John Shirley - A Song Called Youth

And then a crackle and a confused shout on the New-Soviet frequency and a big smear of white filling screen 7. And, on the New-Soviet frequency, a nerve-wracking squeal. Four seconds of noise that expressed the murder of the New-Soviet ship’s electronics; implying the murder of more. Then static-edged silence.

Lester said, “Jesus. All those men are dead now. Just like that. Poof. Shit. ”

“Blockade’s over,” Russ said. “Just like that, poof.”

Lester was looking at the instruments and the screens. “We’re okay. No debris coming our way. Nothing to speak of.”

Russ drained his cup and sloshed some more in. In a drunken mock of a high moral tone, Faid said, “We should not drink more, mate, now that we know we are not going to die, what?”

“We don’t need that excuse,” Russ said. “Hell no. We got plenty more reasons to drink. We’ll drink to the New-Soviets who died on that ship. Who called and asked if we were okay when our lights went out.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Lester said.

It was almost midnight on Merino, and they were still watching the television. Stoner was bleary eyed and blurry brained, from TV and from drinking, but they were afraid to silence the big flat screen. Too much was happening.

The Stoners and the Kesslers—Cindy asleep on the couch with her head on Janet’s lap—were slumped here and there about the dark room, looking ghostly in the-blue light of the TV screen.

They couldn’t look away from the war news; the sense that it was either going to end, or detonate into nuclear holocaust. The announcements of the arrests and indictments; the demolition of the American SAISC. The calls for the president’s resignation. NATO’s promised investigation into the European Second Alliance. The announcements of a new administration in the Colony and the arrest of Colony SA. The assassination attempt on Smoke. The announcement that he was off the critical list. (They’d sent a messenger to tell Alouette, with a note for her handwritten by Smoke.) The editorials, the interviews, rehashing all of it. The New-Soviet defeat in orbit, the New-Soviet withdrawal from blockade positions under renewed air attacks from NATO.

There couldn’t be anything more, Stoner thought. Time to try and sleep.

On the screen a political analyst was droning about the likelihood of the opposition candidate’s winning the next presidential election. Comparisons with Watergate, the Iran/Contra affair, the failed attempt to oust Clinton. “But of course this is something far worse: what we have here, at least in the minds of many, is treason on the part of the president herself…”

Stoner was just getting up and stretching, ready to go, when the political analyst was pre-empted, and an excited young announcer came on and told them…

“…The New-Soviet Union has expressed its desire to call a ceasefire to the war in order to negotiate a peaceful end. Secretary of State Carnegie has said, and I quote, ‘We feel that the end of the war is at hand. The New-Soviets are indicating they are ready to surrender.’” The newscaster cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen…” His voice choked with emotion. For once the cookie-cutter newscaster was gone, the man behind the glossy image emerging, moved by the emotional electricity of the moment. “Ladies and gentlemen—ladies and gentlemen, the Third World War is over.”

“The crisis is very real,” Watson said, “and it’s going to mean drastic retrenching. But it’s only a setback on one front.”

Sackville-West shook his round head so that his jowls waggled. “It’s not a setback on this front. It’s a complete defeat. The president will be forced to resign. Our American bank accounts are already frozen. CIA Domestic is under investigation by the Justice Department and our enemies in Congress—and our people who were in the Justice Department are under arrest. American public opinion is ninety percent against us. Even the Fundamentalists. They’re pretending they’re horrified, had nothing to do with us. Worldtalk’s assets frozen. Worldtalk Grid projects seized. Indictments and more indictments. The Colony fallen, Praeger taken. Most of it happened through the media, the underGrid, social media, the networks…”

“You sound bitter,” Watson said coldly, “and that’s ironic.”

There were four men in Cloudy Peak Farm’s comm center, in person, including Carlton Smith, the SA’s Special Education Coordinator, tall and bushy-browed, with short, receding brown-blond hair; always the pipe and the faint smile as if the biggest problems were just a matter of father and son talking it out. He was the father of Jebediah Smith.

Watson and Sackville-West were there, and Klaus; as Watson’s bodyguard, he went everywhere with him. Klaus was slated for a major promotion…

There were others on the video conference lines, four SA chiefs in various parts of the country, and in various states of panic and disgust.

Watson, Smith, Klaus, and Sackville-West were seated around a small, round conference table Watson had brought in.

Watson went on. “I mean, Sacks, you really sound as if you’re angry about all that’s happened. As if you’re angry with other people. But you, Sacks, you were in charge of security, you were the one who allowed yourself to be recorded in conversation with the president, recorded and photographed discussing a very sensitive matter. You were the one who let Stoner get away. So you won’t be surprised when I tell you that you are being replaced.”

Sackville-West’s head jerked up. Jowls jumping again.

His eyes went piggish, his skin vermilion. “Replaced by whom?”

“Klaus, here. I have looked at the matter from every angle. He has been extractor-approved. He has an extensive background in security.” He added a lie: “He was in charge of my station security in France.”

Sackville-West turned to the screen. “Gentlemen—the buck is being passed here, I am a… a scapegoat for… for…” But after that, all that came out was inarticulate fragments and sputters. Perhaps because of the way the men on the screen were looking at him. Watson went to the door and called, “Ben.”

Ben came in and stood behind Sackville-West’s chair. The young man seemed mildly embarrassed. “Sir. Come with me, please.”

“And where might that be?” Sackville-West demanded.

“Debriefing,” Watson said smoothly, sitting down. “And retirement. Ben…?”

Ben nodded. He put one hand on his gun and the other on Sackville-West’s shoulder.

The old man shuddered and sat there a moment, breathing through his mouth, sweat glossing his forehead. Then he stood up, upsetting his chair, and walked with a kind of roly-poly dreaminess out of the room, Ben close behind him.

Ben shut the door behind as they went out.

Watson sighed, rubbed his hands together, and said, “Now. The New-Soviets have removed their blockade from the Atlantic ports. They’re talking ceasefire and negotiation, and all this is generally being taken as a sign they are close to surrender. Thanks to the crisis here it behooves us to remove ourselves and our projects from the US, to take them overseas.” He smiled at Smith. “Yes, even the people of Colton City. And all the kids in your charge. We’ll transplant the town to Britain. We’re strong there now, and, after all, the roots of the Caucasian Prime are in Europe. In a way we’ll all be going home. In a month, we’ll be ready to announce the formation of the Self-Policing Organization of European States.”

He paused dramatically, looking at Smith and Klaus, and looking into the camera that conveyed his image to the men on the screens.