by Hugh Cook
Tin-trash clash and slaughter sun -
This much is clear – The intersects of steel, The spillage screaming.
All clear – precise, except the why.
For which, presume -
A deficit, a need, a want, a lust
Or rigor of revenge -
The ancient story.
Hatch made his way through the cream-colored corridors to the cafeteria, where he heaped a platter high with baked fish, baked apples, roast onions, roast carrots, boiled broadbeans and broccoli. The cold of the Combat College always incited his appetite, and after a long spell in the illusion tanks he always felt hungrier yet.
As Hatch ate, he received congratulations. The results of the extended evasion exercise had already been posted for public consumption. Asodo Hatch and Lupus Lon Oliver had been the only pair of Startroopers to complete that exercise successfully, and they and they only were now to duel it out for the right to be the Combat College instructor.
"So I'll be here tomorrow," said Shona, the tenth person to congratulate Hatch. "I'll be here to watch."
"Tomorrow?" said Hatch. "Is that when we're dueling?"
"That's right," said Shona. "Tomorrow. Decision by the best of three. Or that's what it said on the public posting, you'd better check."
"Well," said Hatch, "it's been nice knowing you. I'm only sorry you have to leave the College so soon."
"So soon?" said Shona.
"The graduating class has to leave once the instructorship duels are over," said Hatch, reminding her.
"I'm still a year short of graduation," said Shona, reminding him of a fact he knew well, or should have done.
"Sorry," said Hatch. "My head's full of fuzz."
"You should get some sleep," said Shona.
Then put a hand on his shoulder in a brief gesture of solidarity, then left him in peace.
With breakfast done, Hatch went to his room. A note awaited him, a note written on green paper with a red pen and then stuck to his door with chewing gum.
"Meet me in the laboratory – lunchtime," said the note, and that was all it said.
There was no signature, but Hatch knew the handwriting. The message was from Scorpio Fax, which reminded him that on the day before he had seen Fax feeding young Lucius Elikin. What could he want?
"Wait and see, Hatch," said Hatch, and kicked at the kaleidoscope of his door, "wait and see."
Then he kicked at his door again, and the door at last dissolved in belated obedience.
That door, like everything else about his room, had been customized to Hatch's requirements, so it would also dissolve if he swore at it. Leaving aside his questionable command of some small fraction of Motsu Kazuka, Hatch could only speak three languages – Frangoni, Pang and the Commonspeak of the Nexus – but he could swear in a fourth. That fourth was Dub, the language of the Ebrell Islanders, the uncompromising obscenity of which tongue was an achievement unique in the annals of human endeavor.
With the door open, Hatch eased himself into the crampspace of his room, and the door reformed itself behind him. Despite the pregnancy-warmth of the massive breakfast in his belly, he still felt cold, and his room today seemed exceptionally chilly. He put on the winterweight cloak always kept in that room, sat at his desk and ignited his data screen with a word.
"I wish to inform on Scorpio Fax," said Hatch.
"To his credit or discredit?" said the screen.
"To his credit," said Hatch.
"Proceed."
"Yesterday," said Hatch. Then paused. It had been yesterday, hadn't it? Yes, it had. "Yesterday, I saw Scorpio Fax feeding one of our Combat Cadets at the lockway market. The Combat Cadet in question is Lucius Elikin. Elikin was showing signs of injury. I suspect he may have troubles at home."
"Wait," said the screen. Then, after a slight pause: "Lucius Elikin has not been seen in the Combat College either yesterday or today. The reasons for his absence are unknown."
"Then if I become instructor," said Hatch, "I will make it one of my priorities to seek him out and have him resume his scheduled training. Meanwhile, I have some urgent business to attend to. Show me a list of all your files on Son'sholoma Gezira."
"Request denied," said the screen.
Hatch was always irritated whenever the screen in its defiance chose to denote one of his orders as a "request", and this customary irritation persisted even on this occasion, when the weight of what was at stake should have abolished such trivial concerns.
"Show me!" said Hatch, giving way to his anger.
"Request denied," said the screen.
This could go on all day, for the theoretically intelligent low-grade asma of Minor Enablement which controlled the basic dataflow functions of the screen had – in Hatch's opinion – little more discretionary judgment than a cockroach.
"Senk," said Hatch, summoning the aid the presence and power of Paraban Senk, the Teacher of Control who ran the Combat College.
There was a fractional delay, then an image of the chosen face of Paraban Senk appeared on the screen.
"Greetings, Hatch," said the olive-skinned Senk.
"Senk," said Hatch, "one of your ex-students is running riot in Dalar ken Halvar. I'm talking of Son'sholoma, Son'sholoma Gezira."
"Of what is this student accused?" said Senk. "Of murder?"
"As far as I know," said Hatch, "so far he hasn't killed anyone. But the damage he threatens is infinite. He is preaching religion. He is preaching the doctrines of Nu-chala-nuth."
"That's nothing for you to be worrying about," said Senk.
"On the contrary," said Hatch, "it's everything for me to worry about. I'm a citizen of Dalar ken Halvar, an officer of the Imperial Guard, a – "
"You're overtired," said Senk.
"What!?" said Hatch.
"Your startlement is out of place," said Senk calmly. "I'm only stating the obvious. You've been pushing yourself far too hard. You're over-wrought."
"But I – "
"You've been pushed and pushed hard," said Senk, steamrollering remorselessly over Hatch's protests. "Here's some good advice, which I suggest you take to heart. Go home. Go home, forget the Combat College, forget the Nu-chala-nuth, then come back tomorrow after a good night's sleep. A little rest will lead to an infinite improvement in your outlook on life. That's my advice. Take it."
"Do you do marriage counseling too?" said Hatch.
"I am the complete spiritual adviser," said Senk complacently. "Go. Live. Sleep. Enjoy. Enjoy the great Festival of the Dogs."
"Dogday?" said Hatch, momentarily bewildered. "But that's not till after the examinations."
"I was joking," said Senk.
"Joking?" said Hatch. "You should leave joking to humans."
"I am human," said Senk.
Another joke? Or did Senk mean to be taken seriously? Hatch was too tired to work it out. He fell back on one of his people's traditional answers to social conundrums: the elaborate formalities of an immaculate courtesy.
"I salute you on your humanity," said Hatch. "I salute you, and thank you for all that you have done for me today. Much is your kindness and much is my debt."
Speaking thus, he remembered another debt, a literal debt denominated in gold, and inwardly winced.
"There is one more thing," said Senk.
"Speak," said Hatch, still in his courtesy mode. "For whenever you speak, it is the purest pleasure to listen."
"To listen?" said Senk. "One hopes on occasion it is also your pleasure to answer. Hatch, I need to know your requirements for the battles."
"The battles?"
"The illusion tank battles. Your duels with Lon Oliver. The best of three, starting tomorrow."
Oh. Those duels. At the mention of dueling, Hatch felt a twinge of pain from the deep-driven scar of a real wound, a souvenir of a real battle in the world of the fact and the flesh.
"You wish to know my requirements," said Hatch. "Very well.
My sole condition is that I should be given a
handicap appropriate to my age."
A joke. Which Senk ignored, saying merely:
"Do you have any special requirements?"
"Well," said Hatch, "I require to know when we're starting, I need to know that to start with."
"Your duels with Lon Oliver will start tomorrow night," said Senk. "So you can rest for all of today, all of tonight and all through tomorrow's daylight. Now – as to my question. Do you have any special requirements?"
"For what?" said Hatch. "For inspirational music, battle slogans, battle art, or what?"
"Any of those or more," said Senk. "I can give you a list of what's permitted, if you want."
"I want nothing," said Hatch. "Except… Senk, make me a simulcrum head. A head of Lupus Lon Oliver."
"That will cost you," said Senk. "The cost will be deducted from your pay."
"I know," said Hatch. "I know."
But he wanted this head. He wanted to work some black magic.
And so he waited, while Senk fabricated him such a head, which was delivered to his room by means of a transmission tray. Then Hatch took the head, which was a very good resemblance of the Ebrell Islander who was his rival. It was made of a soft rubber-analog, and it was heavy. Hatch sank it on a paper spike.
"What's that in aid of?" said Paraban Senk.
"It's an aid to good dreams," said Hatch, patting the simulcrum head cheerfully.
"Perhaps you'd like to bathe it in artificial blood as well," said Senk.
"It's a thought," said Hatch. "How long would it take to organize?"
"A few moments," said Senk. "But it'll cost a little more."
"Then – no, scrap that plan," said Hatch.
He could afford no further indulgences. He needed to save his Combat College pay so he could buy such things as chocolate from the Combat College cafeteria, chocolate which he could later exchange for opium in the great world outside.
"One last thing," said Senk. "Do you have a guest list?"
"Guest list?" said Hatch, startled.
"You know," said Senk, imitating impatience.
"Of course," said Hatch.
Of course he knew. Those competing for the instructor position were free to invite the guests of their choice to watch the illusion tank battles which would ultimately decide who was awarded that position. To Hatch's knowledge, this was the only occasion on which outsiders could thus be invited into the depths of Cap Foz Para Lash. He suspected it was a surveillance mechanism: suspected that when one increased one's importance by becoming an instructor, one's very friends and acquaintances became a subject of inquiry.
"Well?" said Senk.
"Let in whoever asks in my name to be let in," said Hatch.
"It would be better if you specified," said Senk.
Hatch conjured briefly with the notion of his sister Penelope or the Lady Iro Murasaki watching him commanding a Galactic Class MegaCommand Cruiser somewhere in the depths of intergalactic space in a whitestar universe. Somehow he could not imagine it.
"Nobody will come," said Hatch.
"Perhaps the beggars at the gates," said Senk.
"If they want to, then let them," said Hatch.
"They are unlikely to be improved by the experience," said Paraban Senk. "An important consideration, this, given our dedications."
"Our dedications?" said Hatch, puzzled to hear Senk talking incomprehensible nonsense.
"Our dedications to the ethic of the Nexus, which is progress and improvement."
"That's as may be," said Hatch, uncertain whether Senk was being serious or mildly ironical.
Then Hatch renewed his efforts to win access to all files on Son'sholoma Gezira, hoping to find in such files information which might perhaps be used to discretely blackmail Son'sholoma into something approximating good behavior.
Failing to win such access, Hatch at last gave up, quit his room, and was soon striding toward the lockway, the triple-door airlock entrance which protected the Combat College.
As Hatch approached the lockway, a huge machine came lurching out of a side corridor. The machine was a dorgi. The dorgi. The one and only dorgi left alive in Dalar ken Halvar. For all Hatch knew, it was the one and only functional dorgi left on the whole planet. And, as far as he was concerned, one dorgi was very much one dorgi too many.
The dorgi braked abruptly, blocking the hallway entirely.
Then it trained its zulzers on Asodo Hatch and it roared:
"Halt! Halt right now! Identify yourself! Identify yourself! Who are you? Don't move or I'll blow your head off!"
"Get out of my way, you overgrown turd," said Hatch.
The bulbous machine in front of him responded with an earshattering blast of its klaxon.
"Emergency! Emergency! You are in danger of death! You are in danger of death! Identify yourself or be killed!"
"Go step on yourself," said Hatch.
Usually, when a dorgi gives a warning blast on its klaxon, that final warning indicates that its next move will be to kill someone. But the behavior of this particular machine had been eccentrically erratic for a great many centuries, and as far as anyone could tell it exercised its klaxon simply because it enjoyed uproar for its own sake.
"What is the password?" roared the machine. "What is the password? Tell me the password. Now! Now!! Or I will kill you!!!"
"There isn't a password, you stupid lunk," said Hatch. "There hasn't been a password for the last twenty thousand years."
The machine, the much-dreaded dorgi which dogged the days of every student in the Combat College, thought about this. The dorgi was not very good at thinking, but it had the advantage of having thought its way through this conundrum many many times before. To its great distress, it always came to the same conclusion.
"You are right," said the dorgi, in tones so close to the conversational that Hatch was hard put to hear them after the deafening onslaught of the earlier challenge. "There is no passport. Therefore there can be no legitimate challenge. So you need not identify yourself."
"Yes, we've been through this," said Hatch. "Just get out of my way, okay? I'm not in the mood."
"Ah," said the dorgi, "but tomorrow we will go through this again, and tomorrow there will be a password. But you won't know what the password is. So then I will kill you."
As it concluded this exercise in wishful thinking, the dorgi emphasized its enthusiasm for murder by swiveling its zulzers furiously. It had three zulzers, and each had seven snouts.
Ordinary dorgis, like those working for the Golden Gulag on security assignments, only had one seven-snout zulzer, but the Combat College was guarded by a hypercapacity heavy-combat military dorgi.
"There will be no password," said Hatch. "There is no password today, there was none yesterday and there will be none tomorrow. Understand? Passwords come from Central Command. Central Command is on Charabanc. The planet Charabanc is on the other side of the Chasm Gates. As for the Chasm Gates, why, they fell to ruin over twenty thousand years ago! Now get out of my way!"
"What you say is impossible," said the dorgi stoutly. "Chasm Gates cannot and do not fall into ruin. There is a technical hitch delaying the password. But I will have it by tomorrow and then I will kill you."
"You're ten thousand years overdue for a psyche review," said Hatch. "You're cracked. You want to learn it the hard way? You'll get out of my way right now or I'll report you to the Combat College. After that – well, you know what happens then!"
"You are bluffing," said the dorgi.
But in its heart of hearts the recalcitrant machine knew that Asodo Hatch was not bluffing. The dorgi was no great shakes as a psychologist, but it saw that this time it really had pushed Hatch too far, and if it pushed just one fraction more then Hatch really would lodge a formal complaint with the College, despite the fifty arcs of red tape time that would follow as a consequence.
So the dorgi, grumbling, backed off into its side corridor.
But Hatch had barely got past the machine when it came lurching
out again, blasting the air with its klaxon. Hatch jammed his fingers into his ears. Despite the jamming, the dorgi's challenge came through loud and clear:
"Halt! Halt! Halt right now! Take off your clothes! Take off your clothes! Now! Now! Or you will be exterminated!"
Hatch unjammed his ears and turned on the machine. As he did so, from the far side of the metallic brute there came the sounds of Shona's womanly wrath, an edge of murder in her fury:
"Exterminated! I'll do the exterminating around here! You get out of my way right now or I'll get a power wrench and I'll rip your torque out."
As the dorgi began arguing with Shona, Hatch escaped to the lockway. The innermost airlock door dissolved. Hatch slipped inside and the innermost door reformed. There was a faint hiss of positive pressure.
"Greetings, citizen," said an automated female voice. "Your duty as a citizen is to vote. Democracy is our common duty… very well, very well… you have your first clearance… prepare to proceed."
The central door dissolved. Hatch stepped into the outer chamber. The central airlock closed. Again the hiss of positive pressure.
"Have you time to spend with the ill or the aged?" said the automated female voice. "Human Concern is our commoncause enabling organization. Human Concern welcomes your involvement for the common good… very well, very well… you have your second and final clearance… prepare to proceed."
The kaleidoscope of the outermost door collapsed. Driven by the positive pressure within the airlock, it spewed outwards outwards in a mess of shivering slob.
Hatch exited, striding bravely through the slob, only to be accosted by a mob of beggars. They were demanding not alms but justice, something Hatch was equipped to dispense since, by virtue of being a captain of the Imperial Guard, he was automatically a Judge of the Open Court.
So Hatch spent a weary time trying to make sense out of a three-cornered dispute between the beggars Grim, Zoplin and Lord X'dex Paspilion, something to do with the use of the Eye and the alleged theft of a considerable fraction of a much-decomposed dog corpse.
Hatch did his best, which was not easy, since the affairs of the poor are typically more complicated than those of the rich, and this seemed to be one of those cases in which everyone is at least partly to blame. Hatch at last decided that Grim should be allowed to punch Zoplin twice, and that Zoplin should be given the privilege of kicking Lord X'dex thrice in the ribs, but that Zoplin should have the exclusive use of the Eye until dawn the next day.
