Jacob's Trouble 666

by Terry James

  It was the drug, or rather the lack of it, he thought, shaking off his depression, suddenly desperate to go to the Trachetrol. Wanting to turn the bottle's bottom to the ceiling and down as many of the capsules as he could swallow. To die in a state of drugged self-immersion—to be baptized into the black, bottomless waters from which there could be no return. No INterface, no Master Manya--no excisions to perform.

  He stopped his downward cerebral plunge. Such a death would be one of defeat. There was enough of his spirit left to see his plan through to the end that he chose... not one that the grisly computer-state chose for him.

  The Trachetrol's call to him eased, but he moved from the console chair toward the cabinet, as if defying its pull with direct confrontation that would fortify his resolve to beat the addiction. He stood peering through the window, its panes stained by the pollution-saturated atmosphere that engulfed the entire globe. Below, on the deteriorating street, several people walked to whatever destination each sought, most holding cloths to their mouths and noses to prevent inhaling the filth rushing toward their lungs with each labored breath. A bicycle bumped along one pocked street, its rider, his head down, watching for the biggest of the holes in his path. He seemed, along with the black Decap Unit that passed by the bicycle, to personify life within INterface society. Symbolized in hybrid purity, the oppression of all tyrannical states to which mankind had ever been subjected. What life had, finally, come down to.

  Suddenly a 20-foot section of facade broke free from the rim of the building directly across the street from his window and shattered into a thousand pieces against the sidewalk and street; the man and the bicycle were instantly crushed.

  The Decap Unit slowed, the controllers watching the cloud of dust billowing behind them, then continued on its way at its former speed.

  Jacob thought of the Trachetrol in the drawer of the cabinet at his side. How he did want the Trachetrol! Had he, like the world around him, degenerated to this? Forgotten humanity? Turned from even a hint of concern for human plight, like the controllers who drove uncaringly away from the poor devil lying squashed beneath the rubble on the street? Like Jacob Zen had turned from thoughts of the crushed man to thoughts of fixing his craving for the drug, which the monster-state provided so the inhumanity could continue with as little opposition from its victims as possible? He wanted to be sickened and repulsed by his own insensitivity to the man's dying, but all he desired, in fact, was to swallow the capsule.

  He managed, after watching the tremendous dust cloud thin then become a part of the already thickened, to turn his thoughts to the first time he saw the deadly tentacles of the monster break out of its cocoon of technological promise.

  "I assure you, Jacob, the thing defies the imagination, even to someone as inventive as Horstz Buckingham. He got so hyper the first time he saw it, I thought he would have a stroke on the spot. Couldn't praise it enough."

  "The same Buckingham who never liked anything done by anybody except himself? That is saying something for it."

  "It's that critical striving for perfection that's made him the top U.S. scientist in these developing international linkage technologies," Conrad Wilson said.

  "His endorsement makes me even more anxious to have a look. I'm honored that you've let me come along."

  "It was the President's idea, not mine. Your hard work and ability earned you this trip."

  "I hope I can contribute something."

  "If you couldn't, he would never have asked you to come with me. Relax, and remember our motto: “The race can't be won, by a man who won't run and go till it's done!'”

  Wilson was obviously happy to see the smile come on Jacob's face when the old man quoted the saying the two of them used often during the younger man's childhood.

  Filling the student's head with such apothegms was part of the Wilson methodology, and it pleased Jacob that his mentor still took delight in tutoring him.

  "I remember another little gem... “Nobody loves a conceited fool, but the fool who is himself!”

  Wilson laughed. "Yes, I suppose I always have had one for most all occasions, haven't I? And, as I recall, that one was well placed."

  "And taken to heart," agreed Jacob. "It was tough learning that I was not, in fact, the finest quarterback ever to play at Middlebrook Prep."

  "The coach said you would in time be a good one, but that first you had to learn to forgive the trespasses and dropped passes of your teammates..."

  "I thought I was a real leader of men back then," Jacob interrupted. "Coach Dibetto was quick to point out that I was slightly off in my evaluation of one Jacob Zen. But you know what?" He looked at Conrad Wilson. "What bothered me most, I should say, what really brought home to me that I had erred, was: 'No one loves a conceited fool, but the fool who is, himself!' It was the first time I had seen you disappointed with me."

  "You were as good a son as a man could want," the old diplomat said, patting Jacob's knee. "Still are!"

  "I determined right then to shut my mouth and concentrate on making Jacob Zen somebody you wouldn't be ashamed of. I didn't always stick to it, but it did make me a bit more humble, I think."

  "Your gifts are considerable, my boy. And it's time for you to put self-doubts aside, where your value to the President and Project Eagle is concerned. We've got quite a job ahead of us. This trip to Brussels is absolutely crucial to our getting a governing handle on terrorism and the economic problems, but it's much more critical that we get the upper hand in this Euro-American unification process. Now, you certainly wouldn't have been chosen for something so important if you weren't qualified—no matter what kind of pull you have."

  Jacob said nothing, but felt his nervousness growing. He wished he had confidence equal to the ability with which his foster father credited him.

  "Miss!" he called to the hostess, who had just served a passenger several rows forward. A drink seemed in order.

  Thirty-seven minutes later, he had managed to calm himself. The captain's voice, announcing the approach to Brussels, startled him out of what was on the verge of becoming a sound sleep, and he straightened, rubbing his eyes.

  "There it is, over there," Conrad Wilson said, motioning with a nod of his head; Jacob looked out the window next to him. What had centuries before been a city of symmetrical, pentagonal configuration with a sparse population now sprawled mightily, looking to Jacob like a giant amoeba.

  "A real paradox—Brussels and the European Union," Wilson said. "It's one of the most disruptively divided cities in history with an almost feud-like hostility between the Flemish and Walloons. Sort of the whole of European disunity in microcosm. Yet the EU, and now the organizational nucleus for an even more pronounced effort at unification, resides in this very city, as well as in European Rome. It's a case of split personality. On the one hand, they adhere religiously to local governmental sovereignty and linguistic autonomy, divided between chiefly Flemish and French-speaking folk. On the other hand, Brussels seems to possess this mysteriously magnetic force that pulls all of Western Europe, and now the entire trilateral sphere, toward free-world union.

  "Only it's not really so mysterious, I think. The real power is economic power. There are more than 500 U.S. companies in the city, not to mention the hundreds of major European and Japanese corporations represented here. Last count, there were some 39,000, employing more than 700,000 people. That doesn't take into account the thousands of subsidiary jobs like craftsman-type people working in the tourist and luxury trades."

  Jacob's thoughts had turned to other things, and Wilson saw he had lost him. "Thinking about Karen, huh?" he said after studying Jacob's face for several seconds.

  Jacob nodded, looking out the porthole. Wilson gripped his arm. "She's going to be okay at Stone Oaks, Son. You know we have a security force second to none. The vice president wondered out loud last time we visited if there weren't more security people around Stone Oaks than around him--torqued his jaws just a bit, I think," Wilson said, trying to light
en Jacob's mood. "Secretary Laxton won't even talk to me anymore because of it," he chuckled.

  The tactic worked; Jacob smiled. "I know there's nothing I could do if I were there, any more than is already being done. But at least she'd have me there to hold on to."

  "You heard me instruct those Treasury men. They'll be with her around the clock." Wilson grinned, a thought coming to him. "Maybe you had better worry, come to think of it. There are some mighty fine-looking young fellows in that group. And she's a beauty!"

  "If that's all I had to worry about, there'd be no worry. Some things in life are irreplaceable."

  Wilson laughed heartily. "Time for another talk about conceit and fools," he said, happy to see he had made Jacob feel better.

  "She'll want to get out of there and go back to work for PAL," Jacob said, turning serious again. "I hope she waits until I get back."

  "If not, it's going to look like a presidential motorcade every morning, because those agents have orders to stick with her."

  "Taxpayers wouldn't like it," Jacob joked.

  "That's one good thing about today's world, Son. The taxpayers are too busy having a good time—spending as much on credit as they can, then worrying about how to pay for it—to concern themselves with how their tax dollars are being spent. So long as we can keep crime from overrunning their neighborhoods and terrorists from blowing everything up, the good citizens will let us do whatever we think necessary with their money."

  "I guess that's what we're going to Brussels for, to keep the madmen of the world from blowing it up a little at a time until we more civilized types decide to blow it up on a grand scale."

  "Project Eagle will deal with terrorism and crime, of course. What really matters is experience in controlling nuclear weaponry. The U.S. absolutely must be in the leadership position for that very reason. The Europeans and the rest simply do not have the practical experience to deal with issues involving nuclear weapons."

  "We haven't done an exactly superb job, ourselves."

  "Maybe not, but we're still here, aren't we?" Conrad Wilson said.

  "For how long? The Russians are looking pretty hard at the Middle East."

  "An even bigger reason why America must be perceived, right from the start of these unification meetings, to be clearly in charge. The Russian coalition respects the nuclear sledgehammer we've always protected our interests with. They would be tempted to test any European who controlled nuclear deterrence to see how far they could push before such leadership would tell them to stop, or risk losing everything. The Russians are definitely watching to see how things go in Brussels, believe me."

  The plane's shaking startled Jacob, who never got used to the turbulence generated by the lowering of flaps. The big aircraft smoothed out and dropped rapidly, the buildings near the runway passing swiftly. The pilot cut back throttle to the five engines and pulled the nose slightly toward the sky, then allowed the rearmost tires to settle on the concrete.

  "Juice has run checks of every conceivable sort," Wilson said, looking out the limousine's window while they moved along Boulevard De L'Empereur, past Grand Place, then turned right on Rue Du Lombard. "He can't find a hint of who might want Marchek and his organization silenced—not enough to employ such violent methods."

  "All I know is that he's dead, and Karen and I were almost murdered the same night. It's more than just coincidence. Whoever they are and whatever their reasons, it involves higher stakes than merely wanting to knock some little religious man off his soapbox," Jacob said with irritation.

  "I didn't mean to imply that the matter should be dismissed, or even downplayed, Jake."

  "Of course you didn't. I appreciate everything you've done. It's just that I'm here, and she's there, and whoever's responsible is free to sit back and wait for the chance to try to get at her again."

  "The Director has taken a personal interest in the murder, and he's put some of the Bureau's best men on it. Everything was almost totally consumed in that wreckage. They've only been able to determine that the smaller truck was probably one stolen from a wrecker service somewhere in Maryland."

  The Mercedes turned left on Avenue De Stalingrad and rolled past Manneken-Pis, where the statue stood of the little boy known affectionately to the people of Brussels as the city's oldest citizen. Neither man acknowledged seeing the historic figure, while the black car picked up speed in its journey to the hotel which they would call home for the next five days.

  Hotel Clemenseau was all Wilson had promised before their flight to Brussels. The three rooms of the suite were huge, with furnishings Napoleon himself would have found fit for an emperor. Every aspect of the building's design remained faithful to the ornate architecture prevalent throughout the old city, yet the hotel was less than three years old, Wilson told him.

  Jacob looked for the telephone in his own portion of the suite, letting estimated figures on the cost of such an undertaking--the ancient architecture at today's prices--run through his mind. He let the thought pass when he spotted the French white and brass telephone on a small, white, gold-leafed table in one corner.

  "Miss Fitzwill?" he said, finally able to make the connection after 10 minutes of trying. "This is Jacob."

  After answering questions about Conrad Wilson's health and the old diplomat's faithfulness to his medication schedule, Alexandra Fitzwill turned the connection over to Karen.

  "There's something you've got to see, Jacob," she said when the perfunctory greetings were ended. "I... I've been to Dr. Marchek's home... I don't think I should talk about it, but I've got to tell you."

  There was fear in her voice, and he wished video phone was available. At least, then, she could feel he was closer to her. "What's wrong? Why can't you talk?"

  "He knew more than he told either of us, Jake. I shouldn't say anything over this phone-- I'm afraid someone might be listening. I know it sounds paranoid, but that's what you thought before we were nearly killed and Dr. Marchek was... murdered."

  "Karen, we don't have any choice. I'm an ocean away. We're going to have to take a chance.

  Tell me what you've found out."

  She was right. She could be in danger! If the lines were monitored—if Treasury had done the killing, protecting what they considered national security, or some other agency. The Bureau... CIA... NSA... they would just as quickly eliminate her.

  "I drove to his house this morning. I wanted to collect some of the things I knew meant the most to him--to keep people from taking whatever they wanted, once the relatives are allowed in. I came across a note. It was a reminder to himself to tell me about what he called a 'secret place' where he kept some things that he hadn't told anyone about... not even me. Jacob, he never had time to tell me or to finish the note. He died the night he started writing it."

  Jacob was silent while Karen regained control of her emotions. "Oh, Jake... I found the secret place and the things he was talking about in the note!"

  "Calm down, Kay. It's all right. Everything is okay. Now... what did you find?"

  "I found out the reason he was murdered!"

  "What?!" He could hear her sobbing.

  "I found out they killed Dr. Marchek because he learned that this country, that is, some people at the top, have..." There was a click. She had been cut off!!

  Chapter 6

  He was not in Brussels—had not just talked to Karen. He was no longer Jacob Zen, but John I. Garver, Sector Coordinator 550.

  He felt for the belt of explosives. Yes! Still there. He sat on the edge of the sofa and, though drowsy, had enough presence of mind to smooth the waist coat over the belt. The digital clock read 21:18. The INterface Response Unit's Scanner beneath the clock was active and swept the room like a slowly oscillating fan, then stopped to train on him. He gave the snooping device as disinterested a glance as he could, not wanting to appear apprehensive, yet wanting to know how intent the Watchers were on monitoring his movements. To appear bothered by the camera would be an admission of hiding something fro
m them, and might give Watcher Control incentive to undertake a personal search.

  What difference? He rubbed his face with the palms of his hands, trying, with the performance, to convince the Watchers that he was only trying to revive from the rest period. The difference was, he reminded himself, if they came here to the Sector Coordination Terminal, there would likely be no more than two controllers. There would be many more at Facility 500, meaning the explosion would do much greater damage. For the few minutes left to Jacob Zen, John I. Garver must remain a loyal citizen of INterface, a dedicated servant, and a cautious one.

  Thirty-seven minutes until the meeting at Facility 500. Why was he summoned, if not to present himself for elimination? Sector Coordinators, once they breached Interact procedures, could not be forgiven like ordinary citizens who made slips and were forgiven on occasion. Sector Coordinators were summarily executed by one of several methods available to Controller Central, and their bodies incinerated; their records of existence were electronically expunged in an instant from INterface Response Unity. But Carver had been told to come—not that he would be escorted by a team of the black-uniformed INterface policemen. Might it be a test to see if he would bolt? Was that why the camera constantly watched him? To garner proof that he was indeed an enemy of the great Utopian order?

  Time felt different; it was different! The sky had changed with relationship to the hour. Looking out the window, he studied the horizon above the decaying structures across from his building. It glowed eerily in a seemingly perpetual dusk. For months, it had been neither truly night nor day, but an iridescent red-orange, which changed in brightness and hue only moderately when the hour grew late.

  At 9:30 p.m.--21:30, as INterface would have it—the sky would have, in former times, been black, the stars points of brilliance against the backdrop. Not a hazy orange that contrasted with the jagged, dilapidating structures to form the silhouetted illusion of a Halloween graveyard scene. In a way, the reality was much more nightmarish than such a ghoulish fantasy could ever be, he thought, starting out of habit to reach into the cabinet beside him for the Trachetrol II. No! He must not give in to the drug's pull. The chemical might aid him in his desire to do what he had to do by giving him courage, but its debilitating effects would decrease the chances of his success.