Chapter Sixteen
Deckard wiled away the afternoon time, watching the telescreen. One channel was a schedule, another was community bulletin board. The exiled population had certainly made the most of their situation. The bulletin board ran announcements, want ads, and events of importance. Inside one of the drawers was a newspaper. It was thin, but it was a newspaper. Dated a couple of weeks ago, it had a story about the new recording equipment that had come on board. In three days, the article stated, anyone that wanted to do a recording only had to audition to get a spot. The new recordings on DD would be available at Lucky's Records.
Another article was on the newest book by Michael 'Chevy" Flannery. This newest thriller by local boy was reputed to be his best yet. There was a picture of him. It was the Flannery he had known. Chevy looked like he had been through a rough time. A scar slanted up towards his hairline on his face. He wore glasses in the picture, a single lens that covered his line of sight. His complexion was red, like sunburn. His hair was a deeper red, cut short on the sides, but long enough to fall over his forehead.
Deckard had palled around with Chevy a long while ago, but then got distracted by other matters. Chevy was a straight shooter and trustworthy. If anyone would tell him what was really going on here, it would be Chevy. Deckard had sort of just broken off contact with him. There was no falling out, Deckard had just gotten, well, involved. He wasn't sure how Chevy would receive him.
Deckard got up and looked in the mirror. He might think about getting some other clothes. He did not exactly blend. His cowboy clothes that had gone over so badly in Galvez might do here. He had seen others wearing similar duds. However, he'd chucked them somewhere along the way. Deck doubted that they took regular chits here. He'd have to figure out how to get around this.
Kitka made up his mind for him. She had been sitting near the door for some time and now she meowed to get out. She wanted to explore unsupervised. So did he.
"Let's go, then." He bounced off the bed and grabbed his creeper jacket. It was cold here on the station. The room he was in had a thermostat but no numbers on it. It was a switch with two positions: warmer and colder. He had flipped it to warmer an hour ago, but it didn't seem to make any difference. The door had a keypad with a set of instructions by it. After puzzling them out, he was able to code lock it. It was a cheap set up, but it would keep people from just wandering in and out.
Deckard followed Kitka through the spiral. The gravity seemed earth normal at first, but he could tell that it was weaker. In addition, if he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could feel out the curved pattern, which they were walking. People passed him going the same direction and back from where he came. The girls made eye contact with him and smiled. The guys made eye contact and gave him a curt nod, sometimes followed by a greeting like: 'Howdy.' or 'S'up?' or 'Hey man.'
They were all walking swiftly towards their respective destinations. They all seemed to be in a big hurry. Some of them wore Pressure suits, others wore Atmosphere suits. The P suits, he knew were for working in an enclosed area that had no air or gravity. An A-suit was for working in unprotected environs sans air or gravity. His first assessment had been correct, though. They all dressed as if were five o'clock in Las Vegas about a million years ago. Night-and-day Ray was behind this. He was using his power to create a perpetual Cosmic Club, where it was always happy hour. Deckard wondered what happened to those who weren't happy.
.
The Medina was now in full swing. The cargo boxes had been unloaded and hauled away. The shops that had been closed had set up their stands or turned on their lights. The low hum of dozens of conversations made up just part of the background noise. On the stage, two guys dressed up in cool jazz were playing just that on a xylophone and an upright bass. The girls all seemed to prefer the pageboy cut in jet black. The guys leaned toward slicked back ducktails. The mode of dress varied from evening wear to jeans and boots. Deckard stood there with Kitka taking it all in. He spotted a store that sold what he was looking for and went over to it. It was a small-enclosed shop with the name 'Rivits' done in purple neon above its glass door. He went inside and up to the front counter. It was somewhat cramped inside, as racks of clothes were standing in every available spot. A foxy strawberry blonde in a film-noir fem suit gave him an inviting look.
"I can see that you need help." She suggested. "Renee told me that she might send you by, and here you are." His arrival on the station had clearly been noted.
"Is this her shop?" He asked. If it were, he might arrange some credit.
"No, but we all co-operate around here. I'm Raquel Rivit." The red head opened up her register, another relic, and handed him a slip.
"Renee told me to give this to you if you wandered in." She handed over the slip. It was a voucher signed by Renee.
"Good for one set of clothes, sweetie. You can pick them out, or I can help you, it's up to you." Raquel told him. Kitka was investigating the corners, poking her nose into the clothes.
"And if you can help it, tell her," Raquel indicated Kitka with a nod. "Not to sharpen her claws on anything, or you'll have to buy it."
"But I haven't got any money."
She put her chin in her hand and leaned forward. "Oh, I'm sure that we could work it out in trade."
Deckard turned his back with widened eyes. He told Kitka to knock it off, who gave him a hurt look. Mumbling an apology, he scratched her ears, and began to dig through the racks of clothes.
After a quarter of an hour, he walked out with a green sharkskin suit, black oxford shirt, and thin green tie with red designs on it that looked like bubbles popping. He also got a black pair of shoes. They reminded him of the ones that he wore with his Section dress uniform, except they had buckles. This was the way to stay inconspicuous, he thought wryly.
He learned from Raquel the most common way to earn money was to join the work crews that maintained the station and the satellite that it was built around. A few master technicians taught the rest of the workers how to do the simpler repairs. It was somewhat dangerous, as most of the work was outside. The next best way was to start a band, but it took a while before you could rely on that alone and if you had the talent. The jobs in the Medina were hard to come by, as they were the safest and best paying, so people rarely quit. Deckard might try selling something, if he had anything to sell, she suggested, with a wink.
"But seriously, we're always crazy about anything new. I mean, cargo days are great, but the stuff isn't really all that unique. Even if you find something that you like, every place in the Medina has the same thing. So if you have something to sell, you might not get any money, but you can always get credit, and around here, what else do you need?" Raquel spoke, confirming her faith. "I mean, you can lose money, but credit's always there."
He went back to his room to change so he could case the place in relative peace, or at least have a drink in the Medina without drawing so much attention to himself. Not that it showed of course. The Dog Greeners were showing him about as much attention as they did back in Cen. Right now, he had an overwhelming urge to find Michael Flannery. He shucked off his creeper, the jacket and the shoes and put on the suit.
It was obnoxiously flamboyant, and he looked and felt like a crooked blackjack dealer. All he needed was a diamond pinky ring and he could go ask Karl Starkweather for a job. He put his creeper back in his pack along with all the vitals.
The collection of junk lay on the bed. Credits, eh? Something in this pile had to be worth something. He finally decided on the ashtray he had gotten from the bootlegger hideout. Wondering if either of them had lived, he picked it up and put it in his pocket. It round, glass, and had the name and logo of an oil company, long since gone bankrupt, bought out, or simply went out of business. Back to the Medina. Kitka had disappeared from his side on the way back. He signaled her with his watch and she joined him near the entrance. She was licking her lips and he bent down to see what she had been up to. Eating something, from someone or somewhere.
"Try to restrain yourself, huh?" He smoothed down her whiskers.
The crowd was a little thicker now, and he could read by the clock it was seven, the xylophone and upright bass had been joined by a horn. Deckard worked his way around the crowd and spotted a bar with four stools, all taken. Channelle bounded onto the bar with a leap.
"What can I get you?" The bartender asked. He wore a white tuxedo shirt with a black tie and vest.
"What do you take in trade?"
The bartender took the toothpick out of his mouth.
"What 'cha got?" He asked. Deckard responded by placing the ashtray on the bar with a clink.
The bartender's eyes stared at it. The four other patrons turned to look at it with various comments.
"Ah, look," The bartender held up his hands. "I hate to say this, but you'd get a better deal from one of the clothes places, they could set you up big time."
"Are you saying that you can't take it?"
"No, I'm not saying that, it's just that I only serve drinks, pretzels, olives, that kind of thing. You could get a set of new threads for this. I can't really cover it."
"I can't trade this thing for drinks?" Deckard was having trouble understanding.
"Yeah, but I'd have to give you drinks for a year!"
"How about a month?"
The barman put the toothpick back in his mouth.
"Just you? No buying the station a round."
"Just me and maybe a friend or two, but no more than that."
"Okay, that sounds good." The bartender held out his hand. "Let's see your drink ticket."
"Oh, I don't have one." Deckard remembered. "Renee Gibson said I could set up a tab." He gave the guy his name and a fake story behind it.
"You're Deckard Blaine?" He reached over behind the bar, and handed him his ticket. "You get free drinks anyway." He said sadly, pushing the ashtray towards him.
Deckard pushed it right back. "No, I don't like free drinks, they're too expensive. The ashtray is yours."
"Thanks, man! You're a-ok!" The bartended quickly put the ashtray out of sight. "If you have anything else to trade, come to me, and I'll tell you who'll give you the best deal."
Deckard acknowledged this and got a beer. The bartender poured in a large pint glass and gave his ticket a single notch. Deckard looked at the ticket, a thin piece of black plastic. Kitka jumped down and sat between his feet. That's when he saw him. It was Michael Flannery. He was sitting at a table with what looked like an old word processor. Deckard went over.
"Hey, Chevy, how've you been?"
Chevy kept pecking at the processor and then stopped. He removed his odd looking glasses and looked up.
"Deckard!" He stood up and shook his hand and sat right back down. "Have a seat." Chevy replaced his glasses, completely unsurprised. "Well, sit down." Deckard did so. Kitka got into his lap and put her front paws on the table. Chevy was wearing a brown suit, white shirt and a brown tie with silver stripes. The table was full. The word processor was designed to look and sound like an old clockwork typewriter. It was on the table as well as a brown snap-brim hat, a pack of gum, an electronic dictionary/thesaurus, a plate with a half eaten sandwich and an empty glass. Chevy devoted his full attention on the screen, as if he were watching a movie. His fingers flew across the keyboard. Then he tapped the return key twice, typed two more words, and hit a large button marked 'send'.
Chevy leaned back, wrung his hands and exhaled loudly.
"Well, that's done." He removed his glasses again and set them on the table. "Wait here, I gotta get a drink." He put his hat on and walked over to the bar that Deckard had just dealt with. Chevy had a weird walk. It was more of a rolling saunter, as if he were a gunfighter from the old west, his hip weighted down with an invisible gun. Deckard knew his walk was because his right leg was a little shorter than the other, an accident from a long time ago. His skin was so pale it showed the blood pounding beneath the surface, so his visage was a deep red.
Several guys and girls went up and exchanged words with him. They all went away laughing. Chevy ambled back over, dropped himself in his chair, and took a big drink of beer.
"So, you're here on Dog Green, eh? You get kicked off for bad manners?"
Deckard knew what he was referring to.
"Look, I'm really sorry about just taking off like that but,"
"Spare me the sob story, Romeo. I already know about Cassandra and what happened after. I've been keeping tabs on you."
Deckard winced at the sound of the name.
"So don't worry about it, chief, I'm not offended, you just owe me, so I put this one on your tab." He took another gulp.
"Just finished my nineteenth book. 'The Killing Jar' it is called."
Chevy preceded to tell him about the book in detail. Deckard told him more or less about his travels and involvement with X. Chevy was someone he trusted completely. Channelle even went over to him and rubbed on him. Chevy was able to pick her up and scratch her chin and neck. She closed her eyes to slits and purred. Chevy had a way with animals of all kinds.
"Yeah, I've got about five of the station cats that hang out at my place, the little bastards. I can't move in there with stepping on someone's tail, so I usually work out here." He said, Kitka sprawled across his lap, making small noises.
Chevy filled him in on the scene at Dog Green. Anyone that did not live up to the unwritten code was dealt with swiftly. Long hair, long beards, unwashed appearance and dope smoking were some of the violations that could get someone in trouble. Great pains were taken to make sure transportees off the ship fit the profile Night-and-day Ray had given them. Dope smoking was a violation that could be over looked if one provided the station with an indispensable service and kept quiet about it.
"The Phantom Tones' guitar player is big stoner, but he can play well, so everyone looks the other way. He's a sacred cow around here, you know."
"What about you? You seem to be a driving cultural force, are you a sacred cow?" Deckard asked.
"Me? Cultural? Is this sarcasm?" Chevy said into his glass. He never touched anything stronger than beer. An incident with something stronger, long ago, resulted in Deckard and two others talking him out of a tree. Chevy set his glass down and continued. Night-and-day Ray ran Dog Green, but there were several factions that were around. The Swing Lords, the Lonely Kings, the Southside Senders were just a few. They had fistfights, but nothing more was tolerated. The toughest guys were the Dog Green constabulary. The last fight happened out on the dance floor and a girl was hit in the eye. The constabulary waded in with jimmy sticks and put a few of the participants in the medical bay.
A striking woman with platinum blonde hair in intricate curls walked on stage to a round of applause and whistles. She was wearing a low cut evening gown made of sequins. It looked like she had been sewn into it. She went to the microphone and thanked the audience. Deckard looked at her closely.
"That looks like, like," He could not place the name.
"Cynthia Dane?" Chevy asked politely.
"Yes, her."
"That's because it is her." Chevy got a piece of gum and popped it in his mouth.
"She's a big star, though. What's she doing here? Sympathy tour?"
"Nope. It seems she sold her body image to Gygax entertainment about three years ago. They made a movie with it, "Love is death", I think or whatever. She got famous, or rather her body image did. Instead of paying her the royalties, they had her busted for not recycling or something and shipped up here. Cheaper that way. Now they don't have to deal with their movie stars holding up liquor stores. Convenient."
Cynthia Dane began to coo out the words to an old sexy swing tune with body language to match. Gygax entertainment. They used to be a major force back in the war, now they were pushing around young girls for profit. The war, it seemed had not changed anything, just moved some of the chess pieces around. Was he himself a pawn, or a knight? Mulling this over, he got up and got them two more beers. He and Chevy drank their bee
rs, watching Cynthia Dane seduce the audience with her voice and her eyes.
The entire Medina seemed to come to a standstill. Deckard had to admit, Gygax Entertainment could really pick 'em. Even if they did screw them over really bad in the process. The sex symbol finished her song and bowed gracefully to the audience, who gave her a standing ovation. Ms. Dane exited the stage, as someone handed her a fur shoulder wrap.
Chevy's processor blurred a burst of colors and then went black.
"Dammit!" Chevy exclaimed, slamming the keyboard with his fist.
"It's a good thing I finished before that one hit." He turned off his machine and folded the screen in. He looked around. A few other people around had lost their tempers at their equipment.
"What's the problem?" Deckard asked, sipping along on his beer.
"Stupid piece of junk keeps blanking out. It's the pulse, I swear. Night-and-day's gonna have to get more shielding before they finish that thing! I can't work like this."
"Finish what?"
"Oh, it's this thing that Ray is letting some earth worms build. They're paying up front and the facility is supposedly going be upgraded, but every time they fire it up, something goes dead around here."
Deckard could hear his own heart beating. His hands began to flex slightly of their own accord.
"Where are they building it?"
"At the far north end."
Deckard shot off toward the north end, whistling for Kitka. Kitka bolted after him, her claws digging into Chevy's legs. He cursed and stood, watching the pair dart away.
"What the hell was that all about?" He put on his hat and went for another beer.
.
Deckard raced along the spiral at a brisk pace passing by a work gang in P-suits. One of them called after him as he went by, but he paid them no mind. He came to an airlock and opened it. Kitka squeezed by him as he heaved the door to. Inside, he looked around for warning labels, instructions, anything. A panel above the door was blinking yellow. A metallic button near the lock had sign above it indicating instructions. Deckard pushed the button. A generic female voice stated that yellow meant Null-Grav, red meant zero pressure and no gravity. Null-Grav was something he could deal with. He opened the lock and went out into it. It was a work bay or landing bay. Crates were secured to the floor with straps and bolts. There were several magnetic workbenches to keep tools and delicate machinery from floating away. Deckard kicked off against the wall and shot towards the workbenches. Kitka had difficulty with Null-Grav and she clung to him, nervous and trembling slightly. Moving along the workbenches using his hands, he found the Grav-plus controls. The work crew obviously shut it off when their shift was done. He activated it, heard the gears work, and slowly floated to the ground. Deckard plucked Kitka off his back and set her down. He knelt and comforted her and she regained her confidence.
"Keep watch." He whispered and she faded from sight. Now for a quick look around and to figure things out.
This was a workstation, he reasoned. They assembled the components and larger pieces of equipment in here. Then they would down tools and turn off the Grav-plus. Then, wearing P-suits, they would float the completed machines and devices out to another assembly crew. That crew, in A-suits, would guide them to their various completion points and attach them. A through search revealed a safe at the back of the bay. It was a dial combination lock with no other features.
Deckard had no equipment for opening a dial lock. After searching the benches for a tool that would do the job, he found a laser pick. He burned through the inner hinges with it. Sparks shot off from the door as he worked through it. With one hand, he held the pick; he kept his eye on his watch for intruders. Done. Deckard shut off the pick, laid it atop the safe, and tore off the door with both hands. Inside was a number of items he could not identify, a handgun, and a black canister, the size and shape of a large coin.
That was what he was after. It was a data disc. There was a viewer on one of the benches. He went to it, checking his watch frequently. The viewer was an older model, but it would suffice. He inserted the disc and looked for the activator. The viewer burst into light and what was on the disc was displayed in a 3-D image above him. A dial spun the image around, another top over bottom. A series of buttons gave out critical data and measurements. The machine would also produce a flat hard copy of the disc. Deckard did so. The machine spat out the pages in quick order.
It was the pulse canon plans and they were building it. From the plans, he could recognize the completed and uncompleted machines bolted to the floor. The next shift would come in, finish them up and float them out.
"Hey, you, freeze!" Two guards were at the end of the bay, with heavy rifles brought to bear on him. The work gang he had passed had obviously put in a call to them. Maybe the reactivation of the Grav-plus had alerted them. He had been careless with the excitement of his find. They wore green steel composite armor, boots and helmets over their gray coveralls.
As Deckard slowly raised his hands, he could see his watch face blinking like mad. He had forgotten to keep an eye out upon his discovery. He then pivoted and fired. The projectile hit the Grav-plus button. The machines ground to a stop with a clank. The guard, unprepared, lost their coordination and began to float upwards. Deckard angled his arm towards them and fired his grappler into the wall near the lock. The hook flew out and penetrated deep into the wall. Hitting the reel button, he zoomed toward them, feet first. They had gotten a grip on the situation and were firing at him, with poorly aimed shots.
Deckard could hear the bullets ricocheting behind him. One of the guards dropped his guns and made guttural choking sounds. Deckard pinned the other to the wall with his feet. The impact caused the man to lose his grip and his rifle floated away. Deckard tore off the helmet and gave the guard a viscous head-butt to the face. He could hear the crush of bone reverberate in his head. The blood splattered out and floated away in droplets. The other guard was still struggling. His armor made it difficult to reach his back, where Kitka had locked her back paws. Her front paws had locked onto his face and throat. There were deep furrows on his face and throat. Deckard put out some slack on the cord and kicked over to him. He ripped the invisible Kitka off the guard and placed her on his shoulders, where she reattached herself and faded back into view. Satisfied the guard was not interested in detaining them, he reeled back to the wall and got to the lock, which they had left open. He closed it and the Grav-plus kicked in. Kitka making sounds of displeasure climbed down and began to groom herself as far away from Deckard as she could be in the lock.
"It was the easiest way." He told her. "I'm not going to apologize." The Grav-plus was now at full strength. He opened the other airlock door. Kitka trotted out and away from him.
"Okay, I'm sorry!" Deckard jogged after her. "It just came to me, I should've let you take both of them!"
She increased her pace as she went down the spiral.
"Oh, come on!" He protested. They came back into the Medina. It was now in full swing. The crowd had doubled in size and there was dancing, drinking and carousing. Kitka ducked through their feet and went back to Chevy's table. He sat there, leaning forward in his chair, speaking to a girl in a tan sweater and pink skirt. Or rather, he was listening to her. She was speaking very fast, with lots of hand gestures. More than once, she put her hands on his arm, his shoulder, or leg. Chevy still had a way with animals of all sorts. He had a way with them, but did not understand them at all. This girl was doing everything but issuing a hand engraved invitation back to her place. That would be exactly what she would have to do. Chevy was on the dim side when it came to interpreting behavior. Kitka leapt into one of the chairs, and the girl transferred her attention. Deckard came up and he could hear Chevy warn her off touching Kitka.
"She's not exactly tame." He said as Deck came up and sat in the other chair.
"Where did you run off to?" Chevy demanded. The girl looked frustrated.
"Don't worry, I won't be long." Deck told her. "Where
is Night-and-day Ray?"
"Back stage or at the coffee bar." Chevy indicated with a flip of his hand.
"Thanks." Deckard drank the rest of Chevy's beer. "The next five rounds are on me." He slapped down his drink ticket and got up. "He's all yours." He said to the girl. Kitka was sniffing the air, ignoring Deckard.
"Coming with me?" He asked her. She looked over and yawned. He clicked his tongue twice. She hummed and then jumped down. Deckard leaned over the girl and put his mouth close to her ear.
"You may have to be a little more direct." He breathed. He walked away and Kitka following him. He stopped and picked her up. She let out a loud Meoorrr as he did so.
Ray was tuning his guitar back stage alone. The back stage was a small room with wooden chairs and a metal desk. Graffiti covered every square inch of it.
"Ray, I have to talk to you.'
"Yeah, okay." Ray said absent mindedly, not looking up from his task.
"What do you know about the construction going on at the North Bay?"
"I know the guy's paying me a lot of money to let him use the space. I also know he's paying the work crew double what they usually get to have it finished on a tight deadline." Ray squinted at his guitar strings and strummed one of them.
"Do you know what he's building?"
"Nope."
"What's his name and where is he?"
"He told me to call him Doctor Wouk, so that's what I call him. He should be in the north work bay. He has a rack in there and never comes out of it."
:"I just came back from there and it was empty." Well, except for a couple of hapless guards requiring hospitalization.
"Were you in bay A or B?" Soft notes from the guitar.
"In the one where they built all the stuff."
"That's A. B is where he usually is. Where they adjust the machines and test them out before they float them to the outside." Ray finally looked up. "Why do you want to know?"
"Look, Ray, It's important you not tell him that I'm coming." Deckard said. "He's building a weapon out there, a terrible weapon, with your facilities and your people. I've been sent here to find him and stop him." Deckard turned to go, then turned back. "Don't try to get in my way. Get everyone out of the north work bays and keep them out. There's going to be trouble, big trouble." He left Night-and-day Ray sitting there, mouth agape.
.
As he went along the spiral, he shed his fancy suit and shoes and slipped back into his creeper. His wrist rockets were checked over quickly. There weren't enough 10mm rounds left to use; so he put in the dart thrower. He was given a few stares but he ignored them. The chase was about to culminate and it was not the time for modesty or polite manners. As he knelt to run over his guns, Kitka wound around him, purring loudly. He picked her up and squeezed her tightly.
Whispering nonsense into her ears, he smoothed down her fur and scratched her chin and neck thoroughly. Deckard rose, cracked his neck and back, flexed his hands and went to north work bay B. The doors hissed open and Ultra team Seven walked through.
The Grav-plus was on, but the bay itself was devoid of anything. It had a window overlooking the semi-completed Habakkuk II, and a spider walk that surrounded the bay wall. In front of the window, stood a man in white. He was tall and his back was to Deckard. His hands were clasped firmly behind his back, as he gazed out to the Pulse cannon. Kitka hissed softly and the two of them approached, Deckard looking all about, guns in his hands. He was twenty feet away when he stopped and called out.
"Rymar Stoltz, Turn around."
Rymar Stoltz turned around. A handsome man with aristocratic features, faintly condescending look. His suit was white and expensive with a short waist jacket. His features, legs, arms, body were all long and thin.
"So you figured that out. Good, it means I choose well."
Deckard was standing on the balls of his feet, attack posture. "Let's see your hands."
Rymar ignored him, turned sideways, and walked a few paces to the left.
"Deckard Blaine, the best and brightest of the lot. How long did you know?"
"I didn't until now, but I suspected as far back as Haining ball. Where you had LesPaul assassinated. As I found your Tri connections and then Mallos, it all began to fit together. No one that I talked to had ever seen but one of your incarnations: Wouk. The ones that did know you as Stoltz only saw Wouk by Digital Vid links, where you could easily modify your appearance. Spotta was never seen any other way, but he was head of a secret organization, so it was expected that he keep a low profile, but in truth, they were both you.
You controlled every aspect of D and X sections from two different personalities and the Ultra Project with one more. You controlled the government like a puppet and now you're working to destroy it piece meal. For what reason, I can only guess. I'm sure you're about to tell me, though it adds up to the same thing: power and control."
Stoltz flashed in anger.
"Yes, for power and control! I dragged the US government back from the brink of extinction and they repay me by taking away all I created! I made them a formidable power, a force once again in the world of Corporations and they throw it all away because of an idea that they control themselves." Stoltz laughed.
"So now you're going to disable those of your choosing one by one, until they submit." Deckard held his aim steady.
"No. You see, you were misinformed about the nature of the Habakkuk II. It does not place a small electromagnetic pulse here or there and disable planes, computers, or watches. It delivers a tyrannous blast that will disable everything all over the world, forever. I'm not going to put the American government out of its misery, but everything out of my misery for all time."
Deckard's scowl deepened. "What will that accomplish?"
Stoltz looked around at him for the first time.
"I thought you would've figured that out as well. Perhaps it's the effects of space. Sometimes it takes while for the metabolism to get back up to optimal speed. What that will accomplish is they will be helpless, and then they will be dead.
'Dog Green' as your friend Mr. Gibson calls it, is in fact a beachhead. A beachhead for the retaking of the world. All of the technology down on earth will be destroyed; all of the technology up here will be spared. I control twelve such stations as this. My lieutenants run them even if they don't know they are as such. Each one had a viable system for running the station by using people and a subculture. It was I that engineered this whole idea. My defunct organization, the OSS, is not named for the Office for Strategic Services, but for Orbital Space Stations. This was always the back up plan in case we lost the infowar. Ironic that it will now be the base of its destruction. Where I might shore up my strengths and unleash it on the fools in control below. The satellites that hook the entire world together will be the targeting devices. The pulse cannon will be activated and left activated until there are no more signals. They we will go down and reclaim what is rightfully ours."
"No. I'm going to stop you." Deckard's own reply seemed weak. Stoltz just laughed again.
"Do you think that you found your way here by chance or skill? I led you here. Step by step. I planted the appropriate clues that led you to where you went, here to meet me. Granted, you did not follow the clues in order I thought you might. In fact, I thought you might have gotten what you wanted out of LesPaul before he was dealt with. To be sure, you were in mortal danger in places, but that was part of the test. I need no weaklings or mental incompetents at my side."
"Then that transmission that you sent when I was at the Meadows was broadcast from here." Deckard said "You provoked me, as you provoked all the others to do exactly as you wanted. But why lead me here?"
Stoltz took a step closer and Deckard crouched and realigning his aim. Stoltz took no notice and he began to pace back and forth.
"You were the pinnacle of what the future will be. The most successful man to animal splice ever. In the future, they will be no normal men, as we know them, they will be supermen, augmented
by the animal instincts and made better, stronger, than they are now. With the first success and then the summation of the splicing project with you, I realized what my destiny must be. I brought you here to rule with me. Together we shall forge a path into the history of the future, where all will know our names and proclaim our greatness."
"If I refuse? What then? Does the future look so bright? Who will you get to take my place in your world?' Deckard's heart began to beat with a thudding slowness. His skin felt hot.
"Oh you won't refuse. I have a guarantee that you will not." Stoltz stopped pacing. "How long since you were rotated out? How long since you found out about how long you would live? How long do you have left? Five years? Six? A little longer? I can help you with that. I have made progress on that since you and the others were made. You can lengthen your years beyond that of ordinary humans. You and I would be near immortals, ruling throughout time."
Deckard stood and considered. He thought about Daria and her silly club. He thought about the Maddox's and their stupid life with vacation homes. He thought about Monica and the ridiculousness of it all. How insignificant they seemed in the face of absolute rule and infinite life. How insignificant it all seemed. Kitka let out a howl of anxiousness. Deckard wanted to howl to. What he wanted was something that Rymar Stoltz couldn't give. It was something that he didn't know he wanted or even what it was. If offered, he wouldn't know if he would take it or not.