“Were you in a fight last night?” The Captain was looking at the cut on Lawrence’s forehead caused by head-butting Tricky Fingers.
“Yes, The Captain.”
“What was it about?”
“Just a drunken scrap, The Captain.”
Lawrence answered with rising curiosity. His whole preparation rested on explaining the fight with Tricky Fingers. Now he had no idea what was coming.
“What are you passionate about?”
What the fuck? Well, The Captain wanted the full and complete truth, so that was what he would get.
“I am passionate about the outrage of being here, The Captain. I served the customers of General Wardian with honesty and dedication. I did no wrong.”
“I meant before that. You advanced from probationary basic to cost-centre lieutenant in a decade. That is not accomplished without ambition—some would say it requires blind ambition. What drove you as a glory trooper?”
The answer was simple: rank. He had to reach account-captain first class before the age of thirty. Then he would return home in the magnificent dress uniform of that rank: white gloves, sword, a solid gold shield of sovereign rank on each sleeve. Not even a bombastic narcissist could argue with an achievement like that.
The answer was not simple: it was a blend of wistfulness and anguish that could not be expressed, although plenty tried when they were drunk enough. It was the outrage incited by the films of the Public Era shown at Camberley College during his Securitician A training and at other times. Beautiful valleys of white oak stretching as far as they eye could see—destroyed to make railway sleepers and land for cattle grazing. Now those valleys were forest again, peaceful and clean. A wilderness of rainforest hours of flying wide—wiped away for grids of palm trees and scoring highways. Now the rainforest was back. Most ludicrous of all, queues hundreds of yards long for the vanity of a moment at the summit of Mount Everest. The Public Era was an infinite list of such desecrations; Nature’s splendours thrown as bread and circuses to the Fatted Masses twisted in the bite of a leech so fat with debt it burst and drowned the world. It must never happen again. Public and Equal were out, Private and Elite were in—forever.
“I can’t remember.”
The Captain eyed him, with a patient, avuncular expression.
“Let us nudge your memory. Tell me about the first occasion you prevented surplus flow.”
“No. I’m not going to talk about brushes. Even though I am no longer a glory officer, I will never breach the unspoken law of silence that surrounds that kind of work. It just has to be done.”
“I was a glory officer once. Like you, I commanded a barge. There is nothing you can tell me I don’t know.” When Lawrence held his silence, The Captain added, “Let’s talk about your first posting as an officer.”
The Captain’s Value System consumed men with the indifference of a steam engine combusting coal. So why all this patient coaxing? For certain, The Captain was playing a long game. All Lawrence could do was bat along with it.
“My first posting was to the Sovereign Lands of Montina, based at Reading Garrison,” Lawrence said. “It was a kids’ fancy-dress party. The local hunt, ballroom dancing, a spot of tennis, strutting about showing the flag. That was when I first read a lot, just to combat the boredom.” He trailed off, his eyes glazing as he retreated into memories. “I banged a hell of a lot of sovereign gash.”
The Captain burst out into a rich laugh. Lawrence jumped in shock. For an instant every muscle in his body bulged rigid to strike with blind fury. The Captain met him eye to eye for a moment, entirely candid, a pitying look, as given to a lion in a zoo.
“You were talking about sovereign gash,” The Captain said.
“The Oban garrison put a notice in the Glorious Gazette for officers with action experience. I applied and got promoted to grade lieutenant second class. Once I had gained my Master’s Certificate, I was promoted to grade lieutenant first class and given a command, a 110-ton patrol barge.”
“Your task was to prevent surplus at sea. Did you approve?”
“It’s a ghastly duty.”
“No one spends three years preventing surplus who lacks a hard soul—and I should know. So, what is it, this hard soul? What do you feel when you pull the triggers?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I can send you back to my system if you don’t want to talk.”
After a long silence, Lawrence began to speak. He listened to himself, wondering why he was telling this repugnant stranger his deepest secrets. Was it because he would probably never get another chance? His voice quivered. Why this tension of the diaphragm?
“I was eighteen when I first pulled the triggers. I was a leading basic on a patrol barge out of Portsmouth with a beat in the middle of the English Channel far from coastal traffic. Not even flying boats came out that far. When we spotted a raft, my commander ordered me to the brass-muncher, while the crew tossed scrambling nets over the side and waved and shouted to the surplus. I felt honoured as the new boy of the crew. I remember wondering where on earth we would keep all the surplus, as the barge had no secure hold. We certainly could not tow such an unwieldy thing.
“Then I heard the order to fire. The raft was not thirty metres off, loaded down with bucks and does and kids—you know how these ignorant savages breed. The commander came up and shouted I had to open fire. He called me every name under the sun and then finally said he would be forced get someone else to do it, if I wouldn’t. So…” Lawrence felt his face burn and his throat choke up. The mind’s eye is not a cine camera. It captures only glimpses, perhaps enhances here and blots out there, so it is not faithful. His memory replayed a merciful shield of leaping cascades of spray
