Flash

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  People left smiling. I slipped out with the crowd. There was no way I wanted to stay around. Unlike most of those who had come, I left in a somber mood. I suspected that was because I'd seen more than they had, even if we'd been in the same place.

  I drove back to the West Tejas Inn, where I parked the Altus and made my way to my room. I might have been hungry, except that I was worried. I didn't think I'd had many illusions about the job, even from the beginning. I'd thought of myself as cynical, but the totally professional aspects of the Carlisimo campaign left me feeling naive. I'd also noted that at no time in the rally had Clerihew been mentioned.

  There, in the West Tejas Inn, sitting on the edge of the tired, wide bed, I began to read the background information on one Juan Carlisimo. Born in 2098 in Epaso. Education at Amherst, law degree from Boldt. Clerked for the honorable Estafen Adrusi, then served as a common defense advocate for the West Tejas district. Private advocate in Epaso for the past five years, since 2135. Married to Ciara Clurinelli, two children.

  More than a few questions crossed my mind. Who was really paying for the campaign? How had such a comparatively young private advocate come up with the team and the technology to put together such a sophisticated approach? And all those volunteers? Who had induced the Centre to hire me? What was their goal? Those were the interesting questions, but no one was paying me to investigate those. The Centre had hired me to make a report on just how prodplacing was being used, and how effective it might be. The first part was going to be easy enough to document, but not the second part, because there was no real way to set a baseline against which the entire campaign's effectiveness could be measured, let alone the isolated effectiveness of the prodplacing techniques.

  Any scholar at the Centre would know that, which led to more interesting questions.

  I had a job to do. If I could find answers to the interesting questions, I would, but I still needed the consulting fees—and that meant delivering the report to the Centre. I went back to studying the background material. After that, I'd input my notes on the rally.

  Chapter 17

  The stocky lieutenant walked up to the main control center of Central Four. Her square face was impassive under dark black hair, short-cut.

  Central Four noted her exterior control masked internal anger.

  "Security screen," ordered Lieutenant Meara.

  Central Four complied. "Double star class screen in place, sir."

  "We have a problem. These cydroids ... what are the probabilities of origin?"

  "Forty-eight percent probability of MultiCor origin, subprobability of origin within MultiCor exceeds eighty percent for SPD creation. Twenty-one percent probability of origin from PAMD-related sources. Fourteen percent probability of Sinese origin—"

  "That's enough." Meara pushed back hair that was too short to stay off her forehead. "What are the probabilities that deVrai's innocent of collaboration?"

  "The probability of innocence is infinitely close to unity."

  "That's as close as you'll ever get to saying the sun would freeze over before he'd be found guilty. But we don't have any evidence."

  "At the present time, there is evidence that would confirm innocence. None of that can be offered under Privacy Act restrictions."

  "If it could be, ISS would know it within minutes."

  "That is also highly probable."

  "Wouldn't put it past them to kill him before it's all over."

  "That probability exceeds fifty percent."

  "Love to get Deng and his ascendent friends. They think their background protects them. Best of the cendies are tops, the worst worse than Kemal and the westside trupps ... or even the northsiders."

  "Ascendent background does reduce the probability of successful prosecution."

  "Don't think I don't know it."

  Central Four did not comment.

  There was a long silence before the lieutenant spoke again. "Central Four. Priority assignment. Develop a strategy that will reveal all hidden MultiCor illegalities in a fashion that will allow prosecution under existing law. This strategy must be implemented only by Central Four and me. It must be absolutely legal, from the point of view and legal standing of the Denv Safety Office, and it must not result in the death of any innocent persons. It must also not be revealed to anyone except me, or in the event of my death, Captain Garos, or his designated successor. Nor may you reveal to anyone except me any information that might reveal the existence of that strategy." Meara waited. "Is that clear?"

  "Yes. Strategy development is proceeding."

  "If you can do it, without compromising the strategy, see if you can protect deVrai. His kind's too rare to lose without a fight." Meara frowned. "Too bad he didn't stay in the Marines, but he had the guts to say why publicly. Can't believe he's still alive after that."

  "The probability exceeds eighty percent that his death would have confirmed his charges for the majority of the opinion-forming adults in NorAm."

  "They got him out, and the fact that he's still alive confirms that he wasn't mistaken. Hell of a world, Central Four." Meara snorted. "Go to it. Go get 'em."

  Go get 'em. The enabling command was still subject to the conditions laid out by the lieutenant, but it was an enabling command.

  "Command received, and strategy proceeding."

  Meara smiled. "Good. Remove security screen."

  The humming died away as the lieutenant left the still-secure area.

  Chapter 18

  The Pecos rally on Wednesday was almost the same as the one in Monahans, and so was the one on Thursday in Fabens, another small town about fifty kays south of Epaso. Carlisimo used the same approach in each place, but not exactly same words, and the local images were different. So were a few of the songs, but not the ones in the first part of the rally, the political ones. By the third time I was familiar enough with the structure that I could pick out people murmuring and identifying their local images, talking about "Roberto's place" and "where Don worked."

  There was a bigger rally scheduled for Friday night in Epaso, and I wanted to see how that was handled, and if the Carlisimo campaign used the same setup, just larger, or if there would be other add-ons.

  I left Fabens in mid-morning on Friday, after spending two hours on material input and then sending it all back to my own gatekeeper and system. I'd sent a lot, too much, but I didn't yet know, not for certain, what was garbage and what was substance.

  Each rally had left me more uneasy than the one before, and I had the commando gloves tucked into the hidden pockets in my waistcoat and the sections of the slingshot in the insets in my boots. The darts were in my shirt pocket, looking like styli. I might not ever need them, but the years in the Marines had taught me never to ignore my instincts, even if I couldn't figure out the reasons behind the feelings. Shioban had said that my intuition was the only communication between my feelings and my mind and thoughts, and ... maybe ... in some ways, she'd been right.

  The Altus I'd rented to follow Carlisimo smelled of red dust, overheated composite, synthweed, and cheap perfume. None were exactly my favorite scents, and they'd become even less favored over three days.

  After pulling away from the hotel in Fabens, I eased the groundcar onto the guideway to Epaso. With the low mountains to the northeast, I arrowed northwest through drylands. The Rio Grande was on the other side, far enough away that I couldn't see it.

  Epaso had once been a far larger city in the last days of the Commonocracy because it had been a port of entry between the Mexican republic and the USA. It also had hosted more than a few military bases. With the Collapse and the NorAm unification, those functions had vanished, and with it, a good half of the city's economy and population. That still left the place a fair-sized city, with a handful of truly ascendent-level hotels. I didn't choose one of those, but a more modest establishment, the Tejas Grande, less than two kays from the River Plaza where the Carlisimo rally was scheduled.

  I'd been in Epaso more than a few
times over the years, and had no great desire to explore. Instead, I checked into my room and went back to work on the draft of my report to the Centre, stopping only for a late lunch around three in an establishment called Casa Maria off the lobby. The food was passable, if not nearly so good as the fried steak at Josett's. Then I worked until nearly six-fifteen.

  Most of the time was devoted to two aspects of the report: first, refining the reconciliations of the comparative demographic data, and second, trying to analyze the choice of prodplaced items used as rally props. I'd checked the spots used on worldlink, and they were subtly different. Even the ones that purported to be holos of actual rallies had more West Tejas "generic" images, without as many of the targeted local appeals I'd seen. Although the background shots included enough images from a rally town to mark it as "that" rally, other images were also included, presumably from other towns in the West Tejas district where Carlisimo had held his rallies.

  Although my personal questions about why the Centre wanted my report kept coming into mind, I forced my thoughts away from them. I could ponder those after I delivered and had gotten paid. Those kinds of questions had led to my departure from the Marines, and so far as I could tell after I'd raised them, no one else had wanted to deal with them. So ... what was the point?

  Even at six-twenty, when I eased the Altus out of the carpark at the Tejas Grande and headed down the back streets to the River Plaza, the temperature was hovering just at forty, hot and dry enough that heat waves rose off every surface. The carpark at the Plaza already held close to two hundred vehicles, more than enough to make it clear that Carlisimo's appeal—or that of his road show—wasn't limited to small West Tejas towns.

  The volunteers in the blue singlesuits were inside the big lobby, their varistrips flashing messages, handing out the pasteboards on Carlisimo. None of them looked familiar, although I couldn't say that some of them might not have been at earlier rallies.

  I didn't quite get to the volunteers when three big men—not quite so tall as me but with far more overt muscle—dressed in form-fitting black, appeared. Two of the guards were what I'd call local muscle, the kind I could still have handled, but the one in the middle wasn't local at all. He was a cydroid, and that meant even more credits behind Carlisimo, if his security operations were able to afford that.

  "Who are you, sir?" That was the cydroid.

  "Jonat deVrai. I'm a prodder consultant." I smiled pleasantly. They wouldn't cause trouble in public, not in the lobby, but they might turn me away.

  There was that lag—so infinitesimal that most people wouldn't notice—while the cydroid operator behind the shunt, probably somewhere in the upper reaches of the hall, checked something. "What's that?"

  "I do economic consulting for consumer goods producers."

  "You've been at three rallies so far."

  "That's right. Tonight will be the last. I wanted to see a big rally."

  Again, there was the lag. Then he nodded, and the three stepped back, and I smiled politely and made my way into the hall, a cavernous space that could easily have held three thousand people. The seats were pseudo-plush, and the stage could have handled anything from a rezrock concert to an old-style grand opera, not that many of those were produced outside of a handful of the larger plexes. The stage was set up in the same layout as it had been at Monahans, Pecos, and Fabens, except that there were more speakers and rez-projectors, and the shimmer-screen for the holo projections was larger.

  Everyone decided to arrive at about the same time as I had because the seats filled up quickly until, at ten to seven, almost every seat was taken. I still wasn't certain how many were there to hear and see the free rezrock concert and how many had come to see Juan Carlisimo.

  The program pattern was the same as in the other Carlisimo rallies, but there were subtle, and significant, differences. Carlisimo delivered some of what he said in fluent Hispan, and his Anglo wasn't nearly so folksy. The rezrock was much more Latino, so much that I wouldn't even have called it rezrock, but something more of a cross between old Latino dance rhythms, mariachi, salsita, and what they were now calling veha. The audience was also more vocal, with cheers, and clapping, sometimes in time to the music, sometimes not. The rezchord cues were different, and they didn't affect me as much, but I suspected the prodplacing rezchords were offs on what went on the Latino-slanted nets.

  As the rally neared the end, I realized something that I'd noted earlier, but it really hit. Carlisimo had never mentioned his opponent. There had not been even one indirect reference to Clerihew in any of the four rallies. Not a single one. In that sense, he was definitely running a positive campaign, and that bothered me as well.

  I eased toward the exit, staying with the tail end of the crowd, but letting those in a rush leave before I did. I wasn't in that much of a hurry, not when my return maglev didn't depart until eight the next morning.

  "Dr. deVrai?"

  At the sound of my name, I turned. I didn't like the use of that title at all.

  A young woman hurried toward me from the stage where Carlisimo and RezRedders had been. She was blonde, lithe, well put-together, and offered a broad smile. I wanted to avoid her. Instead, I stopped and returned the smile.

  "Yes?"

  "Mitch Zerak wondered if you had a moment."

  "Mitch Zerak?" I didn't have to pretend. I had no idea who Zerak was, and if I should be impressed or insulted.

  "Oh ... he's the held manager for the campaign. I thought you might know."

  I shook my head. "I wasn't following the campaign as a campaign. I was more interested in the use of music and rez to get a message across." That was absolutely true.

  "He'd still like to see you."

  "Fine. I'd be happy to oblige him." I followed her onto the stage, past the shimmerscreen and through the left wing, and then into a lounge— the standard green room, I imagined.

  A single man waited there. "Thank you, Risa."

  Risa nodded, stepping back and closing the door.

  Zerak was dark and intense, only about 170 centimeters, with unruly black hair and hard brown eyes. "How did you like the rally, Dr. deVrai?"

  "I was very impressed."

  "Personally? Or professionally?"

  I shrugged and grinned. "Both, but especially professionally."

  "You are the former Lieutenant Colonel Jonat Charls deVrai?"

  "I don't know of another."

  Zerak nodded. "I couldn't believe it when Moshe reported it. What brings you to West Tejas?"

  I saw no reason to dissemble. "Research for a project. I'd run across one of the link-records of your candidate's appearances, and it looked like you'd discovered a way to incorporate prodplacing in a campaign. That's my specialty, and I wanted to see how it worked in person."

  Zerak laughed. The sound wasn't totally pleasant; it had an edge behind it. "How does it work, in your professional judgment?"

  "I don't see how it could be done better, not without violating the rezchord copyright provisions."

  That surprised him, because he paused. "I thought your background was numbers and economics."

  "It is, but I've picked up some about the legal angles. You have to know that, or you'll recommend something stupid to a client."

  "Can I ask if you have a client... if that's the reason why you're here?"

  That I had a client was obvious. No one would go to four rallies in West Tejas in the early fall heat without a client. "You can ask. Yes, I have a client. No, they haven't given permission for me to reveal their identity."

  "I suppose not. Can I ask if your client is ... politically connected?"

  I laughed, gently. "Everyone is politically connected in one way or another. I don't think my client would mind my revealing that they're not in the active or supportive practice of politics."

  That got a frown. "Why ... then ...?"

  "I told you. I picked up some use of techniques. Rezchords can't be copied, but techniques can be studied."

  "Y
ou said this was your last rally?"

  "It is."

  Abruptly, Zerak smiled. "Thank you. I appreciate your clearing that up for us." He stepped toward the door and opened it, standing back. "Risa?"

  I trusted the man even less when he was smiling.

  The lithe and blonde Risa reappeared. "Yes, sir?"

  "If you'd escort Dr. deVrai...?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Have a good trip back to Denv."

  "Thank you." They'd clearly run my dossier. But I smiled and then turned to accompany my escort.

  I waited until we'd gone a few meters, before asking, "You're paid staff?"

  "Oh no, sir. Only a handful of people are paid. I'm a student at Cruces, a junior in political economy. Professor Alfaro got some of the honors students campaign internships."

  "I saw quite a number of volunteers."

  "Yes, sir. Quite a few come from other organizations in West Tejas."

  "Civics groups, garden clubs?" I caught sight of the three security types. They were watching as Risa escorted me out of the auditorium and through the empty lobby toward the doors leading out to the carpark.

  "Yes, sir." She stopped at the doors. "Have a good evening, sir."

  "Thank you." I smiled, then stepped out through the doors, back into the dry heat of a West Tejas evening, except that the sun hadn't quite set, hanging low in the west.

  I scanned the carpark, but didn't see anyone except a few elderly couples still making their way to various vehicles. That didn't mean someone wasn't watching or trailing me. In fact, I had no doubts that the security types were still monitoring me. I just hoped I hadn't been tagged, but it was likely I had been. I hadn't thought to bring a disabler so there wasn't too much I could do.

  Zerak's smile had been the tip-off. I'd seen that expression too often, even if it had been years earlier. Someone would be waiting somewhere. They knew enough not to hit me as I walked out. That was a bit too obvious. So was my hotel room, with the possibility of too much microsurveillance. That left the hotel carpark, either that evening or in the morning, or somewhere on the road.