Plotters and Shooters
Kage Baker
I was flackeying for Lord Deathlok and Dr. Smash when the shuttle brought the new guy.
I hate Lord Deathlok. I hate Dr. Smash too, but I'd like to see Lord Deathlok get a missile fired up his ass, from his own cannon. Not that it's really a cannon. And I couldn't shoot him, anyhow, because I'm only a Plotter. But it's the thought that counts, you know?
Anyway I looked up when the beeps and the flashing lights started, and Lord Deathlok took hold of my little French maid's apron and yanked it so hard I had to bend over fast, so I almost dropped the tray with his drink.
Pay attention, maggot-boy, said Lord Deathlok. It's only a shuttle docking. No reason you should be distracted from your duties.
I know what's wrong, said Dr. Smash, lounging back against the bar. He hears the mating call of his kind. They must have sent up another Plotter.
Oh, yeah. Lord Deathlok grinned at me. Your fat-ass girlfriend went crying home to his mum and dad, didn't he?
Oh, man, how I hated him. He was talking about Kev, who'd only gone Down Home again because he'd almost died in an asthma attack. Kev had been a good Plotter, one of the best. I just glared at Deathlok, which was a mistake, because he smiled and put his boot on my foot and stood up.
I don't think I heard your answer, Fifi, he said, and I was in all this unbelievable psychological pain, see, because even with the lower gravity he could still manage to get the leverage just right if he wanted to bear down. They tell us we don't have to worry about getting brittle bones up here because they make us do weight-training, but how would we know if they were lying? I could almost hear my metatarsals snapping like dry twigs.
Yes, my Lord Deathlok, I said.
What? He leaned forward.
My lord yes my Lord Deathlok!
That's better. He sat down.
So okay, you're probably thinking I'm a coward. I'm not. It isn't that Lord Deathlok is even a big guy. He isn't, actually, he's sort of skinny and he has these big yellow buck teeth that make him look like a demon jackrabbit. And Dr. Smash has breasts and a body odor that makes sharing an airlock with him a fatal mistake. But they're Shooters, you know? And they all dress like they're space warriors or something, with the jackets and the boots and the scary hair styles. Shracking fascists.
So I put down his Dis Pepsy and backed away from him, and that was when the announcement came over the speakers: Eugene Clifford, please report to Mr. Kurtz's office.
Talk about saved by the bell. As the message repeated, Lord Deathlok smirked.
Sounds like Dean Kurtz is lonesome for one of his little buttboys. You have our permission to go, Fifi.
My lord thank you my Lord Deathlok, I muttered, and tore off the apron and ran for the companionway.
Mr. Kurtz isn't a dean; I don't know why the Shooters call him that. He's the Station Manager. He runs the place for Areco and does our performance reviews and signs our bonus vouchers, and you'd think the Shooters would treat him with a little more respect, but they don't because they're Shooters, and that says it all. Mostly he sits in his office and looks disappointed. I don't blame him.
He looked up from his novel as I put my head around the door.
You wanted to see me, Mr. Kurtz?
He nodded. New arrival on the shuttle. Kevin Nederlander's replacement. Would you bring him up, please?
Yes, sir! I said, and hurried off to the shuttle lounge.
The new guy was sitting there in the lounge, with his duffel in the chair beside his. He was short and square and his haircut made his head look like it came to a point. Maybe it's genetic; Plotters can't seem to get good haircuts, ever.
Welcome to the Gun Platform, newbie, I said. I'm your Orientation Officer. Which I sort of am.
Oh, good, he said, getting to his feet, but he couldn't seem to take his eyes off the viewscreen. I waited for him to ask if that was really Mars down there, or gush about how he couldn't believe he was actually on an alien world or at least in orbit above one. That's usually what they do, see. But he didn't. He just shouldered his duffel and tore his gaze away at last.
Charles Tead. Glad to be here, he said.
Heh! That'll change, I thought. You've got some righteous shoes to fill, newbie. Think you're up to it?
He just said that he was, not like he was bragging or anything, and I thought This one's going to get his corners broken off really soon.
So I took him to the Forecastle and showed him Kev's old bunk, looking all empty and sad with the drillholes where Kev's holoposters used to be mounted. He put his duffel into Kev's old locker and looked around, and then he asked who did our laundry. I coughed a little and explained about it being sent down to the planet to be dry-cleaned. I didn't tell him, not then, about our having to collect the Shooters' dirty socks and stuff for them.
And I took him to the Bridge where B Shift was on duty and introduced him to the boys. Roscoe and Norman were wearing their Jedi robes, which I wish they wouldn't because it makes us look hopeless. Vinder was in a snit because Bradley had knocked one of his action figures behind the console, and apparently it was one of the really valuable ones, and Myron's the only person skinny enough to get his arm back there to fish it out, but he's on C Shift and wouldn't come on duty until seventeen-hundred hours.
I guess that was where it started, B Shift making such a bad first impression.
But I tried to bring back some sense of importance by showing him the charting display, with the spread of the asteroid belt all in blue and gold, like a stained-glass window in an old-time church must have been, only everything moving.
This is your own personal slice of the sky, I said, waving at Q34-54. Big Kev knew every one of these babies. Tracked every little wobble, every deviation over three years. Plotted trajectories for thirty-seven successful shots. It was like he had a sixth sense! He even called three Intruders before they came in range. He was the Bonus Master, old Kev. You'll have to work pretty damn hard to be half as good as he was.
But it ought to be easy, said Charles. Doesn't the mapping software do most of it?
Well, like, I mean, sure, but you'll have to coordinate everything, you know? In your head? Machines can't do it all, I protested. And Vinder chose that second to yell from behind us, Don't take the Flying Dynamo's cape off, you'll break him! Which totally blew the mood I was trying to get. So I ignored him and continued: We've been called up from Earth for a job only we can do. It's a high and lonely destiny, up here among the cold stars! Mundane people couldn't stick it out. That's why Areco went looking for guys like us. We're free of entanglements, right? We came from our parents' basements and garages to a place where our powers were needed. Software can map those rocks out there, okay; it can track them, maybe. But only a human can—can—smell them coming in before they're there, okay?
You mean like precognition? Charles stared at me.
Not exactly, I said, even though Myron claims he's got psychic abilities, but he never seems to be able to predict when the Shooters are going to go on a rampage on our turf. I'm talking about gut feelings. Hunches. Instinct! That's the word I was looking for. Human instinct. We outguess the software seventy percent of the time on projected incoming. Not bad, huh?
I guess so, he said.
I spent the rest of the shift showing him his console and setting up his passwords and customizations and stuff. He didn't ask many questions, just put on the goggles and focused, and you could almost see him wandering around among the asteroids in Q34-54 and getting to know them. I was starting to get a good feeling about him, because that was just the way Kev used to plot, and then he said: How do we target them?
Vinder was so shocked he dropped the Blue Judge. Roscoe turned, took off his goggles to stare at me, and said: We don't target. Cripes, haven't you told him?
Told me what? Charles turned his goggled face toward the sound of Roscoe's voice.
So then I had to tell him about the Shooters, and how he couldn't go into the bar when Shooters were in there except when he was flackeying for one of them, and what they'd do to him if he did, and how he had to stay out of the Pit of Hell where they bunked except when he was flackeying for them, and he was never under any circumstances to go into the War Room at all.
I was explaining about the flackeying rotation when he said: This is stupid!
It's sheer evil, said Roscoe. But there's nothing we can do about it. They're Shooters. You can't fight them. You don't want to know what happens if you try.
This wasn't in my contract, said Charles.
You can go complain to Kurtz, if you want, said Bradley. It's no damn use. He can't control them. They're Shooters. Nobody else can do what they do.
I'll bet I could, said Charles, and everybody just sniffed at him, because, you know, who's got reflexes like a Shooter? They're the best at what they do.
You got assigned to us because you tested out as a Plotter, I told Charles. That's just the way things are. You're the best at your job; the pay's good; in five years you'll be out of here. You just have to learn to live with the crap. We all did.
He looked like a smart guy and I thought he wouldn't need to be told twice. I was wrong.
We heard the march of booted feet coming along the corridor. Vinder leaped up and grabbed all his action figures, shoving them into a storage pod. Norman began to hyperventilate; Bradley ran for the toilet. I just stayed where I was and lowered my eyes. It's never a good idea to look them in the face.
Boom! The portal jerked open and in they came, Lord Deathlok and the Shark and Iron Beast. They were carrying Piki-tiki. I blanched.
Piki-tiki was this sort of dummy they'd made out of a blanket and a mask. And a few other things. Lord Deathlok grinned around and spotted Charles.
Piki-tiki returns to his harem, he shouted. What's this? Piki-tiki sees a new and beautiful bride! Piki-tiki must welcome her to his realm!
Giggling, they advanced on Charles and launched the dummy. It fell over him, and before he could throw it off they'd jumped him and hoisted him between them. He was fighting hard, but they just laughed; that is, until he got one arm free and punched the Shark in the face. The Shark grabbed his nose and began to swear, but Lord Deathlok and Iron Beast gloated.
Whoa! The blushing bride needs to learn her manners. Piki-tiki's going to take her off to his honeymoon suite and see that she learns them well!
Ouch. They dragged him away. At least it wasn't the worst they might have done to him; they were only going to cram him in one of the lockers, probably one that had had some sweaty socks left in the bottom, and stuff Piki-tiki in there on top of him. Then they'd lock him in and leave him there. How did I know? They'd done it to me, on my first day.
If you're sensible, like me, you just shrug it off and concentrate on your job. Charles wouldn't let it go, though. He kept asking questions.
Like, how come the Shooters were paid better than we were, even though they spent most of their time playing simulations and Plotters did all the actual work of tracking asteroids and calculating when they'd strike? How come Mr. Kurtz had given up on disciplinary action for them, even after they'd rigged his holoset to come on unexpectedly and project a CGI of him having sex with an alligator, or all the other little ways in which they made his life a living hell? How come none of us ever stood up to them?
And it was no good explaining how they didn't respond to reason, and they didn't respond to being called immature and crude and disgusting, because they just loved being told how awful they were.
The other thing he asked about was why there weren't any women up here, and that was too humiliating to go into, so I just said tests had shown that men were better suited for life on a Gun Platform.
He should have been happy that he was a good Plotter, because he really was. He mastered Q34-54 in a week. One shift we were there on the Bridge and Myron and I were talking about the worst ever episode of Schr?dinger's Rock, which was the one that had Lallal's evil twin showing up after being killed off in the second season, and Anil was unwrapping the underwear his mother had sent him for his thirty-first birthday, when suddenly Charles said: Eugene, you should probably check Q6-17; I'm calculating an Intruder showing up in about Q-14.
How'd you know? I said in surprise, slipping my goggles on. But he was right; there was an Intruder, tumbling end over end in a halo of fire and snow, way above the plane of the ecliptic but square in Q-14.
Don't you extend your projections beyond the planet's ecliptic? said Charles.
Myron and I looked at each other. We never projected out that far; what was the point? There was always time to spot an Intruder before it came in range.
You don't have to work that hard, dude, I said. Fifty degrees above and below is all we have to bother with. The scanning programs catch the rest. But I sent out the alert and we could hear the Shooters cheering, even though the War Room was clear at the other end of the Platform. As far out as the Intruder was, the Shark was able to send out a missile. We didn't see the hit— there wouldn't be one for two weeks at least, and I'd have to keep monitoring the Intruder and now the missile too, just to be sure the trajectories remained matched up—but the Shooters began to stamp and roar the Bonus Song.
Myron sniffed.
Typical, he said. We do all the work, they push one bloody button, and they're the heroes.
You know, it doesn't have to be this way, said Charles.
It's not like we can go on strike, said Anil sullenly. We're independent contractors. There's a penalty for quitting.
You don't have to quit, said Charles. You can show Areco you can do even more. We can be Plotters and Shooters.
Anil and Myron looked horrified. You'd have thought he'd suggested we all turn homo or something. I was shocked myself. I had to explain about tests proving that things functioned most smoothly when every man kept to his assigned task.
Don't Areco think we can multitask? he asked me. They're a corporation like any other, aren't they? They must want to save money. All we have to do is show them we can do both jobs. The Shooters get a nice redundancy package; we get the Gun Platform all to ourselves. Life is good.
Only one problem with your little plan, Mr. Genius, said Myron. I can't shoot. I don't have the reflexes a Shooter does. That's why I'm a Plotter.
But you could learn to shoot, said Charles.
I'll repeat this slowly so you get it, said Myron, exasperated. I don't have the reflexes. And neither do you. How many times have we been tested, our whole lives? Aptitude tests, allergy tests, brain scans, DNA mapping? Areco knows exactly what we are and what we can and can't do. I'm a Plotter. You're just fooling yourself if you think you aren't.
Charles didn't say anything in reply. He just looked at each of us in turn, pretty disgusted I guess, and then he turned back to his console and focused on his work.
That wasn't the end of it, though. When he was off his shift, instead of hanging out in the Cockpit, did he join in the discussions of graphic novels or what was hot on holo that week? Not Charles. He'd retire to a corner in the Forecastle with a buke and he'd game. And not just any game: targeting simulations. You never saw a guy with such icy focus. Sometimes he'd tinker with a couple of projects he'd ordered. I assumed they were models.
It was like the rest of us weren't even there. We had to respect him as a Plotter; for one thing, he turned out to have an uncanny knack for spotting Intruders, days before any of the rest of us detected them, and he was brilliant at predicting their trajectories too. But there was something distant about the guy that kept him from fitting in. Myron and Anil had dismissed him as a crank anyway, and a couple of the guys on B shift actively disliked him, after he spouted off to them the way he did to us. They were sure he was going to do something, sooner or later, that would only end up making it worse for all of us.
They were right, too.
When Weldon's turn in the rota ended, he brought Charles the French maid's apron and tossed it on his bunk.
Your turn to wear the damn thing, he said. They'll expect you in the bar at fourteen hundred hours. Good luck.
Charles just grunted, never even looking up from the screen of his buke.
Fourteen hundred hours came and he was still sitting there, coolly gaming.
Hey! said Anil. You're supposed to go flackey!
I'm not going, said Charles.
Don't be stupid! I said. If the rest of us have to do it, you do too.
Why? Terrible repercussions if I don't? Charles set aside his buke and looked at us.
Yes! said Myron. Preston from A Shift came running in right then, looking pale.
Who's supposed to be flackeying? There's nobody out there, and Lord Deathlok wants to know why!
See? said Myron.
You'll get all of us in trouble, you fool! Give me the apron, I'll go! said Anil. But Charles took the apron and tore it in half.
There was this horrified silence, which filled up with the sound of Shooters thundering along the corridor. We heard Lord Deathlok and Painmaster yelling as they came.
Flackey! Oh, flackey! Where are you?
And then they were in the room and it was too late to run, too late to hide. Painmaster's roach crest almost touched the ceiling panels. Lord Deathlok's yellow grin was so wide he didn't look human.
Hi there, buttholes, said Painmaster. If you girls aren't too busy making out, one of you is supposed to be flackeying for us.
It was my turn, said Charles. He wadded up the apron and threw it at them. How about you wait on yourself from now on?
This wasn't our idea! said Myron.
We tried to make him report for duty! said Anil.
We'll remember that, when we're assigning penalties, said Lord Deathlok. Maybe we'll let you keep your pants when we handcuff you upside down in the toilet. Little Newbie, though . . . He turned to Charles. What about a nice game of Walk the Dog? Painmaster, got a leash anywhere on you?
The Painmaster always has a leash for a bad dog, said Painmaster, pulling one out. He started toward Charles, and that's when it got crazy.
Charles jumped out of his bunk and I thought, No, you idiot, don't try to run! But he didn't. He grabbed Painmaster's extended hand and pulled him close, and brought his arm up like he was going to hug him, only instead he made a kind of punching motion at Painmaster's neck. Painmaster screamed, wet himself and fell down. Charles kicked him in the crotch.
Another dead silence, which broke as soon as Painmaster got enough breath in him for another scream. Everybody else in the room was staring at Charles, or I should say at his left wrist, because it was now obvious there was something strapped to it under his sleeve.
Lord Deathlok had actually taken a step backward. He looked from Painmaster to Charles, and then at whatever it was on Charles' wrist. He licked his lips.
So, that's, what, some kind of taser? he said. Those are illegal, buddy.
Charles smiled. I realized then I'd never seen him smile before.
It's illegal to buy one. I bought some components and made my own. What are you going to do? Report me to Kurtz? he said.
No; I'm just going to take it away from you, dumbass, said Lord Deathlok. He lunged at Charles, but all that happened was that Charles tased him too. He jerked backward and fell over a chair, clutching his tased hand.
You're dead, he gasped. You're really dead.
Charles walked over and kicked him in the crotch too.
I challenge you to a duel, he said.
What? said Lord Deathlok, when he had enough breath after his scream.
A duel. With simulations, said Charles. I'll outshoot you. Right there in the War Room, with everybody there to witness. Thirteen hundred hours tomorrow.
F*ck off, said Lord Deathlok. Charles leaned down and displayed the two little steel points of the taser.
So you're scared to take me on? Chicken, is that it? he said, and Myron and Anil obligingly started making cluck-cluck-cluck noises. Eugene, why don't you go over to the Pit of Hell and tell the Shooters they need to come scrape up these guys?
I wouldn't have done that for a chance to see the lost episodes of Doctor Who, but fortunately Lord Deathlok sat up, gasping.
Okay, he said. Duel. You lose, I get that taser and shove it up your ass.
Sure, said Charles. Whatever you want; but I won't lose. And none of us will ever flackey for you again. Got it?
Lord Deathlok called him a lot of names, but the end of it was that he agreed to the terms, and we made Painmaster (who was crying and complaining that his heartbeat was irregular) witness. When they could walk they went stumbling back to the Pit of Hell, leaning on each other.
You are out of your mind, I said, when they had gone. You'll go to the War Room tomorrow and they'll be waiting for you with six bottles of club soda and a can of poster paint.
Maybe, said Charles. But they'll back off. Haven't you clowns figured it out yet? They're used to shooting at rocks. They have no clue what to do about something that fights back.
They'll still win. You won't be able to tase them all, and once they get it off you, you're doomed.
They won't get off me, said Charles, rolling up his sleeve and unstrapping the taser mounting from his arm. I won't be wearing it. You will.
Me? I backed away.
And there's another one in my locker. Which one of you wants it?
You've got two?
Me! Anil jumped forward. So we'll be, like, your bodyguards? Yes! Can you make more of these things?
I won't need to, said Charles. Tomorrow's going to change everything.
I don't mind telling you, my knees were knocking as we marched across to the War Room next day. Everybody on B and C Shifts came along; strength in numbers, right? If we got creamed by the Shooters, at least some of us ought to make it out of there. And if Charles was insanely lucky, we all wanted to see.
It was embarrassing. Norman and Roscoe wore full Jedi kit, including their damn light sabers that were only holobeams anyway. Bradley was wearing a Happy Bat San playjacket. Anil was wearing his lucky hat from Mystic Antagonists: the Extravaganza. We're all creative and unique, no question, but . . . maybe it isn't the best idea to dress that way when you're going to a duel with intimidating mindless jerks.
We got there, and they were waiting for us.
Our Bridge always reminded me of a temple or a shrine or something, with its beautiful display shining in the darkness; but the War Room was like the Cave of the Cyclops. There wasn't any wall display like we had. There were just the red lights of the targeting consoles, and way in the far end of the room somebody had stuck up a black light, which made the lurid holoposters of skulls and demons and vampires seem to writhe in the gloom.
The place stank of body odor, which the Shooters can't get rid of because they wear all that black bioprene gear, which doesn't breathe like the natural fabrics we wear. There was also a urinal reek; when a Shooter is gaming, he doesn't let a little thing like needing to pee drive him from his console.
All this was bad enough; imagine how I felt to see that the Shooters had made war clubs out of chlorilar water bottles stuck into handles of printer paper rolled tight. They stood there, glowering at us. I saw Lord Deathlok and the Shark and Professor Badass. Mephisto, the Conquistador, Iron Beast, Killer Ape, Uncle Hannibal . . . every hateful face I knew from months of humiliating flackey-work, except . . .
Where's the Painmaster? said Charles, looking around in an unconcerned kind of way.
He had better things to do than watch you rectums lose, said Lord Deathlok.
He had to be shipped down to the infirmary, because he was complaining of chest pains, said Mephisto. The others looked at him accusingly. Charles beamed.
Too bad! Let's do this thing, gentlemen.
We fixed up a special console, homo, just for you, said Lord Deathlok with an evil leer, waving at one. Charles looked at it and laughed.
You have got to be kidding. I'll take this one over here, and you'll take the one next to it. We'll play side by side, so everybody can see. That's only fair, right?
Their faces fell. But Anil and I crossed our arms, so the taser prongs showed, and the Shooters grumbled but backed down. They cleared away empty bottles and snack wrappers from the consoles. It felt good, watching them humbled for a change.
Charles settled himself at the console he'd chosen, and with a few quick commands on the buttonball pulled up the simulation menu.
Is this all you've got? he said. Okay; I propose nine rounds. Three sets each of Holodeath 2, Meteor Nightmare, and Incoming Annihilation. Highest cumulative score wins.
You got it, shithead, said Lord Deathlok. He took his seat.
So they called up Holodeath 2, and we all crowded around to watch, even though the awesome stench of the Shooters was enough to make your eyes water. The holo display lit up with a sinister green fog, and the enemy ships started coming at us. Charles got off three shots before Lord Deathlok managed one, and though one of his shots went wild, two inflicted enough damage on a Megacruiser to set it on fire. Lord Deathlok's shot nailed a patrol vessel in the forefront, and though it was a low-score target, he took it out with just that one shot. The score counters on both consoles gave them 1200 points.
Charles finished the burning cruiser with two more quick shots—it looked fantastic, glaring red through its ports until it just sort of imploded in this cylinder of glowing ash. But Lord Deathlok was picking off the little transport cutters methodically, because they only take about a shot each if you're accurate, which he was. Charles pulled ahead by hammering away at the big targets, and he never missed another shot, and so what happened was that the score counters showed them flashing along neck and neck for the longest time and then, boom, the last Star Destroyer blew and Charles was suddenly way ahead with twice Deathlok's score.
We were all yelling by this time, the Shooters with their chimpanzee hooting and us with—well, we sort of sounded like apes too. The next set went up and here came the ships again, but this time they were firing back. Charles took three hits in succession, before he seemed to figure out how to raise his shields, and the Shooters started gloating and smacking their clubs together.
But he went on the offensive real fast, and did something I'd never thought of before, which was aiming for the ships' gunports and disabling them with one shot before hitting them with a barrage that finished them. I never even had time to look at what Deathlok was doing, but his guys stopped cheering suddenly and when the set ended, he didn't even have a third of the points Charles did.
The third set went amazingly fast, even with the difference that the gun positions weren't stationary and they had to maneuver around in the middle of the armada. Charles did stuff I would never have dared to do, recklessly swooping around and under the Megacruisers, between their gunports for cripe's sake, getting off round after round of shots so close it seemed impossible for him to pull clear before the ships blew, but somehow he did.
Lord Deathlok didn't seem to move much. He just sat in one position and pounded away at anything that came within range, and though he did manage to bag a Star Destroyer, he finished the set way behind Charles on points.
I would have just given up if I'd been Deathlok, but the Shooters were getting ugly, shouting all kinds of personal abuse at him, and I don't think he dared.
I had to run for the lavatory as Incoming Annihilation was starting, and of course I had to run all the way back to our end of the Gun Platform to our toilet because I sure wasn't going to use the Shooters', not with the way the War Room smelled. It was only when I was unfastening that I realized I was still wearing the taser, and that I'd done an incredibly stupid thing by leaving when I was one of Charles' bodyguards. So I finished fast and ran all the way back, and there was Mr. Kurtz strolling along the corridor.
Hello there, Eugene, he said. Something going on?
Just some gaming, I said. I need to get back—
But you're on Shooter turf, aren't you? Mr. Kurtz looked around. Shouldn't you be going in the other direction?
Well—we're having this competition, you see, Mr. Kurtz, I said. The new guy's gaming against Lord—I mean, against Peavey Crandall.
Is he? Mr. Kurtz began to smile. I wondered how long Charles would put up with the Shooters. Well, well.
He said it in a funny kind of way, but I didn't have the time to wonder about it. I just excused myself and ran on, and was really relieved to see that the Shooters didn't seem to have noticed my absence. They were all packed tight around the consoles, and nobody was making a sound; all you could hear was the peew-peew-peew of the shots going off continuously, and the whump as bombs exploded. Then there was a flare of red light and our guys yelled in triumph. Bradley was leaping up and down, and Roscoe did a Victory Dance until one of the Shooters asked him if he wanted his light saber rammed up his butt.
I managed to shove my way between Anil and Myron just as Charles was announcing, I believe you're screwed, Mr. Crandall. Care to call it a day?
I looked at their scores and couldn't believe how badly Lord Deathlok had lost to him. But Lord Deathlok just snarled.
I don't think so, Ben Dover. Shut up and play!
It was Meteor Nightmare now, as though they were both out there in the Van Oort belt, facing the rocks without any comforting distance of consoles or calculations. I couldn't stop myself from flinching as they hurtled forward; and I noticed one of the Shooters put up his arms involuntarily, as though he wanted to bat away the incoming with his bare hands.
It was a brutal game; nightmare, all right, because they couldn't avoid taking massive damage. All they could do was take out as many targets as they could before their inevitable destruction. When one or the other of them took a hit, there was a momentary flare of light that blinded everybody in the room. I couldn't imagine how Charles and Lord Deathlok, right there with their faces in the action, could keep shooting with any kind of accuracy.
Sure enough, early in the second round it began to tell. They were both getting flash-blind. Charles was still hitting about one in three targets, but Lord Deathlok was shooting crazily, randomly, not even bothering to aim so far as I could tell. What a look of despair on his ugly face, with his lips drawn back from his yellow teeth!
Only a miracle would save him, now. His overall score was so far behind Charles' he'd never catch up. The Shooters knew it too. I saw Dr. Smash turn his head and murmur to Uncle Hannibal. He took a firm grip on his war club. Panicking, I grabbed Anil's arm, trying to get his attention.
That was when the Incoming klaxons sounded. All the Shooters stood to attention. Lord Deathlok looked around, blinking, but Charles worked the buttonball like a pro and suddenly the game vanished, and there was nothing before us but the console displays. There was a crackle from the speakers—the first time they'd ever been used, I found out later—and we could hear Preston screaming, You guys! Intruder coming in fast! You have to stop! It's in—
Q41! said Uncle Hannibal, leaning forward to peer at the console readout. Get out of my chair, dickwad!
Charles didn't answer. He did something with the buttonball and there was the Intruder, like something out of Meteor Nightmare, shracking enormous. It was in his own sector! How could he have missed it? Charles, who was brilliant at spotting them before anybody else?
A red frame rose around it, with the readout in numbers spinning over so fast I couldn't tell what they said, except it was obvious the thing was coming in at high speed. All the Shooters were frantic, bellowing for Charles to get his ass out of the chair. Before their astounded eyes, and ours, he targeted the Intruder and fired.
All sound stopped. Movement stopped. Time itself stopped, except for on the display, where a new set of numbers in green and another in yellow popped up. They spun like fruit on a slot machine, the one counting up, the other counting down, both getting slower and slower until suddenly the numbers matched. Then, in perfect unison, they clicked upward together on a leisurely march.
It's a hit, announced Preston from the speakers. In twelve days thirteen hours forty-two minutes. Telemetry confirmed.
Dead silence answered him. And that was when I understood: Charles hadn't missed the Intruder. Charles had spotted it days ago. Charles had set this whole thing up, requesting the specific time of the duel, knowing the Intruder would interrupt it and there'd have to be a last-minute act of heroism. Which he'd co-opt.
But the thing is, see, there are people down there on the planet under us, who could die if a meteor gets through. I mean, that's why we're all up here in the first place, right?
Finally Anil said, in a funny voice, So . . . who gets the bonus, then?
He can't have just done that, said Mephisto, hoarse with disbelief. He's a Plotter.
Get up, faggot, said Uncle Hannibal, grabbing Charles' shoulder.
Hit him, said Charles.
I hadn't unfrozen yet, but Anil had been waiting for this moment all day. He jumped forward and tased Uncle Hannibal. Uncle Hannibal dropped, with a hoarse screech, and the other Shooters backed away fast. Anil stared down at Uncle Hannibal with unholy wonder in his eyes, and the beginning of a terrible joy. Suddenly there was a lot of room in front of the consoles, enough to see Lord Deathlok sitting there staring at the readout, with tears streaming down his face.
Charles got out of the chair.
You lost, he informed Lord Deathlok.
Your reign of terror is over! cried Anil, brandishing his taser at the Shooters. One or two of them cowered, but the rest just looked stunned. Charles turned to me.
You left your post, he said. You're a useless idiot. Myron, take the taser off him.
Sir yes sir! said Myron, grabbing my arm and rolling up my sleeve. As he was unfastening the straps, we heard a chuckle from the doorway. All heads turned. There was Mr. Kurtz, leaning there with his arms crossed. I realized he must have followed me, and seen the drama as it played out. Anil thrust his taser arm behind his back, looking scared, but Mr. Kurtz only smiled.
As you were, he said. He stood straight and left. We could hear him whistling as he walked away.
It wasn't until later that we learned the whole story, or as much of it as we ever knew: how Charles had been recruited, not from his parents' garage or basement, but from Hospital, and how Mr. Kurtz had known it, had in fact requested it.
We all expected a glorious new day had come for Plotters, now that Charles had proven the Shooters were unnecessary. We thought Areco would terminate their contracts. It didn't exactly happen that way.
What happened was that Dr. Smash and Uncle Hannibal came to Charles and had a private (except for Myron and Anil) talk with him. They were very polite. Since Painmaster wasn't coming back to the Gun Platform, but had defaulted on his contract and gone down home to Earth, they proposed that Charles become a Shooter. They did more; they offered him High Dark Lordship.
He accepted their offer. We were appalled. It seemed like the worst treachery imaginable.
And yet, we were surprised again.
Charles Tead didn't take one of the stupid Shooter names like Warlord or Iron Fist or Doomsman. He said we were all to call him Stede from now on. He ordered up, not a bioprene wardrobe with spikes and rivets and fringe, but . . . but . . . a three-piece suit, with a tie. And a bowler hat. He took his tasers back from Anil and Myron, who were crestfallen, and wore them himself, under his perfectly pressed cuffs.
Then he ordered up new clothes for all the other Shooters. It must have been a shock, when he handed out those powder blue shirts and drab coveralls, but they didn't rebel; by that time they'd learned what he'd been sent to Hospital for in the first place, which was killing three people. So there wasn't so much as a mutter behind his back, even when he ordered all the holoposters shut off and thrown into the fusion hopper, and the War Room repainted in dove gray.
We wouldn't have known the Shooters. He made them wash; he made them cut their hair, he made them shracking salute when he gave an order. They were scared to fart, especially after he hung up deodorizers above each of their consoles. The War Room became a clean, well-lit place, silent except for the consoles and the occasional quiet order from Charles. He seldom had to raise his voice.
Mr. Kurtz still sat in his office all day, reading, but now he smiled as he read. Nobody called him Dean Kurtz anymore, either.
It was sort of horrible, what had happened, but with Charles—I mean, Stede—running the place, things were a lot more efficient. The bonuses became more frequent, as everyone worked harder. And, in time, the Shooters came to worship him.
He didn't bother with us. We were grateful.