The Silicon Dagger

by Jack Williamson

  “Our father came back at him with a different Jefferson, writing at another time with a more humane philosophy. I had to side with him. Other matters came up. Stuart got violent. He struck our father. They’ve always fought, but never with fists. This is the final break. Stuart won’t be back in the house. We’ve had the locks changed since you disappeared.”

  “But if he runs the county—”

  “So far.” She nodded gravely, staring away into the trees, and finally shrugged. “Maybe not forever.”

  “I must get a message to Marion,” I told her. “At the hotel if she’s still there, or at home if she was able to get out.”

  “No message.” Beth was very firm. “There’s risk enough already. I’m driving Orinda’s car instead of my own. We’ll stay here till dark.” She moved to get out of the car. “She fixed a lunch box for us. Let’s eat.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY -ONE

  WE GOT INTO the back seat, the lunch box between us. Saliva already wetting my dry mouth, I waited while she opened the box and poured ice tea out of a thermos. I drained two cups of it. Orinda had packed roast beef sandwiches, fried chicken, a couple of apples. Beth nibbled at an apple while I attacked a cold drumstick.

  “You’re like a famished wolf.” She grinned at my appetite. “Tell me where you’ve been.”

  I told her how I’d gotten to Georgetown and something about my stay in Marion’s house, and I asked for more about Stuart.

  “He’s gone mad.” Pain shadowed her face. “Even before Zeider attacked, he was fighting a war of his own with Joel Garron. Garron wanted to make the free county the capital of his infonet empire.”

  “Garron won?” I asked. “I saw his holy army on the road, singing their battle hymn.”

  “He is on the march.” She shook her head. “But only because Stuart drove him out.”

  Digging in the basket for another sandwich, I stopped to listen.

  “Stuart wants to unite the militia groups scattered across the country into an empire of his own. Some of their leaders were already here with reinforcements for the Kentucky Rifles. The showdown came when the shell cut Garron off from his electronic congregation. He wanted the council to open it for his broadcasts and let him build a powerful new station of his own here in the county.”

  “The council?”

  “That’s the three-man executive body. Rob Roy, Cass Pepperlake, and Kit Moorhawk. You know Kit?”

  “He’s hard to know.”

  She frowned. “Stuart calls him a ‘hollow man.’ Says he’s ashamed of his size, and forever trying to make up for it. He did for a time, with millions coming in from his coal combustion patents. He married a Miss Kentucky, built her a mansion, bought a stable of Thoroughbreds, endowed the tech center at the college. He paid Rob Roy’s way though MIT and funded CyberSoft.

  “But he lost the patents and the millions. Lost his wife. Lost a long war in the courts. He was robbed, he feels, by the coal interests and power companies, the justice system, the whole political machine. They’ve broken him. He’s lost his nerve.

  “I saw him at the Council meeting Ramona Del Rio covered for KRIF, back before Zeider’s assault. He still puts up a front. Talks too loud, wears his rainbow vests, caves in when once he would have fought. Stuart was there to scare off Garron, talking war, bragging that his militia could take care of any Feds that got through the shell.

  “Kit was afraid. You could hear it in his voice, read it in what he didn’t say. Afraid of Stuart. Afraid the shell might fail. Afraid Garron would sell us out to President Higgins, even if they gave him what he wanted.”

  I had finished my sandwich. She grinned and handed me another.

  “Rob Roy?” I asked. “If the shell is his, where did he stand?”

  “He does own the shell—and guards it like his heart. But he lives in his own ivory tower, content to play with his own new math and happy with how well it fits the universe. He wants freedom to think. Freedom for others to think and say what they think. That’s the why of his cryptophone. He wants an open road past all the meddlers and censors.

  “He and Kit might have offered Garron some kind of compromise. Kit out of fear, Rob Roy because he didn’t care, but Stuart won’t have any kind of deal. He’s not on the council, of course, but he does command the Rifles. Kit was giving way to his bluster till Cass Pepperlake spoke.

  “In the end, it was Cass who made the difference. He has his own dream of the future, but it’s not carved in stone like Garron’s or Stuart’s. No Kingdom of Christ, nor any militia empire. He just wants to keep us really free, free to find our own future however we can.

  “Garron tried to bribe the council. With his new station built, he said, he’d have millions coming in from his legion of saints, with no guff from the IRS about his tax-exempt status. He offered to split his loot. His flock was big and growing fast, all they owned gifts from the Lord and due back to him. Their tithes would be a national income no blockade could stop.

  “The three finally met behind closed doors and came out with a deal Cass had engineered. They opened a gate in the shell just long enough to let Garron and his people out of the county. It had to be quick, before Zeider could close the roads. Garron threatened the wrath of Jehovah, but Stuart held the high card. I think Garron plans to set up new headquarters and build his own infonet station at his branch temple in Tennessee. Anyhow, he’s out.” She made a face. “Good riddance!”

  “But there’s still Stuart.”

  “Stuart.”

  She nodded unhappily and said no more about him. The sandwich was gone, and another piece of chicken. She gave me a bright red apple. I settled back in the seat happy just to be with her, feeling no need to talk. Stuart didn’t know I was here; he might never know.

  I remember nodding off and murmuring some apology. When I woke dusk had fallen.

  I lay sprawled in the seat. Beth was in front, starting the engine. She waited for me to climb in beside her, and had me wear her Reb cap, pulled low to hide my face. Driving without lights, she got us back to the empty highway and drove by moonlight till we saw lights ahead.

  When she stopped, we were in her garage. Orinda met us at the kitchen door with a quiet brown smile. Colin McAdam got stiffly out of his chair to shake my hand. A gracious host, he offered drinks nobody accepted and murmured a blessing over a hot dinner, beef roast and vegetables out of his garden, but he ate almost in silence. He looked older, I thought, thinner and anxious. When Orinda offered coffee he excused himself and left the table.

  “He’s worried sick about my brothers.” Beth dropped her voice. “He’s never even tried to understand Rob Roy’s science, but now he’s afraid of what may come of it. He’s tried to reason with Stuart, but Stuart never did listen to reason. I think he never will.”

  We sat over the coffee a few minutes longer, but Beth soon said goodnight. Orinda gave me the new keys to my room and brought fresh towels. The closets were empty, and the childhood mementos that Stuart had left were gone from the walls. When I looked in the little drawer in the bedside table, the gun and box of ammunition were gone. I found the empty clip still there, however, and a dozen oak acorns.

  They set me to wondering again about the acorn fragments left by the bomb that killed my brother, the acorns I had found by Lydia Starker’s head and my own, and Agent Monty Botman. What did the acorns mean? Was Stuart the Frankfort bomber and my brother’s killer? Not likely; he had been in prison. What had become of Botman? Recalling McAdam’s talk of an unsettling new paradigm, of new leaders rising to fight for the power of new technologies, I was glad to see the new deadbolt on the outside door.

  The infotel set was still in the room.

  . . facts to the max.” I heard Tex Horn’s mellow boom when I turned it on. Sitting again at his studio news desk, he pushed the big white hat farther back and winked at the lens. “Washintel One is happy to report the channels clear in time for President Higgins and a new appeal to the Kentucky rebels.”

  On the mo
nitor, Higgins was seated in the Oval Office, a flag draped beside him. Makeup had given his sunken cheeks a rosy glow, but failed to hide his illness.

  “Fellow citizens—” His voice rasped hoarsely, and he started over. “My fellow Americans, citizens of McAdam County and citizens of every county in every state, I appeal to you in desperation. I love our nation. So, I know, do most of you. I am sad to say that recent events have left our national unity in the gravest disarray, but I’m not ready to write it off.

  “But forget the rhetoric.” He shrugged, with a feeble try at a smile. “I’ve no strength for empty wind, and our tragic situation leaves no time for waste. I can be very brief, very simple.

  “As all of you know, McAdam County has declared its independence. The reasons for that rash act can be left for history, but it is one that no government can tolerate. Our forces under General Zeider were ordered to put the insurrection down. He reports that his action has resulted in a stalemate. His forces are now standing down, awaiting further orders.

  “Our previous offers of negotiation or arbitration have been rejected or ignored. Tonight, after due consultation with the cabinet and congressional leaders, and out of our sacred obligation to the nation, I am making one last attempt. Let me remind you that one battle is not the war. Even if your defenses are impregnable—for all I know they may be—they can never make you truly independent. At best, you can only shut yourselves up in a prison of your own making.

  “For the sake of your people, I beg you to consider the costs of your small victory. Can you grow food enough? Can you pump your own oil and refine your own gasoline? Can you generate power to light and heat your homes? Can you manufacture medicines? Won’t your people want sugar, coffee, a thousand everyday necessities you don’t produce?

  “We aren’t asking for your souls, or even threatening you with starvation. The chiefs of staff and the congressional leaders have approved very generous terms. First, you must withdraw your claim to national independence. The Union is indivisible; the Civil War established that. Second, your defensive weapon must be surrendered.

  “In return, we offer a general amnesty to every inhabitant of your so-called Haven, with total immunity against any charges of treason or sedition. We propose the establishment of a neutral international commission to arbitrate your differences with the Union. We will compensate the inventor or inventors of your weapon with an award to be determined by the commission.

  “We await your response, which we expect within twenty-four hours.”

  Higgins’s quivery voice faded out. His haggard features dimmed and vanished.

  “Fisherman Higgins back at the pond,” Tex Horn rumbled heartily from the monitor. “Dangling the same old bait. Will the Rebs jump for it? I don’t think so, but here’s Ramona Del Rio, who has been trapped behind the lines until today. Washintel One is happy to welcome her back. Always on tap with her tips for tomorrow, she has asked Reb Commander Stuart McAdams for an early answer to the president.”

  His image faded into hers.

  “Hiya, Tex.” She touched her lips with her fingertips and waved the kiss into the lens. “I spent most of the morning with Commander McAdam, scouting the rebel perimeter. He left no doubt about his own plans. They don’t include surrender.”

  The camera had caught her waving from the window of a pickup truck jolting over rough country. Beside her, sitting straight at the wheel, Stuart was stopping and stopping again to lift binoculars and scan the wreckage that had fallen along the foot of the invisible barrier. He paused to study a group of men outside the shell who were stabbing at it with rods, flashing red and green lasers at it, frowning at the dials of their machines.

  “That was earlier today.” She spoke again. “We saw half a dozen teams probing for the secret of the rebel defense, but no sign they were learning anything. While we wait for any answer to the president, here is a brief update on the conflict as I see it from here inside the rebels’ wonder wall.” Gracefully, she stroked the silver streak in her sleek back hair. “General Zeider’s all-out assault failed to penetrate what they call a ‘silicon shell’ though there’s no evidence that actual silicon is any part of it. It stopped him in his tracks.

  “It has not been used, however, in any offensive way. It simply halted his assault. Tanks and other attacking vehicles were stalled and often burned. Attacking aircraft burst into flames and fell out of the sky. Bombs and missiles exploded in the air. Machine-gun and small arms fire had no effect. Troops threw their weapons away and fled in panic. The rebels have offered no explanation of how this shell deflects or destroys everything thrown against it.”

  The monitor went dark, then lit again with Stuart standing on the cab of his pickup truck, parked on the highway just inside the rebel checkpoint I remembered. Beyond him, searchlights bathed a fire-scarred hillside littered with all the burned and broken metal that had fallen out of the sky.

  “A word about the commander,” her voice went on, “while we wait for his remarks. He comes from what might be called the first family of the insurgent county and he has survived clashes of his own with the law. Once on trial for illegal traffic in arms and high explosives, he was acquitted by a jury of his local peers. More recently, he served a year in the Frankfort prison on a narcotics conviction. When I inquired today about his goals for the future, here is what he said.”

  Sitting with her in the studio, Stuart bowed to the lens.

  “I will liberate America.” His public voice rang confident and clear. “Our forefathers came here to find their freedom. They fought a bitter war to keep it, wrote the Constitution and the Bill of Rights to guarantee it. But now . . .”

  Voice falling, he paused to shake his head.

  “We have let foolish men squander our precious heritage in their greedy scramble for money and political advantage. Our property rights are gone. If my pasture floods too often, it becomes a wetland, no longer mine. If I am accused of a narcotics offense, the feds can seize my car or my home or my bank account before I am ever convicted—that happened to me.”

  Grinning, with a glint of defiance in eyes as blue as Beth’s, he faded from the monitor and returned standing now on the pickup cab. A striking figure in his new green jacket, gold-braided pants, and white rebel hat, he paused for a moment, gazing soberly into the lens, then turned slowly to look out across the litter of ruined weaponry while the searchlight roved across it.

  “A glimpse of McAdam as he is.” The voice of Ramona Del Rio. His arm rising to sweep the new craters, the dead armor, the shattered aircraft, he turned slowly back. “Washintel WebWatch One brings him to you live, with his reply to the President.”

  “The poor old man!” Stuart laughed. “I heard his blithering. He’s as sick as his dying country. Tell him we’ve had too many of his silly ultimata. Does he take us for idiots? How many dollars would your arbitrators set as the fair value of a weapon that can conquer the world?”

  He swung back to mock the lens.

  “Tell him good night.”

  Tex Horn blandly repeated Higgins, gravely echoed Stuart, and appealed to a panel of experts, who speculated on all they hadn’t said.

  “McAdam boasts like a winner,” the sage from Gunlaw concluded, “but he’ll be a loser in the end. When Higgins blockades him, what can he do but seal himself up his magical silicon cell and let the world roll on without him?”

  “Think so?” The Infax pundit frowned. “His brother’s the man to watch. Rob Roy McAdam. We were classmates at MIT, though I never knew him well. A genius who knows computers better than people. A master of the encryption game. The government shut his CyberSoft down when they couldn’t break his cryptophone algorithms. This silicon shell is his answer. What Higgins needs is a second Rob Roy McAdam.”

  “If there is another.” Tex Horn had turned to the Hotwire savant. “Your opinion, sir?”

  “I’m alarmed.” A grizzled and grim-featured former secretary of state, he shook his head gloomily. “If the secret of McAdam’s
weapon gets out, it could mean the end of the imperial nation. Maybe the end of history.”

  Horn seemed awed. “Sir, do you really mean that?”

  “Every nation, every individual depends on every other in a system so complex that any glitch can break it down. McAdam’s barrier weapon is that glitch. Without some kind of international law and discipline, civilization can’t survive.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I SLEPT TILL Orinda called me to breakfast. An early riser, McAdam was back from his garden with the last fresh tomatoes of the season. He ate half a dozen sweet red slices before he attacked his oatmeal. Orinda had made ham and grits for me, because, she said, I’d looked so hungry. Beth sat motionless over her coffee and a bowl of oats, absorbed in all she had to think about. Her problems and her nearness filled me with a bitter longing.

  “You’ll see an old friend tonight,” McAdam told me as we left the table. “Cass Pepperlake. Higgins and Garron and Stuart have left him no happier than I am with their conflicting schemes for the future. He wants to talk about his own ideas.”

  “A man you can trust,” Beth told me.

  She went away to her college classes. McAdam excused himself and retired to his study. Staying inside, I tried the infotel for news. The shell had been closed again, even to satellite signals. All I got was a local broadcast from a KRIF announcer. Federal forces were arrayed all along the foot of the barrier, he said, searching for bodies and hauling away equipment they could salvage. Meeting to hear President Higgins, the council had adjourned with no comment on his demands.

  Orinda had set two plates for a light lunch, cold ham sandwiches and a stew of McAdam’s garden vegetables. When she said he was asleep in his chair, I had her sit with me and asked what she thought of the war.