Running away, and running for home
* * *
He stepped in still-wet clothing, out into the warm rain, under the brilliant hot lights. Heather's dancing slowed, and stopped, and she regarded him. She smiled dazzlingly. "Yes."
He drew to within centimeters of her and traced a finger down her cheek. "Yes," he agreed.
She lifted herself up and locked her legs around his waist. Her mouth was busy at the juncture between his neck and his shoulder. He carried her into her bedroom and laid her down on the bed. He removed his shirt and pants without haste, and laid down beside her. Heather locked her mouth to his and wriggled her tongue between his teeth. She shivered violently, whether from the water cooling on her body or something else Carl did not know. He lifted her up and entered her.
He saw himself through her eyes, felt the strength of his body as he moved against her. In her eyes he was a network of glowing fine lines, culminating in a fierce glow around his skull. He saw through her eyes his own eyes, the light and the elemental heat of his person. He lost track of their bodies and found himself in some other disconnected reality, burning, consuming himself in the flame, and the other person with him cooled the flame, and brought order and peace into him. I am that which loves you.
"I know," he said aloud, shuddering with his orgasm. The girl locked her legs tightly around him, clutched him with her arms. The orgasm went on and on, and he let himself grow lost in the pure sensation. When he came back to himself Heather was still holding on to him, her body shaking silently, and it was several moments before he realized that she was crying, and that she was alone. He became aware of the chill in the air, and without moving her drew up one of the blankets from the bed and wrapped it around her to help keep her warm. I love you, she was telling him, I love you.
He grew soft and slipped out of her. Still she did not move, but tucked her head against his shoulder and clung to him. He held her and let her cry herself out, until she could not cry any longer.
The tears did not hurt him. They were not for him.
"Carl," she whispered before sleep took her, "we're going to die, aren't we?"
"Yes."
I looked down upon their sleeping forms.
Coming here, into this time, was a weakness. It was not necessary, and therefore wrong. It is an axion of nightways that there are only necessary actions and mistakes; no third ground.
A gamble and a mistake, all at once; but safe enough, in its way. Camber Tremodian would not look for me here. He knew as fact that I would, not far from now on my personal timeline, appear at the Spacething Library, orbiting the great black hole at the center of the galaxy. It was inescapable: I had been there and would be there, and he would be waiting. I would survive this visit so that I could enter the Library early in the thirty-second-century Gregorian, and there, very likely, die.
It is difficult to see.
I am not certain what it is that has driven me to come here, to look upon Carl and Heather Castanaveras.
Perhaps because he will die so well, so usefully.
So soon.
If there was inspiration there, it was not for me to find.
I slipped out into the garden, and went to face my destiny, and left them to face theirs.
I vanished in a clap of rushing air.
* * *
10.
Sunday morning the crowds outside the Complex had grown to number nearly ten thousand. They filled the streets in a solid mass of humanity for blocks around the Complex, and their chanting was so loud there was no place in all the Complex where silence could be found. Sometime during the night, as July the second dawned, their chanting had changed from a ragged "Death to the genies!" to a deep throated "AMERICA, AMERICA, AMERICA." Security Services, without being asked, had dispatched an additional squad to the Complex, a full twenty-five men.
Nearly a score of the children played in the park. Johnny and Ary and Mandy and Thea stood guard with autoshots against the unlikely event that any of the demonstrators would be foolish enough to attempt to come up over the fence. There were no Security Services forces within the park; with the defenses they had in place, Carl had deemed it unnecessary. Though the crowd could not see through the fence that surrounded the park, there were so many of them that they had surrounded the block the park sat upon, arms linked, chanting. The chanting was stretching Johnny's nerves tight; he was amazed at how calmly the children took it all. They were all, except Carl, in some measure one Person; but the children were far more so than any of the elders except Ary and possibly Willi. The children had spent nine months listening to the chanting, and even today's redoubled intensity did not seem to disturb them. The weather continued to be a bad joke; an inversion layer had trapped the warm moist air of the last week, preventing the rains from granting them any relief. And still, the children were in evident good spirits despite the demonstrators, the gray skies and drenching humidity.
Unlike Johnny.
He distracted himself by sitting in on Jany, at work inside the Complex. She was giving interview after interview with, only momentary breaks, to any newsdancer who cared to wait his turn. Carl was in the office next to her, doing the same thing; Johnny knew better than to attempt to read Carl's mind. So far this morning the telepaths had released both the recording of Carl's conversation with Jerril Carson and the Secretary General, and their recording of Tio Sandoval's last words before his death. It had been several days now since the Electronic Times had received, from a Player who called himself Ralf the Wise and Powerful, confirmation that some of the demonstrators in front of the Complex had indeed been Peaceforcers on duty, from the New York City contingent that was, in fact if not in theory, under the direct control of Unification Councilor Jerril Carson.
Malko Kalharri had given an interview to a reporter from NewsBoard early that morning. From his hospital bed, which had gone over well.
Amnier sat motionless behind his desk.
Seated facing him, across the flat expanse of polished wood, Charles Eddore appeared quite calm. "The calls for your impeachment are not serious, yet. Nonetheless, the vote of censure in the Unification Council is almost certain to pass. I'd cease worrying about the Ninth Amendment if I were you, sir. You will not be reelected."
Amnier spoke precisely. "You are quite correct. Have you found Carson?"
"No. His office is not answering calls. I think the Councilor has decided that you plan to throw him to the wolves. In his position," said Eddore thoughtfully, "I think I'd blast my own head off before Castanaveras found me."
"Do you think that is what Carson will do?"
"No," said Eddore. "I don't."
"The Elite know where he is."
Eddore nodded. "Yes. But they've practically made an honorary Frenchman of Carson, you know. They won't tell you where he is." He paused. "Unless, of course, he does kill himself."
Amnier sat perfectly still behind his desk, staring off into a nonexistent distance.
He appeared to be thinking about something.
Without asking his leave, Charles Eddore got up and left the Secretary General alone with his thoughts. A faint smile graced his lips.
Rather to his surprise, Johnny found himself yawning. What a bitch of a week, he thought to himself. It's got to get better soon. The autoshot was very heavy, so he laid it down beside him and then sat down, propping himself up against a tree. Fine, he thought cheerfully, this is just fine. He could survey the children he was guarding and get some well-deserved relaxation at the same time. He would just close his eyes for a moment, and relax just a bit. Just before he closed his eyes, he noticed many of the others in the park doing the same thing. A fine idea that was, also. None of them had been getting enough rest...
He slept.
The AeroSmith dropped down through the clouds, straight and fast, and came to land in the center of the park with a thump.
In the middle of an interview with a reporter from Paris Match, Carl broke off. His eyes went blank. Somethin
g is missing. What was it? Something that had been there, only moments--
His scream echoed through the Complex.
The Peaceforcers were not in uniform, and the AeroSmith was not marked as a PKF vehicle.
Jerril Carson walked among them, through the park where the telepaths lay in sleep. "There, take that one, that's MacArthur," he said grimly, pointing, "and those two as well." The Peaceforcers lifted the telepaths indicated and began carrying them to the AeroSmith.
Jerril Carson stopped in mid-stride and stared in disbelief.
And then he smiled.
"No," he said, "cancel that. We'd only have to keep the others drugged." He stood over the two small, dark-haired forms. "And besides, I rather think that Castanaveras will find the loss of these two--compelling." The Peaceforcers with him were standing, watching him, and he snapped, "Take them!"
The Peaceforcers with him looked at each other, and then did as instructed.
The AeroSmith lifted into the air, with the twins inside.
Seconds after it lifted from the ground, Carl burst from the tunnel entrance, Excalibur in hand. He saw the lifting AeroSmith and brought the laser to bear on it.
He held that position, knuckles white where they gripped the rifle--and then slowly brought the rifle back down. A crash at that height would kill the twins. His eyes dropped shut, and he reached out toward the dwindling vehicle, but there were too many minds within it and he could not distinguish the one mind that he sought.
He stood without moving until the others from the Complex came pouring through the tunnel entrance, and then without word turned and went back to the Complex, there to finish, in thirty seconds, his interview with the reporter from Paris Match.
"Crutches," Maklo snorted. "I feel fine." The hospital walkways did not themselves move, in the interests of safety; despite his complaint, Malko moved with the crutches nearly as quickly as he'd have been able to had he walked. They'd tried to outfit him with a ground chair such as visiting loonies used; at that point he'd rebelled. With things as uncertain as they were right now, he was damned if he was going to let himself get caught sitting down, out in public, where he would lose a crucial instant getting out of the chair if he had to move quickly.
At his side, Suzanne Montignet chuckled without much humor. Her features were drawn and pale with lack of sleep. "With the pain suppressants in your bloodstream right now, you could be stretched out on a rack and you'd have a good time."
Her car was waiting for them at the exit to the hospital downlot, hovering forty centimeters above the rain-damp pavement. A Security Services squad car was right behind it. The carcomp lowered the hovercar to the ground at their approach and slowed down the fans to prevent the fanwash from spraying water at them as they got into the car.
Trent was sitting in the back seat, portaterm on his lap. He looked up from the holo the portaterm was generating as they got in. He spoke without preamble. "According to Paris Match the twins have been kidnapped."
"What?" Malko and Suzanne both snapped the word at him.
"There's not really any more to the story than that. They ran on for two minutes but that was all they said."
"When?" Suzanne beat Malko to the word by an instant.
"Twelve minutes ago. Thirteen."
Suzanne Montignet did not hesitate. She turned to Malko. "How do you feel? Truly?"
Kalharri was leaning back in his seat, eyes closed in a pain that was not physical. He did not have enough energy for true rage. "I'll be okay."
"We'll go to the Complex, then," Suzanne decided. "Trent? I can have Security Services take you back to the house."
"That won't be necessary."
She did not question him. "Let's go."
The crowds were uglier than Malko had ever seen them; hundreds of them had been stunned already when Suzanne Montignet's car pulled onto the street where the Complex was located, and Double-S sent out a pair of riot control sleds with mounted stunguns to clear a path for them through the crowd to the Complex's front gate. The crowd surged around them, nearly out of control, trampling those who were stunned in an effort to get at Suzanne's car. They had arrived just after a shipment of weapons from Security Services; autoshots were being distributed among the men from Security Services, and even the children were being given Excaliburs Series Two. Those with the size to handle an autoshot, who requested one, were given that as well. Heather Castanaveras, wearing a jumpsuit of what looked to Malko suspiciously like the laser-resistant cloth used in combat fatigues, with a hand maser tucked into a pocket and an autoshot resting on her right shoulder, took them up to see Carl. She said nothing to either Suzanne or Malko; she ushered them into the ready room down the hall from Carl's bedroom, where Carl and Jany and Johann were meeting with two officers from Security Services.
As she had not spoken to Malko or Suzanne, Heather said nothing to Trent. But she hugged him fiercely, and turned away from him and left them. It was not until later that Trent realized she had said good-bye as best she knew how.
Carl stood with his back to the door through which they entered. The door at the north end of the room, which led directly to Carl's bedroom, was open. He was watching the monitors which covered the crowds outside the front gate; he did not seem to be aware of their presence until he said, "It looks like you got here just in time."
One of the Security Services men, named, Malko thought, Deavers, was nodding. Captain's bars glowed on Deaver's uniform. "Yes. Look, on monitors five and nine as well. Peaceforcer troops." The Peaceforcers were taking up positions at the perimeters of the crowd, and seemed to be content to stay there, for the moment.
"I wonder if they'd have let you through," Carl said. Still he had not turned to look at them, nor greeted them. "Somehow," he said in an expressionless voice, "I don't think they're here to protect us from the riot outside."
"Hello, Carl," said Malko softly.
Carl pivoted slowly to face them. Malko Kalharri winced and looked away. Suzanne Montignet had not made the mistake of attempting to meet his gaze.
Trent looked straight at him. "Hello, Father."
Carl said gravely, as to an equal, "Hello, Trent. You should not have come. Now that you are here, you should not stay."
Trent looked around the room. "I didn't drive," he offered as an explanation to them all. "It's not my fault."
The answer seemed to throw Carl. For the first time in a great long while, the ghost of a smile touched him. "Suzanne," he said, "go home. Take Malko and Trent and go home. I expect the Peaceforcers surrounding us will let you leave. Don't come back until this is over."
"Carl? Are you crazy?" Malko dropped one of his crutches to the floor and leaned on the other. "One hand to handle the crutch, and the other one to fire a weapon with, if it comes to that."
Carl said too gently, "Malko, go. There's nothing you can do here. And right now..." He found it hard to say. "You'll just get in the way."
For the first time in the decades Suzanne had known Malko he looked old. But there was fight left in him. "Carl," he said, "you can make me leave, but you're not doing me any damn favors by--"
"I'm not trying to do you any favors!" Carl roared. Jany and Johann and the two Security Services men looked away from the scene. Malko blinked, and Carl said flatly, "Suzanne and Trent are going to need you. I know you'd love to go out in a goddam blaze of glory, but that's a luxury you're fucking well going to have to miss. Stop being selfish, damn it. Go home."
Malko Kalharri swayed on his single crutch. The blood had drained from his face and out of a dry mouth he said finally, "Okay."
Carl held his gaze, and then nodded. "I'll see that Double-S escorts you past the crowd. It's better this way, Malko." He turned to Trent. "Good-bye, Trent."
The boy's eyes widened slightly. "Oh?" He looked away for a moment, expressionlessly, and then looked back and said politely, "Good-bye, Father."
Carl started to say something; the outspeaker interrupted him: "Councilor Carson is on the line f
or Carl."
The holo appeared over the ready room's largest table, and the image of Unification Councilor Jerril Carson appeared within the field.
Trent was only distantly aware of the others around him. The systerm in the corner came up under his flying hands. He wished that he had not left his portaterm in the car, but there was no time to regret its lack. His traceset was in his shirt pocket, but he had no time to don that, either. He had stripped his user profile out of the machines in the Complex. At the time it had seemed a good idea. The accesses he had developed for that user profile would have been useless in the hands of an amateur, and terribly dangerous in the hands of a Player only slightly skilled. And he had not been planning to return.
He hacked his way through the default user profile until it would do the bare minimum he required of it, turned autohelp off, turned prompts off, enabled abbreviated command syntax, and loaded the profile into memory.
Trent danced through the InfoNet.
Carl stood staring in a rage so vast it left no room in him for speech. Jerril Carson stared out of the holocube at them, his skin a pallid gray. When it became clear that Carl was not going to speak, he said in a shaking voice, "I have the twins." Carl said nothing, and emboldened, Jerril Carson continued. "You have caused me severe problems, Carl." His voice gained firmness and certainty as he spoke. "If you wish to see your children alive, ever again, you will do as you are told."
Carl closed his eyes.
Jerril Carson jerked and went rigid. He and Carl held the tableau for several seconds, and then Carl's eyes opened again, and Carson jerked like a puppet whose strings had been released. He gasped for air. "Fool," he snarled in a harsh voice, still panting. "You think I've known you...this long...without learning anything? There are...hundreds of minds all around me, and thousands more in the distance between us. You can't touch me."
At Suzanne Montignet's home in Massapequa Park, the systerm rang once and answered an incoming call.
In the bedroom where Trent had been sleeping, jacked into the house circuitry, was a device about the size of a makeup key. There was more processing power packed into its molecular circuitry than was to be found in the entire world in the year 2000. It was a biochip Image coprocessor, one of the finest commercially available anywhere in the System.
Emerald Eyes Page 20