A Wizard in Chaos

CHAPTER 9

Are you someplace where you can talk without being overheard?” Dirk asked. “I’ve just signed off as a caravan guard, and I’m out on my own, camping in a cave for the night,” Gar answered. “Where are you?”

“Patrolling the perimeter as officer of the watch for a mercenary company,” Dirk answered. “I bummed around for a bit, learning the language, until I found the town they were visiting for R and R. Stayed overnight in a peasant hovel, took a short courier job for a boss, that kind of thing. How about you?”

“We fought off some mercenaries moonlighting as bandits,” Gar told him, “and I pumped the caravan merchant for every bit of information I could get about trade and the political setup, or lack of it. Then we outwitted a translator who was trying to make a profit out of swindling both his boss and us, and he sicced some off-duty boots on us—that’s…”

“Boss’s soldiers, I know,” Dirk said. “Just offhand, I’d say that between the two of us we’ve seen a pretty good cross section of the population.”

“I’ve picked up enough legends to work out the history of the planet after Terra cut them off,” Gar told him.

“Me, too,” Dirk said. “The folktales make it pretty clear the people remember their ancestors being anarchists.”

“From what I’ve heard, they really thought they could live with no government, imitating the virtue of their sages,” Gar agreed. “The first generation managed to live by their ideals, but some of their children didn’t feel obligated. A few of them liked to throw their weight around, and decided to steal as much as they could by brute force. They bullied other tough guys into taking orders, gathered gangs, and started beating up their neighbors, enslaving them, and taking all their food except the bare minimum to keep them alive and reproducing.”

Dirk nodded, forgetting that Gar couldn’t see him. “Then one bully started conquering another, two allied against one, the one allied with two more, and the situation turned into perpetual warfare. Finally one bully managed to conquer three or four others and declared himself boss. Word got out, the idea caught on, and other bullies started fighting it out to see who could become boss.”

“Which worked fine to make a boss over several bullies,” Gar agreed, “but by the time one boss started trying to conquer another one, some enterprising soul had already invented mercenary companies, and with each side hiring mercenaries to help out, the battles only ended in futility and bloodshed.”

Dirk added, “And nobody noticed that it wasn’t exactly ethical.”

“They seem to have the idea that morality is only for weaklings,” Gar said, “and there’s no religion to make them rethink the point.”

“Yes, you noticed that, too?” Dirk frowned. “No religion at all. I gather the original colonists were trying very hard to be good philosophers and better atheists.”

“Well, they succeeded,” Gar said grimly, “and the bosses finished the job. They did their best to kill off all the philosophers.”

“Yeah, I picked up traces of that, too,” Dirk agreed. “The sages told their people not to try to defend them, but the people tried to fight for them anyway, and were slaughtered. So ended all the philosophers.”

“Except for the ones who were willing to come up with logical excuses for bosses to exist, and be used as mouthpieces,” Gar said, “and willing to concoct a philosophy that said bosses were right to be bosses, and the common people should stay in their places.”

“I get the impression that a very few sages survived by going so far out into the wilderness that the bosses didn’t care about them,” Dirk said. “Anyway, each district seems to have at least one sage, and he’s keeping the basic ideas of Taoism alive, to comfort the people when they’re on the verge of despair.”

“So philosophy becomes the opiate of the masses,” Gar said, with irony. “I also found out that after Terra cut the colony off and manufactured goods became scarce, the second generation reinvented capitalism. Since there was no government to force it to stop, it caught on.”

“Interesting that you’ve found a merchant,” Dirk commented. “All I’ve seen are mercenaries.”

“That does seem to be the most widespread form of capitalism,” Gar agreed. “Most of the bosses’ money goes into hiring free companies. The wars between bosses quickly became a matter of seeing who could hire the most and the best mercenaries, and the ordinary people were ground down to pay for them.”

“I’ve found out that mercenary officers can become rich enough to retire in comfort,” Dirk said, “complete with big houses and dowries for their daughters—and captains can actually make enough money to buy their way into bossdom. How do any merchants manage to stay in business, with all this fighting?”

“Most of them come from free towns,” Gar told him.

“Free towns?” Dirk frowned. “I haven’t heard of those. The only towns without castles that I’ve seen are securely within the domain of one boss or another. I’ve heard a legend that some independent villages hired a bully to protect them, but after he had fought off the enemy, he wound up enslaving the people who had hired him.”

“Some villages were far enough from the center of the troubles so that they had some warning, and were doubly blessed in having a sage who taught martial arts as part of his philosophy,” Gar explained. “They elected a leader who figured out how to use weapons, so when a bully came to conquer, they fought him off long enough to make the price in men and arms more than he wanted to pay. Apparently, the secret of staying in the bully business was a quick win. By the time the bosses came marching, the mercenaries were available for hire, and the free cities became some of their best customers. I don’t doubt that the occasional enlightened boss lets his merchants keep enough of their profits to stay in business, but most of the entrepreneurs are from the free towns.”

“I expect they have to learn a lot of different dialects,” Dirk mused.

“Have any communication troubles?” Gar asked.

“Only for the first twenty-four hours or so. If I listen long enough, I can track down the vowel shifts and guess the occasional homegrown word. They’ve all evolved out of Galactic Standard, of course, so I don’t have too much trouble figuring them out. The locals don’t know the original Galactic pronunciation, though, so most of them can’t understand the people from the next county. It does open up work for interpreters, huh?”

“That seems to be one of the tasks of the bosses’ stewards,” Gar told him. “That’s all the government there is—the bosses and their servants—and within each domain, the boss’s whim is law. There’s no central government to stop him from doing anything he wants to the people.” His voice hardened. “They live like animals, Dirk—no, worse. The local bully takes any girl he wants for a night’s pleasure, then turns her over to his officers, and when they’re done with her, they turn her over to the boots. I’ve seen a lot of poor people on a lot of planets, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen any ground down worse than these.”

“The end result of anarchy,” Dirk agreed. “It works only as long as nobody gets greedy, but when somebody does, there’s nothing to stop him. Didn’t the original anarchists have some idea about assassinating anyone who tried to bully his neighbors?”

“Not that I’ve ever read,” Gar replied. “Good idea, I suppose, if you don’t find it unethical to kill somebody without a trial, or without his bein there to be tried. But who’s going to keep the assassin from becoming a bully himself?”

“The old problem.” Dirk sighed. “ ‘Who will police the police?’ Or, you might say, who will govern the government?”

“The people,” Gar answered, “but that means you’ve developed some form of democracy.”

“In which everyone’s a soldier when he’s needed,” Dirk concurred. “Well, there are advantages to military life: a guaranteed place to live, steady pay if you ever find a place to spend it, regular meals, free clothing…”

“The clothes tend to be a bit monotonous,” Gar reminded him, “but yes, it’s a secure life, apart from the chance of being killed in battle every now and then. Take it to the extreme of everyday life, and you have Sparta, where everyone’s a soldier all the time.”

“Except for the slaves,” Dirk reminded.

“But the Spartans didn’t count them as people,” Gar pointed out. “From what else I hear about them, it was a nice place to have on your side, but you wouldn’t want to visit.”

“And definitely not live there,” Dirk agreed. “But let’s not lose sight of the fact that there are one or two good things about this sort of anarchy.”

“I must have missed them,” Gar said, voice dripping sarcasm. “Remind me.”

“High social mobility, for one,” Dirk said. “You can be born a peasant, but end up the captain of a Free Company, or maybe even a boss.”

“But more likely in an early grave,” Gar pointed out.

“The risks are very high,” Dirk conceded. “Of course, if you live in one of the free towns you’ve told me about; there are probably all sorts of opportunities, such as becoming a merchant. How high is their death rate?”

“Fairly high, from what I saw on this journey,” Gar told him, “and it probably would have been worse, if they hadn’t had a telepath along to tell them when the enemy was coming. But you’re right about the free cities being a decent existence—they even have enough extra food and money to support an artist or two. Of course, everybody has to drill every week, and the men march off to war every year or so, but as long as they can keep from being conquered, they live fairly well.”

“Government?” Dirk asked.

“Town council,” Gar answered. “I’m sure there are power blocs and influence peddlers, but I wasn’t there long enough to study the details. So life is all right here, if you’re a soldier or a citizen of a free town—but for the serfs it’s miserable.”

“Yes,” Dirk said, “and they’re the vast majority. Aside from near-starvation and backbreaking work, life in a hole in the ground isn’t too bad, if you don’t mind sacks for clothes and freezing toes. Of course, there’s the little problem of constant warfare, with women being raped and people killed, villages burned, and crops trampled…”

“Which leads to complete starvation,” Gar said, his voice tight with pain. “Do you have any doubts that we have to destroy this system?”

“None at all,” Dirk said with full conviction. “But what is there to destroy? We’re professionals at overthrowing governments, Gar. Where’s the government to overthrow?”

“I’m very much afraid that this time, we’ll actually have to set up a government,” Gar sighed, “but it does go against the grain. We’ll have to start by establishing a lasting peace.”

“I thought we were going to have to cobble together some sort of government, in order to see that peace declared,” Dirk countered. “These people are so miserable that they’d even cheer for a dictator—at least it would be some protection, some order.”

“They’d be ground down just as badly,” Gar said, his voice hard. “Think of the last planet we visited, of our friends Miles and Orgoru and the dictator who ruled them. What about the torture and the stunted lives his people endured?” Then he remembered, and his voice lightened. “Miles! How’s about that, Dirk? Think you can start a minstrel movement, and introduce songs with the underlying idea that peasants are fully human?”

“It’s a start, anyway,” Dirk sighed. “I do think it’s time for us to get back together, though.”

“I agree. Herkimer, where is Dirk relative to me?” Gar asked.

The computer answered instantly, obviously eavesdropping. “His signal originates from a district approximately twenty miles south by southwest of you, Magnus.”

“We’re in the foothills of a mountain range,” Dirk told him, “on our way back to the Blue Company’s headquarters. I’m sure they’ll love having you as a recruit. We’ve just come out of a forest, and we’re in a meadow, but we’ll be going back into forest as we start upslope tomorrow.”

“I’ll see you in the trees, then.”

“Right.” But Dirk hesitated a second, then said, “Gar? Did you ever wonder what right we have to do this? To just burst into somebody else’s planet, and try to change their governmental system?”

“We probably don’t have any right at all,” Gar admitted, “but we do have a duty. Personally, I couldn’t live with myself if I knew I could have done something to ease the suffering of a million individuals, but sat by and did nothing.”

“Yeah, well, that’s okay if you bump into them—but we go out looking!”

“Yes,” Gar said, “because we know there are people suffering out there, and we know we have the duty to help them. After all, we’re free to do it—we don’t have any other responsibilities at this point in our lives—so we’d be less than ourselves if we didn’t search. When the day comes that we go through all the computer records, visit every planet whose people might be oppressed, and come to the conclusion that on all of them, the government is doing the best it can and that no other government would do any better for its people—then we can very seriously ask if we have any right to interfere.”

“Then we can retire,” Dirk grunted.

Gar rode in silence for a while, then said, “Don’t let my obsession rule your life, my friend. If you’re lucky enough to find your destiny, to find a woman you love and a place where you belong, don’t feel you have to forsake them all for me or my dream.”

Dirk stared at the medallion, amazed, and wondered if he should feel rejected. “If the woman and the place are your destiny,” Gar said, “then your duty to them is greater than your duty to the suffering millions on dozens of planets you’ve never heard of. We each have to try to make life better in the corner of reality that’s revealed to each of us; we can’t do more.”

“I never knew you were religious,” Dirk said softly.

“Oh, yes, you did.” Gar smiled sardonically. “But that kind of talk doesn’t have to be religious. It might only mean that I’m beginning to understand my father.”

It was the first time Gar had ever mentioned anyone related to him. Dirk stared, thunderstruck by the realization that Gar didn’t exist in a vacuum.

Cort was his old self the next morning, at least to outward appearances, alert and energetic, issuing his orders quietly to the master sergeant, who bawled them out to the other sergeants, who ordered the men into columns and set them moving onto the road.

It was an uphill climb, and though the men were no longer hungover, they weren’t happy about having their leave cut short, so they still went slowly. They were just coming to the first plateau when a rider came out of the trees before them. Discipline kept the soldiers marching, but without it, they would have stopped dead, for the stranger was huge, seven feet tall and broad to match, astride a horse that stood five hands taller than most.

He started to ride toward them. Then brown-clothed soldiers burst from the trees by the roadside with shrill, ear-splitting cries.

Their first charge mowed down a dozen men, but the sergeants were already bawling, “Stand to! Fight!” and the soldiers, out of sheer reflex, turned on their ambushers.

There were at least forty of them to the platoon’s thirty, well armed and armored, with boiled-leather breastplates and iron skullcaps. They wielded their spears as both quarterstaves and cutting blades, still skirling their battlecry. But the Blue Company, now braced for battle and over their first surprise, fought back with equal skill, and with the ferocity of outrage. Spearheads rang on bucklers, shafts rattled against shafts. Sergeants bellowed as they ran back and forth, knocking the attackers off their men.

Cort rode through the battleline, shouting in anger and hewing about him with his sword. A brown-coated soldier leaped to catch his horse’s reins as a second stabbed upward at him and a third jammed his spearbutt between Cort and his saddle. Cort caught the spear on his buckler, then whirled to chop at the lever-man, but the spear came back and grazed his ribs even as the third soldier fell away. Cort roared in rage and pain and slammed his shield into the second soldier’s face. He turned to the front just as a spearhead came stabbing up at his face.

Another sword leaped in from the side, knocking the spear up, and Dirk kicked its bearer in the head. The first soldier fell, letting go of the reins.

“Thanks,” Cort called. “Where’s their officer?”

“Only a lieutenant, as far as I can see,” Dirk shouted back.

“He’s mine!” Cort turned and charged at a brown-coat with brass epaulets, but even as he did, a brown-clad rider burst out of the trees at the roadside, howling and riding straight toward him, sword slashing.

A huge roar sounded. The brown-coat turned and whirled his sword frantically, trying to protect himself—as well he might, for the man who thrust and slashed at him was the giant, wielding a blade more than three feet long. He bellowed like a bear and hacked and chopped at the brown-coat officer, then suddenly spun his horse away and charged down the battleline, bellowing.

The brown-coats took one look and leaped away—but so did the Blue Company, in sheer terror. The giant turned on the brown soldiers, though, slashing at them with his huge sword. Soldiers jumped aside, for they could see his swings coming a mile away—and a mile wide they seemed. But none wanted to stay for another slash, so they turned and fled, leaving half their number groaning and writhing in the road.

Still roaring, the giant chased them back into the woods.

“Rally!” the brown-coat officer cried, turning on the Blue Company alone.

His sword rang on Cort’s blade, and both men went silent, slashing in quick and desperate strokes.