The Silicon Dagger

by Jack Williamson

  “Will it be?” Horn asked.

  “I’m afraid it will.” Venturi frowned. “Such secrets belong to

  nature, after all, not to CyberSoft Corporation. Nature will surely reveal it again, to anybody clever enough to ask the right question.” “You think so?” Skeptically, Horn pushed up the big white hat. “Were you asked to join Higgins’s task force?”

  “I said no.” Venturi shook his head.

  “Personally, I can’t help hoping nobody stumbles across that question. I don’t like to think of what might happen if McAdam’s secret is published. It could crumble nations into outlaw gangs raiding the lands round them and retreating into impregnable strongholds.”

  “What’s your theory?” Horn pushed the hat askew. “About the nature of it?”

  Venturi hesitated.

  “We pick up rumors.” Horn peeked at a paper on his desk. “I’ve heard guesses. Wave interference. Quantum effects. A spacetime dislocation. Can you comment?”

  “I wish I could.” Venturi frowned, though a fresh interest had lit his face. “When we try to question nature, she can answer like the Oracle at Delphi. Always with another tricky riddle.”

  “Where would you look for an answer?”

  “I’d study the barrier wall. It’s transparent to light, but McAdam can make it opaque to longer-wave radiation. Radar echoes are delayed. Just a microsecond, but enough to show the wall several hundred meters farther off than it is. A tragedy for military pilots in the assault on the wall. They collided with it when their instruments still showed them safely distant.”

  “How can that be?” Horn persisted.

  Venturi shrugged. “You night ask Ian Donegal—he was the first to pick up that radar anomaly. He’s suggesting that the distorted reflections are due to a fault in spacetime.”

  “What could cause that?”

  Venturi shrugged again. “You’d have to ask nature.” He paused for a moment, frowning, and his voice fell. “I’m keeping out of any serious research, because the secret frightens me. Any man who owns it could be murdered for it. Another Stalin or another Hitler could use it to destroy civilization.”

  Horn blinked.

  “I hope the research fails.” Venturi’s face was grimly set. “I hope McAdam lets his secret die with him.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  BREAKFAST NEXT MORNING was scorched commeal mush, scattered with black scrapings from the bottom of the pot. I heard howls of protest down the corridor, but my annoyance evaporated when Mrs. Oxman told me I had guests waiting.

  “A Mrs. Kirk and two kids. Mr. Oxman says you can see them if you want, right here in the cell.”

  Oxman let them in. Marion wore a white uniform with Bristol House blue-lettered on the breast, her rust-red hair tucked under a blue-and-white uniform cap. Tim and Angela tiptoed behind her. Angela clung to her skirt, and started fearfully when Oxman clanged the steel door shut behind them.

  Wide-eyed, Tim stared around the narrow cell, at the bare mattress pads, the lidless toilet and the dripping faucet above it, the obscene graffiti scrawled across the splashes of yellow-brown paint that had not quite covered older obscenities. Marion stood for a moment peering at me, her face tight and anxious.

  “Oh, Clay—” Her voice caught, and she ran to hug me.

  “What—” A sob checked her again. “What has happened to you?”

  She stepped back to listen, but I was drowning under too much emotion. Joy that they had come, shame to be found in this dismal cell, greater shame that they were here because of me, desperation that I had no way out. Suddenly weak in the knees, I sank down on my bunk and burst into a fit of sobs I couldn’t stop. Tim came silently to touch me on the shoulder.

  “Mr. Oxman?” I heard Angela’s small reproving voice. “What have you done to Uncle Clay?”

  Still gazing through the bars, he muttered something I didn’t understand. I wiped my eyes with the sleeve of the yellow fatigues and tried to pull myself together.

  “Let’s talk.” I found Marion sitting on the other bunk, the children huddled beside her. “We have only fifteen minutes.”

  “Uncle Clay,” Angela whispered, “we came because we love you.”

  “You’re wonderful.” I had to wipe my eyes again. “I’ll be okay. It’s just that I’m so happy to see you.” I turned to Marion. “You got trapped here?”

  “The news about you was terrible.” She seemed at first calmer than I was. “Too bad to believe. We came to help if we could, but you’ve been hard to find. I didn’t know what to do. You’d spoken of Mr. Pepperlake, your friend at the Freeman. He tried to help when we went to him, but we couldn’t—couldn’t find you.”

  Her voice had begun to break.

  “We had to give up. Of course we had return tickets, but the airport closed. I tried to rent a car, but people getting out of the county had taken them all.”

  She straightened and caught her breath.

  “But we’re surviving.” She tried to smile. “We were staying at the Bristol House. The manager has been understanding. He can’t take credit cards or checks, but he’s letting me clean the rooms.”

  “I’m working,” Tim spoke up. “Bussing tables in the restaurant.”

  “Brave of you,” I said. “I’m proud of you,”

  “Clay, what—” Her voice broke again. “What do you expect?”

  Oxman stood close to the bars, listening avidly.

  “I don’t know. I’m waiting to see my lawyer.”

  “If you call that stinking coon a lawyer,’ Oxman muttered. “If you ever see him again.” He looked at a gold pocket watch and turned brusquely to Marion. “Sorry, lady, your time is up.”

  “If there’s anything—” Marion had to gulp. “Call me at the Bristol House if there’s anything I can do.”

  Tim came silently to shake my hand. Angela scrambled into my lap and reached her arms around my neck.

  “We brought you a box,” she whispered. “Fried chicken and apples and a candy bar. Mr. Oxman says he has to look in the box before he can give it to you.”

  “Don’t you worry, kid.” Oxman spoke quickly, offended. “Your uncle will get his box.”

  He let them out and locked the door. Angela looked back to wave me a kiss as they followed him away. I sprawled face down on the pad, breathing the faint dry scent of old piss and hating myself for what I had done to them till Oxman came back with the box.

  A thigh and a drumstick. Two red apples. A chocolate-skinned candy bar. Marion had wrapped them in wax paper. Oxman had tom it off and crumpled it in the bottom of the box. I ate the candy bar, wishing Angela had kept it, and saved the chicken for dinner.

  Waiting, still hoping for word from Luke Huron, I paced the narrow space between the bunks. Three steps and turn, three steps and turn, till it almost made me giddy. A program about classic Kentucky foods was running on KRIF.

  “News special.” The announcer interrupted a recipe for a grits casserole. “Washintel correspondent Ramona Del Rio, caught here inside the rebel shell, has given us permission to run a report prepared for transmission to her network when or if that becomes possible.”

  In a blue denim jacket with a red silk scarf around her throat, she looked as chipper as ever.

  “Update from the Haven,” her voice rang crisp as frost. “Tensions continue to increase here in the outlaw territory. Though General Zeider suffered a stunning defeat, it seems that the rebels have won a battle only to lose the war. President Higgins remains adamant in his demand that they surrender their high-tech weapon and their claim to independence.

  “While the council is still debating new laws and a constitution, Colonel McAdam, their military commander, is defying President Higgins more openly. He has threatened to share the secret of the shield with other militias all across the country.

  “President Higgins is promising charges of treason against every man and woman in the county unless they surrender and ask for amnesty. The council can close their so-called silicon
shell, however, to prevent any mass exodus, and they seem unlikely to reveal its secret.

  “General Zeider, in the meantime, has begun stringing razor wire outside the barrier. In spite of that initial victory, I think the rebels are doomed by their own success. They’ve cut themselves off from friends and relatives, from all the goods and services that came from outside, and they are already feeling the pinch.

  “The Rotary Club and the Chamber of Commerce have petitioned the council to give up the dream of independence and reopen negotiations with the federal government.

  “With disquiet increasing, a disturbing incident of violence was reported yesterday. Though the facts are disputed, it appears that a young black woman was raped and beaten by members of the Kentucky Rifles, the local militia group supporting the rebellion.

  “The girl, still in her teens, is the daughter of a respected Baptist minister, Enoch Hillburn. I interviewed him. As he tells the story, his daughter is the organist at the church, only two blocks from the parsonage where they live. She was walking home after practice with the choir when three drunk militiamen in a military vehicle snatched her off the sidewalk and carried her to the park where they raped and beat her.

  “Benjamin Coon, acting as sheriff and chief of police under the rebel government, tells a far different story. He says the woman hailed the men to solicit sex for money. They agreed. The violence took place after the sex, when she called their money worthless, demanded their watches instead. She threatened the rape charge when they balked at that.

  “The pastor took his daughter to the hospital and reported the incident to the police. He says Coon called her a yellow nigger whore and told him the new nation is to be snow-white, no niggers wanted. A desperate situation, at least as it looks from here.”

  Gloomily, Del Rio shook her head at the lens.

  “With the barrier still closed to wire and radio transmission, we have nothing new from the world outside, but we are standing by. When news does burst you get it first on Washintel One.”

  With that feeble echo of Tex Horn, her face faded from the tube.

  Late that afternoon, when Luke Huron hadn’t yet returned, I saw Mrs. Oxman in the corridor and begged her to let me call Pepperlake.

  “The Councilor?” She looked down her nose. “He ain’t got time for the likes of you.”

  Finally, however, she and Oxman brought a telephone and stood listening while I made the call. It was answered by a secretary who knew me from my work on the Freeman and said she’d leave a memo for him to call if he could. He never called.

  Dinner that night was a cold compone and a bowl of boiled cabbage. I scraped the bowl and turned on the infotel. Ramona Del Rio was back on the line.

  “. . . race riot, right here in the county.” Anxiety showed through her cheer. “The black pastor led a protest march to the Colonel McAdam’s hadquarters in the old National Guard building. The colonel refused to see him.

  “Though the facts are in dispute, guns were fired. One man was killed. Perhaps a dozen others were injured, though only seven were hospitalized. The pastor says his people carried no weapons. McAdam says his men fired only blank rounds or rubber bullets, when tear gas failed to disperse the mob—”

  The door clanged open.

  “I hate to interrupt your fun, Mr. Barstow.” Oxman gave me a sardonic smirk, “But here’s your big-shot attorney. I’ll give you fifteen minutes.”

  He let Luke Huron into the cell and locked the door behind him. To my relief, he walked away.

  “I asked for privacy.”

  Hardly listening, I stared at Luke. He wore a dismal face, with a puffy look around his eyes and a swollen ridge across the forehead. His left arm in a sling, he limped unsteadily to sit on the vacant bunk.

  “Sorry, Mr. Barstow.” He touched the sling with a painful grin. “But I’ve had problems. My house was torched last night, my wife inside. I cut myself on broken glass when I went through a window to save her. I’m afraid I can do nothing for you.”

  When I asked about his injury, he nodded grimly at the infotel, where Del Rio was summing up her report. I snapped it off.

  “Nothing really serious.” Ruefully, he shook his head. “A bullet wound in my arm and lacerations from broken glass. I’ll be okay, but other black folks aren’t. If you were listening to Ramona, there’s plenty to worry about. The council may hope to turn the county into some kind of paradise, but McAdam would make it a hell for blacks. If you heard Ben Coon and his cops, they’re lying about the rape that touched off the riot.

  “The militiamen were drunk. I know the girl. Only fifteen, she’s a gifted organist, with a music scholarship waiting for her. Her father is taking it hard. When he asked me for legal advice, I had to tell him there’s no law here in the county. Not yet. Only Coon’s cops and McAdam’s militia till the council does more than debate what the Haven is to be.

  “Anyhow, I went with the pastor to the police station. Coon sneered at us. He called the girl a two-faced nigger whore and told the pastor McAdam had agreed to open the wall ‘to let the niggers out of the county.’ The Haven is going to be lily-white.

  “The congregation was frightened and furious. They voted to make a protest march. I walked ahead with the pastor. McAdam drove past us in his command car. We saw him park at the armory before we got there, but the guards in the sentry box outside made a phone call and said he wasn’t there.

  “The pastor had warned his people to bring no weapons. I saw none on them, but the guards called a dozen militia men out of the building. A sergeant with a bullhorn ordered us to drop our weapons and disperse.

  “We had no weapons, and we didn’t scatter. The sergeant bellowed an order and the fired something at us. Tear gas grenades, I think. They exploded behind us. The stuff choked me, nearly blinded me. I saw some kid throw a rock. They fired back with live ammo.

  “They claim it was blanks and rubber bullets, but the surgeon said it was lead that hit my arm. A few of us were left lying in the road when the rest blundered away, the pastor praying over a woman who died before the ambulances got there. And that—”

  He stopped, his face twisting.

  “That’s why I’ve neglected your case. I’m sorry, Mr. Barstow, but I hope you see my situation. If they do open the barrier, I’m trying to get my wife to some safer place.”

  I was wishing him luck when we heard Oxman’s boots clacking down the corridor. He stood up and offered his free hand.

  “Never mind us, Mr. Barstow.” His voice fell, his stiff little grin turning grave. “You’re the one in need of better luck.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THOUGH PEPPERLAKE NEVER called back, he was at the jail next morning. Mrs. Oxman came to unlock my door.

  “Good news for you, Mr. Barstow.” She wore a look of awed astonishment. “They are letting you out.”

  “Who is?”

  “Mr. Pepperlake is here with an order from the council.” She squinted at a paper in her hand. “Signed by Mr. Moorhawk. Mr. Oxman sure don’t like it, but Mr. Pepperlake says we’ve got to let you go.”

  Dazed, I followed her out of the cell and saw Oxman and Pepperlake down the corridor, Oxman shouting angrily.

  “That damfool Moorhawk! Who’s he to think he can ramrod the county?”

  “He’s now our chief executive. Elected chair of the council.” “Chair?” Oxman snorted. “We bow down to a chair?” Pepperlake saw me and came to shake my hand. “Well, Clay!”

  He stood back to inspect me. “Still kicking, though you look a little worn. Ready to go?”

  “If I can—”

  “Not quite yet,” Oxman shouted. “Not till I call Ben Coon. He ain’t a chair of anything, but he is acting sheriff and police chief. He’ll have a say.”

  He went back to his office to make the call, leaving us standing with Mrs. Oxman in the corridor. Pepperlake frowned when I asked about Colin McAdam.

  “Still in intensive care. No visitors, but I talked to Beth this morning. He’s
still weak from loss of blood. They’ve done surgery to remove a bullet lodged near his heart. She says it’s still touch and go. A hard time for her.”

  Oxman came back, Ben Coon behind him.

  “You bastard!” Red-faced and yelling, Coon shook his fist at me. “Damn psychotic killer! If you think we’ll let you out to kill again—”

  He paused when Pepperlake raised a restraining hand and spoke more quietly to him. “Sir, we can’t release this man. He’s waiting trial for the Lydia Starker murder whenever we get a legal court. And a lot more than that.”

  Growing louder, he waved his fist again.

  “There’s the charge of homicide by arson, when he torched the Ryke clinic. There’s flight to escape arrest. The FBI wants to question him about a missing agent. And he’s got to be the gunman that shot the Colonel’s father in the back. Another murder rap if the old man dies. He’ll bum for sure if we ever get a court. Sorry, sir, but I’ll have to call the Colonel—”

  “Don’t bother.” Pepperlake reached for the yellow paper in Mrs. Oxman’s quivering hand. “Your colonel reports to the council, and I have this order from Chairman Moorhawk.”

  Coon’s jaw jutted stubbornly.

  “Moorhawk and your damfool council don’t command the Kentucky Rifles.”

  “Maybe not.” Pepperlake shrugged. “But we do control the silicon shell. Could your Rifles beat General Zeider if Rob Roy lets him in?”

  Coon snatched the order and peered at it grimly.

  “Okay,” he muttered. “The prisoner is remanded to the custody of your chicken shit council. He is not to leave the county.” He scowled at me. “I think the Colonel’s border guards can see to that.”

  “I’m sure,” Pepperlake murmured blandly, and led me to the elevator. Out in bright sunlight on the parking lot, I filled my lungs with fresh air and tried to thank him.

  “None of my doing. Not really. If thanks are due anybody, it’s your brother’s widow.”

  Giddy with relief, I said no more till we were in Pepperlake’s venerable Ford, driving back to the Freeman office.