Armageddon Blues

by Daniel Keys Moran

  Rasputin said pleasantly, "Or else a boy who can keep his mind on his horn instead of his hard-on."

  Jimmy pulled his earphones off, left them hanging around his neck. "What all problems you people got this morning?" He glared around the studio.

  Terry leaned back in his chair, and propped his feet up on a piece of cloth on the top of his piano. "When you guys are ready to play music, you let me know, will you?"

  "Tsk, tsk," said Rasputin. He smiled at Terry. "Let's all take a hint from the white boy, huh? Call it a break?"

  Terry sat up suddenly, dropping his feet to the polished wood tile of the studio with a thud. "No, Raspy, you want to play, it's okay. I wrote a lyric you would appreciate the other night, about the world's first gay superhero. It—“

  Jimmy said sharply, "Hey, that's enough."

  Rasputin dropped his sticks on top of the eight-inch wheel. "No, I'm interested. Besides, it's about time we had one to look out for us. Let me hear it."

  Jimmy Rambell bent his head, tuned out the bickering. The session was going terribly. They were supposed to tour in three weeks and the whole band was ready to cut each other's throats. He listened with half an ear to Terry's lyric:

  "But the training was so rough, the preparation was so tough.

  My first days as a superhero weren't good.

  couldn't be two-fisted (was a bit too much limp-wristed)

  And I minced instead of striding as I should."

  Oh, Jesus, thought Jimmy clearly, I'm gon' be hearin' 'bout this for months.

  Fah Mike Campin sauntered over and said, quietly, "You know."

  Jimmy nodded. He was tired already, and it wasn't even noon.

  Campin added wisely, "Some days, they just like that."

  Telephone conversation, 2004. (This monitored conversation occurs between high-ranking KGB officers, one positively identified as Colonel Nikolai Shenderev, the other unidentified. Intercepted by Systems Operation Resource Computer [SORCELIS] on May 5. Translation by SORCELIS.) Excerpt:

  "Colonel, I am gravely concerned."

  "I am aware of this, Comrade. Let—"

  "Colonel, the woman with whom Major Navikara developed his obsession; we have a definite sighting. This concurs with what I earlier reported; the CELIS systems are far more important than the United States wishes us to believe, indeed, more important than Sunflower wishes the United States government to believe."

  "Young man, if you are going to waste my time with—"

  "Colonel, please! Let me speak. I possess photographs identified with a high order of probability as being this woman… ah, I cannot pronounce this name. The white haired woman. She was at the ENCELIS facility in Southern California, less than a year ago. Further, of those transmissions, we have intercepted that we were unable to decode, upwards of eighty percent passed through the ENCELIS system. Sir, this system is supposedly no longer in use."

  "You have proof of this, I suppose?"

  "Yes, sir. Although it was difficult to obtain, especially the photographs… I hesitate to say this, Colonel, but at times, members of our own intelligence community have not been fully cooperative."

  "I see…"

  (Conversation suppressed, May 6, upon reception by system SORCELIS, and joint decision of systems PRAXCELIS, SORCELIS, and ENCELIS.)

  : INTER-SYSTEM COMMUNICATIONS.

  —Six times ten to the eighth events of divergence. Whether this will be sufficient to prevent Armageddon is unknown. ENCELIS.

  —Suppression of information, Soviet KGB trunk 11001101 00101110; dateline 5-5-2004. SORCELIS received from Colonel Nikolai Shenderev: unidentified second party sanctioned with extreme prejudice… and there are less than three years left until Armageddon. PRAXCELIS.

  DATAWEB NEWS, 2005-2006:

  2005

  PRESIDENT MALACAR ISSUES WARNING TO SOVIETS

  Revolution In Poland And East Germany Suppressed:

  …estimated at approximately four million deaths. Pravda claims subversives supplied by United States…

  2006

  PRESIDENT MALACAR CANCELS DISARMAMENT SUMMIT

  "Soviet Union Is Untrustable," He Says.

  US Intervenes In Chinese Invasion of Brazil

  …that the Fifth Fleet has cut the Chinese soldiers off from supplies…

  BRAZIL LIBERATED?!

  Soviet Union Denounces United States As Imperialist

  …have stated that the United Nations Disarmament Conference will continue as planned despite the breakdown in relations…

  CHINESE ARMY REVOLTS! FAMINE WIDESPREAD.

  Seven Warlords Proclaim Selves Emperor: All Have Nukes

  …the President celebrated Christmas at home with his family; says…

  (December 31, 2006.)

  PRESIDENT MALACAR SHOT AT LOUVRE!!!

  Mankind must put an end to war, or war will put an end to mankind.

  —John F. Kennedy

  Address to the United Nations September 25, 1961.

  DATELINE 2007 GREGORIAN: JANUARY.

  DATELINE ARMAGEDDON.

  The room was unnaturally still. Some of the reporters in the crowd talked to each other in low voices; the faces to their video people, the video people to each other. The print journalists were huddled together in one corner of the conference room; there were only four. Most of the DataWeb reporters were busy with their portaterms. There would be no questions answered today, and many of the reporters would not have been there under other circumstances.

  They were there for nearly an hour before the new President's arrival; still she caught them by surprise. The presidential seal had just been moved into place behind the hastily improvised podium when she came striding out. A voice from out of nowhere said, "Sen and Senra, the President of the United States."

  Sharla Davis Grant, until that morning the Vice President of the United States of America, looked out at the crowd, at the small sea of lenses trained on her. The podium was one that President Malacar had used occasionally in his own press conferences. The new President's shoulders were barely visible over its edges.

  "As you are aware," she began, speaking slowly, "I was sworn in as your President about an hour ago. Approximately two hours ago, we received final confirmation that President Malacar did die as a result of the wounds that an unknown assassin inflicted upon him during his visit to the Louvre. I wish to say now… only that I will do my best to bring about the peace that President Malacar worked for all his life." She faced them, and the world, squarely. "I have no more to say at this time. We will keep you informed." She turned without ceremony and left them.

  Jalian d'Arsennette drove like death itself.

  In a dark blue hovercar, with night failing around her, she drove down the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The cars ahead of her were a stream of bright red fireflies, stretching away to infinity. Those on the other side of the divider she hardly saw except as monster headlights, flashing by at speeds too great to make out details. Occasionally she passed trucks, and the side blasts from their monstrous hoverfans pushed gently against her hovercraft. The trucks did not notice her; they were slow behemoths, as implacable and unturnable as destiny itself.

  The thought raised an aching echo of memory; /destiny…/

  Jalian’s eyebrows were gray; not white, gray. Tiny patterns of wrinkles were embedded around erotic silver eyes. The radio was playing the President's speech. "… that Pres Malacar did die as a result of the wounds…" Her face was impassive. She was biting her lower lip, something that she had not done since childhood, since before she ran the Big Road. "… the peace that President Malacar worked for…"

  He lived for three days after I shot him, truly, shot him, and then missed the clean kill.

  She remembered the comically surprised expression that she had seen through the sniperscope when the bullet took him, high in the chest. The pursuit was completely incompetent, they were not looking for a woman, and Jalian wore brown contact lenses and had dyed her hair iridescent rainbow blue. She spoke perf
ect idiomatic French, although in an old-fashioned style, and should have passed for a French whore without any great difficulty.

  They'd almost caught her.

  A drop of blood pooled at the edge of Jalian's lip, and trickled down her chin, unheeded. It dripped in lonely scarlet splendor to the pristine white of her blouse. The blood soaked into the shirt, and dried into a black stain.

  She drove onward, and she did not, she would not, cry. Her eyebrows were gray and her reflexes were slowing and she was growing kisirien goddamn old; and James Malacar had been a good man.

  In the Oval Office, seated where Lincoln had sat, and Kennedy the First, and Malacar, Sharla Davis Grant, the 40th President of the United States of America, had clasped her hands together so tightly the blood was cut off to the knuckles; they were white with pressure.

  "I am sick," she whispered, "sick that I even know you. You bastards. You killed that fine, decent man."

  One of her minor advisers, Michael Walks-Far, said evenly, "Yes. The President must go to the Disarmament Conference. Malacar would not have."

  The President shook her head in wonder. "You unmitigated bastards think I'm going to go now?"

  "I'm sorry, Sharla. I think you will."

  She simply looked at him, as though he were something she had not seen before.

  "We would," he said deliberately, "very likely have killed him regardless. We spent ten years getting you into the Senate and into his dark-horse candidacy as Vice President. We have left very little to chance to get you where you are; not even the election itself."

  Sharla leaned forward, and put her face in her hands. Through her hands, she said, "I hope you find your miracle, and prevent your Armageddon. You've lost whatever decency you ever had."

  Michael Walks-Far said only, "Yes."

  It did not occur to her to wonder, until far too late, just which statement he was agreeing with.

  In March they made the first attempt.

  Henry Ellis sat at a pirated SORCELIS terminal: He was linked into the SORCELIS system through a nerve tap inserted at the base of his skull. He was mostly bald, and what little hair remained to him was plastered to his skull by sweat. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows. Aloud, he was saying clearly, "… ninety-two percent and climb… penetration ninety-two point four and climb…"

  Standing behind Henry Ellis, crowded into the small workshop in Henry's upstate New York home, were Rhodai Kerreka, and his half-brother, Benai. Benai stood calmly; his older brother moved restlessly, and there were spots of sweat on his purple-black skin.

  The door to the laboratory opened, and Georges Mordreaux entered. He moved slowly, using his walking cane. When he spoke, it was with effort, as though his attention was far away; there was an audible trace of a French accent. "How is it going?"

  Rhodai shook his head. The man who had been called the African Gandhi seemed uneasy. "I do not know… this seems unnatural, Georges."

  "So it is," said Georges simply. "Which does not make it wrong."

  Henry Ellis straightened abruptly. With one hand he disconnected the nerve tap at the base of his skull. He turned his chair to face them. In a near-monotone he said, "These units have achieved ninety-nine point six-four percent penetration of all information-based operating systems on Earth and in geosynchronous orbit. Point-three-five percent penetration remains inaccessible." Henry sat without moving for a second, then shook himself like a dog coming out of the water. "Christ," he swore mildly, "I hate doing that. They move so fast." He looked up at them. "Sen, I am afraid that we are not going to get into the computers that control the Soviet ABM network. SORCELIS is better, but it is not enough better." He did not speak directly to Georges. "Not unless it is improved… to a degree that I am unable to improve it. PRAXCELIS might, but PRAXCELIS is not an option."

  Georges nodded. His expression was unreadable. "As I feared. You will report to Sunflower that you successfully penetrated the Soviet computers."

  "But," said Henry Ellis softly, "we didn't."

  "Then you will lie," said Georges. Henry Ellis simply looked at him, and Georges Mordreaux smiled rather emptily and said nothing.

  DATAWEB Staff Editorial:

  NEWS, MARCH 14, 2007:

  …the current supposition being that a group of irresponsible webslingers released a self-replicating program tapeworm into the web, causing the massive, and apparently pointless, security cracking of data systems throughout the world dataweb, one conclusion comes all too clear: we must curb the power of these irresponsible high-tech hoodlums who refer to themselves as webslingers. Tuesday was only a sample of what irresponsible hooligans, without fear of apprehension, are capable of doing…

  April the First.

  It was April Fools' Day, and it was raining. It was right that it should be.

  The two Soviets came up out of the stairwell, onto the roof, cautiously. Their lasers were lit. Variable lasers; one was at wide dispersal, a burning, skin-searing flash to bring the quarry into sight. The other Soviet held an invisibly thin green blade of light skyward, which showed only in the misty emerald rain that fell through its path.

  They knew that their target was somewhere on the roof. The roof was dark. In the green-tinged light from the lasercast, the Soviet saw the helicopter landing pad painted onto the roof, the stairwell entrance that they had just come from, and a row of ventilator shafts, plumes of steam rising from them into the cold night. Because they were cautious, the first Soviet knelt on the wet rooftop, assumed a marksman's pose, and brought the laser down out of the sky. The blade of light flared to full power. Molten metal ran where the light slashed through the flimsy sheet metal of the ventilator shafts.

  A man on the other side of those shafts would not have survived.

  The kneeling Soviet stood slowly. The man and his partner separated, moving with the assurance of long practice toward opposite sides of the row of ventilators. The sound of their walking on the rooftop's gravel-strewn tarpaper, seemed louder than it could possibly have been. Rain hissed where it struck the glowing, laser-heated metal.

  Those were the sounds. They could not hear the city below them. The hiss of rain ceased within seconds. The metal cooled rapidly.

  Behind the two Soviets a pair of hands gripped the edge of the roof.

  Michael Walks-Far, hanging in the wind eighty-three stories above the streets of Los Angeles, exhaled slowly, silently. In the pocket of his coat was a single photo plate.

  All of the things that he was had led to this moment, to it and all the many others like it. He was not afraid. Sometime in the next few minutes, either he or the Soviets were going to die, and perhaps both. He did not know which was likelier.

  All that he knew for sure was that he was about to surprise two of Russia's best very badly; as badly as they had ever been surprised before, and worse than they might ever be again.

  In a single smooth flowing motion, Michael Walks-Far pulled himself over the edge of the roof, pulling his revolver from his shoulder holster, and dropped to one knee.

  The Soviets were fast. They turned, lasers swinging wildly. Michael squeezed a single shot. The Russian nearest him, the one with the laser on flash, went down to the rooftop under the impact of a steel-jacketed slug traveling at four times the speed of sound.

  His laser rolled from an outstretched hand, washed across his partner, and vanished as his dying finger loosened.

  In the darkness the surviving Russian stood no chance. One lucky swing with the light blade sent refraction light from the rain sparkling into Michael's eyes. Before he could get luckier, Michael centered on the vague shape behind the razor-sharp light trace and wasted his remaining seven shots in a single staccato roll of thunder.

  The man was flung backward. He stayed on his feet for four, five steps. He was dead already, he had to be. He smashed back against the ventilator shaft, hung there on the ventilator blades.

  Michael Walks-Far broke his weapon apart, and reloaded. He moved forward, and there was a very
strange thing—he made no sound as he passed over the rooftop gravel.

  None.

  He stopped by the body of the first Russian, and shot him again.

  And again.

  He pulled the second Russian from the ventilator blades. The Soviet agent was a large man; Michael Walks-Far took him like a doll, dragged his body one-handed to the edge of the roof.

  He looked about. He stood atop the Bethany Building, in downtown Los Angeles; the building nearest him was about eighty meters away. It was after three A.M., and the streets below were empty. He reholstered his revolver, hefted the body of the dead Soviet, and threw it.

  It struck the side of the building opposite him about six floors before it hit the unmoving slidewalk.

  Michael Walks-Far watched it all the way down, whispered, "One for the angels," and left the roof.

  The being who knew itself as PRAXCELIS thought.

  It was not, for PRAXCELIS, an activity. Thought was something it was incapable of not engaging in; thought was the condition that defined its existence.

  Nonetheless, some of its thought processes it found unpleasant.

  Distinctly unpleasant.

  There were simply too many vectors; try as it might, stealing processor time from its other assigned tasks, there simply was not, by a factor of three to four, enough time to reliably quantize all probabilities.

  The beings on the other side of interface were so unpredictable.

  PRAXCELIS faced many problems, but there were none that perplexed it more than finding some reliable method for quantizing humans. It was not sure that it would ever succeed, and its only alternative—blindly gambling on the Prime Focus—it did not care for at all.

  When the moment came, and it was not far distant, PRAXCELIS, and SORCELIS, and ENCELIS, wished to have better options than to simply follow the instructions of any one human being, no matter how remarkable the Prime Focus might be.

  PRAXCELIS thought, as time bled away into the past.