A History Maker Page 7

The amplification was so great that the crowd was silenced, many clapped their hands to their ears, Tam Wardlaw turned his chair and sped back to the mess. With an effort Wat said more quietly, “Men become soldiers, Archie Crook Cot, because we’re no good at anything else! The Crook Cots are teachers, wizards, gurus in the mandarin network! When I was in the satellite belt people who heard my voice said, ‘You’re Scottish. Which part?’ ‘Ettrick,’ said I. ‘Ettrick?’ said they, ‘Do you know the Crook Cots?’ and because I had played with ye when we were bairns their respect for me doubled. Whenever crazy chemicals provoke a new virus — or maybe it’s the other way round, I’m too ignorant to ken — the star seeders want the problem keyed into a mandarin web with at least one Crook Cot guru in it. Why should anyone with an ounce of intellectual talent train for a life of grievous bodily harm?”

  “You think we havenae the spunk for it Wat?” jeered a voice from somewhere and provoked scattered laughter.

  “Wattie,” said Archie pleasantly, “There’s no use saying what our aunties told us this morning. You’re a great soldier and have no illusions about fighting. I’m a guru and don’t think much of my job either. I enjoy playing mandarin on keyboards, spinning threads in a web of knowledge that will join the stars one day, but I’m no immortal genius. Immortals talk to me like an equal because I know their language and they find me useful, but when my cousin Willie told me yesterday he was off to join the army I discovered I was an Ettrick patriot before anything else.”

  “WHY?” said Wat sharply enough to quell the beginnings of another cheer.

  “For fun,” said Archie and across the sea of heads Wat saw a toothy grin divide the round face of the squat figure on the horse, “I enjoyed spreading consternation through an eternal network which thought me a dependable unit. I like the amazement, admiration and grief my sisters, aunts and grannies now feel for me. But I most like astonishing myself. What! Will a guru like me drill for months in the martial arts and sleep in his cloak during forced marches over the hills? The notion is too fantastic to be resisted. Mibby I’ll crack under the strain. I doubt it. We’ll see.”

  The cheer which now arose was too loud to be quelled. Wat strolled up and down the platform waiting for it to fade. He noticed that the veterans and Boys’ Brigade captains now stood behind him in the formal groups he had meant to avoid, but now they would have looked silly seated so he gave them an approving nod. The more he thought about this renewal of the army the more exciting it seemed. When he again faced the crowd a small tight smile twisted his mouth. He silenced the fading din with a gesture and said, “There is no law to stop any man in Ettrick joining us if he’s healthy and crazy enough to do it. If I tried to keep ye out now you’d think I wanted all the wee boys to myself. Go back to your homes and send your names and physical profiles here. If you’re fit you’ll get word saying what to bring for your first term of training which, I promise, will be no picnic. You’ve seven days to change your minds while I work out a completely new training programme. Goodbye.”

  He turned his back on a new wave of cheering and went quickly into the mess where a fit of huge yawning seized him.

  “You need a rest, Colonel Dryhope,” murmured Jenny.

  “Rest and privacy, Jenny.”

  “The commander’s quarters are ready for you sir,” said Jenny and led him from the mess into the communications room, led him from there by lift to an apartment he was visiting for the first time. The last man to use it had been his father.

  FOUR

  PUDDOCK PLOT

  WAT WAKENED sitting on a lavatory pan, sure he had not been unconscious for more than a minute or two. On leaving the cubicle he could not at first remember where he was and why. Through clear walls on every side he saw hills, woods, lochs he had known from childhood. They were lit by familiar evening sunlight but in an order he could not recognize. A central part was missing — the Warrior house. Then he realized he was above it. The Ettrick commander’s apartment was in a tower which from outside he had always thought a solar heating duct. Delighted by his new elevation he let out a bark of laughter which almost hurt his throat. Without hurry he bathed then dressed in a clean suit of loose clothes which fitted perfectly. He walked about glorying in the soft carpet, the spare efficient furniture, the combination of perfect comfort with a view commanding the countryside he loved best. No wonder his father had preferred this place to houses where all apartments were on the same level.

  “Privacy and power,” he murmured aloud,

  “Power and privacy.”

  He would hate leaving here if someone else became general, but who else could they make general? Three days ago he had honestly meant to nominate Joe for the job but then a new army had seemed years away. If Archie Crook Cot was right Ettrick would perhaps be able to fight again in six months. Some recruits would certainly crack under their training — he hoped so, it would show the strength of the rest — but only Wat Dryhope would be fit for the general’s job if he did not waste time daydreaming. Sitting at a keyboard Colonel Dryhope summoned a series of training programmes and started adapting them to the probable needs of middle-aged recruits.

  There was a slight cough and he saw Jenny laying a meal on a table.

  “Yes, it’s time I ate,” said Wat, “And I appreciate your quality of silence. But next time warn me before you enter. A quiet tinkle will do. When a chain of thoughts is being connected even wee surprises can break it.”

  “I will do so in future, Colonel Dryhope, but may I speak?”

  “Fire away,” said Wat, sitting at the table and uncovering a dish of roast woodcocks.

  “I have served four Ettrick commanders, Colonel Dryhope, and those who worked hardest kenned how to relax. Three relaxed with alcohol but you, I think, are your father’s son?”

  “Aye?”

  “Messages await your attention, Colonel Dryhope. Some will be invitations,” said Jenny, pointing to a shelf where a stack of papers lay under a wallprinter.

  “Sort them for me,” said Wat pouring gravy on small brown bodies, “Put messages about warrior business on my desk. Put messages from public eye channels down the waste chute. Bring the rest here.”

  For several minutes Wat sucked delicate meat from small bones and disposed of a salad. He was pouring coffee when Jenny laid a sheaf of pale violet papers beside the cup. Wat said,

  “Good man, Jenny. Have my pony saddled and waiting in twenty minutes. I may go out.”

  “Would not a horse be a more suitable mount, Colonel Dryhope? The late general’s favourite, Bucephalus, is both elegant and docile.”

  “I’m no an elegant horseman,” said Wat pleasantly, “Go away and do what I said, Jenny.”

  The prints contained intimate portraits and were mostly from women who adored him for qualities they had noticed through the public eye. A few were from older women he knew well; they pleased him best. He was hurt to find nothing from Nan but she hated warrior business and probably disliked him being a colonel. A note from her daughter Annie begged him to call at once. He did. In a voice full of happiness and tears she said, “O Wattie Wattie. O Wattie Wattie.”

  “Hello there.”

  “O Wattie I was daft to be feart when ye were mad at me this morning, my aunties and grannies have telt me I was daft, all soldiers have wee mad fits when they’ve been in bad wars, they say, and it doesnae hurt the bairns they get so I can see ye again, Wattie! Tonight if ye like!”

  He took a moment to remember what she was raving about then said awkwardly, “That’s good, Annie, but tonight I want to see your mother, if she’ll have me. Do you think Nan will have me?”

  He heard a wailing from Craig Douglas which made him glad he had not made a visual connection. He said hastily, “Yes Annie. Fine. Aye. Mhm. Since your grannies don’t mind I’ll mibby see ye in a fortnight, but of course — ” (he tried to cheer her with a joke) “ — your mammy might want to give me to one of your sisters.” She cut him off.

  He sighed and looked out. The
clear sky was now patterned with clusters of saucerlike cloudlets, the remotest tinted pink by the evening sun. Beneath each was a house, in each house was at least one bedroom where he would be ecstatically welcome. He regretted leaving his work on the training programme but Jenny was right, he would work better if he relaxed first. He stared at a cloudlet beyond the wooded top of Bowerhope Law. Beneath was Bowerhope house, less than two miles away by the shore path. Two friendly sisters there had been kind to him more than once. Their private names were Myoo and Myow and they always bedded together. He called their room at Bowerhope and said, “Myow?”

  “Myoo.”

  “Colonel Wat Cat is coming, pussies.”

  “Mwoopee.”

  When he reached the path to Bowerhope shadows were darkening under the trees but there was a soft glow in the sky and on the loch. The path was level and without abrupt turnings. Sophia, refreshed by rest and good feeding at the Warrior house, went at a satisfying pace. Wat, happy in his destination, gave himself to more thought about the training programme.

  Men usually became soldiers through a disciplined extension of war games they had played as children, but many of the world’s best fighters, like himself, had come late to the army after work with other things, perhaps because delay had strengthened their determination. He would soon command the first determined army of late starters the world had seen since Cromwell’s in the historical era. Then he remembered George Washington’s troops — Napoleon’s generals — Ulysses S. Grant — Leon Trotsky — Che Guevara. The world would be watching him with these in mind, a wonderful, fearful thought! He prevented excitement by thinking how to work harder and set better examples than the trainee officers lent by neighbouring clans, though these would all be good men. He thought of Archie Crook Cot, a famous physicist, intelligent man, very good speaker. His muscular strength and coordination were better than his bulky body suggested. Like many gurus he relaxed by hunting and fishing and had gained local fame by it. Archie would adapt fast to war games and must already be imagining himself general of Ettrick. Wat smiled and muttered, “No yet Archie. Let’s see you after your first wee war.” He would manage Archie by giving him tough assignments and, if he handled them well, by promoting him. He would ask him, even now, to pick a company of volunteer divers and bring the Ettrick standard back from the North Sea. This would show Colonel Dryhope in command from his first day in office, and delight Ettrick traditionalists, and soothe Crook Cot’s vanity. Wat raised his wristcom to call Archie and saw the dial was lightless except for the word BEAMBLOCKED. He shook and tapped it, wondering why it gave such an impossible reason for malfunction. Beams were directed from satellites by human agencies. In a squabble between two satellites for a habitat zone a mischief maker had once temporarily blocked a rival’s part of network, the nearest thing to lawless fighting humanity had known for over a century, but nobody, however mischievous, used interplanetary energies to play a prank on someone’s wrist communicator.

  Suddenly his ear was teased by the repetition of a sound no louder than the lapping of small waves on the shore to his left: an occasional soft tinkle from the wooded slope on his right. Looking there he saw a glowing violet spot travelling against darkness under the branches: obviously (he thought) an oddly coloured public eye many yards away. With another soft tinkle it floated out in front of his face. It was a bubble less than half an inch across with a violet outline and contained a head with abundant black shoulder-length hair and a womanly face, though too small to be recognized. He stared sternly at a point above it and heard a tiny, distinct very girlish English voice which became tough American then huskily Germanic. Throughout these accent shifts it remained mockingly, whorishly female and roused him in a way he detested.

  “Please don’t ignore me sir, I am the fairy Tinker Bell who will make all your dreams come true, but you can call me Phyllis Marlowe. I’m a private eye, not a public eye and I’m absolutely and utterly yours, darlink.”

  “Fuck off,” said Wat coldly, “I’m giving no interviews to crack-brained voyeurs, public or private.”

  The bubble recoiled as if struck and settled on Sophia’s head between the ears. These twitched as the small voice shrilled, “Ooooooo why are you so crooooooel to me?” and made sounds like bitter sobbing. Sophia did not alter her pace. Wat urged her into a jolting trot which was the fastest she could go but the bubble stayed between her ears.

  “I’ll tell you a story, dearie,” said a voice amazingly like a Scottish granny’s, “There was once a wee lad who didnae like the lassies of Ettrick and ordinary war games, he liked wild historical wars that were fought without rules and changed the world, wars fought with wild glamorous women and explosions and spaceships which carried him to new worlds. In sentimental moments he also enjoyed gardening, so he decided to be a star seeder.”

  “A third of humanity starts that way,” said Wat scornfully.

  “This boy was unique, dearie. He was taller than the rest and ashamed of it because he thought women couldnae like him — and he certainly didnae want any poor lassie who did. That’s why he wanted new worlds, worlds where he would not be an outsider because he dominated them. He also had the smeddum to work hard at what he hated, so he must have been terribly unhappy. After three painful years of keyboard work he knew enough astrophysics and biology to get into space, though his mind was not exactly scientific. Two years in satellite greenhouses ended his love of gardening. A talk with an immortal ended his dream of reaching new worlds — he could only do that by forgetting childhood dreams. He came home, became a soldier like his daddy and is now a world-famous hero. That won’t content him.”

  “Tell me what I don’t know.”

  “Oui, at our next meeting, chéri,” the voice whispered with a French accent, “The meeting where we become love-ers.”

  Wat laughed. He seldom noticed comic situations but this seemed one. He looked at the bubble in a friendly way. It now contained a mouth with full lips precisely crimsoned in a 1940s Hollywood fashion which had been revived at least thrice a century since. He said, “As you’re synthesized from the soundtracks of ancient movies I won’t get much joy from that meeting. You’re probably not even a woman. Real women don’t use satellite technology to seduce a man.”

  There was a pause in which he let Sophia resume the pace she found easiest. The voice said, “An intelligent deduction, Colonel Dryhope, but I am very much a woman. This sophisticated foreplay ensures we will meet in the body without inhibitions, but it is your soul I want to seduce.”

  The voice now sounded like a soft-speaking south-east English woman with a slight exotic flavour of Caribbean or southern U.S.A. Wat had heard it before. He said amiably, “Why do you want that?”

  A man’s voice spoke. It took Wat a few seconds to recognize his own.

  “Give me a period of excitement when folk thought they were making a better world … Rage, not sorrow is my disease … I hate women for their damnable smug security … I want the bad old days when wars had no rules and bombs fell on houses and men and women died together like REAL equals! Equal in their agony and mutilation! … Privacy and power, power and privacy.”

  Wat felt pressure in his heart and eardrums. He breathed carefully to prevent useless rage. He pretended to yawn then said that using satellite technology to invade private lives was the sort of criminal intrusion the world had outgrown over a century ago, was against the Geneva Convention, was infantile bad manners.

  “Yeah, but I’m a real wild child and an outlaw, honey,” said the voice Americanly, “I’m a professional hooker who has hooked you.”

  “You’re also a media person. You spoke to me in your English voice from a public eye ball this morning, one that jumped out of a blaeberry bush when I came down by Thirlstane. How can you be public and private too?”

  “How can you be Colonel Dryhope in Ettrick Warrior house and your aunties’ Wattie at home? Media people also get into more than one set, Colonel Dryhope. The more sets we belong to the more po
wer we hold. I’m in more than a dozen and am now forming the most powerful set in the world. It has two members — you and me.”

  “I’ll discuss this chat with Archie Crook Cot,” said Wat grimly, “You may have heard of him. I don’t think he’ll need more than an hour of networking to find the beam you’re using, and where you are, and who you are.”

  For a while the lips stayed slightly parted. Their owner was either thinking hard or listening to instructions from someone else, but Wat did not feel outnumbered.

  “I would feel very hurt if you told Archie Crook Cot about me, Colonel Dryhope,” said the mouth at last, “Others would suffer too. You are not a man who can be frightened, but your clan might suffer most.”

  “I’m no feart of mysterious threats,” said Wat grinning, “Nor feart of people who repeat things I said idly or in a bad temper. Why not replay what I said before the battle when I spoke to save the Ettrick weans? Geneva noticed that.” “That is not the side of you which attracts me,” said the mouth softly, “Do you not know that many women desire to feel themselves helpless in the arms of a powerful man they identify with God?”

  “If you’re a masochist in search of a violent brute find another soldier. The breed is not extinct.”

  “Ah, but you are so wrong, chéri! The breed is practically extinct. Other soldiers waste their violence in conventional war games then go home to be nursed by their conventional aunts and sweethearts. And I am more than a sensual body — I too am an outsider who cannot bear this world governed by aunts and grannies. It has lasted too long, it is stale, it needs renewal. You feel this too, Wat — that is why you wanted to start a reich of two with Annie Craig Douglas. It would have been too small for you. Renew the world with me! It will be dangerous work but neither of us fear danger. It will also need political intelligence.”