Jack Yeovil - Krokodil Tears

His child by Jesse would have been a son. He would have named it himself, in the old way, as he had been named, by taking the first thing the child looked upon. Here, that meant he could not have much of a name: Stone-Wall-Standing perhaps, or Sand-That-Stretches-to-the-Sky. Back on the Reservation, he had known Navaho children called Three-Cars-Bumper-to-Bumper, Broken-Telephone-Booth and Maniak-Corpse-Rotting. His father, Two-Dogs-Dying, had not been fortunate in his naming, and had determined his son should not suffer. Hawk's mother told him that Two-Dogs was the only one of the tribe who had seen the hawk for whom he was named, but that the others had gone along with him.

The pregnancy had been a part of Jesse's education that he had not understood until its messy, bloody conclusion. He resented the spirits who would give him a son and then take the child away before its birth, just to teach a one-eyed white girl a lesson. His father had never explained, had never understood, that Hawk's part in the story was merely as an attendant upon the creation of the crocodile girl. Her feelings mattered, his were as feathers in the wind. He might as well be a Wooden Indian standing outside a drugstore for all his feelings counted.

He believed that the spirits really didn't give a damn about any of them. They were just being made to jump through hoops as part of some vast pre-ordained pattern.

Walking across the courtyard. Hawk looked up at the sky. It was late afternoon, and the moon was already up. The moon was sacred for Jesse.

"Tell me what you want, moon spirit?"

The man in the moon grinned his lopsided, reptile-jawed grin down at him and did not answer.

"Sonofabitch," he spat.

Perhaps he should leave this place, leave Jesse to work out her own fate. He should look after his father. The old man drank too much, and was provocative of trouble. If he didn't kill himself soon, he would find someone else to do it for him. There wasn't much for him on the Reservation, but there was more there than sand and stone.

The one-eyed white girl could reach her Seventh Level on her own. She didn't really need him. She had many battles to fight, and he would only be in the way. He wondered if she was worried about him, if she ever even gave him any thought. Her face was in his mind constantly, the memory of her tugging at his heart like a fishhook. He was a Navaho brave, the last of the renegades, but Jesse made him weak.

He looked at the sand, and trembled. There were things out there in the world that would be coming here soon.

His battles were beginning.

"That issue is not under discussion," the T-H-R man said. "There can be no negotiations on the question of liberty."

"Aw shucks, Francis. Not even if I promise not to do it again?"

Dr Proctor's eyes twinkled. He was like a naughty little boy who knows he cannot be sent up to his room.

So this was the Tasmanian Devil. Wrapped up like Houdini before an escape, he didn't look like much more than a good-humoured man in early middle-age. How many had he killed? It didn't matter. He was unquestionably America's leading murderer. That was what made him of interest to Nguyen Seth, and, therefore, to Roger Duroc.

"You've never stopped doing it, Ottokar. We know that. We don't know how you've done it, but since you came to Sunnydales there have been a lot of deaths. Death by violence or accident or suicide among the inmates has risen by 28%, and among the guards…"

"89%. I read the sanitarium newspaper, you know."

"It may not be your hands, Ottokar. But it's your mind. We know that."

Dr Proctor laughed a little. "Prove it. Francis."

"We will."

"And then what are you going to do? Lock me up, and throw away the key? You already did that. There's not much you can punish me with, is there Francis?"

"We can unlock your cell, chain you up like you are now, and let some of your victims' relatives visit you with blowtorches…"

Dr Proctor didn't betray anything more than mild amusement. "And is that an official promise, Francis? Because if it is, then my lawyers will be most perturbed."

"Frank," cut in Russell. "Couldn't we bring this meeting to order. The President has authorized me to…"

"Ah yes, Oliver. How is Oliver, Julian?"

"He's well."

"And the kids? Recovered from the birthday party?"

Duroc knew that the President's children played pass-the-parcel with a severed arm at a White House social event just before Dr Proctor's arrest. It had been the Devil's idea of a joke.

"The nightmares are slowly going away."

"That's good news."

Dr Proctor signalled with his head for the sergeant to take his baby-cup away.

"I don't suppose anyone has a cigarette?"

Nobody did.

"So few people smoke any more. Dreadful habit, but it passes the time. I have a lot of time, you know."

"Ottokar," said Wicking. "We are sanctioned to offer you books, videotapes, magazines, and a limited, monitored access to telephonic and written communication with the world outside."

"I have those things."

"We can increase them, sweeten the deal…"

"You could," he allowed.

"The President is very concerned, Ottokar," said Russell. "He would like you to take a look at these trade figures…"

The Treasury man held out his papers, and spread them on the table in front of Dr Proctor. The chained man ignored them. He was enjoying this, Duroc knew.

At his trial, Dr Proctor had admitted that he had deliberately encouraged the North administration to follow near-suicidal economic policies in order to foster an increase of chaos in the world. When asked about his motivation, he had referred them to Jungian theory. "Our collective unconscious is becoming too ordered," he had claimed, "someone had to do something to bring back the element of surprise." Now, the government kept having to crawl to a convicted mass murderer to ask him to help them sort out the spaghetti tangle of figures he had left behind him.

Dr Proctor raised an eyebrow as he casually glanced at Russell's documents. "Tut tut tut. Those tax rebates aren't working out at all, are they? Silly me. I should have seen that loophole all the Japcorps are squirrelling through, shouldn't I? You know, national economies mean less than corporate systems these days. I might devote a monograph to the subject. Take the case of the growing conflict between GenTech East and the Soviet Union, for instance. Logically, their trade war could develop into a shooting match, and then where would we be? You should have the CIA keep a close watch on this Blood Banner Society. Nationalism and commerce make a nasty team."

"Ottokar, the President has personally asked me to convey to you his best wishes, and authorized me to offer to you any liberties up to but not including freedom from this institution if you'll only agree to work in an advisory capacity for a six-month period, just until the budget has passed."

"I'm truly sorry, Julian, but I'm not interested."

"We'll let you accept ZeeBeeCee's offer of another TV series. You can host the talk show."

"TV. It's just a toy. Close down all the television stations in the United States. Now, there's some sound economic advice for you. Cut out the admass, and decrease useless consumption. Cut out the lifebite, and throw people back on their own devices. Your friends in Deseret have the right idea, M. Duroc, bring back the pioneer spirit. When it was just a question of a man, a rifle and a horse against the savage Indians."

"This is getting us nowhere," said Wicking. "As usual. He's freaked the country, and now he's sitting back and surveying the mess."

"I really think we're close to a breakthrough," said Russell.

"You work out of New York, Francis. What's playing at the Met. Did you see Sir Oswald Osbourne in Pagliacci?"