The Languages of Pao

Chapter XXI

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.

“A demon!” gasped Beran. “The Evil Demon!” He lunged forward, caught Palafox’s arm, hurled Palafox stumbling to the floor.

Palafox struck with a thud, a cry of pain. He sprang to his feet holding his arm—the same arm that Beran had wounded before—and he looked an Evil Demon indeed.

“Now is your end, gad-fly!” He raised his hand, pointed his finger. From the Cogitants came a mutter.

The finger remained pointed. No fire leapt forth. Palafox’s face twisted in passion. He felt his arm, inspected his finger. He looked up, calm once more, signaled to his sons. “Kill this man, here and now. No longer shall he breathe the air of my planet.”

There was dead silence. No one moved. Palafox stared incredulously; Beran looked numbly about him. Everywhere in the room faces turned away, looking neither toward Beran nor Palafox.

Beran suddenly found his voice. He cried out hoarsely, “You talk madness!” He turned to the Cogitants. Palafox had spoken in Breakness, Beran spoke in Pastiche.

“You Cogitants! Choose the world you would live in! Shall it be the Pao you know now, or the world this Emeritus proposes?”

The epithet stung Palafox; he jerked in anger, and in Breakness, the language of insulated intelligence, he barked, “Kill this man!”

In Pastiche, language of the Interpreters, a tongue used by men dedicated to human service, Beran called, “No! Kill this senile megalomaniac instead!”

Palafox motioned furiously to the four men of Breakness—those who had de-energized Beran’s circuits. His voice was deep and resonant. “I, Palafox, the Great Sire, order you, kill this man!”

The four came forward.

The Cogitants stood like statues. Then they moved as if at a single decision. From twenty parts of the room streaks of flame leapt forth. Transfixed from twenty directions, eyes bulging, hair fluffing into a nimbus from the sudden charge, Lord Palafox of Breakness died.

Beran fell into a chair, unable to stand. Presently he took a deep breath, staggered to his feet. “I can say nothing to you now—only that I shall try to build the sort of world that Cogitants as well as Paonese can live in with satisfaction.”

Finisterle, standing somberly to the side, said, “I fear that this option, admirable as it is, lies not entirely in your hands.”

Beran followed his gaze, through the tall windows. High up in the sky appeared bursts of colored fire, spreading and sparkling, as if in celebration for some glory.

“The Myrmidons,” said Finisterle. “They come for vengeance.”

The sky was filled with explosions of colored sparks in flower-like garlands, three-dimensional snowflakes, heraldic medallions. A dozen great black warships cruised over Eiljanre, circled over the palace, in tighter and tighter circles, funnelling down toward the landing deck.

Finisterle touched Beran’s arm. “Best had you flee while there is yet time. They will show you no mercy.”

Beran made no answer. Finisterle took his arm. “You accomplish nothing here but your own death. There is no guard to protect you—we are all at their mercy.”

Beran gently disengaged himself. “I shall remain here; I shall not flee.”

“They will kill you!”

Beran gave the peculiar Paonese shrug. “All men die.”

“But you have much to do, and you can do nothing dead! Leave the city, and presently the Myrmidons will tire of the novelty and return to their games.”

“No,” said Beran. “Bustamonte fled. The Brumbos pursued him, ran him to the ground. I will no longer flee anyone. I will wait here with my dignity, and if they kill me, so shall it be.”

An hour passed, the minutes ticking off slowly, one by one. The warships dropped low, hovered only yards from the ground. The flagship settled gingerly upon the palace deck.

Within the great hall Beran sat quietly on the dynastic Black Chair, his face drawn with fatigue, his eyes wide and dark. The Cogitants stood in muttering groups, watching Beran from the corners of their eyes.

From far off came a whisper of sound, a deep chant, growing louder, a chant of dedication, of victory, sung to the organic rhythm of pumping heart, of marching feet.

Louder and louder—the sound of a hundred voices, and now the tread of heavy steps could likewise be heard.

The chant swelled, the door burst open: into the great hall marched Esteban Carbone, the Grand Marshal. Behind him came a dozen young Field Marshals, and behind these, ranks of staff officers.

Esteban Carbone strode up to the Black Chair and faced Beran.

“Beran,” spoke Esteban Carbone, “you have done us unforgivable injury. You have proved a false Panarch, unfit to govern the planet Pao. Therefore we have come in force to pull you down from the Black Chair and to take you away to your death.”

Beran nodded thoughtfully, as if Esteban Carbone had come urging a petition.

“To those who wield the power shall go the direction of the state: this is the basic axiom of history. You are powerless, only we Myrmidons are strong. Hence we shall rule, and I now declare that the Grand Marshal of the Myrmidons shall now and forever function as Panarch of Pao.”

Beran said no word; indeed, there was no word to be said.

“Therefore, Beran, arise in what little dignity you retain, leave the Black Chair and walk forth to your death.”

From the Cogitants came an interruption. Finisterle spoke out angrily. “One moment; you go too far and too fast.”

Esteban Carbone swung about. “What is this you say?”

“Your thesis is correct: that he who wields power shall rule—but I challenge that you wield power on Pao.”

Esteban Carbone laughed. “Is there anyone who can deter us in any course we care to pursue?”

“That is not altogether the point. No man can rule Pao without consent of the Paonese. You do not have that consent.”

“No matter. We shall not interfere with the Paonese. They can govern themselves—so long as they supply us our needs.”

“And you believe that the Technicants will continue to supply you with tools and weapons?”

“Why should they not? They care little who buys their goods.”

“And who shall make your needs known to them? Who will give orders to the Paonese?”

“We shall, naturally.”

“But how will they understand you? You speak neither Technicant nor Paonese, they speak no Valiant. We Cogitants refuse to serve you.”

Esteban Carbone laughed. “This is an interesting proposition. Are you suggesting that Cogitants, by reason of their linguistic knack, should therefore rule the Valiants?”

“No. I point out that you are unable to rule the planet Pao, that you cannot communicate with those you claim to be your subjects.”

Esteban Carbone shrugged. “This is no great matter. We speak a few words of Pastiche, enough to make ourselves understood. Soon we will speak better, and so shall we train our children.”

Beran spoke for the first time. “I offer a suggestion which perhaps will satisfy the ambitions of everyone. Let us agree that the Valiants are able to kill as many Paonese as they desire, all those who actively oppose them, and so may be said to exercise authority. However, they will find themselves embarrassed: first, by the traditional resistance of the Paonese to coercion, and secondly, by inability to communicate either with the Paonese or the Technicants.”

Carbone listened with a grim face. “Time will cure these embarrassments. We are the conquerors, remember.”

“Agreed,” said Beran in a tired voice. “You are the conquerors. But you will rule best by disturbing the least. And until all Pao shares a single language, such as Pastiche, you cannot rule without great disturbance.”

“Then all Pao must speak one language!” cried Carbone. “That is a simple enough remedy! What is language but a set of words? This is my first command: every man, woman and child on the planet must learn Pastiche.”

“And in the meantime?” inquired Finisterle.

Esteban Carbone chewed his lip. “Things must proceed more or less as usual.” He eyed Beran. “Do you, then, acknowledge my power?”

Beran laughed. “Freely. In accordance with your wish, I hereby order that every child of Pao: Valiant, Technicant, Cogitant and Paonese, must learn Pastiche, even in precedence to the language of his father.”

Esteban Carbone stared at him searchingly, and said at last, “You have come off better than you deserve, Beran. It is true that we Valiants do not care to trouble with the details of governing, and this is your one bargaining point, your single usefulness. So long as you are obedient and useful, so long may you sit in the Black Chair and call yourself Panarch.” He bowed, turned on his heel, marched from the hall.

The Field Marshals swung smartly after him, and next the officers. The chant began, the rhythm pounding to the beat of steps on marble: it dwindled in volume and presently was heard no more. Shortly the black warships lifted from Eiljanre, climbed into the sky amid triumphant showers of colored fire, and sailed southwest to Deirombona.

Beran sat slumped in the Black Chair. His face was white and haggard, but his expression was calm.

“I have compromised, I have been humiliated,” he said to Finisterle, “but in one day I have achieved the totality of my ambitions. Palafox is dead, and we are embarked on the great task of my life—the unifying of Pao.”

Finisterle handed Beran a cup of mulled wine, drank deep from a cup of his own. “Those strutting cockerels! At this moment they parade around their stele, beating their chests, and at any instant …” He pointed his finger at a bowl of fruit. Blue flame lanced forth, the bowl shattered.

“It is better that we allowed them their triumph,” said Beran. “Basically, they are decent people, if naïve, and they will cooperate much more readily as masters than as subjects. And in twenty years …”

He rose to his feet; he and Finisterle walked across the hall, looked out over the roofs of Eiljanre. “Pastiche—composite of Breakness, Technicant, Valiant, Paonese. Pastiche—the language of service. In twenty years, everyone will speak Pastiche. It will fertilize the old minds, shape the new minds. What kind of world will Pao be then?”

They looked out into the night, across the lights of Eiljanre, and wondered.