The Super Barbarians

by John Brunner

  Whatever had happened, we always decided, we were unlikely to find out before victory was won. For a psychological mechanism in the Vorra themselves had hidden the knowledge from us. I thought of what the old man had said just moments ago, about most people having forgotten. Presumably the Vorra could not bear to think that anyone else was superior to them in accomplishment. Having won the ships and weapons by some near-miraculous means, they then proceeded to convince themselves and try to convince us that they had built them.

  No matter. Here was one of the builders, in his yellow spacesuit—so much like the suits the Vorra used—and his spacehelmet, and here I was, at last confronting him.

  A kind of squeal from the ancient shaman brought me to the present again. He had demanded to know if I realized what I was seeing.

  “Of course,” I said, as casually as I could. “That is one of the people from whom you stole your spaceships and your weapons.” I deliberately chose the nastiest word in Vorrish for “stole”—it was the kind of term you would use to describe taking coins from a blind beggar’s cup.

  The sergeant and the soldiers exchanged glances. Their expressions showed a curious mixture of anger—probably at my choice of words—and fear. Even the old man was taken aback.

  “Son of an unpedigreed ox!” he hissed. “Dare you say that we stole what we have? We, the soldiers of Qallavarra, the toughest and bravest fighting men in the universe, won what we have in bitter battle, and our enemies we treated—thus!”

  He thrust out a bony arm at the thing in the alcove. From his loose lips a trickle of drool began to creep. He seemed beside himself with fury. An inspiration came to me, and I watched him closely, hoping against hope that I would time my gesture right.

  “We keep the memory green!” he proclaimed, his old voice rising to a shrill falsetto. “Against incredible odds we fought and won! Steal, you say! We bought what we have at a dearer cost than you Earthly weaklings would know how to pay—paid in blood and then wrought vengeance on our enemies. So should you be treated, upstart lickspittle—!”

  I thought so.

  Whatever had first set him so violently against me—I imagined it was my sudden new role as a kind of rival medicine man, and the rapid increase in my following—his rage had hit a peak which his frail old body was unequal to. He was choking with it now, and that gave me my chance.

  To make the fury that fraction more unbearable still, I said, “I am patient, but your babblings are those of a fool, and I will not endure them any longer. Be still, descendant of a line of eaters of dung.”

  I was careful to use the human-to-animal forms of speech.

  Glaring-eyed, the old man seemed for a moment to be trying to hurl himself towards me. From the corner of my eye I saw the sergeant and the two soldiers go pale with horror, and I realized I had only a moment to win my desperate gamble.

  I threw up a commanding arm, pointing at the old man. “You can only hang up your dead enemies as trophies!” I said. “Now learn how we of Earth treat those who offend us beyond bearing!”

  I was still expecting to be overpowered by the three soldiers, but my gesture distracted them. They glanced at the old man…

  .. . and saw him die.

  I knew it was a stroke, brought on by his extreme rage, but I wanted it to look like a miracle. Accordingly, cold-faced, I turned to the sergeant. I said, “See how the old man is, you!”

  The sergeant moved to touch the fragile body. He felt for the angle of the jaw, where the Vorra most often took a pulse, and his face gradually assumed a look of pure fear.

  “He’s dead,” he said in a gravelly voice.

  “And you?” I said. “Do you wish to die, or having seen your grisly sideshow, am I now free to go?”

  The soldiers fell back from me, making the same ritual pass in the air that I had earlier seen the sergeant make. I gave a harsh laugh to show what notice I took of such foolery.

  To rub the lesson in still further, I added, “Outrank us at war, perhaps you can—we long ago outgrew such childish banditry. But the use of arcane lore is subtler and more reliable. Did you not hear what I did to Dwerri the former whipmaster?”

  “But he has killed the shaman!” one of the soldiers cried. “We cannot let him go!”

  I glared at him. I said, “You’re stronger than the old fool in the chair. I think you could do me harm, indeed. But do it at your peril, knowing that you—and he, and he also”—I pointed at his companions—”will die at the seventh sunset thereafter, In very great pain, and speaking mad words.”

  Insanity was a great stigma among the Vorra. Psychotherapy was another science they had never developed.

  There was a long silence. In the end, I turned and walked ‘ out, and no one tried to stop me.

  Nonetheless, it was not until I was almost inside the huge house itself that I dared to relax and think about the immense prestige that I had acquired for myself by “killing” the shaman. Once the word spread I could look forward to queues at my door, people requiring my mystical aid. The other cults would probably wither away.

  That, though, was purely a bonus. What mattered was the regaining of my lost knowledge. I could even recall how it was lost. I had been compelled to hide it from myself.

  It was on the very eve of my departure with the retinue of the retiring governor, Pwill, that the news was brought to me. A jealous secretary, who felt that no Earthman deserved to be put in such a position of trust, had told Pwill that his wife’s new steward was actually a Trojan horse. The news was true, as it turned out. Heart sinking, I had to swallow one of the yellow oblivon pills, then spend a feverish night going over in my mind all the dangerous knowledge I had which could have spelt ruin for the Resistance if Pwill had learned of it. When the interrogators came for me I had a mind as clean as could have been hoped for—and it was as well, for they used credulin on me. No wonder I had recognized its molecular structure in Kramer’s formula. I had agonizing first-hand experience of its effect.

  Hence the people of the Acre must have resigned themselves to the loss of all the work lavished on me. When I settled in as apparently no more than a serf, made no effort to exploit my position, they must have decided that I was useless to them. Thinking of the tentative plans in which I was to have participated, I sweated. So much wasted care and forethought!

  Well, I was back in one piece. I had new prestige. I had exploitable blackmail holds over Pwill Himself and over Shavarri who was now coming to rule Pwill and over the heir as well. So—

  And then I recollected the order which had come through Marijane.

  The end result of acting as Olafsson had ordered was sure to be my death. Consequently Olafsson must be regarding me as expendable; he must have given up hope of my being more valuable in the future than I had been up till now. From the information available to him, he was probably right. But things had changed now my memory was back. And I dared not flout his order and go to the Acre to explain to him, and there was no one I could send with a message, and—

  Appalled, I hunted for a solution, and there was none to be found.

  CHAPTER XV

  WITH MUCH CEREMONY and to-do Pwill, Jr. returned from his trip overseas the day following, instead of the day after that as had been expected. I was present at the formal welcome in the main courtyard, scanning the young mans face for the telltale signs of coffee-lack. I was almost certain I saw them well advanced, and my heart sank. I had half-guessed that while undertaking a responsible and demanding job like the one from which he had come back Pwill, Jr. would use up his supply faster than normally, and I was also fairly sure that his early return was connected with this fact. I searched the face of his companion, Forrel, and saw that he kept his eyes on Pwill continually, his own expression drawn and worried.

  He glanced up once and saw me leaning over the rail of a balcony overlooking the yard. But he did not betray his feelings.

  I had no plan of action at all, except that I had decided not to stay around long enough for Pw
ill to have me executed if I could help it. I dared not leave before the actual crisis, though; I had nowhere to go except to the Acre, and if I contravened Olafsson’s order to keep clear of the place for “at least some days” I might unknowingly foul up some other, more elaborate plan whose details I had not heard.

  I was very unhappy about the situation.

  It was only an hour or so after the return of the party from abroad that a timid servant boy came in search of me with a message from Forrel that I was to see him at once in his quarters. I did not need the boy to lead me there—I’d often gone to Forrel’s room to deliver a batch of coffee beans—but I followed him nonetheless, my mind churning.

  I found Forrel pacing the floor distractedly. I had half feared that Pwill, Jr. might be with him, but fortunately he was alone. At my entry, he whirled to face me with a look of relief. He dismissed the boy and saw for himself that the door of the room was tightly closed before speaking in a low voice.

  “Earthman, I need more coffee for him immediately. He had the last of his supply before setting out yesterday evening. He’s traveled overnight and tiredness and lack of coffee are making him unbearable. I don’t know how long I can go on pretending to Himself and the Over-lady that it’s only the tiredness which is causing it.”

  So I had to play by ear. I found myself answering as blandly as though I had no cares in the universe, my face showing the right expression of worry.

  “But I have none at the moment,” I said. I checked in my mind the date of the next shipment from Earth for the people of the Acre. Good! It fitted with the he I was going to tell. “You’ll remember it was only just before you went away that I gave you two handfuls. A handful lasts him five or seven days, but never less than five. I have no more, and it will be three more days before the next shipment of goods from Earth is delivered in the Acre.”

  His face paled to the typical Vorrish sallow brick color of dismay. He said, “But you must get some!”

  “At the usual time, yes, certainly,” I promised. “But not immediately. There isn’t any to be had.”

  He breathed out hard, looking at nowhere. I thought I heard him mutter some kind of prayer, but failed to catch the words. He began to pace the floor again. After taking only half a dozen steps he rounded on me.

  “You must get some!” he said. “And today!”

  “What would you have me do?” I countered. “Rob the private coffer of the city chief of police, perhaps? I tell you there is none left here or in the Acre, and the next supply comes in three days’ time.”

  “You-fool!’ he hissed.

  I drew myself up. I said, “If you wanted extra, you might simply have asked me. I presumed that you would continue rationing the beans out at the usual rate. In which case there would be no problem, would there?’

  “You dare to speak to me like that?” He drew back his hand as though to slap me across the face with his uniform glove.

  I did not move. I merely stared at him.

  He thought better of hitting me and went back to pacing the floor, groaning. “This is what comes of trusting one of you,” he said bitterly. “You smooth-tongued schemers from Earth! I’ve a mind to have you whipped!”

  I said nothing. I could read what was going on in his mind by his changing expression. He was thinking to himself: “Three mortal days! What are my chances of keeping up the pretense so long? Yet if I press this Earthman further who knows what he may not do? He says there will be more in three days. I can’t tell whether to believe him or not Perhaps he has a scheme of his own to ruin me and Pwill, but he would never confess it. I cannot tell if he is deliberately withholding coffee to glory in his power over us, or if he is telling the truth, which is quite possible because after all at the usual rate of consumption the last batch he gave me would have lasted until the new supply arrived.”

  Finally he drew a deep breath and pointed at the door.

  “Out!” he said in a choking tone.

  I obeyed.

  So Pwill Heir Apparent was already in such a state that Forrel doubted his ability to keep the secret any longer! That made things both better and worse from my point of view. Better, for I now knew the crisis was immediate, not vaguely in the future; worse, for I had not yet made a coherent plan. I was still working on the problem that afternoon when Shavarri sent for me.

  By now we were on almost a friendly footing. I was sure she was shrewd enough to realize that Earthmen would never have supplied her with the love potion unless it was in some way to their advantage as well as hers, but the idea did not disturb her, and I had shown myself loyal as the Vorra counted loyalty. The secret she had paid me to keep was still a secret.

  She reclined in a red gown on her usual stack of cushions, a low table laden with sweetmeats beside her, listening to a girl playing the Vorrish harp. When I was announced, she sent the musician away and told me to sit down. I did so, some intuition making the back of my neck prickle.

  For a while she spoke idly to me about current gossip, and that was a further warning. Usually she was too careful of giving away the secret of her hold over Pwill Himself to call me except on urgent business. I cast around for an explanation of his new behavior.

  Then I got it.

  She rolled lazily on her side and took one of the sweetmeats from the bowl on the table before her. With a gesture she indicated that I should take one too.

  “They are good,” she said. “They were brought back from the overseas plantation where the heir has lately been. You will probably not have tasted them before.”

  I made a formal bow of acknowledgment, but did not move to help myself. Without trying to hide my smile, I said, “Perhaps, Under-lady, I should say that in any case the potion you have does not work on an Earthman as it does on the Vorra.”

  She froze with the sweetmeat on the tips of her fingers, ready to thrust between her lips. For a moment a look of absolute animal rage transformed her face; then it was gone, and she was mistress of herself again.

  She gave a rueful laugh and hurled the sweetmeat at the wall, where it burst open and clung stickily, letting a trail of its syrupy juice crawl snail-slow towards the floor.

  “You Earthmen!” she said. “To outwit you it would take magic or genius, and I have neither/’

  “You are flattering, Under-lady,” I said. My tone made it quite clear that we were not taken in by flattery either.

  “I’ll be direct, then,” she said. As I’d already decided, she was no fool. “You have my deadliest secret. I cannot put myself further at your mercy. Those sweetmeats were brought to me by Forrel.”

  Now that was interesting. I kept my face masklike, and merely bowed. What was she going to do with the information she had?

  “So!” she went on. “As you’re certainly aware, the potion which you supplied to me sometimes greases the passage of secrets. I have known for a long time about the state of the heir, and what you have to do with it. I could at any time have whispered a word in the ear of Pwill Himself—and have not done so. Are you grateful?”

  “We are on equal terms then, Under-lady,” I said. “We are bound by a pact of mutual—let us not say betrayal, but—confidence?”

  She smiled. She had obviously been looking forward to this opportunity.

  “As you say,” she agreed. “Not long since, Forrel informed me—without really intending to—that you have cut off the supply of coffee from the heir. Tell me why!”

  “Forrel has an active imagination,” I said. “Moreover, it was his responsibility to ration out the coffee, and he has allowed the last batch to be exhausted three days early. If I had coffee to hand, I would give it. I have none.”

  “Whether I believe you or Forrel makes little difference,” she said after a while. “In three days the heir will be in such a condition that nothing can disguise it. What would you seek to gain from that if it were deliberate? Let me see.”

  For a few minutes she sat lost in thought, while I watched her face intently. At last she stirre
d and sighed.

  “I cannot see how it would advantage you,” she said. “It seems certain that Pwill Himself would take revenge on the people of the Acre, and on you. Accordingly, I believe what you say. If I did not, I would whisper the word in the ear of Pwill Himself, and so gain yet more renown and respect. To be first with news is a, great thing, is it not?”

  “But since you do believe me—?” I suggested. She gave a neighing laugh.

  “Ah, for the first time I see you concerned about yourself, Earthman! I had almost come to think of you as an impassive puppet, without feelings or fears. I like you better as you now reveal yourself. What I will do is simple. This potion I have permits me to make Pwill believe whatever I choose to tell him. I shall tell him that it was Forrel who has been the go-between, who has been securing the secret hoards of coffee and deceiving him and my superior sister-wife Llaq. I shall tell him that you had nothing to do with it, and acted in all respect honestly. If I have time to tell him this several times over before the state of the heir is common knowledge, no matter what contrary evidence is brought by Forrel Pwill will refuse to credit it. Moreover, I will advise him against an attack on the Acre. How does that please you, my unasked-for ally?”

  A cunning little piece, this Shavarri! And indeed what she said pleased me very well—all except the last part, about the attack on the Acre. If I had guessed at Olafsson’s plan correctly, the whole aim was to make Pwill march against the Acre and thus bring the fury of the other houses down on his head. But I could not say so. Best be content with the insurance of my own safety, and then find some other way of precipitating the civil war. I rose and bowed deeply.

  “The Under-lady is as gracious as she is intelligent,” I said. She stared at me for a moment, and then laughed.

  “You Earthmen are so strange!” she said. “Never did I expect to hear any man compliment me for intelligence. At most a clever woman might hope for a word of praise for some single notion of hers, but not to be called intelligent. Earthman, I believe I could come to like you. Perhaps one day, when we are no longer bound to each other by mutual fear of betrayal—oh, we may be honest about it!—perhaps then we might learn to like one another.”