Castle War! by John Dechancie Page A

 
    Dalton said thickly, “D'you think we should ... make a run for it?”  
    â€œYes, let's.”  
    They both had a hard time getting up. Thaxton picked up the full bottle.  
    â€œGet your clubs, old boy,” Dalton said.  
    â€œRight.” Teetering, Thaxton picked up his golf bag.  
    With a resounding crash, part of the ceiling collapsed, and a portion of the far wall gave way. Debris cascaded down. After the dust cleared, half the room lay buried in rubble.  
    â€œDalton, old boy. You all right?”  
    Dalton sat up and brushed himself off. “I think. We had better get outdoors fast, wouldn't you say?”  
    â€œHaving a spot of trouble. Leg's stuck under this bit of concrete, here.”  
    â€œLet's see if we can move it.”  
    Dalton squatted and put his weight against the mass but stopped when he saw Thaxton wince. He searched around, found nothing suitable, and so used his two-iron as a lever, attacking the job from the other side. The club bent, but the chunk of ceiling lifted enough so that Thaxton could get his leg out from under it.  
    Dalton helped him up. “Can you walk?”  
    â€œI can hobble.”  
    â€œNeed help?”  
    â€œI'll manage. Give me that iron.”  
    â€œHere. Are you sure?”  
    â€œI've got the wine. Don't forget the clubs, old boy.”  
    They picked their way toward a ragged opening in the wall.  
    â€œBit of luck, this,” Thaxton said.  
    â€œHow so?”  
    â€œI was wondering how we were going to get out of paying the bill. Don't have a farthing on me.”  
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    City
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    There was little to orientation. He was not subjected to political indoctrination or any long harangues; there was no orientation per se. He was simply issued clothing—an all-weather coat with baggy trousers—and a sheet of paper with some instructions on it. The instructions said to report to a certain address, his new residence. He was to remain there until he was issued new instructions, which he would receive via his apartment communication screen. That, along with more slogans, was all there was.  
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    TO LOVE IS TO OBEY
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    GOOD CITIZENS ARE HAPPY CITIZENS
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    DUTY LIES WITHIN
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    Banners with slogans draped every building facade, hung from every cornice. He walked the streets reading posters in storefront windows and on kiosks. He could not get a sense of who was running things. There were no giant blowups of some dictatorial face, no direct references to a political party or revolutionary cabal.  
    The people he passed were all smiling, hurrying to some duty or another. It was a strange smile, somehow detached from or irrelevant to any real sense of well-being. It was not forced, yet not quite real.  
    He stopped to ask directions of a traffic director—not a policeman; the man wore only a white brassard and was unarmed. The man told him to take an omnibus with a certain number and to get off at Complex 502 on the Boulevard of Social Concern.  
    â€œPut a smile on your face,” the man told him.  
    Ignoring the order, he walked on.  
    It was not long before the first pangs of nausea began. He forced a smile, and his stomach rumbled, then quieted. He felt better instantly. Justice was that speedy. His own body was judge and jury, and its verdict was not open to appeal.  
    There were few stores or shops. Most storefronts were boarded up or had their windows used as billboards. Here and there a door was open, no sign above saying what was going on inside. He stopped at one such place and found a store with a few undifferentiated shoes in bins. Another store offered socks and underwear. There wasn't much stock in any store he visited. The places looked ransacked, and no salespeople were about. He continued walking.  
    Traffic was limited to trucks, buses, and official-looking vehicles. No bicycles or powered