“Whoreson Achitophel, he never will be missed,” muttered Ariel, shaking her head.
“Not even,” said Pooh-Bah, in a quiet but nonetheless lofty voice, “by the lord of the backstairs passage, or by the master of deerhounds or the Solicitor, or even . . .”
“Straighten those backs! I’ll make you lot into soldiers if it kills me.”
“‘Twill,” said Ariel, under her breath. Elephant-shrews were superb killers. Even cybernetic uplift couldn’t make them into soldiers.
* * *
In a boot camp not far from hell . . .
In fact the sign in the middle of the camp read “Hell, 3km back.” Conrad Fitzhugh was being reborn. They say that the first time is the worst trauma most humans go through.
It wasn’t any better this time around. And Conrad Fitzhugh, born with a silver spoon in his mouth the first time, was discovering that going economy class was very different. You weren’t wrapped in a pure wool receiving blanket, for starters.
“It doesn’t fit.”
“Oh, we’ll call the tailor so you can have it made to measure,” said the quartermaster’s clerk sarcastically, tossing a pile of shirts and outsize underwear at him. “Who the hell do you think you are, vatscum? A namby-pamby Shareholder? Move along. On the double. Change. Dump those civ clothes in the hopper there. You won’t wear them again.”
Fitz moved. His evening wear had been slept in and walked in. But that was a Silviano jacket even if it was a little crumpled, and he loved those half boots. He didn’t intend to throw them away!
“They say there are only two sizes in the army. Too big and too small,” said the skinny man beside him, pulling on an overall that incontrovertibly proved his point. The little fellow was unusual in the crowded room. Like Fitz he wasn’t eighteen.
“Er. Isn’t there anywhere private to change?” asked Fitz, looking in startlement at the young conscripts stripping off with unconcern all around him.
The skinny man paused in the act of putting on his horn-rimmed glasses and chuckled. “You’ve been out of the dormitories a while.”
A sudden harsh realization came to Fitz. He was a Shareholder. His parents had come to HAR as frozen Shareholders. Everyone else here was probably—no, almost certainly—a Vat. Bred up in a cloning vat from a tissue scrap that had made the long journey from Earth. Naturally, every human on HAR was entitled to become a Shareholder. The New Fabian Society wouldn’t have it otherwise. Of course, the Company was entitled to recover the costs of cloning, rearing, feeding and educating the Vat-kids before they could buy that Share. After all, utopia didn’t come for free. Existing Shareholders were entitled to some return on their investment, naturally. Certain privileges were of course reserved for Shareholders.
He was almost certainly the only Shareholder-boot in this camp. He’d known that. He’d just suddenly become aware that pointing this out could be very bad for his health. He blinked, and began stripping.
“Yes. I’ve become rather spoiled.” He looked at the older man. Twenty-five, at least. He must have been one of the original Vats. Conrad Fitzhugh realized that he was going to need a role model. Skinny looked friendly enough. But how to initiate a conversation? He’d never had much to do with Vats. They were servants, mostly.
The little man took it out of his hands. He had obviously made his own assessment, and probably had a very sensible reason—Fitz would make two of him. “These kids make me feel ninety. They’re likely to beat us fossils up. We should stick together.” He stuck out a hand. “McTavish. Call me SmallMac.” He grinned wryly. “Everyone does.”
Fitz took his hand. “Fitzhugh. Um. Call me Fitz.”
“So, what was your line on civvy street, Fitz?” asked SmallMac, attempting to cram the remaining issue gear into a kit bag, a job requiring two more hands than he had. Fitz held the mouth of it open for him. It gave him a moment to think. All Vats worked—they were in debt. Fitz had never worked a day in his life. Only those Shareholders with very few Shares or a desire to work did. It had been a long-standing source of acrimony between him and his father. “Um. I did a lot for the Parachute club.” It was not strictly a lie.