, embedded in the DNA of a plant that occurred all over the planet. But I had never seen anyone eating it, or using it for medicine, or indeed making any use of it whatsoever.
So I brought a few its leaves back to Cartright's house with me, showed them to Maliachi, and asked him if he knew whether the Faligori ever used them.
He stared at them for a long moment, then turned to me.
"This can't be the cause of the SLIM disease."
"Why not?" I asked.
"We've been using it for thousands of years," he said. "And the SLIM disease is a very recent thing."
"The plant itself doesn't cause the disease," I explained. "But it carries a virus that does. Probably the virus mutated and became deadly ten or twelve years ago."
He frowned and stared at the leaves again. "I do not know whether God hates the Faligori, or whether He simply has a malicious sense of humor."
"You know what they're used for?" I persisted.
"I do."
"Good," I said. "Whatever it is, we can put an end to it and start making some inroads against the disease."
"It is not that simple, Captain Papagolos," he said. "Things are never that simple on Faligor."
"What are you getting at, Maliachi?" I asked.
He picked up a leaf. "We smoke this," he answered.
"I've never seen a Faligori smoking anything," I said. "Not a cigar, not a pipe, not a cigarette. Nothing."
"It is part of our coming-of-age ritual, one of the most holy and sacred rites in our culture," he said. "A number of the leaves are ground, almost to powder, and wrapped in yet another leaf. During the ritual each boy plus his sponsor, who is usually but not always his father—especially since so many fathers have been killed—smoke the leaf."
"Why?"
"It is both a narcotic and a mild hallucinogen," answered Maliachi. "The rest of the ritual is very painful, and so personal that I do not feel comfortable describing it to you. But smoking the leaf makes it tolerable."
"If it's a narcotic, why haven't your people become addicted to it?"
"The after effects are not very pleasant," said Maliachi. "One's stomach cramps up, and one vomits ceaselessly for three or four days. It is not an experience you would want to repeat for a few moments of pleasure."
"And this ceremony only involves boys?"
He didn't answer, and I asked again.
"It is a very private ceremony," he replied. "I should not be discussing it with an outsider."
"Damn it, Maliachi, your people are dying by the thousands!" I said. "I have to know!"
He considered it, then signed and nodded his head. "It involves the boy, his sponsor, his family, and the
village priest."
"But only the boy and his sponsor smoke the leaf?"
"That is correct."
"Is the sponsor always a male?"
"Always."
I frowned. "Then how the hell do females come down with the SLIM disease? They've got a twelve percent incidence. Just picking it off the bushes shouldn't cause that."
"They are the ones who grind the leaf to powder," suggested Maliachi.
"You're suggesting they inadvertently inhale some of the powder?" I asked.
"I'm not even saying that it's inadvertent," he replied.
"It fits the demographics of the disease," I admitted. "It occurs far more frequently in the countryside than the cities where most of the Faligori have turned their backs on their tribal customs. And if one female prepares a number of the leaves, and not all females inhale the powder, that also explains why so few females are stricken." I considered the theory, and nodded I head. "I think that's the answer."
"It is the answer, but it is not the cure," said Maliachi.
"What are you talking about?" I said. "All we have to do is make sure I'm right and then make the information public."
"And then what?"
"That's it," I said. "We tell the Falagori how the disease is contracted, and explain to them that they must stop smoking the leaf."
"Just like that?" asked Maliachi.
"I don't understand what you're getting at," I said. "We know the leaf causes the disease. You've told me how it's used. All they have to do is stop."
"And if they don't?"
"Why wouldn't they?" I said. "The SLIM disease has killed more than a million Faligori. Nobody who displays the symptoms lives more than five years; most die within six months."
"They have smoked the leaf for untold millennia," explained Maliachi. "It is part of their culture."
"If they keep smoking it, it'll put an end to them and their culture," I said. "If they won't stop voluntarily, even knowing that it's the cause of the SLIM disease, then Krakanna will have to outlaw it."
"If he does, I may kill him myself," said Maliachi.
