Campion closed the door and hurried around to climb in beside the wheel. “Home, Miss Bain?”
“No,” she said. “The office.”
He frowned. “The office? Are you sure that’s best, considering —?”
“Considering what?” she snapped. “Take me to my damn office.”
He winced as if he’d been slapped, and nodded. As he turned away, though, Zephyr saw the complex flicker of emotions in his eyes. He was stung, sure, but there was also evident tolerance and more of the same wet-eyed compassion. Christ. The asshole thought that she was being snappish because she was in pain and afraid. Like most of them, he had no clue what went on in the minds of his betters. Zephyr wanted to stab him. No, she wanted to give him her cancer and take his vitality. It was so wasted on people like him. When the change happened, when everything John the Revelator predicted came true, this oaf wouldn’t be worth keeping around to grease the engines. Maybe — just a slim maybe — he might be useful in a factory during the transition to full self-driven automation. Maybe, but she doubted it.
Campion squared his shoulders, put the car in gear, and drove away without another word.
She settled back in the seat and pressed the button that closed and sealed the pane of soundproof security glass between her and the driver. Then she took her cell phone out of her purse and made a call to the man who had been both friend and occasional lover for years now. On the lecture circuit and on TV, he called himself John the Revelator. His real name was buried in the past, and the fake one on his impeccable set of official documents was John St. John. Only Zephyr and one other person knew who and what he really was.
John answered on the fifth ring. “How’d it go?” he asked.
“We’re moving the timetable up,” she said.
A pause. “That badly?”
“Fuck it, and fuck you.”
Another, longer pause. “I’m sorry, my love. You deserve better.”
“I deserve to live long enough to see it work, goddammit. But—” She paused. “Look, I at least want to see it start, okay? I want to watch it catch fire. Is that too much to ask? After everything I’ve done, is that too much?”
“No,” said John in a soft and gentle voice. “It’s not.”
The car drove two blocks before she spoke again. “There’s no more time, is there?”
“For you, my sweet? No. I gave you what I could.”
“How?” she begged. “How did you do it?”
“Does it really matter?”
“I need to know.”
“You don’t,” he said. “You were a candle in a strong breeze and your light was going out. I kindled a flame and you have burned so very brightly. You will flare like the sun when you go. Isn’t that enough?”
She said nothing. Tears burned like acid on her face.
“When you go there will be nothing — not one person, not one inch of ground on this earth — that won’t remember you, Zephyr. You are about to become the most famous person in history. No, let me say it with more precision and truth. You are about to become the most important person who has ever lived. You will do this world more genuine and lasting good than Jesus, Buddha, Muhammad, or anyone else. None of those pretenders have ever had your courage; none of them have ever had your genius. They are failures, because they had the same vision. They knew what had to be done, but they were weak men and you are a strong woman, and it is you, Zephyr Bain, my own beloved, who will give birth to a new world. You. No one else. You alone. Magnificent, beautiful you.”
She caved forward for a long moment, her face buried in her palms, and shook with silent tears.
“I… I can’t do it alone, John,” she mumbled through her tears. Agony of heart and body painted her words with loss, with fear.
“You’re not alone. I will never leave you,” he promised. “I’ll be with you to the very end.”
“There’s not enough of me left. I’m so sick… God, I can barely walk.”
“You don’t need to walk. You don’t need strength of limb anymore. Your mind, your will, your certainty of what needs to be done is all that matters. Zephyr, believe me when I say that if I have to I’ll hold your hand while you strike the match.”
It was that, those words, that hit her, and a sob broke in her chest that hurt every bit as much as if someone had punched her. It made her heart hurt, too. But it also made her smile.
“Thank you,” she said, and realized that she meant it. Her face scrunched up as sobs sought to bully their way out of her, but Zephyr forced it all back, stuffed it inside. She took a long breath. “Thank you for everything.”
“Of course, my love,” he purred. “Anything for you. Everything for you.”
“Can we move up the timetable?”
“We can, but there will be risks. Several aspects of Havoc will have to be rolled out at the same time. That will be noticed. Our enemies look for patterns, my dear.”
“Because of MindReader?”
“Because of that, yes, and because they have become habituated to a certain kind of useful paranoia.”
“Useful?”
“To them,” said John. “The nature of our troubled world has trained them to jump, and to jump very quickly. And experience with some of our old friends has engendered within them a tendency toward focused aggression. Mr. Church loves a scorched-earth scenario. The tidiness of it suits his insect mind.”
Zephyr chewed on that for a moment. “What if we cut the whole process down and launch most of it at the same time in eleven or twelve weeks?”
“The Deacon and his people would see it.”
“Would that matter by then?” she asked. “If it all happens at once, wouldn’t the DMS and all the other agencies be overwhelmed? Once Havoc starts moving — and I mean the whole thing — how would they be able to stop it?”
John made a soft humming sound as he thought it through. “Hmm… you may be right, but don’t underestimate the DMS. The Deacon is remarkably dangerous.”
“So you keep saying. God, John, you talk about him like he has superpowers or something. He’s just another government flunky. He’s a nothing, a piece of shit to avoid stepping in. We can—”
“No,” he said sharply, the reproof thick in his voice. “The Deacon is your enemy, but it is not for you to disparage him. Not ever, and certainly not to me.”
“Why not? I thought you hated him.”
“Hate him? No. I would gladly cut his heart out and offer it to the midnight stars, but hate him? How could I?”
Zephyr exhaled slowly. “You say things like that as if I’m supposed to understand what you mean.” When he made no comment, she said, “I want to move the timetable up. What is the absolute soonest we could launch Havoc with a high degree of probable success?”
“Eleven weeks,” he said at once.
“Then let’s do it. And if you’re afraid the Deacon and his goon squad will be a problem, then maybe we should ask the Concierge to see what he can do to spice things up. That little French psychopath always has some nasty ideas.”
“He is deliciously creative,” John agreed, “and he likes a challenge. Perhaps it would work best for us to get the DMS involved rather than try to do this completely off the radar.”
“How?”
“Oh… something will occur to us, and certainly to the Concierge.”
“Good. Give the Concierge the go-ahead. Let him deal the DMS in, if that will help. Make sure he understands that money is no object. Not anymore. Not for me. Tell him about what my doctor said.”