John Shirley - A Song Called Youth

Really. Thirteen minutes and they were aboard, the little jet taxiing down the runway, Janet, laughing with relief as a steward—no kidding, a steward— saw to it they were strapped in, and they were in the air.

Stoner and his family were the only passengers except for Lopez and the kid driver (what happens to the guy they left in the van? The cops would find him), the kid throwing the oversize guard’s cap in the corner, then beginning work on his acne, squeezing pimples methodically as they talked to Lopez.

“You heard they got Charlie Chesterton? Not sure how. But he snuffed hisself, probably so they couldn’t brain drain him.”

Stoner glanced at his daughter and changed the subject, “Where we going?”

“South,” Lopez said. “The Caribbean.”

The kid adding, “Little island you got to call home for a while. It’s comfortable, almost like a resort. It’ll be okay.”

Will it be prison? Stoner wondered.

He still had a bargaining chip. He knew about the mole in the European NR. They might subject him to the extractor, of course. But he had a feeling that wasn’t their style. So he had something to bargain with. Maybe he’d have to bargain with them for his family’s freedom.

Maybe he’d have to give them the SA agent who’d penetrated Steinfeld’s base on Malta.

“Satelex from Colonel Watson,” Johnston said, coming into the room. “He’s on his way here.” He showed the printout to Crandall, who was in his office, sitting at a WorkCenter; he’d been scowling over some statistics on the monitor. The scowl deepened as he scanned the satelex. Hayes was at the door as usual, watching and listening but not seeming to. It wasn’t like he was spying. But it kept him amused, kept him from mentally roving up to those disconcerting membranes that cut him off from certain channels of free association. He listened because he wanted to feel like a part of the place. He believed in Crandall, admired him.

“Watson’s coming here?” Crandall said. “I didn’t order him to come here.”

It was Sunday afternoon. They’d just come from chapel, where Crandall had preached on the security channel, for Initiates only. Fresh from church, Ben and Rolff were in their dress uniforms, standing beside Crandall’s chair.

Johnston was in a real-cloth Sunday-go-to-meetin’ suit, blue serge and subtly cut. He had the sturdy, brown-haired, blue-eyed, enlightened-young-cowpoke looks that Crandall liked to surround himself with. Early twenties, very serious. Johnston stood by in case Crandall wanted to send a reply.

Crandall seemed to consider it, then shook his head. “Wouldn’t get to him, anyway. Well, he’d better have a hell of a good excuse. He’s supposed to be gettin’ squared away to clean the chimney, sweep those little greasers out of their nest.”

Meaning the NR, Hayes guessed.

Hayes found himself watching Rolff. He looked a little pale. He was staring at the satelex print. Rolff looked up and looked directly at Hayes, almost like he wanted to say something to him. Then he dropped his eyes and cleared his, throat. “Sir…”

Crandall muttered, without looking up from the computer screen, “Yes?” He’d gone back to picking through statistics.

“Permission to use the bathroom.”

“Sure, Johnston’s here, he can stay till you’re back.”

“There’s something else, sir,” Johnston said with a little hesitation. “I don’t know if I should report on it till I’m sure… but I’ve got a good feeling about it.”

“What’s that?” Crandall asked, glancing up at Johnston.

Rolff was moving toward the door, but slowly, as if he wanted to hear what Johnston was going to say.

Johnston said, “The Secur-search data base has put a red star next to an island in the Caribbean. Place called Merino. Dinky place, sir. Military installation there we thought belonged to Costa Rica. Set up to look like it’s part of Costa Rica. Camouflaged that way, I think. But there are a number of irregularities. Civilian jets from Mexico City landing there with unusual frequency, and we’ve identified the owner of one of the jets, sir. Witcher. ” Edge of excitement in his voice. “We think we might have a major NR stronghold. Maybe Western HQ.”

“Lordy. Who all knows about this?”

“Just me and you, sir. In accordance with your directive.”

“Good. I’m feelin’ funny about security again. If it leaks that we know where they are, they’ll run and hide again.”

Rolff wasn’t listening to them, Hayes realized. He was standing in the doorway, staring. At Hayes. Just looking at him, a little to his right. One hand resting on his gun butt. The other, his left, remained in his pocket. The hand in his pocket made a movement. Hayes saw it through the cloth, and then lights flashed. The ceiling lights. Flashing on and off, over and over, in a pattern and—oh, God, but Hayes had a roller-coaster feeling inside. The room got all tunnel-dark, except for a corona of light around Crandall and Johnston, and they were moving in slow motion, looking up at Hayes, Johnston reaching into his coat, Crandall throwing his arms in front of his face. Why were they reacting that way?

And then Hayes saw that there was a gun pointed at Crandall (the lights flashed—oh, no) and the gun was in Hayes’s hand, his own gun. I’m pointing a gun at Rick. What am I doing?

Slow motion went to fast motion as he squeezed the trigger again and again, not even having to sight in, his hand doing it for him. He heard shouting, and then Crandall’s head exploded, and the gun was tracking up to Johnston.

Johnston had his gun out now, and Ben had his leveled. Something kicked into Hayes, right through the middle of him. He saw Johnston falling, knew that he’d shot him, felt another kick in the side of the head where Rolff had shot him.

He heard a long squealing sound, like metal wheels braking, the sound accompanying a white light, a white light that bore down on him like a train’s headlight, and when it hit him it made everything into white light.

And then silence.

“The lights flashed,” Ben said, “like a signal. And the new guy shot Rick. That Hayes guy.” Ben was crying, big guy like that blubbering.

Klaus, standing behind Watson, snorted and shook his head.

Watson turned to Rolff. “What was Johnston there about?”

“About your satelex,” Rolff said. “And about something he’d found. I didn’t catch what. I was… Hayes seemed to be acting funny so I was pretty focused on him…” Rolff glanced at Ben. “I didn’t move fast enough…”

You’re a bad actor, Rolff, Watson thought. But fortunately Ben was too upset to notice.

Rolff went on, “I didn’t catch it. You get it, Ben? What was it Johnston wanted?”

“Something about a satellite picture,” Ben said, his voice breaking, nose running. They were in the dark-wood living room, sitting on the black leather couch, Ben with his head in his hands.

Crandall was only three hours dead. Watson felt… what? Mostly a kind of dreamy detachment. Crandall was dead! Unreal. And Watson was tired, jet-lagged, but the adrenaline of the trip—never quite sure if the New-Soviets were going to let you through—still had him jacked up. “I don’t know,” Ben said after a moment. “I didn’t pay attention because I was noticing how Rolff was looking at Hayes and…” He shrugged. Then he looked at Rolff. It made Watson uncomfortable to look at Ben; such a big man, a muscle rippler, with his face tear-streaked like a five-year-old who’d scraped his knee. “You shouldn’t have shot Hayes in the head, Rolff,” Ben said. “That was stupid. We can’t extract now.”