CHAPTER 14

THERE WERE SEVENTEEN Border Officers in all competing in the Cull. The arena was a large three-mile ring in the form of an ellipse in front of the pavilion. On this course nine obstacles had been arranged: the stream, a big and solid barrier five feet high, just before the pavilion, a dry ditch, a ditch full of water, a precipitous slope, an Irish barricade (one of the most difficult obstacles, consisting of a mound fenced with brushwood); then two more ditches filled with water, and one dry one; and the end of the race was just facing the pavilion.

Every eye, every opera glass, was turned on the gleaming, brightly colored group of exoskeletons at the moment they were in line to start.

At last the umpire shouted, “Away!” and the omnidirectional destruction began

“They’re off! They’re starting!” was heard on all sides after the hush of expectation.

And little groups and solitary figures among the public began running from place to place to get a better view. In the very first minute the group of quick-moving death machines fanned out across the course, taking positions around and under the barrier, the ditch, and the Irish barricade, aiming their sparkers and bomb-hurlers and echo-cannons at one another, blasting vividly away. To the spectators it seemed as though they had all started simultaneously, the field erupting in one bright blossom of furious movement and electrical fire, but to the gladiators there were seconds of difference that had great value to them.

First to fall was Vronsky’s drinking companion, Oposhenko, in his spider-like exterior, who foolishly directed his powerful magnet at the worst possible foe: the confident hussar astride the missile, who flew directly at him and into one of the arachnid Exterior’s gleaming “eyes.” Both Exteriors exploded violently, and the eight spider legs were sent flying helter-skelter around the course. A huge shambling golem of an Exterior stopped shambling abruptly and tipped over, caught just below the neck plate by the sharpened tip of one of these spider legs. The golem suit owner, Pyotrovich, tumbled out onto the course, cursing and clutching at his legs.

Frou-Frou, excited and over-nervous by all of the activity, spun around in the first moments, unloading her heavy-fires at will, but Vronsky soon gained control, expertly maneuvering his fingers beneath the palm disc. Sweating inside the cockpit, teeth gritted, he stared intently through the long-tube, scanning the field till he found whom he wanted: timid Kuzovlev in his monolithic obsidian crate of an Exterior.

“Low-hanging fruit,” Vronsky murmured, loosing a sharp discharge of electricity from Frou-Frou’s front grill directly at the midline of Kuzovlev’s ugly black battleship. But the electric blast ricocheted off the front of the monolith, and Vronsky scowled with disappointment—how has he plated the thing?—before laughing with astonishment at his good luck: the fiery charge, sailing through the sky like a blazing croquet ball, caught Mahutin’s Matryoshka instead. The blast slammed directly into the gaudy peasant-man face of the exosuit, and Vronsky was pleased that this happy accident had taken out his main rival.

In celebration, Frou-Frou drew up her legs and back and leapt like a cat, and, clearing the wreckage of Mahutin’s downed Exterior, alit beyond her.

O the darling! thought Vronsky.

“Bravo!” cried a voice from the stands.

At the same instant, under Vronsky’s eyes, right before him flashed the palings of the barrier. As he directed Frou-Frou in her efforts to navigate it, Vronsky glanced backward through the long-tube and cursed what he saw: his chief rival was not, in fact, dispatched. As Vronsky watched in horror, Matryoshka’s smoldering upper portion, decorated with the face of a peasant man, molted like a layer of skin—revealing a second, fresh Exterior beneath, this one painted with the gaudy colors of a peasant woman.

“Drat!” Vronsky shouted. “Nested!”

He turned back to the barrier and regretted at once that he had allowed himself to be distracted: his position had shifted and he knew that something awful had happened. He could not yet make out what had happened, when the sledge-shaped Exterior rocketed by close to him, and the new, matronly Matryoshka gamboled by in pursuit. Frou-Frou was attempting to clear the barrier, but her massive back leg had smashed into it, and she went spiraling end over end, banging Vronsky violently against the interior walls of the tiny cockpit. They lay then on the muddy course just past the barrier, an open target, and Vronsky knew what would come next—his clumsy movement in clearing the barrier had doomed her.

THE QUICK-MOVING DEATH MACHINES FANNED OUT, AIMING THEIR BOMB-HURLERS AND ECHO-CANNONS AT ONE ANOTHER

Desperately he willed Frou-Frou back onto her feet, but it was too late—he looked into the long-tube and saw that his vulnerable state had not gone unnoticed by his rival. By this time Galtsin’s sickle-suit had destroyed Matryoshka’s matriarch-tier, but of course now Vronsky was not surprised to see a still smaller war-suit had emerged from within. The last thing to register upon his eyes before impact was the happy, painted peasant-boy face of Matryoshka’s third metal shell flying through the air directly at him and his poor disabled Frou-Frou.

Somehow, in the crazed, fiery moments after the collision, Vronsky kicked open the door of the cockpit and rolled onto the match ground.

“A—a—a!” groaned Vronsky, clutching at his head, tearing his helmet from it, tiny fires still burning on various spots of his body. “Ah! What have I done!” he cried. “The battle lost! And my fault! Shameful, unpardonable! And the poor darling, ruined machine! Ah! What have I done!”

A crowd of men, a doctor and his assistant, the officers of his regiment, ran up to him as he exited the arena. To his misery he felt that he was whole and barely burnt, but the poor machine had been wounded past repair, and it was decided to junker it. Vronsky could not answer questions, could not speak to anyone. He turned, and leaving his helmet in a charred mess by the pond, walked away from the match course, not knowing where he was going. He felt utterly wretched. For the first time in his life he knew the bitterest sort of misfortune, misfortune beyond remedy, and caused by his own fault.

Half an hour later Vronsky had regained his self-possession. But the memory of that Cull remained for long in his heart, the cruelest and bitterest memory of his life.