Short Fiction by Mack Reynolds (ready to read books .TXT) 📕

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 are but eight of you and many, many of us. We do not want your⁠ ⁠… State. Return from whence you came.”

Plekhanov shook his massive head at the other. “Whether or not you want these changes they will be made. If you fail to cooperate, we will find someone who will. I suggest you make the most of it.”

Taller arose from the squat stool upon which he’d been seated. “I have listened and I do not like what you have said. I am Khan of all the People. Now leave in peace, or I shall order my warriors⁠ ⁠…”

“Joe,” Plekhanov said flatly. “Watson!”

Joe Chessman took his heavy gun from its holster and triggered it twice. The roar of the explosions reverberated thunderously in the confined space, deafening all, and terrifying the Tulans. Bright red colored the robes the Khan wore, colored them without beauty. Bright red splattered the floor.

Leonid Plekhanov stared at his second in command, wet his thick lips. “Joe,” he sputtered. “I hadn’t⁠ ⁠… I didn’t expect you to be so⁠ ⁠… hasty.”

Joe Chessman growled, “We’ve got to let them know where we stand, right now, or they’ll never hold still for us. Cover the doors, Watson, Roberts.” He motioned to the others with his head. “Cogswell, Hawkins, Stevens, get to those windows and watch.”

Taller was a crumbled heap on the floor. The other Texcocans stared at his body in shocked horror.

All expect Reif.

Reif bent down over his father’s body for a moment, and then looked up, his lips white, at Plekhanov. “He is dead.”

Leonid Plekhanov collected himself. “Yes.”

Reif’s cold face was expressionless. He looked at Joe Chessman who stood stolidly to one side, gun still in hand.

Reif said, “You can supply such weapons to my armies?”

Plekhanov said, “That is our intention, in time.”

Reif came erect. “Subject to the approval of the clan leaders, I am now Khan. Tell me more of this State of which you have spoken.”

IV

The sergeant stopped the small company about a quarter of a mile from the city of Bari. His detachment numbered only ten but they were well armed with short swords and blunderbusses and wore mail and steel helmets. On the face of it, they would have been a match for ten times this number of merchants.

It was hardly noon but the sergeant had obviously already been at his wine flask. He leered at them. “And where do you think you go?”

The merchant who led the rest was a thin little man but he was richly robed and astride a heavy black