A war of shadows, p.25
A War of Shadows, page 25
H W Secretary Meekins was the first to see it, and she was appalled. “You mean that current strains won’t disappear in a day? They’ll continue to live and multiply?”
Edelman nodded. “And they’ll be mutated, beyond the vaccine’s effectiveness. There will be no defense. Oh, don’t worry. It won’t destroy the world, I’m assured. There is sufficient radiation from the sun alone to mutate it into harmlessness in a matter of a few days. But, I think, a few hundred strategic releases all over the country will be sufficient to eliminate most human life in North America.”
Again they were in an uproar. Wainwright’s eyes kept going to the blue cannister in Jake’s hand. “That can—that is the new stuff?” he asked nervously.
Edelman felt much better. That question was what he’d waited for.
“Yes, it is. This is the stuff that makes you feeble-minded,” he told them cheerfully. “Washington wouldn’t even notice. This spray can alone is sufficient to, say, infect the entire White House area if I push the little wax-sealed plunger here. See?”
Many were on their feet now. The Secretary of State started for him, angry and panicked, but was stopped by two of his fellows.
When they’d calmed down again, Jake continued. “The friends of Mickey Mouse have the cylinders.
I don’t even know who they are, nor does anybody know them all. We’ve all been deep-probed and blocked, so I haven’t any idea how anybody would know. We voted on it—you remember voting, don’t you? We decided that we’d rather have death for us and our children than live under your new order. Man will survive. But we won’t. And you won’t. And if I don’t walk out of here, at the proper time, they will know your answer.”
Wainwright was shaken, as were the others. None of them could take their eyes off the small blue can in Jake Edelman’s hand.
“And you expect us to surrender, to expose ourselves?” Wainwright said. “Hell, man, you might as well push that button. We’re dead anyway.”
Now it was Jake Edelman’s turn to smile. “No, sir, I do not. What I propose is a simple compromise, the art of political expediency. We have the names of all the Institute personnel. It was simple, once we cracked your computer code. We will be watching you. But—here is what I propose you do. I propose you change that speech of yours for tomorrow. I propose that, instead, you outline the plot exactly as you were going to—use the same scapegoats you intended to, except keep it to the dead and those quickly silenced. Then announce that the plot has been completely and thoroughly broken. Democracy is saved, freedom is restored. Slowly you will lift the state of emergency, and all constitutional guarantees are back in force right now. The computer ID system will be phased out. Military controls will be lifted. Slowly, the country will return to normal. Tell the people that Abraham Lincoln suspended constitutional guarantees during the Civil War, and instituted military government to save the nation, as you have. He then ended those measures; now you will, too. Slowly, over the next year, the majority of you in this room will retire or leave for better opportunities. After all, Mr. President, you’re nearing the end of your second term. It’s natural. You’ll retire a hero, an elder statesman. They’ll sing songs and write epic plays about you.
“Hell, they’ll probably build a giant granite statue of you on the Mall as a hero like Lincoln, and put you on the dime, you son of a bitch.”
Wainwright looked thoughtful. His eyes now left the blue cannister for the first time, going to the others in the room.
“Comment?”
“He’s bluffing!” one of them said. “We’re so close, we can’t give in now!” another echoed. But the majority had more pragmatic looks on their faces. Finally Wainwright exhaled and turned back to Edelman.
“We’ll have to check this, you know,” he said.
Edelman smiled. “Try and find a blue cannister, or a Wilderness Organism,” he invited. “Try and find the models. Your five-person team at NDCC are all dead now. They—ah, committed suicide.”
Wainwright gulped. “Leave that can there, for analysis,” he said.
Edelman shook his head. “Uh-uh. I need it with me. Find your own, if you can,” he said, and got up.
“Where do you think you’re going?” somebody asked.
“I’m going home, to a wife I haven’t seen in two and a half weeks,” he said wearily. “And tonight I’m going to wine her and dine her and romance her like there’s no tomorrow. And then I’m going to sleep. And when I wake up, I’m going to turn on my television and watch your speech, Mr. President. That’s what I’m going to do. I won’t be hard to find if you want me.”
He placed the can in his pocket, keeping a hand also in the pocket, and closed and latched the briefcase with his left hand. With that, he turned and walked out the nearest door. Nobody stopped him.
He walked wearily down the corridors, then down the stairs, and out the east entrance to a waiting car. Bob Hartman was driving, and seemed to come alive when he saw his boss.
Edelman got in, and they drove slowly off, out the gate, and down the mall, turning right and heading out over the 14th Street Bridge.
Jake Edelman stared at the muddy Potomac. “River level’s high,” he said. “Pull over to the side, Bob, and stop for a minute.”
Hartman, puzzled, did as instructed. Edelman pulled the can from his pocket and looked at it.
“You know, that was cheap spray paint Minnie got,” he said. Hartman looked at the can. Coming through the dried baby blue paint were the words Action Ant and Roach Killer and the picture of a dead roach, upside down. It was faint, but unmistakable.
Hartman whistled slowly. Edelman got out of the car, looked for a moment at the center of the river channel, and tossed the can into the water.
Slowly, looking very tired, he got back in and they started off once again. Hartman stared at him. “Do you think they’ll buy it?” he asked.
“I’m still here,” Edelman pointed out. “And so are you. They know there’s an organization, they won’t find any blue cylinders, and they won’t find any trace of the Wilderness Organism at NDCC except five dead traitors. Right?”
Hartman nodded.
“With the founders of the Institute, I think we might have lost,” he said. “But with their adopted children? Well, we’ll know for sure tomorrow.”
They drove on a while in silence, clearing two military checkpoints. Another seven kilometers and they were into the northern Virginia suburbs, and not long after that they were pulling into Jake Edelman’s driveway.
Edelman started to get out of the car.
“Jake?” Bob Hartman said.
Jake stopped, turned, and said, “Yes?”
“You’re a great man, Jake.”
Jake Edelman smiled, turned, got out of the car and slowly walked up to the front door. He fumbled for his keys, found them, and opened the front door.
Bob Hartman just watched him, a tiny little figure, ugly and unkempt, as he disappeared into his small brick house.
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Jack L. Chalker, A War of Shadows
