Orson Card - Empire

Reuben looked out the side window.

“Reuben,” said Cessy. “I think the great American achievement of our war against terror was that we did it without having to hate all Arabs or all Muslims or even all Iranians, even though they’re financing it now. We stayed focused. We waged a war without hate.”

“Except for the Americans who hated us for fighting it.”

“Do you hate them, Reuben? Enough to kill them?”

He shook his head. “You’re right,” he said. “Completely right. But they’re tearing apart my country. They’re killing guys like me because we volunteered to defend it. You can’t expect me to stay calm.”

“When it’s all over,” said Cessy, “I want you to come home as Reuben Malich.”

“Me too,” said Reuben. “I will.” And then he turned again toward the window and Cessy realized that he was crying, his forehead resting on his right hand, tears dropping straight down from his eyes onto his lap. “I killed a man with my bare hands today,” he said. “And another with a knife. And another with a spray of bullets. I cut off a guy’s thumb.”

Cessy had nothing to say to that. She knew that was the kind of thing a soldier had to do. If he hadn’t done it, he’d have been found and killed. He got other men out of the city alive. He helped stop the mechs at the Jersey end of the Holland Tunnel. And that’s how jobs like that are done—with force. Force unto death.

But she couldn’t say, There there, that’s all right. It wasn’t all right. It was a terrible thing. It had to be done, and because he and Coleman were the ones who knew how, it had to be done by them.

Steering with her left hand, she hooked her right hand through the crook of Reuben’s left arm. She slid her hand down the inside of his arm, pulling it closer until she was holding his hand. She squeezed. He squeezed back. But he still cried.

In the back, Coleman had brains enough to keep silent.

On the radio, the press conference and commentary went on and on, almost too soft to hear now. A constant background of commentators pooling their ignorance but coming, bit by bit, closer to the conclusion that a second American revolution had begun, if you viewed it one way, or a second civil war, if you looked at it another.

“What did that professor of yours say?” Cessy asked softly.

“What?”

“At Princeton. That one professor. What’s his name? Torrance. No, that’s a city in California.”

“Torrent.”

“About the fall of Rome. How civil wars in the Roman Republic led to the foundation of the empire.”

“Oh, yeah, I bet Torrent’s happy now,” said Reuben. “He’s getting all the chaos he could ask for.”

“He really is the same guy they just made National Security Adviser, right?”

“Yes,” said Reuben. “He was already a top adviser to the NSA. Adviser to the adviser. Now that Sarkissian is Secretary of State, they bumped Torrent up to NSA.”

“If Congress approves him.”

“Oh, that’s one thing President Nielson’s got for sure—a rubber-stamp Congress. Time of national emergency and all that.”

“Maybe not,” said Coleman from the back.

“So… would Torrent be happy?” asked Cessy.

“No, of course not. I just meant—he just said that before America could truly be great, we had to—have a crisis that would end the republic and bring about—no, he can’t be part of this.”

“Why not?”

“He didn’t advocate it,” said Reuben. “He just… but the way he talked… somebody could get the wrong idea. Somebody with a little megalomaniac in him could decide to try to act on Torrent’s theory. Fulfill his prophecy.”

“So it might be a bunch of his former students doing this?”

“All it would take is one former student in the group. Or just somebody who went to a speech of his. He used to lecture all over the place. I don’t know if this Roman Empire thing is in any of his books. Wouldn’t that be a weird situation to be in? National Security Adviser to a President who’s fighting a civil war caused by somebody following your theory.”

“Kind of like having the President assassinated by somebody using your plan,” said Coleman from the back.

“Yeah,” said Reuben. “Like that.”

Silence for a while. Then Reuben said, “Zarathustra.”

“What?” asked Cessy.

“I’m telling Cole. The password. To my files. ‘Zarathustra.’ And then when the software tells you that you’re wrong, type in ‘Mar-duk.’ ” He spelled it.

“You’re so paranoid you doubled your password?” said Cessy.

“Hope I never need to use them,” said Coleman.

“I’ve got to trust somebody. And if I die, I don’t want that data lost.”

Cessy shook her head. “Ancient gods of Iran and Iraq.”

“Zarathustra was a prophet, not a god,” said Reuben.

“They sacrificed children to Marduk, didn’t they?” said Cessy.

“You’re thinking of Moloch.”

“Gods of war, either way,” said Cessy.

“But not my God,” said Reuben. “I don’t take his name in vain.”

I hope we can learn to forgive our enemies, thought Cessy. I hope God forgives us for daring to decide that we know when it’s right to kill.

But if men like my husband weren’t willing to kill in defense of civilization, then the world would be doomed to be ruled by those who were willing to kill in pursuit of their own power.

I’ll explain all that to God on judgment day. I know he’s just waiting for me to clarify the matter.

If he sends these good soldiers to hell for killing the enemies of their country, then I’ll go with them.

Cole was sure that not since July of 1863 had there been so many soldiers in and around Gettysburg. And they were in combat gear—this was an armed camp. They started running into military checkpoints at the crossroads at York Springs, and then four more times before they got into the town itself. The first time it took some argument before they were allowed to keep their weapons.

Standing outside the car, Cole tried to keep his temper with the young MP who insisted on disarming him. “This morning I fired these weapons at the enemies of the United States who were attacking us on our native soil. I killed at least one enemy soldier with it. What has your weapon done today, soldier?”

But it was Cecily Malich’s call to her former boss, Sandy Woodruff, that led to their getting passed through the other checkpoints without delay and fully armed.

The President was installed at Gettysburg College, which for the moment was the seat of the executive branch of the government of the United States. Cole and the Malichs were sent to a motel that would have been a lovely surprise in a village in the mountains of Iran, but which Cole’s family would have disdained on any of their cross-country trips.

Rooms were at such a premium that Cole finally had to get in the face of the officious young clerk making the assignments and explain, “I’m not their son,” before he gave way and assigned them separate accommodations.

“Good job of making yourself memorable,” Rube said to him before they disappeared into their room.

Cole only had a few minutes to unpack and use the bathroom before there was a knock at his door. MPs had been sent to escort them—this time definitely unarmed—to the President’s office.

It made Cole vaguely disappointed that when he actually got to meet a President of the United States, it was only the stand-in, not the real one. LaMonte Nielson was a little shorter than Cole, and seemed nice enough and intelligent enough as he came forward to greet them. But he also looked just a little surprised to see them. A little too grateful that they had answered his summons. You’re the President, man! Of course we came! But Cole kept his reaction to himself. He’d done enough exasperated talking today. Especially considering that he was only in this room out of courtesy. It was Rube and Cecily that the President wanted to talk with. Cole was there just to have his hand shaken and get the official thanks of the President for his heroic actions in the face of yadda yadda yadda.