Hugh Cook - The Worshippers and the Way

"Pretty?" said Lupus.

Whatever doubts he had about Dog Java were confirmed by that one word.

Still, Lupus pushed on, and made his final offer to Dog Java. As has already been stated, Dog was a member of the Yara, the Unreal underclass of Dalar ken Halvar's dominant people, the Pang. Dog wanted to join the Free Corps, but membership of that august body was largely restricted to Ebrell Islanders and members of the Chem, the wealthy upperclass of Dalar ken Halvar's Pang.

"The Brick has reconsidered your application," said Lupus.

"And?" said Dog.

"It has been agreed that you will be accepted into the Free Corps if you kill Hatch. Kill him and you can become Real."

"Good," said Dog, simply. Then said: "Abort."

With that word, Dog exited from the simulated MegaCommand Cruiser, leaving Lupus Lon Oliver alone with his anxieties. Dog was a poor tool. Lupus would much rather have employed someone with a streak of desperation in his nature – like Yolombo Atlantabara, the Frangoni deserter who was known to be living a precarious and criminal life somewhere in Dalar ken Halvar. If Lupus could only get Atlantabara, then – then he might have a serious hope of seeing Hatch dead. But Dog? Lupus was dubious about Dog's abilities.

Hence his anxiety.

For Lupus, winning the instructorship – by fair means or foul – was desperately important. It would mean wealth. And status.

And more.

In the years which Lupus had devoted to his studies in the Combat College, he had integrated himself with the life of the Nexus. In many ways, he had become one of the more intellectual and philosophical of the citizens of the Nexus, and in some ways this had made him a stranger in his own homeland.

So while it is true that Lupus ruthlessly pursued his ambitions because he desired influence, and power, and the satisfactions of mastery, it is also true that he sought a permanent position in the Combat College as an instructor because he did not want to be exiled from his home.

For Lupus, the Nexus was now home; and in a practical sense, for him the Combat College was effectively the Nexus. And he was possessed of a great and half-acknowledged fear of being exiled, of being cast out, of being driven from his home, of being cut off from his people and his culture and all the works and philosophies of that culture.

And Lupus knew that unless he triumphed over Asodo Hatch in the combat trials which were to come, then in a very few days he would indeed be driven out of the Nexus, and the gates of return would be forever barred to him, and he would then be fated to endure a life of exile in an alien land until the end of his days.

Lupus Lon Oliver could not bear the thought of being exiled for a lifetime to Dalar ken Halvar, the benighted City of Sun which lived and died in the dust, which fed itself on rice and polyps and which garbled its days away in primitive tongues bereft of computerized memory. In his dreams, Lupus stood on a high place in Dalar ken Halvar, and looked out across that city and looked out across the red dust of the Plain of Jars, and wailed:

– This is hell.

The Nexus: transcosmic confederation which contains much of Known Humanity. Theoretically, Asodo Hatch is a Nexus asset – a trained Startrooper contending to win an instructorship in a Nexus Combat College. However the honor of the Frangoni warrior's oath of eternal fealty to the Nexus is unlikely to ever be tested – for the transcosmic Chasm Gates linking his world to the rest of the Nexus collapsed some 20,496 years ago, and the likelihood of those Chasm Gates ever being repaired is currently very close to zero.

So then despite the crowd

He was alone.

Despite the sweat which waited, bloody-eyed – The sweat and skin:

A living weapon, bladed,

Hooked and barbed,

And he the same, identical, and yet – Not quite the same, for only one would walk.

Two futures waited, and the crowd -

Then came the Sign.

And so his father died, expiring on the sands in the Season, but Hatch was not going to die likewise, no, he refused that death, though everyone knows the son may follow when the father dies. At least when the father dies in that manner. But no, he would not, not now! Now the singlefighter was singing, now Hatch had his enemy in his sights, now he fired.

"Burst away," said the singlefighter. "Burst away."

The explosive shells hit home. Shells, brute metal and high explosive, primitive but reliable, just as a knife is likewise primitive but eternally reliable. Fire blossomed within fire. The wreckage wrenched itself apart and fell. The victorious singlefighter analysed an image-record of the attack and pronounced:

"Drone destroyed. Drone – "

"What?" said Hatch, in startled shock.

" – destroyed."

Yes. Yes. Surely. Hatch knew the trick. The singlefighter he had just savaged had been no more than an illusion gimmicked up by a drone. But drones were far too small to be swift. No drone could possibly match the speeds at which Hatch had hunted his enemy. He had arrowed high and far in pursuit of his quarry, blistering through the stratosphere at speeds impossible for anything short of a singlefighter to match.

Which meant – Which meant the drone had recently been launched.

So his true enemy was near.

"Enemy behind us," said the singlefighter.

So Hatch slammed the fighter into a wrenching turn, a turn so savage he had to tighten his stomach muscles to keep himself from passing out.

And there was his enemy.

In his sights.

The enemy for real? Or a drone?

Hatch hesitated, just for a moment, and a moment was far too long. His fighter screamed:

" – hit hit hit – "

And already Hatch was lost, was gone, was wrecked and doomed, his singlefighter smashed and ruined, the machine skidding, tumbling, losing control, spinning through the sky, screaming as it fell.

"Abort," said Hatch. "Abort. Abort!"

But his voice was lost in the howl of his wounded machine, or else the programming was glitched, glitched again, and whatever it was he was falling, falling, lancing down toward the burning sea, diving toward the – - the – - the blur – - the freezing freeze-framed – - the frozen blur of the sea, green fading, blue denying, yellow phasing, passing, fading, gone – Gone.

The world wavered in silence, and Hatch felt as if he was deep under water, held deep by a pressure too great for him to speak or breathe or feel or think – - think – What did he think? – the sea – Then the wavering sea-deep silence was nothing but a memory, and he was back in the Combat College, back in the initiation seat, back in the combat bay, his heart pounding and his uniform wet with sweat. Hatch put his face in his hands and kneaded his eyes with his fingers.

It was some time before Asodo Hatch raised his head again and looked at the screen. The screen displayed the olive-skinned face of Paraban Senk.

Since Paraban Senk was an asma, a computational device, Senk was not actually encumbered by anything so grossly inconvenient as a body, so did not possess a face in the fact of the flesh. But for the last twenty thousand years, the unembodied Senk had ever displayed the one and the same unchanging olive-skinned visage on the screens of the Combat College.

"Critique," said Senk. As per usual, the Teacher of Control was calm, neutral, remote, disinterested. When Hatch did not respond, Senk amplified the command. "Critique. Critique your own performance. Come on, Hatch, what's wrong with you?"

"I'm a trifle tired," said Hatch.

"You're a Startrooper, trained and tested," said Senk. "Startroopers don't worry about trifles. The critique. Please."

"I was fooled," said Hatch heavily.

"Certainly something went wrong," said Senk. "You had him in your sights. He shed the shield and you had him."