Jack Vance - The Languages of Pao

He chose a day on which the transport from Journal was due, and arriving just as the lighter dropped down from the orbiting ship, found the terminal in apparent confusion. To one side, in quiet, almost stolid ranks, stood women at the end of their indentures, together with their girl children and those boys who had failed the Breakness tests. Their ages ranged from twenty-five to thirty-five; they would now return to their home-worlds as wealthy women, with most of their lives before them.

The lighter slid its nose under the shelter, the doors opened; young women trooped forth, looking curiously to right and left, swaying and dancing to the blast of the wind. Unlike the women at the ends of their indentures, these were volatile and nervous, parading their defiance, concealing their apprehension. Their eyes roved everywhere, curious to find what sort of man would claim them.

Beran looked on in fascination. The women in their early maturity he disregarded, but the girls seemed easy and graceful, visions of erotic delight. Almost all were older than himself; but a few were barely past the age of puberty.

The newcomers noticed the other women, those waiting to depart; the two groups examined each other in covert fascination.

A squad-leader gave a terse order; the incoming broods filed across the terminal to be registered and receipted; Beran strolled closer, sidling toward one of the younger girls. She turned wide sea-green eyes on him, then swung suddenly away. Beran moved forward—then stopped short. These women puzzled him. There was a sense of familiarity to them, the redolence of a pleasant past. He listened as they spoke among themselves. Their language was one he knew well.

He stood beside the girl. She observed him without friendliness.

“You are Paonese,” Beran exclaimed in wonder. “What do Paonese women do on Breakness?”

“The same as any other.”

“But this has never been the case!”

“You know very little of Pao,” she said bitterly.

“No no,” said Beran, anxious for the girl’s approval. “I am Paonese!”

“Then you must know what occurs on Pao.”

Beran shook his head. “I have been here since the death of Panarch Aiello.”

She spoke in a low voice, looking off across the terminal. “You chose well, for things go poorly. Bustamonte is a madman.”

“He sends women to Breakness?” Beran asked in a hushed husky voice.

“A hundred{In Paonese, 64.} a month—we who have been dispossessed or made orphans by the turmoil.”

Beran’s voice failed. He tried to speak; while he was stammering a question, she began to move away. “Wait!” croaked Beran, running along beside. “What turmoil is this?”

“I cannot wait,” the girl said bitterly. “I am indentured, I must do as I am bid.”

“Where do you go? To the dormitory of what lord?”

“I am in the service of Lord Palafox.”

Beran stopped short. He stared after the retreating figure. A vehicle waited at the door. Beran ran forward, to the side of the girl who ignored him.

“What is your name?” Beran demanded. “Tell me your name!”

Embarrassed and uncertain, she said nothing. Two paces more and she would be gone, lost in the anonymity of the dormitory. “Tell me your name! I shall claim you as my bride. Lord Palafox, whom I know well, who is all powerful here, will not refuse me.”

She spoke swiftly over her shoulder: “Gitan Netsko —” then passed through the door and out of his sight. The vehicle moved off the ramp, swayed in the wind, drifted down slope and was gone.

Beran walked slowly down from the terminal, a small figure on the mountainside, leaning and stumbling against the wind. He passed among the houses, and arrived at the house of Palafox.

Outside the door he hesitated, picturing the tall figure within. He summoned the whole of his resources, tapped the escutcheon plate. The door opened; he entered.

At this hour Palafox might well be in his lower study. Down the familiar steps Beran walked, past the remembered rooms of stone and valuable Breakness hardwood. At one time he had considered the house harsh and bleak; now he could see it to be subtly beautiful, perfectly suited to the environment.

As he had expected, Palafox sat in his study; and, warned by a stimulus from one of his modifications, was expecting him.

Beran came slowly forward, staring into the inquiring but unsympathetic face, and plunged immediately into the heart of his subject. It was useless to attempt deviousness with Palafox. “I was at the terminal today. I saw Paonese women, who came here unwillingly. They speak of turmoil and hardship. What is happening on Pao?”

Palafox considered Beran a moment, then nodded with faint amusement. “I see. You are old enough now to frequent the terminal. Do you find any women suitable for your personal use?”

Beran bit his lips. “I am concerned by what must be happening on Pao. Never before have our people been so degraded!”

Palafox pretended shock. “But serving a Breakness dominie is by no means degradation!”

Beran, feeling that he had scored a point on his redoubtable opponent, took heart. “Still you have not answered my question.”

“That is true,” said Palafox. He motioned to a chair. “Sit down—I will describe to you exactly what is taking place.” Beran gingerly seated himself. Palafox surveyed him through half-closed eyes. “Your information as to turmoil and hardship on Pao is half-true. Something of this nature exists, regrettably but unavoidably.”

Beran was puzzled. “There are droughts? Plagues? Famines?”

“No,” said Palafox. “None of these. There is only social change. Bustamonte is embarked on a novel but courageous venture. You remember the invasion from Batmarsh?”

“Yes, but where …”

“Bustamonte wants to prevent any recurrence of this shameful event. He is developing a corps of warriors for the defense of Pao. For their use he has appointed the Hylanth Littoral of the continent Shraimand. The old population has been removed. A new group, trained to military ideals and speaking a new language, has taken their place. On Vidamand, Bustamonte is using similar means to create an industrial complex, in order to make Pao independent of Mercantil.”

Beran fell silent, impressed by the scope of these tremendous schemes, but there were still doubts in his mind. Palafox waited patiently. Beran frowned uncertainly, bit at his knuckle, and finally blurted out: “But the Paonese have never been warriors or mechanics—they know nothing of these things! How can Bustamonte succeed with this plan?”

“You must remember,” said Palafox drily, “that I advise Bustamonte.”

There was an unsettling corollary to Palafox’s statement—the bargain which evidently existed between himself and Bustamonte. Beran suppressed the thought of it, put it to the back of his mind. He asked in a subdued voice, “Was it necessary to drive the inhabitants from their homes?”

“Yes. There could be no tincture of the old language or the old ways.”

Beran, a native Paonese, aware that mass tragedy was a commonplace of Paonese history, was able to accept the force of Palafox’s explanation. “These new people—will they be true Paonese?”

Palafox seemed surprised. “Why should they not? They’ll be of Paonese blood, born and bred on Pao, loyal to no other source.”

Beran opened his mouth to speak, closed it again dubiously.

Palafox waited, but Beran, while patently not happy, could find no logical voice to give his emotions.

“Now tell me,” said Palafox, in a different tone of voice, “how goes it at the Institute?”

“Very well. I have completed the fourth of my theses—the provost found matter to interest him in my last independent essay.”