by Tom Clancy
He hurried toward the saloon. There were two ways into the Hickory Branch—the front door, which, unlike so many movies, wasn’t a pair of useless swinging doors that did nothing to keep out the heat, dust, and flies, but a wooden-framed etched-glass panel that closed just like any other door. There was also a back door, plain old wood, and generally kept locked save for when trash—of one sort or another—needed to be hauled out.
Jay left the walk at the gun shop, went down the alley to the back, and moved two buildings down to the Branch.
He tested the saloon’s back door. It was locked. Good.
Jay circled back to the street, passed the hitching post, which was empty—smart men didn’t leave their horses tied up there during the heat of the day, even, though there was a trough with water where the animals could reach it. If you lived in town, you walked to the saloon; if you came from elsewhere, you paid the livery stable boy a nickel to put your horse in the shade, and make sure he had food and water.
Jay opened the door and stepped inside.
It was Saturday, and the place was crowded, smoky, and not much cooler than outside. The beer was warm, too, but if you drank enough of it, you didn’t mind the heat, and these frontier towns were full of what would later be called “alcoholics”—men and women both.
The piano player didn’t pause, but kept on tinkling away at the off-key instrument, playing some kind of New York show tune from the late 1870s.
Jay didn’t look particularly threatening. He wore a shopkeeper’s duds—boiled shirt and starched collar over a pair of gray pinstriped trousers and low-heeled English-style riding books. His coat—even in the heat, men often wore coats when they went out—was a cutaway frocklike thing of gray wool. His hat was closer to a derby style than a cowboy ten-gallon.
He didn’t want to look threatening, not like some pistolero with low-slung strapped-down Peacemakers. More like a mild-mannered shopkeeper.
He had his gun, of course. The coat’s right-hand low pocket was heavy canvas stiffened with leather, and in it was a chrome-plated 1877 Colt .38 “Lightning,” with a two-and-a-half-inch barrel. The revolver looked like the Peacemaker, sort of, though the butt was rounded. It was a somewhat delicate machine compared to some weapons, but it had the advantage of being double-action, which meant that you didn’t have to manually cock the hammer for each shot. You could just point it and pull the trigger repeatedly until you ran out of ammunition. The hammer spur had been removed, so as not to catch on the pocket during the draw.
Billy the Kid had owned a similar gun. Pat Garrett had carried a larger model, the “Thunderer,” in .41 caliber. And John Wesley Hardin, one of the meanest of the gunslingers, had gotten one just like Jay’s as a gift from his brother-in-law, Jim Miller.
Definitely not a gun for shooting at targets twenty-five meters away. It was for taking out a bad guy ten or fifteen feet away. The short barrel made it easier to get out and working.
Jay moved to the bar, pretending a nonchalance he didn’t feel, while searching the faces for his quarry. The person he’d glimpsed out front had been a man, he was pretty sure—or a woman dressed like a man. That meant he could discount the three trulls in low-cut dresses who worked the crowd, and the woman playing cards in the side room with four men. He could probably eliminate those men, too, since the one he was after wouldn’t have had time to break into an ongoing game—there was usually a waiting list for poker on a Saturday.
Jay grinned. His scenarios were a mix of fantasy and genuine history, but when he put real stuff in, he usually had it from two or three sources.
“What’ll you have, friend?” the bartender said.
He was, like Jay, wearing a coat, white shirt and tie, and wool trousers.
“Beer.”
“Two for two bits, special.”
“Draw two.”
Jay took his hat off and hung it on a rack mounted on the wall next the bar. There were maybe thirty people sitting at tables or standing next to the long wooden bar, which was made from gleaming and well-waxed hickory, albeit stained and scratched in places. A big looking glass in a horizontal oval frame took up much of the wall behind the bar, and next to that, a painting of, of all things, a sea battle between sailing ships, blasts of smoke from the ships’ cannons and a raging fire on one of the vessels giving the painting a sense of action.
The beers came, in heavy glasses. Jay put a quarter on the bar, picked up one of the beers, and sipped at it. Warm, acrid, sudsy, the way beer used to be drunk. He used the mirror to see what he could, then turned slightly to regard the smoky room.
Every other person in here smoked. Hand-rolled cigarettes, cigars, pipes. Some chewed and spit at strategically placed bell-mouthed brass spittoons, and some of the spitters were very accurate, the local equivalent of NBA three-point shooters.
Twenty years from now, if they survived the other ills of the frontier, a lot of these folks would have emphysema, lung cancer, or throat cancer. Jay shook his head.
He started eliminating suspects mentally as he sipped at the beer, which he held in his left hand so as to keep his gun hand free. Just in case.
Anybody who was obviously part of a group that seemed to have been there a while—easy enough to judge from empty glasses on their tables—was out. Jay’s quarry had just come in, so he looked for men with glasses that were mostly full.
That dropped the numbers to maybe six or seven on the floor, and two at the bar besides himself.
Then Jay looked for men who seemed to be alone, not part of a conversation. This wasn’t a sure thing, but—and this was where his intuition came in—Jay was sure that the man he wanted wasn’t a local, but somebody passing through.
Right away, that narrowed it down to the men at the bar.
Of the two, one was a tall, greasy-looking cowboy with a full beard, wearing leather chaps over canvas pants, a patterned flannel shirt with a dark blue bandanna at the throat, and a short stag-handled sheath knife on his belt. No hat, and no gun, and no place to hide a shooter of any size, at least not that Jay could see. He might have a little revolver or a derringer in his pants pocket, but if so, neither would be coming out with any speed, judging from the cut of those trousers. Six months away from his last bath, easy.
The second man was shorter and paler. He was hunched over his beer so that Jay couldn’t get a good look at his face, but from what Jay could see the man looked clean-shaven. Like Jay, he wore a cutaway-style coat over dark trousers, and low-top shoes with buckles.
Jay glanced away, trying to see the shorter man’s face by using the mirror. At that moment, the fellow looked up at the mirror himself, and Jay had the feeling he was also using the mirror to check the patrons.
Jay cut his gaze away, so as not to be caught looking. But before he did, he had the impression of something odd about the man’s eyes. Nothing he could pin down immediately, but . . . something.
It was one of these two. He was sure of it.
But—which? Cowboy, or Buckles?
In his quarry’s position, Jay wouldn’t be going around in any scenario unarmed—in this case, “armed” being a metaphor for defensive programs that would be apparent to anybody bright enough to be here. Since Cowboy didn’t seem to be packing—and that knife would only be good at close quarters, unless he was an expert at throwing, and even then, he’d only have one chance—then that pointed to Buckles.
Then again, maybe the quarry was banking on the idea that somebody looking for him would assume he’d be armed, and the fact that he wasn’t would allay suspicion.
Buckles could be carrying a hand-cannon in that big floppy coat pocket, or have a hidden belt holster under it, though he, too, could be unarmed.
Jay took another long pull at the beer. It was a problem.
He wanted this guy alive, to question, whichever one he was, and so drawing his revolver and potting them both was out.
If he drew down on the wrong one, the other would be forewarned, and Jay would be behind the power c
urve.
If he did nothing, eventually one or both would leave, and he would have to choose which one to stay with, since he obviously couldn’t follow them both.
Not unless they hooked up, which wasn’t likely in this scenario. Men who came out of the closet in these times were not regarded fondly in such a town where they’d surely be thought an abomination.
So. Which is it gonna be, Jay?
The bartender came over and wiped at the already clean wood with a rag. “You want some pickled eggs? Free lunch.”
Jay shook his head. “You know those two down at the other end of the bar?”
The bartender didn’t look at the men, but smiled at Jay. He had a big, droopy moustache stained with tobacco, as were his teeth.
Jay caught the inference. He pulled a silver dollar from his pocket and put the cartwheel onto the bar. He slid it toward the bartender.
The man laid his hand over the coin and neatly palmed it.
“The big fellow is Bob Talley. He’s foreman at the Rocking K ranch south of town. I don’t know the little Chinaman.”
“Chinaman?”
“I’m guessing he’s got some Chinee in him. Slanty eyes. Not supposed to be in here, we don’t usually serve their kind, but he looks white enough nobody’s noticed, and his money is good.”
Jay nodded. Being part Thai, he had a little Asian epicanthic variation, too, but in this kind of scenario, he usually altered his appearance to be as bland white-bread as possible. He didn’t want to draw any attention.
“You’re a bounty hunter, ain’t ’cha?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Stranger comes in, you right behind him. You’re carrying something heavy hidden in your right-hand coat pocket, dollar to a dime it’s a pistol. I don’t see a badge on your shirt. Plus you give me a dollar, no lawman would do that. So, bounty hunter. What’d the little Chinaman do?”
“Shot a nosy bartender,” Jay said.
The man grinned and moved off. He had his dollar.
Jay took a deep breath. There were times when social engineering—bribing somebody—was the way to go. Not the most elegant method, maybe, but Jay was to the point with this hunt that he was past worrying about elegance. He wanted results and he didn’t care how he got them.
He sipped his beer. He had his quarry identified. Now, he’d wait to make his move—
The bartender stopped in front of Buckles and said something.
Buckles jammed his hand into his coat pocket, fast.
Jay knew immediately what had happened. That double-crossing bartender had given him up!
Jay dropped the beer and went for his own pocket. His move was smoother and faster—he came out with his revolver and thrust it toward Buckles, stopped with his arm extended, ready to shoot.
Buckles froze, his own weapon but halfway out of his pocket.
The other man was maybe fifteen, eighteen feet away—an easy target for somebody with Jay’s skill.
“Let it go and put your hands up,” Jay ordered. “We’ll talk, nobody has to get hurt—”
Buckles shook his head, grinned, and jerked his gun from his pocket. He tried to get it lined up on Jay—
Jay squeezed the .38 Lightning’s trigger, one, two, three—!
The bullets hit Buckles solidly in the chest. The man collapsed.
Jay frowned in disgust. Didn’t people know when they’d been beaten?
As he looked at the dying sub-routine, he had to shake his head. Apparently not.
Still shaking his head, Jay turned his revolver on the bartender and shot him, too. The rat.
But at least it wasn’t a total loss. He knew something now he hadn’t known before.
Net Force HQ
Quantico, Virginia
Thorn looked at Jay. “Chinese? Are you sure?”
Jay, in the flesh, nodded. “Yep. I did as much backwalking as I could after the scenario, and knowing better where to look, I found some signs. He might not be Chinese, but he’s operating from there.”
Thorn shook his head. This was . . . unexpected. And in less than an hour, the head of the Chinese version of Net Force was supposed to be walking into Thorn’s office. How weird was that?
“So, what does this give us?”
“It narrows down the search pattern. I can start the Super-Cray straining access to the net from China. That’s a lot of hits, and disguised, I’m sure, but it’s a place to start. I can also start checking around. If the attacker is Chinese, he sure didn’t get that good over there, so he must have studied in Europe or the States. I can run sieves on that.”
Thorn nodded. “Good. Go for it.”
“When is the CyberNation guy getting here?”
“This afternoon, right after lunch. And guess who else is scheduled for a meeting an hour from now—Chang.”
“Huh. There’s a coincidence.” Jay paused. “He could help. He’s got ways of getting in and out of Chinese systems we’d have to go the long way to reach. Maybe I could talk to him?”
“I’ll let you know when he arrives.”
“Thanks, Boss.”
“Keep at it, Jay. I have every confidence in you.”
Jay grinned. “I wish I did. This one is a bear.”
“And you’ll hang around for Seurat later?”
“Yeah. If I have to.”
After Jay was gone, Thorn decided he didn’t have enough time to eat and go work out before Chang arrived. Well, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have a boatload of e-paperwork that needed attention. He’d simply have lunch at his desk. The Republic had more than one computer problem nipping at its heels, and just because overall control of Net Force had been shifted didn’t mean any of those things had gone away. . . .
11
The Garden of Perpetual Bliss
Daytime in the Garden of Perpetual Bliss was usually sunny and seventy-two degrees. It would rain now and again, sometimes a mild drizzle, sometimes a windy storm—but never too windy—and always warm enough to sit in without getting cold. Enough rain fell to keep the lush foliage nourished and vibrant, all the myriad shades of green, all the colorful flowers. Bees buzzed, but never stung. Butterflies danced and flitted by.
Here, a group of Hindus wearing orange robes sat in full lotus, meditating, connecting with the essence of Vishnu, Brahma, and Shiva. Next to them, in the shade of a giant baobab tree, a dozen Buddhists kneeled in seiza, counting their breaths and seeking no-mind.
A short way down the path, Christians and Jews and the followers of Mohammed sat in a large circle, exchanging prayers and smiles.
In the Garden, too, were those who thought every rock had a soul, that all wisdom came from their ancestors, that the Sun was the ruler of all it touched. And there were others who had no gods at all, but only their common humanity.
In the Garden, there was no dissent, no jealousy, no hatred. All who came here became one of the family of men, and no man’s hand was ever raised against another in anger. People dressed as they wished, or went nude.
Sometimes music drifted over the Garden, and such was its nature that the sounds each person heard on those occasions were suited to their personal tastes: Here, it was a raga, there a fugue, and past that, delta blues. People sang or danced or sat quietly and listened, and no one resented another’s manner of expression.
Fruit grew on the trees—apples, bananas, pears, coconuts, plums, oranges, every kind a hungry soul might desire was there somewhere. Vegetables, too, and nuts, and all manner of beasts—fish and fowl, even red meat—were available, if that was one’s wont.
One could come to the Garden to do, or just to be. It was all the same, and it was all wonderful.
When the dragon came, red-scaled and breathing fire, swooping down from the clear sky, most in the Garden thought it was some new entertainment.
Until it started cooking and eating people.
The Garden of Perpetual Bliss heard its first screams of terror that day. Smelled the stink of roasted human flesh. Beheld
fear in a way that had never happened here before.
The dragon landed and stalked, crushing all before him, pausing to bite off a head here, a leg there, hissing with a sound that stirred neck hairs in atavistic panic. The people had no way to stop it, they had no weapons, and the dragon moved through them unmolested.
Some ran. Some stood their ground and waited for their end.
And in a short time, those who did not flee were consumed. . . .
The Watergate Hotel
Washington, D.C.
“Merde!” Seurat said, shaking his head. He removed the headset and sighed, staring at his portable computer. He was in no danger here in his Washington hotel room. As those in the Garden of Bliss VR scenario had not been in any real physical danger, either. But the assault on their psyches must have been a terrible jolt.
Seurat’s anger surged, a hot flush that made him want to scream and hit somebody. CyberNation had created a paradise in that garden, a place where those who wished such a thing could go and bask in an ideal that had never happened in the real world. All men as brothers.
And someone had ruined it. Attacked and destroyed the carefully built scenario, terrifying those tuned to it. Yet another of the hacks that added cracks to the CyberNation’s foundation. Small ones, so far, but left unchecked they could grow and threaten the entire organization.
Seurat could not—he would not allow such a thing to happen. Not on his watch.
The damage to the program had been repaired, of course, quickly and easily. But the damage to the memories of those who had been in it when the incident had taken place? Not so simply fixed. According to his techs, there had been fifteen thousand people worldwide in that scenario when it was attacked. And while that number was but a drop in the bucket compared to the total membership of CyberNation, some of those people would leave and not come back. Like a small stone tossed into a pond, the stories would spread.