Jack Vance: The Languages of Pao

There was no response. In the plaza only a hundred feet separated Mamarone from Myrmidon; they stood almost eye to eye, the neutraloids grinning in humorless rancor, contemptuous of life, unconscious of fear; the Myrmidons seething with impatience and verve, anxious for glory. The neutraloids, behind their screens and with backs against the wall of the corps headquarters, were secure from small weapons; however once they should move away from the wall, their backs would be vulnerable.

Suddenly they dropped the screens; their weapons poured death into the nearby ranks: a hundred men fell in an instant. The screens returned into place and they took the retaliating fire without casualty.

The gaps in the front line were filled instantly. Horns blew a brilliant fanfare; the Myrmidons drew scimitars and charged against the black giants.

The neutraloids dropped the screens, the weapons poured out death, a hundred, two hundred warriors were killed. But twenty or thirty sprang across the final few yards. The neutraloids drew their own great blades, hacked, hewed; there was the flash of steel, hisses, hoarse calls, and again the Mamarone stood free. But while the shields had been down, lances of fire from the rear ranks of the Myrmidons found targets, and a dozen neutraloids were fallen.

Stolidly the black ranks closed. Again the Myrmidon horns sounded, again the charge, and again the hack and splinter of steel. It was late afternoon; ragged clouds low in the west veiled the sun, but an occasional beam of orange light played across the battle, glowing on the splendid fabrics, reflecting from glistening black bodies, shining dark on spilled blood.

Within the staff headquarters Beran stood in bitter frustration. The stupidity, the arrogance of these men! They were destroying the Pao he had hoped to build—and he, lord of fifteen billion, could find insufficient strength to subdue a few thousand rebels.

In the plaza the Myrmidons at last split the neutraloid line into two, battered back the ends, bunched the giant warriors into two clots.

The neutraloids knew their time had come, and all their terrible detestation for life, for men, for the universe boiled up and condensed in a clot of pure fury. Swinging their great swords with one hand, grasping necks and heads with the other, they waded back and forth across the plaza, and the ground was littered with corpses and parts of corpses. One by one they succumbed, to a thousand hacks and cuts. Their number dwindled—to fifty, to thirty, to twenty, to ten, to five.

These last few looked at each other, and laughed, inhuman hoarse bellows, and presently they too died, and the plaza was quiet except for subdued sobbing. Then behind, by the Stele, the Valiant women set up a chant of victory, forlorn but exulting, and the survivors of the battle, gasping and sick, joined the paean.

Beran and his small company had already departed, flying back to Eiljanre in the air-boat. Beran sat steeped in misery. His body shook, his eyes burnt in their sockets, his stomach felt as if it were caked with lye. Failure, the breaking of his dreams, the beginning of chaos! All to the score of Palafox!

He thought of the tall spare form, the lean face with the wedge-shaped nose and opaque black eyes. The image carried such intensity of emotion as to become almost dear to him, something to be cherished from all harm, except that destruction which he himself would deal—in the event, of course, that he himself should survive. Because now hostility had erupted into bloodshed, and it was inconceivable that the Myrmidons should not go on the offensive. With what weapons could he subdue them? He had no army, no air-force, no space-navy, not even the Mamarone. He had his own two hands, no more.

Beran laughed aloud. Could he enlist the aid of Palafox?

With the last rays of sunset flickering over the roofs of Eiljanre, he arrived at the Palace.

In the great hall sat Palafox, in his usual gray and brown, a wry sad smile on his mouth, a peculiar shine to his eyes.

Elsewhere in the hall sat Cogitants, Palafox’s sons for the most part. They were subdued, grave, respectful. As Beran came into the room, the Cogitants averted their eyes.

Beran ignored them. Slowly he approached Palafox, until they stood only ten feet apart.

Palafox’s expression changed no whit; the sad smile trembled on his mouth; the dangerous shine glittered in his eyes.

It was clear to Beran that Palafox had completely succumbed to the Breakness syndrome. Palafox was an Emeritus.

Palafox saluted Beran with a gesture of apparent affability; but there was no corresponding change in his expression. “My wayward young disciple! I understand that you have undergone serious reverses.”

Beran came forward another step or two. He need only raise his hand, point, expunge this crafty megalomaniac. As he marshaled himself to act, Palafox uttered a soft word, and Beran found himself seized by four men strange to him, wearing garments of Breakness. While the Cogitants looked on soberly these men flung Beran flat on his face, opened his clothes, touched metal to his skin. There was an instant of piercing pain, then numbness along his back. He heard the click of tools, felt the quiver of manipulation, a wrench or two, and then they were done with him.

Pale, shaken, humiliated, he regained his feet, rearranged his garments.

Palafox said easily, “You are careless with the weapon provided you. Now it is removed and we can talk with greater relaxation.”

Beran could find no answer. Growling deep in his throat, he marched forward, stood before Palafox. He opened his mouth to speak, but the only words which came to mind were such paltry vehicles for his hate that he stood in silence.

Palafox smiled slightly. “Once again, Pao is in trouble. Once again, it is Lord Palafox of Breakness to whom appeals are made.”

“I made no appeals,” said Beran in a husky voice.

Palafox ignored him. “Ayudor Bustamonte once needed me. I aided him, and Pao became a world of power and triumph. But he who profited—Panarch Beran Panasper—broke the contract. Now, again the Paonese government faces destruction. And only Palafox can save you.”

Realizing that exhibitions of rage merely amused Palafox, Beran forced himself to speak in a voice of moderation. “Your price, I assume, is as before? Unlimited scope for your satyriasis?”

Palafox grinned openly. “You express it crudely but adequately. I prefer the word ‘fecundity’. But such is my price.”

A Cogitant came into the room, approached Palafox, spoke a word or two in Breakness. Palafox looked to Beran. “The Myrmidons are coming. They boast that they will burn Eiljanre, destroy Beran and set forth to conquer the universe. This, they claim, is their destiny.”

“How will you deal with the Myrmidons?” asked Beran tartly.

“Easily,” said Palafox. “I control them because they fear me. I am the most highly modified man on Breakness, the most powerful man ever to exist. If Esteban Carbone fails to obey me, I will kill him. To their plans for conquest I am indifferent. Let them destroy this city, let them destroy all the cities, as many as they will.” His voice was rising—he was becoming excited. “So much the easier for me, for my seed! This is my world, this is where I shall live magnified by a million, a billion sons. I shall fructify a world; there never shall have been so vast a siring! In fifty years the planet will know no name other than Palafox, you shall see my face on every face. The world will be I, I will be the world!”

The black eyes glowed like opals, pulsing with fire. Beran became infected with the madness; the room was unreal, hot gases swirled through his mind. Palafox, losing the appearance of a man, took on various semblances in rapid succession: a tall eel, a phallus, a charred post with knotholes for eyes, a black nothingness.