The Languages of Pao

Chapter XVII

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.

Here they were attacked by rocket-missiles, but counter-missiles harmlessly exploded the barrage.

In tight formation, they settled toward north Minamand and landed a score of miles north of Eiljanre. The transports debarked a multitude of clansmen mounted on air-horses. They darted high into the air, dashing, cavorting, swerving in a fine display of braggadocio.

A school of anti-personnel missiles came streaking for them, but the defenses of the ships below were alert, and anti-missiles destroyed the salvo. However, the threat was sufficient to hold the riders close to the flotilla.

Evening came and night. The riders wrote vainglorious slogans in the sky with golden gas, then retired to their ships, and there was no further activity.

Another set of events had already occurred on Batmarsh. No sooner had the twenty-eight ship flotilla set forth for Pao, when another ship, cylindrical and sturdy, evidently converted from a cargo-carrier, dropped down into the dank forested hills at the south end of the Brumbo domain. A hundred young men disembarked. They wore ingenious segmented suits of transpar, which became streamlined shells when the wearer’s arms hung by his sides. Anti-gravity mesh made them weightless, electric jets propelled them with great speed.

They flew low over the black trees, along the bottom of the wild valleys. Lake Chagaz glimmered ahead, reflecting the glowing constellations of the cluster. Across the lake was the stone and timber city Slagoe, with the Hall of Honors looming tall over the lesser buildings.

The flyers swooped like hawks to the ground. Four ran to the sacred fire, beat down the aged fire-tenders, quenched the blaze except for a single coal which they packed in a metal pouch. The remainder had continued past up the ten stone steps. They stunned the guardian vestals, charged into the tall smoky-beamed hall.

Down from the wall came the tapestry of the clan, woven with hair from the head of every Brumbo born to the clan. Helter-skelter into bags and gravity boxes went the trophies, the sacred fetishes: old armor, a hundred tattered banners, scrolls and declamations, fragments of rock, bone, steel and charcoal, vials of dried black blood commemorating battles and Brumbo valor.

When Slagoe at last awoke to what was taking place, the warriors were in space, bound for Pao. Women, youths, old men, ran to the sacred park, crying and shouting.

But the raiders had departed, taking with them the soul of the clan, all the most precious treasure.

On dawn of the second day the raiders brought forth crates and assembled eight battle-platforms, mounting generators, anti-missile defenses, dynamic stings, pyreumators and sonic ear-blasters.

Other Brumbo bravos came forth on air-horses, but now they rode in strict formation. The battle platforms raised from the ground and exploded. Mechanical moles, tunneling through the soil, had planted mines to the bottom of each raft.

The air-cavalry milled in consternation. Without protection they were easy targets for missiles—cowardly weapons by the standards of Batmarsh.

The Valiant Myrmidons likewise disliked missiles. Beran had insisted on every possible means to minimize bloodshed, but when the battle-rafts were destroyed, he found it impossible to restrain the Myrmidons. In their transpar shells they darted into the sky and plunged down at the Brumbo cavalry. A furious battle swirled and screamed over the pleasant countryside.

There was no decision to the battle. Myrmidons and Brumbo air-horsemen fell in equal numbers, but after twenty minutes, the air-horsemen suddenly disengaged and plunged to the ground, leaving the Myrmidons exposed to a barrage of missiles. The Myrmidons were not taken entirely unawares, and dove headfirst for the ground. Only a few laggards—perhaps twenty—were caught and exploded.

The horsemen retreated under the shadow of their ships; the Myrmidons withdrew. They had been fewer than the Brumbos; nevertheless, the clansmen had given way, puzzled and awed by the ferocity of the resistance.

The remainder of the day was quiet, likewise the next day, while the Brumbos sounded and probed under the hulls of their ships to disengage any mines which might have been planted.

This accomplished, the fleet rose into the air, lumbered out over the Hylanthus Sea, crossed the isthmus just south of Eiljanre, settled on the beach within sight of the Grand Palace.

The next morning the Brumbos came forth on foot, six thousand men guarded by anti-missile defenders and four projectors. They moved cautiously forward, directly for the Grand Palace.

There was no show of resistance, no sign of the Myrmidons. The marble walls of the Grand Palace rose over them. There was motion on top; down rolled a rectangle of black, brown and tawny cloth. The Brumbos halted, staring.

An amplified voice came from the palace. “Eban Buzbek—come forth. Come inspect the loot we have taken from your Hall of Honors. Come forth, Eban Buzbek. No harm shall come to you.”

Eban Buzbek came forth, called back through an amplifier. “What is this fakery, what cowardly Paonese trick have you contrived? Speak quickly; I will not listen long!”

“We possess all your clan treasures, Eban Buzbek: that tapestry, the last coal of your Eternal Fire, all your heraldry and relicts. Do you wish to redeem them?”

Eban Buzbek stood swaying as if he would faint. He turned and walked unsteadily back to his ship.

An hour passed. Eban Buzbek and a group of noblemen came forth. “We request a truce, in order that we may inspect these articles you claim to have in your possession.”

“Come forward, Eban Buzbek. Inspect to your heart’s content.”

Eban Buzbek and his retinue inspected the articles. They spoke no word—the Paonese who conducted them made no comment.

The Brumbos silently returned to their ships.

A nunciator called, “The time is at hand! Coward Paonese—prepare for death!”

The clansmen charged, driven by the most violent emotion. Halfway across the beach they were met by the Myrmidons, and engaged in hand to hand combat, with swords, pistols and bare hands.

The Brumbos were halted; for the first time their battle-lust met another more intense. They knew fear, they fell back, they retreated.

The voice from the Grand Palace called out, “You cannot win, Eban Buzbek, you cannot escape. We hold your lives, we hold your sacred treasures. Surrender now or we destroy both.”

Eban Buzbek surrendered. He bent his head to the ground before Beran and the Myrmidon captain, he renounced all claim to Paonese overlordship, and kneeling before the sacred tapestry swore never more to molest or plan harm against Pao. He was then permitted the treasures of his clan, which the sullen clansmen carried aboard the flotilla. Eban Buzbek turned abruptly to Beran. “You have defeated us in craft as well as valor. It is a small heart therefore which would hold hate against you. I leave Pao feeling only woe that we have met a band of warriors more skillful and more gallant than we. From what far planet did you recruit them, that we may give them all possible avoidance?”

Beran smiled with mingled pride and misgiving. “They are from no far planet; they are Paonese.”

Eban Buzbek was shocked. He gave Beran a hard stare. “Paonese? Surely not, for I have heard them speak, and the language is not Paonese.”

“Nevertheless, Paonese is their blood. If you doubt, I can direct you to their camp, or you may question them yourself through an interpreter.”

Beran signaled to one of the Interpreter Corps, who was never far distant during these times. But Eban Buzbek declined the opportunity. He boarded the flagship of his flotilla, and so departed Pao.