The Gentle Seduction (23 page)

"You're not serious." Max just couldn't believe him.

Jason leaned forward, looking Max steadily in the eye, still smiling. "Am I? Does it make a difference whether I'm serious or not?"

Did it make a difference? If his arguments were correct, shouldn't Max take them seriously, regardless of whether Jason took them seriously?

Tina pressed his hand. "I
told
you Jason would change your opinions,"

Jason looked over at her. "And
you
, Tina, what have you been doing lately that you shouldn't have?"

The three of them argued long into the night, about many things. Somehow, Jason seemed invincible. Max had never seen anything like it; Max or Tina would box him into a corner with his newest, crazy opinion. But then he'd rush them with a flurry of new ideas, new points of view, and suddenly
they
were the ones caught in a corner.

Max
still
didn't know whether to take him seriously or not. But he started reading the papers, looking for proofs and justifications for his conviction that saving lives was still an honorable enterprise.

Unfortunately, hideously, he found that Jason had been wrong: it wouldn't take five years for the trend of falling population to reverse itself. By the end of the summer, the census takers were giving the sociologists shocking information that destroyed all the pet theories.

The population was rising again. The only things growing as fast as the population were poverty and mutant II cancers.

"And we Americans 'share,' " he lingered over the euphemism with careful but heavy sarcasm, "more of this planet than most other people put together—a single American consumes as many resources as hundreds of people in Norafrica.

"
And everyone in the world knows it!
How many more cities like San Diego must we lose? How many more notable Americans must be stalked by terrorists before we see the connection?"

"My God. Have you told Tina yet?" Max sat motionless in the chair."

"No, Mr. President."

Max squirmed; he wasn't used to the title, though he had borne it for a year now.

"We left it for you to tell her."

"Of course." Max turned in his chair, then looked back at the Secret Service agent. "I would like to speak to the wives of the four men who died, Bill," he said to the Secret Service agent.

"Very well, Mr. President." The Secret Service agent bowed and left.

Max held his head in his hands and screamed softly. His son— their son—had been kidnapped in a bloody struggle. Why did people do these inhuman things?

The story was already breaking in the newspapers; it was hard to stop a leak when half the people in Washington heard or saw the fighting. Max didn't want to tell Tina until he found out why it had happened.

He didn't have to wait too long. Within the hour they received a package at the White House. And the package contained . . . He went to tell Tina.

He held her and he told her; she was rigid as a statue. "It's a normal list of demands: two million dollars cash, the release of the five SALO prisoners we took in September, a planeful of guns and ammunition."

"Can't we give it to them?" She pleaded, but she knew the answer.

"If we do, they'll never let an American president alone again. Hideous as this is, it'll only get worse if we don't stop them now. You know that, don't you?"

Tina sobbed; her whole body shook. "Do we know these are really the people who kidnapped him—the same ones who blew up San Diego?"

Max's stomach rose in his throat. "Oh God. Yes, we know it's them, Tina." He couldn't open his mouth, much less talk, but he had to tell her. He had to tell her. "They included proof in the package. They . . . they sent back . . . Mike's right index finger."

Her eyes bulged; she screamed; Max held her as tightly as he could.

"I can't help him, Tina." He was crying. "But we'll kill them for it, if I have to do it myself. I'll resign when it's over, we'll get a house in the Rockies. I'm sorry."

Max tried to keep his promise; he did keep the first part. He gave the terrorists their five comrades, and their money, and a planeful of ammunition, and the SALO terrorists took Mike on board and headed for Bolivia, and Max signed the strike orders that sent three Firechargers to intercept, and they obliterated the plane and burned the money and killed the five freed prisoners and the twelve terrorists.

And killed Mike. At least, that was a possibility; no one knew for sure whether Mike was still alive by then.

Max did not keep the second half of his promise. He did not resign. In fact, the incident gave him a power in international politics unmatched in modern times: only a madman would order his own son killed. Oddly enough, the world respected madmen.

Max read the note Tina had left for the hundredth time.

Dear Max,

I know you believe you did the right thing. Perhaps I do too. I don't know. But . . . I just can't bear to live with the man who killed our son. I'm sorry. I love you.

He couldn't blame her. He couldn't live with the man who had killed their son either, but he had less choice.

Had he killed their son? Part of his psyche railed against the notion: it was the SALO terrorists who were responsible, dammit!

What does it mean to be responsible for something?
Max could remember Jay asking. Max remembered his conclusion on the matter after Jason had forced him to think deeply about it years ago.
Responsibility is shared by all those who have the knowledge and the power to prevent an event, but who let it—or make it— happen anyway.
The SALO terrorists were responsible, even more responsible than he was, because it would have been easier for them to make decisions that saved his son s life. But Max was responsible, too. He accepted it.

He found he could not resign, to leave the world to forge its own solutions to its problems; he was responsible for that, too, now. He accepted it.

"We, the people of America, are consuming this planet!" He was starting to shake; he slowly straightened his shoulders, as Jason had taught him. He stepped back to the lectern (he had stepped away toward the audience at some point in his speech) and was calm. "Each day there are incidents that could lead to the holocaust. Each month we escape Final Confrontation by even narrower margins."

"Mr. President, they're heading for Vladivostok. We won't be able to reach them in time. They're only minutes from Russian waters, and it looks like half the Soviet Air Force is loitering around the area, just in case they need help."

"Very well, General. Keep me posted. "

Max leaned back in his chair and shuddered. It was just another ordinary crisis. Another ordinary chance for the world to end.

He could order a GHOL strike now. The enemy commandoes would be dead, and the world would once again receive notice that murder of the innocent leads to murder of the murderers as well.

But it would set a new and terrible precedent, the precedent Max had fought against setting since his first inauguration. He couldn't use the GHOL, the Ground- attack Heavy Orbital gamma ray Laser, to settle ordinary crises. Otherwise it would be used each time a crisis arose, each time with a little bit less circumspection, until . . .

He knew what he had to do. His stomach flip-flopped as he thought about it, but he knew he had to do it.

He turned to the hot line. He called Kiril Perstev.

The premier appeared on the visiphone. "Good day, Mr. President," he said in perfect English. He smiled. "I presume you think you have a problem."

Max's heart pounded in fear. Kiril was too good; he was the closest match to Jason he had ever met, fluent in many languages, with many points of view that he could shift into and out of with lightning speed. He was for Russia what Jason should have been for America.

But Kiril's motivations were different. God, how Max wished he understood what motivated Kiril Perstev. "I don't have a problem, Premier. You do."

Kiril raised an eyebrow.

"Three hours ago, terrorists attacked Japan's two largest ocean harvesters. The terrorists slaughtered the crews and raced for safety. We, of course, have interceptors in hot pursuit."

"In what way is this a problem for me, Mr. President? To be sure, the Soviet Union regrets the loss of life, but we support the liberation movements throughout the world as well."

"These pirates seem to be heading for Vladivostok. It's as if they expected to find safe harbor there. Naturally, if they make it, it will be more difficult to punish them. We would probably have to use the GHOL to saturate the entire city with lethal radiation levels, to make sure that justice was served."

Kiril studied Max through the visiphone. "That would, of course, lead to the holocaust."

Of course it would. Though Kiril was currently the strongest member of the ruling troika, many issues had not yet been settled. For Kiril, a show of weakness, particularly because of a mistake, would be fatal. Kiril's only alternative would be massive retaliation.

Max clenched his fist under the table. The fear tasted bitter in his mouth. Yet he stared coolly back at Kiril. "Premier, the pirates are dead men. How many others shall die with them?"

Kiril leaned back, bringing his fingers together in a steeple. "You would not do it. It is not in your nature. You are philosophically incapable of ending the world." He smiled wolfishly. "In fact, I believe that if I pressed the buttons and destroyed the United States, you would decide not to retaliate, in order to protect the human race."

Max's heart leaped in his throat; still he smiled back at Kiril. "You have an interesting point. I concede. It is against my philosophy to destroy you, or to destroy humanity." He leaned forward, and whispered into the visiphone. "But, Kiril, it is also against my philosophy to bluff. I'm not the kind of person who would bluff—someone might call it, and I would lose." His look hardened further. "No, Kiril, I would not bluff. You face a contradiction: my philosophy permits me neither to threaten nor to carry out the threat. Yet I
have
threatened. Where have you erred in your reasoning, Kiril? Don't guess wrong here, Kiril: for if you guess wrong, you will lose everything."

Kiril laughed, a loud belly laugh; but as the laughter faded, and Max remained immobile, Kiril's smile went away. For a moment doubt flickered in his eyes, before his mask returned. "Any pirates who attempt to use our territorial waters as a sanctuary will naturally be disappointed. Such an incursion into our security would be dealt with instantly by our Navy and air forces: such pirates would have their ships destroyed, and survivors would be executed," he said tonelessly as he broke the connection.

Max sank back in his chair, completely drained.
How many more times will I get away with it,
he wondered.

His bluff had worked.

"Don't you see how dangerous it would be to let our population grow untempered?" A ghost whispered in Max's ear. "It would be a simple case of suicide."

Max shook his head, and for a moment he felt the burden he had carried so long dragging him down. "Lord knows I have tried to make the world ready for this cancer cure. "

"You're wrong, Jason. There
is
a way mankind can survive!"

"Goodness,
you
certainly are certain of yourself. For a change," Jason responded with a smile. "Would you care to sit down before you destroy all my most cherished pessimistic theories?" Since becoming a member of Congress, Jason had mellowed just a bit. Actually, Max wasn't sure "mellowed" was the right word: Jason just didn't talk as fast as he once had. That might be put down to weariness. But Jay's eyes still held a feverish brightness: perhaps the slowing of his verbal attacks was a part of converting himself from a
politician
to a
statesman
.

Once he had Max seated at the kitchen table, Jason leaned forward in the old style, and his words speeded up. "So tell me about the solution to all our woes. How are we going to prevent the holocaust?"

"By reducing the population."

"Sounds wonderful, but not very implementable. Or do you come equipped with a mechanism for performing this miracle as well?"

"Sure. We'll start a birthright lottery, conducted by the UN. Every country will get so many 'places' in the lottery, and the particular couples who get to bear children will be chosen at random."

"A beautiful idea that has absolutely no chance of success. Right off the bat, I can see a problem—naturally, the leaders of all the countries will want preferential treatment. They want children, too, after all, and they have the power." He stared at Max, puzzled. "Besides, why would any country be interested in paying attention to a lottery, anyway?"

"You mean, what carrot would I hold out to them?"

"Exactly."

"We'd offer medical assistance, education, and food to the countries that went along with it."

"Um. What incentive could we give Americans? The safety net already gives them those things."

Max felt exasperated; why was Jason
always against
ideas, never
for
them? "Actually, I was hoping you would supply some of the ideas for making this thing work yourself."

Jason shook his head. "No matter how neat or clever a solution may be, Max, no matter how effective the idea might be if it could be put into action, you have to remember that a workable solution to a problem not only has to function within the physical laws of the universe, it also has to function within the social laws of dealing with people. Any kind of a birthright lottery will have to get
everyone
to agree to it. That just won't happen. What would we do with people who had illegal babies—what would we do with the illegal babies themselves? Do you figure on shooting them?" Jason waved his hand. "To be implementable, you have to have a solution that requires as few people as possible, and to make the people you want to use exchangeable, so that if the particular person you want to help you won't, you can go find somebody else to fulfill his part in the project."

Max took a deep breath. "Yeah, I knew all that, sort of. I just hoped that
you
might be able to fill in some of the gaps."