He looked back. His hand had floated free, beyond his grasp, but it didn't matter now. Lifting his bloated body, he began to climb, flexing his eight limbs quickly as he climbed the wall. Up, into the light.
At the top he turned, looking back. His friends had freed themselves. They lay there now, exhausted, at the foot of the well. Seeing him, they called out plaintively. Save us, Lagasek! Save us from the darkness.'
He turned his great abdomen about, meaning to help them, to cast a silvered thread down through the darkness and let them climb to safety, yet even as he turned the earth heaved like a great sack and folded in upon itself. And they were gone.
He cried out . . . and woke a second time, back in the room, in Rehabilitation, himself again, listening to Will describe what he had seen on the plain below the ruins of Bremen. A tribe of men. Of blue-black men with teeth of polished bone.
Kim shuddered, remembering, then pushed back, away from the sink. He looked up, meeting his eyes in the mirror, conscious suddenly of a faint pulsing glow from the other room. He turned. The comset in the far corner of the bedroom had come on-line, the RESPOND key flashing a dull, insistent red.
He went through, leaning across the chair to tap in his personal access code. At once the message spilled out onto the screen.
Meridian. Departing Titan: 15. 10. 2210 CKST Can route messages via SimFic's Saturn Rep.
[Campbell]
He pulled out the chair and sat, the dream forgotten. Jelka . . . Jelka was on Titan! He imagined her out there and laughed, astonished. The gods alone knew how Campbell had found out, but he had. Kim shivered, a moment's doubt assailing him, then shook his head. No, he would grab this chance to speak to her—to let her know what had been happening. And to tell her that he would wait for her. However long it took.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
East Winds
You'RE FAMOUS now," Kennedy was saying. "People expect things of you, Michael. Big things. You've been close to death, and that means something to them."
Michael Lever smiled faintly and looked away. He was propped up in bed, a small hill of pillows behind him. It was a large, private ward and on tables to one side were dozens of sprays of flowers from well-wishers. He looked back at Kennedy, a warmer expression on his face. "I appreciate what you're saying, but. . . well, it's just that I don't want to think too much about it yet." He looked down. "Not yet. . . okay?"
Kennedy sat back. "I understand, Michael. I'm not here to push you. Just to let you know how things stand. Right?"
"Right."
Later that afternoon Kennedy was flying off to Chicago. There, this evening, he would be making a speech on the matter of the proposed new population legislation—in particular on what they were calling the "Euthanasia Bill." The attack on Lever had meant that more than the normal media attention would be on the speech. Already several channels had been clamoring for Michael's reactions and comments. Thus far Kennedy had fended them off, but they both knew that, denied some kind of response, the media could well turn hostile. Kennedy was here to try to persuade Michael to make a limited comment.
"I'm sorry that it had to happen this way, Michael. This kind of life. . . it's hyperreal. They want you to live every second in the lights. And they're hungry. Like sharks. Feed them some blood—the other guy's blood, if you can—and they're happy. But you can't keep them out of the water. And you can't make friends with them. Not in any real sense. So you have to deal with them on their own terms."
Michael looked up. He was less pale than he had been, but he still looked drawn. "I understand, Joe." He sighed and reached out to scratch at his useless legs. "Let's compromise, huh? Tell them I'm tired now—sedated, maybe—and that I'm going to see the playback of the speech in the morning and speak to them then. How about that? That way you could get back here, maybe . . ." He leaned back again, looking up hopefully at the older man.
Kennedy smiled. "Okay. We'll do it your way. And I'll try and get back for the conference."
"Try?"
"I'll be here, Michael. Okay?"
Michael nodded and let his head relax, closing his eyes. Kennedy, watching him, felt the weight of all the unsaid things press down on him briefly. The last week had been the hardest he had known, the demands on him exhausting; but it would all be worth it in the long run. For a moment he sat back and closed his eyes, pressing at his face and yawning. He needed sleep, a whole week's worth of sleep, but there wasn't time just now. This was a crucial moment: make or break time.
Only two days ago Charles Lever had come out of his self-imposed isolation and spoken to the media about his feelings of grief and anger at what had happened to his son. Kennedy had made sure that Michael hadn't seen it, nor heard anything of the rumor circulating that Charles Lever had organized the attempt on his son's life. But things were in flux. The bombing had acted as a catalyst— fragmenting popular opinion into two diametrically opposed camps. They had benefited from the initial public outcry, and their fortunes had risen dramatically on a tidal wave of emotional reaction, but in the week that followed the old men had fought back. The media stories about Kennedy and the other young men were vicious and often quite unabashedly libelous. To even try to answer some of the grosser charges was impossible. Cornered, their opponents were throwing mud. And some of it would stick.
Strangest of all that had happened that week were two separate and quite unexpected developments. First, two days back, at the same time that Charles Lever was talking to the media, Kennedy had been approached by an old acquaintance, a young man who claimed to be representing the "Sons"—the group formed from the old Dispersionist faction. Michael Lever and his friends had once been members of the group, but had broken with them when they had linked up with Kennedy. Now, it seemed, the Sons wanted to meet and come to some kind of arrangement.
Only an hour after that visit, someone else had come to see Kennedy—Fen Cho-hsien, Wu Shih's chief minister.
He had sat there for a long time afterward, wondering if the two events were somehow connected—were an elaborate setup, designed to trap and expose him to the media—but eventually he decided that it was a genuine coincidence; one of those tiny twists of fate that made life both unpredictable and interesting. The Sons had not said what they wanted, and he had committed himself only to a meeting. But Fen Cho-hsien had been specific. Wu Shih wanted a deal.
He had hoped to talk to Michael of this. To sound him on it. But Michael wasn't ready yet. Bryn Kustow's death was too close. He was still shocked; horrified by how personal this business was; astonished that someone—anyone—should want him dead. A veil had been torn aside and he had glimpsed what all of this was really about.
Kennedy opened his eyes and looked at the now sleeping Lever. He would be a better man for this personal knowledge. Harder, less easy to fool. Though the loss of Bryn was tragic, what they had gained might yet make up for it.
And for himself?
As a Kennedy he had always known how things stood. He had been taught, from his family's long history, how naked power was, and how frail the flesh that wielded that power. And now Wu Shih had made that history personal. If he said, "Come, make a deal," then he would need to go and do as he was told. What other choice was there?
He shivered and stood up, leaving Michael to sleep. Perhaps it was best that things were as they were. That way he alone could be blamed. He alone take the responsibility.
DEAD MAN YUN pulled a piece of steaming pork from the pot and popped it into his mouth, then turned, facing Fat Wong.