A Voice in the Wilderness (4 page)

Birnbaum’s life became the show and sleeping. His thing on the side, miffed at the inattention, dropped him. His relationship with Judith, his third wife, the smart one, the one who had maneuvered him out of the prenup, became commensurately better in nearly all respects. His son Ben’s soccer team actually won a soccer game. Birnbaum didn’t feel he could really take credit for that last one.

“This isn’t going to last,” Smart pointed out to him two months into the ride.

“What is it with you?” Birnbaum asked her. “You’re a downer.”

“It’s called being a realist, Al,” she said. “I’m delighted that everything’s coming up roses for you at the moment. But you’re a single-issue show right now. And no matter what, the fact is this issue is going to get solved one way or another in the not all that distant future. And then where will you be? You will be last month’s fad. I know you have a shiny new contract and all, but Kring will still cut your ass if you have three bad quarters in a row. And now, for better or worse, you have much, much further to fall.”

“I like that you think I don’t know that,” Birnbaum said. “Fortunately for the both of us, I am taking steps to deal with that.”

“Do tell,” Smart said.

“The Rally,” Birnbaum said, making sure the capital “R” was evident in his voice.

“Ah, the rally,” Smart said, omitting the capital. “This is the rally on the Mall in support of the Colonial Union, which you have planned for two weeks from now.”

“Yes, that one,” Birnbaum said.

“You’ll note that the subject of the rally is the Colonial Union,” Smart said. “Which is to say, that single issue that you’re not branching out from.”

“It’s not what the Rally is about,” Birnbaum said. “It’s who is going to be there with me. I’ve got both the Senate majority leader and House minority leader up there on the stage with me. I’ve been cultivating my relationships with them for the last six weeks, Louisa. They’ve been feeding me all sorts of information, because we have midterms coming up. They want the House back and I’m going to be the one to get it for them. So after the Rally, we begin the shift away from the Colonial Union and back to matters closer to home. We’ll ride the Colonial Union thing as long as we can, of course. But this way, when that horse rides into the sunset I’m still in a position to influence the political course of the nation.”

“As long as you don’t mind being a political party’s cabana boy,” Smart said.

“I prefer ‘unofficial agenda setter’ myself,” Birnbaum said. “And if I deliver this election, then I think I’ll be able to call myself something else. It’s all upside.”

“Is this the part where I stand at your side as you roll into Rome in triumph, whispering ‘Remember thou art mortal’ into your ear?” Smart asked.

“I don’t entirely get the reference,” Birnbaum said. His world history knowledge was marginally worse than his United States history knowledge.

Smart rolled her eyes. “Of course not,” she said. “Remember it anyway, Al. It might come in handy one day.”

Birnbaum made a note to remember it but forgot because he was busy with his show, the Rally and everything that would follow after it. It came back to him briefly on the day of the Rally, when, after stirring fifteen-minute speeches from the House minority leader and the Senate majority leader, Birnbaum ascended the podium and stood at the lectern on the stage of the Rally, looking out at a sea of seventy thousand faces (fewer than the one hundred thousand faces they had been hoping for, but more than enough, and anyway they’d round up because it was all estimates in any event). The faces, mostly male, mostly middle-aged, looked up at him with admiration and fervor and the knowledge that they were part of something bigger, something that he, Albert Birnbaum, had started.

Remember thou art mortal,
Birnbaum heard Louisa Smart say in his head. He smiled at it; Louisa wasn’t at the Rally because of a wedding. He’d rib her about it later. Birnbaum brought up his notes on the lectern monitor and opened his mouth to speak and then was deeply confused when he was facedown on the podium, gasping like a fish and feeling sticky from the blood spurting out of what remained of his shoulder. His ears registered a crack, as if distant thunder were finally catching up with lightning, then he heard screams and the sound of seventy thousand panicked people trying to run, and then blacked out.

Birnbaum looked up and saw Michael Washington looking down at him.

“How did you get in here?” Birnbaum asked, after he had taken a couple of minutes to remember who he was (Albert Birnbaum), where he was (Washington Sacred Heart Catholic Hospital), what time it was (2:47 a.m.) and why he was there (he’d been shot).

Washington pointed with a gloved hand to the badge on his chest, and Birnbaum realized Washington was in a police uniform. “That’s not real,” Birnbaum protested.

“Actually it is,” Washington said. “I usually work plain clothes, but this was useful for the moment.”

“I thought you were some sort of
facilitator,
” Birnbaum said. “You have
clients
.”

“I am and I do,” Washington said. “Some cops tend bar on the side. This is what I do.”

“You’re joking,” Birnbaum said.

“That’s entirely possible,” Washington said.

“Why are you here now?” Birnbaum asked.

“Because we had unfinished business,” Washington said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Birnbaum said. “You asked me to pimp a pro–Colonial Union story. I did that.”

“And you did a fine job with it,” Washington said. “Although at the end things were beginning to flag. You had fewer people at your rally than you had anticipated.”

“We had a hundred thousand,” Birnbaum said, weakly.

“No,” Washington said. “But I appreciate you making the effort there.”

Birnbaum’s mind began to wander, but he focused on Washington again. “So what unfinished business do we have?” he asked.

“You dying,” Washington said. “You were supposed to have been assassinated at the rally, but our marksman didn’t make the shot. He blamed it on a gust of wind between him and the target. So it fell to me.”

Birnbaum was confused. “Why do you want me dead? I did what you asked.”

“And again, you did a fine job,” Washington said. “But now the discussion needs to be brought to another level. Making you a martyr to the cause will do that. Nothing like a public assassination to embed the topic into the national consciousness.”

“I don’t understand,” Birnbaum said, increasingly confused.

“I know,” Washington said. “But you never understood, Mr. Birnbaum. You didn’t want to understand all that much, I think. You never even really cared who I worked for. All you were interested in was what I was dangling in front of you. You never took your eyes off that.”

“Who
do
you work for?” Birnbaum croaked.

“I work for the Colonial Union, of course,” Washington said. “They needed some way to change the conversation. Or, alternately, I work for Russians and the Brazilians, who are upset that the United States is taking the lead in the international discussions about the Colonial Union and wanted to disrupt its momentum. No, I work for the political party not in the White House, who was looking to change the election calculus. Actually, all of those were lies: I work for a cabal who wants to form a world government.”

Birnbaum bulged his eyes at him, disbelieving.

“The time to have demanded an answer was before you took the job, Mr. Birnbaum,” Washington said. “Now you’ll never know.” He held up a syringe. “You woke up because I injected you with this. It’s shutting down your nervous system as we speak. It’s intentionally obvious. We want it to be clear you were assassinated. There are enough clues planted in various places for a merry chase. You’ll be even more famous now. And with that fame will come influence. Not that
you
will be able to use it, of course. But others will, and that will be enough. Fame, power and an audience, Mr. Birnbaum. It’s what you were promised. It’s what you were given.”

Birnbaum said nothing to this; he’d died midmonologue. Washington smiled, planted the syringe in Birnbaum’s bed and walked out of the room.

“They have the assassin on video,” Jason from Canoga Park said, to Louisa Smart, who had taken over the show, temporarily, for the memorial broadcast. “They have him on video injecting him and talking to him before he died. That was when it happened. When he revealed the plot of the world government.”

“We can’t know that,” Smart said, and for the millionth time wondered how Birnbaum managed to talk to his listeners without wanting to crawl down the stream to strangle them. “The video is low resolution and has no audio. We’ll never know what they had to say to each other.”

“What else could it be?” Jason said. “Who else could have managed it?”

“It’s a compelling point, Jason,” Smart said, preparing to switch over to the next caller and whatever
their
cockamamie theory would be.

“I’m going to miss Al,” Jason said, before she could unplug him. “He called himself the Voice in the Wilderness. But if he was, we were all in the wilderness with him. Who will be that voice now? Who will call to us? And what will they say?”

Smart had no good answer to that. She just went to the next caller instead.

Also by John Scalzi

Old Man’s War

The Ghost Brigades

The Android’s Dream

The Last Colony

Zoe’s Tale

Your Hate Mail Will Be Graded

Fuzzy Nation

Redshirts

Edited by John Scalzi

Metatropolis

About the Author

JOHN SCALZI is the author of several SF novels including the bestselling
Old Man’s War
and its sequels, and the
New York Times
bestsellers
Fuzzy Nation
and
Redshirts.
He is a winner of science fiction’s John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, and he won the Hugo Award for
Your Hate Mail Will Be Graded,
a collection of essays from his wildly popular blog
Whatever
(
whatever.scalzi.com
). He lives in Ohio with his wife and daughter.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

HUMAN DIVISION #4: A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS

Copyright © 2013 by John Scalzi

All rights reserved.

Cover art by John Harris

A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY10010

www.tor-forge.com

Tor
^®
is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

e-ISBN: 978-1-4668-3054-7

The Human Division

John Scalzi’s stirring new novel in the universe of his bestselling
Old Man’s War

New e-episodes will appear every Tuesday from January 15 to April 9, 2013, on all your favorite e-book sites. Don’t miss a single one: