The Enemy of My Enemy (25 page)

But that was not their plan. What the plan was came out of the rains again behind and above the insurgent forces, were not even seen until, diving down, they were almost upon them. It may have been instinct rather than fearful awareness which made so many of the Volanth break and run; Tarnisi in floats in time of war had never meant anything but death before. It did not mean anything different now. Nor did running gain escape. Not all, perhaps not even most, tried to get away. Those who stood their ground aimed and threw their five-dem units, the black eggs which brought them victory before. Not one single float escaped, and not one man in any of them but had realized it must be so. But the destruction of the floats was not caused by the dark ovoids alone.
That
, some did escape — and this must have been the hope behind the suicide attack. There on that waste ground between river, town, and port, the smell of smoke mingling with the smell of the wet earth, shouts and cries and confusion, rage and terror, before the dust of the destroyed floats could sink, sodden, to the ground, the others had crashed. Crashed upon and in the midst of their enemies. Laden with fuel and fire charges and with, seemingly, every bit of scrap metal the craft could bear without losing altitude, each craft in itself a deadlier weapon than any had ever been before: crashed in a holocaust of fire and steam and flying, rending, metal.

And then and only then the Tarnisi came charging. They had the advantage of both surprise and confusion for long enough to gain the ground. They slipped in their enemies’ blood and they got up and came charging on, firing, firing, screaming, running. The rains became torrential. Tarnisi, Volanth, mud, water, fire, disintegration, Quasi, shouts, body locked with slippery body, hands clawing at throats, thumbs gouging at eyes, teeth seeking and clicking and sinking into flesh, fist, and foot and, at the last, sheer pressure of weight. It was the last battle, it was the re-enactment of every ancient and bloody prophecy and legend. It was Ragnarok and Waterloo and Armageddon.

And the rain beat down upon all alike, as though to emphasize the hostility of the universe itself.

• • •

Sarlamat’s face stared back at him, look for look, no withdrawal, no begging, no change, no regret. It was clean from the rains; no drop of blood remained in the wound. Indeed, it seemed that no drop of blood remained in the body. Cominthal, standing by Tonoro’s side, bent, and spat in the dead man’s face. Tonoro said, “Why bother … .”

“He hated us until the last,” his cousin said. “It was he who rallied the Tarnisi, wasn’t it? It was his idea to pour the fuel into the river and then to fasten the fire-charges onto those foreign water-things of yours and turn them loose to burn the river and the town. And it was his idea, too — that last, mad try with the floats. He almost won. He hated us.”

“No,” Tonoro said, wearily. “He didn’t. He didn’t hate us at all. He wasn’t a Tarnisi, he was — probably — a Lermencasi, disguised, as I was. He had no prejudice, believe me. He didn’t hate us. He was indifferent to us.”

Cominthal said, “Then that makes it worse. I can find it in my heart to understand the Tarnisi. They did what their fathers did. He didn’t have that excuse.”

Tonoro nodded. He felt drained of hatred, drained of love, fear, ambition, desire. It was as well that he did not even have the desire to rest, because there was no time to rest. To the Pemathi standing behind him, he said, gesturing, “Bury him. Bury them all.”

To Cominthal he said, “We have to talk about the future.”

The man nodded, frowned. “The Bahon have many plans … .”

They did, indeed. And, indeed, it was about those plans that Tonoro had to talk. After the battle the victors had bewailed their dead. And after bewailing and then burying, a great silence seemed to descend upon the land. Here and there, surprisingly, fire still smoldered. Now and then a dazed or a terrified Tarnisi survivor still turned up. No one seemed to know what to do. No one knew, exactly, what he even wanted to do. Except, of course, the Bahon.

Bishdar Shronk, growling now in a different key, said, “Wandering around and sight-seeing will accomplish no good. Looting and parading in fancy clothes will accomplish no good. Nor will returning to the Outlands and trying to take up the old ways. It is necessary to begin the work of reconstruction immediately, before these useless practices become habitual. Only by proceeding according to the plans of the United Syndicates can the work of reconstruction be accomplished successfully.”

The weight of truth and experience was behind his words. A power vacuum existed, and it had to be filled. One way or the other. Tonoro agreed. Cominthal agreed. The Quasi could no longer live as strivers or as parasites. The Volanth could not return to hunting, fishing and primitive farming, as though nothing had changed but the disappearance of the oppressor class. The tenuous screen of Tarnisi obscurantism was no longer there to keep out the present century. The law of social gravity would now work unchecked; the present
had
to come in. If no nation, no modern nation, presided over its entrance, then private people, even, no doubt, pirates and freebooters, would provide their own presence. Logically, the Bahon were best suited to the work. They were experienced in it. They were desirous of doing it. And, perhaps most of all, they were there on hand. They were present.

So, then, the Bahon. And their plans.

Compulsory education. Voluntary ignorance was a luxury the new nation could not afford.

Compulsory personal engagement in the work of construction and reconstruction. Voluntary idleness was a vice the new nation could not afford.

Compulsory commitment to the most modern forms of syndicated agriculture and industry. Individualism was a crime the new nation could not afford.

Books, plans, scrolls, screened illustrations, speeches, exhortations, diagrams, showing how the Bahon would guide, how the Bahon would build, the Bahon create, the Bahon market, the Bahon assist, do, teach, advance, improve —

Tonoro blinked. He nodded, almost out of habit. He frowned, very slightly. In the clear air, still smelling of the smoke which was no longer visible except in a very few places, down the road which had been partially cleared, a crew of Pemathi were at work bringing up supplies out of the unburned ruins. It was rather surprising how much still remained. “What are they doing with them?” he asked.

Bishdar Shronk said, in his rough, confident voice, “They work for mercenary wages as part of the system of exploitation. So it is only fair that, for the present, they work without wages as part of the system of reconstruction. In a very short while the program of education will be extended to them as well, for — ”

“Yes, yes. But what are they
doing
with those goods? Now that I think of it, I observed that Pemathi crews are at work in all the warehouses. What’s up?”

Bishdar Shronk nodded his assent to the serious validity of the question. “The people of Bahon,” he explained, “have made innumerable sacrifices over a long period of time, building up a free system to the point where they are now, fortunately, able — and not only able, but willing and happy — to have aided and to aid other peoples and nations in the task of doing the same. By partial, I must emphasize, only partial compensation, your people will demonstrate their willingness to sacrifice something in order to build and to prove to all the other oppressing and exploiting nations that … ” He spoke for a very long time, fluently, persuasively, coherently. And all the time he was talking, the supplies continued to be put in readiness to be sent off to Baho.

He was so astonished at their not going off that he could scarcely express his outrage that he and the other Bahon were going off, instead. Finally, his growling done, his large mouth small and grim, he spoke shortly. “We will be back,” he said. “We cannot be kept out.”

“You will, indeed, I must hope,” Tonoro agreed. “And not in anger, either. But on terms which will be mutually agreeable. And not alone.”

Cominthal was half-glad, half-doubtful. “Their plans were too difficult,” he said. “They wanted to move too fast. We aren’t used to that. But … What are we going to do?” he asked. “Now? Instead … .”

Tonoro explained his own notions to him. Presently, he would explain them to all the others, Quasi and Volanth and prisoners and refugees alike. Tarnis was part of Orinel. And all of Orinel had now to help them here in Tarnis, those nations which belonged to the Interleague Council and those which did not. Everyone coulcl contribute something. Everyone would. Even the Bahon.

“Even the Lermencasi?”

“Even the Lermencasi.”

Cominthal sucked in his breath as though he found it a trifle painful. Still, he seemed relieved. Still, he seemed puzzled.

“But … you said … prisoners and refugees, too. Why?”

“When I said, ‘everyone,’ I meant, ‘everyone.’ Even the Tarnisi. Oh, yes. Oh, yes. Even the Tarnisi. The sins of this generation of them were heavy and great. But they have paid greatly and heavily. The debt of this generation has been paid, and to hold any generation to blame for the debts or the deeds of another generation is insane.

“We need help. The Bahon can teach us industry, the Lermencasi can teach us commerce, the Pemathi can teach us diligence, and so on and on. But who will teach us how to live when we are not being taught? We cannot learn and build and buy and sell all the time. I see so clearly now that we will learn these other matters from those who are really, despite everything, closest to us of all. Some, of course, wont want to. Either they will fight on and be killed and captured and sent away, or they can go away of their own free will. And those who are already in exile, they can make their choice: Return and work with us, or stay where you are. ‘You forgive us and we will forgive you.’ Or else, wander in exile and warm yourselves with your hate.

“It may be easier for the Volanth. They endured violence, they performed violence. The slate is clean. But for you … for the Quasi … . it may be more difficult. We were closer to the Tarnisi; they spurned us more often simply because we were — and are — closer. Can we lie to ourselves, deny our own biology? We are at least as much them as we are anything else. It wasn’t just imitating, trying to pass. It was acting out a realized truth. And now all of that must move into a newer, better phase.”

Cominthal gave a long, deep sigh. “It never was easy. Maybe we just exchange the hard things, this one for that one. But, average them all, it should come out easier. Well, you talk first. We’ll ask them to come and listen. — Where?”

Fortunately or unfortunately, the Tree of Consultation was still standing. Its trunk was broad, its branches wide, and it stood between the sunlight and the shade.