Mr. Li didn't need to ask, "Who are my enemies?" Both men understood what was being discussed.
"You need somebody qualified in charge of your personal security," Joe suggested.
The idea amused Mr. Li. But he laughed a little too long, perhaps revealing a persistent unease in his own safety. "I have a fine team of private bodyguards," he said at last. "A team of sapiens who would throw their lives down to protect mine."
Joe waited.
"Perhaps you aren't aware of this, sir. But our recent tragedies have changed our government. The U.N. presidency now commands a surprising amount of authority. But he, or she, is still elected by adult citizens. A pageant that maintains the very important illusion of a genuine, self-sustaining democracy."
Joe leaned across the table, nodding patiently.
"Within the next few days," said Mr. Li, "I will announce my candidacy for that high office. A few months later, I will win my party's primary elections. But I'm a colorless merchant with an uneventful life story. I need to give the public one good reason to stand in my camp. What I have to find is a recognizable name that will inspire passions on both sides of the issues."
"You need a dead man," Joe said.
"And what do you think about that, sir?"
"That I'm still trapped in that damned pod." Leaning back in his chair, Joe sighed. "I'm starving to death, bored to tears, and dreaming up this insanity just to keep me a little bit sane."
"Sane or not, do you say yes?"
He showed his host a thoughtful expression. Then very quietly, with the tone of a joke, Joe asked, "So which name sits first on the ballot?"
As promised, Mr. Li easily won the Liberty Party's nomination, and with a force-fed sense of drama, the candidate announced his long-secret choice for running mate. By then Joe had recovered enough to endure the Earth's relentless tug. He was carried home by private shuttle, and with braces under his trouser legs and a pair of lovely and strong women at his side, the celebrated war hero strode into an auditorium/madhouse. Every motion had been practiced, every word scripted, yet somehow the passion and heart of the event felt genuine. Supporters and employees of the candidate pushed against one another, fighting for a better look at the running mate. With a natural sense for when to pause and how to wave at the world, Joe's chiseled, scarred face managed to portray that essential mixture of fearlessness and sobriety. Li greeted him with open arms—the only time the two men would ever embrace. Buoyed by the crowd's energy, Joe felt strong, but when he decided to sit, he almost collapsed into his chair. Li was a known quantity; everyone kept watch over the new man. When Joe studied his boss, he used an expression easily confused for admiration. The acceptance speech was ten minutes of carefully crafted theater designed to convey calm resolve wrapped around coded threats. For too long, Li said, their old honorable species had allowed its traditions to be undercut and diluted. When unity mattered, people followed every path. When solidarity was a virtue, evolution and natural selection were replaced by whim and caprice. But the new leadership would right these past wrongs. Good men and good women had died in the great fight, and new heroes were being discovered every day. (Li glanced at his running mate, winning a burst of applause; and Joe nodded at his benefactor, showing pride swirled with modesty.) The speech concluded with a promise for victory in the general election, in another six weeks, and Joe applauded with everyone else. But he stood slowly, as if weak, shaking as an old man might shake.
He was first to offer his hand of congratulations to the candidate.
And he was first to sit again, feigning the aching fatigue that he had earned over these last five years.
Three days later, a lone sniper was killed outside the arena where the controversial running mate was scheduled to appear. Joe's security detail was led by a career police officer, highly qualified and astonishingly efficient. Using a quiet, unperturbed tone, he explained what had happened, showing his boss images of the would-be assassin.
"She's all sapien," he mentioned. "But with ties to the Rebirths. A couple lovers, and a lot of politics."
Joe scanned the woman's files as well the pictures. "Was the lady working alone?"
"As far as I can tell, yes. Sir."
"What's this gun?"
"Homemade," the officer explained. "An old Czech design grown in a backyard nano-smelter. She probably thought it would make her hard to trace. And I suppose it would have: An extra ten minutes to track her down through the isotope signatures and chine-marks."
Joe asked, "How accurate?"
"The rifle? Well, with that sight and in competent hands—"
"Her hands, I mean. Was she any good?"
"We don't know yet, sir." The officer relished these occasional conversations. After all, Joe Carroway had saved humanity on at least two separate occasions, and always against very long odds. "I suppose she must have practiced her marksmanship somewhere. But the thing is. . . . "
"What?"
"This barrel isn't as good as it should be. Impurities in the ceramics, and the heat of high-velocity rounds had warped it. Funny as it sounds, the more your killer practiced, the worse her gun would have become."
Joe smiled and nodded.
The officer nodded with him, waiting for the legend to speak.
"It might have helped us," Joe mentioned. "If we'd let her take a shot or two, I mean."
"Help us?"
"In the polls."
The officer stared at him for a long moment. The dry Carroway humor was well known. Was this a worthy example? He studied the man whom he was sworn to defend, and after considerable reflection, the officer decided to laugh weakly and shrug his shoulders. "But what if she got off one lucky shot?"
Joe laughed quietly. "I thought that's what I was saying."
To be alone, Joe took a lover.
The young woman seemed honored and more than a little scared. After passing through security, they met inside his hotel room, and when the great man asked to send a few messages through her links, she happily agreed. Nothing about those messages would mean anything to anybody. But when they reached their destinations, other messages that had waited for years were released, winding their way to the same secure e-vault. Afterward Joe had sex with her, and then she let him fix her a drink that he laced with sedatives. Once she was asleep, he donned arm and leg braces designed for the most demanding physical appearances. Then Joe opened a window, and ten stories above the bright cold city, he climbed out onto the narrow ledge and slipped through the holes that he had punched in the security net.
Half an hour later, shaking from exhaustion, Joe was standing at the end of a long alleyway.
"She was a mistake," he told the shadows.
There was no answer.
"A blunder," he said.
"Was she?" a deep voice asked.
"But you were always a little too good at inspiring others," Joe continued. "Getting people to be eager, making them jump before they were ready."
In the darkness, huge lungs took a deep, lazy breath.
Then the voice mentioned, "I could kill you myself. I could kill you now." It was deep and slow, and the voice always sounded a little amused. Just a little. "No guards protecting you, and from what I see, you aren't carrying more than a couple baby pistols."
Joe said, "That's funny."
Silence.
"I'm not the one you want," he said. "You'd probably settle for me. But think about our history, friend. Look past all the public noise. And now remember everything that's happened between you and me."
Against an old brick wall, a large body stirred. Then the voice said, "Remind me."
Joe mentioned, "Baltimore."
"Yes."
"And Singapore."
"We helped each other there."
"And what about Kiev?"
"I was in a gracious mood. A weak mood, looking back."
Joe smiled. "Regardless of moods, you let me live."
The voice seemed to change, rising from a deeper part of the unseen body. It
sounded wetter and very warm, admitting, "I knew what you were, Joe. I understood how you thought, and between us, I felt we had managed an understanding."
"We had that, yes."
"You have always left my species alone."
"No reason not to."
"We weren't any threat to you."
"You've never been in trouble, until now."
"But this man you are helping . . . this Li monster . . . he is an entirely different kind of creature, I believe . . . ."
Joe said nothing.
"And you are helping him. Don't deny it."
"I won't."
A powerful sigh came from the dark, carrying the smell of raw fish and peppermint.
"Two days from now . . . ," Joe began.
"That would be the Prosperity Conference."
"The monster and I will be together, driving through São Paulo. Inside a secure vehicle, surrounded by several platoons of soldiers."
"I would imagine so."
"Do you know our route?"
"No, as it happens. Do you?"
"Not yet."
The shadows said nothing, and they didn't breathe, and they held themselves still enough that it was possible to believe that they had slipped away entirely.
Then very softly, the voice asked, "When will you learn the route?"
"Tomorrow night."
"But as you say, the level of protection will be considerable."
"So you want things to be easy? Is that it?"
The laugh was smooth, unhurried. "I want to know your intentions, Joe. Having arranged this collision of forces, what will you do? Pretend to fall ill at the last moment? Stand on the curb and offer a hearty wave as your benefactor rolls off to his doom?"
"Who says I won't ride along?"
This time the laugh was louder, confident and honestly amused. "Suppose you learn the route and share it with me. And imagine that despite my logistical nightmares, I have time enough to assemble the essential forces. Am I to understand that you will be riding into that worst kind of trouble?"
"I've survived an ambush or two."
"When you were young. And you still had luck to spend."
Joe said nothing.
"But you do have a reasonable point," the voice continued. "If you aren't riding with the monster, questions will be asked. Doubts will rise. Your character might have to endure some rather hard scrutiny."
"Sure, that's one fine reason to stay with him."
"And another is?"
"You fall short. You can't get to Li in the end. So don't you want to have a second option in place, just in case?"
"What option?"
"Me."
That earned a final long laugh.
"Point taken, my friend. Point taken."
The limousine could have been smaller and less pretentious, but the man strapped into its safest seat would accept nothing less than a rolling castle. And following the same kingly logic, the limousine's armor and its plasma weapons were just short of spectacular. The AI driver was capable of near-miracles, if it decided to flee. But in this vehicle, in most circumstances, the smart tactic would be to stand its ground and fight. One hundred sapien soldiers and ten times as many mechanicals were traveling the same street, sweeping for enemies and the possibility of enemies. In any battle, they would count for quite a lot, unless of course some of them were turned, either through tricks or bribery. Which was as much consideration as Joe gave to the problem of attacking the convoy. Effort wasted was time lost. What mattered was the next ten or eleven minutes and how he handled himself and how he managed to control events within his own limited reach.
Li and two campaign wizards were conferring at the center of the limousine. Polls were a painful topic. They were still critical points behind the frontrunners, and the propaganda wing of his empire was getting worried. Ideas for new campaigns were offered, and then buried. Finally the conversation fell into glowering silences and hard looks at a floor carpeted with cultured white ermine.
That was when Joe unfastened his harness and approached.
Li seemed to notice him. But his assistant—a cold little Swede named Hussein—took the trouble to ask, "What do you need, Mr. Carroway?"
"Just want to offer my opinion," he said.
"Opinion? About what?"
Joe made a pistol with his hand and pointed it at Hussein, and then he jerked so suddenly that the man flinched.
"What is it, Joe?" asked Li.
"People are idiots," Joe said.
The candidate looked puzzled, but a moment later, something about those words intrigued him. "In what way?"
"We can't see into the future."
"We can't?"
"None of us can," said Joe. He showed a smile, a little wink. "Not even ten seconds ahead, in some cases."
"Yet we do surprisingly well despite our limitations." The candidate leaned back, trying to find the smoothest way to dismiss this famous name.
"We can't see tomorrow," said Joe, "but we are shrewd."
"People, you mean?"
"Particularly when ten billion of us are thinking hard about the same problem. And that's why you aren't going to win this race. Nobody sees what will happen, but in this case, it's very easy to guess how the Li presidency will play out."
Hussein bristled.
But Li told him and everyone else to let the man speak.
"You're assuming that I hate these other species," Joe told him. "In fact, you've counted on it from the start. But the truth is . . . I don't have any compelling attachment to sapiens. By and large, I am a genuinely amoral creature. While you, sir . . . you are a bigot and a genocidal asshole. And should you ever come to power, the solar system has a respectable chance of collapsing into full-scale civil war."
Li took a moment. Then he pointed out, "In my life, I have killed no one. Not a single Rebirth, or for that matter, a sapien."
"Where I have slaughtered thousands," Joe admitted. "And stood aside while millions more died."
"Maybe you are my problem. Perhaps we should drop you from the ticket."
"That is an option," Joe agreed.
"Is this what you wanted to say to me? That you wish to quit?"
Joe gave the man a narrow, hard-to-read smile.
"My life," he said.
"Pardon?" Li asked.
"Early in life, I decided to live as if I was very important. As if I was blessed in remarkable ways. In my hand, I believed, were the keys to a door that would lead to a worthy future, and all that was required of me was that I make hard calculations about matters that always seem to baffle everyone else."
"I'm sorry, Joe. I'm not quite sure—"
"I have always understood that I am the most important person there is, on the Earth or any other world within our reach. And I have always been willing to do or say anything that helps my climb to the summit."
"But how can you be that special? Since that's my place to be!"
Li laughed, and his assistants heartily joined in.
Again, Joe made a pistol with his hand, pointing his index finger at the candidate's face.
"You are a scary individual," Li remarked. Then he tried to wave the man back, looking at no one when he said, "Perhaps a medical need needs to be diagnosed. A little vacation for our dear friend, perhaps."
Hussein gave an agreeable nod.
In the distance, a single soft pop could be heard.
Joe slipped back to his seat.
His security man was sitting beside him. Bothered as well as curious, he asked, "What was that all about?"
"Nothing," said Joe. "Never mind."
Another mild pop was followed by something a little louder, a little nearer.
Just in case, the security man reached for his weapon. But he discovered that his holster was empty now.
Somehow his gun had found its way into Joe's hand.
"Stay close to me," Joe said.
"You know I will," the man muttered weakly.
Then came the fla
sh of a thumb-nuke, followed by the sharp wail of people screaming, begging with Fortune to please show mercy, to please save their glorious, important lives.
V. World's End
Three terms as President finally ended with an assortment of scandals—little crimes and large ones, plus a series of convenient nondisclosures—and those troubles were followed by the sudden announcement that Joseph Carroway would slide gracefully into retirement. After all that, there was persistent talk about major investigations and unsealing ancient records. Tired allegations refused to die. Could the one-time leader of humanity be guilty of even one tenth of the crimes that he was rumored to have committed? In judicial circles, wise minds discussed the prospects of charging and convicting the Old Man on the most egregious insults to common morality. Politicians screamed for justice without quite defining what justice required. Certain species were loudest in their complaints, but that was to be expected.
What was more surprising, perhaps, were the numbers of pure sapiens who blamed the President for every kind of ill. But most of the pain and passion fell on one-time colleagues and allies. Unable to sleep easily, they would sit at home, secretly considering their own complicities in old struggles and more recent deeds, as well as non-deeds and omissions that seemed brilliant at the moment, but now, in different light, looked rather ominous.
In the end, nothing substantial happened.
In the end, the Carroway Magic continued to hold sway.
His successor was a talented and noble soul. No one doubted her passion for peace or the decency of her instincts. And she was the one citizen of the Inhabited Worlds who could sit at a desk and sign one piece of parchment, forgiving crimes and transgressions and mistakes and misjudgments. And then she showed her feline face to the cameras, winning over public opinion by pointing out that trials would take decades, verdicts would be contested for centuries, and every last one of the defendants had been elected and then served every citizen with true skill.
The new president served one six-year term before leaving public life.
Joseph Carroway entered the next race at the last moment, and he won with a staggering seventy percent mandate. But by then the Old Man was exactly that: A slowed, sorry image of his original self, dependent on a talented staff and the natural momentum of a government that achieved the ordinary without fuss or too much controversy.
The Best Science Fiction and Fantasy of the Year-Volume Three Page 38
