Steers 'n' Queers, he called that room, after an old joke his uncle had once told him about Texas. He liked to check in there once in a while and do a little VR vampire stuff on the f.a.gs, leading them on and all before he blasted them. He had a great little piggyback virus, a Trojan horse he could embed in an e-mail. That was a hot piece of software, infecting e-mail, since you supposedly couldn't do that. The queers'd open the mail, read a few lines of the hot s.e.x stuff he put in, then bap bap! the virus would infect their computer. Unless they had the latest immune system software installed, it would eat their drive in about two days.

Served 'em right for being f.a.gs.

He took another snort of the blended liquor and c.o.ke, and laughed again. He was remembering little Jay Gridley hopping out of that VR truck, trying to figure out why the sucker had slewed to a stop in the middle of the freeway. Time he got it, it was too late. Haw!

Platt was on the wireless modem, had beamed a signal to a rebroadcaster, and then into a little throwaway stupecomp he'd set up in a rented room in San Diego, California. The stupecomp was set up for e-mail only, and rigged so it logged onto WOL and then sent the message and squeal at exactly 11:59: 59 Eastern Standard Time. When the squeal went off, it sent the signal back to the stupecomp, which routed it back through the rebroadcaster and to his laptop, to let him know. Then the stupecomp wiped its hard drive and RAM disk clean, then fried the modem's memory real good-a complete wipe that n.o.body n.o.body was going to undo-and shut itself off. Probably they'd have a team of feds kicking in the room's door in an hour or two, but that was okay. It'd give 'em something to do, but finding the computer in San Diego wasn't gonna do them no good, no good at all. They couldn't get anything off it that was gonna point them at him, three thousand miles away in Georgia laughing his a.s.s off. was going to undo-and shut itself off. Probably they'd have a team of feds kicking in the room's door in an hour or two, but that was okay. It'd give 'em something to do, but finding the computer in San Diego wasn't gonna do them no good, no good at all. They couldn't get anything off it that was gonna point them at him, three thousand miles away in Georgia laughing his a.s.s off.

He lifted his gla.s.s, rattled the ice cubes, and held it up in a toast. "Yo, Net Force. Happy f.u.c.king New Year!"

He drained the rest of the dark brown and slightly fizzy liquid in two big swallows, put the gla.s.s down on the table, then shut the laptop off. The info in the squirt wasn't much, a list of all the patients treated for STDs-s.e.xually transmitted diseases-reported to the Atlanta CDC MedNet for the last six months. By law, certain things had to be reported to the states, and eventually some of these things wound up at the Centers for Disease Control. There were a few eyebrow-raisin' names on the list, politicians, actors and actresses, some high-profile big-money types, and even some visiting big shots, including a couple of sand nigrah princes. No real tactical value, the list, but it would be embarra.s.sing as all h.e.l.l trying to explain to your wife just how come you was treated for the clap. Mainly it was something to rattle Net Force's cage, to show that the little manifesto Hughes had cooked up was legit. A throwaway, that was all.

Outside, the sounds of firecrackers and gunshots still echoed through the cold Georgia night.

"Oh, yeah, yeah-we havin' fun now, ain't we, boys?"

Sat.u.r.day, January 1st, 2011, 1 a.m. Washington, D.C.

Hughes sat in bed, reading a recent biography of the Norwegian Vidkun Quisling. Quisling, a career army office whose name later came to be synonymous with "traitor," had in the late 1930's, formed a national socialist party in his country, the Nasjonal Samling. The party hadn't done much, had never had any real power, but then the Germans had started a war and, in due course, had invaded Norway. Quisling tried to form his own government, which the Germans knocked down pretty quick, but since he was a home-grown national socialist who had once met with Hitler, the n.a.z.is saw him as one of their own. Quisling became a collaborator who was ultimately deemed responsible for sending hundreds of Jews to the death camps, along with trying to convert the schools and churches into pro-German organizations.

One of the first things the Norwegians had done after their liberation was to round up and arrest scores of known collaborators. These were quickly tried, then quickly executed.

Quisling had been at the top of their list.

The biographer was convinced that Quisling's policies had cost Germany the war. Had he not tried so hard to "n.a.z.ify" the country, the writer was convinced there would not have developed much of a Norwegian resistance movement. The Norwegians were from good Viking stock, not the least bit cowardly, as evidenced by the famous tale of their king and the Jewish symbol-when told that Jews must wear the Star of David sign in public to show who they were, supposedly King Haakon VII took up the symbol himself and urged all his people to do the same. Thai could be apocryphal, of course, but truth should never stand in the way of a good story. The Norwegians were also smart enough to figure out which way the winds of war were blowing. If things hadn't been bad at home, they would have hunkered down and allowed the storm to blow itself out. But Quisling's policies p.i.s.sed them off.

The resistance movement was never more than a small thorn in the n.a.z.is' side, but it did cause a fair amount of industrial sabotage. Foremost among the attacks was a major strike against the heavy-water production facilities in Rjukan. The writer postulated that if the Germans had been able to speed up their atomic experiments, they would have likely developed a working atomic bomb before the United Slates did, and that such a weapon would have turned the tide of war in their favor. A few of those in the noses of V2 rockets launched from ships off the U.S. mainland at American cities would have done the trick.

If you accepted the theory, that was a reasonable a.s.sumption. A mile-wide smoking crater in the middle of New York or Washington, D.C., would have given the Americans something to think about, all right.

Too bad for them, the Germans ran out of time. It was left for America to build fission bombs that finished off the j.a.panese; atomics hadn't even been needed to beat the Germans.

Hughes thought this Quisling-cost-the-war theory was something of a stretch, but the writer nonetheless echoed a valid point from all the vaults of history: For want of a nail, a war could could be lost. One man, in the right place, at the right time, could alter the course of the entire world. There was a popular sci-fi plot device that frequently used this idea. What would happen if a time traveler went back and throttled Hitler as a boy? Or some Christian zealot time-traveled and rescued Jesus from the cross? Or a fumble-footed paleontologist went back and accidentally killed the first protohuman ancestor from whom mankind would evolve? be lost. One man, in the right place, at the right time, could alter the course of the entire world. There was a popular sci-fi plot device that frequently used this idea. What would happen if a time traveler went back and throttled Hitler as a boy? Or some Christian zealot time-traveled and rescued Jesus from the cross? Or a fumble-footed paleontologist went back and accidentally killed the first protohuman ancestor from whom mankind would evolve?

A b.u.t.terfly flapping its wings in Kansas today contributes to the tornado in Florida tomorrow. All things are interconnected, so the theory went.

Hughes grinned. He dog-eared the corner of the page and closed the biography. He turned off the light, settled down into his orthopedic biofoam pillow, and stared into the darkness.

Quisling had probably not been aware that he was a contributor to history. Certainly he hadn't wanted to be remembered as a traitor. But men who were less than adept did not control their own destinies, much less how they personally would be viewed years later. History, after all, was written by the victors.

History...

Hughes had always been fond of the story about the French physician Joseph-Ignace Guillotin. Elected to the French National a.s.sembly a few years before the Revolution, and being a man of medicine and of a kindly nature, Le Docteur Le Docteur Guillotin's major political ambition seemed to be a wish to make criminal executions less painful. He had witnessed a few botched beheadings, wherein a headsman had gotten sweaty-palmed, or had arrived drunk, and had had to hack several times at a screaming victim's neck before managing to lop off the offending head. Such a thing was barbaric for civilized people like the French. The Scots, the English, Guillotin's major political ambition seemed to be a wish to make criminal executions less painful. He had witnessed a few botched beheadings, wherein a headsman had gotten sweaty-palmed, or had arrived drunk, and had had to hack several times at a screaming victim's neck before managing to lop off the offending head. Such a thing was barbaric for civilized people like the French. The Scots, the English, mon Dieu mon Dieu! even the ign.o.ble Poles Poles possessed bladed mechanical devices they used for executions-although these were mostly for n.o.bles, to be spared the embarra.s.sment of an inept headsman. So the doctor helped pa.s.s a law requiring that legal execution be performed by a machine that would not miss, to be more humane to the condemned, rich and poor alike. possessed bladed mechanical devices they used for executions-although these were mostly for n.o.bles, to be spared the embarra.s.sment of an inept headsman. So the doctor helped pa.s.s a law requiring that legal execution be performed by a machine that would not miss, to be more humane to the condemned, rich and poor alike.

Le Docteur hardly wanted to be remembered by history as the man primarily responsible for the head-cleaving device at first called hardly wanted to be remembered by history as the man primarily responsible for the head-cleaving device at first called La Louisette La Louisette. He certainly had not not wanted to see the killing machine, which he had no hand in inventing, tagged wanted to see the killing machine, which he had no hand in inventing, tagged la guillotine la guillotine, the name that eventually stuck.

What a wonderful legacy for one's relatives. A family name with which to inspire gasps and revulsion, how lovely that must have been. And how ironic, given Le Docteur Le Docteur's good intentions.

But men like Quisling and Guillotin had been small of vision, and not gifted with Hughes's intelligence. In a few days, he would be going to Guinea-Bissau, to sit with the head of that small country's government, to strike a deal that would someday be viewed by history as one of the most daring and clever schemes of all time. If history was written by the victors, then surely he would write his own.

He did not for a moment doubt it.

Sat.u.r.day, January 1st, 2011, 7 a.m. Washington, D.C.

In her kitchen, waiting for the coffee maker to finish brewing, Toni held the sheathed kris kris in both hands. Traditionally, in both hands. Traditionally, silat silat players would not want a "used" players would not want a "used" kris kris. If you didn't know who had owned it or what he had used it for, you might be inheriting some bad hantu; hantu; you might find yourself connected to dead people by an evil blade, soaked in blood and karma. But since this was Guru's family blade, it was certainly reputable. you might find yourself connected to dead people by an evil blade, soaked in blood and karma. But since this was Guru's family blade, it was certainly reputable.

Maybe it did have enough magic to help her with Alex. She had been sleeping with it in its wooden sheath on her night-stand, blade carefully pointed away from her head. She was willing to take any help she could get...

Even if she was peeved with him just now. It hadn't taken long for the story to get back to her about his little adventure in the desert during that raid on the terrorists. Naturally, he he hadn't told her, but it hadn't taken long for him to figure out she knew either. He was supposed to be the Commander of Net Force, not a foot soldier! How dare he risk himself like that? hadn't told her, but it hadn't taken long for him to figure out she knew either. He was supposed to be the Commander of Net Force, not a foot soldier! How dare he risk himself like that?

Toni grinned as the coffee maker chose that instant to gurgle and belch the last of the coffee into the pot, a kind of brewed raspberry noise, almost as if making fun of her.

She put the kris kris onto the counter, laying it softly on a clean dish towel, and grabbed her cup from the cabinet. Oh, well. Life was never boring. onto the counter, laying it softly on a clean dish towel, and grabbed her cup from the cabinet. Oh, well. Life was never boring.

Sat.u.r.day, January 1st, 2011, 7 a.m. Oro, California Joanna Winthrop stood in the warm spring sunshine, waiting for the train to arrive. She wore a long, yellow patterned dress, a bonnet, and held a small tube-shaped brown leather travel satchel. The year was 1916. She was at the Oro Station, in northern California, and the surrounding fir and alder had sprouted new greenery to herald Persephone's return from the Underworld.

Joanna had been impressed with that legend as a girl, how the Lord of the Underworld had kidnapped the beautiful Persephone, and how her mother, Demeter, G.o.ddess of the Corn, had been so wracked with grief that she turned her back on mankind, causing a cruel winter in which no crops could grow.

Joanna had always felt a certain sympathy with women who had gotten into dire straits because of their beauty.

According to the mythology, after a year of this cold misery, Zeus finally intervened, sending Hermes to ask the Lord of the Underworld to allow Persephone her freedom. The Lord of the Underworld was not happy about this request, for he did, in his own brutish way, love the woman he had kidnapped to be his wife. But one risked the wrath of Zeus with great care, if one dared risk it at all, so by Zeus's request, Persephone was released. Demeter was so overjoyed that the flowers blossomed and the gra.s.ses grew, and spring came. Alas, her daughter had eaten seeds of the pomegranate during her stay in the Underworld-there's always a catch in these things-so Persephone was required to return to the Underground for a portion of each year. And each time, Demeter's grief at losing her daughter caused winter to fall upon the Earth...

It was a wonderful and imaginative story to explain the seasons. Although you'd think Demeter would have wanted to cut the ap.r.o.n strings after a few thousand years. G.o.d-time must be different.

Too bad she didn't have Zeus to help her find the hacker who had used her computer station. She could use the help. The guy had left a trail, but it was faint, and rigged with b.o.o.by traps all along the way. She was beginning to get really p.i.s.sed off. When she found this guy and turned him over to the feebs, she was hoping to get at least one clean kick at his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es before they hauled him away. Having your supposedly secure computer station used for sabotage was, at the very least, embarra.s.sing.

It was one thing to be thought beautiful when it got in your way. It was another thing entirely to be thought inept at what you did for a living.

The incoming train's whistle blew twice, steam-powered hoots that echoed into the station. There were only a few pa.s.sengers waiting in her scenario, none of them paying any attention to her. She liked this time; it allowed her to wear clothes that could utterly conceal her shape and most of her features. People had been polite to each other in 1916, and the pace of life, just before America entered the Great War for Civilization, had been more stately than brisk.

The locomotive arrived, pulling a pa.s.senger train of some sixteen cars, blasting clouds of steam, its great wheels squealing and squeaking to a halt at the platform.

Well. It didn't matter how many traps this bodoh left in his wake, she was was going to track him down... going to track him down...

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Monday, January 3rd, 8:02 a.m. Quantico, Virginia Alex Michaels leaned back in his chair and wished he was somewhere else. Just about anyplace would do, instead of sitting here listening to one of Senator White's staffers drone on at him over the phone.

"You understand our problem, don't you, Commander?" Oh, yeah, he understood, all right. He made a sympathetic noise he didn't mean: "Um."

Congress was still out for the holidays, but the staff people got a lot of work done when the bosses weren't around. Probably more than when they were were here, getting in the way. The truth of it was, Washington was run by staff. Without them, most congressmen and senators would not have a here, getting in the way. The truth of it was, Washington was run by staff. Without them, most congressmen and senators would not have a clue clue as to what was really going on. How some of the most influential people in the country ever got elected amazed Michaels. Some of these bozos probably had to be led to the bathroom and shown how to work a zipper. as to what was really going on. How some of the most influential people in the country ever got elected amazed Michaels. Some of these bozos probably had to be led to the bathroom and shown how to work a zipper.

"So I can pencil you in for the committee meeting?" Michaels thought about it for a second. What if he said no?

That would be fun. They'd have to subpoena him. Would Net Force security keep out a federal marshal looking to serve papers if he asked them to? Probably, but Michaels would have to leave the building sooner or later. And the good senator would make mounds of political hay out his refusal to take the hot seat voluntarily. Did the Commander of Net Force have something to hide? An honest man doesn't fear a few questions, does he?

"I'd be happy to talk to the senator's committee."

"Thank you, sir. Eight a.m. on Monday the 10th. I'll e-mail you to confirm."

"This isn't going to be another of those week-long deals, is it, Ron?"

"No, sir. The senator is going on a junket-uh, a fact-finding fact-finding mission-to Ethiopia on the 12th, so we'll wrap by Tuesday." mission-to Ethiopia on the 12th, so we'll wrap by Tuesday."

So, at worst, he'd be on the hot seat for a day or two, a.s.suming n.o.body else was slotted. And it was unlikely that he'd be the only sacrificial lamb-White's committees always had plenty of victims they wanted to skewer. What an idiot.

After he hung up, Michaels leaned forward in his chair, feeling tired. He'd like nothing better than to take the day off, go for a nice long ride on his bike, to enjoy the cold, crisp morning while working up a little sweat. Or, as long as he was wishing, why not a week in Tahiti? Lie on the beach, soak up whatever rays the sunblock would let past, drink coconut and tropical fruit and rum. Listen to the waves break. Boy, did that that sound good. sound good.

He grinned at himself. There was a pile of work on his desk that he couldn't get done if he worked twenty-four-hour days for a month. The deeper that pile got, the more he felt like dragging his heels. Did everybody feel that way? Or was it a contrary streak in him, just like wanting to spend money the most when you were dead broke?

Well. You knew the job was dangerous when you took it, right?

Right.

Monday, January 3rd, 11:15 a.m. Quantico, Virginia John Howard sat on Doc Kyle's couch in the base clinic, watching the older man flip through the hardcopy print out.

Kyle shook his head. "I don't know what to tell you, John. X-rays, EEG, EKG, sonograms, MRI, MEG, everything is normal. You have the blood pressure of a man half your age, your reflexes are great, there's nothing growing in any dark corners that shouldn't be there. Your don't have AIDS, hepat.i.tis, prostate cancer, or herpes. Your cholesterol is low, your liver enzymes are good, hormones are normal-all your bloodwork is all dead-center normal, except for what might be a little bit of a white cell shift to the left, a few segs, that might be indication of a virus. Might also be lab error, it's that close. You're as healthy a specimen as I've seen all month."

"So why am I so tired all the time?"

Kyle, a full bird colonel, was sixty, and a career military man. Howard had been his patient for years. Kyle grinned. "Well, now, none of us is getting any younger. A man your age needs to realize he's not going to be able to run basic with the recruits forever."

"A man my age? Jesus, I'm I'm not a man my age!" not a man my age!"

Kyle laughed. "Come on, once you hit forty you have to expect to slow down a little. Sure, you can hold the Reaper at bay with diet and exercise, cheat him pretty good, but the time when you could wine, women, and song it up all night long, then grab a full pack and hump it all the next day are behind you. What you did for a light workout as a shavetail is overtraining for a colonel old enough to be that boy's father."

"You're saying I should slow down."

"Not 'should.' You will will slow down, that's the nature of the beast. You're in better shape than most twenty-year-olds I see in here, no question. But the fact is, a twenty-year-old in peak condition is going have better legs, faster recovery, and more energy than a forty-year-old in peak condition. I'm not saying you should park your b.u.t.t in the rocking chair, smack your gums, and wait for senility, but you need to recognize the reality. If you hit the gym four times a week, better cut that to two. If you jog ten miles a day, drop it to five. Warm up more, stretch before and after you sweat hard, give yourself more recovery time. You don't have the reserves you once had, simple as that. You can maintain a vintage aircraft pretty good, but sooner or later the metal fatigues, no matter how many times you rebuild the engine and the hydraulics." slow down, that's the nature of the beast. You're in better shape than most twenty-year-olds I see in here, no question. But the fact is, a twenty-year-old in peak condition is going have better legs, faster recovery, and more energy than a forty-year-old in peak condition. I'm not saying you should park your b.u.t.t in the rocking chair, smack your gums, and wait for senility, but you need to recognize the reality. If you hit the gym four times a week, better cut that to two. If you jog ten miles a day, drop it to five. Warm up more, stretch before and after you sweat hard, give yourself more recovery time. You don't have the reserves you once had, simple as that. You can maintain a vintage aircraft pretty good, but sooner or later the metal fatigues, no matter how many times you rebuild the engine and the hydraulics."

Howard stared at him. It wasn't as if the doc was giving him a death sentence- Well, yes, it was was. That was exactly exactly what he was doing. He was reminding him that the grave was still out there-and it was closer than it used to be. what he was doing. He was reminding him that the grave was still out there-and it was closer than it used to be.

Just what I needed to hear. Howard blew out a sigh. "All right. Thanks, Doc."

"Don't take it so hard, kid. You might have a couple more good years left. You want me to write you a prescription for some prunes and Geritol?"

Outside, the January sky was clear and cold. Howard walked toward his office, thinking about what Kyle had said. So, okay, he'd ease up a little on his workouts, see if that helped. If Doc was right, then he'd feel better.

Of course, he'd also feel worse, knowing that there wasn't something simple that could be fixed. n.o.body had come up with a cure for getting older yet. And this was the first time he'd realized that it was going to happen to him too. Somehow, he'd always felt as if he'd live to be ninety, and except for a few wrinkles he'd look and feel the same then as he had at twenty or thirty.

Maybe there was something to be said for dying in battle while your brain was still sharp and your eyes unclouded by time. At least it was quick. Maybe it was better to be burned-out ashes than cold, ancient dust.

Monday, January 3rd, 11:15 a.m. Washington, D.C.

Tyrone's life was over.

He stood inside CardioSports, between the wrist-heart-monitor display and a display case of stopwatches, staring through the front window into the mall. From where he stood, with the rack of ski jackets behind him, he'd be hard to see from the tables at the food court, just across the mall's main walkway, but he could easily see Bella where she sat at one of the tables.

Where she sat, with somebody.

Where Belladonna Wright sat with Jefferson Benson, facing him across the little round white table, holding his hands with her hands, smiling at him.

Smiling at him.

Oh, G.o.d G.o.d!

He felt sick, as if he was gonna throw up, as if somebody had punched him in the solar plexus hard enough so he couldn't breathe. And he felt a cold and hot blend of sad, aching misery entwined with mindless, killing rage. He wanted to scream, to run to where Bella sat, to smash Jefferson Benson's face in with his fists, to kick him enough times to break every bone in his body. He wanted to do that, and then spit on him.

But what Tyrone did not want to do was look Belladonna Wright straight in her lying face. Not at that moment.

He was on afternoon shift at school, like she was, and so he'd asked her if she was going to the mall. They could meet, grab lunch, head for cla.s.ses?

No, she'd said. Not today Not today. She had to run some errands, she'd said, so she wasn't going to the mall. She'd see him later at school.

Fine. That was nopraw.

And yet, there she was. Sitting there with Benson, holding his f.u.c.king hands, smiling at him.

Tyrone stood there, pretending to examine the heart monitors, unable to look away. It was like when you saw somebody do something really stupid on a vid, something so stupid it embarra.s.sed you just to be watching it, and you wanted to look away, but you couldn't, you watched it anyhow. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to know that Bella had lied to him. He didn't want to see her holding hands with Benson. But he couldn't move, couldn't turn his head away. He had to watch. Even though it felt as if there was something alive in his stomach, something with teeth and claws trying to dig its way out of him.

He never would have known if he hadn't come to the sport store looking for a birthday present for his father. It had never occurred to him that Bella would be at the mall. She'd said she wasn't going, and it had never crossed his mind to believe otherwise. Truly had never occurred to him.

She'd lied lied to him. to him.