“Would you approve a two-rank advance for information leading to he capture of Separatist leaders Daniel Movius, Nathan O’Brien, Warren Gerard, Quilliam London, Navvy London…” The machine went on clacking out names, district organizers, cell leaders.
“That means they’ve made Grace talk,” said Navvy.
“Give the word,” said Movius. “The revolt is on!”
Phil Henry typed out the signal, a phrase Movius had remembered from an ancient history book.
“FIRE ONE!”
Movius turned to the ring of watchers. “You have work to do. Get on it.”
They dispersed to desks, phones. Some picked up weapons, went out. A tight-wave radio transmitter was warmed up on one desk.
A dead feeling settled into Movius’ stomach. Grace… They’ll pay! Damn them! First the revolt. Nothing else could occupy his attention now. Still he felt the numbness inside him. He wondered if other commanders had felt this way when the battle was joined and the outcome depended on the planning that had gone before. The history books never mentioned it.
The distant roar of an explosion echoed up the conduit tunnels, created a momentary ear-clicking vacuum in the headquarters room. Movius put a green pin into the map at Tampico. Another city secured for them. The radio operator came across the room with a message, scuffing his way through scattered balls of crumpled paper. “Campobella has just capitulated in Manila,” he said.
Movius looked to this watch. Two a.m. They’d been at it seven hours almost. He felt no tiredness, only a dull ache every time he thought of Grace.
O’Brien straddled a chair, his back to the table the four analysts had used. “We’ve done it, Dan. You should be…”
Janus Peterson hurried into the room, ran across to Movius. “The remnants of The Coor’s force are holed up in the Bureau of Communications Building. Shall we bring the place down with explosives?”
“What was that explosion I just heard?” asked Movius.
“They were trying to blast open one of the tunnels. We’ve got them all knocked down and sealed off with rubble.”
Movius turned away, looked at the map. Is Grace with them? he wondered. Do I have the right to send men to their deaths storming the place on the chance we could save her? He shook his head. This should be a decision for someone else.
The transceiver beside him, silent since they’d sent the order to revolt, came to life. It clacked out a single word: “MOVIUS.”
He looked at the message tape, turned to O’Brien, and at that instant saw Navvy enter the room. Navvy stepped heavily over the sleeping forms of Gerard and bodyguard where they were manacled to the pillar. A Bu-Psych medic had given them shots to knock them out when they’d started interfering by yelling curses at Movius. Navvy shifted a stutter gun from his right to his left arm, stopped at the desk and leaned against it. “North and East sections cleared. The rest is mop-up.” He wiped at his face, left a stream of grime down one cheek. “A Bu-Con squad took over a Warren in Lascadou, killed every man, woman and child inside. Then they had the guts to beg for mercy. A mob tore ’em apart, literally.”
Again the machine beside Movius began to chatter. “WE WILL BARGAIN WITH YOU.” It was signed, “HELMUT GLASS.”
Navvy joined Movius at the transceiver, looked at the message. “I told you they’d offer to trade Grace for their hides.”
Movius sat down at the machine, found the RR button for Registration Reply, remembered all the times he had punched that button in the kiosks to register for opps. He typed with two fingers: “THIS IS MOVIUS. WHAT DO YOU WANT?”
The machine remained silent.
Over his shoulder, Movius said, “Nate.”
O’Brien stepped forward. “Yes?”
“We’ve won, haven’t we?”
“You know that as well as I do. No doubt about it.”
The transceiver rapped out, “ARE YOU WILLING TO BARGAIN?”
Movius sighed, typed, “DELIVER GRACE UNHARMED AND I WILL GIVE YOU YOUR LIVES.”
There was a longer wait this time, only the humming of the transceiver indicating the beam was open. Again the machine chattered: “WHERE ARE YOU?”
“Do they want to deliver her here?” asked Navvy.
“They may already have killed her and be fishing for information,” said O’Brien. “Remember, they’re desperate men.”
Movius put his hands to his face, leaned against the transceiver. Yes, they’re desperate men, he thought. There was a way to be certain of Grace’s fate, but he couldn’t ask anyone else to take the risk.
The machine clacked: “CALL OFF YOUR MEN OR WE WILL KILL HER IMMEDIATELY.”
Over his shoulder, Movius said, “Janus, tell them to hold off the attack.”
Janus ran to the door, relayed the message to a courier, returned.
“I HAVE SENT THE ORDER,” typed Movius.
The transceiver came right back: “MOVIUS, WE ARE ON ONE OF THE TOP FLOORS OF BU-COMM. COME OVER AND TALK OR WE KILL HER.”
“You can’t do that!” exploded Peterson. “Maybe they’ve… Well, maybe they just want to get both of you to kill you.”
Movius ignored him, typed, “I AM COMING.”
“Janus is right,” said O’Brien. “Send someone else.”
“Send me,” said Peterson. “I let her get caught.”
Something compounded of all the hate, the ambition, the fear for Grace became a hard lump inside Movius. “I’m still the commander here!” he barked. “I give the orders!”
Navvy said, “I’m not letting you go,” started to grab his arm.
Movius slapped down the hand. “She’s your sister, Navvy; my wife. I’m going. Don’t try to stop me.”
“Let him go,” said O’Brien.
The streets were dark, strangely silent. Only in the distance could he hear the whooshBOOM! of rocket launchers to tell him the battle was not ended. A lackluster moon ducked in and out of clouds, showed a scattering of wrecked cars on Government Avenue, a few sprawled bodies.
Three blocks to Bu-Comm. Navvy walked silently on one side, Janus Peterson on the other. They met a Sep patrol which recognized Movius and, strangely, lined up along the sidewalk, stood at attention while he passed.
“Do they know where I’m going?” asked Movius.
“I told the runner,” said Janus Peterson.
Attack squads around the Bu-Comm Building opened up to permit Movius and his companions to pass. The men stood at attention until Movius had passed. There it was—tallest building in the city with its transmission facilities and huge tower. Movius looked at the building, wondered why the men were so respectful.
As though answering his unspoken question, Peterson said, “You’ve given us LP’s back our pride, sir. We’re never going to forget that.”
Movius realized the big man was crying, thought, Janus believes I’m going to my death. Maybe I am. He could sense the presence of many men around him, could distinguish the still outlines of bodies sprawled in the street in front of the building.
“Does someone have a hand light?” he asked.
An arm came out of the darkness beside him, pressed a metal tube into his hand. A receding voice whispered to someone, “I gave him my light.” Movius had the sudden feeling of looking into the future and knew he had seen the genesis of a story. “I gave Daniel Movius my handlight the night he climbed to the Bu-Comm tower.”
Movius said, “I’ll signal from the south parapet. Three flashes means come on up, they’ve surrendered. Two flashes means wait. One flash, a delay and another flash, attack. Give me an hour. It’s a long climb.”