21st Century Science Fiction

by D B Hartwell

  They were right, too.

  When Weldon’s turn in the rota ended, he brought Charles the French maid’s apron and tossed it on his bunk.

  “Your turn to wear the damn thing,” he said. “They’ll expect you in the bar at fourteen hundred hours. Good luck.”

  Charles just grunted, never even looking up from the screen of his buke.

  Fourteen hundred hours came and he was still sitting there, coolly gaming.

  “Hey!” said Anil. “You’re supposed to go flackey!”

  “I’m not going,” said Charles.

  “Don’t be stupid!” I said. “If the rest of us have to do it, you do too.”

  “Why? Terrible repercussions if I don’t?” Charles set aside his buke and looked at us.

  “Yes!” said Myron. Preston from A Shift came running in right then, looking pale.

  “Who’s supposed to be flackeying? There’s nobody out there, and Lord Deathlok wants to know why!”

  “See?” said Myron.

  “You’ll get all of us in trouble, you fool! Give me the apron, I’ll go!” said Anil. But Charles took the apron and tore it in half.

  There was this horrified silence, which filled up with the sound of Shooters thundering along the corridor. We heard Lord Deathlok and Painmaster yelling as they came.

  “Flackey! Oh, flackey! Where are you?”

  And then they were in the room and it was too late to run, too late to hide. Painmaster’s roach crest almost touched the ceiling panels. Lord Deathlok’s yellow grin was so wide he didn’t look human.

  “Hi there, buttholes,” said Painmaster. “If you girls aren’t too busy making out, one of you is supposed to be flackeying for us.”

  “It was my turn,” said Charles. He wadded up the apron and threw it at them. “How about you wait on yourself from now on?”

  “This wasn’t our idea!” said Myron.

  “We tried to make him report for duty!” said Anil.

  “We’ll remember that, when we’re assigning penalties,” said Lord Deathlok. “Maybe we’ll let you keep your pants when we handcuff you upside down in the toilet. Little Newbie, though . . .” He turned to Charles. “What about a nice game of Walk the Dog? Painmaster, got a leash anywhere on you?”

  “The Painmaster always has a leash for a bad dog,” said Painmaster, pulling one out. He started toward Charles, and that’s when it got crazy.

  Charles jumped out of his bunk and I thought, No, you idiot, don’t try to run! But he didn’t. He grabbed Painmaster’s extended hand and pulled him close, and brought his arm up like he was going to hug him, only instead he made a kind of punching motion at Painmaster’s neck. Painmaster screamed, wet himself and fell down. Charles kicked him in the crotch.

  Another dead silence, which broke as soon as Painmaster got enough breath in him for another scream. Everybody else in the room was staring at Charles, or I should say at his left wrist, because it was now obvious there was something strapped to it under his sleeve.

  Lord Deathlok had actually taken a step backward. He looked from Painmaster to Charles, and then at whatever it was on Charles’ wrist. He licked his lips.

  “So, that’s, what, some kind of taser?” he said. “Those are illegal, buddy.”

  Charles smiled. I realized then I’d never seen him smile before.

  “It’s illegal to buy one. I bought some components and made my own. What are you going to do? Report me to Kurtz?” he said.

  “No; I’m just going to take it away from you, dumbass,” said Lord Deathlok. He lunged at Charles, but all that happened was that Charles tased him too. He jerked backward and fell over a chair, clutching his tased hand.

  “You’re dead,” he gasped. “You’re really dead.”

  Charles walked over and kicked him in the crotch too.

  “I challenge you to a duel,” he said.

  “What?” said Lord Deathlok, when he had enough breath after his scream.

  “A duel. With simulations,” said Charles. “I’ll outshoot you. Right there in the War Room, with everybody there to witness. Thirteen hundred hours tomorrow.”

  “Fuck off,” said Lord Deathlok. Charles leaned down and displayed the two little steel points of the taser.

  “So you’re scared to take me on? Chicken, is that it?” he said, and Myron and Anil obligingly started making cluck-cluck-cluck noises. “Eugene, why don’t you go over to the Pit of Hell and tell the Shooters they need to come scrape up these guys?”

  I wouldn’t have done that for a chance to see the lost episodes of Doctor Who, but fortunately Lord Deathlok sat up, gasping.

  “Okay,” he said. “Duel. You lose, I get that taser and shove it up your ass.”

  “Sure,” said Charles. “Whatever you want; but I won’t lose. And none of us will ever flackey for you again. Got it?”

  Lord Deathlok called him a lot of names, but the end of it was that he agreed to the terms, and we made Painmaster (who was crying and complaining that his heartbeat was irregular) witness. When they could walk they went stumbling back to the Pit of Hell, leaning on each other.

  “You are out of your mind,” I said, when they had gone. “You’ll go to the War Room tomorrow and they’ll be waiting for you with six bottles of club soda and a can of poster paint.”

  “Maybe,” said Charles. “But they’ll back off. Haven’t you clowns figured it out yet? They’re used to shooting at rocks. They have no clue what to do about something that fights back.”

  “They’ll still win. You won’t be able to tase them all, and once they get it off you, you’re doomed.”

  “They won’t get it off me,” said Charles, rolling up his sleeve and unstrapping the taser mounting from his arm. “I won’t be wearing it. You will.”

  “Me?” I backed away.

  “And there’s another one in my locker. Which one of you wants it?”

  “You’ve got two?”

  “Me!” Anil jumped forward. “So we’ll be, like, your bodyguards? Yes! Can you make more of these things?”

  “I won’t need to,” said Charles. “Tomorrow’s going to change everything.”

  • • • •

  I don’t mind telling you, my knees were knocking as we marched across to the War Room next day. Everybody on B and C Shifts came along; strength in numbers, right? If we got creamed by the Shooters, at least some of us ought to make it out of there. And if Charles was insanely lucky, we all wanted to see.

  It was embarrassing. Norman and Roscoe wore full Jedi kit, including their damn light sabers that were only holobeams anyway. Bradley was wearing a Happy Bat San playjacket. Anil was wearing his lucky hat from Mystic Antagonists: the Extravaganza. We’re all creative and unique, no question, but . . . maybe it isn’t the best idea to dress that way when you’re going to a duel with intimidating mindless jerks.

  We got there, and they were waiting for us.

  Our Bridge always reminded me of a temple or a shrine or something, with its beautiful display shining in the darkness; but the War Room was like the Cave of the Cyclops. There wasn’t any wall display like we had. There were just the red lights of the targeting consoles, and way in the far end of the room somebody had stuck up a black light, which made the lurid holoposters of skulls and demons and vampires seem to writhe in the gloom.

  The place stank of body odor, which the Shooters can’t get rid of because they wear all that black bioprene gear, which doesn’t breathe like the natural fabrics we wear. There was also a urinal reek; when a Shooter is gaming, he doesn’t let a little thing like needing to pee drive him from his console.

  All this was bad enough; imagine how I felt to see that the Shooters had made war clubs out of chlorilar water bottles stuck into handles of printer paper rolled tight. They stood there, glowering at us. I saw Lord Deathlok and the Shark and Professor Badass. Mephisto, the Conquistador, Iron Beast, Killer Ape, Uncle Hannibal . . . every hateful face I knew from months of humiliating flackey-work, except . . .

  “Wh
ere’s the Painmaster?” said Charles, looking around in an unconcerned kind of way.

  “He had better things to do than watch you rectums lose,” said Lord Deathlok.

  “He had to be shipped down to the infirmary, because he was complaining of chest pains,” said Mephisto. The others looked at him accusingly. Charles beamed.

  “Too bad! Let’s do this thing, gentlemen.”

  “We fixed up a special console, homo, just for you,” said Lord Deathlok with an evil leer, waving at one. Charles looked at it and laughed.

  “You have got to be kidding. I’ll take this one over here, and you’ll take the one next to it. We’ll play side by side, so everybody can see. That’s only fair, right?”

  Their faces fell. But Anil and I crossed our arms, so the taser prongs showed, and the Shooters grumbled but backed down. They cleared away empty bottles and snack wrappers from the consoles. It felt good, watching them humbled for a change.

  Charles settled himself at the console he’d chosen, and with a few quick commands on the buttonball pulled up the simulation menu.

  “Is this all you’ve got?” he said. “Okay; I propose nine rounds. Three sets each of Holodeath 2, Meteor Nightmare, and Incoming Annihilation. Highest cumulative score wins.”

  “You got it, shithead,” said Lord Deathlok. He took his seat.

  So they called up Holodeath 2, and we all crowded around to watch, even though the awesome stench of the Shooters was enough to make your eyes water. The holo display lit up with a sinister green fog, and the enemy ships started coming at us. Charles got off three shots before Lord Deathlok managed one, and though one of his shots went wild, two inflicted enough damage on a Megacruiser to set it on fire. Lord Deathlok’s shot nailed a patrol vessel in the forefront, and though it was a low-score target, he took it out with just that one shot. The score counters on both consoles gave them 1200 points.

  Charles finished the burning cruiser with two more quick shots—it looked fantastic, glaring red through its ports until it just sort of imploded in this cylinder of glowing ash. But Lord Deathlok was picking off the little transport cutters methodically, because they only take about a shot each if you’re accurate, which he was. Charles pulled ahead by hammering away at the big targets, and he never missed another shot, and so what happened was that the score counters showed them flashing along neck and neck for the longest time and then, boom, the last Star Destroyer blew and Charles was suddenly way ahead with twice Deathlok’s score.

  We were all yelling by this time, the Shooters with their chimpanzee hooting and us with—well, we sort of sounded like apes too. The next set went up and here came the ships again, but this time they were firing back. Charles took three hits in succession, before he seemed to figure out how to raise his shields, and the Shooters started gloating and smacking their clubs together.

  But he went on the offensive real fast, and did something I’d never thought of before, which was aiming for the ships’ gunports and disabling them with one shot before hitting them with a barrage that finished them. I never even had time to look at what Deathlok was doing, but his guys stopped cheering suddenly and when the set ended, he didn’t even have a third of the points Charles did.

  The third set went amazingly fast, even with the difference that the gun positions weren’t stationary and they had to maneuver around in the middle of the armada. Charles did stuff I would never have dared to do, recklessly swooping around and under the Megacruisers, between their gunports for cripe’s sake, getting off round after round of shots so close it seemed impossible for him to pull clear before the ships blew, but somehow he did.

  Lord Deathlok didn’t seem to move much. He just sat in one position and pounded away at anything that came within range, and though he did manage to bag a Star Destroyer, he finished the set way behind Charles on points.

  I would have just given up if I’d been Deathlok, but the Shooters were getting ugly, shouting all kinds of personal abuse at him, and I don’t think he dared.

  I had to run for the lavatory as Incoming Annihilation was starting, and of course I had to run all the way back to our end of the Gun Platform to our toilet because I sure wasn’t going to use the Shooters’, not with the way the War Room smelled. It was only when I was unfastening that I realized I was still wearing the taser, and that I’d done an incredibly stupid thing by leaving when I was one of Charles’ bodyguards. So I finished fast and ran all the way back, and there was Mr. Kurtz strolling along the corridor.

  “Hello there, Eugene,” he said. “Something going on?”

  “Just some gaming,” I said. “I need to get back—”

  “But you’re on Shooter turf, aren’t you?” Mr. Kurtz looked around. “Shouldn’t you be going in the other direction?”

  “Well—we’re having this competition, you see, Mr. Kurtz,” I said. “The new guy’s gaming against Lord—I mean, against Peavey Crandall.”

  “Is he?” Mr. Kurtz began to smile. “I wondered how long Charles would put up with the Shooters. Well, well.”

  He said it in a funny kind of way, but I didn’t have the time to wonder about it. I just excused myself and ran on, and was really relieved to see that the Shooters didn’t seem to have noticed my absence. They were all packed tight around the consoles, and nobody was making a sound; all you could hear was the peew-peew-peew of the shots going off continuously, and the whump as bombs exploded. Then there was a flare of red light and our guys yelled in triumph. Bradley was leaping up and down, and Roscoe did a Victory Dance until one of the Shooters asked him if he wanted his light saber rammed up his butt.

  I managed to shove my way between Anil and Myron just as Charles was announcing, “I believe you’re screwed, Mr. Crandall. Care to call it a day?”

  I looked at their scores and couldn’t believe how badly Lord Deathlok had lost to him. But Lord Deathlok just snarled.

  “I don’t think so, Ben Dover. Shut up and play!”

  It was Meteor Nightmare now, as though they were both out there in the Van Oort belt, facing the rocks without any comforting distance of consoles or calculations. I couldn’t stop myself from flinching as they hurtled forward; and I noticed one of the Shooters put up his arms involuntarily, as though he wanted to bat away the incoming with his bare hands.

  It was a brutal game; nightmare, all right, because they couldn’t avoid taking massive damage. All they could do was take out as many targets as they could before their inevitable destruction. When one or the other of them took a hit, there was a momentary flare of light that blinded everybody in the room. I couldn’t imagine how Charles and Lord Deathlok, right there with their faces in the action, could keep shooting with any kind of accuracy.

  Sure enough, early in the second round it began to tell. They were both getting flash-blind. Charles was still hitting about one in three targets, but Lord Deathlok was shooting crazily, randomly, not even bothering to aim so far as I could tell. What a look of despair on his ugly face, with his lips drawn back from his yellow teeth!

  Only a miracle would save him, now. His overall score was so far behind Charles’ he’d never catch up. The Shooters knew it too. I saw Dr. Smash turn his head and murmur to Uncle Hannibal. He took a firm grip on his war club. Panicking, I grabbed Anil’s arm, trying to get his attention.

  That was when the Incoming klaxons sounded. All the Shooters stood to attention. Lord Deathlok looked around, blinking, but Charles worked the buttonball like a pro and suddenly the game vanished, and there was nothing before us but the console displays. There was a crackle from the speakers—the first time they’d ever been used, I found out later—and we could hear Preston screaming, “You guys! Intruder coming in fast! You have to stop! It’s in—”

  “Q41!” said Uncle Hannibal, leaning forward to peer at the console readout. “Get out of my chair, dickwad!”

  Charles didn’t answer. He did something with the buttonball and there was the Intruder, like something out of Meteor Nightmare, shracking enormous. It w
as in his own sector! How could he have missed it? Charles, who was brilliant at spotting them before anybody else?

  A red frame rose around it, with the readout in numbers spinning over so fast I couldn’t tell what they said, except it was obvious the thing was coming in at high speed. All the Shooters were frantic, bellowing for Charles to get his ass out of the chair. Before their astounded eyes, and ours, he targeted the Intruder and fired.

  All sound stopped. Movement stopped. Time itself stopped, except for on the display, where a new set of numbers in green and another in yellow popped up. They spun like fruit on a slot machine, the one counting up, the other counting down, both getting slower and slower until suddenly the numbers matched. Then, in perfect unison, they clicked upward together on a leisurely march.

  “It’s a hit,” announced Preston from the speakers. “In twelve days thirteen hours forty-two minutes. Telemetry confirmed.”

  Dead silence answered him. And that was when I understood: Charles hadn’t missed the Intruder. Charles had spotted it days ago. Charles had set this whole thing up, requesting the specific time of the duel, knowing the Intruder would interrupt it and there’d have to be a last-minute act of heroism. Which he’d co-opt.

  But the thing is, see, there are people down there on the planet under us, who could die if a meteor gets through. I mean, that’s why we’re all up here in the first place, right?

  Finally Anil said, in a funny voice, “So . . . who gets the bonus, then?”

  “He can’t have just done that,” said Mephisto, hoarse with disbelief. “He’s a Plotter.”

  “Get up, faggot,” said Uncle Hannibal, grabbing Charles’ shoulder.

  “Hit him,” said Charles.