John Shirley - A Song Called Youth

Karakos, Torrence, Danco, Lila, Levassier, and the other officers were sitting in a semicircle around Steinfeld. The briefing room was lit only by the map lamp. The back part was in darkness. Sometimes Karakos imagined things moving out of the corner of his eye back there. But when he looked, it was always gone. Sometimes he still felt the strange pressure, and the impenetrable places in his mind, the membranes beyond which he could not pass. He tried not to think about it. He tried to think about Greece. Its Nationalist salvation.

He noticed that Bonham was not there. He was never permitted at the planning sessions. They didn’t trust Bonham.

Maybe, Karakos thought, I shouldn’t trust him, either.

Bonham had given Karakos the names of the NR operatives on the Colony. Time would prove whether the names were real or not. To test that, he must once more get to a radio. And, of course, there was the matter of reporting the assault on Post Seven.

Steinfeld went on to describe his strategy for their assault on Post Seven; some part of Karakos’s mind was absorbing Steinfeld’s briefing, but thoughts of this Torrence were like dogs locked in some mental outbuilding, fighting and snarling in there, distracting him.

The bastard was doing nothing, saying nothing about Karakos. But Karakos could feel him watching, even when he didn’t seem to be. Torrence must be working against him somehow. Otherwise, why was it that Karakos still had not been told when the real assault against the SA would commence? Why was he still in the dark about its target? It had to be Torrence. He had planted the seeds of doubt in the others, and despite all their denials, they told him nothing. This business of the attack on Post Seven was minor, just a warm-up for the April Assault.

But he didn’t dare press anyone for information. That would make them suspicious. He would find a way.

“The destruction of Seven will set the stage for the April Assault,” Steinfeld was saying.

And then he looked at Karakos. Expressionlessly. But looked right at him.

Torrence resented the night. It was balmy and the air was sweet as he left the house to take his turn at the sentry shack by the road. He could smell the sea, and the mosquitoes seemed to be on vacation. His mood demanded a stormy night, or at least a driving rain, and as much discomfort as possible.

Torrence was stepping off the porch when someone in the darkness came toward him from his right. He swung his assault rifle around.

“It’s me.” Claire.

He slung the rifle onto his shoulder. The weapon seemed heavier than it should have.

“You want to talk about it?” she asked softly.

His eyes began to adjust to the dark. Her face materialized like a ghost. He tried to not say it, but he couldn’t stop. “You going to sleep with everyone else? Who’s next?”

“That’s not talking about it.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to talk about it. Christ, I don’t know. I’m just… I’m human. Shit, Claire…”

She touched his arm. He trembled at her touch and felt stupid about it, so he stepped back from her, and she misinterpreted him.

“You decided you want no contact with homosexuals?”

“You’re not a homosexual. You might be bisexual. But you were feeling things, real things, with me.” His tone challenged her to pretend it wasn’t true.

“Of course I did. I don’t think I’m gay. But she… she’s very tender and… in some way it’s what I need right now. I don’t know for how long.”

“Should I take a number?”

“Fuck you, Torrence.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“Yeah, you always say that. You know me. I don’t know you. You accused me of not opening up more than once, but I don’t know you.” He looked up at the stars. After a long moment he said, “Maybe that’s my fault.”

Her silence acknowledged that maybe it was.

Stoner was running—even when he was motionless.

They’d changed motels twice in two days, Stoner making light of it, pretending for Cindy that he wanted one with a Gridfeed screen so she could see her cartoons. And then wanted one with a Gridfeed screen and a pool. Trying to hide from his little girl that he was moving them out of simple fear.

But he couldn’t hide it from Janet. Stoner and his wife sat in a window seat overlooking the skating rink of the underground mall their motel was in, sipping weak cocktails in squeaky plastic cups sent up by the automated room service. Janet was sitting there rigidly, staring out at the gliding figures on the skating rink, her eyes tracing the blades that etched off-white lines into the chalky ice below them; Cindy was watching the Japanese reactive cartoon, Roboboy. Cindy had the interaction box in her hand; the screen was set to receive the various Roboboy interactive programs, and Janet had booted Cindy’s name into the flexible sound track. “Uh-oh!” Roboboy was saying. “Stoned Dr. Drugmaster has shot a hypnotic into Designer Dan! What should I do, Cindy? Should I try to find an antidote, or should I go to the Garbage Marsh to rescue my pal Lowtech without Designer Dan’s help?”

“Find an antidote!” Cindy said, pushing the button for Option A.

“Well, hell,” Stoner muttered, “I wish Roboboy’d rescue us from the Garbage Marsh.” He watched Janet’s face, hoping she’d smile.

But her lips compressed, whitening as she tried to keep from crying.

He glanced at his watch. Eight. It would be dark up above. But here, at the underground motel and rink, it might be any time of day. The walk between the motel and the rink was still busy with shoppers and browsers moving like bees gathering pollen at the shops around the rink. On the far side a Silent Radio strip formed marching letters for newsblurbs and ads:

Department of Defense reports New-Soviets continue withdrawal in Europe but increase orbital presence… President Bester denies Second Alliance plot allegations calls for investigation into “anti-patriotic propaganda sources”… Secretary of Interior Swell reaffirms need for emergency presidential powers, will not rule out media censorship, cites war emergency, historic precedence… Acid rain concentrated in tornados blamed for toxicity deaths in Missouri… court finds complete vindication for late Senator Spector. Spector was killed during antiviolence laws programming; Grand Jury named for videoframing investigation… In sports, the Houston Orbiters shot down the…

Stoner looked away, shrugging. And saw Lopez, standing by the railing of the rink, looking up at him.

“There he is,” Stoner murmured.

“Where?” Janet asked breathlessly.

“He’s coming into the motel now.” Where was Brummel? Stoner wondered.

Lopez came to the door. Stoner let him in, glancing at Cindy. She hardly looked up. She told Roboboy, “Apply for new memories, Roboboy!” and pressed a button.

Lopez went directly to Janet, still sitting in the window. He was wearing a brown overcoat, speckled from rain.

“It’s raining up there?” Stoner said.

Lopez took off his soft plastic fedora, held it in his hands in front of him, and said softly, “Mrs. Stoner, I’m sorry to tell you, your brother he is dead, or… he will be soon. He was stop at a checkpoint and he lost his temper with a policeman, he pull a gun. They hit him and take the gun away, took him to be questioned and… they put him under extractor. So… they know what he does. Under the antiterrorist section of the AVL laws… well, I am sorry. We cannot help him.”

He said all this quickly, and with a sympathetic gentleness that surprised Stoner.