The Gentle Seduction (25 page)

Max felt cold. "What do you mean?"

"In these times of scarce resources, high prices, and few jobs, it would be easy to find someone who would, for modest remuneration, eliminate a single troublesome individual."

"You mean kill Steve?" Max couldn't believe his ears.

"Why not?"

"Because . . ." Why not indeed? "Because Steve is a
good
person. He's dedicated his life to saving lives."

"Are there not people like that among the billions you'd rather slaughter?"

Of course there were.

Jason continued. "Shall I start the war?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because . . . because people like Steve are the reason why Man is worth saving. If, in order to save Man we have to kill the people like Steve, then Man isn't worth saving; what we would have salvaged with his murder would no longer
be
Man, but something less wonderful, something hideous."

"I was wondering," Jason said reflectively, "if you would ever come to that conclusion."

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BARBARA

NOTE TO GENERAL STOEHRMAN ON DEVELOPMENT OF THE GROUND-ATTACK HEAVY ORBITAL IASER (GHOL):

There are considerable technical problems that arise in upgrading a HEXPLAT for attacking ground sites, but we believe these problems can be resolved. For one thing, the emission frequency must be lifted into the gamma ray range for effective penetration of shielded targets.

But the long-term outlook looks fabulous. Current estimates suggest that we will be able to focus the beam narrowly enough to destroy individual ships and aircraft, though perhaps not individual trucks and tanks. At the same time, between the direct effects of the ray and the residual radiation consequences, we should be able to "shotgun" and deposit 90% lethality levels against lightly protected targets in a 5,000-square kilometer area in six seconds. This is equivalent to incinerating all of Germany in three minutes with only two GHOL platforms.

"Some will not believe me when I say that we stand daily on the edge of the holocaust. What has saved us, they ask. And why won't it continue in the future, they demand." Max looked around the room at some of the prime offenders.

"Humanity is doomed because its vision is impaired." Jason started another diatribe.

"Do you really believe that, Jay?" Max really wasn't up to a battle this early in the morning. He looked at Jason: was even Jason really up to it? His smile was the same, the feverish energy still shone in his eyes. But he had become more pale in his three years as a senator. He was thinner. And the darkness that circled his eyes was deeper now, heavier with sorrow.

"Yes, Max, I really believe it."

Max was stunned; for the first time, Jason answered that question without frivolity. This was serious. Max spoke softly. "What's wrong with humanity's vision, Jay?"

"We have a planetful of people, many of whom are individually capable of planning carefully for twenty- and thirty-year periods—at least long enough to pay off a house mortgage—yet when they act as a group they can't plan for consequences just one year away. It's a classic case of two heads being half as good as one." He slapped his hand on the table, got up and paced back and forth across the kitchen. It was a different kitchen from the kitchen at which they first argued so many years ago. The table was less elegant, and the atmosphere was less homey; but it was home here in Washington nonetheless. It was gray outside, and the grayness leaked in through the window.

Max cleared his throat. "Is there some way we can beat that, to make people as smart collectively as they are individually?"

"I don't know!" For the first time, Jason seemed afraid and without an answer. "Our species is no better than the evolutionary forces that made it. Evolution too is shortsighted: every step that evolution takes must be an
immediate
improvement, standing on its own. Neither Man nor evolution could compete against even a mediocre chess player: neither Man nor evolution could make a bishop sacrifice, even if they
knew
, beforehand, that the sacrifice led to mate in two moves."

"As in the safety net program."

"Exactly." Jason shook his head. "Investment in new research is down to one ten-thousandth of a percent of gross national product. There were fewer new patents issued this year than any year since the nineteenth century. Ask any individual, and he'll tell you that without investment in new and better ways, our growing population will live deteriorating lives until, in desperate grabs for each other's wealth, someone starts the war that leads to the Final Confrontation. Any individual will tell you that there's no money for investment because ninety percent of all wealth goes into the maintenance programs of the social safety net." He threw his hands in the air. "But when that man goes to vote, he says, 'Yeah, but I want to get my share of the safety net before you get rid of it.' " Jason shook his head.

Max leaned forward. "But the Final Confrontation may not be too final, if we can hold off until we can get to the other planets. If we can spread mankind far enough, someone will survive."

Jason sat down on the edge of the seat. "Will they, Max? I've been thinking about this lately. It's so much harder to create than it is to
destroy
. That's the basic law of nature, you know: entropy. The total quantity of disorder in the universe always rises, any time you do anything. Entropy always sides with the man who wants to destroy beautiful things, as long as he doesn't try to put anything in its place. It's
always
easier to destroy; and as technology advances, the technology of destruction will continue to advance faster than the technology of creation, because entropy will help the destruction. Any technology powerful enough to transport a man to a safe place can produce weapons powerful enough to destroy him after he's arrived." He hit the table even as Max opened his mouth to contradict him. "Sure, sometimes there've been time lags, but the weapons always caught up, and as time goes by the speed with which they catch up will speed up. We can't outrun our own technology, Max."

"If we can hold out long enough, eventually we're bound to find a way to prevent war: a sociological solution. Then it won't make any
difference
how powerful our weapons are."

"But how long will it take us to get there, Max? Where are we going to get the time to wait?" Jason's hand slapped the table. "How do we persuade a society to take near-term action to solve long-term problems?
That
is our short-term problem."

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MEMORANDUM TO GENERAL BRADLEY ON DEVELOPMENT OF THE GRAVSHIELD ANTI-LASER DEFENSE

Though theoretically feasible, the practicality of gravshield defenses for cities against GHOL platforms is nil. Several technological revolutions will be required to permit a shield generator to cope with the concentration of energy that a GHOL can achieve. We continue to investigate; the technology will certainly evolve, but it will probably be decades in development.

In his mind, Max answered the laughing ghost, who knew that this roomful of people could never make a decision to save tomorrow.

Jason, I know the answer. I know how to make people find a solution that will take years and years to implement. But God, Jason, it's hideous. Isn't there a better way?

The ghost did not answer.

"We have survived, sometimes because of skill, and sometimes because of luck. But more importantly, we have survived because some people have given their lives to guarantee our survival."

Jason's campaign speech ended. They hustled Jason off the platform toward the waiting helicopter, leaving Max to field the endless questions.

"Then tell us, Mr. Palmer, do you really think Jason Masino has a chance at the presidency?"

The questions came at Max from all sides of the throng that was mostly reporters. Max turned in the general direction of the question and chuckled. "Does he have a chance?! I pity his competition! And I urge them not to trap themselves into a debate with Jay on TV. If they do, Jason will rip them to shreds."

"Can we quote you?"

Max shrugged. That statement probably wasn't the most politic thing he had ever said, but one of the wonders of watching Jay run for president was that you didn't
have
to worry about every little word. Jason was the first candidate in decades who was, clearly, better than his opponents. "Go ahead and quote me. Why not?"

A different voice rose above the din from a different direction. "Mr. Palmer, as Jason Masino's foremost advisor, what role would you expect to play in the executive branch? Do you see yourself in a cabinet position?"

Of course, you still had to be a
little
politic, in any democracy. "That is entirely Jason's decision. I am an udvisor only: I certainly wouldn't presume to second-guess his future decisions."

Max could see the helicopter's rotors whirling to takeoff speed; Jason was safely aboard. Max excused himself and headed for the landing platform, where another helicopter would arrive shortly to pick him up.

As he progressed through the crowd, his eyes were drawn to a large, curiously dressed young man, with a great overcoat too long even for him, the overcoat whipping in the wind. As Max watched, the man reached into his coat and pulled forth a short rocket launcher.

"No!" Max screamed, tossing people out of his way to reach the man.

The man calmly adjusted the sights, and Max could see him muttering to himself as he squinted to track the helicopter.

Didn't anybody else see what was happening? Where were the Secret Service people? Was this real?

The man nodded, leaning back a little deeper in preparation for the launch. "Stop!" Max yelled hysterically.

The man opened his other eye, startled, but as Max leaped for him he squeezed the trigger.

With a snarl Max chopped the man in the throat. As the man gurgled for breath, Max brought a rigid index finger up into the man's eyeball, thrusting his finger as deep as he could reach. The man thrashed raggedly, hanging from Max's finger. He fell away.

Max looked up to see a trail of whistling smoke reach the helicopter. A bright jet of fuel burst from its side. The helicopter lurched, then spun end over end until it reached the ground. A brighter jet of exploding pieces burst from the wreckage. Max ran toward it.

Some newspaper reporter, much too swift on his feet, ran up to parallel Max's running. "What if Jason Masino is dead, Mr. Palmer?" the man yelled. "What will you do?"

"I don't know," Max yelled back."He can't be dead."

"But if he is . . ."

Max struck the man in the face and continued toward the wreckage.

What could he do? What could he do? The question pounded in his brain. The world: it was dying. Jason had seen it in all its details. Jason had understood the dangers as no other man ever had, and Jason had been afraid. Jason had been afraid that even he, Jason, would fail to save mankind. If even Jason had been afraid of failure, what other man could possibly succeed?

Yet somebody had to. And to have any chance at all of succeeding, somebody had to try.

Max held a press conference one week later. "There has never been a man as great or dedicated as Jason Masino, and perhaps there never will be again." He paused to get control of his voice, which still got away from him at times. "But the greatness of Jason Masino should not be allowed to perish just because the man himself is gone. It was his
spirit
that held his greatness, and that cannot be killed. His dreams, his hopes, his visions are
ours
now. We can still build a future as great as his greatest imaginings." He looked around the audience with a slow, determined gaze that would one day be famous. "Therefore, I hereby announce my candidacy for president. I can never be Jason Masino, but I can, with your help, be the implementor of his dream."

"But do we dare depend on skill and luck, and the sacrifices of a few rare men, forever?"

FROM: Carl Stroud, Chief of Simulations, Global Resource Analysis Center

Dear Max,
Max read in the memorandum the day before he was to present his speech on the cancer cure
. I've been running scenarios frantically for the last three weeks. I guess you'd guess that.

As you predicted, we cannot create a scenario for survival that includes a cure for mutant II cancers. Of course, youd guessed that, too.

But in an effort to retune the simulation, hoping to find a technical flaw in our approach, I ran scenarios across the last decade, using real-world history as my input. Max, in fifty simulation runs, Man never survived our most recent ten years!

So I cursed and fumed, because of course we did survive (we did, didn't we? Sometimes I wonder) and I made debug dumps.

The simulation is good, Max—I knew that there had to be something wrong in the data. So I tweaked and calibrated.

I only found one adjustment that let mankind survive consistently: I inserted a leader-actor for America who was superhuman. It worked. The outputs stabilized on what the world's last ten years of history actually look like.

Max—
that leader-actor was you!

We can survive, with you as president! Please, Max, sign that bill!

Max's eyes watered.
I wish I could, Carl.

Perhaps Jason could have done it. Max could imagine Jason repealing the two-term presidency constitutional amendment. Max could imagine an immortal Jason, using the next generation of viral robotoids to keep himself young, successfully balancing, checking, and countering all the forces that tried to destroy Earth, for years without end.

But Jason wasn't available. And Max was running short on tools to use in the fight. Someday, he knew, Kiril would call Max's bluff—even if Max could retain power, which he could not. In two years his second term would end.