Hugh Cook - The Worshippers and the Way

So swords so screams so

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.