Anketam grinned at the boy. “Well, now, that’s an excuse I’ll accept. Come on, Blejjo, this is not a sport for old men like us. Fishing is more our speed.”
Chuckling, Blejjo shouldered his fishing pole, and the two men started down the dusty village street toward the road that led to the river.
* * * *
They walked in silence for a while, trying to ignore the glaring sun that brought the sweat out on their skins, soaking the sweatbands of their broad-brimmed hats and running in little rivulets down their bodies.
“I kind of feel sorry for that boy,” old Blejjo said at last.
“Oh?” said Anketam. “How so? He’ll get along. He’s improving. Why, he did as good a job of transplanting as any man this spring. Last year, he bruised the seedlings, but I gave him a good dressing down and he remembered it. He’ll be all right.”
“I’m not talking about that, Ank,” said the old man, “I mean him and Zillia. He’s really got a case on with that girl.”
“Anything wrong with that? A young fellow’s got a right to fall in love, hasn’t he? And Zillia seems pretty keen on him, too. If her father doesn’t object, everything ought to go along pretty smoothly.”
“Her father might not object,” said Blejjo, looking down at his feet as they paced off the dusty road. “But there’s others who might object.”
“Who, for instance?”
Blejjo was silent for several steps. Then he said: “Well, Kevenoe, for one.”
Anketam thought that over in silence. Kevenoe was on The Chief’s staff at the castle. Like many staff men—including, Anketam thought wryly, his own brother Russat, on occasion—he tended to lord it over the farmers who worked the land. “Kevenoe has an eye on Zillia?” he asked after a moment.
“I understand he’s asked Chief Samas for her as soon as she’s eighteen. That would be this fall, after harvest.”
“I see,” Anketam said thoughtfully. He didn’t ask how the old man had come about his knowledge. Old Blejjo had little to do, and on the occasions that he had to do some work around The Chief’s castle, he made it a point to pick up gossip. But he was careful with his information; he didn’t go spreading it around for all to hear, and he made it a point to verify his information before he passed it on. Anketam respected the old man. He was the only one in the village who called him “Ank,” outside of Memi.
“Do you think The Chief will give her to Kevenoe?” he asked.
Blejjo nodded. “Looks like it. He thinks a great deal of Kevenoe.”
“No reason why he shouldn’t,” said Anketam. “Kevenoe’s a good man.”
“Oh, I know that,” said the old man. “But Basom won’t like it at all. And I don’t think Zillia will, either.”
“That’s the way things happen,” said Anketam. “A man can’t expect to go through life having everything his own way. There’s other girls around for Basom. If he can’t have the prettiest, he’ll have to be satisfied with someone else.” He chuckled. “That’s why I picked Memi. She’s not beautiful and never was, but she’s a wonderful wife.”
“That’s so,” said Blejjo. “A wise man is one who only wants what he knows he can have. Right now”—he took off his hat and wiped his bald head—“all I want is a dip in that river.”
“Swim first and then fish?”
“I think so, don’t you? Basom was right about this hot sun.”
“I’ll go along with you,” agreed Anketam.
They made their way to the river, to the shallow place at the bend where everyone swam. There were a dozen and more kids there, having a great time in the slow moving water, and several of the older people soaking themselves and keeping an eye on the kids to make sure they didn’t wander out to where the water was deep and the current swift.
Anketam and Blejjo took off their clothes and cooled themselves in the water for a good half hour before they dressed again and went on upriver to a spot where Blejjo swore the fish were biting.
They were. In the next four hours, the two men had caught six fish apiece, and Blejjo was trying for his seventh. Here, near the river, there was a slight breeze, and it was fairly cool beneath the overhanging branches of the closely bunched trees.
Blejjo had spotted a big, red-and-yellow striped beauty loafing quietly in a back eddy, and he was lowering his hook gently to a point just in front of the fish when both men heard the voice calling.
“Anketam! Anketam! Blejjo! Where you at?”
Blejjo went on with his careful work, knowing that Anketam would take care of whatever it was.
Anketam recognized the voice. He stood up and called: “Over here, Basom! What’s the trouble?”
A minute later, Basom came running through the trees, his feet crashing through the underbrush.
Blejjo sat up abruptly, an angry look on his face. “Basom, you scared my fish away.”
“Fish, nothing,” said Basom. “I ran all the way here to tell you!” He was grinning widely and panting for breath at the same time.
“You suddenly got an awful lot of energy,” Blejjo said sourly.
“What happened?” Anketam asked.
“The invasion!” Basom said between breaths. “Kevenoe himself came down to tell us! They’ve started the invasion! The war’s on!”
“Than what are you looking so happy about?” Anketam snapped.
“That’s what I came to tell you.” Basom’s grin didn’t fade in the least. “They landed up in the Frozen Country, where our missiles couldn’t get ‘em, according to Kevenoe. Then they started marching down on one of the big towns. Tens of thousands of ‘em! And we whipped ‘em! Our army cut ‘em to pieces and sent ‘em running back to their base! We won! We won!”
III
The battle had been won, but the war wasn’t won yet. The invaders had managed to establish a good-sized base up in the Frozen Country. They’d sneaked their ships in and had put up a defensive system that stopped any high-speed missiles. Not that Xedii had many missiles. Xedii was an agricultural planet; most manufactured articles were imported. It had never occurred to the government of Xedii that there would be any real need for implements of war.
The invaders seemed to be limiting their use of weapons, too. They wanted to control the planet, not destroy it. Through the summer and into the autumn, Anketam listened to the news as it filtered down from the battlegrounds. There were skirmishes here and there, but nothing decisive. Xedii seemed to be holding her own against the invaders.
After the first news of the big victory, things settled back pretty much to normal.
The harvest was good that year, but after the leaves were shredded and dried, they went into storage warehouses. The invaders had set up a patrol system around Xedii which prevented the slow cargo ships from taking off or landing. A few adventurous space officers managed to get a ship out now and then, but those few flights could hardly be called regular trade shipments.
The cool of winter had come when Chief Samas did something he had never done before. He called all the men in the barony to assemble before the main gate of the castle enclosure. He had a speech to make.
For the first time, Anketam felt a touch of apprehension. He got his crew together, and they walked to the castle in silence, wondering what it was that The Chief had to say.
All the men of the barony, except those who couldn’t be spared from their jobs, were assembled in front of Chief Samas’ baronial castle.
The castle itself was not a single building. Inside the four-foot-high thorn hedge that surrounded the two-acre area, there were a dozen buildings of hard, irridescent plastic shining in the sun. They all looked soft and pleasant and comfortable. Even the thorn hedge, filled as it was by the lacy leaves that concealed the hard, sharp thorns, looked soft and inviting.
Anketam listened to the soft murmur of whispered conversation from the men around him. They stood quietly outside the main gate that led into the castle area, waiting for The Chief to appear, and wondering among themselves what it was that The
Chief had to say.
“You think the invaders have won?”
Anketam recognized the hoarse whisper from the man behind him. He turned to face the dark, squat, hard-looking man who had spoken. “It couldn’t be, Jacovik. It couldn’t be.”
The other supervisor looked down at his big, knuckle-scarred hands instead of looking at Anketam. He was not a handsome man, Jacovik; his great, beaklike nose was canted to one side from a break that had come in his teens; his left eye was squinted almost closed by the scar tissue that surrounded it, and the right only looked better by comparison. His eyebrows, his beard, and the fringe of hair that outlined his bald head made an incongruous pale yellow pattern against the sunburnt darkness of his face. In his youth, Jacovik had been almost pathologically devoted to boxing—even to the point of picking fights with others in his village for no reason at all, except to fight. Twice, he had been brought up before The Chief’s court because of the severe beating he had given to men bigger than he, and he had finally killed a man with his fists.
Chief Samas had given him Special Punishment for that, and a final warning that the next fight would be punished by death.
Anketam didn’t know whether it was that threat, or the emotional reaction Jacovik had suffered from killing a man, or simply that he had had some sense beaten into his head, but from that moment on Jacovik was a different man. He had changed from a thug into a determined, ambitious man. In twenty-two years, he had not used his fists except to discipline one of his crew, and that had only happened four times that Anketam knew of. Jacovik had shown that he had ability as well as strength, that he could control men by words as well as by force, and The Chief had made him a supervisor. He had proved himself worthy of the job; next to Anketam, he was the best supervisor in the barony.
Anketam had a great deal of respect for the little, wide-shouldered, barrel-chested man who stood there looking at the scars on the backs of his hands.
Jacovik turned his hands over and looked at the calloused palms. “How do we know? Maybe the Council of Chiefs has given up. Maybe they’ve authorized the President to surrender. After all, we’re not fighters; we’re farmers. The invaders outnumber us. They’ve got us cut off by a blockade, to keep us from sending out the harvest. They’ve got machines and weapons.” He looked up suddenly, his bright blue eyes looking straight into Anketam’s. “How do we know?”
Anketam’s grin was hard. “Look, Jac; the invaders have said that they intend to smash our whole society, haven’t they? Haven’t they?”
Jacovik nodded.
“And they want to break up the baronies—take everything away from the Chiefs—force us farmers to give up the security we’ve worked all our lives for. That’s what they’ve said, isn’t it?”
Jacovik nodded again.
“Well, then,” Anketam continued remorselessly, “do you think the Chiefs would give up easily? Are they going to simply smile and shake hands with the invaders and say: ‘Go ahead, take all our property, reduce us to poverty, smash the whole civilization we’ve built up, destroy the security and peace of mind of millions of human beings, and then send your troops in to rule us by martial law.’ Are they going to do that? Are they?”
Jacovik spread his big, hard hands. “I don’t know. I’m not a Chief. I don’t know how their minds work. Do you? Maybe they’ll think surrender would be better than having all of Xedii destroyed inch by inch.”
Anketam shook his head. “Never. The Chiefs will fight to the very end. And they’ll win in the long run because right is on their side. The invaders have no right to change our way of living; they have no right to impose their way of doing things on us. No, Jac—the Chiefs will never give up. They haven’t surrendered yet, and they never will. They’ll win. The invaders will be destroyed.”
Jacovik frowned, completely closing his left eye. “You’ve always been better at thinking things out that I, Ank.” He paused and looked down at his hands again. “I hope you’re right, Ank. I hope you’re right.”
* * * *
In spite of his personal conviction that he was right, Anketam had to admit that Jacovik had reason for his own opinion. He knew that many of the farmers were uncertain about the ultimate outcome of the war.
Anketam looked around him at the several hundred men who made up the farming force of the barony. His own crew were standing nearby, mixing with Jacovik’s crew and talking in low voices. In the cool winter air, Anketam could still detect the aroma of human bodies, the smell of sweat that always arose when a crowd of people were grouped closely together. And he thought he could detect a faint scent of fear and apprehension in that atmosphere.
Or was that just his imagination, brought on by Jacovik’s pessimism?
He opened his lips to say something to Jacovik, but his words died unborn. The sudden silence in the throng around him, the abrupt cessation of whispering, told him, more definitely than a chorus of trumpets could have done, that The Chief had appeared.
He turned around quickly, to face the Main Gate again.
The Main Gate was no higher than the thorn-bush hedge that it pierced. It was a heavily built, intricately decorated piece of polished goldwood, four feet high and eight feet across, set in a sturdy goldwood frame. The arch above the gate reached a good ten feet, giving The Chief plenty of room to stand.
He was just climbing up to stand on the gate itself as Anketam turned.
Chief Samas was a tall man, lean of face and wide of brow. His smooth-shaven chin was long and angular, and his dark eyes were deeply imbedded beneath heavy, bushy eyebrows.
And he was dressed in clothing cut in a manner that Anketam had never seen before.
He stood there, tall and proud, a half smile on his face. It was several seconds before he spoke. During that time, there was no sound from the assembled farmers.
“Men,” he said at last, “I think that none of you have seen this uniform before. I look odd in it, do I not?”
The men recognized The Chief’s remark as a joke, and a ripple of laughter ran through the crowd.
The Chief’s smile broadened. “Odd indeed. Yes. And do you perceive the golden emblems, here at my throat? They, and the uniform, indicate that I have been chosen to help lead the armed forces—a portion of them, I should say.”
He smiled around at the men. “The Council of Chiefs has authorized the President to appoint me a Colonel of Light Tank. I am expected to lead our armored forces into battle against the damned Invaders.”
A cheer came from the farmers, loud and long. Anketam found himself yelling as loud as anyone. The pronunciation and the idiom of the speech of the Chiefs was subtly different from those of the farmers, but Anketam could recognize the emphasis that his Chief was putting on the words of his speech. “Invaders.” With a capital “I.”
The Chief held up his hands, and the cheering died. At the same time, the face of Chief Samas lost its smile.
“I will be gone for some time,” he said somberly. “The Council feels that it will be two or three years before we have finally driven the Invaders from our planet. This will not be a simple war, nor an easy one. The blockade of orbital ships which encircle Xedii keep us from making proper contact with any friends that we may have outside the circle of influence of the damned Invaders. We are, at the moment, fighting alone. And yet, in spite of that—in spite of that, I say—we have thus far held the enemy at a standstill. And, in the long run, we shall win.”
He took a deep breath then, and his baritone voice thundered out when he spoke.
“Shall win? No! We must win! None of you want to become slaves in the factories of the Invaders. I know that, and you know it. Who among you would slave your life away in the sweatshops of the Invaders, knowing that those for whom you worked might, at any time, simply deprive you of your livelihood at their own whim, since they feel no sense of responsibility toward you as individuals?”
Again The Chief stopped, and his eyes sought out each man in turn.
“If there are any
such among you, I renounce you at this moment. If there are any such, I ask…nay, I plead…I order…I order you to go immediately to the Invaders.”
Another deep breath. No one moved.
“You have all heard the propaganda of the Invaders. You know that they have offered you—well, what? Freedom? Yes, that’s the way they term it. Freedom.” Another pause. “Freedom. Hah!”
He put his hands on his hips. “None of you have ever seen a really regimented society—and I’m thankful that you haven’t. I hope that you never will.”
Chief Samas twisted his lips into an expression of hatred. “Freedom? Freedom from what! Freedom to do what?
“I’ll tell you. Freedom to work in their factories for twelve hours a day! Freedom to work until you are no longer of any use to them, and then be turned out to die—with no home, and no food to support you. Freedom to live by yourselves, with every man’s hand against you, with every pittance that you earn taxed to support a government that has no thought for the individual!
“Is that what you want? Is that what you’ve worked for all your lives?”
A visual chorus of shaken heads accompanied the verbal chorus of “No.”
Chief Samas dropped his hands to his sides. “I thought not. But I will repeat: If any of you want to go to the Invaders, you may do so now.”
Anketam noticed a faint movement to his right, but it stopped before it became decisive. He glanced over, and he noticed that young Basom was standing there, half poised, as though unable to make up his mind.
Then The Chief’s voice bellowed out again. “Very well. You are with me. I will leave the work of the barony in your hands. I ask that you produce as much as you can. Next year—next spring—we will not plant cataca.”
There was a low intake of breath from the assembled men. Not plant cataca? That was the crop that they had grown since—well, since ever. Anketam felt as though someone had jerked a rug from beneath him.
“There is a reason for this,” The Chief went on. “Because of the blockade that surrounds Xedii, we are unable to export cataca leaves. The rest of the galaxy will have to do without the drug that is extracted from the leaves. The incident of cancer will rise to the level it reached before the discovery of cataca. When they understand that we cannot ship out because of the Invader’s blockade, they will force the Invader to stop his attack on us. What we need now is not cataca, but food. So, next spring, you will plant food crops.
The Randall Garrett Megapack Page 32