John Barnes - Directive 51

Chris laughed.

“Is my offer that funny?”

He thought for a moment. “No, it’s great, and I’m taking it. I’m just thinking, forty-eight hours ago I was so fed up with the network that I was looking for an excuse to quit and drive back from Iowa to California. I told myself that with my resumé, I’d have a great deal from someone else in a day . And I was right .”

“Well, of course you’ll keep your TV job as long as you have an uplink, and they’ll keep sending you money, for whatever that’s worth. But your main job will be turning out words for me. And unlike 247NN, I have fresh cabbage, a cellar full of potatoes, and tons of canned organic tomatoes,” she said. “It was a real good year.”

“It just keeps getting better. How many more staff do you need?”

“Three more staff, but one more trip around the Mall and I should have them—it’s crawling with lost reporters whose gear isn’t working, who don’t know what to do. Or maybe we should look into the Capitol. You’re more current than I am, you’ll recognize people. Look for anyone you know is good.”

“I saw CNN’s military affairs specialist go in a few minutes ago—”

“Perfect, let’s go,” she said. “Walk with me.”

He hurried after her. My god, I watched her covering Bill Clinton on TV when I was a snot-nosed middle-schooler, and she still moves like a missile.

He knew the answer, but he asked, “And am I working tonight?”

“You’d better be or the deal’s off. You’re the national affairs editor. I’d’ve given you police beat or sports, but the guy who wanted both is not only already signed up, he’s an experienced organic gardener himself, and he brought a couple tons of food into the deal.”

“Well, I sure can’t compete with that,” Chris agreed. “National Affairs it is. Are we a Democratic or a Republican paper?”

“Yes, some of the time.”

“I like the way you think, ma’am.”

“Call me ‘ma’am’ again and you’ll be out in traffic yelling ‘Read all about it.’ If there’s traffic.”

The halls of the Capitol were deserted, and Rusty Parlotta shot through them like the ghost of Gloria Steinem, intent on finding her last three staff. Chris, still carrying his TV gear, panted after. Wow, I’m going to like carrying just a notepad a lot better. Wonder if I can buy a fedora somewhere in this town, and if there’ll be a place in the hatband for the press card?

Everything was still working at Lenny’s apartment, so Heather took the chance to make her calls. At FBI headquarters in San Diego, Bambi listened sympathetically. “I’ll call him in half an hour to give you some time to talk to him,” she said, “but this big old town sprawls , you know. He’s at least nine miles away from me. However… you know about my father?”

“What about him?”

“He was one of the early leaders of the Castle movement, back when some of the crazier survivalists thought the Democrats were going to take their guns away and put them in concentration camps. And he was one of the ones rich enough to build his Castle. Plenty of room there—”

“Oh, dear Jesus, your dad is Harrison Castro?”

“Now hiring vassals,” Bambi said, “and there’s always room for a few more, I would guess. I’ll give your dad the password.”

“I don’t know if I want to sell my father into serfdom.”

“Well, it’ll be safe and definitely beat being dead, and I may not be unbiased, but I sort of think my father isn’t such a bad guy.”

Heather half-chuckled. “Okay, truth is, I’m dreading talking my fuzzy biker dad into it, but he’s also patriotic as all get-out and hates hippies.”

“See, they’re made for each other. I promise, Heather, give me your dad’s number, I’ll call him and set him up with my father, and he’ll be fine. Dad’ll probably send guards out to help bring him in.”

“The world’s getting pretty weird, Bambi.”

“Tell me about it. Any word from Edwards’s psychologist buddies about Roth’s seizure?”

“They said it can be a stress reaction in people who are trying to act contrary to a hypnotic suggestion, especially a long-standing deep one. They also said that goes with an increased risk of suicide and alcoholism. Have fun with the dear tyke.”

“I’ll pass the word along to the FBI here, in case it hasn’t gotten through their channels. Good luck, and if this is the last time the phone works, try not to worry.”

“Same to you, Bambi. Thanks for being on the job.”

It only took about ten minutes to persuade her father to accept a berth in Castle Castro; she had a horrible, sinking feeling that her father kind of liked the idea. Well, at least Bambi won’t have too much opposition to cope with.

While she was talking to her father, the lights went out briefly, and then Lenny’s extensive battery and generator backup kicked in. He wheeled swiftly through his place, turning things off to stretch the emergency systems, but just as Heather hung up with an “I love you, Dad, and you take care of your dumb butt, that’s an order,” the building power unexpectedly returned.

Lenny said, “Hey, it’s a Power Return. Important tradition. Always celebrate Power Returns with sex.”

Afterward, Heather said, “Hey, weren’t they saying power might go on and off three to six times a day for a while?”

“That’s why it’s so important to follow the Return of the Power tradition.”

“And where did this tradition come from?”

“Well, technically, it won’t be a tradition till the next time we do it.”

For a while they just lay together, listening to the reassuring hum of the refrigerator. “You’ve really got strong arms.” She ran a finger along Lenny’s right triceps and smiled. “Good thing too, since you have a thing for women my size.”

“If by thing you mean insane obsessive fetish , I guess you’re right. Mind if I nuzzle that neck?”

“Mind? I insist.” She rubbed his back and arms while he pressed his face to her skin; amused at his deep breathing, she asked, “Are you memorizing my scent, Lenny? Would you like a couple of my old towels to help you track me through the swamp later on?”

“You’ll think I’m silly.”

“Only if you are.”

“Right.” His strong arms wrapped her, his right hand caressing her back gently and his fused left hand touching as light as a feather on her arm.

She leaned forward and kissed it along the ridge of knuckles. “Is this hand sensitive?”

“On the palm.” He turned it over and she kissed the solid flesh there, brushing with her lips. “Feels nice.” He took another breath of her scent.

“Um, do you just really like the way I smell? You said it was silly…”

“And sad. I thought of it when you said that about my arms.”

“Your arms make you think of my smell?”

“I get the arms from lifting weights, and I haven’t missed a workout in years. My wheelchair recharges by plugging into the wall; if the power goes out for good and I lose my generator, I’ve got three manual wheelchairs handy—a track-racing model, a mountain-racer, and a nice big comfy general-purpose one. But none of them will do me any good if I don’t keep my arms and hands in shape, so that’s why there’s a weight room back that way,” he explained, nodding down the hall.

“And exactly what does that have to do with the way I smell?”

He curled against her; she felt dampness and realized his eyes might be tearing, so she just held him and waited.