John Barnes - Mother of Storms

Strange. Of course, there are lots of people who’d rather experience an actor playing at a stakeout than be Randy just now. If he’d had any choice, he’d have done something else with his life than be Randy.

A light rain is starting, and it’s not even near dark. Harris Diem probably isn’t coming tonight, either—but until “probably” is “definitely,” Randy is sitting right here.

“Yes, I talked with Mary Ann at length,” Harris Diem said, “and she’s aware of the problem and trying to do something about it. We don’t want them to switch off from her totally, though, because she’s the major thing keeping us from having to fight huge civil disorders, and besides much of her message is desirable. We just want them to take some action on their own behalf and not go off to live in Synthi Venture Land. The trouble is that her version of reality is a lot more fun, right now, than other people’s.”

Hardshaw nods and says, “All right, next report I need—Di, I think you and Carla said you have bad news?”

“The worst, I’m afraid. Surface temperatures in the Caribbean are now at thirty-seven Celsius and rising. That’s more than enough to take a hurricane over the line into supersonic winds, if our estimates are right. And of course Clem is making another near pass, so the likelihood of one spawning is pretty high.”

Hardshaw nods. “Any suggestions?”

“Well, if we had Colonel Tynan’s comet or John Klieg’s balloons, sure. We ought to chill the Caribbean. Otherwise, no. We don’t have any idea of how big it might get, just ‘bigger.’ And to tell you the truth, I was going to ask for permission to go down to North Carolina and get my family moved right away, because within forty-eight hours is probably too late.”

“Do it and go now,” the President says. “I won’t keep you here when there’s nothing of any value for you to do. While we’re at it, Harris, go home and get a night’s rest. Carla, call me if there’s anything that involves action. But I’m going to bed early too, and I’m going to try to get caught up on sleep. Might as well start out this thing rested and fed.”

Di is surprised at how hard it is to say goodbye to his staff. Most of them are acting like they’ll never see him again. Gretch is in the first wave headed up to Charleston tomorrow morning, so this really is goodbye, but Talley and Peter go a week later, and he expects to see them again. Mohammed and Wo Ping, with families to worry about, are already on temporary leave—the new NOAA headquarters will be the old NORAD facility at Cheyenne Mountain, and they’re there for setup.

He will miss them all till they’re together again, and he says so. Everyone gets choked up, even Peter.

Ten minutes after that he is on the zipline and phoning Lori. It is September 22, Clem is passing near the Isthmus of Tehuantepec, and Jesse and Synthi Venture are most of the way to Oaxaca—they should get there tomorrow if they aren’t held back by the thundershowers trailing in Clem’s wake. So the kid will be all right. Dad is in a refugee camp up near Flagstaff, and cranky.

It’s strange, he thinks as the zipline shoots out into the evening, that even though the details of the map of the United States are already quite changed, the seat, the zipline, all the familiar geography of his life, are just the same. Perhaps when he gets to one of the camps in the West, it will begin to sink in.

He begins, finally, to read the copy that Lori had given him of Slaughterer in Yellow . It really is one of her best, although he’s sort of surprised about how little violence there is. She’s been saying lately she doesn’t have the stomach for butchering people that she once did.

Harris Diem feels like his head is one loud ringing doorbell. He’s tired, he’s still confused by how the world has changed, and he’s trying to persuade himself to just head for bed rather than down to the basement.

Not a chance.

The robe, the clean sheets, the ecstasy of choice… tonight he will do his three special girls, starting with the pretty little cheerleader, the kind of girl you were so hot for at fourteen and couldn’t get because for you life was all study and work—

Not true, he admits to himself. He is a monster, and a pervert, but he is not self-deluded. Or not about that. If he had been able to do what he wanted with a girl like Kimbie Dee when he was fourteen, he’d have raped and killed her. It’s what he understands.

“All right,” he whispers, speaking aloud, “little blonde white-trash mallchick, here we go—”

He is just watching the hands slide away from the perfect little tits to her shaking sides, just hearing that first delicious sob of shame and seeing the tears rolling from the blue eyes—

Just uncovering and feeling utterly naked and helpless, wishing Daddy were here, he’d kill this creep—

It goes blank. It is dark and quiet.

Can’t be a power failure—the house is on a powerchip.

He clicks the release, slides the goggles and muff off. The man standing there….

“Whose father are you?” Diem asks, very quietly and calmly. He wants to know; mustn’t scare this guy into pulling the trigger too soon.

“Kimbie Dee Householder’s.” The man is keeping a Self Defender leveled at Diem’s face.

Diem’s mouth is dry; part of him is still expecting some orgasms, a hot shower, some guilt, some sleep. Another part is wondering what the hypersonic round will feel like. “Anything you want to know before you kill me?”

“If you got a reason why, you can tell me.”

Diem shrugs slightly. “I was born this way. Maybe someday they’ll be able to detect whatever I have, and abort the fetus.”

“You bought any more of this stuff?”

“I would buy more if I had the nerve. I would do those things if I could get away with it.” Something strange is striking Diem; he knows he is dead, and finally he can say out loud what runs through his head. He looks at the washed-out blue eyes, grizzled gray beard—poor bastard can’t even afford injections to keep his hair its regular color—and the run-down clothes. Here’s a guy whose best house was a mobile home, one of those people whom Diem has climbed up and over on the way to the top. “You understand that? No reason. I loved comholing that little bitch with a mop handle.”

Saying it brings him erect, lifting the still-attached merkin.

Householder twitches slightly. The Self Defender barks. Blood sprays.

God, Diem thinks, what a way to go. He is still looking at the blood spurting from his shattered genitals, reveling in the agony as he chews his lips bloody, when Householder’s second shot takes him between the eyes.

Randy Householder sits down to wait for the cops. Figure he jiggered the security system to get in, and it’s a Self Defender pulse fired from inside a key White House official’s home; that ought to get some attention pretty fast.

He has just sat down and opened an orange juice when the door opens, but the men who come in are wearing stocking masks on their heads. He doesn’t have time to say “What—” before he is sprayed with bullets; he falls onto the floor, his guts in flames, the world getting dark, and he hears gunfire and—no mistake, grenades going off. It sounds like a fucking war, like somehow Randy has started a fucking war.

The zipline whizzes on toward North Carolina, and Di looks up from Slaughterer in Yellow to think a little about the time ahead. Most of their possessions went west weeks ago, but Lori and the boys have stayed in the nearly empty house. Lori has been completely unreasonable about it—she won’t go unless he’s coming along—so what Di has in mind here is just a slight trick… he’s going to get them onto a zipline for the West without going himself, letting them think he is with them till the last moment. He doesn’t think Lori will take the boys back into danger once they are out of it.