Movius looked to this watch. Two a.m. They’d been at it seven hours almost. He felt no tiredness, only a dull ache every time he thought of Grace.
O’Brien straddled a chair, his back to the table the four analysts had used. “We’ve done it, Dan. You should be …”
Janus Peterson hurried into the room, ran across to Movius. “The remnants of The Coor’s force are holed up in the Bureau of Communications Building. Shall we bring the place down with explosives?”
“What was that explosion I just heard?” asked Movius.
“They were trying to blast open one of the tunnels. We’ve got them all knocked down and sealed off with rubble.”
Movius turned away, looked at the map. Is Grace with them? he wondered. Do I have the right to send men to their deaths storming the place on the chance we could save her? He shook his head. This should be a decision for someone else.
The transceiver beside him, silent since they’d sent the order to revolt, came to life. It clacked out a single word: “MOVIUS.”
He looked at the message tape, turned to O’Brien, and at that instant saw Navvy enter the room. Navvy stepped heavily over the sleeping forms of Gerard and bodyguard where they were manacled to the pillar. A Bu-Psych medic had given them shots to knock them out when they’d started interfering by yelling curses at Movius. Navvy shifted a stutter gun from his right to his left arm, stopped at the desk and leaned against it. “North and East sections cleared. The rest is mop-up.” He wiped at his face, left a stream of grime down one cheek. “A Bu-Con squad took over a Warren in Lascadou, killed every man, woman and child inside. Then they had the guts to beg for mercy. A mob tore ’em apart, literally.”
Again the machine beside Movius began to chatter. “WE WILL BARGAIN WITH YOU.” It was signed, “HELMUT GLASS.”
Navvy joined Movius at the transceiver, looked at the message. “I told you they’d offer to trade Grace for their hides.”
Movius sat down at the machine, found the RR button for Registration Reply, remembered all the times he had punched that button in the kiosks to register for opps. He typed with two fingers: “THIS IS MOVIUS. WHAT DO YOU WANT?”
The machine remained silent.
Over his shoulder, Movius said, “Nate.”
O’Brien stepped forward. “Yes?”
“We’ve won, haven’t we?”
“You know that as well as I do. No doubt about it.”
The transceiver rapped out, “ARE YOU WILLING TO BARGAIN?”
Movius sighed, typed, “DELIVER GRACE UNHARMED AND I WILL GIVE YOU YOUR LIVES.”
There was a longer wait this time, only the humming of the transceiver indicating the beam was open. Again the machine chattered: “WHERE ARE YOU?”
“Do they want to deliver her here?” asked Navvy.
“They may already have killed her and be fishing for information,” said O’Brien. “Remember, they’re desperate men.”
Movius put his hands to his face, leaned against the transceiver. Yes, they’re desperate men, he thought. There was a way to be certain of Grace’s fate, but he couldn’t ask anyone else to take the risk.
The machine clacked: “CALL OFF YOUR MEN OR WE WILL KILL HER IMMEDIATELY.”
Over his shoulder, Movius said, “Janus, tell them to hold off the attack.”
Janus ran to the door, relayed the message to a courier, returned.
“I HAVE SENT THE ORDER,” typed Movius.
The transceiver came right back: “MOVIUS, WE ARE ON ONE OF THE TOP FLOORS OF BU-COMU. COME OVER AND TALK OR WE KILL HER.”
“You can’t do that!” exploded Peterson. “Maybe they’ve … Well, maybe they just want to get both of you to kill you.”
Movius ignored him, typed, “I AM COMING.”
“Janus is right,” said O’Brien. “Send someone else.”
“Send me,” said Peterson. “I let her get caught.”
Something compounded of all the hate, the ambition, the fear for Grace became a hard lump inside Movius. “I’m still the commander here!” he barked. “I give the orders!”
Navvy said, “I’m not letting you go,” started to grab his arm.
Movius slapped down the hand. “She’s your sister, Navvy; my wife. I’m going. Don’t try to stop me.”
“Let him go,” said O’Brien.
The streets were dark, strangely silent. Only in the distance could he hear the whooshBOOM! of rocket launchers to tell him the battle was not ended. A lackluster moon ducked in and out of clouds, showed a scattering of wrecked cars on Government Avenue, a few sprawled bodies.
Three blocks to Bu-Comm. Navvy walked silently on one side, Janus Peterson on the other. They met a Sep patrol which recognized Movius and, strangely, lined up along the sidewalk, stood at attention while he passed.
“Do they know where I’m going?” asked Movius.
“I told the runner,” said Janus Peterson.
Attack squads around the Bu-Comm Building opened up to permit Movius and his companions to pass. The men stood at attention until Movius had passed. There it was—tallest building in the city with its transmission facilities and huge tower. Movius looked at the building, wondered why the men were so respectful.
As though answering his unspoken question, Peterson said, “You’ve given us LP’s back our pride, sir. We’re never going to forget that.”
Movius realized the big man was crying, thought, Janus believes I’m going to my death. Maybe I am. He could sense the presence of many men around him, could distinguish the still outlines of bodies sprawled in the street in front of the building.
“Does someone have a hand light?” he asked.
An arm came out of the darkness beside him, pressed a metal tube into his hand. A receding voice whispered to someone, “I gave him my light.” Movius had the sudden feeling of looking into the future and knew he had seen the genesis of a story. “I gave Daniel Movius my handlight the night he climbed to the Bu-Comm tower.”
Movius said, “I’ll signal from the south parapet. Three flashes means come on up, they’ve surrendered. Two flashes means wait. One flash, a delay and another flash, attack. Give me an hour. It’s a long climb.”
“What about you, sir?” asked Peterson. “I wish you’d let me go. It’s my fault they caught her.”
Movius squeezed the man’s arm. “No, it isn’t. Grace brought it on herself. She did it trying to protect me from her father.” He released Peterson’s arm. “Good opps, men.”
Out into the dark street, a dark cloud obscuring the moon. A body. He walked around it. It sound of a door opening. Someone said, “In here.” Movius could discern the outline of a man holding a stutter gun, heard a voice talking on a phone. “He just came in. I’ll bring him right up.” The phone clicked. “Elevator’s over here.” A hand took his arm, guided him.
“Elevator,” said Movius. “I thought there was no power.”
“This is the Communications Building,” said the voice. “Big emergency generators here.”
Of course, he thought. There would be.
They remained in darkness all the way up. His escort opened the elevator door, said, “To your right. Don’t use that handlight.” Then, oddly, the man whispered, “Good opps, sir.”
He walked down the hall, heard a door open. A voice said, “In here.” Another hand came out to guide him. The door closed, lights came on. It was a stuffy room, full of tobacco smoke. Thick layers of blankets had been nailed over the windows. Movius looked around. Loren Addington sat behind a table, a fat owl, nervously chewing on something. The table held a row of stutter guns, all pointing toward the door.
“A cornered rat,” thought Movius.
Helmut Glass sat on a leather couch against the right wall. A stutter gun rested in his lap. His head was swathed in bandages, his left arm in a sling. A rough night for The Coor.
The man who had pulled him into the room turned out to be vapid-face, the one who had brought Grace to Gerard’s office. He carried a gun in his right hand.
“Where’s Grace?” demanded Movius.
Glass stood up from the couch. He carried the stutter gun loosely in his right hand. “In good time.”
“I see Grace or we don’t bargain,” said Movius.
Glass raised the muzzle of his gun. “I could kill you right where you stand.” The Coor’s eyes looked like two ball bearings, grey steel, glaring from beneath the red-stained bandage around his head.
“I came up here fully expecting that,” said Movius. “My men have orders to attack if I’m not back in a specified time. If they find me dead, they’ll literally tear you limb from limb.”
Glass sneered. “I have a crew repairing a transmitter right now. We’re going to call in outside help. After we’ve put down your stupid revolt, your men, as you call them, will be hunted down one by one and executed. I have unilateral powers to carry out this threat.”
He doesn’t know, thought Movius. He said, “We hold all but eleven of the world’s major cities. The handful of your people remaining in those eleven are in no position to send help.”
“That’s a lie!” The Coor’s face flamed.
In a calm, even tone, Movius said, “By our estimates, you had fourteen million government employees in the world, a fair proportion of whom would remain loyal to you out of fear of the LP’s. We have the rest of the population.”
“I’ve a mind to drop you where you stand,” said Glass.
“Wait!” It was Addington. “He may be telling the truth, Helmut.”
“What if he is?”
“Where’s Grace?” asked Movius in the same even tone. “I’ll trade you your lives for Grace’s life.”
“You planted that Lang bitch on me, didn’t you?” demanded Glass.
Movius understood then that Glass and Addington did not have Grace. Cecelia had rescued Grace or Cecelia and Grace had been killed in an attempt to escape. Either way, let Glass squirm for what he had done. “Yes, I did,” said Movius. “Cecie was one of my most trusted operatives.”
The Coor’s face contorted. He raised his gun until the muzzle was level with Movius’ chest.
They’ll slaughter you, thought Movius. Those men who stood at attention for me will tear you to pieces a little bit at a time.
A stutter gun chattered. With a remote feeling of amazement, Movius watched Glass crumple to the floor.
“Drop it!” The voice was Addington’s, crazy, hysterical.
Again there was the sound of the gun, the thump of a body falling behind Movius. Vapid-face at the door! Addington stood behind the table with the gun in his hands. He dropped it to the table, held out his hands, palms up.
“I saved your life, Movius. I give myself up to you.”
Movius felt a moment of disgust so deep it sickened him. He took a deep breath. “Tell your men to lay down their arms.”
“You’ll protect me, Movius?”
“I’ll protect you.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Movius looked out at the dawn light, blue and lucid on the river, the pigeons strutting on O’Brien’s window ledge. He felt drained of all emotion. Would they find her?
Janus Peterson came into the office. Movius heard, turned. Peterson saluted, a stiff motion of finger to forehead. Why did all of the damned fools insist on that stupid gesture? Even Navvy.
Peterson smiled. “We found them, sir. Miss Lang got her away and they found Quilliam. He hid ’em in the tunnels.”
“Where is …”
“She’s on her …”
Grace pushed past Peterson. “Here, darling.” She rushed into his arms.
The little elf, he thought, stroking her hair. The wonderful little elf! He lifted his head, saw Cecelia Lang just outside the door. For a split instant, the shield behind her eyes dropped and he saw the lost, hopeless hurt there. Then she turned away. Quilliam London took her place, came into the room, shut the door. Something odd about Quilliam, he thought. A glazed look in the eyes. A gun in his hand! Janus was backing away from the gun. Movius stiffened.
“Now the reckoning, Mr. Movius,” said Quilliam London. His voice was tight, strange.
Grace pushed away from Movius, turned. “Father! You said—”
“I said many things to come to grips with this monster.” He motioned with the gun. “Stand away from him.”
Grace shook her head.
“I said stand away from him!”
“Listen to me,” said Grace. Her voice was low, flat. “If you kill Dan I shall tell the world who did it. I’ll explain about your precious charts. They’ll tear you and your work to pieces. Your whole life will have been for nothing!”
London’s gun hand wavered. Movius saw Peterson moving a hand slowly toward a pocket.
“Grace …” How old Quilliam’s voice sounded. “I’m …”
“You’ll be a forgotten nothing,” she said. “I’ll teach your grandchild to hate your memory.”
Grandchild, thought Movius. Great Roper! Did any man ever learn under stranger circumstances that he was to be a father?
London said, “Grandchild?” His voice sounded querulous.
Grace strode toward him. “Give me that gun!”
He handed it to her. “Yes, Leone.”
Leone was Grace’s mother.
He allowed Grace to lead him from the room, following quietly.
O’Brien came in sight, strode briskly into the room, stared after Grace and her father, started to turn away and whirled back, “That’s Quilliam!” he said. “He swore he’d …”
“It’s all right,” said Movius. “They’re going down to the infirmary for a sedative. Quilliam isn’t feeling well.” He pointed to the papers O’Brien carried. “What are those?”
O’Brien seemed to recall his mission. “Dan, we’ve got to do something fast. They’re smashing the registration kiosks. A mob broke into Comp Section, ripped apart the Selector. It’ll take a month to repair it. I’ve a …”
Movius took the papers from O’Brien, waved them. “What are these?”
“Messages.” Creases appeared above O’Brien’s eyebrows. “I don’t understand them.”
Movius smiled. “Is there really something you don’t understand, Nate?”
“This is no joke, Dan!” O’Brien snatched back the papers, read from the first one. “Hail, O Movius, savior of the LPs.” He shuffled the papers. “That was from Athens. This is from Peking: ‘To Movius, Light of the Earth.’ Here’s one from New York: ‘Movius, we await your orders.’”
Movius pulled the papers from O’Brien’s hand, examined them.
“They were brought in by couriers,” said O’Brien. “They all say they await your commands.”
“Let me study them,” said Movius. “Bring me any others that arrive.” He took the papers to the table, sat down.
“Dan, this requires immediate action! The people are completely out of hand.”
“Later,” said Movius, waving a hand.
O’Brien started to protest, felt a hand on his arm. He looked up to see Peterson scowling at him. “Mr. Movius wants to be alone to think.” Peterson urged him toward the door.
“But this is my …”
“You heard Mr. Movius!” Peterson growled the words.
O’Brien allowed himself to be led from his own office.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The pendulum had swung through its full arc. What smacked of the old regime could not be tolerated. Although it was not expressed in these terms, the words smacking too much of the poll government, Movius bowed to popular opinion.
The ceremony was held in St. Peter’s Church, Rome, beneath the dome that centuries of worship had gone to preserve. It was a ceremony which took several months to research and preparation to get all of the details correct, but correct they were, down to the smallest costume for the smallest page. Video cameras focused on the event for all the world to see.
On the island of St. Kitts in the Caribbean, three exiles also watched. They sat in a warm room, open to the
sea breeze and the smell of flowers. A wide verandah shaded them from the hot sun. In the dim room there was the big, square screen, the murmurous buzzing of flies.
Warren Gerard leaned back in a rattan chair, nervously wiping perspiration from his bald head. Loren Addington sat with his back to a wall, chewed placidly on a lozenge. A door slammed somewhere in the house. He jumped, resumed his chewing.
Quilliam London, his body finally failing after the years of poor food in the Warrens, sat in a wheel chair, a crutch across his lap. As the spiritual descendant of Peter lowered the golden crown onto Emperor Movius’ head, Quilliam London threw his crutch at the video screen, smashing the picture tube.
“Thank you,” said Gerard. “I had nothing to throw.”
“I thought it was kind of pretty,” said Addington.
“You would, owl guts,” said Gerard.
Across the ocean in Rome, Emperor Movius stepped back, watched the crowning of his empress. The bulge of her abdomen where she carried Movius II hardly showed at all through her royal robes.
Afterward, at the remodeled Palazzo San Lorenzo, Emperor Movius granted an audience to his chief counselor, Nathan O’Brien. The audience was in a throne room with O’Brien’s short figure standing at the foot of six steps leading up to a gold throne. Emperor Movius relaxed on the throne.
“Dan, I …”
“Just a moment,” said Emperor Movius. “We are now the Emperor, the first Emperor of the entire world.”
“Yes, sir,” said O’Brien.
“The proper form of address is Your Majesty,” said Emperor Movius.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” said O’Brien. “Now, if you’ll …”
“Just a moment,” said Emperor Movius. “An Emperor may grant his intimates special privileges. In our private audiences, you may call us Dan.”
“Yes, Dan; I know. Now …”
“You knew?” Movius grinned. “Well be quiet a minute, then, and listen.”
O’Brien assumed an air of suffering silence. He knew he was being paid for the years he had manipulated Movius’ life. He also knew that the role of Emperor struck Movius mostly as a joke. “Proceed,” said O’Brien.
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