by Mick Farren
Now he watched TV and waited for the phone to ring. He could get beer, booze, and pizza delivered, so he had no reason to leave his room. From all he had seen, he wanted as little as possible to do with the citizens of Buffalo. Apart from anything else, they might decide that he would be a fit subject for a Saturday night barbecue. He certainly did not see himself asking around if anyone knew somebody who would get him into Canada. If smuggling people across the border was an industry in the city, there were no signs of it. From a couple of conversations with the manager and the boy who brought his beer, he started to form the impression that the real underground industry was ripping off fugitives who were waiting in vain. The woman from the hundred-dollar bill had called after six days. The message had not been encouraging.
"The canuks seem to be running some kind of military exercise on their side of the falls. The army has responded by beefing up the defenses here."
"So I wait?"
"These things don't happen overnight."
Speedboat's concern over what was going on in New York was not a matter of either boredom or nostalgia. He was going to run out of money in approximately two weeks, and getting back to the city was his only failsafe option. If he could not get out of the country, Manhattan was about the only place he could survive.
The TV was hardly informative, but, reading between the lines, it was pretty obvious that some strange shit was going down. First there had been the freakout and hoopla over the attempt on Aden Proverb's life. Speedboat was amazed that it got on TV at all. They had blanked out the entire riot outside the Garden as if it had never happened. After the Proverb incident, the wall went up again with a vengeance. The networks were smothered in a barrage of happyvision, puppies, kittens, old folks, miracle cures, and just plain miracles. Jesus was everywhere. He even smote the enemy. There was footage of a large squad of Mexican and Cuban prisoners who had surrendered after a fierce firefight forty miles south of Austin. Speedboat was certain that he had seen that footage before.
The big news was the latest Faithful propaganda fest. The president going to take over Liberty Island for something that was being trumpeted as a Day of National Reconciliation. It was being pitched as a very big deal. There was an item about it, or at least a reference to it, on practically every show. That, in itself, was a definite indication that something was slipping out of sync in the world of the true believers. National reconciliation was quite a mouthful for a regime that never admitted there was the slightest dissent in the ranks. They would not be pissing away some millions on a TV special from right in the heart of New York, a town never loved by Fundamentalist Christians, unless there was a potential major problem and it was centered right there. A thought struck him. Maybe that was why the Canadians were massing troops on the other side of the border. It was not uncommon for the Canadians to know more about what was going on inside the United States than the country's own population knew. Indeed, there were times when it was hard to know less.
Speedboat's beer was all gone. He had a sudden urge to hurl the bottle through the TV screen. He was bored with all the madness. He restrained himself with difficulty. He told himself firmly that it was no time to get stir crazy. Time might move slowly holed up in this cruddy motel, but it did not move half as slowly as time moved in Joshua.
Winters
Winters woke to a deacon's worst nightmare. Dreisler and what looked like half of Internal Affairs was at the foot of his bed. Short of Satan on the bedpost, that was as bad as it got. He had a blinding headache, and his mind was still fuzzy from whatever they had used to sedate him. He struggled to sit up in bed.
Dreisler seemed amused. "Good afternoon, Deacon Winters."
"Good afternoon, sir."
Winters did not know whether it was day or night. The hospital room he was in – if, in fact, it was a hospital – was a windowless white cubical. A neodevotional print of Lazarus being raised from the dead hung in a cheap plastic frame on the wall beside him.
"Where am I?"
Dreisler ignored him. "You've been very careless, Winters."
Physical pain aside, Winters was very frightened. He had heard all the horror stories of what happened to erring deacons who fell into the hands of Dreisler's IA headhunters.
"Careless?" he asked.
"It's one thing to go out and engage in illegal torture and executions. In some parts of the service, they look on that kind of behavior as the mark of a healthy enthusiasm on the part of an up-and-coming deacon. To lose your whole team, however, on your very first mission is just plain careless."
"I…"
Dreisler sat down on the bed, fastidiously adjusting the knife-edge creases in his pants. There was something almost friendly in the move, a vague suggestion of the desire to confide. " You'd probably like to talk to me."
"I don't know. I 'm confused."
"Of course you're confused. You're also in a bit of a double bind. You'd like to tell me all about what happened, but you're well aware that that would violate your mortal oath to the Secret Order of Holy Magicians. I have this problem, Winters. My reputation tends to precede me, and people seem to be very anxious, as a rule, to tell me things. In your case, though, you also have to consider the reputation of the Magicians. They can get very creative with oath-breakers."
"I wasn't – "
"No, I know you weren't. It was Spencer who was in charge. He should have made sure that the building was secure. Unfortunately, Spencer's dead, as are all the others."
Winters knew that he would blurt out everything in the end. What would happen to him then?
"It was the Lefthand Path," he said.
"How do you know that?"
"The one who hit me with the gun butt," he yelled it out. "Lefthand Path, mother – " He could not say it in front of Dreisler.
Dreisler laughed. "You only have his word for it."
"What are you going to do with me?"
Dreisler stood up. "Normally there would be disciplinary action in a case like this. Fortunately these are troubled times, and I need all the men I can trust. I can't spare you."
Winters was surprised. "You trust me?"
"Yes, Winters, I trust you."
Winters could not read his expression.
"In fact, I trust you so much that I need you to be in a key position on the Day of National Reconciliation. It's possible that the heretics will use the occasion to cause trouble."
"What position will that be?"
Dreisler shook his head. "Get your head fixed first. You have a skull fracture. You'll get your orders when you're up on your feet again."
"Thank you, sir."
Dreisler threw his coat over his shoulders. "Don't thank me yet, boy. You may not like these orders."
He walked around the bed, then hesitated as if he had just remembered something.
"By the way, do you have any idea what happened to Carlisle?"
Winters shook his head. The motion hurt. "I didn't see him after the attack started, and then I was out cold."
Dreisler nodded. "It doesn't matter."
Carlisle
The black lake was gone. There was spring sunlight streaming in through a window that was secured by three serviceable steel bars. The drugs had worn off, leaving Harry Carlisle with a queasy hunger in his stomach and a gritty feeling under his eyelids. The old-fashioned sash window was open about five inches at the bottom, and a breeze was blowing in. That felt good. Each deep breath helped clear the narcotic residue from his brain. Goddamn, but if mere was ever a time that he needed his brain functioning to the max, it was right then. Where the hell was he? And, even more important, what was his status? The last time he had looked, he had been dead meat. Then, in what had seemed to be the nick of time, a bunch of guys, shooting off guns and yelling that they were the Lefthand Path, had rushed in and rescued him. Why they had rescued him was another matter. In the best of all possible worlds, they would have saved him simply because he was an unfortunate victim of deacon oppression. Unfo
rtunately, it was not the best of all possible worlds, and he feared that his saviors, whoever they were, also had a use for him. He could only pray that it would not be as a mutilated corpse.
He took stock of his situation. He was lying on a metal-framed, hospital-style bed. It had been set up in the corner of a large institutional room. There were three barred windows, dirty green walls, and a wide expanse of dusty floor. Except for the one near his bed, the half-dozen light fittings had no bulbs. They came with the kind of cheap metal shades that were used in schools and government offices. He decided to get out of bed and explore a little more. Someone had dressed him in a white cotton hospital smock. He stood a little gingerly but experienced no difficulty. His legs felt weak, but they were able to support him, and he did not suddenly become nauseous or dizzy. So far, so good.
He recognized nothing in the view from the window; all he could see was the dirty wall of a factory building across a vacant lot. He could have been in any industrial neighborhood, anywhere. As far as he could estimate, he was on the third or fourth floor. The door at the far end of the room proved to be locked, as he had expected. A quick scan turned up no cameras, sensors, or microphones. Foiled for the moment, he went back and sat on the bed.
Half an hour later, when he was starting to wonder if someone was trying to bore him to death, he heard the sound of footsteps outside the door, followed immediately by the beeping of the lock. Carlisle tensed. Now what?
It turned out to be a nurse – the figure in white from his drugged haze. She wore a starched white uniform in the demure style of the times and had a scrubbed, no-nonsense face. She carried a tray containing scrambled eggs, toast, and tea.
"So we're up and around, are we?"
Carlisle nodded. "So it would seem."
She put the tray down on the bed.
"You're probably feeling a little queasy, so eat this. It'll help." She straightened up again. "I know you must have a hundred questions, but I'm not authorized to answer any of them. You're going to have to wait until someone more important comes to see you."
"There is maybe one thing."
"What's that?" She looked a little impatient. She clearly had not been hired for her bedside manner.
"It's kind of boring sitting here. Could I get a newspaper or magazine or something?"
The nurse looked at him coldly. "Perhaps you'd like a TV brought in?"
"I just asked."
She relented a little. "I'll see what I can do."
"Also…"
"What?"
"Where do I go to the bathroom?"
"Look under the bed."
The magazine or newspaper did not appear, and Carlisle spent a long time looking out of the window. A pigeon had attempted to land on the windowsill, but flew off in a panic when it saw him. Eventually there were more footsteps beyond the door and another sequence of beeps. He turned, expecting to see the nurse – carrying, he hoped, a copy of People or Timeweek - and instead saw something in the doorway that made him wonder if he was having a drug flashback.
"What the hell?"
Matthew Dreisler smiled like the Devil himself. "Surprised to see me?"
"You're not quite what I expected."
"Didn't you know that I'm everywhere?"
Carlisle scowled. Obviously the game was continuing. "All hearing and all seeing?"
"You're getting the idea."
"I suppose you run the Lefthand Path, too?"
"In a manner of speaking, I do."
Carlisle slowly nodded. "Oookay."
Dreisler stood smiling. Carlisle sat on the bed feeling like a very helpless rat in a very complex maze. He could easily believe that Dreisler was behind everything that had happened to him. It was some twisted behavioral experiment that was pushing him through each horrible stage of some monstrous Kafkaesque nightmare.
"I expect you'd like to know what's going on."
The words were said with such bright lack of concern that Carlisle suddenly wanted to start screaming. Okay, I give up. You've driven me mad. Unfortunately, they had not. He could still keep himself under control. With an effort, he formed his face into an expression of caution.
"Are you going to tell me?"
"That's exactly why I'm here."
The story was nothing short of incredible. Harry Carlisle had heard some incredible stories in his time, but this one was head and shoulders above the rest.
"I'm organizing a little revolution."
"You are? When?"
Dreisler walked slowly over to the window. He was using the large empty space almost as a set, going for the full dramatic effect. He was the debonair secret policeman, master of intrigue, Carlisle was the bleary political prisoner. The bare, dusty room was their enclosed universe, an area of nothing after the claustrophobic horror of the Magicians and their factory.
"If everything goes according to plan, it will come to fruition on Larry Faithful's Day of National Reconciliation."
"That's only slightly over two weeks away."
"Less actually. You've been out for five days."
That was another shock. "I have?"
"We thought it was best."
Dreisler turned and looked out of the window. Carlisle sat on the bed in his hospital smock, head bowed, watching him. What did Dreisler think he was? Every part of his image was so carefully contrived, the fashion-plate clothes, the fop's gestures and bantering manner, the black glasses, the overlong blond hair, and the leather coat over the shoulders. He was like a twentieth-century movie star. No, that was not quite right – he was more like one of the old grand-manner rock stars. Like them, he seemed to live by illusions – and the bulk of his illusions came from the darkside.
"Aren't you biting off rather a mouthful, running your own revolution?"
"It's a dirty job, but somebody has to do it."
"Are you serious about this?"
Dreisler turned and faced Carlisle. "I'm deadly serious, Harry."
It only took one look at his face to convince Harry Carlisle that Dreisler meant every word he was saying.
"In actual fact, the preparations have been going on for some time. This isn't some half-assed uprising, Harry. This is the real thing, the full-scale overthrow of the theocracy." Dreisler made a scything gesture with a flattened hand. "The theocracy is not functioning, and it has to go. I like power, Harry, and power can become very limited in a bankrupt and backward country."
"Just like that?"
"The times they are a-changin'."
"You're very optimistic."
"I've done my work very well."
"What are these preparations?"
"Mainly computer viruses."
"Viruses?"
"When, as under this administration, you have your computers confused with the Almighty, you tend to become very dependent on them. You also believe everything that they tell you. Why not? The theocrat treats his computer monitor like God's own porthole." Dreisler was warming to his subject. "Over the last six months, I've had various shaped viruses loaded into the computers of all branches of the administration. Some were getgo active and have been doing deep data corruption; others are dormant, waiting for either a binary or a situational trigger. There are already whole sections of the deacons operating according to total fantasy data."
Carlisle did not think that Dreisler was insane, but he still did not know what to think of the man. He was not too sure about himself, either. Despite all his doubts, Harry Carlisle was being drawn into Dreisler's mad tale of conspiracy.
"You designed these viruses?"
Dreisler laughed and shook his head. "No, of course not. I never do anything that specific. I'm a Renaissance man."
"Machiavelli?"
"Exactly. I'm a master of the overview."
"So who wrote the viruses?"
"Most came from the Canadians; some were Japanese."
In a sentence, the conspiracy fantasy had become high treason.
"You're dealing with the Canadians?"
/>
"Of course I'm dealing with the Canadians. We can't off the Fundamentalists without Canadian help."
"Do you know what you're doing?"
"My dear boy, on the Day of National Reconciliation, Canadian troops will cross the border at a dozen different points, immediately after I've arrested Larry Faithful."
"You've sold us out to the canuks?"
Harry had no more doubts that Dreisler was telling him the absolute truth. The most powerful deacon on the Eastern Seaboard was plotting a coup with the help of the Canadian government. The real question was why he felt the need to tell all to a mere police lieutenant. Carlisle was not sure he wanted to know the answer.
"Omelets and eggs, Harry. It can't be done without them. It's really too late for a display of irrational patriotism."
Carlisle shook his head. "I don't know about any of this. How can you be talking to the Canadians?"
"I've also been talking to the Mexicans and the British. Don't underestimate me. Policing the deacons and also what's left of the FBI/CIA has given me the chance to build what may be the biggest personal intelligence network in the world. You have to remember that I've got agents out in the field who don't have a clue who they're really working for. Once you reach that level, it's possible to talk to anyone about anything."
"What are you talking to the Mexicans about? You giving them the rest of Texas?"
"You're going to have to get over this attitude problem, Harry. I'd always believed that you were a pragmatist. For your information, the Mexicans are going to do nothing. They've agreed to hold their position until the coup has established itself."
"And you trust them?"
Dreisler shook his head. "Of course I don't trust them, but I think we have a working understanding."
Carlisle cradled his head in his hands. "I don't know about any of mis."
"Believe me, Harry. This is going to work."