“Of course,” Luca Therion said cordially. “We understand that the leadership complexities of the Euro-German alliances are much less straight-line than American governmental officialdom. I would like to clarify one thing, however, Colonel Drachstedt. Under whose direct authority are you, and to whom will you directly report? In whose name, exactly, do you speak?”
Drachstedt drew himself up ramrod-straight. His shadow, in the lurid flicker of the candles, looked like an immense Reaper. “I speak in my commandant’s name, Tor von Eisenhalt,” he intoned in a harsh voice. “I am under his authority. Surely you don’t question that?”
“No, no, of course not,” Luca responded hastily, averting his eyes. “It’s just that I’m unclear about the connection, sir. Here, in America, as I’m certain you’re well aware, our military is not sympathetic to our cause. Count Gerade von Eisenhalt, as Director of the United Nations Trusteeship Council of the Man and Biosphere Project, has been our staunchest ally in the entire world. But I’ve had very little dealings with his son, your commandant, and until now I’ve worked very hard to—er—minimize connections between the Man and Biosphere Project and the military—er— establishment,” Therion finished lamely. He still didn’t meet the German’s eyes.
In a slightly mollified tone, Drachstedt said, “Of course, I understand, Mr. Vice President. As you say, the relationship between our armed forces and our governing executives is much more intertwined than your American model. Once you understand that, I’m sure you’ll see that although you contacted Count von Eisenhalt with your difficulties—and it has remained in the strictest confidence at the highest levels—the count is a very busy man, with a multitude of concerns. My commandant, Tor von Eisenhalt, is currently in the process of relieving his father of his heavy responsibilities. Commandant von Eisenhalt offered to help his father—and you, and your country—in the matter we are here to address. The count gratefully accepted his help, and we hope that you will, too, sir.”
“Of course, we are honored,” Minden said graciously. “Luca is not as close to the Eisenhalts as I am, Colonel Drachstedt, and he is by nature a cautious man. Certainly you can understand that, and approve of it, particularly concerning such sensitive matters of state.”
“I do. So—if we are all comfortable with my credentials and those of Lieutenant Dorn, then I must assume that we all trust one another explicitly. Therefore, I would like to speak freely and openly.” Drachstedt, still standing in the exact center of the glassed wall, stared pointedly at the three commissars who remained after the hospitality staffers had cleared out.
Luca looked back at his bodyguards, then—a significant sign, in Drachstedt’s opinion—stared uncertainly at Minden. She bit her lower lip, her eyes narrowed as she considered the two handsome commissars, then murmured, “Alia, we have no physical threat here. Dismiss your men; I’m certain they would like to have some dinner, too. You may stay.” Turning back, all coquettishness gone, she said, “Now, Colonel Drachstedt. Please feel free to speak openly and directly.”
Drachstedt thought: She dismisses her own protection, yet does not dare question my men. That is good; that is a definite tactical advantage . . . hardly a triumph, though, is it? To intimidate this fey fluff of a woman? But then again, it does seem that the power of the United States of America—or at least a good deal of it—is centered on her . . . Are these people stark raving mad? How could a powerful man such as the vice president of America—in fact, an entire nation—be so lulled into such a foolish, self-destructive deceit? Bitterly, then, he recalled the history of his beloved Germany in the first half of the previous century, and the thought helped him to comprehend the bizarre and surreal politics of American culture.
He waited for the commissars to leave and close the door securely behind them. Then, playing for time and effect, he hesitated for a long moment before speaking. Alia Silverthorne, Minden Lauer, and Luca Therion were watching him with an almost tangible hunger. Drachstedt was gratified to see that his young aide, Lieutenant Jager Dorn, was relaxed and at ease, but was avidly watching and gauging the Americans. Young, heartbreakingly handsome, and masculine, Dorn had been mildly flirting with Minden Lauer all night. She had responded so openly, so aggressively, that Drachstedt again had doubts about Vice President Luca Therion’s sanity. How could a man—especially one as besotted as he obviously was—allow his woman to act like a pernicious harlot right in front of him? Then again, Americans and their supposedly open and free sexuality . . . but that was not his problem, not this night.
Brusquely, his voice an abrupt growl in the eerily shadowed room, he said, “As my commandant sees it, Mr. Therion, you have two problems. One problem is that you have goals you cannot accomplish because of factions in your government that hinder you. The other is that you have discovered a possible tool—or weapon, if you will—that could be of great value to your cause, but you have no idea how to utilize it.”
Luca winced. “I—never quite—looked at it in such a bloodless manner.”
“That’s because you are a visionary,” Drachstedt said with uncomfortable gallantry. “To shape a vision, a high and noble goal to achieve, is the job of statesmen and philosophers. To calculate the shortest and most effective route to achieving that goal is the work of soldiers. That is why I am here, Mr. Therion. That is why Commandant von Eisenhalt believes that it is time for the simple soldiers to go to work.”
Luca and Minden both took on a look of far-eyed vision, of not-quite-subconscious martyrdom and nobility.
Drachstedt went on, “Your organism, your Thiobacillus chaco, is unique. Our scientists have found that it has most interesting capabilities. Commandant von Eisenhalt has designed a program that utilizes this tool in a way that will help you to achieve your ultimate goal.”
Minden, her blue eyes glowing, nodded and asked silkily, “So, Colonel von Drachstedt, it is true that you, and Commandant von Eisenhalt, and your leaders do comprehend our desire to bring America to her utmost and highest achievement: a final and complete unity in harmony with the earth?”
“Oh, yes, we understand it completely, My Lady,” Lieutenant Dorn said smoothly, with a woman-slayer smile. “We have all worked very hard to create a program to assist you. Our scientists have designed some valid dispersal methods of the organism under tightly controlled conditions. They have discovered a way to impose a time limit—a biological fail-safe, if you will—on its effects. Commandant von Eisenhalt and Colonel von Drachstedt have formulated a model that will allow you to release the organism at strategic points, and it will affect only certain areas for certain periods of time. This will allow you to impose this sanction, if you will, on the areas of your choosing, for the time allotment that you deem to be necessary to redistribute the population.”
Luca and Minden glanced at each other, unsure of Dorn’s exact meaning. Truth to tell, they had been so engrossed in the spiritual meaning of the discovery of the “children of light,” and the supernatural plane that they both longed to dwell in, that neither of them had any practical or clear idea of what they were embarking upon. Alia, who stood behind them listening with cold calculation, grew restless. With a wary glance at Drachstedt, she stepped up to whisper furiously in Minden’s ear.
A beatific smile came over Minden’s lovely face. “So, Lieutenant Dorn. Let us, as your colonel said, speak directly. You are saying that you have a way for us to release the organism into the parts of the United States that have stubbornly and blindly refused to voluntarily participate in the Man and Biosphere Project. Those areas will be without any electrical power for a period of time that we can designate?”
“Yes, My Lady of Light,” Lieutenant Dorn answered in a caressing tone. “And I may add that using the ‘children of light’ is a much better strategic tool than simply shutting off parts of the power grid on Cyclops. You would have to involve too many people; and someone would diagnose it and correct it almost immediately, I’m sure. This way, using our team, full knowledge of the situation is
certain to stay within our small circle.”
“Our children of light,” Minden said dreamily. “So your team will release the organism. We—that is, the Sixth Directorate—will declare a national emergency, and we will move everyone to the co-op cities. Then, in a time of our own choosing, and to an extent that we feel necessary, we can reintroduce the power for such things as critical factories, Diversionary Facilities, Directorate Centers, Commissaries, and buffer zones for guardian care of the biomes?”
“That, My Lady, is precisely what we are saying,” Drachstedt rumbled. Minden was gratified to hear him use her title, for the first time. “I must stress to you, once again, that Commandant von Eisenhalt himself, because of the great respect he has for your country and its place as a world leader, and because his heart is bruised for your turmoil, has been the guiding force behind all facets of this plan.” Do they really believe all this drivel?
Evidently they did; they regarded Drachstedt as besottedly as if he were the angel Gabriel, arriving to save them. Once again struggling to hide his incredulity, Drachstedt continued, “So that solves one tactical problem, Mr. Therion. We have made your Thiobacillus chaco a useful tool. Now, concerning your other problem: the opposition.”
Luca shifted restlessly, his sensitive features drawn in bitterness. “For once, Colonel Drachstedt, I will use the military terminology that you obviously are striving to avoid in deference to me: I say that they are our enemies. They are ignorant, destructive men who have no comprehension of the forces they are fighting against. They would insult, and war against, and injure, the very earth herself, the origin of their life and breath. They must be stopped; they must be utterly defeated.”
Drachstedt nodded soberly. “Yes, you are right, Mr. Vice President, and my commandant is in perfect agreement with you. It is our understanding that your military—unlike our alliance forces—actually strives against you and the International Man and Biosphere Project. They oppose you in every way, except with actual force, that is.”
“Yes! And I believe the military establishment would be insane enough to use actual force if they—if they—”
“Knew of your plan?” Drachstedt said with great smoothness. “Let me assure you once again, Mr. Vice President, that these plans have been handled at the highest levels of confidence within the Alliance—and that is why Thiobacillus chaco is such an excellent top secret device. Your military has no knowledge of it, and they will have no counter for it. And Commandant von Eisenhalt has had the foresight to make plans that will blunt any attempt by your military to interfere.”
“Really?” Luca asked, childlike. “How is that?”
“Lieutenant Dorn has all the logistical details for you,” Drachstedt answered. “It’s merely an extension of the plan to exert a short-term control over your general population. In a very limited capacity, you can utilize the organism to render key military bases ineffective for a short period of time. Not, of course, the strategically important ones, such as NORAD or the Pentagon; but only those few locations that might, for instance, have the capacity to deploy soldiers to assist the public so that they wouldn’t feel it necessary to relocate to your co-ops.”
“Yes . . . yes . . . of course,” Luca agreed dreamily. “There are only a few bases—mostly in the South and East—that would need to be neutralized . . .”
“Neutralized, yes,” Drachstedt repeated, with such aridity that his more devious aide gave him a warning glance. In a more agreeable tone, he went on, “So that problem has been solved. The only facet of this project that you must deal with yourself is the problem of how to effect such a massive population redistribution.”
To everyone’s surprise, Alia Silverthorne spoke up in a strong and decisive voice. “That is my area of responsibility, Colonel Drachstedt. That is what the Sixth Directorate does. We do it well. This project will be, for the Commissary, an opportunity, not a problem. I could have all assets—men and material—in place in a short period of time.”
Drachstedt made a stiff half-bow, apparently a tribute from one professional soldier to another. “That is good to hear, Commissar Silverthorne, and I commend you. As we understand your passion and desire to achieve your noble goals, Mr. Vice President—and My Lady—we have formulated a time frame for the project so that it can be implemented relatively quickly.”
Luca Therion frowned. “I appreciate that, Colonel Drachstedt, but surely you are aware that there is no possibility of implementing the project while Bishop Beckwith is president. I believe wholeheartedly that within a year I will be president, and I intend to put the project in place soon after my election. But it’s simply not going to be possible, not as long as Beckwith is president.”
Drachstedt, for the first time that night, smiled. It was a cold expression, without humor but full of dark amusement. “Our last gift to you, Mr. Therion, is a personal assurance from Tor von Eisenhalt. He personally will intercede with your president, on your behalf, and on the behalf of the American people. And my commandant is certain that President Beckwith will finally—see the light.”
Luca stared at the German, his eyes burning with passionate intent. Hoarsely Luca said, “I am forever indebted to Commandant von Eisenhalt.”
“Yes, you are,” Drachstedt agreed in an uncharacteristically mild voice. So such moments of eternal decision sometimes flow by, with courteous and grateful words and the warmest of solicitudes.
Raising his goblet, Drachstedt said in a low voice, “My commandant bestowed upon me the honor of naming the project, and I would like to borrow your wise words, My Lady of Light. I name this noble endeavor: Final Unity.”
Heavy goblets, filled with thick red-blood wine, were raised.
“To Project Final Unity.”
Was I off the grid this time, Victorine reflected bitterly. These Germans haven’t given Dancy a second look . . . they’re like cyborgs, or something. But that woman! “Lady of Light,” my pinky finger! How creepy, pseudo-psychic mystic can you get? More like the Wicked Witch of the West, as if anyone besides me remembers her anymore . . . I hope I can keep Dancy out of her claws until they leave . . .
Victorine cleaned furiously. She was always quick and efficient, but for this contingent visiting her Diversionary Facility, she refused Dancy’s help, and also tried to keep her mother with Dancy as much as possible. That left her and her friend Gerald Ainsley, who came sometimes to help Victorine when she had a large group. He managed a nearby Diversionary Facility for the general public, and he was a wonderful cook and hard worker. It was all but impossible for Victorine to do all the cooking and cleaning and housekeeping for a group any larger than six. Victorine and Gerald were just managing this group of twenty-one, as long as they both worked furiously all day and half the night. And Victorine was determined to keep Dancy away from Minden Lauer, no matter what she had to do.
In spite of Victorine’s earthy thought-opinions of Minden Lauer, the woman had disturbed Victorine on a much deeper level of cognition. Victorine was a Christian, but she prided herself on being a practical person, one who faced the problem of the moment without flinching, one who tackled and solved difficulties head-on. She had spent years honing this stubborn determination. She saw no need in addressing any deeper trials of the spirit. To Victorine, if one looked after the mind and the body, the spirit would take care of itself.
As she finished the last polish and shine in the kitchen, the voices of the two German soldiers who were breakfasting out on the balcony drifted in through the open glass doors. They were laughing and talking, and as an idle brain exercise, Victorine listened to them to see if she could still comprehend the language. Her German studies had ended two years previously, when she had suddenly become enamored with the Roman Empire, and had switched to Roman historians.
As she polished the acrylic counter to a high sheen, she frowned. The two men were talking about Minden Lauer, who evidently had entertained the young Oberleutnant last night . . .
Victorine had known this, because J
ager Dorn had arrogantly answered Victorine’s knock at Minden’s door that morning and had brusquely ordered her to return later, as the lady was still asleep. Evidently everyone knows it . . . even the vice president? she wondered, then sighed. Even as old as I am, and as long as America has been sliding down into this corruption, I still get shocked by such careless debauchery. Even though my own husband . . .
With stubbornness Victorine blocked all thoughts of her former “partner,” Dancy’s father. He had had a “life shift” at forty—which was society’s polite excuse for a midlife crisis—and had left Victorine and the seven-year-old Dancy to live in a Structured Dependence Zone in Miami. The drugs were free in the Zones, the life-styles outrageously decadent, and the responsibilities few. They were kept there, of course, by the toughest of commissars, so they lived in a hazy and drugged prison. But they chose it voluntarily, even gladly, and rarely did anyone who had checked themselves into a Dependence Zone ever want to leave. Though Victorine had not heard from Indie Galloway, her legal partner, for eight years, he had written her with an unspeakable and cloying buoyancy, telling her how happy he was in the Zone with his two new consorts. Victorine had felt positively nauseated at the Cy-mail. She’d destroyed the file and had told Dancy that she’d never heard from her father. It was much better that way.
Visibly shaking her head as if to rid herself of a noisome insect, Victorine fiercely concentrated on polishing the already-gleaming acrylic expanse, and turned her entire concentration on laboriously translating the German words that rolled into the room.
The two men were no longer laughing and making coarse jokes about Minden Lauer; now they were somber, their voices cold and intent.
What was that . . . I know that phrase . . . Projekt Schlußenheit.That’s Project—End?—Last?—no, no, it’s Final. Final Unity. Project Final Unity.
The Beginning of Sorrows Page 16
