Match of the Day

by Chris Boucher

  ‘Present findings?’ the Doctor objected without moving. ‘I object, your refereeness, or should that be your refereeship?

  Or just ref? What is the correct form of address? Is it ump?

  I’m new to this and I wouldn’t want to give offence to the court.’

  ‘You will not address the Court of Attack until you are bidden to do so,’ the High Referee said. ‘And you will not address the High Referee and Senior Umpire at all unless responding directly to a question or an instruction.’

  ‘I understand,’ the Doctor said.

  ‘The Fight Replay Panel will present the record of its findings,’ the High Referee repeated.

  ‘I object,’ the Doctor said. ‘How can findings be presented when no evidence has been heard?’

  ‘The Fight Replay Panel will present the record of its findings,’ the High Referee persisted in an even tone.

  ‘Findings will be replayed and reviewed, action and reaction, move and countermove will be put to analysis, analysis will be assessed, assessment shall be agreed. The Rules of Attack must and will be satisfied. Is the Fight Replay Panel present and ready to present the record of its findings?’

  ‘It is present; the eight men replied in unison. ‘And ready to present the record of its findings.’

  ‘The record of the findings of the Fight Replay Panel are accepted,’ the High Referee intoned solemnly.

  ‘I object,’ the Doctor said. ‘Defence does not have a copy.’

  The High Referee was finally annoyed it seemed. He glared at the Doctor. ‘Are you trying to insult the Court?’ he hissed.

  The Doctor was suddenly conscious of the two ceremonial handguns that hung in ornate holsters from the arms of the High Referee’s chair. At least he had assumed up until now that they were ceremonial. The way the man was leaning forward and resting his hands on the guns seemed to suggest to the Doctor that he might have misunderstood their purpose. ‘I’m trying to defend my client,’ he said getting slowly to his feet. ‘Which I believe is my right under agent-fighter privilege and which I hope to argue is part of our first and second subsection rights under Kill Rule Two.’

  The High Referee took his hands from the guns and sat back in his chair. ‘Rule Two, first and second subsections,’

  he said. He thought for a moment then said, ‘In due time.

  First the record of the findings.’

  ‘It is behind you, Doctor,’ Leela said quietly before the Doctor could object again. The record of the findings they talk of is behind you.’ She was looking back at the flat wall that was the diameter slice across the half arena.

  The Doctor turned his head. The door through which they had entered the room had disappeared .Within the high wall Leela was fighting the security man, over and over again, normal speed, slow motion, stop-frame, from every side and every angle, close up and long shot. No movement, no facial expression had been missed by the cameras in the arena.

  From any and every angle the fight was short and expertly brutal. The Doctor looked at Leela watching herself. He saw to his dismay that she was smiling.

  Every alarm in the surveillance suite was going crazy. As last as the Shift Controller acknowledged and cancelled one, another klaxon would set up its electronic howl. There was no time to interrogate the system at each stage and get a reasoned analysis and some weighted options to choose from.

  Three snatch squads were already scrambled and en route but it looked as though more would be needed. The problem was major and escalating; the question was why? And there was the possibility that this was just a feint to pull all Security’s resources to one section so that the main thrust could be mounted in another. What main thrust though?

  Who were these people?

  It suddenly occurred to the Shift Controller that it might be a drill. Oh no, supposing it’s a drill, he thought. If it’s a drill this is a test and if this is a test then I’m failing it. What should he do? Where was scuffling computer back-up when you needed it? He hadn’t got vision from the intercept

  ‘copters, he hadn’t got anything. How was he supposed to make decisions under these conditions! He keyed Snatch One communications. ‘Snatch One, Snatch One?’

  ‘Snatch One aye.’

  ‘Where are my pictures Snatch One?’

  ‘We’re only just airborne Control. There’s nothing to see.’

  ‘Kick it Snatch One! I’m blind and deaf here!’

  The warning board lit up again and all the cancelled klaxons reactivated. The computer was clearly too subtle to cope with the sort of input it was getting. Suddenly Sita Benovides was at the controller’s elbow. ‘Are you going to scramble us or not?’

  ‘You’re in reserve,’ he snapped, all hopes of getting his hands on her body quite forgotten.

  ‘For what?’ she demanded, raising her voice above the cacophony. ‘You expecting them to come up the back stairs and tap you on the shoulder?’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m expecting!’ he shouted.

  ‘That much is obvious!’ she shouted back. ‘So I suppose a decision’s out of the question?’

  ‘Get back to your squad and wait.’

  ‘We’ve been waiting!’

  ‘Wait some more!’

  Keefer could hear the jet-copters coming. He lay in the shallow grave, breathing lightly through the thin tube he had pushed up into the air. All his concentration was focused on his hearing; his other senses could have no relevant input and he had excluded them as soon as he was sure the earth had covered him completely. He judged the ‘copters were still some way off but well within visual range when the first of the explosive shells detonated. He heard the change of engine note as the pilots threw the machines into standard evasion manoeuvres, breaking left and right to flank the hostile positions.

  The Shift Controller could not believe what he was seeing, or at least what he was almost seeing. ‘Snatch One, vision’s all over the place!’

  ‘We seem to be under fire, Control,’ the squad leader’s voice was tinged with panic. ‘We’re approaching four, four by three from the right flank. Snatch Two and Three are on the left.

  There’s a lot of smoke. Whoever’s firing is on the move. Can you see?’

  As the ‘copter banked and weaved the controller’s screen showed glimpses of smoke and what looked like muzzle flashes. Look at it! Look at that! He had to make a decision.

  He couldn’t delay any longer. He had to make up his mind.

  The tension was becoming an almost physical ache. He had to decide. What to do? What should he do? It was a sort of relief to let go and punch up the squad room and shout an order: ‘Snatch Four!’ he yelled.

  Sita Benovides smirked out of the screen at him. ‘Snatch Four aye!’

  Somehow the decision overwhelmed him now and gathered pace, carrying him along, making thought unnecessary. All squad members draw full antipersonnel weapons. Ride is gun-ship four-oh.’ That wiped the smile off her face.

  ‘Are you serious?’ she demanded.

  ‘Move it, Benovides!’

  ‘Gun-ship?’

  ‘Authorise seven zero seven.’

  ‘Full antipersonnel - are you crazy?’

  ‘Sector Four is now a Kill Zone.’

  ‘You’ve got three squads out there!’

  ‘I’m pulling them back. Hit it Benovides!’ For one brief moment it looked as though she might defy him. ‘That’s an order, Squad Leader!’ he said loudly and firmly.

  Snatch Squads One, Two and Three dropped from the

  ‘copters at precisely the same time. They hit the ground running and immediately fanned out so that they could link up as they had practised time and again in training exercises. The idea was to surround intruders and cut them off from any possible escape routes.

  Each squad member wore a helmet fitted with standard imaging and guidance displays, and light body armour under a vivid yellow uniform. They carried medium-range stun-guns, which were effective up to fifty metres. Above that distance the guns
delivered only a painful jolt. Below fifty metres, but set on maximum output, the guns ceased merely to incapacitate and became crippling, sometimes lethal. It was routine for the kill freaks to jam the power settings so they were stuck permanently on maximum and if anybody ever got too close... well scuffle their horrible trouble-making luck.

  As they approached the breached section of the perimeter the chemical smoke and burning brush made it increasingly difficult for the squads to maintain contact. Imaging and guidance became unreliable and once in among the fires individual squad members began to lose sight of each other.

  The first stage of Keefer’s plan was working.

  Fanson stared at the Judicial Therapist. He couldn’t believe what was happening to him. ‘But I didn’t do it,’ he protested weakly. ‘I really didn’t do it. I didn’t kill Mickey.’

  ‘There is nothing to be gained by a denial now,’ said the Therapist gravely.

  ‘I never left my office.’

  ‘And that is the truth as you see it?’

  ‘That is the truth as I see it, the truth as I remember it, the truth as I know it, it’s the scuffling truth!’ yelled Fanson.

  The Therapist smiled. ‘You lose your temper easily. Could you kill in a rage like that?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask the computer,’ said Fanson subsiding again.

  The Therapist swivelled a small screen towards him. ‘You have already been shown the computer’s assessment,’ he said, ‘but if you wish you may see it again.’

  ‘What for? It’s crud. From beginning to end its scuffling crud. I don’t know who or how but somebody’s shafted that machine.’

  ‘I find your continual use of crude language quite significant,’ said the Therapist thoughtfully. ‘How do you feel about it?’

  ‘You’re joking,’ said Fanson.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Crude language?’ The urge to laugh pushed at the back of Fanson’s throat.

  The Therapist leaned forward slightly. ‘Are there any other crudenesses, images of bodily functions perhaps, which come to your mind when you think of what’s happening to you?’

  ‘There is one,’ said Fanson.

  The Therapist sensed a breakthrough. His private studies were paying off at last. His conviction that judicial therapists should be more than formal officers of the court, more than low-grade computer technicians, was about to be vindicated.

  ‘Yes?’ he urged, his eyes bright with evangelical fervour.

  ‘What is the image?’

  Fanson stared at him in silence.

  ‘The image. What does it relate to? You must tell me!’

  ‘If you insist. It relates to you.’

  ‘Me?’

  Fanson nodded. ‘I think you’re a scuffling arse,’ he said flatly. ‘Now why don’t you just do what you’re paid to do and press the buttons.’

  ‘I’m sorry for you,’ said the Therapist coldly.

  ‘We can agree on something then. I’m sorry for me too.’

  Fanson felt the moulded head and neck restraints slip into place and then felt his scalp prickle as the Therapist activated the control board and thousands of microscopic needles slipped into the skin of his head and neck from the flexible webbing that had shaped itself to the contours of his skull.

  The Therapist balanced the feedback from the thousands of electrical contacts. ‘You are responsible for the death of Jon Michaelson. Your inability to accept the truth has been registered as a level ten psychosis. As prescribed by law in Section Eight Paragraph One of the Penal Medical Code you will undergo total restructuring. The cost of this treatment and all subsequent retraining will be met by the state.’

  Terror shot through Fanson at last, paralysing his lungs.

  Retraining! Retraining for what? To be able to feed himself and keep himself clean. So he wouldn’t quite be a vegetable.

  But near enough. Jerro Fanson would be gone, gone for good, gone forever, gone. Dead. He would be dead and gone, forgotten, never known. He struggled for a last moment’s dignity, but his body betrayed him. ‘I’ve pissed myself,’ he whispered.

  ‘There’s no need to be afraid,’ said the Therapist. ‘There will be no pain.’

  As the computer took control of the treatment and began to feed delicate patterns of annihilating current through the needles, Fanson fought to think. Last words. Last words of Jerro Fanson. Say something. One final word before I leave, folks. He was slipping it was too late too late too... ‘Keefer,’

  said Jerro Fanson in a murmur that was barely audible but that echoed loud and strong through his collapsing mind.

  ‘Kill them gaudy, Keefer.’

  And then he was gone.

  Chapter Six

  ‘The duel was valid up until that point,’ the High Referee said. ‘It was a spot challenge, notified within the rules as codified in Appendix 17 of Kill Rule One.’

  In the wall Jarvis, the security man, pressed the Doctor again. ‘There’s no reason to wait. The systems are recording.

  All the legalities are in place. You must fight me. You have no choice.’

  The Doctor watched himself smile and stick both hands into his trouser pockets and say to the man, ‘There’s always a choice.’ It was definitely unaggressive, he decided, passive even but there was something a bit smug about it. Smugness can be passive and aggressive at the same time. Was he being passive-aggressive? Another saying, from one of those holy books that held so much sway on Earth, drifted into his mind: the soft answer turneth away wrath. Nice simple idea, he thought, probably a bit too simple.

  Again Jarvis loosened the handgun in its holster and repeated, ‘You must fight me. You have no choice.’

  And then Leela stepped in between them and said, ‘Yes he has.’

  ‘The challenge was accepted,’ the High Referee went on, ‘as codified in Appendix 17 and re-codified in Subsection 27 and is defined as a Diverted Acceptance.’

  In the wall the confrontation was repeated from another angle: ‘There’s no reason to wait. The systems are recording.

  All the legalities are in place. You must fight me. You have no choice.’ ‘There’s always a choice.’ ‘You must fight me. You have no choice.’

  ‘Yes he has.’

  Again and again the confrontation was repeated from different angles and sightlines, around and around the three protagonists, until it seemed to the Doctor that the words began to be stripped of meaning. What began as nonsense was becoming gibberish...

  ‘If it will assist the court,’ he said finally, turning back to face the members of the tribunal, ‘the defence accepts that the challenge was made and accepted according to the law.

  We are ready to move on to what happens next.’

  The gun-ship was poised to go when Sita led her squad across the lift-off platform towards it. The pilot gestured urgently for her to get a move on but she ignored him. They were not exactly hustling and she had no intention that they should. They moved at a regulation trot, their multifunction riot guns holstered, muzzle down, across their backs. This had all the signs of becoming a major scuffle-up and at that moment all she could think of to minimise the likely damage was to delay things as much as possible without actually provoking a direct confrontation with the Shift Controller.

  The moron might yet make it necessary for her to identify herself and countermand his orders. But to do it she would have to disobey her own orders and the longer she could delay taking that decision the better. If the scuffwit had made up his mind sooner she wouldn’t have this problem.

  Keefer heard the ragged line of people coming towards him.

  By the time they passed him they were already on full helmet intercom routines and it was clear from the muttered exchanges that these were now their only links with each other. Someone paused just beyond where Keefer was lying.

  He could place the position but nothing more. There was no way to be certain what direction they were facing or how completely the smoke was isolating them.

  Keefer
sucked in a full breath through the tube and raised the level of his other senses. Earth pressed and scratched his face. Acrid smoke bit at his throat and filled the back of his nostrils. The blackness beyond his eyelids was total but flickered with patterns of blood. This was the moment of maximum risk. The icy calm of combat took Keefer’s mind again as he pushed up through the loose earth and rolled out of the trench.

  The man was standing maybe a metre away peering through the smoke. He was swinging a stun-gun uncertainly from side to side, waiting for something to move in front of him. Keefer rose to his feet behind him and stepped forward.

  As the man began to turn Keefer hit him below the edge of the helmet just where the neck and the side point of the jaw were unprotected. He fell heavily. Quickly Keefer stripped him of his uniform and body armour and put them on over his own clothes. They were on the large side and he was making adjustments to the equipment harness and checking over the stun-gun when the man began to regain consciousness. Keefer unjammed the maximum setting on the gun and fed him a couple of minimum jolts: enough to keep him out of it for a while. Then he strode on through the smoke, heading for where he estimated the others would have stumbled to by now.

  The instruction to regroup and fall back to the ‘copters came over his helmet speaker almost immediately. The squad leader choked off the inevitable questions and grumbles with an abrupt: ‘Get your arse back or you’re on your own!’

  On Keefer’s helmet visor the ‘copter’s homing signal activated a guidance grid. He turned and followed its directions, moving slowly enough to allow the others to catch up with him. As soon as figures began to trot out of the smoke around him he picked up his pace.

  ‘Scuffling move it!’

  ‘There’s a crap-storm coming!’

  ‘Carry One, where’s the scuffling beacon?’

  The command circuits, boosted by the jet-copters’ power units as the squad leaders got closer to them, were beginning to overlap. Keefer noted with grim satisfaction that Jerro’s estimate of their behaviour under pressure was not far wrong. Even their communications discipline was shot.