Jack Vance: The Languages of Pao

“I realize all this,” said Beran. “I regret it. But it is the lesser of the evils. The Valiants henceforth must serve as a cadre, and our military arm will once again be truly Paonese.”

“Ah, Panarch,” spoke the Grand Marshal abruptly, “this is the crux of the difficulty! You Paonese have no military interest, you …”

Beran held up his hand. “ We Paonese,” he said in a harsh voice. “All of us are Paonese.”

The Grand Marshal bowed. “I spoke in haste. But, Panarch, surely it is clear that dispersion will lessen our efficiency! We must drill together, engage in exercises, ceremonies, competitions …”

Beran had anticipated the protest. “The problems you mention are real, but merely pose logistical and organizational challenges. I have no wish to diminish either the efficiency or the prestige of the Valiants. But the integrity of the state is at stake, and these tumor-like enclaves, benign though they be, must be removed.”

Esteban Carbone stared glumly at the ground a moment, then glanced left and right at his aides for support. Their faces were bleak and dispirited.

“A factor you ignore, Panarch, is that of morale,” Carbone said heavily. “Our effectiveness …”

Beran interrupted briskly. “These are problems which you, as Grand Marshal, must solve. If you are incapable, I will appoint someone else. There will be no more discussion—the basic principle as I have outlined it must be accepted. You will confer with the Minister of Lands over details.”

He rose to his feet, bowed in formal dismissal. The Valiants bowed, marched from the room.

As they left a second group entered, wearing the simple gray and white of the Technicants. They received, in general, the same orders as the Valiants, and put forward the same protests. “Why need the units be small? Surely there is scope on Pao for a number of industrial complexes. Remember that our efficiency depends on a concentration of skill. We cannot function in such small units!”

“Your responsibility is more than the production of goods. You must educate and train your fellow Paonese. There will undoubtedly be a period of confusion, but eventually the new policy will work to our common benefit.”

The Technicants departed as bitterly dissatisfied as the Valiants.

Later in the day Beran walked along the beach with Finisterle, who could be trusted to speak without calculation as to what Beran might prefer to hear. The quiet surf rolled up the sand, retreated into the sea among glistening bits of shell, fragments of bright blue coral, strands of purple kelp.

Beran felt limp and drained after the emotional demands which had been made upon him. Finisterle walked with an air of detachment, and said nothing until Beran asked directly for his opinions.

Finisterle was dispassionately blunt. “I think that you made a mistake in issuing your orders here on Pergolai. The Valiants and Technicants will return to familiar environments. The effect will be that of returning to reality, and in retrospect the instructions will seem fantastic. At Deirombona and at Cloeopter, the orders would have had more direct reference to their subject.”

“You think I will be disobeyed?”

“The possibility appears strong.”

Beran sighed. “I fear so myself. Disobedience may not be permitted. Now we must pay the price for Bustamonte’s folly.”

“And my sire, Lord Palafox’s ambition,” remarked Finisterle.

Beran said no more. They returned to the pavilion and Beran immediately summoned his Minister of Civil Order.

“Mobilize the Mamarone, the entire corps.”

The Minister stood stupidly. “Mobilize the Mamarone? Where?”

“At Eiljanre. Immediately.”

Beran, Finisterle and a small retinue flew down out of the cloudless Paonese sky to Deirombona. Behind them, still beyond the horizon, came six sky-barges, bearing the entire Mamarone corps, growling and mumbling to each other.

The air-car grounded. Beran and his party alighted, crossed the vacant plaza, passed under the Stele of Heroes, and entered the long low structure which Esteban Carbone used for his headquarters, as familiar to Beran as the Grand Palace at Eiljanre. Ignoring startled expressions and staccato questions, he walked to the staff room, slid back the door.

The Grand Marshal and four other officers looked up in an irritation which changed to guilty surprise.

Beran strode forward, impelled by an anger which over-rode his natural diffidence. On the table lay a schedule entitled: Field Exercises 262: Maneuver of Type C Warships and Auxiliary Torpedo-Units.

Beran fixed Esteban Carbone with a lambent glare. “Is this the manner in which you carry out my orders?”

Carbone, after his initial surprise, was not to be intimidated.

“I plead guilty, Panarch, to delay. I was certain that after consideration you would understand the mistake of your first command …”

“It is no mistake. Now—at this very moment—I order you: implement the instructions I gave you yesterday!”

The men stared eye to eye, each determined to pursue the course he deemed vital, neither intending to yield.

“You press us hard,” said the Marshal in a glacial voice. “Many here at Deirombona feel that we who wield the power should enjoy the fruits of power—so unless you wish to risk …”

“Act!” cried Beran. He raised his hand. “Or I kill you now!”

Behind him there was sudden movement, a spatter of blue light, a hoarse cry, a clatter of metal. Wheeling, Beran saw Finisterle standing over the body of a Valiant officer. A hammer-gun lay on the floor; Finisterle held a smoking energy-needle.

Carbone struck out with his fist, hit Beran hard on the jaw. Beran toppled back upon the desk. Finisterle turned to shoot, but was forced to hold his fire for the confusion.

A voice cried, “To Eiljanre! Death to the Paonese tyrants!”

Beran rose to his feet, but the Marshal had departed. Nursing his sore jaw, he spoke into a shoulder microphone; the six sky-barges, now above Deirombona, swooped down to the square; the monstrous black Mamarone poured forth.

“Surround the corps headquarters,” came Beran’s orders. “Allow neither entrance nor exit.”

Carbone had broadcast orders of his own; from nearby barracks came hasty sounds, and into the plaza poured groups of Valiant warriors. At sight of the neutraloids they stopped short. Mamarone in magenta and green stared at the young Valiants, and the air seemed to harden with hate along the line of sight.

Squad leaders sprang forward; the Valiants became a disciplined force instead of a mob. For a space there was silence, while Mamarone and Myrmidon weighed each other.

At the necks of the squad leaders vibrators pulsed. The voice of Grand Marshal Esteban Carbone issued from a filament. “Attack and destroy. Spare no one, kill all.”

The battle was the most ferocious in the history of Pao. It was fought without words, without quarter. The Myrmidons outnumbered the Mamarone, but each neutraloid possessed three times the strength of an ordinary man.

At a signal the Myrmidons came running forward, weaving and dodging. The neutraloids opened fire with shatter-beams and killed several dozen Myrmidons. The Myrmidons, lying prone, returned the fire; the neutraloids, secure behind absorption shields, waited.

The Myrmidons advanced in enveloping waves, one segment forcing the neutraloids to shelter behind their shields, while the other advanced, and so they leapfrogged across the plaza, fifty feet at a time.

Within the headquarters Beran called into his microphone.

“Marshal, I beseech you, prevent this spilling of blood. It is unnecessary, and good Paonese will die!”