Their jaws dropped gratifyingly.
“I have trouble grasping this,” the chairman said. His dimples didn’t show any more. “You’re telling me that some kind of civil war will be fought in New York in the year 2002.”
“That was implicit in the materials brought back by the first two tank expeditions last spring, sir.”
She was uncomfortably surprised herself at their ignorance: hadn’t they understood anything from the earlier briefings Clement and others had given them?
“There won’t be any real winners, as far as we can tell,” she went on. “From about 2010 to 2020, the country will be governed by a number of different regional factions. One source calls it the warlord period. Then a whole new kind of society is supposed to take shape.”
“Run by Trainables,” said a Marine general.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, now we’ll have the drop on these so-called liberation people,” the Marine general said with grim good cheer. “Your files should have plenty of names and dates. We just have to round up their leaders and that’s it.”
“Unfortunately, General Phelps, the files give us no such names. No present group is clearly related to the American Liberation Army. It could be the PAF or the Wabbies or some completely new organization.
“In any case,” she went on, “this is just one example. Please remember, gentlemen, that these are only personnel records — what jobs people held, what their superiors thought of them, how much they were paid, where they travelled. The information we want is only hinted at. I’ll give you an example: we know it was the 101st Airborne fighting the American Liberation Army because the commanding officer of the 360th MedEvac Hospital signed all the death certificates for the people in the Agency residence. That officer is Colonel Henry R. Dumoulin, and he’s already serving with the 360th.”
Which is part of the 101st Airborne?” asked an admiral.
“Yes, sir.”
The chairman cleared his throat. “Ms. Jones, bear with us. We’re just a bunch of hardworking administrators, and we haven’t had much chance to absorb all this time-travel stuff.”
Then shame on you, Jaz-thought.
“Can you give us, oh, a kind of potted history of the next few years, as you read these documents?”
She gave him another big smile. “Of course, Mr. Chairman. Please understand, though, that we’re occasionally making some uneducated guesses, and linking our data with the material from the first two missions to Ulro. And we’ve concentrated on the crises, which may give a distorted picture.
“That said, the next few years go like this: Worsening civil disorders for the next two years, partly over food shortages and general lack of consumer goods, and partly over the role of the CEA. Some serious epidemics, especially something called Milan flu. A very bad rash of riots in the summer of 2000, with several political parties demanding the end of the CEA and a return to elected government. Assassination of a number of political leaders, including Senator Cooledge, which causes a shakeup in the CEA. President Norris resigns, and so does Vice President Arnold.”
“Small loss,” a general muttered.
“The CEA Executive Committee assumes direct control of the government in early 2001, but a number of districts refuse to acknowledge its authority. Some military units side with the Trainable district administrators, and fighting breaks out. The CEA brings back the last troops in Europe and Korea. We think the Germans make an attempt to unify, but we’re not sure. We do know that we send a lot of our people into West Germany about then, and even more into the southern USSR to encourage the separatists.”
The Marine general interrupted. “Why don’t the Russians try to jump us, if we’re in such lousy condition?”
“We think they’re caught in a leadership crisis, and, of course, their food problems are even worse than ours. One of our analysts gets a commendation in late 2001 for estimating that the Russians couldn’t sustain a major military operation in central Europe for more than a week.”
Nor could the U.S. Army, she reflected, and that’s been the case on both sides for twenty years or more. Neither side could sustain a trillion-dollar fraud when it was flat broke.
She went on briskly, sketching the pattern hidden in those six microfiche cards: the civil war, the epidemics and epizootics, the breakdown of transport and communications, the increasing numbers of Trainables among the various factions trying to maintain themselves.
“It confirms, in general, what the first two missions learned,” she said. “We did find out a few useful bits of information, like the identities of some of the Wabbies’ leaders. They’re in hiding, but the FBI has their names and descriptions. We’ve also found one serious spy in the Agency, an operative who’s been paid by the British for the last three years — ”
“The British!”
“Yes, Mr. Chairman. We’ve already dealt with the case, and the agent has been turned. The Brits are now receiving only disinformation. But we didn’t find any serious Soviet or Japanese agents.”
“Just shows their security is better,” grunted a civilian.
“We think so, too, sir,” Jaz said. And better than the CEA’s, or she would have mentioned four other spies (one French, one Japanese, two Soviet) who had also been identified and neutralized.
The chairman heaved a sigh and leaned forward against the mirror-like table.
“You know, Ms. Jones, some of your fellow Trainables have been giving us very similar projections for the next decade. I don’t know whether to be alarmed or suspicious about what you’ve told us.”
“Sir?”
“Either the projections were right, or we’re being sold a bill of goods about what was found on Ulro.”
Jaz brightened, a pretty girl suddenly understanding. “You’re suspicious because Trainables are involved in supplying this information.”
“Frankly, I am — a little.”
Very aware of Clement’s presence beside her, Jaz said, “Many of us Trainables are aware of that attitude. To be as frank as yourself, Mr. Chairman, the outline of the next few years look to me like just what should happen if Trainable advice and skills are ignored until it’s too late.”
He smiled, his dimples flashing. “No doubt I sound a bit paranoid. But what’s the old gag — just because we’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get us.”
“Even paranoids deserve sound advice, Mr. Chairman.”
The ten men who ruled the United States burst into boyish giggles, while their chairman blushed faintly.
The Marine general spoke up: “You folks seem to have pulled a hell of a lot of stuff out of six microfiches, and I for one think you’re giving us the straight dope. I like to think I’m open-minded about Trainables, and we have no reason to doubt your loyalty and sincerity, little lady. But how about going back for more?”
Clement answered. “When our agent returned, he was in very poor shape psychologically, but he was able to tell the mission director that the repository was destroyed. Those microfiches were all he could find in the ruins. Considering the problems he ran into, I would be very hesitant to commit us to another mission until we know much more about conditions on Ulro. The mission director agrees with me.”
Clement paused and shrugged sadly. “I hate to admit it, Mr. Chairman, but we regard this mission as a failure. Perhaps that’s harsh, but I’m not here to tell you fairy tales. We feel we can serve you better by good solid intelligence work here and now, and by some careful research on the downtime chronoplanes.”
“Well, perhaps so,” said the chairman, “but I must say we’re grateful for what you’ve given us. You’ve brought us the detailed reports? Good. We’ll study them with great interest. Forewarned is forearmed, after all. If people are going to be unhappy with us, we’ll be better prepared when it happens.”
When it happens? Jaz repeated to herself. Didn’t he realize how unhappy people were already? Then she realized that the real giveaway had been his mention of the print
ed reports. They would be going over those in great detail and taking action, but they would try not to betray too much interest to underlings like Clement and herself.
The meeting broke for coffee and pastries; Jaz and the chairman chatted about the weather and the difficulty of getting good coffee now that Latin America and Africa were in chaos.
“Very sad,” said the chairman. “Tragic. The loss of life, the waste, the misery. Makes you grateful for what we’ve got here. When you’re living with harsh reality, the way we do, you have to pull back and keep a balanced view. This is all really just a big economic readjustment. Tough on some people, but we’ll pull through it.”
Jaz struggled to keep from gaping at him. “They didn’t pull through it on Ulro, sir.”
“Perhaps not, but they didn’t have our advantages, did they?” He dimpled at her. “Now we know what the bad guys are up to, and we’re sure to learn more. This time around we’ll do fine.”
She smiled quickly and put down her cup. “Let’s hope so.”
When the briefing resumed, Clement handled it: a detailed, well-organized account of what was going on around the country. Near the end, he raised the issue of the Iffers.
“They’re a real fly in the ointment,” Clement said as holograms flashed on the screen: parades in New York, Baltimore, Cleveland, San Francisco. “Not a violent movement like the Wabbies and the PAF, not yet anyway, but they could be far worse. We estimate the Iffers are growing faster than any movement in American history.”
“Goddam traitors,” growled an admiral.
“If treason prosper, none dare call it treason,” Clement said dryly. “We’re working hard on the whole phenomenon of antinationalism. You know, a society under stress normally falls back on extreme nationalism, the way the Wabbies do, or it tries to redefine the nation as the PAF does. But…millions of people are just saying they don’t feel like Americans. They feel like something else that I for one don’t understand. It’s damn disquieting. We’ll get a handle on it, but until we do the Iffers are a loose cannon.”
“I wouldn’t mind sequestering some of the high-profile Iffers,” said a civilian. “Like that bitch Senator Cooledge and some of her buddies. Not surprising she’s supposed to get killed. These people ought to be put away for their own good.”
“Very counterproductive, I’m afraid,” murmured Clement.
The chairman nodded. “At this stage, of course. And it’s too bad there were no Iffers on Ulro, so we’d know what they were really up to. But we’ll expect your people to keep a close eye on them, Dr. Clement.”
“Certainly, Mr. Chairman.”
“Ms. Jones, perhaps it’s in the written report, but I can’t help asking you one more question about the Ulro data. Is this Committee mentioned anywhere in your documents?”
“Several times, sir. Various Agency members in the files were asked to supply information to this Committee. The only specific mentions, however, are to Committee members Dr. Nathan Melkin and General Andrew J. Reynolds.”
“But they’re not on the Committee.”
“Apparently they will be by 2002.”
She watched the ten men ponder the implications. Would the newcomers replace two present members, or be added? Would they be the only ones? Melkin and Reynolds, she knew, were old political opponents of several important Committee members; would their ascent signify their faction’s success, or their own opportunism? Jaz wondered if the ancient Greek oracles had felt the same detached amusement at their clients’ bafflement.
The chairman nodded and looked at his watch. “Fascinating. Now, I’m afraid we have no further time. Dr. Clement — Ms. Jones — thank you for a most useful session. We look forward to the next one.”
Smiling, the Committee members left the room and the thin-haired executive assistant escorted them back to the helipad.
“Very successful,” said Clement as they climbed aboard. “You handled them very well, especially with that paranoia line. They liked that.”
“Thank you. Still, Eric should have been the one to do it.”
Clement shook his head. “Eric is history now. He had his chance, and he blew it.”
Jaz was buckling herself in beside Clement. She thought about something he had said during the briefing: that Pierce had told the mission director about the ruined repository. Pierce had told no one else anything; he had gone catatonic within moments of his return, yet he had managed to blurt out that crucial fact. Or Wigner had lied.
For days, Wigner left the Bleecker Street apartment only briefly, to spend a few ration stamps at the nearest food dispensary or liquor store. He slipped into a new kind of circadian rhythm: sleep for four hours, work for eighteen, sleep for four hours more. He kept the curtains drawn and knew only vaguely if they blocked out daylight or darkness.
The collating and cross-referencing grew steadily more complex as he traced a hundred criminals and a thousand crimes, scores of political careers, and dozens of corporate schemes. From what he learned in the microfiches, he could turn to current databases and find the first misdemeanours of his criminals, the first elections and stock issues. If they were hidden, he turned to the wailing-wall network. Back came passwords, files, more threads for the wonderful tapestry he was weaving. Over a hundred Trainables came to the wailing wall with news for Wigner, and went away again with new instructions.
Usually they understood little or nothing of what they were asked to find, but the smarter Trainables saw the patterns in the data and saw where the patterns should lead. Information came in trickles, then spurts, then floods.
But the apartment showed no sign of it: no printouts, no notes, only the rapid flicker of the computer screen throwing green light across Wigner’s face. Pierce’s Polymath was strained to its limits; Wigner copied the data to a larger computer in a rented office uptown, then cleared the Polymath’s memory to make room for more.
He hardly needed to look outside: he knew what was going on, what would be going on.
He knew his own future.
He found it not in the remaining personnel records but in the briefings. The Wabbies had launched a coup attempt, spearheaded by a brilliant computer virus. A hacker out in someplace called Salmon Prairie, Montana, had devised it, and it had virtually decapitated the Civil Emergency Administration.
ExComm had fought back, but it had been a near thing. A Wabbie death squad had assassinated Senator Cooledge and most of her staff in the hours after the crash of the computer system. In retaliation, Wigner had sent Jerry Pierce to eliminate the Wabbie executive. He had succeeded, but had then been captured by the FBI, tortured, and killed. A crude but effective chemical interrogation had revealed Wigner’s involvement in this and a dozen other assassinations; Wigner took careful note of his cognate’s victims.
The FBI had then passed the word to Clement; Wigner had been arrested and interrogated by much more subtle methods. He read extracts from his interrogations, and thought he sounded exactly like himself. He did not like an unflattering psychological profile from an Agency psycho-conditioner named Suad, but supposed it was pretty accurate. Most of the wailing-wall network was rolled up soon after his arrest, and the members jailed. Wigner had gone to a detention camp in Wyoming; early in 2003 he was reported as shot attempting to escape.
“Well,” Wigner said, pausing the flickerscreen.
He stood up, stretching, and went to the bathroom. Strange to read one’s own obituary, to know it had been read by the president and the CEA Executive Committee. Far from making him feel glad to be alive to read it, the account of his death (complete with post-mortem photograph) made him angry with himself.
His cognate’s efforts seemed pathetic, a frustrated and unimaginative lashing out at symptoms while the root causes of misery lay untouched. Even with assets like Jerry Pierce and the wailing-wall network, the Ulro Wigner had botched it. Here on Earth, he had planned nothing different until Ishizawa had changed everything. He would have blindly followed the same path to oblivion.
On Ulro he had tried to save the world and could not even save himself. On Earth he had at least a fighting chance to save both.
CHAPTER XI
Outside Pierce’s room, the morning sun glowed through the leaves. The window was open, and someone was playing Bach on the guitar: Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring. Pierce lay on his bed under a sheet, one hand tapping in time to the music. He had lost some weight; his cheekbones stood out.
“I don’t believe in reliving a trauma as a means of overcoming it,” Dr. Franklin said from his chair beside the bed. “Might as well cut into a scar to see how deep it is. But sometimes we just have to do it, Jerry, so we can understand what made the scar and how deep it runs.”
“I understand.” But Pierce spoke absently, as if he were bored.
“You know what Dymoxyn is; it was part of what made you a Trainable.”
“Memory drug.”
“Exactly. We’re going to give you a fairly large dose and see what turns up.”
“Sure.”
Simply getting Pierce to this stage had taken almost two weeks. Now he was at least conversing and seemed capable of understanding what was happening to him. The Agency did not worry much about legal subtleties, least of all since the declaration of the Emergency, but Franklin had no intention of being sued over administering a potent substance like Dymoxyn: Pierce’s remarks, on tape, would show he had agreed to treatment of his own free will.
A nurse attached electrodes to Pierce’s scalp. The electrodes were connected to a relatively new machine, a cerebrospinal field scanner. It was a pair of black metal boxes about the size of videocassette recorders, linked by cables to a flat-screen monitor. As he spoke, Dr. Franklin could see the effect of his words on Pierce’s brain.
“Remember when computers were first coming in?” Dr. Franklin said. “Everything was incompatible with everything else. You had to go through a real hassle to take information from an IBM disk and make it understandable to an Apple.” The screen showed the characteristic red-blue pattern for an apple.
“Well, people’s brains are something like that. We’re all genetically incompatible. Maybe if we weren’t, we could read each other’s minds.” He saw more familiar patterns: people, something, read. “Now we’re just getting to the point where we can print out cerebral functions, but we don’t always know what we’re actually reading. Imagine someone was writing down a series of Chinese ideograms as someone else was speaking Chinese. Maybe you couldn’t understand the words or the ideograms, but after a while you’d see some repetitions. You hear the word shan and you see a particular ideogram.” Dr. Franklin drew it on the palm of his hand so that Pierce could see: a horizontal line with three bold verticals.
The Fall of the Republic (The Chronoplane Wars Book 2) Page 13
