Arkady Strugatsky: Prisoners of Power

"Good," the captain finally agreed. "Corporal Varibobu! Write up escort papers!"

The corporal rose slightly.

"Are Private Gaal's travel orders ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Insert Mac Sim's name in the orders as being under escort. Private Gaal!"

Guy clicked his heels and snapped to attention.

"Yes, sir."

"I want you to deliver the prisoner to the address on this paper before you proceed to your new post. After you have carried out these orders, you must present this paper to the duty officer at your new station. Forget the address. This is your last assignment, Gaal, and I know you will execute it as befits a good legionnaire."

"It will be done, sir," shouted Guy, flattered by the captain's confidence.

Suddenly a hot wave of indescribable ecstasy swept over him and bore him aloft. "Oh, the sweet moments of joy, those unforgettable moments when one is on wings, those moments of sweet contempt for everything crude, material, and physical. Moments when you long to hear the command that will join you to fire, fling you into its flames against thousands of enemies, into the very thick of wild hordes, to face a hail of bullets. Fire! Flame! Fury! And now he is rising, this strapping, handsome fellow, the pride of the brigade, our own Corporal Varibobu. Like a fiery torch, like a statue of glory and fidelity. And he leads the singing, and we all join in as one!

Forward, legionnaires, men of iron!

Forward, sweeping away fortresses with fire in our eyes!

We shall smash the foe with an iron boot!

Let drops of fresh blood sparkle on our swords…

"And everyone is singing with me, including the brilliant Captain Tolot, model legionnaire, cream of the Legion, for whom I would gladly give my life, my soul, my everything, this very instant. And Dr. Zogu is singing, too – a model brother of mercy, rough and tough as a real soldier, but tender as a mother, too. And our Corporal Varibobu, ours to the core, an old warrior, a veteran grown gray in skirmishes with the enemy. Oh, how his buttons sparkle and his stripes shine on his worn, well-earned uniform. For him there is nothing but to serve, to serve!

Our iron fist sweeps away all obstacles.

The All-Powerful Creators are pleased!

How the enemy weeps! Show him no mercy!

Onward, legionnaires, brave warriors!

"But what's this? He's not singing. He's leaning on the counter and rolling his idiotic brown head. His eyes keeping roving and he doesn't stop grinning. Who are you grinning at, you scum? Oh, how I'd like to smash my iron first into that toothy grin. But no, I must not: such behavior is ill befitting a legionnaire. After all, he's a lunatic, a pitiful cripple. He can never know real happiness. He's blind, worthless, half-human. And that red-haired bandit is squirming in the corner in unbearable pain. You lousy criminal, here's a kick in the ass for you. Up on your feet, scum! Stand at attention when a legionnaire sings his marching song. Here's something for your empty head and your filthy face, and your insolent eyes. Take that, and that!"

Guy flung Zef back against the wall and, clicking his heels, turned to the captain. As usual after such fits of ecstasy, his ears rang and the world floated and swayed pleasantly before his eyes.

Corporal Varibobu, blue-gray from the strain, coughed, holding his chest. The doctor, sweaty and flushed, drank water greedily straight from the pitcher and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. The captain frowned vacantly as if trying to remember something. Red-haired Zef, looking like a pile of dirty rags, writhed in pain. His face had been battered to a bloody pulp and he was moaning weakly. And Mac Sim had stopped smiling. His face had stiffened: his lips were parted as he stared at Guy, wide-eyed.

"Private Gaal," said the captain. "Something I wanted to tell you – hold it, Zogu, leave me at least one swallow of water."

3.

Maxim woke up with a heavy head. It was stuffy in the room; the window had been closed all night again. With the city so near him, it was senseless to open the window. A grayish-brown cap of noxious fumes was visible over the city. The wind carried them here, and neither distance, nor his fifth-floor room high above the street, nor the park below offered relief. "God, how I'd love to take an ion shower now and leap stark naked into our gar- den – not into this foul, rotting garden with its stinking fumes, but into ours, near Gladbach, on the shore of the Nirs. I'd race ten miles around the lake at top speed, swim across it, then walk along its bottom for about twenty minutes to exercise my lungs. Then climb up the slippery boulders. " He jumped up, opened the window, stuck out his head into the drizzle, inhaled the damp air, and coughed – the air was full of industrial wastes, and the rain- drops left a metallic taste on his tongue. Cars whizzed by along the nearby superhighway. Below, beneath the window, wet foliage gleamed yellow, and something glistened on the high stone wall. At the city's edge, as usual, thick columns of poisonous smoke curled lazily from two high stacks and drooped toward the ground.

A suffocating world. A miserable, sick world. So bleak and sad. Like that government office where people, suddenly, without rhyme or reason, howled and sang themselves hoarse. And Guy, such a fine, handsome young man, completely unexpectedly had beaten Redbeard Zef to a pulp. And the victim hadn't even resist- ed. An unhappy world. A radioactive river, a ridiculous iron drag- on, polluted air. And that clumsy two-tiered metal box moving along on wheels, spewing pollution. And its slovenly passengers. And that barbaric incident in the metal box on wheels, when rude people reduced an elderly woman to tears with their boisterous laughter and gestures and no one interceded. The box was jammed, but everyone turned away. Only Guy jumped up, white with anger (maybe it had been fear) and shouted at them, and they cleared out. But even Guy, who seemed to be a decent sort would suddenly be seized by unexplainable rages, would quarrel violently with the passengers in his compartment, stare at them and then Just as suddenly become totally prostrated.

Yet the others behaved no better. They would sit peacefully for hours, resting, chatting softly, even laughing; and suddenly someone would begin to growl at his neighbor. The neighbor would respond with a nervous snarl. And the other passengers did nothing to break it up. Instead of calming down the quarreling pair, they Joined in. And the row would grow until everyone was yelling, threatening, shoving. Even the children would howl at the top of their lungs until their ears were boxed. Then everything would gradually subside; people would get sulky and avoid conversation. And sometimes the row would turn into a really disgusting affair. Eyes would practically pop out of their sockets faces would flush with red blotches, voices would rise to blood-curdling shrieks, and someone would laugh hysterically. Some would pray, others sing. A madhouse.

Maxim left the window and paused briefly in the center of his cramped room, feeling weak, apathetic, and exhausted. Forcing himself to take positive action to overcome his deteriorating physical and mental state, he began to exercise, using a bulky wooden chair as barbells. "You can sure go to pot this way " he thought. "I suppose I can take it for another day or so. Then I have to get out of here. Maybe roam the forest awhile. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to run off to the mountains. Nice there And wild. Pretty far – you couldn't make it in one night. What did Guy call them? Zartak. I wonder if that's the name of those mountains or their word for mountains? Well, whatever they are I'd better forget about them for now. I've been here ten days and haven't made any progress yet."

He squeezed into the stall shower and for several minutes rubbed himself down in the dense artificial rain, as disgusting as their real ram. True, it was slightly colder, but hard and caustic. He dried himself with a sterile towel.