“No more.”
No more getting caught.
They said, “No more.”
Good, I said. And no more of this giggling or getting caught means no more trying to get away with things. You can only get caught if you’re trying to get away, so from this moment on, we don’t try to get away — we get and we get and then we get more.
“Get,” they said.
We get, I said. We’ve already gotten. We’ve gotten with hyperscoot, and we’ll get more with hyperscoot. Hyperscoot alone’s not enough, though. And too much hyperscoot will make hyperscoot useless. They’ll figure out a way soon enough to prevent it — thicker carpeting, sound-eating walls, friction-reducing caps on the chair-feet… They’ll figure out a way, and the more we use hyperscoot, the faster they’ll figure it. So we’ll use it sparingly. We only need it sparingly. We know we are on the same side, now, I said, and so does the monitor. We don’t have to keep proving it. Hyperscoot, soldiers, is just the beginning. The beginning ends now, and now it’s time for the middle. The middle is quiet, always quiet. The middle is where we decide what to do with the strength we’ve gathered. The middle—
His claw flailing weirdly, almost epileptically, Botha, who still hadn’t ceased to giggle, interruptively slapped his khakied thigh—slap! — with his five-fingered hand and, at twice the volume of his spectacle thusfar, expelled a long series of cough-gasped syllables intended to resemble howling laughter. Soldiers gripped their seats, dug their heels in the carpet. Voltz and Sepper stuck their pointers in their ears. I showed the Side my palm, not wanting them to miss this — I didn’t want to miss this. I wanted us to witness his face going snatless.
Pay attention to the monitor, I said to the Side. He’s bleeding out. He’s got a big punchline. He wants us to cue his big punchline, I said.
They un-dug their heels, loosened their grips. Sepper and Voltz dropped their hands to their sides. All looked to Botha, who said to the teachers: “Thinks he’s Morc — thinks — boy thinks he’s Morc Antney!”
Sepper bit her lip. Voltz sucked his cheeks. No one on the Side had ever read Shakespeare.
“That’s not his last name,” said Salvador Curtis.
“He doesn’t even got one,” Mark Dingle agreed. “Why would he have one? He doesn’t even need one. Dude’s from Ork.”
Most of the Side had never seen Mork and Mindy, but “Ork” sounded funny, so some of them smiled.
Botha’s howling crashed on a “Tch” and ebbed. His grin went sneer and the sneer went purse-lipped, became another grin — saggy at the corners but a grin nonetheless — and the giggles that pushed through his husk of a face were made only of air now, purest breath, quick swishy sniffs and staccato exhalations; even his vocal cords refused to cooperate.
Pay attention to the monitor, I said to the Side. Always remember the monitor, I said. Always remember that you used to be like him. Understand that you could be like him again. All it takes is a giggle. Listen to that giggle. How hollow it is. Just so much quick breathing. He is caulking a face behind which is nothing. He doesn’t have a drop of snat left to trickle, and yet even as I speak of the Side of Damage, of the gathering of strength and the need for decisions, the giggle keeps shaking him, the grin keeps twisting him. Does he not believe the Side of Damage exists? He acts like he thinks he’s humoring us, no? Maybe he does. Maybe he thinks that. I speak as if I know he’s pretending, but maybe he’s even more desperate than I thought. Maybe he isn’t pretending at all. I’ve been talking in very certain terms about him, but the truth is, I don’t know what he’s thinking. At least not exactly. None of us do. At least not exactly. He might really believe that he’s humoring us, soldiers. It’s not within my power or yours to know. It’s not within anyone’s power but his. Some things are like that. Secrets forever. Look at baby smile. Baby smiles baby happy? Or baby just gassy? Maybe baby happy because baby gassy, right?
Leevon Ray burped.
Half the Side of Damage burped.
The other half tried, but didn’t know how.
Botha’s giggling had stopped, but the grin stayed in place.
Whether Botha, I said, is pretending or not, full of happy gas or just full of gas, convinced that he’s humoring us or faking his conviction, I say we’re better off assuming that he isn’t pretending. We are better off believing he does think I speak now at his discretion, that he is confusing fleeting stalemate for victory, and middle for end, and our threat for submission. We are better off believing he thinks he’s letting us save face. So let us let the monitor be with his thoughts, whatever they are. Let us let him believe whatever he believes. If he knows our strength, he knows we own him; if he doesn’t, we’re underestimated, and that works too. Main Man will sing at tomorrow’s pep rally, and tomorrow we’ll be stronger than we are today. We’ll see tomorrow if Botha’s still grinning. As for today: Today’s almost over, and a few minutes back I made a contract with the robots. I told them their ears would ring til kingdom come if they didn’t allow me to have the last word. When I made that contract, was I speaking for you?