Curiously though, he did not care too much whether he won or lost. He realized that could spell the end of his true-blooded reporter credentials. That didn't bother him either. He felt he was winning anyway.
Mercedes lay at the end of the plush turquoise sofa overlooking L.A. No escape was possible for her.
Once again he nibbled lightly on her ear. He could feel her shiver at his touch; he reveled in it. "Tell me," he demanded in a hushed voice. "Tell me who won the prizes, or I'll torture you."
She shivered again and tried to get away. Her effort was neither convincing nor successful. "You'd torture me anyway."
"Surrender," he commanded. "Or I will withdraw my torture."
"Uh," she said, surrendering.
A soft beep interrupted the proceedings. Reggie saw Mercedes open one eye, then the other. "Okay, I'll tell you who won." She smiled wickedly.
"No fair," Reggie protested as they both sat up. "They just published it, didn't they? Now I can just read for myself."
Mercedes giggled. "True enough. There they are." She pointed at the screen.
A list of brands and their contributions appeared on the screen. Reggie read them carefully.
The Grand Prize, five million Masterbucks for "Most Valuable Contribution to the Assault," had gone to the person who figured out how to modify the Destroyer gun for human operation. Reggie had no idea who had figured that out; clearly, this was a person he would have to track down for his next series on "Unsung Heroes," five years hence.
Second place, and four million Masterbucks, went to the person who'd found the cracks in the walls. Selpha, of course. He didn't need to see her brand to know she was the winner.
Third place had gone to the person who had forecast the presence of the anomaly, which had turned out to be the Gate. Reggie would have bet a lot of money he knew who stood behind that identity, but Mercedes would never take the bet, because she knew who it was just as well as he did.
Fourth had gone to the person who described the trap at the end of the Alabaster Hall. Reggie was pretty sure that that was Selpha and Peter as well. If so, they'd done very well indeed in this assault. He hoped the money could buy something wonderful for Peter, though frankly, he didn't have a clue what it might be.
Fifth place went to the person who'd designed the rocket that shot CJ up the slidechute for her last epic battle to reach the Gate. Another Unsung Hero story stood behind that one. Reggie could see he still had his work cut out for him. Which was just what he had hoped for: new winners every time, coming up with ever more novel solutions to the ever more deadly problems posed by the enemy.
A hundred prizes had been awarded in all, but he knew he did not have the time to study the rest. Reggie felt the delicate wet tip of a tongue tickle his ear. "Hey. Torturing the torturer is not allowed."
Mercedes paid no attention whatsoever. Reggie suddenly noticed he had no hope of escape, either.
* * *
Jessica's palmtop lay on the floor of her office where she'd dropped it. Neither she nor the General paid any attention. Jessica stared at the General in open-mouthed horror. "He can't be! He can't!"
General Samuels lowered his eyes. "We knew it would happen someday, Jessica. That's why we trained you."
"Morgan MacBride is not dead!" She just couldn't accept it. How dare that male chauvinist desert her now!
Samuels took a deep breath. "Well, for what it's worth, we've compared your scores with the predictions made by all the other people who have shadowed Morgan's performance. Jessica, you're the clear winner. You achieved an adjusted score of ninety-eight percent. Our closest alternate scored eighty-three percent. He is now catatonic, and therefore out of the running." He held out his hands. "You're our best hope, Jessica. Shiva VI will not wait for us to find someone better."
Jessica backed away. Then, reluctantly, she reached out and laid her hands in his. She knew the General well enough to know he had to be worried that she couldn't cut it. She shared the worry. Somehow, she would have to grow into Morgan's shoes, and she didn't have a clue how to do it. "I understand. What's next?"
"The next EarthDay Festival starts in three months. You'll control the team." He smiled wryly. "You start preparing tomorrow."
Jessica closed her eyes. She could see the office in which she stood, and Fort Powell itself. The memories associated with this place were too painful; she could not work here. She needed a place of solitude, a place so peaceful the land itself could drain the horror from her. Her eyes flew open. "Very well, General. But I have a condition. You will meet my condition." She felt the General tense as she explained. But she would brook no argument, and she made sure he understood.
Samuels chewed lip. "Very well, Jessica. Whatever it takes, I shall make it happen." He paused. "I just hope you don't end up the way he did."
"But if I do, at least you'll have what you want. And Earth will have what it needs. Right, General?" She didn't mean to sound harsh, but it came out that way nonetheless.
His words came out in a whisper of agreement. "Right, Jessica."
* * *
Selpha worked the touchscreen with a tingle of joy; her fingers bounced off the screen as she completed her operations.
She heard the swish of a skirt behind her. Dorothie spun to a stop before her, practically dancing with delight. "I just saw the prize postings," Dorothie practically sang. "Magnificent, Selpha." Dorothie looked down at the computer. "You're taking the plunge?" she asked.
Selpha nodded. "Yes, yes, my sister. Peter's moment has come." She sat back from the screen. "I've posted the prize for a cure for his autism. And I've alerted the four research teams that have published the most promising results, just to make sure they know the prize is available." She looked up with a lightness of heart she could not ever remember feeling before. "I've also run links between the pieces of research that seem, at least to me, to hook together to form a solution." Her smile became too large for her to hold, and she came to her feet and hugged her sister. "Oh, Dorothie, I think we'll win through. Peter will know us, and be with us, soon."
Dorothie hugged her back. "He already knows you, Selpha. I know it's different, but he knows you, I'm sure. You're too wonderful a mother for him not to know, no matter what's been wrong with his mind."
For just a few moments, the sisters stood together, embracing the hopeful future.
* * *
Paolo looked out his office window. He saw Sofia picking her way through the broken concrete of the old driveway, no doubt planning her next round of renovation. She would not disturb him. "Luis, take me to Valhalla, please."
"As you wish."
The wallscreen opened into the Hall of Heroes, a virtual reality Web site of cunning detail wrought in cold stone and richly textured fabrics. The Norseman who had invented Valhalla thousands of years before would surely have been proud of this incarnation of his saga.
A new door led from the hall, as Paolo had known it would. He pointed, and his avatar walked down the hall, leaving behind an echo of footsteps. He entered the new room.
On his left, Axel leaned against the concrete wall of an old apartment building amidst a clutter of similar structures. His leering smile had softened. Here he had a charming, almost impish grin that reached even his dark eyes.
On his right, Lars stood at the lip of a sharp dropoff of pure powdered snow. A light wind whipped the sparkling white specks in a swirl about his burly frame. The wind stopped. Lars laughed, a bellow of bubbling mirth. The rich sound of his voice echoed down the slope, past the treeline, and on to the tiny town far below.
Next to Lars, Akira climbed to the crest of a jagged mountain. The sun fell behind him, outlining his small but graceful body at this moment of triumph as he conquered the mountain. Reaching the top, he bowed slightly to Paolo. The look in his eyes said that everything was as it should be.
Roni and CJ had not yet arrived. Two placeholders marked their future displays. Paolo would have to come back another day to see them.
Each scene was a portal through which Paolo could walk, and learn more about the person before him. Paolo started with Lars.
The Visual History Foundation had done a beautiful job, as usual. The stories of the men and women in this hall would live forever. Even the destruction of Earth could not dim the memory; the Society had mirror sites of Valhalla in orbit around Mars and Io.
"Paolo," Sofia yelled from somewhere in the house, "what are you doing?" He could tell by the tone of her voice, she wanted his help on her newest project.
Paolo laughed softly. "Just getting to know some people I never had the chance to meet," he whispered to himself. "Luis, close the window." He rose, and walked out quietly, as if trying not to disturb the Angels he left behind.
* * *
Sunlight streamed down through a break in the clouds. Chan Kam Yin examined the glistening surface of the Mustang from dozens of angles, weaving his head back and forth, seeking the slightest flaw in the wax finish.
Suddenly, for no visible reason, the Dealer laughed, filling the air with warm, melodious joy. His laughter came devoid of tension, of need, or of fear. For the first time in his long nineteen years of life, the Dealer laughed at himself.
He was rich now, a multimillionaire. Yet here he was, working for peanuts for other rich people. Well, it still qualified as a scam–others were paying him to have fun! Like, during two months of maintenance test drives he'd had more fun with the car than the fatuous owner had had since buying it. Sometimes rich people could be so foolish.
But the Dealer would not become one of them. Even with his five mil now diversified in a half-dozen mutuals, he was being careful with his money. He had already decided, not without some regret, to stick it out in his crummy closet of an apartment for a couple more years. Even several mil was not quite enough to live the way he wanted to live in Hong Kong–the place was outrageously expensive, almost as expensive as the diamonds its night sky suggested. Better, he figured, to save his money. Or rather, better still to invest, so he'd never have to do this kind of gig again.
His new truck, the one he'd invented for the trip up the Himalayas with its unorthodox ceramic kerosene-powered engines, had been a huge success. He'd already gotten two more orders for trucks with similar specs, one for the Andes mountains and another for the Alps. There were other opportunities out there too. He could already see that, to really exploit the potential he'd uncovered, he'd need working capital. That prize money was really going to come in handy; it would all go back into the business.
Well, not quite all of it. He turned away from the Mustang, to look with appreciative eyes once again upon the brand-new, screamingly silver Beechcraft by the landing pad. He would let other rich people keep and pay for the Mustangs for him. But he needed a skycar of his own. And gods be praised, he now had a beauty. Tonight he'd fly into Hong Kong with his new toy and return to the Cafe Deco. This time he would ask the hostess in her long metallic blue cheong-sam to dance with him. He would insist that she celebrate his hard-won victories with him. How could she say no? He was, after all, the Dealer.
* * *
Jessica's skycar landed behind her new house. She forced herself to remember that this was not a new house, though—it was a new home. She walked through the long shadows of twilight, out onto the porch that stretched beyond the edge of the hill. Behind her stood a simple white frame building. Before her she could see miles of high-desert forest; the stumpy trees spread to the edge of the world, and on into the Arizona sunset. No houses marred the view. Far to the right she could see the haze of the lights of Kingman.
For sixty years now, this place had been a sanctuary for people in pain. Jessica had no doubt she would need it more tomorrow than she did today, and even more the day after that.
A high whistling song wafted to her from within the house. She pulled out her palmtop, spoke briefly, and heard the latch of the door unlock. Calmly, quietly, she entered the world of Morgan MacBride.
Solomon spread her wings as she entered the room. "Boss gone," Solomon said mournfully.
"Boss is gone," Jessica replied in soft agreement. She held out her hand to the bird, so Sol could step up onto her. "You're going to have to help me, make me better at being like the Boss. Okay?"
"Okay." Solomon bit her. "Ouch," Solomon said before Jessica could even withdraw her finger. A thin half-moon of blood formed on her finger; the blood looked black in the dusky light penetrating the bay window, and it hurt like hell.
Jessica narrowed one eye and stared at the bird with the other. "Bite me again, and you're cat food."
Solomon flapped her wings. "Sorry. Upset, upset."
Jessica nodded. "So am I. It's okay."
For a moment, Solomon's eyes pinpointed on Jessica, then relaxed. "You new Boss," Solomon said with dawning understanding.
"I'm the new Boss," Jessica agreed. She offered her finger again.
Solomon walked across her finger, up her arm, onto her shoulder. She felt Sol start tugging at her hair, beginning to groom her. The bird dug down to the roots. Soon Sol was completely buried beneath her hair.
* * *
Lou stepped off the platform by the roton. Turning and holding up his hand, he offered a warning for his great-great-granddaughter. "Watch your step, Lanie."
"Okay, Pops," she answered without meaning it. He knew she didn't mean it, because not only did she not take his hand, but she also looked up, waved gleefully, and jumped the last three steps.
Viktor stood at the head of the line of people waiting to greet the visitors, his arms outstretched. "Welcome," he roared, "welcome to the vacation Mecca of Earth."
Melanie giggled as she ran into his arms. "Uncle Viktor!" she cried.
Lou squinted into the distance. The desolate sweeps of ice and snow threw back a blinding glare of sunlight. Even Melanie's fire-engine-red ski coat and fluorescent yellow snow bibs seemed dim in comparison.
Lou pulled his jacket tighter. "Mecca my foot," he grumbled. "Dante put better vacation spots than this in his Inferno." He followed sound of a young girl's giggles playing a duet with an old man's bellows, into the drop port terminal.
* * *
"Another one." Reggie should have been astonished by the view on Mercedes' wallscreen. But there had already been so many astonishing things in the past few days, this was merely yet another astonishment.
"Another one what?" Mercedes lay stretched out on the sofa, her head resting on Reggie's shoulder, her eyes closed. Her voice had the sound of someone who didn't care about the topic, but cared very sincerely about the speaker who cared about the topic.
"Another Shiva attack on Earth."
As Reggie had hoped, that sounded just important enough to warrant the opening of one eye. He watched Mercedes as she watched the recording of two days earlier. Shiva, in its dying moments, launched three missiles against Earth, one Hydra and two Selks. A camera on an orbital sensor platform had spotted the missiles, and had followed the fast graceful shapes as a dozen countermissiles shot up from earth, from a spot in the Himalayas that just had to be the top of Everest.
"Look at those babies go," Reggie said, pointing at the long tiny streaks rising out of the atmosphere. "Those countermissiles are fast, much faster than anything I've ever seen."
Mercedes sat up. "They don't look any faster than the ones from Shiva."
"Sorry, you're right. Those countermissiles are faster than anything I've ever seen us shoot, almost as fast as the Shiva missiles they're trying to intercept. Now watch this."
The countermissiles took out the Selk missiles, but the Hydra had detected its own imminent demise and launched its six independent warheads. Another dozen countermissiles spouted forth from deep in the Himalayas, and the hydra submunitions flashed, one by one, into wisps of vapor.
"I've got to see how we launched those," Reggie muttered. He logged into a sensor satellite and bought some time with the high-resolution optics. It was a little expensive to rent satellite time just to satisfy his
curiosity, but hey, he was a reporter. He directed the camera to zoom in on Everest, praying that the missile launcher was not buried in some cleverly camouflaged setup. If it was, he'd need to hire a specialist just to find the damn thing.
He need not have worried; a huge, ungainly machine sat on a flat space where once the peak of Everest had risen in transcendent glory.
Mercedes asked the obvious question. "What is that thing, anyway?"
"I have no idea." He leaned forward, as if three inches could make a difference in his view of an image thousands of miles away. Under his guidance, the satellite camera zoomed even closer while he studied the outline of the structure.
The launcher clearly had its own boron-hydrogen fusion plant. He could see a huge number coils, probably for refrigeration . . . but that didn't make sense. Why would you need refrigeration amidst the glaciers of Everest? Meanwhile, some of those coils were almost certainly electromagnetic. . . . "It's a rail gun," he muttered.
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