The Peace War (12 page)

Wili looked across the table at Naismith. "Is it okay, Paul?"

Suddenly Naismith seemed much older even than the Colonel. He lowered his head and
spoke softly. "Yes, Wili. It's our best chance to get you some help... But we've hired
Mike to go instead of me. I can't come along. You see —"

Paul's voice continued, but Wili heard no more.
Paul will
not come. This one chance to
find a cure and Paul will not cone.
For a moment that lasted long inside his head, the
room whirled down to a tiny point and was replaced by Wili's earliest memories:

Claremont Street, seen through an unglazed window, seen from a small bed. The first
five years of his life, he had spent most of every day in that bed, staring out into the
empty street. Even in that he had been lucky. At that time Glendora had been an outland,
beyond the reach of the Jonque lords and the milder tyranny of the Ndelante Ali. Wili,
those first few years, was so weak he could scarcely eat even when food was right at
hand. Survival had depended on his Uncle Sly. If he still lived, Sylvester would be older
than Naismith himself. When Wili's parents wanted to give their sickly newborn to the
coyotes and the hawks, it had been Uncle Sly who argued and pleaded and finally
persuaded them to abandon Wili's worthless body to him instead. Wili would never
forget the old man's face — so black and gnarled, fringed with silver hair. Outside he was
so different from Naismith, inside so like him.

For Sylvester Washington (he insisted on the Anglo pronunciation of his last name)
had been over thirty when the War came. He had been a schoolteacher, and he would not
give up his last child easily. He made a bed for Wili, and made sure it faced on to the
street so that the invalid boy could see and hear as much as possible. Sylvester
Washington talked to him hours every day. Where similar children wasted and starved,
Wili slowly grew. His earliest memories, after the view of Claremont Street through the
window hole, were of Uncle Sly playing number games with him, forcing him to work
with his mind when he could do nothing with his body.

Later the old man helped the boy exercise his body, too. But that was after dark, in the
dusty yard behind the ruin he called their "ranch house." Night after night, Wili crawled
across the warm earth, till finally his legs were strong enough to stand on. Sly would not
let him stop till he could walk.

But he never took him out during the day, saying that it was too dangerous. The boy
didn't see why. The street beyond his window was always quiet and empty.

Wili was almost six years old when he found the answer to that mystery, and his world
ended: Sylvester had already left for work at the secret pond his friends had built above
the Ndelante irrigation project. He had promised to come home early with something
special, a reward for all the walking.

Wili was tired of the terrible daytime heat within the hovel. He peered through the
crooked doorway and then walked slowly out onto the street, reveling in his freedom. He
walked down the empty street and suddenly realized that a few more steps would take
him to the intersection of Claremont and Catalina — and beyond the furthest reach of his
previous explorations. He wandered down Catalina for fifteen or twenty minutes. What a
wonderland: vacant ruins dessicating in the sun. They were of all sizes, and of subtly
different colors depending on the original paint. Rusted metal hulks sat like giant insects
along one side of the street.

More than one house in twenty was occupied. The area had been looted and relooted.
But-as Wili learned in later adventures — parts of the Basin were still untouched. Even
fifty years after the War there were treasure hoards in the farthest suburbs. Aztlán did not
claim a recovery tax for nothing.

Wili was not yet six, but he did not lose his way; he avoided houses that might be
occupied and kept to the shadows. After a time he tired and started back. He stopped now
and then to watch some lizard scurry from one hole to another. Gaining confidence, he
cut across a grocery store parking lot, walked under a sign proclaiming bargains fifty
years dead, and turned back onto Claremont. Then everything seemed to happen at once.

There was Uncle Sly, home early from the pond, struggling to carry a bag slung over his
back. He saw Wili and his jaw fell. He dropped the bag and started running toward the
boy. At the same time the sound of hooves came from a side alley. Five young Jonques
burst into the sunlight — labor raiders. One swept the boy up while the rest held off old
Sly with their whips. Lying on his belly across the saddle, Wili twisted about and got one
last look. There was Sylvester Washington, already far down the street. He was wringing
his hands, making no sound, making no effort to save him from the strange men who
were taking Wili away.

Wili survived. Five years later he was sold to the Ndelante Ali. Two more years and he
had some reputation for his burgling. Eventually, Wili returned to that intersection on
Claremont Street. The house was still there; things don't change suddenly in the Basin.
But the house was empty. Uncle Sly was gone.

And now he would lose Paul Naismith, too.

The boy's walleyed stare must have been taken for attentiveness. Naismith was talking,
still not looking directly at Wili. "You are really to be thanked for the discovery, Wili.
What we've seen is... well, it's strange and wonderful and maybe ominous. I
have
to stay.
Do you understand?"

Wili didn't really mean the words, but they came anyway. "I understand you won't
come along. I understand some silly piece of math is more important."

Worse, the words didn't anger Paul. His head bowed slightly, "Yes. There are some
things more important to me than any person. Let me tell you what we saw —"

"Paul, if Mike and Jeremy and Wili are to be in the mouth of the lion, there is no sense
in their knowing more right now."

"As you say, 'Kolya." Naismith rose and walked slowly to the door. "Please excuse
me."

There was a short silence, broken by the Colonel. "We'll have to work fast to get you
three on the way in time. Ivan, show me just what your chess fans want to send with
Jeremy. If the Authority is providing transport, maybe Mike and the boys can take a more
elaborate processor." He departed with his sons and Jeremy.

That left Wili and Mike. The boy stood and turned to the door.

'Just a minute, you." Mike's voice had the hard edge Wili remembered from their first
encounter months before. The undersheriff came around the table and pushed Wili back
into his chair. "You think Paul has deserted you. Maybe he has. But from what I can tell,
they've discovered something more important than the lot of us. I don't know exactly
what it is, or I couldn't go with you and Jeremy either. Get it? We can't afford to let
Naismith fall into Authority hands.

"Consider yourself damn lucky we're going through with Paul's harebrained scheme to
get you cured. He's the only man on Earth who could've convinced Kaladze to deal even
indirectly with the bioscience swine." He glared down at Wili, as if expecting some
counterattack. The boy was silent and avoided his eyes.

"Okay. I'll be waiting for you in the dining house." Rosas stalked out of the room.

Wili was motionless for a long time. There were no tears; there had been none since
that afternoon very long ago on Claremont Street. He didn't blame Sylvester Washington
and he didn't blame Paul Naismith. They had done as much as one man can do for
another. But ultimately there is only one person who can't run away from your problems.

Still five meters up, the twin rotor chopper sent a shower of grit across the Tradetower
helipad. From her place in the main cabin, Delia Lu watched the bystanders grab their
hats and squint into the wash. Old Hamilton Avery was the only fellow who kept his
aplomb.

As the chopper touched down, one of her crew slid open the front hatch and waved at
the standing VIPs. Through her silvered window, she saw Director Avery nod and turn to
shake hands with Smythe, the L.A. franchise owner. Then Avery walked alone toward
the crewman, who had not stepped down from the doorway.

Smythe was probably the most powerful Peacer in Southern California. She wondered
what he thought when his boss submitted to such a cavalier pickup. She smiled
lopsidedly. Hell, she was in charge of the operation, and she didn't know what was
coming off either.

The rotors spun up even has she heard the hatch slam. Her crew had their orders: The
helipad dropped away as the chopper rose like some magic elevator from the top of the
Tradetower. They slid out from the roof and she looked down eighty storeys at the street.

As the helicopter turned toward LAX and Santa Monica, Delia came to her feet. An
instant later Avery entered her cabin. He looked completely relaxed yet completely
formal, his dress both casual and expensive. In theory, the Board of Directors of the
Peace Authority was a committee of equals. In fact, Hamilton Avery had been the driving
force behind it for as long as Della Lu had been following inner politics. Though not a
famous man, he was the most powerful one in the world.

"My dear! So good to see you." Avery walked quickly to her, shook her hand as if she
were an equal and not an officer three levels below him. She let the silver-haired Director
take her elbow and lead her to a seat. One might think she was his guest.

They sat down, and the Director looked quickly about the cabin. It was a solid, mobile
command room. There was no bar, no carpets. With her priority; she could have had
such, but Della had not gotten to her present job by sucking up to her bosses.

The aircraft hummed steadily westward, the chop of the blades muted by the office's
heavy insulation. Below, Della could see Peace Authority housing. The Enclave was
really a corridor that extended from Santa Monica and LAX on the coast, inland to what
had once been the center of Los Angeles. It was the largest Enclave in the world. More
than fifty thousand people lived down there, mostly near the News Service studios. And
they lived well. She saw swimming pools and tennis courts on the three-acre suburban
lots that passed below.

In the north glowered the castles and fortified roads of the Aztlán aristocrats. They had
governmental responsibility for the region, but without Banned technology their
"palaces" were medieval dumps. Like the Republic of New Mexico, Aztlán watched the
Authority with impotent jealousy and dreamed of the good old days.

Avery looked up from the view. "I noticed you had the Beijing insignia painted over."

"Yes, sir. It was clear from your message that you didn't want people to guess you were
using people from off North America." That was one of the few things that was crystal
clear. Three days before she had been at the Beijing Enclave, just returned from her final
survey of the Central Asian situation. Then a megabyte of instructions and background
came over the satellite from Livermore — and not to the Beijing franchise owner, but to
one Della Lu, third-level counter-guerrilla cop and general hatchetman. She was assigned
a cargo jet — its freight being this chopper — and told to fly across the Pacific to LAX. No
one was to emerge at any intermediate stop. At LAX, the freighter crew was to disgorge
the chopper with her people, and return immediately.

Avery nodded approvingly. "Good. I need someone who doesn't need everything
spelled out. Have you had a chance to read the New Mexico report?"

"Yes, sir." She had spent the flight studying the report and boning up on North
American politics. She had been gone three years; there'd have been a lot of catching up
to do even without the Tucson crisis.

"Do you think the Republic bought our story?"

She thought back on the meeting tape and the dossiers. "Yes. Ironically, the most
suspicious of them were also the most ignorant. Schelling bought it hook, line, and
sinker. He knows enough theory to see that it's reasonable."

Avery nodded.

"But they'll continue to believe only if no more bobbles burst. And I understand it's
happened at least twice more during the last few weeks. I don't believe the quantum
decay explanation. The old USA missile fields are littered with thousands of bobbles. If
decays continue to happen, they won't be missed."

Avery nodded again, didn't seem especially upset by her analysis.

The chopper did a gentle bank over Santa Monica, giving her a close-up view of the
largest mansions in the Enclave. She had a glimpse of the Authority beach and the ruined
Aztlán shoreline further south, and then they were over the ocean. They flew south
several kilometers before turning inland. They would fly in vast circles until the meeting
was over. Even the Tucson event could not explain this mission. Della almost frowned.

Avery raised a well-manicured hand. "What you say is correct, but may be irrelevant. It
depends on what the true explanation turns out to be. Have you considered the possibility
that someone has discovered how to destroy bobbles, that we are seeing their
experiments?"

"The choice of `experiment sites' is very strange, sir: the Ross Iceshelf, Tucson, Ulan
Ude. And I don't see how such an organization could escape direct detection."

Fifty-five years ago, before the War, what had become the Peace Authority had been a
contract laboratory, a corporation run under federal grants to do certain esoteric — and
militarily productive — research. That research had produced the bobbles, force fields
whose generation took a minimum of thirty minutes of power from the largest nuclear
plant in the lab. The old US government had not been told of the discovery; Avery's
father had seen to that. Instead, the lab directors played their own version of geopolitics.
Even at the rarefied bureaucratic heights Della inhabited, there was no solid evidence that
the Avery lab had started the War, but she had her suspicions.