by Mick Farren
He had also given her one other thing that also explained why Lynette complained so little about what he did. He had had her fitted with illegal DNI plugs and set her up with a connection for bootlegged Japanese software. At that moment, as she pumped the La Lanne unit and sweated, she was jacked into one of the lastest erofeeds to be smuggled out of Tokyo. She was somewhere else, in some erotic wonderland of endorphins and microcurrents.
He had to admit that the sight of her bare buttocks, making frenzied coital movements as she half-consciously interacted with the machine, was close to arousing the beast in him. However, each time he was almost ready to get up and make a move, he became distracted. The last couple of days had produced more than enough to distract him.
Ron Cableman had turned out to be a smooth, third-generation Washington sharpie. He belonged in the Faithful White House. His daddy had survived the plot and counterplot of the last days of the Reagan administration, and his grandaddy had played poker with Richard Nixon. They had started drinking at the Skylounge, had a late lunch at 21, and from there they had gone downtown to Ruskin's. Cableman had matched Mansard drink for drink. As the happy hour had started to grow maudlin, Cableman had offered to call a couple of girls that he knew. Man-said had declined. He was fairly faithful to Lynette, although he did spend the rest of the evening wondering what if. Along the way, it had transpired that Larry Faithful was planning a major spectacular. Although it was not stated as such, the president and those around him thought that the country needed a major diversion. It had been decided that Larry Faithful would declare a special public holiday. In one month's time, there would be a Day of National Reconciliation. To mark the occasion, he would hold a special service at Liberty Island. The plan for the grand finale and crowning glory was to have four of Mansard's giant holograms moving up the Hudson. They wanted him to use the Four Horsemen again.
"Plus we want you to do the other figures from Revelations – the Beast, the Whore of Babylon, and Jesus himself, the Lamb of God. Storming up the river and terrifying the hell out of the sinners. It'll be on all the networks, plus it'll go out on satellite so it can be holostructured in all the major cities."
Mansard had put down his scotch and looked at Ron Cableman in blank amazement. "It's impossible. There's no way that my people could pull something like that together in the time."
Cableman had smiled blandly. "It'll be a rush job, but all of the country's resources will be at your disposal."
Mansard had firmly shaken his head. "That's the trouble, Ron. The country doesn't have the resources. The skywalker we put up last Sunday used state-of-the-art Japanese hardware that's subject to the full prohibitions of the embargo. The projectors themselves are close to impossible. I think we had all that there are on this side of the Pacific. And don't ask me how we got them. You wouldn't like the answer."
Cableman had laughed. "Listen, Charles, I'm pretty sure that the U.S. Government is quite capable of getting you a bunch of Sony DL-70s. I don't think we'd need to go through Chile, either."
Mansard had looked at him with considerably more respect. Ron Cableman had done his homework.
"Could you get me thirty of them?"
"I expect so."
"In two weeks?"
"If necessary."
"Then it might just be possible, if the money was right and everything else fell into place. I'm not saying I'll do it, but in theory…"
Cableman had raised an amused eyebrow. "This is the government, the price is always right."
"I'd also need a lot of trained, experienced riggers."
"We could get them from the military."
"I want good people."
"Believe it or not, there are people in the military who know what they're doing."
Mansard continued to put up objections, but he knew in his heart that he was going to try for the job. Cableman knew it, too. Another part of his homework had told him that Mansard had the kind of ego that would not be able to turn down a challenge of this size.
The program on the La Lanne unit had changed, and Lynette was doing a slow sinuous stretch. Mansard watched her for a while, then thoughtfully got up from the bed. He looked around the penthouse suite as if he had not seen it in days. The place was a mess. He had been working and sleeping there for weeks. A debris of beer cans, empty bottles, and Styrofoam food containers was beginning to bury the more permanent clutter of accumulated junk and toys with which he liked to surround himself. It was all mixed in with the professional litter of plans and drawings and scale models of work in progress. The six-foot thirteenth-century Buddha of which he was so proud seemed to be contemplating a slob's nirvana. The mess was his own fault. He was too paranoid to allow the cleaning people in to do their work. He had to get a grip on himself. The luxury squalor was verging on the disgusting and would probably soon be a health hazard. It was time to get it cleaned – or to move.
He stepped over a pile of foreign newspapers and magazines, mostly banned, which one day he would get around to reading, and gazed out the wraparound window that took up most of two walls. He flattened his hands on the curved expanse of glass and peered into the night. A steady rain was falling on the city. To the south and west, in the twenties and thirties, there were deep pools of darkness where power had yet to be restored. If this was the legacy of just one of his figures, what chaos would four of them create? There was little or no remorse riding his train of thought. Charlie Mansard had no illusions about himself. He would go on creating the biggest possible optical images for as long as they would let him and whatever the consequences.
In the distance he could see the river. He imagined the four giant figures moving majestically against the tide. Of course, it would be a nightmare to pull together, and despite Cableman's optimism, the odds were still against him. To sell it to his own people alone would be a major task. They would bitch like shit and demand triple overtime, but in the end, they would make it happen. If – when – those images went up, it would be a triumph. It might also convince half the crazies in the nation that the Day of Judgment had really come. If that happened, he wouldn't lose any sleep. In fact, he'd be secretly delighted. Scare the hell out of the sinners? Cableman and his bosses did not know the half of it. By the time he was through it would be the final fall of civilization. He had three weeks to create something that would have them begging for mercy.
He was starting to get excited. The huge project really wasn't going to be that hard. There was simply a great deal of work. No new systems had to be devised. The program they had developed to run the Horsemen was capable of adapting to the new designs. The designs themselves might take a little time, but that was Manny's department, and Mansard could bully Manny. If the army provided the barges on which to float the hardware and enough technicians to do the scut work, they could make it. His fingers were drumming on the glass. He had completely forgotten about Lynette.
A soft moaning reminded him. She had killed the La Lanne unit and rolled out of it onto the rug. She was still jacked in to the erofeed with leads trailing from the plugs in her neck. She was lying on her back, languidly caressing herself. When she spoke, her voice was slurred and husky.
"Charlie? What are you doing?"
He continued to stare out through the curved window. "Just designing the end of the world, honey."
"That's nice, Charlie. Real nice."
Carlisle
"Proverb's agreed to give himself up."
"Why should he give himself up? The warrants have been cancelled. He isn't a fugitive."
"He says, and I quote the statement, 'Although my own conscience is absolutely clear, I feel that unresolved questions remain that may prove an impediment to the normally cordial relations enjoyed between myself and the deacons of New York. Accordingly, I shall present myself at the main entrance of the CCC Astor Place complex at noon of Tuesday next, in the hope that any misunderstandings may be clarified.' "
"And he wants us to see that he gets in and out alive?"
"He sounds like a very paranoid individual."
"He has every reason to be. The deacons want him dead."
Carlisle, Reeves, and Donahue were crowded in the captain's office: It was the latest in a series of grim meetings. Parnell was sitting behind his desk patiently fielding their questions. It was clear from the drift of the conversation that Carlisle and the others were less than happy about the situation.
"And we're expected to stand in the line of fire?"
"Where else should we be?"
Reeves grunted. "I don't recall signing on for some holy war."
Parnell was not amused. "Do you recall what you did sign on for?"
Reeves shrugged. "What I don't understand is why this has to be turned into a sideshow. Surely, whatever the problems are, they could all be settled in private? This high-noon grandstand seems like Proverb's just sticking it to the dekes one more time."
"It's not something that we were consulted about."
"Ours not to reason, right? "
The captain was starting to lose patience. "This is a delicate situation and there's pressure coming down on all sides. Washington feels that our deacons went too far with that mess at the Garden, and they want the appearance of reconciliation between them and Proverb. They've also put the block on their arresting any more Elvi, because that's making waves in the South. Proverb is obviously going to do his best to turn the whole thing into a media event, and that suits Washington because they need to do something to stop the rumors that are running loose in the rest of the country. When the real story of what happened at the Garden was censored out of existence, all kinds of weird tales started spreading. Half the country thinks that we're having nightly supernatural visitations.
"What about the deacons? Where do they stand in all this?"
Parnell half smiled. "They're madder than a bunch of wet cats."
"They're not crazy enough to try something against Proverb, are they?"
"Not officially, but we all know they've got their death squads."
"Yeah, but-"
"Yeah, but nothing. We can't afford to take any chances. There are deacons who might just be far enough over the edge to pull something. We also still have to take the Lefthand Path's death threat against Proverb seriously."
"So where do we figure in all this? Surely this is primarily a job for the uniforms."
"I want a large concentration of plainclothes officers in the crowd."
"Are we expecting a crowd?"
"There'll be TV cameras and the whole bit. I already told you that Proverb's going to make the biggest possible deal out of this. You can bet that he'll get his followers out on the street."
"So there's no way to screen everyone who's going to get close to him."
"None."
Carlisle shook his head. "I'm getting awfully tired of this nonsense."
Parnell had the look of a man who had heard it all too often. "We're all tired, Harry. It goes with the territory."
Parnell clearly wanted the meeting to move on and get down to details, but Carlisle was not ready to let it go.
"It does? It was only a couple of days ago that the deacons had a warrant out for me. Is that part of the territory? To get thrown in a camp for just doing your job?"
Parnell stared at him bleakly. "So what are you saying? You want to resign?"
Harry Carlisle sighed. "No, I don't want to resign."
Parnell nodded. He knew that Carlisle was not going to quit. The man was too damn stubborn.
"So, shall we get on with it?"
Winters
There was still an hour to go before Proverb was due to arrive, and the crowd was already causing traffic problems in the surrounding streets. Astor Place was completely closed off, but the mob that had turned out to see Alien Proverb had filled the square and was spilling out onto Broadway and Third Avenue. Winters could not imagine where they had all come from. Was Proverb's machine really that good? He would have thought that after the beating they took outside the Garden, Proverb's followers would have been content to lie low and lick their wounds. Like most of the junior deacons, Winters blamed it all on Washington. It was as if they were afraid of Proverb. As far as he and his colleagues were concerned, it was childishly simple. The STG had made the first move outside the Garden. All that had been needed was to follow it up with mass arrests. It had been done before, and there was no real question that Proverb was anything but a subversive. If Washington had not lost its nerve, the whole business would have been cleared up in a couple of weeks. As it was, Winters and the other disgruntled deacons had to content themselves with mixing in with the TV cnews and taping the faces of the crowd for future analysis. All they could tell themselves was that the day would come when they would be turned loose to round up Proverb's heretics, and they intended to be ready.
Winters' mood did not improve when he spotted Harry Carlisle in the middle of a group of plainclothes PDs. He had hoped that the man would be dead by now. Over a week had gone by, and he had heard nothing from the Magicians. He had wanted to say something to Rogers, but he had realized that any word would violate the oath that he had taken in the basement of the whorehouse. All he could do was wait and fume. It angered him to see Carlisle walking around safe and sound.
Winters raised the minicam to his eyes and ran tape on a bunch of Elvi who were holding a banner that read 'We Love You Aden'. The camera had the letters KGOD on its side. He was supposed to be a cameraman for the satellite feed, although everyone knew that KGOD was largely a deacon front. He was annoyed at the degree to which Proverb's arrival was being treated as some big-deal event. The four major networks had camera trucks there, as well as the local stations and two satellite news feeds. The PD was covering things as if it were the president arriving. He knew that there had to be Proverb sympathizers among the top brass who would have to be winkled out in the end. Uniforms in full helmets and armor stood three deep around the entrance to the CCC complex, and more manned the barricades blocking the roads that ran into and out of the square. Others were held in reserve, sitting in Pharaohs and armored buses parked at strategic points around the outside of the area. A podium and banks of speakers had been set up on the sidewalk in front of the main entrance to the building. It seemed that Proverb was going to be allowed to make some kind of speech – another example of how the people around the president were behaving like a bunch of gutless wimps, Winters thought.
There were fifteen minutes to go. Some teenagers in Aden Proverb sweatshirts and bowling jackets were climbing on the statue of John Wayne in the middle of the square. Winters pushed his way into the crowd to record them for posterity. They spotted the camera and the KGOD logo and started waving. Yeah, wave, you morons, you'll get yours in the end. He wished he were shooting a machine pistol and not a camcorder.
Noon came and went and there was no sign of Proverb. The bastard was going to milk the situation for all it was worth by showing up late. At twelve-thirteen, Winters' tracy started flashing.
"Winters."
"This is to all officers. The Proverb motorcade will be entering the square in three minutes."
"Winters, ten four."
At the briefing, he had been told that Proverb was going to be coming up along Eighth Street. Winters started moving in that direction, intending to get pictures of the crazies who actually mobbed the car. The other cameramen had also received the word and were going the same way. That, in turn, tipped off the crowd. A bottleneck was created at the entrance to Eighth Street, and the PD uniforms started pushing back the crowd. Despite all the hands-off warnings, the police were none too gentle in their treatment. Arms linked and batons held in front of them, they cleared a path by cutting the mass of people in half with a flying wedge that then opened out to push everyone back onto the sidewalk. There was scrabbling and shoving, and a sudden surge pushed a half-dozen bystanders through the plate-glass window of the diner on the corner. Even that incident, however, did not see
m to spoil the general euphoria.
Winters' tracy was flashing again.
"This is to all officers. The Proverb motorcade is entering the area. You are now on full alert."
Four NYPD motorcyclists came first on big Harley Davidson Powerglides, gunning their engines and looking around warily for any sign of trouble. They were followed by a Jeep Seminole with four armed rentacops riding in it and a rack gun quad-mounted on the roll bar. Behind the Jeep was Proverb's white limousine, a custom armored stretch Cadillac, with more security walking beside it and riding on the running boards. A second Jeep with a full complement of rentacops brought up the rear.
The motorcade eased its way around the square at slightly less than walking pace. Winters found himself in the middle of the scrimmage in front of the car. The police gave no special treatment to the camera crews, and Winters found himself jostled and shoved around just like the ordinary spectators. A couple of cops seemed to take a particular delight in manhandling him, and he suspected that they knew he was a deacon by the KGOD logo on his camera. He looked for their badge numbers and cursed when he found that they had been covered up by electrical tape, common practice on crowd control details that were expected to turn hairy.
The parade finally came to a stop in front of the CCC building. The limo pulled up directly in front of the podium. The sidewalk had been cleared for ten yards in either direction; only cameramen, reporters, and a lot of men in dark suits who were either deacons or NYPD remained. The car door opened. The big cowboy bodyguard got out first and scanned the crowd. There was a roar of almost hysterical applause, and the uniforms had trouble holding back the struggling front rows of the mob. Seemingly satisfied that the situation was under control, the cowboy leaned into the car and beckoned. The big Muslim also got out, and uniformed cops moved in to surround them, struggling with the media who also wanted to get as close to their man as possible. A small figure in a white suit emerged from the car. Flanked by his bodyguards and the surrounding press of police and media, he moved quickly to the steps of the podium and the safety of its Plexiglas deflector screens. Then, at the foot of the steps, there was some sort of disturbance, followed by the sound of shots.
