Tears were streaming from Allred's eyes. "Yes, yes, remember. I remember now."
She reached out with her hands, and took his. His flesh felt sticky and brittle. "Please. Please help me."
He wept openly. "No one . . . has touched me for two years. Aren't you afraid?"
"Aren't we all?"
He swallowed hard. "All right. You deserve that much. The fetus was shipped to Arizona. To the NewMan encampment. Find something called Medusa. That's all I know. All I can tell you."
Promise stood near the electrified fence, reached through the fabric of her pants, and hit the tracer. A radio beam screamed out into the night, and ninety seconds later, a hovercraft appeared. A circle of blazing light splashed down.
Promise ran to the center of the circle. A stream of yellow disinfectant foam played over her, and she gasped as it stung her eyes, but still rotated slowly, with her arms up. A rope ladder lowered to her, and she climbed up into the craft.
"Well?" Leo asked as he pulled Promise up. "Move it. The alarms are up. They'll try to burn us down, but I'm flying low."
The craft took off. Promise watched the screens as two patrol vehicles flew in to check the security breach. Leo's smooth hands on the controls whisked them away before the security vehicles arrived.
"Well?"
"I know where my child is," Promise said, and an enormous load seemed to lift from her shoulders with the words.
Leo nodded, thin face feral. "Then let's go get her."
Chapter Twenty-Three
One Nation Under God
Monday, June 19
Marcel Killinger stood in the security booth at the very rear of the Los Angeles Sports Arena, looking down over the thousands of cheering spectators who waited for the stage in the front of the arena to clear. This was the third in a series of six talks, a media blitz building the way for victory in July.
As in other arenas around the country, the rally would be piped via satellite. As had been his habit for more than two years now, Sterling DeLacourte would appear only by hologram.
On triple Omnivision flatscreens, Killinger scanned the parking lots outside. The fire department hosed the remains of three burning cars from the pavement. Bomb threats. More of them, and these had not been bluffs. The tension, the current, was mounting, the stakes rising.
That was the way that it had to be.
The room lights dimmed, and the crowd roared as a local politico took the stand. The man looked like a flesh-colored frog, all wide lips and hairless pate.
"We know why we are here today," he began. "In a month, the Democratic National Convention comes to Los Angeles. We are here to send a signal to the highest levels of our government. We know the man we want sent to Washington, DON'T WE!! We know the one man who can clean the corruption from our streets, who can set this great country back on the path of righteousness.
"Look at the cities! They are burning, they are roiling with hatred and intrigue. Look at the spending power that our parents enjoyed. Look at the relations with our neighbors who used to respect us.
"Today, we come to listen to a man who understands wealth—and has built a billion-dollar empire with his own sweat. Who understands communication, and is praised the world over for his unification of a thousand international cable links in the largest global network the world has ever known. We come to pay honor to a man who is a man of faith, who preaches the simple truth, because that is the only way that he understands. The man who helped guide the nation into a sane policy dealing with the filth who carry Thai-VI through our streets.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the next President of the United States, Sterling DeLacourte!"
Killinger glanced to the left, where Nozawa, their communications tech, worked carefully, smoothly, coordinating the image of a man thousands of miles away with the stage before them. Everyone in the audience knew that DeLacourte's presence was holographic. They accepted it. But there was magic here, something that touched the hindbrain. He was almost a creature of myth, a man apart, above the masses. More than a leader. More than a king. A god, perhaps.
The image strobed as it took the stage, and Nozawa spoke softly to his console at the same time his fingers flew over the keyboards.
The distant scream of the fire trucks, the violence that stirred in the streets outside the doors of the sports arena, seemed only to emphasize the calm presence of the man on the dais.
"I come to you to speak of my wife Gretchen, and my precious son Conley. We have heard the other candidates speak of great issues, of the sweep of history, and the marching of vast armies. But we cannot, must not, forget that in the final analysis, all that has meaning—all that has ever had meaning—is the family. This country wasn't built for the politicians. Wasn't built by the armies. It was built by and for the families who crossed the plains, forded the rivers, cleared the land, and built cities that touch the clouds! For and with our families we clawed a place for ourselves in hostile land, for the possibility of building something for our children, and our wives or husbands."
Nozawa whispered, "Bring in Mrs. DeLacourte. On two—"
"And now, my wife—" and Gretchen DeLacourte appeared, an enormous magnification above her husband's smaller figure. She bowed her head as if embarrassed, but still her great beauty spoke to them from the projections.
"And my son—" Conley appeared like a cherub, silver-Kilt and freckled, the magnification shimmering above DeLacourte's head. Every freckle was as large as a baseball. "My son cannot walk the streets of our great cities without fearing for his life. And this is the result of a hundred years of permissive government, when the 'rights of the individual' were ceded to be greater than the rights of the society as a whole. As a result, we have no freedoms, none at all, save the freedom to choose the manner of our death.
"Will it be pestilence? Then look no further than the dreaded disease Thai-VI, which is presently responsible for thirty-five thousand deaths every year. Will it be war? Look no further than the strife in Africa, which threatens to boil over into the bloodiest conflict in the history of mankind. Will it be pollution, and the death of the sacred environment that God gave us? Then note the death of our oceans. Since the year 2000, only twenty-eight years ago, over twelve thousand species of fish and mammals have become extinct.
"We are a dying planet, a dying culture—unless we make a decision now. It is not too late, unless courage has failed us!"
Nozawa turned off the sound in the booth. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, tamped it, and groped for a lighter.
Killinger extended a match. "What do you think?"
"It's all in the perspective. DeLacourte in the center, wife and child in magnification to either side. The implication is obvious. We can juggle his image, make him a click or two larger when he's making a point."
"You're just saying what you can do. Not what you think."
"What do I think?" Nozawa's creased, brown face was contemplative as he blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling. "I think that it's time I moved my family out of the country. I think we're headed down the tubes. But I'm happy to take your money. Anytime."
In spite of himself, Killinger grinned. "Cynical bastard, aren't you?"
"Every man is a mirror," Nozawa said flatly. "We all reflect what we see."
"You understand that this is an informal meeting, Mr. DeLacourte. We are not a committee," Valdez said heavily. "We have no power to approve or disapprove. We merely felt a direct meeting might well be useful in . . . clarifying the situation as it presently exists."
"Situation, Senator?"
Michael Valdez, the senator from Colorado, sat across from Sterling DeLacourte. Once, he must have been a fine figure of a man. Now, he was fleshy and somehow simultaneously cadaverous. A jarring combination of features, to be sure, but there it was.
His skin was olive, Hispanic mixed with something . . . Irish perhaps, judging by the shape of the face and the deep lines around his eyes. Once, those eyes had looked out on the world an
d laughed. Now little they saw brought mirth. Now, they were bloodshot and tired, as if they had seen too much for too long.
"Situation, Mr. DeLacourte." The brown man's thick fingers played on a console, and suddenly the room was filled with rioters.
"Atlanta. Des Moines. El Dorado—remember the lynchings in Arkansas? Sacramento, Albuquerque. All of these cities have experienced violence that has been linked with your name or your cause."
The other men in the room were still quiet. DeLacourte sat back in his chair, biding his time. They were old men.
His men. All he had to do was save them. There was nothing immoral in that—these were America's elder statesmen. Good Christians, good Americans all of them. And their health was deteriorating. Their time of service coming to an end. It was his duty to help them.
As it would be theirs to help him. He smiled a secret mile, a smile hidden by the darkness. How neatly things came together, when God was on your side.
"I did not direct these actions, nor do I condone them. But I do understand them, gentlemen."
Avery inclined his head from the shadows. "Could you explain that comment, sir?"
The holocamera in the ceiling adjusted its depth of field, and pushed in on DeLacourte. In a hundred auditoriums across the country, audiences leaned forward in their seats lo hear the words, see the image of the man who asked for their funds, their support, their votes.
"Certainly, Senator. Our country has been torn by civil unrest and economic and environmental catastrophe. Only an atheist would reject the possibility that these things may be the response of a wrathful God, a just and angry God who has sickened of the filth we have tolerated in our midst. Drug addiction rampant in the streets, with a raft of drugs that duplicate the effects of heroin or cocaine or grubs, but are legal. A molecule of difference paralyzes our police. Prostitution is legal in four states, with men and women flagrantly selling their bodies in the streets.
"And most terribly, the specter of sodomy has darkened the sun. We have communities of homosexuals actually campaigning for the right to breed. Do you realize what an abomination this is? These acts of violence that so rightly disturb you-—they would be committed if I had never been born. They are merely the only reasonable response to an intolerable situation."
"I see," Valdez said. "There is nothing of condemnation in your words, Mr. DeLacourte."
And in sixty million homes, DeLacourte's image flowed down through the cables, in from the satellite dishes. Every major news service in the country recorded his words. And the following day, they would dissect and deliberate the impact on every level of the political game save the one that DeLacourte himself played upon.
DeLacourte's answering laughter was low and musical. "That is because, while I deplore their actions, I applaud their sentiments. Indeed, something must be done. The nation has become such a web of fear and legal red tape that nothing can be accomplished within the lifetime of a single citizen. Everything must be accomplished through generations of effort. I propose to cut through that. I can tell you that what America needs is a philosopher-king. We cannot have that—the Constitution is too strong. But I tell you that 'one nation united under God' will move as with a single purpose to right the wrongs of the past."
Avery squirmed in his seat. "It sounds as if you are suggesting a theocracy, Mr. DeLacourte."
" 'One nation under God.' Isn't that what we promised our children? And what have we done with that promise? Can our children walk the streets without fear of molestation? Have we brought peace between the races? Has the Christian brotherhood we speak of on Sabbath ever appeared in our weekdays? I think not. We have always prattled about America being a 'Christian nation' but because of our concern with the separation of Church and State we have never allowed the concept to actually take root. We've tried everything else. Why not return to the faith of our fathers, and try that. Four years. Would that be too much to ask?"
"And in those four years?"
DeLacourte shifted in his seat, seemed to swell with the magnitude of his words. "I will abolish the drug trade.! The death penalty will be applied swiftly and ruthlessly against those found poisoning our children. I propose open season on organized crime. For years we have known exactly who the men and women were who have made a mockery of our legal system. I propose publishing their names on the front page of every newspaper in the country, and assuring our Citizens' Action Committees that the legal protection which had enfolded this filth in the past has now expanded to make the law what it was ever meant to be—an instrument of the public will."
Valdez inhaled sharply. "You're suggesting vigilantism?"
"Unlike my political adversaries, I will speak the truth. It is the only tool that I have. We are losing this country. We are losing the battle. The righteous citizens of this country are already running wild in the streets. Without direction, all of them become hunted criminals. We haven't a fraction of the police or jails to control or contain this force—why not use that force, then, instead of opposing it?"
"Aren't you afraid of assassination? You would be placing yourself in the most controversial position of any president in American history."
"You can kill me, but you can't kill an idea. It is time for Americans to take back their country. I can't put it more simply and directly than that."
Avery thrummed his fingers on the desk before him. "It ... is difficult to fault your basic beliefs, sir. But I cannot imagine you winning more than a pittance of the vote. It would take a miracle. ..."
"But I believe in miracles," DeLacourte said quietly. "And now, the meeting is, I believe, over. I asked for an hour of your time. I have no intention of imposing further. Thank you very much."
Killinger smiled, and punched a seat number into the video computer. The camera panned and zoomed in on a man seated next to a young boy. Or perhaps it was a girl. It was hard to tell. The child's features were so androgynous. The child's skin was dark, the features very fine. The eyes were hazel brown, and intensely direct, as if drinking in every word, every syllable, every sound from the man in the front of the auditorium, the man who spoke so loudly, and to such effect that the entire crowd seemed to sway and heave with each word, each rolling phrase, each new gesture.
The child watched. Killinger punched in another seat coordinate, and there was another man, and another child. No more than thirteen years old, this one was pale-skinned, and just as disturbingly androgynous. The eyes were wide and piercing and guileless. The child sat very straight in the chair, and hung onto every word.
And another . . .
And another.
And finally Killinger sat back.
It was good, all of this. The children were real, and it might work. They could kill, as Medusa-16 had proven. They could follow orders, and be accepted as normal human children.
They were ready.
The intense overhead lights dimmed, and everyone in the room emitted a sigh of relief.
Jack Hands moved in from the side of the room. "And once again, thank you, gentlemen. I hope that it has been an interesting experience for you."
"Thank Senator Avery," the senator from Colorado said. "He was primarily responsible."
"I intend to."
Four men filed out of the room, leaving Valdez and Avery behind. Avery sat on the other side of the table, a lean gray man with dark, intelligent eyes.
Valdez's breath was a heavy rasp. A good man, DeLacourte thought. But unwell. Grown old and sick in service to America. If 1 can use the lowest to aid the highest, so be it.
"He did his part, Sterling," Avery said calmly. His dark eyes glittered.
Now, with the holocameras shut down, Tyler-Watt seemed to collapse. "I can't promise you their minds, but I brought you their bodies."
"Indeed you did, my friend. And I intend to keep my bargain."
DeLacourte walked to the side of the room and ran his fingers along a strip on the wall. A beam of light shone out at eye level, instantly analyzing his retinal structur
e. He blinked a special coded sequence. Another sequence would have flooded the room with anesthetic gas and alerted a squad of guards.
A seam split in the wall, exposing a heavy steel safe door. The door was chill to the touch, but swung open. Iteyond was a refrigerator, and several vials, faintly greenish in the light.
Avery sighed audibly.
DeLacourte attached one of the vials to a feeder device, und charged it. Fluid drained into the vial.
Valdez shifted uncomfortably, anxiously. "Is that . . . is that for me?"
"No, Senator." DeLacourte carried the green vial over to Avery and said, "Open." Avery unbuttoned his vest, then his shirt. Two thin white lines of scar tissue formed a cross on his shoulder, a tiny nylon nipple protruding in the center. DeLacourte slipped a needle into the nipple, and injected a carefully measured dosage. "Your reservoir is charged for another month. For one month it will administer twenty-five micrograms of DEA per hour. After I am elected, you will receive one dose per month as long as I remain in office, and you continue to support my policies." DeLacourte smiled, and slapped Avery's shoulder. "Hell, there isn't even a need to say that. We're all friends here."
Avery nodded, his finger rubbing the nipple selfconsciously before buttoning the shirt back up.
"You find me the men I can trust. The ones who love this country. The ones who love their God. And I can save them, too. Find the ones who have lived long enough to see the cycles, the ones who are afraid for the land they love. Bring them to me. I will take their fear, and give them new life."
The color was already returning to Avery's face, and he was breathing more calmly. A sweat flush broke out on his forehead, and he mopped it with a large red handkerchief. "Yes. Yes, I will."
"Mr. Valdez." DeLacourte turned to the other man. "In one month, your influence, your votes, will be critical. I give you a gift, in acknowledgment of the services you have provided our nation."
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