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 pro
ud, 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.
“Save aside the cataca seed until the war is over. The seedlings now in the greenhouses will have to be destroyed, but that cannot be helped.”
He stopped for a moment, and when he began again his voice took on a note of sadness.
“I will be away from you until the war is won. While I am gone, the barony will be run by my wife. You will obey her as you would me. The finances of the barony will be taken care of by my trusted man, Kevenoe.” He gestured to one side, and Kevenoe, who was standing there, smiled quickly and then looked grim again.
“As for the actual running of the barony—as far as labor is concerned—I think I can leave that in the hands of one of my most capable men.”
He raised his finger and pointed. There was a smile on his face.
Anketam felt as though he had been struck an actual blow; the finger was pointed directly at him.
“Anketam,” said The Chief, “I’m leaving the barony in your hands until I return. You will supervise the labor of all the men here. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” said Anketam weakly. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
IV
Never, for the rest of his life, would the sharp outlines of that moment fade from his memory. He knew that the men of the barony were all looking at him; he knew that The Chief went on talking afterwards. But those things impressed themselves but lightly on his mind, and they blurred soon afterwards. Twenty years later, in retelling the story, he would swear that The Chief had ended his speech at that point. He would swear that it was only seconds later that The Chief had jumped down from the gate and motioned for him to come over; his memory simply didn’t register anything between those two points.
But The Chief’s words after the speech—the words spoken to him privately—were bright and clear in his mind.
The Chief was a good three inches shorter than Anketam, but Anketam never noticed that. He just stood there in front of The Chief, wondering what more his Chief had to say.
“You’ve shown yourself to be a good farmer, Anketam,” Chief Samas said in a low voice. “Let’s see—you’re of Skebbin stock, I think?”
Anketam nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“The Skebbin family has always produced good men. You’re a credit to the Skebbins, Anketam.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’ve got a hard job ahead of you,” said The Chief. “Don’t fail me. Plant plenty of staple crops, make sure there’s enough food for everyone. If you think it’s profitable, add more to the animal stock. I’ve authorized Kevenoe to allow money for the purchase of breeding stock. You can draw whatever you need for that purpose.
“This war shouldn’t last too long. Another year, at the very most, and we’ll have forced the Invaders off Xedii. When I come back, I expect to find the barony in good shape, d’you hear?”
“Yes, sir. It will be.”
“I think it will,” said The Chief. “Good luck to you, Anketam.”
As The Chief turned away, Anketam said: “Thank you, sir—and good luck to you, sir.”
Chief Samas turned back again. “By the way,” he said, “there’s one more thing. I know that men don’t always agree on everything. If there is any dispute between you and Kevenoe, submit the question to my wife fo
r arbitration.” He hesitated. “However, I trust that there will not be many such disputes. A woman shouldn’t be bothered with such things any more than is absolutely necessary. It upsets them. Understand?”
Anketam nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Good-by, Anketam. I hope to see you again before the next harvest.” And with that, he turned and walked through the gate, toward the woman who was standing anxiously on the porch of his home.
Anketam turned away and started towards his own village. Most of the others had already begun the trek back. But Jacovik, Blejjo, and Basom were waiting for him. They fell into step beside him.
After a while, Jacovik broke the silence. “Well, Ank, it looks like you’ve got a big job on your hands.”
“That’s for sure,” said Anketam. He knew that Jacovik envied him the job; he knew that Jacovik had only missed the appointment by a narrow margin.
“Jac,” he said, “have you got a man on your crew that you can trust to take over your job?”
“Madders could do it, I think,” Jacovik said cautiously. “Why?”
“This is too big a job for one man,” said Anketam quietly. “I’ll need help. I want you to help me, Jac.”
There was a long silence while the men walked six paces. Then Jacovik said: “I’ll do whatever I can, Ank. Whatever I can.” There was honest warmth in his voice.
Again there was a silence.
“Blejjo,” Anketam said after a time, “do you mind coming out of retirement for a while?”
“Not if you need me, Ank,” said the old man.
“It won’t be hard work,” Anketam said. “I just want you to take care of the village when I’m not there. Settle arguments, assign the village work, give out punishment if necessary—things like that. As far as the village is concerned, you’ll be supervisor.”
“What about the field work, Ank?” Blejjo asked. “I’m too old to handle that. Come spring, and—”
The Military Megapack Page 67