A Song Called Youth (34 page)

He couldn’t look up into that blue-green curved-mirror face, he just couldn’t make that, so he looked at the middle of the gray-black chest and said, “Bonham, security pass 4555.” The bull tapped his wrist console. “Repeat.”

Bonham repeated it for the voice analyzer; the analyzer transmitted to Security Central’s computer, which compared the registered sound waves with Bonham’s own, checked the code number, and flashed a picture of Bonham to the tiny screen on the inside right of the guard’s mask.

“Go ahead, sir, and have a nice walk,” the bull said, stepping aside.

Bonham walked past, and looked at his watch. He picked up his pace . . . 

. . . She was where she said she’d be, and she had only one bodyguard with her.

Judith Van Kips stood in the very center of the construction site. The fiberplas frame of the unfinished condo rose around her like a cage. It was a gilded cage, because the Open’s light had been filtered and tinted red-gold to make a sunset; in another hour it would be dark. The corridors, too, would dim, normally, in order to produce regular circadian rhythms. But they were well-lit full-time since the strikes, the riots . . . 

The light from the sunward glass made black bars of shadow across the red-dirt site, across Judith Van Kips’ long, straight flaxen hair and the black uniform of the masked guard behind her.

Heart pounding, Bonham stepped through the frame of the door, thinking, If I change my mind and back out now, the bull’s going to grab me, and they won’t let anybody bust me out like Molt.

“That’s close enough,” she said.

Bonham stopped ten feet from her. “I don’t like the bull listening.”

“He’s my Personal. We can trust him. Hold still now.”

He waited it out, rigid and sweating, as the SAISC guard ran a weapon detector over him, then patted him down.

The bull put the instrument back in his belt pack and drew his gun. Judith Van Kips smiled when she saw the fear on Bonham’s face.

“It’s just in case,” she said.

Bonham shrugged, just as if he hadn’t been a fraction of a reflex away from rushing that gun. “You and Praeger bought that bozo Spengle.”

She didn’t say anything to that.

He went on, “I’m going to cost more than Spengle.” He smiled. “Some journalists are more expensive than others.”

She waited.

The breeze, the carefully engineered breeze, played with the precisely cut ends of her flaxen hair, drifting them across her carefully engineered face, a face too perfect to be natural.

“I want the money, and I want out. Home. Earth. Maybe—” He shrugged. “Trinidad might be nice. Or Freezone.”

“The blockade.” Her voice was almost inflectionless.

“Don’t bullshit me. I know about the treaty. They’re going to allow limited shipping to go through. For food, basic supplies. Bare minimum, no import, no export, freeze on all transport. But ships coming in will have to go back. Some of your people will be going back on them. I want to go, too.”

“Where did you hear about the treaty?”

“One of my boys—maybe I’ll call him my
Personal
—he, uh—he has got the touch, and Gridfriend’s always at his elbow. He sucked your commlines. He and I are the only ones who know. Unless—” He shrugged. “Unless he blows it. But I don’t think he will.”

“His name.”

Bonham shook his head.

She looked at the bull, as if thinking of having the name squeezed out of Bonham. But she thought better of it. Praeger had plans for Bonham.

Finally, she shrugged. “Keep an eye on your friend. And be careful no one learns about the treaty. We’ve gone to great lengths to keep it out of the media.”

“Is it you, jamming transmissions from Earth?”

“Some frequencies yes, some frequencies no. As for moving you to Earth, it might be possible. I’ll speak to Praeger. If he authorizes it, you’ll be told by coded comm, same code as previously.”

“I want the money in a sealed credit-cassette. A tamper-proof credette. Twenty-five thousand newbux.”

“That’s five thousand more than we agreed on.”

“I’m doing more than risking my life. I’m betraying my people. And I got to live with that. In a way I’m throwing away a lifetime.”

“You’re not betraying anything you really believed in, or you wouldn’t be capable of doing it at all. I personally will authorize the additional five thousand. But there will be no more.”

“Okay. So what do you want me to do—precisely?”

“First, reinforce Spengle’s intimation that Molt might be under someone else’s control. Second, and most important, militate against any compromising with Admin. Insist it must be all or nothing.”

Bonham’s stomach flip-flopped with sheer disgust. Disgust with them—and disgust with himself, because he knew he’d go through with it. If he pushed the technicki radleaders into an ‘all or nothing’ posture, Admin would be “forced” into complete martial law, multiple arrests, sweeps of technicki quarters.

And executions.

Legally, Admin had the power to declare martial law. Once martial law was declared, Admin was authorized to execute anyone it regarded as threatening to the airtight integrity and general life-support-profile of the Colony. The accused had the right to
one
hearing. After the hearing, execution could take place, at the council’s discretion.

It was spelled out in the fine print of every Colony resident’s contract. And it was there because, despite all the engineering and fail-safing, the Colony was fragile. It wouldn’t survive a full-scale uprising. Some of the technickis knew that—others considered it Admin propaganda designed to keep the proletariat down.

“All right,” Bonham said at last. “But I want you to know why I’m going to do it.”

She snorted softly. “You do? Then you’re a weak man. But go ahead.”

You’re a weak man.
He wanted to tell her to fuck herself. But he had to go on with his rationalization. The urge was overpowering. He knew it was pathetic, but he couldn’t keep it from coming out.

“I’m going to do it because the Colony is a dead loss. Because the Colony is not going to make it. Within a year, it will be a dead shell. Everyone in it will be dead. So it doesn’t matter.”

She looked at him steadily. “You know something we don’t? Has someone built a large bomb, for example?”

He shook his head. “Nothing like that. I think the risk you’re taking is going to get out of hand. I think you underestimate how angry these people are, how irrational they are, and how far they’re willing to go. They have to be stopped—or everyone will die.”

“You underestimate Praeger.” Something discreetly worshipful in her voice when she said
Praeger.
“He’s planned for all of that. I have been authorized to inform you that Praeger thinks highly of your ability to manipulate crowds. You have talent. On Earth or in the Colony, we will have other uses for you. You can take that as a guarantee that you will be paid as promised.”

She turned and walked away.

The security bull stayed where he was, between Bonham and Van Kips. Watching. Ready.

Bonham turned away and walked on leaden legs out of the site, through the long grass, and into the gathering shadows of the Open’s parkland. An SA Security patrol trundled by in a small vehicle like a golf cart, shining hand-spots into the dark places.

Shine them into my gut, Bonham thought.

The patrol flashed a light over him and drove on, probably already informed of his authorization. They all knew just where he was.

They were going to have other uses for him, she’d said.
Oh, shit. Oh, God.

He walked through the gate into the crossover, and down the transparent-plastic corridor leading to the Technicki Quarters level.

There was the guard, halfway across . . . 

No. He was closer to the door now, bent forward a little. Listening.

A shout echoed down the corridor, from the far door beyond the guard. The guard started toward the door. Bonham fought an urge to warn him.

The guard reached the door, drew his club, looked out.

A flutter of red light trailing through the air . . . 

A lob,
Bonham thought, as a Molotov cocktail exploded in the center of the guard’s chest; a second burst on his helmet.

His scream was amplified by his helmet mike.

The armored guard staggered backward, flailing, already a human torch, a man of fire like something from the vision of an Apostle. He clawed at the extinguisher on his belt, but the second lob had dripped its gel over his faceplate and he couldn’t see to use it. The guard suits were supposed to be fireproof, but the underground’s technicians had worked up a new burning agent that ate right through the nonflammable’ synthetics making up the guards’ armor. The fire reached the burst-charges of the teargas grenades in the guard’s pouch, and they blew and sent shrapnel into him . . . 

The guard fell, flailing, and a third lob hit him. Bonham backed away, feeling the heat on his face, smelling petroleum base, burning plastics. The sound of sizzling plastic was overlaid by screams.

A bit tardily, the Colony’s bulkhead sensors detected the fire and activated sirens, mechanical screams augmenting the burning man’s own cries. The sprinkler system came on—but only sporadically, here and there down the hall. It had been vandalized. The fire-suppressive liquids didn’t reach the burning guard. The guard’s mask was melting onto his face.

Bonham thought, Someone’s been cutting corners on their armor. It’s not supposed to burn
that
easily.

Portions of the helmet were burned away; part of the face was exposed. Bonham thought, Did my people do it? Or was it Praeger’s agents, setting the stage for martial law? Did this guy’s armor burn so easily because he was issued a suit intended to burn?

And as Bonham turned to run, he thought, When it burns, you can see it: there’s a man inside that suit. A man.

Behind him, the man stopped his thrashing. SAISC guards arrived in patrol jitneys. The smoke rose black as anger.

• 15 •

The lovemaking happened in stages. In the first stage Swenson was going through the motions, playing images in his head so he could maintain tumescence, feeling as if he were in a gym, working out on a press bench; in the second stage he found pleasing familiarity in her angles and planes, and he descended into the mindless enjoyment of yeasty genital communion; in the third stage he began to hallucinate.

He saw things, as he did things to her—to her and to the copper-skinned young priest he was unable to disentangle from Ellen Mae.

He saw—

She was a hard-bodied woman, tensile and angular, and Swenson saw himself rearing above her—and then he saw a hammer pounding a nail into a board.

And now a hammer pounding a nail through a man’s palm.

Pull back from that riven palm, to show the man’s arm on the raw wood of the cross, the sag of his body against the upright piece. Back up, flashback now: he saw the First Sorrowful Mystery. Swenson, as Father Stisky, had taught Nicaraguan children how to say the Rosary. He’d had to explain how the recitation of each “decade” was accompanied by meditation on the fifteen events of the Mysteries. The Joyful Mysteries, the Sorrowful Mysteries, the Glorious Mysteries. Sometimes the children were frightened when he taught the Sorrowful Mysteries. Perhaps frightened by something in the good father’s eyes. The Sorrowful Mysteries told of the agony of Jesus . . . The First Sorrowful Mystery was Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane, a copper-skinned, Hispanic Jesus praying for the sins of the world. On to the Second Sorrowful Mystery, in which Jesus is scourged by the guards and the spiteful Jews who condemned him to Crucifixion. On to the Third Sorrowful Mystery, and Swenson saw Jesus carrying the cross up the hill to Calvary. On to the Sorrowful Mystery of the Crucifixion, Jesus nailed to the cross, the nails going into His palms, into the wood, the hammer driving the nails, driving His blood into the flesh of a tree, driving the nails into the wood, driving the nails, pounding in, in, until the blood—

He screamed as he came, a scream of anguish.

He saw the two Nazis, kneeling in the chapel, saw the bullet holes appear in their backs like stigmata. They’re dying for their cause, though they know it not, he thought.

And then it faded as Ellen Mae, beneath him, gasping, asked, “Are you all right?”

“Yes. It’s taken care of.”

“What? What’s taken care of?”

“I—I don’t know. I’m not thinking straight.” He smiled, tried to make out she was making him muddled with desire. “You devastate me.”

What
had
he meant by
It’s taken care of?
He’d been repeating something.

Something Watson had said. They’d been in the kitchen, coming in through the back door. Ellen Mae was up making bread from scratch. It was something she did in the mornings. She said it was her “meditation time.” She hadn’t looked at Swenson at all. She was kneading dough, and she glanced up at Watson and said, abstractedly, “Did you take care of those awful men?”

Watson nodded. “It’s taken care of.”

“Oh, good. I don’t like those sort of little backwoods Hitlers around, they upset Rick. Would you like some coffee?”

Listening, Swenson had been sure she hadn’t meant,
Did you send them away?
She had meant,
Did you kill them?
Casually as a farmer’s wife asking if he’d slaughtered a pig for supper’s pork chops.

Why was he bothered by the execution of the NeoNazis? Vile men, after all, by any measure. The world was better off without them . . . 

That morning, he and Watson had sat in the kitchen breakfast nook, just the two of them, drinking coffee, eating sweet rolls.

Now, more and more, he felt as if he were watching himself on a screen. Stisky watching Swenson, and Swenson wasn’t Stisky anymore, and Stisky wasn’t sure he could control Swenson . . . 

“I’ve had my eye on you for a while, John,” Watson had said, smiling his most avuncular smile.

Swenson searched Watson’s face for double-meaning, saw nothing but the smile.

“We monitored you at the Service. When Rick was preaching on the video, there and, ah . . . well, Old Sacks did it, really. Via wires in your robe. Test your response. Everyone to be admitted to the circle was monitored. Of everyone there—you showed the most positive response. Your pleasure centers were working overtime. Your pulse was up where it was supposed to be and . . . I won’t go into all the details. Suffice it to say, we feel you’re rated to be a deacon in the Second Circle.” He had the look of a father who’s just told his teenage son he’s getting a new Mercedes for his birthday.