Joe Haldeman - Forever Peace

"Where are we going?"

"First flight back to Houston." He opened the cab door and helped her in, not too gently.

"Major Ingram," Julian said.

One foot in the cab, he half-turned. "Sergeant?"

"Your flight's been canceled." He had a small black pistol in his hand. It fired almost inaudibly, and as Ingram slumped, Julian caught him and appeared to be helping him into the cab. "1236 Grand Street," he said, feeding it a chit from Ingram's book. He pocketed the book and closed the door. "Surface roads, please."

"It's good to see you," she said, trying to sound neutral. "We know someone in Omaha?"

"We know someone parked on Grand Street."

The cab worked its zigzag way across town, Julian watching behind for a tail. It would have been obvious in the sparse traffic.

When they turned onto Grand Street he looked ahead. "The black Lincoln in the next block. Double-park next to it and we'll get out there."

"If I am ticketed for double-parking, you will be liable, Major Ingram."

"Understood." They pulled up next to a big black limousine with North Dakota "clergy" plates and opaque windows. Julian got out of the cab and hauled Ingram into the back seat of the Lincoln. It looked like a soldier assisting a drunken comrade.

Amelia followed them. In the front seat was the driver, who was a rough-looking gray-haired man with a priest's collar, and Marty Larrin.

"Marty!"

"To the rescue. Is that the guy who served you the papers?" Amelia nodded. As the car started, Marty held out his hand to Julian. "Let me see his ID."

He handed over a long wallet. "Blaze, meet Father Mendez, late of the Franciscan order and Raiford Maximum Security Prison." He flipped through the wallet as he talked, holding it up to a small dashboard light.

"Dr. Harding, I presume." Mendez held a hand up in greeting while he steered with the other one, the automobile under manual control. In the next block a chime sounded and Mendez let go of the wheel and said, "Home."

"This is annoying," Marty said, and switched on the overhead light. "Check his pockets and see if he has a copy of his orders." He held up the wallet and scrutinized a photo of the man with a German shepherd. "Nice dog. No family pictures."

"No wedding ring," Amelia said. "Is that important?"

"Simplify things. Is he jacked?"

Amelia felt the back of his head while Julian rifled his pockets. "Wig." She lifted the back of it with a painful ripping sound. "Yes, he is."

"Good. No orders?"

"No. Flight manifest, though, for him and up to three others, 'two prisoners plus security.' "

"When and where?"

"Open ticket to Washington. Priority 00."

"Real high or real low?" Amelia asked.

"The highest. I think you might not be our only mole, Julian. We need one in Washington."

"This guy?" Julian said.

"After he's been jacked with the Twenty for a couple of weeks. It'll be an interesting test of the process's effectiveness." They didn't know how extreme a test it would be.

WE HADN'T BROUGHT HANDCUFFS or anything, so when he started to stir halfway to St. Bart's, I gave him another pop with the trank gun. Searching for his papers, I'd found an AK 101, a small Russian flechette pistol that's a favorite of assassins everywhere-no inconvenient metal. So I didn't want to sit in the back seat and chat with him, even with his gun safe in the glove compartment. He probably knew some way to kill me with his pinky.

It turns out I was close. When we got him to St. Bart-tying him to a chair before administering the antitrank – and jacked him one-way with Marty, we found out he was a "special operator" for Military Intelligence, assigned to the Office of Technology Assessment. But there was little else there, other than memories of his childhood and youth, and an encyclopedic knowledge of mayhem. He hadn't been treated to the selective memory transfer, or destruction, that Marty had said I would need for my own mole burrowing. It was just a strong hypnotic injunction, which wouldn't hold up for long, after he was jacked two-way with the Twenty.

Until then, all he and we knew was what room in the Pentagon he was to report to. He was to find Amelia and bring her back-or kill her and himself if it came to a desperate situation. All he knew about her was that she and another scientist had discovered a weapon so powerful that it could win the war for the Ngumi if it fell into the wrong hands.

That was an odd way of characterizing it. We used the metaphor "pressing the button," but of course for the Jupiter Project to proceed to its final cataclysmic stage, you needed a team of scientists, doing a sequence of complicated actions in the proper order.

The process could be automated, in theory, after the first careful walk-through. But then once you'd done it, there would be no one left to automate it.

So someone on the Astrophysical Journal jury was linked to the military establishment-no surprise. But then was the jury's rejection because of pressure from above, or had they actually found an error in our work?

One part of me wanted to think, well, if they actually had disproved our theory, there would be no reason to go after Amelia, and presumably Peter. But maybe Intelligence thought it would be prudent to get rid of them anyhow. There's a war on, they keep saying.

There were four of us in the plain conference room, besides the jacked couple: Amelia and me, Mendez, and Megan Orr, the doctor who checked out Ingram and administered the antitrank. It was three in the morning, but we were pretty wide awake.

Marty unjacked himself and then pulled the plug out of Ingram's head. "Well?" he said.

"It's a lot to assimilate," Ingram said, and looked down at his bound arms. "I could think better if you untied me."

"Is he safe?" I asked Marty.

"You're still armed?"

I held up the trank pistol. "More or less."

"We could untie him. Under some circumstances he might make trouble, but not in a locked room, observed, under armed guard."

"I don't know," Amelia said. "Maybe you ought to wait until he's had the sweetness-and-light treatment. He seems like a dangerous character."

"We can deal with him," Mendez said.

"It's important to talk with him while he's just had interrogational contact," Marty said. "He knows the facts of the matter, but he hasn't been engaged at a deep emotional level."

"I suppose," Amelia said. Marty untied him and sat back.

"Thank you," Ingram said, rubbing his forearms.

"What I'd like to know first is – "

What happened next was so quick that I couldn't have described it until after I saw the record from the overhead camera.

Ingram shifted his chair slightly, as if half-turning toward Marty as he spoke. Actually, he was just getting leverage and clearance.

In a sudden move worthy of an Olympic gymnast, he twisted out of the chair and up, clipping Marty on the chin with his toe, and then making a complete spin halfway down the table to where I was sitting, the pistol in my hand but not aimed. I got off one wild shot and then he slammed into my chest with both feet, breaking two ribs. He snatched the gun out of midair and shoulder-rolled off the table, landing feet-first with a balletic spin that ended with his foot catching me in the throat as I fell. It was probably intended to kick my brains out, but nobody's perfect.

I couldn't see much from my vantage point on the floor, but I heard Marty say "Won't work," and then I passed out.

I woke up back in my chair, with Megan Orr withdrawing a hypodermic gun from my bare forearm. A man I recognized but couldn't name was doing the same to Amelia-Lobell, Marc Lobell, the only one of the Twenty I hadn't jacked with.

It was as if we'd gone back a few minutes in time and had been given a chance to start over. Everybody was back in their original positions; Ingram safely tied up again. But my chest hurt with every breath and I wasn't sure I could talk.