The Fall of the Republic (The Chronoplane Wars Book 2)

by Crawford Kilian

  “Gee. You his agent?”

  “Wish I were. He’s got an idea about computer security, a way to protect against viruses and logic bombs. But he’s not going to get anywhere with it until he leaves Hewlett-Packard, and if he doesn’t come to you he’ll go to somebody else.”

  “Well, that’s kind of interesting, I guess. But lots of guys are into computer security. I’m into freer access, myself.”

  “Sure. So am I, believe me. But the Wabbies are planning a guerrilla war against computers. They’re going to try to break the government down by zapping every computer memory they can reach, and they can reach plenty.”

  “The Wabbies? Those creeps.”

  “They’re going to get away with a lot of it, I’m afraid, but if Polymath can protect its computers, it’ll have a fantastic competitive edge.” Wigner glugged his Coke. “No point in free access to a lobotomized computer.”

  “Gee. Not much, I guess. Well, I’ll call Flatfoot tonight, see if he wants to come over.”

  “Peter, it doesn’t matter what he wants. You get him under your wing.”

  “Uh, d’you think you could tell me what this is all about? How come you’re doing me these favours?”

  “Sure. I’m saving the goddam world.”

  “Oh.”

  “No kidding. I really am trying to save the world, Peter.”

  “I believed you the first time, Eric. I just want to wish you good luck.”

  “In the old days, a couple of years ago,” said Franklin, “we would have put in a massive memory block that was nothing more than artificial amnesia. Amputation. We’re a lot more selective now. We’ve studied the language of your brain; we understand the way you think and remember.”

  “So I’ll remember — what I don’t remember.”

  “Yes. You won’t remember the feelings it produced. And they won’t return when you think about it.”

  “I’d settle for amnesia.”

  Franklin chuckled.

  For the next six hours, Pierce relived Ulro from beginning to end, over and over, while Franklin read the screen and administered judicious quantities of drugs. In colloidal microdroplets, the drugs travelled through Pierce’s brain to predetermined locations where ultrasonic signals broke the microdroplets and released the drugs directly into the neural tissue. Beta-carboline analogues intensified his memories of Ulro, enabling Franklin to pinpoint the neural anchors for Pierce’s emotional response. The price was a series of convulsions; Franklin’s nurses were prepared.

  Next came a sequence of benzodiazepines, blotting out the limbic responses that had driven Pierce into a fugue state.

  “Sort of like getting a stain out of a shirt,” Franklin remarked to one of the nurses. “Just keep scrubbing and scrubbing and putting more spot remover on it.” After the first two hours, Pierce stopped screaming. When the blocking session was over, he slept.

  At breakfast, Franklin saw Pierce jogging around the lawn in his pyjamas, sweat pouring down his face.

  Franklin tapped on the glass and Pierce waved. A few minutes later he came into the refectory, his bare feet wet and covered with bits of grass.

  “It seems to be September,” he said, sitting across the table from Franklin and helping himself to biscuits and honey. “I’ve lost a lot of time.”

  “Not all that much. Tell me, Jerry, what did the people in the tunnel look like?”

  Pierce’s eyebrows rose. “Like mummies. Desiccated. Why? Oh, of course. Testing.”

  “Yes. You passed. Would you like to call Eric Wigner, or shall I?”

  “I will.”

  Franklin, smiling faintly, looked into Pierce’s eyes and looked away again, out at the green grass gleaming in the late summer morning. Someone, or something, was still down there in Pierce’s eyes. Franklin wasn’t sure if it was snarling or screaming, but it frightened him.

  CHAPTER XII

  “New houseplants,” Pierce remarked as he entered the Bleecker Street apartment. An aspidistra stood in a corner of the living room, an asparagus fern on a bookshelf.

  “Wanted a welcoming look.”

  “It’s nice. Thanks.”

  “Take your shoes off and relax while I get us a couple of beers. We have a lot of work ahead of us, old son.”

  Wigner worked hard at being jovial. Pierce was very much his old self except in the eyes. It was mildly disconcerting to talk to an intelligent, alert young fellow with the eyes of a much older man.

  For hours they sat in the little living room, eating black-market potato chips and cold cuts and drinking Tsingtao beer, while Pierce’s Polymath flashed away at them and Wigner occasionally interrupted with a comment or two.

  “So that’s what you look like dead,” Pierce said when Wigner showed him the file on their Ulro cognates. “Not much different.”

  “At least they did me the honour of taking my picture. You appear to have ended up in some nameless ditch.”

  “Done in by the FBI. Hate to have it happen twice.”

  “It won’t.” Wigner swigged beer. “At least our cognates got rid of some prime bastards. We’re going to do a lot better.”

  A little later, Pierce said: “I can’t believe the dope dealing.”

  “Believe it. Tony Charles is my favourite. The son of a bitch actually got taxpayers’ money to subsidize three fentanyl labs out in Queens. Local Industry Grants. The stuff is addictive with one dose. Polly, give me the Charles file — there it is — he was making about four million dollars a month when they finally nailed him in 2001. Not bad, even with the hyperinflation we’re supposed to get starting next year.”

  They went on through a catalogue of corruption: Agency employees working for the Japanese, the British, the moribund Soviets; politicians taking bribes in return for appointments of black-market stooges to clerks’ jobs in food dispensaries or military quartermaster assignments; a call girl network dealing exclusively with senators and their senior staff, and a call boy network serving the same clientele as well as Ex-Comm.

  “I always thought gays were attracted to interior decorating and modem dance, not administration,” Wigner said. “Shows how sheltered my youth was.”

  They reviewed organized crime and its connections in the CEA, the immigration scams and the draft-dodging arrangements for the sons of CEA officials, the bribery of Food and Drug inspectors to pass toxic meats and contaminated grains, the rakeoffs and skims and rigged lotteries: names, dates, amounts, favours granted, benefits received by relatives, business associates, employees, as revealed in the briefings that had gone to the top of a government rotting all the way to the bottom.

  That was only a fraction of Wigner’s files. More had to do with the economic upheavals of the next few years, the national defaults, the bank failures, the corporate cannibalism, the draconian laws that staved off disaster for a few weeks more by beggaring some other nation. And with the occasional amazing strokes of technological brilliance that still flashed through the gloom: new computer designs, new breakthroughs in genetic engineering, the eradication of cancer and diabetes by minor editing of the human genome.

  “It’s interesting, but it’s a blind alley,” said Wigner sometime long after midnight.

  “The issue is how we avoid running into the same mess,” Pierce agreed.

  “That damn Wabbie plot is the key element,” Wigner said. “Now that we know it’s coming, I want to provoke them to a premature move.”

  “Why bother, if you can stop it anyway?”

  “Ah, can I? We’re starting to see information gaps. The database is eroding because your old T-Colonel colleagues are losing control, the governmental structure is fracturing, people aren’t feeding the computers. Better to goad the Wabbies into action while we still have enough information to respond properly.”

  “How?”

  “All will be revealed in time, old son. But we have more on our plate. Congressman Charles is moving Bill 402 out of committee, but he’s dragging his feet; I want him moving faster, or replac
ed by someone with more motivation. Those two ExComm members spying for the Japanese — I intend to make that public.”

  “You should just turn them.”

  Wigner looked thoughtful. “Make them feed us information, in exchange for not being exposed? It’s an idea, but I prefer the idea of a paralyzed ExComm

  staring up its own backside. Once the CEA is completely discredited, and impotent as well, the Iffers should be able to get public opinion firmly on their side.”

  “Are they that strong? A genuine opposition?”

  “Almost. Did you notice all the American flags as we were driving down from Woodstock? Backlash against the Iffers. It’s building fast, but the jerks have nothing to support but ExComm. Take ExComm out of the picture, and the hyperpatriots have nowhere to go”

  “Unless they find some leader of their own.”

  “They tried to on Ulro, after the Wabbie coup failed. Of course, they didn’t have an International Federation to be scared of, but pathological nationalism can always find enemies. On Ulro Senator Card-well came pretty close to uniting the jingoes, but we’ll deal with him in the next couple of weeks.”

  “All right. What’s my agenda, then?”

  "First, a couple of days of rest. Then we slip some information to Internal Security about ExComm, and copies to the Canadian and British media. Otherwise our own media won’t dare touch it.”

  Pierce nodded, stretching and groaning. “Let’s go for a walk. I’ve been sitting down too long.”

  “At this hour?”

  Pierce grinned at him, and Wigner saw the old wolfishness glinting in Pierce’s eyes, obscuring the old man’s thousand-yard stare. “Afraid you’ll die before 2002?”

  “All right.”

  Greenwich Village was dark, yet the streets were full of people. They sidled along the storefronts, clustered in doorways, trading in joints and crack and little boys and girls. Occasionally an army patrol roared through in an armoured personnel carrier, lights blazing, and people scuttled into shadows. Somewhere to the south, a rifle cracked twice.

  Pierce seemed to enjoy the coolness of the early autumn night; he strode along the sidewalk, brushing past the beggars and prostitutes while Wigner stayed close to his side. They reached Washington Square and circled the park, then sat on a bench to listen to an old man play the mandolin.

  “What a mess,” said Wigner. “I’m amazed we haven’t collapsed already.”

  “Me, too. When they stop playing music at 2:00 A.M. in Washington Square, that’s when we’ll really be in trouble.” Very lightly, Pierce touched Wigner’s shoulder. “We’ve got somebody on our tail,” he murmured. “Been following us since we left the apartment. I put him about fifty feet behind us.”

  “Well done, old son. What should we do?”

  “Head back to Bleecker Street.”

  “And then?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  They stood up and drifted across the park, two dark figures among many. Occasionally they passed a cluster of people gambling at cards or chess around a Coleman lamp or a candle; then they were back in darkness.

  “Next doorway,” Pierce muttered as they rounded a comer. Wigner stepped to his right without a word, and Pierce joined him. A stained sign advertising some defunct graphics company filled the door. The dirty windows were plastered with American flag posters, Wabbie logos, and defaced IF rainbow stickers.

  For a minute, no one passed by. Then footsteps, quick and light, pattered erratically on the broken sidewalk. Pierce reached out and hooked an arm around an almost invisible shadow.

  “Talk or you’re dead,” Pierce said. His Mallory was jammed in the follower’s ear.

  “Oh jeez, oh shit, mister, don’t do nothin’ please.” The boy spoke in a hoarse, urgent whisper.

  “Who sent you?”

  “Nobody, please, I din’t do nothin’!”

  “So long, buddy,” Pierce said impatiently, and clicked the impact setting up a couple of notches.

  “I’m nobody, I’m nobody. The hit team is back at your place, Bleecker Street. Oh, Jesus and Mary, don’t hurt me, I’m doin’ what you said ain’t I, two guys, Black dudes from Queens in this little Toyota, they work for some doper lab, I’m just s’posed to keep track a’ you, let’em know you comin’ back, right?” Pierce clicked the impact setting back down.

  “Good boy,” he said, and shot him in the shoulder. The boy slumped; Pierce lowered him gently.

  “Sounds like your Mend Mr. Charles,” Pierce remarked as they continued their walk.

  “The little bastard,” Wigner hissed. He strode in silence beside Pierce for a couple of blocks. “He’s just moved himself up the agenda.”

  Pierce paused at the comer of his block. The crowds had thinned. Brownstones loomed darkly on both sides, revealing no light. Above, the overcast reflected the scattered lights of the city.

  “Across the street — there’s the Toyota,” said Pierce.

  “What bright eyes you have, grandmother.”

  “Go on down to the front door and let yourself in.”

  “Alone?”

  “Unless you can get your mother.”

  “Jesus.”

  Wigner started walking, his eyes on the orange Toyota. The street was empty now. Pierce had vanished into the darkness.

  A light in the hallway glowed faintly through the windows beside the door to the apartment building. Wigner knew he would be easily visible against the orange glow, a perfect target. Tautly, he walked up to the doorway.

  Across the street, Pierce walked past the Toyota. Its windows were partly down, but the men inside were only silhouettes. Mimicking the boy’s hoarse New York accent, Pierce whispered: “That’s the guy,” and kept walking. The two men got out quickly, making little noise. Pierce shot them both at maximum impact, then went back and shot each man again. He walked across the street and up the steps.

  “All done. Let’s get upstairs.”

  “I didn’t even hear anything.”

  “Are you complaining?”

  When the sun came up a few hours later, Wigner glanced out the window at the street. The orange Toyota was partly stripped. Two dead Black men lay near it, one in the street and the other on the sidewalk. Both looked as if they had been stripped as well: neither had a jacket or shirt or shoes. An old woman walked past, ignoring them.

  “This is a pain in the ass, Jerry. The son of a bitch knows I’m Agency, and he’s still pulling this kind of stuff. Not to mention that he knows where you live.”

  “But you need him to get Bill 402 to a vote.”

  “Not that badly.”

  This morning, Pierce’s first day back on the job in months, he endured a certain amount of fussing from the Semiotronics office staff. Left alone to get on with his work, he ran a quick scan of all inputs that showed no problems. The chief security threats were computer incursions, usually from the FBI or National Security Agency, although occasional probes came as well from other corporations and foreign intelligence services. Since those organizations used almost no Trainables, their efforts at incursion were pathetic by Pierce’s standards.

  Then he punched into the computer in Wigner’s private office on West 38th, and from there linked up illegally with the congressional LAN in Washington. Wigner had already obtained Anthony Charles’s office code, so it was not difficult to tap into it. A countertap could be traced back only to the private office, which Wigner had rented under a false company name.

  For the rest of the morning Pierce monitored the congressman’s communications — mostly a dreary routine of correspondence with constituents, with an occasional short memo to staff members or colleagues. Finally, something interesting came through: 4227 TONIGHT AFTER 1900.

  Congressman Charles did not acknowledge the message, whose source was a public phone in Queens. But fifteen minutes later he made a reservation for a MATS flight from Andrews AFB to Old La Guardia. The plane would arrive at 1930 that night.

  Commanding his terminal to cont
inue recording Charles’s transactions, Pierce went upstairs to Wigner’s office on the next floor.

  “News?”

  “A hasty flight to Old La Guardia this evening. Does the number 4227 mean anything to you?”

  Wigner frowned, then smiled. “Ah. He used rental lockers at Old La Guardia and Kennedy for his drug transactions. Maybe he’s making a pickup.”

  “Worth a call to the narcs?”

  “Some would just rip Charles off and come back for more. Try a guy in the FBI downtown, Ollie Rivera.”

  “And if it’s not what we think it is?”

  “We know where Tony Charles lives. We’ll get him one way or another.”

  Wigner went back to work, which was playing the futures and currencies markets. He was doing so for himself, not Semiotronics, and he was not making huge amounts of money. But he never lost.

  Jonathan Clement, in his office on East 52nd, was surprised and annoyed. On his terminal, the headline in the New York Times was prominently displayed on page one: Congressman Charles Arrested in Major Fentanyl Raid. The story described the arrest in some detail, including the congressman’s attempt to escape and the subsequent raids on three labs. Eight other people had been arrested as well.

  Clement shook his head irritably. Something like this should not be news to Research Services Division; the congressman’s sideline should have been known and exploited long ago. He could expect some jovial kidding from Langley, followed by memorandums requesting firmer intelligence on potentially embarrassing conduct by politicians.

  He patched into the office LAN and linked up with Jaz Jones.

  REQUEST INTERVIEW HERE AT ONCE.

  ON MY WAY.

  She was wearing a no-nonsense tweed jacket and skirt, and no jewellery (a woman who worked down the street had lost an ear in a robbery recently). Even so, Jaz looked elegantly lovely.

  “Hear about Tony Charles being arrested?” Clement poured her a cup of coffee.

  “Yes. And I thought he was just an honest idiot.”

  “He’s right in our backyard. We should have known about this instead of waiting for the damned FBI to bring it to everyone’s attention. Would you please monitor the case and see if anything else is likely to turn up?”