Waiting for the Galactic Bus (20 page)

That’s me could be me is me...

“— told you how it would be.”

Yes, you did, she thought, watching the screen from the depths of an icy calm. You sure as hell did, and I heard it and didn’t think about it.

Faster and faster the loop ran: Charity at ten, screaming, then no voice left to scream, only her own eyes lifting to the gun, knowing what a child shouldn’t have to know but so many did and had and would.

“— told you how it would be.”

Scream. Silence. Look up. Knowing.

Until at last the film froze on the eyes and their final recognition of horror. The child, with one second, one century or an infinity to exist, would never again look on anything or anyone unshadowed by that terrible knowledge.

Obscene... I never used that word, always thought it meant dirty movies. But this is obscene. I could scream from now until the end of time, every dirty word I ever knew, they wouldn’t be as obscene or dirty as this. Not that you kill a child, but that you could put such a knowledge into her.

Now she knew the passion churning in her: rage — not from any wound to her but simply that humans could do that to children, take the brief innocence and stain it forever with the knowledge that there was no safe place anywhere ever. Forever or for a few seconds, children shouldn’t know that much about the world.

The gun didn’t kill her. She was dead when she looked up at him. Like some old people in Plattsville who came from Europe after we beat Germany. You could see that shadow of a gun barrel all their lives.

No music, love or joy would leach that shadow from the little girl’s eyes.

“— told you how it would be.”

“Damn straight you told me,” Charity lashed back. “You murdering piece of shit, I should’ve seen you coming. But I’m glad, Roy. Glad I’m dead; that’s cleaner than being alive with you. You better hope you never meet up with Jesus. He’s sure as hell not gonna like the way you use His name. I’m afraid of you, Roy. And I think you like that.”

Trembling, near-traumatized by the force of her own rage, Charity didn’t notice Simnel switching off the set or the silence that followed.

“Can’t sleep, mum?”

“Where were you?” Charity mumbled in a voice with no life in it. “I called and called but you weren’t here.”

“Sometimes I go for a walk in the wee hours.”

“Do you know what I just saw?”

“The purges? Yes, I was there. You can see the fires burning from the balcony.”

“No, Simnel. I don’t want to.”

“The government conveniently did nothing to stop them. No one did.”

“No one?” Charity whispered, still trembling. “Not one person? Did you see what they were doing?”

“Yes, of course,” said mild little Simnel. “I expect things will change at Congress Hall, The government won’t last. Not to worry; none of this will touch us in Ultimate Rise. Shall I fix some hot cocoa, mum?”

“It’s already touched me,” Charity muttered. “I feel dirty just watching that.”

“The postmoderns would call you sentimental,” Simnel observed. “Trying to encompass inhuman behavior with human sensibility.”

“Dirty... They ain’t fixed the phones yet?”

“No, mum.”

That was good, that gave her time to think. “Simnel, I don’t live here. Just like before, you never heard of me.”

“Charity who?”

“Right. Good night, Simnel.”

“Good morning, mum.”

Charity tried to climb the stairs. All of sudden there were too many of them. “Oh, Simmy — Jesus!” She slumped down on the steps. “Even... even dead, how can they do this to people? To children?”

She felt a hundred years old, too utterly spent to climb the rest of the stairs. Like a child herself, she allowed Simnel to guide her upward, his wise, gentle voice close to her ear though she didn’t understand any of what he was telling her. Something about a tiny animal who developed in the dark while bigger animals ruled the day. A funny little thing with big eyes and fur and fear, born looking over its shoulder for danger, and out of this twitching bundle of need and terror came humans never to be wholly free of the dark or their own nightmares.

When Simnel tucked her in like a tender parent, Charity saw a wisdom in his eyes older than mountains, and a pity beyond tears.

    21   

Doing the Reichstag rag

The Case White takeover had been accomplished without a shot fired. Roy might have relished at least a little shooting after his bold blood-purge raids, but the Wembley wimps gave in to the will of the people. That will was a steady roar as Roy’s armored Cadillac inched through the Paladin-lined streets toward Government Square and drew up before the marble steps of Congress Hall. The armored car carrying his personal guard slowed in his wake.

“We’re the fuckin Congress now,” Roy smirked to Drumm beside him. “Gonna be some changes.”

“Don’t lean out too far,” Drumm cautioned. “There’s a possibility of snipers.”

“Hey, yeah.” Roy ducked back inside. They waited until the police and hulking Paladin security guards shouldered and heaved the screaming crowd back from the cars to clear a path up the steps.

“Okay, let’s go.” Roy stepped out of the car and stood a moment as the crowd caught sight of him and loosed a roar of delirious excitement.

Roy! Stride! Roy! Stride!

He basked in the sound like sunlight after long winter. It warmed and sufficed him. All they had to do was follow his word and Below Stairs would be their kind of paradise. A new order, rough on some, but you couldn’t fry eggs without breaking shells, he thought in a flush of originality. Impulsively, Roy flung up his right hand with the whip. The screaming cut like edited tape. The crowd hovered, quivering, for his words.

“We been down! Going UP!”

The mob roared like maddened animals. GOING UP!

“Damn right,” Roy muttered to Drumm as they mounted the steps inside a cordon of armed Paladins. “They waiting for us?”

“Shaking in their boots,” Drumm assured him. “Ready to agree to anything.”

Looked that way: the guards at the door stood to nervous attention when Roy passed. They were pointedly unarmed and looked anxious to leave. Roy’s entourage commandeered two elevators to the executive floor, alighted and formed again, the guards flanking Roy and Drumm. Roy took a moment to straighten his tunic and hat, tug at the bolstered Luger. “Let’s go. Short and sweet.”

Their jackboots rang in unison down the marble hall.

“Here.” Drumm halted before open double doors. Roy felt disappointed; he’d hoped the guards could kick them in. The first four guards swept into the chamber, weapons at the ready. One of them nodded to Drumm, who stood aside for Roy. “After you, my Leader.”

Roy stalked into the executive chamber. The guards’ precaution was hardly necessary. A small elderly man huddled behind a large, ornate desk, head in his hands. Next to him stood another man, somewhat younger and much more vital, quiet defiance flashing in his eyes. This was the one who might be trouble, Roy decided. Looked like a smart-ass college boy lieutenant always used to hard-ass him in the Air Force, always thought he was better than anybody.

Drumm strutted to the desk, a parody of protocol. “Leader Stride, may I present the former president, Ronald Wembley. And” — a studiedly contemptuous glance at the distinguished man at the president’s side — “the former prime minister, Jason Blythe.”

“The papers are executed,” Wembley began in a haggard voice. “The transfer of power is complete. For the people’s sake, I ask —”

“You’re in my chair,” Roy cut him short. “Move it, Wimpley.” A nod to the guards: two of them hauled Wembley out of the leather chair and pushed him to one side.

“What the fuck would you know about the people, Wimp?”

“The president’s name is Wembley,” Blythe snapped.

Drumm spun on him, vibrant with malice. “You shut your mouth. You had your say a long time, Blythe. From here on, it’s ours.”

“And what price the Leader’s loyal right hand?” Blythe posed the acid question. “His own theater? Perhaps a decent toupee?”

“Hey.” Roy pointed at Blythe. “You got something personal against my minister?”

“No more than against the spread of roaches,” Blythe retorted. “Mr. Drumm is a former clerk from this office with a habit of opening private mail.”

“The right mail at the right time,” Drumm admitted with malicious satisfaction. “That’s how I learned of your personal vendetta against my plays.”

Blythe seemed to find that amusing. “Plays? Ah, yes —
More Stories from the Toilet Zone.
The smaller the man, the larger his power fantasies. Mr. Stride, I would prefer to be liquidated now, if you please.”

Roy had to grin at the guy’s balls. “What, you crazy?”

“No. Just tasteful.”

“Mr. Stride, if I may.” Wembley approached tentatively; the guards moved to intervene but Roy waved them away. “I wanted to say for the people that you must be sensitive to their greater needs.”

“Cut the shit, Wimp. What do you think I’m doing? Hear them out there? I
am
the people.”

“Yes.” Beyond the weariness and defeat, Wembley’s tone was faintly ironic. “I should like to retire now.”

Roy laughed at him. The poor old bastard looked pathetic. “Sure, go ahead.”

Drumm drew himself up as far as five foot four could manage and ran the back of one gloved hand across his mouth. “Guard, let the old gentleman go home.”

“But not him.” Roy jerked a thumb at Blythe. “I don’t like his fuckin mouth. Take him to solitary.”

Blythe was marched out after Wembley. Drumm held the executive chair for Roy. “Sir?”

Roy went to the chair as a king to coronation, settled in it, spreading his hands over the polished desk top. “That Blythe is a smart-ass. Sit on him.”

The small dead oysters behind Drumm’s thick glasses registered their closest to pleasure, momentarily less cold. “Done, Leader.”

“I’ll count on that.” Roy couldn’t like Drumm, no one really could, but he was loyal to the point of adoration and very efficient. “So you wrote horny plays, huh?”

“I wrote truth. Only leftist liberal hypocrites called them pornographic.”

“Yeah, well now you’re in the top ten, maybe you can have your own the-ayter.”

“Thank you, sir.” Drumm clicked his heels. He did it so well that Roy glared around at the guards, who looked too damned casual. “Nobody gave you at ease! Hit it!”

They jerked to rigid attention.

“That’s better.” Roy lifted his booted feet onto the desk. “I used to be enlisted myself. Discipline’s the backbone of any outfit. When I say jump, you jump. When I say shit, you squat and strain, got it? Okay. At ease. Drumm!”

Click! “Leader?”

“Something missing in here. Yeah. Take down Wimp’s picture. I want one of me, like an oil painting, you got it? And bigger.”

Ever resourceful, Drumm knew just the artist to execute the commission, one who’d done covers for barbarian fantasy novels.

“Ri-i-ght.” Roy glowed, hands behind his head. “Somebody who can draw guys with balls and women that look like women. Which reminds me. How about —” Roy broke off and glared at the guards. “Hit it!”

Clack!

“Dismissed. But wait outside.”

Alone with Drumm, Roy became confidential, almost friendly. “You know how it is with a real man. Got certain needs, but he knows what’s right. That’s what bugs me about that Blythe. Smart-ass fuckers like him think we’re dirt, don’t know shit about good manners or what’s the right thing to do. I know what the people expect from me that way. The hell I ain’t a gennelman. I’m gonna get married to Charity Stovall soon’s you find her, and you do that real quick, you got it? Gonna do the right thing by her. Where’s Florence?”

Drumm didn’t smile at the revealing non sequitur. “Watched over, sir.”

“Give Florence her own house, all the beer she wants. But out of the way, you know what I mean?”

Drumm knew. “A discreet location.”

Roy chucked the little man under one of his chins with the whip. “Discreet and close.”

“May I suggest Blythe’s former accommodations? Lovely house, very secluded.”

“Right on. I like that.” Roy snickered, swinging his boots off the desk. He swaggered about the chamber, hands on his hips. Perfect, sure enough. He peered out from the curtained double windows at the crowd seething beyond the balcony. The sight was more than beautiful; he felt like crying. He couldn’t tell what his feelings were, but there was the purest joy he’d ever felt and still an unslaked rage at people like Blythe who looked down on him. He needed respectability. He
was
respectable, otherwise he wouldn’t trouble to marry Charity, who was the right kind of girl. What else he needed on the side, like Florence — well, that was private, no need to flaunt it. And those people out there waiting for him, he needed them too.