"At least let me pour you a drink," CJ replied. She knelt next to the pitcher and glasses sitting on a tray on the deck. Morgan watched her, feeling his mood swing like a giant pendulum coming loose from its hinge. In eleven days he would cause the death of the woman now offering him a strawberry margarita. And she knew it!
He raised his hand and accepted the drink.
CJ pirouetted and fell into the lounge chair with him. He did not understand how she managed to not spill her own drink, nor how she managed to snuggle into such a small space with him without jostling him enough to make him spill his. She was a genius of physical agility! His heartbeat steadied again. Perhaps she would not die after all.
She pressed upon him, mapping herself to his contours. Her neck twisted. She looked up and gasped. "The stars really are a lot closer here."
Morgan smiled invisibly in the darkness. He relaxed into CJ's warmth. "I often think that if I could just reach up a little farther, stand on my toes, I could touch them." Morgan's ranch lay at six thousand feet altitude, on the edge of the Colorado Plateau, with nothing but the crisp clean Arizona sky above. For anyone raised in a city the night sky sparkled, a festival of resplendent fireworks that never waned. A story came to his lips unbidden. "You see the band of haze crossing there?" He swept his hand in an arc. He could feel CJ nod her head against his shoulder. "The first time Elisabeth saw it, she apologized to her guests for the cloudiness of the sky that evening. She had just come from L.A., of course, and hadn't quite gotten used to Arizona." He chuckled. "She had to apologize again a few minutes later when she realized that the haze wasn't clouds at all. That band of soft light is the Milky Way."
Morgan could feel CJ's cheeks widen in a smile. "That's a funny story," she said.
He looked down at her. Her eyes were closed; the miracle of the stars was not in tune with her mood. But he suspected that listening to him talk, about anything at all, would make her happy.
"We bought this place from a software guy," he said.
"A software guy on a ranch in Arizona?" she asked.
"Yep. It's not really that unusual these days—I mean, you can do software in the middle of a jungle—but the guy we bought it from wasn't the guy who built the first house here. That was over fifty years ago, and that was a software guy too." Morgan ran his fingers through CJ's hair. It was too short to be a girl's hair, in Morgan's opinion, but too soft and fine to be a boy's. "That guy who built the first house had been a VP in a big software company back in the Valley. He'd gotten burned out, and built a house here for the solitude. He was weary to death of dealing with people." Morgan paused. "Here there wasn't anybody but coyotes to bother him. Well, maybe his wife made him clean corrals, but what's a few horse apples compared to flame wars?"
"So you came here for the solitude, too," CJ guessed.
Morgan shook his head. "In fact, no. The guy the VP sold it to, and the guy after that, were both burnouts too. But Elisabeth and I actually bought this place for her bird experiments. We broke with tradition." He laughed harshly. "And then the first Shiva came and blew away Beijing while Elisabeth was attending a seminar there." Silence hung there for a moment. He shrugged. "Now I'm following the tradition, too."
CJ burrowed deeper into his side. "They all recovered, didn't they?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean all those other people, they recovered, and went on with their lives, right?"
"Yes, but—"
CJ put her right index finger on his lips. "Shh. You will, too." Her finger brushed delicately across the lines of his face. "When I come back."
The silence hung heavy for a moment. Morgan said thickly, "Of course."
CJ's finger worked its way back to his left ear, tickling him. Blast it, the woman made it hard to stay focused on important things. But another part of his mind had to ask, was death really the important thing? Or was life? Somehow, his values had gotten twisted.
CJ spoke. "You know why I want you so badly, don't you?" Her voice had an edge of wicked laughter.
"Because you're infatuated with an old guy everybody thinks is a big hero."
She chuckled. "That too. But that's not what I was getting at. I want you to personally care, desperately, about getting me back. Maybe that will make the difference."
"I . . . wish it could be that simple." He breathed a deep sigh that turned into a sob before finishing. "You know, if you come back, it won't help me a bit."
CJ laughed at that, a low, wicked laugh that the goblins of the night could not help but hear and dance to. She nibbled his ear. "We'll see about that."
Morgan shook his head. "You don't understand. One of the reasons for getting someone out alive is so they can take my place." His voice choked. "But," he continued softly, "if I get you out, it won't help me, because I'd do anything to prevent you from living the way I do, dreaming of sandstone corridors smeared with blood and smelling of death."
"Love, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
"Oh, God, no," he moaned, closing his eyes tight. He turned his face to her and, guided by the warmth of her breath, brought his mouth down upon hers. The glittering stars watched in silence.
* * *
The Dealer walked along the pier, staring at the blazeboats resting quietly in the water. His dinner repast had been excellent. The champagne had been silly. Not as silly, however, as the champagne had made him, he feared. Still, he was enjoying he state he now found himself in, just a little bit out of control. He burped quietly—considered good manners in the old days of China; now he was glad there was no one near enough to hear or see.
The blazeboats were the latest rage among the young rich of Hong Kong, among the foolish children of the people who had earned the wealth in the first place. Now, in his elevated state of mind, the Dealer understood the roots of true wealth.
Expertise was the key, he realized. Karl Marx had almost gotten it right with his labor theory of value. But it wasn't quite the labor that counted, it was the cleverness—the expertise that put it all together—that made the difference. The Dealer's latest scam on the truck put it all in perspective for him. His expertise had been the secret weapon he'd used to pull off the deal.
Expertise. He'd read about expertise somewhere else recently, he recalled.
He strode along the edge of the water, trying to place the reference. He saw a slender, striking woman, barely visible from this distance despite metallic moonglow scattered from her silver dress; she laughed, and then he saw, just barely, the fellow in a black suit who accompanied her.
Expertise. The thought nagged him: where had he seen something important about it just days ago?
He came to the end of the dock and turned back up the street into the city. The skyscrapers rose everywhere. He looked up and saw, several stories in the air on one of the newest behemoths, a modest sign: Wan Feng Emarket and 'Castpoint.
Then he remembered. Reggie Oxenford had talked about expertise, that's where he'd read about it. The Dealer sort of remembered what Reggie had said:
Use your expertise to buy forecasts. Make a profit. Make a big profit. What could be more noble, more honorable, more just, than doing well by doing good?
What a delightful little silver lining. Doing a good deed as well as getting rich. Kam Yin almost laughed. Reggie had nailed another reason for the Dealer's feeling of triumph, one that the Dealer hadn't even thought about till now.
In getting this military cargo up to the top of Everest, whatever it was, the Dealer was not only making a profit, he was making a contribution to his whole planet. The cops wouldn't be chasing him for this one. What a relief!
But wait! The Dealer stopped, dazed, as he realized that Reggie had answered another question for him. The key to the 'castpoints was using your expertise. Forget the old-fashioned scams he'd been trying. The real money was in the knowledge, the quick insight. He was sure he could become a major contributor to the next assault on Shiva V. He didn't know exactly how his expertise could make a d
ifference, but at this moment that seemed a minor detail. He would go to Fort Powell, immediately in the morning, to study the equipment the Angels used, to lard his cleverness with the knowledge he would need to be a true expert.
The Dealer had wandered back to the populated section of town. Clusters of people milled around everywhere. But now he didn't care about his audience; as he realized how to suck money out of the EDA 'castpoints, he gave a little whoop and threw his arms in the air.
His exultant whoop ended abruptly. Suddenly he felt sober, and not quite so proud as he had a moment earlier. His arms fell to his sides even as he continued to stare into the sky.
A bright ball of light hung in the heavens, a light that had not been there a month earlier. He recognized the newborn planet: Shiva V approached with a determination almost as unwavering as his own.
"I am ready," he whispered defiantly. "Come to me, and join your ancestors in oblivion."
Chapter Eight
T minus Ten
The Dealer sat back in his chair, trying to get comfortable. The chair itself really was quite wonderful. The plush leather seat had a tall reclining back that curved around him like the chrysalis of a silkworm. Back in his own closet-apartment, the Dealer would have considered it a luxury beyond imagining. But here in the roton, two hours into the trip, the Dealer thought the chair an exquisitely designed torture device.
They had just landed in the St. Petersburg drop port, farther from his destination than when he had started the trip. Traveling through St. Petersburg was a funny way to get to Fort Powell in the United States. But from St. Petersburg the roton flew directly to the Fort. Most other flights went to Las Vegas, where he'd have had to rent a skycar. This circuitous trip through Russia actually got him there faster, and cost less besides.
A big man with broad features lowered his bulk laboriously into the chair two seats over from him. The fellow looked like a typical Russian. His face was set in an impassive expression of perseverance, the reflection of a thousand years of the pain only Russian history could produce. Well, in a way history was looking up. At least the Russians wouldn't have to defend Moscow anymore. Sadly, Shiva's destruction of that capital had upset the Russians far more than the destruction of Beijing had bothered anyone in Chan Kam Yin's homeland.
The Dealer's stereotyping of the guy lasted only a few moments. Then the stewardess stepped up to the Russian, and he smiled. A ruddy charm broke through his stoicism, and the stewardess responded to the warmth. Suddenly Kam Yin felt a sense of envy for the Russian's self-confidence. A charming smile was not one of the things Kam Yin had ever learned. He suspected he would live his whole life crippled by its absence. He would have to depend on cunning to achieve his goals.
The Russian caught him staring. A dark sorrow rippled the wrinkles around his gray eyes, then disappeared. The Russian smiled even more broadly. "It's a good time to be going to Fort Powell, eh?" he asked in English, the language of the Web and the best chance random people had to talk to one another.
Kam Yin opened his mouth and suddenly realized how much embarrassment he would now suffer. He could read and write English quite well. And he'd watched enough vids on the Web to be able to understand the speech moderately, though the slang still left him puzzled sometimes. But this was the first time he'd ever had to speak it. With more courage than the Russian could possibly grasp, the Dealer replied briefly, "Yes, I wish to see the armor suits."
The Russian nodded wisely. "They are most impressive. A marvel of engineering."
A bell clanged, and Kam Yin could feel the vibration as the roton quickly whirled to life and started to rise. The gentle pressure pushed him into his plush chair for a moment. He closed his eyes.
"Are you an engineer?" the Russian asked.
Kam Yin opened his eyes once more, then suddenly realized that the question had been asked in his native tongue. He must have shown his surprise, for the Russian laughed, a deep vibrant sound that belonged in a cathedral. The Russian spoke again. "Would it be Okay if I practiced my Cantonese with you? I don't get much chance to use it anymore. It has been a long time since . . ." He shrugged. "It has been a long time."
Kam Yin gave him a wary smile. "Of course." He paused, then answered the original question. "Yes, I am an engineer, more or less."
The Russian nodded. "Learning about the suits first-hand is important for anyone planning to work the prizeboards during the Assault."
"Exactly." How did the Russian know his business? Could he be a tail, someone watching him for the computer company, watching for a slip? The Dealer sat very straight, at a peak of alertness. He concluded there was a much simpler explanation: just about anybody going to Fort Powell during the Month of Shiva had to be interested in the prizeboards. Including, the Dealer realized, this Russian. "What about you—are you an engineer as well?"
The Russian shrugged. "More or less. I'm here to learn to about the Angel's gear, too. But explosives are really my specialty."
Kam Yin nodded. So this man would not be one of his competitors for the prizes. Indeed, the Dealer realized as his eyes narrowed in thought, the Russian might even be an ally someday. Since the Russian's confidence suggested he knew what he was about, cultivating the relationship seemed cautiously profitable. "I haven't had much chance to work with explosives."
The Russian rubbed his nose. "The Republic of Guangdong is a bit crowded for playing with duodec. I think you'll be surprised by the vast spaces around Fort Powell. They're both empty of buildings and barren, just the kind of wasteland the Americans romanticize about."
Kam Yin laughed, as much to hide his nervousness as because he enjoyed jokes about Americans. "I've seen the pictures of Fort Powell on the Web," he said. "I don't think I'll be shocked."
The Russian raised an eyebrow. "I see. Well, I'm glad of that," he muttered as he closed his eyes. A few moments later Kam Yin heard him snoring softly. The Dealer snorted, and closed his eyes to try to get some sleep himself.
* * *
The Dealer awoke with a start. Looking groggily out the window into the bright light, he remembered suddenly where he was. He fumbled with his seatbelt, and once free, leaped to his feet, sure that the ship had landed and that if he didn't hurry they'd take off again with him still on board.
A stewardess appeared from nowhere and whispered, "Please get back into your seat. We'll be landing in a few minutes."
"Oh." When you do something foolish, always stand up straight. He stood very straight indeed, then settled his thin body back into his chair, smashing his already damaged right kneecap into the seatback in front of him once more for good measure. He looked over at the Russian. The man's nostrils flared, and the Dealer heard a chortling sound, but the fellow was just snoring, not laughing at the Dealer's mistake.
They landed without further incident.
The Dealer unbuckled his seat belt and rose to find the Russian standing in the aisle already—the fellow could move his bulk quite quickly. The man slapped the Dealer on the shoulder. "Now we'll go see some fun stuff, eh?"
The Dealer nodded solemnly. He had finally concluded how he felt about the Russian. He disliked the man, for a reason that cost him a lot to recognize: the man made the Dealer feel like a nervous kid again. How disconcerting. And how irritating. The Dealer thought he'd outgrown that sort of adolescent anxiety ages ago.
They stepped out onto the ramp, and the sunlight hit Kam Yin like a hammer to the face. He held up his arm and squinted while water ran from his eyes. He heard a little girl scream, "Uncle Viktor!"
The Russian gave a whoop of delight. "Lanie!" He waddled down the steps with his surprising speed and lifted the child, a slender green-eyed imp with long red hair, into his arms.
The Dealer saw another man at the bottom of the ramp. This person was looking up at the Russian with a brooding frown. The hint of a smile tugged at the edges of the man's lips, marring the effect of the frown. The man spoke. "Careful, Lanie, Uncle Viktor isn't strong enough for a lot of horseplay
."
The girl—Lanie—laughed gaily. "Sure he is, Pops."
Viktor glared at the other man. "I will always be strong enough to carry my favorite girl, Lou."
"Your head will always be thick enough to try, you mean."
The Dealer stepped away, shaking his head. He looked out to the terminal, a good hundred feet away. He couldn't help looking beyond the terminal, too, and seeing . . . a vast desert wasteland. For mile after mile, there was nothing but an occasional patch of straggly brown plants, more sticks than anything, with the occasional cactus. In the farther distance sharp craggy brown mountains stood scattered at random, as if flung from a giant's hand. It was breathtaking.
It was also hot. And dry. The cool sense of air-conditioned comfort from the ship evaporated, and he could feel his lips begin to chap as the kiln-like air sucked the last bit of water from his pores. He licked his lips, realizing the gesture's futility even as he did so.
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