A History Maker (11 page)

Wat felt pressure in his heart and eardrums. He breathed carefully to prevent useless rage. He pretended to yawn then said that using satellite technology to invade private lives was the sort of criminal intrusion the world had outgrown over a century ago, was against the Geneva Convention, was infantile bad manners.

“Yeah, but I'm a real wild child and an
outlaw
, honey,” said the voice Americanly, “I'm a professional hooker who has
hooked
you.
”

“You're also a media person. You spoke to me in your English voice from a public eye ball this morning, one that jumped out of a blaeberry bush when I came down by Thirlstane. How can you be public and private too?”

“How can you be Colonel Dryhope in Ettrick Warrior house and your aunties' Wattie at home? Media people also get into more than one set, Colonel Dryhope. The more sets we belong to the more power we hold. I'm in more than a dozen and am now forming the most powerful set in the world. It has two members — you and me.”

“I'll discuss this chat with Archie Crook Cot,” said Wat grimly, “You may have heard of him. I don't think he'll need more than an hour of networking to find the beam you're using, and where you are, and who you are.”

For a while the lips stayed slightly parted. Their owner was either thinking hard or listening to instructions from someone else, but Wat did not feel outnumbered.

“I would feel very hurt if you told Archie Crook Cot about me, Colonel Dryhope,” said the mouth at last, “Others would suffer too. You
are not a man who can be frightened, but your clan might suffer most.”

“I'm no feart of mysterious threats,” said Wat grinning, “Nor feart of people who repeat things I said idly or in a bad temper. Why not replay what I said before the battle when I spoke to save the Ettrick weans? Geneva noticed that.” “That is not the side of you which attracts me,” said the mouth softly, “Do you not know that many women desire to feel themselves helpless in the arms of a powerful man they identify with God?”

“If you're a masochist in search of a violent brute find another soldier. The breed is not extinct.”

“Ah, but you are so
wrong
, chéri! The breed is practically extinct. Other soldiers waste their violence in conventional war games then go home to be nursed by their conventional aunts and sweethearts. And I am more than a sensual body — I too am an outsider who cannot bear this world governed by aunts and grannies. It has lasted too long, it is stale, it needs renewal. You feel this too, Wat — that is why you wanted to start a reich of two with Annie Craig Douglas. It would have been too small for you. Renew the world with me! It will be dangerous work but neither of us fear danger. It will also need political intelligence.”

“Rhetoric!” said Wat impatiently, “If you've a concrete proposal, Ms. Media, propose it in sensible modern language. The adjective
political
became meaningless a century and a half ago.”

“If you stay silent about this meeting …” said the mouth slowly, “… I will propose to you tomorrow.”

“When?”

“When you return to the Warrior house. Promise to be silent till then.”

“I promise nothing. I won't speak of this till we've met. Let that content you.”

The bubble swooped to his right ear and whispered, “Have you ever fucked a media bitch or do you only do it to pussies?”

“Neither bitches nor bubbles.”

“If you gossip about this we will never meet
in
the flesh
, chéri. You will also lose the chance to recreate the world in the image of your wildest dreams — and quickly! Bonsoir. I will now vanish with a most melodious twang but remember, I hear every word you say and love most the words you fear to say. Our lovemaking will be different than with others. It will strengthen, not relax you. I will teach you not to be ashamed.”

He turned in time to see the bubble vanish with a melodious twang.

It was now after sunset but a silvery scatter of pebbles showed the path. The digits on his wristcom were glowing again. He dialled Archie Crook Cot and asked if he would organize the retrieval of the standard, taking the veteran General Megget and three Boys' Brigade captains with him to show it was an Ettrick Warrior business. Archie Crook Cot, sounding pleased, said yes, he had been worrying about the standard. He would also take Jimsy Henderland (an excellent diver) and start early. Wat told him to use the Warrior house sky sledges but contact General Shafto first, then hesitated and said, “Report to me at once when you return.”

He switched off, wondering if he would regret not having given Archie a more technical job right away. Soon after he saw the lights of Bowerhope. He was enthusiastically welcomed but it was not a satisfying visit. Myoo said, “Getting colonelized has weakened you, Wat Dryhope. You don't seem with us.”

Our dreams review events of the waking day, working them into the pattern of early
memories and wishes which is our character. Wat dreamed easily about his squabble with Annie because he expected young girls to be bothersome. His triumphal arrival at the Warrior house and swift promotion to commander also fitted his dreams; he had not expected it but early efforts had prepared him for it. Nothing had prepared him for the conversation on the path to Bowerhope. His dreams turned nasty and woke him long before dawn. He lay perfectly still, unwilling to rouse the friendly bodies he lay between, unable to rest for troublesome thoughts.

He thought first about people in public eye companies. Broadcasters of war games clearly enjoyed getting close to bloodshed without being hurt. A woman of that sort with a taste for tall graceless carnaptious soldiers could easily use public equipment to contrive private meetings with them. But Wat's movements had been followed, his words recorded and edited for at least five days before a blocking beam had isolated him from the intelligence network. Through a unique device he had been told that
here and now between Myoo and Myow
he was still being surveyed. No single person could use so much energy for a private purpose without being noticed as a selfish waster and
interrupted. Since the media bitch did not fear interruption she must be part of a team making a programme about him. This broke the first rule in the bill of human rights: NOBODY WILL BE USED BY ANOTHER WITHOUT KNOWING AND WILLING IT. But a team breaking this rule must be working in secret, and secret societies (like governments, stock exchanges, banks, national armies, police forces, advertising agencies and other groups who made nothing people needed) had ended with the historical era. The modern intelligence net was open to everyone. It could only be used secretly by people arousing no curiosity, yet the media bitch had deliberately aroused his. What could such people want that they could not get openly? The earliest Christian churches, the Freemasons and Trade Unions had been secret societies. They believed all good people were equal in the eyes of God or natural justice, so unjust governments had banned them. Big governments later created their own secret societies, the F.B.I., C.I.A., K.G.B.D., M.I.5 which lied and tortured, robbed and killed in ways their employers could publicly deny. And people had been robbed and killed by Al Capone's mob, the Mafia and the I.R.A. which were also secret forms of government. Wat's head ached with efforts to imagine reasons for
secrecy on an earth whose largest government was the family and where each family had what it needed.

After a few seconds he left the bed by creeping carefully to the foot. By the glowing calendar on a screen he saw Myoo and Myow roll into the space he had left and embrace each other without wakening. He softly tapped a message regretting his poor response to their welcome and asking if one of their children would return his pony to Dryhope common. Then he dressed and left by a door onto the veranda.

After a few steps on the shore path under the trees his foot struck something soft. He stopped and peered. There was not much light in the sky but the path was pale enough to show a small black body near the toe of his right sandal and two or three others irregularly placed on the path ahead: booby traps? Stooping down he saw the nearest body thrust a limb backward and lurch an inch forward.

“Have more fun than I did,” he told it and walked on taking care where he placed his feet. A minute later he said, “Whoever hears me may like to know that my last remark was addressed
to a puddock. This is the night of the year when puddocks trek to the nearest fresh water for their annual nooky fair; but I doubt if
natural
history interests you Ms. Bitch. Are you listening? No need to speak; a tiny tinkle will do for yes, silence for no.”

He listened and heard only leaves and water stirred by the pre-dawn breeze. The anger which had come to him on that path four hours earlier returned. In a sing-song voice he said, “I think I'll tell my friend Archie that someone's using a vast amount of public energy for a private seduction.”

His wristcom worked as usual while he dialled the first Crook Cot digits, then it buzzed briefly like an angry wasp and the soft English voice said quickly, “What's a puddock?”

“I've forgotten the English word but the French is
crapaud
,” said Wat, looking at a row of zeroes on the dial where the source of a message was usually indicated, “You sound like a woman who's just been wakened. There must be at least two of you listening.”

“You are being tracked,” said the voice, yawning slightly, “By a sensor beam linked to my wristcom. It shocked me awake with the first word you spoke.”

“When will we meet?”

“Before you leave the path. Meanwhile I'll
amuse you with a suggestive poem.

— What do you think of that?”

“Not much. The stale imagery suggests the nineteenth century. Was it written by someone heralding socialism?”

“It was written by an American judge heralding fascism.”

“Isms are the dullest bits of the historical midden. Why resurrect them?”

“Because we are about to give birth to the future and I am an agent of Shigalyovism which is organizing a political renaissance. But since sex comes before politics here is a wee song to cheer ye on your way, dearie.”

He heard a burst of orchestral music and a Scottish male voice from the start of the
twentieth century sang —

“You're scaring the puddocks!” yelled Wat, vainly trying to switch off his wristcom and walk faster at the same time. He could see an orange brightness low down among the trees ahead. The voice went huskily seductive: “You're a mean old daddy but you're out of sight Wat honeyprick, come to momma you sweetcocking motherfucker, come into me you big bad world beater, I am the shining cunt at the end of your personal tunnel.”

The orange light came from the glowing dome of a small tent with the shadow of a reclining, beckoning figure inside. He stooped and crawled in through an opening at the edge of the path. She lay on a bank of pillows in the rape-inviting position imposed on Jane Russell by a millionaire who had owned some of
1944 Hollywood. She moaned, “Don't look at me like that you piece-a-shit!”

Two minutes later he lay gasping beside her after the fastest fuck of his life.