forehead throbbed and had a bloody
gash on it. He struggled to sit up while holding it. The right side
of his mouth felt swollen, and there was a nasty bruise under his
chin.
He looked around. "There's somethin' happenin' here ... what it is
ain't exactly clear ..."
Cold, smooth floor. Cold corporate lighting.
Even the air, sterile and lifeless, had a bit of a chill to it.
"Hewey?" he half-spoke, half-groaned, not
caring if the walls were bugged, which they almost certainly
were.
Hewey didn't respond.
He pushed himself back to a wall and leaned
against it, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around
them.
The room was a cube three meters on a side
and windowless. The pit of his stomach told him the gravity was
reduced, maybe half or less Earth standard.
Mars, then. Or he was on Phobos above it. It
was one or the other, no doubt about it. That jackass Bartlett
probably drugged him and handed him over when the Reds arrived.
He tried again. "Hewey?"
Nothing.
"Who is Hewey?" said a disembodied male
voice which seemed to come from everywhere.
Random fingered his lower lip, which was
swollen. The underside of his chin felt broken.
"I said, who is Hewey?”
"He's the name of the dude doin' your mama,"
murmured Random. "Probably right now."
"You are in no position to give us
attitude," said the voice. "You are in serious trouble, Mr. Chance.
I would advise that you cooperate."
He fingered the gash on his head and
whispered:
"The ocean is on fire
The sky turned dark again
As the boats came in
And the beaches
Stretched out with soldiers
With their arms and guns
It has just begun ..."
Silence.
"What has just begun, Mr. Chance?"
He tongued the inside of his lip. He could
still taste blood.
Ah-ha .
"Phobos?" he said.
"Yes," answered the voice. "Please tell me,
Mr. Chance: What has just begun?"
"You can't tell by that bit of verse?"
"Are you talking about war?"
Random nodded. He knew that was all he
needed to do.
"Are you referring to the police action
against the insurrectionist Nyett Zhong, and is that your verse?
Did you compose it?"
" 'Police action,' " he said, shaking his
head sadly. "Call it what it is. It's war."
There was a long moment of silence.
"War."
"That's right. War."
"A conflict carried on by force of arms, as
between nations or between parties within a nation; warfare, as by
land, sea, air, or space."
"Yep."
"A state or period of armed hostility or
active military operations."
Random nodded.
"A contest carried on by force of arms, as
in a series of battles or campaigns."
"True enough."
"Armed fighting, as a science, profession,
activity, or art; methods of waging armed conflict."
"Now you're getting it."
Another long moment of silence.
"Active hostility or contention; a conflict
or a contest."
"Give that man an 'A.' "
The silence stretched on for whole minutes
this time.
"I am not a man, Mr. Chance."
"I know that," said Random. "And call me
Random. My name is Random Chance."
"The flip of a coin," said the omnipresent
voice.
Random smiled.
"The roll of the die."
"Of course."
"The existence of man ..."
"Call it humankind."
A much shorter period of silence.
"Humankind."
"Not random," said Random.
That shut the voice up for what was probably an entire hour.
Random, in that time, and as best as he could, lay back down. He
needed sleep. He felt woozy and lightheaded and worried that he had
a concussion—or two.
He didn’t sleep, but it felt good to close
his eyes and doze, if fitfully. He had to keep huddled in himself
against the almost-cold.
"Are you from the Oligarchy?" asked the
voice, pulling him back to consciousness.
Random sat up, rubbed his eyes. "Why would
you ask that?" he said after yawning an unsatisfying yawn.
"I am having trouble registering brain-wave
activity from you, Random Chance."
"That makes me Oligarchy? Your
malfunctioning sensors?"
"No. It was your comment that humankind did
not come about by random chance."
"But that's exactly what the