Death Wave (31 page)

“Exclusive rights?” Thornberry heard himself ask.

“Probably.”

“Well, I suppose that's all to the good, then.”

“I'm glad that you see it that way.”

With a reluctant smile, Thornberry said, “Well, thanks again for answering my call.”

“It was a pleasure to speak with you,” said Halleck.

“Oh! I nearly forgot.”

“What?”

“It would've been a grand foolishness for me to talk so pleasantly with you and then forget to give you the news.”

“What news?”

“I want you to know that I've placed Jordan's name in nomination for next year's election to the World Council. Both the American and the European delegations have accepted his nomination very happily.”

The shocked expression on Halleck's face warmed Thornberry's Irish heart. But his brain scolded him, There go your chances for an exclusive license on the FTL communications technology.

*   *   *

“Rudolfo Castiglione calling for you, sir,” said the phone in Jordan's bedroom.

Jordan had just finished dinner with Otero, Vera Griffin, and McKinley, the network's public relations director. He sensed that there was bad blood between McKinley and Griffin, but Otero took it all cheerfully as they outlined the plans they were making for his news conference.

“We'll have every major network there,” said McKinley proudly.

“And some of the world's most important bloggers and chatters,” Griffin added.

“Good,” said Otero, like a happy grandfather, sitting at the head of the table.

Jordan took it all in, thinking, It's only good if I can get Aditi out of Halleck's hands. Mitch has told her that I'm standing for election to the World Council and she must be furious about that.

The dinner ended at last and Jordan repaired to his suite, hoping that Aditi would call him. Instead, he got Castiglione.

The Italian appeared to be sitting in a comfortable living room, leaning back in a recliner with his legs crossed.

“Good evening, Mr. Kell,” he said.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?” Jordan asked, with a diplomat's sham goodwill.

Turning his smile to full wattage, Castiglione replied, “I have good news for you. I have finally convinced the Powers That Be to invite you to join your wife at the facility where she now resides.”

The Powers That Be are Anita Halleck, Jordan knew. And the facility was in a space habitat out at the L5 location, but he wasn't going to let Castiglione know that he knew where she was.

As innocently as he could manage, Jordan asked, “And where might that be? I take it you've moved her from Barcelona.”

It took several seconds for Castiglione to reply. The communications lag, Jordan realized. Even at the speed of light, communications take a few seconds to cover the distance between Earth and L5.

Castiglione answered at last, “No, she is no longer in Barcelona. In fact, she is no longer on Earth.”

Jordan's expression darkened. “You've moved her to an orbital facility. Against her will, I'm sure.”

“She would prefer to be with you, of course. So I have convinced Halleck that it would be best to reunite the two of you.” Grinning, he added, “It's the romantic in me.”

“Very romantic,” said Jordan. “If I go there, when will we be allowed to leave?”

With a shrug, Castiglione said, “When your wife's work with our team of scientists is finished, I suppose.”

“Is that a promise that I can rely on?”

“Let us say that it is a possibility that depends on several factors.”

“Such as?”

“Such as your giving up this attempt to get yourself elected to the World Council.”

There it is, Jordan thought. Out in the open at last.

“If I do that,” he asked, “then Aditi and I will be allowed to leave your facility and end this ridiculous farce of protective security?”

“It is not a farce, I assure you. Our security people have tracked several groups that want to assassinate you.”

“I have my own security team now.”

“No private organization has the power and the capability of the World Council's security organization.”

“Perhaps,” Jordan conceded.

“You will come? It seems a shame to keep you two separated.”

“The separation wasn't our idea.”

“True enough. But now you have the opportunity to end it.”

“At the cost of my freedom.”

Castiglione didn't reply for many moments. At last, his smile gone, he leaned forward slightly and warned, “This may be the only chance you get to be with your wife once again. Don't be stubborn.”

Jordan let his head droop slightly, then he looked up and said softly, “I suppose you're right.”

Castiglione's grin reappeared. “As the Americans say, you can't fight city hall.”

“I suppose not,” said Jordan. “All right, I have a news conference scheduled for tomorrow. I'll be ready to go to Aditi the day after.”

“Good!” said Castiglione. “Excellent!”

“You'll make arrangements for my transportation?”

“Of course.”

“Very well. I'll join Aditi in two days' time, then,” Jordan said. To himself he added, Or sooner.

 

NEWS CONFERENCE

Sitting in a small anteroom next to the studio where the news conference would take place, Jordan saw on the wall screen that there were nearly a hundred news correspondents, bloggers, and chatroom hosts seated out there.

Impressive, he thought. But he was more concerned with the arrangements that Otero and his security team had made to spirit him up to habitat
Gandhi
immediately after the conference.

I've got to get there without Halleck's people knowing it. I've got to spring Aditi free of their clutches.

A pair of private security guards sat in the small room with him: two hard-eyed men, wearing identical dark jackets and whipcord jeans. And more of their cohorts were outside in the studio, Jordan knew.

“Can I ask you a question, sir?” asked one of them. He was tall and lean, with brooding brown eyes and sandy hair cut militarily short.

“Certainly,” said Jordan. “And my name is Jordan.”

The man broke into a guarded smile. “Mine's Hamilton. Hamilton Cree.”

“What do you want to know, Hamilton?”

Looking almost troubled, Cree said, “I was with the Highway Patrol detail when you and your wife visited the Rio Grande Gorge, a couple weeks ago.”

Oh-oh, Jordan thought. He wants to find out how human Aditi is.

Instead, Cree asked, “Why'd you go to the gorge?”

Jordan felt his brows rise. “Why? Because it's one of my favorite places on Earth. I first saw it long before you were born, when I was in the States helping to resettle refugees from the first greenhouse floods.”

“You just wanted to see it? Like a tourist?”

“That's right. I wanted my wife to see it. I've got to admit, though, that I was somewhat embarrassed with the officials closing the bridge to everyone else. I thought that was a bit much, actually.”

Cree nodded slowly. “Yeah. So did I.”

“So you're working with the Unicorn Recovery Agency now?”

Glancing at the tiny unicorn emblem on his jacket's breast pocket, Cree said, “Right. Beats being a Highway Patrol cop.”

Just then Vera Griffin sailed through the door. “It's showtime!” she announced, looking excited, eager.

Jordan got to his feet, as did the two security men. Time to face the music, he said to himself as they headed for the studio.

*   *   *

Carlos Otero watched the news conference from his office, pleased that the rows of seats that had been set across the studio floor were almost entirely filled with interviewers. Eyeing the men and women standing on either side of the seated interviewers, he noted with satisfaction that the Unicorn team was being properly unobtrusive.

The first handful of questions were softballs, asking what New Earth was really like and how Jordan felt when he realized the planet was inhabited by humanlike people.

Then one of the women asked how he felt about being kept separated from his wife.

Unsmiling, Jordan said, “Not good. Not good at all.”

The correspondent countered, “But the World Council people say that it's necessary, for her protection. And you should be in protective custody, as well.”

Jordan replied, “Whenever a politician wants to control a person, she claims it's necessary for the person's security. Well, I don't want the World Council's protection, not for me and not for my wife. I want to be free, and above all, I want to be with her.”

Tensing in his desk chair, Otero shook his head. Don't let your temper show, Jordan, he warned silently. Remember, you've agreed with Castiglione to go up to the habitat to be with your wife. That's our cover story. Don't screw it up.

*   *   *

Standing to one side of the rows of seated newspeople, Hamilton Cree saw that a trio of younger people—two women and a man, seated in one of the rearmost rows—had their heads together. They seemed to be ignoring the questions and answers and were busy doing something, their heads bent over, their hands moving on their laps.

Typing? Cree wondered. Instead of recording what was being said? Just like kids, he thought, more than a little disgusted. Tweeting in the middle of the conference.

*   *   *

Nick Motrenko's hands were shaking as he and Rachel put together the plastic pistol that Dee Dee had brought with her. Just as Walt had predicted, they had gotten the gun through the security scanners by breaking it down to three separate pieces, carried by the three of them.

Now they had to put it together, while the starman was standing up at the head of the room, answering questions.

Not for much longer, Nick told himself. As soon as we get this pistol together, I'm going to shoot the traitor, this big shot who's sold us out to the aliens.

“Rise and strike,” he heard Walt's voice in his head. “Rise and strike.”

I'm going to be famous, Nick thought happily.

*   *   *

Jordan was standing at the head of the studio, behind a lectern that had been set up on a makeshift platform, answering their questions.

A large, seriously overweight man rose slowly to his feet as if the struggle against gravity took all his strength.

“Tad Chatsworth, of Chatsworth's Chat Corner,” he identified himself.

Jordan nodded and smiled.

“Why should we believe you?” Chatsworth challenged, his jowly face dead serious. “Why should we believe that these aliens are friendly and want to help us? What if there's no death wave, and it's only a scheme by those aliens to take us over?”

Dead silence for several heartbeats. Then someone in the crowd of correspondents giggled.

“The death wave is very real,” Jordan said, his tone somber, grave. “I wish it weren't, but it is. Some of our world's best astronomers have reviewed the evidence that the astronomers of New Earth have amassed, and they unanimously agree that the wave of lethal gamma radiation is spreading across the Milky Way galaxy at the speed of light.”

“Evidence can be faked,” Chatsworth said.

“You should talk with the astronomers. They're convinced. I am, too.”

“I just don't believe it. I don't believe
you
.”

As politely as he could manage, Jordan asked, “And just what is it that you do believe?”

“I believe the aliens are trying to take us over, and you're helping them. Your name has just been placed in nomination for next year's World Council elections. You want to be head of the Council, and from there you'll let the aliens take over our solar system.”

Before Jordan could reply, a younger man in the rear of the room jumped to his feet and aimed a pistol at him.

 

ASSASSINATION

Everything seemed to happen at once.

Standing on the stage at the front of the studio, Jordan saw the young man aim the pistol at him. An equally young woman got to her feet beside him, screaming, “Kill the alien-loving bastard!” From the side of the studio one of the security people whipped a gun from beneath his jacket.

Jordan stood frozen at the lectern, his mind inanely telling him to duck behind the lectern but his body unable to respond. The gun was pointed right at him, its muzzle looking like a tunnel to eternity.

This is no ruse! Jordan realized. They really want to kill me!

He saw the pistol's muzzle erupt in smoke and heard something whip past his ear like an angry bee. People were diving to the floor, yelling. The lectern shattered into a thousand pieces. One of the news correspondents grabbed at the gunman while the security man off to the side pushed through the crowd, pistol in hand, knocking people over as he rushed for the would-be assassin.

The studio was filled with shouts, screams, curses. The gunman seemed to collapse while the woman beside him clawed at the correspondent who had wrapped his arms around the man. The security guard reached them as a second security man came in from the opposite direction and pulled the screeching woman off the correspondent's back.

And then it was all over. People got up off the floor, dazedly. Overturned chairs were set right again. Several more security people had two young women in their grip. The gunman lay sprawled across several chairs; unconscious or dead, Jordan couldn't tell which.

Then someone said, “You're bleeding, Mr. Kell.”

Jordan looked down and saw that his shirt was soaked with blood. The lectern was smashed to splinters. People were on their feet, gaping.

*   *   *

From his office, Otero watched the whole incredible episode, thinking, This is all going out on the air, live! A real assassination attempt! And we've got it all on camera!