“Man is meant to evolve,” she said. “To become free. The best and the brightest must throw off the shackles that hold them. Governments are oppressive…”
A loud buzzer brought Braxton from the dream.
Jennifer Gleason had never spoken like that to him, and never would have; she was the most apolitical person in the world. But the first part of the dream, of her getting up and walking toward him, that had happened. That was real.
Human minds were hopelessly tangled and easily confused.
How much of what he wanted was due to Jennifer, and not the philosophical underpinnings of Kallipolis? Was he just motivated by unobtainable lust?
Braxton had contemplated the question at great length. He was certainly devoted to Jennifer Gleason’s memory, far more than anyone. Part of that was due to the beauty of her work — the AI constructs, the melding of hardware and software, the very basis of the brains that flew the Flighthawks and their prodigy: it was beautiful work, so far advanced for its time that it still wasn’t completely appreciated, even though the basic architecture was embedded in every combat UAV currently in the fleet.
Braxton had built on her work, and understood it like no one else, with the possible exception of Ray Rubeo. But just as Jennifer had surpassed Rubeo, building on his insights, Braxton had surpassed her.
So it was lust and obsession, but on some higher plane — something worthy of Kallipolis and the future of the elite.
“More work to be done,” he said aloud, rising from the chair where he’d fallen asleep. “Enough self-flagellation. Work. That is the only useful purpose a mind can be put to.”
Even though the words were his, in his head they echoed with her voice.
What a strange construct, the brain.
3
Walk? Or run for President?
Zen stopped his wheelchair at the middle of the Vietnam War memorial. He always felt deeply humbled here, as if he were physically as well as symbolically in the presence of so many brave Americans who had sacrificed their lives and futures for their country. In his mind, their sacrifices made his look petty.
He had, it was true, done many heroic things. But he hadn’t traded his existence on earth for his country. On the contrary, he had lived a great life — not one without tremendous hardships, but a bountiful one nonetheless.
He hadn’t discussed running for the presidency with Rodriguez, but it was clear from what the scientist said that were he to undergo the operation and rehabilitation, he wouldn’t have the time to campaign. In fact, he might even have to give up his Senate seat.
He couldn’t say he wouldn’t do that. Between walking and being a politician — walking was better.
But President?
If he were President, he could get important things done. He could take care of the military, improve veterans’ benefits — especially for the wounded and disabled. It wouldn’t be easy — being in the Senate had taught him that. But there was still a lot more that he could do. He could have a lasting effect on people, on the country.
On the other hand, he really, really, really wanted to walk again. Just the notion of walking down the aisle with Teri when she got married — how fantastic would that be?
Unbelievable.
In the years after the accident, he’d tried and tried to get his legs back. He’d always thought he would. Gradually, he had come to accept who he was. Accept that he was limited physically.
He’d never been limited mentally.
If the experiment worked, it would help others as well. His medical history made him the perfect candidate from a scientific point of view, but it was even bigger psychologically: if someone who had been crippled for so long regained the use of his legs, how many other lives would that affect? Wouldn’t that be even more tangible to them than what he might do as President?
If he even got the nomination. There’d be no guarantee. Mantis would be a very formidable opponent. And then there was Jason Hu, and Cynthia Styron from Wyoming — who would be an excellent President, even if she was probably a long shot for the nomination.
He’d certainly have to do things he didn’t want to if he ran. Beg for money. Compromise on his principles. Not big compromises, not at the start. But eventually. That was politics. He hadn’t given up his principles in the Senate, and he was well respected by both sides for that. But as President…
“Uh, Senator, you wanted to be at that reception,” said his driver, who’d come down to the monument with him. “We are, uh, running pretty late.”
Zen broke himself from his reverie.
“Let’s go, James,” he said, wheeling back from the wall. “Time’s a-wastin’.”
4
Getting into the Tigershark after flying the F-35 was like trading a well-appointed F-150 pickup for a sleek little Porsche. It wasn’t just the size of the cockpit or the fact that the Tigershark’s seat slid down to an almost prone position once he was aboard. The aircraft was designed for an entirely different purpose than the F-35. Not needing to be all things to all people, it was optimized as an interceptor — small and quick, highly maneuverable in any imaginable regime, carrying active and passive sensors that could detect an enemy well before it could be detected. The plane was also optimized to work with UAVs — the Sabre drones, combat-optimized aircraft scheduled to replace the Flighthawks in the near future. The Tigershark and the Sabres shared their sensor data in much the same way that the F-35s did, but had the additional advantage of being able to tap into the Whiplash satellite communications network, and from there into a vast array of American military data worldwide.
Turk went through the computer’s preflight checklist quickly, making sure the aircraft was at spec after its long trip west. The flight computer happily complied, checking off each box with an audible declaration of “Green.” The intonation that suggested there was no possible way the condition could be anything other than perfect.
The Tigershark was not a STOL aircraft, but its small size and powerful thrust allowed it to get off the runway at Tanjung Manis in only 2,000 feet. Turk rocketed upward, stretching his muscles — the change in aircraft was as physical as it was mental, his body adapting to the beast’s feel.
“Go to twenty thousand feet, on course and at speed as programmed,” Turk told the computer. He had loaded a memory chip with the outlines of the mission prior to takeoff. The chip included a backup of his personal preferences — the cockpit temperature, the precise angle of the seat, along with some of his favored preset maneuvers. Some of this was already programmed into the aircraft’s memory, somewhat like the driver’s setting in a car would be, but the designers had felt it should have a backup that could be easily changed if a new pilot was at the helm.
Turk’s path took him west over the ocean, where he would rendezvous with the Marines. Basher One and Two had just taken off from their forward operating base. The Marine squadron was now back to full strength, with its pilots recovered from the stomach flu, and the aircraft that had been damaged by the laser fully repaired. Danny and Greenstreet had opted to keep two of the planes in reserve; the rebels’ recent propensity to attack while the planes were gone could not be taken lightly.
Turk’s plane flew between the four Sabres in a two-one-two formation — two Sabres about five miles ahead of the Tigershark. The forward aircraft were spread a bit wider than the back, with 5,000 feet separation in altitude. The formation was arranged to provide not only a wide sensor field but also mobility for combat.