SO THE announcement went out by leaflet from Central that early-season day: ANNUAL SERVICES OF PENANCE—BRING TEARS.
It was just coming April when we moved through our fortress Walls and on out to the parade grounds of green plastic—all the great Stronghold masters of solemn-procession assembling. The vapor shield was white that day, with narrow strips of red strung through the sky, which strips we were reminded were of the ancient color of blood. And some of us could remember, though our blood is pale green now as, driven by our ever-last hearts, it hammers through our flesh-strips to nourish not only the flesh-strips but also to lubricate the new-metal alloy “replacement” and joints hinging flesh to steel.
We were a strange crew under a strange vapor shield that day, with the tin birds up from Central filling the ersatz sky, and the trees popping out of the yard-holes and bursting forth tin leaves of bright green as we passed. We hobbled toward the east, plop-plip-plap-plop over the glistening plastic, sometimes in ragged order by twos, for we were supposed to be in procession, but more often in huddles and lumps and knots of great masters fumbling toward the east as we struck rough ground, for we were not good at walking. Sometimes I wondered if Central did not do this each year just to humiliate us, and also to renew our faith in our Strongholds, for out of our Strongholds we, the great ones, are nothing.
Being Stronghold 10 I walked by Stronghold 9, when I was properly in procession. Stronghold 9 is situated my nearest most-adjacent enemy, and it was strange to be there so friendly-walking him, steel elbow to steel elbow, each with our tears dangling and jiggling in little plastic bags swung down from our new-metal hands. He was taller than I, but not so massive, and for one flesh-strip tingling moment of purest hate I felt sure that if it came to a stand-up go between us I could take him down with my two bare hands. But that was silly, of course, because we do not war that way in Moderan. It’s always just a matter of lying back at our panels and letting go with the launchers, seeing the walking doll bombs roll, hearing the Honest Jakes scream by and letting the high-up weird shrieking wreck-wrecks home down to the kill. So when the moment passed and I did not hate him closely, or want to take him down with my two bare hands, I said, “Greetings, Stronghold 9. In next week’s war I have some surprises for you. My Corps of Experimentation, you know—” I left it dangling, and he turned to me a sour face that was made more gruesome because it included a flesh-strip nose, a big and what was surely a family hallmark one that he had elected to keep. Most of us had long ago elected to take the new-alloy all-metal nose, because it was usually better shaped, withal more efficient and obviated cleaning problems. His little new-metal eyes fixed on me with unmasked hate. “So that’s why you have such a small bag of tears for the Day of Penance,” he suggested, his voice toned to ridicule. “On the Week of Atonement, instead of making tears, you prepared a blaster!”
“My bag of tears is adequate,” I said. “I am adequate in all things, as you know. And considerably better than adequate in those things on which we are scored.”
He turned away and burned, seethed with a rage, I knew, because I had told him right. I was the acknowledged mean-master of our province, my Stronghold with more major wars certified in the Book of Wars than any other Stronghold in our sector. Each year I received the Medal of Wars with my Stronghold number on it and the year engraved in gold. I dangled the latest one carelessly as we walked. “Next week,” I said as though talking to nothing in particular, “next week!”
Then we were caught in a jumble of masters as we hit rough ground again, straining hard in our hinge joints to walk with metallic precision, but finding it hard to go at all in our flesh-strips and steel parts, being not really designed for walking but more designed for sitting in war rooms of Strongholds and pressing the buttons of launchers. When we unscrambled I was walking by Stronghold 2.
Stronghold 2 was a very young master, as such things are reckoned in Moderan. He had not had his flesh-strip ratio firmed and his Stronghold awarded him longer than ten years. But we had had some dandy wars in that time, he and I, and he was certified in the Book as a comer. He was about my size and build, and I liked the open look of his face and the way his wide-set new-metal eyes regarded all things with a stare of reliable hate. A man to count on. But though I did not hate him more than the good clean necessary hate of our times, I decided to give him the needle, just for the fun of it. “Greetings, Stronghold 2,” I said. “Next week I expect to have my new blaster ready to go on the line. It’s a really new break-through in pulverization. My Corps of Experimentation, you know—” I let it dangle for awhile, while he walked on chewing his thoughts. “Let’s see,” I said after a bit, pretending to ruminate, “I believe—yes, I’m sure—they’ve assigned you and me to a Go. Next week.”
He turned those wide-set good eyes at me and said in a level voice, “We war, I know—next week.”
“Yes, we war.” Then I nudged his chest flesh-strip sharply with the point of my steel elbow in a friendly way and said, “You have not much to lose. You are a young Stronghold and have not much tradition. They probably assigned you to me and my new blaster because they want your plot smoothed down for a proposed museum of trees.”
“When they make yard-holes for trees in the plot where my Stronghold stands, your Walls will be not even remembered dust.” He looked at me full and steady with his new-metal eyes then. “I thought we could get along,” he continued, “have nice wars and all. I see I was fooled. But I guess this new invasion principle I’ve worked out—” And he left it there, hanging. We hobbled on in silence, toward the east. I liked this guy.
When we arrived at the place of the ceremony, I found I was alongside Stronghold 20, an ancient man of no more than passable record at war, and I, by hurrying, had just time to threaten him well-and-plenty with my new blaster. Then the ceremony started, and a most humiliating thing it was, as always. A little point-face man in a black robe, who was reputed to be able to live with ten per cent less flesh-strip than any Stronghold master, got up and told us the long dreary story about why the sky had red stripes for this day, what red blood was, how lucky we were not to have it, and all the tedious dull details of how we had come safely through a time when love and all the unreliability of it had tried to dominate man’s thinking. Then it was just a matter of listening to recordings of hate music for what seemed hours on end and between record changes hearing the little guy in the black robe rant at us about our duty to start the spring season, truly the beginning of the year, off with some really significant blasting.
When the last strident jumping note of the hate music had died away into the red-striped vapor shield and the embarrassing silence had settled over the vast amphitheater it was time for the most earnest act of our humiliation. We were to march, single file, to the central dais where stood a tall black vessel and deposit our tears there. We went in the reverse order of our rank for the past year of blasting, which put me in our overall humiliation proudly last, as I alone had the War Medal for my greatness. It was an awesome and proud moment when I stood alone on the platform in all my past accomplished glory and dumped in my plastic bag of tears, as a symbol that even I, as man can never be, had not been perfect. The ceremonial tears, manufactured to exacting specifications in our Strongholds as an act of deepest humility, were a kind of penance for things we hadn’t done, blasters we hadn’t come up with, invasions we hadn’t made.
When the last of my tears had trickled into the vessel, the point-face man, enraptured now, standing by a control box at a far wall, pressed a button which caused a dark figure of truly magnificent features of reliability and hate to rise slowly out of the black vessel as though floated from terrible degradation on our penance tears. Then a second button was pressed to blast him high-skyward into the white, red-striped vapor shield as a symbol of our risen hopes and dedication to being better haters. It was, as always, the solemn high moment of our humiliation and penance, ending on a note of hope for our atonement and greater worthiness in war. Now we had before us of the day’s events only the tedious and vexing hard walk home, which we, now that the ceremony was over, could do as stragglers.
On the way back I plotted to walk for awhile with most of the Stronghold masters I hadn’t walked with on the way over. I dangled my War Medal nonchalantly and told them in an offhand way of my new blaster (which I didn’t really have at all) and talked of the good wars we had coming up with each other. Some shuddered noticeably in their flesh-strips and “replacements” while the others bluffed it out and told me of new blasters they were about to come up with and new theories of invasion and breaching of walls. All of us were bluffing, I felt sure, but it was a good idea and didn’t hurt a thing to exchange threats on this day, and withal I felt this had been a really successful pilgrimage of tears and truly a good sendoff for the great spring season of war.