There was quite the queue forming in the stuffy hallway down in the bowels of the corps headquarters. And in the nature of queues it was getting longer by the hour, the creaking pews on either side of the aisle filling up with disgruntled, sweaty, blank-faced junior officers, all of them suspended in the mind-numbing amber of bureaucratic inefficiency. Well, in truth the seats were more like benches than pews, but such was the atmosphere of ponderous solemnity and absolute silence that one could easily have mistaken it for a shrine of sorts.
This was despite the fact that nearly all of the offices had been converted into pens for farm animals. Flocks of meat crickets chirped inside their wicker coops while families of oinking unguloids rooted in their beds of dried rice stalks. Mound Shakka had become the main supply depot for the Expeditionary Force that would soon be headed north. Accommodation for all the livestock and droves of support troops had been difficult to find since noncombat personnel such as clerks, smiths, line cooks and cobblers outnumbered the real soldiers by a ratio of 1:5. The Fleet Quartermaster Corps had worked its magic with what little space the already overpopulated settlement could spare and this menagerie had been one of their many ingenious solutions.
But if the hallway was a shrine and the bored officers its devotees, then the altar at the center of it all was the tiny cubicle office whose doorway bore the legend in faded green paint: “Defensive Mapping Agency Hydrographic and Geographic Center’s Office of Distribution and Services (Pathfinder Liaison Office).”
It was a somewhat long-winded appellation, to be sure. But the mere mention of the name was enough to send the bravest pencil-pushers into paroxysms of paranoia and dread.
Had they triple stamped the approval sheets in the appropriate color of ink? Had they used the correct stock number to indicate the maps they needed to requisition? And most importantly, would the stern guardian of the inner sanctum show them mercy today?
As if in answer to that question the door flew open with a bang and a mustachioed corporal stormed out, crying:
“How can you do this to me? This is outrageous! Unfair! How can I be a commissioned officer and be denied access to my flipping field sketches?”
“You will sit down, corporal,” came the stern reproof from the man inside, making all the waiting supplicants jump in their seats as if at the crack of a bullwhip.
“I…I…” the officer gulped, his frustration petering out beneath the withering glare of the bald man sitting behind the cheap plywood desk and stacks of misprints.
“I’m sorry,” the corporal finally whimpered, all but tucking his tail between his legs. Everyone else studiously examined their fingernails or stared at the ceiling, having no desire to catch a stray bullet from the exchange.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I’m sorry, navigator Deschane,” the luckless man finished, meekly returning to his seat, “B-but please, sir, you must understand. I’ve been trying to get these set of maps for my unit for days now. I’ve completed forms 22-A through 34-D along with all the supplementals. I filled in the boxes with black ink and the region names in blue as per regulations. I’ve even listed the stock numbers alphabetically just like you told me to, which I’m beginning to suspect isn’t even an actual requirement at all!”
“Indeed, it isn’t,” Deschane admitted, “That was just a helpful suggestion on my part. It wouldn’t hurt to be more organized, now would it?”
“So I’ve done everything you asked?”
“Why, yes,” Deschane said, sounding pleasantly surprised. He put on a pair of wire spectacles and shuffled some sheets of paper around, “You have completed all the documentation needed to requisition copies of classification level C field sketches. Good job.”
Deschane held out a stack of freshly printed papers and the corporal’s face lit up with happiness. But his hopes were immediately dashed when Deschane continued: “Now just repeat all those steps for the other grid zones and I can give you the rest of the maps you ordered.”
The navigator handed him a single copy off the pile and withheld all the rest. The corporal gave a feeble chuckle and said:
“I think I just misheard you, dear fellow. Did you just say that I have to redo all this paperwork fourteen more times?”
“The regulations are quite clear. Form 29-E can only be used to apply for one copy at a time. So you see, my hands are tied.”
“Alright, fine,” pressed the corporal, still stuck at the bargaining phase of the five stages of grief, “So all I have to do is fill out fourteen more copies of 29-E and not all the rest of that rubbish, aye?”
Outside, the people in the queue all winced at his stupidity. It was never a good idea to get uppity with Nv. Deschane.
“That would suffice,” Deschane frowned, “But for the purposes of filing it would be more efficient if each copy of 29-E came attached with copies of all the other forms, just to avoid confusion in the procurement process. Otherwise there really is no telling how long the process might be delayed. Days? Weeks? Months?”
“Navigator,” the corporal pleaded in a fit of depression, which was the fourth stage of grief, “My battalion cannot attack the enemy if it does not know where that enemy is! We cannot function without maps! Do you want us to go in completely blind, like hogs to the slaughter?”
“All I’m asking is that you adhere to standard procurement procedures. Yours is not the only battalion in need of crucial information. Rest assured that our staff is working round the clock to provide for the needs of the brave soldiers spearheading the coming offensive. But you must understand that good maps are a precious and delicate resource that must be handled with care—”
Deschane’s rational explanations were interrupted by the door to the adjoining office flying open with a cacophony of curses and bestial squeals. Corporal Ven appeared,s struggling mightily to wrest a stack of envelopes from the jaws of a very annoyed mother hog. Finally tearing them loose and shooing the belligerent sow back into its pen, she did an about face and saluted Deschane, announcing:
“Here are the planimetric maps for the 9th Infantry Regiment.”
Then Ven saw a bite-sized chunk missing from the corners of the sheaf and her face took on a crestfallen expression. Deschane accepted it with a nod of thanks and turned his attention back to the mortified corporal, who licked his mustachios nervously and said:
“I think finally understand what’s going on here. And look, I get it. Anyone who gets reassigned to a reeking dungeon like this one has got to make a living somehow. If it’s a question of money—”
“I believe I was the one who misheard this time,” Deschane cut in, his voice as frigid as an ice pick in a freezer. The people in the queue shook their heads; the corporal had dug his own grave good and deep now, “Are you under the impression that I’m soliciting a bribe?”
“Don’t be absurd!” the nitwit backpedaled, “That’s the furthest thing on my mind. Just an exchange of gifts between good friends, is all—"
“Leave the door open on your way out,” Deschane said, his pen scratching busily at an approval slip.
“But why?”
“I don’t need financial incentives to do my job. I am not a base criminal, sir.”
“Then why are you making my life so bloody difficult?”
“Because I believe in organization,” Deschane said without looking up, “This virtue above all else is what allowed humanity to claw its way back from the brink. It is the engine that drives our ascent back into the celestial firmament from whence we came. And if the engine fails,” Deschane peered at him over the rim of his spectacles, “then so shall we. Next!”
The corporal left the office with a look of dazed acceptance. The line shuffled forwards. Hours passed and the queue eventually shortened. Most of the officers were turned away in disappointment, while the rest dashed out from the cubicle clutching their fresh copies to their chests as if they could hardly believe their good fortune. This went on until the refracted light of the solar prisms studding the walls went the color of runny eggs, signaling the arrival of dusk.
“That’s it for today folks,” Ven said, taking out her glowbowl of bioluminescent algae and shining it into the faces of the men who’d dozed off on the pews, “Same time again tomorrow!”
There were groans of half-hearted protest as the intelligence officers drooped off back home to try another day. A latecomer arrived just as the last of them filed out. He went over to the animal pens, clicking his tongue at the unguloids and tossing them bits of corn husk from the floor.
“I’m sorry sir, but you’ll have to come back in the morning,” Ven told him, “Navigator Deschane is—”
“A very busy man. So I have observed,” the man turned, smiling sweetly. He was dressed in the most outlandish garb Ven had ever seen, a scandalously skimpy loincloth beneath robes of see-through abaca being all that covered his modesty.
“Oh! Wow,” Ven quickly averted her eyes, a warm flush creeping the back of her neck, “I didn’t realize you were so…so.... erm…”
“Ethnic?” the tribesman tactfully supplied.
“Yes! That’s the word. I hope,” Ven added in an undertone.
“I am Nong Acklund, a geologist from the Darood, in the Occupied Territories,” the tribesman introduced himself with a clipped accent, “May I ask for a moment of his time?”
The tribesman walked past her before she could object, slithering eel-like into the darkened office where Deschane was busy getting onto his crutches.
“Ah, navigator! I tried to catch you yesterday at your award ceremony, but you left as soon as you concluded your acceptance speech.”
“Hmph,” was all Deschane had to say to that.
“Oh, ha ha! There it is again: the entire text of your speech. If brevity is the soul of wit, then I guess that makes you a veritable prodigy!”
Deschane’s forehead knitted into a worrying frown. Ven knew that look and placed herself between the two to protect Nong from bodily harm.
“Soldier, what is this civilian doing here?” Deschane said quietly and without taking his eyes off the shameless exhibitionist.
“He is attempting to be funny,” Nong replied, “He sees now that this approach will prove fruitless. I’ll get to the point: I am here to ask you about what happened at Mound 13.”
“They covered all that at the ceremony. I have nothing more to add. Corporal Vendamme, remove this person before I do.”
Ven reached for Nong’s shoulder, but once again the tribesman evaded her, stepping closer to the navigator.
“I see. Either they have bought your silence, or you have been cowed into submission.”
“What did you just say?”
“Or is it something else?” Nong went on, blissfully unaware of the danger he was in, “Perhaps your being difficult and unpleasant serves a grander purpose. Even after those idiots confined you in this midden heap to rot, you are doing all that you can to delay their much-vaunted offensive for as long as possible. After all, an army is blind without good intelligence, and your superiors in their matchless arrogance gave you control over just that, didn’t they? Now the only question that remains is this: are you a traitor, Navigator Deschane? If not, then why are you deliberately sabotaging the war effort?”
Deschane was a long time answering that one.
“Everything I do is for the good of the Fleet,” he said at last, “I fight for the species. And if you call me a traitor one more time, I’ll rip your throat out with my thumbs.”
Indeed, Ven was wondering why he hadn’t done it already. Deschane had been through a lot in these past few days, and had been begging for an excuse to cut loose. The tribesman beamed again, only this time it was genuine, each crooked tooth gleaming like ivory.
“A believer! Excellent. You fight that we may reattain our ancient godhead—yes, I overheard that conversation with that poor young fool. But it is one thing to believe, and another thing entirely to know. And so, my good navigator, I have one final question. Do you know what this is?”
Nong drew something from the folds of his loincloth and slammed it on the desk. Initially Ven thought it was some sort of tribal fetish, an idol carved from ultrapod horn and sculpted into the crude likeness of a human. It was about ten centimeters tall and sported an eggshell head, hunched shoulders and a single crimson dot in the place of a face.
Ven had owned a similar doll in her childhood, made for her by her native servant, a sweet old maid by the name of Riyah with raisin-wrinkle cheeks who smelled like rosewater. There was a thin horizontal slot in the middle of its belly—perhaps it was a child’s piggy bank?
But then Nong touched something on the side of the idol and the thing stirred to life, stocky legs pumping as it strode ponderously across the desk. It swiveled on its waist and knocked over a pile of misprints with its arm and sent them scattering all over the dung-spattered floorboards. Then it turned to Ven and spoke in a tinny little voice:
“…your…future…built…today. Say chzzztt!”
The red eye flashed dangerously, and Ven flinched. The idol hummed and whirred as some hidden mechanism activated. A square of semirigid material shot out of the slot and spun in the air. Ven caught it before it fell and found herself looking at an image of her frightened face etched into a card of strange transparent crystal, with the following words stamped below it:
EMPLOYEE OF THE YEAR
“Well, paint me in polka dots and slap me silly,” she breathed in amazement, “Look, sir. It’s me!”
She held up the card for Deschane to see and received the second, even bigger shock of the day. The navigator was biting into his clenched fist, his throat working as he held back a tide of emotions.
“I thought I’d gone mad…” he whispered in a broken voice, as if he were all alone in the room with no one to hear him, “They’d half convinced me of it. Blood loss, shell shock, narcosis, morphine. Any number of reasons. My men…” he looked up at Nong, his upper lip stiffening, “My boys. Rene. Lethway. I failed them—failed them all. I thought it was a mistake on the part of providence, that I had been spared and they had not. But now...”
Deschane reached out with trembling fingers and touched the idol reverently.
“Yes, I do know what this is,” he told Nong, his voice now stronger and more assured, “This here is hope.”
