The Demon Plagues (9 page)

“Even if I was certain of that – hell, look
how long North Korea’s lasted – I’m not willing to wait. We have to
make some kind of peace.”

“Once the nuclear threshold was breached,
they got to use the big stick on whoever didn’t have one. How are
you going to get them to give that up for good?”

“The Nuclear Concord has held. They haven’t
risked an atomic strike in over a year. Even their own people were
getting tired of the images of horror we broadcast past their
censorship. Their consciences might not be EP-enhanced, but the
common people have them, and they are getting sick of the
oppression and brutality of their own government. Americans
especially are not the type to accept this kind of tyranny for
long.”

There came a knock at the door.

“Come in Rick, Millie, sit down. How is the
cyber attack going?”

Rick smiled and took a seat, his sister next
to him. “Quite well, I think. We’ve managed to crash a number of
their servers, and we shut down some sites. They will think they
headed off a tremendous threat to their arsenal.”

“Did we pinpoint the leak, Cassie?”

“Yes we did. It was in Farnsworth’s office,
as we suspected. A Psycho, well-trained. We’ll have to update and
refine the psych tests and polygraphs; this one counterfeited the
ones we gave.”

“Is he alive?”

“Yes. Funny thing about narcissists – they
won’t usually kill themselves to protect their masters. So the
Aussies get another one.” Her tone was disapproving.

“They can have them for all I care.”

Cassandra frowned. She considered this one of
Markis’ blind spots; he had blossomed as a leader and politician,
but he still tended to stick his head in the sand when it came to
certain problems, or at least to grasp at simplistic solutions. So
when the Australians had volunteered to take all the Psychos in
Free Communities off their hands, to be held in special prisons
far, far into the Outback, he had agreed immediately.

Over her objections.

Something about the arrangement made her
profoundly uneasy. She told herself that Australia was a Free
Community with Edens in charge, and that they were fundamentally
incapable of perpetrating atrocities. But she also knew that human
beings had an amazing ability to fool themselves, lying to
themselves, convincing themselves of the most outlandish things,
and truly believing them. And true belief could always threaten a
conscience, no matter how robust. If you truly believed infidels
were condemned by your god, or your enemies were subhuman, then
killing them wasn’t very hard, especially if you didn’t have to do
it personally.

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.”

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.

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.