John Shirley - A Song Called Youth

Kessler’d switched to a news channel. Smoke was standing on the steps of the Senate building with several congressmen. Stoner recognized Senator Harold Chung and Senator Judy Sanchez, who were there with Smoke for a quick news conference after the Senate hearings. Smoke had given testimony on the SA.

Senator Sanchez was reading from her notes. “We feel there is strong evidence that the Second Alliance has been involved in an active conspiracy essentially to do away with the Bill of Rights; to eliminate SAISC enemies through the courts and the AVL laws by means of an illegal video evidence tampering which fabricates false evidence for use in court; there is, further, substantial evidence that Worldtalk Public Relations Inc., which is owned by the Second Alliance International Security Corporation, deliberately and willfully inserted illegal subliminal ideation into television programs of their production; that the SAISC repeatedly violated conflict-of-interest laws by using their influence to place their operatives and cronies within the ranks of the CIA, CIA Domestic, the FBI, and the police departments of every major city in the United States. We further feel there is indeed strong evidence that the Second Alliance conspired with Anna Bester, the president of the United States, to devise a plan eliminating congressional decision-making power and freedom of the press, under the cloak of declaring a State of Emergency…”

Cameras flashing, as if the flashes were the light given off by the awe and amazement of the reporters; gasps from Mr. and Mrs. Kessler and Stoner, who were astonished the investigation had gone that far.

“It’s Smoke,” Witcher said. “People took him seriously because he won the United Nations Literary Committee prize, used to be a major figure in the academic world. He’s been pushing things in the underGrid, sending vids and interviews and programs to the underground stations till he could get it on the networks. I guess it just built up in a sort of groundswell…”

Smoke stepped to the microphones to make a statement. “There can be no mistake. If we don’t act quickly, we’re going to lose the United States of America—and not to the New-Soviets. The New-Soviets are a danger, but there’s a more immediate internal danger.”

A confusion of sudden movement on the steps behind the people at the portable podium, a bang, a rush of men in uniforms…

Smoke was no longer at the podium.

The image wobbled as the camera turned around, the commentator yammering confusedly. A crowd of people bent over someone on the steps. The crowd parted just enough to give Stoner a glimpse, as someone ran to call an ambulance…

Smoke was lying there, his chest bloody.

“Oh, Jesus,” Julie said. “God, I’m glad Alouette isn’t here.”

“Oh, no,” Kessler said.

Witcher said, “Stupid.” He snorted with contempt. There was no grief in his voice, but it creaked with anger. “Stupid bastards. They shot him, and that makes it worse for them.”

Stoner said, “You see the guy who shot him? I couldn’t see him. Oh, fuck. I need a drink. You see him? Was he black? I figure they’d set up a black guy or an Arab, maybe, to do it.”

Kessler said, “The public won’t fall for that. The SA’s stupid to do it now, in public.”

Hands shaking, Stoner went to the bar to pour himself a drink. “Chances are the order went out to kill him before the investigation went public. They failed to contact their man to pull him back in time. Stupid is the word, all ri…”

“Shush!” Julie said. “They’re going to say something.”

A flushed, wide-eyed woman reporter came onto the screen. “Uh, I can definitely confirm that Jack Brendan Smoke has been shot while speaking at a news conference—we are told that he is alive but ‘critically wounded,’ but we have no definite word on his… his status… as yet… Stay with us as we report on this tragedy…”

Torrence shook his head in disbelief. “Satellite reconnaissance. That’s how you explain the ambush—satellites? You must be kidding.”

Steinfeld said, “I don’t see what’s so unlikely about it. They could have spotted us coming, set up the ambush.”

“What horseshit. You’re suffering a massive case of denial, man!”

Torrence was surprised he’d shouted at Steinfeld. It didn’t seem possible. They didn’t speak for a moment.

They were in the little back bedroom that Steinfeld slept in. The room was monkish, dusty, almost bare. The morning light was diffused to a blush by the window shade. Steinfeld sat on his cot. His face sagged; his eyes were ringed with sleeplessness. Torrence was pacing around the room. He paused to look sullenly at his maimed hand. With only three fingers, it looked like the paw of an animal.

Staring at the stumps of his fingers, Torrence said, “They knew we were coming. We lost a fourth of our people and we achieved nothing.” He turned to Steinfeld. “For the sake of the people that we lost—the people who are dying now… for Lila… Lila’s dying. Steinfeld, we’ve… we’ve got to… to assume…”

Steinfeld said, “But to start a witch-hunt now when morale is so low…”

A soft knock on the door.

Levassier came in, carrying something in his remaining hand. He handed it to Steinfeld, all the time looking at Torrence’s own disfigured hand. Then he smiled at Torrence and shrugged as if to say, “Not so bad, really.”

Steinfeld read the printout twice, and then looked at Hard-Eyes. “I don’t want you to take this as a confirmation of what you’ve been saying—it isn’t necessarily Karakos. But apparently we’ve had a defector from the CIA. A man named Stoner. He says we definitely have an SA mole. Right here on Malta…”

Torrence slumped against a wall in relief. “We’ll move out of here?”

“Yes.” Steinfeld turned to Levassier and made it an order. “Now. Contact the Mossad, ask them about Haifa. Just get us off the island…”

“I have to bring more news,” Levassier said, looking at the shaded window. “Our Lila is dead. She died…” he shrugged “…a few minutes ago, in the Valletta hospital.”

Torrence felt the rage turn in him; it turned inward. He was angry at himself for feeling just the faintest streak of relief that Lila was dead.

Steinfeld put his head in his hands. “She was, perhaps, our best.”

Torrence nodded. Then he said, “What about the mole—what about Karakos? You do understand that it must be Karakos…”

Steinfeld looked up, hesitated. Then, slowly, he said, “I don’t know. I don’t know who to believe. Anybody could be a traitor, Torrence. With the extractor. Even you. For all I know, all this harping on Karakos—is your way of hiding.”

The Colony was blacked out. Dark. It looked like a dead thing hanging in space. Even the New-Soviet blockade ship, orbiting a spare twenty miles away, called in to Colony Comm Center to ask if the Colony was in danger.

But the Colonists were there, alive, sitting in the darkness and semidarkness. The only illumination came dull red from the emergency panels glowing over the doors.

Russ had switched off the Colony’s power. Only the emergency battery power remained, the bare minimum to sustain Life Support. And only for two hours.

Russ moved down the ladder in the eerie silence of the maintenance access shaft, his rubber-soled boots making almost no sound on the rungs. He wore a hard hat with a light on it, and where he looked, a blob of colorless light pooled on the wires, tubes, and microprocessor boxes lining the curved walls.

Russ saw LSSCH LEVEL stenciled on an oval hatch. He stepped onto a metal grid under the door and swayed, almost losing his balance on the narrow ledge. The black throat of the shaft yawned behind him. He clutched at the door, his fingers found the wheel, and he hung on; felt the shaft suck at his back, felt sweat tickle his neck.