Expect the Unexpected

by John A. Broussard

  The Lord’s struggles against his foes had not been for conquest, but to make the land secure for his people. After defeating the warring clans who envied his prosperity, the Lord had finally brought peace to the countryside. He was a kindly ruler, and his land flourished. The crops were abundant during the years of his rule. His subjects loved and respected him. Knowing the son was much like his father, they felt their future was assured.

  Still, there was a small larva eating away inside the magnificent fruit. The Lord knew it was there, but thought it too insignificant to be of concern.

  This one blotch was a nephew who, though a brave samurai himself, was nevertheless jealous of the Lord’s son. His jealousy drove him to try undermining the Lord’s confidence in his only child. The Lord merely smiled in amusement at the insinuations the nephew made, dismissing them as the product of a sadly twisted mind. One day, after a fine meal, where the Lord had perhaps had somewhat too much rice wine, the nephew, who had been eating with him, prodded the Lord into bragging about his son.

  “You say your son would do anything you commanded him to do?”

  “Of course. His father comes first in his eyes. I need only hint, and he rushes to do my bidding. I could command him to step off a cliff, and he would do so without a moment’s hesitation.”

  “Perhaps you feel so only because he has never truly been tried. Now, Mongol chiefs have a special test for their eldest sons, who can never ascend to the chieftainship until they have passed it.”

  “What is it?”

  “When the son comes of age, he is expected to stay in a small circle, drawn by his father, and he must remain in the circle for three days with neither food nor water. No matter what temptations he may encounter which might make him want to leave it, he must remain for three whole days, to drink nothing, to eat nothing, to speak to no one.”

  “The Lord snorted in contempt. “Why not an encounter with a dozen enemy warriors? Or a challenge to climb the smooth face of Uma Rock. Three days in a circle is nothing for even the meanest of samurais. For my son it would be but a pleasant interlude freed for meditation.”

  “Perhaps, My Lord, but the test is deceiving. The greatest of the Mongol chieftains arrange ingenious temptations. Most of their sons fail.”

  “Bah! It is because they are weaklings.”

  “Then you would not be afraid to put your son to the test?”

  “Of course not, but it would be a waste of time. Why bother to prove something which is true?”

  “You would not be fearful of the outcome, even if you allowed me to arrange the temptations?”

  The Lord no longer made any attempt to hide his scorn. “There is nothing you could do to move him. I give you leave to try.”

  So the son was asked to undergo the test and, as his father had expected, he accepted the challenge with alacrity. Squatting in the circle drawn by his father, wearing a straw cloak and a peasant hat, he crossed his arms and looked off into the distance. Catching the last rays of the setting sun, he smiled and prepared himself for the coming hours.

  In the meantime, the nephew arranged the temptations with the amused connivance of the Lord. The father spared no effort or expense to prove his son was worthy to succeed him and to rule after his own departure from the world.

  On the first day of the son’s test, early in the morning, the most beautiful and famous of Japan’s courtesans came and knelt outside the circle, facing the immobile samurai. Her words were sweet, her voice was like the sound of a koto, its tone was marvelously seductive. She described the pleasures which would be his if he would come with her. She opened the pages of a lavishly illustrated pillow-book and showed him, page by page, what she would do for him.

  He needed but to step across the line to be guaranteed pleasures unknown and unavailable to ordinary men. The hours went by. She persevered, but there was no sign her efforts would be rewarded.

  Finally she rose from her knees, and said sadly, “Never have I encountered such a man. Truly, I would have been your slave. I would have loved you as you have never been loved before and as you can never hope to be loved by any other.” With those words, she turned and departed.

  The tale of what had happened sent the Lord into gales of laughter. “Had the woman been fashioned by the hands of the immortal Buddha himself, and for just such a purpose, my son would have been unmoved. His word to me is sacred. He would never violate it. You waste your time. In two days, not only will my son have proven himself, but when the test is over I will turn the rule of my lands over to him. I thank you for helping me to arrive at a decision I should have made years ago.”

  The nephew had barely started with the son’s ordeal, however, and the elements conspired with him. During the night, a violent storm raged through the land, but daylight still found the son unmoved, water streaming off the straw cloak. Then, a string of packhorses, led by a balding man whose demeanor clearly indicated he was of noble birth, slowly wended its way from the horizon toward the small circle.

  The new temptation was soon revealed. Servants unstrapped one of the many chests carried by the animals, stepped almost to the line and emptied it to reveal a treasure trove of gold coins.”

  “This,” the nobleman began, “can all be yours. You have my pledged word for it. If you will step outside the circle, all these chests, each with contents equal to or exceeding this, will be given to you. You will be the richest man in Japan.”

  The son’s eyes never wavered. Horse after horse was unloaded, the pile of brilliant coins grew and grew. The nobleman’s voice, even more seductive than the voice of the courtesan, spoke of what the treasure could bring to the son in luxurious palaces, concubines to sate the most jaded of tastes, the most talented performers from all over the world, the rarest delicacies to tempt his palate, homage from envious princes, pleasures beyond his wildest dreams.

  All was for naught. The eyes never wavered. The coins returned, handful by handful, to their caskets. One by one these were retied onto the backs of the patient animals. Before leaving, the nobleman looked at the squatting, immobile figure, shook his head sadly and said, “My own son would have sold his soul—and mine—for one rice basket of those coins.”

  The following evening, the Lord smiled down with satisfaction at the bowing form of his nephew, saying, “I placed all of my possessions in jeopardy for today’s trial. The Shogun, himself, stood surety for me and sent his most trusted minister to make the offer.

  “Had my son stepped from the circle, everything I own would have gone to the moneylenders. My people would have become their slaves, and even I would have gone into servitude. But, not for a moment did I doubt the outcome of this trial. Believe me, you can do no more.”

  “I know,” the nephew answered in the humblest of voices, “and yet I have one more day. Tomorrow will be my final effort. I know it is a feeble one, but then I will be certain that, once it has been attempted and my cousin still remains in the circle, your faith in him will have been completely vindicated.”

  The Lord laughed good-naturedly. “Let the test proceed.” His voice hardened. “But this I know—as soon as the sun has set tomorrow, my son will step from the circle to receive the reins of government from a father who never for a moment doubted his devotion.” He paused, then added, “I will also tell him who was originally responsible for this test. I suggest you start praying his spirit of forgiveness is equal to his filial piety.”

  The next morning, the sun rose to find the son still squatting, an almost imperceptible smile on his face. The birds, which had now become used to the immobile figure, flocked around him. Two of the more courageous of them landed on his shoulders. The morning wore on, and there were only the songs of the birds and the sun rising to its zenith to keep him company.

  Then, late in the afternoon, a masked man wearing the swords and double scabbard of a samurai came walking toward the circle from the distance. His stride labeled him quite clearly as a skilled and experienced swordsman. At sight of him, the
birds flew away, squawking in terror. Minutes of silence went by as the newcomer eyed the still form.

  Then, in a hoarse guttural voice, he demanded directions to the nearest village. Receiving no answer, he repeated the question. Sneering, he went on, “Now I recognize you, the son of the Lord of the Clan. What a pitiful figure you are, squatting in the dust, your swords rusting in their scabbards. How he must be ashamed at having a coward for a son.”

  The son’s eyes barely flickered, but made contact with the eyes staring at him from behind the mask. With renewed energy, the masked man heaped insults on him. He described in lurid detail the son’s lack of virility, rivaled only by his unnatural lusts, themselves incapable of achieving satisfaction because of his pusillanimity. Anger rose in the son’s face, his muscles twitched, but he made no move to rise or to confront his maligner.

  The sun had begun its final slide toward the western horizon, and still the tirade continued, the harsh voice reeking with contempt. Then, abruptly, the torrent ceased. After a pause, the masked man squatted also, a scant few paces from the line drawn on the ground. The contempt deepened even further, as the lips behind the mask formed words and phrases so vile the son’s face reddened; a vein never before seen throbbed in his forehead.

  The insults were no longer directed at him. Now the target was his father. What had gone before was, by contrast, but the language of children teasing each other at play, such was the filth now being heaped upon the Lord of the Clan.

  It was too much. A howl of mixed anguish and uncontrollable rage rose deep in the son’s chest as he whipped his sword from its sheath, and rushed across the line of the circle. With a movement almost too quick for the eye to see, he swept its razor-sharp edge across the throat of the masked man. The figure was dead before it crumpled to the ground.

  With the tip of his sword, the son flicked off the mask, to reveal the face of his father.

  BEATING THE SYSTEM

  Jean-Marc Girault. Which is not my real name, of course, but it will suffice. It was the name I used when I registered at the Fer de Lance and at the luxury Monaco hotel I had decided to treat myself to.

  Anyhow, my name is not important. My background is. By the time I was fifteen, I was building my own automate. The first one I made was not a pretty sight, but then the outside was not my concern. It was the inside which fascinated me; so much so that school, girlfriends and even my poor, suffering parents took second place to my hobby, which soon became a frenzy. By eighteen I had been discovered by Mechanique Universelle, and I was in heaven. Unlimited tools, unlimited supplies, unlimited encouragement. As a result, I credit myself with much of the worldwide success of Mechanique’s automates. In most places they are called Mechorobots. Everyplace they impress.

  What made me hatch the scheme I did just recently is difficult to say. There really was no need to do so, except perhaps for an element of boredom. The pay was excellent. Five thousand gold Euros a week, a princely sum by the standards of my working-class background. It was more than enough to pay for my luxury apartment overlooking the Champs, to purchase a new Kadux every year and the petrol to keep it running, and even enough to satisfy Monique. I must admit she really was not much of a drain on my always-faltering bank account. With an even more inadequate concept of the value of money than I, she was just as happy spending her own princessly income—earned by modeling Sarat originals flashing across billions of cyberscreens every day—as she was in spending mine.

  Then again, what may have urged me on was the thought of suddenly reaching out and pulling in twenty or thirty times my yearly salary in one large pile with my own two hands, or their equivalent. Yes! I am sure this was a factor when I began working on Christian Levin. At first I had toyed with the idea of using a female figure, but I quickly dismissed the notion as a bad idea. The less attention drawn to my creation the better. A nondescript male, dressed casually, was a far better choice than a female who might be expected to wear all-too-revealing décolletage.

  Besides, the real secret to my planned success was going to depend heavily on a realistic though commonplace appearance, which is where Denise Lemartin came into the picture. Actually, she had really come into the picture a few months earlier. The affair had cooled, but we were still friends. Best of all, wind of the relationship had never wafted within range of Monique. At any rate, when I approached Denise, without fully explaining why I needed her help, she responded much as I would have to a challenge in my own area of expertise.

  Also an employee of Mechanique, her concerns, unlike mine, were with externals. Without question, Denise was as proficient in her chosen field as I was in my own. With a background in cosmetology, the switch to adding the finishing touches to automates was an easy and satisfying one for her. I have the suspicion, also, her salary was at least as munificent as mine. And her automates were now all over the world in positions where a human-like appearance was essential. Now I must admit not even her productions would fool the practiced eye. Such was the holy grail of Mechanique and similar industries, but one to be discovered perhaps only in the next century.

  However, on a stage or under dim lights—where the sometimes rather abrupt motions of the automates could not be clearly detected—Mechanique’s creations, and especially those fashioned by Denise, were breathtakingly real. And so it came to pass the model I had purchased from the company—at a sizeable employee discount—was delivered one early spring morning to Denise’s lab. In the meantime, I worked away tirelessly in my spare time on Christian’s vital organs.

  The plan was really very simple. The basics were already available, and I was convinced I could fine-tune them to suit my needs. Mechanique’s automate optics were already excellent. I now had only to program them to follow the turn of a wheel. With newly perfected molecular memory, it was a simple, though tedious matter to harness the gazillions of bytes to evaluate the wheel’s performance, and then to give an on-target estimate of when it would stop. Added to which was a simultaneous and similar estimate of when and where the rapidly moving ball would land.

  Yes. You have guessed it. Christian was being programmed to predict the winning number at roulette. Months of hard work, endless bugs, and plenty of help from colleagues—who were never completely told what the end product was intended for—marked the better part of the year. And, believe me, Denise outdid herself. I had not expected, nor actually wanted the finished product to be quite so handsome but, considering it had been mostly a labor of love on her part, I did not complain.

  So, with a goodbye hug and kiss to Monique, Christian sitting in my ‘37 Kadux, and the sixteen lane Paris to Monaco Bonhomme Motorway stretching out before me, we were off! I kept the car down to a cruising hundred and fifty. After all, there was no rush. I had carefully checked out the casinos ahead of time. All I needed to do was to register in the hotel, arrive at the Fer de Lance by eleven, when it was peak time at the wheels, and have Christian do the big betting for me.

  The Fer de Lance had not been randomly selected. The choice was based on its advantages. It had many. There were no table limits, and its management was famous, or notorious, for immediate, uncomplaining payoffs—extensively publicized to the casino’s advantage, of course. Best of all, knowing many of its famous customers were jealous of their privacy, and sometimes had other interests there beyond gambling—interests needing no publicity in their homeland, whether far off Taiwan or Texas—lights were far dimmer than in the average gambling place along the Boulevard. Paparazzi were, of course, rigidly excluded. The one drawback, however, was this very exclusivity. It took some considerable wheedling on my part to obtain for Jean-Marc Girault and his friend Christian Levin a strong letter of recommendation from Mechanique’s CEO. The one he wrote secured for us a warm welcome at our destination.

  As I had planned, Christian looked and acted delightfully real. Under the circumstances, it was in itself rather remarkable. I had, of course, replaced virtually all of his metallic parts with carefully fashioned, polymers and su
per plastic ceramics to avoid embarrassment at metal detectors. Similarly, I had had to preprogram him for much of what he was doing, since I knew the Fer de Lance was awash with infrared and radio wave monitors, sensitive to any such communication systems. But we held hands as we went in—something not at all likely to raise eyebrows in this particular casino—and I was prepared to push the necessary but unobtrusive buttons on his wrist in case of an emergency and when it actually came to gambling.

  We circulated, drawing no attention except, I am sure, for viewers at the screens being fed by the myriad of cameras hidden away in chandeliers, columns and undoubtedly on some of the floor managers patrolling the place. We finally gravitated to one of the tables where action was hot and heavy and where the only Euros accepted were gold ones. No copper or silver ones there, and both the players and the staff were a reflection of the stakes. The croupier was a lovely brunette, minimally haltered and well equipped, who distracted at least some of the male customers when she leaned over to rake in the Euros. The wheel spinner was a handsome young male who attracted the attention of most of the rest of the men and a good share of the women. More than one Euro cartwheel spun in his direction from the hands of a grateful and attentive winner.

  The wheel itself was the usual one—still the traditional green zero plus thirty-six numbered pockets, equally divided between red and black. The same words sounded during the first ten seconds of the wheel’s rotation: “Faites vos jeux, mesdames et messieurs,” which probably went back to the badly spoken Latin in the area during the Roman occupation. I would not have been surprised to learn how even the Neanderthals rolled mountain-goat bones somewhere along these same beaches under the blue skies, croaking out similar admonishments while doing so.

  The presence of several empty chairs around the table indicated this wheel was too rich for the blood of even the majority of Fer de Lance clientele. We sat down, Christian on my right, and began slowly—one or two Euros on the colors, with the pressure of my hand on his random button. I cannot remember if we won more than we lost during the early session, since I am really not much into gambling and was more interested in getting a feel for my neighbors—watching for shills. Bare-shouldered women, men in expensive suits—much as I had expected—none behaved like house plants. A standout, however, was sitting exactly opposite Christian.