She reminded herself that she had to get with Shawna Nightingale and discuss the widely dispersed, almost unsupervised research programs.
Some were relatively innocuous, such as the many nonlethal weapons they had come up with. Some were deeply disturbing to Edens, and had been suspended or closely scrutinized; most of these had come from the fertile and immature minds of children and teenagers, for whom death and immorality were often just abstract concepts. Things like artificial intelligences to control robot weapons, to do the killing that Edens couldn’t; use of artillery-sown mines, pushing the killing into merely ‘possible’ and ‘potential’; chips in Eden soldiers’ brains that would override their consciences; recruiting uninfected humans to trigger smart weapons, or to authorize automatic killing systems.
Each of these ideas made her guts roil. It seemed like bolstering the consciences of mankind had just spurred greater ingenuities to perform secondhand evil. Not for the first time she wondered if the evils in humanity were stubbornly immune to external force like the Eden Plague. She considered it part of her duty to moderate the Chairman’s Pollyannaish vision when she could. Still, a leader with a virtuous vision was a precious thing…as long as she could keep him grounded.
Cassandra dragged her mind back to the present, right now a discussion of the Chairman’s meeting proposal.
Rick asked, “Do you really think they will agree?”
“Publicly or privately?”
“Either one.”
Millicent Johnstone, the Chairman’s personal assistant and often his political sounding board, frowned in concentration. “I think they will want to meet clandestinely, perhaps send an undersecretary from State first.”
“But Defense makes the real decisions,” Rick objected.
“They will have a commissar along, but the public face will still be State.”
Markis stirred from his silent listening. “I’m not going to meet with some undersecretary. It has to be the Secretary himself, or someone at a higher level – SecDef, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, one of the Vice Presidents.”
“So if we can’t get someone that high, you don’t go. We send a Council member and work our way up,” Cassandra said.
DJ stood up, pacing. “I want a bold stroke. Things are settling in to this ugly stalemate. We have to break it all open or we’ll have another fifty years of cold war. Millions of people are dying in the Big Three of stupid, curable diseases every year. Thousands of their own citizens who contract the Eden Plague are sent to concentrations camps to be ‘interned’ and worked to death. Millions of FC citizens have been murdered by Big Three nuclear weapons. The Union of Neutral States plays both sides against the middle and is getting richer than either by exploiting their own Edens for the benefit of their uninfected ruling classes.”
“Maybe that’s the lesser of the evils, sir,” Rick broke in. “If we can settle the use of nuclear weapons completely – if the Concord holds and the world can get used to not using nuclear weapons again – then eventually the Big Three will crumble. And eventually we will make the EP into an airborne virus, a truly virulent strain, and there will be nowhere to hide. Sir, we really don’t have to hurry.”
Markis rounded on Rick, throttling his fury, forcing himself to speak evenly. He pointed his finger toward the world outside the window. “That’s a very realistic and coldblooded assessment, and it’s absolutely true – if you ignore the people out there dying!”
He clenched his right fist, slamming it into his thigh, turning around to stare out the window. His whispered words were barely audible. “I’ve dedicated myself to life, to human life – an end to unnecessary suffering and death. I can’t just let the world muddle on toward some hopeful future, no matter how inevitable it seems.” He seemed to deflate, to sag. Spreading fingertips against the plate glass, he pressed his forehead to the cool window.
Rick and Millie looked at each other in mute concern and embarrassment, then at their mother.
Cassandra stood to put a hand on Markis’ neck. “DJ…you saved many more than they killed. You saved millions. Billions maybe. And those people will live long and productive lives. They will make a better world.”
“Tell that to those dying right now. Now leave me alone, please. I’m not fit company at the moment.”
The siblings glanced at each other, then at Cassandra. She patted DJ gently then withdrew her touch, motioning to the others with her eyes. They left, meeting in the break room down the hall.
“He’s so focused on what he can’t do he misses what he can!” grumbled Rick.
Millie responded roughly, almost viciously, in that derisive tone only siblings employ. “When you have as much responsibility as he does we’ll see how you do, Ricky.”
“That’s enough, you two,” their mother cut in. “He’s the Chairman, he gets to struggle with policy. He feels like the job’s not finished, and it hurts him. We have to help him. Together.”
“Yes mother,” they responded in unison, then looked at each other sheepishly. For an instant it all felt like ten years ago, just two confused tweens and a grieving widow buried deep inside the Bunker.
***
Markis put out his diplomatic feelers, seeking backdoor contact through the Neutral States embassies and political systems. The United Governments and the Unionist Party had maintained a stubborn refusal to officially open relations with the Free Communities, rather as the US had for many years refused to deal with Maoist China, or Cuba under Fidel.
On the morning of the third day Millicent knocked and then entered without waiting for an invitation. Her young face – genuinely young, rather than the slightly artificial youthfulness of the rejuvenated – glowed with the good news.
“Mister Chairman, Geneva is a go. They’re sending the Canadian Prime Minister. He’s going openly to address the Neutral States Assembly, but he will meet with you secretly afterward under the auspices of the Swiss.”
Markis stood up, throwing his stylus down. “That’s excellent news. Set it all up, and I’ll leave tonight, as soon as the jet is ready.”
-8-
Barefoot, the boy padded along the dirty streets of the Mexico City barrio, dodging cars and ignoring the occasional complaint or stone shied at him as he trespassed on someone’s tierra or patio. When he came to the door of the boarding house he slipped inside, sneaking past the dozing anciana to the door he had been told. Knocking twice, he shoved the envelope underneath. A moment later a ten-dollar bill slid out in return. The boy snatched the money and ran back out into the sea of poverty.
Skull opened the envelope, reaching inside for a paper with crude scrawling words. Lugar de las vacas 10, it said. Literally, ‘place of the cows 10.’ In this case, he knew it referred to a cantina near the meat packing district in the Navarte suburb of Mexico City.
His watch read 9:10pm. It was a gorgeous Patek chronometer that he knew he should have given up long ago. If he ever got picked up, it would be hard to explain in his cover persona, but it was one of his few, his only affectations, his links to his old life. He closed the battered leather cover over it and slid it up his arm on its flexible band, well out of sight.
Fitting a reliable – and untraceable – Smith and Wesson .38 into his waistband, he strapped on his knives forearm and calf, and pulled a battered cap onto his head. Grabbing a bottle of Mescal, he gargled with a swig, then spat it onto the floor. To anyone looking he was just another down-and-out, underemployed vato in dirty slacks and a stained shirt, already stinking of liquor and heading out for a few more drinks.
Double-checked his tiny room, he made sure the removable plank hiding his weapons was perfectly snug, while the loose board with a few dollars and some cheap jewelry was obvious and easy to find. He left his sombrero lying on the bed, his good ruffled shirt and suit hanging on a hook. Outside in the hallway he tied a hair between two finishing nails up at the top of the door and the doorjamb; if it was broken when he returned, he would know he’d had visitors.
&nb
sp; He brought the near-empty bottle out with him, holding it negligently in his gloved left hand, another piece of his cover. He muttered and shuffled out of the building, calling a slurred greeting to the flat-footed old landlady, who shook her head disapprovingly at her perpetually drunk tenant. Reaching down to stroke the building’s cat that arched against his leg, he staggered slowly down the street.
As soon as he rounded the corner he straightened up and increased his pace, sliding the bottle into his coat pocket and giving the impression of having someplace to go. A brisk manner usually kept off the panhandlers, made the pickpockets think twice, and let the streetwalkers know he wasn’t interested tonight.
Ten minutes later, a trio of vatos didn’t get the message. As he crossed a poorly-lit street, two young men stepped out from an alley, blocking his way.
He immediately sidled to his left, away from them and into the middle of the street. He heard a footfall behind him, and took a long stride forward, a standard move whenever there was a surprise from behind – get out of reach. He felt something whistle by his head.
Skull darted forward toward the nearest of the two in front, combat knife in his right hand. The man had some kind of club, dimly seen in the murky darkness of the run-down neighborhood, and he swung it in an overhand blow that would have bashed Denham’s head in had he been there. Sidestepping, he reached out with a flick of his wrist, drawing the blade across the attacker’s bare right bicep as he spun away. Blood spurted and the club dropped from nerveless fingers. The man howled, stumbling.
Turned around and facing the remaining two, Skull backed up rapidly. There was simply no reason to prolong the encounter. He could have drawn the revolver but gunshots would garner unwanted attention. Instead he switched the knife to his left hand and drew the heavy bottle from inside his jacket, hefting it in his right. He threw it overhand by the neck as hard as he could at the nearest man’s head, hearing it thud against his target. The would-be mugger dropped boneless onto the broken pavement, the bottle shattering next to him as he fell.
“Vete a la mierda,” he snarled at the last man, holding his knife aloft to glitter in the moonlight, spinning it between his fingers. Better not to risk another exchange of blades; you just never knew when you might get unlucky.
The punk decided today was a good day to stay alive. He stopped following, turning to help his comrades. Skull backed away for a few steps and then ran far enough to be sure he had broken contact before slowing to a brisk walk again.
Twenty minutes later he caught the smell of the stockyards and meat packing plants. Beeves were brought in on railroad cattle-cars, disgorging their complaining cargo generally upwind of the slaughterhouses; the smell tended to upset the animals. Then they were checked over and given a last day or two fattening on corn silage to counter the stress of travel before they were sent through the process that eventually turned them into steaks for the rich, cheap cuts for the middle class, slimy pink ground meat for the poor, and kibble for dogs.
He found the ramshackle converted warehouse with the flickering XX and Azteca Cerveza signs, the faded paint reading El Vaquero Feliz – The Happy Cowboy. Cowboys there were, by the score, the lucky ones that rode in on the trains to make sure their cattle got to their destinations, as well as train crew, stockyard hands, butchers and plant workers. Gamblers swarmed there too, and pimps and whores; places like this ensured the out-of-towners left some of their hard-earned pay behind, and gave the locals a place to blow their bonuses.
A UGNA Security Service truck parked conspicuously in the capacious lot, and a double squad of jackbooted troopers roamed the outside of the joint, combining their law-and-order function with the Mexican Federale tradition of bribery and ‘protection.’ They didn’t go inside the big building unless things got out of hand; no matter what the law and the norteamericanos said, business had to be done, in most places the same old ways. The gringos could hardly keep their own house in order, much less a police hundred million Mexicans who didn’t really want them there.
Perversely, Skull was comforted by the sight of the truck, and particularly by the profile of Capitan Dionicio Vargas leaning against its fender as he lit a cigarette for one of the cleaner, better-looking prostitutes. Denham shuffled into the SS officer’s field of view, flashing a quick hand sign, ending in a casual motion running his hands through his thin short hair under an upraised hat.
Plucking the cigarette out of the woman’s mouth, he took a drag from it and then kissed her deeply, blowing the smoke out into her lungs until she choked and coughed, laughing. Turning away with it still in his fingers, he walked around the corner nearest Denham.
Skull caught the whiff of the potent cannabis-and-tobacco blend favored here as he followed. A few moments later the two men stood alone in a cul-de-sac formed by battered industrial cargo containers. They stared at one another for a moment, then both stepped forward and embraced, slapping backs.
“Skull, man, good to see you.” Vargas held the slimmer man at arms length.
“You too, Denny. Been a while. I see you’re el Capitan now.”
“The higher I climb, the more I can see, you know that.”
“Just as long as you aren’t going native.”
Vargas laughed. “Could do worse than going native here. I speak the language but they know I’m Puerto Rican. To them that still means ‘rich American.’ Best of both worlds, and the women, baby, they love me.”
“You know what I mean. What did you want to see me about?”
Vargas took a long drag off the cigarette, offered it to Skull.
Denham shook his head. “No dope.”
Denny shrugged. “I got some intel you wanted.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“First I want a favor.”
Skull’s eyes narrowed. “First? Denny, you have gone native. We’re bargaining now? You and me?”
Vargas threw the butt to the ground to grind it out, eyes down in embarrassment. “Sorry, man. You know I didn’t mean it that way. New place, new habits.” He looked back up, sheepish. “Okay, here’s what I got, from a source of a source, so I don’t know how reliable it is. They say Portmanteaux is going to meet with Markis in Geneva under cover of a visit to the Neutral States Assembly next week.”
“The Canadian Prime Minister?”
“Yeah, they always send him for the nice-nice diplomacy.”
“So? This is big news? Why should I care?”
“Because I think they’re going to kill him.”
“Kill who? Portmanteaux? That makes no sense.”
“No, no. Markis.” Vargas stared at Skull, pulled out a pack of real Marlboros, hard to get nowadays, offering him one. He took it. Vargas drew one out for himself.
“I can’t believe the Canadians would go along with that.” Skull lit his smoke, then Vargas’. The familiar smell wafted painful memories through his mind.
“They aren’t. It’s an SS operation under cover of the visit. A Psycho’s heading it up.”
“Psychos.” Skull drenched the word with contempt. “If there’s anything worse than a Sicko it’s a Psycho. Any names?”
“No, I got nothing. I’m lucky to have this. It’s pretty close-hold.
Skull took a long drag, savoring the wickedly satisfying American processed tobacco blend. “And you’re okay with me sticking my oar in?”
“You know I am. The effing Psychos are getting more power behind the scenes. I hate them. Better we all end up as Edie Sicko pansies than Psychos. You ever look in one’s eyes? They’re cold, they’re dead inside. They’re the real enemy, not the Edies. Edies are just sheep. Psychos are freakin’ vampires.” Vargas spat on the ground. A trick of echoes briefly threw the sounds of music from the cantina into their metal corner, vanished just as abruptly.
“Have you heard anything more about Tiny Fortress?”
“Not for the last year. I heard it got to be political. The Psychos and their allies are terrified of it. If it works, it could completely eliminate
their usefulness. I think it’s still being funded, but I have no idea what it’s come up with.”
Skull turned around in place and waved his arms, suddenly jittery from the unaccustomed nicotine. “It sure would solve some problems if we had something with the benefits of the Plague without its side effects.”
“And create others. It’s bad enough with a few Psychos around – do you want a bunch of unkillable nanomachine-filled stormtroopers backing them up?”
Skull laughed mirthlessly. “As long as I’m one of them, I think I’d like it just fine. I think you would too.”
Vargas shook his head. “Sometimes I hate this ‘brave new world, that has such people in it’.”
“Come on, Denny. Don’t you know what DJ said? ‘It’s a better world’.”
“Not from my point of view. Did you really know him?”
“For a little while. Head in the clouds idealist. Typical Air Force type. If they can’t get rid of grunts and real war using airplanes and smart bombs, he figured he’d try germs, I guess.”
“Well, whatever, he sure did shake things up. Gotta admire that anyway.”
“Denny, sometimes I think you’re one weird dude.”
“I’m a romantic, Skull. Drama. Big things. And deep down, you are too.”
“Screw you.”
“Naw, I’ll take Rosita. And speaking of screwing…she’s been waiting long enough.” Vargas flicked his glowing cigarette butt over the cargo container wall, then reached out to clasp hands with his friend once more.
Skull returned the grip. “That’s some good gouge, man. Thanks. Now what was that favor you wanted?”
“Well, there’s this pinche cabron of a Unie supervisor that’s been poking his nose into my business. A do-gooder Nazi from upstairs, wants to clean up the streets, all that mierda. I can tell you where and when he’ll be exposed, what he looks like, the works. All you got to do is pull the trigger.”
The Demon Plagues Page 7