Forever Peace Part 32

I'd heard a pattering sound, which must have been her silenced weapon blinding Candi. And then when she threw it out without hesitation, I guess I a.s.sumed it was empty and she had another weapon.

But the way I felt as I eased down on the trigger and waited for her to show herself... I had never felt that way in the soldierboy. Ready.

I really wanted her to come out and die. I really wanted to kill her.

Had I changed that much in a few weeks? Or was it actually change? The boy was a different case, an industrial accident that I didn't completely cause, and if I could bring him back, I would.

I wouldn't bring Gavrila back except to kill her again.

For some reason I remembered my mother, and her rage when President Brenner was a.s.sa.s.sinated. I was four. She hadn't liked Brenner at all, I learned later, and that made it worse, as if she had some complicity in the crime. As if the murder were some kind of wish fulfillment.

But that wasn't close to the personal hate I felt for Gavrila-besides, she was almost not human. It was like disposing of a vampire. A vampire who was single-mindedly stalking the woman you loved.

Amelia was quiet now. I'm sorry you saw that. It was pretty awful.

She nodded, face still buried in the pillow. At least it's over. That part's over.

I rubbed her back and murmured agreement. We didn't know how Gavrila-like the vampire-was going to return from her grave to kill again.

IN THE GUADALAJARA AIRPORT, Gavrila had written a short note to General Blaisdell and put it in an envelope with his home address. She put that in another envelope, addressed to her brother, with instructions to send it on unread if Gavrila didn't call by tomorrow morning.

This is what it said: If you haven't heard from me by now, I'm dead. The man in charge of the group that killed me is MG Stanton Roser, the most dangerous man in America. An eye for an eye?

Gavrila.

After she had sent that one, she realized it wasn't enough, and on the plane she scribbled another two pages, trying to set down everything she could remember from the minutes when she'd been able to see into Jefferson's mind. Luck was on the other side for that one, though. She dropped it in a mailbox in the Ca.n.a.l Zone and it was automatically routed through Army Intelligence, where a bored tech sergeant read part of it and recycled it as crank mail.

But she hadn't been the only one on the wrong side who had been exposed to the Plan. Lieutenant Thurman heard of Gavrila's death a few minutes after it happened, and put two and two together, and changed into his dress uniform and slipped out into the night. He got by the sentry box with no problem. The shoe who had been pressed into service to replace the one Gavrila had murdered was just this side of catatonic. He pa.s.sed Thurman through with a rigid salute.

He didn't have any money for a commercial flight, so he had to gamble on using the military. If the wrong person asked for his travel orders, or if he had to go through a retinal scan for security, that would be it- not just AWOL, but fleeing from administrative detention.

A combination of luck and bluff and planning worked, though. He got off the base just by getting aboard a supply chopper that was returning to the Ca.n.a.l Zone. He knew that the CZ had been in bureaucratic chaos for months, ever since it had seceded from Panama and become a U.S. Territory. The Air Force base there was not exactly overseas and not exactly stateside, either. He wait-listed himself on a flight to Washington, misspelling his name, and a half hour later flashed his picture ID and rushed aboard.

He arrived at Andrews Air Force Base at dawn, had a big free breakfast at the Transient Officers' Mess, and then loitered around until nine-thirty. Then he called General Blaisdell.

Lieutenant's bars don't move you through the Pentagon's switchboards very fast. He told two civilians, two sergeants, and a fellow lieutenant that he had a personal message for General Blaisdell. Finally, he wound up with a bird colonel who was his administrative a.s.sistant.

She was an attractive woman a few years older than Thurman. She eyed him suspiciously. You're calling from Andrews, she said, but my board says you're stationed in Portobello.

That's right. I'm on compa.s.sionate leave.

Hold your orders up to the lens.

They aren't here. He shrugged. My luggage went missing.

You packed your orders?

By mistake.

That could be an expensive mistake, lieutenant. What is this message for the general?

With all due respect, colonel, it's very personal.

If it's that personal, you'd better put it in a letter and mail it to his home. I pa.s.s on everything that goes through this office.

Please. Just tell him it's from his sister- The general doesn't have a sister.

His sister Gavrila, he pressed on. She's in trouble.

Her head jerked up suddenly and she spoke beyond the screen. Yes, sir. Immediately. She pushed a b.u.t.ton and her face was replaced by the green DARPA sigil. A shimmering encryptation bar appeared over it, and then it dissolved to the general's face. He looked kind, grandfatherly.

Do you have security on your end?

No, sir. It's a public phone. But there's no one around.

He nodded. You spoke with Gavrila?

Indirectly, sir. He looked around. She was captured and had a jack installed. I jacked briefly with her captors. She's dead, sir.

He didn't change expression. Did she complete her a.s.signment?

If that was to get rid of the scientist, no, sir. She was killed in the attempt.

While they were talking, the general made two un.o.btrusive hand gestures, recognition signals for Enders and for Hammer of G.o.d. Of course Thurman didn't respond to either one. Sir, there's a huge conspiracy- I know, son. Let's continue this conversation face-to-face. I'll send my car down for you. You'll be paged when it arrives.

Yes, sir, he said to a blank screen.

Thurman drank coffee for most of an hour, looking at the paper without actually reading it. Then he was paged and told that the general's limousine was waiting for him in the arrivals area.

He went there and was surprised to see that the limo had a human driver, a small young female tech sergeant in dress greens. She opened the back door for him. The windows were opaque mirrors.

The seats were deep and soft but covered with uncomfortable plastic. The driver didn't say a word to him, but did turn on some music, soft-drift jazz. She didn't drive, either, other than pushing a b.u.t.ton. She read from an old-fashioned paper Bible and ignored the numbing monotony of the huge gray Grossman modules that housed a tenth of a million people each. Thurman was kind of fascinated by them. Who would live that way voluntarily? Of course most of them were probably government draftees, just marking time until their term of service was up.

They traveled alongside a river, in a greenbelt, for several miles, and then went spiraling up an entrance ramp to a broad highway that led to the Pentagon, which was actually two pentagons-the smaller historical building nested inside the one where most of the work was actually done. He could only see the whole structure for a few seconds, and then the car banked down a long arc of concrete toward its home.

The limousine came to a stop outside a loading bay, identified only by the flaking yellow letters blkrde21. The driver put her Bible down and got out and opened Thurman's door. Please follow me, sir.

They went through an automatic door straight into an elevator, whose walls were an infinite regression of mirrors. The driver put her hand on a touchplate and said ' 'General Blaisdell.''

The elevator crawled for about a minute, while Thurman studied a million Thurmans going off in four directions, and tried not to stare at the various attractive angles of his escort. A Bible-thumper, not his type. Nice b.u.t.t, though.

The doors opened to a silent and spare reception room. The sergeant went behind the desk and turned on a console. ' 'Tell the general that Lieutenant Thurman is here. There was a whisper and she nodded. Come with me, sir.

The next room was more like a major general's office. Wood paneling, actual paintings on the walls, a pic window that displayed Mount Kilimanjaro. One wall of awards and citations and holos of the general with four presidents.

The old gentleman rose gracefully from behind his acre of uncluttered desk. He was obviously athletic and had a twinkle in his eye.

Lieutenant, please sit over here. He indicated one of a pair of leather-upholstered easy chairs. He looked at the sergeant. And bring in Mr. Carew.

Thurman sat uneasily, Sir, I'm not sure how many people ought to- Oh, Mr. Carew's a civilian, but we can trust him. He's an information specialist. He'll jack with you and save us all kinds of time.

Thurman had a premonitory migraine glow. Sir, is that absolutely necessary? Jacking- Oh yes, yes. The man's a jack witness in the federal court system. He's a marvel, a real marvel.

The marvel came in without speaking. He looked like a wax replica of himself. Formal tunic and string tie.

Him, he said, and the general nodded. He sat down in the other chair and pulled two jack cables from a box on the table between him and Thurman.

Thurman opened his mouth to explain, but then just plugged in. Carew followed suit.

Thurman stiffened and his eyes rolled back. Carew stared at him with interest and started breathing hard, sweat dotting his forehead.

After a few minutes he unplugged, and Thurman sagged into relieved unconsciousness. That was hard on him, Carew said, but I have a great deal of interesting information.

Have it all? the general said.

All we need and more.

Thurman started to cough and slowly levered himself into a normal sitting position. He clamped his forehead with one hand and ma.s.saged a temple with the other. Sir... could I ask for a Pain-go?

Certainly ... sergeant? She went out and returned with a gla.s.s of water and a pill.

He gulped it down gratefully. Now ... sir. What do we do next?

The next thing you do, son, is get some rest. The sergeant will take you to a hotel.

Sir, I don't have a ration book, or any money. It's all back in Portobello; I was under detention.

Don't worry. We'll take care of everything.

Thank you, sir. The headache was retreating, but he had to close his eyes at the mirrored elevator car, or face the prospect of watching himself puke a thousand times at once.

The limousine hadn't moved. He slid gratefully onto the soft slick plastic.

The driver closed his door and got in the front. This hotel, he asked her, are we going all the way downtown?

No, she said, and started the engine. Arlington. She turned and raised a silenced .22 automatic and shot him once in the left eye. He clawed for the door handle and she leaned over and shot him again, point-blank in the temple. She made a face at the mess and pushed the b.u.t.ton that directed the car to the cemetery.

MARTY DROPPED HIS BOMBSh.e.l.l by bringing a friend to breakfast. We were eating out of the machines, as usual for the morning meal, when Marty walked in with someone whom I didn't at first recognize. He smiled, though, and I remembered the diamond set into his front tooth.

Private Benyo? He was one of the mechanic guards replaced by my old platoon.

In the flesh, sarge. He shook hands with Amelia and introduced himself, then sat down and poured a cup of coffee.

So what's the story? I asked. It didn't take?

Nope. He grinned again. What it didn't take was two weeks.'

What?

It doesn't take two weeks, Marty said. Benyo is humanized, and so are all the others.

I don't get it.

Your stabilizer, Candi, was in the loop. That's what did it! It only takes about two days, if you're jacked with somebody who's already humanized.

But... then why did it take the whole two weeks with Jefferson?

Marty laughed. "It didn't! He was one of them after a couple of days, but people didn't recognize it, since he was the first-and he was ninety percent there from the beginning. Everybody, Jefferson included, was concentrating on Ingram, not him.

But then you take a guy like me, Benyo said, who hates the idea from the very start-and wasn't exactly a sweetheart to begin with-h.e.l.l, everybody could tell when I converted.

And you are converted? Amelia said. He got a serious look and nodded in jerks. You don't feel resentful about... losing the man you used to be?

It's hard to explain. What I am now is the man I used to be. But more me than I used to be, get it? He made a helpless gesture with both hands. What I mean is I never in a million years could've found out who I really was, even though it was there all the time. I needed the others to show me.

She smiled and shook her head. It sounds like a religious conversion.

It is, sort of, I said. It literally was, with Ellie. I shouldn't have said that; she started to cloud up. I put my hand on hers.

For a moment everyone was silent. So, Amelia said. What does this do to the timetable?

If we'd known before the thing started, it would've sped it up considerably-and of course it will do that in the long run, when we're out to change the world.

Right now the limiting factor is the surgery schedule. We plan to finish the last set of implants on the thirty-first. So by the third of August, we should have a building-full of converts, general to private.

What about the POWs? I asked. McLaughlin didn't convert them in two days, did he?

Again, if we'd only known. He was never jacked with them for more than a few hours at a time. It would be good to know whether it does work with thousands of people at once.

How do you know it's one or the other? Amelia said. Two weeks if they're all just 'normal' people; two days if one of the elect is with them all the time. You don't know anything about intermediate states.

That's right. He rubbed his eyes and grimaced. And no time to experiment. There's some fascinating science to be done, but as we said up at St. Bart's, we're not doing science quite yet. His phone pinged. Just a second.

He touched his earring and listened, staring.' 'Okay ... I'll get back to you. Yes. He shook his head.

Trouble? I asked.

Could be nothing; could be disaster. We've lost our cook.

That took me a moment. Thurman's gone AWOL?

Yep. He cruised right past the guard last night, right after you ... after Gavrila died.

No idea where he went?

He could be anywhere in the world. Could be downtown living it up. You jacked with him, Benyo?

Huh-uh. But Monez did, and I'm with Monez all the time. So I got a little. Not much, you know, his headaches.