"That's the short answer."
"That's psychotic."
Denice smiled at her. "It's the truth."
"I thought--I thought he didn't--"
"Like women? Apparently there are exceptions."
Callia rose slowly; the chair sank away into the floor. "I'll--try and see what I can do about this. I can't promise you much."
"Okay. Do me a favor?"
"What?"
"Take Robert some gum? Wrigley's Spearmint, if you can find it."
Callia stared at her again. She shook her head and left without saying anything further.
A half hour later, the cell door curled aside.
Denice said gently, "Hello, Lan."
"Obodi said I could visit you, if I wished to."
"I see." She paused. "My hair is extremely short."
"Good hair isn't everything."
On Tuesday, July 14, Mohammed Vance flew eastward over Los Angeles in an Armored AeroSmith.
It was safe, finally; it had taken two weeks, but the orbital laser cannon were either destroyed or in Space Force hands. Twelve Elite dead in the process. Twenty-seven of forty-two laser cannon had been destroyed; only fifteen were left, and nine of those were only partially functional.
Another gorgeous day in Paradise. Bright blue skies, with the very faintest of wispy white clouds hovering high above. The Pacific Ocean glittered, far off to the right, a deeper blue.
Beneath him the city was a wreck. Fires still smoldered along the length of the Wilshire Corridor, from the ocean to Old Downtown. He passed over the ruined remnants of Century City; it had suffered the worst of the fighting. The two tacnukes he'd been allowed to use had been expended in Century City; with them he'd wiped out the fiercest of the rebel resistance. Not a single high-rise in all of Century City was left standing. Old Downtown, where the Temples of Eris were popular, had been more a matter of street fighting; at street level, the scars of battle were everywhere, but from two hundred meters up, today it simply looked abandoned.
East of Old Downtown, in the modern core of the city, it was almost possible to believe things were normal; there was even some traffic on the streets, the odd pedestrian here and there. Throughout most of the city, the surface streets were clogged with the downed wrecks of vehicles, both rebel and PKF; in modern downtown, the streets were largely clean. By the time PKF forces had moved this far east, most of the resistance had stopped.
Casualty estimates were nine hundred thousand civilian deaths; a quarter million deaths among those could properly be called rebels. Even with vastly superior firepower Vance had lost seventy thousand troops taking back the city; forty-four PKF Elite.
And while they mopped up in L.A., down in San Diego the rebels dug in. They'd had fifteen days, now, to prepare in Japan, without having to worry about the Peaceforcers; and were anticipating another two to three weeks for the Unification to take back San Diego.
Vance said to his pilot, "Let's return."
The pilot nodded; the AeroSmith banked, began a slow arc over the blasted city, in whose streets one and a quarter million corpses lay rotting.
"All the waste," Vance murmured.
Bright daylight. Two teenagers actually played on the beach, threw a frisbee back and forth in front of the row of tanks.
Denice sat in lotus before Sedon.
He knelt facing her, hands folded in his lap, the very image of serenity. "I have been thinking about our last conversation."
"Yes?"
"Is there anything I could say to you--anything I could do for you--that would convince you to join me?"
Denice thought about it before answering. "Give me back my Gift. Let me see my brother. Let me see my teacher. Then--perhaps. I won't make you a promise when I don't know myself."
"You spoke with Callia Sierran the other day."
"You allowed it."
"I was curious," Sedon admitted. "The perception you revealed, even unaided by your Gift, impressed me."
"You never thought this rebellion would succeed."
"Not as it was presented to those who would fight it for me, no. There was never any possibility that the Unification would be overthrown."
"Why did you do this?"
"I am constrained by the language I must use with you. It lacks grace." Sedon paused, said slowly, "And vocabulary. But I have no time to teach you to speak shiata; so we must struggle along."
"What do you want to talk to me about?"
"My failure to persuade you to join me. It occurred to me...recently...that once I was a master of persuasion; a man whose words were so feared that I was exiled to a distant world rather than give me the opportunity to Speak before Demolition." Denice simply looked at him, and Sedon inclined his head slightly. "Forgive me," he said after a moment. "I have decided to be honest with you, but it has been some time since I have had the need, and I am somewhat--out of practice. In the last days I have resurrected a set of memories and beliefs I have had virtually no occasion to call upon since my exile to this world. For a time so long you cannot understand it, I have had no concern but survival. You must understand how sudden all of this has been; in the four years since I was released from my imprisonment, I have had to adjust to a world as foreign to me as you would find that of the sleem. Suddenly, for the first time in many, many millennia, I encountered humans with skills and concerns other than those of mere survival; humans with passion. I make no apologies for my actions, Denice. I've killed many people in this time, and abused many others. And it came to me," Sedon said, in a quick rush, "when you and I last talked, that once I would not have taken such actions so lightly; that I might have taken the lives of those who opposed me, but that I would have done so with care, with some measure of concern for the how and why of it. And last night I dreamed of the person I had once been, of the man who led a rebellion on the World, and I knew that if I were to face that person, I would be shamed. And it came to me, while I dreamed, that I must, for the sake of my own survival, become again that creature for whom survival was not everything."
"You're telling me that--since the last time I talked to you--you turned into a different person."
Sedon spoke to her in the gentlest voice she had ever heard him use. The impact of his pale blue eyes, touched with pain and longing, was devastating. "Denice Castanaveras, I am telling you exactly that."
They sat together in silence for a long, long while.
Denice tried to order her thoughts, and failed. She knew there was a plaintive note in her voice. "What do you want from me?"
"We will meet, very shortly," said Sedon, "with representatives from the Unification. We will request that they give us California, from San Francisco to San Diego, and Japan. In return we will cease fighting."
"They'll say no."
"I would have you at my side during the negotiations. To aid me."
Denice paused. "And in return?"
"I will free your brother. Your teacher. I will return to you your Gift. If there is anything else, you have only to ask. There is the embryo of a Dancer in you and I want you with me."
"SecGen Eddore won't come. Neither will Vance. And whoever we send back, no matter what I or David tell them to say, won't have the authority to make the deal you want. Anything short of an unconditional surrender will be rejected out of hand by people you never see."
"I have twenty-two hydrogen fusion warheads. And I am capable of delivering them, via semiballistic, anywhere in the world."
Dizziness touched her. She thought she might be sick; she had to look down at the floor. "No."
The voice was elegant, a thing of beauty. "I do not understand."
"No. No. I don't know how you think you've changed yourself--but this is evil. What you are talking about doing is an evil thing. And I won't help you. I won't ever, ever help you."
The reaction was not what Sedon had expected. He felt a flicker of genuine uncertainty; could he possibly have miscalculated so badly? He shook his head, said quietly, "How have I d
isturbed you?"
The more complex the argument gets, Trent had said to her once, the easier it is to refute.
Trent's presence was so strong in the room that Denice could have sworn that he stood there by her side.
Denice Castanaveras looked at the monster and said, "Killing is wrong."
* * *
69.
They stood together in a conference room aboard the parked Space Force spaceship that was being used as headquarters; two French Peaceforcers who served the Unification.
Vance's senior analyst, PKF Captain Adrian Hilè, said, "He's here."
Vance studied the holo, a realtime feed from a spysat. "You're certain?"
"Virtually. We've been watching the city ever since we got the spysats back with reasonable confidence; that's the Latham Building. It sits up close to the water; plaza facing westward is full of rebel military hardware. And Reb traffic moves in and out of there pretty heavily. DataWatch confirms, it's the endpoint of much of their communications."
"Troop strength?"
"Hard to say. They've been recruiting like crazy, and their cause is awfully popular. This is a guess, Commissionaire--"
"I'll accept it as such."
"Forty-five to fifty-five thousand under arms, seven or eight thousand of them core Reb, maybe a thousand core Claw; probably the Claw are running the recruitment effort. The Temples are popular in California, it was their birthplace. Another half million to three-quarters million will fight if given arms to do so."
"It will take us four to five days to follow the rebel retreat overland, all the way back to San Diego."
"Yes, sir. That's correct. And another week to two weeks, likely, to secure the city."
"How many semiballistics can we drop on them?"
"At once? Sixteen hundred and forty-five."
"The strike force that dropped on Los Angeles," said Vance quietly. "Prepare plans to drop the same group on San Diego. Do not let anyone except me see these plans."
"Yes, Commissionaire."
After Hilè had left, Vance placed a call to Secretary General Eddore.
Eddore took his call instantly; a sign of how things had changed in the last few weeks. His image appeared floating in space in front of Vance; and when he spoke, he used French, something he had never done before in speaking with Vance. "Commissionaire Vance. It is good to speak to you."
It was not difficult for Vance to hide his amusement. "Sir."
"We received a communiqué from the rebels this afternoon."
It was news to Vance. "Indeed?" he said cautiously.
"Mister Obodi and I talked briefly. He wants a meeting."
"For?"
Eddore shook his head. "He would not say. At a guess, he wants to negotiate a surrender."
"And when does he wish to have this meeting?"
Eddore said, "He suggested Monday. The 20th. And he is offering a cease-fire until that date, starting Friday at midnight."
Elite Commissionaire Mohammed Vance smiled at the Secretary General. It was always a difficult thing for him to do, with his face so stiff; but this was a less difficult occasion than usual. He was pleased. "Monday would be a fine day."
Eddore studied Vance. Eddore's use of French made all of his speech sound more formal, as he assembled each sentence in his head. Vance understood the problem; he had it himself with English. "That is not, to be honest, quite the reaction I was expecting from you, Commissionaire Vance."
Vance shrugged. "Let's see what M. Obodi has to offer us."
"I will announce the cease fire this afternoon at 4 p.m., to take effect at midnight tonight. Will that give you time to inform your troops?"
"You're thoughtful, sir. I wouldn't like them to learn it from the Boards."
Eddore seemed on the verge of speaking; then nodded and vanished.
"Command, call Captain Hilè."
Hilè's image appeared in front of Vance promptly. "Sir?"
"Captain, two things; first, announce to the troops that a cease fire will take place tonight, at midnight local time; that negotiations for surrender of the rebels will commence Monday."
The officer stiffened. "Sir."
"Second, the plans we discussed."
"Yes, sir."
"I want them ready by tomorrow morning."
"Yes, sir."
"I want the strike force ready to go Saturday, at first darkness."
"Yes, sir!"
"That will be all, Captain."
* * *
70.
David Castanaveras awoke in a cold sweat.
He groped for the wire, hands shaking, wondering what had awakened him. He sat in the darkness of his quarters for a long time, wire in hand, fighting against the strength of his need, searching for the willpower to put the wire down. He needed to think, and he couldn't do that when the wire was in. Finally he shuddered, set it for the lowest current, and plugged it in, and then sat in the darkness of his quarters, smiling blissfully under the caress of electric ecstasy.
His room was a converted office. The systerm had been removed so that he could not call out, but otherwise it was as its previous owner had left it, down to the desk and the personal holos on the desk.
He slept on a cot in the corner.
At length, he was not sure how long it was, it occurred to him that he was hungry. He brushed his hair to hide the plug and, wearing a dreamy juice junkie smile, went to look for something to eat. The waldo that had been assigned to guard him padded down the corridor after him, eight metal legs making gentle clicking sounds on the gleaming tile.
The cafeteria--it had been a public restaurant until the rebels took over the building--sat on the third floor, immediately beside Operations. Operations had quite recently been the offices of Greenberg & Bass. David's room was on the nineteenth floor, immediately beneath the penthouse, and Obodi; he took the lift, asked for the third floor.
The entire fourth floor was the health club where they had been letting his sister work out.
He passed through Operations on the way to the cafeteria, and paused briefly to watch the colored lights which showed the positions of rebel and Unification forces, against a map of California. The rebel forces were shown in red, the Unification forces in blue; there was vastly more blue territory on the maps than red--significantly more than there had been only a few days prior.
It was 12:12 a.m., just after midnight on Saturday morning.
The cease fire had been in effect for twelve minutes.
In the restaurant, he found Callia Sierran sitting at one of the tables, with coffee and toast before her. That late at night the restaurant was nearly empty--Callia at one table, half a dozen Johnny Rebs at another, only a couple of staff on duty in the restaurant--but she did not look surprised when he sat down across from her. She was auditing text on her handheld, and seemed weary.
A large pack of Wrigley's Spearmint gum sat on the table in front of her.
He thought about what to say to her. She did not know him, not really; had no idea that he was Denice's brother; did not know that Denice was a Castanaveras. All she knew was that he worked for Mister Obodi, and that he was a juice junkie. She wasn't certain about his name.
She knew interesting things about Denice. He sat quietly with her for a while, remembering conversations she'd had with his sister.
Finally he said, "How are you, Callia Sierran?"
She did not look at him. "I've been better. We're getting slaughtered. PKF took back San Francisco, they're through with Los Angeles, and moving south about forty klicks a day. And we're not doing a damn thing to stop them. We're still holding through San Diego County and south down into Mexico, including Baja I'm told, but I don't know for how long. It surprises me we got this cease fire; I wouldn't have done it in their skin. However it happened, though, it's a good thing; we need it desperately."
David said mildly, "I wouldn't worry."
The flash of pity he felt from her did not even bother him. Callia said wearily, "I'm su
re you wouldn't."
David smiled at her. "Obodi's got it figured out. It'll be fine."
"He sure has people thinking so."
David nodded. "He really does. I've seen the simulations, the real ones. He probably won't have to destroy more than two or three cities, no more than four for sure."
Callia turned off her handheld and sat looking at him. Behind her, through the restaurant's windows, David could see San Diego's nighttime sky. "What?"
"The warheads." At her uncomprehending look, David said, "The Japanese. They gave him nuclear warheads." He smiled at her again. "Twenty-two of them."
Callia Sierran tried calling Riverside. Communication was temporarily out, the operator told her, in a voice that was nothing even remotely human.
"Ring? Is that you?"
"Yes."
"You're managing communications now."
"Mister Obodi requested it."
"I see."
She left the building, requisitioned a jeep and had it drive her over to the local Temple. Lan was there, in the outer building, running the recruiting drive; despite the hour, nearly 2 a.m., they were still processing volunteers by the hundreds, issuing them American flag armbands and laser rifles. The rifles would not actually fire until one of the several thousand authorized core members of the Claw or Reb activated them.
Callia waited until Lan was done with his applicant, and called him away. The Reverend herself took over Lan's table, and sat down with the next applicant.
They went on into the Temple proper. Four rows of pews, pseudo-wood, faced inward to the central area where the Reverend gave her sermons. Stained glass windows, showing scenes from the life of the Prophet Harry, were backlit by spotlights, sending light showering down into the Temple in a shattered rainbow.
Callia said softly, "Pray with me."
They knelt together, inside the brilliant rainbow at the center of the circle, facing one another.
"I can't get a hold of Domino or Nicole."
"They're not answering? Lovely doesn't surprise me, but Domino?"
"I'm not getting through. I think I'm being stopped by Ring."
"So?"
"Obodi," Callia told him, "has hydrogen bombs. And he's prepared to use them."
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