Revenue Canada.The cheerful Texan had been _glad_ to do it.
He waited for Thomas's trademark stream of vitriol. It didn't come. Veryquietly, Thomas said, "I see."
"Thomas," he said, a note of pleading in his voice. "It's not my choice. If Idon't do this, I'll have to give Woolley my secret identity -- he won't give memy pension without my Social Insurance Number."
"Or you could get a job," Thomas said, the familiar invective snarl creepingback.
"I just told you, I can't give out my SIN!"
"So have your secret identity get a job. Wash dishes!"
"If I took a job," Hershie said, palms sweating, "I'd have to give up flyingpatrols -- I'd have to stop fighting crime."
"_Fighting crime_?" Thomas's voice was remorseless. "What _crime_? The bugoutsare taking care of crime -- they're making plans to shut down the _police_!Supe, you've been obsoleted."
"I know," Hershie said, self-pitying. "I know. That's why I got involved withyou in the first place -- I need to have a _purpose_. I'm the Super Man!"
"So your purpose is speaking to military shows? Telling the world that it stillneeds its arsenals, even if the bugouts have made war obsolete? Great purpose,Supe. Very noble."
He choked on a hopeless sob. "So what can I do, Thomas? I don't want to sellout, but I've got to _eat_."
"Squeeze coal into diamonds?" he said. It was teasing, but not nasty teasing.Hershie felt his tension slip: Thomas didn't hate him.
"Do you have any idea how big a piece of coal you have to start with to get evena one-carat stone? Trust me -- someone would notice if entire coalfaces starteddisappearing."
"Look, Supe, this is surmountable. You don't have to sell out. You said ityourself, you're the Super Man -- you have responsibilities. You have duties.You can't just sell out. Let's sleep on it, huh?"
Hershie was so very, very tired. It was always hardest on him when the Earth'syellow sun was hidden; the moon was a paltry substitute for its rejuvenatingrays. "Let's do that," he said. "Thanks, Thomas."
#
DefenseFest 33 opened its doors on one of those incredibly bright March dayswhen the snow on the ground throws back lumens sufficient to shrink your pupilsto microdots. Despite the day's brightness, a bitterly cold wind scoured FrontStreet and the Metro Convention Centre.
From a distance, Hershie watched demonstration muster out front of the EatonCentre, a few kilometers north, and march down to Front Street, along theirpermit-proscribed route. The turnout was good, especially given the weather:about 5,000 showed up with wooly scarves and placards that the wind keptthreatening to tear loose from their grasp.
The veterans marched out front, under a banner, in full uniform. Next came theQuakers, who were of the same vintage as the veterans, but dressed like elderlyEnglish professors. Next came three different Communist factions, who circulatedback and forth, trying to sell each other magazines. Finally, there came therabble: Thomas's group of harlequin-dressed anarchists; high-school studentswith packsacks who industriously commed their browbeaten classmates who'delected to stay at their desks; "civilians" who'd seen a notice and come out,and tried gamely to keep up with the chanting.
The chanting got louder as they neared the security cordon around the ConventionCentre. The different groups all mingled as they massed on the opposite side ofthe barricades. The Quakers and the vets sang "Give Peace a Chance," whileThomas and his cohort prowled around, distributing materiel to various trustedindividuals.
The students hollered abuse at the attendees who were trickling into theConvention Centre in expensive overcoats, florid with expense-account breakfastsand immaculately groomed.
Hershie's appearance silenced the crowd. He screamed in over the lake, bankedvertically up the side of the CN Tower, and plummeted downward. Thedemonstrators set up a loud cheer as he skimmed the crowd, then fell silent andaghast as he touched down on the _opposite_ side of the barricade, with theconvention-goers. A cop in riot-gear held the door for him and he steppedinside. A groan went up from the protestors, and swelled into a wordless,furious howl.
#
Hershie avoided the show's floor and headed for the green room. En route, he wasstopped by a Somali general who'd been acquitted by a War Crimes tribunal, butonly barely. The man greeted him like an old comrade and got his aide to snap aphoto of the two of them shaking hands.
The green room was crowded with coffee-slurping presenters who pecked furiouslyat their comms, revising their slides. Hershie drew curious stares when heentered, but by the time he'd gotten his Danish and coffee, everyone around himwas once again bent over their work, a field of balding cabbages anointed withhigh-tech hair-care products.
Hershie's palms were slick, his alien hearts throbbing in counterpoint. Hiscowlick wilted in the aggressive heat shimmering out of the vent behind hissofa. He tried to keep himself calm, but by the time a gofer commed him andsquirted directions to the main ballroom, he was a wreck.
#
Hershie commed into the feed from the demonstration in time to see the Quakerssit, en masse, along the barricade, hands intertwined, asses soaking in theslush at the kerbside. The cops watched them impassively, and while they weredistracted, Thomas gave a signal to his crew, who hastily unreeled astories-high smartscreen, the gossamer fabric snapping taut in the wind as itunfurled over the Convention Centre's facade.
The cops were suddenly alert, moving, but Thomas was careful to keep the screenon his side of the barricade. Tina led a team of high-school students who spreadout a solar collector the size and consistency of a parachute. It glinted in theharsh sun.
Szandor hastily cabled a projector/loudhailer apparatus to the collector.Szandor's dog nipped at his heels as he steadied and focused the apparatus onthe screen, and Szandor plugged his comm into it and powered it up.
There was a staticky pop as the speakers came to life, loud enough to be heardover the street noise. The powerful projector beamed its image onto the screen,bright even in the midday glare.
There were hoots from the crowd as they recognised the feed: a live broadcast ofthe keynote addresses in the Centre. The Patron Ik'Spir Pat's hoverchairprominent. The camera lingered on the Patron's eyes, the only part of himvisible from within the chair's masking infrastructure. They were startling,silvery orbs, heavy-lidded and expressionless.
The camera swung to Hershie. Szandor spat dramatically and led a chorus ofhisses.
Hershie hastily closed his comm and cleared his throat, adjusted his mic, andaddressed the crowd.
#
"Uh. . ." he said. His guts somersaulted. Time to go big or go home.
"Hi." That was better. "Thanks. I'm the Super Man. For years, I worked alongsideUN Peacekeeping forces around the world. I hoped I was doing good work. Most ofthe time, I suppose I may have been."
He caught the eye of Brenda, the cheerful Texan who'd booked him in. She lookeduneasy.
"There's one thing I'm certain of, though: it's that the preparation for war hasnever led to anything _but_ war. With this show, you ladies and gentlemen areparticipating in a giant conspiracy to commit murder. Individually, you may notbe evil, but collectively, you're the most amoral supervillain I've ever faced."
Brenda was talking frantically into her comm. His mic died. He simply expandedhis mighty diaphragm and kept on speaking, his voice filling the ballroom.
"I urge you to put this behind you. We've entered into a new era in humanhistory. The good Patron here offers the entire Universe; you scurry around,arranging the deaths of people you've never met.
"It's a terribly, stupid, mindless pursuit. You ought to be ashamed ofyourselves."
With that, Hershie stepped away from the podium and walked out of the ballroom.
#
The camera tracked him as he made his way back through the Convention Centre,out the doors. He leapt the barricade and settled in front of the screen. Thedemonstrators gave him a standing ovation, and Thomas gravely shook his hand.The handshake was repeated on the giant screen behind them, courtesy of the
cameraman, who had gamely vaulted the barricade as well.
The crowd danced, hugged each other, laughed. Szandor's dog bit him on the ass,and he nearly dropped the projector.
He recovered in time to nearly drop it again, as the Patron Ik'Spir Pat'shoverchair glided out the Centre's doors and made a beeline for Hershie.
Hershie watched the car approach with nauseous dread. The Patron stopped a fewcentimetres from him, so they were almost eyeball-to-eyeball. The hoverchair'sPA popped to life, and the Patron spoke, in the bugouts' thrilling contralto.
"Thank you for your contribution," the bugout said. "It was refreshing to haveanother perspective
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