John Shirley - A Song Called Youth

My God, Swenson thought. It hit Swenson like a blow to the stomach. They’re moving into everything.

“The DoD has shown some interest in the new thing from Armaments,” Ellen Mae said. “They’d like to see the Jægernaut field-tested…”

Crandall glanced at Swenson—and Swenson felt a chill.

“I think it’s best we hold off on talking about that, Ellen Mae honey.” Crandall said.

Because I haven’t got a top-level SA Security clearance, Swenson thought.

Or is it more? Do they suspect me?

Purchase’s people had gone to elaborate lengths to build up an identity for John Swenson: Birth certificate and baby pictures planted in a small Midwestern town; elaborate schemes to obtain letters of recommendation from SA members and supporters who were led to believe they knew Swenson when they didn’t: Purchase had access to Worldtalk’s memory-tampering systems. He fed false experiences into the men who were to give the recommendations; they seemed to remember Swenson’s assistance, Swenson’s right-wing politics, Swenson’s sacrifices and invaluable advice.

Sackville-West had six hours of video interviews with SA sympathizers who “remembered” Swenson. And all the documentation was there.

But maybe Crandall smelled a ringer.

There’d been just the faintest flare of suspicion in Crandall’s eyes, somehow not at all incongruous with the smile, when he’d shaken Swenson’s hand.

Was it suspicion… Or jealousy? Swenson wondered. Crandall would know that Swenson and Ellen Mae were on the verge of becoming an item.

Suddenly Swenson was uncomfortably aware of the armed guard standing behind them, quiet as a piece of furniture, lethal as a bullet.

Crandall changed the subject, and Swenson forced himself to listen to Crandall’s diatribe on a threatened liberalization of the ironically-named Antiviolence Laws of 2025.

“…The principle is very simple, as I see it, John,” Crandall was saying. “And since it was voted into law, violent crime has been reduced in the country. I don’t know the precise statistics…” He looked at Swenson.

Swenson knew he was being tested. The John Swenson created by Purchase was supposed to be an expert on the Antiviolence Laws. They’d steeped him in them. He knew the statistics, all right.

Swenson nodded and said, “Violent crime was reduced by twenty percent in the first five years, then by thirty-eight percent in the second five years, and now we’re down forty-one percent. As I understand it, the program as it stands calls for the death penalty for the second homicidal violent crime—the first in cases involving sadism or torture—and for the third occasion of non-homicidal but nevertheless violent crime. Constitutional rights to appeal are suspended after the second conviction. The convict is to be executed within twenty-four hours of conviction, as inexpensively as possible. Senator Chung and Senator Judy Sanchez are leading the fight calling for the law’s repeal…” Swenson paused, wondering if he was reciting too well. But Ellen Mae was beaming, nodding encouragingly, so he went on. “They are, I believe, uh, pointing up statistics showing that more people are executed who are later shown to have been innocent… But, of course—” He shrugged expansively, as if he couldn’t understand how they could so stupidly miss seeing the obvious. “—the program’s architects knew perfectly well that more innocent people would be convicted, by accident, because of the hastening of the judicial process… But because the program reduces violent crime by creating a stronger deterrent, and by taking killer-types not only off the street but out of the world, there are also fewer victims of violent crime. Which compensates for the rise in the number of innocent convictees. Victims of crimes are innocent, too.”

Swenson cleared his throat apologetically, as if to say, Sorry about running off at the mouth that way. He looked modestly at Crandall and waited for the verdict.

Crandall grinned and said, “My Good Lord but he’s got the gift, don’t he!” He turned to Ellen Mae. “I wonder if Mr. John Swenson here could be convinced to do a little testifying for the CSO when they give their testimony in support of the Antiviolence Laws next month…?”

“Well, don’t look at me!” she said, laughing. “Why don’t you ask him? He’s standing right there.”

Crandall lowered his voice to a stage whisper. He pretended to talk to her behind his hand. “You think ah dare tuh?” His accent deepening for the sake of humor.

Ellen Mae giggled.

Swenson thought, The CSO: Commission for Social Order. Controlled by the SA. Funded by the SA’s friends. Advocates of a more “broad-minded” interpretation of the Constitution… Advocates of the imposition of martial law in high-crime areas. Most of the country’s military manpower, including the majority of the Reserves and the National Guard, were either fighting the Russians overseas or massed along the USA’s coasts. The implementation of martial law would require that some paramilitary, mercenary, or private police force be hired to supplement the urban police. And the biggest such organization was the SAISC.

Swenson marveled at the scale of Crandall’s ambitions. But was it Crandall—or was it Watson? Or was there someone else, someone less public?

“Well, now, John boy, I was just wonderin’…” Crandall began, drawling it out slowly to give him his cue.

Swenson chuckled and said, “By some chance I happened to overhear. I’d be honored to testify for the CSO.”

And he’d do it with conviction. He’d been a Jesuit for a few years—and he’d never believed in God. He could be an intellectualized fascist, too. He was good at playing parts, at being anyone but a man named Stisky.

Ellen Mae Crandall came to him just five minutes after midnight, wearing an oversized, remarkably non-erotic bathrobe.

She was playing the lost, weak woman now. Her eyes were large and shiny in the dialed-down light of the hallway. She was carrying what he thought was a glass of warm milk, and her voice was slightly slurred. He smelled brandy on her.

“Hi… Could I talk to you about something? I’m sorry if you were asleep. I just—”

“I couldn’t sleep, in fact,” he said, moving back from the door to invite her in.

Swenson was wearing a bathrobe over pajamas. He felt strange in pajamas—he never wore them normally, but they seemed appropriate in this house. There wasn’t even a computer console in his room.

Ellen Mae looked to see that the hall was empty. Then she padded into the room. He closed the door behind her. There was a moment of awkward silence. She held the glass up between them. “You—you really have to try this. It’s my mother’s recipe…” He smiled and took it gratefully, glad he wouldn’t have to do the job without having a drink in him. He sipped and almost spat it out in his surprise. It was eggnog, with brandy in it. Thick, creamy, almost without sweetening. He thought of semen. He said, “Whoa. It’s good.”

“A little libation lengthens the life, my grandmother used to say.”

Quoting her goddamned grandmother, he thought. And then he warned himself: Get into the role!

She rubbed her eyes. “My eyes are so tired. Looking at a screen all day…”

Swenson knew what that meant. He turned and dialed the light lower. “How’s that?”

“Better.”

“Come and sit down, and tell me about it.”

In the dimness, he almost liked the way she looked. Or maybe it was the brandy.

She sat down beside him; the bed didn’t creak—they never did anymore.

He took one of her hands between his, smiled, and said, “Tell me about it.”