“It is the only way. The Pathfinder’s forces are spread across the Imperium schools. Alone we could never cleanse them all. When the Iron Guard understand that they have been deceived and that the Pathfinder is among them, they will strike back, and they will win. We have a hundred men. They have a hundred thousand.”
“Like the Iron Guard will believe the likes of us.” Southunder was incredulous. “The Grimnoir are a thorn in their side, I’ve been raiding their shipping for decades, and Toru’s a turncoat. You couldn’t even convince your own government, Sullivan. How are we supposed to convince them?”
“They think the Chairman’s immortal.” Sullivan looked to Toru. The Brute nodded. They were on the same page. “So we kill him again.”
Toru had the smile of a shark. “In public.”
Chapter 8
Hunger—real hunger—not your going-without-afternoon-tea, nor no-eggs-at-breakfast sort of affair—can, when a man is utterly without occupation, make life one continual aching weary desire. If the desire is not satisfied, or does not abate of its own accord (as it very often does), it can have disastrous effects on a man’s mind. It has been known to make men think very seriously about the rights of property, and a few have become so unbalanced as to become socialists.
New York City, New York
“Rat bastards!” Francis hurled the whiskey bottle into the fireplace. It failed to shatter, so he concentrated his Power and reached out with his mind, and the bottle exploded in a properly dramatic manner. “Filthy, no-good thieves! I can’t believe this!”
“What part of this came as a shock to you? The part where you told the President of the United States you wanted to have a fight with him and that he was happy to oblige, or the part where you thought you could tell a bunch of crusading busybodies to shove off and you didn’t expect any consequences?” Ray Chandler, CFO of United Blimp & Freight and Francis’ confidante, covered his glass of whiskey protectively while Francis looked for something else to throw across the office. “Come on, Francis. You should have seen this coming a mile away.”
His office on top of the Chrysler Building was a temporary safe haven from the army of auditors, investigators, bought-off reporters, union activists, and other various teat-sucking pawns of Roosevelt’s who had been making his life a living hell, but they’d be back again tomorrow. Francis had no doubt about that. It was seventy degrees outside, so it wasn’t like he’d needed to light a fire, but throwing things at the chimney always made him feel better, especially when it was lit. As a side effect, however, he’d had to order the air conditioning turned up to compensate, but what was the point of being rich if you weren’t allowed a few idiosyncrasies?
“They’re accusing me of selling warship designs to the Imperium? Me?”
“Well, your grandfather did violate the embargos. It doesn’t take a Cog to point out that their Kaga class look suspiciously like the Super Tri-hull we’ve been trying to sell to our Navy.”
“And I put a stop to that nonsense as soon as I got back from killing a bunch of Imperium navy.” Francis picked up the evening paper. “Look at this! It’s even the same reporters who wrote all the anti-Grimnoir propaganda after the assassination attempt. Why do people still believe proven liars?”
“Are you kidding? You’ve been wearing a big target on your back all year. They probably already had these articles about what a crook you are prepped from the last time you were getting the frame job from the OCI. They just had to haul them out and dust them off when Roosevelt asked.” Chandler chuckled. “Hell, they’ll probably win the Pulitzer for their hard hitting investigative journalism.”
Francis angrily wadded the evening paper into a gigantic, ball and threw it at the fireplace too. However it hit the logs, caught fire, and then rolled out onto the floor. “Shit!” He ran over and desperately stomped out the fire before it ruined the Persian rug.
Chandler just shook his head, finished his drink, and then poured himself a refill. “I’m sorry to say, Francis, that it looks like you are the subject of a very savage public-relations campaign.”
The scorch mark wasn’t too bad. Francis used his magic and rolled the newspaper remains back into the fire. “Well, buy some newspapers, then. I’ll beat him at his own game.”
Chandler laughed hard. He’d had a bit too much to drink, but in his defense, he’d been fighting National Recovery Act auditors all day and their allegations of UBF price fixing. “Beat him? The man’s a master manipulator. That’s like Donald Duck saying he’s going to outmaneuver Black Jack Pershing on the battlefield.”
The mention of Pershing made Francis sigh. His old mentor would have known what to do. Francis was up to his eyeballs in trouble, getting attacked from every angle short of gunfire, and it was frankly overwhelming. “We’re in bad straits, Ray, but I’m not giving up those Dymaxions. I’ll burn this company down before I let those conniving bullies take them away.”
“The board may disagree about the whole burning-everything-down strategy. You’ve done well, made them buckets of money, way better than they ever expected, and they sure love making money, but they like heat even less, and they’re getting a lot of heat right now. I give it two weeks, tops, before they’re calling for your resignation.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Francis muttered. Ray was a financial wizard, and even if Francis got run out of the family business, Dymaxion was still his, and that’s what Roosevelt really wanted. Federal agents had already seized all of that little company’s assets under various legal excuses, mostly related to lies about his taxes, but they hadn’t found a single Nullifier, Nullifier part, diagram, or note on their creation. Francis had told one of the Treasury agents that, sadly, all of those items had been lost in a tragic canoe accident. “The only thing that’s really of value is what’s stored in Fuller’s brain.”
“And when Fuller gets back from holiday, do you plan to hold him hostage somewhere so the government can’t take him too?”
“If I have to. You don’t get it, Ray. The world’s changing. We’re one of the last places where Actives aren’t property. I’m not going to let my people become property.”
“Canada and England’s magical types are fairly well off… Okay, okay, I get you. So what do you aim to do, then?”
Francis leaned against the fireplace and studied the pattern of broken glass and curling newspaper. “I should run for president.”
“You have to be thirty-five, so twelve or so years from now, I’m sure that’ll be a fine idea.”
“What? Seriously? When did they make that a law?”
“Wow.” Chandler took a long drink. “Now there’s a testimony about the quality of our finest prep schools.”
“That’s what I get for spending most of school chasing skirts.” Francis walked back to his desk. “Look, I may not know the finer points of constitutional law, but I damn sure know right and wrong.” There were only a few framed photos on his desk, mostly of close friends since none of his family members rated the space. Francis picked up the one portrait of Faye and sighed. He’d loved a lot of women, but he only cared about one of them. That was because Faye was special. Faye owned special. He was the only one who knew she was still alive, and he had no idea where she was, but he found himself wishing hard that she was here now. Even without any of his resources or connections, but with her drastically uncomplicated view of the world, she would probably be doing a lot better than he was… Of course, the White House would probably be in flames and half of Congress would be dead, but Faye certainly knew how to get results.