The Dealer sat back in his chair, trying to get comfortable. The chair itself really was quite wonderful. The plush leather seat had a tall reclining back that curved around him like the chrysalis of a silkworm. Back in his own closet-apartment, the Dealer would have considered it a luxury beyond imagining. But here in the roton, two hours into the trip, the Dealer thought the chair an exquisitely designed torture device.
They had just landed in the St. Petersburg drop port, farther from his destination than when he had started the trip. Traveling through St. Petersburg was a funny way to get to Fort Powell in the United States. But from St. Petersburg the roton flew directly to the Fort. Most other flights went to Las Vegas, where he'd have had to rent a skycar. This circuitous trip through Russia actually got him there faster, and cost less besides.
A big man with broad features lowered his bulk laboriously into the chair two seats over from him. The fellow looked like a typical Russian. His face was set in an impassive expression of perseverance, the reflection of a thousand years of the pain only Russian history could produce. Well, in a way history was looking up. At least the Russians wouldn't have to defend Moscow anymore. Sadly, Shiva's destruction of that capital had upset the Russians far more than the destruction of Beijing had bothered anyone in Chan Kam Yin's homeland.
The Dealer's stereotyping of the guy lasted only a few moments. Then the stewardess stepped up to the Russian, and he smiled. A ruddy charm broke through his stoicism, and the stewardess responded to the warmth. Suddenly Kam Yin felt a sense of envy for the Russian's self-confidence. A charming smile was not one of the things Kam Yin had ever learned. He suspected he would live his whole life crippled by its absence. He would have to depend on cunning to achieve his goals.
The Russian caught him staring. A dark sorrow rippled the wrinkles around his gray eyes, then disappeared. The Russian smiled even more broadly. "It's a good time to be going to Fort Powell, eh?" he asked in English, the language of the Web and the best chance random people had to talk to one another.
Kam Yin opened his mouth and suddenly realized how much embarrassment he would now suffer. He could read and write English quite well. And he'd watched enough vids on the Web to be able to understand the speech moderately, though the slang still left him puzzled sometimes. But this was the first time he'd ever had to speak it. With more courage than the Russian could possibly grasp, the Dealer replied briefly, "Yes, I wish to see the armor suits."
The Russian nodded wisely. "They are most impressive. A marvel of engineering."
A bell clanged, and Kam Yin could feel the vibration as the roton quickly whirled to life and started to rise. The gentle pressure pushed him into his plush chair for a moment. He closed his eyes.
"Are you an engineer?" the Russian asked.
Kam Yin opened his eyes once more, then suddenly realized that the question had been asked in his native tongue. He must have shown his surprise, for the Russian laughed, a deep vibrant sound that belonged in a cathedral. The Russian spoke again. "Would it be Okay if I practiced my Cantonese with you? I don't get much chance to use it anymore. It has been a long time since . . ." He shrugged. "It has been a long time."
Kam Yin gave him a wary smile. "Of course." He paused, then answered the original question. "Yes, I am an engineer, more or less."
The Russian nodded. "Learning about the suits first-hand is important for anyone planning to work the prizeboards during the Assault."
"Exactly." How did the Russian know his business? Could he be a tail, someone watching him for the computer company, watching for a slip? The Dealer sat very straight, at a peak of alertness. He concluded there was a much simpler explanation: just about anybody going to Fort Powell during the Month of Shiva had to be interested in the prizeboards. Including, the Dealer realized, this Russian. "What about you—are you an engineer as well?"
The Russian shrugged. "More or less. I'm here to learn to about the Angel's gear, too. But explosives are really my specialty."
Kam Yin nodded. So this man would not be one of his competitors for the prizes. Indeed, the Dealer realized as his eyes narrowed in thought, the Russian might even be an ally someday. Since the Russian's confidence suggested he knew what he was about, cultivating the relationship seemed cautiously profitable. "I haven't had much chance to work with explosives."
The Russian rubbed his nose. "The Republic of Guangdong is a bit crowded for playing with duodec. I think you'll be surprised by the vast spaces around Fort Powell. They're both empty of buildings and barren, just the kind of wasteland the Americans romanticize about."
Kam Yin laughed, as much to hide his nervousness as because he enjoyed jokes about Americans. "I've seen the pictures of Fort Powell on the Web," he said. "I don't think I'll be shocked."
The Russian raised an eyebrow. "I see. Well, I'm glad of that," he muttered as he closed his eyes. A few moments later Kam Yin heard him snoring softly. The Dealer snorted, and closed his eyes to try to get some sleep himself.
The Dealer awoke with a start. Looking groggily out the window into the bright light, he remembered suddenly where he was. He fumbled with his seatbelt, and once free, leaped to his feet, sure that the ship had landed and that if he didn't hurry they'd take off again with him still on board.
A stewardess appeared from nowhere and whispered, "Please get back into your seat. We'll be landing in a few minutes."
"Oh." When you do something foolish, always stand up straight. He stood very straight indeed, then settled his thin body back into his chair, smashing his already damaged right kneecap into the seatback in front of him once more for good measure. He looked over at the Russian. The man's nostrils flared, and the Dealer heard a chortling sound, but the fellow was just snoring, not laughing at the Dealer's mistake.
They landed without further incident.
The Dealer unbuckled his seat belt and rose to find the Russian standing in the aisle already—the fellow could move his bulk quite quickly. The man slapped the Dealer on the shoulder. "Now we'll go see some fun stuff, eh?"
The Dealer nodded solemnly. He had finally concluded how he felt about the Russian. He disliked the man, for a reason that cost him a lot to recognize: the man made the Dealer feel like a nervous kid again. How disconcerting. And how irritating. The Dealer thought he'd outgrown that sort of adolescent anxiety ages ago.
They stepped out onto the ramp, and the sunlight hit Kam Yin like a hammer to the face. He held up his arm and squinted while water ran from his eyes. He heard a little girl scream, "Uncle Viktor!"
The Russian gave a whoop of delight. "Lanie!" He waddled down the steps with his surprising speed and lifted the child, a slender green-eyed imp with long red hair, into his arms.
The Dealer saw another man at the bottom of the ramp. This person was looking up at the Russian with a brooding frown. The hint of a smile tugged at the edges of the man's lips, marring the effect of the frown. The man spoke. "Careful, Lanie, Uncle Viktor isn't strong enough for a lot of horseplay."
The girl—Lanie—laughed gaily. "Sure he is, Pops."
Viktor glared at the other man. "I will always be strong enough to carry my favorite girl, Lou."
"Your head will always be thick enough to try, you mean."
The Dealer stepped away, shaking his head. He looked out to the terminal, a good hundred feet away. He couldn't help looking beyond the terminal, too, and seeing . . . a vast desert wasteland. For mile after mile, there was nothing but an occasional patch of straggly brown plants, more sticks than anything, with the occasional cactus. In the farther distance sharp craggy brown mountains stood scattered at random, as if flung from a giant's hand. It was breathtaking.
It was also hot. And dry. The cool sense of air-conditioned comfort from the ship evaporated, and he could feel his lips begin to chap as the kiln-like air sucked the last bit of water from his pores. He licked his lips, realizing the gesture's futility even as he did so.
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Viktor eyeing him. "You might want this," he said, tossing a Chapstick at the Dealer. "I have a spare."
Kam Yin caught the small cylinder awkwardly. "Thank you," he offered. He applied the soothing cream to his lips, just in time, it seemed.
Lanie and Lou looked over at him. Viktor waved a hand. "Lou, Lanie, I'd like you to meet my new friend, uh," he waved his hands in the air theatrically, "uh . . ."
The Dealer smiled; he was finally one up on the Russian. "Chan Kam Yin," he said with a bow. He continued, very hesitant because he knew his English was so poor, "Pleased to meet you."
The Russian continued, "Chan Kam Yin is an engineer, come to see the Angel exoskeletons."
Lou nodded approvingly. "Good for you."
Viktor asked Kam Yin, "Does it look like the pictures on the Web, my friend?"
Once more the Dealer scanned the horizon. "It is different," he admitted. "Being here, it is . . . more big."
Lou smiled, and spread his arms. "Yeah, parts of America are like that. You should see Montana. They call it 'Big Sky Country,' and they mean it."
The Dealer watched Viktor put a finger to his nose and mouthed the word, "Romantic." Yes, the Americans did romanticize their wastelands. How quaint.
"Very beautiful," the Dealer murmured.
Viktor shook his head. "Very barren," he sniffed, "unlike my home. You should see it. The frozen tundra of Murmansk gleams with a purity and grace not to be found anywhere in America south of Alaska."
Lou snorted. "Beautiful Murmansk, where the popsicles and the ice cubes play."
Viktor dismissed the matter with a wave of his hand. "Kam Yin, we need to get you speaking your English more. It is quite good enough, you know, and there's an old rule to languages: If you're not sure how to say it, say it loud. Mumbling doesn't help."
Kam Yin bowed his head, and thought to leave before the old fool completely embarrassed him.
But Viktor continued. "I know just how to improve your language skills. I'll teach you the same trick I learned when I was your age."
Lou rolled his eyes. "Viktor, you can't be serious. Your friend here doesn't have the training to survive your idea of a learning strategy."
Lanie grasped Lou's arm. "What's Uncle Viktor's plan?" she asked disingenuously, knowing it would be something juicy from Pops' disapproving tone.
"I know a special drink that improves the language skills," Viktor announced proudly.
Kam Yin was intrigued. "A learning chemical?" There had been a lot of claims of such things lately, but nothing that had passed the scrutiny of the Lloyd's-Glaxo certification test.
Viktor blinked his eyes. "It only works for improving your spoken language skills," he warned. "I can get it for you right here, in the terminal."
"That would be wonderful," Kam Yin said. Imagine, advanced learning chemicals right in the terminal! America was certainly living up to his expectations as a most amazing place.
"Viktor, you have got to mix it with orange juice this time," Lou muttered darkly. "He's just a boy, for heaven's sake."
Kam Yin didn't understand the reference, but he was sure that he would figure it out with the help of the learning chemical.
Paolo sat in the breakfast nook sipping his orange juice, staring out the window. His face held no expression, his mind held no thoughts. Soon he would send his mind into overdrive, to do his best to help Earth Defense again. The closest he could come to a well-formed thought right now, though, was to hope that someday this wouldn't be necessary anymore.
Sofia came up behind him, too quietly to be heard, but he could feel her warmth even before her hands reached out to travel the muscles of his neck and shoulders. Tension he hadn't realized he had melted away as her massaging hands lured him into relaxation. "Paolo, did you–"
"Yes. What about—"
"Taken care of." She worked his neck for a moment; his head lolled. She continued. "Will Mercedes—"
"Of course."
"You called."
"Would I—"
"In a heartbeat, darling." She bent over and kissed him. "Glad that's settled." She glided out as quietly as she had come in. Paolo guess she had worked through her snappish mood. Thank heavens.
"Exactly right," she called back at him from beyond the nook.
"Viktor, I can't believe you." Lou panted with exertion at the heavy load he had slung across his shoulders. "Did you pour a whole fifth down this poor kid's gullet?"
Viktor grunted. "Not hardly. I drank most of it. It was very hard to get the boy to loosen up enough to take his medicine."
Lanie's palmtop beeped. "The door's open." She looked with urgent concern at her uncle. "Really, Uncle Viktor, please let me help Pops carry him the rest of the way."
Viktor faced had turned bright red with the exertion as he helped Lou carry Chan Kam Yin to the room. Viktor grunted. "I'm all right. And you're too little."
Lanie pouted. She put her hands on her hips. "I am not. I'm stronger than you are."
Viktor laughed at that, but not with his usual overpowering strength.
Lou led the way into the motel room. "Listen to the girl, Viktor. She's tougher than she looks. You should see her play soccer." He paused to take a breath. "Besides, though it would serve you right to drop dead carrying a burden of your own making, I need you alive for the assault on Shiva." He started moving again.
Chan Kam Yin snored softly, his head lolling to the left at a precarious angle. Lou had to wonder if the human neck could really twist that far. The evidence said yes. Amazing.
Viktor rasped out, "We're almost there."
Lanie threw up her hands. "I've got the lights on." Lou blinked as the room suddenly became as bright as high noon.
"Could you turn that down a little?" he asked.
Chan Kam Yin groaned.
Melanie apologized, "Sorry." The lighting settled into a mellow background glow.
With a final effort, Lou wheeled and half-threw, half-dumped, the boy onto the bed. Viktor removed the kid's shoes while Lanie carefully tucked blankets around him.
Lou sagged into a chair. "I'm way too old for this. Viktor, why did you accost a perfect stranger like this? I'm sure he's a nice kid, but—"
Viktor plunked down on the floor. His words came out garbled, but recognizable. "No, he's not a nice kid, Lou. That's the point."
Lou stared at him.
Viktor explained. "He's an angry, street-smart kid with a con on his mind. I know the type. I used to train kids just like him to be terrorists."
Lou threw up his hands. "So you're back in the terrorist training business? For who?"
Viktor shook his head. "Of course not. I just wanted to try to help one do something better." He lay back, spread-eagled on the carpet. A gasp arose from his heaving chest. The flush finally started to fade from his face. "And I think I succeeded."
"By getting him drunk?" Lou demanded. "And by making my Lanie watch?"
Viktor chortled. "Lanie played an important part in the victory, Lou. She's young enough, and charming enough, so that Kam Yin didn't feel intimidated. She's the one who got him talking about his childhood."
Lanie looked sad. "He's had a terrible life," she said. She paused to reflect. "But it's certainly been interesting." She looked up at Lou. "Pops, I really had fun getting him to talk. He really does know a lot of English." She smiled smugly. "And I do think he uses it better now than when we first met him. Uncle Viktor was right—vodka really does improve your speaking if your main problem is just that you're worried about how bad it is."
Lou grunted. "Well, it's the strangest good deed I've ever seen. Can we go now?"
Viktor dragged himself slowly to his feet. "Of course. Lanie, thank you once again for a job well done."
"Nothing to it, Uncle Viktor. I wanted to thank you for agreeing to teach me explosives. We start tomorrow, right?"
Lou leaped from the chair. "You promised Lanie what?"
Viktor stretched and moved sluggishly for the door. Lou came up to him with his hands curled in a position well-suited for wrapping around the Russian's neck. Viktor shrugged. "I told you I wanted a younger, more exciting partner for the business, Lou. And this keeps it in the family, as it were."
"No! You will not turn my grandkids into pyromaniacs!"
Now Lanie gave Lou her world-famous pout. "I won't be a maniac, Pops. You know better." She smiled mischievously. "And it'll be fun. You know I've always been interested in your work." She squeezed past Viktor into the hall. Viktor followed, with Lou right behind.
Lou shuddered as he thought back over the preceding eleven years. He realized with horror that Melanie really had always been interested. He remembered how pleased he'd been at the family get-togethers for the Fourth of July, when Melanie showed great caution, but never fear, when he would set up the fireworks. "The answer is still an absolute, utter, resounding no," Lou said again, this time without shouting.
Melanie recognized her opportunity. She wrapped herself around Lou's right arm, stood on tiptoe to put her head on his shoulder, and said dreamily, "Thank you, Pops."
Viktor closed the door to the boy's room and whooped with laughter. "She's got your number, Lou."
Lou marched down the hall muttering to himself. It was going to be a very long couple of days.
The Dealer rolled over in the unfamiliar bed and flung out his arm. His hand knocked against the lamp, pushing it onto the ground with a painful clatter. He groaned to life, his head splitting, his mouth as dry as the Nevada desert. Viktor had given him vitamins to counteract the effect, and it wasn't the worst headache he'd ever had, but it was still impressive.
The Dealer never would have picked vodka as a drug to enhance learning. But as nearly as he could tell, Viktor had been right—all he needed was a little less anxiety, and he was fine.
Chan Kam Yin remembered the stories Viktor had told while drinking, of terrorists and terrorism in the days of Communism. He shuddered at the thought of what a terrible life Viktor must have had. Still, Viktor had come out of the ordeals with a good friend. Lou was the nicest person the Dealer had ever met . . . except for Lanie, who was just a kid. The Dealer wondered if he would ever have a friend like that.
In one sense he did have such a friend. He remembered, with a foolish glow in his heart, that they'd exchanged brands with him. He could reach them anytime on the Web.
He rolled over again and went back to sleep. This time he dreamed in English.
Morgan looked up at the black stealth roton resting quietly on the McCarran landing pad. It was a heavy lift roton, and the size difference impressed him. Normally, such a vehicle did not carry passengers. Not unless the passengers were very special, like today. Solomon stretched her wings. "Big Bird," she commented. Then she whistled. "Where's CJ?"
Lars squinted into the sun and growled. "Yeah, where is the Boss Lady, anyway?"
Out of the sun came the answer. "I just had to get a last chocolate malt," CJ said as she strode up to the little group. She stepped out of the sun, and Morgan watched along with everyone else as she licked her lips in sheer, sensuous delight. "Double chocolate, extra malt. Yummy!" She bent over and looked into Morgan's face, eye-to-eye. "I can't believe how easy that last sim was, Morgan. Tell me the truth. Did you let us win? Or are we really that good?"
Morgan wrinkled his nose. The Angels gathered around. No one smiled; no matter how light and joking the question might be, the answer was important. He told the truth, grudgingly. "You're that good," he whispered. He continued more strongly. "It's just realistic. Remember, no Angel Two team has ever failed. This is our best guess of what's likely to happen." He grunted. "Except the pain. Real broken bones and sword wounds are going to hurt a hell of a lot more than anything you've experienced so far."
CJ rubbed her left shoulder where the electroshocks had fried her in the last sim. "I just don't believe it. I think you made it hurt worse, so we'd be pleasantly surprised."
A man in a captain's uniform stepped up. "If you would please come with me, you can board now."
CJ nodded. "Okay, guys, let's go." She bent over and kissed Solomon on the beak. Solomon, flapping her wings enthusiastically, whistled the song "Jump." CJ bent further to kiss Morgan, shifted her eyes around to see the rest of the members of the team, and thought better of it. She stood up. "Back in a couple of weeks," she said with the airy style of a teenager telling her parents she was off to Spring Break.
Morgan saluted the team; they saluted back.
Solomon abruptly changed keys. She sang "The Battle Hymn of Humanity." Her voice swelled into a symphony, and she sang beautifully.
The hymn had been written by Isaiah Southworth, a young American composer studying in Moscow. Southworth had been caught on the edge of the blast when Shiva I destroyed the city. He had written the hymn lying on a cot in a tent outside a half-ruined hospital.
The symphony opened as an epic of despair fully understood only by the Russian soul. It closed as an epic of triumph best appreciated by the American heart.
The third-degree burns that covered half of Isaiah's body killed him shortly after he completed his masterwork. Russian doctors certified he had died before Shiva's own destruction. However, the two nurses who carried him away asserted vehemently that, as the light of Shiva's disintegration split the night, he had smiled. Romantics around the world agreed that he had, one way or the other, witnessed the finale that affirmed his music.
All the Angels were romantics.
The music faded. One by one, the Angels disappeared into the darkness of the shuttle door.
Morgan turned his wheelchair and headed into the building. For the next ten days, CJ and the Angels would be switching ships and changing orbits, till they were in position to coast into Shiva's dock. And then . . . and then, Morgan thought grimly, he would figure out a way to get her back again.