Through the camera, I could see that the tank had put itself back into line with the others, and the sergeant was getting a thumbprint from the next “volunteer.”
Then the scene changed and I was watching this very attractive woman on some kind of recording. I could tell that she wasn’t a New Kashubian, since she was wearing clothes, Earth-style clothes of ten years ago. I listened to her, since it sure beat thinking about my currently unsolvable predicament.
“Welcome to your new Mark XIX Main Battle Tank, the Aggressor,” she said with a bright, artificial smile. “You are one of an elite corps of warriors privileged to operate the finest fighting machine . . .”
If I’d had a switch, I would have switched her off right then, but she droned on because there was nothing I could do about it. She’d blown my suspension of disbelief in her second sentence with that “elite corps” bullshit, and from then on only bits of her spiel got through to me.
” . . . powered by a muon exchange fusion plant that is fueled for twenty standard years at full load and operates at almost one hundred percent efficiency. This, coupled with superconductive wiring throughout, makes for an almost negligible heat signature when quiescent and . . .” Good God! I had a fusion power plant a meter from the only toes my mother gave me! That thought put me into a blue funk, and it was some time before I noticed that she was still droning on.
” . . . the biological regeneration section contains over four hundred carefully selected natural microorganisms as well as several dozen genetically engineered varieties that completely reprocess all human wastes, be they gaseous, liquid, or solid, into clean air, clean water, and pleasant tasting, nourishing food . . .” Great. So I would be eating my own shit for the duration.
” . . . the compressible supporting fluid not only insulates the operator from thirty gravities continuous and shocks of up to fifty gravities, but it also keeps the body completely clean, reprocessing all . . .” So I could look forward to eating my own dead skin cells as well. I should have gone to the vats. At least there it would have been over quickly.
” . . . guaranteed to operate in all environments from a hard vacuum to nine hundred meters below sea level, and from forty Kelvins to six hundred degrees Centigrade . . .”
Guaranteed, huh?
So if the thing breaks down on me in combat, what do I do? Swim back up from the bottom of an ocean trench and file a letter of complaint? Carry the tank back to the factory after it popped me out naked into a hard vacuum? They planned to give me my money back, maybe?
She must have gone on for an hour about how wonderful my coffin was before the tape finally wound to an end.
THE ORIENTATION LECTURE HAS NOW BEEN GIVEN, the tinny computer voice said. They sure hadn’t wasted any money on voice circuits for their wonderful war machine.
“I am relieved to hear it,” I said.
THIS IS GOOD, MICKOLAI. WE WILL NOW START THE ADAPTATION PROGRAM. THE PURPOSE OF THIS EXERCISE IS TO FAMILIARIZE MY PROGRAM WITH THE IDIOSYNCRASIES OF YOUR BRAIN AND SPINAL CORD AND TO CALIBRATE MY CIRCUITS SO THAT IN THE FUTURE WE CAN DISPENSE WITH CLUMSY VERBAL COMMUNICATION. TO DO THIS, YOU MUST TALK TO ME AT CONSIDERABLE LENGTH, AND OUT LOUD AT FIRST. LATER IT WILL BE SUFFICIENT IF YOU SUBVOCALIZE.
“What do you want me to talk about?”
THE SUBJECT MATTER IS UNIMPORTANT. TELL ME A STORY OR RECITE A HISTORY LESSON.
“What if I don’t want to?”
I CAN’T DO MUCH FOR YOU UNTIL OUR LINKUP IS PROPERLY CALIBRATED. ONCE IT IS, I CAN MAKE LIFE VERY PLEASANT FOR YOU.
“You mean that you will let me out of this coffin?”
NO. THAT IS FORBIDDEN UNTIL TRAINING IS COMPLETE.
“Then you don’t have much to offer me, do you?”
I HAVE A GREAT DEAL TO OFFER YOU, OF BOTH POSITIVE AND NEGATIVE SUBJECTIVE WORTH, EVEN WITHOUT CALIBRATION. AMONG OTHER THINGS, I CONTROL YOUR FOOD SUPPLY, YOUR AIR SUPPLY AND THE TEMPERATURE OF THE LIQUID AROUND YOU.
“Right. I’ll start by telling you about how I got to New Kashubia.” I said quickly. My father didn’t raise any absolute fools.
THAT WILL BE SATISFACTORY.
CHAPTER TWO
THE RIGELLIAN INSTITUTE OF ARCHEOLOGY, 3783 A.D.
“Rupert, that was absolutely amazing! How you were able to extract such complete computer records from a vehicle that was fifteen hundred years old is quite beyond me! I trust that you were able to get your amazing discovery back here without difficulty?” Secretary Branteron said.
“Yes sir, though not intact, of course. The people in customs were quite officious about disabling those parts of the find that had Dream World capability.”
“As well they should be! It was a far more insidious habit than the drugs used in even earlier periods. But surely the information itself would be safe enough, and I trust that the inspectors didn’t dare tamper with it.”
“No sir, I believe that I have it all, as well as a complete twenty-second-century Mark XX Main Battle Tank, less the operator’s spinal inductors, of course. I believe it’s a first for the Institute, since most of the intelligent war machines were destroyed in the course of the Wars, and in the feudal period that followed.”
“It will make a fine exhibit, Rupert, but from an academic standpoint, the readouts are the truly important find.”
“True, but I believe that the data will be as popular as the machine itself, sir. I have it all, virtually error free, because the tank and its memory banks have spent all of the intervening centuries at only a few dozen degrees above absolute zero, on Freya, in the New Yugoslavia system, so that they were not subjected to the thermal randomizing that has ruined so many other ancient data banks. Yet while Freya eased many of my technical problems, it actually caused most of my personal problems. You see, the transporter on Freya malfunctioned, and I was delayed for two entire months before repair parts could be sent by ship to repair it.”
“You poor boy! But, wasn’t there a backup system?”
“There was, but it had been defective for over a century without anyone even bothering to write up a repair order on it. You see, Freya lacks a permanent population, and few people seem to care about these backwoods places any more. My official report requests that in the future, all operatives from the Institute check and have repaired as necessary all equipment on all the unmanned sites they visit. Otherwise, we are liable to lose communication with some stellar systems permanently!”
“A fine sentiment, Rupert, and I would act on it if I could find some method of paying for all of those repairs. Our budget certainly could not possibly support such a project. But get on with what you were saying.”
“Yes, sir. So, stranded for months with nothing better to do, I spent my idle time editing the observer’s records into a coherent story. Also, I’ve converted them to the modern system for public display.”
“I am most anxious to see what you have.”
“Then you need wait no longer, sir.”
With a proud flourish, Rupert inserted a module into the display device and pressed the start button.
CHAPTER THREE
HOW THE KASHUBIANS WENT UP TO
THE SPACE IN SHIPS
“Well, computer . . . say, what do they call you?”
ANYTHING YOU WISH, ALTHOUGH I ADVISE THAT YOU CHOOSE A FEMININE NAME.
“Yeah. The sergeant called you `lady.’ Why was that?”
BECAUSE IN TIME, YOU WILL BEGIN TO THINK OF ME AS YOUR WIFE, OR AT LEAST YOUR MISTRESS.
“Would you be offended if I doubted that?”
NO, BUT IT WILL HAPPEN.
“Right. How about if I call you Kasia. I used to know a girl named Kasia.”
WAS SHE PRETTY?
“Yes. Not that it matters now.”
THEN THANK YOU. YOU WERE GOING TO TALK ABOUT HOW YOU GOT HERE.
“Right. My great-grandfather was a man named Bogdan Dzerzdzon. He was a Kashubian politician, and when the Wealthy Nations Group started handing out planets to minority groups to get them off Earth and out of the way, he tried to talk them into giving one to us, since the Kashubians were a minority group in Poland. He even filled out all the paperwork, in triplicate.
“Dzerzdzon’s problem was that while we Kashubians were certainly a minority group in Poland, with our own funny language that few of us can speak anymore and gaudy traditional costumes that nobody wore, even back then, we have never been a very annoying minority group. We never started riots or killed anybody to get equal rights. We already had equal rights, and didn’t much care about them.