Cyberpunk (36 page)

polarities; in fact, a leaders’ best option is to be
both
.

A pity Machiavelli never had matrix algebra. I of course immediate

concepted a multi-dimensional array with love/hate on one major axis,

fear/contempt on another, respect/disrespect on a third, and the whole

thing solving to a variable on an obedience/insolence continuum. The

concept was so perfect in my head I just couldn’t wait to get out of the

classroom and start coding the algorithm!

But once again, I started with coding and ended up cussing

Nuttbruster six ways from Sunday. He’d never let me buy the neural

coprocessor I kept asking for, and this was
exactly
the sort of job that

neurals did best.

Still, even with the clumsy
I
mperfect
B
ut
M
arketable digital

hardware I was able to crunch enough numbers over the summer to

prove the Academy was making a serious mistake with cadet recruits.

When I’d first arrived, the combination of Payne and Roid Rogers put

me somewhere way out in the fear/hate parts of the matrix. But all the

Academy had to do was make a small change in the reception routine—

get rid of those smiling sadists with the airport detex—and most boys

did a 180
o
flip on the hate axis. They were happy to surrender their

contraband. The DIs and I had tested it three times now on the arriving

fall class, and it worked perfect!

‘Course, I also had an ulterior motivational. It’d taken me the better

part of a year to debug the Academy’s computer system, and I hadn’t

had time to trojan it yet. So I’d be damned if I was gonna let some

smartass kid smuggle in a pocket computer and slip a virus into
my

network.

I was just closing the lock on the M-387’s case when I heard cadet

boots come pounding down the path from the academy. A message from

the Colonel, no doubt; by now most every other staffer was adjusted to

the network messaging system, but a certain stubborn old bird still stuck

to paper speedmemos. “It’s a lot harder to ignore a panting runner who’s

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standing there waiting for a reply,” he’d told me, one of the many times

I’d tried to show him how the messaging system worked. Turning

around, I started to reach for the door, then changed my mind out of fear

for the safety of my fingers.

Good decision. A second later the door blew in, followed by a

winded Grade One. “Cadet Captain Harris!” he gasped. “Message from

Colonel Von Schlager, sir!”

“Thanks.” I returned his salute and took the piece of paper. It said

about what I expected; the Colonel wanted to see me in his office

pronto. Reaching for the M-387 case, I sudden spun out another idea and

turned around. “Cadet, what’s your name?”

“Duvalier, sir!”

I laid a hand on the case and patted it gentle. “Duvalier, can I trust

you to make sure the M-387 goes straight back to the armory?”

“Sir! Yes, sir!” The kid’s eyes just lit right up, like I’d asked him to

squire the President or something, and he picked up the weapon.

Staggering a little under the load—damned thing must have weighed

near half as much as he did—he bobbed his head in a sort of a salute,

said, “Thank you, sir,” and caromed out the door.

I shook my head at the weirdness of it. If I’d ordered him to take the

weapon back, he would’ve acted like a bleeding martyr with an attitude

problem. But since I made the job sound like a privilege, he couldn’t

wait to do it. Big time weirdness, I decided: The Academy was teaching

me how to push all the good jarhead motivational buttons, but I still

wasn’t any closer to understanding them.

With a shrug, I xoffed that line of thought and started up the trail

towards the Academy.

#

Immediate summons to the Colonel’s office were by now common

enough that I was sort of getting used to them, but Chomsky’s passing

me straight into the sanctum sanctorum—still a mighty rare procedural,

as far as I was concerned—made me just a little uneasy. Then, when the

Colonel looked up from some paperwork and shot me a tight, frustrated

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expression I’d never seen before, I started to feel true worry. We got

through all the usual reporting and saluting crap, and he pointed to a

chair. “Sit down, Harris.” I did—but not before I flagged he had my

personal file sitting right in front of him. My stomach did a nervous flip.

The Colonel looked at the top sheet again, then snorted, and looked

at me. “Harris, were you aware that you turn 18 next Monday?”

The instincts were still there; I fought the urge to reply smartass. Not

bloody likely I’d forget my birthday, was it? “Yes, sir.”

He pushed a semi-folded sheet of paper across the desk at me. “This

letter came in on the morning plane.” I flattened the paper and scanned

it.

Fuji-DynaRand stationery. I’d recognize it anywhere. I jumped

down to the bottom of the page, checked the signature. Not from Dad. It

was signed by some lawyer in the F-D Legal Affairs department,

Employee Benefits section ...

I returned to the top of the letter and read it through slow. Twice.

When I looked up again, the Colonel asked, “Do you understand

what this means, Harris?”

“Dad’s not going to pay my Fall quarter tuition, sir. He’s cut me off

without a cent.” I scanned the letter one more time. Funny. I thought I

should feel angry or something, but I wasn’t even surprised.

“It also means that come Monday, you’re free to leave.”

My head started to spin a little.
Free
. After ten thousand years in the

bottle I was free.

“The airbus will take you to Seattle,” he was going on. “You should

be able to hitch a Learjet ride from there, but after that, you’re on your

own.” He looked at me sharp; I was still phasing in and out on the

concept of
free
. “How does this make you feel, Harris?”

I looked at him. Truth to tell, this situational had occurred to me a

couple times in the last few weeks, and I’d already done a good deal of

preprocessing. So how did I feel? The real truth? Maximum honest?

“Disappointed, sir.” I said at last. “I wanted to complete the

academic program.”

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He leaned back in his chair, did a brief impression of Rodin’s

Thinker
, and looked me over, appraising. “Are you certain of that?”

No hesitation. “Yes, sir.”

He looked at me a while longer, then said, “I was hoping you’d say

that.” Leaning forward, he picked up another sheet of paper. “I’ve

already discussed your situation with Captain Nuttbruster. It seems

accountants can never simply
give
things away, but I do control a small

discretionary fund which should cover your tuition, and he’s willing to

write off your room and board as the computer administrator’s stipend.

Does this sound acceptable to you?”

It didn’t take a second’s thought. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Report to the bursar’s office at 0800 Monday morning. He’ll

have the papers ready for you to sign. Dismissed.” Slow, I stood up and

started for the door. It was tough to figure out how I felt; I mean, one

little partition of my thinkspace thought I should be mad at getting cut

off so cold. Another whiney little voice way in the back kept screaming I

was an idiot, for passing up this silver-plate opportunity to get out of the

Academy.

But mostly what I felt was warm; an at-home kind of warm. For

once I’d made a decision that felt right to at least 80% of my brain, and

it was a truly good feeling.

Hand on the doorknob, I hesitated. “Harris?” he called out. Dammit,

I
knew
he was gonna do that!

Turning around, I said, “Yes, sir?”

He was shuffling through my personal file again. “I’ve been looking

over your Fall class schedule, and I’ve reached a decision. Drop Pacific

Rim history; I want you in my Advanced Theory class.”

“Sir, that’s a Grade Five course.”

“And most Grade Fives are seventeen going on eighteen, like you.

Don’t argue with me, Harris. You’re in my class.”

“Thank you, sir.” I think. He dismissed me again, and this time I

made it out the door before he had any more afterthoughts.

Bright and early Monday morning, I went down to the bursar’s

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office and got everything squared away. I must have signed a hundred

papers; every time I thought I was done, Nuttbruster’d trot out another

load of multipart forms and resume the Holy Chant of the High Church

of Paperpushing: “Sign here ... and here ... and here ... “

I finished up just about the time the supply plane arrived, and after

lunch the mail clerk popped by my office and dropped off a letter from

Dad. Eager, I tore it open. Could it be—? YES!

The letter began, “Dear Michael: Congratulations on your promotion

to Grand Imperial Eunuch, First Class. As you know, I had a similar

experience once ... “

For a few minutes, there, I had this vision. It’s a thousand, five

thousand, maybe ten thousand years in the future. I’m gone, Dad’s gone,

everybody who ever knew any of us is dead and gone, but somewhere

deep in the ruins of the Fuji-DynaRand corporate headquarters there’s

still
this stupid little program kicking out incoherent pseudopersonal

letters every three months, regular as a cesium clock. Only the olders

finally got the hang of email, so the letters get zapped by SatLink to the

former site of the Von Schlager Military Academy, where somewhere

deep in the bowels of what was once the Michael A. Harris Memorial

Computer Science Building a primitive tribe gathers four times a year

around an ancient Apple ][+, to wait for the words of their oracle to

show up in smudgy green phosphor. Arguments start, then fights; whole

wars
have been fought over the interpretation of The Message.

I fell off my chair and bruised a rib, I was laughing so hard.

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Chapter 19

The Colonel died the summer I turned 19. His death is a big black

hole in my memory; I mean, a literal astronomical black hole. The last

place in the universe I ever want to go again, but its gravity keeps

sucking me back.

I’ve rerun it in my mind a thousand times, trying to figure out what I

could have done different. Volunteered for proctor? But I did my magic

show for the summer boys, and took my maximum best shot at flagging

the trouble cases. For chrissakes, the kid wasn’t even an Involuntary!

Just another quiet little boy with dark hair and a dark attitude: A

loser in the games, a last-finisher on the obstacle course, a wallflower in

discussion. Until the day some stupid bunkhouse prank blew his final

fuse, and he smashed the lock on the door of the firing range locker.