"I
did. Down here."
"Ah.
I see." The soldier poked gingerly at the stick with his foot.
"Some sort of radio device, eh? I’ve heard of such. Where are
you speaking from?"
"I’m
right here. The stick. I’m from off-planet. They can make
things like me there."
"Can
they, now? Well that’s interesting, I suppose."
"Pick
me up," said the stick. "Take me with you."
"Why?"
"Because I make an excellent weapon."
"No,
I mean what’s in it for you?"
The
stick paused. "You’re smarter than you look."
"Thanks. I think."
"OK,
here’s the deal. I’m a symbiotic mechanism. I was designed to
be totally helpless without a human partner. Pick me up, throw
an acorn in the air, take a swing at it, and I can shift my
weight so you hit it a country mile. Leave me here and I can’t
budge an inch."
"Why
would they build you like that?"
"So
I’d be a good and faithful tool. And I will. I’ll be the best
quarterstaff you ever had. Try me and see."
"How
do I know you won’t take over my brain?" the soldier asked
suspiciously. "I’ve heard offworld wizards can make devices
that do things like that."
"They’re called technicians, not wizards. And that sort
of technology is strictly prohibited on planetary surfaces.
You have nothing to worry about."
"Even
so . . . it’s nothing I’d want to chance."
The
stick sighed. "Tell me something. What’s your rank? Are you a
general? A field commander?"
"Tramping alone across the moors like this? Naw, I’m
just a gallowglass–a mercenary and a foot soldier."
"Then
what have you got to lose?"
The
soldier laughed aloud. He bent to pick up the stick. Then he
put it down again. Then he picked it up.
"See?"
"Well, I don’t mind telling you that takes a weight off
my mind."
"I
could use a change of scenery. Let’s go. We can talk along the
way."
The
soldier resumed his stroll down the dirt track. He swung the
stick lightly back and forth before him, admiring how it
lopped off the heads of thistles, while deftly sidestepping
the sedge-roses. "So you’re off to join the Iron Duke in his
siege of Port Morningstar, are you?" the stick remarked
conversationally.
"How’d you know that?"
"Oh,
one hears things, being a stick. Fly on the wall, and all
that."
"It’s
an unfamiliar figure of speech, but I catch your meaning. Who
do you think’s going to win? The Iron Duke or the Council of
Seven?"
"It’s
a close thing, by all accounts. But the Iron Duke has the
advantage of numbers. That always counts for something. If I
had to bet money, I’d say you chose employers
well."
"That’s good. I like being on the winning side. Less
chance of dying, for one thing."
They’d progressed several miles across the moors when
the Sun began to set. The soldier laid the stick aside and set
a snare for supper. By the time he’d pitched a tent, made
camp, and cut peat for a fire, he’d caught a rabbit. He
roasted it slow and, because he had a fondness for drumsticks,
ate all six legs first, along with three small bunyips, boiled
with a pinch of salt from a tin. Like many an old campaigner,
he ate in silence, giving the food his undivided
attention.
"Well," he said when he was full and in the mood for
conversation again. "What were you doing out here in the
middle of this godforsaken wilderness?"
The
stick had been stuck into the earth on the opposite side of
the campfire, so that it stood upright. "I was dropped by a
soldier," it said, "much like yourself. He was in pretty bad
shape at the time. I doubt he’s still alive."
The
soldier frowned. "You’re not exactly standard
gear."
"No,
I’m not. By compact, planetside wars are fought with primitive
weaponry. It was found that wars were almost as
environmentally destructive as the internal combustion engine.
So . . ."
"Internal combustion engine?"
"Never mind. It’s complicated. The point I was trying
to make, though, is that the technology is there, even if it’s
not supposed to be used. So they cheat. Your side, the other
side. Everybody cheats."
"How
so?"
"That
sword of yours, for example. Take it out, let’s get a look at
it."
He
drew the sword. Firelight glimmered across its
surface.
"Tungsten-ceramic-titanium alloy. Self-sharpening,
never rusts. You could slam it against a granite boulder and
it wouldn’t break. Am I right?"
"It’s
a good blade. I couldn’t say what it was made of."
"Trust me on this one."
"Still . . . you’re a lot fancier than this old sword
of mine. It can’t talk, for one thing."
"It’s
possible," said the stick, "that the Council of Seven is, out
of desperation, pushing the envelope a little, these
days."
"Now that’s a figure of speech I’ve neither
heard before nor can comprehend."
"It
means simply that it’s likely they’re using weapons rather
more sophisticated than is strictly speaking allowed by the
Covenants of Warfare. There’s a lot riding on this siege. The
Iron Duke has put everything he has into it. If he were
defeated, then the worst the Council of Seven could expect
would be sanctions and a fine. So long as they don’t use
tac-nukes or self-reprogramming viruses, the powers that be
won’t invoke their right to invade."
"Tac-nukes or self-reprogramming viruses?"
"Again, it’s complicated. But I see you’re yawning. Why
don’t you bank the fire and turn in? Get some sleep," said the
stick. "We can talk more in the morning."
But
in the morning, the soldier didn’t feel much like talking. He
packed his gear, shouldered the stick, and set off down the
road with far less vigor than he had the day before. On this,
the stick did not comment.
At
noon, the soldier stopped for lunch. He let his pack slip from
his shoulders and leaned the stick against it. Then he
rummaged within for the left-over rabbit, only to make a face
and thrust it away from him. "Phaw!" he said. "I cannot
remember when I felt so weak! I must be coming down with
something."
"Do
you think so?" the stick asked.
"Aye.
And I’m nauseated, and I’ve got the sweats as
well."
The
soldier wiped his forehead with his hand. It came back
bloody.
"Chort!" he swore. "What’s wrong with
me?"
"Radiation poisoning, I expect. I operate off a
plutonium battery."
"It’s
. . . you . . . You knew this would happen to me."
Unsteadily, he stood, and drew his sword. He struck at the
stick with all his might. Sparks flew, but it was not damaged.
Again and again he struck, until his strength was gone. His
eyes filled with tears. "Oh, foul and treacherous stick, to
kill a man so!"
"Is
this crueler than hacking a man to death with a big knife? I
don’t see how. But it’s not necessary for you to
die."
"No?"
"No.
If you grab your gear and hurry, you just might make it to the
Iron Duke’s camp in time. The medics there can heal
you–antiradiation treatments aren’t proscribed by the
Protocols. And, to tell you the truth, you do more damage to
the Iron Duke’s cause alive and using up his personnel and
resources than you do neatly dead in the moorlands. Go!
Now!"
With
a curse, the soldier kicked the stick as hard as he could.
Then he grabbed his pack and shambled off.
It
was not long before he disappeared over the
horizon.
A day
passed.
Then
another.
A
young man came trotting down the dirt track. He carried a
sword and a light pack. He had the look of a
mercenary.
"Hello," said the stick.
