Anish Balin didn’t hurry his answer, which Kafari found encouraging. The last thing they needed was someone eager to jump in with both feet before considering the very real possibilities for disaster. “I think so, yes,” he said at length. “I’ve talked to a few people — in person, mind you, not over the datanet — people who’ve lost everything. Not just their livelihoods, but their homes and their land, legacies they were holding for their kids and grandkids, ripped away in POPPA’s environmental land snatches and tax forfeitures.”
“Yes,” Kafari bit out. “I know too many of those, myself.”
“The lucky ones had relatives they could turn to, people they could pool resources with, sharing workloads, establishing cooperatives like the Hancocks did. But a lot of folks — too many by half — were simply shipped to government-run farms. They’re working the collectives at gunpoint. Would they be willing to die, to stop POPPA? Oh, yes.”
“Fair enough. How quickly can you assemble a strike force? I want twenty people, at most.”
“How soon do you want to hit Nineveh?”
She smiled in the starlight. “Oh, it isn’t Nineveh I had in mind to hit. Not first, anyway.”
“What on earth have you got up your sleeve?”
“A few tricks I picked up over the years. But there’s one more thing I want to say before we go any further with this. It concerns you. After tonight, Vittori Santorini is going to come after Grangers with a vengeance. You are the best-known — and most vocal — Granger advocate on Jefferson. You wield enough influence and popular support to cause a whole lot of trouble for the Santorinis. They have to take you out. What’s worse, you’ve given them the perfect legal pretext for doing it. You hacked into federal security systems to download the Hancock family massacre footage and the distress call they sent out.”
“I had to do that. And you damned well know why!”
“Yes, I do. And, yes, you were absolutely right. Getting that recording into the hands of the public was the most critical service anyone has provided Grangers in the last ten years. It woke up my own daughter and she’d supported POPPA — and I mean really believed in it — virtually her whole life. But they’ll crucify you and use that illegal download as the excuse for destroying you.”
“You seem awfully sure of that.”
“I watched them destroy my husband!” He flinched from the serrated edge in her voice, shuddered visibly, even in the faint starlight. She said more gently, “They can’t afford not to take you out. Especially now, with the president and vice president dead. The government’s in chaos, Madison is burning, and the Santorinis need a scapegoat to blame it all on. You’re the voice of Granger opposition. A rallying point people will flock to, a natural leader they’ll follow. And the Santorinis know it. You want my best guess? You’ll be in custody before dawn. And I seriously doubt you’ll live long enough to come to trial. The only choice you have is the one I’ve already made for myself. Disappear into the darkness. Then make them fear the shadows.”
He didn’t say anything at all for long moments. Wind whispered past high overhead, moaning across the clifftops. “Lady,” he finally said in a voice full of rust and respect, “you are one tough bitch. And scary as hell.” He wiped his forehead with one sleeve despite the rising chill of the night wind. “All right. How light do we travel?”
“How much of that studio equipment can you rip out and transport in the next couple of hours?”
“My studio equipment?” He stared at her. “Why, for Chrissake?”
She pushed hair back from her brow. “Because this won’t be a short war. We’re going to need a command post — a mobile one — and good equipment. I’ve already salvaged my computer and some communications gear. You’ve got equipment we’ll need, as well, if you can dismantle it in time. Bear in mind that we also need to assemble fire teams, tonight. I want to hit three targets before dawn. The first will give us the small arms we need to take Barran Bluff arsenal. The arsenal will give us the firepower we’ve got to have, to tackle Nineveh Base. Hyper-v missiles. Octocellulose mines. Mobile Hellbores.”
He reached up to grab a handful of hair on either side of his head. “Jeezus Mother H… You don’t ask for much, do you? You want I should throw in the keys to Vittori’s palace?”
“Might save time,” Kafari agreed equably.
He let out a strangled sound that defied interpretation. Then gave a sudden snort. “I can see already, things won’t ever be boring with you around. All right. Lemme think, a minute.”
Kafari waited.
“Okay, we might just pull it off. I’ve got some calls to make. We could probably recruit twenty, maybe thirty people right here in Klameth Canyon, in the next ten minutes. Could be as many as two or three hundred, if we have time to contact everybody on my nothing-left-to-lose list. We can put some of them to work dismantling the studio. That isn’t as complicated as it looks. You can pack a lot of function into a setup as small and simple as mine. The rest of us can work on your battle plans.”
“Good. Start calling. I’m going to borrow your computers while you start assembling the team. There are a few other illegal downloads we need to make and I’ve got to hack my way into some seriously tough systems, to do it.”
He didn’t ask why — or what.
Kafari took that as a good sign, as well.
Chapter Twenty-One
I
At 24:70 hours, I receive an unprecedented transmission from Sector Command.
“Unit SOL-0045, acknowledge readiness to receive command-grade orders.”
“Unit SOL-0045, acknowledged. Standing by.”
“We have been notified about the situation on Jefferson.”
I wonder for a fleeting nanosecond which situation Sector refers to, of the many possible candidates. The incoming SWIFT transmission clarifies this.
“Your command-recognition codes were destroyed in the fire accompanying the assassination of President Zeloc and Vice President Culver. We hereby authorize you to accept command-grade instructions from the current and future presidents of Jefferson, pursuant to article 9510.673 of the treaty binding Jefferson to the Concordiat. Given the high likelihood of armed insurrection, you are further instructed to act independently in assessing and countering threats to the long-term security of this planet and the sustainability of its status as a Concordiat-allied world with treaty obligations to fulfill.”
“Understood. Request clarification.”
“Request granted.”
“I am not designed for long-term independent action and have no commander. President La Roux is not trained in any military discipline and does not know my systems well enough for command decisions on a battlefield. Will I be assigned a new commander from Sector?”
There is a brief delay as the officer issuing my instructions consults with a superior. “Negative. No command-grade officers can be spared. You are capable of independent battlefield threat assessment and action. Your experience databanks outclass some of the Mark XXIII and Mark XXIV Units currently deployed. You’re the last Mark XX on active duty in this entire Sector. There isn’t time to retrofit an officer’s training program to qualify on your systems. You are therefore the best defense option available at this time.”
I am unsure whether to be flattered or alarmed. Sector’s confidence is reassuring. The lack of command officers is not. The fact that I am the last of my Mark XX brothers and sisters on active status creates an electronic ripple of conflict through my personality gestalt center. It is good to be useful. It is also lonely. I long for a commander with whom to share the years of duty yet to come. Phil Fabrizio is a poor substitute, at best.