David Brin - Existence

“Happy to oblige,” Hamish replied, taking in the senator’s distinctive gray locks, tied back in a proud ponytail, framing craggy features and a complexion that seemed permanently tanned by years spent under the Central American sun. He was a tall man, almost matching Hamish in height. Fine clothes and expensive manicure contrasted with callused rancher’s hands that were both muscular and clearly accustomed to rigorous-if happy-toil.

“You’ve been a leader in our Movement, Senator. I figure you’re entitled some benefit of the doubt.”

“That’s a minority opinion.” Strong tilted his head ruefully. “This town quickly turns on its own. Right now, a lot of folks wish I’d just go back to pushing pills and the gospel in Guatemala.”

Hamish winced. Those were his own words, expressed yesterday on a semiprivate fanbuzz-just before he got the call to fly down here and see Strong. Fanbuzz statements were “unofficial,” protected by pseudonyms. The senator was pointing out that he still held tools of power.

“We all say things, now and then, that we’d rather not see made public. Sir.”

“True enough. Which makes what I did last Tuesday…” Strong paused. “But let’s go to my inner office. I have a small favor to ask, before business.”

He motioned for Hamish to enter past a trio of spectacularly well-dressed secretaries-one male, one female, and one deliberately androgynous, all three of them clearly recipients of high-end face sculpting-into a sanctum that was adorned by art and souvenirs of the American West. With a practiced eye for fine things, Hamish scanned the room, comparing it to a web-guided tour he had taken on the private jet coming here. He dropped into a narrative inner voice. Wriggles-his digaissistant-would tap Hamish’s laryngeal nerves and transcribe it all.

“An original Remington bronze-an express rider, shooting over his shoulder… and another casting-made to the exact same scale, decades later, by the Black Hills Art Co-op-showing a Cheyenne dog soldier in hot pursuit…

“… a big swivel chair upholstered in bison hide… a desk made of teak, force-grown by a Louisiana tree-vat company that Strong co-owns, I recall… some whalebone scrimshaw, mostly nineteenth century originals, though one at the end is recent-presented by the Point Barrow Inuit clan, in gratitude for Strong’s help with humpback-hunting rights…

“… plus a big photo of the senator, posing with Lakotan dignitaries in front of the Ziolkowski monument, with shovels and brushes, helping wipe the giant Crazy Horse statue free of Yellowstone ash. That picture’s been moved front and center since Tuesday’s embarrassment…

“ … and an abstract mobile, in the back-left corner of the room-made of twenty slender metal rods, each with a colored ivory ball at one end, polished smooth by countless sweaty hands-all of the rods cleverly articulated to turn and plunge in sequence, following a rhythm as semirandom as Lady Luck. The artist originally called it ‘Many-Armed Bandit’ since the rods were once attached to gambling machines. But the tribe that commissioned the piece chose another name.

“‘Coup Sticks of Retribution.’ The right weapon, at long last, for getting even.”

Hamish was accustomed to visiting chambers of the high and mighty. Fame took him through many doors. But not even the Oval Office boasted as much symbolism that South Dakota’s senior senator poured into this room. Even thick, columnar bulges at four corners-vertical rails that might drop the whole office to an armored basement-were decorated like Native American rain sticks.

Wow. It’d be a pity to have to move all this. To make room for a Democrat.

Senator Strong returned from a bookshelf bearing several hardcovers. “If you’d indulge an old fan?” he asked, opening one to its title page- Paper Trail .

The usual mixed feelings. Hamish found autographs tiresome. Yet, it was an equalizing moment. Politicians could be as celebrity-crazed as anybody, eager to gush about some old bestseller, or asking Hamish about actors he had met on movie sets. Hamish pondered a dedication. Something original, flattering and personal… yet, not too friendly to a man fast becoming a national pariah. No sense giving him cause to claim that Hamish Brookeman was a “dear friend.”

He scribbled: To Crandall S-Hang tight and stay Strong! -following that weak quip with his usual scrawl. Hamish quickly inscribed the other volumes. An interesting assortment-all of them novels written for the Movement.

Tusk!

Cult of Science.

Sousveillance Blood.

The last was one of his least favorite titles. Maybe this time, he’d insist the movie studio change it.

“I’m in your debt.” The senator collected his books. “And now-” He paused.

“And now-” Hamish repeated, a habit going back to childhood. Prompting people to get on with it. Life is way too short.

“Yes. Well. As you’ve guessed, I asked you here because of what happened last Tuesday.” Strong frowned, causing masculine creases to furrow even deeper. “But I forget my manners. Please sit. Can I offer coffee? Chocolates? Both are made from beans grown on the banks of the Big Horn.”

Hamish alighted onto the guest chair, folding his long legs, refusing refreshment with a simple head shake. Now that the main topic was broached, Strong showed signs. A bead of sweat. Flicks of tongue. The jittery touching of one hand on the other. Hamish noted these subvocally.

“No?” The senator turned toward the wet bar. “Then something stronger? How about some switchgrass firewater? Prairie Avenger is distilled-”

“You were talking about recent events… if they can be discussed discreetly?”

“My office is swept by Darktide Services. Anyway, what have I to hide?”

Hamish blinked. He personally knew of several things that the senator would not want made public, and those were old news. The man sure had style. Even chutzpah.

“Well, sir… on Thursday, in front of the world, you tried to explain Tuesday’s initial… behavior by claiming, rather forcefully, that you had been poisoned. ”

A memorable scene. Flanked on one side by his wife and on the other by his mistress, with both sets of children, the senator had tried for the image of a wounded family man, the victim of dark conspiracies. It wasn’t pretty, or effective.

Strong winced. “Yeah, that made me look pretty foolish. Trawling for excuses. Squirming to get off the hook for things I said. Of course, what’s frustrating is-it’s true.”

Hamish sat up. “You mean you really were-”

“Poisoned? Oh, yes. I have very solid basis for saying that my aberrant behavior was triggered by a mind-altering substance someone slipped into my food, just before that first outburst.”

“Poisoned.” Hamish took a moment to absorb this. “Your health… were you harmed in other-”

“No. I’m still Strong-as-a-Bull-Standing.” The legislator laughed harshly. “It was all psychotropic and temporary, I’m told.”

Hamish nodded eagerly. “This is great news. It makes you a victim. Of course, some of those things you said… well, they cannot be un -said. You’ll never win back the Aztlan or Medi vote, for example. But there’s an Algebra of Forgiveness, Senator. The biggest part of your base, especially the First Nations… they’ll come back, if you can prove it all happened because you were drugged.”

Crandall Strong frowned. “I know that. Alas, it’s not so simple.”

No kidding, Hamish thought. That’s when someone calls me, instead of the cops or security companies.