Jack Vance - Big Planet

Two hours before noon they set forth across the moor, and as they marched the tremendous slope behind them began to lose its bulk. The upper reaches became murked in the haze, the forest became a dark band. The slope was levelling out into the River Oust pene-plain.

A mutter from the soldiers reached his ears. They were faltering in their step, the whites showed in their eyes. There was a general nervous motion along the column, a jerking of arms, a tossing of the grotesque black felt hats.

Following their gaze Glystra saw along the horizon a dozen tall hump-backed zipangotes, approaching at a careless pace.

“Who are they? Gypsies?”

Morwatz scanned the column, his face set in rigid lines. “They’re gypsies, but not the Cossacks. These are high-caste warriors, possibly even Politburos. Only Politburos ride zipangoes. We can fight off Cossacks, they have little spirit, no discipline, no method, no mind. Only hunger. As soon as there are a few bodies, no matter whose, they are content. But the Politburos…” His voice faltered, he shook his head.

Glystra prompted him. “What are the Politburos?”

“They are the great warriors, the leaders. When they appear the gypsies fight like devils. The Cossacks alone are mere robbers. When a Politburo leads them— demons!”

Glystra looked at Bishop. “Know much about these gypsies, Bish?”

“There’s a short chapter in Vendome’s Big Planet Lore on the gypsies, but the emphasis is on their racial background rather than their culture. The stock was originally a tribe of Kirghiz herdsmen from Earth. Turkestan, I believe. When Cloud Control increased trans-Caucasian rainfall, they moved out to Big Planet, where steppes presumably would remain steppes. They shipped out third-class, and in the same hold were a tribe of old-fashioned gypsies and a brotherhood of Polynesians. On the trip out the gypsy leader, one Panvilsap, killed the Kirghiz head-man, married the Polynesian matriarch, and when they were discharged on Big Planet, controlled the entire group. The ensuing culture was mingled Kirghiz, Polynesian and Romany, and dominated by the personality of Panvilsap—an enormous man, a killer, a butcher, as ruthless as he was single-minded.”

The column was now less than a mile distant, approaching without haste.

Glystra turned to Morwatz. “How do these people live?”

“They herd zipangotes, hare-hounds, pechavies, milk-rats. They gather fungus from the cycads in Depression. Spring and autumn they raid into Beaujolais and Kerka-ten to the north, Ramspur to the south. The Oust cuts them off from Felissima and the Rebbirs of Eyrie. Ah,” sighed Morwatz, “what a grateful war that would be, between the Rebbirs and the gypsies.”

“Typical nomadic society,” inserted Bishop. “Not a great deal different from the ancient Scythians.”

Morwatz said fretfully, “Why are you so interested in the mannerisms of the race? Tonight, they intend to eat us…”

The sun was at zenith, and the coiled gray-green vegetation of the steppe gave off a smoky aroma. As the column approached, it was gradually joined by groups of Cossacks, who fell in behind the slow-jogging zipangotes.

Glystra asked Morwatz, “Is this their usual method of attack?”

Morwatz yanked at his black headgear. “They observe no usual methods.”

Glystra said, “Order your men to take five darts apiece from the pack and stand ready for action.”

Morwatz seemed to fill out, expand. His chest and shoulders became rigid, his face tightened. He strode down the front of the square, barking orders. The Beaujolains straightened, formed harder ranks. In groups of five, they passed beside the pack animal which carried the darts, marched back into ranks.

Bishop said dubiously, “Aren’t you afraid that—” he paused.

“I’m afraid to act afraid,” said Glystra. “They’d be off like jack-rabbits toward the forest. It’s a matter of morale. We’ve got to act as if these gypsies were dirt under our feet.”

“I guess you’re right—in theory.”

The mounted column halted a hundred yards across the moor, just out of catapult range. The beasts were heavier than those in the pack train—sleek, seal-brown, soft-padded creatures, with ridged convex backs, long heavy necks. They were decked in trappings of shaggy leather painted with crude designs, and each wore a white rhinoceros-like horn strapped to its snout.

A tall burly man sat on the first of the zipangotes. He wore blue satin trousers, a short black cloak, a peaked leather cap with cusped ear-pieces protruding at either side. A three-inch brass ring hung from each ear, and on each side of his chest he wore a medal of polished iron. He had a round muscular heavy-lidded face; his skin was maroon as if charged with a special strong blood.

Glystra heard Morwatz mutter, “Heinzelman the Hell-horse!” And his voice was as flat as if he were reading the hour of his own death.

Glystra re-examined the man, noted his complete ease, an indifferent confidence more striking than any arrogance. Behind rode a dozen others similarly garbed, and still further behind skulked a hundred men and woman in be-ribboned and be-tasselled breeches of dull red, green or blue, heavy fustian blouses, leather skull-caps, some of which were crested by complicated white objects.

Glystra turned to check the formation of the Beaujolains— thwinggg! something sang past his throat like a hornet. He recoiled, ducked, looked full in the flat face of Abbigens, lowering his catapult with a curiously black expression.

“Morwatz,” said Glystra, “take the catapult from Abbigens, tie his wrists together, hobble him.”

Morwatz hesitated a fraction of an instant, then turned, spoke to a pair of soldiers.

There was a scuffle which Glystra ignored—for now Heinzelman the Hell-horse and his Politburos had dismounted and were approaching.

Heinzelman halted a few paces distant, half-smiling, toying with his quirt. “What is your thought encroaching on the land of the gypsies?” His voice was soft and fluent.

“We’re heading for Kirstendale, past the swamps,” said Glystra. “The route crosses Nomadland.”

Heinzelman drew back his lips, displaying teeth marvellously inlaid with minute bits of colored stone. “You risk your flesh, entering this land of hungry men.”

“The risk is to the hungry men.”

“From the soldiers?” Heinzelman made a contemptuous gesture. “I will kill each and drink his blood.”

Glystra heard a whimper, a cry. “Claude—Claude—”

Hot blood pulsed in his brain. He stood swaying, then became conscious of Heinzelman’s amused scrutiny. “Who calls my name?”

Heinzelman looked negligently over his shoulder. “A woman of the slopes we found by the forest this morning. She will be spitted at this evening’s camp.”

Glystra said, “Bring her forth, I will buy her from you.”

Heinzelman said lazily, “Then you have wealth? This is a fortunate day for the gypsies.”

Glystra tried to hold his voice steady. “Bring forth this woman or I’ll send a man to take her.”

“A man? One man?” Heinzelman’s eyes narrowed. “What race of man are you? Not Beaujolain, and you are too dark for a Maquir…”

Glystra casually brought forth his ion-shine. “I am an electrician.” And grinned at his own joke.

Heinzelman rubbed his heavy chin. “In what parts live they?”

“It’s not a race; it’s an occupation.”

“Ah! There are none such among us; we pursue our own business. We are warriors, killers, eaters. And if I gave you the woman, tonight we should go hungry.”

Glystra came to a grim decision. He turned his head. “Bring out Abbigens.” To Heinzelman: “Electricians carry death in their every gesture.”