“The wife blamed Smith, and their marriage ended two years after the incident. He must have gone with his head hanging, not understanding. What conflicting emotions must have assaulted him? What a decision he’s had to live with. Jeez, Chief, that old codger we been banging our heads against did all that. Talk about instant life-and-death decisions—”
“Finish, hear? Editorialize later.”
It was the first real personal thing they’d discovered about John Smith. Apparently, after the episode, he’d dropped out of sight—meaning he’d gone his way and left no traces, no Social Security, no insurance, no subscriptions, no prescriptions, no parking tickets or library fines. Until the list came out of those who refused to be part of the NorAmFed, and would remain on the last dedicated soil of the United States of America. Actually, Smith wasn’t on the first list. Eventually, his name just appeared. The mystery man.
“It says here,” Downing continued, voice strange and hushed, “that the man who caused all the trouble was killed by knife thrust from groin to throat one dark and stormy night. The authorities attempted to bring a case against John Smith, but because of a lack of evidence and lack of public support for the move, the charges were not pursued.”
“Do you reckon,” Lefever said thinking fast, “that the charges still stand?”
Downing worked at the console for a moment, and Lefever dropped from the crossbar and felt immediately better.
“Those sixty-three years ago, murder was a state crime in Texas and had no limitations. Upon conversion to the San Antonio District of the North American Federation, the laws were uniformized, and outstanding capital crimes were allowed to remain on account of—”
“I know why. And try ‘standardized,’ hear?”
“Yessir.”
“But without a statute of limitations, we now have a lever we can use.”
“Yessir, if you say so, sir.”
Why me, Lord?
“Ten, can you run an IR signature comparison?”
“No, sir. They didn’t use the infrared technology back then. I’m running a fingerprint comparison, though—and he wasn’t in the DNA data base.” They should have DNA’d the kid from his finger, but not back in the day.
Let the fingerprints match, Lefever thought. Though he was relatively certain that the knife-Smith was the same as his Alamo-Smith. That background fit the old man’s profile and answered a lot of questions.
“Ah,” said Ten in a smug voice. “Found an obsolete fingerprint program in Washington. Working. Fingerprints match, Chief.” He sat back.
Lefever knew it would have taken any other assistant hours to do what Ten had accomplished in minutes. Lefever looked at the calendar: July 4. No notations except his own question mark. He thought for a moment. “Alert the technicians I’m thinking about moving the office.”
“Not again,” Ten complained in a weak echo of John Smith. But he turned to his console, busy already.
The double ping of a “priority incoming” chimed and then repeated before Downing interrupted himself to access the call. He flipped it onto the wall screen.
The mustached face of the Interior Minister appeared, eyes impatient.
“Señor Minister,” Lefever said formally.
“Director Lefever,” said the minister. “Good of you to answer so promptly.”
Sure. “Certainly, sir. In what way may I be of service this day?”
“I’m calling for a status report on that fellow on that reservation place.”
“John Smith in the Alamo Reservation.”
“Right.”
“Status is the same, Señor Minister.”
“It’s been three years,” the minister scowled.
“Yessir,” Lefever said, unconsciously mimicking Ten Downing.
“The issue requires settlement.”
Well, the minister had mastered the passive-voice bureaucratese. “I’m working on the problem.”
“That is acknowledged, Director. However, the, uh, exterior situation does not improve.”
Lefever translated political pressure. “What would you suggest?”
“Trank the bastard and ship his ass to Antarctica,” snapped the minister. “Er, rather, I mean, have we tried money? Those types,” he continued, meaning citizens of the USA, “never turned down a buck.”
“Yes, Your Excellency, I’ve offered him money, jobs, positions, women, everything. You’ve got to realize a very spry, very alert nonagenarian isn’t someone who needs much of anything.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. Look, Gerrardo. They’re on my ass unmercifully.” The minister was more than likely referring to the president and his political hacks, who watched every decimal shift in the polls. “We’ve got to do something; we’re becoming a laughing stock.”
“Call John Smith yourself and tell him your problems; maybe he’ll listen and cooperate.” Lefever smiled. Smith wouldn’t tolerate His Excellency for more than a New York minute.
“I did.” The minister managed to pout with that small mouth and large mustache. “He told me he wouldn’t talk to anybody but you.” The minister paused and looked at Lefever hard. “It’s become a contest between the two of you, hasn’t it? Just like I’ve suspected. Mano a mano, eh? A battle of wits and wills.”
“Not exactly, sir.” Lefever took refuge in formality.
“Gerrardo, I don’t give a damn. I want it settled. That’s a direct order.”
“What prompted your interest this morning, Señor Minister?”
Another hard look, then the minister glanced aside and thumbed something on his console. A row of figures appeared, each figure higher than the previous. “The ratings, Gerrardo. Look at ’em. The president had about five pounds off my butt because of them. The ratings for the San Antonio District have skyrocketed. It’s become a David-and-Goliath story, only worse. One man against the entire Federation. And he isn’t losing, which means he’s winning. People are beginning to identify with him. There is some public discontent according to the polls. Citizens are looking at Smith as a symbol of lost America. Those unhappy with the Federation are rallying to his banner, and we are suffering.”
Meaning the party in power, Lefever translated.
“We’ve got to do something,” the minister said lamely. “I want Smith out of there and that damn bubble dome and the damned Alamo razed immediately.”
“I’m going down there now,” Lefever said, “and taking personal charge.”
“Good. You got troops, technicians, astrologers, whatever the hell it takes.”
“Yessir.”
The minister waved his pointy finger at Lefever. “But whatever you do, do not violate one right of his. That’s my position. We’ve the treaty to live by, and I’ll be eternally damned if I’m gonna be the first one to violate that piece of trash, er, I mean historical document. ¿Comprende?”
“Yessir.”
“Look, Gerrardo, I’m aware you’re so legitimate you always play by the rules. But if you resolve this satisfactorily, big things might happen to your career.”
Meaning if he didn’t solve it without political embarrassment, he was a goner. “Thank you, sir.”
“And another thing, Lefever, you tell that clown that works for you I know he’s listening in, and if he violates a confidential conversation, I’ll hang his ass.”
“My assistant adheres to established policy and manners in formal situations.”
“I’m sure he does, Lefever. Off.”
Lefever found himself tensed up and climbed to his feet, went to the hang-bar, and hung for one minute.
After a suitable time, Ten Downing said, “We’re ready to transport to San Antonio.”
“Go ahead.”
The bubble-transport package kicked in, and their bubble-office rose. Thrusters came on the line, and they accelerated to the southeast.
As they traveled, Lefever did some “paperwork” that had piled up—neglected, he was certain, because of his increasing attention to the Alamo thing. But he f
ound himself watching clouds and scenery blow past, thinking of the past, and how he’d gotten into this situation.
When all the countries of North America had united, there were still groups who refused to cooperate. They’d been given refuges where they could be autonomous. “Just like the Injuns,” the Interior Minister had lectured him one day. “Turnabout’s fair play, eh?”
Gradually, the one “reservation” in Canada had lost its people, and so, too, had the odd reservation here and there throughout the continent—Boston, Boise, México, Panamá, Nicaragua, until the last remaining reservation was the Alamo Reservation in San Antonio. After ten years, most of the diehards had to quit the reservations to join family and friends, to get jobs in the normal and changing world in which they lived.
Death, illness, and boredom took its toll. Eventually, in all of NorAmFed, one man alone remained on an official reservation, tabbed by the networks “The Last American.” A citizen of the United States, one John Smith, was the lone holdout.
It had been Lefever’s job to edge him out. But original treaties, all nice and legal and signed and powdered and registered with the U.N. and the World Court, prevented the NorAmFed from doing anything. And John Smith would not surrender, so to speak. He was sticking it out. Meaning the Alamo Reservation couldn’t be assimilated. A growing sentiment within the public was moving to Smith’s side. The Alamo, the Last Stand of the Last American. An underdog. Wonderful drama, wonderful television. Smith had caught the imagination of the nation. And now that factor was showing up in political polls, making it all flow downhill into more pressure on Lefever, and, in turn, Smith. Lefever shook his head sadly. The better Smith had done for his cause—the long-gone United States—the more pressure would be applied to Lefever.
Lefever could not see a chance in hell of a mutually agreeable settlement. Unless Smith died of old age, he amended. Fat chance of that.
He seriously considered drugging Smith’s food and running him through a psych rehab course on the sly. No! Lefever did not work that way, had never worked that way. Play the game by the rules. From that he would never, ever waver.
It was noon as their bubble sat down on a cradle in San Antonio, right outside the bubble-dome of the Alamo.
A single ping of an incoming call came, and Downing answered and lifted his head. “Chief, it’s John Smith.”
“Put it on through the remotes.”
Smith’s craggy head filled the screen. “Hello, Director. Is that you just landed out there?”
“Yes.”
“Guess you figgered it out, huh?”
“Depends on what you mean,” Lefever told Smith.
“I mean the date, Lefever.”
“The Fourth of July?”
“Give the man a cigar.”
“I am aware of its significance.” And worry about that significance had caused him to order the move from the Grand Canyon to the Alamo.
“Good. We understand each other.”
“Mr. Smith, I’d like to come over and visit you.”
“Up close and personal, huh? Bring a stun gun. Aerosol drugs?”
“Not at all. I think we can reach an accommodation if we could talk face-to-face.” They’d held this conversation before. With zero results. But previously they hadn’t had the audience.
“And on worldwide teevee?” Smith indicated the remotes, obviously reading Lefever’s mind.
Lefever smiled. “Technical glitches occur.” At this moment, Downing was conferring with the technicians and military commanders.
“No thanks, son. What goes on between us will require witnesses. I trust you, but I don’t trust you, unnerstand?”
Lefever grimaced. He hated to do his job—hell, do anything—in front of a billion or so people. Doubtless the word would get out something was happening and people would watch from everywhere. The news hawks would ensure it. But it was the only way. “Okay, Mr. Smith, on your terms. Shall I come over now?”
“Not on your life, buster.” He pulled out a Budweiser and punched the opening in the top. He took a long drink. “This here is sacred territory. This ground belongs to the United States of America.” He stood. “Come with me,” he gestured with his beer. He walked back through the Alamo. Smith stopped out front and looked up at the flag.
Lefever wondered if the old man was grandstanding for the growing audience. He could just envision a million new viewers every minute. The interior minister and the president would be tuned in so they could react to whatever happened.
“Lookit, Lefever.” The old man pointed up. “The Stars and Stripes. Old Glory. Prob’y the last one standing anywhere.” He held his beer up above his head. “Budweiser. Red, white, and blue. I salute Old Glory. My American heritage.” He took a long drink. “Old Glory always stood for freedom anywhere in the world—you know that, Gerry?”
Whatever Lefever answered, it would mean political trouble. He wished he’d mastered bureaucratese. “I’ve studied history,” he said.
“You and me, we’re gonna make history,” Smith said enigmatically.
Lefever was aware of the symbology Smith was using. One lone man against billions, in front of the Alamo, toasting the Stars and Stripes. This guy’s no dummy, Lefever told himself for maybe the thousandth time, and began to feel as if he were being used in some way he couldn’t identify.
Smith grinned at the remote. Lefever felt a vague sense of disquiet. The Fourth of July and statements like the history one. What did Smith have in mind? Did it matter? Lefever would have to follow the established legal procedure.
Smith came up with another Budweiser. Opened it and raised it, too, to the flag. “In the history of the world,” he told Lefever—but Lefever knew Smith was now talking to the audience—“in the history of man, one thing and one thing only has stood for freedom. Old Glory. And there ain’t nobody gonna take that away from me, from the world, from those brave men and women who died for that flag.” He drained his beer and dug out another.
Lefever cut his audio. “Get ready for technical problems with the satellite feed,” he told Downing.
Damn, something was going down, something he couldn’t put his finger on.
“They’ll raise hell,” Downing said. “Figures coming in. One billion and change televideos on and watching us now. Includes Internet connections. On this continent, that is. Don’t know about elsewhere. And growing like pimples on a teenybopper.”
Lefever favored Downing with one of his “You’re strange” glares. Things were getting touchy. With all those viewers, they wouldn’t buy “technical difficulties.” The entire world was sensing this drama coming to a head.
Why me, Lord?
Smith punched the outside control console and “God Bless America” played from speakers in the background. Kate Smith? Any tie-in? No, just coincidence, Lefever decided.
Before he could turn his audio back on and continue talking to Smith, the double ping of priority incoming sounded. Downing split the screen and the interior minister appeared next to Smith. Smith drank some beer and turned and walked off. Mobiles followed.
“Lefever?”
“Yes, Señor Minister.” Lefever wished he had one of Smith’s Budweisers.
“I’ve been watching. You must do something. God, it’s terrible. The ratings are skyrocketing, and the instant polls are going through the roof.”
The president called you, Lefever thought, worried about the government falling. Good for the parliamentary system.
“The president called me.” The minister’s mustache twitched. “Not to mention half the Parliament.”
Smith was now in the museum. He snapped a fresh clip into his M-16. He removed his flak jacket and slipped into a combat vest. He hung grenades upon it. Uh-oh.
“Gotta go, Señor Minister.” Lefever cut the connection.
He reactivated the sound to Smith. “John? May I have a private word with you?”
As Smith shook his head and said “No,” Lefever’s right hand activated COMMAND O
VERRIDE on his console and killed the sound feed. He shifted the view of the satellite feed to a rear shot from one of the permanent remotes.
“John,” Lefever made his voice hard. “I think I know what you’re doing. It will solve nothing. I say again, it will solve nothing.”
Smith looked up. “You cut me off anyway, didn’t you?” He aimed his weapon at the mobile, and then lowered it. “No. That’s what you want, isn’t it? For me to disconnect. No way in hell, Gerry.”
“John, we found out about your son and the episode at Ranger Stadium.”
Smith popped another Bud. “You gonna arrest me for malfeasance, or what?”
“Suspicion of murder.”
“Come right ahead, sir.” Smith drank again. “I will consider that an invasion of the United States of America. By a foreign and hostile power.”
“It will destroy the image you’ve carefully constructed,” said Lefever.
A quick grin. “You ain’t no dummy yourself. I’ll grant you that. Nope. No deal.”
“Look, John. This is all personally repugnant to me, hear? I don’t want to do this. But you can well imagine what those politicos in Chicago are doing right now.”
“Climbing the walls and watching the ratings, I’ll wager.”
“Exactly.”
Downing interrupted. “The entire forping world is screaming for us to return the proper feed.”
Lefever looked at Smith. “No deal?”
“No way, no how.”
“You realize you force me into action?” Lefever recognized it had gone too far to stop this time. Though he could stop it and solve it and to hell with the consequences.
Smith nodded soberly.
“So be it, John. May the Lord have mercy on your soul.”
“Thanks, Gerry.”
I cared, John, enough to end it.
Lefever restored all satellite feed.
Smith grinned a friendly, knowing grin. “Like I was saying, Director Lefever. I decline your offer to invade the territory of the United States of America.” He finished hanging grenades on his vest. He strapped on a web belt from which hung a .45 automatic. His right hand came up and his thumb and two adjacent fingers twitched, and a blade appeared from a knife. Lefever knew it must be just like the one Smith had used sixty-odd years ago.
To the Stars -- And Beyond Page 10
