The Silicon Dagger

by Jack Williamson

  After that, the rest of the day seemed strangely uneventful. Broadcast popular music from KRIF was interrupted with scraps of confusing news. Washington was still hidden beneath the mirror shell. A militia unit in Arizona had declared its independence, but it appeared to possess no high-tech weaponry. The county sheriff was organizing a posse to capture the leaders. Landing at Andrews Air Force Base, Secretary Brooke had answered questions about the possible formation of a provisional government with only three words, “Wait and see.”

  Del Rio caught Pepperlake again, sitting at his Freeman desk in shirt sleeves, his wispy hair rumpled and the antique eyeglasses pushed up on his forehead. He wanted to thank former Free State officials and ordinary citizens for rallying now in support of the Haven, and he expressed his sympathy for the McAdam family in their grief over Stuart’s tragic life and death.

  “That’s another world.” He laughed when Del Rio tried to press him again for news of Washington. “I imagine Kit’s negotiations with the federal government are in progress. I can’t predict the outcome.”

  “If you could?” she persisted.

  “I’d expect something surprising.” Pushing the glasses higher on his furrowed forehead, he squinted at her thoughtfully. “I see our stalemate as a fresh chapter in the old story of the individual and society. The individual fights for freedom. Society has to limit it. In the past, society always won the battle. It could always crush the rebel individual.

  “Outcomes have to be different now with Roy McAdam’s silicon shell. The individuals inside the shell may be isolated from society, a high price to pay, but they can’t be crushed. They may go hungry, but freedom is a precious gift. With Roy McAdam’s technology, they’ll find ways to survive.”

  “Can you guess—?”

  He shook his head and vanished from the tube.

  Cooped up too long, I rode my bike around the town that afternoon. With gas tanks gone dry, pavements were empty. I saw a man raking leaves, a man putting up storm windows, people standing in line outside the Rifles’ soup kitchen, people carrying bags away from the Rifle food bank.

  When I stopped with a group standing on a street comer, I heard that Ralston and Hunn were missing, thought to have slipped out of the county. The Rifles had announced an election for a new commander. Ben Coon was in jail for public intoxication and disturbing the peace. Gottler’s body lay in the morgue, still unclaimed. Stuart was to be buried in the family plot at the cemetery, only the family and a few friends invited to the funeral.

  I found the cryptophone that Rob Roy gave me still in my room and gathered resolution to call Beth.

  “Yes?” Her cool, inquiring tone made her a stranger again, and it took me a moment to speak her name.

  “Clay?” The sudden warmth in her voice made an ache in my throat that kept me silent till I heard it again. “Aren’t you Clay?”

  “I am.”

  I caught my breath and tried to tell her what I felt for her and her father and her brother’s tragedy. “He surprised me with what he told his father. But still he’s hard for me to understand.”

  “He always was.” I heard more sorrow in her voice than bitterness. “He could be cruel. He could have been great, but he was always reaching too far, demanding too much, ruthless when anybody got in his way.”

  I heard a long sigh.

  “He lived his life the way he wanted, or maybe had to, in spite of everybody. He hurt a lot of people, himself most of all. He took his own way out. I loved him, but I have to be glad he’s gone.”

  I asked about her father.

  “He’s recovering from the shocks,” she said. “On the infonet this morning, he was looking for news and able to philosophize. He agrees with Pepperlake that we’re still playing the old game of the self against the group—the need for freedom against the need for

  order. The joker now is the way Roy has changed the playing field. People under the shell may enjoy an unquenchable freedom, but the price may be too high to pay. The best outcome has always been some kind of compromise. Kit Moorhawk has gone to fight for that. He hopes for something we can live with.”

  I asked if I might see her.

  “Of course,” she said. “I’ve longed for you, Clay, in spite—” Her voice caught and came back more steadily. “Give me time. This has been dreadful for my father. For both of us. I need to be with him a little longer.”

  Back on KRIF next morning, Del Rio reported that the mirror shell was gone from Washington. It had caused no loss of life. National Airport was open again; trains were running, highways open. President Higgins was in Bethesda Naval Hospital. His personal physician said his sudden collapse in the Oval Office was due to fatigue and strain; he was responding magnificently to an experimental genetic therapy for a pancreatic malignancy.

  Electronic communication now restored, Washintel Web Watch One was back on the infonet with the amazing tale of the rebel raiders who had seized the national capital and changed the course of history.

  “Tex Horn, back on the air with the buzz that does.”

  He was on the infotel, the big white hat tipped her aside, booming out his inside buzz. He had just returned from a briefing from Secretary of State Margo Brooke and Haven Councilor Kit Moorhawk. Reporters had met them in the lobby of the Georgetown Towers hotel.

  “Moorhawk told us the inside story of the daring commando raid that has won the Haven the freedom it has fought for. He and a few CyberSoft engineers rented the penthouse suite of the old hotel, which was just reopening after extensive renovation. They sealed the building off with a compact shield device they had brought in their luggage, allowed the other guests and most of the staff to leave, and then set up a second barrier to enclose the entire city.

  “Secretary Brooke revealed details of a conversation between Moorhawk and President Higgins, who was able to speak from his hospital room. She says they found something in common; neither wanted to destroy America. Higgins is now persuaded that the silicon shell is here to stay. Without much choice that I can see, he agreed to the outlines of a preliminary truce which should end hostilities and lead to the recognition of the Haven as a sovereign nation.

  “Councilor Pepperlake calls it a historic social experiment designed to test whether total freedom and stable global order can exist together. A noble compromise, in his words, and ‘the only way to keep our world alive.’ ”

  Julia Sue knocked on my door late the next afternoon to say that I had a visitor. I found Beth waiting, thin and wan from her ordeal, but her smile warmer than it had ever been. She had come to ask me for dinner. Orinda was making com muffins and her creole gumbo. I promised to be there.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JACK WILLIAMSON has been in the forefront of science fiction since his first published story in 1928. Now in his seventy-second year as a published author, Williamson is the acclaimed author of such trailblazing science fiction as The Humanoids and The Legion of Time. The Oxford English Dictionary credits Williamson with inventing the terms “genetic engineering” (in Dragons Island) and “terraforming” (in Seetee Ship). His seminal novel Darker Than You Think was a landmark speculation on the nature of shape-changing and will soon be reprinted by Tor Books.

  Williamson also has been active academically. He has taught since the 1950s, and is professor emeritus at Eastern New Mexico University. Williamson recently was presented a Lifetime Achievement Award by the Horror Writers Association. He lives and works in Portales, New Mexico.

  Scan from internet

  OCR using ABBYY Finereader Professional 12 -

  Format etc. using Sigil -

 

 

 
yscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share