Джек Макдевитт - Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt

I was literally shocked by the show of support he was getting. The guy was extremely good. And even I, who knew the truth about the way the war was being waged, found it hard not to like him.

Suddenly everything I’d done against him, painting attacks on the wall of Sunset house, clipping ears off statues, the radio broadcasts, everything seemed hopelessly childish. I was trying to hold back a flood with a bucket.

The laser waited in my pocket. I could feel its weight. And I wondered what would happen if I killed the dictator? Took him out on stage in full view of the crowd?

The answer: Probably nothing. There’d be a brief power struggle, and another nutcase would emerge.

No. Better to wait.

I moved past the guards and eased out onto the stage. The noise was deafening. And, hard as it was to read the nonverbal cues of a Nok, it was obvious the Leader was enjoying himself.

Pierik went on, talking about peace and the malefactors who stood in the way of progress. The audience response shook the night. Some of the shirtless troopers, now correctly attired, had returned to the sidelines and joined the applause.

I recorded everything, but I decided I’d keep these for myself. To McCarver, they’d just underscore his argument that the Noks were not worth saving. That they were savages, and there was no hope for them.

I stood within two paces of the Leader. How easy it would be to reach out and push him from the stage, send him hurtling into the arms of the crowd. Instead, I waited for a quiet moment, when his audience stood expectantly, and Pierik was letting the tension build. When it came, he had just finished assuring them that he would accept nothing less than total surrender from the enemy, and furthermore….

What the furthermore was to have been, neither the crowd nor I ever found out. Because I moved in right behind the dictator’s left ear, and said, quietly, “Pierik, I will always be with you.”

He froze. His eyes tracked left, and he made a grab. But I was already out of reach.

“No matter where you go,” I said, “I will be at your side.”

He backed away from the microphone. Stumbled and almost went down. I’d kept my voice down, not much more than a whisper, because I didn’t want the crowd to hear. But the audience knew something was wrong. A sound very much like the murmur of a late summer wind rose out of several thousand throats.

“Always,” I said.

I got back to Sunset House before the dictator and his entourage. I’d hoped to get into Pierik’s quarters, maybe follow the maid in, or get in when somebody came to throw some logs onto the fire. Be waiting there when he showed up. Security at the front door was loose and I got into the building easily enough. But no maid appeared, nor anyone else, and the guards never looked away. I might have tried a distraction, but it seemed too risky. So I simply bided my time. I told Cathie where I was and she took a deep breath.

The dictator and his crew arrived more than three hours after I’d got there. They were showing the effects of intoxicants. They came laughing and staggering into the lobby. Even Pierik seemed to have had a bit too much. In this respect also he seemed unlike the more modern human strongmen, who inevitably were puritanical and solemn. Nobody could imagine Napoleon having a big time. Or Hitler and Stalin getting together to yuk it up after signing the Nonaggression Pact.

But Pierik was as loud as the rest of them while they stumbled across the ground floor toward the elevators. There was much clasping of shoulders, and somebody fell down, which initiated some laughter. The elevator was open and waiting. They got in and rode up to the top level.

Meantime an attendant appeared from nowhere, unlocked the suite, opened the door, and stood by, holding it. At last! I slipped past him into the office.

I had about a minute or two before anybody would arrive. “I’m inside,” I told Cathie. The doors to the balcony were open, and even at this late hour, I could hear a crowd out there. Probably excited because the lights had come on.

“ Okay, ” she said. “ Luck. ”

I took the lander’s commlink out of my vest and looked for a place to put it. It was about the size of a small candy bar. I thought about the bookcase. The books showed some wear. Maybe under the table. I even considered punching a hole in the bottom fabric of a chair and putting it inside. But the first time somebody cleaned they’d see the damage.

What else?

There was an air vent.

Perfect.

It didn’t open without a fight, but I got it as the elevator arrived. I slipped the commlink inside, activated it, and closed the vent. “Cathie, testing.”

“ I read five by. ”

“Okay. Reception’s good on this end, too.”

“ Now please get out of there. ”

Voices at the door. “They’re here,” I whispered.

“ Leave the channel open, ” she said. I was wearing a jack, so they couldn’t hear her speak, but they could easily have heard me had I said any-thing more.

Pierik came in first. Four others followed. They were laughing and going on about how successful the rally had been. The attendant closed the door behind them. “The attack was pure genius,” said one of the aides. “Brilliant.”

They all laughed.

Pierik’s disk eyes gleamed in the lamplight. He clapped the tallest of his aides on the shoulder. “Timing was perfect,” he said.

“You were marvellous tonight,” said the tall one. He was clearly the oldest of the group.

“Thank you, Shola,” said Pierik. “A compliment from you means a great deal.” And I was sure they were hard to come by. It struck me that insinuating oneself shamelessly into the good graces of one’s superiors would turn out to be another universal characteristic of intelligent creatures.

Sholah opened a cabinet and removed a flask. Poured drinks for everyone. They toasted their most magnificent leader, their rock in a time of troubles, and drank it down. Then they retreated to the chairs. Sholah carried the flask, refilled Pierik’s glass, then his own, and passed the flask on. They drank to the courage of the leader. And to that of the fighting forces. While I watched them doing the toasts, the truth about the wars dawned on me. It was a charade. It was 1984 , a series of never-ending conflicts to ensure continuing nationalistic fervor and support for the assorted dictators. That explained why strategic targets never got hit, why no major battles got fought. Don’t waste the resources. And the last thing anybody wanted was to win.

I can’t prove any of this. Couldn’t then, can’t now. But I saw it in the way they laughed, in the comments about the bombing of Roka, in their attitude toward the military. I wondered how deep the collusion went. Was there simply a general understanding among the dictators? Did Pierik talk directly with Maglani the Magnificent and Seperon the Father of His People? All right, you hit us here, and we’ll get you there.

They drank another round, and then Pierik said how he had to get some sleep and suddenly I was alone with him.

He turned off the lights in the office and retreated into the inner quarters. He walked through the room, switching on lamps, and at last fell wearily into a chair.

Open doors led to a dining area and, probably, a bedroom. I saw more oils and sculpture. And framed photos. Here was the dictator standing on a balcony giving a salute. (The balcony looked like the one connecting with the outer office.) There, he reviewed troops. He walked the deck of a warship, talked to a crowd on a street corner, posed with a group of young females. Here he signed a book for an adoring subject. There, surrounded by uniformed officers, he examined a map.