“They, they!” Pedro smacked a fist into his palm, making Teresa wince. The man should remember where they were.
“Who are they?” Manella demanded. “Who the hell are you talking about, woman!”
Another shrug. “Do names matter? Picture all the powerful cabals of egotists cluttering the world at the turn of the century. Call them old or new money… or red cadres… or dukes and lordships. Historians know they all spent more time conniving with each other than waging their supposedly high-minded ideological struggles.
“The smart ones saw Brazzaville coming and prepared. They saw to it that all the reasonable Helvetian and Cayman ministers were assassinated or drugged and that every attempt at compromise, even surrender, was rejected.”
That rocked Pedro back. “Do you mean… ?” But June hurried on.
“Actually, do you want to know what their worst problem was? It’s afflicted them since early TwenCen — a worse threat to power elites than mass education, news media, even the personal computer. It was defection.”
“Defection?” Teresa asked, captivated despite herself.
“Each successive generation found it harder to hold onto its own children! World culture was so enticing, even to rich kids with the chance to live like rajahs. The best and brightest were always being tempted away into so-called bourgeois careers — in the arts or sciences — because those are intrinsically more interesting than sitting around clipping coupons and bullying the servants—”
“Wait a minute!” Teresa interrupted. “How do you know all this?” Then she saw something in the other woman’s eyes. “Oh—”
Teresa felt a sudden, unwelcome wash of empathy for June Morgan. The blonde geophysicist smiled wryly. “Family ties, you see. Our little branch made its break when Dad ran off to play music and do fund-raisers for wildlife. Naturally, the cousins cut us off from information, though we never lacked for money.
“Anyway, Dad didn’t want to know about their schemes. He called my uncles ‘dinosaurs.’ Said their way of thinking would die out naturally.” June snorted. “Ever hear how the dinosaurs died though? I wouldn’t want to be underfoot when it happened.”
“So you figured on playing along. Let them have their way—”
“ — till they dried up and blew away. Yeah, that was part of it. That and—” June looked down. “Well, they can be persuasive. You don’t know them.”
But Teresa figured she really did. If not as individuals, then the type — one needing stronger tonics than satisfied ordinary men and women. Their inner hunger seemed to crave money and power, but was, in fact, insatiable by anything this side of death.
Anyway, details hardly mattered. June’s dinosaur analogy matched the geological scale of the drama portrayed on the great display. Teresa could read some of those livid trails of human meddling. So many ghostly phenomena were taking place far beneath her feet, whose repercussions would reverberate long after the last blows were struck.
One recent consequence of battle was clear. Nearly every excited energy state under Easter Island was depleted from hours of ceaseless stimulation. All the filaments and prominences and delicate webs of electricity now glowed dull red and wouldn’t serve as gazer sources again until their former blue intensity returned. That could take anywhere from minutes to hours. Meanwhile, it was hard to see how the enemy could strike at them here.
As she watched, Alex’s final beam lanced along the core’s fiery rim to catch a distant bright thread in a carom off Beta’s glittering mirror. One of the enemy probes quavered and then toppled off scale. That resonator would take some time recovering, she knew.
Meanwhile, the world was converging on the bastards. How long until the clumsy, unready, uncoordinated U.N. posse finally got to them? Alex has won the advantage back. Time’s running out for the enemy. So what’ll they do now?
An answer wasn’t long in coming.
“The other two are firing up again,” the watch officer announced.
A technician protested. “But they can’t reach us past that dead zone for at least—”
“They’re not aiming at us!” The first voice answered. “Look!”
Teresa blinked as the Saharan and Japan Sea sites sent new beams to tickle the planet’s core. Beta answered with glowing counterpoints, now completely out of reach by Alex and his crew. The Tangoparu team watched, helpless to interfere.
Beta throbbed. Nearby tendrils coiled with pent-up energy. Then something actinic and mighty flashed, striking like a fist toward the heart of a great land mass.
North America.
“They’re talking!” The communications operator announced. “Blanketing all channels… it’s an ultimatum. They’re saying all national forces must back off within two minutes or…”
The young woman didn’t have to finish. A continent was visibly ringing like a hammered girder, the object lesson apparent to all.
Silence reigned. Finally Teresa asked, “What now?”
For the first time, Alex looked up from his console. Tiredly, he pulled off the subvocal, leaving red streaks where the instrument had rubbed him raw. He met her eyes. “I don’t know, Rip. I guess it depends on what they’re trying to accomplish.”
All eyes turned to the comm operator, whose specialty it was to sieve the noisy airwaves. A myriad of rapid images flickered across the woman’s face. As she pieced together the story, she slowly smiled in realization.
“That last punch was a negotiating move,” she said. “But what they say they really want is… to surrender!”
All over the room, tired workers slumped in their chairs with sighs of relief. Someone let out a whoop and threw open the double doors, letting in a fresh breeze that drove before it the stale tang of fear.
Teresa and Alex met each others’ eyes, each seeking reassurance there, and reason to accept hope.
A woman sits alone in a locked room.
She is a mighty enchantress. And though alone, she is not without company. For there are her familiars to fetch and carry for her. And a pair of heroes on the wall, chained there for her amusement.
They are Hercules and Samson, caught together in a loop of frozen time, rattling their clinking bonds as they face a mighty hydra. They have played out the same silent struggle — straining and grunting defiantly, repetitively — ever since the enchantress put them there to be “enhanced,” many days ago.
Now, though, she has little time for such things. The heroes must wait their turn.
“Oh no you don’t,” the woman croons as she watches more important images array themselves across another magic wall. The world’s simulacrum sparkles like an electric onion, seething with changes deep within. It is an impressive show, but she cares little about those lower layers. Only the brown and green and blue wrinkled outer skin, which she finds diseased, infested with a plague of greedy parasites.
Ten billion parasites called human beings.
She knows little and cares less about the inner onion. But about the skin she has studied much and cares more. She has bound herself to an oath, a quest — to the saving of that skin. To the culling of those parasites.
“Oh no, I won’t let you do that,” she says to those who thought they were her patrons, her cousins, her masters, but who are in fact, her instruments. Desperate now, they threaten, bluster, scrabbling in panic as they seek a way to save their useless lives.
Petty lives, cheap to her, since their kind are far too numerous anyway. They suffer illusions of their own importance, just because they are among the “richest” of a race of fleas. Their latest plan is the best they can hope for now… bartering millions of lives against a promise of amnesty. Already the Net fills with tentative offers. Relief swells over yet another catastrophe barely averted. But she has other things in mind.
“No, it isn’t over yet,” she says, humming sweetly as she works. An armistice would hardly serve her purposes. It must be replaced with something else. Rubbing knurled knobs, she summons forth her servants, her familiars — simpler, more obedient versions of the fearsome lizard she had once crafted and then somehow lost. These are new variants, streamlined and single-minded. They streak forth at her command, wisps of electron energy under geas to lay scourge upon the kingdom of fleas.
The first clue to this great opportunity had come from her own ex-mate, a compromiser she had once loved. His work for the military had opened this new world to her. When her cousins began financing her investigations with bottomless coffers, she suddenly had access to the very best tools — both software and hardware. Day in, day out, her little spies brought back more clues.
At first she rode along, watching as her foolish relations played with powers beyond their understanding. But as time passed, she began realizing what power they had overlooked… what lay there amidst the mountains of data, ripe for the taking. Why, it was the very sword of cleansing!
Even as the world’s nations draw back from confrontation, the enchantress uses private trails and secret byways to send her emissaries toward places far away. “You aren’t going to stop there,” she says. “Oh, no. Now is not the time to stop.”
The room suddenly shakes and sways for the fifth time in as many minutes, but this does not interrupt her. They are only aftershocks from silly earthquakes. Anyway, the house is well built, with its own ample power.
From a town called White Castle, one might faintly hear sirens wailing. But that is in the world of men and machines, and therefore as much a useless metaphor as poor, straining, sweating Hercules on the wall, damp with rivers of simulated sweat. It is in the world of electrons and hidden forces that all will be decided. And that world belongs to Daisy.
“Go ahead. Make it rattle and roll,” the enchantress says. “Enjoy your toys. But in the end, it all comes down to flesh.”