Jack Vance - The Languages of Pao

“Naturally, I am—gratified,” said Beran reluctantly. “But why was this work held secret from me?”

Palafox held up his hand and spoke in a soothing voice. “There was no attempt to keep you from knowledge. This is one project of many. These young men and women attack the problems and lacks of Pao with tremendous energy. Every day they undertake something new.”

Beran grunted skeptically. “As soon as possible, these isolated groups shall be returned into the main current of Paonese life.”

Palafox demurred. “In my opinion, the time is hardly ripe for any dilution of Technicant enthusiasm. Admittedly there was inconvenience to the displaced population, but the results seem to vindicate the conception.”

Beran made no reply. Palafox signaled to the quietly observing group of Technicants. They came forward, were introduced, showed mild surprise when Beran spoke to them in their own language, and presently conducted him through the ship. The interior reinforced Beran’s original conception of rough but sturdy serviceability. And when he returned to the Grand Palace it was with an entirely new set of doubts and speculations in his mind. Could it be possible that Bustamonte had been right, and he, Beran, wrong? The miseries inflicted upon the displaced Paonese, on the indentured girls, on the children abstracted from the rich old culture of Pao and trained in raw new ways—were they after all justifiable means to a necessary end? The question was one which Beran could not answer. But when he once again considered the decree which merged the neo-lingual enclaves with the rest of Pao, again he set it aside.

A year went by. The prototype space-ship of the Technicants was completed, tested and put into service as a training ship. On plea of the Technicant Coordinating Council, public funds were diverted to a large-scale ship-building program.

Valiant activity proceeded as before. A dozen times Beran decided to curtail the scope of the camps, but on each occasion the face of Eban Buzbek appeared to his mind’s-eye and his resolve diminished.

The year saw great prosperity for Pao. Never had the people fared so well. The civil service was uncharacteristically self-effacing and honest; the taxes were light; there was none of the fear and suspicion prevalent during Bustamonte’s reign. In consequence the population lived with almost non-Paonese gusto. The neo-lingual enclaves, like tumors, neither benign nor malignant, were not forgotten, but tolerated. Beran paid no visit to the Cogitant Institute at Pon; he knew however that it had expanded greatly: that new buildings were rising, new halls, dormitories, workshops, laboratories—that the enrollment increased daily, derived from youths arriving from Breakness, all bearing an unmistakable resemblance to Lord Palafox, and from other youths, rather younger, graduating from the Institute crèches—children of Palafox and children of his children.

Another year passed, and down from space came the gay-colored corvette of Eban Buzbek. As before, it ignored the challenge of the monitor, and landed on the roof-deck of the Grand Palace. As before, Eban Buzbek and a swaggering retinue marched to the great hall, where they demanded the presence of Beran. There was a delay of ten minutes, during which the warriors stamped and jingled impatiently.

Beran entered the room, and halted, surveying the clansmen, who turned cold-eyed faces toward him.

Beran came forward. He made no pretense of cordiality. “Why do you come to Pao this time?”

As before, an interpreter transferred the words into Batch.

Eban Buzbek sat back into a chair, motioned Beran to another nearby. Beran took the seat without comment.

“We have heard unpleasant reports,” said Eban Buzbek, stretching forth his legs. “Our allies and suppliers, the artifactors of Mercantil, tell us that you have lately sent into space a fleet of cargo-vessels—that you bargain and barter, and eventually bring back to Pao great quantities of technical equipment.” The Batch warriors moved behind Beran; they towered over his seat.

He glanced over his shoulder, turned back to Eban Buzbek. “I cannot understand your concern. Why should we not trade where we will?”

“Sufficient should be the fact that it is contrary to the wish of Eban Buzbek, your liege-lord.”

Beran spoke in a conciliatory voice. “But you must remember that we are a populous world. We have natural aspirations …”

Eban Buzbek leaned forward; his hand rang on Beran’s cheek. Beran fell back into the chair, stunned by surprise, face white but for the red welt. It was the first blow he ever had received, his first contact with violence. The effect was peculiar—it was a shock, a stimulus, not altogether unpleasant, the sudden opening of a forgotten room. Eban Buzbek’s voice sounded almost unheard: “… your aspirations must at all times be referred to Clan Brumbo for judgment.”

One of the warriors of the retinue spoke. “Only small persuasion is needed to convince the ocholos .”

Beran’s eyes once more focussed on the broad red face of Eban Buzbek. He raised himself in his seat. “I am happy you are here, Eban Buzbek. It is better that we talk face to face. The time has come when Pao pays no further tribute to you.”

Eban Buzbek’s mouth opened, curved into a comical grimace of surprise.

“Furthermore, we shall continue to send our ships across the universe. I hope you will accept these facts in good spirit and return to your world with peace in your heart.”

Eban Buzbek sprang to his feet. “I will return with your ears to hang in our Hall of Arms.”

Beran rose, backed away from the warriors. They advanced with grinning deliberation. Eban Buzbek pulled a blade from his belt. “Bring the rascal here.” Beran raised his hand in a signal. Doors slid back on three sides; three squads of Mamarone came forward, eyes like slits. They carried halberds with cusped blades a yard long, mounted with flame sickles.

“What is your will with these jackals?” the sergeant rasped.

Beran said, “Subaqueation. Take them to the ocean.”

Eban Buzbek demanded the sense of the comments from the interpreter. On hearing it, he sputtered, “This is a reckless act. Pao shall be devastated! My kinsmen will leave no living soul in Eiljanre. We shall sow your fields with fire and bone!”

“Will you then go home in peace and bother us no more?” Beran demanded. “Come, the choice is yours. Death—or peace.”

Eban Buzbek looked from right to left; his warriors pressed close together, eyeing their black adversaries.

Eban Buzbek sheathed his blade with a decisive snap. He muttered aside to his men. “We go,” he said to Beran.

“Then you choose peace?”

Eban Buzbek’s mustaches quivered in fury. “I choose—peace.”

“Then throw down your weapons, leave Pao and never return.”

Eban Buzbek, wooden-faced, divested himself of his arms. His warriors followed suit. The group departed, herded by the neutraloids. Presently the corvette rose from the palace, darted up and away.

Minutes passed; then Beran was called to the telescreen. Eban Buzbek’s face glowed, glistening with hate. “I left in peace, young Panarch, and you shall have peace—only so long as it takes to bring the clansmen back to Pao. Not only your ears but your head will be mounted among our trophies.”

Beran said, “Come at your own risk.” He motioned; the screen went blank; he left the room and retired to his chambers …

Three months later the Batch clansmen attacked Pao. A fleet of twenty-eight warships, including six round-bellied transports, appeared in the sky. The monitors made no attempt either to challenge or defend, and the Batch warships slid contemptuously down into the atmosphere.