Joe Haldeman

by The Coming

  “She does not truly understand the amount of power these aliens have demonstrated. To the extent that she does understand, she sees it as a challenge to her own power. It is not. It’s just a statement of fact.”

  He looked down and sighed, and then looked into the camera again. “When I was a young man, I was a military officer. Often I had to order men and women into action, knowing that some of them would die. I often went along with them, and the possibility of my own death—sometimes what I saw as the certainty of my death—was of no consequence, compared to the responsibility I felt for them. The guilt, perhaps.

  “So today I’m going to die, and in the process, sacrifice the lives of many people who didn’t even know there was a war. I’m sorry. My sorrow is no comfort to those of you who are going to lose loved ones. But we’ll all be dead in one month if I do not do this.

  “When I turn off the camera and set the delay on this message, I will leave for an emergency cabinet meeting set for noon. In my briefcase, I have twelve pounds of C-9, a powerful plastic explosive. When I am in the cabinet room with the president and the secretary of defense, I will open the briefcase and we will all die, as well as others, who are innocent bystanders. Collateral casualties, as they say.

  “I have always liked Carlie LaSalle, in spite of her craziness, perhaps because of it, and now I am repaying her trust with murder. History will vindicate me, or at least admit the necessity for this, but that gives me no satisfaction this morning.” He reached out of the cube and turned off the camera.

  Rory found her voice. “What happens now?”

  Marya shook her head. “Pray the vice-president survives. The speaker of the House makes Carlie LaSalle look like a Phi Beta Kappa.”

  “Who would’ve thought it,” Sara said in a stunned whisper. “Here in America.”

  “Yeah, America. I wouldn’t’ve predicted LaSalle, either.” Rory shook her head. “Washington’s a zoo.” Carl Lamb was back on the cube, saying that the vice-president was being rushed to Walter Reed, but was not expected to live.

  “It makes a kind of sense,” Marya said, rubbing her chin hard. “I mean story sense. Grayson Pauling always was a wild card. You know he was DDT in Desert Wind?”

  “No,” Rory said, staring at the cube. “What’s DDT?”

  “It’s a unit of the Special Forces they call ‘Department of Dirty Tricks.’ Unconventional warfare; I forget its actual name. He never talked about it; claimed he wasn’t allowed to. But that may be how he knew how to build a bomb he could carry into the White House.”

  As if to back her up, the cube showed a gray positron scan of the briefcase. “Even cabinet members are checked when they enter the White House,” Carl Lamb said. “Grayson Pauling appeared to have nothing but books and papers.”

  A security guard came into the cube, the side of his head bandaged, blood drops on his tunic.

  “Maybe we shoulda wondered about those books. Why would someone carry big books into a cabinet meeting?”

  Lamb made reassuring noises. “His mind was made up this morning,” Rory said. “He might have done it without the new message, eventually.”

  “This morning.” Marya stared at her. “That meeting.”

  They looked at Sara and she got up. “Yeah, I got to go.”

  Everybody was hypnotized by the cube, but Rory lowered her voice to a whisper anyhow. “He was openly rebellious and she was really pissed off. It looked as if she’d allowed him to be in on the conference call if he promised to behave. But then he wouldn’t go along with the party line.”

  “This is the scoop you called about?”

  “Yes. The president was going to authorize three orbital weapons: masers powered by H-bombs.

  Pauling seemed to think they would wind up pointed the wrong way. Toward France.”

  “Ah. That’s the DOD connection.”

  “What?”

  “He said on the cube he was after the secretary of defense as well as the president.”

  “He did, right. Another interesting thing … the president cut him off, but I think there’s only one of these masers. I guess the other two are decoys.”

  “I don’t know how much of this I can use. Though I appreciate knowing it.”

  “What could they do to you?”

  “Cut me off from Washington sources, at the least. Haul me up in front of a security committee—hell, they’ve got the undersecretary of defense under house arrest.”

  “Isn’t he the secretary now?”

  She shook her head. “Doesn’t work that way. The president, whoever that may be, appoints a new one. If he can find anybody at home—I suspect half of Washington will be out beyond the Beltways before quitting time.”

  “France might do something?”

  “More likely the Jihad. But we have lots of enemies who can see that it would be a good time for a couple of strategically placed bombs. Convenient to be out of New York, too.”

  “Sleepy college towns have their advantages.”

  “This one, I don’t know. The way the Jihad rails about the Coming, they might be able to spare a bomb for here or the Cape. As long as they’re bombing.”

  “You’re not kidding?”

  “Just professionally paranoid. Look at that. They kept turning rocks over until they found him.”

  Carl Lamb was standing on the Capitol steps next to Cool Moon Davis, who looked like a ninety-year-old Native American who had just been dragged out of a deep sleep. He was only seventy-two, actually, but had had an eventful life.

  “Speaker Davis, do you have any words for America at this tragic time?”

  He looked up into the camera, eyes dull, and straightened up slightly when his earphone started feeding him lines. “I’ve always admired Carly Simon—Carly LaSalle, that is, for her spirit and her dedication to American ideals of America. Like all Americans I feel a deep lens of sauce, I mean sense of sauce, and a truly deep outrage at this crime against the Republic. The crime of assassination.”

  “He came up with that himself,” Marya muttered.

  “Thank you, Mr. Speaker. We … uh … we have a link to Walter Reed, and the vice-president, I mean President Mossberg, wants to address the nation.”

  He looked bad, his chest a tight wrapping of bloodstained bandage, arms inert at his sides, breathing tube taped to his nose.

  His normally clear voice was gravelly and nasal. “The doctors say I have a good chance of surviving, but I have spent most of my life in the company of professional liars, and I can see through them.” He coughed violently, and a nurse cut off the view for a moment.

  “I am ordering that an election be held as soon as possible after my death, and I’m sure Mr. Cool agrees.” He spoke slowly, teeth clenched. “The nation faces—the world and this nation face an unprecendented historical challenge one month from now. We need a leader in place who is … is not Cool Moon Davis.” He grimaced and his head lolled to one side. “Am I still alive?”

  “Your brain is alive,” a male voice said. “Not much else is.”

  “Thank you. In fact, I believe that you could pull a random citizen off the street and find him or her better able to deal with this crisis than Representative Davis. Or the late president, for that matter.

  Forgive me for speaking plainly, but—” The cube went dark, and faded back in with Carl Lamb and Davis, both looking a little pale.

  “We seem to have lost—”

  “The vice-president,” Davis cut in, “has not been sworn into office … ” He paused, listening. “And cannot yet speak as president. The laws of succession are plain, and there is no need for a special election.”

  “Chief Justice West is hurrying to Walter Reed as we speak,” Lamb said. “He was en route to New York when this disaster struck.”

  Miguel Parando

  The bartender realized he’d been cleaning the same glass for several minutes, ever since the emergency signal came from the cube. Someone broke a rack with a loud crash.

  “Hey!�
� He spun around. “You show some respect?”

  It was Leroy, a tall white guy, dealer. “I’m payin’ for this table by the hour. You show me some respect.” He lined up an easy shot and hit hard with a lot of draw, whack-thump, and the cue ball glided back to its starting place. “She was the worst president we ever had. So somebody finally punched her fuckin’ ticket. What took so long, is what I wonder.”

  “You a hard fuckin’ case, Leroy. She was a nice lady.”

  “Nice lookin’,” said a short fat man at the bar. “I wouldn’t go no farther than that. People in Washington didn’t think much of her.”

  “You think much of them?”

  A woman in a sparkly silver shift, blue eyes and black skin like the bartender’s, smoothed a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. “I’d like a whiskey, Miguel.” She put another bill on top. “And anybody else who wants one.”

  “When did you start drinkin’, Connie?”

  “Just now. A little ice?”

  Leroy came up, emptied his glass, and put it on the bar. “I’ll have one for her vaporized ass.”

  “Somebody gonna vaporize your ass someday, Leroy,” Connie said. “You ought to get in some other business. The people you run with.”

  He pointed up at the cube, which was back to Cool Moon Davis. “Not as dangerous as those guys.” Miguel poured four glasses, one for himself, and slid them over. “Or the frogs, if it’s them that did it.”

  “That would be crazy,” Miguel said. “The French don’t want us in the war.”

  “So the damn Germans.”

  “Doesn’t have to be a foreigner,” Connie said. “People in this room who’d do it if the price was right.”

  “Ooh-woo.” Leroy sipped the neat liquor. “My ears are burning.”

  “It’s a hell of a thing,” the short man said. “No matter who gets it. It’s not American.”

  “Is now,” Connie said. She looked back at the cube as it switched back to the Walter Reed hospital room.

  “Bobon” Mitchell

  The cube room at the prison was crowded and silent, both rare. The warden had given permission to open the cells so that everyone could get to the news. Bobon and three other guards covered the doors, armed with tanglers, but nobody was going anywhere.

  Bobon was still sorting out the murder he’d witnessed this morning. Not the first one, but Ybor was just a nice kid who hadn’t hurt anyone. Why’d the warden have to drag him in there to watch? And now this damned thing.

  Maybe it was all just a long nightmare. Maybe he would wake up and it would just be another morning. But he’d felt that way before, and it never worked. Just in stories.

  Why did so many people feel so bad about the president? Well, she’s pretty and smart and powerful, and maybe people who like one don’t like the other.

  At least she never could of felt anything. That boy this morning went through all kinds of hell before he died. He couldn’t get it out of his head.

  The inmates knew. The way they looked at him, it’s like they thought he did it. Not this time.

  Towelheads, watch out, though.

  Davis had shut up and they switched to a local reporter.

  Daniel Jordon

  “—here at the International Plaza, we’d like to get the reaction from some of the students here, pardon me?” The young man turned around and revealed a diamond-shaped scar on his cheek, a member of the Spoog gang. “I ain’t no student fugoff,” he mumbled in passing.

  Great assignment. “Young man, could you give me your reaction to the tragedy in Washington?” He was small and frail and red-eyed. “I really don’t know anything. Was he crazy? He must have been crazy?” “Some people have said he never got over his experience in the Gulf,” Daniel prompted.

  “I had an uncle there, and an aunt, and there’s nothing wrong with them,” he said, looking intently at the ground, and wandered away.

  A pretty young woman approached, tailored suit, smile. “Pardon me, ma’am, could you—”

  “No! Leave me alone!” She whacked him hard on the shoulder with her heavy purse, aiming for his head.

  Like a message from the gods, a little voice in his ear said, “Switching to network in five.”

  Aurora

  “Twelve pounds of C-9 is enough to demolish a good-sized house,” a man in army fatigues was saying, the smoldering ruins in the background. “That was probably in case he got stopped at the door.” “Pauling might have used a little less explosive,” Marya muttered sotto voce, “if he’d known he was going to give us Davis on a platter.” “Who’s next in line if Davis dies?” Rory asked. “He looks like he’d blow over in a strong wind.”

  “Cabinet members, I think. It’s not my beat. Maybe the president of the Senate, R. L. Osbourne.

  She’s better than most.”

  As they found out in a few minutes, though, Senator Osbourne had been in the meeting room and was among the dead. So were the chief of staff, the attorney general, and the UN ambassador, as well as the administrators of Defense, Energy, the CIA, FEMA, and NASA. LaSalle liked to have all her cabinet together when she made her pronouncements, watching them for shifts of allegiance.

  There would be a fundamental realignment of power in Washington, as soon as everyone came back. Marya had been right about the exodus, politicos prudently putting some distance between themselves and ground zero. Of course, the explanation was that they wanted to be with their families in this time of tragedy, and their families happened to be out of town, or at least were able to catch up with them there.

  The vice-president didn’t live through the hour. They watched the chief justice swear in Cool Moon Davis, inside a fast helicopter headed for Camp David. Then they saw a few minutes’ coverage of the traditional riot in Washington, confined to a few blocks downtown, the looting and arson quickly discouraged by armored shock troops from the D.C. Police department and an air-mobile civil disturbance unit from the National Guard. No soldiers or police were hurt.

  “I’m going to watch the rest of this at home,” Rory said. “I feel like people are looking at me. You’re welcome to come along.” “Thanks,” Marya said. “I wouldn’t mind getting away, either. Of course they’ll call as soon as I get my shoes off.” They stopped by Pepe’s table on their way out. “Don’t bother coming in tomorrow,” she said. “It’ll just be chaos. I’ll call if anything comes up.”

  Pepe

  “Thanks, Rory.” They nodded at each other for a moment, not able to say anything, and she left with the newsie.

  “Will you come stay with me tonight?” Lisa Marie said hoarsely. “I just can’t … “ “Sure.” He was holding her hand, and briefly clasped it with his other. “Nobody should be alone now.” “I never even liked her,” she said. “Did anybody you know?” Pepe shook his head. “But this is too horrible.” “It’s not like America,” Pepe said. “I guess it is now, but it’s the sort of thing that happens in little dictatorships. Despot of the month.” “I wonder whether that old man will be able to hold things together.” Davis was standing in a press room now, his hand to his ear, relaying his staff’s answers to questions.

  “He won’t have to do much. I don’t suppose he’s made an unassisted decision in the past decade. If we make it through the next few hours, things will get sorted out.” “You think the Islamic Jihad might … “

  “If I were him, I’d be more worried about the Democrats than the Muslims. They probably have a competency challenge all worked out. If I were them, I’d wait a decent interval, and give him a chance to do some really unforgivable things. Then start the impeachment process, more in sorrow than in anger.” She tilted her head at him. “You really know a lot about American politics.”

  “More than I do about Cuban. I had to study it for the blue card, and got kind of fascinated.” He made a mental note to watch his step, not reveal too much sophistication. Lisa Marie was no danger, but there would be a lot of press and government around soon.

  “Your aliens.” She pointed at
the cube.

  Davis peered intently. “Would you repeat the question?” A reporter asked whether he intended to follow LaSalle’s aggressive strategy toward the Coming.

  He looked at her with robotic blankness for a long moment, an expression that was already familiar.

  “I don’t want to say anything specific about that. Anything at all.”

  Aurora

  “Anything at all. My people are looking into it.” It was curious to hear Davis’s voice coining out of her office. She thought she’d locked it. Rory had dropped by with Marya to see whether Norm might be there, not wanting to bike home through the rain. Inside, there were two strangers watching the new president on the wall cube.

  “Hello? Can I do something for you?”

  The short one clicked a remote and the president disappeared. They were in identical government-gray suits. The short one was bland, normal looking, but the other was over seven feet tall, his white hair trimmed to within a millimeter of his skull. She had seen him around, the past month.

  They both produced identification. “I’m Special Agent Jerry Harp of the CIA,” the giant said. The other identified himself as Howard Irving, FBI.

  “You didn’t just fly down,” Marya said. “You’ve been here awhile. You were both at the—” “We have no business with you, Ms. Washington,” the FBI man said. “We would like to speak with Dr. Bell alone.” “I don’t think so,” Rory said. “This is my office, and I say who stays or goes. Unless I’m under arrest.” “We’re only concerned about national security,” the tall man said in low, measured tones. “Some of what we have to ask you about cannot be made public. Not yet, at least.” “I’ll be down in the lounge,” Marya said to Rory. “You’ve got my number.” “This won’t take long,” the FBI man said.

  Marya said, “Sure,” and he closed the door behind her.

  “You talked with the president and Grayson Pauling this morning,” the tall man said.

  “Along with the governor, the chancellor, and the dean of science. I’m the small fish in the pond.