And the space program-as long as we had mass-drivers on the moon, there wasn't a city on Earth that was safe. We didn't need atom bombs-we could drop asteroids.
And all those shipments of food and farm machinery-that helped our economy more than theirs, because we got to retool our assembly lines to build a new generation of technology.
And all those energy satellites-every nation that accepted one would be dependent on us for its maintenance.
And our export of more than half a million teachers to the underprivileged nations-the next generation of world leaders would be taught with American values.
It made a crazy kind of sense. I could almost imagine the President saying, "What if we only pretended to lose?"
I thought of a lockbox with a false bottom and a suite of rooms on the thirteenth floor. You can't hide anything forever-you can only misdirect the attention of the searcher.
The rest of the world would be looking for evidence of military buildup-and we were hiding it as economic recovery and reparations and civilian solutions to unemployment! And the best part of it was that those things were always exactly what they seemed to be, even when they weren't.
And something else
Even Whitlaw's class had been a sham.
I'd always wondered why there was a Federal Education Authority. Now it made sense. Under the guise of teaching us history -how we had lost a war-Whitlaw was teaching us how to win the next one without ever fighting it. He'd taught us to outthink our enemies, because it was easier than outfighting them.
I felt like a grenade had gone off in my belly. A grenade that Whitlaw had shoved down my throat three years before and had taken this long to explode.
I'd never thought about the Special Forces before-they were just another military unit, one specifically trained for crisis deployment. I guess I'd thought that meant natural disasters and riots -I hadn't realized there was a second Special Forces hidden in the one place nobody would think to look: inside the regular Special Forces.
I realized that and my heart popped. What was the Special Forces really for? What had I been a part of?
TWENTY-SEVEN
THERE WERE four of them. Colonel Wallachstein, Lizard, a tiny, friendly-looking Japanese lady with graying hair, and a dark fellow in a black suit. They seated themselves around the small table facing me.
Wallachstein said, "No introductions, McCarthy. Understand something. This meeting didn't happen. And these people don't exist. Neither do I. Got that?"
"Uh, yes, sir."
"Good. I hope so. Because this comes under the jurisdiction of the National Security Act. If you commit any further violations you're likely to disappear. Permanently."
"Yes, sir."
"Now, before we begin, there are some things I have to say. I'm required by law to do this." He looked at a sheet of notes before him, and read, " `A fair trial presupposes that the defendant is a responsible human being, capable of understanding the difference between right and wrong and able to gauge his actions and their consequences on that basis. Therefore, the outcome of this hearing is dependent on your ability to deal with the information available to you.' " He looked up at me. "Do you understand this?"
I nodded. My throat had gone dry again. Was I on trial? For what?
Wallachstein was frowning. "Is something the matter?"
"Sir," I managed to croak, "what kind of hearing is this? I mean, under what authority-?"
He held up a hand. "Let me finish first." He resumed reading. " `Under such operating conditions, we cannot judge "guilt" or "innocence" as absolute moral value-nor should we attempt to. Instead, we are determining an organism's ability to deal rationally with its environment. Instead of seeking punishment, revenge or even rehabilitation, it is the purpose of this tribunal to determine the value of the individual's contribution to the social environment versus the cost of his continued existence in that environment.' " He pushed the sheet of paper aside and looked directly at me. "Do you understand that?"
I nodded.
"Right. Now, one other thing. What I just read you is in compliance with the Revised Legal Code of 2001. In this hearing, in any area where there is conflict between the Revised Legal Code and the standards of the National Security Act, the standards of the National Security Act shall have precedence. Do you understand that?"
"Uh, I think so. But ... ?"
"Yes?"
"May I ask questions?"
He said, "You have the right to establish for yourself the authority of this tribunal and its jurisdiction over you. Your question?"
"I have several," I began.
"Let's hear them."
"What's going on here? Who are you? What is your authority? And what am I charged with?"
Wallachstein exchanged glances with the Japanese lady. She smiled sweetly and spoke in a lightly accented voice, but she slurred some of her consonants and I had to concentrate to be sure I understood all of her words. "As a member of the Special Forces Warrant Agency, you are under the direct command of the National Security Office, Military Branch, and therefore you are under the multilevel jurisdiction of the National Security Code, the United States Military Code and the United States Civilian Code, in that order. The purpose of this hearing is to determine the circumstances that resulted in a breach of security that occurred this morning in front of some two thousand witnesses, among whom were individuals known to be agents of hostile foreign governments. The members of this tribunal are authorized to act on behalf of the National Security Office. For reasons of national security, no other identification of the officers of this court will be made. Do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She smiled sweetly back at me.
"Um," I said, "I have some other questions." They waited expectantly.
"First, I'd like to know how long the Special Forces has been the cover for a secret military operation. I want to know what the nature of that operation is and whatever else you can tell me about it. I understand that as a member of the Special Forces, I'm entitled to be fully briefed."
Wallachstein exchanged a glance with the dark fellow. He looked at me and said, "Who told you that?"
"Nobody. I put the pieces together myself. It wasn't hard."
Wallachstein said, "There is no secret military operation within the Special Forces. At least, not on paper. However, the internal nucleus of the organization has stood ready to handle necessary but nasty security operations for over a hundred years. The current operation is almost exclusively targeted at controlling the Chtorran infestation. It is a secret operation because we are using weaponry that has been proscribed by international agreement-as you are well aware. What else do you want to know?"
"I want to know what the Chtorrans are. Are they really from another world or are they a biological weapon developed here?"
The Japanese lady said, "Dr. Zymph's report on the infestation, which you heard, is our best assessment of the situation to date."
"How do I know you're telling the truth?"
"You don't." She added, "I will tell you that Dr. Zymph is too proud a lady to lie for anyone, if that helps."
"That may be, but the Chtorrans are too well adapted to this ecology. And the United States is taking too much advantage of the situation."
"Yes," she said. "I see." She didn't say anything else. She just blinked at me.
"Well, aren't you going to answer those points?"
She shook her head. "Unfortunately, there are no satisfactory answers-at least none that will satisfy you right now."
"Well, give me the unsatisfactory answers then."
She said, "I can't tell you anything about the Chtorrans that you don't already know. Yes, they are terribly well adapted to our ecology. We've noticed it too. Someday we hope to find out why. I will tell you that if any nation on this planet had the ability to create-in absolute secrecy-several hundred new species of virulent life forms, totally unrecognizable to state-of-the-art genetic tailoring, it would have to be
the United States. We know that we didn't do it. What we're seeing is beyond our ability to construct. And we know that no one else has the capability to do it either.
"Now, as to the second part of your concern: yes, the United States is exploiting the situation-but we did not create the situation, nor would we have if we did have the ability. But it does exist and we will use it. We would use any situation that occurred. We have a responsibility to the remaining member population of this nation to manage the affairs of state in a way that best serves their interests. If we didn't, they would have the right to replace us with individuals who would."
"I can't say I like that very much," I said.
She nodded. "I told you that the answers were unsatisfactory. I'm afraid that you will have to resolve your conflict with them for yourself."
She looked to Wallachstein. He looked at me. "Is that it? Or is there something else?"
"Just one thing more, sir. How did I end up in the Special Forces?"
For the first time, he smiled-it was a grim smile, but it still qualified: the corners of his mouth twitched. He said, "By mistake. The . . . ah . . . plagues destroyed several key lines of communication. We lost some of our most valuably placed people. The individuals who replaced them were not aware of the unique status of the Special Forces. We've been very successful in establishing ourselves as our own cover organization, but even we were not untouched by the plagues, and it took a while to reestablish all of our necessary controls. Unfortunately, during that time, a number of individuals-like yourself-were assigned to Special Forces units that they should not have been. For the most part, we've been able to locate and isolate those individuals who were unable to meet our special ... criteria. You, unfortunately, have proven to be something of a difficult case. Had you made the attempt to contact me immediately upon arrival, I might have been able to prevent the scene in the conference hall this morning." He cleared his throat, then allowed himself another grim smile. "On the other hand, in all fairness, there are a number of people who feel exactly as you do and who would have liked to have done the same thing you did-except that they knew the reasons why they shouldn't."
"Oh."
Wallachstein and the Japanese lady whispered together for a moment, Lizard and the dark fellow listening in. Dark fellow shook his head about something, but Lizard shook her head harder, disagreeing with him. I caught the phrase "-can't afford to waste personnel-" and then they shut up when they realized they were getting too loud.
Wallachstein said, "I think I have to agree with Major Tirelli's assessment." He turned to me. "McCarthy, let me be honest with you. I don't give a damn what happened this morning. I'm not so sure that you did any serious damage to us, and you may even have,done some good by drawing off some of the heat from Dr. Zhymph's presentation. We expected there to be fireworks over that, because there were individuals in attendance whose sole purpose in attending was to create fireworks and embarrass the United States. We knew about them in advance. You seem to have stolen their thunder and embarrassed one of their most respected spokesmen."
"I embarrassed him?"
"You dealt with the issues. He didn't. More importantly, you kept him from making his presentation. He was going to minimize the Chtorran problem in favor of a global reconstruction plan-it would have been a very attractive plan too, because the United States would have ended up paying for most of it. Essentially, we would be shipping out every unclaimed machine in the country, every vehicle, computer, airplane, TV set and toaster. And if we couldn't do it fast enough, they'd send in volunteer troops to help us. To be honest, McCarthy, I couldn't have staged a better diversion if I'd wanted to. And believe me, I wanted to. I didn't because I thought it would be too obvious. And that's the problem here. You called attention to yourself as a member of the Special Forces Warrant Agency, and even though you didn't know what you were doing, you have given the United Nations Inspection Authority additional reason to suspect the Special Forces as an undercover operation. Our enemies are already claiming that this morning's events were carefully planned to discredit their position. They're right and wrong at the same time. If we had thought we could have gotten away with something like what you did, we would have done it-but we didn't think we could have. And you proved that our estimation of the situation was correct. In your ignorance, you did the right thing-that's why it was wrong, because it was so right. Do you understand?"
"Uh, sort of, but not really."
Wallachstein was grim. "I'm not sure what I should do with you, McCarthy. I can't give you a medal and I don't have time to hang you. Do you have any suggestions?"
I thought about it for a moment. They waited patiently. When I finally spoke, it was with carefully chosen words. "I'm interested in Chtorrans, sir. I'm not interested in playing spy games. Up in the mountains, we knew who the enemy was. He was big and red and always screamed before he leaped, and there wasn't anybody to say how we should or shouldn't fight back. We just did what we had to."
Wallachstein said, "In that, I envy you. There have been occasions when I wished for the application of a flamethrower to solve some of my problems down here." He opened a notebook in front of him and scribbled something on a page. He ripped the page out and shoved it toward me. "Here. I want you to go someplace this afternoon."
I took the paper and looked at it. "A doctor?"
"A psychiatrist."
"I don't understand."
"Have you ever heard of survivor's syndrome?" I shook my head.
He said quietly, "When you wipe out three-quarters of the human race, all you have left are orphans. There isn't a human being on this planet who hasn't been affected in some deep way. The dying has touched us all. I'm sure you've seen some of the reactions, the herds of walking wounded, the manics, the zombies, the suicides, the sexual obsessives, the ones who are so desperate for stability that they've become drones, and so on. I don't know if you've seen much of the opposite side of that coin though. Like any ordeal, the plagues destroyed the weak and tempered the strong. There are a lot of people who are just coming alive now because they have something worthwhile to do. Before you can become a real member of this Special Forces, we have to know which kind of survivor you are."
I blurted, "I don't know. I never thought about it. I mean, I just picked myself up and kept on going. It seemed the only logical thing to do-"
Wallachstein held up a hand. "Don't tell me. Tell the doctor. We'll recess this hearing until . . ." He glanced at his watch, scowled. ". . . until further notice. Take a scooter from the car pool, McCarthy. Major Tirelli will show you where to go. Don't talk to anyone else. Go directly back to base and plug into Dr. Davidson. Get something to eat at the base commissary. Better get a change of clothes too, and then come back here immediately."
"Uh, sir?"
He looked up. "Eh?"
"I thought I was ... under arrest. I mean, what's to keep me from getting on the scooter and heading west?"
"Nothing," he said. "In fact, it'd probably solve a lot of problems if you did. It's not something many people know, but not a lot of traffic is getting over the Rockies these days. Something keeps stopping the cars and peeling them open like sardine cans. Besides"-he looked me straight in the eye and his expression was taut "you're not the kind who bolts. You'll come back. By then we'll have Dr. Davidson's report and we'll know what to do with you. Major Tirelli, will you escort McCarthy to the car pool? We have some talking to do here."
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE ROOM was empty.
A rug. A chair. A table with a pitcher of water and a glass on it. Nothing else. No other doors except the one behind me. "Please sit down," said a disembodied female voice. I looked, but I couldn't see a speaker system. I sat down. The chair creaked, but it was comfortable. It was a swivel-rocker, upholstered in dark brown leather. It felt reassuring.
"Your name, please?"
"McCarthy, James Edward."
"Ah, yes. We've been expecting you. Dr. Davidson will be with you sh
ortly. While you wait, I'll play a short film for you."
"Um-" But the room was already darkening. The wall in front of me began to glow and images began to solidify in the air. I shut up, decided to relax and enjoy it.
The film was ... a montage. What they call a tone poem. Music and images wrapping around each other, some sexual, some violent, some funny, some happy-two naked children splashing in a rocky stream dissolved into a tiny jeweled spider weaving a diamond tapestry against a blue and velvet background-that shimmered into an eagle soaring high above a desolate landscape as if looking for a haven-the eagle became a silver sailship hanging effortlessly in space below an emerald-shiny Earth, and then a pair of male dancers, clad only in briefs, whirled around each other, their bodies glistening with sweat-resolving now into a cheetah racing hard across the veldt and bringing down a zebra, terrified, in a cloud of stinging dust...
It went on like that for ten or fifteen minutes, a tumble of pictures, one after the other, faster than I could assimilate. A couple of times I felt frightened; I didn't know why. Once I felt angry. I didn't like the film. I wondered why they were showing it to me. This was boring. And then, just when I started to get interested again, it ended.
When the lights came back up, a quiet voice said, "Good afternoon." The voice was male. Quiet. Very mature. Grandfatherly.
I cleared my throat again, and I found my voice. "Where are you?" I asked.
"Atlanta."
"Who are you?"
"You may call me Dr. Davidson, if you wish. That's not my real name, but that's the name I use for these sessions."
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