Gorgon Child Page 7

  Sterling DeLacourte.

  "Jack," DeLacourte said slowly, moving his head with that slightly mechanical movement he sometimes used when not before the cameras. "For the next few months, I would like you to use manual override when in the city. After that"—his even, white teeth gleamed—"we'll be on the Presidential Network. More carefully monitored."

  "Than the Executive?"

  "Yes." His eyes narrowed. "Yaounde. Two days ago. A Vice President of Union Carbide had his onboard overridden. Before the chauffeur regained control, the defenses had been invaded. He was kidnapped. They found the chauffeur's body this morning."

  "Yes, sir, I've prepared an update for you."

  "Good man." DeLacourte's eyes were focused elsewhere, his mind distracted. "We are heading into deeper waters, you know. We must be more careful. There are forces afoot . . . which would stop me. If they could."

  "They can't."

  "Perhaps not, but the people of this nation must make their choice in an environment untainted by emotional hysteria."

  "I understand, sir."

  "Very good." DeLacourte walked toward the waiting elevator. Jack watched him move. There was something in the man, something that gave Jack a feeling of peace.

  Peace in these troubled times . . .

  No small thing, that.

  The elevator door slid shut behind them, and Hands waited for him to speak. "Jack," he said, "I want the subliminals on the broadcast used more effectively, especially the subsonics. Blend them with the organ music."

  Hands blinked, switching modes from driver to executive officer. To his knowledge, his relationship to DeLacourte was virtually unique outside of the military. "Yes, sir."

  "These are troubled times. Indecency, immorality, and homosexuality swamp our nation. To think that weakling Harris actually uses this filth in illegal operations abroad." He paused. "What is the status of the Yaounde kidnapping?"

  "There's been no official statement ..."

  "But?" The question hung in the air between them like a bloody sun at dusk.

  "Unofficially, Gorgon has already been deployed. Premier Swarna has disclaimed all connection with the kidnappers, but any intrusion into the Pan African Republic is still skirting an act of war."

  DeLacourte grimaced. "An abomination. To think that America forces other nations to submit to this shame. That the safety of our citizens should rest in the hands of these. . . perverts." For a moment the executive overrode the Prophet. "Who is our man on assignment?"

  "Marina Batiste. She's good. She did our six-part series on the NewMen last year. She's actually gotten Gorgon to cooperate with her."

  "Amazing. I thought they hated women." He stopped for a moment, thinking. "I want to change the sermon for the day. Take a note, Jack."

  Hands triggered the solid-state recorder built into the collar of his coat. In one sense, the recorder was unnecessary: he invariably remembered everything he said, heard, or saw from the moment he awoke in the morning until he fell asleep at night.

  "Remind them that Satan often creates crises, so that his tools may insinuate themselves into our trust. For Gorgon to dispose of an evil proves nothing, for they themselves are a greater, more insidious evil. If Harris cannot see that this is sapping the moral fiber of our country . . . et cetera. Download that to secretarial, have them send me a draft by two o'clock."

  "Yes, sir."

  The tube shushed to a stop, and DeLacourte stepped out into the offices of TriNet. They were designed as a series of concentric circles. The elevator opened near the very center, across the hall from the door with the sterling silver letters "S.D." on the door. Executive, junior executive, and secretarial offices emanated outward from the center like the spokes of a wheel.

  The high chittering sound of conversation, the purr of a coffeebot making the caffeine rounds, and the mingled soundtracks of a dozen Omnivision broadcasts from a dozen different offices melted into a buzz. The buzz died completely as his employees absorbed the presence of the Gray Man.

  There was a general chorus of "Hello, Mr. DeLacourte" and "Good morning, Mr. DeLacourte" as he turned right and strode the length of the hall. He answered every nod, every cheery greeting with the same, although Hands knew that DeLacourte's mind was miles away. That was an aspect of DeLacourte that Jack Hands respected highly: his mind was dual-track. He could think about one thing, and converse on another. Amend that: multi-track, like a human Omnivision. Hands was never entirely sure when or where his employer's mind wandered, into what strange reaches . . .

  DeLacourte reached the end of the hall. The door slid back, revealing a conference room with a dozen chairs, all but three of them already occupied. The Gray Man nodded perfunctorily to the men and women seated, and took his place at the head of the table.

  Hands seated himself to DeLacourte's right, and waited. DeLacourte spent a moment looking through the day's agenda on the video plate built into the desk. This was, Hands knew, more to give the board a chance to adjust themselves to DeLacourte's presence than anything else. Strange: no matter how much time anyone spent around him, there was just . . . something about him. One never quite acclimated to Sterling DeLacourte. There was something unnerving about him physically.

  For instance (and he was almost ashamed to admit that it bothered him), it was odd that DeLacourte looked younger in person than he did on the Omni. When had he first noticed that? Two years ago, perhaps, when DeLacourte ceased appearing in public? There were other disturbing things as well. Other reasons for his associates to feel uncomfortable around the Gray Man. He squelched the speculations instantly.

  Jack Hands had opinions, but he kept them to himself. Sterling DeLacourte scared people because he knew them. Knew them—not just their habits and foibles, the things that an armada of private investigators and computer jockeys might unearth. He knew them as if he had made them. As if he had God's area code in his pocket dialer.

  He shut that thought down. He would find nothing useful up that route.

  "Gentlemen," DeLacourte began. "Advertising revenues are up one point four percent from last quarter. I recall a somewhat higher estimate. Can you explain this to me?"

  Carter stood. Although an inch taller than DeLacourte, he seemed somehow much smaller. "The majors have shifted their schedules, sir. A direct response to our aggressive programming practices. In a way it's a compliment: all four of them are running scared. They know that they can't stop us. They've reached their point of inefficiency. We're still growing. As we get closer to the National Convention in two months, our viewership will polarize and then expand. We're winning, and they know it."

  "Those don't look like winning numbers to me," DeLacourte said neutrally.

  Carter cleared his throat almost apologetically. "The numbers don't tell everything. I would like to direct your attention to the semantic differential—" Carter dropped a clear plastic card into the arm slot of his chair, and punched in a priority code. A mountain range of spike graphs appeared, each segment labeled with the name of a different candidate. "The s.d. is the best research tool we have. We interviewed over a hundred thousand registered voters. We used paired phrases like 'weak-strong,' 'tense-relaxed,' 'decisive-ambivalent,' and had our subjects describe their ideal candidate on a scale of one to seven in each of these areas. From this information we plotted this line, representing the Ideal Presidential Candidate. We then asked them to evaluate each of the six front-running candidates."

  "Including the incumbent?" DeLacourte asked.

  "Of course. If they thought Roland Harris was very brave, for instance, they would give him a seven along the cowardice-bravery line." A ghost mountain range appeared, floating in front of the "real," multicolored ranges representing the other candidates.

  "The gap between your line"—with a touch of his finger, a blue range moved to the front of the floating exhibit—"and the Ideal line represents the personality traits you should try to improve. Note that, for you, the greatest gap is between 'aristocrat-common ma
n.' This is a tricky call, because while the public wants the trappings of royalty, they resent a leader's life appearing too easy."

  Carter removed his wire frames. "Frankly, sir, there is a public perception that you have experienced insufficient personal suffering in your climb to the top. Everything seems to have come too easily to you."

  A dry smile wormed its slow way onto DeLacourte's face. "And what would you suggest, Mr. Carter? Prostate cancer, perhaps?"

  Carter peered into his master's eyes, suddenly very uncomfortable. "I—uh, I don't have the answers, sir. Our image consultants are ready to work on this area immediately. However, what I wanted you to notice is that with the exception of President Roland Harris, and Republican front-runner Sloan Hittleman, you have the most favorable profile. That's . . . that's all, sir."

  "Thank you, Mr. Carter. I will reserve judgment for another week. May I remind you all that we demographically dominate three states where revenues have actually dropped. This calls for a reexamination of our methods. I hope we are together on this." Carter nodded as if his collar were too tight, and sat down.

  "Mr. Talbot."

  A short round man with a peeling sunburn stood. "The ratings on the Los Angeles affair were good, but as you suggested, we kept coverage to a minimum."

  "An unfortunate necessity. Of course the other networks picked it up."

  "And the independents, and the hard services as well. They're having a field day with the Merc claim to act in your behalf."

  DeLacourte frowned. "Yes ... I want to slot an editorial. We need to be sure that the public sees that these people are not my puppets: I am merely in tune with the times. I abhor such regrettable acts, but more abhorrent is the fact that good and decent men would behave in such a manner. Even good men can resort to violence when inundated by . . ."

  DeLacourte paused and flashed his teeth in a brief smile.

  "Am I understood?"

  "Absolutely, sir."

  "Now, then: we have three different profit projections. The central question seems to be one of original programming versus buying rerun material ..."

  Three-quarters of an hour later the other men filed out, leaving only DeLacourte and Jack Hands.

  DeLacourte leaned back in his chair, folding his hands r'.er his belt. "Satisfactory. There is too much to do, Jack, and so little time. Satan never tires in his efforts. He has so many hands, and it sometimes seems that the Lord only these two." His smile brightened. "Now give me five minutes with my family, then we can pump in the feed from the West Coast."

  "Yes, sir. Should I leave the room?"

  "No, I'll shield you. I have no secrets."

  Again he smiled, and Hands was overcome with a wave of affection.

  The room darkened, and the table disappeared. Suddenly they were in the Rockies, in DeLacourte's retreat just outside Denver. It was remarkable how vivid the image was. He could almost smell the trees, the cool, gentle winds blowing down through the mountains.

  He waited, an invisible man in the valley, as DeLacourte's wife and child appeared.

  Where was the broadcast/projection apparatus? Obviously, here in New York it could be built into the walls themselves. Where was it in Colorado?

  Gretchen DeLacourte carried herself with that lightness and confidence that seemed to come more from breeding :nan education. She was about five and a half feet tall, with auburn hair that the Colorado sunlight flamed into gold. At Gretchen DeLacourte's age, a woman's beauty is less a product of genes than experience and attitude. She had a simple strength and dignity that made his heart ache.

  At Mrs. DeLacourte's age . . . Hands caught his thoughts wandering. There it was again, the uneasy sensation that his master was getting younger. When had that impression begun? For all of his extraordinary memory, Hands wasn't sure. Certainly no more than three years.

  God had never seen fit to bless the DeLacourtes' thirty-year marriage with natural children, so at last they had adopted a fetus from Xenon Cryonurseries. Eight-year-old Conley was the prototype of every towheaded barefoot boy who ever ran laughing through tall, wet grass. He came with his mother now. hi holding her hand, he seemed to steal some of the sobriety from her face.

  Hands hung back, watching as DeLacourte and his family met. They came within inches of touching, but halted there, reluctant to spoil the illusion. Gretchen smiled warmly. "You look tired, Sterling."

  "There is so much to do. The West Coast fiasco."

  "Yes." Dark lines formed at the corners of her eyes. For Hands, Gretchen DeLacourte stirred all of the right urges: protectiveness, admiration, loyalty, a smattering of lust. With such a woman to stand beside him, how could DeLacourte lose? "What can be done about it?"

  "I don't know. I don't disapprove of the intentions, just their methods. My message is a vital one, but the ones most desperate for my message are often guilty of imprudence. I want to stop the violence without losing the faithful." He smiled to her, their lips only inches apart. "Do you suppose that it has always been like this?"

  "If you speak loudly enough for all to hear, some will be deafened. If your light shines brightly enough for all to see, some will be blinded." His fingers brushed the spectral golden strands of her hair. "I love you."

  "I love you." He knelt, and stretched his arms out to Conley. The boy reached out, and their hands overlapped a little. Conley giggled and pulled back until their fingers just barely touched. "Father."

  "Conley. Are you enjoying your stay?"

  "It's OK, sir . . . but I wish that you were here. When do you think you'll be able to come out? Or when can we come out there?"

  "Soon, Conley. Soon. I just wanted your mother to have a chance to get away from everything. Soon."

  The boy fidgeted, then couldn't resist the urge anymore. He reached up to hug his father, oblivious to the fact that his arms sank into the hologram. The illusion of contact was enough. DeLacourte stood. He wiped at his face. "I miss the two of you so much. It's so hard sometimes." He ruined to Gretchen. "Darling—as soon as you feel rested, please come back. I need you here. All of the preparations for the Democratic National Convention are draining me."

  "I understand. We can be on the next shuttle out—"

  "Another day, at least. Please. I need your strength. Store a little more of it up for me."

  "All right."

  The image faded, and for a time DeLacourte stood staring at the space where his wife and child had stood. He turned to Hands, tears streaking his cheeks. "That's what it's about," he said huskily. "My wife, my boy. If something isn't done, there won't be a world for Conley to grow up in. By God, I'm not going to let that happen."

  Hands nodded quietly, and said nothing as the conference room reappeared.

  DeLacourte dried his face. "Now," he said. "Get me McMartin."

  DeLacourte sat back in his chair, waiting as the room rippled. Their chairs balanced impossibly on the surface of McMartin's pool. The grotesquely obese man reminded Jack Hands of nothing so much as a flesh-colored gelatin.

  Or the most bloated walrus who ever lived.

  Anything but an ordinary human being. That, McMartin didn't remind him of at all. That the world should be in such a state that a man like DeLacourte needed an abomination like McMartin . . .

  "Yes, sir."

  "Things got out of hand, didn't they? I want to know why."

  "The Scavengers intervened."

  "Scavengers? What the devil?"

  "A group that expanded after the '24 quake. They have squatter's rights on a couple of square blocks of Old Downtown. Selling it back to the city now in exchange for employment benefits, other things. Their leader, an escaped convict named Aubry Knight, interceded."

  McMartin bobbled around in the water a little, waving his hands to locomote.

  "So the NewMen got away? I see. I suppose I should praise the Lord there wasn't more bloodshed."

  "There will be if we get our hands on Knight. He seems to have vanished."

  "I am only interested i
n the pervert filth."

  "Sir—if you want the NewMen stamped out, we have to isolate them, make sure that anyone contemplating aid to them is aware of the consequences. The very grave consequences."

  "Good, then. By God, you will follow the letter of the law. You offer quarter when possible. And if death is necessary—I expect them to be killed like men. Animals they may be, but we are men. There must be no confusion in the public mind, do you understand?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "One more thing—" Was it Hands's imagination, or did DeLacourte's voice waver? "The last special you sent was too short-term."

  McMartin's eyes went sleepy. "The human body has certain . . . adaptive capabilities."

  "You're being paid enough to compensate," DeLacourte said. There was an edge of tension in his voice.

  "Yes ... I can accommodate that. Certainly. Well, my friend, we will speak soon." McMartin's picture faded.

  DeLacourte turned to Hands. "I . . . trust you, Jack. Where I go, there is room for those I trust. And only those. Remember that."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Leave me now."

  Hands left the room. There was a speech to oversee, and business to attend to. But he couldn't help a final glance back at DeLacourte. His master sat at the table, staring off into space. Thinking perhaps of the presidency. Or of the thousand thousand concerns of his network. Or of a ragtag group of hoboes called Scavengers.

  Or of something that would be delivered soon, something of greater durability than a previous shipment.

  Chapter Eight

  Rest Stop

  Tuesday, May 23

  The rainfall on the Canadian Compway left thick greasy streaks on their windscreen. Their windshield wipers flagged rack and forth sluggishly, slushing aside distorting sheets of wet. Yellow highway lights curved like sickles over the road. As their car cruised north, it was alternately bathed in filtered amber light and plunged into deep shadow.

  Aubry checked his charge meter, compared it to the beacon readout. The display wavered in the red, but wasn't solid yet: there was still a decent margin of safety.