“It’s still the same joke.” Carlson was simmering, his face red. “You talk about new ideas, let’s see you deliver.”
“Hell, have I talked myself into a Cyrano?” Chairs scraped as people turned to listen. Good; enough of the reporters grinned at the reference for the play to work. “Let’s start with the same form, but get away from ancient history. Siemens has chosen his advisers: Gordon Liddy and Dr. Strangelove. Or a military twist: General Insanity and Corporal Punishment.”
Siemens sipped at the rich, peaty Scotch, then went on. “Since you folks make a big deal of my ego, we could play on that. ‘What? You think I’m not smart enough on my own?’ Or a cinematic allusion: ‘Advisors? We don’t need no stinking advisors!’ Politicaclass="underline" ‘I decided to skip the advisors and double-team the spin-doctors.’ Modest: ‘You think I paid somebody for these crazy ideas?’ ”
He looked around the room, stirring his subconscious for ideas. There was always a way to win a crowd. Hell, he was brighter than these goons, and they were head and shoulders above their audiences. “Then there’s the religious: ‘I won’t say who the advisors are, but their words come on stone tablets.’ Turn that around, with the ego slant: ‘I can’t go to God for advice: He asks me.’ And the academic…”
The conference is in the War Room, but it isn’t the War Room. The glass wall behind Martell looks out not on Ops, but on the marina and the Texas Hill Country beyond.
Around the conference table, faceless figures go through the motions of a silent argument. Mechanical gestures, mannequin heads turning with the ebb and flow of unheard discussion. Unheard by Martell, that is. All he can hear is the ticking of a clock.
Time is running out. And Martell is stuck in a meeting.
He can’t hear, he can’t speak. He can only nod and turn his head as the other automatons do. He has no idea what they are talking about, or why they think it matters. So what else is new? The featureless heads turn, the clock ticks on.
Silence.
The clock has run out.
The flash is behind him. North? Austin? Martell can’t move, can’t hide, but at least he doesn’t turn towards it. The mannequins turn, heads snapping about. Even facing away, the hellish glare nearly blinds Martell. Still, he can see the smooth plastic faces twist and melt, running in rivulets down the scorched, smoking Brooks Brothers suits. There aren’t even skulls behind the blank masks. The heads are empty shells, and when the fronts are gone, the backs wither and melt in the ever-brighter glare.
Martell finds his voice.
And screamed.
He felt the tender arms around him, comforting him, before he was fully awake. “It’s OK, Stan, it’s OK, only a dream.” He hugged her fiercely, then buried his face in her hair as he ran his fingers across the satiny skin of her back.
“Why do you put up with me, Helen? Why do you keep coming back?”
“Silly!” She nuzzled his cheek, nipped an ear, then pulled back to look at him. “I guess I still love you.” She smiled sadly and rapped him on the forehead. “Some of you, anyway. There’re so many of you in there.”
Martell sighed. “I must seem like a self-centered three-year-old, sometimes.”
“I kind of like him. Brings out the maternal, maybe. He’s more fun than the teenager who takes himself so seriously, or the old man, weary of the world.”
“Sweet Helen, make me immoral with a kiss.” Martell pulled her to him, but his eyes caught the clock by his bed. “Jesus, it’s after 2 A.M.!”
“Don’t worry, Stan, I told Tony I’d probably spend the night with you.”
“You did what?” His heart pounded, the floor seemed to shift.
“I could tell you needed me, even if I didn’t know how badly.” She shook her head. “Don’t tell me you thought he didn’t know?”
Martell stared at her, speechless. He’d thought that he knew her, and Tony. The wave of guilt at betraying Tony fell away, replaced by confusion and fear. Had this been a casual roll in the hay, so unthreatening to their relationship? Worse, perhaps, an act of sympathy?
“Don’t get your hopes up,” she said, misreading his expression. “Tony trusts me, we love each other. It’s just…”
Dread built up within Martell. What could upset her so much that their tangled relationship was a side issue?
“I love you, too, Stan,” she went on. “I couldn’t live with you, but I love you, and I hate to see you wearing yourself so thin. But even more, I’m terribly afraid you’ve sold your soul to the devil. Anyone who thinks he can use Rick Siemens—” She buried her head against his shoulder, and began to cry.
Martell floated in the abstract decision space. No matter how he turned the image, there were no answers. None of the shock events he injected jarred the current worldline out of this chute. A few fractal patches leaked off to sudden swings in either direction, but most of the paths ended in a dead heat.
The limits of this Vishnu-cursed technique were frustrating, but at least he didn’t have the temptation of a last-minute kludge like that riot before the primary. Hundreds of hours analyzing effects, thousands of dollars setting the spark. Should have cut Siemens’s margin in the primary, but strengthened him for the general election, avoided this horse race.
Instead, the bastard pulled a heroic stunt, won the primary in a landslide, but diverted the worldline from the chute Martell was aiming for. In sociodynamics as in orbital mechanics, a direct shove toward your goal could be a bad move.
Now they might lose the race, and the big picture was worse than ever. The Islamic Federation was consolidating power in the Middle East, Turkey looked like a powder keg. Martell had hoped for five or six years to set up his plan. He’d be lucky to get three. There wouldn’t be time for a second try.
Siemens had to win; they had to have him ready in the Senate, for the larger plan. Sociodynamics had gotten them this far, turning a long shot campaign into a dead heat. Now it all depended on the tailored ad and the election day drill.
And it was time to call in the under-the-table offers, raise some illegal funds for illegal uses. Siemens’s surveillance ideas could be crucial, too. Compunctions were ludicrous, Martell told himself. He had blood on his hands already—going to jail was the least of his worries.
Siemens groaned as he slipped into the limo. “If I ever see another rubber chicken banquet, I’m going to puke all over it.”
“Brace yourself,” Johnson said from the facing seat. “You’ve got another lunch in thirty minutes.”
“Oh, hell. I thought we were heading to the Lockheed plant?” Christ, this was getting as hectic as a war.
“That’s not till 3 o’clock. Downtown Rotary next, but I can call and say you want a salad.”
“God, yes.” When this campaign was over, he was going to celebrate with a Thai feast. Or Indian, maybe, something with some flavor. “Martell have any new projections?”
“Yeah.” Johnson snorted. “He says it’s going to be a tie.”
“Great.” Siemens twisted in his seat to stretch his sore back. Two more days. “Ann, do you think Pryor will try any last minute mud-slinging?”
“It’s too late for that. Voters discount accusations when you don’t have time to respond. This close to the election, anything short of photos of you screwing a goat would backfire.” Johnson grinned. “So don’t screw any goats for the next couple of days—at least, not with photographers around.”