"The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents. We live on a placid island of ignorance in the midst of black seas of infinity, and it was not meant that we should voyage far. The sciences, each straining in its own direction, have hitherto harmed us little; but some day the piecing together of dissociated knowledge will open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age." - H.P. Lovecraft, "The Call of Cthulu"
CHAPTER ONE
This is a transcript of the Commencement address delivered by Jake "Red Jack" Klimt, Second Battalion Commander of Griffon Knight Legion, on June 14, 3299.
As cadets, your teachers were the finest engineers and combat veterans in the Eastern Spiral. But three years as field jacks have taught you there's a lot more to learning than books and lecture halls. Some things can only be learned by experience.
I'm here to share one of those experiences, a story that starts twenty nine years ago. I was a raw cadet at this fine institution. My squad was assigned as honor guard to Barry "Big Boy" Smathers, one of the great pilots and commanders of his generation. He'd been retired for six years by the time I met him, but it might have been sixty. You wouldn't have guessed he was a legend to meet him. He was just a nice old man, always nodding his head gently, and braiding things with those trembly hands of his.
Barry wasn't one to stand on ceremony, and it wasn't long before he was one of the boys. He'd tell funny stories about stuff he'd seen and done, though he'd get real solemn and quiet sometimes. It wasn't memories bothering him; he wasn't the sort. No, it was something else. The day he gated offworld, I asked him what it was.
We were all in the armored transport on our way to the off world gate. Barry leaned over a bit and gave us that crooked grin he'd always give right before telling a real whopper. Then he said in a low voice, "Well, boys and girl" - there was a young lady on our squad then - "it's not a story I'm in the habit of telling, mind. But I think you can be trusted." He gave us a slow wink then leaned back, his hands working away at that ever-present braid work.
What I'm about to tell you is Barry's story, word for word, as best I remember it.
==
The armored transport squeaked cheerily on as Barry began his story. "It's hard to explain exactly what's been bothering me. Like Polyphemus in Homer's Odyssey, nothing is bothering me. There's nothing I can identify. But I know what I know.
Six years ago, I was shot in the head at Falcon's Landing. You've probably seen the propaganda vids, or maybe the movie - eighteen brave pilots, sacrificing themselves to protect the civilian evacuation against the full might of Gyger Claw's army, the commander, shot in the head and left for dead. Of course, that's not really what happened at all. But that's a story best left for another day.
Anyways, the damage to my brain made me see things differently. Or maybe I still see the same, but my brain doesn't interpret what I see the same way it used to. Call it what you will, the doctors had some name for it, but I don't think even they really knew what it was. It wasn't that I was hallucinating, it was something else - something they couldn't explain and that I don't like to talk about, because it reminds me of - well, I'll get to that in a bit. First I'll show you what I mean about my brain working differently.
You know when mechs are damaged and surplus pilots need to pilot what's available, tradition is playing rock-paper-scissors for first pick. There's good reason for that. Reaction speed, intuition, ability to influence your opponent, all play a factor. The best equipment goes to whomever s best that day. The same man doesn't always win; maybe he wakes up on the wrong side of bed, or maybe it just isn't his day. Luck's a factor, but if you live long enough, you'll learn luck is a skill just like anything else. Now I'll show you something nice."
Barry put down his braid work and clenched then loosened his trembling fingers. "You know Fourth Battalion rules for rock-paper-scissors? Three rounds of three, your hand must show on every beat of - well, you're new so we'll make it easy - the capacitor recharge time of a force ion beam. Field pilots would know who won on the fly, but I expect you rookies are a bit slow on the uptake. So remember your nine plays so we can compare notes later. Focus. The beat's like this - onetwothreefourfivesix, got it? On count of three, now, one - two - three."
A moment later my eyes were tearing up, my cheeks were stinging, and someone's boot was on my left hand. My three squad mates weren't doing much better, and Barry was laughing as he finished the last of his hand signs. "That's how it's done in the Fourth Battalion, rookies, only faster and harder. A lot more fun than the kiddie version, don't you think? We'll do it rookie-style without the fisticuffs, then. Remember your plays. On count of three, now, one - two - three."
Our hands flashed in the center of the transport. I lost track of everyone's plays, but I remembered what I'd played. Barry, though, pointed to each of us in turn after it was over and called out each of our plays, getting every one right. Barry leaned back and gave us that crooked grin again, looking at each of us in turn. "Doesn't seem to me you're too impressed. But if you think that's what I meant to impress you with - not even close." He picked up his braid work in a shaky hand. "See here? You know how to read Morse code, right? Look close. What do you see?"
When we looked closely we saw what he meant. The braid work had variations. Nothing too obvious, but anyone knowing what to look for would see the dot and dash pattern of Morse code. There, in the braidwork, was a record of the plays we had just made!
Barry smiled and said "There now! What do you think of that!" He looked to each of us in turn expectantly. There was an awkward silence, and his face fell. Then he said quietly "You . . . you think it's a trick! A cheap trick!" His face flushed, and his voice rose in anger. "As if I would - " then he paused, and laughed. He was having us on!
"You didn't really think I'd try to impress you with a feat of memory any good mech pilot could do, or a trick any street magician could replicate. Come now, what do you take me for? I'm disappointed, sadly disappointed by your lack of faith. No, I said I'd show you something nice. I guarantee you'll be impressed." He winked, took a folded piece of paper from inside his pants pocket and handed it to me. "Hold on to that a moment. No, not in your hand. Put it in your mouth." He took more folded pieces of paper from inside his pocket, handing one to each member of the squad. We sat there feeling a bit stupid, with waxy papery tastes in our mouths.
"We'll play another round of nine. No fisticuffs, I want you to pay close attention this time, no distractions. Remember what you play. Same beat, onetwothreefourfivesix, nice and quick. Got the beat? Ready? On three, one - two - three!"
Our hands flashed out, and that's when it happened. Each of us played rock at the same moment, then rock, then paper, then scissors - each of us playing the exact same play as everyone else, nine times in a row. Lee laughed, Penn swore, Harris just cocked an eyebrow in that way of hers.
Submitted by Jim Lee#843365