Miranda's Demons

by Ian Miller

  The entire future of Terran civilization might depend on what she did next, and she had to decide what that would be with totally inadequate information. No, that was not quite correct. Before she could prepare a plan of action she had to decide what in principle could be done. She had a sinking feeling that the answer to that might be, 'Not much!'

  Chapter 5

  Harry's breathless enthusiasm had to subside; even Harry knew that. But he was not quite ready for the rate at which it collapsed.

  "But Harry," Jane laughed, almost as he was telling her. "The Commissioner's absolutely correct. We just can't get married like that."

  "Why on Earth not?"

  "Well, for starters, I want a huge wedding, with lots and lots of guests, and lots of beautiful dresses. A wedding gets lots of consumption rights, and we mustn't waste them. I want all my friends to know I've married someone worth while."

  "You don't think I'm worth while?" Harry almost shouted.

  "Of course I do. You'll look absolutely smashing in your new uniform. What I meant, silly, was that we've got to make use of it, and we need time. Anyway, I certainly don't want to spend all my days in some dusty barracks in Central Asia."

  "I'm sure they're not that bad."

  "They probably are," Jane replied. "Anyway, I'd have nothing to do. I wouldn't see you, so I might as well be here. I'll be still here when you come back, then we can have a really big wedding. We've got time to plan everything."

  * * *

  The next few days had a strangely depressing effect on Harry. They went to his beach house on the second day, but he was in an almost total daze caused by the horrendous day before, when he had been all over Sydney chasing papers, uniform fittings, commission documentation, and even that medal. At first it had appeared there were none in Australia, and while Harry was quite prepared to forget it, the Australian Government was not. It was such a strange honour, and to be given to an Australian at that.

  What was really strange, Harry realized, was that absolutely nobody asked what he had done to earn it. A combat medal was only awarded following successful combat. What combat could he have been in? Strictly speaking, only one. And the medal had to be rather devalued for that. But nobody wanted to know, for to know opened Pandora's Box. Better not to know, not to be involved. A good citizen, these days, was not a questioning citizen, but rather a citizen who did his or her job, used the correct consumption allocation, and left the governing of the planet to those in charge. Nobody would question Commissioner Kotchetkova's direct orders.

  Jane had invited a number of friends, and Harry had to admit she was in her element. She was the life of a party, bouncing between guests, organizing sand-racing challenges, laughing, teasing. For this party, Harry admitted sadly to himself, he was unnecessary. Jane would carry on just the same, whether he was there or not.

  The laughter continued as the sun set over the ancient tradition of tinnies and prawns. It was then that Harry realized that he was leaving this life forever. He would never see this group again, there would be no more student parties, and never again would he be in a group who were not climbing and plotting. Then again, the others might never enter the life of corporate climbing. While the aliens could well be benign, that could not be assured. Perhaps Jane sensed some of this; it was almost as if she had mentally cut him off, and she was desperately clinging to the life she knew and loved.

  * * *

  The last day in Sydney had an even more depressing effect on Harry. Jane wished to watch the event on television. The event was the result of a series of rather cruel rapes and murders. Unfortunately for the offender, one of the victims was the daughter of a senior staff member of ClothCorp, and the great corporation threw everything at finding the guilty party.

  The programme began with an account of the trial, and showed in full the grisly details of some of the minor victims. Many had been tortured, then murdered. The evidence was summarized, including the replay of two surveillance tapes that clearly showed that indeed the right man had been found. The defence case, such as it was, was summarized, then the verdict was shown.

  The programme then moved towards the final trial stage, where the interested parties could make supplications regarding sentencing. The call for blood was repeated time and again, with a particularly evocative submission from ClothCorp. Finally, the sentencing. The judge peered at the accused, and spoke in a harsh and fully theatrical tone.

  "I have heard the evidence, and listened to the advice I have just received. You are the perpetrator of crimes most horrible. It is simply not economic to consider attempting to rehabilitate you into society at some later date. You have been given the opportunity to thrive in our society, and you have preyed on that society. Hopefully, this sentence will act as a deterrent to others. Some say it will not. Be that as it may, I now say to you, thou shalt not reoffend. I must now find the most cost-effective method of passing sentence, and it seems to me that I have little option. You are hereby sentenced to public torment, the proceeds of which to be divided among the victim's relatives, save for the mandatory 30% to the state. This sentence will be carried out on . . ."

  The sentence was then to be carried out. The man was shown, stripped naked, and propelled into an arena. Representatives of the victims had exercised their rights to set the rules for the event, and although these had been widely publicized, they were read aloud again, for the benefit of the victim. A scantily clad woman would taunt him. If he could rape her, he would be allowed to go free. Ten men who had made the highest bids for the rights, each with a long but light whip, would attempt to prevent this. At first the man ignored the woman, and she edged closer, dancing lightly before him. She flashed a breast at him, and finally he lunged forward. The end of a whip caught him around the ankle in mid lunge, and he found himself in the dust, arms outstretched, being pulled lightly back on his stomach. When he made no real attempt to get up, another lash tickled lightly across his side. He got to his feet, and made to run towards the other side of the arena, but two lashes struck him across the back. Entertainment was required, and altering the game would not be tolerated. The girl became ever increasingly suggestive, and again the man lunged forward, this time to receive a lash around the groin.

  After about an hour of this, by which time the blood between his legs made it clear that it was now physically impossible to attain freedom, but when the rest of his body was still only lightly streaked from innumerable small wounds, three doors opened in the side of the arena. His tormenters now took heavier whips. The accused could now choose his exit route, or remain to be slowly flogged to death.

  Eventually the man chose the centre exit route, and the cameras followed him as he stumbled down the narrow path. Suddenly the ground fell away beneath him, and he fell down a chute.

  The cameras immediately picked him up, screaming as the salt water in the pool bit into his wounds. He thrashed around desperately, as he tried to climb out of the pond, but the walls were high, vertical, and smooth as glass. Then, far away at the other end of the pool, a grill opened, and a great white shark was admitted. It immediately scented the blood, felt the thrashing, and the cameras focussed in on the shark as it first tore off a leg, then another, and finally tore into the body itself.

  Harry could not watch this, but Jane could not tear herself away from the screen. And Harry knew that she was not alone. Most of Sydney would be watching as this vile criminal met what most agreed was a suitably vicious end.

  The programme netted record fees, and the relations of the victims could now, at least, live without financial fear. A further reminder was also given that it was inadvisable to carry out criminal actions against the staff of the corporations.

  * * *

  By the time Harry went to the airport for his flight to Tashkent, his depression was fairly complete. The parting from Jane had been painful for him, partly because Jane had caught something of Harry's feeling. At least so he had thought. She had spent almost an hour of the morning organizin
g her social life for the next two days. It had all been so easy; concerts with two old school friends, a play, and a meeting. Harry felt he had gone before he had left.

  Then there was the flight. Or to be precise, there was no flight listed to Tashkent. Where was he supposed to go? He went to the Defence office, hoping they would have tickets for him. He was greeted by a tall Russian, who looked at him and laughed.

  "Thought you'd given it away," he said, then paused before asking. "Had lunch?"

  "No, sir, " Harry mumbled.

  "We'll have it in Tashkent." A smile came over his face as he continued, "Come on, don't look so doleful."

  Harry followed the officer out through a sequence of corridors on to the tarmac, then saw in front of him the glistening black space grazer.

  "Like her?" the officer smiled as he showed Harry the seat belt adjustments.

  "It's a beautiful craft, sir," Harry replied.

  "Your first time away from home?"

  "Yes sir."

  "You'll be all right. Wait until you get something to take your mind off things. In fact, we'll start now. You fly."

  "Me, sir?"

  "You. You can, can't you?"

  "I can fly, sir, but I've never been in one of these."

  "Had me worried for a minute. Thought I'd got the wrong man. Why aren't you wearing your wings?"

  "Oh hell! Sorry sir. I mean, I forgot to sew them on. They're in an envelope here."

  "Fix it when you get there. Whatever else you do, don't enter the mess area in Tashkent without them sewn on. Now fly."

  So Harry flew. Part of the depression lifted as the craft soared up into lower space, under his control. He descended more slowly than he needed, and as the Pamirs slid below him, the sheer vastness of Central Asia filled him with apprehension. Then as the beautiful tree-lined city of Tashkent came into view, he felt a little excitement. The military air traffic controller permitted Harry to circle the city, and he could not help but feel impressed. In the somewhat arid vastness of agricultural production, there lay one of the major science centres of the Federation. The mere thought of being able to attend some of the fabled physics seminars in person, rather than on Comscreen, had to lift his spirits. He felt even better as the craft touched lightly on the ground, and he taxied across to the designated zone. In the distance he had seen the space complex itself, glistening and modern, the centre of his whole ambitions.

  "Fair landing," came the gruff comment from the Russian officer. "Son, I'll give you some advice."

  Harry looked at the officer, but got no clue as to what he was thinking.

  "You'll be different from most of the rest, because you're officially military. A lot of others'll take an instant dislike to you, because you've bypassed the normal system. That's a cross you'll have to carry. Carry it like a soldier. Smarten yourself up, keep your mouth shut, and keep a low profile. Very few of the intake think of this as a military academy; they're here for the glory and the big money when they leave. Some of that shit has to be knocked out of them, and it will be. Try to look like you belong in the military. The others will probably laugh at you, but in the end you'll have the last laugh. The real powers here will see to that."

  Harry was a little surprised, but as he marched towards the bus that would take him to his quarters, he lifted his head, and he began to feel just a little less depressed.

  Reality was to sink in fast. By the time he had sewn on his wings and had found the mess, lunch was off, and the area was closed. He was about to search for some alternative, when he remembered the officer's advice. This was not the place to complain. He adjusted his cap, and began to march back towards the barracks. He ignored some titters of applause from a corporate as he headed across the parade-ground.

  "Yoooooou!"

  He looked across the parade-ground to see a warrant officer pointing directly at him. He snapped to attention.

  "Aaaaaaiiirr Uht!" the warrant officer bawled, then he turned and marched off, briskly and very correctly.

  Harry guessed, correctly as it turned out, that that had meant 'Hair cut!', and he marched off, somewhat disconsolately, to find a barber.

  Harry was soon to find how different he was from the rest of the intake. There were twelve men in his barracks room, and his bed was nearest the door. The bedding consisted of heavy woollen blankets and sheets on a thin mattress that was placed on a thick gauge wire mesh, all of which was connected to a steel frame by twelve coil springs. As he came back from the barber there seemed to be a tension in the air. Four of the men were watching him out of the corner of their eyes; two were struggling not to look at him. Suddenly he knew. His hands went down the side of his bed. Most of the springs were missing.

  "If you want to go out tonight," Harry shrugged, "give me back the bed springs now."

  They were on his bed after the evening mess.

  At five thirty next morning, Harry was standing at attention at the end of his bed, bed made, brass shined, ready for inspection. There were jeers of applause, until the Russian warrant officer entered. Harry was told in no uncertain terms what an officer's boots were supposed to look like. A jeer of applause came from one of the non-military intake, who was still in bed. The warrant officer paused, marched over to the source of the noise, and stood over the trainee, his beady eyes looking down. The trainee lay back, unsure of what would happen next. A great wad of spittle suddenly flew down and landed expertly on his right eye.

  The warrant officer stood back and scowled at the intake. "Unlike you scum," he roared, "Lansfeld is military. Verbal abuse will come from me! You will remain silent, polite, and respectful, as is due to the military. Your little comfortable existences depend on my watchful eye! Any disrespect from you scum, and that watchful eye may look another way, which would leave you at the tender mercy of the regulars. Do I make myself clear!"

  There was no comment, and Harry made his way outside to join the small squad of regular soldiers for the morning's drill. Marching, screaming sergeants, thin drizzle, two hours of mindlessness. All of this before breakfast, when he re-joined the intake to receive the formal training. Their courses finished at 1630 hours, when Harry was again withdrawn, to receive further courses from the military instructors, to crash in as much as was feasible of that which was missing from his background. On his rest days, the early morning procedure happened anyway, then he was put on a bus to the Advanced Physics Academy.

  After two weeks of this, Harry suddenly discovered there were benefits. In addition to the space intake's recreation facilities, such as they were, he was also invited to the junior officer's mess and facilities. Compared with the space intake's simple facilities, with their hard plastic chairs and tables in an undecorated barracks, the military facilities were luxurious. There was access to a swimming pool, squash courts, sports fields and associated facilities, a number of full-sized snooker tables, a fully serviced lounge bar, and magnificently upholstered furniture. News was available from around the world, even, Harry discovered to his surprise, from the non-Federation countries. A visit to the paymaster and the registering of the diamond card sent the totally unexpected message back to the mess and bar: unlimited credit. Harry behaved modestly and very politely, and ensured that generous tips were credited to the entire service staff. He soon found himself accepted.

  But even more surprising was the way the older officers treated him. One glance at the decoration was sufficient. No questions were asked; that would be impolite, indeed outright bad form. Harry had what nobody else had; he had earned respect.

  One evening, as he was seated in the officer's reading room, after a hard afternoon on the simulators, he became aware of a figure standing beside him.

  "You're in the new intake?"

  "Yes. Name's Harry Lansfeld," he said as he looked up.

  "So am I. In the intake, that is. Pennlington. Mike."

  "Why don't you sit down?" Harry said. "Want a drink?"

  "A beer would be fine."

  Harry signalled to
a waiter, and to Pennlington's complete surprise, one virtually came running. "You want English?" Harry asked.

  "They're a bit over the top in price," Pennlington muttered, as he shook his head in the negative.

  "Two pints of the best English bitters," Harry indicated to the waiter, then grinned at Pennlington. "Don't worry. I'm paying."

  "Yes, but . . ."

  "And, if you don't piss me off, the next round."

  "You're wealthy?" Pennlington asked curiously.

  "If you're wondering whether I'm a corporate, the answer's if I were, I wouldn't be allowed in here."

  "That's what I thought," Pennlington said, as he sipped the beer that had been placed in front of him.

  "And I assure you, I don't come from wealthy stock," Harry said with a grin.

  "Then I really can't let you –"

  "Yes you can, if you can keep a secret. You're regular Air Force?"

  "Yes."

  "Then your word of honour?"

  "My word!"

  "There's a certain corporate who did some very bad things to my family," Harry said softly, "and his punishment is that he has to support my expenses, so, why not drink up. He's the one who's paying."

  "I think I can live with that," Pennlington smiled. "If there's anything I can do in return . . ."

  "As you've probably gathered, I'm new here," Harry said. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

  So Pennlington began explaining how he had got there. He was a regular officer who believed that space was the obvious way for advancement. He chatted away, and Harry suddenly discovered that here was someone who knew his way around. Pennlington had done quite a bit of real space flying, as a co-pilot.

  "When we get to the early space flights," Pennlington said, "they have crews of two. Why don't we pair up? I've virtually qualified already for the individuals, so you can do most of the flying. It'll help you get ready for the individual trials."

  "Do that," Harry said, "and you can have a beer for yourself even if I'm not here. I'll have a word with the staff."