The tyrant comes in many guises, but always with the same promises. “Give me the sword of state, and I will make a beautiful world. Laws are dry and sterile things, a hamper to our great design. Trust me; and I will truly do the will of the people.”
Kipling knew the answer to that.
MACDONOUGH’S SONG
by Rudyard Kipling
Whether the State can loose and bind
In Heaven as well as on Earth:
If it be wiser to kill mankind
Before or after the birth—
These are matters of high concern
Where State-kept schoolmen are;
But Holy State (we have lived to learn)
Endeth in Holy War.
Whether The People be led by The Lord,
Or lured by the loudest throat;
If it be quicker to die by the sword
Or cheaper to die by the vote—
These are things we have dealt with once,
(And they will not rise from their grave)
For Holy People, however it runs,
Endeth in wholly Slave.
What so ever, for any cause,
Seeketh to take or give
Power above or beyond the Laws,
Suffer it not to live!
Holy State or Holy King—
Or Holy People’s Will
Have no truck with the senseless thing.
Order the guns and kill!
Saying—after—me:—
Once there was The People—Terror gave it birth;
Once there was The People and it made a Hell of Earth.
Earth arose and crushed it. Listen, O ye slain!
Once there was The People—it shall never be again!
Editor's Introduction to:
THE CLOAK AND THE STAFF
by Gordon R. Dickson
For nearly a score of years Gordon Dickson has been creating his “Childe Cycle”: a series of novels chronicling the development of man from 1500 A.D. to the far future. The Final Encyclopedia (Tor Books, 1984) was the latest in this amazing series.
This isn’t all that Gordy has been doing. Slowly and steadily he has been creating a new saga of the Alaag and The Pilgrim.
The Alaag are incredibly powerful: physically large, and skilled in technologies nearly beyond the reach of human imagination. In one swift and easy stroke they invaded and conquered Earth. The military forces of humanity were swept away like tin soldiers. The conquest was done almost as soon as it was begun.
The occupation began. Humans were left no means for resistance. All weapons were confiscated, and were useless against the Alaag in any event. Even metals were restricted or forbidden. The Alaag victory was complete. The tyrants reigned supreme.
Earth was neither the first nor the last planet to be incorporated into the Alaag empire. The invaders seemed as skilled in the art of governing as they were in subduing mankind in the first place; and they quickly built a web of government, relying for the most part on their own people. Humans had as little contact with them as possible.
A few humans, though, worked directly for the Alaag. Despised by their masters as well as their own kind, they suppressed all feelings of defiance. They of all people knew how futile resistance would be…
THE CLOAK AND THE STAFF
by Gordon R. Dickson
Descending in the icy, gray November dawn from the crowded bus that had brought the airline passengers over the mountains from Bologna—as frequently happened in wintertime, the airport at Milan, Italy, was fogged in; and the courier ship, like the commercial jets, had been forced to set down in Bologna—Shane Evert caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye of a small stick-figure, inconspicuously etched on the base of a lamp post.
He did not dare to look at it directly; but the side glance was enough. He flagged a taxi and gave the driver the address of the Aalaag Guard Headquarters for the city.
“E freddo, Milano,” said the driver, wheeling the cab through the nearly deserted morning streets.
Shane gave him a monosyllable in a Swiss accent by way of agreement. Milan was indeed cold in November. Cold and hard. To the south, Florence would be still soft and warm, with blue skies and sunlight. The driver was probably hoping to start a conversation and find out what brought his human passenger to an alien HQ, and that was dangerous. Ordinary humans did not love those who worked for the Aalaag. If I say nothing, Shane thought, he may be suspicious. No, on second thought, he’ll just think from the Swiss accent that I’m someone who has a relative in trouble in this city and doesn’t feel like conversation.
The driver spoke of the summer now past. He regretted the old days when tourists had come through.
To both these statements Shane gave the briefest responses. Then there was silence in the cab except for the noise of travel. Shane leaned his staff at a more comfortable angle against his right leg and left shoulder to better accommodate it to the small passenger compartment of the cab. He smoothed his brown robe over his knees. The image of the stick-figure he had seen still floated in his mind. It was identical with the figure he himself had first marked upon a wall beneath the triple hooks with the dead man on them, in Aalborg, Denmark, over half-a-year ago.
But he had not marked this one on the lamp post. Nor, indeed, had he marked any of the other such figures he had glimpsed about the world during the last eight months. One moment of emotional rebellion had driven him to create an image that was now apparently spawning and multiplying to fill his waking as well as his sleeping hours with recurring nightmares. It did no good to remind himself that no one could possibly connect him with the original graffito. It did no good to know that all these eight months since, he had been an impeccable servant of Lyt Ahn.
Neither fact would be of the slightest help if for some reason Lyt Ahn, or any other Aalaag, should believe there was cause to connect him with any one of the scratched figures.
What insane, egocentric impulse had pushed him to use his own usual pilgrim-sect disguise as the symbol of opposition to the aliens? Any other shape would have done as well. But he had had the alcohol of the Danish bootleg aquavit inside him; and with the memory of the massive Aalaag father and son in the square, watching the death of the man they had condemned and executed—above all, with the memory of their conversation, which he alone of all the humans there could understand—also burning in him, for one brief moment reason had flown out the window of his mind.
So, now his symbol had been taken up and become the symbol of what was obviously an already-existent human underground in opposition to the Aalaag, an underground he had never suspected. The very fact that it existed at all forecast bloody tragedy for any human foolish enough to be related to it. By their own standards, the Aalaag were unsparingly fair. But they considered humans as “cattle”; and a cattle owner did not think in terms of being “fair” to a sick or potentially dangerous bull that had become a farm problem…
“Eccolo!” said the cab driver.
Shane looked as bidden and saw the alien HQ. A perfectly reflective force shield covered it like a coating of mercury. It was impossible to tell what kind of structure it had been originally. Anything from an office building to a museum was a possibility. Lyt Ahn, First Captain of Earth, in his HQ overlooking St. Anthony’s falls in what had once been the heart of Minneapolis, scorned such an obvious display of defensive strength. The gray concrete walls of his sprawling keep on Nicollet Island had nothing to protect them but the portable weapons within; though these alone were capable of leveling the metropolitan area surrounding in a handful of hours. Shane paid the driver, got out and went in through the main entrance of the Milan HQ.
The Ordinary Guards inside the big double doors and those on the desk were all human. Young for the most part, like Shane himself, but much bigger; for the largest of humans seemed frail and small to the eight-foot Aalaag. These guards wore the usual neat, but drab, black uniforms of servant police. Dwarfed among them, in spite of his five feet eleven inc
hes of height, Shane felt a twinge of perverse comfort at being within these walls and surrounded by these particular fellow humans. Like him, they ate at the aliens’ tables; they would be committed to defend him against any non-servant humans who should threaten him. Under the roof of masters who sickened him, he was physically protected and secure.
He stopped at the duty desk and took his key from the leather pouch at his belt, leaving the documents within. The human duty officer there took the key and examined it. It was made of metal—metal which no ordinary Earth native was allowed to own or carry—and the mark of Lyt Ahn was stamped on the square handle.
“Sir,” said the officer in Italian, reading the mark. He was suddenly obliging. “Can I be of assistance?”
“I sign in, temporarily,” answered Shane in Arabic, for the officer’s speech echoed the influence of the throat consonants of that language. “I am the one who delivers messages for the First Captain of Earth, Lyt Ann. I have some to deliver now to the Commander of these Headquarters.”
“Your tongue is skilled,” said the officer in Arabic, turning the duty book about and passing Shane a pen.
“Yes,” said Shane and signed.
“The Commander here,” said the officer, “is Laa Ehon, Captain of the sixth rank. He accepts your messages.”
He turned and beckoned over one of the lesser human guards.
“To the outer office of Laa Ehon, with this one bearing messages for the Commander.”
The guard saluted and led Shane off. Several flights of stairs up beside an elevator, which Shane would have known better than to use even if the guard had not been with him, brought them to a corridor down which, behind another pair of large, carved doors, they reached what was plainly an outer room of the private offices of the Aalaag Commander in Milan.
The guard saluted and left. There were no other humans in the room. An Aalaag of the twenty-second rank sat at a desk in a far corner of the large, open space, reading what seemed to be reports on the sort of plastic sheets that would take and hold multiple overlays of impressions. In the wall to Shane’s left was a window, showing the slight corner shading that betrayed an Aalaag version of one-way glass. The window gave a view of what must be an adjoining office having benches for humans to sit on. This office was empty, however, except for a blonde-haired young woman, dressed in a loose, ankle-length blue robe tied tight around her narrow waist.
There was no place for Shane to sit. But, in close attendance as he customarily was on Lyt Ahn and other Aalaag of low-number rank, he was used to waiting on his feet for hours.
He stood. After perhaps twenty minutes, the Aalaag at the desk noticed him.
“Come,” he said, lifting a thumb the size of a tent peg. “Tell me.”
He had spoken in Aalaag for most human servants had some understanding of the basic commands in the tongue of their overlords. But his face altered slightly as Shane answered; for there were few humans like Shane—and Shane both worked and lived with all of those few—who were capable of fluent, accentless response in that language.
“Untarnished sir,” said Shane, coming up to the desk and stopping before it. “I have messages from Lyt Ahn directly to the Commander of the Milan Headquarters.”
He made no move to produce the message rolls from his pouch; and the Aalaag’s massive hand, which had begun to extend itself, palm up, toward him at the word “messages,” was withdrawn when Shane pronounced the name of Lyt Ahn.
“You are a valuable beast,” said the Aalaag. “Laa Ehon will receive your messages soon.”
“Soon” could mean anything from “within minutes” to “within weeks.” However, since the messages were from Lyt Ahn, and personal, it was probable that it would be minutes rather than a longer time. Shane went back to his corner.
The door opened and two other Aalaag came in. They were both males in middle life, one of the twelfth, one of the sixth rank. The one of sixth rank could only be Laa Ehon. A Captain of a rank that low-numbered was actually too highly qualified to command a single HQ like this. It was unthinkable that there would be two such here.
The newcomers ignored Shane. No, he thought, as their gaze moved on, they had not merely ignored him. Their eyes had noticed, catalogued, and dismissed him in a glance.
They walked together to the one-way window, and the one who must be Laa Ehon spoke in Aalaag.
“This one?”
They were examining the girl in the blue robe, who sat unaware of their gaze in the other room.
“Yes, untarnished sir. The officer on duty in the square saw this one move away from the wall I told you of just before he noticed the scratching on it.” The Captain of the twelfth rank pointed with his thumb at the girl. “He then examined the scratching, saw it was recently made and turned to find this one. For a moment he thought she had been lost among the herd in the square, then he caught sight of her from the back, some distance off and hurrying away. He stunned her and brought her in.”
“His rank?”
“Thirty-second, untarnished sir.”
“And this one has been questioned?”
“No, sir, I waited to speak to you about procedure.”
Laa Ehon stood for a moment, unanswering, gazing at the girl.
“Thirty-second, you said? Did he know this particular beast previous to seeing her in the square?”
“No, sir. But he remembered the color of her apparel. There was no other in that color nearby.”
Laa Ehon turned from the window.
“I’d like to talk to him first. Send him to me.”
“Sir, he’s presently on duty.”
“Ah.”
Shane understood Laa Ehon’s momentary thoughtfulness. As commanding officer, he could easily order the officer in question to be relieved from duty long enough to report to him in person. But the Aalaag nature and custom were such that only the gravest reason would allow him to justify such an order. An Aalaag on duty, regardless of rank, was almost a sacred object.
“Where?” Laa Ehon asked.
“The local airport, untarnished sir.”
“I will go and speak to him at his duty post. Captain Otah On, you are ordered to accompany me.”
“Yes, untarnished sir.”
“Then let us move with minimal loss of time. It is unlikely that this matter has more importance than presently seems, but we must make sure of that.”
He turned toward the door with Otah On behind him. Once more his eyes swept Shane. He stopped and looked over at the Aalaag.
“What is this one?” he asked.
“Sir,” the Aalaag at the desk was on his feet. “A courier with messages for your hand from Lyt Ann.”
Laa Ehon looked back at Shane.
“I will accept your messages in an hour, no more, once I’ve come back. Do you understand what I have just said to you?”
“I understand, untarnished sir,” said Shane.
“Until then, remain dutiful. But be comfortable.”
Laa Ehon led the way out of the room, Otah On close behind him. The Aalaag at the desk sat down again and went back to his sheets.
Shane looked once more at the girl beyond the one-way glass. She sat, unaware of what another hour would bring. They would question her with chemicals, of course, first. But after that, their methods would become physical. There was no sadism in the Aalaag character. If any of the aliens had shown evidence of such, his own people would have considered it an unfitting weakness and destroyed him for having it. But it was understood that cattle might be induced to tell whatever they knew if they were subjected to sufficient discomfort. Any Aalaag, of course, was above any such persuasion. Death would come long before any degree of discomfort could change the individual alien’s character enough to make him or her say what he or she wished to keep unsaid.
Shane felt his robe clinging to his upper body, wet with a secret sweat. The woman sat almost in profile, her blonde hair down to her shoulders, her surprisingly pale-skinned (for this latitude) face smo
oth and gentle-looking. She could not be more than barely into her twenties. He wanted to look away from her so that he could stop thinking about what was awaiting her, but—as it had happened to him a year ago with the man on the triple hooks when he had first created the symbol—Shane could not make his head turn. He knew it now for what it was—a madness in him. A madness born of his own hidden revulsion against and private terror of these massive humanoids who had descended to own the Earth. These were the masters he served, who kept him warm and well-fed when most of the rest of humanity was chilled and ate little, who patted him with condescending compliments—as if he was in fact the animal they called him, the clever house pet ready to wag his tail for a kind glance or word. The fear of death was like an ingot of cold iron inside him when he thought of them; and the fear of a long and painful death was like that same ingot with razor edges. But at the same time, there was this madness—this madness that, if he did not control it by some small actions, would explode and bring him to throw his dispatches in some Aalaag face, to fling himself one day like a terrier against a tiger at the throat of his Master, First Captain of Earth, Lyt Ahn.
It was a real thing, that madness. Even the Aalaag knew of its existence in their conquered peoples. There was even a word for it in their own tongue—yowaragh. Yowaragh had caused the man on the hooks a year ago to make a hopeless attempt to defend his wife against what he had thought was an Aalaag brutality. Yowaragh, every day, caused at least one human somewhere in the world to fling a useless stick or stone against some shielded, untouchable conqueror in a situation where escape was impossible and destruction was certain. Yowaragh had knocked at the door of Shane’s brain once, a year ago, threatening to break out. It was knocking again.
He could not help but look at her; and he could not bear to look at her—and the only alternative to an end for both of them was to somehow keep it from happening—Laa Ehon’s return, the torture of the girl, and the yowaragh that would lead to his own death.
There Will Be War Volume IV Page 2
