Empire

by Orson Scott Card

  “While the lieutenant is busy, I have an errand to run,” said Major Malich. “You can come with me or not.”

  “Do I get to know where?” asked Cole. And because he thought that made him sound like a little kid on a car trip, he added, “I promise not to ask if we’re there yet.” Then he winced. This wasn’t the time for attempts at ingratiating humor. He wished he knew Major Malich better. They’d just been in a firefight together, but Cole still had to worry about what impression he was making.

  Malich turned away from him. “They’re going to want to debrief me. That will tie me up for about a week, and by that time, whoever’s trying to screw me will have me fully screwed. So I need to climb the screw and find out who’s driving it. Before I get locked in a room somewhere.”

  Cole got it. “So let’s go.”

  Cole dropped his borrowed weapon and Malich did likewise. They began jogging up the hill. When they neared the crest, they broke into a full run, though with Malich in a suit and Cole in uniform, they weren’t in the right clothes for running—especially the shoes.

  Military and emergency vehicles crowded all the available streets around the White House, and survivors were gathering and being triaged and treated on the south lawn. But to get there, there was the little matter of a huge crowd of stunned tourists being held at bay by a cordon of soldiers, none of whom would have either the authority or the inclination to decide to let a couple of midlevel officers come prancing through.

  Near the bottom of the hill, Malich veered left to angle toward Constitution Avenue, heading away from the mess just south of the White House grounds. Cole caught up with him and as they ran side by side, Malich explained. “If we go around by way of New York Avenue and State Place, we can try to get in at the southwest gate.”

  As it was, they had to flash ID and do a little bullying even to get to the southwest gate, and when they got there the MPs on duty weren’t inclined to converse.

  “Get the hell away from here, sirs,” they were told politely.

  Major Malich took a step back and saluted. Confused, the MP saluted back.

  “Soldier,” said Malich, “you’re doing your job. But my job is counterterrorism, and somewhere in that wreckage is the man to whom my information about the terrorists who did this must be reported. If he’s dead, I need to know that so I can take this information elsewhere. If he’s alive, then he needs to have it and he needs it now. And I can’t tell you that information, soldier, because I would then be court-martialed, which would be the end of a glorious career.” Then he smiled.

  “Yeah, well what about my career if I get my ass kicked for letting you in after I was told nobody gets in?”

  “But they didn’t mean it,” said Cole. “You know if one of the Joint Chiefs showed up he’d tell you to let him through the damn gate and you’d do it.”

  The MP sighed. “I have a feeling this was only the first of many urgent stories I’m going to be told today.” But he let them through.

  Which was when the real chaos began. The policy to admit no one was a good one, Cole saw at once. There were quite a few injuries, and even more weeping and hysteria and catatonia and pacing and panicky conversations and people just standing there clutching briefcases or stacks of file folders, and nobody seemed to be in charge.

  “Maybe if you call his name,” suggested Cole.

  “Not a chance,” said Malich.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know his name.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “We didn’t meet here,” said Malich. “And he told me a name, but I have to assume that it wasn’t real.”

  “Then how do you know he even worked here?”

  “Because he arranged for me to meet the National Security Adviser at another location and the NSA confirmed that I was, indeed, working for someone who reported to the President.”

  “Okay, that would be convincing enough for me,” said Cole.

  “I’m not actually an idiot,” said Malich. “You have to go to a little trouble to get me dancing on the end of a string.”

  “You think this guy is the one set you up?”

  “If he didn’t come in to the White House today, then I’ll know something,” said Malich. “If he is but he won’t talk to me, then I’ll know something else.”

  “What would it mean if he isn’t here? That he knew to stay away?”

  “No, that he isn’t the inside guy for the terrorists. Whoever it is had to be able to tell them, to the minute, where the President was inside the White House. I get the feeling this guy isn’t in the loop on the President’s daily schedule. He’d have to be in position to observe.”

  And then the look on Malich’s face told Cole that his White House guy was there. He was one of the briefcase clutchers standing in the shade of some shrubbery. A little on the heavy side, his hair a little thin, he was sweating like crazy and looking both furtive and miserable. In fact, he looked so guilty that it convinced Cole that he couldn’t have been involved with the terrorist incident, because this guy didn’t have a secret-keeper’s face.

  When he saw Malich and Cole approaching, he at first looked scared, but then visibly relaxed and stepped out to meet Malich with a handshake. Malich introduced Cole but didn’t say the White House guy’s name.

  The White House guy only nodded at Cole, then turned to Malich. “Send him away.”

  “Captain Coleman was at my side today as we took out one of the two rocket launchers aiming at the White House.”

  “Gee,” said the White House guy snidely, “you mean it could have been worse?”

  Malich was suddenly in the guy’s face, holding him by the belt so he couldn’t back away. “I’m in the mood to kill assholes today,” said Malich quietly. “Try not to be one.”

  “What do you want? Why are you here?” asked the guy.

  “I’ve been all over this town, all over the world, delivering messages, negotiating sales, all to help the counterterrorism cause,” said Malich. “But those two rocket launchers—they looked an awful lot like the kind of launchers I arranged to purchase for a Sudanese rebel force to help them counter the superior artillery of the pro-government militias.”

  “Everybody buys from the same merchants,” said the guy.

  “Not good enough,” said Malich. “This hit took place under my nose. I was right there when the submersibles came up the channel and headed into the Tidal Pool.”

  “They killed the President,” said the guy. “And you think it’s about you?”

  “It’s about beheading the United States of America,” said Malich. “But they used my plan, and I want to know where you fit into this.”

  “Your plan?” The man seemed genuinely puzzled.

  “My assignment in the Pentagon. My day job—when I wasn’t running around for you. Think up ways that a smart enemy might strike inside Washington, with the President as target.” Malich gestured toward the White House. “This was what I came up with.”

  “That’s just . . . that’s sick. You think the people you gave your plan to, they did this? Our own military?”

  “Information can pass from hand to hand, and most of the hands might be innocent. But someone knew I created that plan, and they were glad to have me close by when the attack was launched. Though probably they didn’t want me as close as I got.”

  “But didn’t you say you killed the guys?”

  “I got there too late. If I hadn’t had Cole here with me, I would have been even later. He’s the one who saw there was something under the water. And somebody cut the phone lines and jammed cell reception on Hain’s Point so I couldn’t get word to the White House in time.”

  “Yeah, well, it wasn’t me, I was here, I was in a meeting, and then there’s an explosion and I only have time to get back to my office and get these files before they have us out here on the lawn. If you think I had something to do with this, then you’ve got your head up your ass.”

  “Did you know where the Presiden
t was when the explosion took place?”

  “They don’t check with me,” said the guy. “Don’t you get it? I’m not in charge of things. I’m an aide to an aide. I’m a flunky. They tell me, get these messages delivered, get these arms bought using this account and get them delivered to that group and by the way, use this guy, this Malich guy, as your messenger. I don’t know anything about you.”

  Today of all days, Cole couldn’t be sure of anything, but this guy was believable enough. And it made sense. If something really ugly was going on, there’d be people pulling strings on other people pulling other strings. Everything kept at six removes from the actual conspiracy.

  Malich seemed to believe him, too. He let go of the man’s belt.

  But Cole needed to know something, too. “Show me your White House ID,” he said.

  Annoyed, now that he didn’t have to be quite so afraid, the guy pulled out his ID and held it up for Cole. The name was Steven Phillips. And when Malich caught a glimpse of it, he was really pissed off. “You mean that was your real name all along?”

  “I never said it wasn’t!” protested Phillips.

  “You said you couldn’t show me ID because then I’d know your real name.”

  “That was before I was sure I could trust you,” said Phillips.

  “So you’d rather use the National Security Adviser as your ID badge?”

  “By then I didn’t think you’d believe me unless I hauled out the big guns.”

  “So the NSA does this for you all the time?”

  “He’s my boss.”

  “And is he the one who got you to use me as your errand boy?”

  “No.” But the expression on his face said yes.

  “This is not the time for more secrets,” said Cole quietly.

  “He didn’t run it,” said Phillips. “But he introduced me to the guy who gave me the stuff for you to do.”

  “And who is that?” asked Malich.

  “He wouldn’t tell me his real name or show me ID. That’s how I got the idea of doing that with you. I’m so stupid. If my work for him had anything to do with this . . .” He waved a hand toward the damaged south wall of the West Wing.

  “I’m giving you an assignment right now,” said Malich. “Find out his name. Or at least find his face. Or at least give me a damn good description of exactly what he looks like and exactly where you met and every assignment he gave you that you didn’t use me for.”

  “And why would I do that?”

  “Because, Mr. Steven Phillips, whoever controlled you probably has something to do with killing the President, and since they’re setting me up to take the blame for it, and you’re associated with me, your ass is on the line right along with mine.”

  “They’re setting you up?” Phillips seemed to think this was a ridiculous idea.

  “I can bet that when they trace these guys back to some miserable fleabag rental they’ll find a convenient copy of my report, with my name attached, and it’ll be the exact copy that I provided, so my fingerprints will be on it.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “To make it look like the U.S. Army was behind the assassination of the President of the United States. And if they tie you to it as well, then what does it look like to the media? To the public? A Republican Party hack—that would be you—and a gung-ho officer in Special Ops provide the plans and the weapons to the terrorists who assassinated the President.”

  So Malich’s secret work for Phillips dealt with the weapons trade.

  “Who would believe that?” said Phillips.

  “The public will eat it up. I can see the op-ed headlines now: ‘Prez Not Right-wing Enough for Red Staters.’ ”

  All of a sudden Phillips was crying, but fiercely. “They can’t say that,” he said. “I loved that man. He was the best President—”

  “They can say it. They will say it. They’re dying to say it. If they can paint this whole thing as a vast right-wing conspiracy, you think they’ll hold back because it makes no sense?”

  Phillips got control of himself. Dabbed at his eyes with a Kleenex from a little packet in his pocket. “So what does this mean, if your paranoid fantasies turn out to be true? That this was all a blue-state conspiracy? That’s just as ridiculous.”

  “I agree,” said Malich. “But these terrorists had to have somebody inside the White House to tell them which window to shoot their missile through. They got my plans that were turned in to the U.S. Army. Don’t tell me that Al Qaeda had moles planted so long ago that now a bunch of dedicated Muslim fanatics somehow made it through security clearances into positions where they could provide all that.”

  “I’ll get you what I can,” said Phillips. “I’ll talk to the NSA.”

  “And when you do,” said Malich, “give the information to Cole here, as well as emailing it to me.”

  Cole tried not to show his surprise. Malich trusted him that much?

  No, it wasn’t that. Malich expected to be arrested. Held where he couldn’t get to his email, where he couldn’t be contacted by anybody. He expected Cole to keep on digging to find out the truth. That wasn’t something you assign to a newly appointed subordinate. That’s something you assign to a friend.

  Cole repeated his cellphone number and email address to Phillips until the man could recite them back cold, because Malich forbade him to write anything down. “You think I want somebody to be able to get the information from your dead body that will allow them to track down Cole?” asked Malich. Which terrified Phillips—perhaps not the most tactically sound idea, Cole supposed, since Phillips could decide just to go to ground rather than keep investigating. But he had to assume that Malich knew his man. Sort of, anyway.

  They made their way back through the southwest gate, past the same MPs, past the emergency vehicles and military vehicles and the cordon of soldiers that were now completely surrounding the White House. Cole finally asked, “Even if you’re arrested, you know they can’t convict you of anything.”

  “I’m not afraid of being convicted,” said Malich.

  “What, then?”

  “I’m afraid of Jack Ruby.”

  The guy who assassinated Lee Harvey Oswald before he could be tried. The guy who made sure that the tough questions about the Kennedy assassination could never be answered.

  Yeah, Cole understood that. In fact, it seemed the most likely thing to happen. That, or an unexplained “suicide” in a park somewhere. “Boy, I’m sure glad I got this assignment,” said Cole.

  Malich stopped and spoke to him earnestly. “You can get out right now if you want. It’s dangerous and I had no right to assume you’d help me.”

  “I wasn’t joking. I’m glad I got this assignment. What if you got some desk jockey? What if you got somebody who didn’t know how to shoot to kill?”

  “Right now I need somebody who can help me find out the truth.”

  “Oh,” said Cole. “You mean you want a desk jockey.”

  “I want you.”

  Then, because the Metro was shut down at the moment and automobile traffic in the District was at a standstill, they headed for the Roosevelt Bridge to walk over into Virginia. Fortunately, it was a cool day for June in DC. They wouldn’t quite die of the heat.

  Cole thought wistfully of his air-conditioned car in the parking lot near the FDR Memorial—but it was evidence, so even if traffic had been moving, he couldn’t have taken it. And thinking of evidence reminded him of those two borrowed rifles with both their fingerprints all over them. Cole figured he could pretty much rule out denying that he was there.

  There were a lot of other pedestrians streaming onto the Roosevelt Bridge. Usually pedestrians wore jogging clothes. Now they were in suits, or women walking miserably on high heels.

  At times like these, people rethought their dependence on cars. Started wishing they could live in an apartment in the city and walk to work. Then, when the crisis passed, they’d see how far those apartments were from grocery stores and movie th
eaters, and how old and rundown they were, and even those who went to the trouble of looking at rentals were stunned at how little you got for the money, and pretty soon they were back behind the wheel again.

  But these pedestrians staggering across a bridge devoid of automobile traffic except for the occasional military vehicle meant something else, too. They were a victory for the terrorists.

  Weirdly, though, it was a defeat for them as well, Cole realized. All the oil money that funded them—if we no longer burned oil for transportation, if we really became a pedestrian world, then what would the whole Middle East be but a waterless wasteland with way too many people to feed themselves?

  But that’s what these diehard Islamists wanted. For the whole world to be as poor and miserable as the Middle East. For us all to live the way the Muslims did in the good old days, when the Sultan ruled in Istanbul. Or earlier, when the Caliph ruled from Baghdad, fantastically wealthy while the common people sweated and starved and clung to their faith. And if it meant reducing the population of the world from six billion to half a billion, well, let eleven-twelfths of the human population die and Allah would sort them out in heaven.

  What the terrorists aren’t counting on, thought Cole, is that America isn’t a completely decadent country yet. When you stab us, we don’t roll over and ask what we did wrong and would you please forgive us. Instead we turn around and take the knife out of your hand. Even though the whole world, insanely, condemns us for it.

  Cole could imagine the way this was getting covered by the media in the rest of the world. Oh, tragic that the President was dead. Official condolences. Somber faces. But they’d be dancing in the streets in Paris and Berlin, not to mention Moscow and Beijing. After all, those were the places where America was blamed for all the trouble in the world. What a laugh—capitals that had once tried to conquer vast empires, damning America for behaving far better than they did when they were in the ascendancy.

  “You look pissed off,” said Malich.