Seen through my goggles, they had an orange, spectral appearance.
“I have to tell you, Art,” said McCarver, “you’ve really been a problem.”
Hassan’s meaty hand settled on my arm. Nothing rough, but he was letting me know I wasn’t going anyplace without permission. “I hope they toss you in jail,” he said.
“You’ve seen the pictures?” I asked McCarver.
“I’ve seen them.” He was staring straight ahead, his goggles a bit too big for his head. It might have been comic except the anger showed, and it was hard not to take McCarver seriously when he got irritated. “There’s nothing in them we haven’t been looking at for years. What do you think? We’ve been here all this time with our heads in the sand? You think we don’t care? You’ve no idea how many reports I’ve filed over the years. Or Huang. Or Packard.” His predecessors. Packard went way back to the beginning.
“You filed reports, Paul, and what did the Third Floor say?”
“You know damned well what they said.”
“And you accepted it.”
“I had no choice, Art. You should know that.”
“You did have a choice.”
It was more than the director could stomach. We’d been walking, but with that we stopped dead and he turned to face me. “Look, Kaminsky, who in hell do you think you are? You breeze in here from some school back home, never been anywhere, never did anything, shouldn’t have been here in the first place—.”
Hassan nudged him. Several Noks had stopped and were staring in our direction. “They see us,” he whispered.
We turned our backs on them to hide the goggles, so whatever they thought they saw vanished. McCarver made a rumbling sound deep in his throat, and some of the passersby caught that too. He pointed at me and mouthed the words, Bring him, and strode ahead.
We got across the street, where it wasn’t so crowded. I was still being half-hauled by Hassan. I tried to free myself, but he only tightened his grip. “Don’t even think about it,” he said softly, his tone full of menace.
“You going to send me home, Paul?”
Without turning. “Yes. Charges have been drawn up. Don’t make it worse.”
A young Nok, maybe four or five, broke free of parental restraints and bounced off McCarver. The child screamed in surprise, and the director almost fell into the street trying to get out of the way. “I hate these things,” he said. Apparently meaning the lightbenders.
It was a gray, oppressive day. Threatening rain. “You ever see Pierik?” I asked.
“No. Not in person.”
“He’s a maniac.”
“Come on, Art. Give it a rest. He’s not our problem.”
“Whose problem is he?”
We stopped to let a couple of Noks pass. “Look, Art, if it makes you any happier, they’re pulling me back, too.”
“You? Why?”
“Are you serious? Because Hutchins sees I can’t keep my own house in order. I’m being reassigned.”
“I’m sorry, Paul.”
“Thanks. That helps.”
We reached another intersection. A military convoy was approaching. Soldiers loaded into the backs of small trucks. It looked like scenes I’d seen in VR dramas about wartime back home. In the days when they had wars. Except of course the soldiers looked like nothing human.
“I’ll tell them you had nothing to do with it,” I said.
“They already know that. It’s irrelevant.” Those intense dark eyes locked on me, seething.
I watched the soldiers go past. The convoy was followed by a government car and another truck. There were no private vehicles anywhere.
I regretted what had happened to McCarver’s career. I don’t know why. But I did. Even though he’d stood by. That’s how I’ve always thought of him. He and everybody else at that place over a forty-year span. The people who stood by. Did nothing. In his own way, the director was worse than the Beloved Leader. “You know,” I told him, “you are one sorry son of a bitch.”
I thought for a minute he was going to swing on me. “I hope they put you where you belong,” he growled.
And I decided I’d had enough.
I reached around and switched off Hassan’s lightbender.
Suddenly, passersby were gawking at us. Some screamed, some simply ran for their lives. A couple of terrified kids scrambled into parental arms.
Hassan did not at first understand what had happened. But he saw the panic around him, and someone in uniform aiming a rifle at him. Next thing I knew I was free. And running.
I got as far from the turmoil as I could.
McCarver’s voice came over the commlink. “Art, what do you think you’re doing?”
And: “Art, this isn’t going to help. Get back here.”
“Art, answer up. You okay?”
I kept going. Down a couple more blocks, past the Department of Piety, across a square, and finally sat down behind a tree.
I was getting my breath when I heard klaxons. Noks began to scatter. They hurried into a couple of government buildings. I thought it was connected to Hassan until I saw movement in the sky. Dirigibles.
The buildings were marked with flags. An ‘X’ inside a circle. Air raid shelter.
There were three airships. And a fourth one just coming out from behind a rooftop. I heard the boom of anti-aircraft guns. Noks with rifles appeared and began to blaze away, although the airships were hopelessly out of range.
So much for the theory that only soft outlying targets got hit.
I couldn’t very well crowd into a shelter. And with the streets empty, my chances of getting spotted by McCarver and Hassan rose considerably. Best, I decided, was to sit where I was. Behind the tree.
The dirigibles stayed high, out of range of the guns. I expected to see some sort of defensive squadron appear. But it didn’t happen. What did happen was that bombs rained down. They fell heavily in the government district, which is to say, where I was. They blasted buildings and blew dirt, wood, bricks, and Noks into the air. I turned on the imager and recorded it. Got the explosions, the screams of casualties, the sirens, everything.
As far as I knew, this was the first time they’d hit the capital. Happens on the day I show up. I called Cathie in the middle of it and put the question to her. “Yes,” she said. “That’s right. At least, the record shows it’s the first time Roka’s been attacked in twelve years. Apparently they do occasionally bomb major targets. I guess they figure they can do a surprise run and get clear. Are you going to get through this okay?”
“I hope.” A bomb hit maybe fifty meters away. Deafened me. Covered me with dirt. But nobody got hurt. “Close one.”
“My God, Art. Get out of there.”
“Nowhere to go, Cath.” I was scared and felt good at the same time. Don’t ask me to explain it. “I had a visit earlier today from McCarver.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“How about him?”
“Don’t know.”
“You’re not coming back with him?”
“You could say that.”
I could hear voices in her background. They sounded excited. “From here it looks as if they’re raising hell. We count nine bombers.”
“I can see four of them.”
“Where is he now? Paul?”
“A few blocks away, I hope. With Hassan.”
“He let you go?”
“Not exactly.”
“Okay, tell me later. Go hide somewhere.”
When it was over, I watched emergency vehicles charging through the streets. Several buildings along the perimeter of the park had been hit. They were carrying victims out into the street. Some were dead. Others were packed into ambulances and taken off.
When I’d had all I could stand, I called George in and climbed into the lander. “Lot of excitement out there,” he said.
“They bombed the city.”
“I know. Everybody’s favorite dictator probably made
it through.”
“I’m sure. He’s got a rally tonight. He’ll use that to tell everyone it’ll be a long haul, but they’ll come through victorious.”
He was silent. Then: “You’re out of rations.”
“I know. We’ll be going back tonight.”
“You’re going to turn yourself in?”
“I’m not sure I see an alternative.”
“Then why not go back now? You must be pretty hungry.”
“I’ve something to do first.”
“What’s that?”
“I want to make a permanent impression on the Beloved Leader.”
He hesitated. “How are you going to do that?”
“You’re going to help. I’ll need the lander’s commlink.”
“What for?”
“Does it have a power supply of its own?”
“No.”
“Can we equip it so that it will?”
“I’m not much on improvising.”
“Can it be done? Do we have a power supply available?”
“We have power cells, yes. Where did you want to put it?”
“In Pierik’s quarters. And I’ll need some duct tape.”
I called Cathie. “Can you talk?”
“Sure,” she said. “It’s the middle of the night, but I’m not really doing anything.”
“Oh.” It was easy to forget something like that when, where I was, the sun was shining. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay. What do you need?”
“I’m going back to Sunset House.”
“Paul will be furious.”
“He’s already pretty unhappy.”
“Why?”
“I guess because I’m not taking direction well.”
“I mean why are you going back? You should stay out of that place. What happens if you get caught?”
“I’m going to plant a commlink.”
“What’s the point?”
“After Paul and Hassan haul me away, maybe somebody will listen to what goes on and eventually decide to put a stop to it.”
“Okay,” she said. “You’re going to do what you want regardless of what anybody says. I think it’s crazy, though.”
I think I wanted to hear her try harder to talk me out of it. But she said nothing. “We’ll be able to talk to him, too, if we want. Make him feel haunted.”
8.
The rally was to be held outdoors in a concrete square festooned with flags and bunting. Banners displaying the dictator’s spruce tree were everywhere. The audience was herded in about an hour after sunset. While they waited, they were treated to music by a military band. Nok auditory sensibilities are different from those of a human. People listen to Nok music and hear only a lot of jangling and banging, with abrupt halts and starts. It was one more reason to smile condescendingly at the Noks. I didn’t know the details—still don’t—, but I was aware the range of sounds they heard was different from ours. Higher pitch or something.
A stage had been erected, lights brought in, and flower petals handed out to young females. An honor guard lined a walkway leading from a parking area to the stage. Eventually, three black military vehicles arrived. The band switched to a different piece of music and got louder. Aides jumped out of the cars. One opened a door for the Beloved Leader, and the others formed an escort. Pierik stepped out onto a gravel walkway, waved to onlookers, and mounted the stage to raucous applause. (Noks don’t clap, but they do a lot of yelling.)
There was no introduction. He simply walked out onto the stage and took his place behind a microphone. The applause intensified. He raised one hand and they fell silent.
Before saying anything, Pierik seemed to recognize someone in the audience. “Hello, Kagalon,” he said, covering the microphone but raising his voice to be heard. “How are you doing?”
Kagalon waved back, said something I couldn’t make out. The friendly dictator. The crowd loved it. They cheered, and Kagalon, who looked pretty much like everybody else out there that evening, held up his hand.
Pierik adjusted the microphone, signaled he was about to speak, and the crowd quieted. “Kaburrati,” he said, using the term which his people applied to themselves. People of Kaburra. “Hello, my friends,” he said.
And they roared back, “Hello, Kabah!”
More applause.
He laughed and waved them again to silence. “Thank you. I love to come here where I can be among my brothers and sisters.”
They cheered again. It went on like that for about ten minutes. I’ve never heard such enthusiasm in an audience. And I wondered, did I have it wrong somehow? The sentiment seemed genuine. The crowd loved him.
The energy built and crackled around the stage like electricity. He told jokes, he brought news from the war zones, he delivered reassurance. “These are hard times,” he said, “but together we will get through them.”
Somebody came out and presented him with an award. More cheering. I was struck by Pierik’s platform skills. In front of his audience, he was all showbiz.
“And now,” he said, “I know you didn’t come here to see me. Let’s bring out the troops.”
The lights blinked a few times and went off. The square was plunged into darkness, except for a flickering in back. It was a troop of Nok soldiers, shirtless for the occasion. They entered and came up the center aisle, carrying torches. They’d poured something on their upper bodies so they glistened. Pierik saluted them and they kept coming. The audience went crazy cheering and yelling. Fireworks exploded overhead. The band started to thump and bang.
The soldiers stopped when they got to the front, where they paused, looking up at their leader. Then, in perfect synchronization, they lifted their torches to him.
When they’d gone, and the lights were back on, Pierik looked out across his audience. “I’ve one more thing to say to you. You’re aware that our treacherous enemy bombed us today. Killed some of us. Maimed others.” He paused, fighting down his emotions. “I want you to be aware that our forces have already responded to the attack. We have carried the war deep into the Agani homeland. We have imposed heavy losses, and we are still striking them even while I speak. In your name, my brothers and sisters, we have taken a terrible vengeance.” The audience was absolutely silent. “Soon,” he said, “we will end this war, and we will travel together through the sunlit forests into a far better world than we have ever known.”
I was literally shocked by the show of support he was getting. The guy was extremely good. And even I, who knew the truth about the way the war was being waged, found it hard not to like him.
Suddenly everything I’d done against him, painting attacks on the wall of Sunset house, clipping ears off statues, the radio broadcasts, everything seemed hopelessly childish. I was trying to hold back a flood with a bucket.
The laser waited in my pocket. I could feel its weight. And I wondered what would happen if I killed the dictator? Took him out on stage in full view of the crowd?
The answer: Probably nothing. There’d be a brief power struggle, and another nutcase would emerge.
No. Better to wait.
I moved past the guards and eased out onto the stage. The noise was deafening. And, hard as it was to read the nonverbal cues of a Nok, it was obvious the Leader was enjoying himself.
Pierik went on, talking about peace and the malefactors who stood in the way of progress. The audience response shook the night. Some of the shirtless troopers, now correctly attired, had returned to the sidelines and joined the applause.
I recorded everything, but I decided I’d keep these for myself. To McCarver, they’d just underscore his argument that the Noks were not worth saving. That they were savages, and there was no hope for them.
I stood within two paces of the Leader. How easy it would be to reach out and push him from the stage, send him hurtling into the arms of the crowd. Instead, I waited for a quiet moment, when his audience stood expectantly, and Pierik was letting the tension build. When it came, he had ju
st finished assuring them that he would accept nothing less than total surrender from the enemy, and furthermore…
What the furthermore was to have been, neither the crowd nor I ever found out. Because I moved in right behind the dictators left ear, and said, quietly, “Pierik, I will always be with you.”
He froze. His eyes tracked left, and he made a grab. But I was already out of reach.
“No matter where you go,” I said, “I will be at your side.”
He backed away from the microphone. Stumbled and almost went down. I’d kept my voice down, not much more than a whisper, because I didn’t want the crowd to hear. But the audience knew something was wrong. A sound very much like the murmur of a late summer wind rose out of several thousand throats.
“Always,” I said.
I got back to Sunset House before the dictator and his entourage. I’d hoped to get into Pierik’s quarters, maybe follow the maid in, or get in when somebody came to throw some logs onto the fire. Be waiting there when he showed up. Security at the front door was loose and I got into the building easily enough. But no maid appeared, nor anyone else, and the guards never looked away. I might have tried a distraction, but it seemed too risky. So I simply bided my time. I told Cathie where I was and she took a deep breath.
The dictator and his crew arrived more than three hours after I’d got there. They were showing the effects of intoxicants. They came laughing and staggering into the lobby. Even Pierik seemed to have had a bit too much. In this respect also he seemed unlike the more modern human strongmen, who inevitably were puritanical and solemn. Nobody could imagine Napoleon having a big time. Or Hitler and Stalin getting together to yuk it up after signing the Nonaggression Pact.
But Pierik was as loud as the rest of them while they stumbled across the ground floor toward the elevators. There was much clasping of shoulders, and somebody fell down, which initiated some laughter. The elevator was open and waiting. They got in and rode up to the top level.
Meantime an attendant appeared from nowhere, unlocked the suite, opened the door, and stood by, holding it. At last! I slipped past him into the office.
Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt Page 42