Algis Budrys: Some Will Not Die

Cot took a deep breath. “My father, sir, never fought under Berendtsen. His Integrity did not permit him to take other people’s orders, or do their butchery.”

“Ahuh,” Mr. Holland said. “Your father got to be awful good with that carbine. He had to,” he added in a lower voice. “And I guess he had to rationalize it somehow.

“Your father built up this household defense system,” he said more clearly. “I guess he figured that an armored bunker was the thing to protect his property the same way his carbine protected him.

“Which wasn’t a bad idea. Berendtsen unified this country, but he didn’t exactly clean it up. That was more than they gave him time for.”

Holland stopped and drained his mug. He put it down and wiped his mouth. “But, boy, don’t you think those days are kind of over? Don’t you think it’s time we came out of those hedgehog houses, and out of this hedgehog Integrity business?”

Mr. Holland put his palms on the table and held Cot’s eyes with his own. “Don’t you think it’s time we finished the unifying job, and got us a community where a boy can walk up to his neighbor’s house in broad daylight, knock on the door, and say hello to a girl if he wants to?”

Cot had been listening with his emotions so tangled that none of them could have been unraveled and classified. But now, Holland’s last words reached him, and once again, the thought of what had happened the previous night was laid bare, and all his disgust for himself with it.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said stiffly. “But I’m afraid we have differing views on the subject. A man’s home is his defense, and his Integrity and that of his family are what keep that defense strong and inviolate. Perhaps other parts of the Republic are not founded on that principle, as I’ve heard lately, but here the code by which we live is one which evolved for the fulfillment of those vital requisites to freedom. If we abandon them, we go back to the Dirty Years.

“And I am afraid, sir,” he finished with a remembrance of the outrage he had felt the previous night, “that despite your questionable efforts, I shall still marry your daughter honorably, or not at all.”

Holland shook his head and smiled to himself, and Cot realized how foolish that last sentence had sounded. Nevertheless, while he could not help his impulses, he was perfectly aware of the difference between right and wrong.

Holland stood up. “All right, boy. You stick to your system. Only—it doesn’t seem to work too well for you, does it?”

And, once again, Mr. Holland turned around and walked away, leaving Cot with nothing to say or do, and with no foundation for assurance. It was as though Cot grappled with a vague nightmare; a dark and terrible shape that presented no straightforward facet to be attacked, but which put out tentacles and pseudopods until he was completely enmeshed in it—only to fade away and leave him with his clawing arms hooked around nothing.

It was worse than any anger or insult could have been.

His footsteps were unsteady as he crossed the club floor. The rum he had drunk, combined with a sleepless night, had settled into a weight at the base of his skull. He was about to open the door when Charles Kittredge laid a hand on his arm.

Cot turned.

“How do you do, Cottrell,” Kittredge said.

Cot nodded. Charles was his neighbor on the side away from Mr. Holland. “How do you do.”

“You look a little tired,” Charles remarked.

“I am, Charles.” He grinned back in answer to his neighbor’s smile.

“Shouldn’t wonder—holding a drill at 0800.”

Cot shrugged. “Have to keep the defenses in shape, you know.”

Kittredge laughed. “Why, for God’s sake? Or were you just rehearsing for the Fourth?”

Cot frowned. “Why—no, of course not. I’ve heard you holding Drill, often enough.”

His neighbor nodded. “Sure—whenever one of the kids has a birthday. But you don’t really mean you were holding a genuine dead-serious affair?”

Cot was having trouble maintaining his concentration. He squinted and shook his head slightly. “What’s the matter with that?”

Kittredge’s voice and manner became more serious. “Oh, now look, Cot, there’s been nothing to defend against in fifteen years. Matter of fact, I’m thinking of dismounting my artillery and selling it to the Militia. They’re offering a fair price”

Cot looked at him uncomprehendingly. “You can’t be serious?”

Kittredge returned the look. “Sure.”

“But you can’t. They’d stay out of machinegun range and shell you to fragments with mortars and fieldpieces. They’d knock out your machinegun turrets, come in closer under rifle cover, and lob grenades into your living quarters.”

Kittredge laughed. He slapped his thigh while his shoulders shook. “Who the devil is ‘they,’ ” he gasped. “Berendtsen?”

Cot felt the first touch of anger as it penetrated the deadening blanket that had wrapped itself around his thoughts.

Kittredge gave one final chuckle. “Come off it, will you, Cot? As a matter of fact, while I wasn’t going to mention it, all that banging going on at your place this morning practically ruined one of my cows. Ran head-on into a fence. It’s not the first time it’s happened, either. The only reason I’ve never said anything is because your own livestock probably has just as bad a time of it.

“Look, Cot, we can’t afford to unnerve our livestock and poison our land. It was all right as long as it was the only way we could operate at all, but the most hostile thing that’s been seen around here in years is a chicken hawk.”

The touch of anger had become a genuine feeling. Cot could feel it settling into the pit of his stomach and vibrating at his fingertips.

“So, you’re asking me to stop holding Drill, is that it?”

Kittredge heard the faint beginning of a rasp in Cot’s voice, and frowned. “Not altogether, Cot. Not if you don’t want to. But I wish you’d save it for celebrations.”

“The weapons of my household aren’t firecrackers.” The words were carried as though at the flicking end of a whip.

“Oh, come on, Cot!”

For almost twenty-four hours, Cot had been encountering situations for which his experience held no solutions. He was baffled, frustrated, and angry. The carbine was off his shoulder and in his hands with the speed and smoothness of motion that his father had drilled into him until it was beyond impedance by exhaustion or alcohol. With the gun in his hands, he suddenly realized just how angry he was.

“Charles Kittredge, I charge you with attempt to breach the Integrity of my household. Load and fire.”

The formula, too, was as ingrained in Cot as was his whole way of life. Chuck Kittredge knew it as well as he did. He blanched.

“You gone crazy?” It was a new voice, from slightly beyond and beside Charles. Cot’s surprised glance flickered over and saw Kittredge’s younger brother, Michael.

“Do you stand with him?” Cot rapped out.

“Aw, now, look, Cot…” Charles Kittredge began. “You’re not serious about this?”

“Stand or turn your back.”

“Cot! All I said was—”

“Am I to understand that you are attempting to explain yourself?”

Michael Kittredge moved forward. “What’s the matter with you, Garvin? You living in the Dirty Years or something?”

The knot of fury twisted itself tighter in Cot’s stomach. “That will be far enough. I asked you once: Do you stand with him?”

“No, he doesn’t!” Charles Kittredge said violently. “And I don’t stand either. What kind of a fool things going on in your head, anyway? People just don’t pull challenges like that at the drop of a hat anymore!”