“You're kidding? You have a point?” Miles challenged mockingly.
“Yes, and it is this. I was elected to office in 2140 and reelected in 2144. With me so far?”
“Of course.”
“Just checking. You've been all over hell so far in this interview, babbling about popes and false presidents. Okay, in 2147, a Constitutional Amendment was passed that made me president for life. You recall that, don't you, Miles? It was in all the papers.”
Clearly irate, he said, “Yes, I recall that event.”
“Great! So you agree with me then.” Stuart pressed his palms on his chest. “I'm still alive, so I'm still president.”
“You presume too much, Mr. Marshall! I do not, in fact, agree with you. No person, be they sane or insane, agrees with you.” Miles took a few cleansing breaths to, if possible, calm himself. “Let me list a few facts that would contradict your thesis. One, yes, you were made president for life. But at the time, no one aside from yourself and a select few deviants knew you were an android. If that fact was known, the amendment would never have passed.” Stuart started to say something, but Miles raised his voice and a finger. “Not so fast, I haven't finished. Two, you were killed by both General Jackson and by the other Stuart Marshall, after he tossed you into a fusion reactor, so your claim perished with those deaths. Three, you sort of abdicated your office when you, oh, I don't know, ordered a nuclear attack on your own people, murdered Secretary Kahl along with one hundred seventy-three other innocent people, and when you kidnapped, with the intent to rape, thousands of women. What is your response to those damning facts?”
Stuart sat placidly a few seconds, then leaned toward Miles. “You know, you really should stick to decaf, son. I'm not a doctor, but I think I'm right on this one.” Stuart smiled at his cleverness, then spoke in a measured tone. “Now, before you fly off the handle yet again, let me respond to those distortions. I am a victim of a hateful campaign of misinformation that wounds not only me but the Americans I am sworn to serve.”
Miles face reflected a stunned, dumbstruck incredulity. “You're…not serious…seriously suggesting someone else is responsible for any one of those flagrant criminal acts?”
All smiles, Stuart said, “I'm suggesting nothing. I am stating unequivocally that I was not responsible for even one of those tragedies. I have unimpeachable proof, in fact, as to who the responsible party was in each of those heinous acts of terrorism.”
Miles was literally speechless. He stared at Stuart a few seconds, then looked toward someone off-screen, apparently struggling to fit Marshall's last remarks into any possible reality. Finally, Miles's producer stepped in the picture, removed the microphone from the reporter's hand, and asked, “Who, if not you, would you have us believe is responsible for the acts in question? Please recall that, in several instances, we have documented evidence that you were the instigator.”
“Ah, with whom do I have the pleasure of speaking? Mr. Cavett seems to have slipped into some form of coma, thank God.”
“My name is Carl Mansfield, senior producer for PrimeNews. Now, please answer my question.”
“Gladly, friend Carl. I am able, upon request, to turn over iron-clad proof that the perpetrator in each case, as well as many other unspeakable acts, was none other than…say, could I get a bottle of water? All this disclosing has parched my throat.”
“Someone,” began Carl, “get the man a…”
“No, wait,” Miles was back, “Stuart, please stop playing with us. Androids don't get parched throats or need bottles of water. Either finish your blatant lie of an accusation, or we're out of here.”
Stuart regarded Miles with primal contempt. Then he said, “The man responsible for the acts I have been accused of is none other than Private Jon Ryan.” Stuart put on a very stern expression. “Many of you may not already know that I busted his traitorous ass down to the lowest paygrade possible, E2, as a result of his scurrilous behavior toward Earth and her people.”
“That is both blatantly false and easily disproven,” Miles was hot. “General Ryan, in the case of your failed nuclear assault, was miles above you as you tried to enter Cheyenne Mountain, planning to escape the destruction you yourself ordered. How, you simpering fool, can you explain your way around that fact?”
“Simpering, am I?” Stuart bared his teeth, appearing quite similar to a rabid hyena. “Why, you…” He took a few deep breaths and steadied himself enough to respond with words. “Now, son, you know as well as the next person how visual records can be changed, altered, and tailored to seem to tell whatever story the guilty might wish to peddle.”
“So, you maintain General Ryan was able to doctor the worldwide records of that dark day? How is that even possible?”
“Don't you see, you silly electric turd, he used alien technology. Like the damn force field he used to attack me on that space station. With that,” Stuart snapped his fingers rapidly and made, for some reason, a popping sound with his mouth, “it was as easy as peasy.”
“No such alien technology has surfaced in the intervening years.”
“Yes! You see, you're on my side. Isn't he homicidally brilliant!”
“No. Neither I nor anyone watching is on your side of anything. If General Ryan triggered the attack, why were you heading for Cheyenne?”
“To try and keep the presidency alive, you flopping piglet! I was trying to preserve my hide.”
“But the attack only ended when he prevented you from entering the Cheyenne facility.”
“He wanted me dead! That's why he stopped me. Don't you have a functioning neuron up there in your tiny brain?” He pointed to Miles's head.
“But if he stopped you from entering so that he might assassinate you, why did he abort the attack? That makes zero sense. The missiles were about to launch, and you were defenseless. What is your tortured explanation for those inescapable truths?”
“I stopped him, that's what happened. Here's what I did. I looked that traitor straight in the eye and I said: Ryan, you ungrateful mongrel, you stop your murderous attack on my people RIGHT NOW! He responded: Or else what, you false god? I told him squarely: Or else you'll have to answer to ME. That's the reason he backed down. He knew, in the end, in his twisted mind, that I was not a man to be toyed with.” Stuart was breathing as heavily as a marathon runner at the finish line. He gasped, “Any further clarifications needed, son?”
“Just the one. Are you under competent psychiatric care?”
“What on earth are you getting at?”
“The fact that you are, and I list these in no particular order, insane, deranged, and narcissistically psychotic.”
In an instant, Stuart's breath quieted. He stared at Miles coldly, dispassionately. A decision had been made. “Miles, do you know what happened to the last man who cast such aspersions upon this son of my sainted mother?”
“Is that a threat?” Miles pointed to the camera lens. “If so, you've made it before billions of witnesses!”
“You're a stale cake, aren't you, boy? That was a question. When someone says the words do you know, they are asking a declarative question. A threat would be more alone the lines of I will do to you what I did to the last person, etcetera, etcetera. Are we clear on this, son? Grammar is the sacred glue that binds sentient minds.”
“So, for completeness, what did you do to the last person who disparaged you?”
“I thought you'd never ask!” Stuart reached into his suit coat and produced a rail gun. He pointed it at Miles's head, then looked directly into the camera. “I'd like the record to note that the man asked specifically to know what I did. A picture,” he pulled the trigger, and Miles's head exploded into a red cloud, “is worth a thousand words.” Turning to the slumped, headless body, Stuart said calmly, “That, Mr. Cavett, is what I did to the last incautious man. Well,” he glanced at his wrist, where a watch would be if he was wearing one, “the hour is getting on. I will now proceed to the Presidential-Proclamation portion of the press
conference.” He leaned close to the spasmic body, blood shooting in a geyser from the stump of neck. “That is, unless you have an objection, Miles.” Stuart aimed an ear at the corpse. “Ah, wonderful. You don't.”
Stuart reached his free hand into the other side of his coat and produced a scrap of paper. “My people, my God-fearing American people. I, as your rightful president, have a couple of proclamations to make more public than they have been.” He smiled nervously. “Man, I've got the jitters. Haven't spoken before so many adulating humans in a spell. Anyway, here goes. Proclamation One: I am still the one and only president of y'all. Two: Anyone disagreeing with any portion of Proclamation One is subject to immediate execution. Three: Private Jon Ryan is officially sentenced to death for crimes too numerous and hideous to list. This is shoot-on-sight, people. Go get him! Finally, four: I love you. I surely do. Always will and there's nothing anyone can do about that.
“So, I guess I'm done.” He looked very seriously at the camera. “I do wish to stress the inflexibility of these proclamations. Here, let's take one for a test drive, shall we?” Stuart waved to someone off camera. Two huge men held the struggling Carl Mansfield by either arm. “Mr. Mansfield, did you hear the four proclamations?”
In place of a verbal response, Carl swung a foot at Stuart, missing by a wide margin.
“I'll take that as a yes. Now, I will ask you, concerning specifically the second proclamation, do you dissent, in even the slightest manner, with Proclamation One?”
Carl spat at Stuart's face. This time his assault met its target.
“I'll take that, also, to represent an affirmative. Okay, then. The sentence of violating Pro-2,” Stuart abruptly angled his head to the audience. “I like cute abbreviations of the proclamations, don't you? Anyway, back on point, time's a wastin'. It's death.” The rail gun flew up and removed Carl's head, splattering the stalwart assistants with serious amounts of blood. As professionals, they were unmoved.
“You see, my minions,” stated a confident, serene Stuart Marshall, “simple rules for simpletons. I'll be talking with you soon.” He pointed the pistol directly at the lens. “Boo!”
SIX
“I think it's pretty obvious we have to do something to stop him—and soon,” Amanda said to her assembled cabinet. “Marshall gets more outlandishly insane daily. We cannot simply wait to react to his next stunt. We need to bag him and the person or persons responsible for reanimating him.”
“If we were lucky enough to capture him, we wouldn't necessarily need to take down his accomplices.” Secretary of Security Dave Cummings said intently. He had been a trusted, longtime advisor to Faith Clinton. Amanda was glad he agreed to serve with her. He was forthright, intelligent, and dependable. “He is always saying there can be only one of him. If we kept his android permanently detained, he'd be unlikely to allow a second to be produced.”
“Catching him will be nearly impossible. Holding him will likely be harder,” added Marsha McCormick, the Secretary of Food Resources.
“How so?” asked Amanda.
“He must have contingency plans for that possibility. His lackeys could put them in place automatically. He might have them take a massive number of hostages to exchange for his release.” She shook her head. “Whatever he'd have up his sleeve would be bad. No. I say we need to take down his entire network, or we can't risk collaring him in the first place.”
“Good point,” said Amanda, “but we've had such little luck, and so few leads. Nabbing the whole gang may be pie in the sky.”
“At minimum, we need to kill Marshall and prevent his duplication,” Heath stared at his hands on the table as he spoke. “That means, in effect, we need the technician actually doing the transfer. That's a high-level skill. In fact, there can't be too many people with sufficient knowledge to complete the process alone and in secret.”
“You have a good point, in terms of the tech being key.” That was Reginald Black, director of Intelligence and Security, the combined former FBI, ATF, and CIA. “I have to confess, that approach has never been articulated in any of our meetings. Thanks, Heath.”
Heath thumbed his handheld. “Please get us Dr. De La Frontera on the holo, Meredith.” To Amanda, he said, “Maybe he can point us in the right direction.”
“Heath,” Carlos said as he zapped onto the table, twenty centimeters tall, “how can I help?”
“I'm in a cabinet meeting. We're reworking the Marshall thing and may have a new angle. I thought you might have some useful input.”
“Of course. Glad to help. Hi, Amanda.” He waved vigorously.
“Hi, Carlos. Thanks for your help.”
“A pleasure. What can I do?”
“We were thinking,” said Heath, “that whoever is putting Marshall back into an android host must have some pretty advanced training. That individual is probably known to you, as a matter of fact. Can you think of anyone who might be able to do that without being detected?”
“Are you suggesting one of my people is responsible?” Carlos's feathers were ruffled.
“No, not at all. Maybe a former employee. Maybe a reject—someone who tried to join but didn't quite make the grade.”
“Ah,” Carlos said. “Let me think a moment.” He rubbed at his chin. Finally, he said, “There might be twenty-odd people who could fit in that category. Perhaps a few more. I'll send you a list.”
“Yes,” said Amanda, “that would be great. Anyone who tops that list of potentials?”
“There are a couple individuals who come to mind. I'll highlight their names on the list.” He angled his head slightly. “There, it should be in your inbox, Mandy.” Communications were quick for an android like Carlos.
“Computer,” she said, “please display my inbox.” She scanned the screen. “Got it! Thanks.”
“Anytime.” His tiny, transparent body vanished.
Amanda forwarded copies to everyone present. She waited thirty seconds, then asked, “Any name set off an alarm in anyone's head?”
At first, no one spoke. Then Reginald said, “I'll have my best people go over this in detail. Hopefully we can figure out who the loose cannon is and put them under surveillance.”
“Good,” Amanda said, “I feel we're making some progress, at least on that front. Any thoughts about Marshall himself?”
The room went quiet. Finally, Heath spoke. “I recall something about placing a backdoor program in all the androids.”
“What kind of program?” asked Reginald.
“One that could deactivate any android remotely.”
“I've never heard of such an option.” Reginald sounded upset.
“Neither have I,” said Amanda, with even more edge to her voice.
“Yeah, well,” said Heath, “I have. Sorry. I'm not in charge of distributing highly classified information.”
“Let me confirm that with Carlos.” Amanda tapped rapidly on a keyboard. A few seconds later, she said, “Yes, such a deactivating program does, in fact, exist. De Jesus put it in all the androids, except the ones used by the astronauts. He felt decorum demanded it not be included in theirs. His and De Jesus's were also exempted. It was all kept a tight secret.” She raised her head to address Heath. “How did you find out?”
Heath needed to make it clear he hadn't done anything inappropriate. “Ah, you might have noticed my last name. Ryan? The astronaut is a relative of mine. He mentioned it to me a while back.”
“Hmm,” was all Amanda said.
“How would you employ this program, Heath?” Reginald asked.
“Ah, let's you and me talk about that later, okay?”
“You two stay,” Amanda said crisply. She indicated Heath and Reginald. “The rest of you can go. Thanks.”
SEVEN
“Otollar the Incompetent,” Omendir said acidly, “left two ships out of the attack for surveillance purposes. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” responded the Commander of Communications, Owilla. Everyone around Omendir was nervous, but Ow
illa was especially so. He brought unsettling news. Omendir was explosively violent and completely amoral. It was a bad combination for bearers of bad news.
“And they've maintained constant communication with us since their departure, all these cycles?”
“Yes, Master. As you said.”
“Very well,” Omendir said, looking out his window, bored already with the audience. It was also unwise to bore the current Warrior One. “What have you to report? Ozalec,” he said to his second, “send for some food.”
“Ah,” Owilla said weakly, “I am not hungry, Master. There is no need on my account.”
“Silence, soft head!” he boomed. “I was not planning to include you, unless of course, you're volunteering to be the meal.”
“No… I mean, that was not my…”
“Silence!” Owilla shook like sand pounded by high-waves. Omendir was pleased to see that. “Proceed with your report.”
“Lord! The senior vessel, Gumnolar Questions, reports they have observed the construction of thousands of gigantic colony ships above planet Earth.”
“If I die of suspense,” responded Omendir, “I'm taking you with me, guppy.”
“Earth has been, or rather was, destroyed one thousand cycles ago.”
“The entire planet? Destroyed? How is such a feat possible?”
“The largest planet in that solar system left its normal orbit and collided with Earth. Colony ships, laden with survivors, departed for parts unknown.”
“You see,” exclaimed Ozalec, “Gumnolar is with us! Praise his glory, he has smitten the tainted world.”
“Hmm,” remarked Omendir dubiously, “so it would seem. How many humans escaped?”
The Forever Fight: The Forever Series Book 3 Page 4