Apraxin exhaled through pursed lips, and nodded slowly. "I am glad you told me, Sofi. If you ask her questions about the future, does she tell you things?"
"I have tried a few times. She never answered. When she predicted in the past, it was always-whatever it was. Not something asked about."
The admiral frowned thoughtfully. "Will you work on it with her, Sofi?"
"Yes, Admiral. You know, sir, most people think of Melody as something empty, with very little mind. But she is-in there, sir. She listens. Hears. She hears what we hear, and she hears things we don't hear. I don't think of her as mentally deficient. I think of her as Naan' voh ti' ta ka."
The admiral stepped back. "Thank you, Sofi. This could be quite important." She started to turn away.
"Admiral?"
"Yes?"
"You said that teams like Melody and myself are all that give humankind hope in this war. But without people like you, there could be no hope at all. It is the people like yourself-the fighting people-who are primary in this time."
When Apraxin left the savant's suite, she headed for the wardroom, and a snack. While thinking about Melody's supposed talent for predictions, and whether they grew out of something like Charley Gordon's vectors.
She'd wait a bit, she decided, let Melody rest, then visit her again. Meanwhile saying nothing about it to War House. Let Sofi work with her, and define the possibilities.
Smoke from Kunming's many fires hung in the air. Stinking smoke, of half-burned, retardant-soaked fabrics, charred wood, melted synthetics. And perhaps burned bodies, though that could have been the product of their poisoned moods.
An hour earlier, when it was still dark, fires could still be seen from the prime minister's balcony. Chang and Peixoto had watched together. They'd been watching, on the telly or from the balcony, since the previous day, when the first fires were reported. Had seen them grow, while the overextended fire department did its best. Sirens had ululated in every part of the city. There had even been fires within the government complex-one in the Palace of Worlds itself-despite the surrounding force shield.
The word was, most had been set in warehouses and retail stores, at least some by small teams of arsonists protected by gunmen, all masked.
Just now the two leaders were closer to arguing than they'd ever been. "We have no choice!" Chang said. "Tirades on the talk channels, demonstrations in the squares, slander and libel of ourselves and others-those could be borne. But arson and murder? They have gone too far now! Martial law is the only answer we have, for the short term!"
Peixoto's bleak eyes scanned the half of the city visible from his balcony. He thought what such a campaign of destruction could have done a thousand years earlier, when so much more was flammable. When every vehicle carried within itself a large quantity of explosively flammable liquid.
And at last report, what had happened here had happened in 137 other cities, to some degree or other. And worse, 183 assassinations and a number of assaults had been reported, mostly on military personnel.
A leak had triggered it, and when he discovered who… Peixoto shook his head. You'd have released it yourself, if the victory had been greater. Big enough to blunt the Wyzhnyny advance.
He'd never imagined the Peace Front would do something like this. What was left of the Peace Front. Probably not more than one percent of the population remained members. But of Kunming's 2.7 million, that came to 27,000. Of which perhaps a thousand had been actively involved in this night of shame.
He looked down at the much shorter president. He'd almost forgotten Chang's demand. Now he shook his head again. "I cannot agree to it. Not yet."
He sensed the almost voiced response: Then I will resign. Unvoiced because Chang Lung-Chi would never abandon him in a dilemma. Never. Instead what the president said was, "When, then?"
"I'm not sure, good friend. But it's what their council wants us to do. We both know that. And we both know why."
A rumor passed through the city later that morning: a counterdemonstration would be held that evening at Wellesley Square, to defend humanity's right to defend itself. By noon the story was on the newscasts, the talk shows; and everywhere in the city you could feel the energy growing, swelling.
It shook the Peace Front's ruling council. They'd expected a public backlash, but this…? Paddy Davies made a call, and Gunther Genovesi's luxurious limo picked them up from the roof of their building.
By nightfall, demonstrators were packed into Wellesley Square and the streets feeding into it, far outnumbering anything the Peace Front had mustered. Among them, carrying a child on his shoulders, was a very tall, strongly built man with the lantern jaw and strong cheekbones common among the Goloks of Tibet. Carrying the child had not been entirely a good idea. The boy's short legs had rubbed off some of the Golok brownness from the man's jaw and ears. But it was night, a man carrying a child was surely benign, and as long as the child remained on his shoulders, the break in his camouflage was unlikely to be noticed. Besides, the crowd's attention was on the top of Martyr's Hill, where a large bonfire lit the night. It would damage the concrete slab on top, but that could be repaired.
There was no orator, nor any martyr. Instead, at the brow of the hill stood a cheerleader, capering like a court jester. It was no longer possible to hear him, even with his hand-held bullhorn. Once he'd begun shouting, the crowd-more than half a million-had picked up his chant and drowned him out: "MAR-TIAL LAW! MAR-TIAL LAW! MAR-TIAL LAW!"
A mile away, Foster Peixoto stood on his balcony, watching and listening. From so far away it was simply an immense roar, but he knew the words. A minute earlier, before the crowd joined in, he'd been watching on the telly, on a closed police channel, and had heard the chant begin.
Rumor and security reports had prepared the president and himself, and they'd perceived both opportunity and danger. But now, facing the reality alone, Peixoto feared, truly feared, a mob psychosis. He'd never imagined this volcanic potential in the people. What might happen next? An explosion of violence? A stampede, killing scores? Hundreds…? Lynchings? The beating to death of anyone pointed out as a Fronter, whether accurately or not? And however moderate?
As usual, the response was to be Chang's. A response prepared late and hurriedly, and based on faulty assumptions. They'd expected self-appointed spokesmen to make speeches or pep talks, not this primal chant. Chang will have to rethink his speech as he gives it, Peixoto told himself. Otherwise the crowd might start to move, to act. Fists clenched, he gestured. "Now!" He spoke his urgency aloud. "Now!"
The Golok wasn't aware he'd joined in the chant. Also he'd forgotten the child on his shoulders. His body knew it was there, and subliminally allowed for its presence, but his conscious awareness had been swallowed by the flames, the man cavorting so near them, the crowd consciousness, and above all, "MAR-TIAL LAW! MAR-TIAL LAW! MAR-TIAL LAW!"
The spell had no power of its own. It was a manifestation of the half million human beings in the crowd. Overhead, police floaters kept the hovering news floaters outside the "eighty-up, eighty-out limit." But one floater moved inside the limits unmolested, and began to circle the mound not greatly above it, at about the diameter of its base. On a spar projecting beneath, a powerful light now strobed. Not painfully, but the chant began to unravel, weakening, as more and more eyes followed the light. Then the cheerleader stopped; the chant staggered and died; and a great stillness spread through the crowd.