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The PanTerra Building, with its distinctive black panther logo perched high atop the revolving dome that housed its executive suites, had foundations sunk deep within the bedrock beneath what once had been open water. The PanTerra Plaza consisted of open grounds and pavement immediately in front of the main entrance, centered on a towering water fountain symbolizing the Spirit of Chicago.
The demonstration was well under way by the time Norris approached the building. All traffic—ground and air—had been blocked from the Highland Park district as far south as Central and as far west as Sheridan, and the slide-ways had been turned off. He had to park his flier at a port garage near Central Park and walk five blocks through streets packed with thronging mobs. When he saw how packed the plaza was, he turned away and found an entranceway to the transit levels. Most of the major buildings in New Chicago were connected by floater tubes beneath the ground level.
An elevator took Norris from the PanTerra Building’s transit access bay to the lobby. A separate elevator, one with a security check panel that tasted the DNA on his palm and electronically probed his briefcase and his clothing, took him then to the 540th floor, so far above the demonstration that the mobs simply vanished into the geometrical intricacies of street, building, and plaza.
Allyn Buckner met him in another lobby, this one with soaring, curving walls that were either completely transparent or remarkably large and seamlessly joined viewall panels. The PanTerran panther hung above the entrance to the conference center, ten meters high, muscles rippling in realistically animated holography.
“Mr. Norris,” Buckner said, extending a hand. He was a thin, acid-looking man with an insincere smile, one of the small army of PanTerran vice presidents whom Norris had dealt with in the past. “Thank you for coming in person.”
“Not a problem, Mr. Buckner,” Norris replied. “You never know who’s got access to your VR link codes. I prefer face-to-face.”
“Indeed. We can guarantee the security of our conversation here. This way, please?”
Norris jerked his head to the side, indicating the crowds far below. “So, what the hell is that all about?”
“War, Mr. Norris,” Buckner said as he led Norris beneath the giant panther and into the conference suite. “There is going to be a war very soon now. The first war, I might add, to be fought across interstellar distances.”
“Llalande?”
“Of course. The people are quite upset over the, um, slavery issue.”
“There was a pretty sizable pro-An contingent down there too.”
“Religious nuts, Mr. Norris. The lunatic fringe. The people are demanding that the human slaves on Ishtar be freed.”
That, Norris thought, was something of an oversimplification. The number of separate factions on Earth clashing over the issue of contact with the An and the sociopolitical situation on distant Ishtar was simply incalculable. True, the loudest voices right now were those of outrage over the discovery of the Exiles—descendants of humans taken from Mesopotamia thousands of years ago and transplanted to the An world as a slave population. But there were other voices as well. The entire Islamic block wanted all dealings with the An halted … and an end to archeological research both on Earth and off-world that tended to relegate humankind to a less-than-glorious set of beginnings. That was what the fighting right now in Egypt was all about. And then there were the countless religions, cults, and movements worldwide that viewed the An as gods, figuratively or even literally.
But there were also groups who saw considerable profit in closer ties with the An. Most of the major megacorporations of Earth were vying now for the technological spin-offs coming out of the xenoresearch off-world.
And of course that was where the real power lay, Norris thought … not with the “people,” but with the multitrillion-newdollar corporate entities who truly controlled the planet.
Inside the conference suite, Buckner guided Norris to a carpeted, soundproofed room with an elaborate array of viewalls, link centers, and screens. “Computer,” Buckner said, addressing the air. “Security, level one.”
“Security, level one initiated, Mr. Buckner,” a female voice replied. “Do you require a record?”
“No. Switch off.”
“Switching off, Mr. Buckner.”
“I don’t even like the AIs listening in to some of this,” Buckner explained. “What we’re on to here is so fantastic—”
“Are you sure the mikes and recorders are really off?”
“Of course. The software was developed in this very building. Have a seat.”
Norris sank into the embrace of a chair that molded itself to his back and shoulders. “So, I gather you have another assignment for me.”
“We do.” Buckner took a seat opposite his. “A very important one. A lucrative one.”
“You’ve got my attention, Mr. Buckner.”
“We have been scanning our personnel records for a particular person. You were the first of the troubleshooters on our list. And the best, I might add. You have all of the qualities we are looking for—young, dynamic, ambitious. No family to speak of, no long-term commitments or contracts. Not even any casual lovers.”
Norris raised an eyebrow. They didn’t know about Claire, evidently. Good. “What’s your point?”
“We need a liaison, Mr. Norris, on a very, very special operation.”
“What kind of operation?”
“You’ll be fully briefed later, if you accept.”
“How can I accept if I don’t know what it is?”
Buckner smiled, an oily tug at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, we may be able to offer suitable inducements.”
“Such as?”
“We are offering you a long-term contract. A very long-term contract, in fact. Minimum time—twenty years.”
Norris’s eyes widened. “Is that a business proposition or a prison term?”
“A little of both, I fear. If you accept, you won’t be able to terminate. Not … conveniently, at any rate.”
A twenty-year contract? Buckner must be out of his mind. “This doesn’t exactly sound like a promotion, Mr. Buckner. What are the inducements you mentioned?”
“A nice, round figure, Mr. Norris. One billion newdollars, and a shot at senior management, when you return. Perhaps even a seat on the board.”
“One billion!.” Norris hung on the shock for a comic moment, mouth gaping. “One billion?” Then he heard the rest of Buckner’s sentence. “What do you mean, when I return? Where are you sending me?” He already knew he was going, wherever it was. A billion newdollars? Was the man serious?
The viewalls at Buckner’s back lit up in response to a linked thought. A swollen gas giant hung low in a russet sky. Oddly twisting, purple-hued vegetation clotted an undulating landscape. Pyramids reflected the gold-red light of a tiny, shrunken sun.
“Ishtar, Mr. Norris. We’re sending you to Ishtar, eight light-years away.”
“My God!”
He hoped Claire wouldn’t be too hurt when he told her goodbye.
5
20 JUNE 2138
U.S. Marine Corps Recruit Training Center
Parris Island, South Carolina
0215 hours ET
“Now I want you maggots off of my bus … move! Move! Move!”
John stumbled down the steps in a sleep-deprived haze, crowding forward with the other recruits as they piled off the ancient and weather-beaten magbus that had brought them there from Charleston in the middle of the night. The Marine sergeant who’d ridden the bus with them all the way from the Charleston skyport, a grimly taciturn man in spotless khakis, had been singularly uncommunicative for the entire trip. Now, though, he was bellowing at the recruits, chivvying them from their seats and into line. Lights glared overhead, casting weirdly moving shadows and making it light enough to see the footprints painted on the ground, neatly spaced in a single long rank.
Another sergeant was waiting for them, hands on hips, the infamous “Smokey Bear” hat square-set on his head. “Fall in! I said fall in, damn it! Feet on the prints! Stand at attention!”
The mob of civilians shoved and bumped into line, each of them taking on his or her own semblance of standing at attention … or at least a half-informed guess as to what such a posture might be like. John’s loving study of the Marine Corps in past months had included a download of several Corps training manuals, and he’d been practicing in front of the E-center’s holopickup a lot lately. The footprints on the ground were closely spaced, so close that each recruit was shouldered in tightly to left and right, ahead and behind, a single, anonymous mass of tired humanity.
“Jesus, Quan Yin, and Buddha!” the second sergeant bawled. “I ask for recruits and they send us this? The boss is not gonna like it!”
John stood rigidly in line, eyes fixed on the letters reading U.S. GOVERNMENT on the sloping gray side of the magbus, endeavoring to keep them fastened there as the sergeant stalked past his line of sight. The night air was steamy, a blanket of heat and humidity that dragged at each breath and brought sweat dripping from brow and nose.
The sergeant from the bus prowled down the line of scared and sleep-deprived recruits. “You! Square away! Shoulders back! Get rid of any cigs or gum. And you! Yeah, you, maggot! Quit gawking around and hold those eyeballs front and center or I will personally pop them out of your miserable maggot’s skull and eat them for breakfast!”
John was pretty sure he knew what was coming, courtesy of family stories from his mother about life in the Corps—disorientation, confusion, controlled but deliberate terror, sleep deprivation, all in the name of breaking down civilians and rebuilding them as Marines. Forewarned was forearmed, as far as he was concerned. Whatever they dished out, he could take. He was a Garroway now, in name as well as by birth.
He did wish Lynnley were here, though. She’d flown out from Tiburón to Charleston, while he’d accompanied his mother north to San Diego first, then caught a sub-O flight out of Salton Spaceport. They’d planned to meet up at the Charleston skyport yesterday, but all incoming female recruits had been rounded up as soon as they arrived and whisked off to some other receiving area. He’d found himself herded on board the ancient magbus with thirty-seven other young men and the taciturn Marine sergeant.
That sergeant was taciturn no longer. “On behalf of Major General Phillip R. Delflores, commanding officer of this installation, and on behalf of the United States Marine Corps, welcome to Parris Island,” he bellowed, somehow making the ear-ringing yell effortless, somehow doubling the volume of select words for emphasis, as though a bellow was his normal and everyday manner of speech. “I am Staff Sergeant Sewicki, and my assistant here is Sergeant Heller. I will keep this short and simple, so that even brainless civvy maggots like you can understand.
“This is my island, this is my Marine Corps, and you maggots are my responsibility! Today you are embarking on a twenty-one-week course of Marine Corps recruit training, commonly known as boot camp. You are not at home any longer. You are not at school, you are not in your old neighborhood, you are not back in the world that you once knew. During these next few weeks, you will obey all orders given to you by any Marine. Just so there’s no confusion on this point, you people are not Marines. You are recruits. You must earn the title of U.S. Marine. To do that, you must prove to your officers, your drill instructors, your comrades, and yourselves that you are worthy of the uniform and the title of a United States Marine! Do you recruits understand me?”
The question was greeted by a mumbled chorus of “Yes,” and “Yes, sir,” and even the occasional “Sure.”
Sewicki exploded. “When you open your maggot mouths, the very first word you utter will be the word sir! The very last word your maggot mouths utter will be the word sir! … Do you understand me?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” was the response, somewhat ragged and quavering.
“No! No! No!” Sewicki’s eyes bulged, his face reddened, and for an instant John wondered if the man was going to have a stroke. “What do you people think this is, the goddamn Army? When I ask if you understand me, when I give you an order, the correct and proper response is, ‘Sir, aye aye, sir!’ Do you understand me?”
“Sir, aye aye, sir!”
“‘Aye, aye’ means ‘I understand and I will obey!’ Do you understand me?”
“Sir, aye aye, sir!”
“What? I can’t hear you!”
“Sir, aye aye, sir!”
“Again! Louder!”
“Sir, aye aye, sir!”
He cupped a hand to his ear. “What?”
“Sir, aye aye, sir!”
“You!” He spun suddenly, face and forefinger inches from the face of a terrified recruit three men to John’s right. “What is your name?”
“Sir! H-Hollingwood, sir!”
“Hollywood! What kind of a name is that?”
“Sir—”
“Let me see your war face!”
“S-Sir! Aye … what?”
“Let me see your goddamn war face! Do you know how to make a war face? This is a war face! Arrrr! Now you do it!”
With his eyes rigidly front, John could only imagine what was going on, but he heard the recruit give a terrified yelp.
“That is pathetic! You do not frighten me, Hollywood! Hit the deck! Ten push-ups!”
The recruit dropped.
“On your goddamn feet, Hollywood! What did I just tell you?”
“Sir, I—”
“When I give you an order, you will respond with ‘Sir, aye aye, sir!’ Do you understand me?”
“Sir, aye aye, sir!”
“What was that? I can’t hear you!”
“Sir, aye aye, sir!”
“Now hit the deck and give me twenty push-ups!”
“Sir, aye aye, sir!”
As the recruit began grunting through his push-ups, attended closely by the other sergeant who was shouting out the cadence, Sewicki continued his prowl in front down the ranks.
“I am an easy man to get along with. All you need to do to get along with me is to obey my commands instantly, without hesitation, without argument, do you understand me?”
“Sir, aye aye, sir!” the ranks chorused.
“You!” Sewicki moved so fast he appeared to dematerialize, rematerializing in front of a recruit in the front rank four to John’s left, face glowering, finger pointing. “What’s your name?”
“Sir! Garvey! Sir!”
“Gravy, is that gum you have in your mouth?”
“Uh, sir, I mean, it’s—”
“Is that or is that not gum you have in your maggot mouth?”
“It’s—It’s counterhum, sir.”
