The Mack Reynolds Megapack. Mack Reynolds
“They are not of the People. They are prisoners taken in battle.”
Mynor said, “Their lives please the gods.”
“There are no gods, as you probably know,” Plekhanov said flatly. “You will no longer sacrifice prisoners.”
A hush fell on the Texcocans. Joe Chessman let his hand drop to his weapon. The movement was not lost on Taller’s son, whose eyes narrowed.
The Khan looked at the burly Plekhanov for a long moment. He said slowly, “Our institutions fit our needs. What would you have us do with these people? They are our enemies. If we turn them loose, they will fight us again. If we keep them imprisoned, they will eat our food. We…Tulans are not poor, we have food aplenty, for we Tulans, but we cannot feed all the thousands of prisoners we take in our wars.”
Joe Chessman said dryly, “As of today there is a new policy. We put them to work.”
Plekhanov rumbled at him, “I’ll explain our position, Chessman, if you please.” Then to the Tulans. “To develop this planet we’re going to need the labor of every man, woman and child capable of work.”
Taller said, “Perhaps your suggestion that we retire to a less public place is desirable. Will you follow?” He spoke a few words to an officer of the warriors, who shouted orders.
* * * *
The Khan led the way, Plekhanov and Chessman followed side by side and the other Earthlings, their weapons unostentatiously ready, were immediately behind. Mynor the priest, Taller’s son and the other Tulan officials brought up the rear.
In what was evidently the reception hall of Taller’s official residence, the newcomers were made as comfortable as fur padded low stools provided. Half a dozen teenaged Tulans brought a cool drink similar to cocoa; it seemed to give a slight lift.
Taller had not become Khan of the most progressive nation on Texcoco by other than his own abilities. He felt his way carefully now. He had no manner of assessing the powers wielded by these strangers from space. He had no intention of precipitating a situation in which he would discover such powers to his sorrow.
He said carefully, “You have indicated that you intend major changes in the lives of the People.”
“Of all Texcocans,” Plekhanov said, “you Tulans are merely the beginning.”
Mynor, the aged priest, leaned forward. “But why? We do not want these changes—whatever they may be. Already the Khan has allowed you to interfere with our worship of our gods. This will mean—”
Plekhanov growled, “Be silent, old man, and don’t bother to mention, ever again, your so-called gods. And now, all of you listen. Perhaps some of this will not be new, how much history has come down to you I don’t know.
“A thousand years ago a colony of one hundred persons was left here on Texcoco. It will one day be of scholarly interest to trace them down through the centuries but at present the task does not interest us. This expedition has been sent to recontact you, now that you have populated Texcoco and made such adaptations as were necessary to survive here. Our basic task is to modernize your society, to bring it to an industrialized culture.”
Plekhanov’s eyes went to Taller’s son. “I assume you are a soldier?”
Taller said, “This is Reif, my eldest, and by our custom, second in command of the People’s armies. As Khan, I am first.”
Reif nodded coldly to Plekhanov. “I am a soldier.” He hesitated for a moment, then added, “And willing to die to protect the People.”
“Indeed,” Plekhanov rumbled, “as a soldier you will be interested to know that our first step will involve the amalgamation of all the nations and tribes of this planet. Not a small task. There should be opportunity for you.”
Taller said, “Surely you speak in jest. The People have been at war for as long as scribes have records and never have we been stronger than today, never larger. To conquer the world! Surely you jest.”
Plekhanov grunted ungraciously. He looked to Barry Watson, a lanky youth, now leaning negligently against the wall, his submachine gun, however, at the easy ready. “Watson, you’re our military expert. Have you any opinions as yet?”
“Yes, sir,” Watson said easily. “Until we can get iron weapons and firearms into full production, I suggest the Macedonian phalanx for their infantry. They have the horse, but evidently the wheel has gone out of use. We’ll introduce the chariot and also heavy carts to speed up logistics. We’ll bring in the stirruped saddle, too. I have available for study, works on every cavalry leader from Tamerlane to Jeb Stuart. Yes, sir, I have some ideas.”
Plekhanov pursed his heavy lips. “From the beginning we’re going to need manpower on a scale never dreamed of locally. We’ll adopt a policy of expansion. Those who join us freely will become members of the State with full privileges. Those who resist will be made prisoners of war and used for shock labor on the roads and in the mines. However, a man works better if he has a goal, a dream. Each prisoner will be freed and become a member of the State after ten years of such work.”
He turned to his subordinates. “Roberts and Hawkins, you will begin tomorrow to seek the nearest practical sources of iron ore and coal. Wherever you discover them we’ll direct our first military expeditions. Chessman and Cogswell, you’ll assemble their best artisans and begin their training in such basic advancements as the wheel.”
Taller said softly, “You speak of advancement but thus far you have mentioned largely war and on such a scale that I wonder how many of the People will survive. What advancement? We have all we wish.”
Plekhanov cut him off with a curt motion of his hand. He indicated the hieroglyphics on the chamber’s walls. “How long does it take to learn such writing?”
Mynor, the priest, said, “This is a mystery known only to the priesthood. One spends ten years in preparation to be a scribe.”
“We’ll teach you a new method which will have every citizen of the State reading and writing within a year.”
The Tulans gaped at him.
He moved ponderously over to Roberts, drew from its scabbard the sword bayonet the other had at his hip. He took it and slashed savagely at a stone pillar, gouging a heavy chunk from it. He tossed the weapon to Reif, whose eyes lit up.
“What metals have you been using? Copper, bronze? Probably. Well, that’s steel. You’re going to move into the iron age overnight.”
He turned to Taller. “Are your priests also in charge of the health of your people?” he growled. “Are their cures obtained from mumbo-jumbo and a few herbs found in the desert? Within a decade, I’ll guarantee you that not one of your major diseases will remain.”
He turned to the priest and said, “Or perhaps this will be the clincher for some of you. How many years do you have, old man?”
Mynor said with dignity, “I am sixty-four.”
Plekhanov said churlishly, “And I am two hundred and thirty-three.” He called to Stevens, “I think you’re our youngest. How old are you?”
Stevens grinned, “Hundred and thirteen, next month.”
Mynor opened his mouth, closed it again. No man but would prolong his youth. Of a sudden he felt old, old.
Plekhanov turned back to Taller. “Most of the progress we have to offer is beyond your capacity to understand. We’ll give you freedom from want. Health. We’ll give you advances in every art. We’ll eventually free every citizen from drudgery, educate him, give him the opportunity to enjoy intellectual curiosity. We’ll open the stars to him. All these things the coming of the State will eventually mean to you.”
Tula’s Khan was not impressed. “This you tell us, man from First Earth. But to achieve these you plan to change every phase of our lives and we are happy with…Tula…the way it is. I say this to you. There