by Geoff Wolak
In the days that followed, I drove around the city with our minders and simply tossed footballs out to grubby-faced kids kicking stones in the street, some thirty balls given out that day alone. But those kids were the errant boys, and stupid boys, since nice kids – and bright kids – were all locked up in schools run like prisons.
A week later, on a warm September day, I travelled up to the police academy at 5pm, expecting to see a game in progress. There was a game being played, instructors versus police officers, but the Interior Minister and the Police Chief were stood watching. I joined them, translation pad in hand.
‘Everything OK?’ I asked.
‘Why is this game played?’ the Interior Minister bluntly demanded.
I was feeling devious. ‘On my world, we use it to train soldiers.’
‘Soldiers?’
‘Yes, it makes then run fast, be strong, and work in a team. It also makes good combat tactics. They see a weakness in the defence of the other side, and go through, or they form a strong defence when they see an attack coming. It teaches much.’
The Interior Minister stared hard at the players, seeing the ball passed, dribbled, a shot taken at goal. ‘Our police move fast,’ he noted.
I added, ‘The leaders on my world are not happy we give you this training, because it is for soldiers.’
They seemed offended. ‘It is for police, so it is not for soldiers,’ they argued.
‘How are the police officers we have trained?’
‘They are fast, strong, shoot good and attack good,’ the police chief replied. ‘Very good.’
‘With this training they will be better.’
‘Better? Yes?’
I nodded, trying hard not to smile. ‘Faster, much faster.’
I stepped away to talk to our instructors, and could see the Minister and Police Chief pointing out players, and discussing tactics.
Our police recruits played a game most evenings, and our instructors showed them matches from our world, tactics discussed, and as I drove around the city I could see kids now kicking balls and not stones. At the embassy, we played a few evenings a week, but mostly at weekends, Pleb now gaining in skills every day. He would sit up late at night with a data-pad I had loaned him, and would watch old matches, often asking questions of rules.
‘Is it OK to squeeze balls of other player?’
‘It OK to head-butt other player?’
‘Boss must chew fast when watching game?’
‘Why does naked woman run on pitch?’
‘Player must spit on grass very often?’
We had created a police academy over in Preether, in Denver, and now their spies reported this new activity, so I duly dispatched footballs and suitable kit via the helicopter. And our ambassador to Preether, he had been a college football referee.
Wanting to expand both the game and its appeal, I had the soldiers at the portal make a pitch, and asked them to invite those locals that worked for us to learn to play. I travelled up to meet William Tucker IX, and issued him balls and kit, asking that he teach the Seethans to play.
‘What the heck for?’ he asked.
‘For?’ I took a moment. ‘Someday, I’ll have the Seether play the Preether in a friendly, and televised.’
‘God damn.’ He nodded. ‘Could break the ice. I’ll have a pitch made up down in the village where the Seether live.’
‘I have football coaches you can use when you have enough interest, and enough people. Oh, and do me a favour; show your Seethan staff old football matches of an evening. You can even refer to it as soccer if you like.’
A few days later he linked into me. ‘God damn it, Paul. I showed the Seethan farm hands a few old soccer matches and they sat like deer in headlights. And they all kick a ball around after work. Damn balls everywhere now.’
‘Create a team, and I’ll put mine up against yours. You’ll lose of course, because what do dumb backwater farmers know about coaching football teams, eh. And you’re a Yank.’
He uttered a few rude words, but it gave me an idea. I linked into the police college and got through the chief instructor. ‘Listen, when you have eleven good Seethan lads, you can play our embassy staff in a friendly, a little wager on the side. Of course, you Yanks know fuck all about soccer, so we’ll go easy on you.’
He uttered a few rude words as well. Next, I journeyed to our car plant, and spoke to the human teachers. They thought I was mad, but got started on a pitch on scrubland behind the factory, two football coaches allocated to them.
That Saturday, our embassy Seethans - led by Pleb, played the police team, Pleb the star player. A few elbows dug into ribs, a few tackles a bit hard, and shoulders shoved other shoulders, but overall it was not a dirty match, our lads winning five – four. I gave the Marines some serious abuse, and they demanded a rematch the following weekend.
A day later I popped back to see Susan and the boys, soon sat on the floor and playing with Lego bricks as I watched the TV news. The endless lines of supplies, and endless lines of people, were still heading through to Jimmy’s old world, but were now seen to be slowing up a little. The project had been defined and started, bits of kit being asked for. Tonnes of refined metal went through, expensive optical lenses of all sizes, and more computers, the best we had. Laser cutting lathes went through, even things like boxes of safety eye wear.
A few extra people volunteered at the last minute and stepped through, including now old submarine captains, submarines suddenly back in fashion. Sandra had produced more kids, and they all went across to New Kinshasa on Jimmy’s old world.
Meanwhile, in Texas on that world, the first Seethan prisoner had been frozen for a week and revived, his vitals monitored – as in there weren’t any, a battery of tests performed afterwards. The man – our guinea pig - received plenty to eat, and basically just didn’t give a crap. His heart had stopped, brain activity had ceased, but chemicals in his cells prevented ice particles forming. A few cells did die, but not enough to be a worry. Having been injected with our blood product, cells were replaced.
Next they would freeze the guy for a month, all the while working on a revival pick-me-up, an injection to boost recovery. Since that recovery was less than twelve hours as it stood, there was little need for it. The first Seethan to be revived stood up and wobbled, found it hard to focus, but an hour later was walking in a straight line. Two hours later he was drinking hot chocolate, and by the morning he was fine.
The final pieces of equipment to be sent through to that world, to New Kinshasa, was portal technology, many of the scientists from Trophy Aerospace going along with their families. They would dial up a world at random, not one of ours, and test the new portals that opened in space. All in all, about a tenth of the best minds that mankind had to offer were now on that world, our hopes going with them.
A game of two halves
Arriving back at the embassy, I enquired about the football. Henry gave me a look, the kind of looks I got off Jimmy. ‘There’s been a large border incursion.’
‘Oh. How large?’
‘About five thousand dead on both sides. That figure might have been higher, but we downed a few planes, a few from both sides.’
‘Bugger. Who started it?’
‘The Preether sent a few hundred men, the Seether responded, and it escalated.’
‘And the positions now?’
‘Back to the start line, the town in the middle destroyed, more conscription going on.’
I sighed. ‘Then I’d best get to work.’
‘You’ll negotiate with the presidents?’
‘Presidents? No, fuck ‘em; I’ll go straight to the people. And I’ll start with their military academy, and their new recruits.’
‘Soccer,’ Henry let out, sighing.
‘Yes, soccer, because within a year I’ll have the Seether playing the Preether,’ I threatened. ‘But first, first I need this city playing the next town.’
‘William Tucker the Ninth … now ha
s a team, so he says.’
I smiled. ‘Good.’
‘And the police have three teams, known as The Coppers, and we have a team known as The Pencil Pushers.’
Smiling, I asked, ‘And Tucker’s team?’
‘The Bison.’
‘Could be worse. Arrange a meeting for me, please, with the Minister for War.’
Henry heaved a sigh, and called one of our Seethan minders in.
A day later I met the minister, and asked if he would like us to teach young soldiers the game of combat.
‘Your government will allow it?’
‘I will not tell them, and we will say that … it is just a game.’
He nodded, conspiratorially, and I received permission. I had a local metal worker make up goal posts, dozens of them, and found a suitable white powder for the lines. The men who had created our pitch were sent to the local barracks, where a patch of scrub was converted, a chain-link fence thrown up around it. Two football coaches were allocated the task, but started with showing films, the rules and purpose soon very clear to the fresh-faced and young enlisted men. The coaches started with simple passing of the ball, followed by running around poles in the ground, advancing to dribbling around the same poles.
With the young soldiers receiving two hours training a day with us their fitness improved, as did their agility, their aged military instructors all fascinated. When the first friendly games were played, those old instructors were soon shouting less than helpful advice. “Kill the bastard”, “Kick him out the way”.
In order to prevent a war, a war of words, our Swiss guy in Preether contacted the War Minister there and told him what we were doing, and would they like the same. They would, their efficient spies already reporting the ‘odd game’. My request back to my world was soon as much about footballs, as chocolate and tuna. William Tucker IX and his Bisons came down by bus, the police not too bothered to escort us much these days, and played a game after a night’s rest. We beat them six – four, and in the afternoon they played the police, the police winning four – three, a few wagers paid off. On the second day they played our car mechanics, and won five-four. And that match … that match caused me to smile on the inside, because just under five hundred Seethans stood watching it.
As the weather turned chilly, fall coming on – as William Tucker IX would say, I busied myself by checking all of the various projects. Much of my time was spent at the car plant, which now produced cars that were a little more reliable, a little faster, and wasted less fuel. William Tucker was teaching his ‘Bisons’ how to be good ranch hands - the Seethan football players and not the grazing animals - and we were turning out a batch of good police officers every six weeks, good at football.
I decided to invite all of the previous police recruits back, and to take part in a football tournament. We had long wooden benches made up, and placed them at the police pitch, the pitch conveniently having a slope behind it. The car manufacturers, known as the Grease Monkeys to us, took part, as did our minders - with Pleb as captain, and the Bisons again made the trip down, a team of young soldiers putting in an appearance, something of a carnival atmosphere evolving.
We handed out food to the spectators, who were a mix of car plant workers, police officers, soldiers and officials, some high ranking officials along to watch. We made the games thirty minutes, or we would have been there till sun down, and the police ‘A’ team won the tournament, congratulated by the Police Chief himself.
Seeing the crowd that had turned up, I had called in extra human staff, and raided the store houses. Even Henry handed out food, and chatted about tactics and the game to Seethan bachelors, his own grasp of the language quite good these days.
During the matches, we had installed a sense of civility in the teams, and they applauded a good move – even by the other side, and applauded each other off the pitch. The crowd applauded politely as well, but I heard a few insults.
You run like a Preethan!
My cow is faster!
Still, it was well meant, I’m sure. But I was about to take a giant leap forwards. Chatting to the Minister, Pleb translating for me – still muddy and bruised, I said, ‘On our world, the government charges a small tax for people to watch the games. When the game is more popular here, you could do this.’ I could see the minister nodding his head, and taking in the crowds, not least because crowd events were rare here.
Back at the embassy, Henry and I uncorked a bottle of wine from our world, and we sat, sighing.
‘A good turnout,’ I said.
‘Yes, they love the game,’ Henry admitted. ‘And all very friendly and chatty, more so than normal. It certainly is breaking down social barriers.’
‘Preethan police are now playing, and their spies are bound to report what’s happening here. No way they’ll want to be left out.’
‘It’s the one thing working in our favour,’ Henry began. ‘They copy each other, and compete, so what we do here is replicated without too much pressure being brought to bear. But how much of a shift in society could you achieve through just the game?’
‘A hell of a lot,’ I said, and I meant it. ‘They’re repressed, and they need to have fun and let off steam. Once this ball gets rolling – no pun intended – they’ll be no stopping it. And I see spin-off industries.’
‘Such as…’
‘Professional players – paid players, clubs that compete, merchandising, advertising, TV deals. We get to empire build, but obliquely. And some day, some Seethan will say – sod the war, let’s watch the match instead.’
‘The government here has a stranglehold on TV and … most things,’ Henry cautioned.
‘So we need power in the hands of corporations and businesses, not the politicians, but done very subtly.’
‘I’ll take a wild guess here, and say that we would have our own stadium and team.’
I smiled. ‘The thought had never occurred to me.’ And up to that point, it hadn’t; I was making this up as I went along, things moving quickly. But having our own team made sense, at least a sponsored team as with the car plant.
When my pad bleeped, it surprised me. I read the message. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘What is it?’ Henry asked, easing forwards.
‘The drones have found a human colony, and not that far from here, other side of the Rockies. Looks like up to two hundred of them, living in an underground facility.’
‘Will we rescue them?’ Henry asked me.
‘No point in leaving them there, especially when the Seether are growing. I’ll go myself, with the soldiers. Many of those in Africa have been rounded up and sent back, but for the most part they’re basket cases. Many have been given land close to where they came from, tools and seeds, and … left to it. These people sound organised.’
I sent word to the portal about what I had planned, the soldiers making ready for the trip. We hired twenty beaten-up old buses, a few trucks, and had solar-powered cars brought through. We already had the non-vintage vintage cars, but they were being used by the embassy staff. Three minders would come along, and four Seethan police officers who we had trained, just encase any local Seethans wanted to try and rob the convoy.
Having planned the mission, I stopped and stared at the map. A drone was still overhead at the survivors’ site, and I knew that the drone had a two-way comms system; we had used them before. I ordered the drone to land right where most of the survivors had been seen to congregate. Sat watching the images, the drone circled and descended, and it must have been in sight well before landing. As it came into land, two people ran off, others popping their heads out of a door. The drone touched down and halted, and I had a camera view from six inches off the ground. I selected the comms channel, and waited.
I soon had several pairs of legs to stare at, but no heads, the clothes being worn quite tatty. ‘Hello? Can you hear me?’
‘It’s talking,’ came a voice, a woman’s voice.
‘I’m using a radio in the toy aeropl
ane. Kneel down and talk to me.’
They did so. ‘Who is it that speaks with us?’ the woman asked.
‘We are people like you, but from … Europe. We came to rescue you. We have food and medicine, and can take you to lands with crops and cattle, and no radiation.’
‘What is … rad-ee-ation?’
Oh fuck.
‘Are you the leader?’
‘No, Jacob is leader.’
‘How old is Jacob?
‘In his fortieth year and two.’
Oh bollocks.
‘We … er … shall soon come by road, and bring greetings and food. Please do not be afraid when we come, in three days.’
‘How will you come?’
‘By … bus and car.’
‘What is … busandcar?’
Crap.
‘We shall come soon. Take this toy inside and keep it.’
And they did, carrying it inside, deep inside, my comm link lost.
Henry had been listening. ‘They sound … dislocated from the past.’
‘They sound thick as shit, and feral almost. We can’t just turn up, they’ll run and hide and … be a headache to evacuate. They probably don’t even think that where they’re living is too bad.’
‘Sounds like the generation that survived the war have all gone,’ Henry noted.
I nodded. ‘Change of plan. I’ll have a large drone brought through, and I’ll drop food to them, as well as educational data-pads, kindergarten time. Then, maybe, I … have no idea. How do you transplant people that never knew the war, or what they’re missing?’
‘We can’t leave them there, just to find a Seethan walking down their road one day.’
