Fraden laughed with her. “Conceited bitch!” he said, grinning. “Oversexed psychopathic egomaniac!”
She tangled her hand In his thick black hair, kissed him lightly on the nose.
“Takes one to stand one,” she said dryly.
CHAPTER TEN
Bart Fraden could not help smiling at the three People’s Army volunteers who were crammed into the lifeboat’s cabin with him. Jaws damped shut, backs pressed tight against the bulkhead, eyes darting about everywhere, anywhere, as long as they didn’t have to look at the viewscreens and be reminded that they were flying above the Sangran countryside at dizzying speed and altitude. It amused him, but it also bugged him that after five days of this, the Sangrans were still basically unable to adapt to the reality of flight.
It was all too symptomatic of the rank raw material he was forced to work with. As revolutionaries, as individual soldiers, indeed as mere human beings, the Sangran people left much to be desired. They had no concept of justice, freedom, common good, democracy, or anything else that might be remotely considered a political objective or ideal. Not long ago, they had unthinkingly obeyed the slightest whim of the Killers. Now they fought on the side of the People’s Republic against those same Killers simply because they had been convinced by example that the Killers could be killed, because with the Bugs in Free Republic territory all useless, to obey the Brotherhood and the Killers was to starve, because Fraden had been able to build himself up into a more powerful manna-figure than the Prophet of Pain—and finally, because they were more afraid, at the moment, of snipguns and Willem’s herogyn-heads than of the Killers or the Brotherhood. The Noble Sangran People…
The countryside reeled itself out like a map below the ’boat, an irregular checkerboard of dark green jungle, lighter grasslands and cultivated areas, here and there a village, estates at much longer intervals, linked by a spiderweb of road network with Sade squatting like a black widow at the focus. Forgetting the character of the Sangrans and looking at the Revolution schematically, like a complicated chess game, gave a much more hopeful and aesthetic picture of the war. The Sangrans, being essentially shortsighted clods, could be manipulated like the clods they were, providing one took into account and used their very lack of initiative, group identity, idealism, and virtually all other saving graces.
As the present gambit did.
It was a cold exercise in military, economic, and psychological logic. The Free Republic held one district firmly, now had an army of about eight thousand, which, by recruiting in the adjoining territory, might conceivably be increased to ten thousand, but no more under present conditions.
The Brotherhood had everything else.
Which meant a great number of such districts containing fifteen million people, who could easily be bled for enough food, slaves… and victims, to fulfill the needs of a mere few thousand Brothers and their supporting entourage without efficiency or tight control even becoming a consideration. They had nearly thirty thousand Killers to do the job, better than three times the forces of the Free Republic.
And that, being their strength, was also their weakness.
Thirty thousand Killers was a large police force, but a small army. After three centuries of conditioning designed to make the Sangrans react to the Killers as police, half the Killer force, or so, was enough to garrison the estates with a few score Killers each, collect quotas and generally keep things under control, freeing the rest to deal with any occasional insurrection—and with the People’s Army.
But if the Killers were forced into the role of an occupying army in a hostile countryside, instead of a police force, their numbers would suddenly become inadequate. Every Killer tied down in pacification duties was one less Killer to fight the People’s Army. The key problem was how to tie down the entire Killer force guarding estates spread out over the whole inhabited area of the planet.
And the solution was the very venality of the Sangran Animals…
Fraden stepped out of the lifeboat’s airlock a step ahead of his three-man bodyguard and stood in the center of the village, where he had arrogantly set the ’boat down. Like every other village he had visited in the past five days, this one was far enough away from the local estate so that even if he had been spotted on the way down, he would be long gone before any Killers could get there.
And, as in the dozens of other villages, the yokums were already gathered in a curious, expectant crowd in front of the ’boat by the time he stepped out. The rumor mill had long since spread the story all over the planet that the President was going to tour villages in enemy territory, had also spread the story of the Battle of Triple Valley, as he had dubbed that revolting slaughter, and of course who but Bart Fraden, the Liberator, the Hero of the Revolution, the mighty off-worlder, could drop from the sky into the very heart of their village.
Fraden studied the crowd before him. There was a high proportion of women and children to men, which probably meant that the Killers had hit this dogpatch several times for victims for the madness-pogrom. They were lean and leathery looking, but not on the razor-edge of starvation, since the campaign to kill the Brains had not yet reached this far. But the rumor about it had, and he saw that they were plainly worried, by the rumor, by the madness-pogrom. And there was a narrow, hungry look to their eyes which told him that they knew all about the Revolution and what the People’s Army was doing to the Killers. They were, in short, ripe.
“Y’know who I am,” he began. “I’m Bart Fraden, President of the People’s Republic of Sangre. Y’know about the great victory of the Sangran People at the Battle of Triple Valley—whole planet knows that. I’m not looking for soldiers for y’People’s Army from here—yet. You’re too far away from what we hold now, but don’t y’worry, we’re expanding in your direction. I don’t have t’tell y’that the Killers are taking way over quota—looks like they’ve been here already. Y’probably know that they’re starting t’kill Brains all over Sangre, and I’ll bet y’already know that they’re doing all this t’starve you, drive you mad so the Brotherhood can bleed the whole planet to death t’make Omnidrene for their kicks. No, I’m not wasting my time and yours, risking my life by coming here t’tell you what you already know all too well.”
Fraden paused, studied the stolid faces of the quietly waiting Sangrans, only their eyes betraying a curious impatience. They expected to hear something new, something they wanted to hear, and man, they were gonna hear it!
“I’m here t’tell you what’s already happening in villages just like yours—all over Sangre! It’s the simplest, most obvious thing there is: the Sangran people have begun to realize that if they want something, all they have to do is reach out and take it. This is your planet. Y’don’t want t’work tending y’Brother’s Meatanimal herds? So don’t! So what happens? Y’local Killers march in t’y’village and make y’work, eh? So next day, when they’re all out making a couple other villages work, you don’t. Things get a little rough for a while, you just go off into the jungle till they cool off. Live off the land! And that means y’live off whatever belongs t’y’Brother. Killers are off making a village work, y’raid the Meatanimal herds. Raid storehouses. Raid anything that’s not guarded for a moment and that’s not nailed down. Take what you want. Why work for it? How many Killers on this estate, forty, fifty, maybe sixty? And how many men in all the villages? Y’Killers just can’t stop hundreds, thousands of men raiding from the jungle. Hit what’s not protected, and when they rush there, you’re already raiding somewhere else. Y’got it made. The Killers just can’t stop y’from taking what y’want!”
Men in the crowd hooted, laughed bitterly. “Sure!” someone shouted sarcastically. “We do that, and y’Brother just yells f’more Killers, and trucks y’whole village t’Sade at once. We die quick insteada slow, is all!”
“No, man!” Fraden shouted. “ ’Cause there just ain’t no more Killers t’come arunnin’! ’Cause every other Brother on the planet is already screaming for more Killers t�
��stop the raids on his estate, raids that are already going on all over the planet! No Brother can afford to send another more Killers. And the rest of y’Killers—the ones Moro has in reserve—man, don’t worry about them either. The People’s Army is giving ’em all the action they can handle and then some. Remember, the Battle of Triple Valley! Y’local Brother can yell for more Killers till he’s blue in the face, and all he’ll get is a sore throat. That’s what the Sangran Revolution means to you, right here, right now! Now you can take what you want ’cause there’s just not enough Killers on the planet t’stop you! Take what y’want. It’s all yours for the grabbing, courtesy of the Free Republic of Sangre!”
Now the Sangrans were muttering among themselves, talking it over. That hit ’em where they live, all right, Fraden thought. Greedy bastards! While the cat’s away… That’s what a revolution means to your average yokum anyway—an opportunity to pillage and loot. Tell crumbs like these to do what they want to do in the first place, and they’ll do it—if they weren’t such total cowards. There wasn’t a village he had visited that had the balls to be first. If a few villages tried it, it wouldn’t work, but if they all did, they’d run the Killers ragged. What they needed was proof that everyone was doing it. Cowards hunt only in big packs. But that was being taken care of… yessir, it was all being taken care of!
It was a motley group indeed that passed through the fallow fields and into the Sangran village. Twenty-five men, armed only with clubs and spears, wearing only the usual loincloth, surrounded about thirty naked, fat, moron-faced little children, their sex obscured by gross folds of flaccid flesh, on three sides herded the Meatanimals before them. Immediately behind the men herding the Meatanimals were five men in the green loincloths and sweatbands of the People’s Army armed with rifles and prodding along a tied and gagged Killer who limped along on a bleeding right leg, his left arm hanging loosely in its bonds. Bringing up the rear was Willem Vanderling in his old Belt Free State General’s uniform, carrying the omnipresent snipgun.
Contrary to appearances, all but the Killer and the Meatanimals were soldiers of the People’s Army of the Free Republic of Sangre.
Vanderling scanned the grubby little huts as hungry-looking, filthy Sangrans erupted from them. Wasn’t there something about…?
Vanderling laughed. Sure! What a yock! We killed the Brain in this dogpatch about a week ago! And now we bring ’em eats and kicks. The People’s Army giveth and the People’s Army taketh away…
For several weeks now, the People’s Army, or at least about a quarter of it, had been doing just that: giving and taking away. Hundreds of small hands like this one roamed in Brotherhood territory. They were on their own, raiding and living off the country. Each band was led by a small squad of herogyn-heads who made no bones about being members of the People’s Army. The rest, the volunteers, played the parts of ordinary Sangran peasants who had taken to the jungle as freelance raiders.
By day, they raided storehouses, and, semi-contrary to Fraden’s unspoken orders, Meatanimal herds, for food, taking the surplus loot into the local villages to show the yokums what they could grab for themselves if they had any guts.
By night, the herogyn-heads, dressed in captured Killer uniforms, stole into the very same villages and killed the local Brains.
Fun and games! Vanderling thought, not realizing from whom he had acquired the phrase. Man, this was the way to fight a war—loot, feast, and celebrate with the yokums! The ’heads were happy—they were getting plenty of herogyn and plenty of action. The slobs were happy—they were taking no risks, not thirty armed men against a couple of Killers who might be guarding a herd or storehouse, and for the first time in their lives they were getting plenty of meat to eat.
Vanderling grinned as he thought of that in connection with Bart—poor, squeamish Bart! Bart knew that this wouldn’t work unless the guerrillas ate the Meatanimals they captured—what else, after all, was there for them to eat when they were living off the land? And besides, they just wouldn’t do it unless they got to eat the little critters. Try and stop ’em, and you’d have a mutiny in nothing flat. Bart knew where it was at, but he just didn’t have the balls to come out and say it—instead, just “Live off the land, boys.”
What a joke on Bart, him with his fancy foods and his Ah Ming, back in the Belt! Vanderling thought. Him living on rice and wheat and greens like a goddamned rabbit while I live high off the hog on the Meatanimals. Wasn’t bad at all, kinda salty maybe, but if you washed it down with plenty of the local wine, that didn’t have to bother you. What a switch, Bart the gourmet eating slop, while I get the meat!
Now the Sangran villagers encircled the herd of Meatanimals. Vanderling could see the greed in their hungry eyes, the ribs showing through their skins. He grinned.
“Okay, folks,” he said. “We brought the eats, how about you coming up with the booze? Fair’s fair, eh? We’re all gonna have a nice big picnic. These boys”—he gestured toward the volunteers in mufti—“are from the next estate, got themselves a little group living off the fat of the land. My boys and me were wandering around looking for some Killers to do in, and our kind friends here ran into us. They had all these Meatanimals that they had… ah, confiscated, and they invited us to dinner. I suggested that they should invite you to the party too, seeing as how It looked like you hadn’t wised up enough yet to grab what you want for yourselves. So break out that wine, folks, and let’s get these critters on the fire. I’ll bet we all got nice healthy appetites, eh?”
The villagers cheered with all the enthusiasm that might be expected of starving men invited to a feast. Women began building cookfires, erecting spits. Men led the docile Meatanimals away. Old men produced clay jugs of the sour Sangran wine from the interiors of their huts.
Vanderling marched his men and the captive Killer into the center of the village, near the cookfires. They sprawled on the ground, and all but the herogyn-heads began drinking the crude but potent local wine, watched the villagers butchering the Meatanimals with axes and scythes. The Meatanimals, bred for docility, stolidity, and near-bestial stupidity, stood quietly by as the villagers butchered their comrades, bleating and struggling for a brief moment only as their own heads went under the ax.
Vanderling leaned back, bolted down a big swallow of wine. The stuff had a kick, but it tasted like old sweatsocks. It was all a matter of technique—get it across your tastebuds and into your gut as quick as possible, and after you had enough in you, the taste didn’t seem so bad anymore…
He watched, drinking steadily, as the Sangrans began to spit the slaughtered Meatanimals and hung the spits over roaring open fires. After a while, fat began to hiss and sputter on the burning logs, and the air became fragrant with the odor of roasting meat. Vanderling’s mouth, slightly furry now from the wine, began to water. Man, roast meat over an open fire! Mmmmm! So what if the Meatanimals were kinda human? Weren’t really all that human, after all. Real humans weren’t so goddamned fat or so stupid… They were imbeciles, weren’t they? They were bred that way… No smarter than a good chimp, at best. And nobody went around saying chimps were human…
By the time the food was ready, everyone concerned was pretty well swacked, Vanderling included. A Sangran woman brought him a nicely browned haunch of Meatanimal. Vanderling bit off a big piece of the warm meat, washed it down with a swallow of wine;, bit off another nice chunk. As he wolfed down the salty meat, bolted down more wine, he saw villagers and guerrillas alike similarly engaged, laughing, drinking, devouring meat greedily with greasy fingers. Nothin’ like a picnic in the great outdoors to give a man an appetite! he thought, licking his fingers.
After a while, the haunch of meat was a half-bare thighbone, the jug beside him was almost empty, his belly was heavy and bloated. He burped. Man, he thought torpidly, I’m stuffed! He looked at the guerrillas. Most of ’em were just nibbling now, sipping wine, leaning back and relaxing as he was. The yokums, though, were still going strong. Each cookfire was surrounded by
a knot of Sangrans, pulling off roasted limbs of already cooked Meatanimals, carving up the rest with knives, stuffing their greasy mouths like there was no tomorrow. As soon as a spit was empty, another carcass was hung out over the fire. Looks like they’re gonna eat the whole batch right now! Vanderling thought.
Well, why not? Means there won’t be any leftovers, and then they’ll have to get on the ball and go steal their own. Man, they sure, can pack it away, though! He laughed drunkenly. Guess they ain’t been eatin’ so well since we knocked off the Brain, he mused.
Hey… Something was percolating up into Vanderling’s wine-sotted mind. Now where was that Killer…? Ah, there he is!
The captured Killer, still bound and gagged and bleeding from the wound in his leg, was propped up against a hut near the fires casually guarded by a couple of herogyn-heads.
Vanderling stared at the Killer fuzzily. Now didn’t I have some reason for taking that prisoner…? Something that…? Oh yeah, sure! First dinner, then the entertainment!
Vanderling rose logily to his feet, waddled over to the Killer, who writhed against his bonds, ground his teeth on his gag, stared up at Vanderling with eyes that were twin beacons of hate.
Vanderling shouted for attention, and in a few moments the Sangrans, still wolfing down gobbets of Meatanimal, were looking diffidently his way.
“Hey, folks!” he said. “Look what we got here, a dirty Killer! I hear tell that some Killers knocked off your Brain a while back. Not very neighborly, was it…?”
He stared down at the Killer in great mock surprise. “Say…” he said with exaggerated slowness, “you don’t suppose that this crumb was one of…?”
The Men in the Jungle Page 17
