Star Soldier

Kluge?”

Unconsciously, his face tightened and his shoulders tensed.

“Be careful, Marten,” Molly whispered. “And don’t say anything rash.”

As Marten followed the mufti-robed woman, his throat constricted. So even though it was ill-advised, he tore off the choker and slipped it into his jacket pocket. The chokers were the latest craze, the latest symbol of social unity. Molly had bought him one expressly for the meeting.

The outer office—the woman’s—was as coffin-small as his rental. Her desk and computer terminal filled it. So when she turned to open the hall leader’s door, she brushed his shoulder.

“Excuse me,” he said.

She frowned, staring at his now bare throat. Then she turned, and said, “Hall Leader Quirn. Marten Kluge seeks your guidance.”

The hall leader glanced up from behind his computer desk. He was small with narrow shoulders and wore a crisp brown uniform and military style cap—that to hide his thinning hair. He had ever-vigilant eyes and a mouth habitually turned down with disapproval. His eyes narrowed as he viewed Marten, and he touched the choker around his own throat.

Marten’s bare throat felt exposed, naked, and it made him fidgety. Without thinking about it and before being bidden, he squeezed past the woman and stepped into the hall leader’s office.

“Lout,” the woman said under her breath.

The hall leader’s mouth twitched with annoyance as he studied Marten.

“You sent for me,” said Marten.

“I requested your presence,” said Quirn. To his secretary, “Hold any inquiries until we’re done.”

“Yes, Hall Leader.” She closed the door.

Marten marveled at the office’s spaciousness. It held the desk, two low-built chairs and a stand to the left with a potted plant. A holoscreen “window” showed crashing ocean waves.

“I appreciate your promptness,” said Hall Leader Quirn, although he didn’t rise or offer his hand.

Marten ignored the slight as he forced himself to act pleasantly.

“Please,” said Quirn, “take a seat.”

“Thank you,” Marten said, sitting in one of the low-slung chairs. He noticed that the higher-seated hall leader now looked down at him.

Quirn gave him a superior smile as he picked up a plastic chart and tapped it against the desk.

“Marten, I’m afraid we have some unfortunate business to discuss. Yes, troubling business.”

Marten lurched to his feet.

“What’s wrong?”

Marten grimaced and touched his forehead. Then he looked up. “The pain comes and goes. But I feel better now.”

“Splendid. If you’ll retake your seat.”

“I’ll stand if it’s okay with you? Sitting too much….” Marten shrugged. “You know how it is.”

“What I have to say is better discussed if you sit.”

Marten could picture Molly advising, “Sit down, Marten. Don’t be rash.” Despite this common sense and the feeling of weakness in his knees, Marten resisted.

“No. I’ll stand.”

Quirn leaned back in his chair, eyeing him.

Marten smiled, trying to placate the hall leader with a social gesture.

“Hmm.” Quirn sat forward and placed the plastic chart on the desk, smoothing it with his fingers. “Very well, we shall proceed.”

“Good.”

“No, Marten, I’m afraid that it’s not good. And that pains me. Of all the tasks a hall leader performs, this is personally the most difficult. Yet none of us is allowed to shirk his responsibilities. There would be chaos otherwise. Now then, your profile… Marten, it’s taken a decided turn for the worse. It’s come to my attention that you’ve actually missed three hum-a-longs in a row.”

“I-I had a cold,” Marten said, the excuse sounding lame even to his ears. “My throat hurt.”

Quirn’s voice became an octave more menacing.

“During that time you’ve also missed two discussions and quite incredibly failed to fill out any community charts. Now,” he cleared his throat, reaching for one of the drawers. “I will allow you to fill out several charts here this very moment. Particularly, I would like to know how Mr. Beerbower spends his quiet time from four in the afternoon to—”

“Uh,” Marten said, “I’d rather not.”

Quirn looked astonished. “Everybody fills out community charts. We watch out for one another.”

“Yes, but—”

“Now see here, Marten, the entire thrust of Social Unity demands that we care about our community. In a time of grave crisis such as this we must be certain that the group functions as smoothly as ever, as one.” Quirn opened the drawer and took out a plex-sheet, holding it across the desk.

Marten hesitated. He could take the plex-sheet and fill in nonsense as he’d done in the past. But that didn’t really matter today, did it? It was a known fact that the hall leader switched partners with amazing regularity, and his partners were always attractive and energetic. Whispers abounded that Quirn saw such couplings as conquests. Few dared refuse his advances. Molly had dodged him the most persistently, and Marten was certain the hall leader now took it as a personal challenge. Quirn was clever, too. He must realize that if he sent Marten to the slime pits, without real justifiable cause, that might embitter Molly. Therefore, the two of them today were going to have to go through a charade.

“This is quite unprecedented, Marten. Failing to fill out the charts shows a decided lack in political duty. Perhaps….” Quirn’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you hold heretical views.”

Marten still couldn’t reach out and take the plex-sheet. He knew he couldn’t tell Quirn that he was tired of pretending, especially now that the Highborn attacked Earth. The genetic super-soldiers had rebelled against Social Unity, just as he wanted to rebel. The Highborn had started the civil war, it was said, through an act of rage. Marten squinted. The truth was that he was soul sick, cramped, feeling as if he should have gone down fighting with his Mom and Dad. He’d watched Quasar several weeks ago and had seen a documentary on the cave paintings in Southern France Sector. What had fascinated him was the whole idea of cavemen. Free to roam wherever they willed. Hunting for food, really protecting their mates. It had seemed so… alive. He’d imagined himself bellowing at other cavemen, a club in his hands. A man who fought for the well-being of his woman would cherish her. He would treat her as the greatest thing in his free-living life. Like his Dad had treated his Mom. Definitely heretical views.

“No?” Quirn asked icily. “Very well.” He put the plex-sheet back in the drawer, closing it with a thump. Then he folded his hands on his desk, and his mouth quivered with distaste. “I’ve given this much thought, Marten. I’ve talked with Reform through Labor and found that openings are available.”

“You’re sending me to the slime pits?” For a wild instant, Marten envisioned himself leaping over the desk and attacking the hall leader.

Quirn raised a hand. “You know very well that a political crime such as yours—”

“Missing three hum-a-longs is a crime?”

“Please don’t interrupt. And the answer is yes, for refusing to join your friends and neighbors in sanctioned political harmony, for willfully staying away, that is a political crime. And that translates into an assault upon humanity. Almost as repugnant are your thought-crimes—surely you have some. Fortunately, for you, Marten, the guidelines unequivocally state that thought-crimes occur to most citizens at one time or another—thus the need for a firm teaching party like Social Unity. Yes, a stint in the ‘slime pits ‘ as you put it might be in order.”

Quirn let the threat hang in the silence for a moment while he watched Marten narrowly.

“However, in your case I don’t believe that would help. And in these trying times even heretics like you must pull their weight. Marten, you need to understand that the State wants to correct your bad tendencies so that you can become fully functional again. So, I’ve thought of the perfect job that I believe will help teach you this.”

Marten stared at the hall leader, wondering what the man’s devious mind had thought up.

Quirn shoved a small slip of plex-paper across the desk.