Bren released the lapel of Lorstad’s suit coat and gaped at the other people in the room, her blue eyes wide. “Oh my God, you weren’t kidding!” she exclaimed, then turned and threw her arms around Dice’s neck.
Mini laughed and applauded. Chuck wished he could take such childlike enjoyment in the moment, but he had to wonder what Lorstad expected to gain from such a display. Did he think that by giving Dice what he most wanted in the world, he would win his loyalty? Or was he just throwing them a bone? Chuck hated the tenor of his thoughts. He’d gotten through life this far without becoming a cynic. And he was genuinely happy for Dice and Brenda—the look on their faces was one of the best things he’d seen in the last few weeks. Still, he wondered if he’d ever trust anyone again.
“That’s quite an ability,” he told Lorstad. “You just went to the east coast and brought Bren back here in roughly two minutes. Am I right in thinking you’re practicing a form of quantum entanglement?”
Lorstad smiled, his eyes lighting. “Yes. I can induce quantum entanglement in my own body and, as you’ve seen, in anything or anyone touching it.”
“But how?” asked Eugene. “How’s that possible?”
Lorstad smiled. “Well, in the simplest terms, I project a matter/antimatter version of myself, very briefly—essentially, creating a distant receptacle for my consciousness. Then I project my consciousness—or soul, if you will—into the receptacle. I’m able to change the polarity of my two selves at will. The antimatter version fades away as my consciousness is transferred to this new self—one made of matter.”
Romantic reunion or no, Lorstad seemed to have captured Dice’s attention. He stared at the Benefactor over Bren’s shoulder. “You re-create yourself . . . atom for atom?”
“Indeed. There is one rather significant hazard: my fading antimatter self has to remain undisturbed during the process. It would be . . . unfortunate if it were not.”
“How, unfortunate?” asked Eugene.
Lorstad turned to look at him. “Unfortunate.”
Eugene nodded. “Okay. Important safety tip: avoid touching Lorstad when he’s . . . entangling.”
“That would be best.” Lorstad moved to the office door. “Now, if you don’t mind, I will see to Ms. Tansy’s lodging and amenities while you continue with your work—I trust Dr. Kobayashi will want some time alone with Ms. Tansy. We will speak again soon.”
Chuck waited until the other man was safely out of the lab before he turned to Lanfen. “We are not going to get answers out of him. Have to hand it to him, he simply directed the conversation and used a bit of quantum sleight of hand to rework this entire situation. To avoid and misdirect away from the question at hand.”
“Questions,” Lanfen added. “Are we prisoners here and what is their endgame? He traveled across the country to avoid those pressing points.”
Chuck nodded. “Did you intend to push him into that display of—of talent?”
“I thought it might be important to get some sense of what he was capable of. It seemed logical to get an understanding of who we are facing should we have to run. What if the Benefactors and Lorstad turn on us? What abilities are we facing? I thought this was an opportunity to coerce him into showing at least some of his cards. But that’s not the whole deck, I’m willing to bet.”
“We need to know more about what’s going on out there in the world before we rush back into it. We will press him again soon after we get more info from outside.”
Dice came around to their side of the table to join in the conversation, drawing Bren with him. He still had his arm tightly around her waist. “You’re thinking he may have laid some groundwork for getting Bren back?”
Lanfen shrugged. “You have made a point of how important she was to you and the team for some time.”
“Why does it make a difference how spontaneous he is?” Bren asked. She was worrying the tail of her waist-length braid but showed no other signs of her recent journey.
“Because, our insistence to the contrary,” said Lanfen, “we are planning an escape. If he can just zip all over the place like that without preplanning, it’s going to be very hard to outrun him. Especially given that we aren’t even sure where we are.”
“Actually,” said Dice, looking sly, “that’s something I was intending to mention at this morning’s progress meeting. I managed to get a fix on this place by ‘walking’ back through the system to their transceiver. I know right where we are—just south of the Snake River Plain on the border between Nevada and Idaho. Now all we need is a map, and we can plot a course out of here.”
“So, this is the man who would be general.”
Mike looked up from his screen to see what Sara was referring to. She had just come up from the gym at Tim’s summons and stood looking over his shoulder at his monitor, a towel draped around her neck. Mike dimmed his own display with a thought and got up to move forward to Tim’s station. He’d been practicing “waking” an increasing number of robots at one time and exploring the electrical circuitry that fed power to their stations, but he wasn’t ready to reveal the extent of his work just yet.
Now he peered over Tim’s shoulder at the man in the computer display. The guy looked vaguely familiar. He was staring into the monitor as if watching or reading something, his eyes scanning back and forth.
“Who is he?” Mike asked.
“That,” said Tim, “is Senator Roman Bluth. He’s the guy that that dweeb, Freitag, has been chatting with on a very regular basis. And I have to say, their conversations have been pretty damned interesting.”
“Freitag,” repeated Mike. “That was Howard’s mole in the Pentagon, right?”
Sara nodded. “Documentation expert. Ironic, isn’t it? We all figured Howard must have had someone high up in the military feeding him all that intel. All along it was this glorified paper pusher. Midlevel guy who just happens to have oversight of all the documentation that passes through the place.”
Tim expanded. “It also puts him in a nice position to create a phony paper trail linking POTUS to Deep Shield.”
“So,” Mike said, “Bluth is the guy who wants to rebuild Deep Shield?”
“Yep. He wants to spawn the Son of Deep Shield, and he’s already taken steps. And he doesn’t want to be a general, he wants to be a president,” said Tim. He tilted his head back to look at Sara. “I wonder if he’s the one who arranged for that drone attack.”
Sara stiffened. “No. That was Matt. It had to have been Matt.”
Why? Mike thought. Why does it have to be him?
Because you have to believe he deserved what you did to him? Otherwise . . .
Yet he said nothing aloud. It wasn’t exactly clear to him why he hesitated, but mostly it came down to not wanting to confront her when he’d seen what Sara did to those she believed had betrayed her. He just let her keep talking.
“But this guy,” Sara was saying, “this guy is keeping the government from doing what needs to be done. He’s manufactured enough support—and enough doubt—in Congress to hold the POTUS over a barrel. With the amount he’s able to fund-raise—and as the presumptive nominee for his party—he’s got a lot of clout to at least keep the wheels spinning on the Hill. I’m guessing he’ll probably top it all off with some phony revelation that the president knew about Howard and Deep Shield. POTUS can’t just steamroll him—he’ll filibuster if he has to and his party has the House. He’s been in D.C. a long time and seems to be even more influential than the Speaker. This Bluth guy thinks he is clever and that he can continue to be an obstacle to us; I think it may be time that we did something about that.”
“Cool,” said Tim. “What about Son of Deep Shield? Are we going to do something about that, too?”
“At some point. I’ll let you plan their ultimate demise. Right now we need to jar Congress loose. There’s a session in two days, and I intend to be there . . . in my fashion. I guess I should shower and change.” She winked at Tim and Mike, then swung around and strode ou
t of ops.
She was halfway to the door and Mike was halfway back to his station when Tim’s speakers let out a bleat and Tim responded with “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa!”
Mike swung back around. “What? What is it?”
Tim looked up at him, pointing to his oversized cinema display. “Check it out. POTUS has put out a call for the Betas to come in.”
“What?” Sara shouldered her way in to stare at the screen. It showed a page on the White House website.
“It’s a special letter from the president. To Chuck and the guys. She’s asking them to come in. Do you think they will?”
Sara smiled. Mike hadn’t seen an expression like that on her face in a very long time. It seemed to be a genuine expression of happiness.
“Knowing Chuck,” she said, “I’d say he’d feel it was his patriotic duty. This is great, guys. If we can get Chuck back in the game, our operations will have far more scope and power. It will change everything.”
Mike imagined that was so, but he wondered if it would change in a way Sara would like. He returned to his workstation and went back to his remote drills with the robots. He was progressing swiftly in the number of units he could control. He’d laid claim to a couple dozen most recently, but the true number was about three times that many. He was still queasy when he thought of how Sara might ask him to deploy them, though, and so continued to keep all of this to himself. He hoped that being reunited with Chuck would allow him to stop growing that particular ulcer.
Chapter 15
The Loyal Opposition
Margaret knew what she was doing wasn’t in the congressional “rulebook.” It was, as Roman Bluth had noted, irregular. Presidents simply did not crash the Senate without official notice. But she wanted to impress on both houses of Congress that there was no rulebook for their current situation. Her own party had a majority in the Senate; it would be easier to barge in. The House would be a different matter. Partisan posturing would likely drag out an audience with the opposition-led lower chamber—time she didn’t have. She needed to do something now and this was the quickest route. The House members would be watching on closed-circuit TV anyway. She was anxious and angry as she made her way to the Senate chambers with Curt Chamberlin at her side. Anxious, because she was doing something unprecedented—angry because she had to do it. One-on-one meetings with the senators in the “loyal opposition” had gone nowhere because Roman Bluth had wielded the power of his position so skillfully.
So it was time to show that she was pretty skillful at this game, too.
When she saw the startled, nervous looks on the faces of the young men guarding the Senate chambers, anxiety guttered to be replaced with a calm, icy resolve. She had to bull past Roman Bluth and make the rest of his cohort understand: this wasn’t a hoax, and it wasn’t any sort of “normal” terrorist situation.
“M-Madam President,” stammered the first guard she encountered. “The Senate is in session. I mean, right now, they’re in session.”
“Yes, I know . . . Mr. Tyler, is it?” She read the name from his badge. “That’s why I’m here. I need to speak to the Senate while they’re assembled.”
He blinked, shared a startled glance with his partner, then opened the doors. She smiled, said, “Thank you,” and led Curt into the chamber.
Margaret had chosen to enter from the rear of the room so that her vice president, Harvey Feinberg, would see her from his position next to Roman Bluth at the head of the room. As it happened, Harvey saw her before the minority leader did. She was halfway down the central aisle before Bluth looked up and saw her.
The expression on his face was priceless: Surprise that she’d actually done what she’d promised. Suspicion. Annoyance. Anger. She watched the emotions chase across his face one after the other.
Harvey stood, interrupting the Senate clerk in the process of distributing briefing materials. “Madam President, this is a rare honor.” The occupants of the chamber rose, some slower than others.
“It’s highly irregular, is what it is, President Ellis,” said Bluth. “May I ask that you arrange with the Senate—”
“I need to speak to the Senate now,” Margaret said loudly.
Bluth shook his head. “There are protocols, President Ellis—”
Harvey stepped away from his desk and waved Margaret toward it. “Please, Madam President, you can use my microphone.”
Bluth feigned anger then regained his oleaginous façade. “The dignity of the Senate will not be hijacked for partisan purposes.”
“Senator Bluth,” Margaret said sharply, “you are out of line. You know all too well this has nothing to do with partisanship—or at least, it doesn’t as far as I’m concerned. Is it a partisan issue to you?”
He didn’t answer. Of course he wouldn’t, as this was all being filmed, recorded, and broadcast throughout the Capitol Building. He had his sound bite anyway, so anything else would just be seen as a petulant tantrum, and she knew he was too polished to succumb to that . . . for now.
Ellis mounted the dais to the vice president’s desk, pulled the microphone stand to its fullest extension, and looked out at the assemblage of startled senators.
“Distinguished members of the Senate,” she addressed them, “I beg your indulgence. As the minority leader has noted, my appearance here is highly unusual. Unprecedented. But we are faced with an unprecedented situation. As you know, the unwarranted and unapproved experimentation funded and carried out by Deep Shield—a secret paramilitary organization operating alongside our legitimate forces—has resulted in the global community being coerced into changing its ways. The people issuing these ultimatums have repeatedly proven that they have the ability to intercede in ways that I frankly found unbelievable until I witnessed their work firsthand.
“Senators, if we have ever been faced with a need to suspend business as usual and take extraordinary measures, it is now. We have been issued an ultimatum: chiefly, that if we do not withdraw our forces from disputed areas and stop selling arms to our allies, they will take whatever steps are necessary to remove those forces and stop that commerce for us. Having seen what they are capable of doing, I am disturbed by the thought of what those steps might involve. I am therefore asking you—no, imploring you—to authorize me to adopt whatever measures will save American lives.
“First: I am hoping to establish a direct connection with the so-called Zetas and to work with them on the diplomatic front—”
“You want carte blanche, you mean.” Roman Bluth glared at her from his own podium. “I’m sorry, Madam President, to find it necessary to be so skeptical of what you’re saying, but it seems to me that this whole situation is timed with amazing convenience.”
There was a ragged grumble from the floor.
“What do you mean?” Margaret asked.
“Isn’t it obvious? You’re nearing the end of your first term as president. This situation would allow you to suspend elections, pleading that you should be the one to negotiate with these Zetas.” He leaned heavily on the last word as if to show his scorn.
A number of senators loudly voiced their displeasure at Bluth’s words, while others made noises of approval.
Margaret ignored the commentary. “I can negotiate with the Zetas whether I am president or not—if I am not fortunate enough to continue my role as president I shall support the will of my successor. I promise you, I have no intention of trying to extend my term in office. Not only is it not constitutionally viable without amendment—which I’m savvy enough to know wouldn’t pass—but it’s not something I’d seek anyway.”
“So you say, but this manufactured threat is tailor-made to do exactly that.”
She was no longer merely angry; she was furious. Yet she kept her calm, knowing it infuriated Bluth just as much. “Tailor-made by whom, Roman? Do you really think I possess the scientific acumen or resources to do what the Zetas have done?”
“Ah, but you might know the people who do have that acumen,” Bluth noted. “I no
tice you’ve issued a call to a Dr. Charles Brenton to bring himself and his staff out of hiding. Perhaps Dr. Brenton is your ‘tailor,’ Madam President. And perhaps the conveniently destroyed Deep Shield provided the resources.”
Margaret stepped back from the Senate president’s podium, shaking her head ruefully, before once more approaching the microphone. “I asked because I know my limitations, Senator. I suggested he come and meet me because the people elected me to lead during these times, and Dr. Brenton is one of the few people who might be able to help us deal with these Zetas. He created them, trained them. He may be the only one who can talk to them in a way they’ll understand. I have no idea whose creation Deep Shield was—”
“Oh, please, Madam President, I find that hard to believe.”
“Because you choose—”
Bluth shouted over her. “I motion that a special inquiry be launched to ascertain Madam President’s foreknowledge of this matter.”
No doubt that investigation would discover utterly fabricated communications between President Ellis and Deep Shield. Redacted and doctored just enough to reveal criminality and appear authentic.
Bluth plowed on. “Once we can assure ourselves that we are being dealt with fairly and honestly by the White House, then and only then can we proceed with any dialogue.”
Before Ellis could respond to this ludicrous call—essentially a vote of no confidence that the Constitution didn’t actually allow for—the shouting from the floor of the Senate swelled suddenly with outcries of anger and distrust winging between the distinguished members. In one corner, a couple of male Senate aides got into a shoving match and seemed ready to come to blows. In another, a quartet of senators faced off against each other. As the chaos reached a peak, there was a searing flash of light near the domed ceiling of the chamber and a beam of sheer golden radiance fell from there to the Senate floor as if a door had opened in the dome. A woman appeared at the top of the beam and rode it downward as if it were an escalator. She was clad in gleaming black leather or vinyl and her dark hair fell, sleek and straight, to her shoulders.
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