Hidden Empire

by Orson Scott Card

  "Think we can outrun their trucks?" asked Cole.

  They laughed and began to run. Great bounds, rather like kangaroos, only one foot at a time, each step like flight, as if they were nearly weightless.

  Cole lagged behind. It was where he was supposed to be, as the wearer of the main Noodle, so he could monitor everything that was happening. It was also where he naturally ended up, since he was less experienced than some of them at running in Bones, and he was also distracted by a much larger and more complicated heads-up display than the others were seeing.

  Besides the electronics, though, he could see them with his real eyes as they bounded along ahead of him. It reminded him of the Terminator movies, with a relentless robot chasing a speeding truck on foot—and gaining on it. Not that the trucks were speeding—on these roads? Tracks, really.

  When they got within range, the jeesh started shooting, and then the trucks did speed up. Which worked rather nicely, since two of them ended up crashing off the road and into the trees.

  The lead team—the experienced guys, Mingo, Cat, Load, and Arty—kept right on running past the wrecked trucks—nobody fired at them. By the time the slower guys got there—five seconds later—there were Nigerian soldiers crawling out of the wrecked trucks and some of them were ambitious to bring their weapons to bear.

  In Farsi, Cole gave the order not to wipe them out. Just bloody them enough to get their heads down. It didn't take much—nothing like a car wreck to take the fighting spirit out of a guy. In moments they were scurrying or limping or crawling away in the brush. Those that could. When you sprayed out bullets, you couldn't help killing somebody, even if you weren't trying to eradicate the enemy force.

  The voice of the drone operator came back into Cole's ear. "That team you set me to follow?" he said. "They got the distress call from this team, and they're closest, so they're coming."

  "That is sweet," said Cole. "How close?"

  "About five minutes away at current speeds."

  Cole immediately gave the order to the whole jeesh: In about three minutes, at my order, stop firing and disengage. Rendezvous just north of the first village.

  When the others reached the rendezvous site, Cole was already there, sitting on a low tree limb with his feet on the ground, watching what the drone was showing him. "They're a bunch of regular good Samaritans, these rapist bastards," said Cole. "They're picking their injured buddies up, binding their wounds, loading them on trucks."

  "Sneezing on them?"

  "Hope so," said Cole. "My Noodle focus isn't sharp enough to see."

  They moved out again, to more remote enemy squads, and they were able to stop two of them before they could wipe out the villages they were assigned to, though in one of them, the village leader had already died with the Biafran flag around his throat. After that, a general retreat must have been ordered, because the whole Nigerian Army force got onto the main roads and headed back north to safety.

  Cole could have ordered in a strike and wiped the whole group out. That was the nice thing about Torrent's having announced this campaign to stop the genocide in Nigeria—they could bring in air strikes in full view of civilians in the most populous country in Africa. But this was one time when they wanted the enemy to escape. Though he did have his guys intercept them once and fire at them just after they passed, to give the illusion of hot pursuit. Cole didn't want to have it occur to the enemy that the Americans had deliberately allowed this regiment to return home mostly alive.

  When Cole's team returned to base—which was not much of a base, just a location on high ground far from any villages, where they stashed supplies—they were grim but exhilarated, a combination of emotions that Cole had seen with such intensity only in the aftermath of victory.

  "I love these Bones!" shouted Arty. "I'm Superman!"

  "Really?" asked Mingo. "Because you look like Elmer Fudd."

  "Oh, right, a Chinese-American Elmer Fudd," said Arty.

  Cole let them banter. All but Cole had their Bones and Noodles off, letting their chips download a software update from satellite. Meanwhile, Cole was monitoring the drones, which were staying high and out of sight and earshot, so the enemy would not know how easily they could have been destroyed at any time. They were halfway through dinner when he was able to announce, "Typhoid Mary is safely home with the babies."

  "Too bad it'll spread to Niger," said Babe. "And Burkina Faso. They weren't off killing Ibos and Yorubas."

  "There was never any hope of containing it within southern Nigeria," said Mingo. "Epidemics have their way."

  "So what do you think? Will President Torrent's quarantine of Africa fail, too?" asked Cole.

  "Don't know," said Mingo.

  "You say it like you also don't care," said Cole.

  "Do you really think Torrent wants to confine this epidemic to Africa?" asked Babe.

  How deep was their hatred of Torrent? "Why else would he take the heat he's getting from everywhere?" said Cole. "'Heartless Americans,' 'the Butcher of Africa.'"

  "Now everyone will believe that he tried to prevent it," said Babe, "even though he really wants it to spread."

  "Why would anybody want that?" asked Cole.

  "Oh, no," said Load Arnsbrach. "We've said bad things about his papa and he's getting mad."

  Cole looked around at them, puzzled and angry. What was this about?

  Then they broke out in laughter. It was all a joke.

  Yet it had not been a joke at all, Cole knew that. But he laughed with them as if he didn't.

  "Did they really think they could withdraw into the north, enforce a quarantine, and still rule the whole country?" asked Benny. "I mean, all the oil's in the south. These clowns move north, they got no source of new money."

  "The epidemic shut down the oil wells anyway," said Drew, ever the professor. "And they have enough money stockpiled to run the government for years—if the fat cats are willing to dip into their Swiss-bank savings accounts. The epidemic dies down, dies out, they come back, take over the wells again. Who's in any condition to stop them?"

  "They can still do that," said Mingo.

  "Not really," said Drew. "By delaying the epidemic, it's hitting them later. It'll be peaking in the north after it's run its course in the south. If the southerners can get the oil wells running by themselves, get organized as a government, they could buy the weapons—or some helpful nation could give them some—and take their country back."

  "Biafra," said Mingo. "So those villagers didn't die for nothing."

  "War's an indiscriminate vampire," said Drew. "It sucks blood, it doesn't care whose."

  "So is the epidemic in the south nearly over?" asked Cole.

  "How long has it been going?" asked Drew.

  Babe answered. "Six weeks since it broke out of the first villages," he said.

  "Well, it took six months for the worst of the Great Influenza Epidemic of 1918 to run through its main killing force," said Drew.

  "Isn't everybody already sick who's going to get it?" asked Arty.

  "As soon as the news got out, most people went into hiding. It's not like they all went to the movies or kept showing up at work. But they have to eat. So they'll start going out into the countryside, scavenging. The only people who are safe are the ones who already had it and recovered. Everybody else is virgin territory."

  "Including us," said Cat.

  They all nodded or looked away. That was the thing they all knew. Somehow, no matter how careful they were, they'd end up in hand-to-hand combat with a guy who tore off their mask and sneezed in their face. This wasn't a safe time to be in Africa, even if you were authorized to kill anybody you saw.

  And the worst thing was, even if they didn't catch the disease they still couldn't go home. The end of this assignment meant going into quarantine themselves, until it was fully demonstrated that they did not have the disease. Only where would the quarantine be? Gitmo? The Cubans would draw the line at that. It would have to be on board a ship at sea,
which wouldn't be allowed to dock until everybody on board had been clean for a month or two—or until everybody on board had either died of the disease or caught it and survived.

  But as soldiers, their survival depended on not thinking too far ahead. If they had wanted a safe life, they wouldn't have joined up with Reuben when he formed this jeesh, and they wouldn't have brought Cole into their Bones and Noodles training so that President Torrent would know about their capabilities when he needed them.

  They also knew that the chance of the quarantine of a continent actually working was slight. Somebody would get out. Some small boat or plane would sneak through from Sudan into Egypt, or from Mali to Algeria, and it would erupt from there to the whole world.

  But maybe not. Maybe this would work. Maybe by fighting here, they were saving the lives of billions of people all over the world. That was a job worth doing. And even if they failed, it was better to die trying than just to sit back and let it happen.

  Cole wondered. Does President Torrent really expect the quarantine to fail? How could it possibly benefit him if it did? How would cutting the world's population in half accomplish any goal that he could possibly have?

  If the guys really believed this—if it wasn't just Babe—then did it mean they were crazy? Or that Cole was crazy not to see what they were seeing?

  They weren't crazy. They might be wrong, but whatever had them thinking ugly thoughts about Torrent wasn't a hallucination.

  What did they know that they hadn't told him?

  CHRISTIAN CHARITY

  I took an oath to preserve and protect the Constitution of the United States. If the nictovirus reaches our shores before we develop a vaccine, it is highly unlikely that our present form of government would survive such a devastating crisis. The worldwide economy certainly would not, and since our national prosperity and safety depends on that network of trade, we would suffer a collapse as well. A slow, shortsighted, soft-handed government could not stand against the waves of fear and violence that would come.

  Slow, shortsighted, and soft-handed are the hallmarks of democratic republics like ours. That's the kind of government we Americans like, because it doesn't bother us much. And that's why I'm determined to do everything I can to prevent the plague from spreading through the world and causing a collapse that could, in the long run, kill as many people as, and be more destructive of civilization than, the nictovirus.

  When there is nothing we can do to save a drowning man, our responsibility becomes to save ourselves.

  It wasn't the largest news story, but it was there on every network. Three hundred Baptists and a scattering of members of other churches, demonstrating as near to the White House as the security forces allowed. They carried signs:

  Matthew 25:40: Let Us Help Them!

  *** Mr. President, We Are Not Afraid!

  Christians help the sick

  God has not forgotten Africa! Neither will we!

  Matt. 9:35: Let Us Follow Him!

  Some of the signs were hand-lettered, but most were machine-printed so they could be read easily on television sets.

  The commentaries were predictable. Fox News gave a sympathetic interview to one of the leaders of Christians Going to Africa. Every other network interviewed the craziest-looking individual protesters. But the message got out either way.

  "We're not afraid to die," said the leader of CGA. "We all die eventually. We're afraid of facing God without having done all we could to help his children."

  Cecily got home to find Mark sitting in front of the television set, and it was obvious he had been crying. He didn't look up when she walked in the house, so after she set down her purse and the mail on the kitchen table, she came back into the living room and sat down beside him, saying nothing at all.

  He was watching the MSNBC coverage, which was almost fawningly supportive of President Torrent's position. Two commentators were talking to each other. "It's like President Torrent is the parent of teenagers, and he has to say, 'If everybody else was jumping off a bridge, would you want to do it, too?'"

  "President Torrent is trying to keep the rest of the world safe from this terrible epidemic, and these people want to run the risk of spreading it, just so they can feel better about themselves."

  "So you're saying that they aren't actually being generous, they're—"

  "It's a very selfish thing to do."

  "Of course, they would be risking their own lives, if they were allowed to go to Africa."

  "What do they think three hundred untrained caregivers could do in a continent of a billion sick and dying people?"

  Mark whispered his answer from the couch. "They could try."

  "Mark," said Cecily. "There's nothing you can do."

  He glanced at her, then turned back to the screen. "That's what Chinma said when he saw this news story. He said, 'They don't know anything, they don't want to go there, they don't want to die like that.'"

  "He's one of the few people in America who actually knows what he's talking about when it comes to the nictovirus."

  "But he lived through it," said Mark. "Most people do."

  "Mark, mere's ninety-nine percent 'most' and there's fifty-one percent 'most.' The one's almost a sure thing, the other's like a coin flip. Chinma knows better than these people."

  "Remember when he said, 'Where were the Christians?'"

  "Yes," said Cecily. "In my nightmares."

  "I can carry a sign," said Mark.

  On the television, the male MSNBC commentator was saying, "Aren't there plenty of needs for charity in America? Why are they so eager to go to Africa? Because it's against the law for them to go, that's why. They're not going—so they get all the credit for being charitable, without actually having to do anything!"

  Cecily took the remote out of his hand and pushed the numbers for Fox News. They were rerunning clips of the latest U.S. Army special operations in Africa. Atrocity footage, mostly—bodies of villagers who had been shot, and U.S. soldiers, faces covered with breathing masks, holding up a Biafran flag. Since it was cut together from electronically enhanced helmet footage, the camera was jerky and no view was held for more than a moment or two. But that almost nauseating quickness and jerkiness of movement made it feel all the more immediate and real.

  "They get to help," said Mark.

  "Help what?" asked Cecily. "They're working to spread the plague further."

  "You know that's not true," said Mark.

  "What did you say to me?" asked Cecily. "Are you accusing me of lying?"

  "Are you trying to pick a fight with everybody?" asked Mark.

  "Not even with you," said Cecily. "But it's very bad form to call your mother a liar."

  "Not a liar," said Mark. "A hider."

  "Oh, really? What am I hiding from?"

  "The truth," said Mark.

  "And when did you ascend this pinnacle of wisdom, from which you can see truth that nobody else can see?"

  Mark turned to her for the first time, making no effort to wipe the tear-streaks from his cheeks, as if he had forgotten they were there. "You only get nasty and sarcastic like this when you know you're wrong."

  Cecily was flabbergasted. "I'm not being nasty or sarcastic—"

  "Both," said Mark. "Dad said so."

  Cecily flumped backward onto the couch and stared out the sheer-draped front window. "Oh, did he, now?"

  "It was after the two of you had a fight."

  "We never fought in front of you children—"

  "Pardon me, a 'difference of opinion with raised voices,'" said Mark. "And I said to him, 'Why is Mom so mean when she argues?' And he said, 'That's a good sign. She only gets nasty and sarcastic when she knows she's wrong, and that means that pretty soon she'll realize it and change her mind, so it's a sign that everything's going to be fine.' "

  Cecily was furious at the idea that Reuben had told their oldest boy such an absurd blanket interpretation of her arguing style. She was also grief-stricken all over again, hearing this r
epetition of something Reuben had said to her more than once. "It's just the way you fight, babe," he said. "It's your 'tell.' "

  Mark interpreted her silence as a willingness to compromise. "I want to go demonstrate with them tomorrow."

  "Mark, you're thirteen."

  "It's summer, I can walk to the Metro station, I can make my own sign, I just need a ride to Office Depot tonight so I can buy the tag-board and stuff."

  "I'm not letting you go into the District by yourself tomorrow, and that's final."

  "Come with me, then," said Mark.

  "No," she said.

  "You know you agree with these people. That's why you were so nasty with Colonel Coleman—"

  "General Coleman, now that he's working to spread the plague into the north of Nigeria," said Cecily.

  "You know he's not working to spread the plague, he's stopping the government from killing their own citizens."

  "You aren't supposed to eavesdrop on other people's conversations."

  "I was in my room with my door closed. Talk softer next time. Meanwhile you're just mad because you can't do anything about the sneezing flu. But you can."

  "Those people on TV are not helping, they're just bringing ridicule down on Christians."

  "They can't help what the TV people say about them. You know what those scriptures say? The ones on the signs? One of them is where Jesus says, I was hungry, and you fed me, I was sick and you cared for me. And the other is where it says that Jesus went around preaching and teaching and healing the sick."

  "Well, wouldn't it be nice if he were here to do that, but you and I don't have the power to heal the sick."

  "Yes we do," said Mark.

  "Oh, really. Enlighten me, Saint Mark."

  "Nick and Lettie only call me Saint Mark when they want me to be ashamed of trying to be good."

  "You and I don't have the power to heal the sick."

  "You said it yourself, talking to Cole."

  "I can call him that, buster, but he's General Coleman to you."